Like prancing across the gorge on a tightrope. Or conversing with a beautiful stranger.
“Why are we talking about this?” Though that enigmatic smile still curved her lips, an edge entered her tone.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged, matching his smile to hers. “You started it.”
“I did no such thing.” An incredulous laugh escaped.
He grinned. “You did. You asked me if I was all right and that’s how we started talking.” He took a step closer, facing her, the challenge brought on by their banter thrumming through him.
“All right. I admit it. I started our conversation, so I’ll finish it too.” Before he could utter another word, she turned gracefully and moved across the deck toward her companions.
He stood, hands in his pockets, watching them until the boat neared its dock and the passengers prepared to disembark. He blended into the crowd, excited chatter swirling around him like a horde of noisy seagulls. Everyone seemed elated with the trip, exclamations of “Weren’t they marvelous?” and “I’ve never dreamt they’d be so large!” mingling with the ever-present sound of rushing water.
Drew followed the group onto dry land and back to real life, carrying a souvenir of disappointment. One he’d not purchased and didn’t quite understand. What was wrong with him? He’d been near the Falls again, seen their magnificence, watched them work their magic. Even had a conversation with a lovely woman.
One whose name he’d never found out.
Like a piece of summer grass, she was brittle. Breaking under the heat of one too many days without water. Or in Adele’s case, one too many hours of empty, false social pretense.
Nora had laced Adele’s corset tighter than usual, all for the cause of making her waist the ideal eighteen inches beneath the layers of emerald silk. She’d barely eaten. Could hardly breathe. Due to both the corset and the letter she’d received an hour before dinner.
All of it had produced the desired effect. She was a fragile English rose, beautiful and languid.
The men loved it.
Especially one Franklin Conway. He’d scarcely left her side all evening, hardly taken his gaze from her face.
“So what do you think of Mr. Fargo’s new place? Quite the showpiece.” Americans had such a funny way of talking. The less time they’d been a part of society, the rougher their speech was. Mr. Conway was one of Buffalo society’s newest acquisitions. But he had money. Carriage loads of it. She’d already surmised that from their two hours of conversation.
“It’s very nice.” If one determined nice by the size of a drawing room—the room they currently sat in—or the number of servants standing around wearing velvet livery.
“Nicer than your place in merry old England?” A grin angled his mustached mouth, as he draped one arm casually over the back of the settee. One of the female dinner guests had seated herself at the grand piano in the room’s corner and now plunked out a lively, though unaccomplished, tune.
“Oh, it’s nothing like Linley Park. Linley Park is…” How could she describe her favorite place in the entire world? Some things…there weren’t words to do them justice. Like yesterday’s sightseeing trip to Niagara Falls. The sensation of moving toward them on a ferry, closer and closer, until their very spray bathed her face, the rush and roar filling her ears like a master crescendo. Their power had been a terrible thing to behold, so great was its force. Yet there had been beauty too. So much beauty it had made her heart ache with a sudden sadness.
Did the God who created such a wondrous sight actually care twopence about the problems of one simple girl like herself? Somehow, Adele doubted it.
“Linley Park is very English. It’s an old house, going back to the days of Queen Elizabeth. There are beautiful gardens.” With a sudden inspiration, she added, “And when it’s midsummer and one stands very still in the courtyard, you can almost hear the voices of the past, whispering ever so softly. But no matter how long and hard one listens, the words are never audible enough for their meaning to be made out.” She blushed.
Mr. Conway smiled, slow and intense.
“It’s just a foolish fancy I have, is all.”
“An intriguing one, to be sure.” Though at least ten years above her twenty, the glint lighting his eyes was positively youthful. “I’d like to see this Linley Park. To hear you talk, it sounds like paradise.” He accepted a glass of whatever it was the footman carried round, holding it easily in his large, well-manicured hand.
