Cinders to Satin

by Fern Michaels

  Quickly she shoved the sketch pad behind the canvases stacked on the floor. This would bear thinking about. Her mind went back to the day she’d witnessed Mary, Rossiter, and Callie romping in the rain, stomping through the puddles. Theirs had been the play of children, but even then she’d detected something between her son and the servant. It was in the way Callie had held onto Rossiter’s arm, the way she smiled up into his face. It had all been there to see, but that fool Jasper had convinced her of their innocence!

  Rossiter came out of his dressing room and climbed into bed, falling back against the pillows, too sick to notice the questioning appraisal in his mother’s eyes. He was really sick. His head pounded, and every bone in his body ached.

  Down in the kitchen, Anne Powers herself put on the kettle for Rossiter’s tea. “Mix the plasters for Rossiter’s chest, Lena,” she directed, tying a white baker’s apron over her dark blue afternoon dress. “I think I will have to send MacDuff into St. George for Dr. Margolis. Rossiter is ill, and we’ll be fortunate if it doesn’t prove to be pneumonia.”

  Lena was wordless as she gathered the ingredients for the mustard plasters. There was something about Mrs. Powers that forbade conversation. The woman seemed preoccupied with her thoughts, and there was a definite scowl about her mouth that lent to her severity.

  “Lena,” Mrs. Powers said, turning suddenly. “I’ve decided that my son needs complete rest. Complete and total, without any disturbances. I will tend to him myself, and he will be confined to his room. For all intents and purposes, I don’t wish to have his presence known for a few days at least. That means, Lena, you will not inform the children or Mary’s companion that Rossiter is confined to his room. Since it is at the back of the house, I don’t anticipate any difficulty. Mary and her companion will be told to confine their activities to the nursery. Not a word, Lena. If Master Rossiter is inquired about, you know nothing. Am I understood?”

  Lena dropped her eyes to the bowl she was mixing and nodded. She understood the words, but she understood the threat better. Ever since MacDuff had confided to her how he’d come upon Callie and Master Rossiter in the carriage house, her jealousy of the young girl had disappeared. It wasn’t MacDuff who had the girl lovesick, it was the young master. Poor Callie. How unfair life could be, especially with Mrs. Powers calling the plays.

  “You’ll pass the word to MacDuff. I don’t want him giving out any secrets once he gets a few drinks in him. I’ll hold you responsible, Lena. Do we understand each other?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Powers,” Lena agreed, stirring briskly. She understood all right, better than anyone else.

  “Rossiter is quite ill. Brave boy that he is, he tried to deny it. We’ll do our best today, and if there’s no improvement by tomorrow, then we’ll send for a doctor.”

  Lena frowned. It was “we,” as though Mrs. Powers had found a co-conspirator. “I’ll bring up the plaster as soon as it’s finished.”

  “Be certain to warm the flannel first,” Anne Powers directed, picking up the tea tray. Lena grimaced. As if she didn’t know enough to warm the flannel. If memory served her right, she had been the one who made plasters for Mr. Powers years ago and had shown Mrs. Powers how to do it. She was out of sorts today, and this encounter with Mrs. Powers wasn’t helping. Lena liked to think of herself as being a straightforward person, and she didn’t care for trickery or deceit. Maybe Mrs. Powers was Rossiter’s mother and Callie’s employer, but that didn’t give her the right to—Lena clamped down on the thought. There she was again, poking her nose in where it didn’t belong. At her age a new position would be hard to find and without excellent references, damn near impossible. Things would work out in their own good time, she was sure of it.

  Callie was called down to the parlor by Mrs. Powers herself. Outside the weather promised rain, and she expected to see Rossiter about the house after Mary’s lessons with Mr. Reader, but he was nowhere in sight.

