The Vow
Page 25
She rose, went to the window, and stared out at nothing in particular. It was apparent to her why Reiver was on the rampage. He resented her outsmarting him. That delighted her. But his cutting the workers’ wages angered her.
She needed to gather ammunition to use against him. Hannah closed her account books and went to fetch her cloak.
Upstairs, James stood before the closed nursery door. He swept his hair out of his eyes, moistened his dry lips, rubbed his spotless hands against his trousers, then hesitated. What would he say to her? “Miss Varner, I’ve come to fix the squeaky cradle.” That sounded good. He mentally rehearsed it several times before knocking.
“Come in.”
At the sound of her soft, sweet voice that reminded him of cooing doves, James felt his heart leap into his throat. He opened the door and hesitated in the doorway.
Georgia Varner sat in the same rocking chair that had soothed both James and his brothers when they were babies, feeding Elisabeth with a rapt serenity that touched James deeply. Autumn light, as thick and golden as honey, poured over her through the window, outlining her curling ginger hair with fire and 262
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turning her bare breast into smooth carved ivory. James wondered if it would feel warm and heavy to his touch. His groin tightened.
Georgia looked up and turned crimson. “Mr. Shaw…”
She took one end of her shawl and modestly covered herself. “I—I thought you were Mrs. Shaw or Mrs. Hardy.”
“I had some free time and thought I’d fix the cradle.”
“The cradle? What’s wrong with it?”
“You said it squeaked.”
She smiled, and it was as if the sun had just burst forth on a rainy day. “How kind of you to remember my mentioning it. Do come in.”
James went over to the cradle, set down his toolbox, and looked over at Georgia. “Do you mind if I remove…what’s inside?”
“The bedding? No, I don’t mind at all.” She offered Elisabeth her finger to grasp, and beamed in approval when the baby grabbed it.
James turned over the cradle and went to work. His attention may have been focused on the cradle, but he was all too aware of Georgia Varner seated not ten feet away. He heard the muffled sound of the rocker’s runners going back and forth, back and forth on the bare floor, and the accompanying sigh of her long skirts. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her stealing glances at him.
How he wished he could say something charming and clever like Samuel, but try as he might, his mind remained blank.
“Mrs. Shaw tells me that you can fix anything,” Georgia said suddenly, startling him.
James ducked his head. “Everyone has something they’re good at, and I’m good at fixing things.”
“I think it takes real skill to find what’s wrong with something and fix it.”
Her praise made his cheeks grow warm. “Do you like living here?”
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“I like it fine. Mr. and Mrs. Shaw have been kindness itself to me.” She gave him a conspiratorial smile. “But that Mrs. Hardy…” She rolled her eyes. “‘Don’t do this to the baby.’ ‘Don’t do that to the baby.’”
James smiled. “She always was testy, and she’s gotten worse with age. I think it’s hard on her, not being able to see as well as she used to, and do all the things she once did when she was young.”
“You’re very compassionate, Mr. Shaw.”
He glanced over at her. “How do you like taking care of the baby?”
“I couldn’t love her any more than if she was my own.”
The sudden watery tremor in her voice caused James to look over at her, and to his dismay, her hazel eyes were bright with tears. He gaped at her helplessly.
Georgia wiped her eyes with one corner of her shawl. “Do forgive me for blubbering, Mr. Shaw. But every time I think of my poor stillborn babe—she was a little girl, too, you know—I can’t help myself.”
Elisabeth, sensing her nurse’s distress, spat out the nipple and let out a thin, high-pitched wail.
“Now I’ve upset this angel as well,” Georgia muttered, rising. “Would you take her for a minute? That is, if you don’t mind holding a baby.”
“Mind? I like babies.”
James rose, crossed the room, and took the crying baby from her. Her shawl fell away, but before he could steal a glance at Georgia’s bare breast, she turned away, and when she turned back to take Elisabeth from him, her bodice was buttoned.
Georgia placed the baby against her right shoulder and rubbed her back, murmuring, “There, there,” until the crying ceased.
James knew he should say something—do something—but what? He thought of Samuel again, and touched Georgia’s shoulder shyly. “I can’t claim to 264
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know how it feels to lose a child, but you have my deepest sympathies, Miss Varner.”
She managed a tremulous smile. “You’re very kind, Mr. Shaw. But I knew that the moment I laid eyes on you.”
James stood there awkwardly, lost in the warmth of her hazel eyes. “I—I’d better see about fixing the cradle.”
He worked in silence, save for Georgia humming a lullaby in her soft, sweet voice. When he was through, he rocked the cradle several times to test it, and replaced the bedding.
Georgia beamed at him. “You’ve fixed it.” She carried the sleeping baby over. “Let’s see how Elisabeth likes it, shall we?”
James stepped back, but Georgia was still too close to ignore, flooding his senses. She smelled fresh-scrubbed and milky, with a subtle spicy scent of her own that had nothing to do with soap or perfume. His fingers itched to let down her ginger tresses and discover for himself if her hair felt as soft and silky as it looked.
