My Valentine

by Sheridon Smythe

  Christian followed the movement. He'd never noticed how provocative such an innocent motion could be.

  "Oh. Well, I guess I didn't notice that thing.” She returned her gaze to his face, then suddenly smiled.

  Her saucy grin reminded Christian of himself as a boy—before his father left. He cleared his suddenly clogged throat, wondering where his anger had gone. “You could have been seriously hurt."

  "But I wasn't, thanks to you. I'm sorry I snapped at you, but I've had the most aggravating day. I didn't know chasing trains was going to be part of the job, you know."

  No, Christian didn't know, and he was just about to ask her to explain when she continued on. He found himself listening to the lilting, confident sound of her voice rather than the words.

  "But I did so want to prove my worth, you see, and get a definite answer."

  "Answer?"

  "Yes, answer."

  Suddenly, Christian was blinded by the brilliance of her smile as it grew, revealing a tiny gape between her two front teeth. For no apparent sane reason, he discovered he liked that flaw. It softened the perfection of her features and matched the impish light in her eyes.

  "He said yes."

  "He said yes.” Christian knew he sounded like a parrot, but he couldn't seem to concentrate. Yes, that tiny gap between her teeth definitely appealed to him. “What—what exactly did he say yes to?"

  The woman was delighted to answer his question. “He said yes to the marriage proposal!"

  "I see.” He didn't see, of course, but what he did know was that he certainly hadn't wanted to hear those words. In fact, his disappointment was acute, which was ridiculous since he didn't know this woman from Eve. What did he care if she was engaged? What did he care if she had done the asking? So it wasn't conventional, but then, neither was it conventional to chase trains.

  And this, he realized, was why she intrigued him.

  "So once again I thank you, sir. Good day."

  Before he could collect his wits, the young lady in pink gathered her coat skirts and hurried away through the now deserted train station.

  By the time his carriage arrived, Christian convinced himself he was lucky. Lucky that she hadn't stayed long enough for him to tell her how he'd like to run his tongue over that intriguing gap in her teeth. He also wouldn't mind finding out what lay beneath her coat, or how sweet her skin tasted.

  Was she a lady, or not? She dressed like a lady, spoke like a lady, but she didn't conduct herself like any lady he'd ever met. The carriage rolled forward and Christian shook his head, dismissing the woman from his mind. Likely he wouldn't see her again, which was for the best. He suspected love was a figment of the imagination, a sweeter name for lust.

  Besides, hadn't she just informed him she was engaged?

  * * * *

  Rosalyn found it hard to believe the valentine factory had begun in one room of Esther Howland's house nearly thirty years ago. Surveying the large workroom now, with its long tables and numerous shelves filled with a multitude of scraps, paper lace, glitter, glue, pins, satin, lace, and odds and ends used for the making of each valentine, Rosalyn was amazed at the factory's steady growth. Not only had Miss Howland moved her business to an excellent location downtown, she had employed some of Worcester's brightest women. She paid good wages, and all in all, the factory was a notoriously fun place to work.

  After eight weeks of employment, Rosalyn agreed.

  According to the story recounted by a few of Miss Howland's very first employees, it all began in 1848 when Esther, a newly graduated student from the Holyoke Seminary, decided she could make valentines to match or exceed those imported valentines her father stocked in his thriving bookstore and stationer's shop. With little more than colored pictures and fancy stationary, she did just that.

  The entire family was surprised when her brother took a dozen or so with him to Boston and New York—and returned with several thousand dollars worth of orders.

  And so, the valentine factory began. Esther's business grew at a steady rate, first taking up a room, then an entire floor of her parents’ home, until in 1870, she officially opened The New England Valentine Company at 425 Main Street. Not only did she design and create valentines, she sold baskets, elaborate envelopes, and cards for all occasions, thus guaranteeing a year-round business.

  Rosalyn loved to listen to history relating to the factory, finding it elating to know the success of the business lay solely at a woman's feet—Esther Howland, the best employer a girl could have. Rosalyn was particularly interested in the numerous legends regarding the origin of Valentine's Day. Her favorite was told to her by Miss Howland on the day she applied for the job of delivery girl.