  “Callie,” Mrs. Powers began, “Mary is looking a little peaked to me these days. I think, perhaps, she’s overtired from running about the countryside. Also, I believe she’s been neglecting her lessons. Therefore, I would prefer that she keep to her room for the next several days. You, of course, are to stay with her. I believe there are hems on several of her dresses that need altering. Since I’m not entertaining and Miss Anne will be staying in the city with friends, you will not be needed to serve at table.”

  Anne Powers’s eyes burned into Callie. Yes, it was there if one looked for it. A certain maturing, a blossoming, if one cared to call it that. Callie James was hardly a child any longer. She resolved she was doing the right thing by enforcing this separation from the all-too-vulnerable Rossiter. Men never knew what was best for them. As soon as he was well, she would spirit him off to Boston and then rid this family of his temptation—namely, Callie James.

  Callie squirmed beneath Anne Powers’s glare. Was she mistaken or was there a definite hostility there and an increased coldness in her tone? It was clear that she was being banished to the nursery along with Mary, but the question was why? A sound from the dining room made her lift her head expectantly. It was only Lena. Where was Rossiter? Had he gone into town? He hadn’t mentioned anything last night when he’d come up to her room.

  “You are excused,” Mrs. Powers said imperiously. “See that you follow my instructions.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Powers . . .” A great sneeze suddenly tore out of Callie, and she groped in her pocket for her handkerchief.

  Mrs. Powers’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “It seems you’re coming down with a cold, Callie,” she said smoothly. “Now where in the world would you have caught that? Perhaps it will be necessary to confine you to your room. We can’t have Mary catching it, can we? I will let you know.”

  Long after Callie left the parlor, Anne Powers’s face held a bitter sneer. Yes, I’ll let you know, Callie James. And when I do, you’ll be out on your ear and good riddance to bad rubbish!

  Late that night Callie lay awake in her bed, listening for the sound of Rossiter’s footstep outside her door. It never came.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The following day Rossiter’s condition was not improved, and Anne Powers sent MacDuff into St. George for Dr. Margolis, a dark, romantic figure of a man who was new to Staten Island. She had met him on one other occasion at a dinner given by mutual friends, and she was much impressed with the middle-aged bachelor. Today she dressed in a royal-blue afternoon dress shot with silver thread in a pattern of delicate leaves. The cut of the dress with its dropped waistline gave her slenderness a willowy appearance that added to her height. She had dressed her jet hair into a severe coil, which she believed added drama to her angular features.

  Dr. Margolis arrived just after lunch, and Anne was certain Mary and Callie were up on the third floor. Jasper was still at the office, having remained in the city overnight. It had occurred to her from time to time to wonder if her husband had a woman somewhere in the city, but the idea was so repulsive to her that she had banished the thought.

  After examining Rossiter, the physician came to the same conclusion as Anne. A summer cold. Nasty and miserable, but only a cold. “Still,” he said, aware of Anne’s disappointment that Rossiter’s illness was so terribly ordinary, “it bears watching. Perhaps I’ll come out tomorrow and check on the young man.” Anne seemed pleased with this and smiled her approval.

  Evan Margolis was a tall, swarthy man, just a shade too dark and a shade too thin. Yet he dressed in the height of fashion, and his grooming was impeccable. The fact that he was an eligible bachelor added to his acceptance in the Staten Island community of social matrons. An extra man at a party was so valuable. His attention to this thin, severe, angular woman was wholly based on the fact that she carried a good deal of weight in the community, and her approval and friendship would place him in good stead with the best people.

  Following him down the stairs to the front hall, Anne wrung her hands together. “Do you really think he’ll be all
right, doctor?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s the change in the weather, I believe. So many others are bothered with the same complaints. Keep him quiet, change the plaster tomorrow, and force liquids on him. Keep him warm, close all the windows, and don’t let this miserable damp air into the room. He’ll mend, Mrs. Powers. He’s a strapping young man.” He turned at the door, facing her, concern evident in his expression. “I don’t want you overtaxing yourself. Get the servants to spell you in the sick room. We don’t want you coming down with the same illness, do we?”

