Unfortunately, Oliver’s entrance with the steamers prevented any retort.
Robert smiled and stepped forward. “Perfect timing, Oliver. I do believe Miss Samson had prepared a retort that would have set me on my ear.”
Maggie was heard to chuckle, whereas Rachel only crossed her arms in an outward showing of amusement. She had a distinct impression that he would very likely have appreciated her retort and given her one back again. A delightful and witty repartee such as had been enjoyed on the train. A collection of intelligent quips that Rachel longed for.
Oliver’s only expression was a very feint smile. “The steamers, Miss. I will return with more hot water shortly.”
Robert accepted the steamers before Rachel could do more than step forward. “Thank you, Oliver,” she offered instead. “Could you bring a large waste bin?”
“Of course, Miss.”
Robert turned, steamers in hand, as Oliver exited to do as bid. “Direct me, O fair Miss Samson.”
Turning away to hide the smile, she motioned to the far corner near the fireplace. “I believe the paper is loosest there.”
“As you command.” He bowed and made his way to the specified section.
Maggie helped him situate the steamers as Rachel watched, regarding Robert while absently tapping her fingers against her upper arm. She didn’t know what to think of his actions. While she attempted to take him at face-value, offering him the benefit of all doubt due to his choices of honor and responsibility, there was a constant quiver of suspicion. It isn’t suspicion, Rachel, she scolded. You know very well it is an emotion that is much more… dangerous.
Robert suddenly chuckled as he continued to set up the steamer. “This brings to mind an… amusing tale. Do you happen to know of a summer home not far from here? It’s been vacant for some time. On a portion of acreage previously owned many decades ago by a family of the name Braxton?”
Interest piqued as Rachel’s attention heightened. Outwardly, however, she only turned away to make her way around the room testing wallpaper corners.
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Maggie admitted. “It’s an adorable little house surrounded by trees and a meadow behind.”
“Just the one. Well, as a boy I was volunteered to help with a supposed redecoration of the sitting room. You see, the previous owner was my great-grandmother.” Robert chuckled again. “Little did I know that this redecoration—Ah, but I get ahead of myself. Hm. Right. My father shipped me off to my great-grandparents’ home, then owned by my grandparents, for a month’s time. Supposedly a vacation from my studies. I believe I had just turned a gangly age of twelve years.”
Unable to imagine Robert’s athletic build as ever being “gangly”, Rachel smiled as she continued her silent scrutiny of the wallpaper.
“Silently snigger as you wish, my dear Miss Samson, it’s true.” He refocused his attention to Maggie as he continued the tale. “So, after days and nights of traveling on train and carriage, always on my best behavior so as to have as much rough-house time as possible, I arrived to find a much different job waiting for me. It seems that a bit of a communication error had occurred between my grandfather and father. For when I stepped from the carriage I found a half-built addition.”
Maggie laughed. Even Rachel softly chuckled, due mostly to the fact she could very clearly imagine the expression of horror that must have been on his face.
“Believe me, visions of swimming and climbing trees and hiking the meadow searching for rabbits and whatnot died a horrible death as realization dawned.”
“You poor thing,” Maggie commiserated, a smile in her tone.
“At last! Greater than ten years later, I receive sympathy!”
Maggie laughed again, and this time Rachel finally turned from her scrutiny of the wallpaper. Robert smiled at her. “I’m sure you were scarred for life,” she offered.
Robert’s smile faded to an expression of mock horror. “Indeed, I was!” He showed the palm of his right hand. A scar was seen near his thumb. It stretched almost two inches down to his wrist.
Rachel’s slight smirk vanished and Maggie gasped.
Seeing the intensity of their reactions, Robert’s expression changed to assurance as he reached out with the other hand. “It was nothing, though at the time I used it for all it was worth.”
“What happened?” Maggie whispered before Rachel could process the need to know.
Robert waved it aside, hiding the scar with a visible pinking of his ears. “I fell; gangly youths with too-large feet have a tendency of doing that.”
