Banished Love (8 page)

I grimaced at the thought of attempting so many of the domestic arts in one day.

“Of course there are always accidents,” she said, wiping a hand down her skirts.

I looked toward her skirt and gasped, noting the dark green paint marring the pretty pink linen. Thankfully, there were no stains on her cream-colored shirt. “Florence! How will you get the paint out?”

“Oh, a little of this ’n’ that. And I’m sure someone at the Chinese laundry will have an idea,” she said, wiping at her skirt again. “I shouldn’t like my clothes so much. But I do. If only I could entice you to window-shop with me.”

“Oh, Florence, you are good medicine,” I said with a laugh.

“When is this man going to show up, so I can finally enjoy some of the sunshine myself?”

“Ahem,” a low voice said.

Florence and I twirled around toward the door, nearly tripping on our long skirts. I caught myself on one of the children’s desks, flushing with embarrassment to be seen in such an unladylike way again.

“Mr. McLeod!” I called out, straightening, though feeling short of breath. “Thank you for coming by.” I walked toward him extending my hand in greeting. He watched me intently, taking my hand in a firm yet gentle grip.

“Miss,” he replied. He looked pointedly over toward Florence, watching her with apparent fascination, before guarding his expression. Florence seemed rooted to the spot, watching him as though in a daze.

“Richard,” Florence whispered.

Gabriel’s eyes flashed before he hid his emotion. “No, ma’am,” he replied. “I’m
Gabriel
McLeod.” His voice sounded cold, clipped.

Florence nodded, then collapsed into a chair, looking as though she had seen a ghost. Her ashen color made me worry she would soon faint. Finally she looked up toward Gabriel and in a small voice said, “I’m Florence Butler.”

Gabriel nodded curtly, hiding any further recognition he may have had. “Nice to, ah…meet you, Miss Butler.” He glanced quickly around the room, hiding his features from us.

I had a few moments to study him. His strong hands gripped his hat as though in anger. His broad shoulders tensed under his dull off-white shirt and gray jacket, and he kicked at the foot of a student’s desk with a rough brown boot before turning to face me again.

I glanced toward Florence, but she still seemed overcome with shock. I itched to hear her story. Wiping my hands on a rag, I tried to clean them and prevent dirtying my crisp white blouse. After a few moments, I set down the rag and crossed my hands on my waist, covering a simple silver belt, and hoped no chalk would mar my pretty rose-colored skirt. I smiled nervously, welcoming Gabriel.

“I’m here about the sideboard and bookshelves, if you recall.” There was silent mirth in his eyes as he focused on me.

I nodded my assent. “I have thought about bookshelves for a long time. Ideally I would like to have glass-fronted ones to help keep out the dust, but those are too dear and impractical with children.” I paused, lost in imagining the ideal shelves in my mind. “Therefore I would like them to go from the floor to at least shoulder height. There are a lot of books here,” I said, pointing to a pile stacked against a far wall.

He nodded, taking in the space and dimensions at a glance. “I will need exact measurements. Have you given any thought to how you would like the bookshelves made?”

I had thought he would make all the shelves at a standard spacing and had not imagined he would customize the project for me. Gabriel took my silence to mean I did not understand his question.

“I can make them any height you would like, miss. For example, if you have tall books, I can make some higher for those, shorter for smaller books. I’d need you to tell me the proper dimensions and number of different types of shelves.” He was studying me again.

I felt like a simpleton, unable to form any coherent words when looking into his eyes. I nodded, glancing away, clearing my throat. “Oh, of course,” I replied, a small smile escaping. “How wonderful to be able to create whatever you want with your hands and knowledge!”

“Not everything, miss,” he replied. “Just what I can build out of wood. Richard’s the real magician in the family, conjuring what he likes out of bits of iron.”

I noted he watched Florence when he had said Richard’s name. However, Florence remained in a state of shock, sitting on a child’s chair, staring dully ahead. I had never seen my vivacious spinster friend act in such a way.

“I would recommend that they not be flush on the floor. Sometimes there is moisture there, and this could lead to wood and book rot. Therefore, I suggest the shelves start a few inches off the floor. Would that meet your expectations?”

“Yes, that sounds very good. Do you have any drawings of the bookshelves to show me?”

