Love's First Flames (Banished Saga, 0.5) Read online

  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.

  “Good Lord, dear, what happened to you?” exclaimed Mrs. Smythe, concern flashing momentarily in her eyes as she took in my appearance. I glanced toward the mirror in the hallway, blanching at my reflection. I raised my eyebrows and shrugged my shoulder in resignation to the damage already done. She rushed toward me, patting my blouse with a gentle hand, and then glared at me in distaste as her hand became dampened.

  “I hope you weren’t seen by many people on the street looking like that, or you will be the brunt of much talk, dear. Much talk. You know how people love to talk,” she continued in her singsong voice. “How many times have I told you to take care, be cautious, prudent, yet you never seem to listen. Why won’t you listen to me, Clarissa? All I want is your well-being.” She paused, gasping for air. She ushered me farther into the front hall, refraining from touching me, continuing to stare at me with distaste and a look that bordered on disappointment.

  “Why can’t you listen to my advice, Clarissa? All I have longed for was for you to heed me on my extensive knowledge. I could aid you with your clothes and manners, if you weren’t so intent on spending your days teaching those immigrant children,” she said with deep derision in her voice. “I should think that one such as you, Clarissa, would begin to look toward your own future. Or you might not have one.”

  I sighed as she continued to prattle. I knew by now that trying to speak was a pointless endeavor.

  “Really, Clarissa, you should take more care to prevent becoming wet. I can’t understand why you haven’t retired to your room to change. You’ll catch a cold if you aren’t careful,” she admonished. “Have I not told you, over and over again, to stay dry? We can’t have you catching cold now, of all times,” she wailed, unceremoniously pushing me toward the stairs.

  Mrs. Smythe followed on my heels up the stairs to Da’s study, calling out for him, I was convinced, to report on my unladylike behavior.

  As I hastily changed clothes with the aid of my maid, Mary, I heard the guffaws coming from the dining room, and I realized that Patrick had begun regaling the family with today’s tale. I quickly descended the stairs and entered the dining room, as Patrick, Colin, and Da were known to eat my share of supper as well as their own when I arrived late to the meal.

  I glanced around the room as I settled into my chair. Da sat relaxed at the head of the table, light brown eyes lit with pleasure at the storytelling. His broad shoulders and muscled arms were the only indication of his profession as a blacksmith.

  Colin, the middle sibling at age twenty-five, sitting next to me on my right, was as tall as Da, at least six feet, though not quite as stocky. Instead of brown, his hair was a thick, wavy auburn. His light blue eyes were generally filled with merriment, and he was the least serious of us all, loving a good joke and story. He worked with Da as a blacksmith.

  I glanced toward my eldest brother, seated across from me, as he continued to expound on a particular detail from today. At twenty-eight, Patrick had just finished apprenticing to be an architect, and we
were all extraordinarily proud of him. He worked hard, and his chestnut-brown hair already showed a little gray. His rather plain “muddy brown” eyes—as he liked to call them—hid his inquisitive nature. He rarely found himself home at night due to the long hours at his new job.

  My eyes rested on the final person at the supper table, Mrs. Smythe, seated at the other end of the table and thus some distance from the rest of us. I watched her through lowered eyes, noting that her posture, hair and clothes all seemed perfect. She was slightly shorter than me, about five foot four. Her golden brown eyes appeared dull unless you looked closely and caught the cunning glimmer hidden within. Her petite frame, expertly draped in an immaculate, crisp white shirtwaist with a burgundy red skirt, highlighted her tightly corseted figure. Her long, thin face portrayed flashes of displeasure, although she tried to quell any outward reaction.

  Tonight we ate in the dining room, one of my favorite rooms. We had shared many wonderful family meals here when my mama lived. The dining room table was long and made of sturdy maple with eight matching chairs around it. Along the wall toward the butler’s pantry sat a simple maple sideboard with drawers to hold linens. A small oak table separated the twin windows in the room, with a small overflowing potted fern. Plush red drapes covered the windows, an addition from Mrs. Smythe. The pale slate-blue wallpaper, slightly faded, had been chosen when my mama had first decorated the room.

