Cinders to Satin

by Fern Michaels

  “Mamán, isn’t it time to serve the cake?” Anne asked her mother. “The sooner this charade is done with, the better,” she complained, not liking Callie’s attraction either for her brother or for the dashing Byrch Kenyon.

  “Yes, certainly,” Anne Powers agreed. She glanced at Jasper to see if he was disapproving of Rossiter’s attention to a servant. Her husband’s smiling face set her teeth on edge. This entire idea of a birthday for a domestic was a mistake, a huge error of judgment. At the first opportunity she must take Rossiter aside and explain that this celebration for Callie’s birthday was merely an indulgence for Mary.

  Rossiter stepped away from Callie and Mary as though noticing Hugh MacDuff and Lena for the first time. He greeted them cheerfully and mentioned to Hugh that as soon as possible he’d like to go out to Kreischerville to see his horse. “I feel as though it’s been years since I’ve ridden. Really ridden,” he emphasized, “in the woods and over meadows. In Boston, riding down the village green to meet and converse is considered exercising one’s mount. Except for hunts, of course, but then proper dress is demanded. I want to get on Pirate’s back and taken him for a real run. Have you been taking care of him for me, MacDuff?”

  “Sure and certain, Master Rossiter. There’s a boy at the farm who sees to his exercise. You’ll find him fit and in good fettle for you, sir.”

  “Good man!” Ross clapped MacDuff on the shoulder. “And you, Lena? Are those my favorite cookies I smell?”

  “They are, Master Rossiter,” Lena grinned. “Soon’s I heard you were coming home, I began chopping the walnuts.”

  Out on the sun-filled porch once again, Callie felt Rossiter’s gaze upon her, and how she managed to cut and serve slabs of Lena’s perfect cake with any amount of poise and assurance was a mystery to her. She felt absolutely giddy beneath his attention and wondered at Byrch’s sulky frown. Surely Byrch didn’t dislike this golden young man with the face of an archangel?

  “Open your presents, Callie. It’s time, isn’t it, Mamán?” Mary cried excitedly.

  “Of course, by all means,” Anne Powers said. She was more than eager to end this little celebration. It had all been a dreadful mistake.

  “Sit here, Callie. You’re the guest of honor, so you get to sit in Papá’s chair. It’s all right, isn’t it Papá?”

  Jasper’s grin broadened. “I wouldn’t have it otherwise.” He was overjoyed to have his son home after all this time and to be in the midst of this family gathering. He was oblivious to his wife’s pointed stares and his oldest daughter’s sullenness. “Sit here and open your presents, Callie, before Mary crawls out of her skin.”

  With trembling hands, Callie undid the ribbon on a small box. It was a gift of face powder from Miss Anne. From Mrs. Powers there was a yellow silk scarf, from Jasper a pair of white kid gloves. From Lena and Hugh McDuff, a bright red umbrella.

  “Now mine, open mine next!”

  It was a small package, and Callie’s nervousness made it barely possible for her to untie the knot in the ribbon. Nestled in a bed of purple velvet lay a gold locket: Tears gathered in Callie’s eyes as she hugged the little girl. “You can put my picture in it. See, I found a daguerreotype of Rossiter and me in Mamán’s album. I thought you might like it, although I was such a baby when it was taken. Besides, it’s the only one that will fit. You don’t mind having Rossiter’s picture with mine, do you, Callie? Say you don’t mind!”

  “Of course, I don’t mind.” Callie looked at the picture Mary had enclosed with the locket. It had been taken nearly two years ago, and Mary’s face was rounder and younger, but Rossiter looked very much the same.

  From Byrch there was lovely onionskin stationery, imprinted with a delicate green shamrock, done on the Clarion’s presses, he told her. Also there was a pewter ink jar, feather quill, and a sharpener.

  “For your letters home, Callie,” he told her softly, nearly bursting with pleasure at her apparent joy. She tried to thank him, but the words wouldn’t come.

  Rossiter, who had left the gathering for a moment, returned. He held his hand behind his back, smiling mischievously. “I won’t allow it that Callie not receive a gift from me,” he explained. “Since I was unaware today was your birthday, Callie, I was unprepared, but perhaps you’ll accept something of my own.” He brought forward a little blue book covered in the softest leather with gilt-edged pages. “It’s a book of my favorite poems,” he explained.

