[Canadian West 05] - Beyond the Gathering Storm (21 page)

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Authors: Janette Oke

BOOK: [Canadian West 05] - Beyond the Gathering Storm
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“We’ve got to hurry, or I’ll never make it back in time,” she groaned.
“This is absolutely ridiculous.” He stood to his feet, grabbing a nearby cushion as he did. He flung the pillow with all his might, straight at the fire. Christine’s breath caught in her throat. The flames quickly caught one corner. He turned his back on it, and Christine rushed forward. It was too late to save the pillow. She grabbed the poker and struggled instead to get the burning mass into the fireplace, where it could cause no harm to anything else. Acrid smoke began to fill the room.
By the time she turned back, he had snatched his coat from the hall closet and was stomping from the room. Christine took one more look at the fire to assure herself it was safe to leave, then followed him.
“That was dangerous,” she said after they had ridden for many minutes in a silent car.
“This is ridiculous.” His face was still contorted with anger. He made no excuse for his behavior. “How are we ever to plan a wedding when you have to be back to your room at such a ridiculous hour? The day is just getting started. Even Cinderella was given until midnight.”
“Cinderella was a fairy tale,” Christine reminded him.
“Well—this is no fairy tale, I grant you that. Though we do have us a wicked witch.”
“Are you referring to Mrs. Green—or me?” asked Christine, turning toward him.
He pulled the car over to the curb and reached for her. “Hey,” he said, reaching both hands to her hair. His anger had dissolved as quickly as it had begun.
His fingers loosened the pins, letting it spill about her shoulders. “You’re no witch. You know how I feel about you. It gets harder and harder to let you go. Don’t you know that?” He pulled her toward him, one hand on each side of her head and kissed the tip of her nose. “I hate it when your Mrs. Green takes you away from me.”
His words—his manner—were so tender, so sweet, that they tore at Christine’s heart.
“I really do need to go,” she whispered. “It won’t be long until we ... we won’t need to be apart. Not ever.”
She reached for the handle of the door, but he stopped her.
“Not yet. I can’t let you go yet.”
“But she will lock the—”
Her words were hushed by his kiss.
At last she pulled away, and he reluctantly let her go. Silently he walked her to the door. But she knew even before she tried the knob. She was too late. It was locked.
Without a word he turned her around and headed her back toward the car. “Good thing we’ve got all those extra bedrooms,” he said, sounding neither surprised nor repentant. Had he delayed her on purpose? But she put the thought from her mind.
CHAPTER
Sixteen
Christine had never felt as embarrassed, as humiliated, as she did the next morning when she returned to the boardinghouse to dress for another day of work.
She knew many eyes followed her as she passed the dining area where her fellow boarders were having their breakfast. She tried to ignore them, but her cheeks flamed in spite of her effort to appear composed.
Back in the privacy of her own room, she changed her dress quickly. Mr. Kingsley, who always arrived at the office long before anyone else, was waiting in the car outside, reading the morning paper and drinking a cup of coffee he had picked up at a corner shop. Boyd, Christine assumed, was still sleeping.
Christine didn’t feel prepared to face a new day. Boyd had insisted on talking late into the evening. Christine had not entered the unfamiliar bedroom until some time after midnight. She had felt jumpy and confused—and a bit annoyed. She could not close the door on the impression that Boyd had deliberately held her back so this would happen.
She of course had not had a nightgown or toothbrush. Not even a brush for her hair. She felt so ... so stranded, so coerced into something not of her choice. So manipulated into difficult circumstances. And he had expected her to be sweet, compliant, eager to discuss wedding plans. The rest of the evening had been very difficult.
Now he was sleeping in while she scrambled to get herself in some kind of order for a day at the typewriter. And she’d had no breakfast. Not even a cup of coffee as her boss now enjoyed. Her stomach grumbled as she pictured those around the table, eating heartily of Mrs. Green’s morning porridge and toast with marmalade.
She would never be late again, she determined. Never.
Her hair did not go right, and after struggling with it she gave up and tied it back with a ribbon.
She had just stepped through her door and pulled it firmly shut behind her when she found herself face-to-face with Mrs. Green.
“Miss Delaney.”
Christine nodded.
The elderly woman looked more sad than stern. “I have reason to think you didn’t use your room last night.”
Christine flushed but nodded.
“I ... I was ... detained,” she stammered. “By the time I ... the door was already locked. I ... I stayed at a friend’s house. They have extra—”
“Your father entrusted you into my care.”
Christine nodded. “It won’t happen again. I’m very sorry.”
Mrs. Green’s face had not relaxed. Somehow she looked older—drawn.
“I hope not. For if it does, I will be forced to ask you to find accommodation elsewhere, and I will notify your father accordingly. I will not take responsibility for that which I cannot control.”
“I understand,” said Christine in little more than a whisper., “I’m sorry to have troubled you.” She felt sick inside.
The woman turned and headed back toward the kitchen, and Christine, with flushed cheeks but determined steps, made her way back past the dining room. Christine did not so much as glance in their direction or give the group her usual good-morning greeting.
Mr. Kingsley had finished his paper and his coffee and sat drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Christine slipped in beside him. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled another apology, wrapping her unbuttoned coat more closely about her body.