  “Hey, human catapult!” Colin said with a wink. I blushed, realizing Patrick had already told the worst of the tale. I wondered what they would think had I been the one telling it. That thought made my cheeks redden further, as all I seemed able to recall were Gabriel’s eyes and his intense, inquisitive stares.

  “As long as the man wasn’t hurt badly,” Da said with a note of resignation, the pleasure dimming from his eyes at the realization I had hurt someone this time. He focused his light brown eyes on me. “I thought your aunt was giving you lessons?”

  “Yes, in manners.”

  “Though clearly not in comportment,” Mrs. Smythe said with a disdainful sniff. “You should never have been out in such weather. And then to stumble into a store?” she asked with a hand to her breast. “One must always exude calm and a sense of grace.”

  Colin snickered. “I doubt Clarissa is on very good terms with grace, Mrs. Sm…Sullivan. She probably has trouble spelling it.” I poked him in the side, but he just winked at me.

  “And to think they let her teach impressionable children,” Mrs. Smythe said.

  “Yes, Rebecca,” Da said. “You know Clarissa has my approval until her wedding.”

  “Whenever that may be,” Mrs. Smythe muttered.

  “She has the right to work, like any man,” Da insisted.

  I smiled at him as he sat at the head of the table, thankful some of my suffragist lessons had been effective.

  “What would her mother think?”

  “Mama would…” I began but was interrupted by Da.

  “She’s not as fortunate as poor Agnes. You know that, Rebecca,” Da said. “Clarissa doesn’t have a generous dowry like her mother.”

  “Well, walking about the streets without the sense to use an umbrella does not improve…”

  “Enough,” Da said in a firm voice. He rubbed a hand through his thick brown hair in agitation. “Be thankful we have the smithy.”

  “And Colin to work in it with you,” I said.

  “Of course,” Da said. “I inherited it from my da. We moved here from the old country when I was a young lad. My da, a poor farmer, God rest him, learned all he could when he arrived. He was fortunate enough to work as an apprentice for such a man as Mr. Wayland. An unbiased man, willing to teach my da all there was to know. And now, I have a good trade, one I can teach my own son. One day Colin will inherit it from me.”

  Colin turned toward me and rolled his eyes. He leaned back in his chair stretching out his long legs. “Da, you stole Patrick’s job. He generally makes every conversation as boring as the ash pile with talk of his architect work.” He flashed Patrick a quick smile.

  “Ah, ’tis grand to see us so well settled,” Da said with a fond glance toward Mrs. Smythe. She sat with impeccable stillness, her back poker straight.

  “Yes it is, Sean,” Mrs. Smythe said. “I am very relieved we have finally returned to the dining room from the wretched eating area in the kitchen. I can’t imagine what you were thinking, eating in there when you have a perfectly functional dining room.”

  I glanced toward Colin and he rolled his eyes again at me.

  She asked, waving in the direction of the sideboard, “Do you like the new vase that was delivered today?”

  We all glanced toward the large, ornate oriental vase with a blue-and-red scene glazed on the front. It was the exact antithesis of my mama’s style, clashing with the room’s other simple furnishings. “It’s, ah…exotic,” Da said after a long pause. He continued to frown at the vase as he studied it.

  “Of course it is!” she responded with enthusiasm. “I am greatly looking forward to bringing the home and the furnishings up to modern standards. It is 1900 after all. The turn of a new century.”

  “I always loved how well Mama decorated the house. She had an unparalleled ability for both thrift and beauty,” I said.

  “Pshaw…who need concern themselves with the budget? The smithy is successful, and I couldn’t possibly entertain in such shabby rooms. You wouldn’t want to humiliate me in such a manner, would you, Sean?” she asked, her brown eyes full of tears.

  “Now, Rebecca, don’t fret so,” he said. He glanced around as though trying to discover a new topic.