“Not yet, but I will soon. However, about the sideboard,” Gabriel said, pulling out a few pieces of paper, which were vastly improved sketches of the secret project. “This is an expansion of the drawing from the other day,” he said.

He had added detail to the front and sides, and I had a better perception of depth. “Oh, that is lovely.” I sighed. “Savannah will love it.”

“May I see it?” Florence called out as she rose from the child’s desk.

“Of course, Florence,” I answered, holding my arm out to draw her into our discussion. “This is the sideboard Mr. McLeod will make for my cousin Savannah.”

Florence silently studied the drawing, nodding a few times. “She is very fortunate,
very
fortunate, it seems,” Florence said in a small voice.

I detected a trace of bitterness in her tone.

Gabriel had watched Florence the entire time she examined the sketch, confusion and animosity playing across his features. “Well, Miss Butler,” he said, “it appears her family thinks she deserves it.” He turned away, dislike emanating off him.

Florence blanched, moving toward the chair behind my desk, collapsing into it.

“If it is all right with you, miss,” he said in a slightly warmer voice, “I’d like to take a few measurements.”

“Of course,” I replied, watching him and Florence in confusion.

Florence continued to look ashen and despondent. “Florence,” I whispered. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” she replied in a flat monotone. “Just fine.” She looked toward me with a lost look in her eyes.

I recognized this look. I had seen it enough times in the mirror the months after Cameron had disappeared. I moved toward her, gripping her hands.

“How much longer will you need to be here today, Mr. McLeod?” I asked, concern for Florence invading my sense of contentment at the time spent with him.

“If I could have a few minutes more to measure, miss, that would be helpful.”

“Of course,” I replied, turning toward Florence. Her color had returned, and she met my eyes with patent embarrassment. “Just a little longer, Florence, then we’ll be out in the sun!” I said. I looked around the room, trying to find something to keep us busy until Gabriel had finished, but we had already tidied the room.

Florence watched me as though understanding what I was looking for. “Why don’t you read to us, Clarissa, to pass the time?” she asked. “You have the loveliest reading voice.”

“Yes, I just went to the public library and was able to borrow
The Red Badge of Courage.
Would you like to hear it read?” It didn’t seem the type of book to raise one’s spirits, but the only other books I had were school primers.

“Yes. Why don’t you read out loud and entertain us all?” Florence said with a weak smile. She had settled in my comfortable chair behind my desk, and I didn’t have the heart to ask her to move.

I went over to my bag and retrieved the book. My brothers had loved it, but I had not yet read it. I wasn’t sure I would enjoy reading a war story but thought I should try. I had nowhere to sit now, except for a student’s seat, so I reluctantly sat in one of those, with my knees next to my chin, feeling rather silly. However, as soon as I started reading, I lost all sense of self, as though becoming part of the story.

I read for the next half hour, slowly relaxing, enjoying the quiet, peaceful room and the sounds of Gabriel walking around my area, working as I read. After a while I realized that the sounds of working had abated and that I was reading to a rapt audience. I looked up to find Florence curled up in the chair, with her eyes closed, appearing contented. I glanced over to Gabriel to find him studying me unabashedly. I blushed but met his gaze, holding it for a long moment.

Finally Florence stirred, asking, “So, is that all for today then, Clarissa?” She sat up primly, watching Gabriel warily. She stood and righted her appearance, not looking at either of us.

As I realized the time and that I needed to return home, I closed the book reluctantly. “I’m sorry, but I need to go. I won’t be able to read anymore today. I, ah…” I was at a loss for words, unsure if he wanted me to read more to him.

He smiled fully for the first time, and I was startled anew by his handsomeness. “I greatly enjoyed your reading, miss. Maybe you could save that book for me, and we could keep reading it together?” His eyes twinkled a little.

“Of course, Mr. McLeod. If you like, the next time you come to the schoolhouse, I can read to you then. However, I can only keep the book out for er…fourteen days, so we will have to continue to make progress.”

He watched me intently. “I will come visit your school soon, miss.” His voice was a gentle, rich baritone, and it felt like a caress. I flushed, looking away, nodding my agreement. He bid Florence and then me a good day, and left quietly.

