His For Christmas Page 3

  The housekeeper made a small sound in the back of her throat, either that of disapproval or approval. “You see? Really, I just don’t know what to do. She hasn’t even bothered to wash!”

  And indeed, there was a rather unsavory smell emanating from the woman and he felt his appetite wane considerably.

  And just when he thought it would be better to leave the girl until she decided enough was enough, she stopped and sat back on her haunches, the rag still in one dirty hand.

  “Miss Stevens?” he asked.

  There was beauty underneath all that grime, he was sure of it. It was evident in the tilt of her brows, the subtle curve to her high, sculpted cheekbones. But really, none of that matters. After all, he would merely welcome her as a guest and she would go off to wherever she was meant to be.

  Suddenly, Elliot never felt so alone in his damned life. “Miss Stevens, are you quite all right?”

  She shook her head slowly, breathing heavily, looking very much as though she would like to cry. “I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

  Her voice was clear, surprisingly husky considering her small stature.

  He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I am so sorry. Truly, I...”

  Mrs. Chang patted the girl on her head as if she were a small house dog. “There, there. It's all right now. You are safe now, don't you worry about a thing.”

  Moisture glistened in those extraordinary violet-blue eyes and she swiped at them impatiently. “I am so sorry to have disrupted your life. If there's anything you'd like for me to do, I’ll do it. But, outside...”

  He thought he understood.

  And how he'd wished Timothy was here to talk to her.

  They were, after all, two birds of a feather.

  Or something like that. “How long have you been here?”

  She let out a slow breath. “I don't remember.”

  “When did you leave New York?”

  “In...November,” she said quietly. “I was...”

  The silence stretched on between the three of them, and Mrs. Chang harrumphed under her breath, the ladle in one large, calloused hand. “Never mind all that. We don't give a fig about where you've come from. Or where you plan on going. But we are going to have lunch very soon, so perhaps it would not be such a bad thing to wash before we do so? With all due respect, girl, but you smell as though you've slept the whole week in the alleyway behind the saloon.”

  A strange expression crossed the girl's face and Elliot couldn't help but wonder if that indeed had been the case.

  Christ. What kind of situation would dictate such an action? What had happened to this elegant, soft-spoken woman that she'd have to spend nights outdoors with nothing more than a dirty coat for comfort?

  She stood up and Elliot was once again surprised. He wasn't excessively tall, quite comfortably a few inches above the medium, or whatever was considered the medium, but she was tiny.

  How could someone so small have survived?

  “Please,” she said in that surprisingly husky voice. “Call me Ivy.”

  Mrs. Chang nodded. “If that is what you wish.”

  Ivy. An interesting name.

  And yet, it suited her. “And you are free to call me Elliot. Having people call me Mr. Whitley keeps making me look over my shoulder to make sure it isn't my father they want to talk to.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “Oh, no, I couldn't.”

  He managed a smile. “Either I call you Ivy and you call me Elliot or I call you Miss Stevens and you call me Mr. Whitley? Considering how I hate being called Mister, how about we just call it even and go with the first names?”

  She was still for a moment, eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “You don't strike me as a terrible man.”

  Behind her, Mrs. Chang's eyes widened. “What a perfectly strange thing to say, Ivy.”

  The woman set the rag next to the cast-iron stove and her shoulders slumped, fingers clenching into the calico blue rag that Elliot had last seen wiping mud off the bottom of Timothy's shoes. “I might have been raised as a lady, but during my time away from home...” she paused. “May I be frank?”

  Elliot stood up as well. “Please.”

  Her eyes flickered back from him to Mrs. Chang. “I've learned a great deal about life. Most of them are things I wished I never knew, some of them are wonderful...wonderful that I had the opportunity to learn people indeed can be good.”

  Mrs. Chang shifted in front of the stove. “That can't be what you really wanted to say.”

  Ivy shook her head slowly. “No. But while I was alone...I have been propositioned.”

