Heart Appearances (Truly Yours Digital Editions Book 560) (5 page)

Not thinking, Darcy plucked them up. She raised them to the light, peered through the fogged lenses, rubbed them on her skirt, and, curiosity getting the best of her, slipped them on.

“Aaeee!” she squealed. “Things appear as they did years ago—when I was about in me cups!”

Heat rushed to her face when she realized what she’d blurted. Though she’d learned much about manners since coming to Lyons’s Refuge, too often the past slipped out to embarrass her.

Brent said nothing. After a moment he cleared his throat and lifted the spectacles from Darcy’s nose. “Yes, well, they aid me in my vision impairment.”

She watched as he slipped them back on. He looked at her for a few seconds before turning to butter his bread.

“I have some stew in the icebox for you,” Darcy said. She opened the one door of the tin-lined wooden contraption where Irma stored perishable food. Blocks of ice kept the interior cold. “I’ll heat it on the stove and dish you up a bowl.”

“No, really, the bread is enough.”

“It won’t be no bother,” Darcy insisted, pulling the container off the shelf and slamming the door shut.

“Really, Miss Evans, there’s no need—”

Darcy swung around and crashed into Brent, who’d come up behind her. The uncovered beef stew splashed onto his pristine linen shirt and tweed vest. Involuntarily, Darcy dropped the pan, her hands flying to her mouth in horror. The pan hit the floor, splashing the wooden planks, her skirt, and Brent’s neat, creased pants with the rest of the brown juice.

Darcy’s shocked gaze flew to Brent’s. His eyes were filled with what looked like pained acceptance—something she’d seen many times. He moved his once-shiny brown shoe to dislodge a potato slice that rested on top.

“Perhaps I’ll forgo dinner tonight. I’m really not as hungry as I thought.” His smile was feeble at best.

“I–I’m sorry,” Darcy stuttered, backing up. “Really, I ham.” Slowly she shook her head, then hurried from the room.

❧

Brent watched her go, his mind a tangle of thoughts that resembled Charleigh’s wild ivy growing on the windowsill. Perhaps he shouldn’t have said what he had. With a heavy sigh, he reached for the dish towel, dampened it with water from the pump, and blotted his clothes, attempting to remove the stains.

Darcy remained an enigma. One minute she was bold and brassy, saying whatever she pleased; the next she was as sensitive as a child whose pencil drawing had been ridiculed by an unfeeling adult. Brent was frankly astounded at her intelligence and at how quickly she learned. She wasn’t far from catching up to the boys in her studies. Grammatically and in areas of deportment, Charleigh had worked wonders with her. Though, of course, the young Miss Evans still had a great deal to learn.

Brent never knew what to expect from the British spitfire. She was a cyclone in his well-ordered and perfectly planned existence. A cyclone that tore from the roots everything proper, staid, and orderly, in Brent’s estimation, and replaced it with impulsiveness, disorder—and a zest for living and having fun.

He glanced at the spill on the floor and bent to mop it up with the dishcloth. He’d never experienced fun or even been allowed to play. His parents had raised him with a rigid code of conduct—so severe that it sent his brother running from home before his sixteenth birthday. Brent shook his head, sobering at the thought of Bill and the life of crime he’d chosen. Bill and he had been so close once. . . .

Releasing a forceful breath, and with it any bitter thoughts of what might have been, Brent rinsed out the towel and laid it over the rack by the counter. He shrugged into his outerwear and left by the back door.

Four

With unabashed delight, Darcy crunched into her apple. Her eyelids slid shut. “Mmmmm. . .I think apples is—are—my favorite fruit of all. Next to oranges an’ pears. An’ maybe plums.”

“Didn’t you like them pies, Miss Darcy?” young Jimmy asked.

“Well, the mincemeat pie we had for Thanksgiving sure was good, it was; but I think the fruitcake we ate earlier today topped ’em all.”

“I like oranges best,” Tommy said as he limped to her chair near the Christmas tree.

She put her arm around him, bringing him close. Tommy was Darcy’s favorite of the boys, reminding her of Roger, a lame child who’d been in her young band of thieves. As she’d done with Roger, Darcy took Tommy under her wing.

