The Rose of Winslow Street (23 page)

R
ain streamed through the cracks in the barn's dilapidated roof, turning the dirt floor into a muddy mess, but they had blankets to sit on and enough sheltered spaces in the barn to stay dry. The boys were in the corner playing with a toad they had captured, while Michael, his men, and Mirela huddled around the single kerosene lantern he'd bought in town that afternoon.

“The jasmine oil will bring around two thousand American dollars if I sell it now,” he said, refusing to let his mind dwell on the additional thousands of dollars it would bring if he had the resin. Acquiring the resin and using it to make the perfume looked increasingly unlikely. It would take weeks to harvest and refine the red juniper resin, then find the laboratory space to lease for blending the perfume. Michael needed to secure a home for his family now. He could wait no longer. If he was on his own, he would endure any deprivation necessary to make the fullest use of the precious oil, but he could not afford to do so when his family was vulnerable.

“I saw a farm for sale this morning,” he said. “There is a cabin on the land and I can learn how to grow corn or wheat.” Work as an ordinary farmer was a noble profession. It was not what he dreamed of, nor would it make use of his skills, but when his children were hungry and afraid, only the most selfish of men would put them at risk to pursue something as frivolous as perfume.

“Will two thousand dollars purchase a farm?” Joseph asked skeptically.

Michael had no idea. “If not, we can make arrangements with a bank. I am willing to lease the land. Whatever it takes to get us into a safe home.”

Mirela laid her hand on his arm. “If you sold your house and land in Romania, you would have a small fortune.” By the light of the flickering lantern, the pain in her soft blue eyes was heartrending. She switched to French so the children would not understand what she said. “It was my fault you had to leave in such a hurry. The boys should not suffer because you needed to help me.”

Michael shook his head. “Don't even think it.” If he tried to sell his estate while he was still in Colden, it would create a paper trail Enric could follow straight to Mirela. Michael's only hope of selling his estate without the risk of leading Enric to Colden would require a return to Romania. Leaving his family or uprooting his children yet again to drag them back to Romania was not an option.

“I am strong now,” Mirela said in a voice that sounded like the old Mirela. “If you wish to return to Romania to sell your estate, I will be fine here. My path is not yet clear to me, but never again will I interfere with His will for me. You need never fear that I will hurt myself again. This I swear to you.”

He covered her hand with his own. “When you speak in that tone, it reminds me of Father.”

She smiled. “A high compliment.”

“I meant it as such. But there will be no more talk of my return to Romania. We will figure out a way—”

Turk held up his hand. “Someone is coming,” he whispered.

Michael snuffed out the flame. He signaled to the boys to be quiet, then waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Joseph pressed a rifle into his hand. He moved carefully toward the door, his boots sliding only a little in the mud. The rain pelting on the old wooden roof sounded louder in the sudden silence, but the person outside was making no effort to be quiet.

“Michael? Are you in there?” It was Libby, her voice sounding thin and tired. “You can put down whatever battle-ax you've got at the ready; it's only me.”

He tossed the rifle to Joseph and grasped the door leaning against the barn to push it aside. A curse escaped his lips when he saw her, soaked to the skin and squinting to keep the rain from streaming into her eyes. A quick glance around revealed she was alone.

“Get inside,” he said grimly. Whatever had pushed Libby into a driving rainstorm could not be good. He nodded to Turk to relight the lantern. The rasp of flint was followed by the glow of a flame, and he gasped at the shattered expression on her face. Her hair hung in sopping locks, her clothing soaked and plastered to her skin, but it was her reddened eyes that startled him. She had been crying, and Libby was not the sort to break down over trifles.

“What happened?”

She sniffled and swiped at her nose. “I had a falling-out with my father.”

His eyes widened in disbelief. “And he allowed you to leave the house? In the middle of a storm?” Libby startled at the outrage in his voice, so he took a breath and tried to moderate his tone. “Surely he tried to persuade you to stay until things could be talked out more calmly.”

Her broken little laugh was filled with sorrow. “I don't think he really cared all that much.”

His hands trembled as he laid them on her shoulders. What sort of father would not fight for his own child? Libby tried to appear so tough to the world, but beneath that sturdy exterior, she had a tender center that was vulnerable to every slight and insult hurled at her. He pulled her against him, ignoring the sodden clothing. She was freezing! A curse escaped his lips and he hoped the heat from his body would seep into her clammy skin to provide some warmth.

“Mirela, you have some dry clothing, yes?” Mirela was already pulling a skirt and blouse from the bags they had packed.

“Turk, grab that blanket so Libby can dry herself. And the rest of you turn your backs. Mirela will help Libby change into something dry.” But at his words, Libby's arms tightened around him and she buried her face deeper into his chest, clinging to him like a lifeline in a raging sea. She was not crying. He would feel the shudders if she were, but she was still too upset to let him go. He rocked her gently, murmuring into her ear. “It will be all right,” he soothed. “We will fix whatever it is that has hurt you.”

