Forbidden Love

by Shirley Martin

  "Will the defendant please rise."

  Owen scraped his chair back and stood. Motionless, he stared directly ahead.

  Lisa sat ramrod-straight, afraid to breathe. Sour bile rose in her throat, her temples throbbing. Cold fear engulfed her, leaving her defenseless. And she had never been so proud of him in her life. Not once had he shown discouragement; not once had he given in to despair.

  The judge addressed the jury. "Gentlemen, have you reached a decision?"

  "We have, Your Honor." The foreman handed the bailiff a slip of paper.

  The bailiff paused for a moment, a slight smile on his face. Then he read the verdict in a clear voice. "Not guilty!"

  Pandemonium erupted in the courtroom. Men and women laughed and cried and hugged each other, whooping with delight. The judge banged his gavel one last time, but no one paid any attention.

  Waves of relief rolled over Lisa as tears streamed down her face. Thank you, God. Thank you. In some dim part of her subconscious, she heard heavy footsteps and excited chattering as men and women traipsed out of the courtroom. Newspaper reporters swarmed around Owen, scribbling furiously in their tablets. Gathering her cape about her, she rose from her seat and approached his table to wait by the railing.

  An eternity later, the room cleared, until only Owen and his lawyer remained. Owen looked her way and smiled that slow, heartwarming smile that could make her forget everything in the world but him. After a few quiet words with his attorney, Owen headed her way. Now he could go home with her, where they could hold each other close, kiss and caress. Would she be able to deny him? she wondered, knowing how much they both yearned for fulfillment.

  Lisa withdrew a handkerchief from her handbag and unashamedly wiped her tears, then rushed forward. "Owen!"

  Enclosing her in his arms, he kissed her over and over, as if afraid to let her go, while Browning discreetly turned his back to them and returned papers to his portfolio. After a few final words to Owen and a smile for Lisa, he left the courtroom. Lisa scarcely noticed him, her every sense focused on Owen.

  She raised her tear-streaked face to his. "Darling! You can come with me now, and I'm never going to let you out of my sight."

  Owen held her slightly away from him, his eyes full of love and sympathy. "I can't go with you, Lisa," he murmured with a sad shake of his head. "They've rescinded my bail."

  "Rescinded bail! I never heard of such a thing."

  "Nor I, but so many of the accused strikers have skipped town." Owen sighed deeply. "We must accept things as they are."

  "Mr. Cardiff."

  Owen turned around to see a guard waiting for him. "Yes, I'm coming." Returning his attention to her, he frowned. "How will you get home?"

  "I'll take a hansom cab," she lied, not wanting him to worry.

  "Very well, but take care of yourself, dear Lisa." After one final embrace and a long, slow kiss, he left the room.

  Mind-numbing fear slowed Lisa's steps as she descended the stairs to walk out of the courthouse. A thick fog covered the city, the streetlights pale blurs trying to pierce the darkness. The heavy night air, caustic and full of industrial smoke, caught in her throat, making her cough. Vague, shadowy figures moved in the dark alleys. Hugging her handbag close to her body, she quickened her steps, anxious to return to their home in Allegheny.

  Twelve years, she repeated over and over as she approached the bridge that led to Allegheny; twelve years, the maximum sentence for treason. She fought choking tears as she made her way homeward. Dear God, help me to bear it.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  A fierce, icy wind howled through the dreary alleys of Homestead, whipping loose papers about and sending stray dogs to scurry for cover. Gray, noxious plumes of smoke belched from the low mill buildings and dropped an ugly layer of soot over the borough. Lisa pressed her woolen cape close to her body as she braced herself against the wind, hoping she'd accomplish her mission.

  "Go see Emma Hrajak," Owen had written from jail. "Her husband died recently. Hurry before she returns to Slovakia, for I have a feeling she'd prefer to stay in this country, if given a reason. You need a housekeeper, and Emma needs a home. And darling," he concluded his letter, "I do intend to be released from jail. No court in Pennsylvania will find me guilty of treason.

  Lisa kept those optimistic words in mind and wondered if it were false bravado or pure conviction that had prompted them. She had to believe it was the latter . . . had to.

