CHAPTER 30
The clouds left Pittsburgh. The last drops of rain on Leonora’s bedroom window evaporated with the emerging sun. The day would be dry of storms, but would remain damp.
Leonora sighed, turned her head on the pillow and faced the door, long auburn hair spilling around her shoulders. The adornments of the bedroom were the same as the day she filled her role as a Fairfield. Pink-blossomed wallpaper and chestnut bureaus had witnessed her growth from child to adult and yet she felt little changed beyond form. Her body had lengthened and slimmed; hips and breasts drew curves against her silhouette. By all accounts, she was a woman now. But her angled yet soft face implied a confidence and sophistication she did not feel.
Far away in the distance, an ambulance wailed. Her heart thumped. No one else in the house would hear the siren, a remote hum from the valley, but it caught her ear as a silent whistle would a dog’s. The Fairfields were donating a wing to the hospital and she was to attend the dedication ceremony—a moment of freedom, a moment of release from the house she was nearly forbidden to leave. Her ears followed the waning trail of the siren until it whimpered and disappeared in the valley’s muzzle. Her heart thumped again. If she was going to bring up her desire to attend nursing school, today would need to be the day.
“You’re not wearing that!” Eleanor scolded when she saw Leonora coming down the stairs. “We’re donating a wing, not taking the nurses to tea. Wear something patriotic.”
Leonora changed, met back at the stairs for the next round of editing.
Her aunt glanced at the dress. “That’ll do.”
The black Rolls idled in the drive as the chauffeur held open the door. “Have you heard from Mr. Fairfield?” Eleanor asked as she bristled past the servant.
“No, ma’am.”
“He was supposed to come in yesterday.” She grimaced. “Just like him.” The door closed, the women settled into seats. “Your uncle’s as stubborn as a badger. Every sane man is scrambling to get out of Europe and Owen is digging his toes in the bloody soil. Now I’ve got to do the whole ceremony myself.” Eleanor rubbed her long neck, stuck out her chin. “I’ve half a mind to change the locks. Let him stew in the stables for a bit.”
Leonora slanted against the door, tried not to attract more attention than necessary. She knew the anger would spill her way at any moment.
Mrs. Fairfield picked at the graying hair above her ears, tucking in strands that were already well tucked. “The Post-Gazette will be covering the story. Try not to clam up.” She waved her hand. “Don’t say too much, of course. Just that we support our allies—the importance of doing our part—you understand?”
This was the opening Leonora was waiting for, but as she opened her mouth to speak her throat closed. She lowered her head in defeat. “Yes, ma’am.”
Eleanor scanned her. “You were going to say something. What was it?”
There was no escape. A blush rose to Leonora’s face as she stammered to form a coherent word under her aunt’s gaze. “I-I-I’m . . . I . . .”
“Speak, for God’s sake!”
Anger suddenly eclipsed the fear and Leonora met her gaze, swallowed hard. “I want to go to nursing school.”
Eleanor laughed. “Yes, yes, Owen told me all about your little idea. He thought it as stupid as I did. We both had a good laugh actually.”
The slap was instant, a sting without touch. “That’s not true.” The anger and disbelief swirled in her mind. “He said he supported my decision. He . . . he said he would think about it.”
“Have you learned nothing about my husband over these years, Leonora? Owen says whatever serves him at the moment. He would tell you the sky was green just to make you smile.” Then, under her breath, she murmured with a hint of jealousy, “Pathetic.
“Nursing school is out of the question. No woman with the Fairfield name will be working like a paid servant. A nurse is nothing more than a maid to a sick person.” Eleanor leaned forward to examine her reflection in the driver’s mirror. “The answer is ‘no’ and I expect never to hear it brought up again.”
Leonora held her tears at bay, forced them with sheer will to stay down. “But I’m nearly done with my studies. What would you have me do?”
“You’ll marry into a good family and have lots of babies and happy memories!” she spit sarcastically. “Now enough of this chatter.” She shook her head like she had an itch and rubbed her throat. “We’ll be at the hospital soon and you’re all red and agitated. That’s not the way to make a first impression, especially with the press.” The woman’s fingers scratched at her throat again. “Of course, who’s to say what sort of reception we’ll get after you scorned Dr. Edwards. My God, Leonora, the man only asked you to dinner.”
