The party was over. Standing next to Byrch in the foyer, Callie couldn’t help but be aware of Devon Whitany’s speculative, sensual gaze. Callie gave herself up to the embraces of Jasper and Loretta, promising to get together with the older woman in the coming week. She shook hands with Phillip Horn and Erskin Taylor. Devon, it would seem, deliberately waited so he’d be last in line. He shook hands with Byrch in a businesslike way and lingered over Callie’s hand.
“I’d like to invite you to lunch with me if your husband permits it. There are so many topics we barely touched on in our discussion.” He swung around to meet Brych’s gaze. “Surely you won’t object.”
Callie smiled to herself. Good. She was so glad that Devon’s request was being heard by Flanna and Phillip Horn. A nasty devil perched on her shoulder and prodded her on as she sought a suitable reply. “That’s so true, Devon. I’m rather busy this week, but if you care to come by next week, I’m sure I can manage it. Byrch won’t object, will you, darling?” Callie asked coolly, her green eyes defying him to utter one word.
Devon was it? Byrch snarled inwardly. By God, he’d soon put a stop to that. Making an ass out of him in his own house! “Of course not, Devon. Callie is a modern woman. She does as she pleases, which leaves me to do pretty much what I please.” Callie almost gasped aloud.
Edward, who was busily clearing the table, almost choked at the conversation that was filtering back to him. What was the matter with the two of them?
Devon Whitany smiled urbanely. “You can count on it. Good night all.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Callie cooed.
Devon’s sleepy-eyed gaze widened suddenly, and then the lids lowered again. Next to Byrch, Callie thought him the most attractive man she had ever met.
For the second time in as many minutes Byrch wanted to put his fist through the man’s handsome face. He speculated on what Devon would look like without his teeth; the vision made him snicker as he closed the door. He turned to Callie. “Don’t you dare, ever again, act like a common tart in my house, do you hear me?” he bellowed.
Callie backed off a step and then another. “Don’t you ever dare to talk to me in that tone of voice again. Do you hear me?” Callie defied him.
“I’ll talk to you any way I damn well please. This is my house and you’re my wife. Or did you forget?”
“Not for a minute. You seem to be the one who has forgotten that you’re married. I’m not deaf, dumb, and blind, you know. You’ve humiliated me for the last time. Flanna Beauchamp, is it? Well, you can have her and her money and her political ambitions. You can take her and her black dresses and make a damn scarecrow out of her for all I care. You tell me to get rid of my black rags, and then you throw yourself at the very thing you say you hate. Get out of my way, Byrch Kenyon, before I kick you where the beautiful Flanna will suffer. Shut up, Byrch, I don’t want to hear another word. Get out of my way before I say things I’ll regret later.”
“Now just a damn minute,” Byrch thundered.
“Shut up, Byrch,” Callie repeated. She’d had enough for one night. She was halfway up the stairs when Byrch shouted after her, “You’ll only go to lunch with Devon Whitany over my dead body.”
“I suppose that can be arranged,” Callie said coolly. Inside her room she threw the bolt and let the tears flow. Devon Whitany be damned. He was nothing more than a conceited ass. When and if he did call, she would be sure Edward told him she wasn’t home. She had behaved foolishly. Jealously and foolishly. Would she never learn? Where was all this going to end?
Edward winced and almost dropped the stack of dinner dishes when Callie slammed her door shut. He waited a moment, his head cocked to the side for the sound of Mr. Kenyon’s door. When the sound reverberated downstairs, he almost jumped out of his skin. Another one of those nights. He had no idea what was going to happen next. Mr. Kenyon could act like a bull when he wanted. Miss Callie could be a pure vixen. “This time I think she went too far,” he muttered to the empty kitchen.
