Bonds of Earth

Copyright

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

382 NE 191st Street #88329

Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Bonds of Earth

Copyright © 2012 by G N Chevalier

Cover Art by Justin James   
[email protected]

Cover Design by Mara McKennen

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 382 NE 191st Street #88329, Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

ISBN: 978-1-61372-327-2

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

January 2012

eBook edition available

eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-328-9

To Jim

acknowledgments

D
ESPITE
the popular image of the lonely writer toiling in the musty garret, no creative endeavor is ever accomplished alone. I owe a great debt of gratitude to many people, including the wonderful writers and friends who took the time to read, encourage, and offer suggestions that made
Bonds of Earth
a better novel: Sara Booth, Karen Byerly, Carla Coupe, C.A. Detmers, Dorinda Hartmann, Morgan Howard, Mary Lou Klecha, Rose Light, Michelle Monroe, Tracey Nickerson, and Brenda Yawn. Jane Henderson Roy, good friend and proofreader extra-ordinaire, was a tremendous help in moving this project forward. Liz Wade and Carla Coupe provided timely and supportive advice when I dearly needed it.

Megan McGinnis’s input was invaluable in making
Bonds of Earth
what it is today. Holly Giostra deserves a large share of the credit for the fact that you are now holding this book in your hands. Jennifer Dowell took the beautiful, evocative photograph for me that now graces the cover. Elizabeth North, Ariel Tachna, Lynn West, Gin Eastwick, Mara McKennen, and the rest of the team at Dreamspinner Press made the publishing process a wonderful, collaborative, stress-free experience.

Finally, I’d like to express my gratitude to four people who cannot be properly thanked in mere words: my parents Helen and Marcel, who valued the creator in me from an early age; Viola, my biggest fan and dearest supporter; and Jim, who always believed.

Thank you all so much.

1

April 1919

T
HE
early spring evening still held a reminder of the winter’s chill, but as soon as Michael opened the door of the Saint Alexander’s Baths, it might as well have been high noon in the middle of summer. The sultry heat and humidity washed over him, drawing him inside and tugging him down the wide steps to the place that, for all its chipped paint and flickering Mazda lamps, had become his second home, his refuge.

By the time he reached Millie’s office, he had shed his jacket and collar and was working on the buttons of his vest. He was not looking forward to this conversation, but there was nothing else to be done. He had no choice.

“Darling! You’re early!” The sweet scent of Millie’s perfume momentarily drowned out the stronger odors of the bathhouse as she hugged him to her ample bosom. When she released him, she peered into his eyes, that sapphire-blue gaze seeing right through him, as it always had. “What’s the matter?”

Michael motioned her to her overstuffed chaise; she shot him another glance but did as he wished, and he sat in the chair opposite. “I wanted to let you know I have an interview tomorrow for a position. I’m probably going to get the job; my uncle’s all but fixed it.”

Millie pursed her rouged lips. “Refresh my memory, dear. You have so many relatives.”

“Padraig, my mother’s eldest brother. He’s a gardener—works for the City most of the time, though he also does some work for the types with mansions near the Park.”

“You’re going to work as… a
gardener
?” Millie’s sour expression made it clear what she thought of that idea. Reaching out, she gripped Michael’s broad hands in her finer ones. “Your poor, talented hands—you’ll ruin them!” she exclaimed in horror.

Michael squeezed her fingers before drawing away. “I’ll be fine. As Uncle Paddy says, it’s a good opportunity for a working man.” He forced a twisted smile that wasn’t intended to convince her of the statement.

Millie made a derisive noise. “Yes, well, you know what I think of
that
.” She sighed. “I suppose it’s not the end of the world. At least you should still have a bit of time to work here, especially in the winter.”

Michael shook his head, the rage he’d been feeling since hearing from his meddling bastard of an uncle threatening to stop his throat. “If this comes through, I’ll be leaving New York. One of the old blueblood biddies needs someone to tend her Hudson River estate. If I’m lucky, I’ll manage to visit Manhattan once a month, if that.”

Millie stared at him, her carefully plucked eyebrows climbing. “But why? Why leave the city? Everything is here.”

For a moment, Michael considered telling her. For all her flash, she was a kind-hearted soul, and she’d been a good friend to him over the years. All the more reason, though, not to burden her with his troubles. He knew full well she’d survived more than he ever had, and while she would be outraged on his behalf, it would do neither of them any good. Instead, he shrugged and murmured, “Time for a change, that’s all.”

