Blue Waltz (5 page)

Forcing a smile, Browning reached over and ruffled her hair. "Don't you worry your pretty little head over such things."

"Then tell me the story about the Boston place," Belle demanded. "Tell me about the cobbled streets and tall houses built all close together, with grand ballrooms and huge candle tears."

"Chandeliers, darlin'," Browning corrected with a laugh.

Madeline shook her head, her lips parting with a whimsical smile. "The tales you've filled this child's head with, husband."

"Not tales, love, the truth, as well you know."

With that Browning became animated, regaling his audience with details of the life they would lead once they moved to Boston.

It was always the same, the same stories, the same fairytale life. And Belle loved it, always had. She couldn't wait until it started, for though she knew the stories sometimes made her mother look sad, they also made her smile in a soft, dreamy way that Belle loved so very much.

Belle ate her meal, the smells of herbs and fresh bread filling the room, the fire crackling, keeping the small family warm and cozy, far removed from the bitter cold outside and the hated farmer who made her mother and father so very unhappy.

38 Linda Francis Lee

"Tell me about the house," Belle pleaded, when her father's words began to trail off.

He stared into the fire, and for one nearly panic-stricken moment Belle was afraid he wouldn't go on, would keep that horribly sad look on his face that she hated so.

"Well, let's see," he said, blinking at the flickering flames.

Relief washed over her. "The crenelated crown moldings!"

"Ah, yes, the crenelated crown moldings." He turned back to the table, a sigh escaping his lips. "With fluted door casings. Carved marble colonnades. And a huge fireplace that has a finely wrought portrait hanging over the mantel."

"Of who?" she asked, as she always did.

His lips curved up on one side with a hint of a smile. "Your mother, of course."

"No, sir," her mother said as always, her milk-white complexion filled with adoration and pride. "Of you, Browning Holly. Tall and proud. Dressed in fine clothes. A man to contend with."

And when her mother said the words, Belle knew her father was pleased.

Browning laughed and pushed his empty bowl away, then leaned back. Pulling a pipe from its pouch, he filled the bowl with tobacco, tapped it down, struck a match, then clamped the stem between his teeth.

Belle loved the smell of tobacco, the rich aroma wrapping around her, telling her everything was all right. She loved as well what she knew came next.

"We'll receive invitations from everyone of importance," he continued. "And your mother will wear dresses of lavender chiffon with sheer scarves of gold,

Blue Waltz 39

settin' off her delicate complexion, and silk laces so soft they could only be spun from the most exquisite of threads."

Madeline giggled like a debutante. Browning took her hand and squeezed lightly, briefly.

"She'll have mountains of bonnets with feathers and frippery no one could match, and furs by the finest furriers in the city." He looked back at the fire, pulling thoughtfully on the stem of his pipe. "Just as she had before she married me."

Madeline reached across the table.. "And I'll have them again. I believe in you, Browning Holly. Just as I have since the day we met."

Browning looked at his wife, and Belle saw all the love he felt for her mother. A twinge of panic flashed through Belle. She loved her mother dearly, but sometimes she felt so sad and alone when it seemed her father loved her mother so much more than he loved her. She pulled in a deep breath. Belle knew from experience that if she didn't prompt him again, she would be left alone at a table covered with a half-smoked pipe and empty dishes when her parents went off to their room.

"And what about me?" she demanded, forcing a laugh.

Her mother pulled her hand away, red rushing to her cheeks, but her father simply continued to gaze at his wife. Tears burned in Belle's eyes when she determined that she had failed. The stories were at an end.

But then her father's face shifted and he smiled.

"We will dance, little one, on St. Valentine's Day," he stated, turning his attention to his daughter.

Belle leaped up from her stool and began to dance. "Twirling, twirling, round and round," she chanted, relieved. "On my birthday."

40Linda Francis Lee

"Every person there will stop and stare in awe at your beauty."

Extending her arms, she twirled, her skirts billowing about her tiny legs.

