by Jane Goodger
Genevieve shrugged, something Rose noted, and her friend pointed an accusing finger at her. “See? The shrug. You noted it. You cannot help yourself.”
“But I was not being critical. I was simply noticing that you shrugged.” Rose sighed. “You have no idea what it is like to be the daughter of my mother. The only time I ever got to be myself was when I escaped to the stables to be with my horses.”
“And Mr. Avery.”
Rose gave her friend a level look. “Yes, and Mr. Avery. He was my friend. And if I note that you shrug, it is only that you know better but simply choose to ignore society’s rules.”
To which Genevieve shrugged a half a dozen times, making Rose laugh. “You are impossible,” Rose said when she could speak. “And to answer your question, it’s complicated. At least it was far more complicated in England than it is here. You cannot understand the relationship between master and servant and how very strong the dividing line is. For me even to have considered Charlie my friend was deeply frowned upon.”
“He is no longer a servant, Rose.”
“No, he is not. And I am no longer a young girl.”
Genevieve smiled knowingly. “I knew it.”
A bit of pique entered Rose’s tone. “You know nothing, Genevieve.” Despite her words, Rose looked at the mantel clock, noting that it was now half past three. Charlie would arrive for tea at any moment.
Most women would have heard her tone and immediately either apologized, left politely, or changed the subject, but Genevieve was not like most women. “I think you have feelings for him. Are you ashamed of them?”
Was she? No. She was not ashamed of her feelings, she was surprised by them, overwhelmed by them. Frightened even. For she hardly knew Charles Avery, the man who was now a wealthy businessman, the man who entertained women in his home. Was Rose simply another one of those women? Was Charlie a rake now? That thought stopped her still. He certainly acted like one. Did he not seduce her on her doorstep? Had he not entertained two different women in the space of three days? What kind of man would have done such a thing other than a rake?
“Have I hit a nerve?” Genevieve asked worriedly.
Slowly, Rose shook her head. “I do believe Mr. Avery is a bit of a rake, and instead of encouraging a relationship between us, I believe you should be warning me away from him.” She thought back on the previous evening, about the women who had fawned over him and the easy way he’d had of charming them even as he dismissed them. Rose, who had so little experience with men, had fallen for his charms without even the slightest resistance. She let out a small laugh.
“What evidence do you have of such a thing?” Genevieve asked. “It’s not a very flattering thing to say.”
“No, it’s not,” Rose said, at first not offering an explanation. “Suffice it to say, Genevieve, that your home is separated from his by mine and as such, I am much more privy than you to the activities in Mr. Avery’s home.”
Genevieve’s eyes widened. “A woman?”
“Women,” Rose said, angry with herself for becoming—or very nearly—one of Charlie’s women.
“Oh, my,” Genevieve breathed. “Then we must not encourage him. I had no idea.”
“I’m not saying he’s a bad man,” Rose said, quickly coming to his defense for God knew what reason. “It’s simply something to be cautious about. If he is a rake.”
Brows furrowed, Genevieve asked, “Was he anything other than a gentleman last night?”
Cursing her flaming cheeks, Rose looked Genevieve straight in the eye, and lied. “Of course not.”
Genevieve stayed a few more minutes and Rose promised to stop by her home the next day. It was nearly four and time for tea, so Rose had only a few moments to consider her revelation about Charlie’s state of rakeness. Rakidity? She shook her head, thinking that she was giving the matter far more attention than she should.
Rose took up a book and was pretending to read when her housekeeper entered and asked if she would like tea. It was four fifteen. She was fairly certain Charlie knew what time tea was; he was from England, after all. It would seem odd if she waited, so she nodded, and for the first time wondered if Charlie wasn’t coming at all. She knew he worked long hours, but she had invited him and he had agreed.
