by Laura Parker
Eduardo rose to his feet. “Why did you do that? I can get for you anything you desire.”
“Then get out!”
He crossed his arms. “You’re being very difficult. While I am willing to indulge you as often as is possible, senhorita, I won’t be dismissed from rooms for which I am paying.”
He had dropped the servile flatterer’s voice he had used with her for the past twenty-four hours, and the sound of his own forceful tone reminded her that she was, indeed, in his debt. Following his lead, she crossed her arms before her. “Very well, explain yourself.”
He smiled, at least she thought he must be smiling because the detestable false whiskers he wore bristled. “You are in character and I, too, need one in order to be near you. I chose the role of East Indian servant because it is one with which I am familiar. My character is drawn from life, so to speak. Some years ago, I obtained a Delhi servant by the name of Akbar. He resides at present in—well, that’s not important. A few instructions to a clever and quick seamstress, a visit to a theatrical establishment and”—he indicated his person with a flourish of his hand—“voila, Akbar lives. Now,” he continued in a good-humored tone, “would you care for a cup of the hot chocolate which I brought in with your breakfast?”
“No!” She said the word emphatically yet the fragrant aroma of cocoa which filled the air was almost irresistible.
“You won’t mind if I have a cup?” he asked, moving to serve himself. “I find being a servant most demanding. I was unable to eat my own breakfast before you rang. Perhaps that explains my slip.”
Philadelphia’s expression suddenly brightened, but she looked away before he looked up from the cup he poured. “Is that the part you are playing in our little drama? You’re my servant?”
“At your service, memsahib.” He made the gesture with his hand that she’d seen him make many times since he had met her at the New Jersey station the day before.
“What sort of servant are you, exactly?”
“A gift, you might say, from your dear aunt Agnes who resides in Delhi, India.”
Philadelphia eyed him suspiciously. “People don’t give people as gifts.”
He offered her the cup of chocolate which she took without comment. “Your country recently fought a war on that point, did it not? I fear mine will soon be forced to a similar fate.”
“Your country has slaves?” she asked, subsiding in a chair despite her desire to maintain a defiant stance.
He poured a second cup and sat down opposite her on the settee. “My country has any number of slaves; Indian slaves, African slaves, mulattoes, caboclas, and many other mixtures whose divergent ancestry is forgotten.”
Philadelphia’s cup paused midway between her saucer and lips. She was reminded of his boasts of vast wealth and expansive enterprises. “Are you a slave owner?”
He saw her expression and decided to have a little more fun at her expense. “Why do you ask? Does the idea fascinate you?”
“It horrifies me!” She put her cup down. “Are you a slave owner?”
He laughed. “You’re a Yankee blue-belly, sim?”
“And you’re a Simon Legree!”
“Simon?” He said the name in his own liquid accent that took away the sting. “This Simon, he is the bad slave master of Senhora Stowe’s novel, Uncle Tim?”
“Uncle Tom,” she corrected. “You’re evading my question.”
“You’re undeniably lovely when you blush. You must do it often in public, then even these stiff norteamericanos will fall at your feet like leaves in autumn.”
He was flirting and the knowledge that he considered her reaction simply a distraction made her furious. She stood up abruptly. “You can’t expect me to countenance your practice of that odious institution.”
He sighed. “Why don’t you just say what you mean? This formality, this stiffness, it isn’t necessary between us. If you wish, say, ‘I hate slavery and slave owners, and I refuse to do business with you if you are one!’”
Philadelphia drew herself up. “I detest slavery and slave owners and I refuse to have anything to do with a man who believes that enslaving his fellow creatures is acceptable!”
“Well said.” He clapped his hands, then gave her a rueful glance. “Unfortunately, I’m not a slave owner and so your speech loses something of its intended bite. But I will keep in mind that you are an opinionated woman and a formidable force to cross.”
