Would six dollars a month be enough? Hopefully she was miscalculating, but Calvin’s job certainly paid better. “Sounds good. An answer to prayer, actually.”
“Wonderful.” The woman gave her arm a squeeze. “Meet me at the front doors after work, and I’ll show you the place. If you like it, would you move in immediately? I’m not sure how long the landlords would be willing to leave it empty.”
“I can move in by the end of the week.”
“Excellent. I’m sure they’ll wait that long.”
They stepped into the lunchroom, drowning in loud voices instead of whirring machines.
Mrs. Smith waved at a woman with dark blond hair across the way. “Excuse me, I must talk to Elspeth.”
Marianne didn’t bother to call out a good-bye since Mrs. Smith was already several paces ahead and wouldn’t hear. She glanced over at the table where she ate with the Moores and several other young girls who worked the machines on the second floor. When they spotted her, their happy faces nearly broke her heart. She was loath to see their old, hungry expressions return since they’d only recently exchanged them for shy giggles and full stomachs.
Her feet grew heavy, as if the stray cottony fluff that flitted about the mill’s floors and staircases wound tight around her boots instead of dancing in the drafts.
If only she could eat with Mrs. Smith and avoid their disappointment. But she couldn’t. She had to either face the girls or go home.
Though she really could go home, quit this grueling work, and go back to a life of ease. Then she’d have enough money to take care of these five sisters and the others in this mill who often went without.
But she couldn’t right the whole world alone. Money could only go so far, and even if she married someone rich, he’d control her access to their wealth.
If she let herself think about all the injustices, neglect, and hurt she couldn’t fix, even if she spent Papa’s every dollar, her stomach would be in such a permanent knot she’d lose all hope she could make a difference in people’s lives. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
God, what do I do?
What you can.
Yes, she’d do what she could and trust God to answer needs she couldn’t—whether she be rich or poor. She gripped the top of her paper bag tightly, marched over to the table, and slipped onto the end of the bench. Her aching feet thanked her.
The youngest Moore sister, Ruth, spied Marianne’s single paper bag and lost her smile.
“Good day, Marianne,” the eldest sister, Patty, said with a forced happy expression, her gaze visibly resisting the urge to look at Marianne’s less than full hands.
“Good day to you.” Hopefully it would end up good somehow. She unrolled the bag and pulled out the contents meant for one. “I’m afraid my life has taken a sudden downturn, leaving me with no extra money, but I still have good things to eat.” She took out her small knife and cut her bread into pieces so thin they looked more like crackers than slices. “I know it’s meager, but I intend to share.”
“Oh no, miss.” Ruth’s voice turned sad. “You just eat it.”
“That’s very kind of you, but I want to share.” She pushed the thin bread slice toward the ten-year-old. “You usually have marmalade in your lunch box, yes? Perhaps you could put a little on each piece.”
“Yes, miss.” Ruth’s eyes dulled, but she fished out the little glass jar of marmalade and handed it to her redheaded sister, Laura, whose lovely face was taut with gloom.
Marianne studied her small wedge of cheese and wondered if she could even cut five slices off it.
A small chunk of ham was placed in front of her. She looked up to see Patty offering her a brittle smile. “It’s not much, but . . .”
She swallowed and forced out a simple thank you. These girls had been working here for seven months, and before she’d arrived, they’d worked twelve hours a day on rumbling stomachs. They could survive it again, and she’d learn to do so, as well.
Fingering the short piece of cotton she’d picked off the floor earlier, she slowly munched on her skimpy lunch. Would her love for the man who made her pine for his smiles and dream of his touch grow sour on an empty stomach as he claimed it would? Or could she be content with doing what little they could together?
If love couldn’t be sustained in times of want or disagreement, what business had she of saying vows to anyone?
At some point she’d have to move on from Calvin if he refused her love, but for now, she’d do what she could to show him that her love was true, even when it was being tried—and tried hard.
Chapter
7
The sun was still bright in the sky, and the strong, warm wind lifted Calvin’s spirits. Getting to leave work early because Mr. Kingsman had left for Teaville on the afternoon train made Calvin feel as if gravity wasn’t working as well today. It had felt extra heavy since he’d watched Marianne run into the factory three days ago.
At least without Mr. Kingsman’s stifling presence he would get somewhere on the Holdern account he’d procured this past week on David’s behalf.
Calvin left the sidewalk for the embankment that sloped to the lower level he rented from the Yandells and waved at his landlady kneeling beside her flowerbed.
He pulled out his keys, but something fluttering furiously in the trellis caught his eye.
Every year, Mrs. Yandell arranged pots of flowers on his porch since she declared bachelors needed plants, too, but what was she doing to his trellis? He stepped toward the dying vine, which traveled up the ironwork to the balcony above him, and fingered the short, roughly made strings tucked in among the yellowed leaves. He didn’t care what Mrs. Yandell did to his porch, but this had to be for some purpose other than beauty, for it had neither rhyme nor reason. If not for the wind, he’d not have noticed.
