Читать книгу Forever and a Day - Delilah Marvelle - Страница 13

CHAPTER FIVE

At Christmas I no more desire a rose

than wish a snow in May’s newfangled shows.

—William Shakespeare, A Pleasant Conceited Comedie Called, Loues labors loft (1598)

ROBINSON JUMPED OUT AFTER Georgia, his boots thudding against the shadowed dirt road, and slammed the rear door of the omni. The boxed carriage reared forward, its large wheels kicking up dust that bit into his watering eyes. An overwhelming stench of festering sewage penetrated his nostrils.

“Bleed me,” he growled, burying the lower half of his face into the crook of his arm in an attempt to block the assaulting stink.

He swung toward Georgia, who was already crossing the wide, dimly lit street. She dodged an oncoming huckster and a peddler cart, disappearing from sight.

He lowered his arm, his heart pounding knowing that his only connection to reality was abandoning him. “Georgia!” He jogged after her, the acrid air crawling down his throat. He swallowed, mentally willing away the sensation of nausea that threatened to heave out his innards. “Do you intend to loathe me for wanting to share in your dream of going west? That hardly seems fair.”

Her shadow reappeared on the pavement just outside the dull, yellowing light of a gas lamppost. She paused and glanced back at him, dropping the folds of her skirts. “Your family is waitin’ for you, Brit. Try to remember that. Someone is out there sheddin’ tears for you, worryin’ themselves into a grave whilst you foolishly talk of chasin’ a dream that isn’t even yours to chase.”

Why did he feel as if she was wrong? Why did he feel as if there was no one waiting for him? Not a mother. Not a wife. No one. “’Tis very difficult for me to care about people I can’t even remember, be they shedding tears for me or not.”

Though he couldn’t see her face against the wavering shadows, he could see the softening of her rigid stance. She blew out a breath. “I suppose I understand.” She waved him over. “Come. We shouldn’t linger. Trouble brews in the dark around these parts.”

Drawing in the sharpness of the dank evening air, he crossed the dirt road toward her, the lone gas lamp flickering as it unevenly lit the mired path before him.

He scanned the stretching width of the dank street. Cramped wooden buildings loomed in the surrounding darkness, murky-yellow lamps lighting broken windows stuffed with rags and heaven knows what else. Silhouettes of men and women lurked on the streets and hovered in doorways. Others casually lounged on the curb of the pavement in small groups, chuckling and having muted conversations as if respectably sitting around a table to dine.

An old man holding a dented tankard staggered past on an angle, bellowing in an off-key tone, “The devil and me, together we pee, yessiree, the devil and me.”

Robinson swallowed against the knot lodged in his throat. Is this where she lived? All of this felt wrong. She didn’t belong here amongst these grimy shadows and broken windows stuffed with rags. No wonder she dreamed of apple trees and open fields.

A headache pinched his skull, making him squint in an attempt to fight against his sudden discomfort. He quickened his stride until he paused before her and a doorstep leading into a large two-story building.

Something snorted and darted past his legs, making him jump aside in heart-pounding astonishment. A round, furless creature wobbled down the pavement and into the inky shadows of the night.

He pointed at it. “What the hell was that?”

“A pig,” she remarked, lowering her gaze and moving around him. “They’re always wanderin’ the street lookin’ for food. Much like everyone else ’round these parts.”

He eyed her. “A pig? In the city?”

She set her chin. “I hate to disappoint you, Brit, but in this ward, pigs are considered highly respectable citizens.”

Sensing she was still irked with him, he edged toward her. “If I had known that I would upset you like this, I would have never kissed you. Know that.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “It wasn’t your fault. I willingly gave in to it. I just…I don’t want this turnin’ into a mess, is all. I’ve got plans for a better life and I don’t want those plans to fall aside, see? I’m not gettin’ any younger and the Five Points is agin’ me fast.”

He dragged in a breath and let it out. It chafed knowing that he was nothing but an inconvenience to her, especially after that kiss. Did she kiss all men like that? “I have no intention to impose upon your plans,” he managed.

“Good. It means we’ll get along.” She gestured toward the doorstep leading into a small building whose sparse windows were lit by warm light peering out from behind lopsided curtains. “Follow me and mind the step.”

He lingered as she withdrew a key from a stitched pocket within her gown and opened the entrance door. Waving him into the blurring abyss of a narrow stairwell, she closed the main entrance door behind them.

Grabbing his hand firmly, she guided him into the darkness. “Don’t let go.”

“I won’t.” He tightened his hold, fingering her small, callus-roughened hand. It was odd to feel as though he was under her protection and mercy.

