The Yellow Lantern

by Dicken, Angie;

  Josie passed by the waiting room window, which was filled with the same strange sunlight when she’d arrived in Gloughton. Her stomach knotted. Distant footsteps sounded behind her. She spun around, a chill spreading up her spine. The creak of a door crept along the silence. Mr. Taylor appeared just outside his office side door. He did not see her but kept his head down as he thrust a key into the door to the rest of the factory. He disappeared inside the room of settled cotton bits and sleeping cogs.

  Hurrying, Josie pulled open the main door and escaped interrupting Mr. Taylor at this hour. She was tempted to accuse that unbecoming Bellingham of not keeping his hands to himself. However, a woman was not expected to complain about such things.

  The courtyard was barren in the onset of dusk. Shadows were dark and ominous at either end of the vast expanse of brick-paved ground, especially beneath the large elm tree where Alvin had left her that first day. A shift beneath the tree’s canopy tricked her eyes. Was someone there? Another movement affirmed there was. She raced across the courtyard to the door of the boardinghouse. As she fiddled with the doorknob, the voices of a man and woman carried from beneath the tree, now only a few yards from where she stood.

  “You never said you were coming.” The woman’s voice was agitated but disguised in a whisper.

  “I come and go when I please. You know that.” There was a low growl beneath the soft voice.

  “I was not ready—I have not had a chance—”

  “You’ve done enough. It won’t be long now—”

  “But what about him? I—I don’t know how to tell him. It will break his heart.”

  “No, the man has no heart.”

  Josie barreled inside, unease shaking her frame. She could not bear to eavesdrop on some sort of lovers’ dealing. Who was the woman, and whose heart might she break? Josie hung up her bonnet and cloak then descended the steps to the kitchen and escaped to the garden. The conversation needled her more and more. She hurried down the flagstone path and looked through the gate’s iron rods. Still as can be, she strained her ear. The tree was just over the wall. There were no longer voices. The clop of horse’s hooves grew louder and a wagon appeared with Mr. Taylor at the reins. Josie had just left him at the mill. He was not caught up in secret meetings beneath the elm. And he was not the heartless man those two whispered about. Braham was anything but heartless. As his carriage crawled away, Josie welcomed the warm gush of nearby memories. His kindness, his gentlemanly hospitality, and his willingness to hire her.

  She leaned forward, pressing her face against the gate. His wagon crossed the bridge then passed by the cemetery’s lilacs that no doubt filled his nose with a pleasant farewell to a hard day’s work. While she imagined herself also enjoying the sweet fragrance beside the handsome manager, he looked over his shoulder and caught her staring. She gasped and pulled away. Heat raided her cheeks, and her hand flew to her mouth.

  Mr. Taylor slowed his horse and raised a gloved hand to the brim of his top hat. His wide smile sent a flurry of wings flapping within Josie’s frame. All she could do was offer a weak wave of her hand. He wagged his head, his shoulders shaking with a laugh. Mr. Taylor snapped the reins and disappeared into the village.

  Josie twirled on her toes and fell back against the garden wall. She rolled her eyes at her carelessness, but she could not refrain from smiling. What was it about that man that caught her feelings and released them in a current within her?

  She bit her lip. She knew what it was. It was his goodness. The same goodness she’d seen in the love between her mother and father; the same goodness she’d witness when loved ones would care so tenderly for their sick. ’Twas the same goodness she craved for her own life. If only he knew how closely knit he would be with deceit by her hand. Had he invited friend or enemy to dine with him on Sunday evening?

  Oh, how Josie so wanted to be the friend and not the foe.

  She kept to herself at dinner, struggling between wishing this wait for death was over and fighting the shame of desiring such a thing. Her roommates climbed up the stairs ahead of her, little Liesl bouncing ahead, occasionally looking back at her. The child’s eagerness would not move her any faster. Josie peered out the windows that looked down upon the factory courtyard. Night was a black cloak covering the looming mill. A yellow glow seemed to sit upon the top step of the factory stoop. Josie hesitated at the top stair.