Byrch stormed up and down his room. What the goddamn hell did she think she was doing? How could she humiliate him like that in front of his friends—his political friends? Because she doesn’t care about you, that’s how, some wayward inner voice responded. He should go across the hall, knock the damn door down, and pull her across the hall by her hair. That’s what he should do. By God, they were married, and she made a date to have lunch with one of the handsomest men in New York. His teeth clamped shut, and his mouth was a grim, tight white line as he punched out the overstuffed chair, swept his dresser clean, lashed out at the little yellow cat who slept between his pillows. The thin leather of his evening shoe split right across the top when he kicked at the raised hearth. Searing pain shot up his foot into his leg and thigh. He ignored the pain. It was nothing to compare to the pain in his heart. How cruel she was. Until this evening he had no idea her hatred was so intense.
He stormed about the room a second time, pausing at the window to stare out at the lovely night. He jerked at his tie and removed his evening clothes, dropping them on the floor at his feet. The yellow cat immediately took it as a signal to make a bed and sleep. He scuttled over to the pile of clothing and curled up for the evening. Byrch flung himself on top of the spread on his bed and knew that if he were a woman, he would cry. Instead he had to cover up his feelings and pretend nothing mattered. Take it all in his stride. Well, he couldn’t. He had done everything humanly possible to make Callie love him. It just wasn’t meant to be. He knew that now. Tomorrow he would go down to the harbor and book passage for her back to Ireland. It was best for both of them. The heartache would heal—eventually. Callie would be back home, and he would move ahead with his political career. It was best. He would settle a sum of money on her, give her the painting of Rory to take with her, and continue to send her money until she got herself settled or married again. He almost gagged at the thought. After all, she was his wife. He couldn’t simply send her back without seeing to her welfare.
He should have given her the painting of her son the day it arrived at his office. He didn’t know why he hadn’t. Probably because he didn’t want to see the pain in her eyes when she saw it. It had never been his intention to keep it from her altogether. He would book her passage tomorrow and give her the painting at the same time. He would make arrangements at the bank for her financial welfare. A clean break, once and for all. Normal people, intelligent people didn’t live like this. At least he couldn’t.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Edward set about making breakfast, pancakes and plump pink sausages. He squeezed some fresh oranges and set things to right at the table. While the sausages simmered, he set up his ironing board by the kitchen window and checked his iron to be sure it was just right. It was best to keep busy and not think about what went on the night before. Who knew what would happen at breakfast? He shuddered when he remembered the way Mr. Kenyon had slammed his door. Edward felt finality when he heard it.
Soft stirrings from overhead could be heard. Were both of them up, or was it just Mr. Kenyon? It was a bit early. He himself had risen an hour earlier than usual because ironing took so much time.
Edward was reminded of a black thundercloud when Byrch walked into the kitchen.
Byrch stopped in his tracks. He was surprised that Edward was up so early. His plan had been to make himself some coffee and be out of the house before either Callie or Edward wakened. Not only was Edward up, but he was ironing. Something frilly with lace and bows. “If you tell me I’m not paying you enough that you have to take in ironing, I’ll boot your tail right out of here,” Byrch snarled.
“Sir! This is Miss Callie’s. What it is, is . . . you know damned well what it is, Mr. Kenyon.”
“It looks like a petticoat to me.”
“Well, you’re wrong. It’s a camisole,” Edward said huffily as he tried to smooth down the tiny pleats in the bodice.
Byrch stretched his neck to see what his houseman was doing. “You’re goi
ng to burn your fingers, Edward. What the hell are you doing?”
“Miss Callie is very fussy about her . . . about her unmentionables. They have to be ironed just so.”
“For Christ’s sake, are you telling me you’ve been doing Callie’s ironing? Why doesn’t it get sent out to a laundress?” Byrch smacked his forehead. “Now I understand why we haven’t had a decent meal around here. Except when I give a dinner party. You do her ironing, you tend her garden, you cook special food for her, and don’t tell me you don’t. I can see it on your face. Guilt. You’re as guilty as sin. And after I gave you a raise. When was the last time you changed the sheets on my bed? Aha! Weeks, I’ll wager.” Byrch exaggerated wildly. “Dust. Dust everywhere! Admit it! By God, Edward, this is beyond belief. No wonder she has all the time in the world to do her articles. Why do I put up with you?”
