“Thank you again for coming.”
He smiled then, sunlight casting gold onto his dark hair. “You don’t need to thank me. Just promise you won’t cry in gardens anymore, and I’ll consider myself satisfied. I haven’t spent much time among the shrubbery, but I think one could find better things to do in it.” He ahemed, a trace of red creeping over his cheekbones. “Not that there’s anything wrong with crying. Or doing so in gardens. I just…don’t want to think of you unhappy. And next time, I might not be there to find you.”
“Then I’ll only cry in gardens if I’m absolutely sure you’re within earshot.” She laughed, not a false society giggle, but a real laugh. It lessened some of the pressure on her lungs brought on by stress and corsets and never-ending expectations.
“Sounds like a plan.” He glanced toward the door. What pressing matter made him eager to rush off? Did it involve this mysterious matter of business? Or was it of a more personal nature?
She barely knew this man. Hopefully she’d judged his honesty correctly and could trust that he wouldn’t spread her sorry story to everyone in town. Though, despite his attire and gentlemanly air, she doubted he mixed with the same circles as she.
It would be best not to see him again. Relegate this moment to the realm of forbidden fruit, pleasures that should not be enjoyed but were sampled nonetheless. If her aunt and uncle discovered she’d had a gentleman caller, they’d think her indiscreet.
As would every eligible man within fifty miles.
Yes, it would be best all around not to continue her acquaintance with Drew Dawson.
So as she let him take her hand in a brief gesture of farewell, she kept her gaze on his.
And made every moment count.
“Why the scowl?”
“Was I scowling?” Drew turned in his seat to find his eighteen-year-old sister, Hope, watching him, a concerned wrinkle between her brows.
“You most definitely were. And I’d like to know the reason why.” Hope maneuvered her wheelchair around the living area of their second-floor apartment, an act that took almost as much skill as Drew’s tightrope escapades, since said apartment was only slightly larger than a postage stamp. She parked directly in front of Drew’s chair, meeting his eyes with a directness that nonetheless radiated compassion.
From the adjoining kitchen, a kettle whistled.
“I’ll get it.” Hope started to turn her chair, but Drew intervened.
“Nothing doing. Princesses are waited upon. Lowly serfs fetch and carry.” He dug up a grin, flashed it in her direction, then stood and headed to the kitchen.
“Very well, my dutiful subject. Quick now.”
Drew laughed, bending his head to duck beneath the low doorway. Mindlessly, he took two cups from the cupboard and worked to prepare mint tea, her question ringing in his ears.
Why was he scowling? It wasn’t like him to spend hours sitting in the living room, gaze on the blank wall. Of course, it wasn’t a blank wall anymore, since he’d pasted up a magazine picture of a field of sunflowers a year ago. But compared to the opulent paintings adorning the Osbournes’ house, his feeble attempt at decorating was simply that. Feeble. As feeble as the tissue-paper-thin walls of the apartment, the dingy plaster, the cracked windows, the attempt to scrape together a home in a district where one considered themselves fortunate to find a vacant alley for a dwelling place.
But he’d never bemoaned these facts, considered it genuinely pointless to do so. The apartment could have been much worse and was only a temporary situation. So what had he been thinking about for the past week?
Adele. Their conversation in that decked-to-the-nines drawing room. Those final moments where their hands had remained clasped, linked together as if by a force neither seemed inclined to break. The shimmer of her emerald eyes as she regarded him, her proud head tilted ever so slightly.
Mostly, he’d run her words through his mind like a wheel that couldn’t seem to quit turning.
“The risk takers who exploit them for monetary gain are their only drawback…. The daredevils have turned it into a circus, worth no more than a seat at a street fair.”
Though some of their rancor had lessened, the longer he mulled them over, a bitter taste still filled his mouth at the remembrance. Rancid and oily. Like a moldy scrap of bread he couldn’t seem to digest. But why?
