For Love's Sake (4 page)

Laurel pictured her grandmother in their simple kitchen, singing
Amazing Grace
as she rolled out dough for another batch of fresh buttermilk biscuits. Her grandfather would come in, the screen door slapping its frame behind him. He’d wipe his brow and the back of his neck with his red handkerchief, cursing the weather while her grandmother poured him a glass of ice water.

After he died, Laurel volunteered to go work for Hathcock-Holbrooks. She and her grandmother could not keep up with the farm, and the prospect of a steady paycheck, no matter how small, was too good to pass up. They made due for another few years, until her beloved grandmother fell ill. Alone in the world, Laurel had watched as everything she held dear was stripped away from her.

She had not even noticed that she was crying until her tears soaked her shirt completely through. Laurel wiped her cheeks and rose to her feet. She hated feeling sorry for herself! Grabbing her boots and stockings, she left Deirdre sleeping and made her way down the path through the woods. Her feet had grown calloused from being on them day in and day out, so the sharp rocks and fallen twigs did not hurt her.

“Laurel!” a voice cried from behind her. “Laurel!”

It was Deirdre, running down the path. As she grew closer, her foot caught on a tree root and sent her sprawling on her hands and knees. Laurel pulled her friend up and helped wipe the dirt from her skirt.

“You left me!”

She picked a leaf from Deirdre’s disheveled hair. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t going far.”

Together they walked down the shady path that led to the outskirts of Mill Hill. In the distance, some boys played ball on the baseball field, practicing for the day when they would be able to play on the Hathcock-Holbrooks team. Little girls skipped rope in the streets under the watchful eyes of their mothers, who rocked slowly in their chairs on sagging old front porches. A few munched on watermelon, slurping up the bright red juices that ran down their chins and spitting out the little black seeds onto the dirt.

Laurel had a funny feeling that her friend was keeping something from her. Normally, Deirdre talked without ceasing, but that afternoon, she didn’t seem to have much to say.

However, Laurel was not being completely open with Deirdre either. She had not told her about her awkward meeting with ‘His Lordship’ earlier that day. As to why, she was not exactly sure, but it felt good to keep something entirely secret to herself for once.

From his office window, Christopher looked down on the Spinning Room, searching the sea of faces amid the cotton dust. In a far corner, he spotted the mysterious young lady. She stood at her machine with her face bowed. Now he understood why he had not recognized her – her light brown hair was pulled back against her head, and the drab brown dress she wore did nothing for her figure or her complexion.

He crossed the room and pulled the employee records from a filing cabinet. Placing it on his cluttered desk, he flipped through the pages…G…Ga to Ge…Gi to Gl…Go to Gr. He found the Grahams on that page, and luckily there were only two ‘Miss Grahams’. The other was much too old, which narrowed his mysterious girl down to only one – Laurel, aged 18. Her address suggested that she lived in town, a short walk from the hotel.

Christopher scribbled it down on a piece of scrap paper, and shoved it into his jacket pocket. A quick glance at the clock read a quarter after five. The mill wouldn’t be closed for another two hours. He would have plenty of time to return to his hotel, bathe, and find her house before she arrived.

He sat on her rusted metal steps with a large gray cat circling around his ankles. Any attempt to push it away was met with harsh protests and sharp claws, so he had no choice but to capitulate to its advances. The town hall clock chimed eight, and Christopher began to think he had made a grave error. Maybe the girl did not live there at all. It was possible that the records had been incorrect, especially at Hathcock-Holbrooks. He was just about to give up, when he saw the young Miss Graham turn the corner and wheel down the alleyway.

She stared up at him in shock.

“Hello,” he said.

“You found out where I live?”

“It was safer than following you,” Christopher said, standing up so that she could brush past him. “Would this be your cat?”

“Yes.” Laurel unlocked her door with shaking hands. “What do you want?”

“What do I want? I simply wanted to apologize for yesterday. I am afraid you may have gotten the wrong impression. You see, I was surprised that you worked in the mill, but I think my reaction may have come off as slightly harsher than that.”

She closed the door in his face.

