Banished Love (25 page)

“After I became a Master, and after nine years with the Mastersons, we moved out. I had learned enough from Old Mr. Smithers to start selling my own furniture. I knew it would be hard. I couldn’t stay there any longer. Richard and Cousin Henry were in near daily fights. I worried that Richard would eventually run away. I wanted my brothers to have a chance to live elsewhere. We rented a cheap tenement room with Mrs. Capuano in the North End and eked out a living. I continued to work with Mr. Smithers in his shop. We survived.” He paused, as though finished.

“What happened to Mr. Smithers?”

“He died two years ago. He left me his workshop and his tools. More importantly, he passed on his great knowledge. His customers had met me, known me for years. I thought my business would continue to grow.” He sighed, massaging the back of his neck, rolling his shoulders, trying to calm the tension he appeared to be feeling.

“However, Aunt Masterson started to spread rumors about me, insinuating that I had led to Mr. Smithers’s death. When I first heard the rumors, I thought it a joke. Why would I have hurt the man I loved like a father? But the murmurings continued. I had been the one to find him dead at the shop. The doctor said his heart gave out. He was over seventy. Smoked like a chimney, though not in the workshop.”

Gabriel looked at me. “But the damage was done. My business slowly dwindled. Thankfully, by this time, Richard worked at the smithy, and we could continue to live independently. I am hopeful that your uncle’s patronage will restore my reputation as a cabinetmaker.”

“Why did Aunt Masterson dislike you so much?” I knew I had already asked him this, but I couldn’t imagine one of my aunts treating me in such a manner.

Gabriel sighed, tossing the sandpaper back and forth in his hands before finally tossing it onto the workbench, bitterness lacing his voice. “I am not certain. She did say numerous times that my mum had married a worthless man. In her eyes, my mum’s children were worthless due to their father.”

I rose, walking toward him. I gripped his arm gently, looking at him beseechingly with large rounded eyes. “You are not worthless,” I said.

Gabriel blushed, looking at me abashed. He appeared uncomfortable at all that he had revealed to me.

“I am confused about something,” I stated, thinking back to the conversation that his Aunt Masterson had had with Mrs. Smythe at my house over tea. “If she thought you might have killed someone, why would she want you to work with her husband?”

“Oh, she is a sly woman, never underestimate her. She came by one day, as my business was at a standstill. She appeared very worried about the rumors. Very solicitous of my well-being. Ensuring me that she did not believe a word of what she had heard. However, since I was having such a hard time making a living as a cabinetmaker, why not join my uncle’s firm?”

“That was her intention, wasn’t it?”

“Exactly, ruin me, make me desperate to the point where I would feel my only choice was to work for my uncle. I had no intention of entering her sphere of influence again. She continues to come by the warehouse every few months, to determine if I am still in business. It is her way to taunt me, show me that she can still manipulate my life.”

“Ga…Mr. McLeod,” I quickly corrected myself, absently reaching out to grip his hand for a moment. “I know how hard it can be to speak of the past and the pain that still seems too fresh though it is from years ago. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

Gabriel sighed, gripping my hand, meeting my gaze with deep blue eyes. “I never like talking about what happened. I want you to know about me. I want
you
to kno
w
me
.” He gently took my other hand, clasping it lightly, continuing to watch me intently.

“It explains so much,” I said. “I wondered, when I saw your display for Uncle, why you were not well-known and why people were not clamoring for your work. Then when you agreed to make bookshelves for a poor schoolroom, I became more curious.” I shook my head at the cruel twists of fate.

“Don’t be too upset, Miss Clarissa,” Gabriel replied. “Else we never would have met.”

I nodded my agreement, continuing to smile.

“May I ask you questions, now?” he inquired, tilting his head to one side, watching me with frank interest.

“If you like, though I may not answer them,” I replied, repeating his words back to him.

He gave a bark of laughter before asking, “Why did your family scorn you after Cameron left?” He stared with fierce intensity, looking deeply into my eyes.

