Sweet Forever (8 page)
His gaze seemed to sweep the little hallway, taking in its gold and white patterned wallpaper, mahogany table with a pair of Aragon lamps, and floral ingrained carpet. “Not bad.” He gave her a wink. “Nice as any of old Vanderbilt’s steamboats.” His grin faded, and he pulled his black beaver hat from his wavy auburn hair. His gray eyes held a look of genuine sympathy. “Heard about your dad sometime back. Real sorry. Heard you went to live with relations or somethin’.”
“Something like that.” She questioned the wisdom of telling Alistair too much. Had he learned of her time with Bill McGurty? If he had, he’d chosen to pretend otherwise. Alistair would know as well as anyone that few crossed Black Jack Bill McGurty and lived.
“Little Rosaleen.” Smiling, he shook his head in disbelief. “You’ve grown into a beauty, and that’s a fact.” Though his gaze roved over her, it caused her no unease. His benign assessment of her seemed to convey only a brotherly pride.
Rosaleen had to admit that the six-foot-tall Alistair cut a handsome figure in his dark green broadcloth coat and black tapered trousers. He held out his arms. “How about a kiss for an old friend?”
Before she could protest, Alistair caught her up in a bay-rum-scented bear hug. Lifting her feet off the floor, he planted a wet kiss on her mouth.
“Rosaleen, I came as soon as I got the chance. We need to talk—” Jacob’s voice coming from the hall doorway that led to the kitchen sounded winded.
As Alistair set her down, Rosaleen whirled in time to see Jacob’s face go ashen then bright scarlet. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode back toward the kitchen.
Alistair gave a nervous-sounding cough and cleared his throat. “Well, I don’t want to keep you from your work, so if you’ll just show me to my room. . .”
Humiliated, Rosaleen paid only vague attention to Alistair’s words, her helpless gaze fixed on the spot where Jacob had stood.
What must Jacob think?
She’d allowed him to kiss her earlier, and now Jacob had witnessed Alistair stealing a kiss from her. With her heart feeling as leaden as her feet, she mounted the stairs with Ralston in tow. At the landing, she glanced down at the open parlor door and felt torn. She desperately wanted to explain to Jacob Alistair’s meaningless kiss. But that would undoubtedly lead to a discussion of the kiss she and Jacob had shared—a far more troublesome topic.
That evening as everyone sat around the supper table, Jacob was uncharacteristically quiet. It struck Rosaleen that he seemed to go out of his way to avoid looking at her. However, he shot continual, scrutinizing glances toward Alistair.
Rosaleen was almost glad for Alistair’s constant banter. The man had the gift of gab, but she made a mental note to count the silverware after supper.
“Never expected to find you working at a boardinghouse,” Alistair said, smiling across the table at Rosaleen.
“Mrs. Archer is a wonderful help,” Opal injected. “I’m truly blessed to have her.”
“Archer?” Alistair’s brows shot up then slipped down into a thoughtful V. “Ah yes, now that I think on it, I did hear something about Rory Maguire’s girl marrying Donovan Archer.”
Then turning quiet, he focused his attention on the large slice of ham on his plate. His sudden change of attitude made Rosaleen wonder if he’d also heard about Bill McGurty shooting Donovan to death.
Opal clucked her tongue and shook her head sadly. “Such an awful thing, Mr. Archer perishing in that steamboat explosion. We just thank the Lord Rosaleen was spared.”
A look of surprise flashed across Alistair’s face. “Real sorry to hear about Archer, Rosaleen. Good man from what I recall.”
Rosaleen murmured her thanks. Although Alistair’s surprise seemed genuine, she couldn’t tell if it was from just now learning of her husband’s death or because Opal’s comment contradicted what Alistair might have heard about Donovan’s murder.
She studied the gambler’s features, but his face had gone poker plain, unreadable. If he did know the truth about how Donovan died and about her time with Bill McGurty, he didn’t seem inclined to divulge that knowledge. And at the moment, that suited Rosaleen. As much as she would like to know if Alistair had seen Bill since the explosion, she would rather Opal and Jacob—especially Jacob—not learn of her time with Bill. So she was relieved when Opal steered the supper conversation in a different direction.
“I have to admit, Mr. Ralston,” Opal said as she passed Alistair a plate of corn bread, “this is the first time I’ve had the privilege of entertaining an English earl at my dining table.”
Alistair’s gold tooth glinted in the candlelight. “Well, ma’am,” he said slowly as if choosing his words carefully, “I don’t reckon I’m a real earl. Not proper-like on paper ’n such. But according to my mum, I can trace my heritage back to the gentry.”