Leonora turned to the window. The scorn was a polite refusal to the forty-year-old board director whose eyes never looked above her breasts.
Eleanor settled into her lace collar and relaxed. “Well, at any rate, the hospital is not the place to meet a husband. Trust me. Half the doctors will be shipped out soon and the ones who are left are too old or inept.”
The car descended into the city, the buildings dripping with varying levels of black and gray, a mirror of Leonora’s heart. The conversation, the hope, was smashed. All that was left was the urge to cry, to disappear, to melt into nothing even as she was squaring her shoulders for the latest Fairfield function.
The driver pulled to the entrance of the hospital and helped the women out to the sidewalk to the awaiting swarm of businessmen and government officials turned out for the ceremony, not out of support for the new wing, as it was not as grand as some others, but out of fear of losing favor with a family such as the Fairfields through absence.
As the photographers set up tripods and held flashes high in the air, the men pushed comically against one another lest they get cut from the frame and have no record of attendance. They fought to shake Mrs. Fairfield’s hand, to promise future social dates and gush what a lovely young woman her niece had become. Leonora nodded and smiled, shook hands, let the compliments and praise fade into the pitch of voices like a foreign language.
After the crowd dispersed and their vision speckled with camera flashes, the doctors escorted the women to the new wing, touring between aisles of steel beds, sheeted in white, half-opened in crisp triangles below propped pillows.
“The war should be over long before America sends a man.” Dr. Edwards spoke confidently to Leonora’s bosom. “However, it’s important to be prepared,” he continued to Mrs. Fairfield’s neck. “Besides, the English hospitals are overflowing.”
“We must do everything we can to support our allies,” recited Mrs. Fairfield.
The reporter from the Gazette scribbled down every word but paused to look at Leonora. He was a little older than she, a thin pencil mustache above his lip. “And you, miss, is there anything you’d like to add?”
She lowered her head.
Mrs. Fairfield narrowed her eyes. “My niece was just mentioning how important it is for the younger generation to see beyond themselves to the higher good of the masses.”
“Ah,” said the reporter as he kept his eyes glued on Leonora. “So, philanthropy runs in the family. Do you plan on volunteering here at the hospital?”
Just then the cage door opened and bird wings flapped in her stomach. “Yes,” she almost shouted. The group stopped. Eleanor’s eyes grew to saucers.
The wings flapped louder in Leonora’s throat. “Yes. I’d like to volunteer—to work here. Anything to help.” The voice that came out shocked her with its boldness.
“Wonderful news,” said Dr. Edwards as he scanned her hips. “We’d be pleased to have you. We’ll set you up with the Red Cross. When would you like to start?”
“Tomorrow.” The word tumbled out. Mrs. Fairfield closed her eyes for a moment, her jaw clenched and rigid below the high cheekbones.
The reporter wrote down every word, his tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth. “Great way to round out the piece—one family making a difference in big and small ways.”
Leonora’s aunt did not speak for the rest of the tour, only nodded politely at Dr. Edwards’s directives. But Leonora could hardly contain her joy and looked upon the white walls, the linoleum floor and echoing halls as trails to freedom.
After lunch, the driver pulled the car to the sidewalk. The Fairfield ladies presented their hands for the round of cold lips and many thanks.
“We’ll see you tomorrow, Leonora,” said Dr. Edwards with a wink.
“Yes. Thank you.”
Dr. Edwards closed the car door, shutting out the noise from the city and magnifying the space between Leonora and her aunt. Leonora kept her gaze cemented to the window as the car turned into the street, her aunt’s eyes burning her skin.
“You must feel pretty proud of yourself,” Eleanor began, tugging at each finger until her gloves sat folded on her lap like a second pair of hands.
Leonora waited for the rug to be pulled.
“I admit, I didn’t think you had initiative. I’m not sure whether I should be angry or proud.” The woman cocked her head, inspected her. “Of course, watching you stand up for yourself is a bit like watching a blind man cross the street. Pitiful, actually.”
The flutters died and the cage locked.
“However, I’m going to allow it.”
Leonora’s head snapped up.
“I don’t have to,” her aunt corrected. “I could easily find an excuse as to why you’re needed at home. But I’ve decided not to fight you on this one.” She rolled her eyes. “Why you’d want to spend time in that place is beyond me, but that’s neither here nor there.”
