Maid to Match (21 page)
He threw himself back into his seat. There was no talking to her. She refused to see reality.
“It’s what I want,” she added. “What I believe God wants.”
How was he supposed to fight that? If it were another man, at least his enemy would be tangible. But a conviction? He was at a total loss. Leaning back, he glared out the window as the train pulled into Asheville.
Tillie stepped into The Montville, a bell tied to the door heralding her arrival with Mack. Wooden crates, burlap sacks, stoneware kegs, and barrels of all sizes crowded the mercantile. The section of shelves crammed with colorful fabrics drew her immediate attention, appealing to a deep-rooted desire for pretty, feminine fripperies. From the back of the store familiar smells of chewing tobacco and freshly ground coffee beans blended into a unique potpourri of scents.
A middle-aged man with a shiny bald spot and yellowed apron climbed down from a step stool. “Good morning, folks. Anything I can help you with?”
Neither she nor Mack were wearing uniforms, and they’d come by train rather than coach, so they had yet to be identified as Biltmore staff. The anonymity was a nice change.
“We’d like to see the nursery department, please,” she said.
Glancing between the two of them, the clerk smiled broadly and clapped Mack on the shoulder. “Well, congratulations. This your first?”
Heat rushed to her cheeks, but Mack merely nodded. “This will be my first visit to the nursery department, sir.”
The clerk chuckled. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. We have one of the best in the state.”
“That’s why we’re here.” Mack swept his hand in an after-you gesture, making no effort to correct the man’s impression.
They followed as he wove between a table of dry goods, a stack of washtubs, and two barrels of crackers. “Here we are. Now, was there anything in particular you were interested in?”
“Several things, actually.” Tillie ran her gaze over the shelves of baby paraphernalia. “For now, though, I’d like to look a little.”
“Sure, sure. You take your time. The name’s Tarwater. Just let me know when you’re ready.”
He returned to his step stool, leaving the two of them in the quiet corner. Big overhead fans circulated with a rhythmic click, brushing them with a subtle breeze.
“What all do we need?” Mack asked.
She fished a folded piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to him. While he perused the list, she reached for a pair of crocheted booties. They were tiny. No longer than the length of her finger. She’d only been six when the first batch of little brothers and sisters had come along. By the time the second batch was born, she’d already left home.
Had her siblings ever been this small? She ran her thumb over the tiny instep. She couldn’t recall for certain.
The thought of having her own babies rose in her mind. She quickly calculated how old her mother had been when this last batch was born. Thirty-two. And by that time Mama had had eight babies already.
At thirty-two Tillie would still be working for Mrs. Vanderbilt. She’d be a full-fledged spinster. Her opportunity for babies – and even marriage – long past.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” His voice was soft.
Yes
. “I was wondering if we should purchase white, blue, or pink booties for the baskets. What do you think?” She lifted her gaze to his.
His brown eyes were dark. Intense. “I think I’d like you to have my babies.”
Her lips parted. An all-too-familiar longing tugged at her vitals. “You mustn’t say things like that.”
He took the booties from her, cradling them. Examining them. The fragile, teeny slippers flopped over, lost within his big, callused, wonderful hands. Hands which had hefted trunks, splintered ice, and cradled her cheek.
“Marry me, Tillie.”
She dragged her gaze away. “I think all three colors. If we only buy the white, there won’t be enough for all the baskets.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know you don’t, Mack. And I’m sorry.” She retrieved the booties from him. “Why don’t you go see what kind of baskets Mr. Tarwater can round up for us while I finish making our selections.”
Sighing, he turned and did her bidding.
She collected booties, bibs, caps, diaper pins, teething rings, talcum powder, and white castile soap. Next, she needed flannel for cloths and cambric for infant slips.
The bell on the door jingled. A thin, wiry man who looked to have lived a hundred years stepped inside. A long beard as snarled as uncarded wool hung to his trousers. Unwashed hair stuck out below a hat which had seen nearly as many years as he had. He surveyed the store, his beady-eyed gaze touching on her, then stalling completely on Mack.
“Be right with you, Mr. McKelvy,” the clerk said. “Coffee’s warm at the back.”
Mack whipped his head around, then stiffened. He held an armful of market baskets, while Mr. Tarwater stood on his stool and handed more down from a high shelf.