She set the baby in the cradle, straightened, and looked right at James. He hadn’t noticed until now that her hazel eyes were deeply flecked with gold like dark pebbles strewn at the bottom of a clear, shallow brook. And her lips were curiously mismatched, the upper lip being much thinner than its full lower counterpart. He wondered how it would feel to kiss them.
James swallowed hard and stepped back out of danger.
Georgia smiled. “You’re a godsend, Mr. Shaw. Now the squeak won’t keep Elisabeth up when I rock her.”
“If anything else needs fixing, Miss Varner, all you have to do is call on me.”
“Oh, I will, Mr. Shaw, I surely will.”
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Later that evening, long after James returned to the homestead and the boys went to bed, Hannah gathered her courage and went to confront Reiver.
She found him in his dark, quiet study, sitting in his favorite chair by the light of the fire, with his legs stretched out on a footstool and a half-empty glass of apple brandy in his hand. Deep lines of weariness scored his cheeks, and his mouth drooped petulantly. Hannah refused to feel sorry for him.
“What do you want?” he snapped.
“I want to talk to you, but not in the dark.” She went over to the desk and lit the oil lamps. Soft light flooded the room.
“And what do you wish to discuss, dear wife?”
Hannah went over to the fireplace and extended her hands to warm them, for a distinct chill filled the distance between them. “James is worried about you.” When Reiver made no comment, she added, “He said you shouted at the cocoon sorter today.”
“The girl is incompetent,” he growled. “She’s lucky that she still has a job.”
Hannah’s hands dropped to her sides. “It isn’t like you to shout at your workers.”
He glared at her. “And why is that, I wonder?”
“I have no idea.”
“Oh, but you do.” He rose and faced her, anger radiating from him in palpable waves. “I don’t like working with my hands tied
behind me, Hannah. It makes me irritable and I lose my temper.”
She raised her brows in affronted innocence. “Have I once interfered in the running of the mill in the two months since you signed over your shares to me?”
she couldn’t resist reminding him. “I haven’t. So if you’re feeling constrained, it’s by your own design.”
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“You don’t understand. It’s my mill. I want to control it.”
“But you do.”
He dragged his hands through his hair in frustration. “It’s not enough, Hannah. I want my mill back. It’s not…seemly for a woman to have such control over a man.”
“Fine. If you want your mill back, send Elisabeth to a foundling home.”
He stared at her as if she had suddenly grown two heads. “Your coldness appalls me.”
She crossed her arms to keep them from shaking. “We made a bargain, Reiver, and I’m going to hold you to it.”
“Hannah—”
“I didn’t come here to discuss our bargain. I want to know why Constance Ferry left our employ?”
“She went to work at the Rockville mill.”
“She must have had some reason for leaving since she’s been with Shaw Silks for over fifteen years.”
Reiver poured himself another apple brandy. “She told me they agreed to pay her more money.”
“And you didn’t match their price?”
“Why should I?” He tossed off the brandy in one swallow. “Mill workers grow on trees. If one leaves, there are two to take her place.”
Hannah clasped her hands together. “Is that why you’ve reduced everyone’s wages?”
He grew very still. “Who told you that? James?”
“Constance herself. I went to see her today, and she told me everything. I was bound to find out sooner or later.”
He returned to his chair. “So I reduced everyone’s wages. What of it?”
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“And what if all of your workers go over to the competition?”
“I’ll merely train others to take their place.”
Hannah walked over to the window and stared out into the darkness, listening to the whistling wind. “Most of these people have been with us for over ten years. I know each one of them by name, and I know their children’s names.
I’ve brought food and clothing to them when they’ve had a run of bad luck, and sent the doctor to them when they’re ill. They’re like family.”
Reiver regarded her out of scornful eyes. “And just what is the moral of your touching little tale?”
She turned, her heart racing at the prospect of incurring his wrath, for she was still so new to defying him. “I don’t think that you should cut the workers’
wages. If anything, you should raise them to encourage them to stay.”
“What!” Reiver swore and leaped to his feet. “Of all the stupid, harebrained…do you think money falls from the sky, woman?”
“Of course I don’t,” she replied coldly.
“Try very hard to understand this simple concept, Hannah. I am not in business to make our workers wealthy. I’m in business to make the Shaws wealthy.”
“Don’t speak to me as if I were some half-witted child. I’m not suggesting that we make our workers wealthy, merely that we offer them a decent standard of living and inspire loyalty. They’re not our slaves.”
He jammed his hands into his pockets. “I’m trying very hard not to lose my temper, but you make it damned difficult. You don’t know anything about running the mill, Hannah. You think that just because you’ve gained legal control of my company you know how to run it. You don’t, so stop trying to pretend that you do.”
