Cinders to Satin

by Fern Michaels

  Lifting her into his arms, he carried her across the room and put her on the high tester bed. He captured her mouth with his own, entering with his tongue, feeling the velvet of hers. She moved closer to him, offering herself, allowing his hands to move over her body, exciting her hungers until they matched his own. She yielded to his touch, growing languorous as he found her breasts, his mouth exploring hers, tasting and caressing with a gentleness and seduction that sent her senses reeling.

  He lifted her petticoat, sliding his hand along her bare leg, rising upwards between her thighs, and she moved against his touch and heard the echo of her desires in the deepness of his voice. “You’re so beautiful, Callie. I know you want me to touch you, to love you. You do, I know you do.” More than his life, Byrch wanted to believe his own words. He needed to believe she wanted him, that she loved him, even a little. He hoped, prayed, she would tell him it was so, but there was no sound except for the beating of their hearts and the rustle of her body against the sheets.

  Another kiss and Callie pulled herself out of his arms, kneeling beside him on the bed. In the glow of the lamp he watched her, his arms feeling empty without her to warm them. Slowly she undid the ties of her camisole, the thin fabric delineating her breasts and their hard, firm crests that pushed against their restraints. Feeling his eyes upon her, she worked slowly, trembling fingers fussing with laces, rapidly beating heart making her pulses race. One by one, she removed her garments, revealing herself to him a little at a time, whetting his appetite for her. The lamp gave a burnished sheen to her skin, the curves of her body emphasized by deepening shadows in the valleys. Taking his cue from her, Byrch stripped off his clothes, his thoughts leaping ahead to the next touch, the next kiss, the next secret discovered. He was eager to be naked with her, wanting the heat from her body to warm that cold place in his heart. He wouldn’t listen to that devil inside him, for now at least he would believe it was desire he saw in her eyes and passion he heard in those soft, mewling sounds she made.

  Rolling onto his back, he took her with him, grazing his fingers down her spine and returning again and again to sample the roundness of her bottom. He took her hands and placed them on his chest, inviting her touch and inspiring her caresses. He wanted her to take pleasure in him; he wanted to stir those fragile passions.

  Callie smoothed her palms over the broad expanse of his chest, pulling at the thicket of dark hair patterned there, grazing over the sensitive nubs of his nipples, feeling them tauten and rise just like her own. She bent to kiss them, taking them into her mouth, licking, tasting, widening her explorations to include the flatness of his belly and the firmness of his thighs.

  Byrch pushed her backwards, following with his weight, putting her beneath him once again. He found the sweetness of her mouth, the curious moistness of her eyelids and the tender curve of her jaw. She sought him with her lips, possessed him with her hands, her own senses soaring as she realized the pleasure he was finding in her, feeling herself to be beautiful beneath his touch. The boldness of his sex seemed vulnerable to her touch, and it was not something to be feared; it was evidence of his desire for her, quivering with expectancy and need.

  His hands warmed her body, following each line of her flesh, each curve and plane, seeking and exploring with tender adoration. He moved over her, pressing her thighs apart with his knee, his eyes feasting on her as she lay in tremulous expectation. Her dark hair fanned upon the pillow, curling tendrils softening the line of her cheek and creating shadows over her eyes. Her flesh was bathed in a sleek sheen that highlighted the contours of her body. Her arms reached for him, tempting him into her embrace, but this he denied her, taking her hands in his and kissing her fingertips. He sat back on his haunches, caressing her body, watching as the tip of her tongue darted between her lips, her head thrown back, giving herself over to these feelings he was creating within her. It was only when he called her name that she looked at him, sultry eyes following his every motion. He encouraged her to watch as his hands slid along her body, touching first the hollow of her throat and moving downward to the cleft between her breasts, following their curves upward to cup their fullness. Over and over in a rhythmic pattern, the cadence of his hands teased her, skimming lower and lower toward her opened thighs and to the secret of her sex. Her body arched, driving herself against his touch, willing those artful, expressive hands to possess her, to bring her the release he himself had taught her. He was her maestro; she was a finely tuned instrument created only for the sound of his music. With him she could ride the crescendo, keeping to the rhythm, beating with the drum that was her passion-stirred heart. When his hands dipped to her center, she cried out, legs parting wider to admit his touch, straining her hips to arch against his gently circling fingers.