  Callie took the book from him, looking at the title. It was Don Juan by Lord Byron.

  “Do you know his work, Callie?” Rossiter asked. “I’m afraid he’s unabashedly romantic, but Don Juan is considered his masterpiece. The man himself was more romantic and tragic than anything he’s written, isn’t that so, Byrch?”

  “It is true,” Byrch said simply, not endeavoring to continue the conversation. The puritan in him regarded the works of the dissipated and controversial Byron as an unsuitable gift for an innocent young lady. Considering this, Byrch almost laughed aloud. When had he ascribed to puritanical mores? Or was it simply that he hesitated to think of Callie as the recipient of a lusty, romantic gift if it did not come from himself? Hypocrite! He chided himself.

  “Now you can read them to me at night before I fall asleep,” Mary prompted Callie, admiring the luxurious binding on the book.

  “Oh, no you don’t, little one,” Rossiter warned. “The contents are hardly suitable for one your age. It takes an older, more sophisticated mind to appreciate it. A woman’s heart to understand it.”

  Callie felt herself flushing beneath Rossiter’s flattery. It was nice to be thought of as a woman, especially by someone so handsome and whose eyes searched hers.

  “Were you surprised, Callie? Really surprised? I thought I’d go mad keeping the secret. Papá said he’d give me a nickel if I kept the secret. You have to pay me a nickel, Papá,” Mary quipped, going to Jasper to put her arms around his neck.

  “Of course, I was surprised. You truly did keep the secret. I shall trust you will all my secrets from now on.”

  “And what kind of secrets would they be?” Byrch asked in a cool voice, studying her face as he waited for her answer.

  Callie blinked. His tone was as strange as his forbidding look, and she mourned the ease they had always had between them. Something had happened in their relationship, she could feel it, she could see it in those tiger eyes. “I don’t have any secrets. Not yet anyway.” She smiled, hoping for a return of her affability. Byrch sat there, silently observing her. In an effort to break the silence, she turned to Mrs. Powers. “I can’t thank you enough for this party. It was most generous of you. I’ve never had a birthday party, not a real one like this, and I’ll never forget the day I turned eighteen.” She turned, beaming her smile on Hugh and Lena and the others. Byrch felt his heart turn over in his chest.

  “Mamán is the most generous woman in the world, aren’t you, Mamán?” Rossiter praised, bending to kiss his mother’s dry cheek.

  Anne Powers preened and beamed at her son. “Mr. Powers and I were only too glad to do it. It’s our way of showing our appreciation for what you’ve done for Mary.”

  “And Mamán is a most gracious woman, also,” Rossiter teased easily. “Mamán is one in a million, isn’t that so, Father?”

  “Absolutely, one in a million,” Jasper echoed his son. “Well now, since this party seems to be at an end, let’s you and I go into my study,” he said, turning to Byrch. “I want to hear more about these labor unions. You say the printers are making noises about unionizing? How will that affect the Clarion?”

  Before following after Jasper, Byrch took Callie’s hand. “Happy Birthday, Callie. It’s been too long since we’ve seen one another. I’m happy you’re doing so well here at the Powers’s.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kenyon. It was grand of you to give me such a wonderful present. I’ll always treasure the inkpot and quill because they came from you. And Mum will be so suprised when she receives my next letter to find our own s
hamrock printed in the corner.”

  It was on the tip of Byrch’s tongue to ask if she would treasure his gift as much as the book of poetry. Instead, he held his tongue and followed Jasper into his study.

  “Rossiter, Callie and I are going upstairs. Will you come up to the nursery to see us?” Mary piped.

  “But of course! How could I not?”

  Anne Powers overheard this exchange. “Rossiter will have no time for you today, Mary. He’s arrived home just in time for my dinner party this evening, and I’m certain he’ll want to rest from his trip.”

  “We’ll be waiting for you, Ross,” Mary said, never taking her eyes from her adored brother.

  “Mary Powers! You haven’t heard a word I’ve said!” Anne Powers scolded. Her statement made Callie’s blood run cold. Quickly she reached out to touch her little friend’s shoulder, making a small indication toward her mother.