Leonora savored her fortune, tried to keep the excitement from showing, but her aunt saw it like blinking lights. “A note of warning, Leonora. I’ve indulged you this time. If you ever pull a stunt like that again, it will not end in your favor. I suggest you don’t try to test me.
“Look at me.” Eleanor tapped her roughly on the knee. “You don’t talk to anyone, understand? Do your work, roll bandages or whatever nonsensical job they have you do, and that’s it. You’ll need to make up your studies in the evening. Are we clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Fairfield’s fingers tapped on her purse as they passed the first gate to the estate drive. “Knowing you, you’ll fall in love with some crippled soldier. Just like you try to save those mangy alley dogs.” Her disgust suddenly shifted and her body shot upright as if someone pulled her hair. She peered over the driver’s shoulder. “Owen’s home.”
Eleanor tossed her purse and coat to the maid and walked briskly toward clinking glasses in the library. Leonora took her time removing her coat before following.
“You’re late!” her aunt scolded, the reprimand too clouded in relief to be terse. “We expected you yesterday.”
Owen Fairfield kissed his wife on the cheek while juggling a cigar in one hand and an amber drink in the other. “The time change, dear. Always takes me by surprise.”
She rolled her eyes. “Time change!” she huffed. “You’re a man who lives by the world’s clock. Nothing takes you by surprise.”
He smiled and kissed her on the forehead. “Ah, I’ve missed you, my love.”
Just then Eleanor noticed the man leaning leisurely at the bar. She rubbed her hands down her hips. “I didn’t realize we had a guest.” Leonora followed her aunt’s gaze. Her breath caught.
The man stepped forward and Owen placed a hand to his shoulder. “Ladies, I’d like to introduce you to Alexander Harrington.”
Alex took Eleanor’s hand and brought it to his lips, her eyebrows rising oddly. “Good evening, Mrs. Fairfield,” he greeted. The young man turned to Leonora, inched close, picked up her hand and kissed it, his lips lingering and soft against her knuckles, sending goose bumps across her arms and up her legs. “Hello, Leonora.” He dropped her hand and slid his eyes over her figure. “It’s a true pleasure.”
Eleanor Fairfield watched the interaction with growing enthusiasm, her lips twitching into an inexperienced smile. Owen squeezed the young man’s shoulder again and announced, “Alex has been managing our mine in Bombay.”
A maid brought white wine on a silver tray. Eleanor shoved a glass into Leonora’s hand, prodded her to drink, then turned back to their guest. “And how are you finding India?”
“Hot.” Alex smiled, revealing rows of white, straight teeth. “Depending on the time of year, it can be wet or dry, but always hot.” He smirked, his lips well formed and sensual. “India’s hard as she is beautiful. Not another place on the earth like it. Thanks to the British, I can still enjoy some normal comforts. Of course, everything’s scarce with the war.”
“You won’t be returning anytime soon, I hope?” Eleanor asked coyly.
“That’s up to your husband.”
Eleanor dangled her glass between two long fingers, cocked her head. “How old are you, Mr. Harrington?”
“Twenty-seven.”
She ran her finger along the rim of the glass, the wine making her amused, her eyes skeptical.
Alex crossed his arms and returned the look, unflinching. “By your expression, Mrs. Fairfield, you’re either impressed or troubled. I can’t tell which.”
“Both, actually.” She smiled. “I’m impressed by your ambition. However, I’m disappointed in my husband.”
Owen raised his eyebrows against the accusation. “And what have I done?”
“To waste such a handsome and charming man in the pits of Bombay!”
Alex was startlingly handsome. He stood a full head taller than Leonora’s uncle, even taller than her aunt by several inches. In his winged collar and ascot his skin was smooth with a hint of tan, his dark hair upswept and rugged, almost windblown, adding a casualness to his form.
“It’s not like he’s picking rock, darling!” Owen scoffed, then conceded with a bow, “I promise to have you assess the physical attributes of all my workers from now on.”
Alex turned to Leonora, his eyes falling on the scoop of her dress. She stretched the fabric to her neck before catching her aunt’s scowl. Eleanor motioned to the maid to refill Leonora’s wineglass and then addressed her husband: “Your niece has decided to volunteer at the hospital.” The statement sounded strangely like a compliment.
“Is that so?”
