Banished Love (2 page)

“Of course, Miss Sullivan,” Polly said as she wiped her hands clean. She removed her flour-covered apron, revealing a simple cotton shirtwaist in faded navy. “Where should I bring him?”

“The family sitting room.” After Polly departed from the basement entrance, I walked up the stairs continuing to the second floor. The steps from the first floor to the second, covered in plush carpets, dulled my footsteps. I entered the large sitting room at the head of the stairs.

I glanced immediately at the injured Mr. McLeod, expecting to see him in a worsened state, but he appeared to be resting peacefully on a settee. He was lying on his right side, his head wrapped turban-style with a towel covering any blood. His legs dangling off the end of the sofa emphasized his height.

Faint light shone through the north-facing window. The Russell family parlor, though not formal, was rather stuffy. Aunt Matilda preferred fancy, decorative, often impractical furniture. Thus the settee Mr. McLeod laid on was crafted in a very ornate Rococo style with a sleigh back, faded gold fabric, intricately carved wood with a floral motif tracing the top of the sofa and delicate legs. It appeared almost too fragile to hold his weight. There were various mismatched chairs, ottomans, side tables and lamps scattered throughout the room, all to create conversation areas. The faded pink silk wallpaper was haphazardly covered with paintings of scenes from Boston and New England. The small piano sat in a far corner—to my knowledge seldom used, with my cousin Lucas being the only accomplished player. I shivered appreciatively at the warmth of the room and moved toward a heating vent, standing directly over it to warm myself.

After a few minutes of silence Polly bustled in with the doctor. For a small man, Dr. Mitchelson commanded immediate respect. He spoke in a calm, confident manner that assured all present that he could resolve whatever calamity had occurred. His eyes shone with the intelligence and weariness of years of medical practice. As the doctor began to speak with Mr. McLeod, Polly left to find towels and bowls of water. Thankfully, when Polly returned, she acted as the doctor’s assistant, and I was able to remain an interested observer.

“Well, young man, you seem to have trouble with ladders,” Dr. Mitchelson said as he began to examine Mr. McLeod. He moved a chair to seat himself next to the patient to study him more closely. Gently he began to unwrap the towel around his head.

“No, sir, I don’t have trouble with ladders. Just with people who can’t follow instructions or read signs,” muttered Mr. McLeod, wincing with the removal of the towel. I remembered Uncle Martin calling him Gabriel, and I began to call him Gabriel in my mind. I stiffened defensively, knowing he had referred to me. I glanced at Uncle Martin, smiling with chagrin.

“Let’s take a look at you,” murmured Dr. Mitchelson.

He looked at Gabriel’s eyes, the back of his head, and closely watched Gabriel’s reactions and responses. It appeared at one point that Gabriel nearly fainted, and I found myself holding my breath to hear what Dr. Mitchelson had discerned.

“Tell me what happened,” Dr. Mitchelson encouraged.

“I was working at the top of the ladder…” Gabriel began in a low, melodious baritone.

I listened, with my cheeks reddening.

“It was jostled. I fell off it and hurt my head.”

I let out a sigh of relief that he did not share the details of my entrance. I met Polly’s amused light blue eyes and blushed even more.

“The pain in my head…” Gabriel continued. “It hurts worse than it’s ever hurt. I couldn’t open my eyes ’cause of it.” He softly hissed as the head wound was cleansed with alcohol.

I focused on Gabriel to find his piercing blue eyes watching me. I felt pinned by his gaze, unable to break the connection.

Uncle Martin, standing at the foot of the settee, attempted to control his amusement. Gabriel looked away from me and glanced in Martin’s direction, glaring at him. Uncle Martin was of medium height but had an impressive build with broad, muscular shoulders; thick arms; and strong hands. He was capable of lifting tremendously heavy objects and parcels. Although not a particularly handsome man—with a receding hairline, a slightly crooked nose and a gap between his front teeth—his thoughtfulness and compassion had led to tight bonds between our branches of the family.

“Oh, I wish I could have seen this one!” chortled Uncle Martin. “Dear Clarissa is famous for her mishaps, and I think this is the worst one yet.”

I frowned in consternation to see him laughing while the doctor attended to Gabriel’s wounds.

“I am just sorry it was at your expense, Gabriel,” he said with a final chuckle, taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm his mirth. “I should have realized instantly that she would hurt
you
, not the other way around.”