  Stiffening slightly, realizing she’d made a faux pas, Mary quickly turned to her mother. “Excuse me, Mamán?”

  “That’s better,” Anne Powers smiled stiffly. “Don’t let all this excitement rush to your head, Mary. I said Rossiter will have no time for you today. He must rest and ready himself for my dinner party this evening. And you, Callie, I believe there are preparations you must make and lend a hand to Lena in the kitchen. You will be serving at table this evening.” Anne shot a meaningful glance at her son, reminding him exactly what Callie’s position was in the Powers’s household. A domestic, nothing more, in spite of the little party this afternoon.

  “Isn’t Mr. Kenyon a handsome man?” Mary asked as she helped Callie carry her presents up to her room. “I wish I were as old as Anne so I could have him come court me,” she chatted.

  Rossiter stood in the doorway, watching his sister and her companion head for the front stairs. He noticed that Callie didn’t respond to Mary’s impetuous statement. He was no fool; he knew that a man like Kenyon could never be attracted to a sour-faced, self-important chit like his sister Anne. He’d seen for himself the way the man had stared at Callie, witnessed the interest and admiration he held for her.

  For years Rossiter had been envious of Jasper’s friendship with Byrch. The camaraderie and genuine affection they shared was something he’d never known. Many a time he’d approached his father in a manner he thought similar to Byrch’s but it was to no avail. He should be sitting in his father’s study instead of Byrch Kenyon. At the very least, he should have been included in the invitation to share in a snifter of brandy, talking about business and current events. There weren’t that many years’ difference between Kenyon and himself. Kenyon was the kind of man Jasper would want for his son, and for the life of him, Rossiter would never understand it. He only knew that somehow he’d been a disappointment to his father, and he could still feel it when he and Jasper were together.

  It was nearly an hour after the birthday party disbanded when the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel drive indicated that Byrch Kenyon had left to return to the city. That was when Mary, standing near the window in the nursery, remembered the wild flowers and cherry blossoms she and Callie had picked earlier. She ran down to the kitchen to beg vases and jugs from Lena and deftly arranged her precious hoard with a child’s sense of artfulness. Jasper’s study was transformed by the festoon of blossoms. A special arrangement was meant for Mary’s mother. Proud of her handiwork, Mary marched up the stairs to her mother’s room to present her flowers.

  “It was very nice of you to think of me, Mary,” Anne Powers smiled absently, her mind on the coming dinner party. “Just place them on my washstand.”

  “Is Anne in her room?”

  “Yes, I think so. How sweet of you, Mary, to want to give your sister flowers. I’m certain she’ll be pleased.”

  Anne wasn’t in her room. Since there was no vase to hold the delicate pink blossoms, Mary filled a waterglass from the pitcher on Anne’s washstand and gently untangled the flower stems. Callie was struck by the way she handled the fragile offering. Laughing delightedly, Mary skipped ahead of Callie toward the nursery.

  Later when Jasper and Anne Powers questioned her, Callie was at a loss to explain exactly what had happened. One minute Mary was happy as a lark and the next she was rolling and tousling with Anne on the floor, shrieking her head off. The wild flowers that had been so precious just moments before were crushed and matted on the floor from their furious activity. Upon questioning by her father, Mary said that Anne had destroyed some drawings that she’d made for Rossiter. Anne said Mary was a baby and drew pictures like a baby, and she was only trying to prevent her sister from making a fool of herself in front of her brother. So she took it upon herself to destroy the colorful pictures that Mary had labored over.

  It was all Callie could do to separate the screaming sisters. With all the strength she could muster, Callie yanked at the snarling Anne and pulled her off Mary’s prone body. Anne turned and with a vicious swing socked Callie in the left eye. Smarting with the blow, Callie dropped to her knees as Anne fled from the room, only to return moments later with the glass of cherry blossoms. She hurled the dainty flowers, glass and all, into the fireplace. Glass shattered, and the flowers flew in all directions. Anne shrieked and shouted curses at her younger sister. “You just wait till I tell Mamán how you attacked me you . . . you lunatic!” Anne screeched as she fled from the room.

  Mary was sitting in the middle of the floor, sobbing. “Why did she do that to me? Why does she hate me so much, Callie?”