  Who was there? Surely Mr. Taylor had not returned at this hour?

  Fear laced the back of her neck. She prayed that Alvin was not waiting for her. The hoot of an owl seemed to scare away the light. It vanished as if it had never existed. Perhaps the person with the light had gone inside the factory walls. She continued to watch, waiting for the office windows to brighten. But only her reflection stared back at her now. Was the glow a reflection as well? She hurried up to the third floor.

  After a frustrating day, Braham’s anger had cooled at the sight of Miss Clay blushing through the garden gate. The rest of the way home, he allowed himself the distraction of thinking on her pretty face while he admired the setting sun. But as he went about the usual routine of caring for his horse and visiting with his aunt, his troubled stomach had stopped him from eating much. He retired early while his aunt snoozed by the fire. Braham tried to recall the interaction with Miss Clay once more, hoping to will away his nerves, yet the woman’s sweet bashfulness and the setting sun were not strong enough to keep his mind from its darkening spiral.

  After locking up the factory for the evening, he had passed Audra in an intimate conversation with Gerald. Back and forth they went, those two. An unlikely attraction—one that seemed to head nowhere but gossip. Gerald was too proud to court a woman of her meager status. And Audra? She was not one who’d do well with any kind of promise, matrimonially speaking. Just the other night Braham had seen her disappear across town on the arm of a stranger.

  Most frustrating of all, Audra obviously pulled Gerald north with her flirtations. Would his visits become more frequent? When Gerald was away, Braham was firmly grounded in his purpose to do well for his late master. But Gerald was a spying hawk when he visited. His claws were just inches away from all that was good in Braham’s life. Today was no different, except maybe Gerald’s talon had finally snagged Braham by the neck.

  How could a loyal son sell all that his father had worked for? Would Braham really have to answer to that man Bellingham?

  Braham tossed and turned all night, finally throwing back the bedsheets with the first sound of a mourning dove. An alarming thought pried his eyes open and refused to let them close again. If an accident occurred now, while Gerald was here negotiating a sale, he’d have every right to nullify his father’s last wishes and kick Braham out. The suspicion of such a possibility was materializing more and more. He’d watched Gerald inspect the belts and wheels.

  “The accident rate is like nothing my father witnessed, for sure,” he had divulged beneath his growl when Mr. Bellingham browsed the records.

  Braham dressed quickly and crept through the dark house, hesitating when the clock struck four chimes. Nearly an hour before he usually left. He lit a candle and wrote a quick note to his aunt so she’d not worry about his early disappearance, then set off to Gloughton.

  The moist air cooled his nose and filled his lungs with a chilled gust. Whatever sleep he’d struggled to summon fell away. There was something about this dark hour—on the brink of a new day and the final slumber of an old one—that invigorated Braham to accomplish much. As a young boy, he often woke to the soft hum of his father’s best friend, Howie, smoking his pipe around the dying embers in the slaves’ quarters. If Howie noticed Braham awake, he’d pull on his pipe, put a large finger to his plump lips, and then whisper, “Ain’t quite done with yesterday, son; go back to sleep.” Braham would close his eyes but wonder what yesterday was waiting for. How he’d wish that some of those yesterdays would stop creeping into his todays, especially when he’d long for his mother—and later on, his father.
/>   While the horse trotted down the narrow main street, Braham swiped at his eyes with dew-laden gloves. He gave a quiet signal to the horse to speed up at the bridge to the mill. Yet when he came to the other side, a golden light bounced off the stone wall beyond the gate to the boardinghouse garden. He pulled his wagon to the side of the wall and tied his horse to a post. Maybe Fran would have something to settle his stomach. He’d often found her recipes better than his own cook’s. Braham fiddled with the gate and opened it carefully. The fragrance of herbs and flowers was nearly medicinal itself, and he breathed deeply. As he stepped onto the small flagstone path, the tip of his boot knocked against something—or more accurately, someone. A person sprang up to standing.