  According to this particular legend, a priest living in the third century defied a horrible Roman decree that no one should marry. The stone-hearted emperor who declared this law justified it by saying men would want to stay home instead of going to war when so many soldiers were needed.

  The saintly valentine priest married many couples in secret before he was arrested, imprisoned, and put to death. The names of all those he married died with him. Because of his loyalty, he was never forgotten, thus the declaration of St. Valentine's Day in memory of the soft-hearted priest.

  Yes, Rosalyn thought, smiling to herself. She liked that legend the best and believed she and the Roman priest shared a common bond; that of secrecy in the name of love. She hugged her current secret to herself, resisting the urge to feel the ten-dollar gold piece in her skirt pocket. Not that the payment was necessary, but try as she might, she had not succeeded in convincing the nervous Miss Balderdash of this.

  Of course she wouldn't tell, and she heartily agreed with Miss Balderdash that it was only fair a woman be allowed to nudge the man if he needed nudging. In Rosalyn's opinion, Mr. Letterman definitely fell into that category.

  Thank God, she'd gotten to the train on time. The memory sparked a frown as Rosalyn recalled her reckless actions. If her employer got wind of it, she would be most displeased with her new delivery girl.

  And what a silly fool her handsome savior must have thought her, dangling from a moving train. Rosalyn paused in her work, remembering the glossy black curls peeping from beneath his hat, his strong, arresting features and what an impressive figure he cut in the burgundy overcoat. Definitely a gentleman of wealth, she mused, and unless she was mistaken, a city man.

  Wynette Gibson broke the companionable silence, jerking Rosalyn from her pleasant reminiscing of her adventurous morning. “Rosalyn, aren't you the tiniest bit curious to meet this Christian Garret person? I mean, you were so fond of Callie Garret and he is her son..."

  "Step-son.” Rosalyn carefully aligned the pin and pushed the point through the paper, completing the heart-shaped design on the as yet unfinished Valentine. Her mood darkened at the mention of Christian Garret. “He's her step-son, and no, I'm not the tiniest bit curious to meet him. Why should I be? He wasn't the tiniest bit concerned about Callie's failing health.” Rosalyn immediately regretted her snappish remark. Oh, just thinking about Christian Garret sent blood pounding to her temples.

  To Rosalyn's left at the long work table, the swish-swish of Maggie Cain's scissors ceased as she paused in cutting the shape of a heart out of bright pink paper; To her immediate right, Hillary Westscott readied glue and lace paper as she waited for Rosalyn to finish her pin hole design.

  With a flourish, Rosalyn handed Hillary the paper and rested her aching arms on the table. She forced herself to smile at the plump matron across from her. “I'm sorry for snapping at you, Wynette. Callie's been gone over two months now, but I still miss her. Mr. Garret didn't attend the funeral or respond to my letters, just as he hasn't responded to Callie's this past year. It's difficult to be curious about a man I know to be rude, heartless, and downright cruel."

  Wynette waved a dismissing, dye-stained hand before dipping it into a small basket of tiny paper roses. Rosalyn watched her press a sticky finger to the paper before placin
g a rose neatly into place. “Think nothing of it, Rosalyn. We all know what a time you've had, what with Mrs. Garret dying and that hard-nosed attorney turning you out of the house. It's surely a blessing Miss Howland happened to have an empty room to let, or you'd be in a pickle. Have you considered Mr. Garret might not have received your mail?"

  "Apparently, he did receive his mail,” Rosalyn pointed out dryly. “The attorney experienced no difficulty in reaching him to inform him of his inheritance, and Mr. Garret wasted no time responding with orders to evict me."

  Wynette clucked her tongue in sympathy, but seemed inclined to argue. “What if Mr. Garret had nothing to do with forcing you to leave? What if Mr. Garret doesn't know of his mother's—er—step-mother's death? The attorney could be acting on instructions left by Callie's husband. It's possible, you know."

  "Maybe, since Henry Garret died before I came to live with Callie and knew nothing about me.” Rosalyn glanced at Maggie's progress on the cut out, waiting to punch her design when Maggie finished. Each of the girls around the table added to the valentine as it was passed around.

