Watermarks

by Jarvis, J. L.

  Maggie made no effort to hide her distress. "You used to say you would never leave Johnstown."

  "Did I?" His eyes flashed.

  Maggie looked away.

  Jake lowered his voice. "We both used to say a lot of things."

  It hurt. His words, the edge in his voice, his face, the contempt, it all hurt. Maggie felt betrayed, although she knew she had no right. Still, the disappointment was harsh. "I can't imagine your not being here." She looked at Jake, straight in his eyes. "You're leaving your family, your home. Friends. Why would you give that all up? There's something you're not telling me. What is it?"

  "Don't ask me that, Maggie." He wanted to tell her.

  "Why? We've known each other forever. It's me, Maggie."

  "Yes, it's you," Jake said without turning to face her.

  "I don't understand."

  "You don't have to."

  The silence grew brittle between them until Maggie dared speak.

  "Jake--"

  He refused to look at her. She put her hand on his arm.

  "Jake. Tell me."

  With a shudder, he pulled his arm from her gentle touch and stepped away. His body was no more decisive than his heart, at the same time exploding yet recoiling.

  She stepped toward him once more and touched his shoulder, stroking it absently. "Johnstown's your home. How can you leave it?"

  He spun around to face her, grabbing her wrist with a tightening grip. "I'm not leaving Johnstown? I'm leaving you!"

  With a thrust, he released her hand, but the force of it threw Maggie off balance. She stagger backward and then lost her footing and landed against the clapboard siding.

  For an instant, Jake's face was blank, then anxious. "I'm sorry!" He lunged toward her and took her shoulders and nearly pulled her into his arms, but led her, instead, to a seat.

  "It's alright," she said numbly.

  "I didn't mean to," he said, as he sat down beside her. While stroking her shoulders and arms he tried to soothe her. "I'm so sorry."

  "You're leaving me?" she said softly.

  He became at once aware of his hands on her arms, and removed them. Her arms were so soft. For this, he would hate her, if only he could. But as he looked at her, all he could feel was the depth of his love, and a deeper regret.

  In a voice so soft she could have been speaking to herself. "You never told me you would leave here for me."

  "Because you never told me you would stay here for me."

  His words hit their mark. He brushed a tear from her cheek and left a kiss on the spot. Then he stood and walked away without looking back.

  Maybe it was pride that kept Maggie from following after him, but as she watched Jake walk away, his words made her feel guilty, but why? Had she wronged him? How could she have helped it? She'd fallen in love with someone else. If love were a choice, she'd have avoided that one altogether. Andrew had hurt her. Now Jake would leave her and hurt her even more. More? Yes. Maggie was struck by the truth of her feelings. Losing Jake hurt her more. Had she been so dazzled by Andrew's wealth that she hadn't seen who he was? She imagined Andrew in a steel mill, or Jake up on the mountain. Compared side-by-side, she could see them for the men that they were.

  You're a fool, Maggie MacLaren. You know it. And Jake knows it, too.

  Somewhere in her soul, she'd known her true feelings. She'd betrayed her own heart. And Jake's. It was a harsh truth. Had she let Jake closer, she might have discovered the sort of love she had always sought. But right now she was not ready to ponder it. It was too late for what might have been. She heard his footsteps on the porch, and the door close behind him. Then she walked inside and slumped down onto the stairs. Leaning her head against the banister, she closed her eyes and wept.

  Safe in his house, Jake landed in the nearest chair and leaned his head back, eyes shut. He had said too much. He never intended to expose his feelings and force Maggie's guilt. He knew that she loved him in her way, but not enough to share a life. He knew that he was everything she wanted to leave behind. He was the factory soot that peppered the sills and could never be fully washed from the curtains. His were the eyes of every man walking from a steel mill or coal mine with lunch pail in hand, too weary to think of hopes lost and abandoned, or of burdens ahead. Theirs would have been the children raised to quit school too early, to carry on the work when their parents' bodies were used up and broken. It was a hard life, and Maggie did not want it. He could not blame her for that. He did not want it for her or himself, for that matter, but he wanted her for himself.

