Sundown (21 page)

Angel of Darkness

Romantic American Regency
Novella

By

Jade Laredo

December’s cruel wind, cunning and relentless, whipped shards of ice crystals against the girl’s sunken face as she wheedled her way through small rolling drifts of newly fallen snow.  Josephine Harte ducked her chin daring not to breathe for too long as each breath brought a bitter scorch to her lungs. 

It was a night, like no other. 

Not a cloud in the sky, starry lit and bright beneath a Yuletide moon.  Full and eternal, its’ jaundice glow reflected against her youthful face as she peered into a nearby windowpane.  There and upon display was a pair of woolen mittens.  The painful reminder forced her to look down at her bare hands, colorless and nearly deadened by the cold.  Rubbing her hands, she struggled to bring warmth back
to her nearly frozen fingers. 
The girl released a labored breath. 

Rent was due by midnight. 

She had
no other choice, but to stand there. 

Madame Warensky warned her about the matter.  Her heart sank with bitter longing. 

Of all nights, it was Christmas Eve. 

In the window’s reflection, she saw a man crossing the street.
  Gathering her strength, she wheezed.
 

“Matches!”  She whirled around nearly tripping over herself.  With a sense of trepidation, she watched as the man carrie
d on without heeding her
call.  Disappointed, she drew her arms about her shoulders and hugged herself to stave off the bitter cold.

Already, the last-minute crowds dispersed. 

She noticed many shops
closing down for the evening’s festivities, and soon the streets would empty, the thought almost made her weep.

She imagined families gathering, huddled for warmth near blazing hearths, entertaining with spiced wassail, puddings, and confectionaries.  Even now, she could smell the savory scent of ham roasting by the spit, and a holiday pie cooling.  Somewhere in the distance, the enchanting sounds of cheerful voices
she would
long since forgott
en soon died away, and all, which
remained was the sound of winter’s unforgiving wind.  

Bracing herself for another attack, she wheezed uncontrollably as she leaned against the windowpane, struggling to stand upright.  Since early morning,
she would
felt the aches and pains, and though she
could not
feel her hands, her brow burned with a tempered fever. 

Yet she
could not
give up. 

She was certain Madame Warensky would evict her if she
did not
come up with her rent.  There were only a few matchboxes left.  If only she could sell just one more.  Perhaps Madame would forgive her for being short on the lease.  Maybe then, she could go home, light a fire, and crawl into bed and sleep her illness away. 

Please God, one
patron that is
all I ask … 

It was her
last thought before her vision whirred and she slowly slumped to street and rested her feverish head against the cooln
ess of the snow-packed earth. 

“You’re much too kind, Raphe.”

Raphael Worthington, sole proprietor of Worthington Shipping lifted his chin, and stared past the dark confines of a sleek carriage space.  The voice was supple, uninhibited and entirely seductive. 

Leticia Hemenway sat directly across, the shadowy outline of her face starred back at him.  Delightfully accomplished and dignified, she was a beautiful package, all rolled into one.  Yet something in their relationship
was not
right, a fact
he would
leave well alone, at least for ton
ight.  In truth, it seemed
every woman
he had
ever encountered there was always something mislaid.
Reluctantly, he concluded
perhaps
he had
never met his ideal match.  

“Too kind, am I?”  He asked, giving her a sidelong glance.

“How many seafaring merchants hand out holiday vittles to their crew on Christmas Eve when they should be home spending time with their families?”

Raphael placed
the back of
his hand across his
mouth hiding a knowing smile. 
To him, the crew
was
his family. 

She had never understood nor should she. 

Born a merchant’s daughter her life was that of a socialite, skilled in grace and etiquette.  She
had not
a clue what it was like to live on a shipmate’s wage, let alone survive. 

“Lettie, my dear.”  He reached for her hand and then smiled.  “What is one less Christmas Goose to ease the hearts and minds of those less fortunate?”

She smiled back but the light from her eyes did not.  “What would your father think?”

He shrugged his shoulders.  “I daresay he’s rolling over in his grave.”

“My, how glacial it is tonight.”  She replied, intent on ignoring his mention.