  Anne smiled shyly, playing the coquette. What a nice man the doctor was, so considerate. And so handsome and distinguished with just the barest touch of silver near the temples. “I do want to thank you for coming so promptly, Dr. Margolis. Do you know, doctor,” she blurted in a sudden burst of confidence, “if I hadn’t married, I think I would have become a nurse. As it was, I wanted so much to offer my services down at the hospital in Tompkinsville, but Mr. Powers wouldn’t hear of it. He said a woman of my class and breeding just doesn’t do things like that.”

  Evan Margolis’s dark blue eyes widened. He knew he was supposed to say something flattering, but it was difficult to think about such trivial matters when he knew the next patient he was to visit was terminally ill. Still, Mrs. Powers’s influence would be valuable to a physician starting a new practice. “May I say, Mrs. Powers, that it is our loss you didn’t go into nursing. We need dedication in that honorable profession. Most women are afraid of the sight of blood and hard work. So often I believe women are only interested in wearing a little white cap and brewing tea. There’s so much more to the profession, as I am certain you know.”

  Anne Powers blanched slightly. How did he know she only had a hankering for that small, starched white hat? Blood always made her gag. Especially her own.

  “If you would like to call upon me at my office, I can direct you to ways you can help the sick. Perhaps you’d like to work in the clinic I’ve a notion of starting. But,” he held up a warning finger, “only if you’re serious.”

  “I am, Dr. Margolis. I’ll be certain to do as you suggest when I return from Boston. I plan to take the children as soon as Rossiter is well enough to travel.”

  “Whatever suits you, madame. Angels of mercy are in short supply. Bedpans, it seems, are always disagreeable, and one must be terribly dedicated.” A soft white hand, which Anne thought of as a pianist’s hand, was laid gently upon her shoulder. “Think about it, Mrs. Powers, Anne, and come to me when you feel you can give of yourself.”

  Bedpans! Good God, she hadn’t thought about those! She swallowed hard. Anne, he’d called her Anne. “Certainly. Although, I may be gone for some time, and then there’s my other charities to be considered.”

  “Any time,” Evan Margolis said as he pushed his hat down over his thick, wavy hair.

  How distinguished he appeared wearing his fedora. Good God, she was feeling like a school girl with a crush on her teacher.

  She schooled her face to impassivity. “I’ll be in touch. But, of course, I’ll expect to see you tomorrow.” What was this sudden rush she felt going to her head? Evan Margolis was so tall, so dangerously handsome. Logical answers darted through her brain. She was only feeling this attraction, this desire to swoon into his arms because of what was going on between Rossiter and the Irish girl. But his hand felt so warm in hers, so strong. She felt herself being to sway. His arms came around to capture her, holding her firmly against himself. Anne Powers’s face tilted upwards; his lips were so near, so devastatingly close. Impulsively her arms slid around his neck, her lips found his, and she kissed him, feeling as though her feet had left the floor, that her foundations had been swept away.

  Evan Margolis responded passively, alarmed by this sudden display of emotion from a woman whom he had considered cool and poised, if not frigid. He was used to having his women patients entertain romantic thoughts about him, but he’d never quite encountered this kind of surprising advance. It was quite possible the woman was mad! But to risk offending her was to jeopardize the inroads he was making in the community.

  Pulling away from him, Anne Powers was aghast at what she had done. “I’m . . . I’m so terribly . . .” she stuttered.

  Dr. Margolis recognized the opportunity to place himself forever in the lady’s good graces. “No, no, dear lady,” he soothed, “it is my place to beg your forgiveness. I’m afraid I was quite overcome by your charms.”

  Anne Powers stared at him, grateful for his valor, flattered by his admission that he was powerless to resist her charms.

  “A bachelor like myself is quite vulnerable to a woman like you. Say you will forgive me.”

  “Tomorrow, then,” she tried for a lightness in her tone. She held the door for him, watching him hurry to his big buggy. Already she was planning what to wear for his next visit. A dab of cologne wouldn’t hurt. Men did like a touch of scent. Perhaps she would ask him to stay for tea.

