No Other Love (4 page)

“I – nothing. There's nothing the matter,” she finally got out, bewildered by his concern.

“Did someone do something to upset you? Tell me what’s happened and I'll take care of it.”

Rose didn’t know what to say. As much as she mistrusted him, she was also too aware of his attractions. But whatever her confusion, he was no friend.

“I was merely remembering something that saddened me. Please let me go,” she said, pulling away from him. “I can’t afford to be seen with you, not after your interference.”

That did the trick. His hands fell abruptly from her shoulders and he stepped back.

“My apologies,” he said, his voice cold and formal. “I had thought I was doing you a favor.”

“Unfortunately, now everyone thinks I'm offering you favors in return.”

As soon as this was out of her mouth, Rose could have died of shame. Mortified, she looked at the floor, her face burning. What had come over her to speak like that?

“I see,” he replied, his tone changing from anger to something unreadable. “How unfortunate to be accused of a thing like that without the pleasure of it being true.”

Rose's mouth fell open. Of all the detestable things to say. But what had she been expecting, an apology? Men of his ilk didn't apologize to servants. And what did it matter? After all, she was better off for what he’d done.

Yet she couldn’t seem to stop herself from saying more. He was too sure of himself, too forward with her, and his attentions would only cause her trouble.

“I suppose it doesn't matter to you that I was hated within a day of arriving for something over which I had no control. No doubt you gave no thought to the girl whom I replaced, but I assure you she isn’t pleased to be back in the kitchen just because you’ve taken an interest in me.”

“Well, I won't take back what I've done. Not if it means you slaving away in the kitchen.”

“Someone has to do it. Why shouldn't it be me?” she countered.

“Because it shouldn’t,” he answered, his voice suddenly harsh. “A fool could see you’re not meant for that sort of thing.”

Rose stood rooted to the floor, staring at him.

“I don’t understand why you care one way or another,” she said at last, dropping her eyes.

“I don’t know either,” he said, a note of rough confusion in his voice. “But is it so terrible?”

She raised her eyes to his and immediately wished she hadn’t, for in his intent brown gaze she saw a heat she couldn’t help but respond to. Whether from anger or confusion, her cheeks heated and her heart pounded.

Will had never once made her feel this way. Why must this man, of all people?

Thoroughly out of her depth, Rose nevertheless knew she had to take control of the situation or risk disaster. Her voice was quiet and firm when she spoke, not even a quiver betraying her inner turmoil.

“I’m nearly betrothed to a man back home. But even were I not, I’m a servant in your father’s house, Mr. Fletcher. If you insist on giving me unwaranted attention, you will only make things more difficult for me, and possibly cost me my position. I beg you to leave me be.”

A bleak silence greeted this harsh speech. It was several seconds before Mr. Fletcher spoke.

“I see. I have no wish to cause you distress,” he replied stiffly, his eyes shuttering. “I shall bother you no more.”

With that he turned and left the room, his limp a silent accusation. As soon as he was gone Rose began to shake. Everything depended on her remaining in the Fletcher’s employ, but she might very well have insulted Mr. Fletcher beyond endurance. For all she knew he was on his way to speak to Mrs. Craig about dismissing her. If only she’d explained things rationally, without goading him. It was unlike her to lose her temper so.

Looking down she saw that she’d dropped the book. Bending over she picked it up, gently set it on the table, and left the room.

***

“Luke,” Charlotte called, her voice more command than greeting.

Luke stopped, one foot on the bottom stair step, desperate to escape to his own bedchamber. Biting back a sigh, he reluctantly turned around and faced Charlotte.

Not for the first time he wished his father had chosen someone more generous and less concerned with appearances to share his later years. Jonas seemed happy enough and Charlotte did no real harm, but just speaking to her put him on edge, and after the unpleasant episode with Rose he had no desire to engage in conversation with her. But they were living in the same house for the time being, and that meant they had to tolerate one another until his work on the railroad was completed.

“Yes, Charlotte?” he replied, forcing a polite smile.