Paradise. To her, it had always been so. Every flagstone seemed steeped in some memory. Childhood games with Tony and their governesses. Moments of rare joy when her father dropped whatever he was doing and came out into the garden for a round of Blindman’s Bluff. In those fleeting times, she and Tony had been the most important thing in the world, his most pressing matter, whether or not to play properly or let his children best him. He so often chose the latter.
How precious and distant those moments seemed now. And how certain it was that her only reminder of them—Linley Park—would soon be taken from her if something didn’t change soon.
Her throat tightened, her corset pinching air from her lungs. A heavy hand seemed to hover over the drawing room, oppressing them with stifling heat.
“I beg you will forgive me, Mr. Conway. I find I’m in need of some fresh air.” She added a weak smile to the words and stood.
“Of course. It’s an oven in here, isn’t it?” He rose also, setting his glass on an end table. “I’ll come along, if you like.”
The vehemence with which she shook her head didn’t do much for her aura as a delicate damsel. “Thank you, but no. I’ll be quite all right on my own.” Before he could open his mouth to protest, she’d crossed the drawing room and let herself out into the foyer. The front doors beckoned, and thankfully, no footman was in sight. She pushed one open. The instant cool night air filled her lungs; she lifted her skirts to hurry in the direction of the garden.
Though the gardener at Linley Park would have laughed to see the pitiful array of flowers and shrubs on display, their familiar sight and fragrance soothed her like a mother’s gentle touch. Finding a narrow stone bench in a secluded alcove, she sank down upon it.
Her fingers found the letter secreted in a tiny pocket hidden in the folds of her dress. She unfolded the creased paper, moonlight slanting across the page.
Expenses…Can’t keep the servants…Tradesmen…Bills…Tony
The hand was that of her ladylike mother. The words those of a woman frantic.
What was to be done? The expense Adele had undertaken to pay for the voyage to America might have been best used at home. She’d come seeking a wealthy husband, but was there even time? Why hadn’t Mother sent exact figures instead of these vagaries that only alarmed? Was there any money left at all?
These American relatives of hers couldn’t be relied upon to help—her uncle was a benign man who bowed to his wife’s every whim. And, though hidden by an outward coating of charm, an undercurrent of resentment leaked out every time she and Aunt Osbourne attempted to converse. The woman hadn’t forgotten or forgiven the quarrels of the past. Tension. Hours and days of endless tension…
Oh, she couldn’t help it. Though the repercussions of doing so—a dripping nose and red eyes—would need to be tended before she could return to the party, she needed the relief that her release of tears brought. Pressing both hands over her mouth to stifle the sound, a sob bubbled in her throat. Then another, her cheeks the slate upon which her weary heart wrought its long-stifled tempest.
“Miss?”
Please, no. Was the lapse of a few moments to bring the consequences of discovery? Swiping her cheeks with the backs of both hands, she lifted her gaze to ascertain which of the guests had caught her in such a state of disarray.
Moonlight illuminated his features, the form of a man she’d not seen in the Fargo family drawing room. Yet she had seen him somewhere. Ah. Yes. A week ago, on the Maid of the Mist, the day of the Osbournes’ sigh
tseeing trip. Their conversation had been as impromptu as a fanciful waltz. There had been freedom in letting herself talk with a charismatic stranger for fleeting minutes. With everyone else, she’d been forced to don a particular facade designed to make a distinct impression. With him, she’d simply…been herself.
And now he, of all people, found her reduced to a sniveling wreck, a state no lady ever appeared in. Mortification singed her. “What do you want?” Hopefully, such blunt words would frighten him away. Foolish thought, that.
Did she dare hope he’d allow her a semblance of dignity and make a discreet departure?
“Nothing in particular. Just to see why you’re crying.” He wore evening clothes, his dark brown hair parted and combed neatly. A gold watch fob glinted in the meager light. But it was the look of rare concern in his expression that watered the dry soil of her thirsty heart.
She shoved the letter deep inside her pocket and stood to her feet. Though he wasn’t a tall man, in fact only a few inches above her, she needed the confidence brought on by meeting him eye to eye. Dignity and decorum were her mainstays. What ought she to do, since she’d found herself in a position where they obviously weren’t doing her much good?