  Armed with those promising words and Emma's address, Lisa hurried through the drab alleys of the Second Ward. Pots and pans hanging outside the dirty tenement buildings banged together in the wind, creating a fearful racket. Newly-washed clothes, frozen like icicles, hung from clotheslines that stretched across the courtyard. The ubiquitous outdoor privy, with its choking stench, stood in the courtyard like a sentry, as if to frighten all visitors away.

  She proceeded from one gray building to another, reflecting that these past few weeks had kept her busier than she could remember. On a recent visit to the Allegheny Library, she'd overheard the librarians discussing the purchase of a new typewriting machine.

  "I'll purchase the old one," Lisa had promptly suggested, "that is, if you have no further use for it."

  "You can have it for nothing," the librarian replied with a smile. So Lisa had become the aspiring owner of a Remington, realizing what a help the machine would be, if she'd only take the time to learn its use. Recently, she'd signed an agreement with the Ladies Home Journal to write short stories, so that would surely keep her busy and garner her additional funds.

  With a sigh of relief, Lisa located Emma's building and mounted the outside stairs. Her sturdy shoes scraped over the grit as she stepped across the broken, discarded toys scattered on the stairway, nearly tripping over a beer bottle. Mentally rehearsing what she'd say to Emma, she desperately hoped they'd like each other.

  * * *

  Emma paced the floor of her one-room apartment, maneuvering around the clutter of rickety furniture that crowded the room. She frowned in agonizing indecision, unsure about returning to Slovakia. Despite her loss of Anton--and his memory would always stay with her--she knew this country held promise. She missed her family, yes, but she remembered the grinding, back-breaking poverty in her former country, where peasants were treated like animals in the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Here in America, a person could rise above her poverty. Perhaps she, too, could make something of herself.

  Despite her grief, Emma smiled, recalling the fanciful assurances of her family and relatives before she and Anton had embarked on their trip to the New World.

  "Go to America," her cousin had urged her, "where the streets are paved with gold. And Emma, dear, don't you know that money grows on trees in America? Why, just go up to any tree and pluck as many dollar bills as you want."

  No, things hadn't worked out that way, but if she really tried, she knew she could better herself.

  Stop your daydreaming, Emma chided herself, and make up your mind. She stopped by a table and fingered a statuette of the Virgin Mary as she prayed for inspiration. Still, no answer came.

  Whatever she decided, she'd better do it soon, because she couldn't afford the three dollars a month rent on the apartment much longer, and the money her friends and the church had given her after Anton's death wouldn't last forever. If she decided to stay in America, she'd have to find another position. Maybe she'd take in washing--

  A knock on the door reminded her that life must continue, no matter what problems she had. With a deepening frown, she wondered who it could possibly be . . . Anna Tarasovic, most likely, returning the lard she'd borrowed earlier this month.

  Opening the front door, Emma received a double shock. The blast of frigid air struck her like a bucket of ice water in the face. And this lady . . . why, she'd never seen her before. She certainly didn't look like anyone from Homestead.

  "I'm Lisa Enright," the lady explained, "a good friend of Owen Cardiff's. Possibly this isn't a good time for yo
u to see me.” She swallowed. “I have no words to tell you how sorry I am about your loss. If you'd like me to come some other time, I shall be happy to do so."

  Quickly, Emma collected her wits and motioned her inside, offering her a hesitant smile.

  Two oil heaters, strategically placed, chased away the outside chill, giving the room an agreeable warmth. Lisa removed her cape and hung it on a door hook, then took the chair Emma indicated.

  Unsure of the fluency of Emma's English, Lisa spoke slowly and distinctly. "As I said, I'm a friend of Mr. Cardiff's. I have a house in Allegheny, and I need a housekeeper. I want to help you, as well as myself. You would be well-paid, of course--one dollar and fifty cents a week--besides room and board. Would you like to be my housekeeper?" Lisa asked eagerly as she tried to ignore the smell of onions and spices, an aroma she wasn't accustomed to.

  Emma changed her position. Her gaze flew to a lithograph of the Holy Family on the wall, but still no inspiration came.

  "Lady, I don't know. Maybe I go back to Slovakia." She ran her hand across her forehead, her gaze shifting about the room.