  “Not wanting to sound too much like Patrick, but I believe there is something serious that needs to be discussed,” Colin said, watching me with grave blue eyes.

  My fork clattered out of my fingers, my hearty appetite fleeing after only finishing half my supper. I watched Colin with dread. Colin was rarely serious.

  “I have heard, though it’s not confirmed, that Cameron is back,” Colin said, watching me intently.

  I paled and began to feel light-headed. I wished I could let out my corset and take a deep breath.

  “Rissa, if you see him, you need to tell us,” Colin admonished. “You shouldn’t have to speak with him, not after what he did.”

  Da grunted in agreement.

  “Is that wise, dear?” Mrs. Smythe asked, looking me up and down.

  I frowned defensively, not imagining she could take offense with my current attire, a satin lilac evening dress.

  “If a man is interested in you, I’d hate to think you would turn him away due to a minor lapse of judgment.”

  I gritted my teeth at an angry retort, breathing heavily. “I believe my brothers, Da and I know best when it comes to Cameron,” I replied, nearly choking on his name.

  “Aye, you do, Clarissa,” Da replied. “You remember now, any trouble from him, you send word to us. We’ll be there in no time.”

  I nodded my agreement.

  “May I be excused, Da?” I asked. I had no desire to listen further to Mrs. Smythe nor had any appetite for the remainder of my supper.

  ***

  I ENTERED MY ROOM, closing the door to the sounds of Da and Colin settling in for their cribbage match in the second-floor family parlor. I leaned against the door for a moment, allowing the calm colors of my bedroom to soothe me. The walls were decorated in blue-and-white wallpaper with a flowing bird-and-flower motif. I pushed away from the door, moving toward my four-poster bed, reaching for the pile of pillows to rearrange them. I fluffed one before moving on to the chaise positioned in front of the windows, to the right of the bed. I sat for a moment, looking out into the darkened back garden and skeletonlike tree limbs.

  A quick knock heralded my maid’s expected arrival, and I moved behind the privacy screen, to the right of the door. After freeing myself from layers of petticoats, corsets and my chemise, I slipped into a comfortable nightgown and wrap. I emerged from the privacy screen as Ma
ry left my bedroom. I wandered along the opposite side of my room to the tall maple dresser to stare at one of the few pictures I had of Mama. A piece of lace covered the top of the dresser, one of my mama’s school projects. I fingered a few of the seashells I had collected with Mama the last time we had gone to the beach together. “Oh, Mama,” I whispered, trying not to cry. “I wish you were here.”

  I scrubbed away the tears as I faced the dark mahogany vanity, which had also been my mama’s. I collapsed onto the stool, pulling out compartments on either side of the mirror to place within my earrings, bracelets and hairpins. Every time I stared into the long mirror, I imagined my mama looking into the mirror and felt closer to her.

  I sat on the stool in front of the vanity, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My long chestnut-brown hair, freed from its pins, cascaded down my back in waves. I had an oval, almost round face, with high cheekbones and lips that appeared turned up at the corners as though always on the verge of smiling. My almond-shaped light blue eyes reflected my inner turmoil.

  I remembered the first time I had met Cameron at one of Aunt Betsy’s functions in Quincy. I had decided to visit her to raise my spirits after my mama had died. While there, Aunt Betsy had held a party in my honor. She and Uncle Tobias were of the highest social class. One of their friends’ sons, Cameron Wright, had been coerced into attending the soiree. He had stood aloof to one side of the room, dispassionately studying those present while appearing formal and stiff-necked. Even so, I had felt an instant interest in him.

  That night, for one of the first times since the death of my mama, I felt my spirit lighten. I gaily joined in conversations with a large group of fascinating guests. After a few lengthy, lively discussions, Cameron strolled toward my group and joined in. I cannot remember what was said, yet I remember feeling a thrill of energy race through my body to be near him. I sighed, staring into the mirror into my devastated eyes, wondering if I would ever feel such a thrill again.