by Deeanne Gist
He’d hoped Mrs. Dinwiddie would say something to him, encourage him to go look for her. That way he’d at least have justification for all this effort. But the woman hadn’t said a thing, had instead adjourned to the parlor along with everyone else and exclaimed over the curtains Mrs. Holliday had sewn.
He kept thinking about Miss Jayne’s father, how he’d come to check on her, to make sure the boardinghouse was on the up-and-up. What would Reeve say to the man if something happened to his daughter? How would he explain that he’d blithely gone to bed knowing full well she was out there somewhere?
He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He’d never had anyone check up on him like that, and the way her father looked when he talked about her, the way he’d gloated over her art simply because it had been done by her hand, had affected him deeply. So, he’d braved the storm in an effort to find her, for her father’s sake.
The first time out, he’d walked up and down their block. The second, he’d checked a few paths in Central Park. The third, he’d hiked a good mile down Madison.
This last time, he was tempted to walk all the way to Fourth Avenue where Tiffany’s studio was, but it was simply too far. The streetcars were no longer running, so wherever she was, she was going to have to hail a driver. He wondered if she carried enough money for that.
Shrugging off his coat, he hooked it and his hat on the hall tree, then pulled off his scarf. The other boarders had long since retired. The fire in the parlor had deteriorated to softly glowing ashes.
Maybe she’d returned while he’d been out. He strode down the hall, the carpet runner softening his footfalls. At his own door, he saw that the cat had slipped inside and curled up in a corner by his bed. At Miss Jayne’s door, he hesitated. He couldn’t simply open it. He placed his ear against the door. Nothing.
Straightening, he rubbed his jaw, then gave a quiet knock. “Miss Jayne? Miss Jayne? Are you home?”
“She’s still not back.” It was Miss Love’s voice, cracking with sleep. “Do you think she’s all right?”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” he lied. “I was just”—he grappled for an excuse—“just thinking I might have heard something. You go on back to sleep. She probably went home with one of the other Tiffany Girls.”
But he knew she wouldn’t do that, not without telling anyone. She treated every boarder as if they were a member of her family.
Family. He shook his head. She was so naive. They were no more her family than the milkman or the lamppost lighter, but in her mind, they were her adopted siblings, cousins, and grandparents. She’d never have left them to worry about her—not that anyone was actually worrying. They’d all gone to bed without a moment’s pause.
Returning to the parlor, he knelt in front of the fire, threw on new logs, and stoked the embers until they began to spread. Bit by bit, his fingers thawed and feeling returned to his toes. He knew the protestors had long since quit picketing, but he couldn’t seem to shake a feeling of unease. Should he call the police? He rubbed his face with both hands. He simply didn’t know. Maybe he should wake up Mrs. Dinwiddie and see what she thought.
In a whoosh of wind, the front door banged open. Miss Jayne trudged inside, her coat whipping about her skirts, snow swirling in behind her. Jumping to his feet, he crossed the room and forced the door closed. In the sudden quiet, wind whistled against the windows while the mantel clock reminded him of the time.
“You’re home awfully late.” He kept his tone measured and neutral.
Snow clung to her slumped shoulders, her coat sleeves, her wet skirts, and the scarf wrapped tightly over her head. “Y-you’re up awfully late, too.”
He allowed himself a small smile. At least she still had a bit of pluck left. “Where have you been?”
“Work.”
He double-checked the clock in the parlor. “At three in the morning?”
She tried to untie her scarf, but her frozen, curled, gloved fingers were too clumsy. Brushing her hands aside, he untied it and lifted it from her head. The snow-filled scarf bowed like a hammock. He shook it out into the umbrella stand, then draped it onto the hall tree.
When he turned back around, she hadn’t so much as moved. Her Gibson hair pouf had an amoeba-like quality to it. Some black locks bunched up at an angle, others drooped to the side. He saw no sign of ill treatment, but the only skin he could see was her face.