Because the words were true, that’s why. Blondin had taken the Falls from a place of wonder at nature’s unvarnished beauty and made them a backdrop for cheap thrills. Those who followed the great Frenchmen, him included, had only piled mire upon mire.
Scalding water splashed his finger as he poured water into his cup. He ground his teeth together, grimacing as he dunked the throbbing digit under cool water.
He wasn’t like Blondin. It hadn’t been his idea to partner with Conway for another go across Niagara. He’d only done it the first time because rent had been due, and the larder needed replenishing.
He didn’t care a lick about the fame. Seeing his name on posters. The cheers of the crowd.
But he needed the money for Hope and her medical expenses. Money and the right doctor would take her from a life chained to that blasted chair, and bring healing to her crippled hip. He did not doubt it.
Working at some normal job—mucking stalls or driving carriages—would never provide the funds needed to achieve his dream. One that would come to fruition the day his sister moved around a decent apartment on her own two legs, skipping even, as young women did.
He’d rationalized this, even felt the Lord giving him a sense of peace about his decision to partner in Conway’s scheme.
The scowl etching itself on his face was due to the other matter.
When Adele asked him what he did for a living, he’d deceived her. Not in a bald-faced lie but in a slick way that would’ve made Conway proud. He’d done so because the expression on her face when she’d spoken of the daredevils had been one of utter derision. And the thought of her smile vanishing, replaced with that look aimed toward him, had smacked and left him stinging.
Balancing both cups, he returned to the living room. Pulling a small table—two peach baskets hammered together—in front of Hope’s chair, he placed one of the cups atop it, the air clouding with a steamy, minty fragrance. Drew resumed his seat in the sagging armchair, springs poking into his backside, holding his cup in one palm and waiting for the drink to cool.
“Thank you, Dew.” She gave him a smile warmer than the comforting liquid. He grinned at her nickname for him. It had started when she’d been a tot of two, lisping out a simplified version of his name. It had stuck as they’d grown from children to the adults they were now.
He was her Dew. She was his sister. And there wasn’t a thing he wouldn’t risk, a tightrope he wouldn’t scale, for the chance to give her a better life. It didn’t matter whether Conway grated on him with his constant desire for bigger and better publicity. It didn’t matter whether the crowds cheered for him to live or watched for him to die. He would do this thing. And live through it.
“Anything else I can fetch for Your Most Excellent Majesty?” His upper-crust accent was nothing short of outrageously bad.
“No. But you can tell me why you’ve been different these days. Staring into nothing, not answering when I talk to you, muttering under your breath.” She took a small sip.
“As bad as all that, eh?” His attempt at a laugh fell flat.
She nodded, fawn-colored eyes serious. “You’re not…worried, are you?”
Though he’d refrained from the truth with Adele, he’d been honest with his sister from the start. After all, she’d wondered where all the money for food and rent had come from, on that terrible day when they’d been a hair’s breadth away from being evicted, Drew having lost his previous job as a stable hand, the week before. She didn’t often ask questions. Just trusted her big brother to make wise decisions, and care for them both.
If only he had the same confidence in his own abilities.
&
nbsp; “About the stunt?” His tea had cooled down, and he took a generous gulp. “Not really. I survived last time, and I’ve been perfecting my technique some since. I always survived at the circus. You watched, remember?” Right after fleeing the orphanage, he garnered a job as a high wire walker. He and Hope had traveled the country for over six months, along with the rest of the motley caravan. They’d likely still be there, had Hope not been injured while riding one of the trick ponies, her semi-paralysis forcing them into the need for a settled life.
The experienced performers always marveled at Drew’s adeptness on the tightrope. He’d fallen a few times, mostly at first. But, driven by the need to keep earning, he’d always gotten right back up and tried again.
Easy on a practice wire a few feet off the ground.
Doing Niagara? Another tale altogether.