Christopher was shocked and a little annoyed by her rudeness. He rarely did anything nice for anyone – certainly not going so far as to humble himself by apologizing. This young lady, this girl of eighteen, flung his apology back in his face. In England, innocent young girls all the way to worldly married women begged for his attention, but here, in
the middle of nowhere,
they couldn’t even be bothered to show him the time of day!

Laurel watched from behind tattered curtains as he left, unsure of what to make of him. She did not –
could not –
trust the man. He had to be at least ten years older than her, and despite his handsome façade, she couldn’t help but think that there was something almost sinister about him. Perhaps it was his height, or his cold, dead blue eyes that disconcerted her, but whatever it was, a chill ran up her spine whenever she thought of the man.

Why had he come to her home? He could have spoken to her at work and saved himself the trouble. Perhaps he did not want to be seen talking to her in front of the other employees. In the weeks that he had been there, he only said a few words to a very select few workers. ‘His Lordship’ had earned himself a reputation as being a very sour, disagreeable gentleman. And if what she had heard was correct, his character toward the townsfolk was not much better.

CHAPTER SIX

He flipped open his pocket watch – five minutes ‘til noon.

“Right on time.” Christopher smiled, watching Miss Graham approach the crossroads.

Laurel had no idea why he was there waiting for her, but she slowed to a stop. Intending to unleash a torrent of carefully – and forcefully – worded pieces of advice, she opened her mouth.

He put up his large hand to silence her. “You said I couldn’t come to your house, but there was absolutely no mention of my being forbidden to come
here
.” He pointed to the ground for emphasis.

She leaned her arms on the handlebars. “So you are following me then?” Laurel had not noticed the freckles dusted across his heavily lined brow before, nor had she ever taken the time to really look into those blue eyes of his. When she did, she was certain that she had never seen a more handsome man in her entire life.

“Could two people’s paths not converge at the same place, at the same time?” He almost smiled, his mouth turning up at the corners as he spoke. “And couldn’t those same two individuals – since they are both going in the same direction – not walk together to their
mutual
destination?”

She nodded and climbed off her bicycle. It seemed more polite to push it beside him rather that ride ahead and hope that he would keep up.

“Now, Miss Graham, tell me…have you lived here all your life?”

“I have.”

Christopher nodded, encouraged all the same by her curt reply.

When they reached the hotel, Christopher was sorry to lose her company.
Since they could not very well just stand there in the middle of Main Street, he struck upon a wonderful idea. “Would you care to have luncheon with me?”

Laurel glanced down at her pale blue frock. “I’m not dressed nice enough.”

“Nonsense!” he exclaimed, urging her to lean her bicycle against the oak tree in the yard. “I am the
only
paying guest here, and if I invite you to dine with me, I dare them to say anything about your attire.”

They took a table in the corner, shaded by the trellis of bright red roses. How lovely everything looked – the crisp linen tablecloth, fine china, and cut crystal stemware all laid out before her. Laurel ordered a plate of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and green peas. The waiter also brought a basket of fresh biscuits and butter, which Laurel helped herself to.

Christopher studied her as she went to work on her meal. It looked as if she had not ate in ages. Not that her table manners were uncivilized, it was just that he was accustomed to watching English girls pick at their plates and deny ever being anything more than
slightly
peckish.

Laurel noticed him staring. Taking a sip of her sweet tea, she chose her next words carefully. “A meal like this would cost me more than I make at the mill in an entire day.”

To Christopher, who had never worried about the price of anything in his entire life, that notion was entirely novel, and a little bit disconcerting. “If you hate the mill so much, then why do you work there?” he asked.

“If
you
hate the mill so much,” she said. “Why’d you buy it?”

He leaned back in his wicker chair and straightened his silk necktie. “I didn’t buy it, my uncle did. However, through a tragic turn of events, it was left to me, and as soon as I find a buyer, I’ll be on the first ship back to England.”

“I’m sure you must find us all very…rusticated.”

