My Valentine

by Sheridon Smythe

  Christian closed the door to the small office Royce Tiber would soon inhabit. It was filthy, and he suspected many creatures had taken shelter from the cold in the dark corners and beneath the old, scarred desk where Patrick stood. A feeble glow from an oil lamp did little to dispel the gloom, which was just as well. Christian felt gloomy and angry and the room and the lack of proper light suited him just fine.

  Patrick had no time to move or defend himself as Christian stepped casually up and clobbered him in the nose. It was a light punch, and had taken every ounce of restraint Christian possessed to keep it light.

  Clutching his nose, Patrick staggered back, then scrambled to put the desk between them. Eyeing Christian over his fingers, he cried, “What did ya do that for, huh?"

  Christian glared at him, aching to beat the cowardly little man to a pulp. “Because I need you to work for me."

  Patrick didn't begin to understand. He continued to stare at Christian as if he'd taken leave of his senses. “You got a mighty strange way of askin’ a body to work for ya, mister!"

  "It's better that I get that out of the way.” Christian paused purposefully before adding, “It was for Jamy.” Patrick's gaze faltered, then fell away. He slumped into the mildew-rotted chair behind the desk. It gave a screeching groan of protest, but held.

  Patrick covered his face with his hands. “So you know about that."

  "I know, and now I need to know why.” Christian waited, doubting the man could say anything that would justify him walking out on his family. He couldn't get the image of Jamy, hot with fever and so weak he couldn't walk, out of his mind. And Mrs. Davidson, frail and old before her time; Holly and Julie, thin from lack of food. Christian hadn't totally forgiven his father now that he knew more of the circumstances, but he was a little closer to admitting Henry might have believed he had a reason for leaving.

  He wondered what Patrick's story would be.

  Slowly, Patrick lowered his hands. His eyes were red-rimmed from weeping, and his nose looked a size larger, but it wasn't bleeding. Shame and despair mingled in his eyes. His voice matched his expression, a shaky, shameful sound. “After I lost my job, I took off to look for work. I looked everywhere, but nobody was hirin’ and I didn't have no skills other than mill work. I-I couldn't stand to come back empty-handed and face them younguns, knowing they'd be hungry and cold. I just couldn't stand it."

  Christian watched the man's bent head, searching hard for a sliver of sympathy and finding none. It was just as he suspected; not an explanation at all, but an act as cowardly as his father's. Maybe more so.

  Yet he would come to terms with Patrick as he had his father, for Jamy's sake; for Mrs. Davidson and the girls. For his sake.

  "If I give you your job back—"

  "Will she have me? Will she?” Patrick interrupted with a cry of pain and hope, anticipating Christian's question. “Been gone for three years now, I don't see her takin’ me back after all this time. Don't rightly blame her, either."

  "She will, I think.” Christian frowned, remembering how Mrs. Davidson had taken up for Patrick. He also remembered Jamy's bitter response. “But I don't know about Jamy. He's had a tough time of it, taking care of his mother and his sisters.” Pausing for emphasis, he added, “He's been very ill."

  Shaking, Patrick rose from the chair. Tears streaked a dirty path down his thin, sunken cheeks. “I swear to you, Mr. Garret! I swear I won't leave ‘em ever again, and I'll make it up to them.” He twisted his fingers in the dirty lapels of his coat. “Providin’ she'll have me back."

  "That remains to be seen,” Christian said, just managing to hide his disgust. Although he was certain Mrs. Davidson would take him back, he couldn't resist making the man suffer a little longer. God knows his family had suffered.

  Was this the right thing to do? Would Patrick keep his word? Heaven help them if the man deserted his family again.

  No—Heaven help Patrick Davidson, Christian amended.

  * * * *

  Inside the workshop of the factory, Rosalyn wrapped the last two valentine deliveries for the day amidst a frenzy of cutting, gluing, and pin-holing. The biggest day for the factory drew ever near, and it was a challenge for the twenty-five women to meet both the personal orders of the townspeople, and last minute orders from surrounding towns as everyone struggled to get in line for Cupid's arrow.

