Where would you like to go on this fine Saturday morning?” Woody asked in well-pronounced Polish, helping Ella onto his wagon. Someone had been practicing.
She situated her wire hoops and ruffled skirt while forming an easily translated reply. Where else in this country might she find a rich husband? “What sights are there to see in Newark? Free ones.”
Despite his ducking around the front of the horse, she sensed his amusement.
Heat rose in her cheeks. He needn’t know the other requirement: frequented by wealthy, single gentlemen, preferably handsome and kind. Doubtful he’d drive her if he did.
“There’s an old cathedral on Broad Street.” He climbed beside her and adjusted his coat. “Draws visitors from all over to gaze at its beauty. Granted, a building of ninety years isn’t old compared to your European”—he struggled with the word—“castles … ones I’ve seen in paintings, I mean. But it’s one of the oldest structures here.”
Ella shrugged her consent. A tourist attraction was a tourist attraction, and if she was to obey Mama’s instructions to provide for her family, she must go where the men were. Though dwelling on that thought hadn’t helped much when Woody showed up at her door a few minutes ago with a picnic basket full of bread, cheese, sausages, and pickled beets—a barter from one of his clients, he said—and insisted on sharing the lunch later on. Now the spicy-buttery aroma tormented her for skipping breakfast again.
“Nice dress, by the way. Your employer has good taste. That … purple color becomes you.” His squinted amusement bordered on smugness. Must he remind her she was but a servant putting on airs?
Her chin came up.
As they rattled along, shopkeepers greeted him and ladies followed him with their eyes.
When his shoulder brushed hers, Ella chuffed and made extra space on the seat between them. He might be helpful, well liked, and have ravishing good looks, but her sister Ina’s life out-valued twenty handsome faces. He did make a striking figure, though, more a king enthroned than a cart driver. Silly thought. When were draymen ever regal?
“This is where you ask if I attend the grand old cathedral.” He stared straight ahead, though his mouth curved.
Her traitorous cheeks warmed. “Oh?”
“Yes. And I answer, ‘No. Sundays, I worship with a small congregation near the livery.’”
Was he flirting? Americans … Under normal circumstances, the shyness Ina teased Ella about would take over and save her from any intelligent response.
But no. Questions bobbed to mind pell-mell:
Did he attend church out of duty, or truly know God and talk to Him each day?
Was he a student of the scriptures?
Did he have access to a copy of the Bible?
Despite her curiosity, she pinched her mouth shut. She’d give her back teeth if he’d stop studying her like a freshly unearthed potato. Extra attention she did not need, from him or any passersby.
Ojej!—Oh dear! Might Mistress Theodore or one of Ella’s fellow servants spot her here?—then she’d truly be in the rice. She shrank in her seat and fussed with her shiny sleeve buttons.
“How long have I attended there, you ask?” He leaned in a fraction, that smirk still in place as the wind assaulted his hat. “Why, it is three years now.”
Biting her lip against his humor, she studied the passing buildings. If he was content conversing solo, could it hurt to listen?
“My friend Franklin Pierce found me in … much need of God’s love,” he said. “He also found the crack in my armor—a deep love for learning. I agreed to study the Bible with him, but when the Book told me my attempts to make up for my sins were … rotten in God’s eyes, I grew angry.”
Self-awareness tightened his smile and his ears reddened. “Many things I didn’t understand. How could my good deeds be thought bad? How could the blood of Jesus Christ ‘wash’ me from sin when blood only stains?
“Somewhere between Pierce’s kindness and prayers, I quit fighting and knew only one thing—I wanted a new life. I wanted to feel … clean again. So I gave myself to God—good, bad … All the other. Today, I can’t think of life without Him.”
His gaze held hers for a moment, the candor there quaking something inside her, stirring a desire to share her own story. Grappling new respect for his sincerity, she contemplated his profile as he slowed the wagon at an intersection then guided the horse in a turn.
“Are you a woman of faith, Miss Ella?” he asked above the hum of the passing marketplace.
When she found her voice, Ella relayed in simple terms her own salvation when as a young girl she’d gone to the local chapel to learn to read. The old bishop, an earnest student of the scriptures, taught her how Jesus’ sacrifice paid for her sins and that, because He didn’t stay dead but rose from the grave, she could repent, have her sins forgiven, and heaven for her future home.
“Thank you for telling me.” He regarded her a moment. “You could join me for worship tomorrow. I’d be happy to drive you.”
Longing to agree—she’d not settled on a church in America yet—she gave a noncommittal answer instead. Somehow their mutual faith and the common ground it created roused guilt about today’s mission.
At Ella’s request, Woody pulled up several yards from the old church. He held Ella’s trembling hand as she climbed down, then he stored away his hat. On solid cobblestones, she fluffed her tiered skirt and smoothed her hair, taking in the cathedral’s stoic grandeur. Would a rich man first stroll the gardens behind the church or start inside like others were doing?