  Elliot felt his face heat. “Good god, what the hell do you take me for?”

  She flinched at his sharp tone and he felt the immediate rush of shame.

  “I do beg for your pardon,” she continued, face down. “But it is something I must ask. For my safety.”

  Mrs. Chang, far from looking shocked, looked as though she wanted nothing more than to laugh her head off. Lips twitching at the corners, she put a hand on Ivy's slim shoulder and squeezed. “My dear girl. I can certainly understand why you would feel such a way. Certainly, a girl alone on the streets...it is a terrible situation and I'm sure you have been in danger countless times.”

  Elliot leaned against the sink and let out a sigh, feeling like a complete and utter idiot. Of course she would be worried about that. He was surprised the girl hadn't been roped into a brothel sooner. Even if she'd been completely plain-faced, with eyes like that...he didn't know how she managed to be safe.

  “How long have you been outside like this?” he asked in a low voice. He was expecting Timothy home for lunch and had no intention of the boy hearing their conversation, all the while knowing he’d seen far more horrors in his young age than Elliot ever would. “And the truth, if you would. Or if you do not feel comfortable, then you may simple say so. But please don't lie. We’d like to help you.”

  The housekeeper nodded. “Certainly. To the best of our abilities.”

  “I don't...” the woman started and then swallowed. “You must understand...I haven't really had the chance to talk about my...situation.”

  Elliot could see the conflict in her eyes and sighed. “Never mind. If you do not want to talk about it, then we can hardly force you. But you have my word that neither I nor Mrs. Chang will hurt you. If you feel uncomfortable at any time, I will be more than happy to take you back to the station, with a ticket to wherever you wish to go.”

  He thought he saw the hint of a smile on her chapped lips. “Of course. Thank you so much. I'm sorry to have intruded at such a time.”

  Mrs. Chang slapped Ivy on the back with a resounding thwack. “Don't be ridiculous! Why, this is the perfect time to intrude. Of course, I’m not saying other times would be inopportune.”

  The girl continued to keep her head low, but he saw her lips move.

  Thought he heard her whisper, “Not ready, do forgive me,” and that was enough.

  He had enough experience with Timothy to know when extracting information would prove more harmful than anything else.

  And in any case, it hardly seemed to matter. After all, she was a guest. When this was all over, she would go back and there would be a return to their old activities; Timothy attending school, Mrs. Chang managing the small household and Elliot trying to forget about the one woman he had ever loved.

  “With that said...” Mrs. Chang began to lead Ivy out of the kitchen. “I do believe it is time I introduce you to our rather lovely wash basin. I'm sure when we come out, you will look a vision. I can tell, you know.”

  Elliot moved aside for them and managed to hold his breath as Ivy passed by.

  It was a sobering thought to think she had no choice and was, at the moment, probably mortified beyond all belief.

  She was, after all, a woman.

  And he would do well not to forget it.

  ***

  Ivy didn't know what to think.

  Scrubbed
so thoroughly that her skin tingled and dirt scummed on the surface of the warm water, she watched the housekeeper, shift through some plain gowns. “No, no, certainly, we can't have you wear something of mine. I don't think I'm a very large woman, but frankly, I've seen birds with thicker bones than you.”

  Water streamed down Ivy’s face and she relished in the warmth that seemed to seep through her entire body. “My mother was very small.”

  “Well, I suppose that makes sense, then.” The housekeeper tapped her dimpled chin in a thoughtful manner. “I don't suppose...hmm.”

  She handed Ivy a bar of soap that was speckled with petals and smelled just as heavenly as the special milled soaps her mother used to order from Paris. “Don't forget to wash behind your ears,” she said, her eyes having taken a far-off quality that made Ivy think Mrs. Chang was not really there at all. “I'll be right back. I might be able to find something to fit you. Doreen's youngest is about the same size as you.”

  With that said, the housekeeper sailed out of the small washing room and Ivy leaned back in the tub, staring at her hands clenching the sides of the metal.

  Elliot Whitley.

