by Fiona Shin
“No, no one at all. He doesn’t seem to be interested. Of course, it doesn’t stop any of the eligible girls and some who are spoken for, striking up a conversation with him. Silly girls. You’d think they’d realize a man isn’t drawn to silly chatter.”
Weren’t they?
That certainly hadn’t been the case as she watched acquaintance after acquaintance laugh, chatter and giggle their way into a wedding. “Perhaps Mr. Whitley is in the middle of a grand love affair.”
The housekeeper guffawed and patted her on the back. “A grand love affair? Him? Perhaps with his ledgers and contracts, but certainly not with any girl I’ve seen. There, you’re all done now.”
Certainly, her hair was out of her face and cautiously, Ivy raised up a hand to pat the back of her still-damp hair. A complex system of coils and braids was evident to her fingertips, and she turned her head to and fro, testing to see if the hairpins and ribbons would stay. They were quite firm and she touched the back of her bared neck, feeling almost uncomfortably exposed. “It’s wonderful. Thank you, Mrs. Chang.”
The woman laughed as she stowed the stool back next to the large fireplace. “Not at all. It’s good to know I can still do hair. When I was young, I used to be a lady’s maid. Did her hair, took care of her gowns, made sure she was awake before nine every morning.”
“Do you miss it?”
“I do not,” she said, shaking her head. “Margaret was a spoiled little brat who was never refused anything. She ran away with a good-for-nothing wastrel and last I heard, she had died from a difficult childbirth.”
What was one to say to such a statement? “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Mr. Whitley and Timothy arrived not a moment then, stamping snow from their shoes as they shed their coats and mufflers much caked with snow, and Ivy shivered at the memory of being out in such weather.
She went to assist Timothy as he struggled with a woolen muffler that seemed quite intent on strangling him.
Best not to think, and simply give thanks for the present.
Chapter Three
For the third time since Elliot bumped his knee into a dining chair and subsequently slipped into it, he missed his mouth and ended up with yet another spoonful of stew in his lap.
Luckily, he had enough sense to place a napkin there, otherwise Mrs. Chang would’ve used his intestines for a clothesline.
He watched the girl make conversation with the other two people at the table.
Wait. No.
Girl was wrong.
Woman.
There was a beautiful woman sitting across from him, her eyes glowing in the candlelight, and Elliot Whitley couldn't remember the last time he felt like such a staring idiot.
For the fourth time, he missed his spoon, but mercifully it only skimmed his cheek.
The angel sitting across from him cast a glance in his direction, dabbing at her crimson lips.
“Mr. Whitley?”
He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the spell she had cast over him. “Yes.”
The girl, no, woman, put down her spoon carefully and observed him across the table in those curiously tip-tilted eyes. “Are you quite all right? You look pale.”
“I'm fine,” he muttered. “Nothing's wrong with me. Mrs. Chang, the stew is, as always, mouthwatering.”
The housekeeper looked as though she was having a difficult time maintaining her decorum at the dinner table. “Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Whitley, but quite personally, I would consider it an even greater compliment if you deigned to get more than half of it in your mouth, rather than in your lap.”
“If I did that, I would get scolded,” said Timothy, with something akin to wonder. “I can't wait to be an adult. Adults don't get yelled at for wasting food. I want to be one. I would want to be one as soon as I could!”
“Wouldn't you?” replied Ivy. “There are responsibilities, you know.”
He let out a terribly adult-like sigh. “I know.”
Elliot put down his spoon and pushed his chair back, feeling out-of-sorts and besides, he had lost his appetite. Hard to eat when there was such a strange contradiction looking at him with violet eyes. “Thank you for that very excellent meal, Mrs. Chang. There are some documents I’ll have to look over before delivering them tomorrow morning, so if you will excuse me...”
Mrs. Chang let out a small sound of consternation. “But you barely ate anything!”