  Scissors swished, paper rustled, and behind these familiar sounds was the low hum of conversation as the women talked while they worked. It was warm and cozy in the workshop, while outside a vicious wind heralded another snow storm.

  Rosalyn finished wrapping the valentines and watched and listened, smiling to herself. What a wonderful feeling to be a part of such a group, she thought. Her gaze roamed the line of faces gathered around the L-shaped table, noting flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes as well as nimble fingers. Most of the women had yet to marry, and Rosalyn knew they all hoped to find love on Valentine's Day, just as those who were married planned to renew the old spark.

  Sweethearts, love, and romance—three meaningful words on Valentine's Day. Rosalyn sighed and wished she was a part of it. Instead, she lay awake torturing herself with memories, going over each meeting with Christian, every smile, every kiss ... until she cried into her pillow. She suspected seeing him earlier today would freshen those memories for the coming night, and freshen the pain along with it.

  Well, she wouldn't see him again. If she chanced to run into him on the street, she would look right through him as if he didn't exist. She wouldn't speak, wouldn't give him the chance to whisper sweet words and revive the hope she fought so hard to squash.

  Maybe he would go back to New York, now that he had what he came here for. Maybe she would never have to test her fragile resistance.

  "Is this Cupid's workshop?” a low, familiar voice murmured in her ear, making a mockery of her thoughts.

  Rosalyn stiffened, belatedly realizing the room had gone silent as each and every woman looked beyond her shoulder to the man standing behind her. They tittered and nudged each other, their knowing expressions causing the heat to rush into her face.

  Christian. Oh, how was she to get over him if he kept popping up this way! It wasn't fair, and it wasn't at all kind of him to torment her this way—

  Grasping that spark of unjustified anger, Rosalyn turned and confronted her tormentor. She snapped her eyes to his face, intending to give him a sharp piece of her mind. This was it—he would know once and for all she would not continue to play his game. She wouldn't stand for such cruelty.

  His somber expression stopped her intentions cold. Alarm swept a chill down her spine. “What's wrong?” she demanded instead.

  Christian nodded at the group of women sitting silent and watchful before returning his serious gaze back to her face. “Jamy's missing."

  There was a collective gasp, then a sudden babble of voices rose in volume until Rosalyn clapped her hands sharply. They fell instantly silent. She turned back to Christian, her expression as grim as his own. “What happened?"

  "His father came home."

  "His ... father?” Rosalyn faltered, turning to glance questionably at the group behind her. Several of the women nodded, looking worried. Other's shrugged and looked as puzzled as she felt. “I thought—I assumed Mrs. Davidson was a widow...” Now, where did she get this idea? Was it merely an assumption, or had someone told her? She honestly couldn't remember.

  Christian didn't seem surprised that she didn't know. “His name is Patrick Davidson, and he worked at the paper mill before it shut down. He's been ... gone for some time now."

  Rosalyn honed in on that tiny note of disgust in his voice. “Gone? Do you mean, he walked out on them?” she asked sharply. Dear God, if this was true, how must Christian feel about the man? How could he stand to be in the same room with him? He must be furious!

  "Get your coat and come with me. We've got to find him before dark."

  She didn't give a thought to telling him no, but she did rem
ember the orders she had been about to deliver. “I've got to find Alice and see if she will deliver these—"

  "I've already taken care of it. Miss Howland's minding the shop while Alice fills in for you.” He grabbed her elbow and led her to the door. Rosalyn allowed him to pull her along into the shop, but she called a halt when he attempted to button her coat.

  She swiped at his fingers, glaring at him. “I can manage, thank you. Do you have any idea where he might have gone? Is he completely recovered?” She pulled on her gloves, biting her lip in thought. “Have you looked at your house?"

  Christian opened the door and followed closely behind. Cold wind tore at their coats and burned their cheeks. Rosalyn lowered her chin into her collar and headed for the waiting carriage.

  "I was hoping you'd have some idea. He's not at Callie's house.” He had to shout to be heard above the wind. “I think the weather's going to take a turn, and we've got to find him."

  Rosalyn paused at the carriage door and braved the wind to shout at the driver. “Willis! Do you remember where Jamy lived—in the old neighborhood?"

