The Rose of Winslow Street (24 page)

Finally, he turned to her, weary resignation in his face. “Libby, I believe I am the cause of your troubles. Your relationship with your father has been bad ever since I arrived, and I do not think this news about Jasper would have been so destructive had I not already put you on thin ice. If you can find safe lodgings for my family, I will try to repair the damage I have done by taking you to Plymouth.”

He slowly crossed the barn to squat down in front of her, never once looking away. His callused palm was warm around her icy fingers. “You must never lie to me,” he said softly. “Whatever your story, be it good or bad, I will accept. I am not your father, who will storm and rage at you when disappointed.” And the warmth in his eyes made her believe every word he spoke was true.

“You are perfectly and beautifully made,” Michael continued. “You are exactly as God intended for you to be, and I love you precisely as you are.”

Her vision grew watery as her heart expanded inside her chest. Not since her mother had died had anyone said they loved her, but Michael said it with no embarrassment and loud enough for his entire family to hear. His face was gentle as he smiled at her, and never had she felt such a profound sense of belonging.

“I love you too, Michael.”

Those big arms encircled her in a bear hug. From the corner of the barn she could hear Luke and Andrei groaning. Michael must have heard it too, because his sides were shaking with laughter. And here, in this muddy barn with a leaky roof and no furniture, Libby felt as though she had finally found a home.

S
he was correct about Mr. Auckland's willingness to provide shelter for Michael's family. When they appeared on his doorstep, the old librarian's wife had been horrified at the sight of the muddy visitors, but welcomed them inside anyway. Turk said he would haul water for laundry and Joseph would do any heavy lifting the elderly couple wished in exchange for room and board. The boys appeared content as they downed warm molasses cookies at Mrs. Auckland's kitchen table, but Libby saw the tension radiating through Michael's tall frame the entire time he carried the family belongings into the Auckland home.

Now, riding in the train toward Plymouth, Libby could see he was still tense and distracted. It felt strange to be riding in such close proximity to a man. Michael held her hand on his lap, idly tracing the outline of her thumbnail as he stared at the endless fields of ripening ryegrass rolling past their window, the steady chug of train engines filling the silence. This level of familiarity was probably not the wisest thing for two unmarried people traveling together, but she could practically hear Michael grinding his teeth in anxiety over leaving his family. If holding her hand gave him a small measure of comfort, she would let him do so.

Besides, if she could earn her way back into her father's good graces by proving she was right about Jasper, all this nonsense over the house could be settled in short order. The house was plenty big enough for the Dobrescu family should she and Michael marry. Hadn't he suggested precisely the same thing just a few days ago when he asked her to marry him? She realized she could no longer be offended by Michael's clumsy proposal. Someone polished and sophisticated like Jasper would have known how to phrase an offer of marriage with great finesse. Not Michael. He was a raw, blunt man who spoke exactly what was on his mind. The corners of her mouth curled and she clasped his fingers a little tighter. She was coming to love Michael's eager, two-fisted manner of reaching out for exactly what he wanted.

Given her vehement reaction to his first botched proposal, he was unlikely to bring up the subject of sharing the house again unless prompted.

She glanced up at him. How precisely did a girl go about telling a man she wanted him to propose to her again? Heat flooded her cheeks and she cleared her throat.

“It did not go so well the last time you tried to discuss a logical resolution about sharing the house,” she began cautiously.

He stiffened. “I told Mirela about my offer of marriage to you,” he said as cautiously as though he were poking a hornet's nest. “Mirela understands why you were angry and said I am a blockhead. I think perhaps when it comes to women, she is correct.”

Libby suppressed a smile. “I think Mirela is a brilliant woman and you should pay more attention to her.”

The tension went out of his spine and he smiled down at her. Would she ever grow accustomed to the beauty of his eyes when they sparkled with laughter? Michael picked up her hand and kissed the back of it. Then, ever so softly, he bit the tip of her index finger before releasing her hand. “I have already learned this, Libby,” he said warmly.

Libby rubbed the spot on her finger that was still alive with sensation. She did not realize such a tiny act could send a thrill throughout her entire body, but she needed to keep a steady head. “Well, you don't have to worry that I will explode again,” she began. “Although if Shakespeare tried to pen a more dreadful proposal than yours, even he would be stumped.”

“I have bested the great Shakespeare?” He winked at her. “This is quite an accomplishment. Do you think Shakespeare would tell me to try again?”

The clatter of the train rolling over the tracks and the gentle jostling of the railway car seemed so utterly normal, but this was about to become the most important conversation of Libby's entire life. Her hands curled around the rough leather covering the bench, her fingers suddenly icy. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” she said in a calm tone. “Besides, you were right that getting married and sharing the house would be a . . . well, a
logical
thing for us. A solution to our problem.”

Michael sobered and he reached over to pry her hand away from the bench and envelop it in his large palm. How
safe
she felt with this strong man beside her. “My desire to marry you is not based on logic,” he said. “I love you, Libby. I should have told you that day in the cranberry field, but as we have already discussed, I am not always good with words.”

Her heart was pounding so hard it could probably be heard in the next railcar. “You are doing fine, Michael.” Hope was gathering momentum inside of her, but his next words sent her crashing back to earth.

“I once thought marriage would be a solution to our problem, but now I realize it is not. I am sorry, but I can never allow my boys to live under the same roof as your father.” Her breath left in a rush. Michael's words were gently spoken, but they were like a fist to her chest.

“I have seen how he treats his own daughter and do not believe he will treat my children any better,” Michael said. He kept talking, but she couldn't hear him. All she heard was the clattering of the train and the rush of blood in her ears. The beautiful dream she had been building was falling apart, but she had to sit on this awful bench and pretend everything was fine. “I see,” she whispered.