“Have you been harmed?” he asked.
“No, but I-I’m c-c-c-cold.” Her body began to shake.
Of a sudden, instead of looking for bruises, he registered her ice-coated gloves, red nose, and bluish lips. Guiding her to the parlor, he positioned her near the fire, but not directly in front of it, then proceeded to thumb open the buttons of her double-breasted coat. It was of an excellent quality, of course, and had kept her torso dry, thank goodness. Tossing it to the side, he cupped her upper arms and rubbed them back and forth with quick strokes.
She closed her eyes. “Ummmmm. F-f-f-eels g-g-good.”
“We’ll have you warm in no time.”
But the lower reaches of her skirts were saturated and her gloved hands were still stiff.
He turned her palm toward him and unbuttoned the pearl clasp at her wrist. Thick ice caked the leather. He broke off what he could, then peeled the glove backward. Ice cracked as each new patch of skin was uncovered.
She winced. “Ou-ouch.”
He finally managed to remove it, then enclosed her tiny hand between his, knowing better than to rub it or force it flat. Eventually she unfurled her fingers. He slipped her hand underneath his jacket and trapped it beneath his armpit. Its cold temperature seeped through his shirt.
Her body began to teeter.
He steadied her. “Easy there, little magpie.”
She lifted her lids. Even her eyelashes held crystals of ice and snow. Holding her gaze, he continued to imprison her hand. He’d never really had a good look at her eyes before. They were the color of Mr. Nettels’s violin. Polished spruce with deep brown accents.
Her lids closed, then opened. Closed, then opened.
“Stay with me,” he said.
A small smile formed on her pale-blue lips and something deep within his chest stirred. He moved his attention to her right hand and repeated the glove-removal process. As he sandwiched it in his, he noticed calluses and wondered if they were from the work she did at Tiffany’s. Finally, he tucked this hand beneath his other armpit. Her shakes slowed to shivers and color began to return to her lips.
Grasping her waist, he eased her to a chair, surprised to discover his hands could almost completely encircle her. “You need to get out of those wet boots.”
Her fawn-colored skirt pooled about her, a good ten inches of it soaked all the way through. There’d be no removing that, of course. At least, not in front of him. But since her torso had been protected, he’d feel comfortable sending her to her room once he’d ensured her feet were not in danger.
Crouching down in front of her, he held out his palm. “Your boot, please, Miss Jayne.”
She looked at her skirts, her arms limp. “Too tired.”
“Are your feet cold?”
“My toes hurt.”
He brushed her hem aside, stopping short at the sight of pink-satin ribbon trimming her petticoat. He tracked its serpentine course, a plethora of wet, soiled, gray lacy ruffles spilling from beneath it. He glanced up at her, but her eyes were closed, her chin resting against her neck. She took a trembling breath.
His dropped his gaze to her chest, her waist, then the pool of skirts hiding her hips. “Just extend your foot, at least, so the warmth in the room has a chance of reaching it.”
She didn’t move.
Swallowing, he flicked the ruffles aside, but they only revealed more ruffles. How many petticoats was she wearing? He sat back on his heels, resting his hands against his thighs, his pulse acting as if he’d just run the entire perimeter of Central Park.
“How did you get home?” he asked.
; “Walked.” Her head remained down, her eyes closed.
“From Fourth Avenue?”
No answer.
“In the middle of the night?”
No answer.
“Alone?”
No answer.
His jaw began to tick. “Why didn’t you hail a driver?”
Still, no answer. But if she’d walked all that way, her boots would be encased in ice. As exhausted as she was, he didn’t trust her to do more than tumble into bed, boots and all. And if her toes were in danger of frostbite, what he did—or didn’t do—could mean the difference in losing toes or keeping them.
Groping beneath her petticoats, he pretended he was searching for something under his bed, but when he latched onto a tiny booted ankle, he had no illusions as to what it was he had ahold of. He pulled it from its shelter.
