Off Kilter

by Laura Strickland

  “Tate?” she repeated in inquiry.

  “Short for Tater.” He smiled. “You know, because he’s an Irishman.”

  Must be nice to belong to a world where folks shared affectionate nicknames, Cat reflected. Of course, Kilter got called a lot of less affectionate names, as well.

  As if suddenly realizing he forced her pace, Kilter shortened his step. “Don’t let Tate’s bluster fool you. He’s a good man.”

  “I can see that. He has no reason to help me. Neither have you.”

  He shrugged and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. “As I say, you’ll like his sister, Roselyn. She’s kind as Tate and twice as fierce.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “You have to be fierce if you want to survive in this city.”

  Cat nodded gravely. “Perhaps I can change my identity, take a new name, and find work somewhere. I could go into service. These big houses must need staff.”

  “Most of them are employing steamies now, or a combination of steamies and human servants.” He grimaced. “A steamie can work round the clock rather than just twenty hours of every twenty-four. But we’ll see, Miss Delaney. One thing at a time.”

  “Please do call me Catherine,” she insisted. “Or Cat—those close to me call me Cat.”

  He nodded soberly. “And you can call me—”

  “Ugly! Hey lads, there’s Mr. Ugly! Out ruining this beautiful morning again are you, Mr. Ugly? Hey, boys—grab a rock. We’d better kill it before it spreads.”

  Kilter’s head jerked up and a change came over him, visible anger pouring through his frame. Cat peered past him and saw a crowd of ruffians on the far side of the street, gathered on the corner like so many raggedy crows. Their leader wore a patched coat and filthy cloth cap, not unlike her own, and had a thin face, sharp as a hatchet.

  “Who’s your friend, Ugly?” he called. “Surprised the boy would be seen in your hid-ee-yous company.”

  “Who’s that?” Cat asked, her eyes narrowing.

  “Charlie Crowter—local self-appointed bad boy,” Kilter growled. “Just ignore him.”

  “He has a mouth on him, hasn’t he?” Indignation flooded Cat, bringing strength. “What does he have against you?”

  “This.” Kilter gestured roughly to his face. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m too hideous to be seen in daylight.”

  Cat glared at Crowter. “Talk about ugly,” she called just loud enough to be heard.

  “Keep your voice down,” Kilter told her. “You sound like a girl.”

  Cat never broke the glare she directed at Crowter, but she lowered her voice to a roughened pitch when she called across the street, “Have you looked in the mirror lately, cur? Who are you to go throwing stones—or names—at anyone?”

  “For God’s sake,” Kilter muttered.

  “Ooh,” the ruffians all hooted together.

  “Big insult!” Crowter brayed. “Is that your friend, Mr. Ugly? Looks like he escaped from the bottom of a coal bin.”

  “Must be blind,” one of Crowter’s cronies chortled, “to walk alongside you!”

  Crowter preened himself. “I might not be the handsomest fellow in Buffalo, but I’m damn well better to look at than ol’ Melty Face!”

  “Why, you little piece of filthy—!” Cat forgot at that moment who she was, as well as who she pretended to be. She sprang off the curb, every bit as full of ire as she used to be in the face of her stepfather, and launched herself across the street. Only Kilter’s grip on her arm held her back.

  “Ignore them, I tell you!” he insisted under his breath. “Not worth showing who you are.”

  “The pipsqueak wants a fight, boys!” Crowter and his fellows formed up into a squad. Several of them produced crude weapons from their pockets, billy clubs and metal objects through which they threaded their fingers. “Let’s give it to him.”

  Kilter lifted Cat off her feet and back onto the curb. “Come on. You don’t want any of that.”

  Cat did. She wanted in the worst way to bash Crowter in the mouth, bust all his teeth, and make it so he could never taunt Kilter again. But even in the face of her indignation she realized if she started a brawl here and now Kilter would be forced to wade in, and she’d endanger both of them.

  “Not worth my time,” she declared loud enough for the gang to hear. “Let’s not soil our hands with them.”