She gently shook his hand. “Use your other hand to balance yourself against the wall as we go up. There are sixteen stairs. The first always trips everyone up, even me. So mind it.”

He bit back a smile, touched by her mothering. After a few blind pats, he found the wall she was referring to and lifted his booted foot, placing it on the first step. He caught the edge and carefully slid into place. “You do this every night?”

“I have to sleep sometime, don’t I?”

“Are there no lamps to make use of?”

“There are, but they’re usually dashed out by nine-thirty. We’ve had too many fires down the street.” She tightened her fingers around his hand and tugged him upward. “Can’t you go any faster? Raymond was three and fifty the day his heart stopped and he managed to run these stairs up and down in the dark as if he were twenty.”

It wasn’t much of a compliment having that pointed out. Robinson released her hand and hurried up the remaining stairs, boldly taking two at a time in the darkness. Angling past her warmth, he jumped onto the landing with an impressive thud. “There. Did Raymond ever skip stairs in the darkness the way I just did?”

“Never mock a dead man who doesn’t deserve it.” Her hand caught his arm. She tugged him toward the end of what appeared to be a blackened corridor. “There are two floors and four tenements on each floor. Most of the people livin’ here are men. Don’t know how that came to be, but don’t think the worst of me. It’s just how it is. Unlike them, I’m fortunate enough to afford my own tenement. Raymond knew the landlord, so I only pay three dollars a month for what could easily be six.”

She released his hand and patted his arm. “Stay where you are.” There was a chink of a key being pushed into a lock and then a click and the door creaked open.

Her heels echoed against the floorboards and he could hear the flint being struck. A glass oil lamp sputtered to life, brilliantly illuminating not only her pale face but a small yellow-wallpapered kitchen one could easily cross in but three strides. The heavy scent of starch, lye and soap drifted toward him.

“You’ll get used to the smell,” she offered conversationally. “It’s better than the one outside, to be sure. I do all of my work in the front room as opposed to the yard outside, see. That way nothin’ gets stolen.”

She set the glass lamp onto a wooden table set across from a brick hearth bearing a cauldron. She loosened the tie beneath her chin, the blue ribbons cascading in a flutter to her slim shoulders. She stripped the oval bonnet from her head with a sigh and glanced down, neatly retying the ribbon into a perfect bow. Bustling toward the wall, she leaned over a coal bin and hung her bonnet gently from a nail positioned next to another nail that held a faded wooden rosary.

Her thick bundled hair appeared almost brown in the dim light, with only hints of bright red as she turned back to the chair and swept up a plaid apron. She affixed it around her waist with three quick movements.

His eyes dropped from her slim shoulders to her aproned waist. It was like being her husband and peering into a very intimate routine. He rather liked it. It made him feel as if he were walking into his own home and into the arms of a woman who was his.

Remembering the way her hot, wet tongue had eagerly moved against his own, he gripped the wood trim harder to force out any thoughts of wanting her in that way again. It was obvious she didn’t want more of it. Not from him, anyway.

She glanced up and turned toward him. “Are you goin’ to stand there and let the world know I’m home? Shut the door.”

He cleared his throat and stepped into the small room, shutting the door with a thud. He paused, noting three metal bolts. He gestured toward them. “Do you want me to bolt all three?”

“That’s what they’re there for, Brit. To keep the world out. Unless your boxing skills are better than mine.”

She had a reply for everything. He affixed all of the metal latches into place and turned back toward her. Sensing she was still annoyed with him, he held up both hands in truce. Meeting her gaze, he set them behind his back, locking a hand over a wrist against his spine. “I won’t grab for you.”

She smiled, pulled out one of the two chairs from beside the small table and gestured toward it. “Sit. I’m over it.”

If only he was.

He strode toward the chair, pressing his hands tightly against his back, and sat, causing the chair to creak in protest. It wobbled beneath him. Carefully sliding back into it out of fear he’d break it, he slipped his hands out from behind his back and set them on his knees. He shifted, eyeing the small kitchen, and leaned forward to scan the two other adjoining rooms that light didn’t spread into.

She gestured toward one of the small rooms he was looking at. “That there is the closet.”

“The closet?”

“Where I sleep.”

“Don’t you mean the bedchamber?”

She dropped a hand to her side. “Is that what you Brits call it?” She tsked. “You boyos certainly like to make everythin’ sound so much fancier than it really is. It’s a closet with a straw bed and a trunk. Nothin’ more.”