She took a thoughtful bite of her buttery biscuit. For years, even before Daniel’s death, she’d sat in this very spot and had her tea and never felt lonely. Today, she did. Lonely and foolish. Charlie was not coming. Was he embarrassed by his behavior? Disgusted by hers? Horrified that she’d married Daniel? Rose felt her throat burn slightly and shook her head to rid herself of her foolish thoughts. It didn’t matter whether Charlie came for tea at all; why was she making such a fuss about it all? Last night had been a mistake, obviously. Last night they’d simply been two adults who’d gotten a bit carried away by the night, the intimacy of the mist, the success of the evening.
Taking a fortifying sip of tea, Rose resolved not to allow herself to become any more infatuated with Charlie. And it was infatuation, she decided. Goodness, what a ninny she was. Not a few moments before she’d actually thought she was falling in love with him.
Long after he’d left Rose, Charlie lay awake thinking of the real possibility that she was a virgin, that her husband had never touched her. It made no sense, unless the man had been a homosexual or some sort of religious fanatic. Though he’d known Daniel only briefly, neither scenario seemed possible. Clearly, something had prevented an otherwise healthy man from consummating his marriage.
It was likely, Charlie realized, that Rose had been aware there would be no physical aspect to her marriage. It made sense, given what she’d just been through, how young she had been, how desperate to escape. He felt a surge of protectiveness, of possessiveness. It wouldn’t have mattered to him had Rose had a normal marriage; he still would have loved her, wanted her. But in some base and carnal way, the fact that Rose was a virgin was quite wonderful. When they made love—and they would someday, he prayed—he would be her first and, God willing, her last.
Charlie welcomed the work he had the next day, losing himself in his locomotive engine design and the factory’s operations. For long stretches, he did not think about Rose, about how sensitive her nipples were, about how wet she’d been, about the sounds she made when she reached climax. He’d wanted her before, but now it was a constant ache.
Charlie worked long days, always had. With nothing else in his life but work, and the occasional pretty lady, he’d never minded the long days. For the first time since he’d opened his factory, he was going to leave early and didn’t feel even the slightest twinge of guilt. At half past three, Charlie began cleaning his office, knowing that the next day would be a long one. With his foreman out with a broken arm, he had no choice but to do his own job as well as his foreman’s. The workers, while a good bunch, would slack off a bit without any supervision, and he needed to make an important order by the end of the week. Thanks to his relationship with J. P. Morgan, he’d been able to get an important contract with George Pullman to outfit his rail cars with C. A. Kitchen Tools. It was a huge order and Charlie wanted to be certain that not only was it fulfilled on time, but the pieces were the best quality possible.
Odd how difficult it was to concentrate on his business of late. Especially this day, when he was still reeling from the prior night’s events. He never would forget the beautiful sound of Rose as she found her release for the first time with him. First time. That implied there would be more times and he hoped to God that would be the case. He wasn’t certain he’d be able to go the rest of his life without hearing that sound again.
Charlie had meant to send flowers, then thought better of it. Sending her a gift seemed to almost sully what had happened between them. A note, perhaps. No. The last time he’d sent her a note it had been about other women, and that could only dredge up thoughts he’d rather not have her thinking.
He was staring blindly at a drawing of his locomotive engine when one of his workers interrupted
him, and he realized at that moment the factory was strangely quiet.
“Sir, there’s been an accident. John Sullivan. It’s bad, sir.”
He dropped his pencil and immediately followed the man. “What’s happened, Peter?”
“His arm. Cut nearly clean off just below his elbow. It’s awful, sir.”
They ran to where a crowd of workers had gathered over John Sullivan, one of his finest workers and one who had been with him almost from the start. He was on the ground, writhing in pain, blood splattered everywhere, his arm nearly severed and twisted oddly.
“Ah, Christ, John,” Charlie said, running to his side. Another worker was squeezing his arm above the gruesome injury, but that was doing little to stem the flow of blood. John was pale, and looked like he was about to faint. “Someone give me your braces,” Charlie shouted, and within seconds, the straps were in his hand and he began tying them around John’s upper arm as tightly as he could. Almost immediately, the flow of blood lessened, but the amount he’d already lost was staggering.
