After trudging back to his wagon, he drove by the usual hangouts and asked around town, but the boys hadn’t mentioned their leaving to anyone. Exhaling a pent-up breath, Woody debated going to ask Ella if she’d heard anything, but he couldn’t visit her apartment at this time of night without igniting gossip. He stopped his cart in an alley, his heart still galloping. Face-in-hand, he prayed, “You can see my boys, Lord. Help me find them.”
When no miracle surfaced, he pushed himself up and started the wagon forward, determined to overturn every grate in the city until he recovered them.
On his third drive through the restaurant district, rustling noises lured him to check behind DiMaggio’s Café. A boy dug through the ripe garbage barrels. Was that Oliver’s red hair?
Woody climbed from the wagon. With light from the kitchen shining on the rubbish, he kept to the shadows until he got close enough to speak. “Oliver, it’s Woody.”
A trash barrel spilled in the kid’s haste to get shed of him.
“Wait! Ollie.”
At the pet name, the boy slowed. Turned. His emotionless glare forced a shaft of pain through Woody’s heart.
They were back to this? Reeling inside, he managed one word. “Why?”
“We ain’t going to any orphanage.”
“What?”
“The lady and you talked at Randolph’s Pond about putting us in a orphanage didn’t you? So we voted to scram, soon as possible.”
The boys heard that? They’d kept silent on the drive back that night, but he figured they were worn out from playing. “We talked about a refuge … for all children who find themselves on the street. A place they’d learn English and how to get jobs and make a good life here. And they could be adopted if they wanted a family of their own.”
Oliver’s eyes flickered, but he didn’t move.
“Orphanages aren’t all bad.”
“You ever lived in one?”
“No, Ollie,” Woody said, suddenly weary. “No, I haven’t.”
“Then how do you know this … refuge will be any better than a workhouse?”
God give him strength. “Because I’ll operate it.”
Oliver relaxed a bit. “How you gonna babysit a bunch of kids all the time? Miss Ella gonna help you?”
Ella. After their pond conversation and subsequent lessons, he hoped she might care enough to get involved. But she had courtship on her mind now—he never inquired about her outings with other men, but at least he knew what he was up against. She planned to attend the upcoming Theodore ball and had put off further lessons until afterward. He’d talk to her then. “I haven’t asked. I hope so.”
The boy chewed his lip. “Me too.”
A deep place in Woody cracked and thawed. After much prayer, he’d had no divine revelation of a solution. He’d tried to dissuade Ella from pursuing wealth. Though if Ella was to be his, God would keep her from marrying anyone else and take care of the outcome. That’s all there was to it. He couldn’t picture Ella as high society. Candid and untouched by the elite’s coy games, she had a way of getting straight to the heart. She certainly got to his. Would she consider helping him—maybe rescuing girls as well as boys?
Oliver turned to go.
“Ollie.”
The small redhead stopped.
“Tell the other boys for me? I don’t want the little ones going hungry because of this.”
He shrugged. “I’ll do what I can.”
And so would Woody.
It was all Ella could do to keep from running away.
If someone had told her a month and a half ago she’d be in America wearing her employer’s dress in the woman’s own ballroom at the biggest social event of the season, she’d have doubted their sanity. Now, she doubted hers and resisted pinching herself on the grounds she might bruise—in this elegant ball gown, her arms showed. Thank goodness Anetka helped her alter the dress into something less recognizable.
Between two ferns and a vase, Ella crunched on a cucumber sandwich and took advantage of an enormous mirror she’d polished just this morning. Pretending to inspect her gloves for crumbs, she scouted the candlelit reflection for her employer, ever aware of jeopardizing her livelihood. Hundreds of guests floated about, offering witty comments and sipping punch while the orchestra played—a scene she thought she’d love—but the whole evening grew tedious.
Earlier a gaggle of socialites snubbed her when she couldn’t comment on Who’s Who and social politics, and her mind bugled a retreat.
But after the letter she received from Mama yesterday, failure wasn’t an option.
