Tiffany Girl (59 page)

He chuckled. “All? How many are you planning on having?”

“At least ten.”

He shook his head. “We’ll only need nine.”

She leaned back to better see his face. “What’s wrong with ten?”

“Nothing, but we only need nine players to field a baseball team.”

She smiled. “What if we have some girls?”

“Then we’ll put them on the team, too. After all, their mother was a New Woman. By the time our little ones are ready to play ball, women will probably be wearing trousers.”

She snorted back a laugh.

Giving her a squeeze, he turned to the right and carried her to an empty bedroom. “This is your art studio.”

Her easel stood next to a window in the barren room, but it was the portrait sitting on it that captured her attention. It was of a woman leaning against a railing, her red hair flowing in the breeze, the sea behind her blue and sparkling.
F. Jayne
was scrawled across the bottom corner.

Her hands loosened. “Let me down, please.”

He placed her on her feet.

At first, she simply stood, absorbing the unexpected surprise. “Where, how did you find it?”

“I hired a detective. I’d hoped to find the Trostles and Bourgeois. Make them answer for their crimes.”

She placed a hand against her neck. “And did you?”

“No, but the detective did find your painting at a shop on the East Side.”

Her eyes watered. “I can’t believe it. I . . . I thought it was lost forever.”

“So did I.”

She approached it, studying it. It really was one of her best pieces.

Reeve shifted his weight. “I used the money I’d earned from Marylee’s story to hire the detective.” He looked at the tips of his shoes. “I want you to know, I never used that money for myself. Only for others.”

“Oh, Reeve. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I didn’t use it for this house, Flossie. Not the house or the property or the furniture. All of that was purchased with money I earned on the
Sheltering
book and my articles.”

“What things did you use it for, then?”

He studied her. “I used it to pay off your debts.”

She took a shuddering breath. “You? You paid them?”

“Yes.”

She looked to the side. “I had no idea. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I guess I was afraid it would make you feel beholden to me and that’s not why I did it. Not at all. It was my pleasure to pay them off.”

Tears stacked up against her throat. “Thank you. I don’t know what to say. You didn’t have to.”

“There’s lots of that money left and more coming in. I donated some of it to a settlement in Greenpoint. Some of it to buy Christmas gifts for the kids at the Sheltering Arms orphanage in Manhattan. I bought Maman a Tiffany hat pin with it—but that was back when she was just Mrs. Dinwiddie. Since she became my Maman, I’ve only used my money for the things I buy her.”

“The money from the Marylee story is your money.”

“It’s dirty money.”

“It’s not. It’s . . . wait a minute.” She went into the parlor and pointed to her trunks amassed against the wall, waiting to be unpacked. “Can you open this one for me?”

He took down the trunk stacked on top of it, then unlatched the one she’d indicated and held open the lid.

She rummaged through it, then pulled out her scrapbooks. The first one she opened held the story of
The Merry Maid of Mumford Street
. “I saved all of the installments. I’ve read them over and over.”

He took the scrapbook, turned the pages, then closed his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

She put the scrapbook back in the trunk. “Don’t be. It’s a story I will cherish for as long as I live. I will read it to our children, to our children’s children, and even to their children, if I live long enough. So do not ever again let me hear you refer to it as dirty. Do you understand?”

Throat working, he nodded. “Don’t move.”

He crossed to a desk facing the window and opened the roll top, then removed a cigar box. Inside were stacks of tiny slips of papers. All had questions written on them. All had her artwork on their edges.

What is your favorite winter activity?

What is your earliest childhood memory?

What was your last thought before going to sleep?

She pressed a hand against her throat. “You saved them?”

“Every single one. Even the ones people left behind on the table.”

“I never saw you take them.”

“I asked Mrs. Klausmeyer to save them for me.”

Closing the lid of the box, she hugged it to her. “Oh, Reeve. We’ve wasted so much time.”

“I know.” He shook his head. “I know.”

He returned the box to his desk while she walked back to once again peek inside the studio, still trying to comprehend that she’d have the room all to herself for painting.

Stepping up beside her, he slipped a hand into his pocket. “If you want to sell your paintings, I want you to know, I’d never take your earnings away from you.”

“Oh, Reeve, I’m not a good enough painter for that kind of thing.”

“You’re not hearing what I’m saying. I’m saying that if you ever earn any money, it’ll be yours, not mine.”

She studied him. “You know what I’d really like?”

“What?”

“I’d like it to be our money—not mine, not yours, but ours.”

He looked out one of the curtainless windows lining the side wall. “I suppose we could do that, but if we did, then it seems like we should do that with what I earn, too.”

She sucked in her breath. “You’d let your money be our money?”

“I would.”

She stared at him, stunned. Never had she heard of a man doing such a thing. Gratitude filling her chest, she ran her hands beneath his lapels, grasped them, and brought his lips to hers.

He stilled for but a second, then pulled his hand from his pocket and wrapped her in his arms, deepening the kiss. “I’ve been wanting to do that all day.”

“Me, too.” She slid her fingers up the back of his neck and into his hair. “Thank you for my art room—for everything.”

He kissed her again, his hands slipping lower, pulling her closer. Her knees weakened.

Breaking the kiss, he rested his forehead against hers, his breathing labored. “I haven’t shown you the rest of the house.”