Gabriel glanced at him with slightly closed eyes, brows furrowed, as though trying to figure out a puzzle, but then Dr. Mitchelson began to sew up the head wound, and Gabriel jerked in pain, quickly closing his eyes on a groan. With his eyelids shut, I was able to study him again.

“I saw her torn skirt, her hair falling out of its pins, and for an instant thought that someone had again harmed my favorite niece,” Uncle Martin said. “Then I saw you on the floor and realized my initial reaction was wrong.”

My eyes widened at his comments, unable to comprehend why Uncle Martin spoke so frankly about me in front of Dr. Mitchelson and this near stranger, Gabriel McLeod. I wanted to slink quietly out of the room but remained rooted to the spot. Had he forgotten I was present? Why would he refer to Cameron in this oblique way? No one ever referred to Cameron. He was a taboo topic.

A sudden pounding on the storefront door jerked me from my silent reverie, nearly causing me to fall over. Uncle Martin turned to leave, as Polly continued to help Dr. Mitchelson.

“Uncle, I’ll answer the door,” I said a bit too eagerly.

“No, Clarissa, you stay here. I’ll answer it,” he commanded. He strode purposefully from the room.

I remained to one side, watching Dr. Mitchelson and Polly finish their work. Polly began to remove the soiled towels and dirty water. Dr. Mitchelson excused himself to wash up before leaving. I remained, feeling awkward, unsure what to do.

“Still there, miss?” Gabriel asked in a low, weak voice with closed eyes.

“Yes,” I replied, moving toward him. I sat in the chair vacated by Dr. Mitchelson, taking in Gabriel’s pained expression. “I wonder if there is anything the doctor can give you for your headache,” I murmured, worried about his well-being.

“I certainly hope so,” Gabriel whispered.

“I am terribly sorry.”

“Yes, so you’ve said, miss,” he said, opening his eyes to meet mine. “Do you always wreak such havoc?” he asked. “Or am I just extremely unlucky?”

“You are unfortunate,” I replied. “Most of my mishaps involve no one else, so you have the honor of being my first, ah…casualty. For lack of a better word,” I whispered ruefully, flushing softly.

“Hmm, I
feel
like a casualty,” he said, the hint of a smile playing around his lips.

“Do you have anyone to care for you?” I asked. “I fear you won’t be able to tend yourself for a few days.”

“I have family, miss,” he said, a flash of amusement shining momentarily in his eyes. “I thank you for your concern.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

“That’s true,” he replied. There was another moment of silence. “Oh, talk to me about something interesting,” he said, closing his eyes again in pain.

“Something interesting,” I said, faltering. “I read in the paper that President McKinley has authorized the first withdrawal of troops from the Philippines.”

“Did you?” he asked, opening his eyes and meeting mine with a sharp glance. I nodded, attempting to think of other interesting news. Gabriel’s eyes fluttered and closed as though too heavy for him to keep them open, and asked, “Did he say when all the troops would come home?”

“No, I didn’t read that,” I said. “Yet I believe it is progress if some of our troops return.”

He grunted. “Is your uncle always overprotective of you?” He cracked open one eye, watching me.

I tried to calm my blush and shifted uncomfortably in my chair. “Yes, he’s been protective of me for quite some time. More so the past few years,” I admitted in a near whisper.

Gabriel continued to study me intently through eyes barely open, as though trying to understand what I did not say. He appeared on the verge of saying something else when footsteps sounded in the hallway. I jumped at Patrick’s booming voice and noticed Gabriel’s grimace, as my eldest brother strolled into the parlor, with Uncle Martin following him.

“What have you done this time, Rissa?” he asked with a short laugh. He raked a hand through his windblown chestnut-brown hair peppered with gray, further disheveling it.

I stood hastily, battling a furious blush. “Patrick, this is Mr. McLeod.” I waved toward Gabriel lying on the couch. “He’s the one I hurt in the fall in the storefront. Thankfully the doctor has patched him up, and all is well.” I heard a snort of disbelief from Gabriel and wished he would remain silent.

Uncle Martin began to regale Patrick with “poor Gabriel’s” fall from grace and the subsequent visit from the doctor. I flinched as they shared a hearty laugh at my expense. Anger kindled inside me, because no one had bothered to ask me what had happened, nor worried about how I felt.

