How to Please a Lady (22 page)

Charlie took a deep breath. “You performed well, Peter. I need one more thing from you.” Charlie looked Peter over and noted the man had no blood on him. “I need for you to take my carriage and go to his wife. They live at four twenty-one Houston Street on the second floor. She needs to be here and I can't go,” he said, looking down at his blood-smeared clothing. “I'll stay here and if there's bad news to tell, I'll be the one to tell it. Tell Mrs. Sullivan only that her husband's arm was injured. No details, got that, Peter?”

“Yes, sir.”

Charlie shook the man's hand and smiled grimly. “Good man. I'll see you soon.”

After Peter left, Charlie inquired where he could clean himself up, and a nurse directed him to a water closet with hot and cold running water. Charlie looked in the mirror over the basin and grimaced, seeing his face splattered with blood. He washed the best he could, but there was nothing he could do about his stained jacket and shirt.

Once he was more presentable, Charlie returned to the nurses' station and inquired after John.

“He's in surgery, sir,” the nurse said. “We have an area where you can sit if you plan to stay. Down the hall and to the right.”

“His wife is coming soon. Will you direct her there?”

“Of course.”

Though Charlie had never met Mrs. Sullivan, he knew her the moment she entered the room, and he immediately stood. Peter trailed behind her, looking grim. Mrs. Sullivan was a tiny woman with reddish-brown hair that was escaping its bun. Her cheeks were flushed, her brown eyes determined, almost as if she could will her husband better.

“What happened, Mr. Avery? Peter here would tell me nothing,” she said, her tone softened by her Irish burr. “How is my John?”

“Why don't we sit?” Charles said, and immediately saw that was a mistake, for she thought the worst. “He's in surgery, Mrs. Sullivan. That's all I know. He injured his arm grievously and chances are they won't be able to save it. He lost a lot of blood, but they're taking care of him now.”

She nodded and swallowed, and Charlie could tell she was trying hard not to cry. With quick movements, she walked to a line of wooden chairs and sat down, her back straight, her face set. “And what's to happen to us now?” she asked, looking up at Charlie.

“You'll be taken care of,” Charlie said, and the wiry little woman relaxed slightly. “I take care of my own, Mrs. Sullivan, and your husband is one of my best workers. You'll not starve.”

“It's our children. We've five, you see,” she said, and her face momentarily crumpled before she got control of herself.

“As I said, you will be taken care of. And when he's able, John will have a job, hand or no. I'll find something for him to do. Please do not worry on that account,” Charlie said. He'd had workers get injured in the past—there was no escaping it entirely, though he tried to operate a safe factory—and he'd always paid their wages until they could return. But no one had ever been injured nearly as badly as John. A broken leg from a fall, a knock on the head that had been downright scary, but no permanent disability.

Charlie and Peter sat opposite Mrs. Sullivan, who clutched her reticule on her lap, probably filled with whatever money they had in their flat. “I'll pay for the hospital stay, Mrs. Sullivan,” he said, and was satisfied when the grip on her reticule lessened.

Charlie sent Peter home, and he waited with Mrs. Sullivan for another hour before a priest walked through the door and Mrs. Sullivan, stoic until that moment, broke down. “I'm so sorry, Mrs. Sullivan, but the blood loss was just too much for him. He received his sacrament and is in God's hands now, at peace.”

Never before had Charlie witnessed a grief so all consuming. She fell to her knees, sobbing, clinging to the Father's hand, shaking her head, and saying, “No, it canna be true. Not my John. Not my John.”

Charlie turned away, working his throat, trying to remain strong in the face of such anguish. The priest let her cry, let her clutch his hand for several long minutes, before he got down on his knees next to her, not to pray, but to hold her. The priest looked up at Charlie. “You are a relative?”

“No, Father, I'm her husband's employer. I brought him here.”

