A Light For My Love (11 page)

He sprawled in the chair she had recently
occupied and rubbed his face with his hands, then pushed his brown
hair off his forehead. She could see something was wrong. "I almost
had someone to bring with me, but I wasn't fast enough. I guess
another farm boy is going to see the world after all." Defeat hung
around him like a nimbus.

"What happened?" she asked quietly, taking
the other chair.

He sat forward and put his elbows on his
knees. "I was in the Salty Dog and I saw the bartender put the
drops in a beer." Knockout drops were one of the common methods of
dispatching a man to a waiting ship. "It was crowded in there, and
the light wasn't too good. I tried to keep track of that beer mug,
but it ended up on a tray with a lot of others, and I couldn't tell
who got it. I kept walking around the saloon. I could only hope to
be nearby when the poor bast— uh, pour soul passed out. In a few
minutes, there was a commotion in the corner and a big husky
plowboy went crashing over a table. Like a broken mainmast, he went
down. I was on the far side of the place, and he was hustled off to
the back room by two crimpers before I could get to him." He
straightened and shook his head. "Damn."

China shared Dalton's regret. Somewhere, at
this moment, or perhaps tomorrow, a woman—his mother, his sister,
maybe a sweetheart or a wife—would be watching the road for that
young man. They wouldn't know what had happened to him, only that
he didn't come home. It might be years before he could make his way
back. It might be never.

"I know you did your best," she said.
"There's only you doing this work. You can't be everywhere at
once."

He looked at the wall, as though reliving the
scene at the Salty Dog. Frustration laced his words. "Except I was
there. Right there. I could have saved him." He held out an open
hand, then closed it into a fist. "He just slipped away from
me."

"But Dalton, if you could have saved him, you
would have," she reasoned. "It wasn't possible this time. It's not
as though you didn't try."

He glanced back at her and finally nodded
with weary acceptance. "I know you're right. But, God, it gets to
me sometimes. If people would just listen, if the captains would
stop doing business with those scurvy sons of bi— I mean those
devils—" Dalton often struggled with his colorful vocabulary when
he talked to China—"crimping would end next week." He let out a
sigh, then almost magically his moment of discouragement
disappeared and he was all business again. "Well, I know you didn't
send for me to listen to this. What's the matter?"

China folded her hands in her lap so tightly
her knuckles turned white. She took a deep breath and confessed
what she'd revealed to Jake.

"I'm sorry, Dalton," China said. "I know I
shouldn't have told Jake about this, but he saw us out here and,
well, he insinuated that you and I—that we—" She came to an
embarrassed halt, unable to repeat what Jake had meant. Glancing at
the window shade, she let her forefinger run along the sill. "He
thought you and I were meeting for a rendezvous." Her face burned
with a blush. She hoped he wouldn't realize how easily she'd given
away their secret. She lifted her eyes to meet his. "I know I
should have let him believe whatever he wanted and kept quiet about
this."

Dalton tipped his chair back against the
plain pine wall and stared at her, saying nothing, his expression
deadly serious. She saw the effect of her words written on his
face, and she quailed. A crease formed between his brows.

If only he'd speak, she thought.

"Myself, I've never cared what people say
about me," he said slowly. "I guess I can't expect you to let
someone insult your reputation for the league. But then, Chastaine
must not be much of a man if he talks to a lady that way,
especially when he's sleeping under her roof." He let the chair
drop to the floor. "I take it he's not a friend to our cause."

China released the breath she'd held.
Tightening her wool shawl against the damp chill in the unheated
room, she shook her head. "Not really. He admits that crimping
isn't a good practice, but he says it's necessary."

"If he's not a friend, then he's an enemy."
Dalton saw everything as black or white. With him there were no
gray areas, no vacillation. He drummed his fingers on the table,
apparently pondering the possible consequences of the situation.
"He could make trouble for us. This," he said, gesturing at the
apartment, "isn't safe to use anymore. But I suppose it had to end
sometime."

