Cinders to Satin

by Fern Michaels

  “Flanna! Flanna, wake up. Good God, what time is it?” Byrch asked anxiously.

  “Good heavens, Byrch, you startled me. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to shout at a sleeping person? I think it’s around three in the morning. Why don’t you let me bed you down for the night?”

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” Byrch grinned boyishly. “Thank you for the brandy and your company.”

  “It was my pleasure, Byrch.” She tried to hide her disappointment.

  Outside in the cool night air Byrch felt befuddled. He hadn’t had that much to drink. It must have been the relaxing massage Flanna gave him. He walked on, and soon found himself in the Darcys’ block. Oh, Jesus, that couldn’t be Bridget. Surely that wasn’t Bridget standing on the front porch in her night clothes, waiting for her dog to piddle.

  “Byrch!” she shrieked. “Byrch! Is something wrong? What are you doing at this end of town at this time of night?” Her eyes narrowed suddenly when she noticed the direction he was coming from. Could he have gone to Flanna Beauchamp’s house? On his wedding night?

  “Will you shut the hell up, Bridget. You’ll be waking up the entire neighborhood, not to mention Kevin and the children. What are you doing up at this time of night?”

  “This fool dog had to go out. Who does she nudge when she wants to be let out? Not Kevin, I can tell you. Me, no matter what time of the day or night. I don’t have to explain anything to you, Byrch. It’s you who have some explaining to do. Just what are you doing at this time of night on the day you got married?”

  “That’s none of your business, Bridget,” Byrch said, stalking off into the night.

  Of all the goddamn miserable, rotten luck, this was the worst. By tomorrow everyone in town would know that he had been seen near Flanna Beauchamp’s house at three o’clock in the morning. Knowing Bridget, she would probably up the time to four o’clock, and she wouldn’t fail to mention that it was on his wedding day. If Callie got wind of the gossip she would be humiliated beyond belief. Byrch groaned aloud as he made his way down the darkened streets. Not that she would care. He winced when he thought of what Edward would say. Perhaps he should try to beat all the gossips to the punch and tell both Edward and Callie where he’d been, make a joke out of it if he could. He could just picture the disdainful look on Edward’s face and the white, stricken one on Callie’s. He felt as though he’d been dunked in boiling water as he rounded the corner onto St. Luke’s Place. He wasn’t surprised to see a light shining in his kitchen. Edward often waited up, dozing in his rocker by the fire place with the new yellow cat on his lap.

  Edward looked pointedly at the kitchen clock and frowned his disapproval as he got up from the rocker. The yellow cat scampered away, probably to nestle between the two pillows on his bed, Byrch thought.

  Callie crept out of bed and walked on tiptoe down the hall. She knew Byrch hadn’t been home since he left late in the afternoon. All night she had lain awake. The tears had long since dried on her cheeks, and her eyes felt achy. Should she or shouldn’t she creep down the dark stairway and listen at the kitchen door? She knew that Byrch would be talking to Edward. Were they discussing her or what he had done since he left? She had to know. She strained to hear.

  “I don’t know, Edward. I suppose I was more tired than I realized with the strain of the wedding and all. I can hardly believe it myself. And then to have Bridget see me at this hour of the night coming from Flanna Beauchamp’s. By tomorrow it will be all over town.”

  “I don’t think there’s too much cause for worry, sir. Mr. Darcy is a man, and he does control Mrs. Darcy, or am I wrong?”

  “Kevin never controlled anything in his life, least of all his wife. No one, but no one, controls her tongue. I’m afraid I’m in for it, Edward. What bothers me is what Callie is going to think.” He sighed heavily. “I think I’ll turn in. It was nice of you to wait up for me, Edward. You don’t have to do that, you know.”

  “Someone had to sit with the cat,” Edward said tartly as he made his way to his room. For one brief moment he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. He thought he saw something flutter at the kitchen doorway. It was probably the yellow cat trying to make up its mind if it should stay downstairs or go upstairs.

  Callie raced upstairs. She wanted to slam the door and then kick it. She fought the urge to scream like a banshee. Instead she locked her door and flung herself across the bed. She buried her face in the pillow and sobbed.