She withdrew her hand, but Michael snatched it back just as quickly. “I still want to marry you,” he insisted. “I love you and will marry you even though there is no house attached to you.” He tilted her chin so she was forced to look at him. Tiny crinkles fanned out from his troubled blue eyes, and never had she seen such concern in a man's face. “Do you believe me, Libby?”

She bit her lip. Hadn't she wanted proof that he cared for her and not the house? She had it, but rather than elation, she could not shake a sense of impending sorrow. Loving her father's enemy was no solution to any of their problems. She had
nothing
to offer him. All she would be was yet another burden as he struggled to support his family.

She managed a sad smile. “I don't even come with any shipping connections or free warehouse space.”

There was no change in Michael's expression. “I have tasted your blackberry jam. This seems like a fair dowry I would be willing to accept.”

She tried to smile, but it was too hard. Aside from her talents in the kitchen, all Libby would bring to this marriage would be some paint-stained clothing and a canvas sack full of art supplies. Michael's eyes darkened. “Libby, you will need to make a choice soon. I still intend to fight for that house on Winslow Street. It belongs to me and when I win it, I will not permit your father to continue living there. Do you understand this?”

She stiffened and slid a little farther away on the bench. “That seems a little cold, don't you think?”

He nodded. “Perhaps, but there is no way the house can be shared between our two families. I cannot permit your father to treat my children as harshly as he treats his own daughter. Never. I will burn the house to the ground before I let that happen.”

She clenched her teeth, dazed by this abrupt turn of events. Why did men have to be so difficult? Her father was grouchy and impatient, but she had survived perfectly well in his household. And if Michael wasn't so single-minded, he would see there should be room for compromise. It was only because
men
were involved that there was a problem. Women would sit down over a pot of tea and talk their way toward a solution, figure out a way to coexist within the same household. Michael was waiting for her to respond, but she was too angry. She crossed her arms and glared out the window at the passing fields.

Hadn't Michael's fierce sense of protectiveness been one of the things that appealed to her? She could hardly blame him for defending his children.

“You must make a choice, Libby. I can make you no promises of a fine house or an easy life. I can only pledge that as my wife you will never doubt that I love you and that I will protect you with the last ounce of my strength.”

It seemed petty to keep her arms crossed. For the second time, Michael was offering to make her his wife, and she was in a snit again! But why,
why
couldn't he budge just a little? All Michael saw was the bad side of her father. He knew nothing of when Libby was a child and her father held her on his lap and let her sob her heart out after bullies had tormented her. Or the wonderful days she and her father spent working side-by-side on his inventions. Her father was an awkward and lonely man. He would never be able to show the same sort of bighearted affection that came so naturally to Michael, but Libby had no doubt her father loved her.

If the court ruled in Michael's favor and he won the house, it would be a profound injustice. Her father had
earned
that house. As a child, Libby witnessed him coming home, exhausted from teaching, only to pick up his tools and start working on the house. For years she heard that hammer pounding away long after the sun had gone down. He poured his sweat and labor into that house, and what had Michael done to earn it? Opened an envelope in Romania and then waited twenty-seven years to make an appearance?

Ignoring her snit, Michael reached over to clasp her hand, holding it possessively. She spoke no words, but returned his squeeze. Perhaps this cloudless, perfect afternoon would be their last day together as allies. The house on Winslow Street was becoming a curse, and she could see no way forward for them. She leaned against his side, and he responded by lowering his cheek to rest against the top of her head. She didn't want to think of the house or her father or what dark clouds lay on the horizon. She only wanted to savor this moment with a magnificent man who, for the moment, seemed to be in love with her.

Their feet crunched atop the rough oyster-shell path that led to the windmills. Libby had seen these windmills when she traveled to Plymouth to attend the marriage of a friend a year ago. They could be seen from miles away, their broad sails slowly turning in the steady breeze coming off the estuary. It was an oddly serene sight, although Libby's hand was trembling inside Michael's confident grasp as he walked beside her.

Why had she never anticipated how much noise a windmill made? The sails were constructed of tightly stretched fabric that snapped in the stiff breeze rolling off the salt marsh. The groans of the rotating axles sounded like lazy animals, and the sound of the steady grind of the millstones pulverizing grain into flour came from behind the clapboard walls of the mill. A stone house, looking prosperous with its wraparound porch and fresh white paint, was nestled beneath a cluster of windblown oak trees. Surely it was where the owner of these windmills lived.

“Do you think they are your father's design?” Michael asked.

Libby felt dwarfed by the mighty windmills as she walked among them, listening to the steady chop and grind of the millstones. She shielded her eyes from the breeze, swiping at tendrils of hair that whipped about her face as she looked up into the rotating sails. “The sail axle is the same. Father's design has a distinctive wind shaft that protrudes from the center, just like these. I would have to get inside the windmill to examine the internal mechanism to see if it is exactly the same.”

She circled around the back of the windmills to examine them from behind. So far, everything she saw was a duplicate of what she had drawn for her father. “Let's see if the miller is home so we can ask,” Michael said. It was perfectly sensible, but Libby felt hypnotized as she stared at the immense sails turning in the breeze. Was it really possible these magnificent machines could be the product of her father's design? If they were, she had helped make them possible. She caught her breath as a flood of pride rushed through her. Could it be possible she had played a part in the creation of such magnificence? What an odd combination of serenity and power these machines had.

“Yes, we ought,” she finally said. She could not tear her gaze away from the windmills as Michael held her hand and practically dragged her to the miller's home. While he knocked, she turned toward the salt marsh so she could admire the windmills.