He lowered his gaze down to his boots, sensing she didn’t particularly like the British. “Where do you want me to sleep?”

She sighed. “You can sleep with me on the bed. There’s room and I don’t mind.”

He glanced up. She was really looking to make him suffer. “I hardly think it wise we share a bed.”

“There was no bed on that omni, Robinson, and yet neither of us could keep our hands to ourselves. Between these three small rooms, our bodies are goin’ to be rubbin’ up against each other quite a bit, so you’d best get used to it.”

He feigned a laugh. “I might not physically survive you or this. I’m still a bit astounded by that kiss you gave me. It was remarkable enough for me to want more.”

“I’ll agree that it was, but you really need to try to keep everythin’ buttoned up in those trousers from here on out. If the urge is particularly strong, just ask for some privacy and make use of your hand. All right?”

He shifted his jaw, feeling his body temperature rising. It was like she was a man, not a woman. “I ask that you not talk like that to me, Georgia. I find it unsettling and vulgar coming from your mouth.”

She clicked her tongue at him. “I’m a nun compared to all the other women around me, but I’ll do my best not to offend.” She drifted past him toward the cupboard and pointed toward a corked bottle. “I’ve got whiskey, if you want it. Came straight from the barrel down the street. ’Tis the best in the ward at a dime a gallon and has enough smoke and bite to make it worth your while.”

He let out a low whistle. “In England we call that death.”

A giggle escaped her. She turned toward him, tilting her head to one side to better observe him. “Do you remember anythin’ about England?”

He paused. “No. Not really.”

“Ah, you’re better off, I say. You’re cursed enough. Now. How about you drink up a good tin of whiskey? It’ll help you sleep.”

He shook his head. “No. I would rather not. My mind is muddled enough without—”

A resounding thud hit the adjoining wall, sending a tremor throughout the room.

He rose to his feet. “What was that?”

She winced and waved toward the main wall opposite them. “Never you mind John Andrew Malloy over there. He feels the need to entertain the masses every now and then. Just ignore it.”

“You mean he’s hosting a formal gathering? At this hour?”

She pursed her lips as if he were a complete dolt. “Not quite.”

Steady, rhythmic thuds grew more and more pronounced as muffled moans filtered through the wall. “That’s it, Georgia. Come on. Let me hear it.”

A woman cried out, mingling with those thrusting grunts.

His brows rose as his face and skin prickled with astounded heat. He glanced over at Georgia and gestured toward the wall. “By God. Did he just…say your name? Or did I imagine that?”

She turned and quickly headed over to the cupboard and commenced arranging and rearranging all of her plates, even though they were already arranged.

Apparently, he hadn’t imagined it at all.

Rapid, feverish thumps rattled the plates Georgia tried to reorganize. “Take it, Georgia. Take every last—”

A woman gasped against a massive thud that vibrated the floor beneath Robinson’s boots. “Now, now, not so hard, John! I’m not running a charity here.”

Georgia cringed and swung away, slapping a hand over her mouth.

Robinson’s throat tightened as the need to protect her honor descended upon him like a massive wave crashing to the shore. She didn’t like it. And neither did he.

Stalking over to the wall, he banged his fist against the plaster, causing it to tremor beneath each hit. “John Andrew Malloy!” he boomed, leaning toward the wall and pounding it again. “Unless you want a fist to find its way through this wall and into your skull, I demand you desist using the name of a woman you aren’t even with!”

She choked on a laugh, dropping her hand to her side, and swung toward him. “Shush! He’ll hear you.”

He stepped away from the wall and adjusted his coat in riled agitation. “I hope to God he does. That is vile. You shouldn’t have to listen to that. And neither should I.”

She groaned and yanked her apron up over her face and head, burying herself in it. “If John comes over here, I’ll up and die.”

“If John comes over here, he is going to up and die.”

An anguished moan and one last “Georgia” ripped through the air. Everything soon lulled itself back into silence.

Georgia quietly lingered before the doorless cupboard, her head still buried in her apron. “I’m never comin’ out knowin’ you heard that.” She suffocated a giggle. “Not ever, ever, ever.”

At least she had a sense of humor about it. “You have to come out sometime.”

“No, I don’t.”

Knowing she was being silly, he edged toward the bolted door and, despite hearing nothing, said in a taunting voice, “I hear footsteps.”

She whipped her apron down from her face and gawked at him in exasperation. “You do not.”

“No. But I got you out, did I not?” He leaned against the bolted door and crossed his arms over his chest, trying to appear indifferent even though he was thoroughly agitated to know some man was yelling out her name in the throes of passion. “How often does he do that to you? And why?”