Charlotte approached him, the skirts of her blue dress rustling with each step. With her dark, only slightly graying hair pulled back in a severe coiffure and her strand of pearls, she was every inch the mistress of the house.

“What's this I hear about you asking Mrs. Craig to change the new maid’s duties? Please tell me you did no such thing.”

It seemed there was no end to the fuss over what he’d considered a minor request. He tried to quell his impatience over having to account for his actions, and instead endeavored to answer her with as much equanimity as he could muster.

“Unfortunately, I can give you no such assurance. However, I meant no affront to Mrs. Craig or to you. I only thought she’d be better suited to something other than scullery maid. Surely no harm was done?”

Luke watched the indecision work in Charlotte’s expression as she hesitated, as if unsure whether to be angry or to dismiss the incident as unimportant.

He sighed as Charlotte's mouth thinned. Bitterness had won out again.

“You needn't concern yourself with a servant girl. If you must have your sport with one, at least choose one from another household.”

This was insulting on so many levels that Luke chose to ignore it altogether. Clearly he’d misjudged the consequences of his request. It wouldn’t happen again.

“Much as I’m enjoying our conversation, I’m afraid I’m a bit weary. If you’ll excuse me …”

Charlotte opened her mouth as if to reply, but Luke gave her no time. Taking the stairs as fast as his ankle would allow, he made for his chamber. Once inside he fell back into a green brocade armchair, a cast-off from the drawing room that had been a favorite of his mother’s.

He seethed for several minutes over his conversation with Charlotte, but before long Rose’s accusations pushed their way to the fore. Now that he thought about it, he saw how people might misconstrue things, though surely that would blow over when it became clear there was nothing between them.

Then again, he did seem to be taking an inordinate amount of interest in her. She was a maid in his father’s house, and just minutes ago he’d accosted her in the morning room.

What had she said? Oh, yes, she’d accused him of not considering the maid who’d been sent back to the scullery.

He’d always considered himself a liberal thinker, but the fact was he had not for a moment thought about how his request would affect the other servants. Aside from Mrs. Craig, whom he’d known since he was a boy, they remained in the background seeing to the family’s comfort. Though he certainly never wished them ill, on the whole he didn’t worry about their feelings. Why bother when he’d soon be gone?

Which made it even odder that he’d taken such an interest in the new maid. Or perhaps not so odd, given her extraordinary beauty and mysterious background. Still, it had been years since he’d gone out of his way for a woman. Not since Catherine, come to think of it.

Unbidden, the memory came to him of Catherine as she lay dying, her heart-shaped face pale, her eyes glazed over. As always, he pushed the image away before it could take root.

Catherine had died six years ago, and not once had he wavered in his decision never to marry again. He wasn’t a man to make the same mistake twice. Nor had he felt more than casual interest in any woman since.

Of course, when it came to Rose Stratton, any man with eyes felt more than casual interest. But what did she mean, she was
nearly
betrothed? One either was or one wasn’t. If he were betrothed to her, nearly or otherwise, he sure as hell wouldn’t let her slave away in some stranger’s house.

He picked up one of the rocks he’d set on the table near his chair, mementos he kept to remind him of where he’d been these past six years. He’d pulled this one, a rock of hardened red clay, from the ground on a foray into Mexico some three years ago. Just holding it brought back the heat of the day and vastness of the land, the absolute freedom he’d felt.

He felt anything but free here. Even now Catherine’s death, and the death of their unborn child, weighed him down, haunting his every step. It was the reason he’d left six years ago, though he’d hoped that the years between would have dulled the memories.

But then, why should it be different? Guilt had just as tight a hold on him now as it did the day he left. But whereas out west he had only his own conscience to contend with, now he was back on the streets they’d once walked together. Boston had once been the town he called home. Now it was the scene of his greatest regrets.

For the last six years he’d gone weeks at a time without seeing or speaking to anyone, and he still wasn’t used to the noise and commotion of Boston, to all the people and constant conversation. Oh, he could converse well enough in the course of his work, but that was with businessmen. Clearly he’d forgotten how to behave around other people.

