Heart Appearances (Truly Yours Digital Editions Book 560) (7 page)

Alone at last, Brent shook his head, let out a prolonged breath, and set his briefcase on the table. His disloyal mind replayed Charleigh’s words, and he gave a short laugh. The idea of him and Darcy as a couple was so—so preposterous, so outlandish, so altogether incongruous that Brent didn’t dwell on the picture overly long.

Instead, he moved to pour himself a cup of the strong coffee that good-hearted Irma had left on the stove. He needed something to help him keep alert while grading papers, and Brent didn’t share Darcy’s preference for tea.

Sitting at the table, he noticed her half-peeled orange and stared at it a few seconds—imagining her popping one of the segments into her mouth and then grinning at him. Abruptly he turned his attention to the first paper with a scowl. He must wrest his mind off Darcy Evans and apply it to the task at hand.

The short, quirky sentences and frequent blobs of ink testified to Joel’s handiwork without Brent needing to look in the upper right-hand corner for the name. The boy was always trying to get away with the least amount of effort possible. The original poem was half the five stanzas of the story poem Brent had assigned, didn’t rhyme, and glorified a runaway involved in a life of crime.

Sighing, Brent made corrections, took off a large percentage for not following directions, and gave Joel a 49. He picked up the next paper in the stack, a slight smile on his lips.

At least Tommy did try, as evidenced by his laborious efforts at doing a job well. Several half-written words over the page were crossed out and reattempted, some as many as four times until the word was spelled and written correctly. The paper was messy with its many alterations, but the lad had persistence; Brent would grant him that. The poem was unusual, about a toad eating a lame mouse, but Brent didn’t like to tamper with his students’ creative abilities. He was more concerned with grammar and sentence structure at this stage of their education. Giving Tommy a 70, he went on to the next paper. He picked it up and froze.

Darcy’s large block letters stared up at him. She hadn’t learned cursive writing, though Brent had attempted to teach her. But she often balked and demanded to know why a person had to learn to write in two different styles “when one way of writin’ was all a body needed.”

Familiar sounds in the room—the sporadic drip from the water pump hitting the basin, the creaking of the timbered house settling, the barely audible moan of wind outside—faded into the background as his gaze traveled over the neatly printed poem:

Let me tell you a story, a sad one, me friend,

About three young lads I knew in the East End,

Crackers was brite, often looking for a lark,

Hunstable was kwiet, but he had a certun spark,

Roger was gentel, a little lamb, and like no other,

And we all took good care of him as if he was our brother.

Most would call them feluns, for theevin’ is what they done,

But the three of them became my friends when I had not a one.

For all his bluff and brashnuss, Crackers was a good leader of our gang,

’Til the day he was cot filchin’ bread and was slammed in jail with a clang.

Hunstable changed once Crackers left, thoe he tried to take his place.

Once we were four, then we were three, ’til Hunstable vanisht with nary a trace.

And lastly there was dear Roger, a sweet angel in disgize,

Lame and sick, his stay weren’t long, ’til one day he forever closed his eyes.

Yet the moral of me story, friend, has little to do with theevin’,

Even those who don’t know what the Good Book says know it’s wrong to make a life out of steelin’.

Rather the messadge of me poem is this: Why did no one help us or care?

We was only children trying to servive in a world that was harsh and bare.

Didn’t peepul who read the Good Book see that it said to help the orfuns and needy?

Or did they just think us worthluss guttersnipes who was nothin’ but dirty and greedy?

I don’t know the answer, friend, thoe I’ve long tried to find the reezin;

But this I know, while I draw breath on this earth, I’ll do what I can for those who be needin’.

For each time I look on a poor child’s face or that of a sad little orfun,

I see me old friends, and remember our life, on the streets in the East End of London.

Brent blinked away the unexpected moisture that had sprung to his eyes. Never mind the misspelled words—they were of little significance in relation to the gold mine he’d struck. Darcy had talent. Her prose was a bit rough, but the artistic content was very good for a beginner’s first poem. It further shocked him to realize they shared a knack for writing poetry, though Brent could see from this first attempt that Darcy’s skill might well exceed his someday. Mechanics could be taught. Talent could not.

He pondered the printed words, wondering what had happened to her friends. Reading over the poem again, he fiddled with the paper, considering. An idea came to mind that made him smile. He measured the possibility awhile longer, then swept the rest of the papers into his briefcase, placing Darcy’s ungraded one on top. Closing his portfolio, he grabbed it and hurried to the parlor, hoping he could find the form he’d come across in last week’s
Saturday Evening Post
.

❧

Darcy stood at the open attic window, inhaling the fresh, bracing air that heralded the coming of spring. Clumps of bright green broke through the melting snow, which lay in patches over the dark earth. She watched Joel and Chris, a quiet, skinny boy with an unruly shock of blond hair, as they made their way toward the barn with buckets, probably to milk the two cows.

Darcy wrinkled her brow in concern. Lately, Joel seemed edgy, a container of pent-up energy waiting for a place to unleash. Of course, they all were anxious to spend time outside, having been holed up for most of the winter; but Joel seemed more volatile than the other boys.

Darcy smiled. Volatile. Her new word for the day. Every day she learned a different fancy word—one that Brent might use—in her efforts to increase her head knowledge. Maybe if she became more fancified, Brent might like her better.

The stray thought made her face go hot. Although behind his back the boys labeled Brent “a stick in the mud”—and rightly so—Darcy harbored a strong liking for the man ever since they’d talked last Christmas. She didn’t care all that much if he was a bit stuffy and overly neat; yet Darcy knew he would never put up with the likes of her.

Sighing, she wished she could be more like Charleigh, who talked so properlike and was genteel, a real lady. Darcy often found herself doing things and later finding out it wasn’t considered appropriate. Nor had her rough, Cockney accent disappeared, though at least her words were more easily understood.