He pulled a shiny silver whistle out of the darned sock he held, then tipped it over to let several jacks and a ball fall into his palm. “Isn’t this just the greatest, Miss Darcy? Mrs. Lyons’s pop sure is a nifty guy. I never had no toys gived to me before I come to this place.”

“Yes, he is a nifty guy,” Darcy agreed, remembering her first meeting with Michael Larkin and his wife, Alice. He accepted her immediately, despite her way of talking; and Darcy soon realized the Irish bear of a man had a heart as gentle as a cub’s. A huge contributor to the reform, Michael visited often, seeming to adopt the boys as his grandsons.

Darcy looked past the tall green fir—decorated with stringed popcorn, cutout cookies, and colorful paper chains the boys had made—to where Charleigh sat beside her father on the sofa. Stewart stood nearby, his back to them, and stared out the window at the falling snow. Charleigh and her father were in deep discussion; and from the looks of it, the topic was serious. Charleigh shook her head in reply to something Michael said. He patted her hand; and she swiped a finger underneath her eye, pasted on a smile, and stood. “Well, boys. What say we have some gingerbread and hot cocoa to end this Christmas Day?”

Loud cheers and whoops met her suggestion.

She put up her hands for quiet, then turned to Darcy. “But first I’d like you to read the Christmas story. Every year we take turns. Since this is your first year with us, I’d like you to do the honors.”

The juice from the apple seemed to evaporate in Darcy’s mouth, which went stone dry. “Me?” With difficulty she swallowed the chewed bite. “Maybe Mr. Thomas should read instead.” She cast a hopeful glance at Brent.

“Please, Darcy,” Charleigh insisted. “You’ve come so far in your education since the day you arrived. I’d love to hear you read.” Her gaze encompassed the children scattered on the floor. “Wouldn’t we, boys?”

A chorus of mumbled agreements filled the room.

From beside the fireplace, Joel blew his new whistle, catching everyone’s shocked attention. His smile was wide. “Aw, Mrs. Lyons, don’t make her read if she can’t do it.” His clear blue eyes held a smirk as they turned Darcy’s way. “I mean, we don’t want to embarrass her or nothin’—like when she read aloud from
Paradicee Losit
her first week at school. Or at least that’s how she said it.”

“Joel.” Stewart turned from the window, giving the boy a warning look. “Hold your tongue.”

Darcy’s lips thinned at the unwanted memory; and she glared at the scamp, who sat on the carpet, legs crossed, and stared innocently back. She turned her gaze to Charleigh and held out her hand. “Give me the book.” She’d show the little rapscallion.

With an encouraging smile, Charleigh handed her the Bible, showed her the passage, and rejoined her father on the couch. Darcy took a deep breath and briefly closed her eyes, delivering a hasty, silent prayer that she wouldn’t get any of the words wrong.

“ ‘And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a de–cree from Cae–sar Aug–us–tus, that all the world should be. . .taxed. . . ’ ”

She continued to read, sounding out the longer words. But she was certain she didn’t mispronounce a single one. The simple yet fascinating story of Christ’s birth produced an awed hush in the room, despite the halting manner in which the events were told. Even Darcy felt a sweet peace as she read the words, “ ‘Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. . . ” Darcy paused for a moment. “And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.’ ”

She looked up from the book. No animosity or mockery shone from Joel’s eyes now. They were soft and wondering, like a child’s. Sometimes it was hard to remember he
was
only a child. And suddenly Darcy knew she would do what she could to help the boy escape a life such as hers had been. How to go about such a task was the mystery. For surely trying to help such a stubborn lad would be a chore more taxing than any duties she’d had at Turreney Farm or the cooking she did at the Refuge.

Irma cleared her throat. “I never get weary of hearing that story, and it seems I hear something different with each tellin’ of the tale.” Wiping her eyes with the edge of her apron, she turned in the direction of the kitchen, then stopped and faced them, her gaze sweeping over the room. “Well, what are you just sitting there and staring for? Look lively, laddies! Hot cocoa’s awaitin’.”