“No, you haven’t,” she whispered.

He led her to the kitchen. An Acme Wonder cook stove sat against the wall. Along its back, the Tiffany tea screen she’d helped Mrs. Dinwiddie pick out shielded a coffeepot.

“I used to touch the tea screen,” he said. “Just because I knew you’d touched it first.”

She bit her lip, then turned around and noticed the table that Mrs. Dinwiddie had told her of. Even if she hadn’t, Flossie would have immediately known he’d made it. Compared to everything else in the house, it was glaringly rustic.

Heart squeezing, she pulled out a chair and sat, her lace flounces spilling around her. “We’re going to feed our family at this table someday.”

He said nothing, his shoulder propped against the doorframe, his eyes hooded.

Holding his gaze, she removed her glove one finger at a time, then ran her hand along the table’s scarred top. The gold band on her fourth finger caught the light and reflected it back. “Take me to the bedroom, Reeve.”

CHAPTER

86

P
ushing himself off the doorframe, Reeve swept his hand in front of him. The muscles in her lower abdomen clenched in a way that made her think of his kisses, his embraces, and the smoldering way he looked at her sometimes. The way he looked at her now. Swallowing, she made her legs carry her to the only room she had yet to see.

A massive iron bedstead dominated the room. Instead of having four posts at each corner, the top rail curved into one continuous piece. A washstand and tiny mirror stood in the corner. A side table held an oil lamp and the metal figurine from the fair. It would be the last thing he saw each night before he extinguished the light.

She fingered the orange blossoms hanging from her waist.

“I didn’t want to buy a vanity without you,” he said. “I wasn’t sure what was required.”

She walked to the bed. It looked nothing like the white fluffy one of her youth. It was draped with a crocheted cover she’d seen Mrs. Dinwiddie working on for months last year.

“I don’t need a vanity.”

“You do. And I’ll get you one. Just as soon as we return from Niagara Falls.”

Moistening her lips, she placed her hands on the mattress and pushed, testing the springs. “It’s a lovely bed.”

“It’s not very frilly.”

She picked at the cover. “I don’t want frilly, just warm.”

He approached her, then encircled her waist from behind and kissed her neck through the lace of her high collar. “It’ll be warm. I can assure you of that.”

The nerves along her neck tingled. She leaned her head back against his chest to give him more access. He moved his lips to her jaw, her ear. His hands spread. His fingers skimmed.

She grabbed his wrists, her breathing rapid. “Reeve?”

He stopped moving.

She threaded her fingers with his, feeling his wedding band, loving that she’d put it there. “How, how long does it take for a girl to become a woman? Does it, does it take all night?”

He rested his lips against her head, his hands gripping hers. “It doesn’t take all night, but I wouldn’t want to rush it.”

She swallowed. “How long?”

“Not long.”

Her pulse raced. Her legs trembled. “I-I know it’s still light outside. And that it’s the—the middle of the day, but . . .” She took a tremulous breath. “Would you think me terribly wicked if I . . . if we . . . if . . .”

Releasing her hands, he took her by the shoulders and turned her around, then cupped her face. His eyes were close, so close she could see streaks of blue shooting throughout the green of his irises.

“I would never think that,” he said. “You will be my wife in daylight, in moonlight, in the dark of night, in every moment. There will never be anything wicked about it.” Taking her by the arms, he brought her to him for a sweet, slow kiss. “Where’s your buttonhook, my love?” he murmured against her lips.

She wondered if her skin was as flushed as his, her breathing
as rapid as his, her eyes as dark as his. “In the carpet bag by the front door.”

He nodded. “I’m going to get the bag. All right?”

“Yes.” She stood by the bed, fingering the lace of her skirt, trying to remember why she’d been in such a hurry. For now that the time had come, she was very unsure.

A dog far away barked. Children playing a game of some sort shouted and laughed. She couldn’t believe they were going to do this in the middle of the day. What had she been thinking? God would surely strike her dead for even suggesting it.

Reeve returned and placed the bag on the bed.

She rummaged through it, then clasped the buttonhook, her hand shaking. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. Maybe we should wait. I-I wouldn’t want to rush.”

“We won’t rush.” His voice had dropped. He unfurled her fingers and took the buttonhook. “Hold out your arm, little magpie.”

She held out her arm.

Beginning at her wrist, he released the tiny white buttons with deft movements. “There’s a lot of buttons.”

“There’s even more running down my back. You should have let my mother help me change.”

He stopped, the hook half in the buttonhole and half out. “I’ve been dreaming about doing this for months.”

Her lips parted. “I’ve been dreaming about my wedding day for a lifetime.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “But not this part of it, of course. And certainly not in broad daylight.”

He continued to work the buttons. “But this is the best part. If you weren’t dreaming about this, what were you dreaming about?”

“Don’t be silly. This isn’t the best part. The best part is getting ready for you. Putting on all new garments. Bathing in water that smells like a vat of roses. Watching you when you first saw me in my gown. Listening to you pledge your life to mine. Putting the ring on
your finger and making my vows. Hugging everyone. Riding off in the carriage. Being carried across the threshold. Those are the best parts.”

The fitted section of her sleeve fell free. He moved to her other arm. “When we get ready to board the train tonight, I’ll ask you again what the best part is and then we’ll see what you say.”