Valentine's Rose (12 page)

Oh no, she’d not let him push her away, not after that kiss. She rested her hands on his chest, an alluring contrast of soft hair and hard muscles that quivered at her touch. “You needn’t worry about Mr. Jarvis anymore. He got put in jail after he bragged to half the town he was going to kill you and Mr. Hardt. Didn’t Lieutenant Golden come by? He said he’d tell you.”

Val backed up a step, drew on his shirt, and, sadly, buttoned it up. “He did tell me, and said you’d asked him to stop by. I asked him to tell you I was fine and not to worry.”

“That he did, but it’s not worry that brought me out here.”

Val’s gaze shifted over her shoulder in the direction of the shanty and weary disappointment pulled at his features. His attention returned, as he came back from somewhere his mind had wandered. “Even still, this place isn’t suitable.”

He’d started backing away, making excuses again. She hadn’t finished showing him what she’d learned, and she would not let him send her away until he’d promised to take her away with him.

“Look, I have something to show you. Remember this fabric you picked out?” She lifted one side of the calico skirt and made a twirl, slow enough to show off the bustle in the back. The pretty pattern, creamy daisies in between bands of green and brown, complimented her coloring, especially her hair, or so said her friends. “So? What do you think? Susannah helped me make it, and I got a proper...” she searched for a polite word for the horsehair contraption strapped to her backside. “Unmentionable.”

She wiggled her hips to make the point.

To her relief, that brought on a smile. “You certainly did.”

He took her gloved hand and smoothed his fingers over the soft cotton, then lifted her arm for another pirouette. When she came back around, his eyes glowed with a look that said he was well pleased. “The dress is made more lovely by the wearer.”

Her heart did a happy dance.

“Thank you, sir.” She executed a curtsy. “You can see I’ve been learning.”

“Learning?” He arched an eyebrow. “What have you been learning?”

“Oh, loads. Look...” She turned and glided toward the shack, keeping her shoulders straight while swinging her hips slightly. “And I’ve taken to wearing gloves everywhere. They get dirty so I have to wash them at night.”

She halted at the edge of a fire pit. The gray ashes had been cold for some time. An industrious spider had woven a web across the opening of a pot filled with leaves. Regret squeezed her chest. She’d been well fed and comfortable, while he’d been out here living in a tarpaper shanty, with no one to see to it that he had healthy meals or clean clothes. What good did it do to learn to be a proper lady when she wasn’t even given the chance to be a proper wife?

Rose executed another turn and nearly ran into him not realizing he’d followed.

A crease marred his brow. “You look very pretty, but you shouldn’t be here, Rose. I expressly told you to wait for me—”

“I’m glad you like my dress, but you haven’t shown me around yet...” Rose darted around him and set off for the shack. Her stomach tightened with nervousness. He’d already told her he was leaving as soon as he returned and sold his land. If she couldn’t convince him to let her stay, she’d lose her chance to change his mind.

She flung open the door to the shanty and walked in. A musty smell struck her at the same time as the heat. The sun shining on that black tarpaper would turn the shanty into an oven by the time late summer rolled around. But Val intended to return to England, and she intended to go with him, so they wouldn’t be suffering for long.

The walls were made of laths and partially covered with newspaper, mostly in spots where the wind had torn away strips of tarpaper on the outside. Light shone through the boards in several places, illuminating a bare dirt floor and meager furnishings, including a cot that was little more than branches nailed together with a lumpy looking mattress thrown on top. The blanket, at least, looked clean. Crates served as shelves, on which were stacked various containers and cans. Window openings had oilcloth nailed over them.

This place needed airing out and cleaning.

Rose smoothed her hands over her brand new dress. Not at all the right clothing for out here. She would’ve brought her old work dress if Susannah hadn’t taken it away and hidden it somewhere—or maybe she’d burned it.

Val pushed the door wide and propped it open with a large rock, letting in more light and a blessed breeze. He crossed the room, ducking beneath a crossbeam—if he stood up straight, his head would bump the ceiling. “You came all the way out here to show me your dress?”

No, she came all the way out here to save her marriage.

“You think I’m silly?”

“I don’t think you’re silly. But I’ll think you’re mad if you still want to stay now that you’ve seen this place.”