Ina was coming early. Forced to work sick in Baron Zimmer’s fields, she’d collapsed, and farmers of neighboring lands took pity, collectively loaning money for Ina’s passage to America. Life and death weighed on Ella’s success now, and she had trouble keeping her shoulders from bowing under the load.
The orchestra swelled into a familiar song, and her eyes slipped closed. Days ago, Woody guided her through the steps of this waltz, helping her brush up on the dance Grandfather—Dziadunio—taught her as a child. Ever the gentleman, Woody had laced his fingers with hers so she could feel the push and tug of his lead through his palms without his arms around her. Alone with him at the pond this time, she’d been most grateful for his consideration. But his eyes hadn’t behaved. They shone dark and warm and no doubt spied her feelings for him.
Over the past weeks, his rugged charm and relentless spirit had drawn up deep things from her heart, threatening her mission. At the same time, he provided the tools she needed to transform from Ella, the immigrant, into Marcella Elaine Lipski, tourist and ball guest of the Theodores.
She would never forget the brown-eyed rogue who welcomed her into his makeshift family and gave her so much more than the gift of communication. He’d given her a place to belong.
But now she’d have to say goodbye.
The waltz ended, and a dark suit drew close in the mirror. Jamieson Leech. Despite Woody’s warning, she’d seen nothing from Jamieson to make her reject his suit. Had Woody denounced Jamieson out of sheer jealousy?
As a married woman, with her own family, she’d soon have no time to think of Woody and “what ifs.”
“You look lovely this evening,” Jamieson said.
Ella gave her best effort at a smile.
On their several outings since the concert date, she’d grown uncomfortable when Jamieson kept reaching for her hand—nothing inappropriate. After all, she’d held Woody’s. Still …
Jamieson lifted his punch glass. “Care for some?”
“No, thank you.”
“Would you like to dance, then?”
The room took on a suffocating air as couples moved onto the dance floor. Her pulse quickened, drawing her hand to her throat. She’d never danced with any man but Grandfather. And Woody. But if she became Jamieson’s wife, what was a simple dance? He was handsome and considerate. And rich. What, then, set her on edge?
Were his eyes red-rimmed? He’d either lost sleep … or been drinking?
He hiccupped, pupils widening as he pressed a knuckle to his mouth. “Pardon.”
Heavens. She hesitated. “May we walk … outside?”
On their way to the veranda, they passed wall sconces with lamps she’d cleaned and wicks she’d trimmed. Satisfaction ran through her at a job well done. With bronze ceiling tiles gleaming above, wall tapestries adorning the perimeter, and light illuminating every mirror, the ballroom radiated the beauty of a fairy tale.
Jamieson pulled her hand into the crook of his arm and caressed her fingers in a way that made her grateful for her gloves.
Maybe not a fairy tale, but a dream. A strange, luxurious dream where the atmosphere and her gown lifted her spirits, but her task took all her fortitude.
Her escort stumbled over the threshold to the garden. He scowled at the ground, his slurred words hard to interpret. “They should have that fixed … certainly rich enough. You’d think they’d take pride in the gro
unds.”
Entering the garden on his elbow, Ella swallowed her last bit of hope. Would she marry a drunkard then? What choice had she? There was no time to “consider other options” with Ina arriving early.
Under a high rose trellis, she summoned her farm-girl grit and faced him with her best English—the question she’d been practicing. “Jamieson, have you never thought of taking a wife?”
“Perhaps I’ve never found a woman who captivates me as you do.” He cupped her face. The contact raised gooseflesh on her arms, his sour-punch breath wafting over her. “You’re so … exotic. Like a desert orchid.”
Captivates? Exotic? Orchid? Woody did not teach her those words.
Jamieson blinked, then took her arms.
Sensing his impending kiss, Ella closed her eyes and tried to envision Woody, but felt doubly wicked. This is what your family needs, Ella.
