Читать книгу Forever and a Day - Delilah Marvelle - Страница 9
ОглавлениеCHAPTER ONE
To endeavor to forget anyone is a certain
way of thinking of nothing else.
—Jean de La Bruyère, Les Caractères (1688)
6th of July, 1830, early afternoon
New York City
GEORGIA EMILY MILTON rarely cared to notice any of the well-to-do men strutting about Broadway as it was a long-standing rule of hers to never yearn for anything she couldn’t have and/or didn’t need. But as she bustled down the crowded, respectable stretch of Broadway, heading back toward the not-so-respectable trenches of Little Water, an astonishingly tall, well-groomed gentleman strode toward her at a leisurely pace, making her not only slow but inwardly wish she had been born a lady.
Weaving past others to ensure a better view, she caught staggered glimpses of an impressive, muscled frame garbed in a gray morning coat, well-fitted trousers and an embroidered waistcoat with double-row buttons. Gloved hands strategically angled his dove-gray top hat forward and down to better shade his eyes against the bright sun gleaming across the surrounding stretch of shop windows.
His hat alone had to be worth two months of her wages.
As he smoothly rounded several people and strode toward her side of the pavement, his smoldering gray eyes caught and held hers from beneath the rim of his hat. The pulsing intensity of that raw, heated gaze bashed the breath out of her.
Tightening his jaw, he aligned himself directly in her path, the expanse between them lessening with each frantic beat of her heart. That black-leather-booted stride slowed when he finally came upon her. He formally— albeit a bit too gravely—inclined his dark head toward her, publicly acknowledging her in a way his sort never did during the day.
He behaved as if he didn’t see a rag in calico skirts, which had washed itself over from Orange Street, but an elegant young lady strolling alongside her mother with a lace parasol in hand. For making her feel so uncommonly attractive, Georgia considered blowing him a kiss. Fortunately, she knew how to keep herself out of trouble.
Glancing away, she set her chin as any respectable woman would, and sashayed past his towering frame, purposefully letting her own arm brush against his, only to stumble against the dragging skirts of a washerwoman who had rudely darted before her. Of all the—
His large hand jumped out and grabbed hold of her corseted waist, balancing her upright with a swift jerk. Georgia froze as her reticule swung against her wrist, hitting the sleeved coat of his solid forearm that held her in place.
Her heart slid off into oblivion upon realizing her bum now dug against a solid, male thigh. His solid, male thigh.
His head dipped toward her from behind, his muscles tensing as he pressed her backside more possessively against his front side. His arm tightened around her waist. “Are you all right, madam?”
His voice was husky and refined, laced with a regal British accent that made the Irish girl in her inwardly put up both fists.
“That I am, sir. Thank you.” Trying to shake off the intimacy of that hold, Georgia tried to politely ease away.
He released her, his hand skimming from her waist toward the expanse of her back, making the skin beneath her clothing zing.
Her eyes widened as that same hand curved its way back up her side, intent on outlining the rest of her body.
Though she tried to peddle away, he tightened his hold on her upper arm and drew her back firmly toward himself. “Madam.”
Sucking in a breath, she jerked away and shoved him back hard, causing him to stumble. “Don’t you be gropin’ me!”
“Your bonnet.” He held up both of his hands in a quick truce and gestured toward it. “One of the ribbons came loose. That is all.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks bloomed with heat as she reached up and patted around the curve of her bonnet trying to find it. How utterly humiliating. “I’m ever so sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to actually—”
“No worries. Allow me.” Setting a large hand against the small of her back, he guided her with forceful nudges over to the shop window beyond, removing them from the pathway of hustling pedestrians.
Realizing that he intended to affix the ribbon himself, she glanced up wide-eyed. “There’s really no need for you to—”
“Yes, there is. You will lose the ribbon otherwise. Now, please. Hold still.” He angled her toward himself and leaned in close, lifting the discolored, frayed ribbon dangling off the side of her bonnet.
Georgia awkwardly lingered before him as he wove the length of the ribbon back into place. Although she wanted to dash away, knowing that her bonnet was an atrocity not worth touching, sometimes a girl needed to gaze up at the stars that so willingly sought to shine. Even if those stars were far beyond the reach of a penniless girl’s imagination.
As his fingers skimmed her bonnet and tucked the ribbon, she resisted reaching up and grazing her hand adoringly against that smooth, shaven face. What, oh, what would it be like to belong to a man such as this?
Glimpsing a single black band fitted around the shifting gray coat of his bulking upper biceps, she glanced back up at him, her heart squeezing. He was in mourning.