  The Adair family stood on the platform of Pittsburgh's Union Station, surrounding Charles as he delivered last minute instructions to Andrew and Samuel. While his instructions were for Andrew, he punctuated each statement with an inquisitive nod toward Samuel. The responsibility for properly carrying out each task would fall to Samuel, and everyone knew it. Samuel's clenched jaw was the only outward sign of his impatience, while Andrew made little effort to appear at all interested. He looked at his father with vacant forbearance. Charles occasionally paused for a perfunctory response from his son and, receiving none, would redirect his words to Samuel. He proceeded to elaborate on strategies with which to carry out each item on the list. Samuel listened to each word intently, even as his mind raced forward to anticipate issues and form questions. Samuel watched and waited for his cue, offering courteous clarifications, suggestions, or elaboration until the two were embroiled in an animated business discussion. As always, Charles held the reigns of the conversation, while Samuel gently guided its direction.

  At last, business matters were set aside for affectionate farewells: a kiss on the cheek for Allison, a handshake for Andrew, and a nod for Samuel. Mrs. Adair embraced each child warmly, then took Samuel's hand in hers and gave it an affectionate pat.

  The train pulled out of the station carrying Charles and Lillian Adair to a week in New York City. As it disappeared from sight, Allison's arm hovered for a moment as if suspended in air, and then sank to her side. From far away, one might have found something wistful in her pose, but as she turned to Samuel, her eyes twinkled with contained anticipation. For one week the Adairs would be gone. One glorious week she and Samuel would be free.

  Andrew watched the train for no longer than it took to leave his sight. His eyes strayed thoughtfully to the tracks, while his mind continued to wander elsewhere. There was no outward trace of the disappointment that consumed him. His face bore only the blank mask of a privileged and bored young gentleman.

  They arrived at the phaeton for the ride home. First they stared, and then they exchanged glances. It would only hold two.

  Andrew said, "I forgot I rode over with Mother and Father in the brougham."

  Samuel said with reluctance, "You two go on ahead and I'll catch a hansom."

  Andrew said, "No. I was planning on going out anyway. I'll get a ride home later, or take a cab."

  "Are you sure?" asked Allison.

  Andrew assured them he was, and went on his way to parts unknown. Allison watched her brother walk away into the night, a handsome figure draped in a fine suit, and a mood so forlorn.

  They pulled away. She was still watching her brother, when, from beneath a concealing fold of skirt on the seat beside her, a hand took hold of hers. The touch of his fingers against her gloved hand made her tremble. Allison returned the pressure of his hand by entwining her fingers in his. She was afraid to look at him. Her face would reveal too much.

  The irregular rhythm of horse hooves and street vendors grew dim as Samuel spoke. His voice was deep, a mere inch from her ear. "An evening alone. What will we do?"

  With a secret smile on her lips, Allison lifted her eyes to his.

  Chapter 16

  A twilight haze was beginning to settle as Samuel and Allison pulled into traffic. Shops were closing and street lamps were being lit. Pittsburgh could not appear ordinary as long as it was part of the world they shared. Allison watched people scurrying along and wondered how many o
f them ever would really know love as she did. How many of them were relegated, as she once had been, to the mere appearance of love?

  Samuel maneuvered the phaeton amid the rolling carriages and pedestrians. A wagon lay askew with a broken wheel, blocking a portion of the road. Samuel steered around the obstruction, leaning this way and that, in a fluid dance of flexing muscles. His masculinity took her quite by surprise in this context as even the slightest movement, a turn of the head or a shifting of the shoulders, pronounced his well-formed physique. The full effect wielded an undeniable power over Allison.

  She studied him. She could not help herself. Yet she shied away from her visceral response. Her faced burned as her eyes traveled the length of his back, from the wide span of his shoulders to his long sinewy legs. She forced herself to look away as she raised a cooling hand to her reddened cheek. Because Allison had always been reticent around her husband, she'd assumed it would be so with all men. Samuel aroused feelings that were new and unsettling. She wanted him. Longing drove her thoughts and her body to complete the connection begun by their hearts.

  Through the streets of Pittsburgh they rode, under a sky suffused with deep gray, gentle and cool. The city grew quiet, but for the relentless rhythm of hooves accompanied by the creaks and moans of carriages. Samuel pulled onto a quiet, unlit street where he parked the phaeton at the side of the road.