She rolled her eyes, her smooth cheeks flushing. “He has a bit of a fancy for me.”

“A bit? He was saying your name.”

“Oh, all right, more than a fancy.” She glanced toward the wall and lowered her voice, pointing at him. “This doesn’t leave the room.”

Now, this he had to hear. “I won’t say a word.”

She heaved out a breath and waved toward the wall. “John Andrew and this redhead from over on Anthony Street started seein’ each other about a month ago. I thought it was movin’ toward matrimony and was actually quite happy for him. Then I ran into the woman one mornin’ whilst gettin’ my yams, and she thanked me for the business I was givin’ her. I told her I most certainly didn’t know what she was talkin’ about, and that’s when she laughed and told me all about how John Andrew Malloy pays her fifty cents to ride her up the hole he shouldn’t, all whilst callin’ her Georgia.” She snorted. “I about fainted. But better her than me, I say.”

Robinson drew in a ragged breath and let it out. He was going to slaughter this John Andrew Malloy.

A door slammed in the distance beyond, making them both pause. Steady footfalls headed toward them from next door, followed by a knock that vibrated the bolted door he was still leaning against.

“Ey, Georgia!” a man called from the other side. “Open up.”

Her eyes widened as she slammed down a reprimanding foot. “Drat you and that mouth, Robinson!” She hurried toward him, shaking her head, and waved him away with both hands. “Step aside before he chews my door to bits.”

“I intend to chew him to bits. Pardon me.” He whipped toward the door, his chest tightening as he undid the bolts. He was going to scatter the bastard’s innards across the entire length of the corridor.

“No.” Georgia shoved him away from the door and swung a finger toward the shadowed wall where the lamp didn’t reach. “Step into the shadows and put your back against the wall. I don’t want him seein’ your face.”

He squinted at her. “Are you defending this man?”

“No. I’m defendin’ you.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “John happens to be one of the boys. And the rule around here is not to stir the pot before you’ve had a chance to put anythin’ in it. You don’t want him spreadin’ rumors and havin’ people hunt you down. He’s known for it. Now get in the shadows.”

He threw up both hands in exasperation and fell against the wall behind him with a thud.

“Don’t say a word until I get rid of him.” She pointed at him one last time as if that were going to keep him in place, then unbolted the door and swung it open.

His brows rose a fraction at what came into view in the dim light just outside his shadowy hiding spot.

A tall, shirtless youth who looked barely old enough to shave casually leaned against the doorway outside, his smooth, muscled chest and face glistening from the sheen of sex-induced sweat. Wool trousers were crookedly affixed on those narrow hips and his two large feet were as bare as the day he was born. He edged in toward Georgia, long strands of blond hair falling into his eyes. “I’ve had a long day, Georgia. Don’t make it longer by telling me what I can and can’t do in me own low closet.”

“You’re touched in the head, John. Touched.” She tapped her forehead with a finger. “I couldn’t care less about what you do in your low closet. I just don’t want to hear it. You’re bein’ overly stupid and loud.”

The edge of John’s mouth lifted. “Just imagine how overly stupid and loud it’d be if it were happening in your low closet?”

Georgia set her hands on her hips. “You’d only snap at the first thrust, John. There’s barely enough of you as it is.”

Robinson bit back an exasperated laugh and shifted against the wall. She certainly knew how to serve up a good tongue.

John paused. “Is that Matthew? Was he the one up and banging on the wall like Fecky the Ninth?” He pushed past Georgia, striding into the room, and jerked to a halt, scanning Robinson. His eyes widened as his sweat-sleeked face flushed all the more. He glanced back over at Georgia. “Who’s this prick? And what’s he doing in your room?”

Robinson narrowed his gaze and pushed away from the wall, ready to fist the runt back out into the corridor where he belonged.

“Back against the wall, Robinson,” Georgia warned, pointing at him. “And don’t say a word.”

Gritting his teeth, Robinson fell back against the wall, but held the youth’s gaze, challenging him to come at him.

John swiped his hair out of his eyes and leaned toward her, his bare chest rising and falling more steadily. “Christ, Georgia. You can’t be trusting men you don’t know. Get rid of him. Before I do.”

“Don’t be playin’ all high and mighty, John, whilst you’re playin’ with your whores loud enough for the whole buildin’ to hear.” Georgia grabbed the youth by the arm, directing him to the open door. “I’ve been behind on the rent by a whole dollar forty-five since my reticule was swiped and I’m boardin’ him to make up for it, is all. So you needn’t be jerkin’ your chin at me. I know what I’m doin’.” She tried shoving him into the corridor.