“What makes you believe I wish to confide in you?” The effect of her bold words dimmed when she realized that, within the folds of her skirts, her hands shook.
“Well…” He shoved his hands inside his pants pockets. “I guess you shouldn’t if you don’t want to. But sometimes”—a faint smile took residence on his lips—“it helps to share a burden. At least that’s been my experience.”
Tempting idea. If only there had been someone to share the burden with back in England. Long nights and aching eyes from poring over ledgers, the queasy feeling in her stomach every time she had to dismiss a servant who’d done nothing wrong. Yes, indeed. If only there had been another hand to lift and bear the weighty load then. But Tony and Mother did not possess the strength. Nor, it seemed, the desire.
“I don’t even know who you are.” She balled both fists into the folds of her dress, not caring if she wrinkled the fine fabric, needing her trembling to stop.
“You didn’t know who I was that day on the ferry. That didn’t stop you from talking to me then.” The tiniest of smiles angled his lips.
“That was different.” She lifted her chin, wishing for a few more inches so she could be taller than this man. It would salve her self-respect, some, to best him in height.
“How?” He seemed determined to challenge her, as he had that day on the boat. As if to goad her into revealing what she had not told to a living soul on American soil, not even the Osbournes.
“I don’t know.” She tamped down the urge to throw up her hands in exasperation. His smile managed to mingle charm and concern with one simple upturn of his lips. “It just was.”
“Maybe. But you weren’t crying then, were you?” He moved past her and took a seat on the bench. “Join me, will you?” He patted the space next to him.
“And if I refuse?” The words were spoken more for something to say than with any real meaning behind them. She truly didn’t feel like refusing. Not when he looked at her with such kindness, true interest in those eyes. It was rarer than silver in the Linley coffers to find a human being who actually exuded concern for another’s plight. Most individuals cared only for their own. At least that had been Adele’s experience.
“Then I guess that’s your choice to make.” He shrugged. “There’s only so much a man can do to change the mind of a stubborn woman.”
She stared at him, mouth agape. An Englishman would never behave in such a forward manner toward a lady such as herself. But then, Englishmen had also never questioned her when she’d shown a pale face or strained eyes at some society fete.
“Very well.” She joined him on the bench. Whoever had designed the seat hadn’t done so with two in mind. To rest upon it comfortably involved sitting closer to him than she’d ever done with a man, save rainy afternoons as a little girl when she’d perched upon her father’s lap.
Cuddling next to her father was a sight different than this close proximity to a man who exuded a…something that sent strange flurries through her middle.
She tilted her chin and looked up at him, failing to fight back a ridiculously triumphant smile. “There. That proves I’m not a stubborn woman.”
“Nope. Just shows I’m a persistent man.” His smile held an equal measure of victory. “At least you’re not crying anymore, which is always a good thing. Now, tell me, what was it all about?” His teasing smile faded, replaced with kindness in his eyes. Though the smile had given him a roguish air, the kindness took his good looks from merely handsome to slightly irresistible.
Hesitancy overcame her earlier impulse. She’d vowed to keep the family’s financial difficulties from everyone, so no word would leak into society and ruin her chances. And she didn’t even know this man’s name. He could be the son of a railroad tycoon, a potential suitor. Pouring out her woes could come with a price.
After all, didn’t everything these days?
Even with tear-streaked cheeks, she was a vision. Rich brown ringlets framed her face, and moonlight only made her green eyes glitter all the more. When Drew had come out into the garden after dropping off a message to Conway, she’d been there. And he heard that undeniable stir in his spirit telling him it hadn’t been mere coincidence that their paths had crossed again. That the brokenness he sensed in her now needed gentle hands to do the mending. Cried out for words of kindness and understanding.
Drew could provide that. And perhaps understand a bit more about the enigma that seemed to envelop her like mist eclipsing the Falls.