A film of ice covered a long row of minuscule black leather buttons. Buttons he’d never be able to undo with his fingers.
“Sit tight,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
Jogging to his room, he tried to keep his footfalls soft lest he wake the other boarders. He opened his desk drawer, fumbled around for a box at the very back, opened it, extracted a buttonhook from his mother’s things, then grabbed two towels off his washstand.
Miss Jayne had vacated the chair while he was gone and curled up on the floor, her hands acting as a cushion for her head.
Tossing the towels in front of the fire, he went on another hunt for her foot, uncovered it, and worked on the ice and buttons until he could finally wiggle off the boot. He gave himself only a moment to register the pink-and-white-striped stockings before trying to tug them down, but they wouldn’t budge. He wasn’t about to reach up under there and remove her garter. Despite her fond belief that the Klausmeyers’ boarders were one big happy family, he and she were decidedly not brother and sister.
He rose onto all fours and jostled her shoulder. “Wake up, Miss Jayne. Your stocking is soaked and you need to remove it.”
She shrugged him off.
He shook her again. “Wake up. Only long enough to remove your stocking. I’ll take care of the rest.”
With a grumpy huff, she reached down.
Spinning around, he waited, then heard a whimper and looked back over his shoulder. With a grimace, she was grasping her bare foot, her petticoats spilling about her.
“It hurts?” he asked.
Biting her lip, she nodded.
Shooing her hands away, he pressed her arch against his thigh and covered as much of her foot as he could with his hands. “It’s good that it hurts. And the skin is red instead of white, soft instead of hard, which is also good.”
“The fire.” She gave it a longing glance. “Can we get closer to the fire?”
He shook his head. “That will make it worse. We need to warm you by slow degrees. I have some towels on the hearth, though. When I’ve warmed your foot as much as I can with my hands, then we’ll wrap it with a towel.”
He repositioned his hands.
“Don’t look.” Another grimace of pain flickered across her face. “I have ugly toes.”
“Too late, I’m afraid. I’ve already seen the middle one is a bit curved and is much longer than all the others.” He shook his head. “Hope I don’t have nightmares.”
Her lips twitched, then a slow smile began to smooth out her features. A smile that accentuated her cheeks and drew attention to the Cupid’s bow of her lips. “Maybe it’ll get frostbite and fall off.”
“Now there’s a thought. Shall I leave it stranded so it continues to freeze?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind.”
He found a reluctant smile tug at his own lips, though he didn’t give into it. Still, he was careful to keep the offending appendage protected within his warmth. “I aim to please.”
“Do you?” She cocked her head, more fully awake now. “Then why won’t you join us in the parlor after dinner?”
He returned his attention to her foot. It wasn’t just her toes that were unorthodox. She had huge feet for a woman her size. Even so, they were nicely formed, had a high arch, and were surprisingly soft for a working girl.
“What kept you at work so late?” he asked.
“A portion of a stained-glass window had to be redone, so I stayed late.”
Lifting her foot from his thigh, he cupped it in one hand and covered her toes with the other. “Redone? What happened? Did something break?”
“No, thank goodness.” Her voice dropped, along with her gaze.
Reaching for one of the towels, he wrapped her foot inside it, then held out his hand. “Next.”
She pushed herself to a sitting position. “I can do it.”
He handed her the buttonhook. “I’d have thought Tiffany would run a cleaner operation than that. Doesn’t sound very efficient or cost-effective if his windows have to be redone.”
Whatever ice had covered this boot had now melted, but she couldn’t get the buttons to work. Confiscating the buttonhook, he took over.
“It wasn’t Mr. Tiffany’s fault,” she said. “It was mine. I bumped into one of the windows we were making, knocked off a bunch of pieces, and had to stick them all back on.”
“And that took until three in the morning?”
“It was a bit like Humpty Dumpty.” Withdrawing her foot from his grasp, she placed one hand on the heel of her boot and the other at the toe, then worked off the shoe. “At least Aggie stayed to help me or I’d still be there.”