John yanked his arm away from her and spun back. “You’re doing more than boarding him.” He swiped a hand over his face. “You’re fecking him for extra money to move west, aren’t you?”

She gasped. “I’m not feckin’ him!”

“Like hell you aren’t.”

Robinson shook his head from side to side. “Have a little more respect for the woman,” he called out from up against the wall he was still sentenced to. “And while you’re at it, sir, put on a shirt lest you blind us all with your lack of refinement.”

John’s eyes widened. “Smite me. He’s a fobbing Brit. Sir and all!” Shoving past Georgia, John veered toward him and said through clenched teeth, “You’d best leave lest I bloody you up well enough for your whore of a mother in England to feel it.”

Robinson pushed away from the wall, straightening to his full height of six feet four inches, towering well above the boy by a whole head and a half. “I’d like to see you try, little John.”

“Get out!” Lunging, John snapped out a clenched fist up toward his face.

Robinson vaulted aside as John’s white-knuckled fist smashed into the wall behind him, denting the plaster with a muffled thud that resounded within the room.

“John!” Georgia grabbed John by the waist and dragged him back toward her. “Enough. Enough!”

Robinson held out a strained hand in warning, even though what he really wanted to do was smash the boy’s skull into pieces.

John swatted away Georgia’s hands from around his waist and veered back toward him, his lean chest rising and falling against impassioned breaths. “No one makes a whore out of Georgia. No one. Especially not some prick of a Brit.”

Holding the youth’s gaze, Robinson removed his coat and tossed it toward the chair, readying himself for whatever was about to happen. “The only one making a whore out of Georgia right now is you, John. I suggest you leave. Before she has to witness something she oughtn’t.”

Georgia grabbed the youth by the arm with both hands and yanked him back, using her own body to maneuver his. “As you can see, John, despite him bein’ a Brit, he’s a gent who knows how to control his own two fists. Unlike you.” Turning him back toward the door, she shoved him out into the corridor. “Now get back to your girl.”

“She’s not me girl,” he tossed back, turning back toward her. “I’m only fecking her to keep meself sane, because living next to you on the hour is like living next to the Garden of Eden. Snakes and all!”

“Don’t you worry, this Eve is movin’ the entire garden west and soon. Good night…Adam.” Slamming the door, she bolted all three locks.

“Georgia!” The door rattled. “Georgia, please don’t do this. I’ve got two dollars and thirty-four cents saved up. ’Tis yours if you need it and I sure as hell won’t ask for spit, in turn. Just don’t…don’t feck him.”

Georgia hit the door with a hard, fast fist, rattling the door. “Is that all you think I’m good for? A bloody feck? Off with you, you knacker, before I tell Matthew to slice you up like custard pie and serve you to the locals!”

There was a mutter as footfalls faded. A door slammed.

“What a vile little maggot,” Robinson drawled. “Is feck what I think it is?”

Georgia turned and glared at him. “If that were Matthew or any other man, you would have been dead by now. Don’t think that because you stand well over six feet that you can talk back to these men. This isn’t Broadway where people settle things with a bit of conversation. People here settle for blood. I want you to remember that the next time you mouth off.”

He shifted his jaw. “He was disrespecting you and he was disrespecting me.”

“Get used to it. It’s called life. Sometimes, you’ve got to swallow your pride to ensure you don’t die.” She snatched up the lamp from off the table and disappeared into the adjoining room, momentarily leaving him in shadows.

Robinson swiped an exhausted hand across his face and winced as his fingers scraped against his scab. Seething out a breath, he leaned against the wall. “How old was that bastard, anyway? He looked rather young to be carrying on the way he did.”

“He’s one and twenty,” she called out from within the low closet. She unfolded yellowing linen and spread it onto the straw mattress, smoothing it out. “Not nearly as young as you think. I was eighteen when I became a wife.”

He stared at her. “You were rather young.”

“Young? Don’t be silly. Most girls marry younger to avoid fallin’ into the hands of a brothel, and unlike them, I actually married for love. And a fine love it was.” She half nodded and turned away, her voice fading as she breathed out, “Even if it didn’t last.”

Leaning over, she quietly arranged and rearranged the linen on the bed as if not at all pleased with the way it was laying. He sensed she was actually doing it to avoid any further discussion pertaining to her marriage.

He trailed a hand against the uneven plastered wall as he made his way toward her. “So John is one of the boys?”

“That he is. He can read and write now because of them.”