Does Georgie even know I’m his mother?
The thought brought a sting to Katie’s eyes. The time they’d spent together was limited, yes, but she’d tried to make it special. And she was saving every spare cent in hopes that someday she could take him away from here, to somewhere no one knew about her past. Where she could give her son a better future.
Katie ducked through the brick entryway and felt her way along the pitch-black corridor that led to the staircase. She clutched Georgie close and braved the rickety stairs.
“We’re home,” she announced as she stepped through the door.
The two women who shared her tenement glanced up from their places at the table. One acknowledged Katie’s presence with a grin, the other a grunt. The room greeted her silently with its stained, uneven floorboards and cracked walls of the same shade as the slush she’d avoided earlier.
Despite the dreariness of her surroundings, Katie considered herself fortunate. She couldn’t afford her own place and was glad when two chambermaids at the hotel said they needed a roommate. One of them, Sylvia, was a bold black-eyed girl who sometimes painted her face; the other, Helen, a world-weary killjoy whose husband had run off with a fancy-house girl. As long as Katie paid her third of the rent, they didn’t mind about Georgie—unlike the respectable boardinghouse matron who evicted her the moment her pregnancy became noticeable.
“Your kid’s bathwater is heating,” Sylvia said. “I wanted to use it, but Helen wouldn’t let me.”
Katie saw the steam that rose from the cookstove, a reassuring sight. She had laboriously packed snow into the iron kettle this morning before dawn, shivering on the gigantic snowbank behind the building.
Georgie’s bath was always a battle. By the time she brought him home, he was so tired he either wailed in protest or barely stayed awake.
Tonight, he did the former.
Sylvia raised her voice above his shrieks. “Didn’t I hear some high-and-mighty gent at the hotel offer to take that kid off your hands?”
Katie gave her a startled look. She hadn’t known anyone else had been working so late that night. “You heard us?”
Sylvia’s gaze darted to her plate of boiled potatoes, but not before Katie saw the truth in her eyes. She heard everything. She glanced at Helen. And she told Helen.
Katie sighed. “I admit I have thought twice—a hundred times, actually—about his offer.”
Georgie kicked his legs, and she tightened her grip on his slippery torso. Water sloshed from the washbasin and soaked her brown twill work dress.
Sylvia flipped her hair over her shoulder. “I would have handed that imp right over. Glorious freedom, I’d say.”
Helen said nothing.
But later, after Georgie was tucked into bed and Sylvia had gone out with friends, Helen came over to the washbasin and helped Katie lift it. They carried it to the window together.
“Don’t mind Sylvia,” Helen said. “She’s just young is all. You go right on being a good mother.”
Her words stayed with Katie the rest of the night. She tossed and fretted as she tried to fall asleep. Her cot seemed hard as a wooden plank. Or rather, her father’s cot. She’d folded it up and brought it with her when she’d come to Aspen in search of work after his death in a mine collapse. She knew there was no respectable employment for a girl at the camp, so she’d taken the small amount of money he kept stowed under the floorboard and used it for travel expenses. Before long, she’d landed the job at the Clarendon.
Hardly respectable, but at least it pays.
She forced her thoughts to happier times, before her father’s death. Her mother left them when Katie was a small girl, but her father did his best to give her a pleasant upbringing. Better to think of those days than to dwell on the enormity of the decision she’d just made for her own child.
Her agonized mother’s heart couldn’t bear it, all that she’d denied Georgie. The best schools, travel to exotic places, the prestige of being a Baxter.
Helen’s kind words drifted through her mind again. A good mother.
But at that moment, Katie didn’t feel like one.
The next morning, Georgie happily banged his spoon on his breakfast tray, his cherubic face covered in fried mush. Katie placed a kiss atop his silky head and knew she could never give him up. Whether the decision was right or wrong, I couldn’t make a different one.
Peace settled over her. There would likely be times of doubt, but for now, she was certain. God, let me never fail him.