He refused to let himself feel like a beaten dog as he stepped away from the table. “Yes, but duty does ask for sacrifices now and again.”
“Well, at the very least, I will leave out some bread and meat for you,” called out Mrs. Chang and Elliot slowly closed the door to the dining room, unable to get out the image of a dog with its tail between its legs, out of his mind.
Damn it all and a half.
And for the next three hours, he threw himself into his work, burying himself behind documents, wills, property deeds, even marriage agreements, and he almost forgot about the woman.
Almost.
But not quite.
He was half way through skimming through Alvin Moseley's will when someone knocked on the door, most presumably Mrs. Chang with his late-night snack.
His stomach growled in anticipation. Perhaps, there was still some stew left over, and maybe crusty bread. And he would be able to eat it, for here in his small study, there would be no beautiful woman to gawk at as though he was still a half-grown boy newly arrived at Oxford.
“Come in.”
The bottom dropped out of his stomach as he saw the woman standing reservedly at the threshold of his messy and unorganized study, a wooden tray in her hands.
He greeted her, as only befitting a gentleman. “Grnngh.”
Immediately, he colored. Not what he had been going for, not by a long shot. He had meant to say “Good evening” but his tongue, twisting beyond belief, had gotten the best of him.
This time.
He promised himself it would not happen again.
She was just a winsome face. That was all there was. And he was positive he’d seen more beautiful women.
Somewhere. At some point. He just couldn't remember at the moment.
The tray held a bowl of steaming stew and a slice of Mrs. Chang's excellent brown bread, and she placed it at the edge of his desk.
He wanted to say 'Yes, thank you. You may leave now.'
Instead, the only thing that came out was “Erghm.”
He was completely and utterly mortified. What the hell was wrong with him? Was it the fact he'd been completely celibate since Meredith's betrayal? Was it because he sought to avoid female contact absolutely?
It had to be.
He waited for her to leave, silently begging her with his eyes to leave and never come back again, or not until he had availed himself of Lady Lili's girls next to the saloon.
But she did not get his silent plea and instead, opted to stay before him, hands crossed demurely at her waist.
He groaned inwardly and plopped down in his seat, fully aware it was rude to sit down before a lady did, but not really caring. He'd already proved himself to be a dolt, so what was a few bad manners here and there?
She took a deep breath and he couldn't tear his eyes away her chest. The borrowed gown belonged to someone with a more diminutive chest and when she took another deep breath, he watched half in horror, half in terrible interest, wondering if a button (it didn’t matter much, as all of them were crucial) was going to pop loose.
Knowing his luck, when it did, it would hit him square in the forehead with such force he would be immediately incapacitated and unable to remember a damn thing.
“Thank you.”
Good god, was she actually expecting some kind of answer from him?
He managed a curt nod and something resembling a grunt.
She stared down at the floor. That was something, at least. It was easier when she wasn't looking at him. “You took me in when no one else would. I owe yo
u a great deal, sir.”
He swallowed his dry throat and looked around in vain for water, gin, vinegar, anything. “Don't thank me.”
There. That was something. He didn't sound as addled pratted.
Just very, very angry. But that wasn't half-bad.
Better than being mistaken for an idiot.
She continued to stand there, wringing her hands. “I…”
The smell of the rose soap emanating from her freshly scrubbed and glowing skin and the smell of the stew with the buttered bread was driving him mad! What in bloody hell was it going to take for her to leave him in sweet, blessed peace? “Well, don’t just stand there, woman! What do you want?”
She flinched and Elliot wanted to bash his face on the desk. Not that it would hurt much; there was too much paper strewn about.
“I’m sorry,” she said, voice clear, but he caught the trembling note at the end of her syllables and felt even worse, if that was even possible. “I know this is not the most ideal situation for anyone here.”
Not the most ideal situation? What an understatement.
She seemed to be waiting for a reply, so he grunted and managed to fake a piercing interest in an exchange of property between two farmers outside of town. Dull reading, to say the best, but she needn’t know that.
