“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.”
If his mother, who had never been wealthy, could throw away her family when things got difficult, it was too much to ask of Marianne. “What about David?”
She sighed and put a hand on his arm. “He knows I’m in love with you. That’s partly why he left, to allow you to forget about him and start thinking about you and me.”
He had? Had David been thinking straight?
“He’s willing to stand beside you and be your best man in front of all of Kansas City, if you wish.”
A year ago, David had mentioned he wished his father would stop pushing him at Marianne, but Calvin had chalked that up to their being young. David might not be head over heels for Marianne, but the second he lost her, he’d realize they were meant for each other just as their parents believed.
“I . . .” His words failed him at the soft look in Marianne’s dusky blue eyes.
“I trust you to provide, Calvin. I realize you can’t do so in the same fashion as my father, but I’m all right with that. But more importantly, I trust God to take care of me.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “I’ll be back tomorrow.” She let her fingers slide down his and then turned to walk up the embankment. When she disappeared behind the corner of the house, he walked slowly over to the trellis and counted all the varied lengths of string.
He fingered the last one he
could find. Twenty-two. A sad smile upturned his lips. She was more tenacious than he’d thought.
If they were tied together, how could he be assured that when hard times came, their knot would prove tighter than the one that had let his father and mother slip away from each other?
Chapter
8
With both bosses out of town, Calvin had ample time to get his work finished, but finding the ability to focus was nearly impossible. He pinched the bridge of his nose and rested his head against his hand.
He’d not talked to Marianne for four days, but he’d seen her in the crowds around Liscombe Mills twice.
And each day there was another string tied to his trellis.
His mother had never even sent him a letter.
If only he could talk to David. He had tried to write him to confirm that his boss and friend had encouraged Marianne to pursue him, for if anyone knew what they faced, David did. But words had failed him, for even if David had left to give him time to woo Marianne, that didn’t mean marrying her was wise.
But if none of the things he worried about ever happened . . . ?
Oh, it had been a mistake to touch her. The feeling of Marianne’s skin on the pads of his fingers had yet to fade. He could swear he could still feel how soft she was, like down from a pillow, and the smell of her had been like . . .
He sniffed the air. The smell of smoke kept him from remembering.
Had one of the gas lamps he’d turned up against the overcast day malfunctioned? He got up and peeked into Mr. Kingsman’s and David’s offices, then stopped short after a glimpse out the front window. Columns of smoke billowed against the sky. He raced over to the glass and nearly cursed under his breath as he watched people leave the mill en masse. The muffled sounds of worry and the crackle of the cotton mill’s timbers going up in flame stole his breath.
Pressing his face against the windowpane, he searched the scattering crowd as they parted for the horse-drawn fire engine rushing through.
Marianne was nowhere in sight. She was likely out there. However, he couldn’t stand there with nothing but hope. He raced to the outer hallway and zipped past the other businessmen who’d left their offices to see what was happening.
He hit the downstairs door running but was stopped by a wall of humanity. How was he going to find her if everyone was standing around gaping?
“Marianne!” he hollered, knowing full well there were probably many Mariannes in the crowd and she was unlikely to hear him. He headed toward a redheaded girl. He grabbed her shoulder, startling her.
She wasn’t the girl who’d walked with Marianne the other day, but he’d ask her all the same. “Have you seen Marianne Lister?”
The girl shook her head, so he raced toward the low stone wall surrounding the Liscombe complex. He darted through the crowd and leapt onto the partition. She didn’t appear to be on the street or the road leading to the main gate. Surely she wouldn’t have gone home without stopping to assure him she was all right.
Though, of course, he had no right to be the first to know she was well—but surely she’d know he’d be panicking.
Because if he lost her . . .
He ran down the wall, glancing both right and left, trying to keep track of all the brown-headed women, seeking the familiar redhead, anything that might help him find Marianne.
He didn’t really need to see her, if he could just be assured she was all right.
Or maybe he did need to see her, to hear her, to hold her, to crush her to himself and insist she stop working in a place fraught with danger. Fires were rare, but he’d heard of one too many who’d lost limbs or fingers in the machinery, of workers who’d gotten their hair or skirts tangled in whatever contraptions they ran.
And he was the reason Marianne was here.
Ah! The redhead. The woman probably loathed her bright orange hair, but it was a godsend. He jumped down and pushed his way toward her.
She’d exited with a bunch of other girls, most of them crying, but none of them Marianne.
Once within shouting distance, he hollered out for her, “Miss!” Oh, what was her name? The closer he got to the building, the more his nostrils filled with smoke. The fire in the southeast section was gaining momentum and ferocity, but it seemed the firefighters were keeping it from spreading.
“Miss!” he called out again, but the bell of a second fire engine drowned out his words. He kept looking around for Marianne but saw no one who looked at all like her. “Miss!”