  All night she had lain awake. All night she tortured herself with impossible dreams. The least he could have done was to make an attempt to see her, to . . . to . . . he should have tried. If he could threaten to knock her door down once, why couldn’t he do it a second time? No, oh, no, he goes out to see, what was her name and . . . and . . . tomorrow everyone in town was going to know what he did. Bridget would see to it. How was she going to hold her head up? How was she going to face Byrch in the morning and behave as though she knew nothing? Better yet how was Byrch going to be able to face her? People would start to stare, pitying her. Edward was going to feel sorry for her and offer her tea, his answer to everything. She was a fool. She didn’t need Byrch Kenyon to rub salt in her wounds. Why couldn’t she just be a fool by herself? “Damn you, Byrch Kenyon,” she sobbed into the pillow. “Damn you to hell!”

  Byrch stood outside Callie’s door, the yellow cat purring against his ankles. With a grimace he bent down and picked up the small cat. The animal instantly recognized warmth and comfort and snuggled against his chest. Callie could purr like a kitten when she was contented. He groaned when he remembered how she had snuggled down into the cradle of his arm, her head against his chest. She made small little sounds of pleasure as she drifted off to sleep. “Get the hell out of here,” Byrch snapped at the startled cat as he sat it down on the floor. The cat mewed in fright and immediately piddled on the floor. Byrch looked at the puddle with disgust. They had to get rid of that cat. Whose idea had it been in the first place?

  The morning sun was filtering through the curtains before Callie found sleep. When she finally awakened, a glance at the clock on the mantel told her it was nearly ten-thirty. Ten-thirty! She’d promised to be dressed and ready two hours ago! Then she remembered. He hadn’t come home until the wee hours of the morning and was probably too exhausted to show her the city. Callie smacked her pillow and suppressed a scream of rage. How could he? Last night had been their wedding night! He had spent the night with another woman, humiliating his wife before the eyes of the world. Callie knew she was overreacting to a situation she herself had helped to create, but it was better to feel outrage than this stab of pain at wanting him so.

  She couldn’t resist the temptation to peek in on Byrch. Opening her door a crack, she peered out. The yellow cat was snoozing peacefully outside Byrch’s door. So he was still in there. Crossing the hall, she stepped over the cat, opened the door, and peeked into the dim room. The scent of his cologne and tobacco greeted her. Byrch was sprawled across his bed, fully dressed. How could he? How could he sleep like this? Didn’t he care about her at all? And was that slight smile that played on his mouth because he was dreaming of that woman?

  Callie quietly closed his door before her hands clenched into fists. If she had a penny’s worth of courage, she’d trot right in there and hit him! The force of the imagined blow, the thought of her fist pounding into that smug, self-satisfied face was almost a reality. He’d probably sleep the day away and recover his strength to go to that woman again tonight. He would. She knew he would. Like hell he would! Callie stomped into her room and tore through her armoire to select a dress. Undergarments, stockings, shoes—he said he was going to take her out and show her New York, and that was exactly what he’d do. She’d have him walking and talking and wear him down the best she could. With any bit of luck, even if he did go to Flanna what’s-her-name, he wouldn’t be worth the wear and tear on the sheets!

  Byrch had seen the door open silently. Edward? Callie? The cat couldn’t reach the doorkn
ob. In the dim light, through slitted eyes, he caught a glimpse of a nightdress. Pretending to be asleep, he waited, hardly daring to breathe. Would she come in? His world was tilting when he considered the possibilities. Perhaps she was sorry to have enforced such restrictions on their marriage. Perhaps she needed him as much as he needed her. How long was she going to stand there looking at him? She couldn’t know about last night, could she? And besides, what was there to know except that he’d risked her credibility as his wife and her pride as a woman? Byrch felt his throat working convulsively; he knew he could not forgive himself so easily. When the door closed with Callie on the far side of it, he rolled over onto his stomach and slammed his fist into the pillow. If she hadn’t known anything before, she certainly would have her suspicions now! He’d just realized that he was sprawled across the bed, fully clothed, still dressed in his wedding suit!