“What sort of work will you be doing, Miss Fairfield?” Alex asked, his dark, nearly black eyes holding her face.
“I’m not sure,” Leonora answered. His gaze became too strong and her face heated. His lips curved to a grin and she was grateful when the maid stepped between them.
Owen raised his empty glass. “Scotch, please.”
“Not before dinner, Owen!” Eleanor ordered.
He ignored her. “Alex, will you join me?”
“Not if it displeases the lady.” The young man’s tone rang with authority and Leonora was amazed. Governors and business moguls alike kowtowed to the Fairfields and here was this man with unsettled hair who did not pluck a word or stall in self-consciousness.
“Actually, I think the evening calls for champagne,” Eleanor decided. “Mr. Harrington has put me in a celebratory mood.” And indeed, his presence had a joviality about it. Usually evenings were indigestible, choked between excruciating silence and nagging quips. But tonight there was levity and Eleanor Fairfield bubbled subtly like the champagne now uncorked.
“A toast!” Eleanor raised her glass. “To my husband’s homecoming, to our guest, Mr. Harrington, and, of course, to our country!”
Leonora drank her champagne, felt the effervescence tickle against her tongue, felt it blend with the white wine already in her stomach, and she found herself flush with gratitude. Tonight brought the banter of her uncle’s relaxed speech. Tonight brought a man who drew her aunt’s attention away from Leonora’s shortcomings. And tomorrow the hospital, freedom from the confines of the house. Tonight there was air. Leonora could breathe, really breathe, this evening, and she turned to Alex and smiled without realizing it—her smile unwavering this time, simply grateful. He raised an eyebrow and his dark eyes danced over her features.
Eleanor Fairfield relaxed into the alcohol, her face loosening, almost pretty. “So tell me, Mr. Harrington, what line of work is your family in?”
“Banking. Investment firms. Commodities. That sort of thing.”
“And how’s business?”
Owen sucked on an ice cube. “My wife wants to know if you’re rich.”
Alex laughed. “Working for your husband, no. No disrespect, of course.”
“None taken.” Owen patted him on the back, then eyed his wife. “Now leave the young man alone, dear.”
“It’s all right,” said Alex. “I have no qualms about talking money. In fact, I admire her frankness. Most people try to find a man’s story by his manner or dress or education, or by gossip. I appreciate the forfeiting of games—it makes for a much more interesting and honest evening, I think. Besides, I take no pride in the wealth of my family, just as I’m not ashamed of my own lack of it.” Alex leaned casually, his body inching closer to Leonora’s. “My father passed when I was quite young; my mother a few years ago. My stepfather is a rich man, it’s true, and money has been set aside for me if I need it. But I don’t need it, nor will I ever use it.” His whole figure shifted and tensed, his eyes hard and steady. “I intend to be a very rich man, but plan on earning every penny myself.” He grinned arrogantly. “That’s why I feel so fortunate Mr. Fairfield has taken me under his wing. I’m learning from the best.”
“Nothing you don’t deserve.” Owen spoke between bites of ice. “Productivity magnifies around you. Don’t know how you do it. Could teach me a few tricks at this point.” He plopped another scotch-soaked cube in his mouth. “That’s why I’m bringing him to the mills. Want him to see where all that ore is going.”
“I hope that means you’ll be staying here,” Eleanor insisted.
“I don’t want to impose.”
“Nonsense. We certainly have the room.” She turned to Leonora and clicked her teeth with her tongue. “Don’t we?”
“Then I’d be honored. I expect we’ll be seeing quite a lot of each other.” Alex grinned at Leonora, his comment singularly defined.
Eleanor nodded with slit, glowing eyes. She took Owen’s drink out of his hand. “Come check on dinner with me.”
“I’m sure the cooks have it covered, dear.”
Eleanor rolled her eyes, pulled her husband’s hand, tilted her head toward the young people. Leonora blushed hotly and lowered her eyes to her hands, tried to sink through the carpet.
Alex reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a small silver case, flicking it open with his thumb. He displayed the line of cigarettes. “Do you smoke?” She shook her head and twisted her hands.
“Good.” He took out a cigarette, smacked it twice against the silver and put it in his mouth, shoving the case back in his pocket. “I find it unladylike.” He cupped his hand away and lit the tip, sucked in, shrugged. “I’m old-fashioned that way.”