Philadelphia’s cheeks caught fire. Furious with him and with herself for allowing him to use her gullibility against her, she glanced once more at the oriental vase. If a knock hadn’t sounded on her door just then a lovely piece of antiquity might have met it’s demise at her hand.
She moved to open it, but Eduardo was there ahead of her, waving her back with one hand while he opened the door with the other. Only then did she remember that he was supposed to be a servant. Her servant. A smile of absolute guile eased into her expression, replacing her frown.
A man of middle age entered the room, dressed in the morning dress of the hotel concierge. “You rang, madame?”
Eduardo reached out and seized the man by his collar. “No one addresses the memsahib unless she gives her permission!”
The effect of Eduardo’s thunderous voice on the man would have been laughable had Philadelphia not been too angry with him to concede him the satisfaction of her amusement. “Unhand the gentleman, Akbar,” she said abruptly.
He released the man instantly. “As memsahib wishes.” His tone was almost worshipful as he backed away to stand before the door.
Philadelphia came forward with a brilliant smile for the frightened man. “I do apologize for my servant. He forgets that we are no longer in the wilds of India.” She saw Eduardo gesticulating over the man’s shoulder and realized that she’d forgotten to use a French accent. “You will forgive moil Oui?”
“That’s all right, madame,” the man replied, regaining his dignity under the warmth of the lovely young woman’s smile. “India, did you say? We here at the Windsor Hotel are accustomed to dealing with all sorts. We had an East India Company man through here not long ago. He’s a regular.”
“That is most interesting,” she said, ignoring Eduardo, for he was still making suggestions by his expressions and it was unnerving her. “Now how may I help you, monsieur?”
The man looked startled. “It was you who rang me, madame.”
“Moi?” Philadelphia looked about as if for confirmation until her eyes came to rest on Eduardo. “Akbar!” she said in a reproachful tone. “You know you aren’t to disturb the hotel staff. Shame, shame, shame!”
She turned back abruptly to the concierge. “You will forgive this mistake. My servant is, how you say?” She made the circular sign for crazy with her finger. “Sometimes he forgets that we are no longer in a house with a hundred servants for him to order about. Here in America, he must do the fetching and carrying. You do understand, n’est-ce pas?”
The man nodded but his Adam’s apple was working up and down so quickly she wondered how he could breathe. “You had a hundred servants, ma’am?”
Philadelphia shrugged, wondering why she’d chosen so outlandish a number. “It’s not as convenient as it sounds, monsieur. Think of the washing and the feeding and the sleeping arrangements. Akbar is quite sufficient for my present needs. Now, you may leave—after Akbar apologizes to you.”
The man glanced at the bearded turbaned man, standing with arms folded and glaring at him, and shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, madame. No harm done.”
“Mais oui! I insist.” She took the man’s arm and said in a confidential tone, “Akbar must learn proper conduct. He has this terrible temper, but terrible! In India he wore a huge sword at his side. A servant disobeyed?” She drew a finger across her throat. “Voila! No more servant!”
The man’s Adam’s apple dove down into his collar. “You mean … ?”
“I mean he will—he must
apologize! We are in America. We will behave as Americans, oui? Akbar?”
Acting on her cue Eduardo made his gesture of servitude and said gravely, “As memsahib wishes. A thousand apologies, you insignificant flea!”
The poor man jerked with surprise at the barb but catching Philadelphia’s eye and seeing the quick shake of her head, he decided not to press the issue. “Apology accepted. Now I’ll just be going.” He put out his hand which Philadelphia stared at blankly. He turned to the turbaned man but the servant merely placed his arms akimbo, a position made more threatening by his flat dark stare. The man dropped his hand and made Philadelphia the sketchiest of bows. “If there’s anything you should require, madame—”
“Mademoiselle,” Philadelphia corrected. “Je le regrette, I am unmarried.”
“Unmarried,” he repeated, filing that bit of information away in his mind beside the note about her hundred servants. “Very well, miss. I am entirely at your disposal. Good day.” He turned, relieved to see that the “cloth-headed savage,” as he would describe the foreign servant to his desk clerk, had opened the door for him.
