She pressed her hand into the filament pages, cold and smooth, letting the words churn inside. She remembered that night, remembered Moody’s words stirring her to fresh awareness of heaven, of her own desire to do something more with her life.
In fact, her writing had started with the verse she’d scrawled on the program. She took it out, read it. “ ‘Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in Him; and He shall bring it to pass.’”
Had she committed her way that night?
Ever?
She slipped over to the window, pressed her head against the cool pane. Outside, electric lights lit up the city, pushing back the darkness.
She wanted to push back darkness. But she couldn’t, trapped in a marriage to Foster Worth, could she?
No. The word sank deep inside, reverberated. No.
Not when she loved Oliver.
In fact, just like he’d intimated, she’d loved him for years. The truth heated her through. Oh, why hadn’t she seen it earlier?
Maybe she simply hadn’t wanted to.
In the fireplace, the fire crackled, popped. She turned toward it, hearing again Oliver’s childhood laughter. You found me, Esme! You always find me!
Yes, she did.
She got up, walked to the fire, and dropped the photograph of her debutante self into the flames.
Chapter 4
So this was how the other half lived. Esme clutched the paper on which Mr. Stewart had written Oliver’s address and eased into the foyer of his building, located on the shore of the East River. In years past, this area of town housed George Washington and society’s elite. Now, the steps of the stone dwelling crumbled beneath her shoes, the gated windows like eyes etched with age. She tucked her reticule closer to her, thankful she’d chosen her fading school cloak, something less than flamboyant. Imagine if she’d worn her fur….
The brine of beer and urine, the wail of a child in the dark recesses of the building curdled her courage. Oh, why hadn’t she brought Bette?
Worse, she’d lied to Oliver’s father—the first of her many sins tonight—when she’d said she only wanted to post Oliver correspondence.
If Mr. Stewart knew she intended to find his son, he would have never betrayed his employer. She had to hope her father would never discover his indiscretion.
Even if he did discover her absence.
Maybe she should have simply posted a letter. But then she couldn’t see Oliver’s face when she told him…what? That she loved him?
Perhaps she just wanted to confirm his words. I love you, Esme. I have for years.
She’d imagined a cheerier boardinghouse for him, something that didn’t scurry with rats, one where the old tile floor from bygone days didn’t echo her entrance, the ornate oak molding hanging with dirt and cobwebs. A gaslight flickered in a dim hallway that had once hosted a grand corridor, now partitioned off to create rooms. Somewhere in the catacombs of rooms the whine of a fiddle attempted cheer.
She lifted her skirt for the stairs, her gloved hand sliding on the decaying railing. A dog barked, possibly from the street. Shouting, in German, emerged from a door at the top of the stairs.
Why had Oliver given up a perfectly decent position in her father’s home—he could have been a footman, or a valet—to live in squalor? She heard the scratching of insects and shivered.
She took the next flight, then another, and came to the attic. She could barely make out the numbers carved into the door. He’d ended up in attic’s quarters anyway.
She knocked, heard low voices, and knocked again. “Oliver?”
The door wrested open and he stood there, outlined by a glow of lamplight. His hair had grown, his shoulders seemed even broader in his muslin shirt, rolled at the elbows, his pants held up by suspenders. He blinked at her. “Esme?”
She tried a smile, something quick that didn’t betray her fear. But she felt eyes behind her, as if something vapid had followed her up the stairs, perhaps all the way from Fifth Avenue. She’d disembarked from the train at Penn Station, creeping along the sidewalks, past the dark alleys, the gated entrances to tenement buildings harboring street children with dark, lifeless eyes. She’d turned away from a policeman and nearly tripped over a rummy bedding down with a lamppost in front of a saloon.
But, she’d found him. Just like a journalist might do.
“What are you doing here?”
Not the words she expected, but she clutched her reticule to herself. “I—I had to see you.”
He looked past her, as if expecting Bette. “You came by yourself? Here? Into Hell’s Kitchen? Have you lost your mind?”