“’Tis almost affixed,” he offered conversationally, his eyes scanning her bonnet. He leaned in closer. “I’m using one of the other pins to keep it in place.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, lowering her gaze.
His coat smelled like mulled spice and cedar. It was divinely warm and inviting, even on a summer’s day. The double row of buttons on his embroidered waistcoat shifted against the expanse of his broad chest as he finished maneuvering the last of her ribbon into place. She could tell by the reflective metal gleam of those buttons that they weren’t painted brass made to emulate silver, but were, in fact, real silver. Only an elite group of men in New York could afford silver buttons. It was an elite group she knew she’d never be able to touch, not even with an outstretched toe.
“There we are.” Meeting her gaze, he drew his gloved hands away and offered in a low baritone, “And how are you today, madam?”
Blinking up at him, she noted the way his eyes and his brow had softened, lending to a boyish vulnerability that didn’t match his imposing height of more than six feet. She tried to quell the anxious tingle knotting her stomach. Despite the full bustle on Broadway, this glorious man sought to share in a bit of conversation with her. “I’m very well, sir. Thank you.”
She refrained from asking how he was out of respect for the band around his arm, and instead offered a flirtatious smile, gesturing toward the pleated rim of her bonnet. “Rather impressive. Have you considered takin’ up haberdashery?”
He slowly grinned, the edges of those handsome gray eyes and that firm full mouth crinkling, brightening his overly serious appearance. “No. I haven’t.”
Of course he hadn’t. He had silver buttons. He probably owned every haberdashery in town. Or in the town from whence he came.
He shifted toward her, his large frame blocking whatever view she had of the street. “Are you from around these parts?”
She refrained from snorting. “You’re overly kind, to be sure, but given that my bonnet can’t even hold a ribbon, most certainly not. Only gold-feathered peacocks can afford these parts, sir. I’m merely passin’ through.”
“Gold-feathered peacocks?” He smirked and set his hands behind his back, broadening his impressive shoulders. “Is that what you like to call those of wealth?”
She scrunched her nose playfully. “Nah, not really. I’m bein’ polite, seein’ that you’re one of them, and I’ve roughed you up well enough.”
A gruff laugh escaped his lips. “Rest assured, I am quite used to it,” he remarked, still intimately holding her gaze. “I’ve already endured more than my share of elbowing from the public given that I’m British. Too many Americans still remember the burning of Washington, but I swear to you I didn’t do it.”
Georgia burst into laughter, smitten with his marvelously wry humor. “Ah, now, can you readily blame them? You Brits are nothin’ but gadflies cloaked in a fancy accent.”
He paused and leaned in, heatedly searching her face without any further attempt to mask his unabashed interest. “Might I cease being polite for one brief moment and ask whether you would like to join me for coffee over at my hotel? It’s been quite some time since I have allowed myself a moment of leisure. Honor me.”
The wistful intensity lingering within that taut face was so galvanizing, it sent a tremor through her body. Though tempted to glimpse how the other half lived over the rim of a porcelain cup, she knew better than to involve herself with a man who wore silver buttons. It would never last beyond the toss of her skirts and a single night.
She eyed the people weaving past. “I don’t mean to be rude, sir, given that you’ve been nothin’ but kind, but I really ought to go. I’ve a long day ahead of me.” She gestured toward the pavement as if that explained everything.
His hopeful expression melted to disappointment. “I understand and will detain you no more.” He inclined his head, touching the tips of his gloved fingers to the satin rim of his hat. “I bid you a very good day, madam.”
By all that was blue, his manners were as divine as the rest of him. “And a very good day to you, as well, sir. I appreciate the unexpected service you rendered my bonnet.”
His mouth quirked. “It was an honor to be of service. Good day.” Stepping back, he eased his large frame around a passing couple. Glancing back at her one last time, he smiled and disappeared into the surrounding wall of bodies.
Georgia eased out a wistful breath knowing she had just glimpsed life as it might have been had she been born a genteel lady of high society. Ah, money. If only it could also buy a woman true love and happiness, she would be the first to dash into the local bank and point a pistol at every clerk, demanding tens and twenties.
Swiveling toward the opposite direction, Georgia resumed her steady march home, which was still a good forty-minute walk. Why couldn’t such refined gentlemen exist in her part of town? It wasn’t in the least bit fair that her only selection of men smacked the bottoms of passing women and whistled through crooked, unchalked teeth. Not for long, though. She was only six dollars short of moving west and couldn’t wait to climb into that stagecoach and leave her piss of a life behind.
