Fairer than Morning (15 page)

“Miss Miller, will you join us?” Allan called from under the green awning of the glover's store.

When she approached, he touched his fingers to the brim of his hat and bowed his head, then smiled as intimately as if the two of them stood alone on the street. “I have a surprise in mind for you,” he said, removing his hat to reveal an appealing dishevelment of his thick brown hair. “So I will go in search of it while you visit the glover.”

“That's intriguing.” Ann's burdened heart lost some of its weight at the playfulness in his gray eyes.

“I hope so.” He grinned. “Mr. Miller, have you business to attend?”

“Yes, I do. Thank you for escorting the girls.” Mr. Miller pulled his watch from his pocket and checked the time. “We'll meet back here in two hours, then?”

“Yes, sir.” The two men shook hands, and Ann's father departed down the busy street, dodging other pedestrians without breaking his stride.

Allan opened the door of the glover's store and held it for the girls, Ann bringing up the rear. When she reached the door, she felt a light touch on her shoulder. She looked at him in surprise. He leaned close to speak in a low voice, and as the warmth of his body traveled through the wintry air, she smelled masculine traces of soap and leather—such a foreign smell from the sweet little-girl scent of her sisters.

“Don't leave this shop until I come back for you,” he said. “This city can be a most uncivil place, even on its most civilized streets.”

She nodded and stepped forward into the perfumed air of the store. Her sisters were already peering into glass cases and sighing at the luxurious wares. They pounced on Ann, leading her around with such glee that one would have thought they themselves had fashioned each item.

When they had each chosen a pair of gloves and a handkerchief—the more economical selections, though still dainty—the amused proprietor gathered their purchases and began to wrap them. The girls were still finding new treasures around the store, but Ann had her fill of gloves. She let her gaze wander to the street outside the checkerboard frame of the window. So many people. One woman rushed past the window, clasping her bonnet to her head with one hand, while a big riverman sauntered by and spat into the street as if he had not a task in the world but to stroll and chew tobacco. Then there was the man leaning up against the side of the building across the way
 
.
 
.
 
. watching her.

Him! The man with the beaver hat. She made a decision in an instant. “Stay here, girls. I'll be back shortly.”

The shop bell clanged as she threw open the door and hurried out, keeping her eyes on the man. When he saw her, he started and strode away on the opposite side of the street.

She would make him tell her what business he had with her father. Finding a gap in the steady stream of traffic, she picked up her skirts and ran across the street after him. He vanished around a corner, but she marked the space where he had gone and followed as fast as she could.

She rounded the corner into a narrow alley. It was gloomy, even in the morning's gray light. A stench of garbage and human waste rose from unidentifiable heaps next to the walls. She was afraid some of them were human, but she had no time to investigate. The alley ahead of her was empty. Her fugitive must have turned the corner at the far end and escaped into the next street. She picked up her speed, the walls blurring past her as she panted for breath against the constriction of her stays. The man would not elude her, not if she had any say in the matter.

She passed several nooks in the side of the buildings and a doorway. Almost there.

Something pelted into her stomach with great force, stopping her cold. She bent double. Everything stood still in agony. Her lungs would not work. She could not breathe. An iron band completely circled her at the waist, lifting her off her feet. It dragged her sideways, into a doorway. It was so dark she could see nothing. A rough hand covered her mouth. Dizzy, she willed herself to take even one breath, but she felt her limbs weakening. She thought in a dim corner of her mind that she might die here. Her senses faded.

The coach rolled to a stop at the foot of the hill. Will opened the door and jumped to the ground without even using the step. “I'll be back soon,” he called up to the driver.

The poorhouse squatted at the top of the long flights of wooden stairs, but this time Will climbed them with joy. He had come for Emmie. He had done at least one good deed.

When he knocked on the door, a new housekeeper answered. She was younger than the previous woman, but her face was hard as flint.

“Whadda you want?”

“I've come for Emmie Flynn. She has been offered a position and a place to stay.”

The woman's beady eyes widened with surprise. “You don't hear that every day. Not at this house.” She turned and yelled over her shoulder, “Emmie Flynn!”

In a minute, Emmie walked up next to her. If she grew any thinner, she would be transparent. Her hair still trailed out of her bonnet and hung over her shoulders, like a little girl's. “What is it, Mrs. Drew?” Then she saw Will, and a question formed in her eyes.

“You have a position in the glass factory now, Emmie. And a place to live.”

For the first time, her lips curved upward. Her smile was beautiful but fragile, like a drop of water standing on a petal, sure to fall with the slightest breeze. He wished he could set a glass dome around her to protect the beauty of that smile forever.

“Will you come with me?” he said.

She nodded slowly. “I'll get my things.”

He could not believe it when he finally handed her into the coach, savoring the feel of her little hand in his. From the look on her face, she did not believe it either. She sat on the edge of the seat, placing her worn bag next to her and sitting very straight with her hands folded in her lap. She stared out the window. Her slender form vibrated with the motion of the coach over the rocky road. Will feared she might fall off the seat.