The priest nodded. Finally, Mrs. Sullivan calmed, her tears ending so abruptly, it was if she turned them off. She stood, still clutching her reticule, and looked at Charlie. “Did he have any words for me?” she asked, her voice shaking.

“He told me to tell you that he loved you. You and the children,” Charlie said, figuring a small lie wouldn't be too large a sin, even if it was said in front of a priest.

She nodded and smiled the tiniest bit, and Charlie wasn't sure if it was a smile of thanks or one acknowledging his lie. After a time, the priest left, leaving Charlie alone with Mrs. Sullivan, a shell of the woman she'd been when she'd walked into the hospital.

“I can bring you home, Mrs. Sullivan. We should go.”

“Do you think they'll let me see him?”

Charlie fetched a nurse, who brought Mrs. Sullivan to her husband, while Charlie waited for her to return. When she did, they walked solemnly out the door.

“Strange that he won't be home when I get there,” she said, sounding almost puzzled, as if she were still wrapping her mind around the fact that her husband was gone forever.

“Mrs. Sullivan, how old is your oldest boy?”

She stopped and looked up at him, a small hope sparking in her eyes. “He's twelve, sir.”

“When he turns sixteen, send him to me and he'll have a job.”

“Oh, but he's a big boy, nearly as tall as John. He could work now, he could and—”

“I don't employ children, Mrs. Sullivan. It is far too dangerous work for a child. Your husband's wages will be paid for as long as you need me to or until your son comes to work for me.”

She stared at him, narrowing her eyes. “I'll not accept charity, sir, no matter how well intended.”

“You can and you will. Your husband died working for me, likely rushing because he knew how important it was that we make our quota. He should have shut off the machine but he didn't and he died for it. You will allow me to pay his wage.”

He recognized the stubborn set of her jaw, and recognized also the moment she agreed to accept her husband's salary. No doubt she was thinking about the five mouths she would need to feed.

“Thank you, Mr. Avery. You are a good man.”

He didn't feel much like a good man at the moment. He felt partly to blame for the accident. Hadn't he given everyone a rousing speech at the beginning of the day about the importance of meeting this contract, about how vital it was to the future success of C. A. Kitchen Tools? He wanted to do more, but he also knew Mrs. Sullivan would not accept more.

 

When Charlie finally returned home, it was nearly midnight and he was more exhausted than he could ever remember being. As he alit from the carriage, his eyes automatically went to Rose's darkened house.

“Shite,” he said aloud, remembering he'd not made tea that day and hadn't thought to send word. He'd make it up to her some other time. Surely she would understand.

Moving slowly up the stairs, Charlie thought about Mrs. Sullivan, about how difficult it would be for her to tell her children that their strapping father was dead. He felt like his shoes were made from lead.

His house was dark; he never expected his servants to wait up for him. All he wanted to do was wash up, rip off his fouled clothing, and get into bed.

“Bonsoir,”
came a cheerful woman's voice as he entered his bedchamber.

“Louise, what the hell are you doing in my room? Who let you in here?”

“I let myself in. And, of course, I think you must know why I am here,
non
?” She came up to him wearing only the thinnest of nightgowns. Charlie was man enough to recognize she was beautiful, but he was in no mood to make love tonight, particularly not with her. Especially not with any woman other than the one who had been torturing him for so many nights and who was no doubt a bit miffed that he'd missed tea.

“I want you to leave, Louise. Now.”

“You say
non
?” Louise, whom he had always found particularly charming, put on a full pout.

“No.”

“Charlie,” she said, giving him a small smile. “You cannot say
non
. I need you in the bed. Here, let me help you out of this clothings.” She furrowed her brow. “This clothings are stained. Is this blood? Is it yours?”

“No. An employee was injured today,” Charlie said impatiently, having no wish to give Louise any details.

She reached for him but he gently grabbed her wrists and pushed her away. “I said no, Louise.”

“And I say
oui
,” she said loudly, her mood changing mercurially.
“Oui, oui, oui, oui, oui!”