One of his workers, a young man he’d hired not two weeks ago, was openly weeping. Charlie looked up at him, and bit out, “Get him out of here.” John didn’t need that kind of thing when he was no doubt already terrified.
“All right, let’s get him to the hospital. I need a cart. Now.” Charlie turned to John, who was still conscious, as Peter ran to find a cart, which would be easier on the man than trying to hoist him into a carriage.
“It’s bad,” John said weakly, his eyes filled with terror as he looked down at his arm.
“Don’t look, John,” Charlie said. “We’re taking you to the hospital and they’ll take care of you there. Everyone else, the day’s work is over. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, bright and early.”
When they lifted John onto the cart, he screamed in pain. Charlie took one side, Peter the other, and the two pushed the cart toward West Fifteenth Street and New York Hospital. Every bump they went over produced more screams, but Charlie knew they had to reach the hospital quickly, or John could die. It was only three blocks, but by the time the two men entered the building, they were both drenched with sweat.
“We’ve an injured man here,” Charlie shouted, as they pushed the cart into the hospital’s lobby. Almost immediately, two orderlies appeared. Heaving to catch their breaths, Charlie and Peter watched as the men picked up a now unconscious John and placed him on a stretcher to bring him deeper into the hospital.
“Holy God,” Charlie said, wiping his forehead on his sleeve, and only then noticing he was covered in blood. “What happened, Peter? Do you know?”
“I can’t believe he did it. John is always so careful. He was reaching in to get a piece that had fallen and he knows to stop the machine. But he didn’t. He took the chance and that’s how it happened. It’s so loud on the floor, we didn’t even hear him scream right away. Then I saw the blood and ran to get you.”
Charlie took a deep breath. “You performed well, Peter. I need one more thing from you.” Charlie looked Peter over and noted the man had no blood on him. “I need for you to take my carriage and go to his wife. They live at four twenty-one Houston Street on the second floor. She needs to be here and I can’t go,” he said, looking down at his blood-smeared clothing. “I’ll stay here and if there’s bad news to tell, I’ll be the one to tell it. Tell Mrs. Sullivan only that her husband’s arm was injured. No details, got that, Peter?”
“Yes, sir.”
Charlie shook the man’s hand and smiled grimly. “Good man. I’ll see you soon.”
After Peter left, Charlie inquired where he could clean himself up, and a nurse directed him to a water closet with hot and cold running water. Charlie looked in the mirror over the basin and grimaced, seeing his face splattered with blood. He washed the best he could, but there was nothing he could do about his stained jacket and shirt.
Once he was more presentable, Charlie returned to the nurses’ station and inquired after John.
“He’s in surgery, sir,” the nurse said. “We have an area where you can sit if you plan to stay. Down the hall and to the right.”
“His wife is coming soon. Will you direct her there?”
“Of course.”
Though Charlie had never met Mrs. Sullivan, he knew her the moment she entered the room, and he immediately stood. Peter trailed behind her, looking grim. Mrs. Sullivan was a tiny woman with reddish-brown hair that was escaping its bun. Her cheeks were flushed, her brown eyes determined, almost as if she could will her husband better.
“What happened, Mr. Avery? Peter here would tell me nothing,” she said, her tone softened by her Irish burr. “How is my John?”
“Why don’t we sit?” Charles said, and immediately saw that was a mistake, for she thought the worst. “He’s in surgery, Mrs. Sullivan. That’s all I know. He injured his arm grievously and chances are they won’t be able to save it. He lost a lot of blood, but they’re taking care of him now.”
She nodded and swallowed, and Charlie could tell she was trying hard not to cry. With quick movements, she walked to a line of wooden chairs and sat down, her back straight, her face set. “And what’s to happen to us now?” she asked, looking up at Charlie.
“You’ll be taken care of,” Charlie said, and the wiry little woman relaxed slightly. “I take care of my own, Mrs. Sullivan, and your husband is one of my best workers. You’ll not starve.”
“It’s our children. We’ve five, you see,” she said, and her face momentarily crumpled before she got control of herself.