"Are you any closer to finding a good spot
for a boardinghouse?"

"Maybe. About seven blocks over, there's a
big, run-down place. The old man who owned it died years ago, and
it's been standing empty all this time. The owner's son would
rather have sold the house—it needs more work than he wants to pay
for. But he said he'd let us have it for cheap rent if we'll fix it
up. So I signed the lease." Dalton shrugged. "The tricky part is
raising enough money for the repairs. It's in pretty bad
shape."

Money, China thought. Everything, it seemed,
always came back to money. "I wish I could spare something, but I
just don't have it."

He waved away the suggestion and leaned
toward her. "I know that, China. You've done enough already. Just
housing and feeding these men, seeing to their injuries and
sickness—I couldn't put a value on that."

They sat in silence for a few moments. Then a
notion struck her. "Maybe we can ask for donations—you know, create
a boardinghouse fund, like a charity. There are a lot of people who
agree with you and the work you're doing. You could ask for
contributions from businesses and the sailors themselves. After
all, this is for their benefit."

The league had received donations all along,
but sporadically, the way a street beggar collected pennies. The
money paid some of the printing costs for the leaflets Dalton
distributed, but not much more. A concerted effort, China thought.
That was what they needed.

Dalton grinned suddenly and stood. He didn't
smile often, and she was glad that he harbored no anger toward her
for talking to Jake. "Good idea, China. That's why I need you—for
your good ideas and your brave heart. And you have been brave." He
put out his hand as though to touch her arm, then apparently
thought better of it.

"I'd best be going. Until that house is
ready, I'll still have to bring men here. We'll just be as careful
as we've always been."

They parted outside the door. Dalton slipped
away again into the misty night, and China made her way back to the
kitchen. Thankfully, no one was present when she came in; she was
relieved that her absence had gone unnoticed. She removed her shawl
and hung it by the stove. Then, remembering that she'd forgotten to
give Captain Meredith his medicine, she picked up a blue tonic
bottle. She left the kitchen and stopped in the hall to pluck a
spoon from a drawer in the china cabinet, then went in search of
the old man.

Half a minute later, Jake walked in through
the same kitchen door and quietly closed it behind him. He was
cold, damp, and cross, but glad that he hadn't had to spend another
second in the rain waiting for China to come out of that goddamned
carriage house.

*~*~*

Late the next morning, China vigorously
pushed the carpet sweeper across the hall runner near the front
door. Navigating the awkward contraption into the front parlor, she
ran it over the deep pile of a blue Persian carpet, one of the few
in the house that she'd not yet sold. Finally stopping to rest, she
brushed off her skirt and sank into a velvet armchair by the cold
fireplace. She rested her elbows on the chair arms and glanced
around the elegant room. The front parlor didn't see much use
anymore—after all, except for one or two of Aunt Gert's friends,
they never had company these days. That was just as well. She'd had
to sell several pieces of furniture from this room, too, and now it
had an empty look about it. No matter how artfully she tried to
arrange the remaining pieces, the room was simply too big for its
contents.

Still, China wasn't sorry that she'd decided
to keep this house. It was her anchor, an enduring constant in a
life that had changed so drastically she barely recognized it
anymore. But it was a big house and a lot of work to maintain. The
sweeping, mopping, and dusting never ended.

Once she'd had only to direct a capable staff
to do both the heavy cleaning and the daily work. Young as she'd
been, she possessed a natural skill for running a large house. She
dressed in pastel ruffles and flounces and sat at her writing desk
in the back parlor answering correspondence, paying bills, or
planning teas and luncheons. Sometimes she did needlework, as did
all the proper young ladies in her circle, embroidering linens with
snowy monograms and delicate floral sprays for her burgeoning hope
chest.

Now everyone in the house used the sheets and
towels—and Cap wiped his nose on the napkins—that she'd so
meticulously stitched and crocheted edgings for, once intended for
a different future. Money was too scarce to let perfectly good
linens sit yellowing on a shelf, layered with lavender sachet and
old dreams.