“Actually, I don’t know anyone here at all, and that is the way I would like to keep it. Except it seems I shall be forced to attend a welcoming party this coming week.” He said, and then scratched his cheek, mulling over an idea that had just formed itself in his mind. “Why don’t you come with me?”

Laurel was stunned, and started to mumble a refusal.

Christopher stopped her short. “Don’t say that you have nothing to wear. I’ll buy you a dress.”

“Why me? I’m not exactly the type of girl they like to see at those types of events. Really, they would frown at my being there…”

He had no intention of leading her on, so Christopher was blunt. “It will be a gaggle of eager mothers ready to push their ‘beautiful’ and ‘accomplished’ daughters into my arms. I find the whole charade repugnant, and your presence would give me an excuse to ignore them all as much as possible.”

Instead of being hurt, Laurel was amused. “I’ve never met a man who dreaded being surrounded by young women before!”

“You have no idea what it feels like to be hounded after.”

“Actually, I do,” she explained. “I think I have probably been courted by every boy on Mill Hill at one time or another!”

“Mill Hill?”

Laurel paused to allow the waitress to refill her glass of sweet tea. “That is what we call the part of town where the mill-workers live.”

Christopher nodded. “I see.”

After luncheon, he walked her down to her bicycle and leaned his back against the ancient old oak. He debated on whether or not to walk her home.

Laurel looked up at him. “Thank you for the meal, Your Lordship.”

His brows furrowed together. “Who told you to call me that?”

“The supervisor,” she answered, afraid that she had committed some grave blunder. “He said you were some kind of English lord.”

“It seems forced. You might as well call me ‘sir’.”

‘Sir’ was much easier than ‘Your Lordship’, and Laurel agreed happily. “Then thank you for the meal,
Sir
.”

Christopher almost slipped and let himself smile. “Good day, Miss Graham.”

Laurel punched her time card and shuffled out into the rain. A summer shower was a welcome visitor on those sweltering September days, and steam rose up off of the ground around her feet. Their only downfall was their unpredictability, and she had no choice but to walk home in the storm.

The other girls ran off in the direction of Mill Hill, kicking up mud onto their skirts and boots. Rowdy boys splashed each other in the puddles, one of them soaking the side of Laurel’s dress. She was just about to yell at them when a strong hand touched her elbow.

“I have an umbrella,” Christopher said, holding it out over her head. “We could share it.”

“Thank you.”

He joined her under its shelter. “I’ve been watching you, Miss Graham, and I get the feeling that you are a loner. Quite a novel quality in a young woman...”

Laurel snorted. “They think I’m better than them for wanting more than a life spent in the mill.”

“Perhaps you do think you’re better than them.”

“I do not!” she cried. “I just want something different than they do.”

“And what would that be exactly?”

“I want to be independent. I like earning my own money and spending it how I see fit. If I were to marry, I’d have a husband to answer to,” Laurel explained. “So I keep my distance from the men in this town and they all say I think I’m too good to marry them.”

“How odd. Women say the same thing about me at home.”

They navigated around a very large puddle. The rain came down hard, and the ditches on either side of the road were in danger of overflowing.

“Well, you aren’t exactly the most approachable person,” Laurel said.

The streets in town were deserted, and the last few people in the diner were only there to wait out the rain. They sat and sipped their coffees and teas, watching the lone couple stroll down the street.

At a certain shop window, Laurel sighed. “There used to be a yellow dress on that mannequin,” she explained. “It seems silly, but I always thought of it as
my
dress.”

Christopher looked up at the display. “The gown on there now is quite pretty.”

It was a frock more appropriate for the approaching fall weather. Although it was made of fine dark green wool, Laurel did not think it held a candle to the sunny yellow walking dress that preceded it.

“Oh well.” She shrugged her shoulders and kept on walking. “Maybe next summer.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Laurel was so nervous she could hardly fasten the mother of pearl buttons at the back of her high-collared white lawn blouse. A delivery boy had been waiting on her steps with the package when she arrived home from work. It was wrapped in unpretentious plain brown paper, which she ripped away and pulled off the lid to the long, rectangular box. Neatly folded inside was
her
yellow dress.