Imagining a tumble from a partially built roof with a surprising internal cringe, Rachel motioned to his hand. “You must have fallen quite far for that to happen.”
“Yes, well, I was more careful next time,” he said vaguely as he turned away.
Rachel regarded him a moment before offering, “That you continued work is something to be said for your determination. Twelve-year-olds aren’t normally so… brave.”
“Or just simply ignorant of the danger,” Robert said as he tested a corner of wallpaper.
Rachel’s lips tilted upward. “Yes. I suppose that is true as well. But please, continue.”
All began to carefully peel the paper free from the wooden paneling as Robert continued his tale. “Let me see. Half-finished addition… horror… wounds.… Hmm. What else could I possibly embellish– I mean, confess…. Tell?”
The soft smile wouldn’t retreat as Rachel slightly shook her head.
“Here, here!” he suddenly protested with a yelp and a crinkle of paper. “I’m stuck!”
Sure enough, a great portion of the wallpaper had come loose at once, twisting so that the freshly steamed glue had affixed itself to his hair, hands, and clothes.
“Keep still,” Rachel directed. “Maggie, test the section there on his back.” Rachel took up some newspaper and stuck it to the portions of the wallpaper that were tacky but not yet stuck to his person. “Is it stuck fast?” she asked Maggie.
“No. Here. Let me have some paper.”
Rachel passed a fistful and then set to work gauging the wallpaper stuck to his hair. “Robert, I’m afraid you’re destined to lose a few strands.” She smirked as she stood on tiptoes and touched and felt his hair and scalp to determine where exactly it had affixed itself to the paper. I doubt he will miss it. La! “Maggie, present a chair to our hostage as I do my best to remove what you steam loose.”
Robert sat in the offered chair, and Rachel could almost feel his gaze watch her face as the two set to work.
“I do believe I will retreat after I’m freed from your clutches,” he admitted, chuckling. “To save myself further embarrassment– Ouch!”
“Don’t dramatize,” Rachel scolded, but she eased the tenacity with which she freed his hair from the freshly steamed glue.
Robert’s lips twitched as he met her brief glance. “Yes, my lady.”
“If there’s something you’re needing to do,” Maggie told him, “Rach and I can handle the wallpaper ourselves. And we can have the men help us with the moving of the furniture.”
Rachel gently freed more hair, brushing down the softness of it with several strokes of her hand and fingers before moving to free the next patch. Rachel hadn’t ever been in such a position before, especially not involving close contact with a gentleman. Uncertainty and curiosity vied for the upper hand, and she found herself absently worrying her lower lip once or twice.
“I believe I’ve made enough of a nuisance of myself. Thank you for your leave, Maggie. Guilt won’t follow me so closely now.” He met again Rachel’s glance, but this time his gaze continued to focus on Rachel’s face. She said nothing as she placed a few strips of newspaper on those freed sections of wallpaper. “Call, should you need help,” he urged quietly.
Rachel loosed the final hairs and smoothed them into place. Then she carefully set aside the wallpaper as Robert stood.
He bowed. “Thank you for the rescue, Miss Samson. Miss Kelly. Again, call if you nee
d further assistance. I shall linger for a few minutes in the parlor.”
“Thank you for the offer,” Rachel intoned calmly, finally meeting his gaze. “And take care with your scalp. It’s liable to be tender the next few hours.”
His expression shifted to the boyish and mischievous smile so often seen on his expression. “With the amount of care you took, I won’t believe it. However, thank you for your concern.” Then he turned and left the room.
Rachel watched him go, expression thoughtful.
~~~
Robert released a long and deep breath as he slowly closed the door to his hotel room. God… was all he could pray as he pushed from the door to step farther into the lushly furnished main area of his three-room apartment. He dropped onto the ivory upholstered couch, his arms stretching out across the scalloped back.
