Forbidden Love (4 page)

And his hands! They were strong yet
expressive,
the fingernails clean and cut short. Strange how a man could be so well-dressed and still exude strength and vitality. With that bold notion in mind, she turned away, lest she be caught staring.

Mr.
Eldredge
cleared his throat. "You are most welcome to the literary club, sir, but we'd like you to arrive on time in the future. And, naturally, we certainly do hope you can come again." He pulled at his ear, a thoughtful frown on his face.

"My apologies, sir," Owen said, steely-eyed.
"I just came off the day turn a short while ago." He folded his arms across his chest and lifted his chin, staring straight ahead.

An
embarrassed
silence blanketed the room, broken only by the ticking of the mantel clock. After countless seconds, someone coughed, and others shuffled their feet or riffled the pages of their book. A swell of sympathy rose in Lisa, and she wondered--did this man actually work at a steel mill? Trying to ease his embarrassment, she turned to give him a shy smile. He ignored her look as he lounged back in his chair, his legs crossed at the ankles.

 
"Well, then, shall we continue with
The
Rubaiyat
?” Mr.
Eldredge
turned toward Lisa. “Miss Bradley, I believe we left off at the fifty-sixth quatrain."

"Yes, of course." She moved her chair closer to Owen. "We can share, if you like," she whispered.

He waved his hand dismissively. "Thank you, not now." The awkwardness remained in the room, but he looked determined to brazen it out.

A delicious awareness warmed her as she read again, a sensation she didn't attempt to identify for fear of what she might find. Why should this man arouse such strange feelings in her?
Silly.
She scarcely knew this man. Besides, she was betrothed to another. . . .

After the meeting, Lisa joined the other club members outside the mansion, the wind pricking like tiny needles against her chilled face. The temperature had fallen during the evening, and deep piles of snow lay on the frozen ground, compressed on the sidewalk. Everyone made small talk as their carriages gathered on the street, all speaking in a hurried fashion, anxious to get out of the cold.

One of the older ladies glanced up and down the street with a questioning look,
then
turned to Lisa. "My dear young lady, I don't see your carriage."

Lisa smiled. "I told our driver not to return for me, Mrs. Rowe. I enjoy walking, even if it is cold. Honestly," she said in response to the woman's shocked expression, "the cold doesn't bother me. Besides, I like the exercise."

"Dear child, you can't walk at night by yourself," Mrs. Rowe said. "What would your poor mama think? Come with us." She touched Lisa's arm to urge her toward a waiting carriage. "We'll be glad to take you home."

"I'll walk her home."

"Oh!" Lisa turned to see Owen Cardiff beside her, his gray eyes steady. "Thank you, Mr. Cardiff, but it really isn't necessary." A sudden longing possessed her, a desire to spend time with this man, to have him walk her home. "I appreciate your offer, but I'm perfectly capable of walking home by myself." She immediately regretted the words.

"But it would be my pleasure, Miss Bradley. I don't like you walking these empty streets alone, either." He offered his arm. "Shall we leave now?"

"Yes, of course." With last-minute farewells and good wishes, Lisa left with him, her hand resting in the crook of his arm. Her heart raced with excitement. She wondered why she never felt this inner turmoil with William. A shameless despondency engulfed her as she realized she might never get this chance to be with him again, since it seemed unlikely he'd want to attend another club meeting after his embarrassment this evening. Would she ever see him again?

His voice startled her. "What a surprise, Miss Bradley, to meet you this evening. Coincidences really do occur, it would seem."

"Yes, I was surprised, too," Lisa said,
then
mentally chided herself for such a silly reply. She unobtrusively studied his features while they walked--the sober set of his mouth, a slight frown creasing his forehead--and knew for certain he'd not return to the literary club.

They continued in silence for several minutes, the crunching sound of their footsteps on the snow mingling with the moaning of the wind through the trees. Handsome Georgian mansions lined both sides of the street, lambent lights twinkling from front windows. Bare trees and bushes fronted spacious lawns, reflecting the charm and elegance of Shadyside. Strange, Lisa thought. She'd never really noticed her area before, indeed, had taken it for granted. Yet, this man's presence tonight put an entirely new dimension on all the sights and sounds of her neighborhood.

She felt his arm muscles through his thick wool coat, his body radiating a hard tenacity. Without understanding why, something told her he could do anything he set his mind to.

The awkward silence continued, leaving Lisa to wonder if they'd exhausted their subjects for conversation. Her mind raced, searching for a fresh topic, anything to break the quiet. She finally settled on what she considered a safe subject.

"Did you enjoy the meeting tonight?" she asked, noting the stern set of his features by the dim street light. She'd give anything to know what he was thinking now, this very moment.

"Hmm," he responded, quiet for a few seconds.
"An interesting meeting.
Next time I'll try to arrive earlier, so that I don't disrupt the proceedings, as I apparently did this evening," he replied, a trace of irritation in his voice.

 
"Oh, no, you didn't disrupt anything. It's not unusual for members to arrive late." A lie, everyone was always punctual. She ransacked her brain for something else to discuss, preferably a subject that wouldn't arouse the man's ire. "Do you work in
Pittsburgh
, Mr. Cardiff?" She hoped this was a safe subject.

His shoulders tensed.
"No, in
Homestead
, at the mill."

She should never have asked about his occupation. "I see." She knew nothing about mill work, but she surely couldn't think less of him for it. She settled on a neutral expression, hoping to convey her open-mindedness.