  What an utterly devastating handsome man.

  Lying down and exhausted, she hadn't noticed his lean height, the trim hips. Indeed, he was such a change from Yardley Hanson.

  She couldn't believe Bertrand wanted her to marry the inbred idiot. When he waved the engagement papers in front of her face, she hadn't a thought in the world.

  Except for run.

  Run as far and as fast as she could.

  Her mother and father married for love, something rare for New York society, and stupidly, she wanted no less.

  There were handsome men, certainly, there was no lack of them in her social circle, but none of them made her breath quicken, made her heart pound, made her think about them for days on end. Most of them were polite enough, but there was something lacking...

  In retrospect, running away was incredibly rash, running away without even the faintest idea of what she would do once the deed had been done.

  But what else was there to do?

  Just stand there and let Bertrand put her hand in Yardley's and make her live her life as a prisoner in her own home?

  For that surely was what he'd do, no mistake about it. She saw it happen to Aunt Melissande and her cousin, Rachel, too cowed to do much less but live their life with a tired, subdued air that put Ivy's teeth on edge.

  “I won't,” she whispered. “I will not let him dictate my life. I'll live it as I see fit.”

  And perhaps it was a good thing she was a far distance away from Seneca before Adeline stole every last penny she had and her stack of carpetbags, leaving her mistress with only the clothes she wore.

  Ivy stared at the wooden ceiling, still unable to come into grasp that her lady's maid could do such a thing. They had grown up together when Adeline was hired at the age of eight to be Ivy's companion.

  She waited at that platform for three days. Three very long days, to which she could see no solution.

  Indeed, the only reason Ivy did not cave in and go back to Seneca was quite simply, she had no way of getting back.

  Would it have been better?

  To go back to New York?

  Surely, by this time, she would already be wedded to that dolt, and frightening thought, growing fat with his child.

  Just the very idea was enough to cause a wave of nausea rise in the back of her throat and Ivy wiped at her wet face, unable to distinguish where the bath water started and her tears ended.

  Ah, but how wonderful it was to be clean again.

  She brought the small bar of soap to her nose and breathed in deeply of the scented rose petals that made her dizzy in its potency.

  Who knew when she would get clean again?

  Just then, the housekeeper, the woman with the kind eyes and no-nonsense attitude, bustled back in, a gown of white and blue over one arm. “Are you finished then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” Mrs. Chang snapped the gown in the air. “This should fit you. Well, better than anything of mine will. Let's see if we can't get you all dry and ready for lunch. I can't imagine the state of Elliot and Timothy's stomach. I'm half afraid they've gone to the inn for lunch, even though I've told them a thousand times it's better to eat at home. At least, they know what they're eating. Who knows what Addie puts in her food, that's what I say.”

  Ivy stood up and let Mrs. Chang dry her body, the towel moving briskly over the bruises that made her wince every time she touched them.

  “Tch,” said the housekeeper. “It's a shame, it is. But better to bump into Mr. Whitley than anyone else. Did you know he's got half the town's eligible girls lining up to be his wife?”

  “That's certainly no surprise,” said Ivy as she stepped out of the tub, trying not to look at the scum floating on top. “He is not married?”

  “No,” replied Mrs. Chang as she handed her a pair of white stockings and undergarments. “And it's a keen shame. He has only been here in Branford for a little more than a year, and a man of his age, well, you would think would be looking to find a wife.” She laughed then. “Although, perhaps I should be glad if he doesn't. I may no longer have a job here. Now, let’s do something about your hair, hm?”

  The house seemed quite empty, although there was a fire burning cheerfully in the brick fireplace and Mrs. Chang placed a wooden stool in front of it.

  Ivy took a seat on the stool, both hands on the bottom of the seat and the housekeeper pulled a small wooden comb from one of her many apron pockets.

  With only the sounds of the fire and the smell of the beef stew, Ivy nearly fell asleep.