A towering, broad frame suddenly appeared beside her and veered in, startling her. “Madam.”
Her eyes widened. Upon her soul, it was her Brit. Slowing her step, she offered a quick, “Yes?”
He swung toward her, trotting backward in an effort to face her before jumping into her path and coming to an abrupt halt.
Georgia squeaked and skid to prevent herself from dashing herself against him.
He leaned toward her. “I can only apologize for being so uncommonly bold, but I must have your name.”
She glanced up in astonishment. “And what do you intend to do with my name, sir?”
He lifted a dark brow. “Perhaps you and I can discuss that over coffee? Couldn’t you make time for one small cup? Just one? My nickel.”
What was he thinking? Did she really look the sort? “I appreciate the offer, sir, but I don’t drink coffee. Or men. I’m swearin’ off both until I move west.”
His eyes darkened. “I am not asking you to drink me.”
Despite the warmth of the day, another shiver of awareness grazed the length of her body, knowing full well what the man meant. “Not yet you aren’t, but you’re invitin’ me to join you for coffee at your hotel. I may be third-generation Irish, but that doesn’t make me stupid.”
He lowered his chin. “Coffee was merely a suggestion.”
“Oh, I know full well what you’re suggestin’, and I suggest you leave off. Do I look desperate for a toss or coffee?”
A smile ruffled his lips. “Have mercy upon a smitten man. What is your name?”
It was times like these that she hated her life. Such an attractive man graced with wealth and status would only ever view her as a one-night commodity. Although she knew better than to want more for herself, given that she was nothing but a Five Points widow, her dear Raymond had taught her she had a right to want the universe, and by God, she was going to get it.
There was only one way to go about protecting what little honor she had. She’d give him the name of the best prostitute in the ward. That way, everyone would benefit from her cleverness should he decide to hunt the name down. “The name is Mrs. Elizabeth Heyer, sir. Emphasis on the Mrs. Sorry I can’t join you. My husband wouldn’t be pleased.” She quickly rounded him. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”
He stepped before her, blocking her from moving any farther. “I ask that you provide your real name.”
“I just did.”
He shook his head from side to side, never once breaking their gaze. “It took a few breaths too long for you to answer and you didn’t even look at me when you said it. Why? Do I unnerve you?”
She glared up at him. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m tryin’ to take my leave.”
“If you were married, you would have mentioned it earlier.” He leveled her with a reprimanding stare. “Do you mean to say that you are the sort of woman who enjoys bantering with men whilst her husband isn’t about? Shame on you if that is true, and shame on you if it isn’t. Either way, the lady appears to be a liar.”
Curse him for honing in on the details.
He leaned in. “Don’t deny that you are blatantly flirting with me in the same manner I am blatantly flirting with you.”
Her eyes widened. She stepped back. “If I were flirtin’, you’d know it, because I’d be draggin’ you straight home instead of takin’ up coffee. I’m not one to play games, sir. I either do somethin’ or I don’t.”
“Then do something.” His jaw tightened, his expression stilling. “I’m not married. An afternoon of conversation is all I ask.” He met her gaze. “For now.”
The smooth but predatory way he said it caused her to instinctively step back. Regardless of the fact that she was no longer married, it was obvious the sanctity of matrimony meant nothing to him. “And what shall I tell my husband, sir, should he ask how I spent my afternoon?”
His eyes clung to hers as if methodically gauging her reaction. “If you are indeed married, I will not only desist, but run. I am not interested in creating a mess for you or myself. I was merely looking to get to know a woman who genuinely piqued my interest. Is that wrong?”
Georgia could feel her palms growing moist. Tempted though she was to experience one spine-tingling adventure of ripping off all the clothes of a most provocative stranger, she knew it wouldn’t end well if Matthew and the boys were to ever find out. They’d probably hunt him down and kill him. After they robbed him of everything he was worth, that is. It’d be a mess either way.
She glanced around, ensuring she didn’t see anyone she recognized. “Unlike you, sir, I’m lookin’ to marry. Not dance. A woman of little means, such as myself, needs a dependable relationship better known as forever and a day. Not your version of a day and a night. I think that about says it all. Good day.” Without meeting his gaze, she swept past.
He wordlessly angled away, allowing her passage.
Georgia quickened her step and scolded herself for having encouraged him in the first place. Fifteen decades on the rosary praying for her Jezebel soul ought to readmit her into heaven. Although fifteen decades wouldn’t even begin to include Matthew’s sins from this week alone that she had yet to pray for. That man required a set of his own damn beads. Not that he believed in God or anything else for that matter. All he believed in was money, money, money.