When the door was firmly closed behind the concierge, Eduardo turned to Philadelphia, his black brows riding low over his dark eyes and his hands on his hips. “Do you know what you’ve just done?”
Philadelphia took a step back. “You deserved it!” She saw him take a step toward her and took another hurried step backward. “You said that you’re my servant.” He moved another step closer and she made another retreat. “How am I to be believed if you go about giving all the orders?” Two steps. Double retreat.
She glanced back to judge the distance between herself and her bedroom door. “If, if you don’t like what I’ve done, then leave me. I don’t expect you to—what are you doing?”
He was in full stride toward her. She made two desperate backpedaling steps before whirling about to flee. The doorway didn’t seem that far but even as her hand reached the knob she was seized from behind, turned about, and lifted off her feet.
Eduardo caught her high against his chest and spun the two of them about twice before setting her back on her feet.
Philadelphia leaned back dizzily against the door, not knowing what to expect next but the sound of full-throated laughter surprised her.
“You—you, wondrous creature!” he cried when he caught his breath. “Mae de Deus! Do you know what you’ve done?”
She shook her head slowly, wondering if, whatever it was, it had been her last act.
“You’ve done in a single stroke what it might have taken me weeks to achieve. You’ve made an impression on the concierge that he isn’t likely ever to forget. By afternoon this incident will be the talk of the hotel. It will be the topic of half the guests at dinner. By noon tomorrow, much of Fifth Avenue will know you are in the city. It was brilliant! A stroke of genius, that business about my having murdered recalcitrant servants. How did you happen to think of it?”
“I don’t precisely know,” Philadelphia said, gathering her wits now that she realized that she wasn’t about to be strangled herself. “If you’re pleased, you might have said so in the first place rather than chasing me around the room.”
He leaned toward her. “But I most enjoyed chasing you!” He moved even closer, until she could see that while his irises were dark, they weren’t clearly so black as the pupils which were engulfing them. She moved back a little only to meet the barrier of her bedroom door. “If you were a Brazilian lady and had behaved so wonderfully, I would kiss you.”
She stopped breathing. His face was only inches away from hers, that beautiful, sinfully gorgeous face shrouded now in hoary whiskers and some sort of makeup that made him appear older. He was teasing her, and she didn’t like it, not one bit. So why was she hoping against hope that he would carry out his threat to kiss her?
Eduardo watched the play of emotion on her face and wondered how anyone so strong-willed and resourceful could, at the same time, be so completely unguarded at a moment like this. He saw her trepidation and her anxiousness, and her desire for his kiss. His gaze moved to her lips. They were parted to draw the breath she was holding. The pink rouge made them seem even fuller and more tempting than necessary. It would be so easy. Only an inch or two separated them. He wanted to kiss her.
As he bent to her, Philadelphia shut her eyes and lifted her chin. She waited. One heartbeat. Two. Three. Nothing happened.
When she opened her eyes in confusion she saw that he’d moved away from her, half a room away. He was headed toward the door and he didn’t pause until he reached it.
He turned but didn’t look directly at her. “You should eat your breakfast before it becomes cold. I will return in an hour. You must be seen in public. For that, we will go shopping.” He reached for the door, opened it, and walked through, shutting it very carefully behind him.
Philadelphia bit her lip. What had she done, or not done? Why had he backed away? Humiliation crept up her neck like a stinging rash. He’d been teasing her again! She turned abruptly to hide her face against the door. “He’s hateful! Hateful!”
“If I may say so, you’d look lovely in that shade, miss.”
Philadelphia idly fingered a length of mandarin yellow silk cloth at one of the millinery counters of A. T. Stewart and Company. “It’s pretty,” she replied to the saleslady, her tone wistful. “So many lovely things. Perhaps, one day I shall wear them, if I’m ever happy again.”
