No answer.
No matter. She’d accepted her lot when she left the homeland. She couldn’t back out now, not with Ina and the rest depending on her. How she missed that girl! Eyes all spark and vigor in a hunger-weary face. Homesickness reared and moistened Ella’s eyes.
Loosening her purse strings, she sniffed, then drew out her new kerchief—Ina’s goodbye gift. Ella’s fingers trailed the crooked Polski words embroidered along the hem.
WALK BY FAITH, NOT BY SIGHT. THE JUST SHALL LIVE BY FAITH.
What did that mean, anyway?
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
She startled at the English words she understood.
At her left hovered a dapper gentleman, fair of hair and light of eyes. He smiled—at her!
Heart tripping over itself, she smiled and stood. An answer to her prayer so soon? Thank you, Father. She tried her tongue at an English greeting. “G—Good morning.”
His reply included “here” and “church” and ended with a lilt. Oh bother, was he asking her a question? His gibberish was a Spanish village to her.
Attempting to form a response, she couldn’t remember any phrases Anetka—her fellow housemaid—had taught her for pleasant conversation. Clasping her hands at her waist, she gave a nervous laugh. When she got home she was going to burn her emigrant guidebook—worthless thing, as useful as an overcoat for the dead.
He smiled his confusion before giving a slight bow and leaving her to study the stained glass.
Shame and defeat flooded through her. She must find a way to communicate better or her cause was lost.
Awash in sudden lonesomeness, Ella turned around. Where was Woody?
An older couple strolled the aisle. The only others in the room were the young man she’d made herself a fool to and another robed man tending the altar candles.
With a wistful glance at the fashionable young man, Ella made her way toward the exit, her footfalls loud in the cavernous room. When she reached the confessional cabinet, someone spoke.
“Miss?” Behind her, her almost-prince—she must learn his name—held up her kerchief.
“Oh,” she breathed. When had she dropped it? She accepted the returned treasure and managed the English, “thank you.”
Searching her face, he said something she couldn’t interpret except the word “understand.”
Drat.
Inside the confessional, Woody debated whether to translate Jamieson Leech’s words for Ella. He couldn’t risk revealing himself to his rival from boarding school days—the whole reason he’d dashed into the confession box in the first place. What was Leech doing here? The fellow had uncanny connections with the gossip mill. No quicker way for Woody’s name to go public again and resurrect the family scandal. He ran a hand over his hair and naked jaw. Going without his hat and whiskers today might not have been the best decision.
But if he expected to get to know Ella, he wanted her to see the real Woody … as much as he could afford.
He couldn’t forget the sad longing in her eyes when she’d held Musty close yesterday and smiled at him, despite the boy’s odor. She’d looked from boy to boy with a compassion that shook him to his boots. As if she knew their pain and wished for a way to help them, too.
Her earnestness when telling him how she met the Lord convinced him of her virtuous character. Could she be the ally he’d prayed for?
“Don’t you have a translator?” Leech asked slowly, as if addressing a small child.
Ella smiled and shrugged but didn’t turn to leave.
“You can’t understand anything, can you?” Leech chuckled. “More’s the pity.”
Woody frowned. Miss Lipski might not know the English language, but she was no simpleton.
What a clod he’d been, leaving her without a tour guide. And now “Leech the Leech” thought he could speak to her like a child?
Not on Woody’s watch. He tapped the confessional’s latticed wall and whispered in Polish, “Ella, do you wish me to translate?”
She stiffened. “Woody? What are you doing in there?”
Woody’s whispers were out of Leech’s hearing range, but at Ella’s string of words, the dandy shrugged and shook his head. Woody smiled. This could be a lot of fun. Besides, if he wanted to learn more about Ella …
“I ducked in here to avoid a …” What was the Polish word? No, he’d best be vague. “Someone I didn’t wish to talk to. Now listen, I’ll tell you what he says, then you can whisper what you wish to say back. He’ll think you’re translating in your head before you speak.”
