Banished Love (12 page)

“No, I’ll see you home. It’s best not to wander these areas at this time of day alone, miss.” He smiled at me, almost shyly, and offered me his arm as we walked toward the streetcar stop.

I was pensive, thinking through what he had told me, and what had not been relayed. I hoped he would tell me more as we walked, but, instead, we fell into a quiet camaraderie. We arrived at the streetcar kiosk after a short, brisk walk.

“Richard worries about you, you know,” Gabriel said, breaking the silence between us.

“Richard?” I asked perplexed. I couldn’t imagine Richard, who had only met me once, worrying about me. “Why?”

“He heard a rumor at the smithy that an old friend is looking you up,” he said, watching me intently.

I felt my eyes go round, surprise flitting through me. “And they say women are the worst gossips,” I muttered.

Gabriel laughed. “Men say that of course. Though we’re just as curious as the next about the latest news.” He continued to watch me. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“I hadn’t realized you’d asked one,” I said primly.

“Who’s the man, and what does he want from you?” Gabriel asked, leaning down to fully meet my eyes, daring me to prevaricate.

“A ghost from the past.”

“A welcome one?” he inquired, studying me.

“Unexpected.”

Gabriel leaned away, sighing. “I apologize, miss. It’s not my place,” he said with a hint of regret.

I nodded, feeling sadness course through me. “We all have pasts that haunt us, Mr. McLeod,” I whispered before clearing my throat. I worried I had revealed too much with that simple comment. “Thank you for sharing part of yours with me. I’d like…” I closed my eyes, breaking off any further comments, feeling foolish.

“You’d like what, miss?” Gabriel asked, intensity in his voice again.

I met his eyes. “I’d like you to know that I enjoy the time I spend with you.”

His eyes flashed momentarily, as though in triumph, then focused on the approaching streetcar. “I should let you arrive home without me in tow,” he stated. “I bid you a good evening, Miss Clarissa.”

I looked up at him sharply, at his use of my first name, pleasure flooding me. I could not hide a smile and nodded a few times before hastily boarding the streetcar.

“Come see me again, so we can discuss the project,” he called into the open streetcar door, just as it began to move. I watched him shove his hands into his pockets, happiness filling me as he continued to watch me until the car disappeared around a bend.

CHAPTER 11

I ASCENDED THE STEPS, finding the workshop door closed, although I thought I could detect a hint of light below the door. I knocked on the door, hoping for a response. Unable to find an acceptable chaperone, I visited alone. The compulsion to see him again outweighed any concern I had at being seen by a member of the school committee.

After a few moments, the door creaked opened to a frowning Gabriel. He looked at me, shrugged his shoulders as though to ease tension and let me pass into the room. He firmly shut the door, and I realized why as soon as I entered: the warmth of the room enveloped me after the cool dampness of the walk. The pile of wood in the corner appeared smaller and more drawings were tacked up behind his workbench. The small stove set on bricks on the far side of the room was the source of the heat.

“Hello, Mr. McLeod. I’ve come by to help with the project,” I said. Gabriel raked a hand through his short ebony hair, his dark blue eyes shuttered of any emotion. I glanced around the workroom, but I could make neither heads nor tails of any of the pieces of wood on the workbench, uncertain if they even pertained to the sideboard.

“So, you finally decided to come back. It’s been a week. Your absence has delayed my work,” he grumbled. He moved toward the workbench, not watching me, emanating frustration.

“This is the earliest I could return, sir.”

He nodded, studying something on the workbench. “Of course.” He turned toward me with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, nodding repeatedly as though trying to talk himself into something.

“I need your opinion on the sideboard, Miss Sullivan,” he said. He turned again toward the workbench, and I construed that as an invitation to approach him. I nodded, nearing the workbench, waiting for him to continue. “Which do you like better?” he said, pointing to two small pieces of wood. “That carving or this one?” he asked.

I studied both pieces. One an ornate curved molding with flowers along the edge, whereas the other was simpler with fine lines and a geometric pattern.

“I know what
I
like,” I replied. “I’m trying to determine what Miss Russell would like.”

“Which one do you like?”

“I like the simple one,” I replied. “I like the clean lines and the graceful beauty of it.”