“I…” she started and then shook her head, her cheeks coloring in a most fetching way. “Never mind. I’m sorry to have disrupted you in your duties, Mr. Whitley.”
“Elliot,” he growled. “Just Elliot.”
Her answer was adamant. “I could never. You are Mr. Whitley to me.”
And when she closed the door behind her and he heard her receding footsteps, he didn’t know why the bloody hell it disturbed him so much, the fact she refused to call him by his first name.
***
After that positively disastrous meeting with Mr. Elliot Whitley, Ivy made sure to be seen as little as possible by the man with a face of an angel and the temperament of an enraged bear.
Not that she blamed him.
After all, he hadn’t asked for her. Hadn’t asked for any of this.
But if that was so, why had he been so kind to her on the first day?
He had truly seemed like an angel in disguise and Ivy couldn’t count her blessings enough.
Now, every time his gaze fell upon her, his dark brows furrowed down and his sinfully beautiful lips curved downward as if the very sight of her made him feel ill.
She discussed this a week later with Mrs. Chang as they shelled peas in front of the small grate in the kitchen. “He hates me, doesn’t he?”
The housekeeper shot her a curious glance. “That’s a passing strange thing to say. Especially the way you two have been acting since you arrived.”
“But he wasn’t always unkind to me,” Ivy pointed out. “When I woke up…I…”
She blushed and ducked her head to hide it.
But Mrs. Chang was too observant. “I imagine you look quite different now.”
Now, feeling cleaner and somehow lighter than she ever had, Ivy managed a smile, although it did not come easily to her. “Does he truly begrudge my intrusion?”
“Don’t call it that.” The older woman tilted her head to one side. “I’m getting older. I’ve told Mr. Whitley; he would do well to hire someone to help me from time to time, but he just doesn’t want to. If we put out an ad, we’d have a line of women stretching from the front door all the way to the edge of town.”
As though that were a surprise. For all of his bluster and dark demeanor, Elliot Whitley was a very handsome man. And relatively well-to-do, if one were to surmise from the growing pile of documents on his desk. “Was he ever sweet on anyone?”
Mrs. Chang plunged her hands back into the large bowl of peas. “That’s certainly not for me to say. I don’t hold much with gossiping.”
“But you do it all the time!”
She laughed softly under her breath. “Very well. But I don’t care to gossip about my employer. He’s a fine man and it’s a shame none of the girls can see past his face.”
Secretly, Ivy thought it was a shame for Mr. Whitley as well. If only he shed his peaceful, neutral facade and let them see the gruff interior that laid within, he wouldn’t have to worry about beating the women off with a veritable stick.
“Will you go to the gathering tonight?”
Ivy shook her head. When she was at the general store the day before, she saw a gaggle of women approximately her age and older, talking and laughing about the so--called dance and gathering at the assembly hall. None of them gave her any notice beyond the cursory one that unmarried women are apt to give to those they deem to be rivals. No one recognized her as the homeless waif lurking in alleyways, and she had been relieved.
“Well, why ever not?” asked Mrs. Chang with an incredulous look. “Look at you! The menfolk will be tripping over each other’s feet to offer for your hand.”
A comforting thought, that. The thought that she could find a way to get out of Elliot Whitley’s hair.
“And when they find out I am the homeless woman who slept in doorways and begged for scraps?” she asked quietly. “How many would still want me?”
Mrs. Chang was still. “Do you think they would care?”
“Wouldn’t they?”
The sound of the fire crackling in the grate reigned supreme for a while as Mrs. Chang regarded her with calm, infinitely deep eyes. “Is it like that, then? You won’t even give them a chance?”
Ivy clenched her hands so tightly, her knuckles went white. “There is no chance to be had. I have nowhere to go. When I left home, I had everything I needed in two carpetbags.”