He chugged back up the side lawn and stopped beside his landlady, waiting for the older woman to notice his presence.
She smacked her dirty gloves together and looked up. “What can I do for you, Mr. Hochstetler?”
If it weren’t for the other pots waiting to be dispersed, he’d have offered to help her stand. “I was wondering what you were planning with my porch’s—”
“Would you like more mums?” She quirked an eyebrow. “A certain color?”
“As always, do as you please, but I’m rather curious about the strings you’re tying onto the trellis. What’s their purpose?”
She frowned. “Purpose? I figured you knew, though I thought it strange myself. Bruce told me not to get involved since you’re not doing anything untoward.”
Untoward? How did strings in his trellis make anything untoward? “I’m not sure I understand.”
“I’m not the one putting the strings there—some young lady is. I’ve noticed her a few times, but she’s only here when you’re not and she never stays more than a minute. I was afraid she was stealing, but all she does is tie a bit of string to the trellis and leave.”
He could only think of one woman who had any idea where he lived. “Does she have dark brown hair, pale skin, high cheekbones, and walk with an easy grace?”
“That would be an apt description.” His landlady immediately frowned. “I’m sorry. Should I have told you about her? If she’s trouble, I can have Bruce keep her away.”
“No, she’s not trouble.” Not in a way Mrs. Yandell would categorize trouble, anyway. The day he’d rented their basement two years ago, she’d made an offhand remark about how he wouldn’t need the tiny apartment long since he was too handsome to remain single.
“When was the last time you saw this woman?”
“Yesterday. She’s always here right before you come home.”
Yesterday? She was still coming after what he’d said to her? “What was she wearing?”
“A brown dress.”
She was still working at the mill? “A work dress or a fine one?”
“Definitely work, though the shawl was daintier than the weather required
.”
“Excuse me, but I need to return to town.” He called out his thanks as he waved good-bye and trudged back up the hill to the street. If Marianne was still working . . .
He glanced at his timepiece. Just ten minutes until six. With a quickness in his step, he walked back through the neighborhood, the wind at his back pushing him along. His leg muscles protested the pace he set, but he wanted to see if she did indeed still work at the mill.
The day after he’d distributed her extra lunches to the homeless, he’d watched for her. The work crowd was huge, so maybe he’d missed her, but he’d been sure he’d convinced her he wasn’t worth so much effort.
The bell announced the end of the workday just as he reached Howard Street. He stood in front of a pair of law offices, watching the workers trickling out of the Liscombe buildings. How long until he’d see Marianne? And what could he say to her that he hadn’t already? He’d told her to set her sights on someone better. Had explained the problems their union would create. And with Herculean effort, he’d kept himself from kissing her breathless every time she came near.
Pacing, he walked along the sidewalk, scanning the crowd. The throng of men, women, and children leaving through the main gate swirled and churned in so many directions, it was foolhardy to think he could find—
A group of four blondes and a redhead surrounded Marianne’s darker head as she smiled sweetly at one of them, seemingly deep in conversation.
He jogged across the street, dodging traffic, and once he made the other side, he had to relocate the group. Thankfully the carrot-colored hair acted as a beacon. As long as Marianne stayed with that group he’d be able to catch her.
The women’s homeward pace was surprisingly quick, but with a sudden clearing in the throng of pedestrians, he sprinted up alongside them. “Good evening, ladies.”
The group instantly quieted and stared at him.
He pulled at his tie. “I just—”
Marianne threaded her arm around one of the blondes’. “Don’t worry about Calvin. He’s a friend.”
Everyone’s eyes widened. A man in a suit befriending one of their status was certainly surprising—but then, much more so was a woman of Marianne’s status befriending them. Though they couldn’t possibly know who she was.
“Calvin, these are the Moore sisters.” Marianne gestured to each woman as they walked. “This is Ruth, Shirley, Patty, Laura, and Jenny.”
“How do you do, ladies?”
They only blinked at him.
“Excuse us, this is our street,” the oldest one said, and then the five of them threaded out of the crowd and disappeared so quickly it was almost as if they hadn’t been there.
Marianne slowed, the crowd around them breaking behind her as if she were a rock in a stream . . . and it seemed like she was hardheaded enough to be one.
And beautiful enough to stand out despite wearing a drab work dress speckled with cotton fluff just like the rest of them.
“What did you want, Calvin?”
What did he want? A lot of things he couldn’t have. “Were those, um, the sisters you bring lunches to?”
“Brought lunches to. You told me feeding those five girls would be beyond a man of your means.”
Well, he might be able to help them out a few times a month, but certainly not every day, at least not if he wanted to have any savings. “That’s right.” He scratched along his hairline, bumping back his hat. “And they’re not mad at you over the loss?”
“They understood when I told them I couldn’t anymore, but I’ve continued to share my own lunch with them, and before you get onto me for that, my lunch is no bigger than what I’d normally eat myself.”
She was giving up her own food? “But with the hours mill employees work—”
“Nearly twelve.”
“Yes.” He looked at her from head to toe. She didn’t look to be wasting away, but then, it had only been three days since she’d started divvying up her lunch. “Are you not hungry?”