  “Oh sir!” Miss Clay exclaimed, rubbing the side of her leg. “I—I did not hear you approach.”

  Braham released the gate, which shut loudly against its frame. “Did I hurt you?” He leaned toward her, bouncing his attention from her leg to her wide eyes. “I am very sorry.” He reached his hand to hers but then pulled it back.

  She pressed her chin to her shoulder. Shaking her head, she said, “I am fine.”

  Braham shifted his weight. Miss Clay’s hair was unpinned; cascading waves of gold rippled across one shoulder. Her face seemed kissed with recent sleep. A slight pink blush across one cheek marked where she may have slept against her hand. He’d never seen a woman so beautiful, so untarnished by the toil of the day. All that fragrant breath he’d borrowed had depleted from his lungs. He found it difficult to do anything but stare.

  “I—I came here—” Why had he come? He diverted his gaze to the quiet garden. Above the walls, the black sky smudged into gray. “I—I need an elixir.”

  “An elixir?” She straightened and cocked her head.

  “Um, yes. My stomach has been—” Uneasy? In knots? “Upset. I was on my way to inspect the machinery one last time, and I thought I’d have Fran—” Before he could explain further, Miss Clay ducked down among the plants and came up with a handful of herbs.

  “Come inside. I can make you a tea I have often made for myself.” She did not wait for him to follow her but swiveled around, leaving behind a scent of rose and mint. Braham wondered if the fragrance was from the garden or Miss Clay. He strode down the path and ducked beneath the low kitchen doorway.

  Two candelabras sat upon the long table, casting an amber sheen on the wooden surface. Miss Clay stood in front of a neat kitchen fire blazing beneath a hanging pot.

  He unbuttoned his coat in the warm place and lowered onto the edge of the bench. All his nerves from before were shoved aside by the quiet anticipation of being alone with this woman. She’d pricked his curiosity. He had seen her help Amelia and tend to the little bobbin girl, but now he would receive her care. Even if he did not really know her at all, he could think of nowhere else he’d rather spend this slice between asleep and awake. Only when she sat across from him at the table, her round face alive and bright, was he fully assured that this was truth and not a dream.

  Braham swallowed the earthy spiced liquid. It warmed his belly with a surprising calm. The woman across from him mirrored the calm in her peaceful state, unlike any other time he’d seen her. She drank her cup with relaxed shoulders. Although he sat in a meager boardinghouse kitchen, with an employee beneath his own position, the sense of home blanketed him now.

  Was this the life his parents could have once dreamed of? Sitting in the quiet morning, sharing a hot drink at a comfortable kitchen table? How he’d wished their own ambitions hadn’t fallen to the misfortune of hardship and disease.

  “How does it taste?” Miss Clay spoke from the rim of her cup. “Does it help at all?”

  “Yes, surprisingly so.” He placed his drink down. “Where did you find this remedy? It does not taste the same as Fran’s.”

  “My mother. She taught me much from our small garden.”

  “Your mother.” The flame’s reflection danced upon her nose and down along her dainty cheekbone. The reddened spot was not visible now. Braham lowered his gaze to the sage-colored liquid in his cup. “Do you miss her?”

  Only the popping of the fire and the cooing of a dove outside could be heard. Miss Clay’s brow furrowed. “Very much. She would never believe all that has changed.” A grimace marred her lips, and her long lashes fluttered against her cheeks.

  “My mother is also gone.” Braham tapped his cup with his finger, while Miss Clay’s slender fingers encircled her cup with white knuckles. “She passed away on my journey here as a young boy.”

  Miss Clay’s hand slipped to the table. “Journey from where?”

  “From Ireland. The ship was diseased. My father and I were fortunate to survive.” He breathed in the scent of mint and earth and last night’s baking. Yet the stench of virus and the smell of his mother’s hair as he lay against her lifeless body were on the very edge of his senses. He twisted in his seat, the heel of his boot striking the floor as he forced himself into a different memory. “My father found work at a plantation in Georgia, and I found favor in the eyes of the late Mr. Bates, more as a son than a serving boy.” He faced the fire. “He became my legal guardian after Father passed away.” He slid a look at her from the corner of his eyes.

