Cinders to Satin

by Fern Michaels

Byrch led Callie away from Shantytown, resolving to himself that she would never set foot there again. Poverty and want and tragedy would never again find Callie James. As he led her to his carriage, Callie walked beside him woodenly, her face expressionless, her eyes vacant. Byrch guided her protectively, leading her through the gawking crowd, the sea of teary faces, the grim acceptance of men and women who had so little and expected no more from life.

  It seemed to Byrch that he always arrived at the crises of Callie’s life. In the alley in Dublin, at the Magdalene Society, and at her eighteenth birthday party, which although it appeared happy and serene, was indeed a time of crisis. That was the day she had met Rossiter. Yet this young woman beside him seemed a stranger. She who had been scrapping, even insolent, and defiantly proud was now a defeated woman, strangely quiet and dry-eyed.

  Once in the carriage, he tried to draw Callie close to him. She was stiff, unyielding, closing herself off to being comforted. She was holding herself together with invisible twine and transparent paste, pretending to be made of grit and iron. But she was a woman who had lost her child, and the devastation was taking hold like the cold fingers of death. At twenty she had seen more tragedy than most people see in a lifetime.

  Callie clenched her hands into fists. If she could only cry, loosen this band about her heart. She wanted to kick, to scream, to curse the fates that had robbed her of her son. Everything seemed so remote, so distant from her, as though it were all happening to someone else and she was merely a dispassionate bystander. What had she done to deserve this? What had a child, innocent and tender, done to deserve such a wicked end? Was this Divine Retribution? Was this her punishment for aspiring to a better life for her son? Didn’t the heavens know that she’d already decided she wouldn’t go away with Rossiter? She was only hoping that Rossiter would take an interest in his son, help Rory along somehow, give him advantages and a hope for the future. Was that so wrong, or was it what Peggy called “stepping out of place”?

  Callie leaned her head back against the soft leather of the carriage seat. From the first grocery basket she’d stolen, to falling in love with Rossiter, she had stepped out of place, defied the fates. Wasn’t it true that she had expected Rossiter to marry her? And hadn’t she paid by being left homeless and pregnant and feeling responsible for little Mary’s death? Wasn’t it true that she aspired to a better life than Shantytown and Hugh? And she’d been punished, and Hugh and Rory had paid the price. “Know your place, Callie,” Peggy had warned often enough. There was always a price to be paid, a lesson to be learned, dues owed.

  Byrch put an arm around her shoulders, bringing her close. “It’s all right to cry, Callie,” he told her, wishing she would scream, cry, anything except this terrible silence.

  Callie allowed herself to be taken into his arms, allowed him to place her head against his heart. “I can’t feel anything,” she whispered. “That’s wrong. I should be crying for my son, for a husband who loved me and I was too blind to see it. I’ve done wrong, Byrch. Terrible wrong.”

  “Hush, sweeting, it’s all too much for you. You can’t face your grief right now, you’re not ready. When it’s time, you’ll cry,” he reassured her gently. “For now, you’ve got to think of yourself so you can get through the days to come. I’ll help you, Callie,” he told her softly as he strengthened his embrace. “We’ll talk later.”

  “I don’t ever want to talk about it.” Her voice was tight, near the edge of exhaustion.

  “Then we won’t. We’ll talk about other things. We’ll look ahead into the future. You may find this difficult to believe, sweeting, but we all have a future.”

  Callie fell back into silence. Byrch felt himself stiffen for a moment, and there was a slight tremor in his hand as he stroked her soot-singed hair. Once before he had felt this way, and long-submerged memories rose to the surface. It seemed a lifetime ago that he’d rescued her from the button factory and had brought her home to Edward. An enormous wave of guilt washed over him. He should have remained in closer contact with her; he never should have trusted her to anyone else. He shouldn’t have blown up at Jasper Powers when he was told Callie had disappeared. He should have made every effort to find her. Reason excused him, but his heart didn’t believe it. By God, this time she wasn’t going to get away from him! This time he wouldn’t trust her to anyone, save himself. He would always be there for her—always. It never occurred to Byrch that Callie would refuse or reject his intervention.

  “We’re home, Callie. Look, Edward has the lights burning for us. It’s as though he knew I was bringing you home.”