She paused on the pavement and instinctively tightened her hold on her reticule, allowing others to weave past. For some reason, she had this niggling feeling that she was being followed by the Brit she thought she’d left behind.
Pinching her lips together, she swiveled on her heel and froze upon glimpsing him four strides away, despite her having already forged well over a block. Her reticule slid from her calico-sleeved elbow down to her wrist, mirroring her disbelief that the man was following her like a dog she’d unknowingly fed scraps to. “Are you following me?”
Gray eyes heatedly captured hers as he came to a halt. “Instead of coffee, how about you and I go for a walk and get to know each other that way?” He smiled, ceremoniously announcing that he was capable of being respectable and that it was now up to her to decide as to how they should proceed.
Georgia dragged in a much-needed breath, her heart frantically pounding. Did he actually think she was going to change her mind based off that smoldering need blazing in those gunmetal eyes? She didn’t even have time for a tryst. Not with all the laundry she had yet to do.
A quick movement shadowed the corner of her eye as a youth darted in and yanked back her wrist with the violent tug of her own reticule. The glint of a blade whizzed past.
Her eyes widened as she jerked around, realizing that the strings on her reticule had been slit by a passing thief. “Ey!” Georgia pounced for it, trying to reclaim what was hers, but the lanky youth skid out of reach, shoving past people, and dashed out of sight.
Her heart popped realizing she’d just been robbed by a ten-year-old. Hiking up her skirts above her ankle boots, she sprinted after the damn whoreson, shoving herself through those around her. “You’d best run!” she shouted after the boy, trying to keep up. “Because I’m about to shuck you like an oyster!”
“I’ll anchor him,” the Brit called out from behind.
His broad frame sped past her, and dodged left, then right, then left again, disappearing into the bustle of Broadway.
Having lost sight of him and the boy, Georgia paused to frantically ask others if they had seen a youth being chased by a gent in a dove-gray hat. She was repeatedly pointed onward and downward. So onward and downward she went.
Dragging in breaths, she tried to keep up with the pace of her own booted feet as the jogging facade of Broadway shops tapered into pristine Italian row houses. If she didn’t get that damn reticule back, she’d have to dig money out of her box to make the rent. Again.
Shouts and a gathering crowd of men on the upcoming dirt road made her jerk to a halt and snap her gaze toward a pluming dust that was settling. An overturned dove-gray top hat lay oddly displaced outside the crowd in the middle of the street.
She sucked in a breath, scanning the men who were yelling at women to stand back. What—?
The driver of an omnibus, who had already brought his horses to a full halt, untied the calling rope from his ankled boot, hopped down from his box seat and hurried into the crowd as passengers within the omni craned and gaped through the small windows.
“Oh, God.” Her stomach clenched as she scrambled forward.
The Brit had been struck by the omni and was lying motionless there on the street corner of Howard and Broadway.
LIGHT EDGED IN THROUGH the waving darkness and pulsed against his eyelids. Slowly opening his eyes, he squinted against the glaring brightness of the sun that pierced through a cloudless sky. Taking in several jagged breaths, he drifted, unable to lift his head from the dirt-pounded street that dug into his shaven cheek and throbbing temple.
Several booted feet and countless hovering faces blocked his skewed view of painted placards posted on buildings and a blue sky that rose beyond a street he did not recognize. Shouts boomed all around him and the dust-ridden, heat-laced air made it difficult for him to breathe.
A bearded man with a cap slung low against his brow leaned over him. “Good to see you stayed below the clouds, sir. Are you able to get up?”
Why were there so many people gathered around him? What was going on? He rolled onto his back, wincing against the searing, razorlike sensations coiling throughout the length of his body. He staggered to sit up, only to sway and stumble back against the dirt road beneath him. The scuffed imprint of a booted foot that had been pressed deeply into the dirt beside him drew his gaze.
One day it happened that, going to my boat, I saw the print of a man’s naked foot on the shore, very evident on the sand, as the toes, heels and every part of it.
He winced, pushing the odd, misplaced voice out of his head. His vision blurred as the acrid taste of blood coated his mouth and tongue. Something trickled down the side of his face, its wet warmth dribbling toward his earlobe. He swiped the moisture away with a trembling hand and glanced toward it. The fingertips of his brown leather glove were smeared with blood.