The old man took off his hat, jammed it on a rack, then shuffled toward a potbellied stove in the corner. Mack followed the man with his gaze.
“I’m afraid that’s all the baskets we have, sir,” Mr. Tarwater said, climbing down.
“These’ll do fine.”
“Well, let me take them up front for you, then I’ll see to your wife.”
“She’s not my wife.”
He paused. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t . . . I thought . . .”
Mack handed him the rest of the baskets. “Excuse me.”
Hiding her embarrassment, Tillie placed her back to the storekeeper and grazed a bolt of fabric with her fingertips. From the corner of her eye she watched Mack join the old man.
“Grandpa.”
She looked up sharply, losing all pretense of nonchalance. That was his grandfather? The one who’d taught him wood-working?
The tall but stooped old man looked Mack up and down. Worn and ragged clothing hung on his bony frame. “Ain’t you all feisty and brigetty in yer fine cloth.”
Mack self-consciously adjusted his collar. Tillie stiffened. It wasn’t as if Mack were in full livery. He wore no more than neat trousers, the white shirt she’d sewn, and a brown jacket.
“What’re ya thinkin’ to work fer them sorry fellers up there? I couldn’t believe it when Ory Lou tol’ me.”
“Sloop and I had an upscuddle. I want Ora Lou out of there. I can earn in a month at Biltmore what would take three or four over at Battery Park.”
“Why’d ya get in a jower with Sloop?”
“He’s abusing the girls.”
His grandfather gave a bark of laughter. “Why, that ain’t no reason to take yer foot in yer hand and light out.”
“I want her out of there.” Mack had his back to Tillie, but there was no mistaking his rigid posture and the arms he held stiffly at his sides.
His grandfather turned up a corner of his mouth. “You ain’t talkin’ sense, boy. There’s gotta be some other reason.” He looked Tillie’s way.
She turned her attention back to the shelf and pulled out a bolt of flannel.
“Who’s that?”
“She’s one of the maids at Biltmore. I’m toting for her.”
Grandpa narrowed his eyes. “You sweetheartin’ her, too?”
“I am.”
Willing the blush away, she glanced at Mr. Tarwater. He was measuring out the sanitary disinfectant on their list, but there was no doubt he was hearing every word.
Grandpa squinted and gave her a more thorough looking-over. Waving a bothersome fly from her ear, she folded back a corner of fabric and fingered its thickness.
“She ain’t nothin’ but a drudge. I don’t think yer up there fer her or fer Ory Lou. I think yer just like yer brother and covetin’ them soft and easy ways they have up thar.” He spat onto the floor. “You shame me. And you shame yer mammy. You ain’t fit to have McKelvy blood running in yer veins.”
She held her breath, but Mack said nothing. Did nothing. She wished she could see his face.
The old man spit again. This time on Mack’s boots. Then he shuffled to the door, grabbed his hat, and slammed out of the store.
The
click, click, click
of the ceiling fan was loud in the sudden quiet. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he bent over and wiped the spittle off his boot.
Anger and protectiveness surged through her. How dare that crotchety old man say and do such things to him.
Mack turned around, his face showing no emotion other than the tick at the back of his jaw. “You about finished?”
She jumped. “Oh! Yes. I need to have some of this cut and a bit of cambric. That’s all.”
“Well, go ahead, then. I’d like to go see Ora Lou before heading back.”
“Of course. I’ll only be a minute.” Hustling to the counter, she gave Mr. Tarwater the bolts of cloth. “Two yards of flannel and four of the cambric, please.”
Mack waited at the door while she pointed out the cambric and reviewed with the merchant the nursery items she’d selected.
“That’s fine, miss. I’ll have everything wrapped and ready within an hour.”
Mack opened the door. “We’ll be back.”
Tillie gave the clerk a quick smile, then scurried onto the boardwalk.
She had to step lively to keep up with Mack’s long, angry stride. She’d hoped to stroll leisurely through town and take in the sights, but Mack didn’t make any effort to slow his pace, nor glance back to see if she were keeping up.
Still, she marveled at the giant telephone poles marching down Patton Street, their wires crisscrossing the street like clotheslines gone amuck. Three- and four-story buildings housed every kind of trade imaginable. Tobacco shops, drugstores, soda fountains, cobblers, clothing emporiums, music shops, confectioneries, and lawyers’ offices.