“What happened to them?” The housekeeper commenced shelling peas, the sound of the pods nearly inaudible over the crackling fire.
The memory was enough to make her cringe. “I was an idiot. My maid decided to come with me. We had grand illusions about settling in California and carving out a kingdom.”
Mrs. Chang hooted in derision. “Is that so? Where is this maid, now?”
Ivy stared down at the thick scar on her wrist, a wound caused by broken glass when she fled from a pair of drunken men who wanted…her. “I don’t know. When I came back with the tickets, she was gone. With our belongings.”
The housekeeper clucked her tongue. “Don’t you worry, girl. She’ll have what’s coming to her. The Lord does move in strange ways, mark my words.”
The very idea Adeline could…heavens, they had grown up together! “I had no idea she could be so mercenary. She could’ve been my sister.”
“Aye, well, it’s always the ones who are closest that hurt us the most.”
Mrs. Chang stood up then, dusting her hands, the bowl of peas safely placed on the scarred, wooden counter. “Well, now that’s done, don’t you think there’s enough time to turn a beautiful girl into a beautiful woman?”
The idea of willingly walking in the midst of the people who had once looked at her with scorn and disgust was enough to make her sway on her feet. “No, please, that’s entirely unnecessary.”
All those people staring at her, gawking as though they could not believe their eyes.
This was something she had grown used to in New York.
But there she was used to the beauty, the elegance she had inherited from her mother.
But here…here…they would see only the dirty, homeless, stealing waif.
Mrs. Chang’s dark brown eyes widened and she held out her hands, almost as if to catch her. “My dear, what’s wrong? You look like you’re going to be ill.”
And this time, Ivy could not keep the tears from spilling forth. She hadn’t cried in the past few weeks, too weak and tired of weeping. She was ashamed to do it in front of a woman who had taken her in, treated her better than anyone else since her parents passed away.
“I am sorry,” she whispered, mouth clamped shut on the sobs that were sure to abrupt. “I am so very sorry, Mrs. Chang. But I would like it very much if I didn’t
go.”
The housekeeper brushed the tears off Ivy’s face with a rough palm. “Hush now. Do stop crying. If I knew it would disturb you this much, I wouldn’t have even thought of asking. Do forgive me. It was thoughtless. Of course, you wouldn’t want to go.”
Ivy choked on her embarrassed laughter. “No, there is nothing to forgive. How could you have known? Just the thought of being surrounded by people who spat at me, giving me looks of disgust every time they walked past me…”
If Bertrand were here, he would’ve laughed himself into his grave. Once the toast of Seneca gentry, now reduced to asking for handouts and sleeping outside.
Mrs. Chang sat back down heavily, the breath leaving her in one whoosh. “Well, if you aren’t going, perhaps you can help with some knitting?”
Knitting over dancing.
Standing indoors in front of a warm fire with someone who seemed to enjoy her company over standing in a somewhat drafty building surrounded by people who would stone her as soon as they found out the truth of her existence.
It really wasn’t hard.
Ivy pulled out the wooden basket of yarn and began to knit.
It was, after all, the very least she could do.
Chapter Four
They were alone.
Christ, he hadn’t expected that.
He’d expected Mrs. Chang to be home, or at the very least, Timothy.
Elliot took a deep breath, tried to relax the set of his shoulders before he gave himself a massive headache. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?”
She sat in front of the fire, head down, apparently completely engrossed in a mass of yarn and needles. “Mrs. Chang decided to take Timothy to the gathering.”
“Mrs. Chang?” He couldn’t believe it. “But she hates gatherings! Says they drive her up the wall! She can't stand most of the people bound to show up there. And there’s a blizzard outside. She’ll never make it in time!”
Ivy shrugged and continued working on what looked like a knitted suit for something with more than two legs. Possibly an octopus, although this far from the ocean, he didn’t know how she was going to find a test subject to try it out. “All I know is what she told me, I’m afraid.”