She called to memory little Eryk. For her siblings’ sake—
When Jamieson’s ill-aimed kiss glanced off her chin, Ella’s eyes flew open and she turned her head. Could she endure this as his wife, with a husband so inebriated he couldn’t properly show affection? She pushed against him, but his grip held her firm.
“So beautiful,” he slurred.
A chill raced down her spine as she struggled and stumbled backward. “You’re hurting me.”
Smattering her neck with kisses, he pressed her into the rose bush.
Thorns pierced her arm and back through her dress. “Przestań proszę!—Stop, please!”
Chapter Four
Woody drove by the Theodore residence alone, the loud orchestra music crashing through his tired muscles. He massaged his forehead.
Children couldn’t vanish into the night mists—the boys had to be somewhere he’d overlooked. He’d found nothing since the night he spotted Ollie. Too dark for further searching, this evening would be better spent poring over his city map with a good strong cup of tea.
Light glimmered through the tall hedges surrounding the Theodore property. As he passed the gardens, the perfume of roses assailed him. Was Ella there now, dancing with someone else? He gritted his teeth. What he’d give for the chance to stroll through such a garden with her.
If things were different, he’d take her on a tour of the elaborate flora at his parents’ home and … But things weren’t different.
At the thought of telling her the boys had left, his stomach curdled. He’d hoped to surprise her with good news—two sponsors had taken on the orphanage project since they last talked. The boys had to turn up soon. They’d survived too much together—
A woman’s cry rent the night.
Every cell in Woody’s body answered—he knew that voice. He yanked the horse to a stop, jumped to the ground, then raced across the street and lawn foliage.
I’m coming, Ella.
Where was she? Rounding a rose arbor, he found her struggling in the clutches of Jamieson Leech.
Woody spun the fool around by his shoulder and connected a hard right to his jaw. Leech’s spew showered the air, reeking of alcohol.
The scum.
Leech stumbled back, eyes glazed, a hand to his well-bloodied lip.
Breathing hard, Woody braced his legs and reassumed the offensive. Leech might be drunk, but he was no weakling—their self-defense lessons during the class of ’77 proved that.
“Elwood Harrison?” A clumsy laugh spilled from Leech’s gaping mouth. “I thought you’d have crawled into some alley and died by now. Spoiled rich kid like you.”
A symphony of gasps echoed his name through the throng leaking from the ballroom.
Woody stiffened, shifted his feet. No more anonymity. Back to people thinking of him as a fallen icon instead of a human being. All those years trying to bury the past, down the sewer grate.
In his peripheral, Ella edged a safe distance toward the house. Her safety was worth his reputation and more. But how could she settle for a man like Leech? Didn’t she know she was better than this?
Eyes widening, she clutched her neckline. “Uważaj!—Look out!”
The blow came from nowhere—pain exploded from his cheekbone, spread under his eye, through his teeth, and knocked him onto his back in a flowerbed.
Leech staggered over. “Get him out of here.”
Two chucker-outs shuffled Woody backward over the underbrush to the pounding of his heart. Resisting, he pled, “Ella, you don’t belong here. Don’t let them make you into something you don’t want to be.”
Like Molly. She’d never have chosen a brothel if she’d had a choice. He had to believe that.
Tears plummeted to Ella’s chin before she turned.
When his back slammed the ground once more, Woody rolled to gain his footing, resisting the urge to trip the gorillas who’d hauled him to the brick road.
Ella, still in view, ascended the path toward the house. Didn’t once look back.
What an addlepated fool he’d been, nigh swooning over her, believing he’d found the one woman who adored the street children as much as he. A woman unselfish, candid, untouched by society’s corruptive hand. A woman he could love.
As she disappeared into the crowd, he was struck with the night’s sick irony. What a match they were, she, pretending to be rich, he, pretending to be poor. Well, not pretending, since his father had disinherited him from the family wealth.
Ella though, in all her ballroom finery, was a fearsome beauty to behold—a marvel to any eye. No doubt full of plans he couldn’t begin to reason out.
And he’d created her.