“You were scared then too.” She reached across and slid her hand into his. How often they’d joined hands as children. As young ones, brought to the Home after their parents’ deaths. Running through the streets at dead of night, breathless with the need to leave the orphanage. Before Drew’s first tightrope stunt, the Big Top lights and music scaring them both into speechlessness. After the stunt, when he’d emptied the contents of his stomach onto the straw. In the aftermath of Hope’s accident, when silent agony marked her girlish features.
Holding hands. Their threefold cord not easily broken.
“But you were always there, with your beautiful smile. And I was only nervous at first.” He rubbed a circle over the back of his sister’s hand with his thumb.
“I could try to be there this time—” she began.
“If you could find a way to get there, which you can’t. And I wouldn’t put you through it, sweetheart. Knowing you’re here, safe, and away from all of that, will be help enough.”
“But if something were to happen…”
He leaned forward, hoping his gaze was full to brimming with all the love inside his heart for the only person left in his circle of family. “If something were to happen, God would still be with you. I’ve prayed about this, Hope. Everything will be fine.”
“It better be. You’re the only brother I’ve got, and I kind of like having you around.” She grinned.
“Don’t worry. Right now, the only place I’m going is to the kitchen to figure out what’s for dinner.” He smoothed a hand over her silky, honey-colored hair.
His shoulders straightened with determination.
He believed what he’d said to Hope, that God would take care of them, and everything would be all right. With every bone in his body, he meant it.
Though truly, the task before him was one that could only be accomplished with the help of God Almighty.
Opera on a summer night, after a dinner of filet mignon and chocolate éclairs. Sitting in the largest and most lavish box with the best view of the stage. Listening to the music float upward, into the air, each note true and clear and beautiful…all of it should have made for a perfect evening, had Adele’s shoulders not tightened with tension every time she sensed a pair of opera glasses turned in her direction. With such scrutiny, relaxing and enjoying the music became a near impossibility.
And when the theatergoers weren’t staring, Mr. Conway was. He’d claimed the seat beside her, and she supposed he had the right. After all, it was his box they sat in, his invitation that had garnered her, and the Osbourne’s, dinner at Tifft House, one of Buffalo’s finest hotels.
“I still haven’t the foggiest notion about what’s going on.” He leaned closer, the scent of after-dinner cigars and Bay Rum shaving lotion overwhelming her.
“You see that young woman there.” Adele gestured discreetly with her gloved hand. “She’s in love with the Count, who’s the man in the brightly colored doublet. But the Count hasn’t noticed her once, because he’s so busy pursuing the poor servant girl, who is right now singing of her love for her deceased fiancé, a handsome farmer.”
“That’s really what’s happening?” A smile curved his narrow black mustache.
Adele gave a blithe nod.
“What a wonder you are, Miss Linley!” His admiring gaze swept across her. Not for the first time that evening either. She’d attired herself in one of the evening dresses Nora had skillfully made over, adding black lace trim to accentuate the emerald hue of the silk, restyling the cut so it matched American fashions. The bodice of the dress exposed a rather daring expanse of neck, perfectly complementing the diamonds at her throat—imitations again.
“Not really. I just speak Italian.” It hadn’t taken her long to solve Mr. Conway, ciphering him out like an easy mathematic equation. He hadn’t inherited a cent but rather earned it all himself through wild investment schemes until he gained enough to purchase his own railway line, rivaling William Vanderbilt in business success. But though he’d garnered an elegant home in Buffalo and a Newport summer palace, he hadn’t acquired enough social polish to satisfy society’s elite. The man seemed to think capital could break down any door.
Adele tended to agree.
The matrons of Buffalo weren’t so obliging.
“I honestly thought it was all in French. Between you and me, I can’t understand why opera is never sung in English. Would make a whole heap more sense, and then no one would ever be shaking their heads and wondering what the devil is being said.”
The beautiful soprano finished her song to a rousing wave of applause, and the curtain fell, signaling the end of the second act.
“Perhaps you should own your own opera company and implement the practice.” She fiddled with the tassels on her fan, as attendees in nearby boxes and in the general seating area below stretched their legs and waved to friends and acquaintances.