  "Why are we stopping?" Surprised by her own whispered breath.

  Samuel's gaze swept over her. He said, "I have something to give you that can't wait." He lifted Allison's chin and touched his lips to her cheek. Then his mouth found hers with a sudden and thorough kiss. Holding her face in his hands, he released her and leaned his forehead against hers. "We're going home. Now."

  Samuel guided the horse into the private confines of the Adair carriage house. The phaeton shifted from the release of Samuel's weight as he stepped down to the floor of the carriage house. Allison's heart thrilled to be alone with him. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw the moonlit outlines of horse, the phaeton, and the foliage beyond the door. Samuel's steps crushed the fine grit on the ground as he rounded the phaeton. A faint moonlit glow lit their faces as they took in this one perfect moment. Then reaching an outstretched hand to hers, he tugged at the tips of her glove and removed it. Lowering his head, Samuel brushed her hand against his cheek. Allison wilted to her knees on the floorboard, and abandoned herself to his arms. He held her in his sturdy arms and kissed her brow and cheekbone. Each touch seared itself to her memory. Her lips parted and thirsted for more as he pulled her against him. She sank against him, in the strength of his arms and pressed her palm to his chest. It was warm and pounding.

  One of the horses moved restlessly. Her lips brushed against his as she whispered, "We can't stay here."

  "I know," Samuel said in a husky whisper.

  He lifted her down from the phaeton. There they stood, face to face, in the dark. Upon her lips, he placed a soft kiss, which melted away as Allison whispered, "Come to my room. The servants have the night off."

  Samuel's whispered agreement was lost in a kiss.

  The sound of an approaching carriage jarred their senses. Allison pulled away with a dismayed gasp. "I may never forgive Andrew for this."

  Samuel gripped Allison's hand in firm reassurance, then turned and busied himself tending to the horses. Allison listened as a buggy continued to make its way down the drive.

  Leaving Samuel behind, she emerged from the carriage house as a buggy pulled to a stop.

  "I thought you were going out."

  "Allison?" He stepped down from the buggy.

  She cringed to hear Powell's voice. Yet as she spoke, she was surprised to hear her own voice sounding deceptively smooth and poised. "Mr. Sutton? I wasn't expecting you."

  "Yes, well I promised your father I would look in on you while they were gone."

  "Did you? Well, I hardly need looking in on. I'm a grown woman."

  "Yes. I see." The darkness masked his face, which would have leant meaning to Powell's ambiguous words.

  "Please excuse me. It's been such a day." Allison could not think of one single excuse. To come from Samuel's arms to this was unnerving.

  "I've brought you something," Powell interrupted.

  Allison was caught off guard, speechless. She wanted him to go, but was either too kind or too timid to send him a way.

  Powell snapped his head toward the sound of approaching footsteps.

  "Samuel." With narrow eyes, Powell eyed him.

  "Powell," said Samuel, meeting Powell's grimace with controlled calm.

  Powell swallowed his irritation, and then turned to Allison. "May I speak with you?"

  "I-yes--I suppose so." Powell offered his arm, but she made no move to take it. "Allison?" With a pointed look, Powell waited for Allison to take his arm. She reacted mechanically, taking his arm and allowing him to lead her to her house. She glanced helplessly at Samuel, who responded with the slightest of nods as he followed closely behind.

  When they reached the door, Powell turned to Samuel. "Thank you, but I can see her the rest of the way."

  Samuel's words were slow and measured, his voice biting. "I live here."

  "So you do know your place. I wasn't quite sure."

  Samuel controlled his rage, just barely. Allison took his arm and held it tightly. "I'm certain Mr. Sutton did not mean that as it sounded."

  A long silence followed as Powell glared at Samuel. With reluctance, he said, "No, of course not." He took a step toward Allison.

  "Mr. Sutton, we must visit another time. It's late, and--"

  "Too late," said Samuel.

  "I'm afraid I'm not feeling quite up to it," Allison said softly. With a weak smile, she brought her fingertips up to her head.

  Powell looked at Allison's hand. It was bare, while the other was gloved. His eyes narrowed.