  "Please call me Mrs. Enright. Possibly you'd like to think about my offer. I can come back at a later date, if you wish." Lisa threw her an encouraging smile, hoping to hide her disappointment. She dreaded another walk across the bridge from Allegheny to Pittsburgh, then the dirty train ride to Homestead.

  "No come back!" Emma said with a brilliant smile. "I do it. Tank you for your offer, Mrs. Enright."

  "I should thank you, Emma. You are an answer to my prayers." Lisa stood and drew a slip of paper from her handbag. "This is my address," she said, handing the paper to Emma. "I live in Allegheny, across the Sixth Street Bridge. Do you need any help with your things? I'd be happy to send someone to Homestead to assist you."

  Emma rose to her feet. "No need help. I do it myself." In a burst of candor, she pressed her hand to her abdomen, her eyes filling with tears. "I am with another."

  A tremendous burst of sympathy welled up inside Lisa. She hugged Emma, her eyes wet with tears of compassion. "Oh, my dear, we shall help each other." With final words of comfort and last-minute instructions, she gathered her things together. She considered her morning well-spent and prayed that they could, indeed, help each other.

  * * *

  In the short time between her trip to Homestead and her return to her new house in Allegheny, a warm spell had settled over the area, turning the newly-fallen snow to dirty slush. Lifting her skirt, Lisa proceeded carefully along the sidewalk as she headed for her house on Resaca Place, but despite her precautions, the hem of her skirt hung soaking wet with melted snow. Frigid moisture seeped through her shoes, turning her feet ice-cold. Winter still held the city in its unrelenting grip, of course, and Lisa knew this warm spell was only a temporary respite. Good heavens! Christmas hadn't arrived yet. Months of cold, freezing weather stretched ahead.

  Lisa scraped her high-button shoes on the outside mat and entered her parlor, happy to be home again. It took some time for her eyes to adjust to the dim light in the room, and at first, she didn't recognize her visitor. Upon seeing Mrs. Gilmore rise to her feet, she quickly recovered her senses, offering a cheery greeting.

  "Mrs. Gilmore, it's such a pleasure to see you again." Lisa removed her cape to hang it on the hall coat stand. Observing the woman's somber face and noting how uncharacteristically quiet she was, something told Lisa the housekeeper had brought troubling news.

  "I trust everything is all right at Ellsworth Avenue?" Lisa's uneasiness increased, for the woman didn't return her smile. "Is anything wrong?"

  "I . . . I don't rightly know, Mrs. Enright," the housekeeper said in a wavering voice. Quickly, she reached down to the chair and handed Lisa a large envelope, as if wishing to relieve herself of a burden. "This telegram came for you late yesterday afternoon, too late for me to get it to you then. So I came here this morning as soon as possible."

  Lisa glanced at the telegram, her face set in a neutral expression. "Ah, then, I fear I've kept you waiting a long time." While the woman pronounced a disclaimer, Lisa thoughtfully tapped the envelope against her hand as she attempted to staunch her worries. Certain the message was from William, she wondered why that should surprise her. He was bound to come home sometime, she realized with a sick lurch of her stomach. A cold sweat broke out on her face, her ears ringing.

  "I have no doubt it's from Mr. Enright, informing me he's on his way back to Pittsburgh." Even as Lisa spoke, she questioned why she still continued this ridiculous charade of the caring wife, when Mrs. Gilmore knew better. And how will the woman manage William in my absence? she agonized with an increasing lightheadedness.

  Lisa swayed on her feet, the room spinning around her. What a time to feel faint! Bending her head, she clutched a chair for support as she fought to throw off her sickness.

  "Mrs. Enright--"

  She dreaded to open the envelope but knew she couldn't prolong the agony, scarcely able to wait for Mrs. Gilmore to leave. Time, then, to discover the contents of the telegram.

  "Mrs. Enright--"

  Would the room ever stop spinning?

  "Mrs. Enright, are you quite well?"

  Lisa kept her head down. "Just a trifle faint, Mrs. Gilmore. I'll be fine in a moment."

  In spite of her discomfort, she thought of the servants, knowing William would take his anger out on them upon finding her gone, reserving special ire for Mrs. Gilmore. Still dizzy, Lisa swallowed hard. As if from a distance, she heard Mrs. Gilmore urging her to sit down.