“Not nearly as much as those girls. I had a hearty breakfast and have a good dinner to look forward to, and yes, I’m still eating at my parents’ home, but come Monday, I’ll be enjoying whatever it is they serve at the row of boardinghouses on Buckeye.”
She was truly moving out of her parents’ house in an effort to win him?
“Aren’t you going to say anything?”
What could he say? Stop pursuing me because at some point you’ll realize I’m not worth the sacrifice and my heart will break.
He couldn’t say it, didn’t even want to.
Could she actually be more loyal than his own mother?
He’d only been seven when she’d left, so he didn’t truly know her character. All he had was random memories of her cooking, gardening, and holding him on her lap. Could something besides their fall into poverty have caused her to leave? But with his father dead and his siblings forever scattered, he might never know what exactly had made her abandon them.
“How long, Calvin?”
He shook his head free of the memories. “How long what?”
“How long until you change your mind about us? I know you’re scared, and I understand. I’m scared, too. But tomorrow my parents could go bankrupt, I might die, or you may well inherit thousands of dollars. Nothing in life is fully under our control, but choosing to love someone—as hard as it might be—is.” She turned and left.
He blinked and watched her walk away without even a gesture of good-bye.
But then she turned down West Street, in the opposite direction of her parents’ house, straight toward his.
Though he’d been trying to convince her for a month to leave him in the dust, when she actually did, his heart tugged at him to follow.
When she reached the Yandells’ house, she walked down the embankment, her head held high and her stride stiff with determination.
He sped up to see her unwind a cotton thread from around her finger and add it to the collection on his trellis.
She turned, the tilt of her chin telling him she’d known he’d follow.
He stepped closer. Her confidence, beauty, and the fact that she was still pursuing him made it difficult to keep his distance. “What are you doing?”
She pointed over her shoulder with her thumb. “Every day I work is for you. I know the hardships I could face might not have fully sunk in, but I think you’re worth it. So every day, I’m picking up a remnant of forgotten, useless cotton, spinning it into something stronger, and tying it here to tell you that today, my love for you is stronger than my circumstances.”
He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. Was her love really stronger than any circumstance? “How—” His voice croaked, and he cleared his throat to try again. “How long do you intend to do this?”
“Until you’re married.”
The melancholy underlying her words forced his eyes open. Though he suspected his next words wouldn’t alleviate the sadness, they were true nonetheless. “I’ve never planned to marry.”
She’d one day make a match that would give her all the things she deserved, and he’d only be responsible for his own downfall—no hearts to break, no family to tear apart, no children to fail.
She sashayed forward, but the look in her eyes was not the hurt he’d expected, but fire. She stopped beside him and whispered in his ear, her breath caressing his neck. “Then change your plans, and I’d suggest you choose me.”
Oh, there was no doubt he’d choose her if he chose anybody, but he loved her too much to do so.
He turned to face her, taking in the wisps of cotton in her hair, dancing in the wind, begging for freedom. Despite his body humming a warning to back away, he reached up to free some whitish fluff, then let his fingers skim across her hair to behind her ear, his thumb slipping below her jawline to tilt her head up a touch.
With the movement, her eyes fell closed and her tense, confident posture melted.
Oh, God, I really could have her. But it’s not fair
to offer me this wonderful woman if I’m not going to be enough.
She still waited with upturned lips and soft features, her chin nestled in his hand.
How many men would call him a fool for not kissing her? Of course, many wouldn’t care about how she’d feel after they’d played her for all she was worth and still told her no.
He couldn’t kiss her, no matter how tempting. If he did, she’d believe things could work between them. If he kissed her, he wouldn’t be able to tell her no.
He leaned down, resting his forehead against hers, his eyes closing as he brought his other hand up to cup the other side of her face. “Marianne,” he whispered.
She hummed in question, the sound vulnerable yet content, making him press his forehead against hers even harder lest he make a move for her lips. He anchored his fingers in her hair, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to keep him where he ought to stay—though he shouldn’t have gotten this close at all.
“I—” No, he couldn’t tell her he loved her. He did. Oh, how he did, but hardship would come, hardship they could not walk away from, and then what? Could she truly be content with nothing but his lips against hers? His affection and warmth? His income for the rest of her life? If she tired of the cotton mill, her parents would take her back; if she tired of him . . . there was nothing that could undo it. “Have you told your parents?”
She backed away. “About what?”
“About your job at the cotton mill?”
She shook her head. “You know how they’d react.”
He let his hands fall away and gave her a sad smile. “They’d squawk like chickens, but they’d take you back the moment you quit.”
“So?”
“Kisses aren’t enough to keep you warm, to keep you fed, to keep you from poverty. One wrong step and I’m fired. And we both know your parents aren’t going to look kindly on me for taking away the bright future they’ve planned for you.”
“Are you truly afraid I’m that faithless, or are you more afraid of reliving your past?”
He didn’t think her faithless, just vulnerable. “You don’t understand what it was like.”
Tied and True Page 6