I broke eye contact, blushing. “My grandparents are society-type people. Well, the ones on my mother’s side, anyway. They were mortified that I caused such a ‘scandal.’ That was the word they used. It was snidely written up in the papers. Tongue in cheek. My grandparents disliked anything unflattering to be reflected toward them, and that reeked of it.” I paused, and a few tears escaped. I whispered, “My grandpapa even stated that there must be something inherently wrong with me for a man not to show up on his wedding day. That now no one would ever want to marry me as I had been shown to be so undesirable, so unlovable.”

Gabriel pulled me into his arms. “Oh, darling. They call themselves ‘genteel’? They may be rich in the amount of money they have in the bank, but they are poor in spirit.” He continued to cradle me against his chest, murmuring soothing words into my ear.

“I swear I did nothing wrong! I just stood in my room, waiting and waiting. Cameron never came. I never knew why. I still don’t, not really. His pathetic excuses now will never explain his reasons for not coming.” I leaned against Gabriel, sighing into his chest, trying to regain a modicum of control.

Gabriel eased me away from him, smiling at me. “Darling, I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again. The man’s an idiot. No one who has the chance to marry you would fail to show up.” He spoke in a fervent yet gentle voice that soothed me.

He cupped my face in his palms, tilting up my face to meet his worried, tender gaze. He softly stroked my cheeks with his thumbs, the light touches a balm. His deep, rich baritone stirred a long-dormant part of me buried inside. A part of me I thought had died after Cameron.

“Why are you so good to me?” I asked with a teary smile.

He studied me for a few moments as though weighing his answer. Finally, he murmured, “Clarissa, I like to think we would be good to each other.”

My eyes widened slightly, unsure if this were a declaration. I found my voice, asking, “Would you mind clarifying what you mean?”

“Clarifying?” He smiled with wry humor. “I’m saying I’d like to court you. Have the chance to know you. Properly.” He watched me, waiting for my response.

“I’d like that,” I said in a strong voice.

“That’s good, Clarissa,” he murmured, leaning toward me.

I closed my eyes in anticipation of his kiss but felt disappointment pour through me like a bucket of ice water when he merely brushed his lips against my cheek.

“I’d hate it if you thought I took any liberties,” he murmured, a teasing note in his voice.

I opened my eyes to meet his amused gaze. After clearing my throat, I said in as firm a voice as possible, “I do not believe you have taken any liberties.”

“I may not have taken any yet, Clarissa,” he whispered, “but I thought it only fair to warn you.”

He leaned in, gently kissing me with his palms framing my face, fingers caressing my cheeks. This kiss seemed to go on and on, and I quickly lost my breath. I gripped his waist to maintain my balance and sense of place in the world, and kissed him back wholeheartedly. Though passion-filled, his kiss and touch remained gentle, almost reverent. None of the grinding, painful kisses from Cameron that I had thought showed his desire for me. I leaned in closer, not wanting this kiss, this embrace, to end.

Gabriel stepped back, breathing heavily. “Forgive me, Clarissa,” he gasped. He held me slightly from him, his hands softly on my shoulders.

“There’s nothing to forgive, Mr. McLeod,” I said. I reached up to stroke his cheek, feeling the bristle from his late-afternoon stubble rasp the soft skin of my fingers. He leaned into my touch like a cat, and I smiled with unutterable tenderness.

The distant slam of a door jolted me out of my reverie, and I quickly lowered my hand.

“My name is Gabriel, Clarissa,” he murmured.

I nodded, meeting his gaze. “Gabriel,” I whispered, smiling as I saw his eyes flash with a deep emotion. “Gabriel,” I repeated in a stronger voice. “I must go.”

“Ah, yes, you must,” he agreed. “Send word when I may call?”

“As soon as possible,” I vowed.

He lifted my hand, quickly kissing my knuckles. I gathered my purse and departed, glancing at him over my shoulder. He stood still, watching me leave, intense longing in his eyes.

CHAPTER 26

“PENNY FOR YOUR THOUGHTS?” Florence asked as she sailed into my schoolroom. My head jerked up. She cocked her head to one side, studying me inquisitively. “What has you so pensive? You seem a thousand miles away.” She smiled as she walked over to the chalkboard to begin erasing today’s lesson.

“Florence, please don’t become angry with me,” I said. She turned to watch me with a small frown. I sighed, placing my hands at my sides instead of wringing them in my anxiousness. “I have been spending more time with Gabriel McLeod, and I really like him. I just don’t understand why you don’t. What happened between the two of you to cause such animosity?” I asked, speaking in a rush of words.