“If you’ll stop insulting me long enough to listen to reason—”
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“Reason won’t make new looms to manufacture silk ribbons! That’s why I’ve cut wages. Does that explanation satisfy you?”
“You want to make ribbons as well as thread?”
“Yes.” He glanced at the ribbons trimming her dark blue dress. “As you know, ladies demand miles and miles of ribbon to trim their gowns and bonnets.
We may not be able to compete with silk cloth from France and Italy, but we can certainly corner the market on ribbons.”
Hannah contemplated his announcement in silence for a moment. “If you need these new looms, surely we can find the money somewhere else without having to reduce wages.”
He nodded with exaggerated patience. “Yes, yes we could. We could pension off Mrs. Hardy so we don’t have to feed and clothe her. Or perhaps we could sell your fine new carriage and horses. Or would you prefer that the boys go without shoes?” He walked toward her and stuck his face almost up to hers. “What I’m saying, my ignorant wife, is that for our workers to prosper, you’ll have to beggar our family.”
“I don’t believe you. I want the workers’ wages restored.”
Reiver’s complexion turned purple, and a vein throbbed on his forehead. He loomed over Hannah, threatening her with his physical presence. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?”
She stood her ground. “I will make economies elsewhere so you’ll still be able to afford your ribbon looms.”
“It won’t work.”
Hannah raised her chin and looked him straight in the eye. “As the controlling shareholder of Shaw Silks, I want you to reinstate those wages. If you don’t, I’ll see my lawyer in the morning.”
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For one heart-stopping moment, Hannah thought Reiver would strangle her.
But he just shook his head in disgust and strode for the door, cursing her under his breath. When he reached it, he turned, his face livid in the lamplight.
“You may have your own way this time. But be forewarned, Hannah. I’ll see you rot in hell before I let you destroy this family!”
He slammed the door behind him and Hannah was alone with the dying fire and the sighing wind.
She stood quiet and still for a moment, waiting for the anger and tension to dissipate. When the room settled and became friendly once again, she sat down before the dying fire, put her feet up on the ottoman, and massaged her aching forehead. She so detested these confrontations.
She soothed herself with dreams of Samuel. She saw herself riding into his mining camp somewhere in California while he sat sketching some breathtaking mountain panorama. She would call his name, and when he turned and saw who it was, he would stare in shock and disbelief. But only for a second. He would run to her and sweep her off her horse into his arms, and crush her to him, kissing her eyelids, her cheeks, her willing mouth.
She missed him so.
Feeling the familiar sting of tears, Hannah fumbled for a handkerchief. “He’s not coming back. Why must you torture yourself?”
Because her dreams of Samuel were better than nothing at all.
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Chapter Fourteen
Christmas was just a week away, and in two weeks 1855 would finally draw to a close.
Hannah stood at the frost-rimmed parlor window, watching the neighborhood children pile on their wooden sleds and shoot down the long, snow-covered slope of Mulberry Hill, their shrill screams and laughter lingering in their wake.
Snowfall always made her melancholy, for when she watched the thick, white flakes wheeling down from the flat gray sky to blanket the earth, she thought of Samuel. And the child she had lost. At least now, five years since his banishment, she could think of them without crying.
He was still in California, according to his last letter to the boys, but that was over eight months ago. He had never discovered gold with the other forty-niners, but he wrote enthusiastically of his travels up and down the
West Coast.
He never mentioned a woman. That saddened Hannah, for she hated to think of him being as lonely as she was.
She moved away from the window and lit an oil lamp, for the parlor became shadowed and cheerless on such a gray afternoon in spite of the fragrant evergreen boughs decorating the mantel and the tall Christmas tree in one corner, a custom adopted from England’s Queen Victoria. But while the light warmed the room, it did not warm Hannah’s heart.
She sat near the fireplace and closed her eyes, picturing Samuel as vividly as if he had just walked in the door, his warmth, his conspiratorial smile, his pale Lindsay Chase
eyes dark with longing for her. She remembered his gentle, exciting touch, and her eyes flew open at her body’s flaring response.
She shook her head. She mustn’t torment herself this way.
Samuel was gone. He wasn’t coming back. She was alone.
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Mr. Shaw!”
James looked over his heavy armful of logs at the dainty feminine figure approaching him, and his chest constricted painfully. With her ginger hair and rust-colored cloak, Georgia reminded him of the last autumn leaf skittering defiantly across the snow.
He stopped at the homestead’s back door and waited for her. “Yes, Miss Varner?”
“I don’t mean to bother you,” she said, her breath coming in clouds of white vapor, “but Mrs. Shaw said that you might be willing to hitch up the cutter and take me into town. I need a few things at the general store.”
Alone with Georgia Varner in the cutter…he hadn’t been alone with her since the day he had fixed the squeaky cradle. “I’d be happy to.”
“You are too kind, Mr. Shaw.”
Minutes later James handed Georgia into the cutter and climbed in after her.
He unfolded the heavy rug that was always kept on the seat and spread it across their laps.