  Maggie finished and slid the paper heart in front of Rosalyn, winking as she did. “I understand how you feel, Rosalyn. Callie was very special to you, and you to her. She took you in when your parents died, and loved you like the daughter she never had.

  "When she became ill, you repaid her kindness by caring for her until the day she died. And as Wynette said, thank the dear Lord she knew Esther or there's no saying where you would be right now."

  To her right, Hillary tugged on Rosalyn's sleeve. “Or worse, what if you had stayed and this Mr. Garret arrived? You would have had to leave immediately, and packing in such haste is never good."

  Rosalyn refrained from mentioning how scarcely a week had passed after Callie's death before the attorney, a determined little man by the name of Kellum Toombs, insisted she pack and leave straightaway. In three hours, to be exact. And she had, taking her sample of valentines with her to show Esther Howland and beg for employment. Rosalyn would never forget Esther's sincere welcome, nor her keen interest in Rosalyn's talent and her great distress on hearing of Callie's passing.

  Esther and Callie had been great friends, and Rosalyn knew the story well of how Esther and Callie met while attending Holyoke Seminary. Just months before graduation, Callie met Henry Garret, a lonely widow who captured her heart within a few short, scandalous weeks and Esther went on to graduate the esteemed college while Callie settled down to a life of blissful matrimony. The two remained friends, but their lives became busy, and by 1850 Esther was deeply engrossed in the profitable—and pleasurable—business of making valentines.

  Rosalyn suppressed a fond sigh, missing her friend and companion, and Callie's delightful stories. Thankfully, her new job as delivery girl kept her busy. This past month alone she delivered over twenty valentines, cards, and baskets to various ‘sweethearts'. These few weeks before Valentine's day were certainly the busiest.

  As Valentine's Day drew near, Saturday became a volunteer work day for those who wished to earn extra pay filling local orders that required special delivery. Rosalyn needed the money and always volunteered.

  She enjoyed playing Cupid, she really did, but if she had to attend one more wedding—.

  "Rosalyn! Yoo hoo, Rosalyn!"

  Rosalyn covered her face with her hands at the dreaded sound of Alice Carter's trilling call. She knew only too well what news the young shop clerk brought. Squinting between her fingers, Rosalyn eyed the energetic girl as she came into the large work room. Her heart sank at the sight of the gold-embossed envelope in Alice's waving hand.

  "Wedding number four, Cupid!” Alice laughed at Rosalyn's dismayed groan. “Well, what do you expect when you're responsible for bringing two love birds together? It would be rude for Cupid not to attend the wedding, you know."

  Slowly lowering her hands, Rosalyn glared as the cheerful young girl dipped her finger in Wynette's glue box. Hand held aloft, she then crossed the room to pin the wedding invitation on the wall along with the previous three. “What will you wear to this one, Rosy?"

  "I'm not going."

  Wynette smothered a giggle. “You have to go. You can't just ignore an invitation.” When Rosalyn remained stubbornly silent, she said, “Miss Howland would want you to go. It's good for business."

  Hillary leaned forward and patted her on the shoulder, an impish grin on her face. “Now, now, Rosy. You haven't worn my Sunday dress, and I think with a tuck here and there we could—"

  "I am not going.” She slapped her hand on the table, wondering who she was trying to convince. “I don't know these people!” And why they expected her to attend, Rosalyn couldn't fathom. Yes, she delivered valentines and other cards, sometimes beautiful, expensive baskets painstakingly decorated with satin, lace paper, paper roses and silk bows, but she didn't arrange their marriages! It was ridiculous, simply ridiculous for the couple to expect her to attend their wedding. As for this silly nickname, well, they would stop calling her that immediately.

  "Cupid, Cupid,” Alice tisked. “Accept your fate."

  "I don't have anything to wear,” Rosalyn protested, but with less vigor. “Last week I wore Maggie's only party gown, and the week before I borrowed a dress from Miss Howland. I refuse to beg another dress, so that settles it."

  "My mother is a wonder with a needle,” Hillary said as if Rosalyn hadn't spoken. “When is the wedding, Alice? Did you look?"

  "This Wednesday, at four. West England church."