Raphael watched as
Leticia
leaned back in her plush seat, and looked out the frosty windowpane.  Typical, he thought.  The woman
had not
a backbone in her body.  Like the other kowtow women in
his
life before her, she had resigned from fostering her own opinion.  All that mattered was to preserve her station in life.  She would rather bite her
own
tongue than spur a disagreement for fear she would lose her reign on their at times mercurial relationship.

“Were you speaking of the weather?”  Raphael inquired his tongue heavy with sarcasm.

“Of course.”  She returned, looking up at him with an insipid smile. 

“Lettie, I …”   With brakes screeching, the carriage came to a sudden halt.  Damnation! 
He had
wanted a reason to end their relationship, something
he would
put off for weeks.  Frustrated, Raphael leaned forward and rapped on the window. 

“Percy!”  He yelled.  “What the devil is it?”

“A wee mite, Cap’n.”  A gruff voice returned.  “Blye me, but she looks dead.”

Leticia
gasped, drawi
ng a gloved hand to her mouth.

Raphael
quickly threw open the door, hurdling toward the driver’s side.  There on the ice-encased road was a small figure, laying in a fetal position, a young girl, no more than thirteen.  Deathly pale, she looked li
ke a pitiful
angel awaiting death.  Leaning closer, he placed his finger against the hollow of her neck and felt for a pulse. 

“Percy! “  Raphael barked.  “Beacon Hill at once.”

“Aye, sir.”

Raphael hefted the child in his arms. 

He carried her to the carriage where
Leticia
held the door stepping aside she let them pass.  Once inside, he looked at the girl and then up at his companion who eyed him warily.

“You’re not taking this
street urchin into your home, are you?”

“Yes” Raphael returned his voice graveling. 

“This isn’t like you at all.” 

“Lettie, the child needs our help.  Now is not the time for social morals, but rather compassion.”

“We’ll be late for the Soiree.” 
Leticia
reminded him.  “Why not deposit her at the poorhouse?”   

“You can’t be serious.  She wouldn’t stand a chance.”  He growled, struggling with the girl in his arms.  He shot her an incredulous look.  “I’ll not give up on this child, not on Christmas Eve, so help me God, but I won’t.”

Raphael embittered, turned from his mistress and stared out the frosty window.  Upon first glance, Boston might seem like a vaporous town, an age-old shipping Mecca full of distant voices and mysterious faces, a polyglot society worth entertaining.
However, the lure of such fanciful
whims no longer intrigued his detached mind.  Instead, he felt consumed by encroaching shadows and plumes of smoke, which spiraled into the bleak darkness.  Within minutes, the carriage reached Beacon Hill, his beloved neighborhood and Boston’s finest.  Soon they ambled along Beacon Street until the vehicle came to a churning halt.  Gripping the child in his arms, he struggled from the carriage and paused briefly, looking up at his home.  Tall and erect, the brownstone mansion stood like a lone sentinel.

“Percy.”  He ordered.  “Fetch
Doc Lawrence
at once!”

Taking two step
s at a time, he shouldered
the front door and rushed into the foyer where he found Rowena, the dowdy housekeeper holding a candlestick with her mouth
aghast.  Sparing little time
addressing his servant, he gave a curt nod. 

“Ready my quarters.” 

“Right away, Master Raphe.” 

Following Rowena up the stairwell, he barely acknowledged his mistress who tarried behind with lips set in a disappointed moue.  Now, his concern was for the child. 
He would
have to deal with
Leticia
later. 

Once in his personal quarters
, he waited patiently as Rowena stripped away the bed coverlet down to bare sheets.  Fluffing a pillow, she patted the bed.  As soon as he laid the girl down the servant shooed him from the room.  
             

Alone in the hallway, Raphael paced the floor. 

As the clock struck eight o’clock, he realized the house seemed eerily silent.  Of course it would be.  Aunt Charlotte would not be back until midnight because his cousin, Elias
Pembridge had escorted her to the M
ariner’s Christmas Soiree.  Thank God, for once Pembridge was useful, he thought
bitterly
, tilting back his head with
sudden relief.  Now
he did not think he could handle either member of his family.