Wedded to War (7 page)

“Charlie?”

That voice, so warm and comforting. The faint scent of balsam shaving soap. The name—no one had called her that for years. Not since—

“Caleb! I mean, Dr. Lansing, what a—surprise,” she sputtered as her heart constricted in her chest. The mustache was new since she had seen him last, and so was the trace of laugh lines framing his face. But the clear grey eyes were exactly the same. Soft as goose down and piercing as steel, all at once. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

His face relaxed into a smile. “Me neither,” he admitted, offering her a cup of lemonade as if seeing each other again were the most natural thing in the world. As if a decade of silence between them made no difference whatsoever. “I’m just in town for some lectures on anesthesia at Bellevue Hospital this week. Two of the other doctors at Bellevue were invited to attend this evening but one of them had to bow out when a patient began bleeding after surgery.”

Charlotte held up her hand and closed her eyes. “No details, please.” Even the mention of blood was enough to make her stomach roil.

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Anyway, having no other pressing engagements, I agreed to take his place and come along with Dr. Shearling—that fellow over there jamming too much cake into his mouth. Can’t have an uneven number of partners at a ball, you know. Disastrous.” He winked, detonating a blast of heat across her face.

Mercifully, Caleb turned to greet Caroline while Charlotte hid her burning cheeks behind her cup of lemonade. It was both sour and sweet on her tongue, but quenched a thirst she only just realized she had.
Like Caleb.
Charlotte nearly choked on the unbidden notion, and resolutely swallowed it along with the cool drink. She couldn’t think this way. It was over. She had a suitor. This was crazy.

“Caleb, it’s so good to see you,” Caroline was saying, kissing both of his cheeks. “Your practice is going well in Connecticut?”

He nodded. “It keeps me so busy I’m afraid I haven’t much time for anything else.”

Charlotte stole a glance at the fourth finger of his left hand. Still bare. Strange. She thought he’d be married by now. He must be thirty-two-years old. But then, she wasn’t much younger, and still being chaperoned by her mother. Did he think she was a hopeless spinster? Embarrassment warmed her cheeks. Again.

Caleb sipped his lemonade and turned to watch the quadrille dancers.

“Not feeling up to this one?” he asked her, pointing with his cup.

Charlotte shook her head and willed her voice to sound normal. “Group dances make me nervous. It looks lovely from a distance, but when I’m part of it, I can’t help daydreaming about what would happen if I missed a step—or worse, did the wrong step.”

“You do realize that most people aren’t looking at your feet—can’t see them anyway under all those yards of fabric,” said Caleb. “They are looking into those caramel-colored eyes of yours.” He held her in his gaze for a long moment, his eyes suddenly soft.

“But if I go the wrong direction, no matter where they look, it
throws everybody off. Would we all topple into one great heap? How would I recover from that?”

Caroline turned to face her daughter now. “What on earth are you talking about, child? Go the wrong direction? You were trained in all the dances. Why would you be worried about making a misstep?”

The quadrille music ended, and Caleb took the lemonade cup from Charlotte’s hand, placing both his and hers on a nearby table stacked with mounds of small cakes. Not bothering to check her dance card, he placed a hand on the small of her back and guided her onto the floor, his pulse pounding harder with every step.

“Couple dances are more fun than group dances, aren’t they, Charlotte?” Caleb kept his tone casual, but his racing heart was not convinced.

As the instruments struck the first few notes of the waltz, Caleb encircled her tiny waist with his right arm and held her right hand in his left. An electric shock coursed through his body at the closeness of her. How many times had he dreamed of this moment? He could barely believe he was holding her again, even if it was at arm’s length and not in an embrace.

The music began, and so did their feet.
One-two-three and one-two-three and one-two-three.
His eyes never left her face. He had always thought her beautiful, and had always admired her resilient, compassionate spirit. Now, as a grown woman, she nearly took his breath away. Those luminous eyes, the glowing skin, the full lips forming the bow of Cupid himself.
How in heaven’s name is she not yet some lucky man’s wife?

“Am I making anyone jealous?” The question escaped his lips before he could bite back his curiosity.

She peered up at him from under dark, long lashes. “I doubt it.”

“Don’t be so sure, Charlotte. You don’t know the effect you have over a man’s heart.” His voice turned husky without his permission. He jerked his gaze away from her questioning eyes and struggled to mask
the emotion written on his face. But he could not escape the scent of her. The faint fragrance of lemons and rosewater washed over him, and he drank it in. Vivid memories flooded his mind before he could snap back to the present moment.

One-two-three and one-two-three and
—“Well, Phineas Hastings signed up for his two dances of the evening already. I’ll be dancing with him again next.” She pinned her gaze to his shoulder as she spoke.

“Is he the best partner for you?”

“He’s the one I came here with.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. If you make a misstep, step on his toes, if you go the ‘wrong’ direction, what would he do?”

“Well, he would steer me back to the right way and try to keep leading, I suppose.” Her voice was laced with uncertainty.

“What if your stepping out of formation was actually a step in the right direction? What a shame it would be if you were always confined to a prescribed number and pattern of steps.”

Charlotte tilted her head up at him, confusion written on her face. He went on. “Don’t you think that instead of yanking you back into place, the right partner would step out
with
you?” He drew her closer—perhaps too close. But he didn’t care. And she didn’t fight it. He bent his head and spoke softly in her ear. “Daring to believe that another dance, a different dance, could be just as elegant—or even more so?”

Charlotte pulled back just far enough to search his eyes, her breathing rapid and shallow.

One-two-three and one-two-three and one-two-three and one-two-three and
—“Don’t lead Mr. Hastings on if he isn’t the right one for you,” Caleb whispered, and the music tapered to a close. “For his sake, and for yours.”