“Because, Mr. Kenyon, I am indispensable, as you well know. And I do not neglect your needs.”
“I don’t need any advice from you, Edward. I’m doing nothing wrong. I have the situation under control. It’s just a matter of time until I decide to . . . to get her to come around. Ha, if you think you’re busy now, what do you think it will be like if she stops working and has children?” Now why had he said that?
“I have considered that, sir. We will take in a laundress and a personal maid for Miss Callie. Of course, you will want only the best for her. You promised that the night you . . . er, ah . . . consumed your brandy.”
“The same night I agreed to that stupid raise, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I have another bone to pick with you, Edward. You have to get rid of that goddamn cat. Why in the world you ever brought a cat here is something I’ll never know. This morning there were puddles on the floor in my room and a mess on the stairs. The house is going to stink to high heavens soon. Get rid of it!”
“Why should I get rid of it? You’re the one who told me to get it in the first place. I said we didn’t need a cat, and you said we did. You said you wanted to cuddle it on cold winter nights. You certainly are difficult of late. Aren’t things going well with Miss Callie?” There was a knowing look on Edward’s face that set Byrch’s teeth to rattling.
“Damnation!” Byrch fumed. “I don’t remember telling you to get a cat. I suppose that was the same night I gave you the raise and promised to hire a personal maid and laundress. I’m not made of money, you know.”
“I know what I heard,” Edward said, finishing off the last pleat on the lacy camisole. “I have never gone against your orders, now have I?”
“When you go upstairs to deliver Callie’s unmentionables, deliver the cat, too. Let her tend to it for a while. Just get it the hell out of my sight.”
“Very well, sir, if that’s the way you feel about it. Winter will be here in a few months. Don’t think I’m going out and getting another cat. I actually had to pay a dollar for the poor thing.”
“I’ll give you the damn dollar. Get rid of it! By tomorrow!” Byrch roared as he made his way out the backdoor, the yellow cat on his heels.
Edward always felt slightly foolish when he carried Callie’s hand laundry upstairs. He could have it sent out, but doing things for her pleased him. She was always grateful for anything he did.
“Miss Callie, I brought your laundry,” Edward called through the door. “It’s in this basket, right here. This other basket is a gift from Mr. Kenyon. He told me to make sure I got it to you first thing this morning.”
Callie’s eyes widened. “A present for me! How wonderful! What is it, Edward? Quick, let me see it!”
Edward did his best to compose his face. He felt like such a sneak. And just wait till he tried to describe the look on Miss Callie’s face.
“Edward, it’s a cat. Why would Byrch send me his cat? Why is he giving it to me?” Callie asked suspiciously. “Oh, I see, neither you nor Byrch has been able to train it, so you’re giving it to me.”
She always was as quick and bright as himself. Almost, that is, Edward thought.
“I can’t take it back, Miss Callie. Mr. Kenyon would be wounded to the quick.”
“He’s going to be wounded some place else if—never mind. Tell Byrch I thank him from the bottom of my heart. I’ll have something to cuddle this winter when it’s cold and lonely. He’ll understand.”
“I doubt it,” Edward mumbled as he turned to leave.
“Edward, wait a moment. I want to show you something.” Quickly Callie ripped and shredded a day-old newspaper that lay on the table by her bed. She lifted her laundry from the basket and dumped the scraps of paper inside. Gently she lifted the yellow cat out of its basket and put it in the laundry basket on top of the papers. Edward watched in amazement as the cat pawed and scratched, then squatted down and did what it had to do. Callie smiled. “There are some things you don’t know, Edward. Thanks for everything.”
It was mid-morning when Callie finally decided to go downstairs in search of something to eat. She couldn’t hide in her room all day, what was the point? Earlier she’d heard Byrch in the bathroom and heard him thundering down the stairs. She knew he was in a vile mood and was tempted to ask Edward if he’d said anything about last night, but changed her mind. It wasn’t fair to Edward to ask him questions or expect him to take sides.
