His fingertips trembled as he raised her chin. "You've become very important to me, Lucie Kolska. I love the look of you, and the sound of your laughter. I love it that you believe in me and I love your loyalty to those you care about. You never complain, you make everyone around you feel a little better."
She stared into his steady gaze, her heart pounding, waiting for him to say the three words she longed to hear. But, of course he could not. No honorable man would, not in their present circumstances. "Oh, Jamie. Stefan will never change his mind," she murmured. Sadness filled her eyes with sudden moisture.
"Neither will I," he said, smiling. His thumb caressed the line of her cheek. Then, controlling the emotion she read in his expression, he moved away from her with obvious reluctance.
She lingered at the entrance to Elizabeth Street and watched him walk away from her. Later, she lay on her mattress and relived his kiss, imagining the pressure of his lips on hers, the sweet taste of his mouth. A tingling rush of heat spread over her body as she remembered his hands on her waist, the feel of his hard thighs against her skirts. Restlessly she turned on her bed and her cheeks burned in the darkness.
* * *
Chapter Six
The sky was gray and overcast the day the last of the dirt and debris was removed from the construction pit and Mr. Gustoffer assigned his crews to make forms and mix concrete to build the load-bearing walls. By the time the noon whistle blew several of the forms were built, set in place and poured.
As the sound of the whistle died away Jamie climbed to street level, pushed his hammer through the loop on his nail apron, and stood on the edge of the foundation frowning down at the forms. The perspective was better here; his suspicion was confirmed. When he was positive of what he was seeing he strode toward the shed and leaned inside.
"We've got a problem," he announced when Gustoffer looked up from his lunch pail. "The main bearing wall is out of position."
"What?" Gustoffer stared, then set down his lunch pail and rose to his feet. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Come have a look." Gustoffer followed him to the edge of the pit. "This building will be twelve stories tall. The major stress and weight should be evenly distributed, but in fact the center support accepts the primary strain." Frowning, Jamie looked at Gustoffer. "But the center support is misaligned. If you pour the form where it's sitting now, eventually the upper stories will crash into the basement."
A silence had fallen over the site. Several of the men unabashedly eavesdropped on the conversation.
Without a word Gustoffer turned on his heel and hurried back into the shed where he bent over the blueprints scattered across his worktable. When he raised his head he was scowling.
"You're crazier than a bedbug, Kelly. That wall is going up just where the plans say it should. Have a look for yourself."
Jamie bent over the table and studied the plans. "Good Lord," he said softly. "The architect made a serious error."
"Well, I'll be gol-damned." Gustoffer's thick eyebrows soared. He made a disgusted sound and spit a stream of tobacco juice toward the corner. "If you ain't the most arrogant mick I ever seen. You're telling me that youa shovel and hammer manknow more than one of the best architects in this city?"
"No," Jamie said slowly. "But I am saying everyone makes an error now and again. And I'm saying that center support is misaligned. You know it, too, Gustoffer."
"Unlike you, Kelly, I don't claim to know more than the architect." He tapped a blunt finger on the set of plans. "This here wall might be some newfangled way of doing things."
Jamie looked out the shed door at the tangle of Broadway traffic. "No," he said finally, shaking his head. "It's a mistake, and it's dangerous. You have to inform Mr. Tucker that his architect made an error."
"He's right, Gustoffer," Stefan Kolska said, appearing in the doorway. Jamie turned in surprise but Stefan didn't look at him. He stepped up to the worktable and fixed a troubled expression on Gustoffer. "I never thought I'd agree with Kelly on anything. But I overheard what he said, and he's right."
"You, too?" Gustoffer blinked at him. "You're both crazy!"
Now Stefan looked at Jamie, a frown drawing his heavy eyebrows together. "Kelly's also right about informing the owner and the architect. You have to stop work and you have to tell them."
"I ain't gonna do no such thing! I'm gonna do my job and build this building just like the plans say I should build it."
"Henry, you can't do that." After casting a look of gratitude toward Stefan, Jamie turned back to Gustoffer. "If you erect a building over those support walls, the building will be unsafe. Maybe it will stand for a month, maybe it will stand for six months or longer. But it will come down, and people will be hurt or killed. You must inform Mr. Tucker."
" You say!"
"I say so, too," Stefan repeated.