Her roommates were at work, and Katie basked in the quiet. She wiped Georgie’s face and hands, laid a blanket on the floor, and set him down. He immediately craned his head toward the table, his attention fixed on the spoon. A disgruntled furrow creased his forehead. She laughed.
“What an impatient little scamp you are.” She reached for the spoon and was just about to hand it to him, when there was a knock on the door. She rose to answer it, expecting to find the man from the tenement next to theirs, who sometimes came to borrow coal. But the visage that greeted her was a far cry from sagging trousers and a soot-blackened grin.
Henry Baxter stood before her, tailored, pressed, and scowling. His dark gaze flickered to the spoon she still held. He lifted a brow but said only, “A chambermaid at the hotel told me I might find you here.” He paused, and added, “May I come in?”
She nodded and stepped aside, her mind in a whirl. Why is he here? Was he trying again to persuade her to give up Georgie? Well, it won’t work.
She left the door open. It wouldn’t do to further damage her already battered reputation. When she turned, she saw that he stood in the center of the room, bowler hat in his hands. She thought he’d be looking at the musty walls and scant furnishings around him, but his eyes were on Georgie. Though Henry wasn’t much taller than average, he seemed formidable as he gazed down at her son. His expression revealed nothing.
She knew she should offer tea but hated to serve him from a rusty kettle and chipped cups. Nor did she want him to stay any longer than necessary.
He faced her abruptly. “I’ll not waste your time, Miss Dupont, but get straight to the point.” He rolled the brim of his hat in his palm until it nearly bent in half. “I have come to do whatever it takes to gain your cooperation on the matter we spoke of.”
She felt a tingle, like a bitter wind swept through the window.
He continued. “You were disinclined to part ways with your son, as I recall. Let me assure you, you may keep him.”
The tingle did not lessen. Why am I not reassured? “I mean to.”
His eyes narrowed. “Do you have any idea what it would do to my family if it was discovered that all our money had been bequeathed to an ill-begotten child?”
She clenched her apron in a tense fist. “Yes, sir, I do.” I’m quite familiar with the treatment of the fallen.
He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “When I last saw you, you observed that Georgie’s mother was to be removed from my story.” He spoke through tight lips. “As it happens, Miss Dupont, my mother noticed it, too. She suggested I should revise that part.”
For the first time, a tiny flame sputtered inside her, a blaze of hope. And turned to ashes with his next words.
“She told me to ask you to marry me.”
Her thoughts scattered in a dozen directions. Time ticked by, and finally she realized he was speaking again.
“Mother had it all planned out, you know. How we would get married in some obscure town where no one has ever heard of us. We would be welcomed home with as much fanfare as a family in mourning is permitted to display. The press would be informed that the second son of Alexander Branson Baxter has come home to comfort his family, bringing with him the wife he married while overseas, along with their young son, George Alexander.”
Only one thought crystallized in her mind. “Georgie’s middle name is not Alexander.”
“It will be.”
Her retort didn’t escape, but the hostility must have
shown on her face.
“Don’t you see that this is best for him?” he asked.
At the moment, all she could see was the brother of the man who had shattered her life, standing before her asking her to marry him. But is it really fair to compare him to Jackson?
He looked similar, it was true. They shared the same aristocratic features and dark hair, though in the light of day, she saw that Henry’s was more brown than black. Wavy with a hint of auburn. They were alike in manner, too. Both men had a diplomatic charm that made them very convincing. But while Jackson’s aplomb never failed, it seemed that Henry couldn’t quite keep his true feelings to himself.
She remembered something he’d said about being unworthy of the Baxter name. If the brother who claimed my virtue was the worthy one, what does that say about this one?
But none of that mattered. Not if the farce wasn’t believable. “I’m a miner’s daughter, not a duchess. No one will believe I’m anything more.”