They were quiet for several minutes. He peeked at her. “You aren’t going to have your aunt throw me out for smoking, are you?”
“No fear of that,” Leonora said softly. “You charmed her. That’s not an easy task.”
Alex leaned back and placed his hand on his heart. “Ah, she speaks!” He smiled widely. “Your aunt is a strong woman and I respect that. A man knows where he stands.” He looked at her steadily. “But the bigger question is, have I charmed you?”
Leonora swallowed, but a smile tipped her lips.
“That’s more like it!” he teased. He smoked casually, watched her. “How long have you lived with your aunt and uncle?” Alex asked.
“Since I was eight.”
“Mind if I ask what happened to your parents?”
The words were drilled and rehearsed. “They died in a fire.”
“I’m sorry.” His face mellowed.
She drew upon the champagne’s warmth to dull her nerves and drown out the guilt of the lie. “My uncle likes you. You must be very good at your job.”
“I am,” he said with unabashed confidence. “But my credit is limited. I’ve learned everything from your uncle.” He shivered playfully. “Wouldn’t want to be on his bad side.”
“Oh, he’s a teddy bear.”
Alex stopped short. “With hidden claws, my dear! I’ve seen him tear men to shreds.”
Now she stopped. “Are you saying he’s violent?”
“No. Not violent. But ruthless.” He turned to her shocked expression and grinned. “It must sound like I’m speaking ill of him, but it’s a compliment. Really. He’s an amazing man. A master negotiator. He can give a man a choice, acts like the decision is completely out of his hands, when, in truth, there is only one answer and it always—always—works out in his favor, just as he intended.” He glowed in admiration. “Your uncle’s got a true gift.”
Leonora grew silent. Alex ground out the cigarette in a crystal ashtray. “Here I am with a beautiful woman and I’m talking business. Feel free to yawn.” He smirked mischievously, then shoved his hands in his pockets. “Tell me, Miss Fairfield, are you seeing anyone?”
The nerves sparked again, her heart thumping. “No.”
“You sure? I’m quite certain I saw a line of suitors standing outside the gates!” he teased.
She rolled her eyes, tried to suppress her smile.
“No husbands I should know about? Hmm? Wouldn’t want to step on anyone’s toes.”
She laughed then—a real laugh with a real smile. She glanced at him and his eyebrows rose with pleasure. “Good,” he said as if she had answered. Then he moved to her side, inched his shoulders closer and stared boldly, his face and manner sanguine. He whispered in her ear, “Then you won’t be angry if I try to steal a kiss.”
“Dinner’s ready!” Owen hollered from the hall, nearly loud enough to cover the hammering of her heart.
“Just stand here and hold the pan steady,” ordered Nurse Polansky. Tall and blond with a hint of a Polish accent, the nurse looked better suited to the Milan runways than a patient’s bedside, but her hands moved aptly and surely over the man’s body, raising his eyelid to make sure he was asleep. Taking the scissors, she cut the line of bandages that reached from his knee down to his covered foot, the gauze opening wider with each steady snip.
Leonora felt the blood drain from her face. The skin crumbled black below the gauze, and the smell of wet, rotting flesh rose from the bed. Nurse Polansky removed each square slowly, placing the crusted bandages in the quivering bedpan. Drops of blood beaded from the man’s disturbed skin. Leonora closed her eyes and the room spun; bile rose to her throat. “Go,” the nurse said firmly, taking the pan and turning back to the patient.
Leonora sped from the room, covering gags until she reached the bathroom. Gripping the toilet with both hands, she vomited until there was nothing left, and still her stomach spasmed for more. She slid to the floor and covered her eyes, reached for the toilet paper and wiped her cheeks. Finally, she walked out to the mirror, her face white, her hands still trembling as she splashed water over her face and patted it dry.
Nurse Polansky didn’t look up when she returned. She finished wrapping the man’s limb in a fresh bandage, cleaned up the remaining scraps, then motioned with a curved index finger for Leonora to follow. From the nurse’s expression, she would be sent back to rolling bandages.
In the common room, Nurse Polansky scrubbed her hands to the elbow, dried them and folded the towel next to the sink. She turned to Leonora. “You’re the Fairfield girl, aren’t you?”
Her heart sank. “Yes.”
“Why aren’t you working downstairs with the other volunteers?”