“Efektowny—Brilliant,” she uttered in husky Polish.
Woody’s chest expanded. That spark of appreciation in her eyes when he lifted her from the street hadn’t lied. She liked him, whether she admitted it or not.
If she shied away, he’d simply have to draw her out. Once upon a time he’d been quite the smooth talker. Right now, though, she needed a translator. At your service milady. Your knight in shining armor—er, confessional box.
Rendering her desired response in English, he dropped prepositions and quoted incorrect verb tenses to authenticate Ella’s farce. She echoed him, mispronouncing the “th” sounds with a hard “d” and rolling her r’s. Rather than mention herself, she inquired about the city and Leech. Questions Woody could have answered if she’d but asked.
Halfway into the conversation, her breathy whisper raced chills over his arms and shoulders. He cleared his throat, which helped nothing. Brushed a hand over his hair, his scalp heating up. The act of whispering was a blasted intimate thing.
His gaze trailed the determined set of her silk-clad spine and her beautifully coiffed hair. Like honey spilling from a honey dipper. She was something of a curiosity, not to mention darling, in that dress. A maid wearing hand-me-down finery about town. A riddle to unravel. And unaffected, which he admired most. Not oversweet or plying clever turns of phrase.
What would it be like, having such an honest someone to whisper aspirations to, sharing the soul’s deep longings, during the lonely seasons? Someone who’d help you keep secrets, help you dream? He’d lost that in Molly and still missed—
Ella’s hand darkened the lattice holes with a smack.
He shuffled for purchase on the bench. Straightened. Smoothed his collar. Thunder and lightning, how had he gotten so distracted?
Not a hard thing to do when her clean-cotton scent wafted to him on her whispers. Her graceful arm tapered into a slender wrist, the silhouette of her small hand against the lattice begging his attention. He covered it with his own, his chest warming along with the wood between their palms.
“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” he muttered in English.
Aloud, Ella parroted him.
Leech took a step closer. The vulture. “Are you free a week from tomorrow? There will be a Grand Sacred Concert at Phoenix Hall by the Venetian Troubadours.”
As Woody’s brow fell, he straightened. Of all the preposterous …
Ella smacked the lattice again with a soft “ahem” to cover the sound. Sassy woman.
The Polish interpretation came stiff through Woody’s clenched teeth as he pressed his head against the confessional wall behind him, trying not to growl and failing. “Say ‘no’ for nie … or ‘yes’ for tak.”
Say no. Say no.
She bounced on her toes. “Yes.”
“Dash it all,” Woody groused under his breath. He would have invited her himself if he knew she wanted to go. The event was free of charge. Why hadn’t he thought to ask? There’s no way he’d let Leech steal Ella from under his nose when he hadn’t had a hound’s chance in a horse race to court her himself.
Yet.
She needed to learn English, and he possessed the skills to teach her. He wasn’t about to let that opportunity slip by without asking.
The moment Leech left, Woody climbed from the box and rounded on Ella.
Her radiant smile caught his breath and wouldn’t let go. “Dziękuję,” she whispe
red. “Thank you so much.”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and almost forgot to use Polish. “You don’t have to whisper anymore, he’s gone.”
As her joy faded, he wanted to snatch back the words and gulp them whole. From “brilliant” to smile-killer in ten minutes. Well, when you’re neck-deep, you might as well swim.
“If you want to thrive in America, you need someone to teach you the language.”
She nodded, pensive, and pivoted toward the door.
“Why not let me?”
Her green eyes met his, and that spark flared again. Small, work-roughened fingers worried her bottom lip while her cheeks pinked up. “I don’t know.”
Time to sweep her away with his signature rascal’s grin. He pocketed his hands and leaned a shoulder against the confessional. “Where else will you get lessons from a native English speaker?” He raised his chin. “Free ones?”
The priest cleared his throat.
Woody straightened and coughed. All right, so maybe he’d lost the pretty-boy factor when he first learned to shave.