He’d taught her how to walk like a duchess only to watch her glide away from him.
As he turned away, he cursed himself for worrying over her. She couldn’t know—if she was at all who she said—the pain in store for her if she pursued the heights of riches and ambition.
Ella entered the livery’s dimness, last night’s disaster weighting her steps. Spotting a man at the forge, she asked after Woody.
The smith jutted a smudged thumb toward a door in the back. “He’s expecting you.”
He’d heard, then. She had to explain.
When she knocked, Woody answered, eyes serious and tired. Had he slept as little as she?
Hating this new wall between them, she spoke in Polish, knowing she’d never be able to get the words out in English. “There was a fire at the Theodore mansion last night.”
“I know.”
So did the whole city, apparently.
“It was my fault.” She massaged at the ache behind her eyes. “Before the ball, I noticed one wall lamp loose as I filled them, but the night’s excitement distracted me. I forgot to alert anyone of the needed repair.
“I changed back into my uniform after you left, so I would not be recognized. Then Mister Theodore discovered the fire and dismissed me. My landlord put me out, too, when he heard I was responsible for starting a fire.” Pausing for breath, her voice clogged. She closed her eyes. Father in heaven, help me. I don’t know what to do. “Mistress Theodore kept this week’s pay to cover damages. I can’t find work anywhere. Even if I had money for rent, no one would take me as a tenant now.”
Woody said nothing.
Helpless, Ella staggered backward. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I came here. I just don’t know what to do.”
He pushed off the doorjamb and grasped her arm. “Ella, the furnace.”
Gasping, she turned to face the flames.
Woody released her arm then led her back to his quarters, past orderly grain bins and an immaculate wall of tack, so characteristic of him. Frown persisting, he took care to prop his door open. Typical Woody—ever mindful of others and her reputation, even when upset. Crossing the raised-brick threshold, he held a hand out for her.
Craving the safety of his strong grip when her heart felt so raw and vulnerable, she curled her fingers against the temptation. Then, stuffing wariness aside, she clasped his palm and let him pull her into the room.
Pungent tallow and lemon oil perfu
med his living space, while light from one window revealed a desk, chair, kitchen area, and stove. He scooted the chair out for her then circled the room, straightening an already organized collection of maps then a pair of boxing gloves and a teacup.
Seated, she followed him with her eyes, brushing her hand against the fabric of her skirt, the feel of his palm lingering.
Two books he replaced on a shelf in the corner. Then he set a miniature pair of shoes atop a clothing-filled crate and slid the box behind a curtain, revealing a tidy bed and washstand. On the desk’s far side, he placed his hands on his hips and rolled his lips inward. “I’m afraid I’ve some bad news as well. I had no chance to tell you earlier … The boys have run away.”
Coolness pricked her nape. She clamped the upholstered chair arms. “What?”
“I scoured the city and found Ollie. He knows where the others are and is trying to bring them back. In the meantime, I managed to get a couple of sponsors for the orphanage project. Unfortunately, the biggest sponsor withdrew his pledge this morning, as soon as he heard of last night’s spectacle.” He rubbed a thumb across his bottom lip. “Yours isn’t the only name feeding the gossips today.”
Something fussed at the back of her mind. What Leech said—
“Good news is”—he spread his fingertips on the desktop—“knowing you’d be in a strait when I heard about the fire this morning, I sent word to Pierce, to inquire if he’d hire you. Provide you with lodging. The maid wouldn’t let me in, because the house is taken with chicken pox, but she said you could come for an interview if you’ve had the disease before.” His thumbs bounced. “Have you?”
He’d made provision for her, knowing she deserved the consequences of her decisions? She fidgeted, more uncomfortable than ever in her elegant dress—her only decent option with her uniform returned and her homespun dresses threadbare. “No.”
He sighed, dragging a hand over his hair. “Right … Pierce will hire you eventually—he’s a good man—but you’ll have to live somewhere until the family recovers and …”
Of Rags and Riches Romance Collection Page 24