Bowing, he pressed his lips to her hand.
And for mine.

Charlotte curtsied. They both stood tall again.

“I go back to Connecticut tomorrow.” He thrust his hands, still tingling from holding her, into his pockets. “And from there, to wherever Uncle Sam sends me.”

“You’re joining then? To fight?”

“I will be one of Lincoln’s seventy-five thousand, but not to fight. To heal. Those soldiers need doctors. It’s my duty to help, the least I can do for my country. The Pied Piper is calling, and come what may, I’m on my way.”

Charlotte stiffened, a sheen of tears glazing her eyes. Gold flecks in her eyes brightened, as they always did when she was either very happy or very upset. And she wasn’t happy. But was she sad? Afraid? Angry?

Caleb didn’t want to leave her like this. Not again. “Charlie, I—”

A gentleman with a gardenia in his lapel and suspicion in his eyes ambled toward them now, most likely to claim the next dance on her card.
Phineas?
Caleb, squeezing her hands, said, “Write to me,” and walked away.

“Who was that fellow, Charlotte? I dare say he’s a sight underdressed for the occasion,” Caleb overheard Hastings say.

“An old family friend, that’s all …”

Caleb should not have been disappointed at her response, after all this time between them.

Raking a hand through his straw-colored hair, Caleb walked back to the refreshments table, completely uninterested in dancing with anyone else.

“Lansing, old chap!” Dr. Shearling was still eating. “Why on earth did you let that marvelous creature go?” He pointed to Charlotte, now dancing in the arms of another man.

A rueful smile played on Caleb’s lips. “Believe me, Shearling, I regret it already.”

I always have.

T
he tantalizing aroma of freshly baked bead wafted out of a nearby bakery and curled around Ruby, following her down the sidewalk. With her empty stomach aching, she tightened her grip on her hope for filling it. In her arms she carried the fruit of this week’s labor—a stack of sleeves complete with cuffs and buttonholes, which would be stitched into the rest of their shirts in a factory using Isaac Singer’s foot-treadled sewing machine invention, which had recently revolutionized the way garment manufacturers operated. Outworkers like Ruby now hand sewed the detail work, and girls working on the machines did everything else.

Straw into gold
, she had told herself as she worked late into the night every day that week. As the miller’s daughter spun straw into gold in the fairy tale of Rumpelstiltskin, so Ruby fancied herself in a similar situation—turning cloth into sleeves, which then turn into money. It
was a comforting analogy—except when she remembered the consequence if she failed.

A tinny bell clanged as she opened the door to the men’s clothing shop, announcing her arrival to the tailor, Simon Levitz. Waddling in from the back room, he leaned against the counter, his protruding paunch of a belly spilling over and resting on top.

“Shoulda’ been here shooner.” He formed the words around a cigar.

She watched in silence as his stubby fingers rifled through her work, her own hands twisting nervously in the folds of her thin cotton dress.

“Wristbands too long,” was his verdict.

“All of them?” Ruby was stunned.

Simon grunted and puffed cigar smoke in her face. “Can’t take them.” He shoved the pile back at her and said, “Shorten them by one-quarter inch and bring them back.”

Ruby knew better than to argue with the man. She had only needed to try it once before he calmly informed her she could quit if she pleased, that women were lining up to get jobs like hers, women who would take six cents a shirt and be grateful for it. She knew he was right. She had no leverage with which to bargain. She would simply have to redo the work.

In the meantime, however, she needed to find money. She had been expecting both her one-dollar deposit to be returned, and the fee for the work to be paid, another dollar. She needed food, but even more importantly, she needed to pay the rent. Her stomach might wait a little longer but her landlord would show no such leniency.

She lifted her chin in resolve. It was time to pay another visit to the pawnbroker. But first she needed something to offer him.

Once at home, she looked around the humble dwelling. Calling the front room a parlor made it sound more grand than it was: it had a stove, a fireplace, a table, and two chairs in it. The windowless back room held the low bed, a small table, and a few pieces of clothing hanging on hooks. There was a watch, a clock, a few pots, pans, and dishes. Save the broom, the dustpan, and the rags that stuffed the broken windows in
winter, this encompassed the entirety of their earthly treasures. She grabbed her best dress and immediately headed out again, bound for the pawnshop.

Since it was Friday and rent was typically due on Saturday morning, she was not surprised to see more customers in line than usual. Pawn business always picked up at the end of the week for this reason. Some, like Ruby, brought their best dresses, or shoes they rarely wore, and would be fortunate enough to be able to buy them back the following week when the cash flow improved. The more desperate ones brought cherished symbols of respectability like watches, books, and wedding rings. The pitiful souls who traded their basic necessities—pots, furniture, bedding—for the ability to eat their next meal were nearest to the end of their options.

Standing in line, Ruby looked around her and imagined the stories behind each object offered up on the pawnbroker’s altar. Within the shadows of a variety of old clothing hanging from the ceiling, there were crimping irons, umbrellas, inkstands, dictionaries, frying pans, rings and necklaces, pincushions, and featherbeds. When her gaze fell on a cradle at the front of the shop, she hoped its former occupant had simply grown out of it, but experience told her that either the parents chose food over the baby’s bed, or very likely, the baby had not survived.

“Ruby? That you there?” It was Emma Connors, a neighbor. Emma and her brother Sean, now off with the Sixty-Ninth, had taken in a boarder recently to make extra money. Still, her presence in the pawnshop indicated that money was still tight—at least today. There was no shame in it anymore for them. For most immigrants, poverty was woven into the fabric of their lives.