  “It’s a regular rooster, boys,” Crowter cried. “A fighting cock! But will you look at the size of it? We’ll have to call it ‘Bantam.’ ”

  “Ugly’s got a Bantam!” they all called as Kilter dragged Cat off down the street.

  Still angry and indignant even as the cries died away behind, Cat wrestled with her emotions. She glanced into Kilter’s face but failed to discern what he felt. He caught her eye and one corner of his mouth twitched.

  “Meant to take them all on, did you?”

  “They deserve battering.”

  “No question. Why is it you say folks call you ‘Cat’? Because you’re all claws and teeth, is it?”

  “I don’t like bullies. And whatever you say about—about your appearance, they have no right to treat you that way.”

  “It’s just words,” he said stonily.

  “But they hurt.” She challenged, “You mean to tell me that doesn’t bother you?”

  “I’ve learned to deal with it, haven’t I?”

  Liar, Cat thought, though she didn’t say it. She could feel distress streaming from him as clearly as if he expressed it. But she’d stepped into his world now, and if he wanted to play the stoic, she would respect that.

  She frowned. “Well, they need taking down a few pegs.”

  “Much as I appreciate you leaping to my defense,” he said dryly, “that could only have ended badly when your hat fell off.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Forgive me?”

  The look he shot her this time was startled. “Nothing to forgive, Miss Catherine.”

  “Cat,” she stipulated. “After that, you had better call me Cat.”

  ****

  The boarding house proved to be a tall, narrow building in a busy neighborhood that pulsed with the life of the city. A group of children played hopscotch out front. Given what had just happened, Cat half expected them to scatter at Kilter’s approach, but these must be used to his appearance, for they gave Cat curious looks and kept playing.

  At the curb stood a horse-drawn dray loaded with an assortment of items from brooms to clothing. And when they climbed the steps to the front door, Cat saw a man just inside wearing a cloth cap, speaking to a woman who could only be Tate Murphy’s sister.

  Big and rawboned, she wore a brown dress and pinafore, both crisp and clean, and towered over the tradesman. The broad, plain countenance that looked so ordinary on Murphy lent her little beauty, but the look she shot Cat and Kilter over the visitor’s head seemed kind.

  Kilter caught Cat’s arm, and they paused just outside the door.

  “You bring me a copper pot and three yards of linen next Tuesday,” the woman told the tradesman, her voice a rich roll of Irish. “And the jars next week, mind.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The tradesman tipped his cap, turned about, and caught sight of them behind him. He gave Kilter a startled look before he scuttled out the door and down the stairs to the dray.

  Cat flinched again on Kilter’s behalf. He met with the same reaction everywhere he turned.

  Yet the woman’s plain face lit when she turned to him. “Morning, James. What brings you down this way?”

  “Morning, Roselyn. Tate sent me to ask you a favor.”

  “And what’s my big lug of a brother after wanting from me now?” Roselyn turned lively eyes on Cat. “Who’s this…lad?”

  “This is the favor, actually,” Kilter told her ruefully. “Mind if we come in?”

  “I’d be hurt if you didn’t. The kettle’s on, and you’ll take a cup of tea. I’ve been up since dawn, and I’ve earned a break.”

  Swiftly,
she turned and led them down a long hallway, past a dining room, and into a large kitchen. A kettle sang on a coal-fired stove, and a young girl bustled about putting plates into a cavernous sink. The back door stood open, admitting air and the sounds of activity from the next street. Beside the door, in a box, Cat saw a dog with a number of puppies.

  “How’s the litter?” Kilter asked, going immediately to hunker down beside the animals. The mother dog, a brown mutt of obviously mixed ancestry, abandoned her offspring to press forward eagerly and greet him.

  “Fine, now,” Roselyn replied, “though they’ll be underfoot in a few days, and that will never do. You’re going to have to find another place for them, James, lad.”

  “I know.” Kilter’s big hands caressed the bitch’s head with careful gentleness. Already Cat knew that touch and didn’t blame the bitch for wagging her tail and pressing against his knee.

  Roselyn cast Cat a look. “James has a way of gathering strays, hasn’t he? And foisting them on anyone who’ll help him look after them. Found this little dog floating in the river, he did, more dead than alive and ready to whelp. Asked if he could leave her here just till her pups came into the world.”