Her smile vanished.
He sighed then, and it was the way he glanced back, behind him, that shook her out of the kind of fantasy she’d entertained for nearly a week now. She’d imagined his delight, those beautiful brown eyes lighting up, him pulling her into his arms—yes, she imagined her hands on his shoulders, lifting her face for a kiss.
A kiss.
Sitting at his table, outlined in the light, sat a young lady, her long, red hair down, her shirtwaist open at the neck, tucked into a simple skirt. She stared at Esme, bold. Unafraid.
She’d never had a scullery maid gaze at her so.
“Oh. I—I didn’t realize you had a guest.”
A guest? Esme’s manners didn’t allow her to suggest anything else. But suddenly, she felt sordid, as if perhaps she didn’t know him at all.
“Come inside.”
“No, I—”
“Come in, Esme. Now.” He practically yanked her into his apartment, closed the door, and bolted it behind her.
Oh. She couldn’t look at him and examined the room instead. It seemed cleaner than she expected, with a simple single bed along the wall made up with a blanket, stovepipe stove attached to the wall, a shaft of moonlight waxing the floor. But her gaze stopped on the woman at the table.
“I am sorry to interrupt—I should go.” She turned, but Oliver gripped her arm, his voice cutting low.
“You shouldn’t be here, but it’s not what you think. I’m teaching Colleen to read.”
“Read? But you can barely re—”
He gave her a hard look and she shut her mouth.
She just wanted to slink away. Why had she ever thought…
Yet, a book lay open on the table, the lamplight illuminating a notebook and pencil.
“We’re finished for tonight.”
Colleen rose and, regardless of what Oliver might want her to believe, Esme had no problem reading the look on her face as she took in Esme’s attire then turned to Oliver. “Aye. Tomorrow, we will finish our lesson.” Then she leaned up and kissed him on the cheek.
He didn’t look at Esme as he let Colleen out.
Oh, she was such a fool. She closed her eyes, hating how they burned, how her throat tightened. She would not cry. Would not—
“Sit down, Esme. Tell me why you’re here.”
“No. I’m going home.”
She felt his hand take hers and opened her eyes to his pained expression. “Why did you hunt me down? I thought—well, you made your feelings for me clear at the paper.”
“I didn’t know my feelings, Oliver. You—you surprised me. I was confused.”
“And now?”
She looked around the room, taking off her gloves. From an overhead window, moonlight puddled onto the floor. His camera lay in a bag on the chair. A pot of coffee sat on the stove. The room smelled faintly of Oliver, his scent, wild, safe, dangerous. “I don’t know.”
He nodded, his jaw suddenly tight. “This is how it is, Esme. Reality.”
“Why do you live here?”
“It’s across from the police station, if you didn’t notice. They let me tag along on calls. I get the best, freshest photos in town.”
“I saw men on the streets. Drunkards. And children.”
“You’d see more than that if you lived here. Which you won’t.”
She took a breath. “I could.”
He did her the courtesy of not laughing in her face. Instead, his mouth curved up in a wry smile. “For a day. Or two. Maybe even a week or a year. But eventually you would hate me for taking you away from your life on Fifth Avenue. We come from different worlds, Esme. I was fooling myself to think I could provide for you. I can barely provide for myself.”
He looked away then, as if his words cost him.
“What if—what if we went west? To Oklahoma? Or Montana? Started over? We could run a newspaper—”
He rounded on her with more emotion than she’d ever seen of him. “Stop! Just stop, Esme.”
She stiffened. He shook his head, his eyes slick. “Why are you such a dreamer? Don’t you get it? We don’t belong together.”
“But, you’re the only one who…” She put her hand to her mouth. Looked away as tears filmed her eyes. “Who knows me. Who—who still loves me.”
Or, maybe he didn’t. Not anymore.
But she heard a groan and looked back at him just in time to see him reach out for her. He cupped her face with his hand, ran his thumb down her cheek, his eyes tracing her face. His voice softened, and in it she found the man she’d feared she lost. “I do, Esme. I always have.”