“As I said, you will be taken care of. And when he’s able, John will have a job, hand or no. I’ll find something for him to do. Please do not worry on that account,” Charlie said. He’d had workers get injured in the past—there was no escaping it entirely, though he tried to operate a safe factory—and he’d always paid their wages until they could return. But no one had ever been injured nearly as badly as John. A broken leg from a fall, a knock on the head that had been downright scary, but no permanent disability.
Charlie and Peter sat opposite Mrs. Sullivan, who clutched her reticule on her lap, probably filled with whatever money they had in their flat. “I’ll pay for the hospital stay, Mrs. Sullivan,” he said, and was satisfied when the grip on her reticule lessened.
Charlie sent Peter home, and he waited with Mrs. Sullivan for another hour before a priest walked through the door and Mrs. Sullivan, stoic until that moment, broke down. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Sullivan, but the blood loss was just too much for him. He received his sacrament and is in God’s hands now, at peace.”
Never before had Charlie witnessed a grief so all consuming. She fell to her knees, sobbing, clinging to the Father’s hand, shaking her head, and saying, “No, it canna be true. Not my John. Not my John.”
Charlie turned away, working his throat, trying to remain strong in the face of such anguish. The priest let her cry, let her clutch his hand for several long minutes, before he got down on his knees next to her, not to pray, but to hold her. The priest looked up at Charlie. “You are a relative?”
“No, Father, I’m her husband’s employer. I brought him here.”
The priest nodded. Finally, Mrs. Sullivan calmed, her tears ending so abruptly, it was if she turned them off. She stood, still clutching her reticule, and looked at Charlie. “Did he have any words for me?” she asked, her voice shaking.
“He told me to tell you that he loved you. You and the children,” Charlie said, figuring a small lie wouldn’t be too large a sin, even if it was said in front of a priest.
She nodded and smiled the tiniest bit, and Charlie wasn’t sure if it was a smile of thanks or one acknowledging his lie. After a time, the priest left, leaving Charlie alone with Mrs. Sullivan, a shell of the woman she’d been when she’d walked into the hospital.
“I can bring you home, Mrs. Sullivan. We should go.”
“Do you think they’ll let me see him?”
Charlie fetched a nurse, who brought Mrs. Sul
livan to her husband, while Charlie waited for her to return. When she did, they walked solemnly out the door.
“Strange that he won’t be home when I get there,” she said, sounding almost puzzled, as if she were still wrapping her mind around the fact that her husband was gone forever.
“Mrs. Sullivan, how old is your oldest boy?”
She stopped and looked up at him, a small hope sparking in her eyes. “He’s twelve, sir.”
“When he turns sixteen, send him to me and he’ll have a job.”
“Oh, but he’s a big boy, nearly as tall as John. He could work now, he could and—”
“I don’t employ children, Mrs. Sullivan. It is far too dangerous work for a child. Your husband’s wages will be paid for as long as you need me to or until your son comes to work for me.”
She stared at him, narrowing her eyes. “I’ll not accept charity, sir, no matter how well intended.”
“You can and you will. Your husband died working for me, likely rushing because he knew how important it was that we make our quota. He should have shut off the machine but he didn’t and he died for it. You will allow me to pay his wage.”
He recognized the stubborn set of her jaw, and recognized also the moment she agreed to accept her husband’s salary. No doubt she was thinking about the five mouths she would need to feed.
“Thank you, Mr. Avery. You are a good man.”
He didn’t feel much like a good man at the moment. He felt partly to blame for the accident. Hadn’t he given everyone a rousing speech at the beginning of the day about the importance of meeting this contract, about how vital it was to the future success of C. A. Kitchen Tools? He wanted to do more, but he also knew Mrs. Sullivan would not accept more.
When Charlie finally returned home, it was nearly midnight and he was more exhausted than he could ever remember being. As he alit from the carriage, his eyes automatically went to Rose’s darkened house.
“Shite,” he said aloud, remembering he’d not made tea that day and hadn’t thought to send word. He’d make it up to her some other time. Surely she would understand.