Mr. Kingsley did not speak for a moment. When he did, his meaning was totally obscure to Christine. “In the future I think we’ll need to make some other arrangements,” he said. “No need for you to be going into the office at this time of the day.” He put the car in motion.
Christine had no idea what the man was referring to. “I’ll just take the streetcar—as I always have,” she replied.
“That won’t work. You’d have to leave even earlier than this to get to work on time. Requires about three transfers. You’d see the entire city before you got to the office.”
She still was not following him. “I don’t do a transfer at all,” she explained. “It goes straight along the street from the boardinghouse to the office. That was one reason my father chose—”
“I’m talking about
now,”
he said, looking across at her. “Not what was—but how it’ll be with you at our house.”
Christine blinked. He assumed she had finally accepted his offer—was planning to stay from now on. Quickly she corrected his impression. “Oh—I haven’t moved in. I was just too late for the door last night. But I’ve no intention—”
He looked surprised. “Boyd said—”
“No,” said Christine insistently, shaking her head. “Boyd must have misunderstood.”
“He plans to go over after work today to gather all your things. He asked me if you could get off work early so you could pack up.”
“We never even discussed it,” said Christine, and suddenly she felt hurt and angry. Why would Boyd make such plans knowing how she felt?
“He plans to phone that—whatever her name is—your landlady today to tell her—”
“He can’t,” cut in Christine, feeling sudden panic.
Mr. Kingsley was scratching his head under the brim of his hat, making it wriggle in a cartoonish fashion. Christine wished he would put both hands back on the wheel. The slippery streets made her nervous.
“I just spoke with Mrs. Green,” she told him firmly. “I have no intention of moving out.”
He turned his head again and looked at her, making her more nervous. “Well—I’ve no idea how things got so balled up. Seems to me it would make a good deal more sense to do it Boyd’s way. You’ll be married in a few months. What difference—?”
“There’s lots of difference,” Christine argued, her cheeks feeling hot with frustration and anger. “We aren’t married
now.
My folks would be very disappointed if I left the place my father had found for me.”
“Seems a little old-fashioned.”
“Perhaps proper conduct always is,” Christine dared to say.
They pulled into the parking lot, and Christine was glad the ride was over. Now she had to get in touch with Mrs. Green before Boyd did. She could have called Boyd before he made the call, but he was not up. Mr. Kingsley had joked about how soundly the boy slept. He would never hear the phone. But when he did get up, whatever time of the day that might be, he likely would be going through with his plan.
With shaking hand Christine rang the operator and gave her the number. Mrs. Green was soon on the other en’d of the line.
“This is Christine Delaney. I ... I understand ...” How in the world could she phrase this? It sounded ugly even to her own ears. “There’s been a ... a misunderstanding. My ... my fiancé is ... is thinking that I ... that I am planning to leave your boardinghouse to live elsewhere. I’ve no intention of moving. None whatever. So if he should call, would you please just tell him that I will speak to him about the matter?”
Christine found it hard to settle down to her work. Her whirling thoughts on top of an empty stomach made it difficult to concentrate. Miss Stout was the first to push open the heavy door, and she looked surprised to see Christine already at her desk.
Christine had finished all her work the day before, and as no one was in to assign her new tasks—except for Mr. Kingsley, who had not called for her nor appeared at his door since it had shut behind him—she had nothing in particular with which to busy herself. She simply shuffled papers, pretending to read.
Now she greeted Miss Stout with a forced smile.
Mr. Peterson, next to arrive, came in, stamped his feet loudly, shook the snow from his hat onto the carpet-bringing a frown from Miss Stout—and announced in his raspy voice, “Snowing again.”
The next two men came in together, already in deep conversation about a business account, and did not even bother to give Miss Stout a nod of acknowledgment. Her lips pursed as she looked at their retreating backs.
Christine eventually felt herself relax. Soon they could get on with their day. The other office girls would be arriving, the rhythm of their keyboards filling the uncomfortable silence of the room. Things would feel so much better when they all fell back into the usual routine.
Boyd was waiting for her when she left the office. He did not look to be in good humor, and Christine felt her stomach tighten.
He said nothing, just opened the door on the passenger side, then with a stoneface climbed in and started the engine.
They had driven for several blocks in total silence when Christine said, “We need to talk.”
He did not look at her but answered stiffly with, “You’re right. We need to talk.”
He was not heading to her boardinghouse. Nor was he taking the street that led to his home. Christine had no idea where he was going. She was hesitant to ask.
He pulled into an empty area on the brow of a hill overlooking the river and switched off the engine.
“Now,” he said, straightening up, “care to tell me why you chose to make me look stupid?”
Christine’s mind scrambled to try to sort out his meaning.
“I don’t understand—”
“No, I don’t think you do.” He sounded so angry. She did not know what she had done.
“I called up to make the arrangements—just to save you the fuss—and got told in no uncertain terms that I didn’t know what I was talking about. That you weren’t planning to move out. Do you have any idea how stupid that made me feel?”

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