  “I don’t know, Mary,” Callie said, gathering the little girl close to her. She crooned soft words to the child and wiped at her cheeks. Gently she brushed back the hair from the little girl’s forehead. “You can’t let it bother you, Mary.”

  Callie did nothing to ease the burning on her eye and cheek. It was more important now to comfort Mary. She sat on the carpet amidst the shattered petals in a pool of sunlight from the window, rocking Mary in her arms, cradling and crooning to her.

  Rossiter Powers stood transfixed in the nursery doorway, his artist’s eye mesmerized by the sight of swirling summer skirts, tumbles of dark and auburn hair haloed to gold by the incoming light, the pathos of the scene before him. He was unaware of the fracas between his sisters, but Mary was in obvious distress, her lips swollen with misery, her cheeks wet with tears. He felt like an interloper, bursting into a very intimate moment, and he felt foolish standing there with the gaily wrapped coming-home present for his youngest sister. He made a sound, and Callie turned around.

  Gently Callie prodded Mary and half-turned her about, administering pressure to the upper part of her arm, telling her someone was in the room. Mary sniffed and looked up, her tiny face lighting like a thousand candles. “Rossiter! You came! You came after all!”

  Mary clung to Rossiter’s midsection. “Didn’t I tell you Callie was the most wonderful person in the world? She saved me from Anne. She saved me.”

  “That’s all over now,” Rossiter soothed. “Look, I’ve brought you a present all the way from Italy. Callie, what happened to your eye?”

  “Anne hit her in the eye. Oh, Ross, she’s so mean. She ripped up all the pictures I made for you. She hates me, Rossiter. Why does she hate me?”

  Rossiter frowned, his perfect brow knitting in his concern for Mary. His dark eyes fell on Callie to seek confirmation of what he was hearing. “Here, Puss, open your present while I put a cool compress on Callie’s eye.” Moving over to Mary’s washstand, Rossiter poured water from the pitcher into the basin, dipping in the washcloth and squeezing it out. He applied the cool cloth to Callie’s cheek and eye, his fingers gently touching her as though they were feathers, sending little unexpected ripples through her veins.

  “Listen to me, Mary,” Rossiter spoke as his sister worked the ribbons on the package, “Anne doesn’t hate you. She’s only jealous that you’re the youngest and get so much attention. And she could be jealous that you have such a wonderful friend as Callie.” His voice was soft, soothing, and when he
said her name, it brought a flush to Callie’s cheek. How beautiful he was, golden as summer, tall and lithe like a sapling ready to burst into bud.

  Mary squealed in delight over the porcelain doll with eyes that opened and closed. “Oh, Ross, she’s beautiful! Just beautiful! Almost as beautiful as my Callie. That’s what I’ll call her,” Mary clutched the doll to her chest, “Callandre. That’s her name.”

  Ross pressed the compress into Callie’s hand. “I’ll be leaving you ladies now. If I were you, Puss,” he addressed Mary, “I’d get this room cleaned up before Mamán makes a surprise visit.” His attention lingered a moment longer on Callie. If anyone asked his opinion, he would disagree with Mary. Callie was twice as beautiful as the porcelain doll with the real eyelashes.

  The summons was not unexpected. Callie and Mary were to appear in the downstairs drawing room—promptly. Callie’s stomach churned and fluttered. She was frightened out of her wits at the order to appear before both Mr. and Mrs. Powers. Would they dismiss her? She didn’t want to leave here. She couldn’t leave now that she had met Rossiter. She could still feel his touch on her face where he’d held the compress.

  Mary saw the agitation in Callie’s face and her rapidly swelling eye. It was all Anne’s fault. Mamán would never listen. Anne would blame Mary, and Callie would be discharged. Mamán never listened to excuses. Her spine stiffened. If Callie was to go, then she would go with her. No one would stop her.

  “We best tidy up here before we go down,” Callie said as she bent over to pick up the crushed flowers. How her head ached. Her thoughts were fuzzy. She had to gather her wits about her and try to do her best for her young charge.

  Anne Powers sat in a high-backed chair that made her appear taller and more forbidding. Jasper Powers stood near the mantle with a scowl on his pleasant features. Anne sat on a footstool at her mother’s feet with her hands folded. She looked demure and yet pitiful at the same time. Jasper wasn’t fooled for a minute. He hated scenes.