  Dressed to go out, Callie descended the stairs, holding up the hem of her sheer yellow and blue-striped dress. It was full-skirted and showed off her tiny waist to an advantage; it was perfect for a late summer day. The aroma of coffee met her when she reached the bottom of the stairs. She heard Edward rattling pots and pans. Taking a deep breath and steeling herself against the anticipated pity in Edward’s eyes, she walked through the parlor and dining room into the kitchen. “Good morning, Edward.”

  Edward was fully dressed in his pin-striped trousers and black coat. His shirt and stock were dazzling white against his mahogany skin. “Good morning, Miss Callie. My, don’t you look lovely this morning! That pale shade of yellow is wonderful against your dark hair.” The only thing Callie could perceive in Edward’s dark eyes was friendship. Bless him. “Coffee’s ready. What would you like for breakfast?”

  “Anything. Coffee first. Edward, I’d like you to go upstairs and awaken Mr. Kenyon. Only don’t tell him I’ve just come downstairs. Would you do that for me?”

  “Anything for you, Miss Callie,” Edward smiled.

  “I don’t want you to lie, but it isn’t necessary to tell him just how recently I’ve come down. Understand?”

  Edward nodded as he left the kitchen to awaken his employer.

  Callie took her coffee cup to the back door and looked out at the garden. The morning was still cool, and the dew sparkled in the sunshine like jewels in a golden setting. It was a new day, bright and shiny as a penny. A new day could be a new beginning, she told herself, a new start. She brought her cup to her lips. She’d die before she mentioned last night or asked her husband where he’d spent their wedding night. Callie sipped her coffee, suddenly feeling terribly sorry for herself. How could today be a new beginning? Byrch had broken her door down once before, but he hadn’t even made the effort last night. He should at least have tried and given her that much satisfaction!

  Edward cleared away the breakfast dishes silently. Everyone was silent this morning. Byrch sat drinking his coffee. Miss Callie sat opposite him, her hands folded demurely in her lap. While she might appear quietly poised to an unfamiliar eye, Edward knew she was hurt and angry. He knew, beyond doubt, that she was aware of where Byrch had spent the night.

  Byrch eyed Callie over the rim of his coffee cup. It was going to be a long day. Lord, he was dragging. Despite the sleep he’d had at Flanna’s, he was exhausted just from worry alone. Women could be the death of a man. By God, this was his honeymoon, and he was going to enjoy it if it killed them both. Forcing a light-hearted tone into his voice, he smiled. “I’m ready if you are, sweeting.”

  Something that pretended to be a smile tugged at Callie’s mouth while her eyes burned with anger. “Yes, I’m ready,” was all she managed to say as she too rose from the table.

  Edward shook his head. This was not the stuff of romance and honeymoons. They should take the cat along with them so they’d both have someone to talk to. Edward resolved, as he found himself doing often of late, that he wouldn’t take sides. After all, Byrch was his friend as well as his employer, and Miss Callie was good and kind and generous, appreciative of his every deed. How could he side with one and betray the other?

  In the carriage Byrch started the conversation. He made his tone as light and as conversational as possible. This was going to be a pleasant day. “The way I see it, Callie, if you’re going to compete with reporters who have been born and bred here, you’re going to have to know New York as well as they do. That might seem like an impossible task, but you have young eyes, eyes that are newer, fresher, unjaded. You can look at the city and the people in it with a slant that is yours alone.”

  Callie watched Byrch as he talked. How pleasant he was being. She wanted to reach out and touch him, but restrained herself. “Thank you, Byrch, for what you just said. I appreciate your trying to help me.”

  My God, didn’t she know he would lay down and die for her? Nice. She thought he was being nice to her. He told her little stories as he pointed out different sights. Callie was amused at his tone and the way he could poke fun at himself as he related his experiences. Her eyes were bright and eager, and she loved listening to him. She asked few questions, absorbing everything he said like a sponge.

  “That’s Delmonico’s restaurant,” Byrch pointed as their carriage wended its way past Broadway and Chambers Street. “Lorenzo Delmonico felt that the establishment on Beaver Street was too far downtown to attract the fashionable trade, so he opened another restaurant here. It’s on the site of the notorious Colt murder.” He watched her eyes widen, knowing she would demand all the details.