  “Looks like she’s grateful,” Cat murmured around the sudden lump in her throat. The bitch, her tail a blur of motion, now licked Kilter’s wrist, and her pups tumbled toward him.

  Roselyn shot her another look. “And I suppose you’d be yet another stray?”

  Kilter got to his feet. “We’re in a bit of a pickle, Roselyn. Tate thought you might offer some shelter for a while.”

  Roselyn heaved a sigh. “Best sit down and tell me all about it.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “So Tate thought you might be willing to have Miss Delaney stay here just till we can decide what’s to be done,” James concluded his explanation to Roselyn, who had listened quietly throughout, her careworn hands folded. A spunky, quirky woman, he nevertheless knew her heart to be every bit as big as her brother’s.

  He shot a look at Catherine, who’d kept far from quiet during his recitation. She’d squirmed in her seat, interrupted several times, and virtually steamed emotion throughout. Funny how he could sense so very clearly what she felt. Funny too how her true nature had begun to come out, proving her far different from the gentle maid he’d first taken her to be. A firebrand she was. He couldn’t imagine how Boyd had kept her in check so long.

  But why did she stare at him so? She’d scarcely taken her big, hazel eyes off him since he started talking. Such scrutiny made him uncomfortable, to say the least. The last thing he wanted was to appear hideous to her.

  “Well, well,” said Roselyn, who had sent the little maid off about some errand while they spoke together. Her generous lips tightened. “That is a fix, and no mistake.” She asked Catherine, “Where’s your family, then?”

  “In Toronto. It’s only my mother and sister about whom I’m concerned.”

  “Aye, sure, I get that picture. You’ve already consigned the stepfather to hell, haven’t you?”

  “Where he belongs.” Catherine leaned across the wide wooden table impulsively. “I had to protect my sister; you see that.”

  “I do, and her but a lass. ’Tis to your credit. But what makes you think the stepfather won’t do the same again if Boyd returns to him?”

  “That’s my worst fear.” Catherine chewed on her lip. “I need to get a message to my mother and warn them.”

  “Sure, a message can be sent,” Roselyn said. “Toronto’s not so far. Question is, will your mother heed your warning and leave the scoundrel?”

  “She hasn’t yet, and I’ve begged, beseeched, and threatened.”

  “I’ll ask you this, woman to woman,” Roselyn said. “Why won’t she leave him? Do you know?”

  Catherine bit her lip harder. “He’s a good-looking devil.” Her gaze flicked to James, and he wondered if she made a hasty comparison. “But weak to the bone. Besides, she’s the kind of woman who thinks she needs a man to provide for her.”

  “And you’re not?” Roselyn’s homely face split in a wide smile. “You and I are going to get along just fine, then. Me, I’ve been looking after myself a long while—more hindered by that troublesome brother of mine than otherwise.”

  “I can see that,” Catherine said admiringly.

  James sat quietly and chucked the brown mutt behind her ear. She’d climbed out of the box and into his lap as soon as he sat down. One by one her pups had followed, tumbling over the floor to his feet, where they cuddled in.

  “Well, my opinion is”—Roselyn usually did have an opinion—“you need to get your sister away even if the mother will not come.”

  “Do you think I can?” Catherine leaned forward still more intently.

  “You can do anything at all, lass, if you set your mind to it. Meanwhile…” Roselyn reached a swift decision. “You’ll stay here with me, just till that bastard, Boyd, figures out whether or not he means to die.”

  “Oh, Miss Murphy, that’s so good of you! I’m willing to earn my keep, of course, working round the place.” Catherine considered. “You’ll need to train me, though.”

  Roselyn laughed. “Fine lady, is it, trained up as a housemaid?”

  “Not so fine.” Catherine spread her pretty little hands. “Only look at me.”

  “When it comes to that,” Roselyn murmured, “I think it best that you remain disguised as a lad a while. I’ve a set of boarders coming and going in this house, and we wouldn’t want anyone flapping his gums and leading the hounds here. That means you might have to cut your hair.”