“It’s risky, I’ll admit.” He gave a regretful sigh. “A pity you don’t have a foreign accent. People would just assume we’d met and married abroad, without our having to invent a story. Your unknown origins would be considered exotic and mysterious, rather than appalling and suspicious.”
So much for charming. But she overlooked his bluntness and spoke softly. “Mon nom complet est Katriane.”
He stared at her, for once speechless.
“My full name is Katriane,” she translated in a perfect French accent. “My father, Pierre Gerard Dupont, began calling me Katie when we first immigrated to America. For seven years, I have worked very hard to sound truly American.”
He recovered his ability to speak. “This should be easy for you then. Simply go back to being Katriane, and sound as French as you please.”
“Of course, it would be nice not to have to be so careful.”
“Well then.” He cleared his throat. “Say you’ll marry me, Katriane.”
In such close quarters, she couldn’t help noticing that he smelled like pine needles and cloves. Only better. She looked away.
Georgie whimpered and she hurried to kneel beside him, grateful for the distraction. She lifted him into her arms and gave him his long-awaited spoon. He clasped it as joyously as if she’d offered him the world.
And in that instant, she realized she could.
“Yes, Mr. Baxter,” she said. “I will marry you.”
Chapter 4
The bellboy plunked Katie’s trunk near the narrow bed and crossed the room to light the kerosene lamp. Henry knew he should be glad this ramshackle hotel at least provided them with assistance. But as he looked at the lumpy quilt and peeling damask wallpaper, gratitude was not the sentiment he felt. There isn’t even a hearth or a washstand.
He paid the bellboy and flung the door shut behind him. He glanced at Katie and forced a smile when he saw Georgie staring at him, motionless and wide-eyed in his mother’s arms.
“The boy must be weary after such a long day.” And after all that howling he did in the coach. Henry ran a tired hand through his hair.
Katie didn’t quite meet his gaze. “Would you mind very much, keeping an eye on Georgie while I—while I…”
He waited.
She blushed. “Prepare for bed.”
Undress, she means. He wanted to groan. Or sigh. Or kiss her.
He shook his head sharply, jarred by the last thought. The sensation reminded him of times when he’d stood up too quickly and grew faint.
He’d imagined all the difficulties of schooling Katie once they arrived in Denver. Of teaching her to act like a lady of refinement. Of the challenge it would be to present her to society as his proper, poised wife. But there was one thing he hadn’t considered—this night.
I hope she doesn’t expect me to behave like an eager bridegroom. Theirs was a union of necessity only, and he would make sure it stayed that way. Stray thoughts such as the one he’d just had must be firmly dealt with.
Katie stepped over to the bed, still avoiding his eyes, and removed the quilt, which she arranged on the floor. She lowered Georgie into its scratchy folds and disappeared behind the dressing screen.
Henry almost asked what he was supposed to do if the boy cried, but decided against it. He sat awkwardly on the bed, very aware of the creak of springs in the quiet room. He gazed down at Georgie and reviewed the events of their journey. Anything to keep myself from listening for the rustle of clothes behind that screen.
He’d hired a private coach to take them from Aspen to the depot in Leadville, and they traveled by train over summit passes. Toward evening, they’d stopped at a sooty little mining town, a backwoods place—ideal for getting married. Neither of them had been there before, so there was scant chance of being recognized. After finally finding a judge in town who would marry them, they arrived late at the only hotel in town. In the dark, they could barely see the false front, the sign that greeted them with the single word Rooms. The place had no name, as if the owner himself didn’t want to claim it.
Henry fumed inwardly. Two dollars tossed to a half-deaf judge, a harried witness trying to soothe a wailing Georgie, and a bride who would never wear white.
The evidence of that last fact sat gurgling before him, drool on his chin. He hardly looks like the dignified heir of a fortune. The child busied himself playing with the handle on his mother’s trunk, eyes alight with concentration. Then the handle got stuck in one position, and he frowned. He smacked it just once, his little brow stern.