"With hair like creamy waves of chocolate," he continued, "and eyes almost painfully blue, you'll dress in a gown of lavender silk, with miles of the finest ruffled petticoats and flowers in your hair."

She ran her hand over her hair and twirled once again, her movements exaggerated, playacting all that he described.

"Every man there will try to claim your first dance," he said, pushing up from the table, his lips spread in a grin. "But you will dance with me, my precious Blue!"

He swept her up into his arms and she squealed her delight. Round and round they went, sweeping elegantly across the floor.

They danced about the room for a few more minutes before her father set Belle down. "There it is, the fine story of Boston and even a dance on Valentine's Day. Just the first of many."

He turned her in the direction of the thin ladder that led to the loft where she slept. "Now, off to bed with you, young lady."

"Happy birthday," her mother added with a smile and a gentle kiss.

Up in the loft Belle slept secure on her straw-filled mattress. Burrowing deep, she pulled the covers up to her chin. A small window had been built into the side wall. Belle loved her window and kept the curtains tied back. When she lay in bed, on clear, cloudless nights she could see the moon and the stars. During the day, if she stood just right, she could see the very edge of the farm on which Papa worked.

Even though her father grumbled constantly about the old farmer, he said the man paid better than anyone around. But still her father hated him, and as a result so did Belle. But one day, one day soon, they would move to Boston, just as her father always promised, and get away from the awful man.

And until that time she had the nights. Summer, spring, winter or fall, it was always the same. Her father by the hearth, smoking his pipe. Her mother with a needle and thread, sewing or darning, or simply leaning back, ¦losing herself in Papa's tales. And afterwards, as Belle drifted off to sleep, she listened to the sound of her mother's gentle voice humming a waltz as her parents danced across the rough-hewn floor. In time to the music. Twirling, twirling. Round and round. Just as she would dance one day, in the grandest of ballrooms, held secure in her father's arms.

CHAPTER 4

Boston 1893

The room was nearly empty. The other patrons had already finished their meals and left. Only Stephen remained among the tables, one long, strong finger slowly running along the edge of the silver-plated bread dish. Around and around. Again and again. A subtle heat emanating against the tip of his finger.

His dark eyes looked at the plate without seeing it. He sat off-center in the chair, his elbow resting on the linen-covered table, his legs crossed in a way that on almost any other man would have seemed effeminate. Stephen St. James, in his perfectly pressed black coat and trousers, crisp white shirt and stark black tie, only looked at ease.

A snifter of brandy sat before him. A cigar lay to the side. It was his favorite part of the evening. Normally. A good meal finished. One brandy and one cigar to savor as he reflected upon his day, before he said good night, then, depending on the weather, took his carriage or walked the short distance to his home. There the house would be quiet, the servants, except his butler, Wendell, up in their rooms or gone for the night. Everything would be in order—everything as it should be.

But this night, as Bertrand, the maître d', hovered close by, clearly anxious to get home to family and friends of his own, though unwilling to hurry such an important

Blue Waltz43

man, Stephen thought not of his day or of the quiet solitude that awaited him, but of the woman who had interrupted his meal.

An angel. Perfect and lovely. With dark brown hair, almost black. Porcelain white skin, unpowdered. Lips full and red. Cheeks a dusty rose. And her eyes—an astonishing shade of blue, like the late afternoon sky when the sun is almost lost to the horizon and the heavens glow deep and rich. His head jerked slightly as he took a sharp, shallow breath.

When she had first entered the room, a clearly disconcerted Bertrand following in her wake, the tangle of thoughts that had crowded his head dropped away. He forgot about the dull ache in his arm and shoulder. He forgot about Adam and the yet-to-be apprehended gunman. All he could think about was the sheer mesmerizing force of her eyes when she gained, no, demanded his attention and asked to share his bread. Even now, more than an hour after she had fled through the door, that tangle seemed unimportant and distant. He thought only of the striking beauty who had sat herself down at the table next to him with a look and a manner that even Bertrand had apparently been loath to question. A slight smile tugged at his lips.