Millie shook her head, then leaned forward slightly. “Have you given any more thought to what we talked about last week?”

Michael settled further into the chair. “You know I haven’t.”

Millie scowled, the deep lines revealing her age in a way that Michael was sure would horrify her. “If you’d just stop being such a—” she began hotly.

Cutting her off with a sharp gesture of his hand, he said, “I’m not going to take your money, Millie. I already owe you too much. And even if I could, I don’t want the things you think I want. That discussion is finished.”

“Consider it a loan,” she persisted. “You can pay me interest if it offends your virtue. And you owe me nothing. You’ve long since paid me back for everything I put toward your education. You know that.”

Michael stood, suddenly eager for the conversation to be over. “I’m sorry. And please don’t think I’m not grateful you gave me my old job after I came back from the war. I didn’t know what I was going to do, and you made it possible for me to—”

Millie waved away his words, and he smiled in spite of his mood. “Well, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself. I was a rough, ungrateful Mick ruffian before you taught me manners.”

Rising to her feet, Millie took his face gently between her palms. “You were never a ruffian, my darling,” she said softly. “And I wish you’d think about what I’m offering you. When you left six years ago, you had such
dreams
.”

Christ, Millie
, he wanted to say,
you have no idea. For you, it’s been a few short years. For me, it feels like a fucking century. And every time I dream now, it’s a nightmare.

“This is a good position,” he said, parroting his uncle’s speech. “A good opportunity.”

“Well,” Millie said, releasing him with a final pat, “perhaps the country air will clear your head.”

Michael leaned down and brushed his lips against hers softly. “From your mouth to God’s ear.”
Too bad the old bastard is deaf
, he added silently.

Sighing, Millie hooked an arm around his neck and pressed into his embrace for a moment before releasing him. He tried not to notice that her eyes were bright when she pulled away. “Get to work, you loafer,” she whispered. “Your customers are waiting.”

Michael touched her cheek with his fingertips, the faintest hint of beard greeting them even through the heavy layer of paint.
At least you still have your disguise, Henry m’dear
, he thought, allowing himself a moment of fierce sentimentality. “Mustn’t disappoint the customers,” he murmured, planting one final kiss on her forehead before plunging back into the tropical atmosphere of the bath, filled with the seductive scents of sweat and lust.

Michael was almost disappointed when his shift progressed much the same way it always had: the same customers, the same faces, nothing out of the ordinary. The pressure from the bulls had let off in the last month, so there wasn’t even the excitement of a possible raid to break the monotony. The Greenwich Village baths like Millie’s attracted a mixed crowd, bohemians and fairies and rough Ninth Ward Italian boys who weren’t allowed to touch the nice girls their mothers wanted them to marry. They all liked Michael because he’d forgotten more about massage than most of the city’s rubbers knew, and because he had long since trained his voice to be nearly as soothing as his hands. It didn’t hurt that he was over six feet besides, with a longshoreman’s build, hair the color of a raven’s wing, and blue-gray eyes that more than one customer had called “hypnotic.” Michael didn’t give a tinker’s damn what they called his eyes or any other part of him; a hollow shell would serve them as easily as he did, and they’d still come away satisfied. Most nights, a hollow shell was all they got.

Geoffrey, one of his regulars, arrived not long before closing. He was a middle-aged fellow, soft hands and a soft manner, the sort you usually saw at the Everard rather than up in the Village baths. A businessman, Michael guessed, or perhaps a lawyer, someone inclined to seek out a bathhouse where he would not be recognized. His face wasn’t remarkable, but his eyes were dark, almost black, like a Gypsy’s. He was always polite. Michael liked the way he said his name, though he liked the way he tipped even better. The skin of Geoffrey’s shoulders was pale as milk, and his arms and chest were slim but not without muscle. He preferred for Michael to start with his neck and work his way down his front first, starting with
effleurage
and graduating to frictions and
petrissage
of his arms. His father had suffered from debilitating arthritis, he told Michael, and he was terrified that the same would happen to him.

“I have to believe that your treatments will be a help to me,” Geoffrey would say, as Michael gently stroked his fingers.

“Can’t hurt,” Michael would reply.