“Who are you, anyway?” Why did sudden ire flash in those gemlike eyes of hers? He hadn’t done anything with the intention of making her angry. Riled, maybe. But no more than good-natured teasing warranted, and that, only to bring her out of her despair.
“No one special.” He couldn’t have spoken greater truth had a judge sworn him in as a witness to his own life. The only “special” thing he’d ever done was survive a feat that, by all rights, should’ve killed him. And cared for Hope. That was far more precious than any daredevil stunt. Other than those items, his story could’ve been that of any urchin between the ages of six to twenty-six. Orphaned. Sent to an orphanage with a baby sister. Escaped the place in his early teens, like Oliver Twist fleeing his coffin-maker apprenticeship. Living hand to mouth doing whatever job came his way, just to earn the barest of crusts. Yep, his life—hard and ordinary for sure and certain. Not special by any definition of the word.
“Interesting name. ‘No one special.’ Do you go by any other?” She arched one of her finely shaped brows.
“Drew Dawson.” His name had doubtless come up in conversation at countless social gatherings—Conway’s doing of course. Had she heard it? Would she now know him for who he was—a cheap funambulist whose picture was soon to be plastered all over Buffalo and Niagara, known by the nomenclature, “The Gentleman Daredevil.”
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Dawson.” She offered her hand, the bracelet encircling her wrist shimmering in the light of the almost full moon.
He took her hand. Her fingers were warm, soft as the wind’s caress, and they clasped his with a pressure that seemed to invoke a sort of unspoken resolve on her part.
“Likewise, Miss…?” Though the space of time since she’d taken his hand couldn’t have been more than two or three seconds, for once, time seemed inclined to oblige Drew and sit a spell, each second stretching as he kept right on holding her hand.
“Adele Linley.” With a little tug, she untangled her fingers from his and placed both hands in her lap.
Names were a funny thing. Sometimes, they suited. Other times, their variance to the person called by them, bordered on the ridiculous. In this instance…
Adele. Perfunctory, yet tinged with exquisite beauty. Simple, but fresh for that very reason.
Adel
e.
“Pleased to meet you, Adele Linley.” He squelched the inexplicable urge to take her hand again and cleared his throat instead. “So what would make a woman like Adele Linley cry? It’s…what do they call it? A conundrum. You just got done having dinner with the cream of Buffalo society. Every man in the room probably had to get in line to pay you a compliment. You’re wearing a fancy dress and jewelry that cost more than most people make in a year.” He rubbed a hand over the scruff on his jaw. “So I guess you’re going to have to tell me, because I can’t seem to figure out the reason.”
“I fail to understand why you would even care.” An edge lingered in her tone, one that hinted more of vulnerability than stubbornness. “Those men, the ones who, as you put it, lined up to pay me compliments assuredly don’t. What makes you any different?”
A pause ensued, one where he stared into the semidarkness and pondered how to reply.
He didn’t often reveal weakness, the parts of his past that, to survive, he’d bolted into a rarely visited corner of his mind. But something—God most likely—told him to tell her.
He rubbed his jaw, resisting the nudge. She was little more than a complete stranger. People, especially ones like him, didn’t spill their souls to acquaintances.
The nudge came harder. More insistent.
So he opened his mouth, prepared to follow the Spirit and speak what he must.
“Because, Miss Linley, I’ve watched another young woman cry as if her heart were shattered into a thousand pieces. It’s not a pretty sight, you know, to witness the breaking of a heart. Mostly because, at that moment, all I wanted to do was take her pain and bear it for her. I held her as close as I could, but I still couldn’t remove her suffering.”
The words caught a bit, but they’d come.
“Who was this woman?” The edges around her tone softened.
He swallowed a rise of emotion, one that could leave him as vulnerable as the lady at his side. A memory resurfaced, aching and vivid. “She didn’t cry after the accident. Nor throughout all the hours of pain afterward. I still don’t know how she stayed so brave.”
My Heart Belongs in Niagara Falls, New York Page 3