Glancing sideways, she caught Woody’s stare, and her heartbeats thickened. Having him along while she hunted a husband was proving a tad counterproductive. Yes, she should be grateful he agreed to drive her around Newark on his day off. But what would he say if he discovered her plans?
Why his opinion mattered in the least was a question for another time, when those warm brown eyes turned elsewhere.
He clipped an anchor of sorts onto his horse’s bridle and chocked the wheels of his cart. “You sure this isn’t too far? I could have driven you closer.”
And have everyone see her ride up in a delivery wagon? No, thank you. She breathed the spring wind, appreciating the cherry trees shedding pink blossoms along the walk. This day was made for wooing. “I prefer to take the air. It’s a beautiful day.”
Woody fell into step alongside, his hands clasped behind his back. “I look forward to viewing the cathedral inside.”
Ella’s steps slowed. He was coming with her? “You’ve never been here?”
After striding ahead, Woody turned back and shrugged while the breeze took liberties with his hair. “Are there no interesting things in Austrian-Poland you’ve never seen, though you lived close by?”
Come to think of it, he was right. The fearsome, snowcapped mountains that rose behind Baron Zimmer’s estate had beckoned to her all her life, but she never once ventured to explore them.
“We often overlook the things nearest us,” he said, taking the walk’s street-traffic side.
True. She determined then and there to not overlook any wealthy gentlemen in her husband search. If she paid attention, Lord willing, she’d find a courteous man of strong integrity, honorable and true, a man of faith.
Kind to needy children.
When she lengthened her pace to catch Woody, the stares they received climbing the steps together screamed a new dilemma. How did one attract a wealthy gentleman with another man—a common deliveryman what’s more—at her side?
In a split-second decision, Ella held her thumbs for good luck and entered the cathedral’s arched doorway alone.
Her progress slowed, however, as her eyes adjusted to the dim interior light. She’d stepped into another world, a world smelling of moist stone, tallow, and old parchment. The arched ceiling curved down into a balcony, while stained glass and a many-piped organ at the front drew her past several visitors—unfortunately, none of them young gentlemen.
Despite the surrounding beauty, her hopes fell. If she lingered a few minutes, might a likely target present himself?
She slid onto the front pew and stared at the ornate altar and accoutrements. Each carving and piece of ironwork—the best to be had—bespoke the crafter’s devotion.
Was it wrong to seek the best, to grasp at it with all her might?
The faithful old bishop in her homeland taught her Jesus Christ already did the earning and the paying for her sins. But physical blessings? Provisions for her family? Wasn’t she supposed to achieve those on her own, through the work of her hands and the strength God gave her? As the old saying went, if you pray for potatoes, you’d better have a hoe in your hand.
But securing a rich husband might bring unwelcome consequences as well. What if her husband wanted only heirs, not a lifelong love? Ania, her older sister, married for love. Something in Ella rebelled at being denied the same privilege.
Lord, why have you not spared us the hunger, the harsh taskmaster in Baron Zimmer, my brother’s death?
No answer.
No matter. She’d accepted her lot when she left the homeland. She couldn’t back out now, not with Ina and the rest depending on her. How she missed that girl! Eyes all spark and vigor in a hunger-weary face. Homesickness reared and moistened Ella’s eyes.
Loosening her purse strings, she sniffed, then drew out her new kerchief—Ina’s goodbye gift. Ella’s fingers trailed the crooked Polski words embroidered along the hem.
WALK BY FAITH, NOT BY SIGHT. THE JUST SHALL LIVE BY FAITH.
What did that mean, anyway?
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
She startled at the English words she understood.
At her left hovered a dapper gentleman, fair of hair and light of eyes. He smiled—at her!
Heart tripping over itself, she smiled and stood. An answer to her prayer so soon? Thank you, Father. She tried her tongue at an English greeting. “G—Good morning.”
His reply included “here” and “church” and ended with a lilt. Oh bother, was he asking her a question? His gibberish was a Spanish village to her.
Attempting to form a response, she couldn’t remember any phrases Anetka—her fellow housemaid—had taught her for pleasant conversation. Clasping her hands at her waist, she gave a nervous laugh. When she got home she was going to burn her emigrant guidebook—worthless thing, as useful as an overcoat for the dead.
He smiled his confusion before giving a slight bow and leaving her to study the stained glass.
Shame and defeat flooded through her. She must find a way to communicate better or her cause was lost.
Awash in sudden lonesomeness, Ella turned around. Where was Woody?
An older couple strolled the aisle. The only others in the room were the young man she’d made herself a fool to and another robed man tending the altar candles.
With a wistful glance at the fashionable young man, Ella made her way toward the exit, her footfalls loud in the cavernous room. When she reached the confessional cabinet, someone spoke.
“Miss?” Behind her, her almost-prince—she must learn his name—held up her kerchief.