“You may as well make yourself comfortable,” he said as kindly as he could. “It will be a few minutes until we get to the boarding house.”

She pushed herself back against the seat, and after a moment, her tense shoulders relaxed. She continued to watch the scene unfolding past the coach window, rapt. “What is that building?” she asked.

Will could not see where she was pointing, so he moved from the seat opposite her to the one next to her. “A new whiskey distillery,” he said. “It went up last year.” At this, a thought struck him. “How long have you been in the almshouse?”

“Three years.”

The awfulness of it brought silence as he visualized it. The tedium and the grind of the same painful work, blistering and tearing her hands day after day. For a thousand days.

“And what brought you there?” he asked.

“My mother. She couldn't provide for us by honest means, and couldn't bear for me to see her . . . provide by other means.”

It took a moment, but Will caught her meaning. His face flamed. “What of your father?”

“I never knew him.”

“I'm sorry.” His heart went out to her. He took one of her hands, as he had once taken his sisters' before they grew ill. “It will be better now.”

“I hope so.” She held his gaze for a long moment. Her lips trembled and tears welled in her eyes.

Then he leaned forward, an inch at a time, and closing his eyes, gently brushed her lips with his own. For one timeless moment, he breathed in her nearness, her fragility.

What was he doing? He would compromise a girl whose mother had condemned her to three years of hard labor rather than sully her. Though instinct impelled him forward, he drew back and opened his eyes. Instead of the outraged scowl he expected, she regarded him with an odd blend of vulnerability and wariness.

“I'm sorry,” he said, releasing her hand. “I don't intend any dishonor to you.”

She lifted her own hand and touched the one he had withdrawn, where it lay between them. “It's all right.”

He moved back to the seat opposite her, clumsily rearranging his legs so as to avoid touching her.

They arrived at the boarding house after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence. Will caught her looking at him, which shamed him further. She would think he had rescued her for low motives, and that could not be further from the truth.

Once outside, he reached up to take her hand again. “Be careful on the step.”

She flashed him a grateful look.

The gap-toothed landlady leered at them as Will asked her for the key. At least she held her tongue.

It took a moment to work the rusty lock, but eventually Will was able to open the plank door and let Emmie in. She passed into the room, looking around for something. It was furnished with a small bed and thin coverlet, a rag rug, and a dresser with missing knobs.

“There's a candle and tinder in the dresser,” Will said, guessing what she needed in the dim room. “Top drawer.”

He had placed the candle there for her because the top drawer, at least, was still possessed of its knobs and thus easier to open. She retrieved the candle, set it in the rusty holder atop the chest of drawers, and struck the flint and steel into the tinder. The tiny light guttered and caught, sending shadows dancing around them. She lit the candles.

“I'm sorry it's not much.” He wished he could have found a better coverlet or quilt. She might be cold. He crossed to the dresser and wrestled with the second drawer until it opened with a scrape. “But my friend the doctor did send a shawl and gloves. And some shoes. See?”

“It's a sight better than what I had,” she said softly.

He straightened up, relieved.

She interlaced her fingers and dropped her gaze to the floor. “I owe you so much,” she said. “Why did you help me?”

“Because you needed help. You didn't deserve that life. That's all. I swear.” Then he flushed, fearing he had said too much.

She lifted her head, her cheekbones standing out in the candlelight, her eyes bright. “You're a good man.” She stepped forward and took his larger hand between her two small ones. Lifting it before her face, she pressed his hand to her lips, closing her eyes in an expression of profound thankfulness.

He felt her breath and the warmth of her mouth, and desire to touch her overwhelmed him. As she lowered his hand but did not release her grip, he found his other hand moving to her shoulders as if pulled there by some invisible, irresistible force. Her shirt was rough, but her hair was soft. He entwined his fingers in it and slid his hand to the back of her neck. He gently pulled her close to him. She did not resist, and this time, when he kissed her, he did not stop.

Fifteen

A
NN AWOKE TO THE SOUND OF LOW VOICES. HER
mouth felt strange. There was something in it—cloth that bit into her cheeks and pressed on the back of her head. Panic swelled and her breathing quickened. She lay on her side. Her hands were numb, and when she tried to lift them, she found they were bound by a cord or rope—she couldn't tell which in the darkness. A solitary line of ghostly light glimmered at eye level a few feet from her. After a moment, she realized it was the gap between a door and the floor. There must be a lamp in the room beyond the door, and it was from that room that the voices issued.

“I did what I had to do. She was coming after me. She knew I was following them.” The man's voice was slow and Southern, but overlaid with roughness like splintered wood. She didn't recognize it.

“You're a fool. Someone may have seen you.” The second man spoke in a more cultured drawl.

“No one did. I caught her in the alley outside.”

“And what do you propose we do with her now?”

“I say we send a note to her father telling him that we will return his daughter if he returns what belongs to you.”

“And if he refuses?”

“We make him aware that he will never see her again.”

“And what would we do with the girl?”

“Dump her in the river and make it look like one of the flatboat men got to her.”