  With an effort Callie raised her head. Through narrowed lids she recognized the townhouse where she had spent ten wonderful days a lifetime ago. She was a child then. Byrch lifted her out of the carriage, carrying her easily up the front brick steps. In the yellow gaslight Callie stared up into his cat-green eyes. “You shouldn’t be so good to me,” she told him. “I don’t deserve it. Don’t you know, Byrch? I’m dead, just as dead as Rory and Hugh. It was all my fault, all of it. I should have accepted my lot in life; I should have been a real wife to Hugh. I stepped out of my place, and now the price is paid.”

  Byrch winced against the pain in her eyes, against the terrible sound of her voice as she choked back her sobs. “You’re wrong, Callie, but I won’t expect you to believe me now. You will someday. For now I’m going to get you into the house and put you to bed.” Broaching no protest, Byrch held her in his arms and carried her up the front steps. Inside the small foyer he kicked the door shut behind him and bellowed for Edward, who came on the run.

  The stately manservant immediately took in the scene, smelling the pungent smoke on their clothes and seeing their cinder-smudged faces. It was when Callie turned her summer-blue eyes on him that he recognized her. “Miss Callie!” He saw the shadows of grief there and reached his hand out to touch her. “Miss Callie,” he intoned gently, ignorant of the facts and only sensing the deep sorrow she harbored.

  “Go for Dr. Jameson, Edward. Use my carriage outside. And tell him not to spare the shoe leather.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Kenyon. The guest room is clean and ready. You’ll have to get the wash basin from your room. I just put out hot water for you.”

  Callie sighed wearily, pushing back her tumbled hair from her eyes. Beneath the soot and ash, her face was pale and wan, her lips bloodless. “I can walk, Byrch, truly I can.”

  “I don’t doubt it for a minute, but allow me my small pleasure. It’s been a long time since I carried you into my house.”

  She rested her head against his shoulder with the movement of a broken doll, allowing him to carry her up the stairs.

  A low groan of misery escaped Byrch. He remembered the first time he’d seen Callie in a dirty Dublin alley, full of spirit and spunk. Somewhere inside that spirited girl was still there, and whether Callie realized it or not, it was that girl who would struggle to survive. Reaching the third floor, he entered the guest bedroom and gently placed her on the bed. “I don’t want you to move a muscle till I get back. I’ll only be a minute.” He was as good as his word, returning with a clean nightshirt and the basin of hot water with soap and a cloth. A large, fleecy towel was draped over his shoulder. She hadn’t moved, he noticed; she still sat on the edge of the high tester bed, her feet almost a foot from the floor. She looked as young and small and vulnerable as she had when he’d brought her home from the button factory.

  “I’m going to clean you up a bit. I’ve never done this before, so if I do something wrong, tell me.”

  Callie was silent, unresponsive, lost in her world of grief. He could not allow her to slip further away, hiding behind a wall of silence. He would talk to her, babble like an idiot if he had to, but he must force her awareness, make her hear, feel, see, or he would lose her completely.

  “You smell like a sugar-cured ham. Edward would heartily disapprove if I let you get into one of his snowy clean beds all soot and cinders. He’s gone to fetch Dr. Jameson, and we
want you looking clean and fresh . . .” His words trailed off as she held him in her stare. Even to himself he sounded like a clucking mother hen. “I need to do this, Callie. I have to do something for you, and I don’t think you’re capable of doing it for yourself.”

  Callie sat still beneath his tender ministrations. She was too weary to protest, too empty to care. She kept wanting to cry, but the tears wouldn’t surface. She felt him take the remaining pins from her hair, and she closed her eyes to the gentle wipes and dabs of the soft cloth on her neck and throat. When he lifted her hands to wash them, she felt like a child again. It was so good to leave the details of living to someone else. All she had to do was sit here, allow him to do this for her. With deliberate and knowledgeable fingers, he undid the buttons down the back of her dress. She felt it slide over her head and frowned when she remembered it was ruined. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. She felt so alone, so disconnected. Only the touch of Byrch’s hands reminded her she was in the world of the living. The petticoats were next, then the shoes and stockings. The camisole and bloomers were the last to be removed.

  “I can’t wait for the day when women give up all these clothes. It’s nearly May, for God’s sake. It’s beyond me how you women stand being boned and tied and gussetted! And they call yours the weaker sex!”