  She tilted her head and asked, “Do you remember much of Ireland? Traveling from a country far away is hard to imagine. I’ve never been farther from my home than Gloughton.”

  Braham was thankful for her focus on the lesser tragedy of leaving his homeland behind. Although he could not speak as lightly as he’d like. Could he remember anything besides the impoverished life of begging on Dublin’s streets or the rats who’d shared the same meals as he had most nights? “Too much has filled up my mind since then. Some good, much bad.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “I only look forward, not behind.” His nostrils flared. “Or at least I try.”

  She nodded. “Yes, that is a good perspective. I hope, one day, that I can rest assured and never look back.” She pressed her lips together, eyeing her finger trailing along the rim of her mug. Silence sat between them again. She seemed to be lost in thought as she fiddled with her drink, while Braham found himself in the very present, wondering about the beauty across from him.

  “What would Mother think of me now?” Miss Clay spoke low, more to herself than him. Braham opened his mouth to speak, but with a sudden movement she pushed back on the bench. “I must finish readying for the day.” She stood, placed her mug in a washbasin. Braham also stood. “Pardon me, sir.” She dipped into a quick curtsy, refusing to look into his eyes, then swiveled around and headed toward the hallway. She hesitated. “Mr. Taylor?” She turned to face him. “Is it usual for someone to tend to the mill at night?”

  “At night?”

  “Yes. I thought I saw a light near the factory door when I stood at an upstairs window last night.”

  His stomach rejected all the peaceful effects of the tea. “Oh, really?”

  She shook her head. “It must have been a reflection, now that I think about it. No light filled any factory windows after it disappeared. Good morning, sir.” A faint smile tipped her lips, and she left him.

  Braham approached the fire, placing his mug in the bin. The warmth of the blaze did little to heat an icy shiver crawling across his skin. He couldn’t decide if the chill was because of Miss Clay’s unsettling inquiry about the factory, or the simple fact that Josie Clay was no longer near.

  Chapter Ten

  Josie climbed the stairs with reluctance. She had not been so content in conversation since the days when she tended to her father by the warmth of their own kitchen fire. Mr. Taylor’s attention left her with more than just comfort though. He’d drawn out a piece of her soul that she’d kept hidden for so long. His story—his loss—mirrored her own. Had she ever understood a man before? She could hardly understand her father. Especially now, when he was caught up in such schemes. But she’d hardly spoken with a man about anything more than her duties and instructions for healing. Mr. Taylor’s c
ountenance reflected all she had felt when Mother passed.

  Josie must be more grieved than she imagined. Maybe lonely. In this place filled with women at every turn and overseers and operatives dotted about the factory? Yet Josie knew her loneliness eclipsed her peace because of the wall she had hidden behind these many weeks. She had not felt like herself at all until Braham Taylor sat with her this morning.

  “Miss Josie!” Abigail ran up the stairs from behind her. “You have a visitor,” she whispered breathlessly, her eyes wide with an intensity that could only be interpreted as warning.

  Visitor? Was Mr. Taylor asking after her? Heat filled her cheeks. She followed the serving girl down the stairs, suddenly aware that her hair was down and bouncing along her shoulders. Her blush deepened. She had sat with Mr. Taylor all this time without realizing her appearance. She quickly tied her hair back with a ribbon as she descended. Yet, when she turned at the landing, she noticed the stout grave robber standing in the parlor below. Her hand fell, leaving a half-tied bow in her hair.

  At the bottom stair, Abigail leaned in, whispering loudly, “You’re not allowed male callers during the week.”

  “He’s hardly a caller.” Josie rushed past. “I will only be a moment.”

  Alvin did not look at her but surveyed the maid, who retreated to the kitchen. Josie took a rigid stance with her hands on her hips. How foolish for him to arrive here at this time.

  Josie kept a watchful glance over her shoulder until the maid disappeared. She whipped around. “Do you have a letter from Father?”