And that's when he heard the window slam from across the alley. Charlie let out a curse, and abruptly Louise's demeanor changed. No doubt he looked as if he wanted to murder her, which in fact he did.

“I shall leave you, Charlie, and see you again when you are in a better mood.” Louise took up her cloak, put it on, and within moments she was hurrying down the stairs. Charlie would have laughed at her quick departure if he wasn't so painfully aware of what the sound of that window slamming meant.

Splashing his face with water and making certain every bit of blood was off his hands, he hastily changed his clothes and headed over to explain to Rose that what she thought she had heard was not at all what had happened.

 

Rose wasn't quite certain why she'd felt as devastated as she had when Charlie did not arrive for his visit. He was not
courting
her. But he could have sent round a note. Or flowers. Or given some indication that he was sorry to have left her waiting like some pathetic old maid hoping for her imaginary beau to arrive.

She hated that she'd tensed at the sound of every carriage that passed by, thinking it might be him, thinking he would soon be rushing to her door, full of good cheer and uttering apologies before taking her in his arms and kissing her.

As the hours had passed, she'd grown more philosophical about his absence. It was probably for the best. It wouldn't do to become too attached to a man who very well might be a rake. Who most assuredly
was
a rake. Thank goodness she had come to her senses before she allowed her heart to become too engaged.

She had fallen asleep early, congratulating herself on how well she was handling Charlie's rejection. She was awakened around midnight and drowsily sat up, uncertain what had woken her. Her one weakness was that she had kept her window open, just in case she heard Charlie return home. Perhaps she could peek out just to see if he were alone.

Foolish, she knew, but there it was.

She sat there and looked at her window, her entire body heating with anger when she clearly recognized the voice of a woman coming from across the alley. How dare he! Oh, the cad. The . . . the . . . rake! Yes, that's precisely what he was. She'd been right all along. And to think how she had allowed herself to suffer for that man. If he so much as smiled at her for the rest of her life she would turn her back. And then she heard,
“Oui, oui, oui, oui,”
and she slammed the window shut to block out the rest.

Hot tears pressed on her eyes, but she squeezed them shut, refusing to give in to her ridiculously misplaced emotion. “I hate him,” she said fervently. Rose sat on her bed, glaring at the window, banging her heel against the bed's wooden slats almost painfully. She was still banging when she heard another banging, and stopped midswing. Someone was at her front door.

Grabbing her wrap, she hurried down the stairs and peered out the window beside the door, peeking through the sheer curtain. Charlie stood there, pacing back and forth like some sort of caged lion.

She opened the door immediately, forgetting her vow never to speak to him again. “Good evening, Charlie. Done entertaining?”

“I do realize that's what it sounded like, but it was not what you think.”

“Really, Charlie, I don't care if you have a harem in your home as long as you are quiet about it,” Rose said, wondering if Charlie thought she was completely naive simply because she was a virgin.

“Rose, I've had one hell of a day. I'm sorry I missed tea. I'm sorry I came home to find a woman in my room,” he said, and with every sentence uttered he sounded more angry. “And I'm extremely sorry you jumped to the wrong conclusion. I was so sorry, in fact, that I felt the need to come to your door in the middle of the night to apologize for doing nothing. I'm tired and I'm going to bed. Good evening, Mrs. Cartwright.”

Something about his voice, something raw and almost broken beneath the anger, drew her outside, and as Charlie turned away she grabbed his arm. “Charlie, what's wrong? What's happened?”

He stood on the landing, half facing toward the street, for a long moment before speaking. “One of my workers died today from an injury at work. I was at the hospital with his wife.”

Rose heard the raw emotion in his voice, and his eyes glittered briefly before he impatiently rubbed them with the heels of his hands. “He has five children, Rose. Five.”

“Oh, Charlie, I'm sorry. I feel simply awful now, getting upset about your missing a silly tea when you were dealing with that. And really, about the woman, it doesn't matter. I was just a bit angry to have been woken up, that's all.”