  He tamed her passions and excited her desires, feeling the heat from her invade his body, reveling in it. She cried softly as he took her to the edge of sensation, holding back, afraid to plunge over the edge, afraid of finding herself alone and without him. It was the point of no return, and the sound of her name on his lips pushed her over the edge into a maelstrom of passion’s winds and love’s fury. She had found her release; he had given it like a gift, but at the center of herself there was an emptiness that only he could fill. She felt as though her body was drawing inward on itself, contracting, seeking to find something to make it whole again. When he leaned forward, driving himself into her, she knew that this was what her body sought—his body, filling her with his throbbing masculinity.

  She strained beneath him, sharing his long-awaited pleasure. His mouth claimed hers, kissing her deeply, and his movements were smooth and unhurried as he stroked within her, encouraging her to match his movements, stirring her responses until she knew she would find that sweet release once again.

  Her hands smoothed along his back to find the firm roundness of his haunches, holding fast and driving herself against him. Her legs seemed to rise at their own volition, changing their position, allowing him deeper entry. She felt him lift her bottom, raising her up, thrusting himself into her with short, quick strokes. She heard her muffled cries at this new, exquisite sensation, and her body heated and closed around his, taking him with her to the edge of that crevasse. And locked in one another’s arms, they plunged forward to find themselves lifted on the winds of sensation and flying the midnight sky to passion’s reward.

  The room was silent, the lamp still glowing softly, creating shadows in the far corners. Byrch lay beside Callie, holding her, her head nestled against his chest. The only sound was her soft breathing as she slept. Long into the night he held her, cherishing her closeness. Their lovemaking had been exquisite, a journey into a realm of pleasure that he’d never known. But a part of him was uneasy, unfulfilled. He wanted to talk, to share, to tell her of his love, but he was afraid to break the silence between them and end their truce. She’d obeyed his demands to act his whore, pretended to welcome his lovemaking until instinct took over. Callie was a sensual woman, awakened now to her desires and needs. His thoughts went back to that first night when she’d asked him to make her a woman. Even that first time she’d been an artful lover, listening to her instincts, acting upon her passions. She had learned her lessons well.

  Byrch inhaled the fragrance of her hair and nuzzled his chin against her brow. There was a heaviness in his chest, and he knew sleep would not find him this night. He should go back to his own bed, try to put her out of his mind. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave her. If this was all he could have of her, if he could never have her love, it would have to be enough. Because without her, he would die.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Callie’s spirits rose and strengthened as spring became the first wonderful days of summer. Edward’s flower garden bloomed, and his vegetable patch was lush and green. The first sweet peas had already been picked, and another row was growing for the cool weather of autumn. Callie assigned herself the task of weeding and harvesting the bright blooms to decorate the townhouse. Edwar
d watched her from the kitchen window as she bent over to dig in the soil. Women, he knew, didn’t like to get dirt under their fingernails, but when he’d offered her gardening gloves, Callie had shunned them. She wanted to feel the rich, black earth between her fingers, she’d said. At times Edward was a bit disgruntled with her success in his garden. His rows of vegetables had never looked so neat, so orderly. And try as he might, he could never keep his garden free from weeds, not the way Miss Callie could.

  He watched her now as she dropped to her knees, her garden basket beside her. Her movements were slow, sure, and deft as she plucked here and patted there. What magic did she have in her fingers to make the plants so green and lush, seeming to grow directly beneath her touch? He had choked back a laugh when Miss Callie had told Mr. Kenyon at dinner that she talked and sang to the plants. Mr. Kenyon had winked roguishly at Edward and forced a laugh that wasn’t reflected in his eyes. Edward had to admit that having a woman in the house made all the difference. A house with two men in it smelled like a house with two men, plus a bit of furniture polish.

  Callie’s presence was welcomed. Edward enjoyed her company for a cup of tea in the afternoons. She insisted they lunch together at the kitchen table. In the beginning he was a bit ill at ease, but he soon came to look forward to her company. She made her presence known in other ways too, taking over some of his more loathsome chores. She was an expert at ironing, and he gladly surrendered the task of Byrch’s shirts to her. It freed him for other more important interests: perfecting his chess game.