Rosaleen smiled at the wink Alistair shot in her direction. But her smile quickly faded when she turned it toward Jacob. The frown lines dragging down his mouth held no trace of the young minister’s usual good humor.
She had no doubt it was Alistair’s presence that had soured Jacob’s mood. Did Jacob simply find the gambler unsavory? Or was he brooding over the kiss he’d seen Alistair give her that morning? She couldn’t help hoping it was the latter.
❧
The scowling face staring back at Jacob from the bureau mirror seemed foreign. He didn’t like the way he looked these days, and he certainly didn’t like the way he felt. He wiped off the remnants of the shaving soap with a quick swipe of the towel and then threw it hard onto the washstand.
Buttoning his dress shirt, he gazed out his upstairs window at Mulberry Street below. Madison was just beginning to stir to life this Fourth of July. Though the morning sun slanting through his window promised a beautiful Independence Day, worry over Rosaleen had robbed his heart of all celebratory feelings.
He’d been glad to notice that the gambler, Alistair Ralston, spent most of his time away from the boardinghouse. Gambling and running his ruses down in one or another of the taverns along the riverfront, Jacob guessed.
He didn’t like the familiar way the man acted around Rosaleen. To be honest, he didn’t like the familiarity Rosaleen showed Ralston, either.
The prayer he’d been praying in the week since Ralston’s appearance rose again from his heart.
Oh God, please guide her. Just guide her.
His fingers moved automatically as he tied his black silk cravat. Sighing, he licked his lips, remembering the one sweet kiss he and Rosaleen had shared. Recalling how she’d clung to him—her eager response to his kiss—he couldn’t believe she didn’t care for him.
When Sophie Schuler appeared unexpectedly in Madison, he’d steeled his resolve to renew a relationship with the girl he’d courted two years ago. With all good intentions, he’d tried to ignore his feelings for Rosaleen and lash his errant heart to the hitching post of practicality.
The touch of Rosaleen’s lips against his had shattered that resolve. To encourage Sophie when his heart was bound to Rosaleen would be dishonest and potentially hurtful.
Thankfully, Sophie Schuler had become one of Madison’s social butterflies and showed little interest in renewing their relationship. The previous Sunday, she’d casually mentioned that she’d be celebrating the holiday by joining a group of Madison’s youthful elite on a railroad excursion to Columbus.
Ironically, it wasn’t Sophie who seemed to be impeding the deeper relationship Jacob would like to grow between himself and Rosaleen, but Rosaleen herself. He felt heat spread from his neck to his scalp remembering her troubling reaction to his kiss. He still stung from the way she’d fled the church, as if he might do her harm.
She was, after all, a new widow. A decent amount of time needed to pass before he could, in all decorum, attempt to court her. Yet he’d seen no sign of decorum on her part when he watched her happily kiss Alistair Ralston.
And then there was the fact that she’d not yet given her heart to Christ. However, hope had been growing in Jacob that she might be nearing a decision about that. Sunday after Sunday, he watched her lovely eyes glisten with tears while she listened with what seemed rapt attention as he preached of Christ’s love and salvation. He’d even noticed her following along in the Bible he’d given her.
Jacob shrugged on his dress coat, glad that he and Rosaleen would be spending most of the day with Becky, Ephraim, and their children. He silently blessed his sister for inviting Rosaleen to the Independence Day picnic at their home. Besides affording him an opportunity to make amends for his rash behavior at the church last week, it gave Rosaleen a reason to not spend time with Alistair Ralston.
As he entered the parlor, his heart did its usual little flip-flop when his gaze found Rosaleen. Looking stunning in the green sprigged muslin dress Becky had given her, she sat on the sofa beside Alistair Ralston. Her lighthearted laughter, directed at the gambler, sent a surge of jealousy through Jacob.
“No, Alistair, I know better than to play that shell game with you. And I certainly wouldn’t bet my brooch.” Her hand went to the ever-present brooch at the center of her bodice. When her gaze drifted to the doorway, she popped up from the sofa, the laugh dying on her lips. “Oh, Jacob,” she said breathlessly, her demeanor resembling that of a guilty child.
“Are you ready, Rosaleen?” The forced smile hurt Jacob’s face.
“The offer stands, Rosaleen.” Alistair gave her a wink that ignited a flame of anger in Jacob.
Rosaleen accepted Jacob’s proffered arm. “Then I should expect it will grow tired standing,” she shot back at Alistair with a nervous-sounding giggle.
As they walked up Mulberry Street toward Main-Cross, Jacob fought to keep his voice light. Surely the man had not offered Rosaleen marriage. “What was Mr. Ralston’s offer, if I might be so bold as to ask?”
“Oh, my brooch,” she said with a light laugh. “Alistair knows good and well I’ll not part with it, yet he can’t seem to help himself from trying.”