"You two go eat your chuck and forget about this."
"I can't do that," Jamie said finally. "If you won't tell Mr. Tucker" he hesitated "then, I will." Reaching behind he untied his nail apron and hung it on one of the pegs.
Stefan and Henry Gustoffer followed him to the street and watched in silence as he washed his face and hands at the horse trough, then pulled his coat over his arms.
"If you walk off the job site, son, I got to fire you. There ain't no choice. If you go now, no point in you coming back."
"I know that." He also knew there were situations that appeared to offer choices, but in which there was actually no decision to make. A man had to do what he knew was right. Even if the cost came high. To his surprise, it appeared Stefan agreed. Stefan unhooked his apron and prepared to accompany him.
"Wait," he said, raising a hand. "I appreciate your show of support, Kolska." More than he could say. "But there's no point in both of us losing our jobs. I started this. I'll finish it."
"I agree with you. I'm willing to go with you and say so."
It must have pained Stefan Kolska to set aside his pride and support Jamie Kelly. An hour earlier Jamie would not have believed Kolska's integrity would win over his personal hatred. He had seriously misjudged the man.
"You can't afford to lose this job, you have a family," Jamie said quietly. The allusion to Lucie blunted both their expressions. "If I go home tonight without a pay packet, the only person who suffers is me. I'll go to Mr. Tucker alone." After a moment's hesitation Jamie thrust out his hand and Gustoffer clasped it. "I'm sorry, Henry. I have to do this."
Gustoffer shrugged and spit out a brown stream. "All's that's gonna happen is you're gonna get your ears clipped and find yourself out of work. And that's a gol-damned pity 'cause you're a good worker, Jamie Kelly. Never thought I'd say that about no Thoroughbred, but it's the God's honest truth."
"If I don't bring this to Mr. Tucker's attention, and this building falls in, I'll feel responsible."
"Next to you, son, a mule is the very soul of compliance. You get some crack-brained idea in your head and nothing on God's green earth is gonna dislodge it! Do you really think there's so many jobs in this town that you can afford to throw yours away?"
Jamie's jaw settled in a line. "Whatever happens, Henry Gustoffer, I thank you for hiring me and giving me a chance."
"Which you are throwing away." Gustoffer released Jamie's grip and threw his hands in the air. "Ain't no figuring a bastard mick! So go do what you got to do. But don't be telling Mr. Tucker that Henry T. Gustoffer agrees with any of this bunkum."
"If it makes a difference, you can tell Mr. Tucker that Stefan Kolska does agree with you." For one fleeting instant, it appeared Stefan would shake his hand. Then Stefan thrust his thumbs under his suspenders and turned to scowl at the pit workers who had listened to the exchange with great interest.
Before Jamie walked down Broadway to seek a Wall Street horse car, he saw the triumphant satisfaction spreading across the faces of several of the pit workers. For an instant he wavered, knowing he was walking away from whatever small security he possessed. Then he
glanced at the grudging respect he read in Stefan Kolska's eyes, and he looked into the pit at the wooden forms waiting to be poured. His shoulders squared.
As the delicate fabrics of the small clothes were too fragile for a washboard, they were agitated with a plunger in a tub of warm sudsy water before being wrung out by hand, then placed in an empty tub and the first rinse poured over them.
Everyone in the laundry gathered around the rinse tub to have a peek at the Neena bust improver Mrs. Roper had purchased for Miss Augusta at Wanamaker's. Hilda knelt over the tub and poked the padding with a fingertip, then collapsed in giggles, earning a glare from Mrs. Greene.
"Stop that right now! This might look like fuss and feathers to you, Hilda Horshack, but Miss Augusta could use a bit to go on! If fashion says a woman's got to look like an S from the side, then that's how the pippins have to look. Our Miss Augusta has the lower part of the S, but she needs a bit of deceiver to help along the top half."
"Our Miss Augusta isn't a pippin," Hilda muttered sulkily.
Mrs. Greene's face turned a deeper shade of red. "She is so popular!"
"She's not so popular with the beaux and that's a fact."
Lucie smiled with affection as Mrs. Greene exploded, loudly and loyally defending Miss Augusta's virtues.