“Then that’s the one I’ll use,” he said.

“But the piece isn’t for me,” I protested, turning my head to look at him with alarm.

He shook his head, a smile twisting the corner of his lips. “No,” he said, “it’s not for you. Thankfully.”

I felt breathless and confused, and turned away from the workbench. “If that is all, Mr. McLeod,” I stammered out, “I should head home.”

“Would you like a cup of tea on this cold day?” he asked, moving toward the small stove. I noted the pot of water already warming on the grate. He reached for the teapot, watching me expectantly.

Even in the warm room, I still felt chilled after the damp walk. I had just begun to feel my toes again and did not relish the thought of returning to the cold so soon. I nodded my agreement, happy for a reason to linger. “I brought a new book,” I called out, as I turned away to further study his workshop.

“Did you, now?” he asked, a smile evident in his voice. “Which one?”

“It’s by Mark Twain.
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court
,” I replied, reaching for my bag. “The librarian told me it was entertaining, and I think Colin liked it when he read it.”

“Hmm…Twain’s always a good read,” Gabriel said.

“If you’ve already read it…” I began.

“I’d love to hear you read it, miss,” he said, forestalling any further protestations. I watched as he continued to prepare the tea, enjoying the domestic scene. I sighed with contentment, relishing the thought of a quiet cup of tea with no formalities.

Gabriel moved toward the table, brushing off dust and random pieces of paper to make room for the mugs and teapot. “Sugar, miss?” he asked, holding up the cracked sugar bowl. I shook my head, wishing for milk. He scooped out two heaping mounds of sugar, dumping them in his mug before adding the scalding tea first to my mug and then his. I eagerly reached for my mug, warming my hands. I sighed again in contentment.

“You might find this chair more to your liking, Miss Clarissa,” he said, appearing embarrassed. I turned in the too-tall chair, noticing a small new delicate-looking rocking chair off to one side. I hopped down from the tall chair, thankful I refrained from spilling my tea, and moved toward the rocking chair. I sat, concerned it would give way as I did. I leaned into the chair, relaxing as the back of the chair seemed to have been made for someone of my proportions.

“Do you like it?”

I smiled as I relaxed in absolute comfort into the chair, gripping the arm of the chair with one hand. “It’s very comfortable for someone my size.”

“Exactly,” he murmured, turning away.

I watched as he picked up his mug, moving toward the workbench. He began to work in silence, and I wondered if he liked to talk while he worked. I rocked gently, lulled into a sense of well-being. After a few minutes of silence, I set my mug on the floor and reached for my purse, pulling out the book.

I cleared my throat and began to read, quickly becoming lost in the new story. I had to check myself a few times from laughing too loudly. I found myself enjoying the book and the travails of the main character as he awoke to find himself in a new time period. After losing myself in the story for nearly an hour, I realized the time. I needed to leave.

Gabriel glanced toward me as I rose, placing the book aside. I set my mug on the table, unsure if I should offer to help wash up.

“You’ve a very pleasant reading voice, miss,” he said.

“My family thinks so,” I agreed. “I remember you said your mother read to you.”

“My mum would read to us every night,” Gabriel said, a distant look in his eye as he gazed toward me.

“What were your parents like?” I asked.

He considered his answer, appearing to weigh his response. “Truthfully?” he asked with quirked eyebrow.

I nodded, waiting.

“My da was a poor laborer, uneducated, worked to bring up his younger brother, Aidan. They were orphans, too, you see?” he said. “Uncle Aidan remained in school, though only for the requisite time period, until age fourteen. He learned his letters well, though. Loved to talk over books with Mum. Uncle Aidan always said there were plenty of hours to fill while out to sea.

“Da worked hard, working on the project to fill in the Back Bay,” he said. “Where your cousin will live.” He nodded toward me, as though I were unsure where the Back Bay was. “He took tremendous pride in his work. Believed that no matter what a man did, he should do it well. Work hard. Earn his wage.”

“And your mother?” I asked.

“My mum, she was from another world. She came from a middle-class family, a learned woman. She was a free spirit. Believed each person makes their own way. Loved transcendental poetry and their beliefs,” he recalled, the distant expression overcoming him again. He glanced toward me wistfully, shaking his head as though to clear the memories.