What am I doing, Lord? Facing off against Mr. Henry Samson? Standing against every warning and threat of my own father? Robert rubbed at his head of raven-black hair. All I can do is trust You, I know, but… but it’s a bit unnerving at times. Even so, trusting the Lord was something he had done regarding his life decisions since a young man, especially regarding those decisions involving the role of “wife”.
A framed portrait across from him drew his gaze, arranged carefully on the corner of the cherry-wood coffee table. Green eyes. Blonde hair. Smiling rose lips. A young lady of fourteen with a future already planned and plotted. Many a lady had attempted to coax a proposal from him, as confessed to Rachel at the party, but most had lost interest once he began to talk of those subjects that drove him: foreign business customs and law; how cultures affected business practices and even different styles of literature.
He leaned forward and took up the painting to tenderly trace the line of her eyebrow with a solitary finger. His finger paused at her lips for a long moment, his thoughts drifting to their time on the train, and over coffee, and within her room— “Fool.” He tossed aside the frame and portrait. A twinge of guilt prodded at his conscience as he leaned back, remembering again how furiously he had needed to fight with his desire and attraction to keep back the confession. Especially with the intrigue and curiosity glittering so clearly as she watched him. But conversation had never been such fun. Testing her wit, exploring her knowledge, opening himself to her tenacious ability to debate…. Seeing that spark of determination when he took an opposite stand to her own opinion had been a seldom-had enjoyment.
Robert scrubbed at his scalp with both hands. I sincerely hope this stand was one You wanted me to take. It was too late to regret the action. He could only face the effects with courage and prayer.
“For so many years….” he mumbled, finishing the thought with only a deep exhalation of breath as he lowered his hands from his head. “I’m a fool to believe it might be possible,” he prayed aloud. “Yet You’ve always pressed me to believe in the impossible; to trust You with what my heart desires.”
Robert leaned into the couch and rested his head against the wood trim along the back. “God, I’m no saint. I have feelings. Desires. Dreams…. Each day I know her it will be harder to allow her to treat me as nothing more than a trusted friend. It will be harder to hold my tongue. Harder to keep my emotions in check….”
Again, the portrait of the fourteen-year-old young woman drew his gaze. Her adorable expression of innocence and laughter. A spark of impish amusement twinkling in her depths of green. The tender appearance of innocence and hope. A deep, beguiling expression of reckless abandon and adventure. And again he retrieved the painting, staring down at it for another long moment before caressing her young face. Her passion was entrancing. Her brilliance intoxicating. Her independence fascinating–
There sounded a hard knock on the door of his apartment, drawing Robert’s attention from pasts and possible futures to a present conflict that was becoming harder to live with. “One moment!” he called as he set aside the portrait. When he opened the door, dread sent his heart to the soles of his feet and quieted any thoughts in his head.
“Is this what you wanted?” Henry Samson asked harshly, his face a stony mask as he shoved a letter into Robert’s chest.
Robert looked down at the letter, his brow furrowing and his hand gripping the doorknob before he snatched the letter from the older man’s hold.
Henry Samson shoved his way past to stand rigid and angry in the center of the room, watching Robert slowly close the front door. “Twenty-three years we’ve had this arrangement, Robert. What are you trying to prove questioning everything now?”
Looking at the steady and flowing hand of the letter, Robert again saw Rachel’s face. The hurt that had glowed in her emerald eyes. The tightly controlled tears that had glimmered there. The betrayal that had tightened her tone as she had told him of her father’s plan for her.
“I’ve been questioning it since I was twelve, Mr. Samson.” Robert looked up to meet Henry’s hard stare. “For twenty-three years you’ve had the opportunity to tell her of this future and yet chose silence. Thirteen of those years you’ve heard my complaints and chose to ignore them, keeping her separate rather than allowing friendship. Eight years you’ve kept her removed from yourself and now expect me to do the same, though she craves companionship and acceptance.” Robert momentarily clenched his jaw. “No, I tell you. This choice should never have been taken from her. No matter the concerns for wealth or family, she should have been trusted with this.”