I observed Gabriel studying Patrick and Uncle Martin. I flinched again as they continued to enjoy my inherent clumsiness. However, I noted that Gabriel did not join in their joviality but observed them in apparent fascination. Once again he appeared to be attempting to solve a riddle. I continued to watch him through partially lowered eyes. Our eyes met briefly, and I felt a moment of kinship, his eyes showing compassion and concern. I glanced away quickly.

“What did the doctor recommend for Mr. McLeod?” I asked.

“The doctor, yes,” Uncle Martin said. He looked chagrined as he glanced at me. “I should find a way to get you home, Gabriel,” he said, looking at Gabriel with concern.

Gabriel nodded, then grimaced. “If you could send word to my brother, he would come to help me,” he murmured.

“Of course,” Uncle Martin replied. “Patrick, I am sure you and Clarissa need to return home. I will see you out as I send a message to Gabriel’s brother.” He stood, motioning for us to leave the parlor. Uncle Martin led Patrick out of the room, and I turned to follow them.

“Won’t you say good-bye to me, miss?” Gabriel called out as I had almost left the room. I turned, startled to hear the deep baritone again. I met his eyes, mesmerizing blue eyes, staring intently into mine. I knew I openly stared, but his eyes were beautiful. Hypnotizing.

“Oh, yes. Good-bye, sir,” I stated quickly, breaking eye contact. I smiled vaguely at a point over his shoulder before turning to leave. However, before I exited the door, I looked back to find him still staring after me through a haze of pain. “I wish you a quick recovery, sir,” I whispered. I turned and hurriedly followed my brother and Uncle Martin.

CHAPTER 2

“COME ALONG, CLARISSA,” Patrick urged as I trudged beside him on the short walk home. “Mrs. Smythe is upset enough without your tardy arrival.” After a short pause, he said with a mischievous chuckle, “I can only imagine what she will say when she hears about your latest misadventure.”

Rather than worry about the teasing I would receive from Patrick and my other brother, Colin, when I arrived home, I tried to focus on the beautiful evening after the deluge. I inhaled the fresh after-rain scent of the air, the storm having washed away the worst of the city smells.

“I love our street,” I said to Patrick as we turned onto the serenity of Union Square. The bow-fronted row houses lined a centralized oval park. The park, surrounded by black wrought-iron fencing, had a fountain at either end, and rose bushes bloomed there during the summer. It lay dormant now, waiting for spring to officially come and then burst forth.

Upon our arrival home, Patrick patted my arm and said, “Good luck with her.” He acted as though I had to tame a dragon. I watched with envy as he slipped into the house unnoticed. Mrs. Smythe had married our father a few months ago, and we three siblings knew we should address her as Mrs. Sullivan or Stepmama. Our continued usage of her first married name was our subtle way of expressing our discontent with her addition to our family.

As I entered the warm front hall and began to thaw out, I glanced around appreciatively, having always considered it a welcoming space. I stood on the slightly worn red carpets, admiring the narrow mahogany table which had been one of my mama’s favorite pieces. I glared at the new gold-tinted card receiver resting on it—a horn of cornucopia turned on its head, with a flat area on top overly embellished by an abundance of flowers. A small dog sat in one corner at the ready, as though to guard the calling cards.

I held my stomach to try to quell its rumbling at the delicious smells wafting from the nearby dining room. Roasting meats, rosemary and thyme, and the hint of fresh bread scented the air. After Mama’s death and our cook’s unfortunate defection to the house of Mrs. Parker, Mrs. Smythe had aided in training our new cook. She had appeared eager to help a grieving friend’s family by sharing her extensive cooking knowledge, although Colin and I soon realized her true objective was our
da
. I never would have thought she had neither the patience nor the perseverance to wait seven years for a marriage proposal from Da, yet she had.

“Where could that girl be? I have tried and tried with her to no avail,” I heard Mrs. Smythe wail, the rapid click of her heels on the dining room floor showing her agitation.

I cringed, knowing she referred to me. I decided to slip up the stairs to my bedroom on the third floor. Unfortunately she sailed into the front hall, her skirts billowing behind her, wheat-blond hair perfectly done, looking like a life-sized doll. Her eyes flashed with anger, and she studied me as though I were an insect. I glanced down at my ripped dress, soaked clothes, disheveled hair and grimaced. I attempted to pat down my skirts to improve my appearance but quickly realized the futility of my actions.