Leonora flushed as she remembered the way the women teased her, called her princess and mocked her cruelly. Nurse Polansky seemed to read her thoughts and nodded. “Do they know you’re working up here?” she asked.
“No.” She waited for the dismissal.
The nurse opened a drawer and handed her a name tag that said Clara D. “Make sure they don’t find out.” Leonora looked up gratefully.
“And there’s a young man in room three eleven who wants your help writing a letter.” The nurse gave a wink. “I think he likes you.”
Leonora found the room at the end of the hall and recognized the young man whose arm was amputated a few days before. He couldn’t have been more than her age. The stump from the elbow was thickly bandaged and held in a sling. He watched her sit next to the bed and pick up the notebook and pen. She met his gaze and asked gently, “How are you feeling?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “About the same. Gets so I can’t remember what it’s like not having something in pain.” She sat before him intact and yet she knew exactly what he meant.
Leonora tried to change the subject. “Where are you from?”
“South Carolina. Spartanburg.” The accent was drawn and smooth. He was freckled, not handsome, but cute, cocky like a farmer chewing a piece of straw.
“And who would you like the letter to?” she asked with poised pen.
“My mom.” He smirked. “You married?”
“No.”
“Got a beau, then?” His eyes began to glass over.
She knew where this was going, for Cupid held no chance in the face of morphine. “No. Now, what would you like the letter to say?”
“Will you marry me?” The young man looked at her dreamily, and she put down the pen.
“That’s the morphine talking, I’m afraid.” She covered him up with the sheet for the sleep that was coming his way.
His speech began to slur as he protested, “A man knows when he’s in love.”
“You don’t even know my name.”
“Course I do.” He craned his neck and squinted at her name tag. “It’s Clara. Clara D.”
“That’s not my name.”
“Sure, it’s not! See it right there. Not nice to tease a cripple, Clara! Now come on . . . what d’ya say? Will you marry me, darlin’?”
She patted him gently on the good arm. “I’m very flattered, but I won’t be marrying you or anyone else, for that matter.” The words took her by surprise, for she meant them heartily.
“Sure,” he said sarcastically before closing his eyes lazily, giving up the fight against the morphine and her hand. “I know you, Clara. You’ll marry. The good ones always do.”
Several weeks later, the moon was new, but the gas lamps bordering the rose gardens spilled ample light along the gravel path. Each segment haloed in the glow before waning gradually into the contrasted darkness, until the garden seemed a place of its own, surrounded by the black of the universe, the stone mansion nowhere in sight. The perfume of roses clung to the warm air and enveloped the skin and senses. Leonora held a silk shawl lightly in her wrists, the back of it drooped along the small of her back.
“There you are.” Alex emerged from the shadows. “Your aunt’s been looking for you. Party’s about to start.” He watched her face and edged closer. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t do so well . . . socially.” She shot a furtive glance at the house, twisted the shawl.
He laughed and kissed her temple. “Ah, but you’ve never had me as a date before.”
His body radiated warmth, made the rest of the air feel cold in comparison. She neared him, the smooth fibers of his jacket brushing against her arm. His thumb touched her little finger, tickled the skin. He took her hand and pulled her gently to a stop. “Is there something else? You’ve been quiet ever since you got back from the hospital.”
“Do you think the war will last long?” she asked, her lips frowning.
“Yes. Fighting like this doesn’t end quickly; blood’s too thick.”
The thought settled dully in her chest. Images of wounded British soldiers who had been shipped to the states for critical care fanned in her memory, bundles of pain more than human bodies, and now the cruelty was to continue with new boys, new pain that spread man’s ruthlessness like the plague.
“With war, there are those who suffer and those who prosper,” he preached. “I, for one, have no intention of being on the suffering end.” Alex touched her cheek with the back of his fingers, traced a path to her jaw before sweeping them under her chin. Without seeming to move at all, he appeared closer, leaned in slowly, touched his lips against hers, lips as full and soft as petals. He put his hand at the small of her back and pressed softly, guiding her body against his. Her arms reached around his waist and held tight to his jacket, her caress spurring him closer, his lips moving surely. Her body, unaccustomed to touch, soaked in his fingertips as they moved up her spine and etched lines across her shoulder blades.