Florence stopped erasing the chalkboard, watching me with wide eyes. She lowered her arm slowly, setting aside the eraser. Her dress was covered in chalk, and her curly black hair was falling out of its bun to the right side, giving her a lopsided appearance. “It’s not a topic I like to discuss,” she replied.

“Florence, please,” I pleaded. “Help me to understand.”

“What is the worst thing to ever happen to you, Clarissa?” Florence asked in a low, pain-stricken voice. Her eyes were filled with a devastation I had never seen before.

“My mama’s death,” I whispered, unable to speak any louder.

“And yet, when she died, you knew she loved you. She loved you,” Florence said it as though a statement but in a questioning voice.

“Of course.”

“Not everyone is as lucky as you,” Florence said, closing her eyes as though to ward off terrible memories. She held herself horribly still, as if protecting against any further pain.

I again thought of my fragile seashells as I watched her. I approached her slowly, reaching out to touch her arm. “Florence, talk with me. Let me share the burden of this memory,” I said. I pulled on her arm, leading her to my chair. She sat with an ungraceful thud, her skirts crumpling around her. I leaned against my desk, crossed my arms, waited for her to speak.

“Do you remember my story about how my family died?” she asked in a hoarse voice.

“Of course,” I replied. “I can’t imagine such a loss.”

Florence closed her eyes tightly, tears escaping from the corners of her eyes. “That is the story I made up to make myself feel better.”

I gaped at her. “Florence, what happened?”

“I’m poor,” she sniffled, meeting my eyes.

I nodded.

“I have always been poor. But, when I was a little girl, my family was destitute,” she murmured. “My mam had a baby nearly every year, and Pa wasn’t much of a worker. Liked to drink more than work.” Florence stared over my shoulder, a far-off, distant look in her eye.

“When I was seven, we ran out of food. Ran out of money. Ran out of ways to darn our old clothes. They couldn’t be darned again. The holes were too big, the cloth too thin. I’ve never known such hunger. As though my stomach would eat itself from its emptiness,” she said, bitterness lacing her rambling recollection. “Pa talked about his next great job. Talked and talked. But never did anything.” Her eyes lit with anger, and another tear escaped.

I gripped her hand attempting to show my support yet not wanting to interrupt her.

“My mam became desperate.” Florence’s voice cracked. She cleared her throat, continuing in a wobbly tone. “She had five children to feed and another on the way.” Florence wiped away her tears as they began to fall more readily. “She brought me to the Home one day, leaving me there. Just leaving me there. Promising to come visit.” She closed her eyes, shaking her head from side to side, trying to banish the memories and pain.

“The Home?”

“The Home for Little Wanderers. An orphanage for kids like me. Unwanted or orphaned, we were all the same. Alone in this world,” she whispered, opening her pain-filled eyes. “I couldn’t understand what I had done to be banished from my family. I had always helped mam, tried to be good. Why me? Why?” She took a deep, shuddering breath, exhaling slowly before continuing to speak carefully. “She promised to come back. To bring me home again. But she never came back. I never saw her again. I never saw any of them again,” Florence said in an undertone. “I lived at the Home until I was old enough to go into service at age twelve.”

“Twelve?” I asked.

“I didn’t have to be very old to do some sort of work,” she replied, sniffing. “I went to live in the attic of old Mrs. Kruger. I cooked and cleaned and washed until my hands were raw. I hated my life. I prayed every day for my mam to come, to take me away. To take me away and tell me it had all been a mistake. But she never did.

“Mrs. Kruger didn’t treat me badly, but I was just so lonely. The house was quiet, so quiet. Mrs. Kruger had no children, her husband was long dead, and she had few visitors. She spent her days reading, writing.

“After about a year, Mrs. Kruger began to read aloud when I cleaned near her. When I began to ask questions, ask her why she believed certain things, she realized I was interested in learning. She hired another maid to help me with the chores and began to teach me,” she said in a choked voice. “She taught me more than I ever learned in any school. I learned later that she considered herself a Brahmin. I knew I would never be more than a maid, but she taught me, gave me confidence. Wanted me.
Me
.