  “It was back in 1841. Samuel Adams, a printer, arrived at the Broadway-Chamber Street office of John Colt, who was an accountant and a professor of ornamental penmanship, to collect on a bill. Mr. Adams offended Mr. Colt, and they began to fight. Mr. Colt managed to brain Mr. Adams with a hammer. What’s remarkable is that Colt then nailed Adams into a box and had a cartman haul it off to the docks where it was transferred to the hold of a boat bound for Brazil. But there was a certain lady of questionable reputation who had a score to even with Mr. Colt. It was because she went to the authorities that the body was recovered at the very last moment and Mr. Colt was sent to the gallows.”

  “How awful,” Callie said breathlessly. A delicious shiver ran down her spine. She inched a little closer to Byrch, her eyes wide as she waited for his next words. Byrch noticed her slight movement and moved closer himself so that their bodies were now touching. Callie didn’t draw away. He made his tone somber and yet wicked as he continued with his story.

  “Four hours before Colt’s execution, however, he was granted a last, sentimental wish and was married in his cell to a Miss Caroline Henshaw. This was particularly surprising since the woman who reported Colt’s misdeed in the first place bore a remarkable resemblance to Miss Henshaw. Everyone was amazed by the groom’s high spirits. This became more understandable when two hours later an elaborate plot for his escape became evident. It involved the substitution of a corpse and the burning of the jail’s cupola. It all came off without a hitch. Colt’s fate remains a mystery to this day.”

  “How wonderful!” Callie said, clapping her hands. “I do so love happy endings.”

  Byrch’s gaze locked with Callie’s. “I’m partial to happy endings myself. So we do have something in common after all. I was beginning to get worried there for a while.”

  Byrch and Callie went on exploring New York with verve and enthusiasm. Through Callie, Byrch was seeing it all as if for the first time. Callie almost wept with joy when he pointed out the miniature Egyptian pyramid near the Forty-second Street Reservoir.

  “This is a popular place on Sundays. Sometimes it takes on a carnival atmosphere. We can come back some Sunday if you would like,” Byrch offered.

  “Oh, could we? I would love that.”

  “It gets a bit frantic. They have what they call sandwich-board men, who are walking advertisements. Everyone has something to sell, and this is the place to do it. I brought Edward here one Sunday, and I thought he was going to die from excitement. He’s never been
back. The one thing you have to buy when you come is a bag of Hoarhound Drops.” The carriage clattered along for a few minutes before Byrch spoke again.

  “That’s the Crystal Palace,” he pointed out. “Look across the street to the Observatory. It’s twenty-seven stories high and has a ’vertical railway’ or steam elevator. I can’t tell you how many people came here during the World’s Fair. That’s what made it so famous. That and the ice-cream parlor. Let’s stop and get some.”

  “Can we really?” Callie asked in wide-eyed wonder. “I would love that, Byrch.”

  Goddamn it, why couldn’t she smile and get excited over him? Why did it take a thing or a place?

  Byrch watched Callie savor every mouthful of the delicious ice cream. Some of her barriers seemed to be lowering a little. She was smiling at him warmly now. She had even touched his arm as they walked into the ice-cream parlor. Patience, that was what he needed.

  The balance of the day was spent touring with Byrch explaining and Callie listening.

  “Did you know that the Metropolitan and the St. Nicholas are among the most magnificent hotels in the world? And,” Byrch said dramatically, “the Metropolitan boasts twelve miles of water and gas pipes, cloth napkins with every meal, and impeccable service. I’ve eaten there many times, and it’s an experience to remember. Would you like to dine there one day this week?”

  “Would I? Of course, I would. How grand, Byrch. Do you mean it?” Callie gripped his arm and snuggled next to him. Byrch’s eyes almost rolled back in his head. He’d move them both there if that was what she wanted, never mind just going for dinner.

  “The St. Nicholas Hotel gives the Metropolitan a bit of competition. I’ll take you there, too. It’s the epitome of luxury. Bridget and Kevin prefer it. The interior is an absolute symphony of beveled mirrors, cut glass, marble, and bronze. Bridget positively drools when she goes there. She told me that the gold brocade draperies cost forty-five dollars a yard. Bridget impresses easily. The place is known for social climbers, international adventurers, and professional beauties. It’s too damn busy for me. I’m sure you’re going to love it.”