Her reply had the effect of a trumpet at reveille. The boys clambered to their feet, whistles and jacks forgotten, and shot toward the kitchen. Even Stewart’s remonstration to “hold it down” seemed softer than usual. He moved across the room and took hold of his wife’s hand, helping her from the sofa.

Charleigh cast a glance Darcy’s way. “Coming, Darcy? I can try to save you a cup, but with that crowd, I can’t offer any promises.”

Darcy shook her head. With one hand, she closed the Bible and set it on the piecrust table beside her. “Apples is enough for me. I prefer fruit and nuts and the like.”

Charleigh smiled and left the room with Stewart, and Michael and Alice followed.

❧

“Aren’t you going to join the party?” Darcy asked Brent when they were the only ones left in the parlor.

He shook his head. “I’ve never had a penchant for such festivities.”

She propped her elbow on the chair arm and rested her chin on her palm, studying him where he sat in a stiff-backed chair. “Not sure what a ‘penchant’ is, but if it means you don’t like to have fun, why not?”

“Excuse me?” Brent lifted his eyebrows in astonishment.

“Fun. F–u–n. Fun.” She threw him a wicked smile. “See, I can spell it too. But spelling don’t—doesn’t—do me much good if I can’t live it. Just spelling words and reading ’em don’t do much of anything. You got to live ’em too.”

Baffled, he merely shook his head.

Darcy leaned forward, tucking her wrists in her skirt between her knees, her half-eaten apple still in one hand. “I’ll bet you’re wonderin’ how a girl like me could have had any fun in her life.”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” Brent admitted. “Lyons’s Refuge is in a class by itself, it’s true, but I know most reforms are quite strict.”

“See there!” She rolled her eyes as if he wore a dunce cap. “You got to tyke what fun you can find in life when you can find it. Now at the women’s reform it was harder, I’ll admit, and things wasn’t one bit pleasant. Just ask Charleigh; she’ll tell you. I learned to look for fun in the small things—like when I was hoein’ the vegetable patch, and a butterfly would flutter past me face. I’d watch it and imagine I was ridin’ on its back, seein’ everything it saw beyond the gates of the reform. Do you know what I’m sayin’?”

Brent nodded, though he had no idea what she was talking about.

“When I was with Hunstable and Crackers—they was two of the gang, a few years older than I and smart as the dickens—they taught me how to have fun. Especially Crackers, our leader. He could pick any pocket and had a fondness for crackers. That’s why we called him Crackers. He stole ’em from the grocer’s barrel. Practically lived on ’em, he did!” She laughed.

“I hardly see how thievery could be classified as fun. You’ve seen what wages it brings.”

“No, that’s not the fun I was talking about,” Darcy said and sighed, shaking her head in exasperation. “I’m gettin’ to that. Stealin’ was the same as survivin’ in the East End, ’specially if you was a child. Me mum died when I was young, and me stepfather—well, let’s just say he weren’t a nice man. He’d get drunk and come after me. One day I had enough. I ran out and never went back. I was ten at the time. That’s when I joined up with Crackers and Hunstable. They found me sleepin’ in the street under a newspaper.” She shrugged one shoulder, crunched another bite of her apple, and smiled as though the event hadn’t been of any real concern to her.

Brent stared, uncertain how to reply. This was the first time he’d been given a glimpse into Darcy’s past. Though his childhood could never be called easy, his physical comforts had been met. He was stunned at the hardships some children endured. Children such as Charleigh and Darcy had been, and the boys at Lyons’s Refuge.

“Tell me about Crackers’s idea of fun,” he said softly.

She cocked a surprised brow and peered at him as if trying to discern whether he was truly interested, then gave a nod and swallowed her apple. “There was this organ grinder, see, and he had this monkey—it wore a red satin jacket with shiny gold buttons. Such a lovely thing—that jacket. I always did say one day I’d have me one so fine. Anyhow, Crackers dropped bits of crackers to form a trail, and the monkey found it and followed. The four of us had a grand time with that monkey before the organ grinder caught us and give it to us good.”

“Four of you? You mentioned only three.”