  Edward finished up the luncheon dishes and hung up the towel to dry. If Mr. Kenyon had his way, a marriage was in the offing. Soon, Edward knew, he’d be drying the dishes with fancy embroidered towels instead of the plain white ones he used. Some things a man just knew. He decided he didn’t mind. The kitchen could use a little color. He had watched a transformation in the house as, little by little, a woman’s touch was added here and there. There were subtle little changes: a pot of herbs on the window sill, a geranium with sixteen giant blooms in a crock by the sink. The kitchen curtains were whiter and stiffer, definitely an improvement over his limp, tied-back coverings. Callie had hung greenery from the exposed beams; it was pleasant to look at and smelled woodsy. He couldn’t remember how or when these little touches appeared. One day they weren’t there, and the next they were. It was that simple. Like Miss Callie herself. And, if his eyesight wasn’t failing him, his copper-bottomed pots sparkled, and he’d even go so far as to wager a full month’s salary that the piece of needlework she was stitching would eventually add up to a cushion for his rocker.

  Edward liked Miss Callie. She wasn’t one of those complicated, vain women that Mr. Kenyon sometimes brought home. She didn’t hide behind her hands or giggle, and neither did she assume a haughty, imperious attitude. Callie had a mind and used it. She wasn’t shy about voicing her opinions, and on more than one occasion, he had seen Mr. Kenyon at a loss for words when her cool, calm logic had backed him into a corner. There was no pretense about Miss Callie. He hoped Mr. Kenyon was smart enough not to let her slip through his fingers this time.

  Edward was grateful that Miss Callie was coming out of her grief slowly but surely. Her eyes no longer harbored that haunted expression. Her smiles were warm and genuine, and she was taking on a new life for herself. He was also aware of a new restlessness. She wanted to be busy, she needed to be busy, and the few homemaking chores she managed to wrest from him were not enough for her. When her gardening was finished, she would come in, wash up, and then sit on the back terrace to read the morning paper. Then she would usually go for a walk. She never said where she was going, but on the days he saw her take flowers from the garden, he knew her destination was the cemetery behind St. Matthew’s Mission Church. He did notice, thankfully, that of late her trips were less frequent. She was coming to terms with her loss. He hoped that in some small way he was helping her.

  Callie completed her weeding. She looked approvingly at the neat rows she tended so lovingly. Edward approved, she could tell. They’d already harvested a small crop of sugar peas, and the green beans would be next. The leaf lettuce was yielding enough each day for a small salad, and she could hardly wait for the first cucumbers. The summer squash and green onions were interspersed between rows of root vegetables to be stored through the winter. She hadn’t realized how much she had learned from Lena and Hugh about raising and storing fresh produce. She liked to sit and look at the garden, imagining she could actually watch it grow before her very eyes. It was such perfect weather: warm golden days and light rain at night.

  She liked this small, walled garden. The white iron bench that Edward had painted was perfect beneath the shade of the plum tree. She liked everything about the house on St. Luke’s Place. Callie knew she was recovering from Rory’s death. She still thought about him; she still ached for him, but somehow she knew she would survive. It was time to begin thinking about her life and what she would do with it. After being a mother, taking care of Rory and Hugh and carrying the responsibility of survival, Callie felt there was no meaning in these halcyon days spent waiting for Byrch’s return from the paper.

  Their arrangement seemed to have created a kind of armed truce. Only pleasantries were exchanged, their conversations deepening only on neutral ground. Only Byrch could ever fill the emptiness Rory had left in her heart. She loved him, of that she had no doubt, and she longed to let go of the terror that if she reached out for happiness, it would be snatched away. But that was a foregone conclusion, Callie needed to keep reminding herself. There was no future for herself and Byrch. They had made an agreement, a bargain. Three months, he’d told her, and she could consider her debt paid. It was something she didn’t care to think about, and she wasn’t certain whether it was because she had agreed to be his whore or that at the end of that time she would walk out of his life forever. The pang she felt at the thought of leaving Byrch was almost crippling in its intensity.