His kiss grew fervent as he parted her lips, slid his tongue around hers, forced her mouth open. The sensations came too fast and she pulled away with a jolt.
With empty arms spread and mouth still open, Alex stood stunned. Then he shut his mouth, covered it with one hand, his body laughing. “I don’t believe it. You’ve never been kissed, have you?”
She turned away, hoped the earth would swallow her whole.
“Aw, darling, don’t be upset.” The laughter stopped, but his voice was full of merriment. Alex came up from behind and held her shoulders. “I’m sorry I laughed. Truly.”
When she didn’t move, he kissed the back of her neck. “I find it lovely, actually.” He whispered near her ear so that all the tiny hairs of her face tingled with his breath. He kissed the side of her neck. “It’s quite enchanting.” He kissed the ridge of her collarbone. “Irresistible.”
Alex turned her toward him and kissed her lips again, treading more slowly, grazing her lips instead of pressing them. “We’ll just have to take this slow, won’t we?”
He leaned in and kissed her softly on the throat, moved his lips up her jaw to her earlobe and whispered, “As slow as you like . . .”
By Fairfield standards, the party that evening was a small affair, though the guests held most of Pittsburgh’s wealth in their palms. The Monroes and Edmontons were old money multiplied by generations in real estate and banking. New money in resource management, inventions and construction plumped the pockets of the Beekers and Sotherbys. Judge Richardson attended with his gaggle of girls who flirted with any male over seventeen and scowled at any female regardless of age. Then the select higher brood of Mr. Fairfield’s steel mills, young men without immediate wealth but its future acquisition a certainty, for no one stayed poor long under Owen Fairfield’s wings.
Leonora wore another new dress to go with the others that kept showing up in her wardrobe—Italian, French tags, lower necklines and clinging fabric, silk stockings and slips that made the body feel more naked than clothed. Cocktails were served in the sitting room while maids bobbed invisibly between circles of guests, refilling glasses at every sip. These parties were not new for Leonora, nor was the anxiety surrounding them, for they were insistent reminders that she lived on the periphery and did not fit into any group. But this party was different, for Alex stood so close to her side that a line of heat grew between them, so close that the sour whispers of the Richardson girls and the winks of the mill men could not reach her. His lean, strong body shielded her from Eleanor’s pointed criticisms, while his erudite conversation saved her from the tedious chore of small talk.
“Alex!” called Owen Fairfield from a ring of smoking men. “Come join us.”
“I’ve been summoned.” Alex winked at Leonora. “Don’t talk to any strange men while I’m gone.”
Lithe as a cat, Eleanor Fairfield slid to fill his spot, one arm folded at her waist, the other balancing a wineglass. “It’s going well then?” she asked. Leonora nodded.
“He’s very attentive. I doubt he’s taken his eyes off you all night.” She pointed her glass to the Richardson girls. “Look at them nearly panting in the corner. Shameful. Of course, their mother’s no better. Tsk-tsk. Why does that woman insist on wearing cream when it washes her out completely?
“Look at the effect he has on the men as well.” Now Leonora’s aunt pointed the wineglass at the group of black tuxedos. Owen was bright with story, his hand clasped to Alex’s shoulder. “I daresay my husband has a crush on him!” She laughed. “Do you see how the men straighten around him, fix their hair? Remarkable.” And she was right. Alex rubbed his fingers through his hair and two of the young men imitated him with comical timing. His manner combined arrogance with casual posture, the beguiling smile erasing any insult. As if his ears were burning, Alex turned to the ladies and took leave of the men.
Eleanor inspected her niece quickly. “Don’t screw this up, Leonora.”
Alex returned to Leonora’s side, placed a hand on her waist and kissed her temple to the open pleasure of her aunt and the chagrin of the young women and men jealous in their own way. “This room is becoming lopsided with beauty,” Alex said brazenly. “Not fair really.”
“You’re a charmer, Mr. Harrington.” Eleanor pinched his cheek affectionately before making her way to her husband.
Alex scanned the guests. “I’m having a hard time thinking of anything other than that kiss. You’ve put me in a pickle.” He took a sip of his drink, grinned and rubbed a thumb against her back. “I might have to take you in my arms right now and do something very improper.”