“Just how well do you know Mr. Ralston?”
“It seems I’ve known him forever. Like me, he’s been moving from riverboat to riverboat most of his life. I think of him almost as an older brother.”
“Do you miss it—life on the riverboats?” Jacob needed to learn the answers to the concerns pressing against his heart. In Ralston’s vernacular, he might as well “go for broke.”
“No.”
He felt immense relief at the definitive tone of her voice. “You don’t plan on going back to it then?”
She gave a little shake of her head. “No, not to the riverboats.”
“But you do plan on leaving Madison. . . .” Jacob sent up a quick prayer that she would dispel his suspicions. It went unanswered.
“Yes,” she murmured, sending his heart plummeting and confirming what he realized he’d known all along but had not allowed himself to admit.
“Where do you plan to go? You said you had no other family.”
Maybe if she has nowhere else to go, I can convince her—
“New York. When I was at Mrs. Griswold’s Academy, a concert pianist, Maestro Levitsky, visited the academy and heard me play. He told me I had great talent, and if I could get to New York, he would help me become a concert pianist.” Her voice deflated. “Donovan had promised to take me, but now. . .”
Learning of her plans to travel to New York jarred Jacob. Hope of her staying in Madison shriveled. He had no right to ask her to abandon her dream.
He forced his lips into a smile. “You’d be the toast of the New York concert halls.”
They walked the next two blocks in silence until he realized he’d never apologized for frightening her at the church. He decided this might be as good a time as any. Perhaps then, the stiff formality that had grown between them would relax a bit.
“Rosaleen, I—I wanted to let you know, I’m sorry about what happened last week. . .in the church.” His conscience chafed against the lie. He indeed regretted having frightened her, but he could not make his heart sorry for the kiss.
“It’s all right, Jacob. I’ve thought no more of it, and neither should you.”
Her quiet words were like a dagger through his heart, but he noticed her gaze remained fixed on the gravel beneath their feet.
At last, they reached the church on Main-Cross Street where the children of Madison’s Sunday schools had gathered for a parade. The boys held patriotic-colored banners while the girls trailed red, white, and blue ribbons.
Grinning, Jacob returned Daniel’s sharp salute. But he found little joy in the procession or the day’s celebrations. Rosaleen’s plans to leave Madison weighted his heart like a stone. How long did he have to win her heart to Christ—and to him?
Later, they followed the procession down to Ohio Street on the riverfront where local dignitaries gave addresses. But Jacob barely noticed the different speakers and their talk of imminent war with Mexico. With Rosaleen beside him, filling his senses, all other stimuli faded.
Following the addresses, the gunnery sergeant of the militia presided over a cannon salute. A burst of laughter and cheers trailed the gun’s loud report. When Rosaleen jumped back at the boom, Jacob caught her around the waist, saving her from tumbling backward into the crowd behind them. Giggling, they clung to one another for one sweet, beautiful moment amid the acrid smell of gunpowder floating over the crowd.
Oh God, if I could only hold her like this forever. If I could only convince her never to leave Madison.
“Tell ’em to fire the cannon again, Papa.” Daniel’s innocent appeal to Ephraim shattered the spell, and they dissolved into laughter.
At the conclusion of the town’s festivities, Jacob and Rosaleen joined his sister and her family at their home on Main-Cross Street. There, Rosaleen, Jacob, and Ephraim settled themselves on quilts spread beneath a large maple tree in the front yard, while Becky slipped into the house to feed baby Lucy.
Young Daniel marched up to Jacob and Rosaleen, offering glasses of lemonade.
“Thank you, Daniel.” Jacob grinned at his nephew’s hands, wet with the sticky beverage sloshing over the glasses’ rims.
“Better than the Fourth of July refreshment you tried ten years ago, wouldn’t you say, Jacob?” Ephraim asked with a sly, mischievous grin.
Jacob took a sip of the sweetened, tart drink and groaned at his brother-in-law’s teasing reference to his one and only sampling of home brew at the age of sixteen.
“What Fourth of July refreshment?” Rosaleen perked, turning an interested smile toward him.
“When I was sixteen, I stupidly took a dare to drink half a keg of home brew.” Forced to recount the embarrassing episode to Rosaleen, Jacob shot Ephraim a glare that set his brother-in-law to chuckling.
“You? But you’re a preacher.” She blinked, and then her eyes widened to puzzled, blue-green pools.
Her obvious bewilderment concerned more than amused Jacob. “I wasn’t then and hadn’t yet given my heart and life to Christ.”
“But I thought preachers were—I mean, never did. . .” A rosy blush prettily stained the confused look on her face.