  Mrs. Chang cleared her throat as her fingers gently worked through the tangled hair that had only gotten worse after the bath. “Ivy, did you say your name was?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Chang.”

  “Why are you here?”

  Ivy stiffened. “I do not have anywhere else go.”

  The housekeeper made a small sound in the back of her throat. “No home?”

  Ivy shook her head. “No, Mrs. Chang. No home.”

  She felt the spokes of the comb touch her scalp as Mrs. Chang succeeded in pulling the tangles from one side of the hair. “It is a difficult situation, isn't it? Although, perhaps, difficult is the wrong word. Do you have any family?”

  “No,” said Ivy. “No family.”

  That, at least, was the truth. She would never admit to having Uncle Bertrand and Aunt Melissande as family. She was better off alone than with the pair of them.

  “I'm sorry to hear that,” replied Mrs. Chang. “So even if Mr. Whitley offers to buy you a ticket to your home...”

  Ivy sighed. “Even if that were the case, I'd have nowhere to go.”

  Mrs. Chang ran the comb through her hair. “My, it's long, isn't it? Tangled into bunches, I never noticed.”

  “It's silly, I think,” said Ivy after a moment of silence. “I was proud of my hair. My mother always said how much she envied it.”

  “There are places that would buy hair such as yours,” said Mrs. Chang, her mouth muffled by the comb held in her mouth, as she gathered Ivy's hair off the nape of her neck. “But I suppose that had already occurred to you, hadn't it?”

  Ivy nodded. “It did.”

  “You refused. Just as I'm sure you refused to give up your body,” said Mrs. Chang in a startling display of frankness. “Don't give me such a look. I've seen a lot of the world, and I know what happens when girls such as yourself fall on hard times. It's either the brothel or the stage for them. But as you are here and not there, I can only assume you've refused to do so. Why?”

  How could she possibly explain the revulsion she felt walking past such places, hoping people who just see a little girl in a large man's coat, maybe even a little girl with a belligerent drunk for a father, a man who would think nothing of killing someone, the daughter of a man who had nothing to lose. Had it not been for her small frame and y
oung looks, she would have most certainly been unable to resist the advances of a man.

  And that knowledge made goose bumps rise on her skin. “Mrs. Chang, I....well, quite simply, the truth is, I come…came from a somewhat wealthy family.”

  “Obviously,” said the housekeeper. “That's easy to see. Your hands don't look like they've ever been put to use. You move like you've been raised with a ruler strapped to your back. Am I wrong?”

  The memories of Lady Bellina forcing her to walk down a flight of stairs with a stack of books on her head and a yardstick tied to her back was enough to bring a smile to her lips. “Every day. Half an hour every day, even on Sundays. She would’ve made me walk up and down our stairs on Christmas if my father hadn’t stopped her.”

  Her throat tightened almost painfully. “I miss them a great deal.”

  Mrs. Chang squeezed her shoulder gently. “Of course, you do,” she said quietly. “Of course you miss them. Anyone can see that. But you needn’t worry while you’re here. Mr. Whitley, he’s a gentleman. And Timothy…well, I suppose you’ll know when you’ve gotten a chance to meet him. He’s like yourself.”

  She remembered the boy, small and thin with a charming gap-toothed smile. “Like myself?”

  Mrs. Chang twisted up her hair, her hands strong but gentle. After years of getting used to being burned by curlers and the unfeeling hands of her maids, Ivy relished the lack of pain. “Like yourself. Mr. Whitley found the boy curled up in the stable, half-dead. We took care of him. It took him two weeks to say anything, but Mr. Whitley has a way with people.”

  Charisma. As quiet and still as he seemed, there was certainly a presence about him that made people want to stand and just look at him. “But he’s not married yet? And there is no one he is sweet on?”

  Surely it was none of her business.

  But she had seen the echoes of despair and unhappiness drift through those dark eyes, and they mirrored the pain in her heart.

  She felt the cool metal of hairpins against her scalp as the housekeeper gathered her hair around into a bun.