“Aggie?”
“Miss Wilhemson. A friend of mine and one of the Tiffany Girls I work with.” She lifted her index finger and twirled it in a spinning motion.
He turned his back and waited while she removed her stocking. Its pink-and-white-striped mate lay crumpled on the floor next to a pink garter with a giant decorative bow. He slammed his eyes shut and forced his mind to the topic at hand. He couldn’t believe she’d knocked over one of Tiffany’s windows. She was lucky she still had a job. At least, he assumed she still had one.
When all had settled behind him, he looked over his shoulder. She sat grasping her foot and squeezing her toes, her features scrunched up.
“Don’t do that.”
“It itches and burns and feels like a thousand tiny needles are poking my skin.”
“That’s good. That means you’ll keep all your toes whether you want them or not.” He knelt before her, then pressed her foot against his trouser leg. “Did he fire you?”
“No, thank goodness.”
“But you had to stay and work until it was finished?”
“I wasn’t required to stay. I did that on my own.” She propped her hands behind her on the floor and leaned back, some of the tension falling from her expression.
“Why?” he asked.
“Why? You mean, why did I stay?”
“I mean, why did you stay so long that you risked bodily injury walking home alone at night, not to mention frostbite?”
“I wasn’t in any danger of being accosted. Who in their right mind would be out in this mess?”
“Quite so,” he mumbled, picking up her foot and warming it within his hands. “Nevertheless, you shouldn’t do it again. You don’t have to prove yourself simply because you’re a woman.”
She straightened, her relaxed posture disappearing. “I wasn’t trying to prove anything.”
“No? You work until three in the morning and walk home alone in a snowstorm and you weren’t trying to prove anything?” He lifted a brow. “Either you’re extremely foolish or you’re lying.”
She jerked her foot from his grasp.
He reached for the second towel, opened it, and waited.
“I can do that,” she snapped.
“Not as easily as I can.”
“I said, I can do it.”
“Trying to prove something?”
She whipped the towel from his grasp and swaddled her foot in a haphazard fashion.
“What were you doing up so late, anyway?”
Good question, he thought. Ice and snow struck the windows with a rapid klink-klink-klink.
She lifted her gaze. “You weren’t actually waiting for me, were you?”
“Certainly not.” He stood.
Her eyes widened. “You were. You . . . you were worried about me, weren’t you?”
“Of course not. I simply had a lot on my mind, couldn’t sleep, and heard you come in.”
There it was again. Cheeks that lifted and bow-shaped lips that stretched into a rather becoming smile. She looked him over from top to bottom. “I see. Nice nightclothes.”
Heat rushed into his face. “I changed before I left my room.”
Her brows lifted. “Into jacket, tie, suspenders, socks, and shoes? All in the time it took for me to cross the threshold?”
Leaning down, he snatched up her stockings, garter, and gloves, wadded them up, and handed them to her. “You’d best get out of those wet clothes before you catch pneumonia.”
Her eyes lit, but for once she didn’t say anything.
Helping her up, he grabbed her boots, then assisted her to her door as she struggled to walk with towel-wrapped feet. “Good night, Miss Jayne.”
“Good night, Mr. Wilder.” She took the boots, then stopped him with a hand to his arm. “And thank you. I mean it. I truly do appreciate you assisting me and . . . well, being awake when I arrived home.”
With a curt nod, he returned to his room, closed the door, and rested his head against it. He could hear her moving around. The cat stirred, then came and wove between his legs. Reaching down, he lifted it to his chest and rubbed behind its ears until all had settled in the room next to his.
It was almost dawn, however, before he managed to fall asleep.
WORLD’S COLUMBIAN EXPOSITION, BIRD’S-EYE VIEW 13
“ ‘Mr. Tiffany is going to send two of his girls, but we don’t yet know if Miss Jayne will be one of them.’ ”
CHAPTER