  Byrch kept up a stream of inconsequential banter to keep his mind off what he was seeing and feeling. She was so quiet, so solemn, as he patted and wiped at her silken skin. She suffered his inept attendance with stoic calm. He doubted if she were really aware of the intimate nature of the deed he was performing. Quickly he pulled the nightshirt over her head and tucked it down around her. His audible sigh of relief startled him. He hadn’t realized that he’d been holding his breath.

  “Into bed with you. Edward will be here soon with the doctor. I’ll sit here with you. Lie back, Callie. Don’t be ashamed to cry. I can’t feel your pain, but I know what you must be feeling.”

  Callie dropped back against the fluffy pillows. How could he know what she was feeling when she didn’t know herself?

  “Close your eyes, Callie. Try to rest until Dr. Jameson comes. You’ve been through a horrendous ordeal, and right now you’re tighter than a drum. Your nerves . . .” He was saying all the wrong things, doing everything wrong. If Edward were here, he’d know what Callie needed.

  Callie’s eyes were wide and staring. Sleep. Never again would she sleep. Sleep was for people who were at peace with themselves. Her unblinking gaze circled the room. It was familiar; there was a sense of remembered safety here. The crisp, ruffled curtains waved in the light breeze. They were the same, delicate and beautiful. The wing-backed chairs were still before the hearth, their deep tapestry cushions soft and inviting. She could almost picture herself nearly four years ago sitting in one of them, poring over copies of the Clarion-Observer with her feet propped up on the needlepoint-cushioned footstool. The wallpaper was still pale green sprigged, the bedspread and hangings soft gold, and the cherrywood furniture gleamed in the light from the lamp. It was a wonderful room, and once she had thought it had been created with a little girl in mind. There was a rocker in the corner, new and shiny, so different from her own rocker back in the shanty. It was the rocker that made her breath catch in an anguished sob.

  Byrch was at her side instantly, taking her hand in his. She didn’t resist, nor did she acknowledge his presence.

  The sound of the front door opening and closing alerted Byrch to Edward’s return with the doctor. Leaving Callie for the moment, he met the two men outside in the hallway, careful to close the bedroom door behind him. Quickly, somberly, he informed them of the fire and of Callie’s loss. Edward’s eyes widened in disbelief and then narrowed as he shook his head. “Our poor little miss has certainly had a bad time of it,” he commiserated. “Poor Miss Callie, her heart must be broken.”

  “Well, step aside, Byrch. I liked that little girl you brought home a few years ago, and I thought you were a fool for letting her go. She was like a fine wine; all she needed was a little aging,” Jameson said. “Let me in, and I’ll see what I can do for her.”

  Daniel Jameson was a jowly bear of a man with a rich twinkle in his eyes. His faded carrot-colored hair stood out in stiff little peaks like meringue on a pie. When Byrch and Edward began to follow him into the bedroom, his attitude clearly said this was his domain, and he didn’t need two fools cluttering up the place. He would make it right. A gentle talk, a shoulder to cry on, a little of his famous bedside manner, and this child would survive if he had to breathe life into her. He’d seen her kind before—a survivor.

  Dr. Jameson smiled down at Callie and remembered the other time when he’d been called to tend her. His smile widened in appreciation of the transformation from that pug-nosed girl to this lovely creature. It was exactly as he’d told Byrch. All she’d needed was a little aging.

  In the narrow hallway Byrch and Edward waited. “I take the liberty of placing myself at Miss Callie’s disposal,” Edward told his employer authoritatively, “with your permission, of course, sir. Don’t worry, Mr. Kenyon, that young woman has exactly what it takes to get by in this world. She had it as a child, and I’m confident she still possesses it as a woman. I would also like to take the liberty of saying the child has become a beautiful woman. I seem to recall telling you she would. I’m so glad she didn’t disappoint me.”

  “Is there anything you don’t know?” Byrch snapped.

  “Very little, Mr. Kenyon,” Edward said urbanely. “Reading the Clarion-Observer every day does give a man an education.”

  Byrch smiled weakly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Edward.”

  “Actually, Mr. Kenyon, neither do I. Am I correct in assuming that you’re waiting for Miss Callie to fall asleep before you go out to attend to the arrangements?”