“What a fascinating idea—” He seemed about to say more, when Millie, arm in arm with Gordon Kirby, approached. A recent Harvard graduate and heir to an impressive fortune, he nonetheless emitted a genuine good nature and charm that, along with his wealth, proved irresistible to the elder Osbourne sister.
“Mr. Kirby and I are on our way to search out some refreshment. Would you both care to join us?” Millie, gowned in a violet-colored evening dress that did wonders for her sallow complexion, dimpled as she gazed at Gordon.
“Would you care for some refreshment, Miss Linley?” Mr. Conway looked to her.
She probably should. Parading through the opera house on the arm of Franklin Conway would reinforce her place among these moneyed Americans. Not to mention that Mr. Conway seemed to want her to join them.
But the notion of remaining in the empty opera box, alone, for a few short moments…
“No, but thank you. I think I’ll stay here. Just the thought of mingling among all those people again makes me rather dizzy.” She smiled at Mr. Conway, a look that hopefully conveyed that though she was too delicate for such an excursion, she awaited his return with bated breath.
Her look produced the desired effect and he dutifully offered his arm to Dorothea, exiting the box with Millie and Mr. Kirby, while her aunt and uncle headed in the direction of some nearby acquaintances.
Adele stood, gathered her skirts, and made her way to a secluded spot in the back of the box. She leaned against the velvet-paneled wall and drew in a long, slow breath. She hadn’t bargained for how much these social engagements would fray her nerves. To be sure, she’d “done” two London seasons but among people she’d known her whole life, debuting with the same girls she’d played croquet with at schoolroom parties. Here, she scarcely knew a soul and felt little ease with anyone, particularly Aunt Osbourne. Of course, everyone was interested in her. She was a phenomenon from storybook England. But though curious, they failed to take much of a sincere interest in the girl behind the English accent.
Mr. Conway did deserve an exception. He’d done nothing but pay compliments and show interest since the moment of their acquaintance. And though he didn’t possess the semblance of social veneer, slathered on like butter over muffins, of most of his compatriots
, it was an almost refreshing difference. He praised her beauty, elegance, intelligence, sparing no occasion to do so.
Yes, he’d suit her—and her purposes—perfectly, with his brash ways and openness when it came to speaking of money. Not to mention that there weren’t many other options to choose from in the Osbournes’ social sphere.
Adele tried to feel a measure of delirious happiness. What could be better than finding the road to success? For she had no doubt Mr. Conway could, provided with a little encouragement, be well on his way to making an offer.
It didn’t have anything to do with her time spent with Drew Dawson, did it? She hadn’t heard from or seen him since their drawing room conversation. Not that she expected to. She didn’t even have his address, were she to wish to contact him further. Which she, of course, did not. Or did she?
All right, she’d admit it. Her head had been turned by his handsome face and charming words. By the kindness in his eyes and the concern he’d shown over her family’s situation. It had been like something from an opera, a chance meeting in a garden leads to a secret encounter that led to…
Nothing. It didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t lead to a single thing. Not when it was obvious Drew Dawson hadn’t near enough capital. Hopefully, whatever line of work he was employed in would occupy his time enough so they’d never have cause to meet again. It wouldn’t be difficult. Her time in America would conclude as soon as she received a proposal and a promise of funds for the shoring up of the Linley estate. And with Conway’s marked interest, that wouldn’t take long at all.
As if she’d summoned him by her musings, Conway himself reentered the box, along with the Osbournes. Millie, Mr. Kirby, and Dorothea followed.
“Why are you hiding in the corner?” His thick dark brows knit together in a bemused expression.
“Because she doesn’t wish to be seen, that’s why.” Aunt Osbourne’s tone matched the taste of cranberry compote—tart, yet with enough sugar to go unnoticed.
From the first moment of their acquaintance, the woman hadn’t shown much fondness for her. Particularly since Mr. Conway had begun to pay Adele court, rather than one of her own daughters.
My Heart Belongs in Niagara Falls, New York Page 5