Maids, for instance.

Also on the table was a bottle filled with rough little garnets he’d panned from the gravel of Sully’s Creek. They’d need to be smoothed and polished before they looked like jewels, but even so the light from a nearby candle struck sparks in them.

All at once he remembered the brilliance of Rose’s hair lit by the late afternoon sun streaming through the window, and his fist clenched around the little bottle, threatening to crack it.

***

For the first few days after her encounter with Mr. Fletcher, Rose held her breath every time Mrs. Craig spoke to her, certain she was about to be dismissed. But when several days passed without incident she dared to relax and hope that she’d last long enough to finish what she’d started. That was all that mattered and all that kept her from despair, as she had never been so lonely.

Every morning at breakfast she had to endure the hostility of the staff, who either ignored her or made snide comments. Even worse than their dislike was the game they made of misinforming her. Several times Abigail or Dottie told her she was wanted in one of the rooms to serve tea or clean up a spill, but upon entering the room Rose found that no one had requested any such thing. Worse still were the times she ignored their claims, only to be scolded because they’d been telling the truth.

Luke often travelled out to the Berkshires on behalf of the railroad, leaving Rose to wonder how the line was progressing, and what it might mean for the farm. On the evenings he was present at Cider Hill she had no choice but to wait upon him, and each and every time she approached him her face flamed and her hand trembled with nerves. He was perfectly courteous, nothing more, but even so there remained a strained awareness between them that shook her.

Each morning after he left she tidied his bedchamber, her heart beating as if she were taking part in something illicit. Day after day she made his bed, though she was unable to imagine his powerful body subdued by sleep. Instead her willful mind pictured him lying beneath the sheets, bare-chested, looking at her with the hunger he’d shown before.

For those few minutes he was all around her – in the coat draped over a chair, the cluster of stones on his chest of drawers, the scent of his shaving soap and fresh linen. Even without his presence he overwhelmed her senses, until the act of smoothing his pillow and straightening the bedcovers left her flushed with awareness.

She countered this reaction with stern lectures to herself. She had no business feeling anything for him, least of all attraction. Her goal was the only thing that mattered, and all that kept her spirits from plunging too low as she dusted, cleaned, served and scurried from sun-up until sundown, all without discovering anything new about the Fletchers or her father. Even mealtimes were disappointing, as Mrs. Fletcher couldn’t abide discussion of the railroad and had forbade it in her presence.

But as tired as Rose was, each night she added a bit to the letter she was writing Aunt Olivia. It was a comfort to compose her thoughts, and just the act of writing made her feel closer to the farm. Since she had no wish to burden her aunt, she kept her tone light and said little of what her days were like. Instead she wrote of the countryside, her chatty roommate and general observations of the house and family.

After a week of writing, she slipped the finished letters between the pages of a book of Shakespeare's sonnets. She would mail them on Monday when she visited Vivian. Most of the staff gave their letters to Mrs. Craig to post, but Rose couldn’t let anyone connect her to her aunt’s farm.

She knew better than most how damning a letter could be.

For days after her father’s death she had replayed her father’s last words over and over, unable to make any sense of the name Fletcher. It was not until going through some papers that she found several letters from Jonas Fletcher, president of the Western Railroad Company. They were addressed to Olivia Harris, as her aunt had inherited the farm, and contained an offer to buy her land.

“Why didn’t you tell me about these?” she’d asked her aunt, holding out the letters.

Her aunt looked up from where she sat at the kitchen table, sorting through her seeds. It was nearly time for planting, though the threat of frost was not yet passed.

Aunt Olivia sighed and sat back from the table.

“They didn’t seem important at the time. You knew I’d had an offer and refused it. Peter and I didn’t think much of the rest of the letters, as they were no temptation to us, not with your uncle and mother buried here, and this land in our family so many years. I didn’t tell you about them after your father died for fear of upsetting you.”