  James made an involuntary sound of protest, and Roselyn eyed him. “Well, she can’t be wearing that cap all the time, can she? And we’d better come up with a likely name.”

  “Albert,” Catherine said promptly. “Will you call me Albert, after the queen’s consort?”

  “The queen of England, you mean? Saints preserve us, lass, you’re not in the Commonwealth now. But Albert it is.” She slanted another look at James. “A bit pretty for a boy, isn’t she? Think she can pass?”

  He returned Roselyn’s look steadily. “If you keep her close. I wouldn’t like her out on the streets anyway. If Boyd survives his injuries, I expect he’ll stop at nothing to find her.”

  “Oh, I’ll keep her close. Problem’s going to be housing you, lass. I can’t put you in with any of the men, for obvious reasons. And ’twould be scandalous to put you in with Dottie when she thinks you’re a boy. There’s a room at the top of the house, but I doubt you’ll like it much. Hot and musty, and the window’s stuck shut.”

  “I don’t mind.” Catherine touched Roselyn’s chapped hand. “I’m ever so grateful to you. I only hope I won’t bring trouble down on your head.”

  Roselyn looked amused. “I hope so too. James, lad, why don’t you take her up and see can you persuade that window to open? I’ll scrounge up some clothing and tell Dottie a new lad’s come to stay. I’ll be up shortly with the shears for that hair.”

  Very gently, James lifted the brown mutt from his knee and placed her back among her brood. He got to his feet. “Come along then,” he told Catherine.

  Immediately she reached for his hand. Roselyn slapped it away. “None of that! How would it look, a big drink of a man holding hands with a lad?”

  “Sorry.” Catherine looked remorseful. “I forgot.”

  “Well, don’t forget.” Roselyn directed a fierce look at both of them. “Your safety might depend on it.”

  James struggled for something to say while they climbed the three flights of stairs at the back of the house, and failed. Things changed far too quickly for his liking. Though he appreciated Roselyn offering Catherine refuge, he felt uncertain about continuing the ruse and certainly didn’t like the idea of Catherine’s glorious hair, which she’d now stuffed back into her cap, being shorn.

  The room in question occupied the back corner of the tall attic and had recently been used for little but storage. Boarders’ rooms occ
upied the floor below; Dottie and Ben, the lad who ran errands for Roselyn, had rooms on this floor as well, but surveying this closet with misgiving, James acknowledged it to be the least desirable location in the house.

  “Are you going to be all right here?” he asked dubiously, finding his voice at last.

  “It’s fine.” Catherine indicated the cot in the corner. “I doubt I’ll be up here much. Our house staff in Toronto always kept busy working and seldom had time to rest.” Her lips quirked. “Funny, isn’t it, how things turn about?”

  “And not for the better,” James muttered.

  “Don’t say that. My life as a lady of supposed means was no happier than this may prove. I only worry for Becky now.”

  “Give me her address before I leave, and Tate can send a message.”

  She turned and stepped up to him. “I wish you didn’t have to leave.”

  Suddenly, James couldn’t catch his breath. He told himself he could blame that on the close air of the room, but he knew he lied. She’d pulled off her cap when they entered the place, and her red-gold hair once more tumbled about her face. Her eyes clung to his, unwavering.

  What would she do if he reached out and caressed that matchless hair? Before he could let himself answer the question, he raised his fingers and brushed it lightly. Soft it was, so soft, like the white fluff of a dandelion.

  She smiled. “You needn’t look so scandalized. It will grow back, you know.”

  “Not scandalized. I—” He longed to tell her just how beautiful he thought her, but she must have heard that a thousand times and didn’t need it from him. He blinked and caught a sudden glimpse of his right hand, scarred and mottled, in juxtaposition with her glowing curls. He jerked the offending member away as if stung.

  “What is it?” Catherine whispered. “What’s wrong?”

  Helpless, he shook his head. For the first time in many years, his heart truly protested his appearance. Why couldn’t he look the way a man should, if only for her eyes?

  Her gaze grew serious. “You will come back and see me?” she beseeched. “Soon?”

  “I will, or Tate will send someone else as soon as there’s any word.”