At that moment the object of the discussion burst into the laundry room, followed by an overwrought Mrs. Roper. As no one could remember any of the Ropers visiting the laundry, mouths fell open and an astonished silence dropped over the room. Mrs. Greene halted midstride. Lucie paused with the polishing iron hovering in her hand.
Neither Miss Augusta nor Mrs. Roper glanced at anyone. Red eyed and wringing her hands, Miss Augusta stormed past the ironing tables, her flounced hem dragging the damp floor.
"Augusta, this is outrageous behavior!" Mrs. Roper held her skirts away from a puddle of bluing and followed in pursuit of her daughter. Every eye in the room watched in amazement. "You will return to the parlor at once! Do you hear? At once!"
Miss Augusta raised her hands to cover her ears and shook her dark curls. "Is there nowhere I can escape? No, Mama, I won't talk about it any more! No, no, no. I will not marry Baron Grieple! He's old and fat and he spits when he talks."
Mrs. Roper cast a furious scowl at the figures standing frozen in the laundry room. "We will not discuss these matters in front of the servants," she hissed through her teeth.
"Excellent! We shall say no more." Swatting at the steam swirling in front of her, Miss Augusta wound between the wash tubs scattered across the floor. "If being here will give me a moment's respite, I'll never leave the laundry."
"You foolish chit!" Mrs. Roper followed into the gauntlet of tubs. Forgetting her own dictum, she raised her voice to her daughter's back. "Don't you realize you could be a baroness?"
"I don't want to be a baroness!" Miss Augusta pressed her hands over her ears. "I want to marry Mr. Charles Whitcomb!"
A look of distaste twisted Axa Roper's sharp features. "Whitcomb! That coal oil Johnny!"
"He's not, Mama. If only you would give him a chance, he"
"We shall never agree to such a misalliance. You must stop behaving so foolishly. You are going to marry the baron!"
Tears spilled down Miss Augusta's cheeks as she rounded the drying racks. Distraught, she threw out her hands, toppling one of the racks. "Do you plan to lock me in my room and keep me prisoner? Like Mrs. Vanderbilt did to poor Consuélo?"
"Poor Consuélo? Consuélo Vanderbilt is now the Duchess of Marlborough!" Envy raised a greenish cast to Mrs. Roper's skin. "Poor Consuélo, indeed!"
Miss Augusta stopped in front of Lucie, not seeing her. Her head dropped into her hands and her lace-clad shoulders convulsed in sobs of despair.
"I'm so sorry," Lucie whispered, not realizing she spoke aloud until Miss Augusta raised her tearstained face and fastened on the sympathy filling Lucie's eyes. A strangled sound tore from her throat, then she whirled on her heel and ran from the laundry, slamming the door behind her.
Everyone swiveled to look at Mrs. Roper. In the sudden silence they could hear the water bubbling on the range top, the popping of the irons as they heated.
Aside from twin circles of crimson flaming on Mrs. Roper's cheeks there was nothing in her manner to indicate an unseemly scene had transpired. She drew herself upright and stepped forward with practiced dignity as if she had deliberately chosen to visit the laundry to inspect the proceedings.
"We'll be into woolens soon," she informed Mrs. Greene. None of the strain thinning her voice appeared in her imperial manner. "Do we have ether on hand for spots?"
"I've laid in a good supply, ma'am." Mrs. Greene's eyes were as wide as the bluing tub.
Moving toward the door, Mrs. Roper paused to inspect the box of starch frozen in Hilda's hand. "Kingsford's Pure? We don't use economy brands in this household, if you please. From now on, you will use Silver Gloss." Hilda nodded, too dumbfounded to speak.
As was Lucie. She forgot to bob her head as Mrs. Roper approached. Mrs. Roper glanced at the chemise draped over the bosom board, then at the iron in Lucie's hand.
"Well? Why are you standing there like a statue? Is that what we pay you for?"
"I no, ma'am." Lowering the iron, she pressed it carefully along Miss Delfi's ribbons, feeling Mrs. Roper's stare.
"You're the one with the lovely skin," Mrs. Roper observed, her voice still sharp. She watched Lucie's hands pushing the iron down the string of ribbons. The barest suggestion of a sigh escaped her lips as she transferred her gaze to her own hands. "I don't know how you manage. I should expect your hands to be red and chapped from the soap and hot water."