“How did they meet?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted regretfully. “I never thought to ask while they lived. Now it’s too late.”

“No one ever told you?” I asked.

“Aunt Masterson loathed my da. Never wanted to speak of him. Thought he and his offspring were beneath her. Beneath notice,” he said, anger lacing his voice. He had picked up a piece of wood and a chisel but refrained from working.

He watched me, as I thought about what he had related. “Have I answered all your questions, miss?”

I nodded. “I must go, or they will worry.” I donned my jacket and hat, girding myself for the blast of cold air when I left the workshop.

“I’ll be by the school in a week or so to tell you of my progress.”

“That seems a long time,” I replied attempting not to appear too eager to see him again.

He smiled. “Yes, well, anything sooner might seem…” He shrugged his shoulders, still watching me. “I’ll see what I can do, miss.”

I felt breathless, watching him as he studied me. From the added heat to my face, I knew I blushed a darker shade of red, nearly tripping over a low bench as I turned to leave.

“It will be lovely to see you again,” I whispered, and turned to leave.

CHAPTER 12

DURING AN EVENING when Mrs. Smythe and Da had a dinner engagement, leaving Lucas, Colin and me the parlor to ourselves, I decided to read one of my suffrage newspapers in the parlor, rather than sequestered away in my bedroom. The
Woman’s Journal
never failed to inspire me. My eyes lit up as I read that a meeting would take place in a few days in the Back Bay in the late afternoon. I focused on the article, feeling nervous, purposeful energy roll through me. I closed my eyes, exhaled slowly and determined that this would be a gathering I would attend.

After I made my decision, my attention returned to the room. Lucas sat at the piano, playing lyrical, hypnotizing music. I remembered hearing occasional strains of it whistled by workers as I walked down the street but had never heard the complete song played before on the piano. I rose, quietly walking toward him to watch him play. The music was joyous, filling me with happiness and a desire to dance.

Lucas’s brow furrowed in concentration. His right hand seemed to flow over the keys, emphasizing sounds and chords in contrast to the rhythmic beats from his left hand.

As the song ended, I began to clap, causing Lucas to look up from the music for the first time. He smiled, playing out the last few notes in a dramatic fashion. I laughed with delight, twirling around, nearly falling over as my skirts became entangled with my enthusiasm.

“Lucas! That was fantastic! What was it?” I asked.

“It’s called ‘Maple Leaf Rag
,
’ Rissa,” Lucas said, wiping his brow. “And it sure is hard to play.” He touched the piano keys fondly a few times, striking a few chords here and there from the song.

“I’ve never seen you practice before, and Savannah never speaks of you playing the piano at home. Where did you learn to play it, Lucas?” I asked, curious.

Lucas smiled widely. “From friends of mine.” His cryptic remark only fueled my curiosity.

Before I could question him any further, Mrs. Smythe barreled into the room. “What on earth was that horrid music?” she demanded, hands across her chest, gasping for breath after her hasty entrance.

“It’s called ragtime, Mrs. Sullivan,” Lucas replied, smiling sweetly at her. “I can play it again if you feel deprived of hearing it.”

“Why, of course not, Lucas,” she snapped. “I should think you would have better taste than to bring
that sort
of music into this house.”

“Well, I’m afraid that sort of music is going to be the music of the future, ma’am. This will be the song of the year, so you’d better become accustomed to hearing it.” He winked in my direction, showing no contrition. Then we both stood and walked to our seats, him settling in the chair next to mine.

“Colin, anything in that paper interesting enough to share? You read it like you are hoping to find some long-lost treasure,” Lucas cajoled.

“Hmm…no, nothing uplifting like that song. Just more tales of death and woe around the world. The Boxers are getting more powerful and dangerous.” Colin sighed, setting aside the
Boston Evening Transcript
.

“And why should we care about a bunch of pugilists?” Mrs. Smythe demanded, her thin face even longer with her disapproval.

I giggled; Lucas snorted before acting as though he were sneezing to hide his amusement, but Colin stared at Mrs. Smythe with frank fascination.