Determined to have a quick romp with the boys in the cheery spring day, Darcy headed for the door and down the stairs. She should help Irma with the bread pudding, but the weather was too fine to waste.

Before Darcy could reach the threshold, Charleigh came around the corner. Her eyes were dark in her strained, white face.

“Charleigh, Luv, what’s wrong?” Darcy gripped her friend’s shoulders. She gave Charleigh a slight shake when she only stared. “Tell me! Ye look like ye’ve just seen a man leave his grave.”

“A telegram came,” Charleigh said, tears filling her eyes. “Stewart’s father is deathly ill. . .something to do with his heart. Stewart is packing and leaving on the first train tomorrow.”

“Oh, I am sorry!” Darcy pulled her friend into a hug.

“Oh, Darcy,” Charleigh mumbled against the wide collar of Darcy’s dress. “I’m trying to be brave, like a good wife should act. . .but. . .I just don’t feel well.”

Before Darcy could question her, Charleigh clutched Darcy’s shoulder and collapsed in a faint against her.

❧

Brent stood outside with Stewart and watched the boys do their chores. Stewart frowned on hiring guards, insisting that the unusual way he and Charleigh ran the institution was how they felt the Lord had instructed them to do it. Brent had to admit the experimental method worked well. Though some of the older families in Sothsby, whose generations dated back to the 1700s, still opposed having a reformatory there, the community as a whole hadn’t outwardly rebelled.

Except for minor infractions, there had never been a need for corporal punishment. Once a new boy tried to run away, but he hadn’t gotten far before Stewart found him. Now Lance seemed content at the reform. He never tried to escape again, and his tendency to withdraw from others had dissipated.

Brent watched Lance as he helped Samuel fix a broken porch rail. The weak sun shone over Lance’s freckled face and strong body—worlds removed from the grubby, pale scarecrow who’d come to their doorstep years ago.

“I don’t like leaving Charleigh,” Stewart said, breaking into Brent’s reverie. “But I have to do what I feel is right, just as she had to do years ago when she turned herself over to Scotland Yard.”

“I agree.”

Obviously still troubled, Stewart rotated the brim of his straw boater. “My family needs my legal counsel. Mother is helpless when it comes to dealing with business matters of any sort; and with Father bedridden, she’s frightened they’ll lose the store.” He sounded as if he were trying hard to convince himself that he was doing the right thing. “Still, I’m worried about Charleigh. She had a fainting spell yesterday—which is so unlike her—though she didn’t tell me a word about it. I had to hear the news from Darcy.” Frowning, he looked off into the distance. “Charleigh’s been under a great deal of strain, and I fear she’s taken on too much with the boys and the upkeep of the house. She needs rest.”

“I’ll look after her welfare, as I’m sure Miss Evans will. Those two are close.”

Stewart offered him a weak smile. “You don’t know what a relief it is to hear you say that. And I’m doubly glad we sent for Charleigh’s friend.”

The front door opened and both women appeared. Brent noticed Charleigh slip her hand from Darcy’s and straighten her shoulders. “The train will be leaving in a little over an hour,” she said in a small brave voice. Her smile wavered. Darcy stepped up and said something close to her ear. Charleigh gave a brief nod and tacked a tight smile to her face. “Shall we go?”

❧

The ride to Ithaca was fraught with tension. False smiles were tossed about, and forced laughter crackled the air, feeling almost tangible and grating against raw nerves. Words of little import filled rare interludes of quiet.

As they neared town, Darcy noticed several people standing on the platform, waiting to say good-bye to loved ones and friends or to welcome those arriving. A small group of rowdy young men burst into raucous song that sounded better suited to a tavern.

Darcy stared at the trio, receiving a wink from a cheeky blond gent in return. Much to her shock, Brent grabbed her above the elbow once she alighted from the wagon and hurried her along after Stewart and Charleigh. What was even more of a surprise, he didn’t release her once they came to the platform and stopped a short distance from the two, to give their friends a measure of privacy.

Darcy wasn’t sure what to think. She wondered if it was wrong to enjoy him standing so close, his warm fingers wrapped around her sleeve, when Charleigh was depressed, uncertain if she’d ever see her husband again.

Darcy sobered. Charleigh had been quiet all afternoon, and Darcy knew that she and Stewart had argued last night. She’d heard them from her attic room.

Watching them now, Stewart seemed stiff, almost cold, and Charleigh appeared resigned. Darcy prayed that Stewart wouldn’t leave Charleigh, as Darcy’s own papa had left her mother when Darcy was all of five years. The war had obviously changed Stewart. Darcy was glad that Brent had been exempted, as Charleigh once informed her; and without meaning to, she voiced the thought aloud.

“What did you say?” Brent asked.

Darcy looked at him. “I was just sorry for them two and wishing they could make it right between them again,” she blurted. “And I said I’m thankful, I am, that you weren’t sent off to fight in the war—and aren’t dealing with your own sufferings now because of it.”

His eyes widened behind the spectacles. Darcy inwardly cringed. Would she ever learn to think before she spoke?

Brent’s face went a shade darker. “Yes, well, thank you for the sentiment, Miss Evans.” He cleared his throat, looking everywhere but at her.

Darcy’s gaze slid down his long nose to his well-shaped lips. Idly, she wondered what it would feel like to kiss this man. Crackers sometimes kissed her on the forehead when she was sad, but that wasn’t the same. They’d only been children.

Nearby, a couple locked in a farewell embrace. For a fleeting moment, Darcy considered throwing her arms around Brent and giving him a quick peck on the lips. Wouldn’t that make his mouth drop open! The thought made her giggle.

Brent looked at her. “Something amuses you, Miss Evans?”