Who was she? he wondered. Where had she come from? When asked, Bertrand had known nothing more about her than he did. She had appeared without warning, and had left the same way, providing no name or any clue to who she was. Though now that she was gone, Stephen wasn't altogether certain he wanted to know. A woman, unescorted, in a public house, interrupting his meal and asking him to share his bread? No, he had no interest in knowing who she was. Or so he had been tell-

44Linda Francis Lee

ing himself, again and again, as his finger slowly circled on the silver dish.

"Is something wrong with the brandy, Monsieur St. James?"

Stephen's finger stilled. He glanced between the crystal snifter and the maître d', who leaned down, concern creasing his forehead. "No, Bertrand. The brandy is fine." He pushed the chair back and stood. "But I've kept you long enough."

"Ah, no, monsieur. I am in no hurry."

Stephen smile, a tired smile. "Of course you're in a hurry, and I hardly blame you. A wife and five children, isn't it?"

Bertrand straightened proudly. "Oui, monsieur. How kind of you to remember."

Stephen's smile faded. "I'm not kind, Bertrand. Not kind at all. Just ask my brother."

***************************************************************************************

Once outside Stephen instructed his driver to go on without him. "The rain has stopped and the walk will do me good."

"As you wish, sir," the man replied before pulling away in the black-enameled landau Stephen used in winter, the black lanterns on either side swaying in the night like beacons to the netherworld.

Buttoning his sealskin coat and pulling his top hat low on his head, Stephen stepped through the opening in the black wrought iron fencing and onto the path that meandered through the Public Gardens toward his home. Indeed, the rain had stopped, but the now bright night was still filled with a bitter chill. Massive billowing clouds, like mounds of newly sheared wool, scudded across the black sky, sometimes obscuring the moon and stars. A bone-numbing wind came up to wrap around him. And

Blue Waltz 45

just when he began to regret the impetuousness that had bade him walk the distance across the park, he saw her. If he had taken the landau, or even walked along the road, he would have missed her—lying in the mud like something discarded. Motionless and forgotten. Unwanted.

He knew it was her with a certainty, as if he had expected to find her there, had suspected she would never make it to her destination on her own. In the darkened public house she had seemed strong, though oddly weak, invincible but strangely vulnerable. Now all her strength was gone.

He dropped to one knee beside her.

"Madam." His deep voice resonated in the darkened winter night. No response, just the secret whisper of the wind through the long, delicate limbs of willow trees.

"Madam." With his good hand he took hold of her shoulder and shook. When she still didn't move, he cursed and glanced about for help. With one useless arm, he didn't know how he could move her on his own.

"Madam!"

Her eyes fluttered, but didn't open.

"Madam, please!" He shook her again, something akin to frustration growing within him—or perhaps it was panic. But that was absurd. He never panicked, and certainly not over a woman he didn't even know. "Madam!"

She stirred and groaned, a faint distant sound, before her eyes slowly opened. Through half slits she looked up at him. A moment passed, a long moment as clouds drifted by, and then she smiled, a slow, secret smile as if she didn't lie in a puddle of thick, grasping mud, her full lips, once so red, now blue with cold. "Hello, pirate-man," she whispered.

Stephen's brow furrowed, and he nearly forgot their predicament. Nearly. "Are you hurt?"

46Linda Francis Lee

"Hurt? Who can say?" She tried to move, the effort making her grimace. "We've all been hurt, my pirate-man."

He hesitated, studying her curiously, then unwilling to chase that particular hare down a path he had no interest in traveling, he simply asked, "If I help, do you think you can stand?"

"Of course I can stand." Her smile widened, but her eyes fluttered closed.

"Madam, please! You've got to help me. I can't do this by myself."

With effort, her eyes opened again. "Help you? How can I help you?"

"By trying to get up, then telling me your name so I can see you home."

The wind swirled around them, catching the brim of his hat, tugging it from his head. But he didn't notice, didn't care that the silk hat raced through the park, pushed on by the wind like a whirling dervish gone out of control.

"You've lost your hat," she murmured faintly.