Rose refused to be drawn into an argument. She was staying, and that was that. Venturing closer, she reached up and combed her fingers through his damp hair, tucking the lengthening strands over his ear and letting him know with a look how much she sympathized. “I’ll be here to help ye, Val, so it’ll go easier.”

His fingers locked around her wrist and he drew her hand down. It hurt that he kept pushing her away, even though she knew he needed her. “You cannot stay out here, Rose. This shack isn’t fit for hogs.”

Rose released an irritated breath and drew off her gloves. Impressing on him that she was now a lady had put her at a surprising disadvantage when it came to being his helpmate out here. Opening his eyes to her past wouldn’t impress the aristocrat, but it would ease the conscience of the struggling landowner. “You remember I promised for better or worse? Well, I’ve lived with worse than this.”

His mouth tipped up in that stomach-tickling half smile. “Worse than dirt?”

“Some filth is worse than dirt.” She struggled for a way to describe the squalor without painting a picture that would disgust him. “I grew up in a poor neighborhood. You’d call it a slum. Five Points, though I imagine that wouldn’t mean anything to you.”

The horrified look on his face told her different. “If you mean Five Points in New York City, then yes, I’m familiar with it. I spent some time in New York before I headed out west. I can’t believe you lived in that place. It’s worse than the Devil’s Acre in London.”

Rose knew nothing about the Devil’s Acre, but the name was enough to make plain it was a bad place. Well, then. He ought to realize she could deal with dirt. She didn’t want to dwell on her poverty any longer than necessary—it only made the differences between them more glaring. At the same time, she was grateful to him for lifting her out of it.

She rubbed her thumb over the soft cotton gloves in her hand. “I never had nice things like these gloves or this dress. I can’t thank you enough for them.”

“You don’t owe me thanks.” His voice dropped to a low register the way it did when he grappled with strong emotions. “A husband provides for his wife.”

“My Da worked whatever jobs he could get to provide for us. He didn’t make much, though, and we had a big family...” Grief thickened her throat. “For awhile we had a big family.”

Val stepped closer, as if he might put his arms around her, but then he reached up and cupped his hand on a beam. The shanty, poor as it was, didn’t need his help to remain upright, so he must’ve grabbed something to keep from touching her. That’s what his eyes were saying, anyway. “Tell me about them.”

“My family?” She took a breath. Her story might be more than he wanted to hear, but she was glad he seemed interested. He’d asked few questions about her past. “We immigrated from Ireland back in the fifties, during the potato famine. I was but a wee sprout, so I don’t remember the auld country. My older brother did. Da never got over missing it. He was a farmer there, but over here he built roads. Mother took in laundry and mending, and being the eldest girl, I helped her and watched the little ones. That’s why I never went to school.”

“What happened to them?”

Rose hesitated. She didn’t like talking about that part because it brought back the grief and loss. “You got enough to worry about. You don’t need to hear my tale of woe.”

“Maybe not, but I think you need to tell it.” His gaze grew intimate, caring, urging her to trust him. Could be he was right, and it might hurt less if she shared it. With him being her husband, these were things he should know.

“Da got killed...over two dollars.” Her stomach knotted as it always did whenever she thought about her father’s senseless death. “He was so stubborn. He wouldn’t give it up, and the robbers stabbed him.”

“That’s why you were so afraid for me. You thought Jarvis would kill me if I didn’t give him his deed.”

She gave a slow nod.

“We’ll come back to that. Go on.”

“Tom, my older brother, died in the war.” She lifted her chin. “We were so proud of him. He served with the Irish Brigade, fell at Gettysburg.”

“I heard about their bravery,” Val said solemnly.

“Oh, aye. We sang songs about it.” She could sing one to him later. He might enjoy it, as it had an upbeat, bonny tune.

“You had younger siblings?”

“Four...” Her voice wavered. “This is hard to talk about.”

“Take your time.”

Rose closed her eyes and swallowed her tears. “The cholera broke out in sixty-six. Michael, Kathleen and Bridget were the ones who got sick. Mother and me, we tried everything, dosed them with healing teas, bathed them, prayed the rosary over them. We couldn’t afford medicine and the doctors wouldn’t come into the neighborhood...”