  Wrapped in a scarf from chin to eyes, Willis nodded. The wind continued to buffet the carriage once they were inside. Rosalyn felt sorry for Willis and the horse, and prayed Jamy was somewhere warm and safe. Maybe Christian hadn't looked hard enough at Callie's house. He could have hidden any number of places.

  "Christian, are you sure—"

  "Yes. I looked everywhere, and he's not there.” His mouth was tight; his jaw hard and square.

  And suddenly, Rosalyn understood what his anger was about. “You found his father, didn't you? You found his father and brought him back, and now you're blaming yourself because Jamy ran away.” His expression flickered, but he remained tight-lipped. Rosalyn pushed on, admiration and love welling inside of her. “Christian, it isn't your fault. Jamy will come around, once we find him."

  Her comforting words fell on deaf ears. Christian turned his face away, leaving her staring at his stubborn profile and pondering the complexities of this man.

  They rode in silence, Rosalyn determining a way to make Christian understand that he wasn't to blame. He couldn't possibly have foreseen how Jamy would react, could he?

  The shack where they'd first found Jamy and his family looked ready to collapse beneath the onslaught of the wind. Its thin walls swayed to and fro, and the shingles—what pitiful few were left—tore loose and went sailing away even as they watched.

  Rosalyn clung to the carriage door as she and Christian took a moment to appraise the shack. It didn't look safe, but they had no choice but to go inside and look for Jamy.

  "You stay here,” Christian commanded.

  Bristling at his tone, Rosalyn let go of the carriage door and braced herself against the wind. She lifted her chin. “I'm going. Isn't this why you brought me along, so I can talk to Jamy?"

  "It isn't safe!” he shouted.

  Rosalyn shouted right back. “Neither was Mr. Poole's house, but you didn't insist I remain behind!” Her reminder struck a nerve. Christian's eyes narrowed, but he didn't argue further.

  She followed him inside the creaking, groaning shack, not bothering to shut the door. Above her head, she could see the darkening sky revealed by the missing shingles. Ominous-looking storm clouds boiled and churned. Why couldn't it wait? she thought. If the wind increased, surely the building would collapse, trapping them beneath a rubble of rotting wood.

  Christian went on ahead, as anxious as she to find Jamy and get out. The tiny, main room was empty, stripped of any furnishings—not that there had been much to begin with, she recalled—and not a single loose board in sight. She strongly suspected the neighbors had scavenged the place for fuel. Rosalyn had never been cold or hungry, but it bothered her greatly to know that other people suffered.

  "I've found him!” Christian shouted.

  Rosalyn backed out of the house as he advanced, carrying a struggling Jamy in his arms. She turned and hurried to open the carriage door. Christian gave Willis directions to Jamy's new home and placed the boy inside, quickly following him. Rosalyn grabbed the door for support and crawled after them, grunting as she fought with the wind for the door. Finally, she pulled it shut.

  Jamy scooted to the far corner, glaring at them with hurt, angry eyes. “You shoulda left me there."

  Christian sighed. “There wouldn't be a ‘there’ much longer, in case you hadn't noticed, Jamy. The house is falling down!"

  "I don't care—I'd rather live nowhere than to live with him!"

  No reason to ask who he meant. They both knew. Rosalyn gathered her thoughts and prepared her speech while Christian continued to argue with the distressed boy.

  "At least your father came back."

  Jamy picked up on the emphasis he placed on ‘your', just as Rosalyn did. Of course, she knew the story and Jamy didn't. But at least curiosity replaced a good measure of Jamy's anger now.

  "What're you talkin’ about?” Suspicious, Jamy squinted at Christian “You saying your father left you too?” .

  Rosalyn held her breath, wishing she was brave enough to take Christian's hand. Would he let her?

  "Yes, he left. But he didn't come back.” Christian's confession dropped softly into the silence.

  "I wish mine hadn't! Why'd he come back for? He's just gonna leave us again, just when Ma and Holly and Julie get used ta him bein’ there ... he'll just leave again."