Henry smiled. Now he looks like Jackson. At that moment, in fact, the only difference between the two appeared to be their hair. Georgie’s was blond, while Jackson’s had been dark. Though on second thought, Henry recalled Jackson’s being white-blond when he was a child, just like Georgie’s. It’s as if Katie wasn’t present at all for the making of him.
But she was very much present tonight.
Without really meaning to, Henry glanced at the screen. It was black on the edges, and dark tan in the middle—but not dark enough to hide the shadowy outline behind it.
He swallowed and averted his gaze.
When he’d first met Katie at the Clarendon, she’d resembled a street urchin, swimming in her gigantic apron. Her rounded nose and pointed chin had added to the childish impression. He would think of her like that.
She emerged and knelt beside Georgie to unbuckle her trunk. She opened it and dropped her clothes inside in a single, unfolded heap. With the motion, her curvy hips swayed beneath her cotton slip.
A street urchin, he reminded himself.
She straightened and peered at the bed, eyes as big and cowed as Georgie’s had been earlier.
Henry had no intention of sleeping with her. But she needn’t act like she’s facing the executioner’s block. “I’ll take the floor,” he said.
She bit her lip. “Please don’t. I’m used to hard surfaces, while you’re a sophisticated gentleman—”
“And you’re my wife. A grand lady, didn’t you know?” He saw that she flushed, and feared it might be with pleasure at his words. “You mustn’t arouse suspicion. Any notion of behaving as a serving girl must be done away with. Do you understand?”
Her eyes flashed, but she nodded.
He softened his tone. “Anyway, the bed would be better for Georgie. He could use a good night’s rest.”
She smoothed a wayward curl and smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry he was so difficult today. He’s not used to traveling.”
He shrugged.
She turned and lifted Georgie into her arms. Henry tried not to notice the tender way she laid her son in bed and spread the quilt over him, or the grace in her movements. It isn’t hard to see why Jackson was so beguiled.
The thought soured him, reminded him with stinging clarity that this woman was once a common, quite common, acquaintance of his brother.
He flopped his cape onto the floor and laid down on it.
The minutes went by, then hours. Sleep eluded him, and
he knew by her restless tossing that she was awake, too. But he kept his back squarely to her.
Chapter 5
The Baxters’ matched bays turned onto Grant Street with a clip-clop of perfectly shod hooves. Katie gazed out the window of the buggy at the row of Victorian houses with their multi-gabled roofs, her mouth open.
“This is where you live?” She couldn’t keep the wonder from her voice.
“No,” Henry replied, “this is where we live.”
His words made her feel like a chastised toddler. She looked away, sure the flame would flare in her eyes…and sure he wouldn’t care.
He’d hardly spoken to her during the entire journey, other than to try to teach her his fancy city ways. Worse, she thought she’d seen a hint of revulsion on his face the night before.
It doesn’t matter, she told herself whenever the sting came. All that mattered was Georgie. Please let this man accept my baby. But she feared the request would be too difficult, even for the Almighty.
She cuddled Georgie close to her. He squirmed and reached toward the purple tassel hanging from the curtain, and she captured his plump hand in hers. Then she sat and rigidly waited for the grand entrance into her new world.
Henry’s voice broke through the tension.
“Here we are.”
The horses turned onto a circular brick driveway, and Katie beheld her new home for the first time. Of all the Capitol Hill houses they’d passed so far, it had the most gables, the most windows, the most balconies. It even had two porches, one of them round, with a dark green spindle on top.
The team followed the driveway around the side of the house to the back. The driver pulled on the reins, and the buggy rolled to a stop.
“This is the carriage house.” Henry’s voice was low, presumably so the driver wouldn’t hear him. “We keep a chaise and a sled in here, in addition to the carriage we’re presently in. It’s called a landau.”
She rolled her eyes toward the landau’s roof and reached for her trunk.
The Lassoed by Marriage Romance Collection Page 25