She had to finish before she broke down. “This past March, my mother and youngest brother, Willy, died in a fire. It happened early in the morning while I was out collecting laundry. When I came back, the place was all in flames. The coppers pushed us back and wouldn’t let us through. I had to stand on the corner and watch the building burn, and I couldn’t do a thing...not a single, bloomin’ thing.”

He dragged her up against him, holding her tight. “Sweet Rose, go ahead and cry. Let it out. You’ve been carrying too heavy a load. That kind of grief will drown you.”

Rose buried her face in his shoulder, grabbed the back of his shirt and hung on for dear life. Yes, she had been drowning, and he had plucked her out of the cold water. She wept tears of grief for her family and tears of gratitude for a kind and caring husband she didn’t deserve. When she drew back, her face wet, he lifted the tail of his shirt and dried her tears.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “For getting your shirt wet.”

“It needed a good washing.”

With a choked laugh, she went back into his arms. He stroked her back in comforting circles, and toyed with loose tendrils at her neckline. His gentle touch, his kindness and understanding, his solid presence, even his clean, masculine scent brought her comfort. When she was with him, she felt whole, at peace.

She pulled back with a relieved smile, sensing they’d turned a corner. “You’re right. I did need to tell it, and I needed a good cry. I’m better. Now let me look around for something I can put together for your dinner...besides beans.”

The wry smile fell away. “You aren’t staying.”

Rose frowned at his stubborn insistence, confused and hurt by the conflicting messages he sent through his actions. “Why do you pull me close and then push me away?

A stricken look passed across his face. He took an abrupt step back, and his head contacted with the beam with a thump. “Ow,” he muttered under his breath as he hunched over and cupped his hand to the hurt. She would’ve rubbed it, but he didn’t let her get close enough.

“You haven’t forgotten that I’m leaving?”

That old tune again?

“No, my memory is fine. I know you want to leave. But I thought you’d take me with you, now that I’ve learned enough.”

“Learned enough...for what?”

She shook her head, surprised and a little sad that he hadn’t figured it out yet. “For
you
. I know you need a lady wife, and that’s what I learned to be. Your lady wife.”

He stared down at her, but his expression didn’t reflect the pleasure or even the tenderness she’d seen before. Actually, he looked distressed. Maybe even a little horrified.

“It’s all right. I know I’m not a real lady yet, but I’ll get better at it.”

The emotions that flickered across his face were hard to decipher, and then they were gone, shuttered behind a mask. “You don’t have to learn anything, not for me. Believe me the effort isn’t worth it.”

If he’d thrust a knife through her chest, it couldn’t hurt worse. What was he saying? That no matter how hard she tried, she could never learn enough? Never be good enough for him?

The truth crushed her hope.

Oh, he might be attracted to her, and even feel sorry for her, seeing her desperation. But she’d been fooling herself into thinking she could mold herself into the kind of woman he wanted. Unable to face him without dissolving into another embarrassing bout of tears, she dodged past him and fled out the door.

––––––––

H
e deserved to be horsewhipped. How many times would he hurt Rose before he learned not to put his hands, or his lips, anywhere on her person? Val scrubbed his fingers through his hair, wincing when he encountered the egg he’d grown after stupidly backing into a crossbeam.

That was the first time he’d whacked his head on the crossbeams, all because he’d been stupid enough to take Rose into his arms. Something he’d dreamed of doing last night, and the night before, and the night before that.

If fact, when he’d first seen her standing next to that dilapidated shack, looking so fresh and lovely, he’d thought she was an illusion. His brain hadn’t started working again until well after they’d commenced kissing. If she hadn’t pulled back to remark on his unshaven face, he might’ve swept her up and carried her into the woods and...

He swore under his breath. Letting his thoughts wander off in that direction wouldn’t do either of them any good. Right now, he needed to do what he should’ve done in the first place—

Take her back to town.

He turned and collided with the crates he’d used as shelves. Cans fell to the floor, two rolled under the bed, which he’d pulled into the middle of the room to avoid the bugs that came out of the walls, especially at night. His skin prickled at the memory of waking up with something crawling up his arm. He wasn’t subjecting his wife to that, or to having an owl swoop down on her while she took care of her personal needs in the woods, or to the countless other things he’d encountered out here. Including Indians. They’d been less frightening than the bugs.