  He wanted them to believe it didn't matter to him, that he worried for his sisters and his mother, but Rosalyn suspected he cared. In fact, she was certain of it. Glancing at Christian, she realized he didn't know what to say to this. Keeping her elbow low and out of Jamy's sight, she nudged Christian in warning before she said, “Well, Christian will just tell him to leave, won't you Christian? Since you don't want him there."

  Christian took the hint. “Right. I'll tell him he can't stay, and that he can't have his old job back at the mill.” Rubbing his jaw, he glanced thoughtfully at his knees. “Although I don't know where I'm going to find another foreman who knows as much as your Pa..."

  Jamy sat up straight, his surprise obvious as he looked from one to the other.

  He wasn't the only one astonished at the news. Rosalyn hoped this wasn't part of the ‘game'. To tell Jamy that would be too cruel, and she knew Christian wasn't cruel with others—so that meant Jamy's father did have a job ... and Christian was involved in some way.

  "He's got a job? He's gonna go back to work at the mill?” And then Jamy asked the question Rosalyn was burning to ask, “How do you know all this, Mr. Garret?"

  Christian found his knees interesting again. “Because I bought the paper mill, and I'm the one that hired your father."

  Stunned, Rosalyn and Jamy could only stare at one another. And shamefully, Rosalyn's first thought was, he's staying! She quickly admonished herself for being selfish and stupid. Buying a factory didn't guarantee that Christian meant to settle in Worcester, and hadn't she already said it would be better if he left? Of course it would, but if he stayed...

  Besides, she shouldn't be thinking of herself at a time like this. It was Jamy she should be concerned about.

  "Does this mean you don't mind your father coming home?” she asked, striving for a matter-of-fact tone.

  Jamy hesitated but an instant. “I guess not, if he's gonna stay.” Suddenly, his expression turned fierce. “But he'd better not hurt Ma and the girls again."

  Christian gripped the boy's thin shoulder. “He won't, son. I promise you that."

  Rosalyn believed him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  On Valentine's Day, Rosalyn awoke before dawn. Gathering her robe and fumbling for her slippers she'd left by the bed, she hurried to the window. The fire had gone out in the fire place, and with each breath she took, frost plumed the air before her. Frost also crusted the windows, fogging her vision. She blew gently, then swiped the melting moisture with the sleeve of her robe until she could see through the clear circle she'd created
.

  She caught her breath at the scene. Miss Howland always left a lantern burning on the front porch, and in the weak yellow glow, snow drifted slowly to the ground to join the inch or so that had fallen in the night. It was quiet and still, the darkest before dawn, and there was magic in the air.

  Rosalyn felt it, and with that feeling came a keen sense of loss as well as appreciation. She grieved over the loss of her one true love, fearing she would never love like this again. Christian was the one, the only, and the most stubborn man she'd ever met. He guarded his heart like misers guarded their gold, and not even Rosalyn could come close to sharing his treasure.

  She shivered, watching the dawn struggle against the gray blanket of snow clouds and wondering if the snow would continue all day. It was beautiful, but cold, and today of all days she wished for warmer weather. In the past few weeks, she felt as if she lived in a carriage. It was a fact it took an hour before the warming pan housekeeper thoughtfully placed in her bed each night warmed her feet after a day of tramping in the cold.

  Today she would trod through snow in a frenzy of deliveries and rejections or acceptances as sweethearts gambled their all on this special day.

  And think of Christian.

  She knew she would, just as she had yesterday, and the day before. On the day before that, she had said her final goodbyes after taking Jamy home. Christian had smiled his lazy, puzzling smile and tipped his hat, completely ignoring the finality of her tone. But she'd meant it. No more—her heart could take no more. She couldn't see him without aching to the bone; it was sad enough that he filled her thoughts each minute of the day.

  Rosalyn thrust her shoulders back. Today, she would concentrate on her job as the town's Cupid and not think of Christian. She would not drift off in thought and discover that tears had fallen unaware.

  Yes, today she would face the world with a bright, true smile and make Miss Howland proud of her. Today she would soothe broken hearts and weep for joy at other's happiness. Today she would come to terms with her unrequited love and go forward.

  She was a survivor. Had she forgotten this? And she must not blame Christian for his inability to love. He couldn't help it that he didn't love her, or couldn't love her.