She deliberately waited until now to go to the kitchen, knowing Edward would be at the market. A note in a small neat handwriting told her there were freshly baked cinnamon rolls and sausages in the warming oven. The coffee was freshly brewed. Last night Callie thought she’d never be able to eat again. All night long she’d tossed and turned with a sick stomach that wasn’t the result of Edward’s delicious cooking but of her nerves and the confrontation with Byrch. She was appalled now at what she’d done: flirting with Devon while rejecting Byrch. She was a fool not to recognize that Byrch was at his breaking point. After last night he was probably beyond caring what happened. She’d made a fool of both of them.
Callie tidied up the kitchen and went to Byrch’s study to start her article or at least to outline it. Last night Ellen Webster had told them of a little theatre group that was forming on the East Side and had also mentioned a women’s cooperative in that neighborhood. Callie was fascinated to hear about the cooperative group. The women had formed a day-care center for children of working mothers and were now involved in wholesale buying of groceries to pass the savings on to their members. Tomorrow Callie would go out there and interview the women; it would make a revealing and informative article.
She was getting a late start today and would have to work extra hard to have it ready for deadline before the end of the week. Work was a blessing, she’d decided. She could submerge herself in it and become so involved that the hurt would be forgotten for the moment. Sometimes it actually worked that way, like the day after their wedding when Byrch had spent the night with Flanna. She resolved not to cry. Not anymore. All of this was her own doing. All of it. Right from that first grocery basket to this.
It was late in the afternoon when Callie penciled in her last word. She’d made a list of pertinent questions to ask at the cooperative and an outline of the approach she wanted her article to take.
On the third floor, in her bedroom, Callie found an envelope on her dressing table. She recognized the handwriting immediately; it was from Peggy. Callie picked up the letter and held it for a moment. If there was one thing she needed right now, it was her mother.
It was a short letter, hastily written. Estimating the timespan since she’d written Peg, Callie realized it must have been sent out by return mail. Perhaps something was wrong. She read the first paragraph and sighed with relief. Everything was fine, everyone was well. Her eyes returned again and again to those loving phrases that told her how much she was loved and missed. It was the last part of Peggy’s letter that stunned Callie. Peggy wrote:
Callie James Kenyon, I couldn’t believe my eyes when I read your last letter. Why would you be wanting to come back here when everything yo
u want and love is right there with you? How can you be telling me you stepped out of your place and that you’re being punished for reaching out for happiness and love? As if God would ever do that to one of His own children. I know you, child, you are my own flesh and blood, my Callie, and so near my heart. You think you have done something wrong. Loving is never wrong, don’t you remember me telling you that? Your place, Callandre James Kenyon, is there at your husband’s side. That is where you belong . . .”
Callie blew her nose lustily. The truth in Peggy’s letter throbbed in her heart. She believed, she had to believe, because it was something she wanted more than life itself.
Oh, Mum, if I could only see you, talk to you. She thought of Flanna Beauchamp and Byrch. Perhaps it was already too late. What to do? How to do it?
She heard movements in the room across the hall. Byrch? She almost flew to the door, racing across the hall. She had so much to tell him, so much to explain!
Edward, not Byrch, was there, selecting a shirt from the drawer and placing it on the bed along with an evening suit and Byrch’s evening slippers. “Ah, Miss Callie, finished with work on your article, I see. Mr. Riley is downstairs waiting for Mr. Kenyon’s evening clothes. Needless to say, Mr. Kenyon won’t be home for dinner.”
Byrch wouldn’t be home. A change of clothes. That meant a late night, a very late night. She wanted to ask Edward if he knew where Byrch was going. It was certainly permissible for a wife to ask, wasn’t it? The words stuck to her tongue. Sensing her confusion and dismay, Edward volunteered that he believed there was a dinner at a club scheduled for this evening. “I believe it’s at the Masonic Lodge, Miss Callie.”
Callie’s anxiety was obvious in her eyes and in the trembling of her hands. Something was wrong, Edward knew. “Did you find the letter from Ireland on your dresser?” he asked as he added dark, thin stockings to the assortment of Byrch’s clothes.
Cinders to Satin Page 59