  “Of course. How could I leave her here and do what I have to do if there’s the slightest doubt in my mind that anything . . . that she . . . oh, hell, you know what I’m trying to say.”

  “It mystifies me that a man of your eloquence is having such difficulty expressing himself,” Edward observed. If he remembered correctly, the last time Callie stayed at the house on St. Luke’s Place, Byrch was also in a dither much of the time. Such an unnatural state for a sophisticated man!

  “Dammit, Edward, stop looking so smug. I’m not having any difficulty expressing myself, it’s only that Callie . . . what I mean . . . Callie is a . . .”

  “A very special young woman who is suffering a very trying time. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  Byrch merely growled.

  “Take heart, Mr. Kenyon. Miss Callie has what you Irish call ‘grit.’ Time will make things right for her. Time and the right people around her.”

  “How you ever got so smart beats the hell out of me. You came to me barefoot and cross-eyed and look at you now.” There was a fondness and deep friendship between the black man and his employer.

  “Begging your pardon, I may have been barefoot when I first met you in Jamaica, but I have never been cross-eyed,” Edward argued stiffly.

  Daniel Jameson closed the door softly behind him. “She’s dropping off to sleep, and she should sleep till noon tomorrow if you two mules can ever stop your confounded arguing. I gave her a sleeping draught.” At the anxious expression in both men’s eyes, the genial doctor smiled. “She’s going to be fine. It will only take time.”

  Edward straightened; the smile on his face was smug and knowing.

  “I’ll send you the bill, Byrch. Edward, it was nice seeing you again. My man tells me you won three out of four chess games with him. If you’ve a mind to, I’d appreciate it if you’d show me one or two of those trickier moves. Anatole is in to me for half my house at this point!”

  “I’d be delighted to have a game with you, Dr. Jameson,” Edward said in his clipped British accent. He locked his hands behind his back and rocked back and forth on his heels. He did love a challenge, but the doctor was an aby
smal player.

  “Thanks for coming, Daniel,” Byrch said. “Have you heard anything about the fire? Are there many casualties?”

  Jameson shook his head. “It’s too far uptown, for one thing. I doubt they’ve got adequate help up there. If you don’t mind, I’d like to borrow your carriage and head up there now. Perhaps there’s something I can do.”

  “Of course. I can walk over to St. Matthew’s Missionary to see Father Muldoon. One thing, Dan. If you wouldn’t mind stopping by and picking up Jimmy Riley. I want him to bring Callie’s husband and baby back here. I left the poor souls in charge of the neighbors.”

  “Consider it done. I’ll send him back with the carriage, if that’s all right. Now don’t worry about that young woman; she’s strong. Callie will be right as rain in time. Feed her light, Edward, but insist she eat. Call me if you need me.”

  “What are your plans for the wake,” Edward asked after the doctor had gone.

  “There won’t be a wake,” Byrch said tightly. “I’m going to see Father Muldoon now. We’re going to have a Mass said, and the burial will take place directly afterward. I hate to ask this of you, Edward, but someone has to do it. I’ll ask Father Muldoon to send one of the good sisters over. Would you give a hand in preparing for the burial? Use anything of mine you need for Hugh MacDuff. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Edward swallowed hard. He would have sold his soul for Byrch Kenyon, but preparing the dead for burial wasn’t something he’d ever considered.

  When Byrch returned home after his meeting with a sleepy Father Muldoon, he wasn’t surprised to see the kitchen lights blazing up the stairwell. He walked downstairs and felt his lips tighten. Two Sisters of Charity were carefully tending to Hugh MacDuff, their black, flowing habits fluttering with their movements, their serene faces somber and prayerful. They had attired Hugh in Byrch’s own best blue garbardine suit with a white shirt and dark blue cravat.

  Byrch’s eyes traveled to Edward who was standing at the wooden table where Rory’s little body rested on a blanket. He couldn’t bear to watch as Edward’s elegant dark hands dressed the babe in a pale blue nightdress. Edward’s expressive mahogany eyes shone with tears as he brushed the soft golden curls. “Such a beautiful child,” Edward mourned. “Miss Callie’s loss is a terrible one.” With loving respect he covered the babe with a fold of the blanket.