He forced his way through the group of girls surrounding the carrot top. The blonde she comforted was one of the sisters Marianne had introduced him to.
“Miss.” He grabbed her arm, and she tugged away. “Miss!” He grabbed for her arm again. “Have you seen Marianne Lister?”
She looked at him, a spark of recognition formed in her eyes, and she calmed. She shook her head and turned to the woman beside her, who was coughing. “Wasn’t Marianne with you?”
The blonde nodded, then coughed again. “I couldn’t find Ruth. Marianne told me she’d find her.”
“Ruth?” He scanned the crowd as if he could locate someone with nothing more than a name. “Where is Ruth?”
“I don’t know,” the woman cried, panic in her voice. “She told me she was going to get Edith, though I told her not to.”
“What does she look like?”
“She’s just ten, blond hair and skinny.”
He darted off, going against the current of people that slowed once they’d exited the building. “Ruth!” How he wished she was a bright redhead, for half of these women seemed to be blond and skinny. But ten years old was at least something to go on. “Marianne! Ruth!”
“Ho there!” A brick wall of a man stepped in front of him and stopped him with two meaty paws around his upper arms. “Don’t you be rushing in there.”
“I think my . . . my friend is still in there.” He tried to step out of the man’s vise grip, but the man was twice his size and obviously did more manual labor than he.
“Now, you leave the rescuing to the firefighters. ’Sides, everyone I know’s leaving. He or she ain’t in there dillydallying, waiting for you to come and get ’em out.”
“Please.” He reached up and peeled the man’s fingers back from his arm. “I need to find her.”
“She’s likely already out, lad. Take a look around.”
“I have.” He tore himself free and raced for the doors she’d run to only days ago when he’d disappointed her. With only a hundred feet left before he got there, Marianne tumbled out the door, along with tendrils of smoke that flew up over the top of the doorway and rushed past the mill’s stone walls toward the dark gray sky overhead. Beside her, a girl cradled her arm and cried loudly. However, Marianne wasn’t doing much to comfort her, for she was coughing and hobbling herself.
He raced to meet them and swallowed Marianne up against himself.
She coughed near his ear, making him wince. He pulled back and nearly dragged Marianne and the girl to the side of the path, toward an oak tree that was far enough away that only floating ash accosted them.
He helped them slump to the ground against the trunk. He kneeled and put his hand against Marianne’s cheek, but she turned her head away from his touch to look at the girl. “I think her arm’s broken.” Marianne coughed again. “Help her.”
Did Marianne think he knew what to do with broken bones?
Nevertheless, she was feisty enough to be ordering him around, but the girl was hysterical.
Without getting up, he sidled over, shushing as he came closer. “Where are you hurt?”
The girl just continued crying.
“I found her under a machine.” Marianne scooted closer. “I think it got knocked over in people’s panic to get out.”
“This is Ruth, then?”
Marianne nodded, and he swept the girl’s hair away from her flushed face. “It’s all right. You’re alive, and we’ll get someone to take care of your arm. Is that all
that hurts?”
The girl didn’t stop her wailing, but she nodded a little.
He took her arm as gently as he could and thankfully saw no blood, but her overly pained expression made him place her arm gingerly back in her lap. He stood and waved his arms above his head. “Is there a doctor here?” He glanced around and spied the redhead. “I found Ruth!”
A man in a navy sack suit arrived before the redhead. “Did you call for a doctor?”
“Yes.” He squatted back beside the young girl. “She’s hurt her arm, pinned under something evidently, but Marianne got her out.”
The young blond man knelt beside the girl just as the redhead and several other women surrounded them.
“Oh, Ruth, we’re so glad you’re all right.”
“Did you find Edith?”
“Are you hurt?”
Calvin turned to Marianne, who was still coughing, and held out his hands to help her up. Once she stood, he pulled her against him and held on tight.
He shouldn’t be surprised Marianne would go back in for someone, but it was all he could do not to yell at her for it.
She doubled over, her coughs wracking her whole body.
“Are you all right?”
Another man came up beside him, this one old enough to be a grandfather many times over. “Did someone call for a doctor?”
“I did, but he’s already attending the girl.”
“So you weren’t calling for her?” He moved toward Marianne and put a hand on her shoulder. “How long were you in the smoke?”
She wheezed, trying to clear her throat, only to cough again. “I don’t know, not too long.”
The man held her wrist for a minute as Marianne coughed intermittently. After a quick barrage of questions that encompassed everything from muscle fatigue to headaches, he released her. He turned and pointed toward a wagon near the front gate. “I want you to get her to that vehicle there. Dr. Costa is taking care of those who’ve breathed in enough smoke to be concerning.”
“How concerning?” Calvin slipped his arm under her shoulder as she coughed again.
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