After cocktails, they joined the others in the banquet hall and took their seats. Gerald, the butler, as experienced and subtle in his role as a ghost, poured wine so not a glass was less than half-full. Angela, the new table maid, struggled with the tray of soup bowls, each filled to the top. She served Mr. and Mrs. Fairfield first, then nervously placed a bowl in front of Leonora, who looked up at her and smiled with reassurance. The woman took a noticeable breath and steadied.
Owen Fairfield’s nose was red from drink as he slapped the table, continuing some story he found extremely amusing. “. . . of course, they didn’t expect a Yank to know a lick about polo, but our boy here”—he pointed across the table to Alex—“our boy here beat them clean, then handed them their balls!” The men erupted in laughter.
“Owen!” Mrs. Fairfield gasped.
He raised his hands innocently. “It’s polo, dear.”
Alex leaned back and laughed, bumping his head against Angela’s arm, sending the soup she was serving down the center of his shirt. He bolted upright, nearly knocking the chair over. “Jesus Christ! You clumsy b—!” he shouted, his fury immediate and violent.
Leonora froze, his anger stopping her cold. He caught her look and loosened his jaw. “It’s all right.” He picked up the napkin and began wiping off the mess.
“It is not all right!” Eleanor scolded. “Did she burn you?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Eleanor growled at the quivering maid, “Get out and pack your bags!”
The maid began to cry, her eyes flitting from face to face. Leonora rose and took her by the shoulder. “It wasn’t her fault.”
“She’s right,” Alex said, composed, adjusting his neck. “It was my fault.”
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Fairfield addressed the butler: “Gerald, get her out of here. Now.”
Helplessly, Leonora let go of the maid, watched her hunched figure depart.
“Please accept my apology, Mr. Harrington.” Eleanor rubbed her neck. The rest of the guests stared awkwardly into their soup. “Leonora, take Alex upstairs for a new shirt.”
Leonora ignored Alex as she stormed from the room, did not slow down as he tried to catch up. She stomped upstairs to the last room, throwing open two walnut doors like shutters.
“You think this is my fault, don’t you?” he asked as she opened one closet after another, pushing full hangers aside. She played deaf, scanned a line of shirts and pulled out a white one.
“I’m the one who got scalded by hot soup and you’re angry at me?” he shouted.
Leonora inspected the tag at the collar and shoved the starched shirt to him. “Here. This should fit.” She moved toward the door and he grabbed her arm.
“Don’t be cross. Please?” he begged. “Besides, you can’t leave me up here. I’ll be hopeless to find my way back.”
She kept her back to him but did not attempt to leave. Alex removed his jacket and laid it on a dimpled ottoman and began fumbling with his collar and tie. “Damn it,” he mumbled. “Could you give me a hand? These blasted buttons are caked with soup.” She turned, dubious.
“Please? Your fingers are much smaller than mine.”
Plastered with acorn soup, the man looked quite helpless. Leonora stifled a laugh.
He grinned. “Seeing you smile like that makes a third-degree burn almost worth it.”
Leonora stepped toward him and undid the first three buttons under his neck easily. At his chest the button stuck with the soup and she twisted and struggled to free it. The shirt opened in a V at his chest and she swallowed. Her fingers worked on the next button. As she was fully aware of him watching her, a blush rose to her cheeks as her fingers brushed his stomach. She moved a button lower and her hand began to shake. She knew he was smiling just by the way he was breathing. She plucked the button and turned away.
“There’s one more,” he said smoothly. “You forgot the last one.”
Leonora bit her lip, turned back to the shirt, pulled at the button above his belt until the shirt fell open. A line of dark hair grew between his muscles and thickened above his waistband, sending a wave of heat down the backs of her legs. He followed her gaze, looked at his stomach, his muscles rippling with the bend. “You’re a nurse.” He smiled. “Is the burn very bad?”
“I’m not a nurse,” she said, averting her gaze.
“Well, you spend enough time with them.” He peeled off the shirt and let it fall to the floor, his broad shoulders as disturbing as the chiseled chest.
She blushed hotly. “You’ll live.”
Alex finished dressing while she tapped her foot and tried to calm her pulse.
“All better, eh?” he said, moving close. Brushing an arm past hers, he opened the door and bowed. “Thank you for your assistance, Leonora.”
As they walked down the hall, he leaned a shoulder against her back and whispered in her ear, “And, for the record, if you ever have soup spilled on you, I’d be happy to reciprocate.”