The ringing bells of the trolley car drew her gaze. She wondered where its passengers would go next. Delivery wagons and dumpcarts blocked passing carriages. Horses lining a succession of hitching posts twitched their tails and sent flies into a furious game of musical chairs. When they finally reached Black Bottom Street, she was out of breath and the soles of her feet ached.
At the top of the hill the orphanage rose up like a wart on a witch’s nose. She’d been so preoccupied last time by the fight between Mack and Mr. Sloop she hadn’t really paid attention to the condition of the building. But even from here she could see it was nothing short of derelict. Boarded-up windows, sagging roof, scrap in the yard, no fence, nary a blade of grass. But she’d heard Mr. Sloop was renovating the insides first in order to make sure the children were warm and comfortable.
A one-horse farm wagon sat parked out front. A giant of a man stood beside it, his golden skin and wild hair reminding her of a lion. He spoke a few words to Mr. Sloop, and then, with tears streaming down his face, lifted a pale boy of seven or eight from the wagon.
Mack slowed, then came to a stop. She stepped up next to him. They were far enough away to offer the group privacy, but not so far that they couldn’t hear every word.
The boy shook his head. “No, Pa. Please. Ya need me. With Ma gone ya won’t have nobody. Please let me stay. I won’t eat no more. I won’t be no trouble. I’ll sleep under the house and you won’t even know I’m there.”
The giant pulled him to his heart, trembling and shaking with emotion. The boy tried to wrap his arms and legs about the man, but he couldn’t begin to reach.
Finally, the man kissed him flush on the lips and set him down. “You be good, son.”
Then he climbed up into the wagon and shook the reins. “Hi-yup.”
“No!”
the boy screamed, chasing after the wagon and straight toward her and Mack.
The wagon rolled by. The boy raced down the slope, his feet getting ahead of themselves. A couple of yards in front of Mack and Tillie he tripped, lurching to the ground.
Mack jumped forward and scooped up the boy.
He kicked and screamed and pounded his fists against Mack’s chest. “Lemme go! Lemme go! My pa! My pa!”
Mack’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Your pa’s gone, son.”
The boy’s green eyes clashed with Mack’s. “Nooooo!” He flung himself against Mack’s neck, sobbing. Begging.
Tillie didn’t even know she was crying until a tear splattered against her hand. She quickly swiped her cheeks.
Mack held the boy fast until his crying began to dwindle. Then, making no move to release him, Mack continued toward the orphanage.
Sloop waited for them at the top of the hill, his posture stiff. He didn’t offer Tillie a greeting, nor even a glance. And Mack made no move to introduce them. She’d wanted to meet him, though. Tell him of their shared passion for the orphans. And how she hoped to offer a small donation if she made lady’s maid. Perhaps even come once a quarter to help with the children. But with the tension between the two men, and the heartbreak of the boy, the time just wasn’t right.
She studied the tall, immaculate director. The expensive cut of his coat seemed oddly out of place with the pathetic surroundings.
“What do you want, Danver?” he snapped.
“I came to see Ora Lou.”
“Visiting hours aren’t until four.”
“I won’t be here at four.”
They stared at each other, the hostility palpable. Sloop’s thin hair was slicked down and side-parted, emphasizing a jag in his nose. She studied the yellow skin surrounding it and wondered if Mack had broken the man’s nose that day in the yard. She knew Mack was still convinced the man had hit his sister, but Tillie just couldn’t believe it. Why go to all the trouble of rescuing the children only to then turn around and beat them? It just didn’t make sense.
Sloop looked at the cowering boy. “Put him down. Coddling breeds weakness.”
She blinked.
Mack made no move to comply. “Do you want to get Ora Lou or shall I?”
The door opened. A stout woman in black shirtwaist and skirt stood at the threshold. Her plump cheeks were flanked with braided coils covering each ear. “What does he want?”
“Wants to talk to his sister,” Sloop answered.
She strode across the yard, her skirts stirring the dirt and coating her hem. “She’s indisposed. Give me the boy.”
Mack tried to pry him off, but the boy clung with tenacity. “Let go, son. Show Mrs. Sloop your manners and give her a proper greeting.”