Owen's
features became harsh, a tightening around his mouth, his frown deepening. "No, you don't see. You have no idea what it's like inside a mill, where the heat and the noise can drive a man out of his mind. Where accidents happen all the time . . ." He turned to her, an expression of angry resentment on his face. "If any of those men tonight work at all, I'll wager they work in comfortable offices. What do any of them know about manual labor?" He brushed a flake of snow from his nose, his movement quick and jerky.

"Mr. Cardiff--"

"No, let me finish." He increased his pace, forcing her to keep up with him. "And I'm one of the lucky ones, since I'm a skilled laborer on an eight-hour day. Most of the men at the mill work twelve hours for such meager wages, it's hardly enough to support their families. And that's not all," he said, throwing her a fierce look. "You don't know of the men who've lost limbs . . . ." He stopped, merely shaking his head.

 
"I had no idea,” she said, stifling a shudder. She drew a long, ragged breath and wished she could say something to ease his distress. "Truly, I didn't realize."

"No, of course you didn't," he said, his features softening. "How could you?" He paused, looking down at her.
"My apologies, Miss Bradley.
Sorry I forgot myself like that. Let's put this discussion behind us. I promise I won't talk like this again, not to you, anyway," he said with a hint of a smile.

"Of course, and I understand."
Or tried to.

Owen gave her a sidelong glance that clearly showed he doubted the truth of her last statement, but he said no more. He slowed his steps, and within a few minutes they turned onto
Amberson
Avenue
, soon arriving at a large, rambling house that looked as if each part had been added as an afterthought. Lights shone from a bay window in front, casting a dim swath across the snow-covered lawn, while dark shadows obscured the rest of the yard.

"I'm home now," Lisa remarked needlessly. "Shall we see you next week?" Her heart thudded against her ribs. She willed him to say "yes", chastising herself that his answer should matter. Why in the name of common sense should she care if he never attended another meeting? Her conscience reminded her she must drive this man from her thoughts. They belonged to different classes, and what could she have in common with a steelworker? His was an alien world, a world of dirt and desperation, a world she wanted nothing to do with.

He smiled. "Yes, I hope to attend the literary group next week. After that, it'll be the night turn for the next two weeks. I'll miss the pleasure of your company then, Miss Bradley." The look in his eyes told her he meant every word.

"I've enjoyed these literary meetings, but I'm not certain I shall be able to continue." Her heartbeat increased. "You see, I intend to marry soon, and . . ." She licked her lips. "I don't know if I'll have the time to attend. I'll be spending the evenings with my husband," she murmured, her face warming.

"Oh."

She wished she could read his mind. Did he feel the same as she? Did a sense of desolation overwhelm him, as if the sun would never shine again, as though winter would never end?
Foolish lady!

A long look passed between them, neither speaking. She tried to remain calm, but she found it difficult to breathe. Her mouth felt so dry, she couldn't swallow. She didn't want him to leave, longing to keep him with her forever. Why in the world should any man affect her this way? It had never happened before. She clenched her gloved hands to still them, lest he sense her agitation.

"Well, then," she said, at a loss for words. "Goodnight, Mr. Cardiff."

"Goodnight, Miss Bradley." As Owen watched her slim figure mount the front steps, joy grappled with depression. How wonderful it was to see her again, but nothing would come of their friendship. He couldn't tear his gaze from her. After the door closed behind her, he jammed his gloved hands in his pockets and walked on, hunching his shoulders against the force of the wind. He shook his head, trying to dispel his dejection. So she'd marry soon, why should he care? She was a pleasant, attractive lady, but she meant nothing to him.
Nothing at all.

Chapter Three

Another day at the mill, another day of heat and steel dust and ear-shattering noise.
Owen took a deep breath as he supervised the pouring crew at open-hearth #4, wiping his sweaty hands on his corduroy pants. He thought again about hiring Anton
Hrajak
as the cinder pit man and knew he couldn't postpone a decision much longer. Balancing the other workers' intolerance of the Slavs against the need for a reliable laborer, he realized the need for a good, dependable worker came first. However, finding the opportunity to talk to Anton presented a problem, since their hours were different. Still, he could no longer postpone talking to Emma’s husband.

Outside the mill, the temperature had fallen to below zero, but here at the open-hearth
furnace,
a sizzling high temperature tormented him with no hope of escape from the mill's grinding brutality. No hope unless he quit his job. But he couldn't quit yet, not until he had enough money saved for his college education.
And not until union problems were resolved.

He shook his head, determined to forget his dilemma, to drive labor troubles from his mind and think about something pleasant.

Yes, think about Lisa. Visions of her plagued him day and night. He'd gain nothing by dwelling on her, so why couldn't he dismiss her from his mind? Today was her wedding day, she'd told him at their last meeting. From this day on, she'd be Mrs. William
Enright
. God help him! No matter how he tried to forget her, it seemed his mind had a will of its own. How he looked forward to the literary meetings and the chance to see her, like a foolish schoolboy on the first day of summer vacation.

How--and why--had this feeling come over him, this desire to be with her, to talk to her and listen to her voice? It wasn't as if he'd known her for years, or even months.
Might as well try to understand the mysteries of the universe.

Reminders of her taunted him: her soft, gentle voice that revealed all too well her upper-class refinement; those soulful, expressive brown eyes; the tilt of her head as she looked up at him; her generous, kissable mouth. He loved her luscious country-bloom freshness that reminded him of a ripe peach waiting to be savored. These precious images would haunt him for the rest of his life. He knew that with every breath he took.