  Callie stared anxiously out the nursery window. The raindrops against the pane were like tears falling. She had stayed awake until early morning and still Rossiter had not come to her. Why? She asked herself over and over. Was he tiring of her? All day yesterday she had not seen him, and since she and Mary had been confined to the third floor, she had not seen him at dinner either. She was half-crazy.

  Careful questioning of Mary had produced no results. She hadn’t seen her brother either and had heard nothing from her Mamán nor anyone else. Callie knew her neglect of Mary these past weeks was unforgivable, and she deeply regretted it, but it seemed she couldn’t gain control of herself or her emotions. Nothing and no one existed, except him.

  “Mary, would you like to try on your green gingham so I can measure the hem. Then perhaps we can read a story. . .” Turning, Callie realized Mary was no longer in the nursery. Puzzled, she went out into the hall and into her own room, thinking the child might have gone in there, but with no results. Going back into the nursery, she noticed for the first time that the lunch tray was missing. Mary must have taken it downstairs to the kitchen with the hope of begging cookies from Lena. “Mary Powers,” Callie muttered, “you’d better hope your mother doesn’t catch you. When she says we’re to stay upstairs, that’s exactly what she means!”

  Callie headed for the stairs, carefully tiptoeing past Mrs. Powers’s room on the second floor. She debated using the back stairs but thought she’d have a better chance of encountering Mary in the front of the house. She went quietly along the hallway to the main stairs, alert for the slightest sound. Halfway down, with a clear view of the front door, she stood in shock. Mrs. Powers was hard in the embrace of a tall, dark man, and she was kissing him! “Tomorrow then,” she heard the familiar voice say to the man before she held the door open for him and watched him leave. All instincts told Callie she had just witnessed something she wasn’t supposed to have seen. Just as she was about to turn around and go back upstairs, Mrs. Powers suddenly looked up. The shock that leaped from her eyes dissolved into an open hatred. For a long, long moment Mrs. Powers held Callie in her stare, as though challenging her to utter a word. Then silently the woman turned and went into the front parlor, closing the door behind her.

  Unknown to either Mrs. Powers or Callie, Mary was just coming down the hall from the dining room, carrying a pitcher of milk and a plate of cookies. She had hidden behind the door when she saw her mother and a tall man walk to the front hall. She hadn’t known Mamán had guests. What she saw next shook her to the foundations. Mamán was kissing the strange man. Mary’s mouth dropped open, her cinnamon eyes widened. Mamán never kissed anybody except Rossiter! Mamán never even kissed Papá!

  Mary saw her mother show the man out of the house, and then something very curious happened. Mamán glanced upward. A bitter expression, like the one when she scolded, passed over her face. Then she quietly went into the parlor and closed the doors behind her.

  Mary thought better of using the front stairs to go back to the nursery, so she turne
d and went through the kitchen again, heading for the back staircase.

  Anne Powers lay quietly musing on the chair beside Rossiter’s bed, a cup of cold tea at her elbow. Neither food nor drink appealed to her. Her active mind would not allow anything but thoughts of Evan Margolis. What a fool she’d been! A kiss meant nothing to him, of that she was certain. Yet he didn’t seem to be the kind of man Anne herself would call a womanizer. Surely, if he were, it would be the source of gossip. Evan Margolis had an impeccable reputation as far as she knew. So, she thought egotistically, the man must be smitten with her. Now whatever might have come of it was ruined because of that little Irish bitch sneaking around the stairs. Just as soon as Anne Powers returned from Boston, Callie James would find herself without a position. Damn Jasper and his protectiveness toward the girl. As soon as she told him what had been going on between her and his son, Jasper would sing a different tune! It was time for Mary to go to boarding school. Children from the best families attended. Besides, it was time, Anne thought to herself, that she found a way to escape the rigors of motherhood. She was still a young woman! Still attractive! It was her time, after all these years of child-rearing, to think of herself for a change.