  Callie carefully dipped some rain water from the barrel, washed her dirty hands, and wiped them on the towel Edward provided. She stored away her gardening tools in the box beside the back steps. Now for a cool glass of lemonade and the newspaper. She was interested in the latest news and especially in Byrch’s editorials. How hungrily she read the words and remembered the topical events to discuss them at dinner. Often she mentally composed an article, comparing it to the one in the Clarion. Once or twice she had even found the nerve to put her views on paper and had showed her work to Edward. He’d read them with amazement, appreciating her choice of words and the slant she gave to the story. As Edward’s approval increased, she became more and more creative, until one day Edward declared she wrote every bit as well as some of the reporters on the Clarion and that Byrch would be hard pressed to tell the difference if her story was anonymously submitted for his approval. Callie had glowed all day from Edward’s praise.

  Callie settled herself in the padded wicker chair on the flagstone terrace. It was a beautiful day, and she considered walking to the cemetery to place flowers on Rory’s and Hugh’s graves. But somehow it was too nice a day for cemeteries. She loved summer and its sweet smelling nights and the warm rain dancing on the slate roof.

  Picking up the morning copy of the Clarion, she felt a part of the newspaper. Byrch had brought her down to the offices and showed her around, and she’d loved every minute. She felt herself in tune with the roar of the presses and the hustle-bustle and the general hubbub. She adored young Jimmy Riley, who she knew was smitten with her. For such a young man, he had a sharp, keen mind, which she appreciated.

  Byrch had told her how Jimmy had started with the paper as a newsboy and progressed to copy boy. Now the redheaded, freckled young man was called upon to put his talents to use with his sketches, which were a notable part of the Clarion, and often he published a lead story. At times Callie felt guilty about trading on the young man’s infatuation to glean as much information about the newspaper business as he would tell her.
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  Callie’s eyes narrowed as she read a boldly headlined article on the front page. Another newsboy had been beaten and robbed, his papers slashed. He was the fifth newsboy so far to be injured. Byrch must be livid, Callie thought. These were his boys, and she knew he suspected one of the rival papers retaliating against his support of a typesetters’ labor union. The Clarion-Observer was doing its best to find the guilty parties, all to no avail. Jimmy Riley, once a newsboy himself, called the men behind these acts “sharks.” Byrch, more vocal on the subject, referred to them as “bastards.” And all because Byrch was one-hundred percent behind the National Typographical Union. Trouble had been brewing ever since the New York Printers Union was represented at the National Convention of Printers in December of 1850, but nothing so violent as these recent incidents.

  Callie felt tears sting her eyes as she read about the newsboy’s injuries. A broken shoulder, cuts and abrasions, and head injuries. Cracked ribs and a shoe lost in the scuffle. That was a touch from Jimmy Riley, she was sure of it. Make the reader sympathetic. Child gets beaten and loses shoe as he tries to fight off his attackers in defense of his job. How the child’s family must feel was something with which Callie could identify. In most cases a newsboy’s money helped his family to stay alive. Food and clothing, the necessities of life, provided by an eight-year-old child.

  Someone should talk to the parents of the boys and write a story on how they felt. A follow-up with comments from the other boys would add more meat. Strong measures were called for, and a brief column on the front page wasn’t going to help Byrch stop the beatings. People had to rally to a cause; their heartstrings had to be tugged.

  Callie sat turning the information over and over in her mind, exploring different approaches to the story. The plight of the Clarion’ s newsboys pushed all other thoughts from her mind. On impulse, she dropped the paper and ran up to her room, rummaging in the depths of her dresser drawer for her pad of paper and the articles she had written. Sitting cross-legged on her bed, she read and reread what she’d written, looking for flaws and contradictions, judging the quick, crackling style she had adopted from reading other reporters, especially Byrch. In her opinion, her work was every bit as good as what appeared in the Clarion day after day. Byrch had recently been directing his editorials to political issues, especially labor unions. It seemed a lifetime ago since he’d put his men to drawing stories of the human condition within the city, to describing and reforming the plights of the immigrant. It also seemed to Callie that there was a sorry absence of human-interest stories; most of the articles simply reported the news and events.