Then, he kissed her.
Although she’d hoped to find herself in his arms, however forbidden, she hadn’t expected it to feel so right. As if she’d always belonged there. This was what a kiss should be—something urgent and kind, gentle yet confident. Something that told her that, indeed, he loved her, had hoped that she might find him.
She slipped into his embrace and wove her arms around his waist, ignoring propriety’s heed, and surrendered to his kiss. He tasted of coffee and smelled of the city—oil and dust and his own hard-working scent, but it combined for something bold and wild. His arms had a perfect strength, capturing her, holding her safe, and she let the kiss awaken something inside her she’d never known.
Longing.
She longed to be with this man, to wake up every morning in his arms, to see his smile at the end of the day. She longed to forge out a life with him, something they could be proud of, something wrought from their own talents. Perhaps they’d have children, replicas of Oliver, with dark shanks of hair, bright eyes, smiles that spoke of mischief.
“Esme.”
She didn’t want it to end, didn’t want him to pull away, so she held on, laying her head on his chest, listening to his heart thunder.
“Esme.” His breath was close and eddied across her cheek. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken advantage—”
No, no. “Please, Oliver. Don’t say that.” She looked up at him, at the stricken look on his face. “I’ve longed to kiss you since…well, longer than I probably realize.” She ran her hand down his whiskered chin. “Don’t push me away.”
But he took her arms, pulled them away from him. Didn’t meet her eyes. “This can’t work, Esme.”
She shook out of his grip. “Why not? Because I’m privileged?”
“And I used to be your houseboy, your footman! Yes! I can’t bear to see you living like this.”
“Shouldn’t that be my choice?” But a strange heat webbed her chest.
“No. Because you truly don’t understand.”
She stepped away from him. “Enlighten me.”
“Fine. Yesterday, the family downstairs lost their ten-year-old daughter. I knew something was wrong because I heard wailing. I went into their room and found her on the floor, delirious with fever, pale, and thrashing. I begged them to let me take her to the charity ward, but they had already been there. The ward sent the girl home to die. To die, Esme. The father is blind—hasn’t worked for a year, and he and his wife both have lead poisoning. Their youngest son is a newsie, and the two dollars he might make every day is barely enough to feed them and keep their rent paid. I never, ever want to see your child die in your arms. So, yes, I am taking you home right now, and you must forget that you know me.”
“I’m not.”
But he had shoved her reticule into her hands.
“No!”
“Esme.”
She wrenched away from him, plopped down on his bed, her face fierce despite the flush of tears, the wobble of her voice. “I love you. I’m not leaving.”
He just blinked at her. “You love me.”
“Yes.”
“You love me.”
“Yes!”
He turned away, and then with a shout that scared her, he slammed his hand onto his table.
She jumped as he rounded on her. “You can’t love me, okay? I was a fool when I saw you last. I should have never said what I said.”
“Then you want me to marry Foster Worth. You’re fine with me having his children.”
He flinched. But, “Yes.”
His word landed like a fist in her chest. Yes. “I hate you.”
He nodded. “Good. Hold onto that thought.”
“I shouldn’t have come here.”
“You’re right about that.” He grabbed her arm, pulled her to her feet. “I’ll deliver you home, Miss Price, and then I never want to see you again.”
His words cut her through.
“Don’t bother seeing me home.”
“Esme!”
She pushed past him, into the hallway, gathered up her skirt, and raced down the dark stairs.
“Esme!”
But he didn’t follow her out the door, didn’t follow her as she slowed her pace to a walk, clutching her bag to herself.
The street had turned dark, only the flicker of gaslights pushing back the night. She nearly tripped over a man lying on the sidewalk, then she crossed the street at the sight of a cluster of men around a barrel fire. A dog howled, the odor of gin oozed out of an alleyway. She ducked her head, hating her tears.
Fool.
I never want to see you again.