“And what choice has she been entrusted with now but that which is opposite to my own?” Henry countered angrily. “That is why she accepts your advances. There is no love; no affection; no extreme trust. Do you truly believe she would accept you if she knew that, in truth, you’re no different than her ‘previously betrothed’?”
“I am different, Mr. Samson,” Robert argued coldly, “for I refuse to be pushed and controlled any longer!”
Henry scoffed. “Save by green eyes!”
Robert’s eyes darkened to a dangerous shade of black. “Your daughter’s green eyes have only served as proof of the depth to your betrayal. God would no longer allow me to stand by the wayside, Mr. Samson.”
“God can handle His own affairs, but those of my daughter are of my own concern and control.” Henry stalked up to Robert to press a finger heavily into his chest. “If you continue with this endeavor, Robert, you will see so many consequences come against you that you will forever doubt your future.”
“I do not understand the fervor of your refusal to allow me to court her,” Robert confessed passionately. “She says she does not turn back in anything she decides upon, so why not allow her this decision and be content?”
“Because you are a flippant ass, Robert Trent, and you will more likely make an enemy of her than a wife!”
Glowering, Robert held Henry’s gaze for a long moment before striding to the door and jerking it open. “So be it.”
Henry glared at his daughter’s would-be suitor for what seemed an eternity before scoffing and stalking from the room. Robert slammed the door after him, immediately striking it with his fist when he admitted the truth of it. And to not have Rachel as his wife… that was the daily torture of his decision.
Six
Green Eyes
The rays of the morning sun danced upon the carriage seat across from Rachel, ignored as she stared down at the journal clasped within her hands. The small leather-bound book seemed to encompass a childhood that hadn’t seemed to truly exist, or one that at least belonged to a stranger. Do I feel regret at its loss? Rachel didn't know, nor did she understand the numbness that had returned. Absently turning the parchment pages of the journal, Rachel again questioned her reasoning behind her present journey. Todd was a figure from her past; one that she had decided to leave behind. Yet the curiosity to revisit that portion of herself had continued to hound her. What it would prove she had no idea, but she could not completely close it off from her without facing it.
So, face it she would.
The carriage pulled to a
stop and the driver scurried from his perch. Staring down at the journal still in her hold, Rachel momentarily tightened her grip upon it before setting it aside. Then the door opened and she accepted the driver’s hand down.
“You want that I should knock, Miss?” the driver asked as she stepped from the carriage.
Rachel regarded the simple two-room cabin of hewn log with a slight smile. Located several miles outside city limits, she remembered well the adventures and games there. “No, thank you.” She stepped forward, ascending the steps to the accompanied memories of laughter and childhood frolics. Once at the door, the memories halted and the silence accosted her with a tone of accusation.
Rachel pushed the impression away and lightly knocked.
“Coming! Hold on.”
There were further grumbles and assurances drowned out by scuffs of boots on a hardwood floor, the jingle of harnesses as they were placed onto tables and chairs, and the click of the wooden latch on the door. Then it creaked open to reveal an elderly man in his sixties with silver hair, a leathery face, and crisp silver-blue eyes.
He blinked. “Well, hello, Miss.” The man leaned against his grasp on the wooden door as he gripped the belt of his denims. The stance heightened his outdoorsman aura as well as enhancing his musculature from many years of hard work with nature. “You lost?”
Rachel offered a small smiled. “No, Mr. Parson. I came to say ‘Hello’ and inquire ‘How are you,’ as it has been some time since I saw you last.”
“Has it now? I can’t say as I remember knowin’ a pretty thing like you.” He scrubbed at the one-day growth on his chin. “You sure you ain’t here for Toddy? Seems to me you’re about his age.”
Rachel’s expression went blank as Mr. Parson turned to holler inside. She hadn't truly expected him to be there.
“Toddy!” Mr. Parson bellowed. “Visitor! Get yourself out here!” Then he again faced Rachel. “How’s about some lemonade, Miss? Here on the porch?” He motioned inside. “The place is a sty, just us two men.”
Broken Angel Page 9