"I make a cream, ma'am. It seems to help."
"Oh?" Mrs. Roper turned her gaze to the door so recently slammed by her daughter. "You must bring me a sample one day."
Lucie couldn't believe her ears. Mrs. Roper asking for a sample of her cream. "I would be honored!"
"What?" Distracted, Mrs. Roper turned from the door wearing a look of annoyance.
"To bring you a sample of my cream."
"Oh, yes. Yes, you do that." She opened the door and glanced into the empty hallway and lifted a hand in an absent motion. "You may carry on, Mrs. Greene."
"Thank you for stopping in, ma'am." Finally able to move, Mrs. Greene hurried toward the mistress of the house bobbing her cap up and down in a belated gesture of respect.
Mrs. Roper raised her chin to a regal posture. "One must keep abreast of one's household." With a final nodding glance around the room she lifted her skirts, then hurried down the corridor. "Augusta! Where have you gotten to?"
When Mrs. Roper's voice died away, Lucie exchanged her cool iron for one that was heated. In five minutes they would go to the kitchen for the midday meal and spend the next half hour discussing every tiny detail of this morning's extraordinary events. None the least of which was Mrs. Roper's astonishing request for a sample of Lucie's cream.
Her mind jumped ahead. The minute she completed her Sunday chores, she would ask Stefan to accompany her to the chemist in Mercer Street to purchase the ingredients. Imagining a grand lady like Axa Roper using her cream sent Lucie's spirits soaring. Such a thing could happen only in America.
Moreover she felt a sudden rush of appreciation for Stefan. Although he refused her permission to follow her heart, he did offer her the right of refusal. In some ways, she was richer than Augusta Roper.
The rain began shortly after Jamie boarded the Wall Street horse car. By the time he stepped out of the car in front of Trinity Church and turned up his collar, Wall Street had been churned into a stew of offal, mud and debris. The torrents of muddy water running down the pavement had driven the curb-side brokers indoors and the street appeared deserted.
Feeling the water seeping through the soles of his shoes, Jamie pulled down his cap and dashed through the downpour toward the building where Mr. Jonas Tucker kept his office.
Once inside he shook the rain from his cap and brushed at the
dampness on his shoulders. His shoes and pant cuffs were a muddy disgrace, but there was no help for it. On the bright side, the rain would prevent Gustoffer from pouring the load wall.
After rapping at Mr. Tucker's office door he boldly stepped inside and presented himself before a stern-looking man seated behind a large desk. Behind the gentleman two neatly dressed typewriters glanced at him, then continued tapping their fingers across the keys. Jamie would like to have examined the printing machines at closer quarters and question the typewriters about them. But that was not why he had come.
He swept his cap from his dripping hair. "Mr. Tucker?"
The grim-mouthed man looked up from his desk and inspected Jamie with obvious distaste. "I am Mr. Haversham, Mr. Tucker's personal secretary. Do you have an appointment?"
Jamie leaned over the desk and looked Mr. Haversham square in the eyes. "I assure you Mr. Tucker will want to receive me. I've come on a matter of great urgency."
"I'm afraid Mr. Tucker is too busy to receive someone without an appointment."
Jamie leaned farther over the desk. His eyes narrowed and he spoke through his teeth. "I didn't throw away my job and ruin my shoes to be turned aside." Now he saw the second door. "You inform Mr. Tucker that Mr. Jamie Kelly is here from Mr. Tucker's building site on Broadway. And I mean to see him today."
Mr. Haversham's nostrils pinched in a sniff. "I doubt Mr. Tucker will welcome being ordered about by a common laborer."
"I may be a laborer, Mr. Haversham, but I assure you I am not common." One of the typewriters smiled and sent him a sidelong glance. "Now you announce me to Mr. Tucker, or I'll do the job myself," he said, eyeing the door.
Mr. Haversham looked appalled. His face clamped into a disapproving mask as he slowly rose to his feet.
While he waited for Mr. Haversham to emerge from Mr. Tucker's office, Jamie considered what he would do if Mr. Tucker refused to admit him, a possibility that had not previously occurred. What did occur was the dawning impact of realizing he no longer had a job. Some of the ardor cooled from his gaze as his prospects dimmed. Worse, his future with Lucie moved toward an impossibly distant horizon.
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