He folded his arms tighter around her. The last time he had seen Libby she was snapping mad over his clumsy marriage proposal, but thank the Lord she seemed to have gotten over that, because he wanted to be the one she leaned on in times of trouble. “We must get you into dry clothing,” he murmured. “You will make yourself sick if you stay in these wet clothes.”

He felt her nod against his chest, but it was still several more moments before she pulled away and turned to Mirela for help. Both boys were staring at Libby in amazement, surely as baffled as he that any father would allow a woman to flee into such hazardous conditions. With a pat on Luke's shoulder, he nudged his son to the other side of the barn. “Turn your backs, boys. Mirela will help Libby.”

The boys and his men complied, listening to the wet fabric as she peeled it off her skin and the spatter of water as they wrung out the cloth. He felt sick to his stomach, because he was certain he was responsible for whatever had sparked the fallout with her father.

The wool blanket was harsh against her bare skin, but Libby welcomed the brisk rubbing as it heated her clammy body. It was awkward to be naked in front of another woman, but Mirela kept her eyes averted as she handed Libby dry clothing. Even more awkward was the presence of the three hulking giants on the far side of the barn, but she knew Michael would massacre anyone who dared sneak a glance. When she was dry and decently clothed, she sat beside Michael on one of the three trunks that surrounded the single kerosene lantern and told them the events of the evening.

“Jasper needed the drawings to obtain the patents,” she said. “He was able to copy all my father's notes, but the drawings were the one thing Jasper could not do on his own. We never would have noticed the theft if you had not arrived from Romania.”

Michael's hand tightened around hers. “Then why is your father angry with you and not your brother?”

What a complicated question that was! How could she explain twenty-eight years of frustration to a man like Michael? The days, weeks, years when her father forced her to stare at the McGuffey's readers, ordering her to memorize the text. The endless drills that always ended in tears and yelling. Her father would never settle for less than absolute perfection, and among all her father's endeavors and creations, Jasper was the only thing he had ever produced that was perfect.

“Jasper swore he never licensed any of the patents,” she said simply. “My father will go to his grave believing whatever Jasper says.”

Unless Jasper could be proven wrong. Libby straightened at the thought. There were three windmills clustered alongside a wide stretch of marsh just south of Plymouth. Nestled among the windmills was a house where the owner lived. It would be easy enough to ask where he obtained the technology for the unique windmills. If she could see the document licensing the windmills, she would know for certain if Jasper was lying.

Except she could not read.

“Will you take me to Plymouth?” she asked Michael impulsively. He looked as stunned as if she asked him to accompany her to the moon, but the urgency to get to Plymouth had just become the most important thing in her world. “I need to see those windmills and the papers that licensed the technology. It is the only way to prove to my father they are his designs.”

Michael raised a hand and gestured around the barn. “Look at where my family is living! I don't have a decent roof over their heads, my children are sleeping in mud, and you want me to take you to Plymouth?” The disbelief dripping from his voice might have dissuaded a less determined person, but not Libby.

“There is no reason for you to continue living here,” she said rapidly. “Mr. Auckland will take you in. Now that his children are grown he has three empty bedrooms, and he's always been sympathetic to your cause. If I can get your family into his house, will you go with me to Plymouth?”

Michael stood and stalked to the opposite side of the barn, dragging a hand through his hair as he paced. “This does not make sense to me, Libby. Why don't you write to the patent office in Washington and inquire if the technology was sold?”

“That will take weeks, and I don't think I can wait another day before I know.” And she needed Michael with her to read the paperwork regarding the windmills. She had flat-out lied to him regarding her ability to read and she needed to confess it. Strange, that lie was now more embarrassing than her illiteracy. She bit the corner of her thumbnail, wishing she could roll back the clock and retract the stupid boast that she could read. Reluctantly, she raised her head and locked her eyes with his. She would confess her shame in front of the entire family, for all of them were affected by this request.

“Michael, I lied to you the day I told you I can read.” The tightening of his features was the only sign he had heard her, but the others around the lantern appeared stunned. She ignored their reactions, only focusing on Michael and how he would digest this shameful aspect of her character. He was motionless as he stared at her. “I don't know why I was never able to learn, but it was not from want of effort. My brain simply won't recognize letters and hold them still on a page long enough for me to understand what the words say. I would trade all the stars in the sky if only I could learn to read, but I should not have lied to you about it. For that I am so sorry.”

The rain had trickled to a stop, making the silence in the barn even more pronounced. So acute was her embarrassment she was tempted to flee back outside.

“I can read,” Luke boasted.

“Be quiet, Luke,” Michael said harshly. He turned away from her and walked toward the front of the barn, staring bleakly out the narrow gap where the door leaned against the opening. If he would only turn so she could see his face, she might know what was going on in his mind. She held her breath, wondering if she had just destroyed the respect of the only man she had ever loved.

“So I suppose this is why you need me to come with you to Plymouth. To read those documents for you.” His voice was expressionless and he did not turn around when he spoke.

“Yes,” she said softly.

Michael braced his hand against the side of the barn as he stared into the night. The breadth of his shoulders and the muscular column of his neck were testaments to his strength, and Libby desperately longed to lean on him and follow wherever he led. What did it matter if he only wanted her for the house? All she wanted was Michael.