  Slowly, Lisa raised her head, speaking with more calmness than she felt. "I'm quite all right, Mrs. Gilmore, truly I am. If I just rest a little . . ." She sank into an upholstered chair. The dizziness left her, replaced by a peripheral awareness of her surroundings. She looked up to see the woman standing in front of her, waving a newspaper in front of her.

  "I feel a little better now." Lisa tried to smile.

  "Are you sure?" Mrs. Gilmore looked down at her for a few moments, frowning with concern. "If you're certain you're all right--" Setting the paper aside, Mrs. Gilmore gave her a comforting smile as she collected her purse and gloves. "Mrs. Enright, I don't want to encroach upon your time any longer," she said as she slipped on her coat and drew on her gloves. "But I want you to know that if I can help you, do anything for you . . ." Suddenly practical, she asked, "Do you need any groceries?"

  Lisa drew an unsteady breath, ashamed of her momentary faintness. With difficulty, she kept her voice controlled and light. "No, thank you. I have enough groceries to last me for quite a while. I paid a neighbor boy to get me a few items yesterday."

  Mrs. Gilmore nodded briskly. "Well, then, I shall leave you now. But dear Mrs. Enright, please let me know if I can help you in any way."

  Lisa straightened in her chair, fired with determination. She'd face the problem of William's return as she had other troubles, never letting it get the better of her. Her face set in calm acceptance, Lisa returned her thoughts to everyday concerns.

  "Thank you for your offer, Mrs. Gilmore. I shall remember that." Cautiously, she rose to her feet. "And thank you for coming here today."

  After the door closed behind the housekeeper, Lisa returned to her chair and tore the envelope open, her heart beating frantically. She smoothed the telegram on her lap, then held it up to read it. As she'd expected, it was from San Francisco.

  She scanned the telegram. A sharp jolt of alarm struck her like an electric shock, and she read it again, scarcely believing the words. Looking up from the paper, she stared around the room. How in the world would she tell Owen?

  * * *

  "Dead?" Owen faced Lisa across the table in the visitors' room of the jail, a look of stunned disbelief on his face. Conscious of the guard who stood in the background, he lowered his voice. "Are you sure?"

  "Owen, there is no doubt. The telegram--"

  "Yes, yes, I know. You told me about the telegram, about the self-inflicted gunshot. But I can't help thinki
ng there must be some mistake." He gave her a long, searching look, his mouth tightening with concern.

  Lisa tried to ignore the strong disinfectant smell of the room that made her eyes sting. "No mistake." Torn between relief at William's death and guilt for her feelings, she forced herself to look and act placid. "His address was found on his person, the gun at his side. No mistake."

  "I see." Owen nodded thoughtfully, his hands folded on the table. "This still doesn't mean we can get married right away. It wouldn't look good for you . . . respectable. As for me, I'd marry you tomorrow, if I could. It may be at least a year--"

  "I know." Regardless of guilty feelings, a smile found its way to her face. "But Owen, the fact remains, we can get married. What was impossible before--unless I got a divorce, and you know William refused to grant me one--is now a certainty." Lisa's voice brightened with enthusiasm. "We can get married, sweetheart."

  "But not very soon."

  "If you're having any doubts--" She tried to stifle the sick feeling inside her. After all this time and all they’d been through, did he no longer want her as his wife? She twisted her hands in her lap, wondering how she could bear his rejection.

  "Oh, come now. Let's not have that kind of talk." His fingers touched hers, his thumb caressing her palm. "Doubts? Your Owen unsure of his love for this dear, wonderful lady who's come into his life? You know me better than that."

  Relief welled up inside her, and she wanted to shout for joy. She should never have doubted him. "Forgive me, darling. It's only that after all these months--a year, really--and all we've been through--" And I haven’t been thinking clearly, she wanted to say. I’ve been so worried about you, about us.

  "I know, I know." Owen smiled with encouragement. "The time will go by quickly. Before you know it, you'll be Mrs. Owen Cardiff. There! How does that sound?"

  Her smile was dazzling. "I think it sounds beautiful." Yes, his wife! How she loved him, how she wanted to share her life with his, to know all the joys that marriage would bring. How could she wait?