She brushed her hand across her face, realizing she’d left her gloves in his room.
The shadows loomed at her, hands that could yank her into a dank alleyway. The redolence of refuse and human waste seeped into her skin as she turned down a street, darker than the last. She’d ridden the elevated train for the first time ever, and exited at Penn Station, thinking herself clever. Now, the streets looked the same. Why hadn’t she taken a carriage? Although that possibly might be more dangerous than walking.
“What do we have here?”
The voice slurred, drifted over her, dark and vile. A hand grabbed her arm, whirled her around. She screamed as she looked up into the face of a man not much older than Oliver with tangled, oily hair scrabbling out of an old, dented bowler. He reeked of unwashed flesh, his breath emitting something foul as he pushed her against a building.
Hands groped for her reticule. She let it go and he dropped it to the ground. He pressed his hand around her throat as he moved his body against her. She closed her eyes, turned her face away. “Please.”
He had whiskers; they scrubbed her neck as he drew in a long inhale of breath against her skin.
She screamed.
And then, someone jerked the man off her, slammed a fist into his face, blood exploding from his nose.
“Oliver!”
The man crumpled onto the sidewalk as Oliver picked up her bag. Then he turned and scooped her up into his arms.
She locked her arms around his neck, buried her face in his chest, and let him ferry her from Hell’s Kitchen.
Three blocks later, he finally slowed, his breath still coming hard.
“You can put me down.”
“I don’t think so.”
She lifted her head to watch him, the tight cut of his jaw, the way his eyes flickered over her, shiny, dark.
“Put me down, Oliver.”
He acquiesced then, righting her, not letting go of her arm. “Are you okay?”
She managed a nod. “I—I am a fool. My father said that someday I’d find myself in over my head. He was right.”
Oliver pressed a hand on her cheek. Brushed away the wetness. �
�You scared me.”
She leaned against his touch.
He sighed, blew out a breath. “Think this through for one second, Esme. Even if I do this right—even if I ask your father for your hand in marriage, he’ll throw me out onto the street.”
“He might not.”
He gave her a look.
“I don’t need my father’s blessing.”
“I think you do.”
“I came after you, didn’t I?”
He took her hand, ran his thumb over it. “And what was your plan? To find me, and then…”
She watched his strong hand cover hers. “I didn’t have a plan. I just thought you’d be glad to see me. I guess that was foolish too.”
He made a funny noise and she looked up to find his hand cupped over his eyes. He made another noise, something short, like a groan, and his shoulders shook.
“Oliver?”
He let go of her hand, held it up as if to stop her. “I’m trying very hard to be a gentleman here, Esme. I…” He looked up at her, his eyes reddened. “Yes, I want to take you home with me. I would marry you tonight. I would be that selfish, if I didn’t fear the morning. If I didn’t fear that someday you would die in my arms from some tenement disease, or—or actually come to despise me.”
“Never. I would never despise you.”
But his eyes didn’t believe her. He took her hand, and she clung to his warmth. “I am taking you home, Esme. Right now.”
“And then?”
“It would be best if you forgot about me.”
She shook her head and her heart nearly burst when he offered her a slight smile of surrender. He shook his head.
“You are so stubborn.”
She grinned then.
“I need time, Esme. Time to figure out what to do. How to marry you properly.”
“Marry me?”
He glanced at her, his smile wider, and she met it. Nodded.
So, she rose on her tiptoes and kissed him. He caught her there, and let the kiss linger.
When she stepped away, he took her hand. “Shall we walk through the park?”
And as they walked into the greening commons, for the first time in her life, she knew what it was to be rich.
* * * * *
“Foster, look out! Don’t hit anyone!” Jinx gripped the arms of the tufted leather seat, not sure if she should scream for fear—or joy. Through the tall pane of glass, and in the glow of the singular lamplight, a pedestrian leaped out of the path of the Dion Bouton as Foster steered the wheel protruding from the floor of his motorcar and swerved them out of the way.
Heiress Page 7