“Oh, miss, I do apologize,” the salesgirl gushed, belatedly realizing that the young Frenchwoman’s dove gray was a sign of a mourning not yet complete. “My sympathy, miss, over your loss.”
Philadelphia turned a stricken face to the girl. “Merci.“ With that, she turned and walked hurriedly away.
Not until she reached the street outside the imposing iron facade of the five-story establishment, did she trust herself to speak to the man who followed her about like a shadow, seen but not heard from. “This is disgusting!” she whispered in fury. “Lying to rouse the sympathy of strangers! I detest it!”
“Memsahib does not lie when she says she is in mourning. There is her father,” he reminded her in a low voice behind her.
She turned about to face him. “That is my business. I don’t enjoy soliciting pity from others.”
“Memsahib would do well to remember her surroundings,” Eduardo replied in French this time, aware that his unusual appearance had snared the attention of the drivers of the many private carriages lined up on Broadway to wait while their owners shopped.
She squared her shoulders and, looking him straight in the eye, said in English, “If you don’t approve of my conduct, you can well find yourself another partner!”
He checked the impulse to shake her until her teeth rattled. Patience, that was what he always seemed in need of and what was most in short supply. Ever since he’d made the slip of revealing a desire to kiss her, neither of them had been able to speak two civil words to one another. It had been a stupid, needless thing to do, and he was very sorry about it; but he couldn’t allow one small mistake to ruin what had begun so well a short time earlier. If only she would stop staring at him with those enormous gold eyes, taunting him, daring him to behave as more than a simple obedient servant. “Memsahib is feeling tired. Is she desirous of her lunch, perhaps?”
Philadelphia turned a cold shoulder to him. “I am hungry but it needn’t concern you. I see a confectionery shop just across the street. You may go home.” She angled her head so as to slant a withering glance his way. “In fact, I order you to leave me this instant!”
“I would cut off my right arm if memsahib commanded,” he said in a dramatic voice, but as he bowed before her he added in a low growl, “but she’d find that an arm without a purse is of little use to her.”
“Must you remind me at every turn!” she cried in French, then murmured, “You’re no better than my father’s creditors, forever plaguing me about debts.”
She was
insulted, he could see it in every rigid line of her posture, and he was immediately sorry that he’d stooped to the demeaning retort. He reached into the red satin sash tied about his waist and handed her a small purse. “Memsahib will find that she has all she needs and more. She has only to ask her humble servant.”
She refused the purse. “Oh no. You’d better carry it. I shouldn’t want to be accused of overspending my allowance.” She turned and walked to the curb but found she couldn’t immediately cross. Before her the thoroughfare was choked with vehicles; hack-drivers, truckmen, omnibus drivers, and myriad private carriages and conveyances. In the middle of the intersection she spied a bluecoated traffic policeman with his baton raised, blowing shrilly on the whistle he held between his teeth.
The din and confusion were unlike anything she’d ever experienced in Chicago. Her father had always been very careful in choosing the times and places when she went out in public. On those occasions when she had been allowed to go out on her own, she had ridden in the family carriage and only between the morning hours of ten and noon. Nothing had prepared her for the crush of people on foot at midday on Broadway.
As the traffic before her halted and the cross traffic began to move, Philadelphia was thrust forward into the onslaught of noise and voices and dust. A gasp of surprise turned into fright as she realized that she was being swept along against her will into the street. Growing more alarmed with each second, she swung her head from side to side, hoping to find Eduardo but he was nowhere to be seen in the press of the crowd.
Suddenly, out of nowhere it seemed to Philadelphia, she heard new rough voices added to the crowd and the pedestrians about her began to scatter, shoving hard past her. Then she heard the bells and knew what was happening. A fire engine had been dispatched. The men roaring out orders to vacate the street were the firemen who ran ahead on foot to clear a path for their company’s engine. The din became a cacophony as frightened horses whinnied and reared, cabbies swore, and drivers shouted and cracked their whips above the heads of their horses as they began the laborious task of clearing the intersection.