Ella quit pulling at her lip—a most distracting habit, by the way—and glanced at the robed man. When she cut her eyes at Woody, a shy smile peeked through before she turned to exit the building. “Fine. You will teach me.”
Eureka.
Chapter Three
The sunset glinted pink off the waters of Randolph pond as Ella knelt outside a maple grove, sharing crumbs with the geese eyeing her supper—fried peach pies and lemonade, compliments of Woody. Her lungs deflated, and she massaged her temples. She’d come to Woody’s “birthday party,” along with several of the street boys, to practice the English she’d learned so far. And here she was battling admiration for him.
As if his crafting birthday favors—folded-paper animals unique to each child—wasn’t endearing enough, his cathedral rescue last week brought a sigh each time she recalled him whispering Polski through the lattice. That voice … oh, so rich. Like the charred butter coating these fried pies he loved.
Every day since the confession box incident, he’d given her English lessons and shared food while driving her to work and back—he’d been studying, too, she could tell. A patient, affirming instructor, he taught her so much more than the language. In their “practice” conversations, she’d managed to glean information about the upper class, their speech, behavior, and customs.
Woody’s unmistakable attraction to her became both a blessing and a curse. Without his tutelage, her date with Mr. Leech and the upcoming Theodore ball would prove disastrous. She understood that now. But Woody offered no quarter in the charm department. Plus, he had a way with people—the street children especially—that drew her, unwilling as she was.
Mostly.
A few yards from her, Woody swung Musty onto his shoulders to view a bird’s nest. With the kids crowding around his legs—bashful Shoe Shine, take-charge Freckles, cheerful Newsie, and others—he switched from Polish to German, Italian to French, teaching them the English words for egg, nest, sky, and fly. Unashamed when he stumbled over a word and the boys corrected him, he learned as much as they. A born linguist.
He winked at her.
She flushed. Correction, a born flirt.
The smile fighting its way to her lips seemed enough to get him walking toward her through the dappled sunlight. Hefting Musty to the ground, he watched the boy hustle to his friends, then sank to the earth beside her.
Digging her fingers into the lawn, she kept her seat. Thus far, any kindness she’d shown he’d had to wheedle out of her—she treated him no better than a threat.
It was time she acted civil. After everything Woody had done for her, she could at least thank him with friendship. Besides, friendship might prove her best shield against his kindness. Forming an attachment with a poor man would result in heartbreak—or worse, distract her to the point she might consider abandoning her family for him.
She filled her lungs. Upon exhaling, she offered a friends-only smile.
After several moments returning her regard, he propped his wrist on his knee. “Tęsknisz za swoją rodzinę? Do you miss your family?”
Grief ricocheted through her. She shifted, the tears gathering too quickly to blink them away. She’d done well until now, not thinking of her kin until bedtime, when she could bathe in the sweet memories she left behind.
Before she reached her kerchief, Woody offered the one from his vest pocket.
“Dziękuję,” she said, then gave the English translation as agreed. “Th—thank you.”
Shaking his head, he said in Polski, “Don’t worry about practicing right now. I’m sorry to bring you pain.”
She breathed a “no” and waved away his apology, still dabbing her eyes. How mortifying, wilting in front of him like a squashed cabbage. “I haven’t talked about them … since I left.”
Anetka spoke little of the homeland and never about family, probably missing her own too much. No wonder Ella felt fond of Woody. He and Anetka were her sole friends in this country.
“My sister, brother, parents, and grandparents still live in Austrian-Poland. They plan to come here when … we earn the money.” She swallowed, trying not to appreciate the way the wind ruffled his hair and spread his shirtsleeves against his skin. He’d grown handsomer since yesterday, the rogue. How was he still walking about, unattached? Someone had better marry the man, and soon, for the sake of all female hearts everywhere—hers included.
No. She couldn’t think like that.
As his friend, she’d have to tell him about her mission, for both their sakes. Otherwise, one of them would get hurt.