China let her hand drift to a small potpourri
box that sat on the cherry table next to her. It was an exquisite
piece, one of her most prized possessions, made of fine gold
filigree and topped with a delicate porcelain lid. It still
contained the remnants of dried rosebuds and leaves, their colors
faded by time. She held the box to her nose and, closing her eyes,
inhaled the ghost of fragrance that remained.

Her reverie was interrupted when, from down
the hall, she heard the back door open and close. That made her
look up, since she was the only one who usually came and went
through the back.

She heard the sound of heavy boots moving
around the kitchen floor and knew it was Jake. He'd been here
scarcely a week, but she was learning to recognize the sound of his
footsteps. That realization made her distinctly uncomfortable. She
listened, baffled, as he pulled open cupboard doors and what
sounded like the door to the pantry, muttering to himself all the
while. Seconds later, she heard him bearing down the hall in her
direction.

"I hope your boots are clean," she called
sternly.

He came to the door and looked in. "Of course
they are. I wasn't born under a rock, you know." He gave her an
even look and took two steps forward to stand just inside the door.
He carried a long, bulky package wrapped in paper and string. "I
guess this means you're talking to me again."

"I wouldn't count on it if I were you," she
said coolly.

The first thing she noticed was his heavy
blond hair, as bright as a candle flame. Why on earth did he have
to be so attractive? she fumed again.

From her seated position, it was hard to
ignore his long legs. His dungarees, though loose in the leg, fit
indecently snug against his narrow hips, across his belly, and—
Realizing where her eyes and thoughts had turned, China drew a
swift breath and quickly glanced upward. The black sweater he wore
accentuated his golden coloring and green eyes. He walked toward
her, straight-backed, broad-chested and long of bone, with just a
touch of a seaman's gait. With him, he brought his scent of fresh
air and salt and rain. It was as if she stood in a soft breeze
coming through an open window. Suddenly she felt a yearning, a
frightening urge to rise from her chair and walk into his arms, to
bury her face against that chest.

God, she must be losing her mind to think
something like that! This was Jake Chastaine, a man she'd sworn
would never set foot in this house again. Not only had he wormed
his way back into her home to sleep in the room across from hers,
here she was, imagining his arms around her.

Jake dropped to the settee opposite her chair
and laid the long package across his knees, wrapping a big hand
around the shank of it. It was amazing to her that with little
exception, he always seemed to be comfortable in whatever
environment he found himself. He could walk into her formal parlor,
dressed in work clothes, and sit down as though he were wearing a
suit. He nodded at the potpourri box where China's fingers still
rested.

"That's an interesting box," he remarked.

Relenting a bit, she said, "It really is
beautiful." Glad for the diversion, she picked it up and held it
out on her open palm. "I think it came from France."

Jake appraised the container without touching
it, his face blank. "Probably. Did the Captain bring it to
you?"

"Oh, no. I didn't know who gave it to me, at
first. A young boy delivered it one day. It's been years ago now.
It came with an anonymous note and just my name written on the
outside of the package."

"A secret admirer, huh?" he asked with a hint
of ridicule for such romantic nonsense. "What did the note
say?"

China hesitated, a trifle embarrassed, not
wanting to repeat the words aloud. "Well—um—it was just a personal
message. Every Tuesday for the next few weeks, a dozen roses were
delivered, with a note that said I should save the petals and dry
them for this box. It was a rather expensive gift. I asked the boy
who brought them who hired him, but he said the man had sworn him
to secrecy." She sniffed again at its faint perfume.

Jake rolled his eyes with a derisive snort.
"Jesus, what a gutless sap he must have been to hire a kid to be
his messenger. If he was going to go all moony like that, he should
have just brought the thing himself."

"I know you think it was foolish and
sentimental. But I was quite . . . charmed." The memory made her
smile.

He watched her for a moment, then sat back
and laughed, crossing his arms over his wide chest. "It is silly.
What's the point of giving someone a present if they don't even
know who it came from?"