“Well, Clarissa,” Florence stated. “I am glad you found a competent carpenter.” A bitter grimace turned down her mouth. “Now I must return home.”

I gripped her hand as she moved past me, stopping her. “Florence! What is there between you and Mr. McLeod?”

Florence closed her eyes wearily. “Nothing but a terrible past, Clarissa.” She opened her eyes, pleadingly. “Not today, Clarissa,” she entreated. “Not today.”

I let her hand go. “Florence, I hate to see you so sad,” I whispered.

Florence stood only a few feet from me, but she held herself as though she were miles away.

I felt an impenetrable wall between us and longed to be able to help my friend.

“You would never understand, Clarissa,” she whispered. “You, who have always had your family around you. You have no idea what it is to be truly alone,” she said wearily, clamping her mouth shut.

I looked into her devastated eyes, reaching out to comfort her, but she shook her head, fighting tears, and fled from the room.

CHAPTER 7

I SAT RELAXING in the Russell family parlor with Savannah. Lucas had gone out with friends, and Aunt Matilda and Uncle Martin were working in the store office, organizing and pricing a new batch of cloth that had just been delivered.

“I envy Uncle and Aunt,” I mused aloud as I sprawled lazily on the faded rose-patterned settee.

“Why is that?” Savannah inquired, almost startled by my statement. She looked up in surprise, interrupting her calm progress on her needlepoint. Her hair was made more strawberry than blond by the glow of the fire.

“Well, they seem so well matched, and she is able to help him with the business. I think it must be a good marriage. They seem very happy,” I said. I sat with my needlepoint on my lap, halfheartedly attempting to work at it but knowing that no intelligible design would ever be discerned when I finished.

“I think that a good marriage is a marriage where the wife is not expected to work, except within the home, of course,” Savannah replied, raising an eyebrow toward me waiting for my response.

“Sav, it’s just you and me here, no Jonas. Is that truly how you feel? Is this all you want to do the rest of your life? Plan dinner parties and work at needlepoint? I think it would be very satisfying to have other things to do with my life.”

“Well, I am not so sure Mother would have the same sentiments as you, Rissa. She wasn’t raised to work, as you well know. Our grandparents’ wealth should have assured her of a life of leisure, not toiling over bolts of cloth. I think our grandparents are shocked at all that she does.”

“Uncle Martin is very respectable.”

“Yes, in his way,” Savannah said. “But he is in trade. You must know how that seems to the grandparents. They are very refined, Clarissa.”

She watched me with a raised eyebrow as I frowned at her further mention of our grandparents. I never liked discussing them. Unlike Savannah, the favored grandchild, I had never been close to them. Their wealth seemed to grow on a daily basis, yet they were remarkably stingy with what seemed truly important to me: their love and acceptance.

I exhaled a long, weary sigh. “I guess the only one of the sisters to make an acceptable marriage in their eyes was Aunt Betsy. For I know that, in their opinion, my mama’s marriage to my da was a mistake.” I glanced at her, daring her to defend them.

“Rissa, you have to look at it from their point of view,” Savannah entreated. “They are genteel, upper-class people. They’ve only become wealthier, more socially important, as the years have continued. They have never understood why our mothers married men beneath them socially and economically. It’s nothing personal.”

“Nothing personal when they tell Da at my mama’s funeral that she would have been alive, if not for him? Nothing personal when they tell my brothers and me that we aren’t what they desired when they thought of grandchildren? Nothing personal when they say that, in their minds, it would have been better had I not been born than to live through the scandal of two years ago?” I rasped out, my voice growing louder with each question. I felt the old bitterness, resentments and anger rising in me. I shared a long look with Savannah, daring her to contradict me, but she remained resolutely silent while I took a calming breath.

“Oh, Rissa, I know it hurts, but you must not think too much about what they have said in the past. Deep down I know that they are good people at heart,” she insisted.

“Good people, Sav?” I asked. “Good people don’t treat servants that way, never mind their own families. And why shouldn’t I think about what they have said?” I leaned forward, a red flush on my cheeks, emphasizing my anger. “These are the people I have been instructed my entire life to emulate. And yet I have never felt one moment’s worth of warmth or love from them. Why should I want to be like them? Why wouldn’t they worry about
me
?” I asked, feeling tears prick the back of my eyes.