She gathered her composure. “In my homeland, my family are starving tenant farmers. I had a brother die one winter when I was young.” Her voice broke despite her raised brows. “Without proper nutrition and no money for a doctor, he suffered a miserable, pitiful death.” She shut her eyes against Eryk’s memory, and her breath left her in a rush. “My mother sent me to America … to find a wealthy husband, so I can pay for the rest of the family to come here.”
At his low whistle, she looked at him. Rubbing a hand over his mouth, he blinked toward the lake. Was that disappointment lining his eyes? “You ah, have a candidate in mind?”
Why do you ask? “Mr. Leech is the only wealthy single man I’ve met so far.”
Woody hummed. “I’ve had dealings with the man. Wouldn’t advise it.”
“Then who would you recommend?” she asked, exasperation weighting her brows.
His forced chuckle grated her nerves. “I don’t want to meddle. But … you’d do well to … consider options other than Leech.”
After a full minute of her nibbling at the last of her pie and his pulling at a snag on his pants leg, she pounced on a safe subject. “Is your family nearby?”
He squinted into the fading sun, ears reddening. “They shut me out, years ago.”
Not so safe, then. “I’m sorry.”
A slow nod. “The first year was … dark. I didn’t come to know the Lord until later.”
Sensing raw pain behind the words, her heart hurt for the lonesome young man he must have been. When he offered nothing more, Ella brushed a crumb from her lip and gestured to the outline of the necklace beneath his shirt. “May I ask about the ring?”
After considering the piece, then her for a long moment, he retrieved the leather string and drew his finger over the silver band where two hands held a crowned heart. “Belonged to a friend. Her name was Molly. She’s passed away now.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“I think so.” He replaced the necklace, then smiled at the roaring and laughing going on behind her. The children charged a flock of geese, wielding sticks for swords and singing some type of battle march. Singing quite well, actually.
Smile fading, Woody said, “Thanks for your help today. They haven’t known a”—meeting her eyes, he faltered, cleared his throat—“motherly touch in a long time. You’re good with them.”
> She held back her smile but couldn’t hold back her blush. She’d noticed he stumbled more when near her. “I’m only a student. Are there no girls?”
“I’m sorry?”
“On the streets. I never see girls with you.”
“Sadly, the girls learn early not to trust a man. Few men give gifts to street children without … expecting some type of favor in return. For the boys, maybe a theft, pick-pocketing or housebreaking. For the girls … it’s worse. The younger boys help me get food and blankets to them.”
Ella’s stomach rebelled at the circumstances he implied. She’d grown up safe from those kinds of dangers with Tata i Dziadunio, Father and Grandfather, there to guard her. These children had no one. Except Woody. “You’re a Godsend to them.”
After plucking a blade of grass, he twirled the shoot between his fingers. “I feel it’s my calling from God. I want to build an orphanage for them, a refuge and learning center, to teach them how to survive in America, and of course facilitate adoptions to good homes. So far, I haven’t gained much support.” He stared over the pond in the twilight and whispered, “Maybe the time isn’t right.”
Her hand settled on his. “God will help you find a way.”
His darkening gaze, his warmth, and the gentle lapping of the pond at their feet all descended on her heart in one fell swoop.
Before she could snatch her hand away, he folded it in his own. “Thank you, Ella Lipski. For having faith in me.”
Every heartbeat bloomed soft and new, but pain sprouted alongside. She lowered her lashes. No matter how hard she fought, she was falling for a man she couldn’t have.
Two weeks later, lantern in hand, Woody poked around the makeshift shelter his boys called home and refused to panic. His knees prickled, and his head throbbed, but by George he would not panic.
The boys’ once-cluttered shanty gaped bare and cold without the blankets he’d given them—no signs of life inside but the wallowed-out dirt.
Woody combed Morris Canal, tunneling fingers through his hair. The nearby swaying grasses and skeletal docks revealed nothing. They were kids. How far could they have gone?
Of Rags and Riches Romance Collection Page 23