  She awkwardly lowered her hand and concealed it between the shadowy folds of her skirt. Powell glared, then deferred to her wishes and said his farewells for the evening. She watched and waited until his buggy was well away.

  Samuel followed Allison into the house and closed the door behind him, still gripping the doorknob in outrage. He had taken insults before. He had endured them but never grown used to them. But this time the affront cut too deep.

  "No more," he said to himself, as much as to Allison. "No more. I kept telling myself to put up with it until I could have the last laugh. So I worked harder, and grew smarter, and did better, but it still wasn't enough: because it can't be enough."

  "I know," Allison put her hand on his face.

  "But you don't know." He snapped at her.

  "I know that there's hate in the world, and I've seen how you suffer."

  "But I don't have any right to suffer. Don't you see? Look at the life I live. How dare I complain?"

  "Because it's just a different degree of injustice."

  "There are people of color who hate me, and your people do worse. They dismiss me."

  His voice had grown steadily louder until now he was shouting. "I hate living like this--never belonging."

  She had never seen him so angry. "What are you saying?"

  His voice was now lowered, but hollowed out by anger. "I would have left long ago," he said as he stared through the darkness.

  "But for me. I didn't realize how unhappy you were."

  Samuel pulled her into his arms. "Because I didn't want you to."

  Allison sank into his arms. Her eyes were stinging with tears. "I've caused you so much pain."

  He took her face in his hands. "How could I leave you?"

  Through the window of her unlit room, Allison drew peace from the night sky, and the moonlight. Powell was gone. She would soon be with Samuel. He meant everything to her. Unlike Powell, he treated her as an equal. He did not condescend or discount her. He weighed her thoughts and ideas as he would those of a man. With Samuel she could share and discuss, and not always agree, without the patronizing
dismissal that so marked her conversations with other men. In so many ways, Samuel had freed her.

  A gentle tapping on the door jolted her from her view at the window. She called for him to come in. In a single motion he was through the door and holding her. An autumn wind scraped a thin branch against the window. Samuel went to the window to be sure no one was there, and then he closed the gap in the curtains. He stopped, with his hands gripping the fabric. "I hate making you hide."

  She stepped close behind him and slipped her arms about his waist.

  Samuel turned around and clutched her against him. "You deserve to be married and happy."

  "I don't deserve to be this happy. And I am. But I'm greedy. I want it to last."

  Samuel held her head to his chest. "We'll find a place."

  The world could not reach them now as they fitted their bodies together with fervid bliss and drowsy caresses.

  Chapter 17

  Light from a waning gibbous moon filtered through the leaded glass window in silvery wisps on the lovers entwined on the bed. Allison awoke. She watched Samuel sleeping. Nearly all of her life she had known him, and yet she could not really say when it was that she fell in love with him. How had she missed what had been so clearly before her? She was ashamed of the answer. She had been a good student of social convention. So completely and complacently had she become occupied in perpetuating the life for which she had been bred, that she had failed to see Samuel apart from the world's construct for a man of color. Despite their close friendship, their similar upbringing, and his comparable education, Samuel was on the other side of a great divide, which had been devoutly erected and painstakingly maintained by society's fears and habits.

  Until now, he had not shared with Allison how, despite being grateful for what her family had done for him, he felt he had been cut off from who he was at his core. He seldom talked of his childhood before the Adairs took him in. But it was a part of the man he was, and the man that no longer was. He lived in one world, but felt ties to another. Samuel's privileged background and education had opened doors often closed to others of his race. While he suspected that he was admitted more as a curiosity than as a peer, he accepted the challenge to justify his presence by merit. She admired him for this. Nevertheless, Allison knew that no one gained entry to society by merit alone. Such positions were attained with money, influence, or simply by birth. Character was a superfluous quality, admirable perhaps, but not really necessary. Allison's circle accepted Samuel to a point. Yet, the more he distinguished himself with accomplishments, the more they saw him as an exception. Thus, the more he disproved society's false notions of race, the less he altered them. Samuel was aware of the paradox, but unable fully to combat it. He chose, therefore, to hope that he might have forced open, if only a crack, a door that before had been locked.