“Hoist him up,” a female voice insisted from within the blur of surrounding faces. There was a pause. “Oh, saints preserve us.” She sounded more panicked. “We need to get him over to the hospital.”
He swallowed and glanced up toward that lilting female voice that appeared concerned for him. Was he in some strange part of Ireland? Despite trying to find that voice, there only seemed to be an endless blur of male faces floating around him.
Hands slid beneath his morning coat and trouser-clad thighs. A group of men jerked him upward with a unified grunt.
Pain whizzed straight up to his clenched teeth and skull. He gasped, twisting against their pinching grasps. “Gentlemen,” he seethed out between ragged breaths. “Whilst your concern is appreciated, I hardly think a full procession is necessary.”
“Such posh manners for one who is dying,” one of the men carrying him hooted playfully. “One can only wonder what’ll come out of his mouth when he’s dead.”
A quick hand reached out and knocked the cap off the man’s head. “Less tongue, more muscle. Move!”
“Ey!” the man yelled back, stumbling against him and all the others carrying him. “Keep them mammet little hands to yourself, woman. I was only having a bit of fun.”
“You think it fun watchin’ a man bleed? Keep movin’ him, you lout. Lest I make you bleed.” The freckled face of a young woman with the brightest set of green eyes he’d ever seen suddenly peered in from between all of the broad shoulders carrying him. Her rusty arched brows came together as she trotted alongside him, trying to hold his gaze through moving limbs. A loose, soft-looking strand of strawberry-red hair swayed against the wind, having tumbled out of her frayed blue bonnet.
“Where are you stayin’?” She shoved the loose strand of hair back into her bonnet with a bare hand, trying to keep up with the men carrying him. “Close? Far?”
Gritting his teeth, he tried to focus, but couldn’t.
“Are you from around here?” she insisted, still bustling alongside him. “Or are you visitin’ from abroad? You mentioned a hotel. Which hotel are you stayin’ at?”
“Hotel?” he echoed up at her, his throat tightening. “When did I mention a hotel?”
She squinted down at him, searching his face. “Never you mind that. We need to contact your family. Give me a name and address, and after we deliver you to the hospital, I’ll run myself over to them at once.”
Family? He blinked, glancing up at the swaying, hazy blue sky above as he was guided up toward a hackney. Countless names and faces flipped through his mind’s eye like the pages of an endless book whipping past. There were so many names. Strada. Ludovicus. Casparus. Bruyère. Horace. Sloane. Lovelace. Shakespeare. Fielding. Pilkington. La Croix. They couldn’t all be related to him. Or…could they?
I was called Robinson Kreutznaer, which not being easily pronounced in the English tongue, we are commonly known by the name of Crusoe.
Wait. Crusoe. Yes. It was a name he remembered very well. Robinson Crusoe of York. Was that not him? It had to be, and yet he couldn’t remember if it was or it wasn’t. Oh, God. What was happening to him? Why couldn’t he remember what was what?
He winced, realizing that he was now being tucked against the leather seat of an enclosed hackney. The firm hands that had been pushing him to sit upright against the seat left his body one by one as all the men turned away and jumped down and out of the hackney, leaving him alone against the seat.
Everything swayed as he slumped against the weight of his heavy limbs. He panicked, unable to control his own body, and fought to remain upright by using his gloved hands against the sides of the hackney.
The woman with the green eyes shoved her way past the others and frantically climbed up into the hackney, slamming the door behind her. “I’m takin’ you in myself. I’ll not leave your side. I promise.”
The vehicle rolled forward as she landed beside him on the seat with a bounce. She leaned toward him. “Come.” Her arms slid around him as she dragged him gently toward herself. She guided his shoulder and head down onto her lap, scooting across the seat to better accommodate his size.
He collapsed against the warmth of her lap, thankful he didn’t have to hold himself up anymore. Wrapping a trembling hand around her knee, he buried it into the folds of her gown, taking comfort that he wasn’t alone. The scent of lye and soap drifted up from the softness of her gown, which grazed his cheek and throbbing temple. He could die here and know eternal peace.
Her hand rubbed his shoulder. “I want you to talk. That way, I’ll know you’re doin’ all right. So go on. Talk.”
He swallowed, wanting to thank her for her compassion and for giving him a breath of hope even though he sensed there was none. Was death nothing more than a long sleep? His hand slowly and heavily slid inch by inch from her knee as he felt his entire world tip.
“Sir?” She leaned down toward him and shook him. “Sir?”
A snowy, rippling haze overtook the last of his vision, and though he fought to stay awake in those heavenly arms, everything faded and he along with it.