  "Who's the lucky couple? Can you guess Rosalyn?"

  Rosalyn's brow wrinkled in concentration. Who...? It could be Angel Vanderbuilt, who had fainted dead-away when Rosalyn handed her the valentine from the banker's son, Todd Butler. Rosalyn smiled in remembrance. Or ... what about Abigail Swertz and George Perry? Abigail had hinted she wouldn't wait until Valentine's Day to accept his proposal, but Rosalyn knew she hadn't made the return delivery herself. Hmmmm. She had a sneaky suspicious those two met quite frequently—without their parents permission—so it was just as well.

  "Nope. I can't decide...” She shrugged.

  "Abigail Swertz and George somebody,” Alice announced.

  Rosalyn sighed with a mixture of relief and irritation. Maybe she should go just to make certain nothing happened to stop the wedding.

  Wynette saw her resigned expression and clapped her hands together, beaming at a very disgruntled Rosalyn. “I'll do your hair!"

  Drats, Rosalyn thought, her shoulders slumping in defeat. At least life was interesting working for Esther Howland, and she paid well. Rosalyn perked up at the thought. By her calculations, she would have enough money saved for her first semester of college by spring.

  After college, she wouldn't be playing Cupid, she would be teaching a class of eager young children why an education is important. Some day she hoped to meet her own sweetheart, but until that time came, she would control her destiny.

  She let the conversation flow around her and bent to the exacting task of pin-holing a design on the paper heart, her thoughts returning to Christian Garret. Would he be considerate of Callie's cherished belongings, or would he carelessly toss them aside for auctioning? She liked to think he'd keep something as a memento, something to remind him of a woman he had obviously forgotten.

  Chapter Two

  Your Smile Has Turned My Head

  So Much More than What You Said

  I Don't Think I've Been Mislead

  Soon I Shall Know...

  "It has to be here somewhere,” Christian muttered to the empty room. He kicked a hat box out of his way and knelt by the bed, squinting into the dim light. Nothing. This was the last room in the house, and he had found nothing but bits of colored tinsel, scraps of silk, and lace paper in a pile on the oak secretary by the window. A sewing room, he thought, eying a square wicker basket decorated with beads and colored ribbons.

  Not a jewel in sight.

  Just as he turned to leave, his gaze caught on a
slip of white paper lying near the edge of the desk. He picked it up and read the hand written missive aloud, “Be you truly mine, My heart will.... “The feminine writing stopped abruptly, obviously the beginnings of an unfinished verse.

  "A cursed valentine,” he whispered, dropping the paper.

  He quit the room, snatching his hat off the rack on his way out the door. The attorney had to know something about the rubies. An item of this value didn't just disappear into thin air, and Christian couldn't—wouldn't—believe that Callie had sold the jewels. The jewels were a gift to Callie from Henry Garret, and if he remembered his stepmother's character correctly, she would sell her soul before selling the rubies. Sentimental old fool.

  He wanted those damned jewels.

  Christian stepped into the bright winter sunlight, pulling the door closed on the modest little two story house where his blackguard father and his second wife had enjoyed marital bliss. He stood on the steps and surveyed the thriving city of Worcester for a contemplative moment before hailing a transport carriage. Barking out the attorney's address, he climbed inside the cab and sat in sullen silence.

  If Kellum Toombs didn't have the jewels, and they weren't in the house, where could they be? The house didn't appear to have been broken into, and Toombs made no mention of a safety deposit box.

  Christian turned his frustrated gaze to the open window of the carriage. Yes, Worcester, Massachusetts wasn't New York, but it definitely prospered. Money—money was the key to respect, he'd learned that bit of information the hard way.

  He slapped his gloves against his thigh, pulling his brows together as he reviewed every avenue of his search. Nothing new arose from his pondering. The cab drew to a stop in the middle of busy Main Street and Christian stepped out, flipping a coin into the driver's waiting hand.

  The building was cold, but Christian was accustomed to New York weather and was dressed accordingly. He left his long coat buttoned as he paused in the doorway of the attorney's office and studied Kellum Toombs. He looked upset, Christian noted. Perhaps his conscience bothered him...