“Oh,” she breathed. When had she dropped it? She accepted the returned treasure and managed the English, “thank you.”
Searching her face, he said something she couldn’t interpret except the word “understand.”
Drat.
Inside the confessional, Woody debated whether to translate Jamieson Leech’s words for Ella. He couldn’t risk revealing himself to his rival from boarding school days—the whole reason he’d dashed into the confession box in the first place. What was Leech doing here? The fellow had uncanny connections with the gossip mill. No quicker way for Woody’s name to go public again and resurrect the family scandal. He ran a hand over his hair and naked jaw. Going without his hat and whiskers today might not have been the best decision.
But if he expected to get to know Ella, he wanted her to see the real Woody … as much as he could afford.
He couldn’t forget the sad longing in her eyes when she’d held Musty close yesterday and smiled at him, despite the boy’s odor. She’d looked from boy to boy with a compassion that shook him to his boots. As if she knew their pain and wished for a way to help them, too.
Her earnestness when telling him how she met the Lord convinced him of her virtuous character. Could she be the ally he’d prayed for?
“Don’t you have a translator?” Leech asked slowly, as if addressing a small child.
Ella smiled and shrugged but didn’t turn to leave.
“You can’t understand anything, can you?” Leech chuckled. “More’s the pity.”
Woody frowned. Miss Lipski might not know the English language, but she was no simpleton.
What a clod he’d been, leaving her without a tour guide. And now “Leech the Leech” thought he could speak to her like a child?
Not on Woody’s watch. He tapped the confessional’s latticed wall and whispered in Polish, “Ella, do you wish me to translate?”
She stiffened. “Woody? What are you doing in there?”
Woody’s whispers were out of Leech’s hearing range, but at Ella’s string of words, the dandy shrugged and shook his head. Woody smiled. This could be a lot of fun. Besides, if he wanted to learn more about Ella …
“I ducked in here to avoid a …” What was the Polish word? No, he’d best be vague. “Someone I didn’t wish to talk to. Now listen, I’ll tell you what he says, then you can whisper what you wish to say back. He’ll think you’re translating in your head before you speak.”
“Efektowny—Brilliant,” she uttered in husky Polish.
Woody’s chest expanded. That spark of appreciation in her eyes when he lifted her from the street hadn’t lied. She liked him, whether she admitted it or not.
If she shied away, he’d simply have to draw her out. Once upon a time he’d been quite the smooth talker. Right now, though, she needed a translator. At your service milady. Your knight in shining armor—er, confessional box.
Rendering her desired response in English, he dropped prepositions and quoted incorrect verb tenses to authenticate Ella’s farce. She echoed him, mispronouncing the “th” sounds with a hard “d” and rolling her r’s. Rather than mention herself, she inquired about the city and Leech. Questions Woody could have answered if she’d but asked.
Halfway into the conversation, her breathy whisper raced chills over his arms and shoulders. He cleared his throat, which helped nothing. Brushed a hand over his hair, his scalp heating up. The act of whispering was a blasted intimate thing.
His gaze trailed the determined set of her silk-clad spine and her beautifully coiffed hair. Like honey spilling from a honey dipper. She was something of a curiosity, not to mention darling, in that dress. A maid wearing hand-me-down finery about town. A riddle to unravel. And unaffected, which he admired most. Not oversweet or plying clever turns of phrase.
What would it be like, having such an honest someone to whisper aspirations to, sharing the soul’s deep longings, during the lonely seasons? Someone who’d help you keep secrets, help you dream? He’d lost that in Molly and still missed—
Ella’s hand darkened the lattice holes with a smack.
He shuffled for purchase on the bench. Straightened. Smoothed his collar. Thunder and lightning, how had he gotten so distracted?
Not a hard thing to do when her clean-cotton scent wafted to him on her whispers. Her graceful arm tapered into a slender wrist, the silhouette of her small hand against the lattice begging his attention. He covered it with his own, his chest warming along with the wood between their palms.
“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” he muttered in English.
Aloud, Ella parroted him.
Leech took a step closer. The vulture. “Are you free a week from tomorrow? There will be a Grand Sacred Concert at Phoenix Hall by the Venetian Troubadours.”
As Woody’s brow fell, he straightened. Of all the preposterous …
Ella smacked the lattice again with a soft “ahem” to cover the sound. Sassy woman.
The Polish interpretation came stiff through Woody’s clenched teeth as he pressed his head against the confessional wall behind him, trying not to growl and failing. “Say ‘no’ for nie … or ‘yes’ for tak.”
Say no. Say no.
She bounced on her toes. “Yes.”
“Dash it all,” Woody groused under his breath. He would have invited her himself if he knew she wanted to go. The event was free of charge. Why hadn’t he thought to ask? There’s no way he’d let Leech steal Ella from under his nose when he hadn’t had a hound’s chance in a horse race to court her himself.
Yet.
She needed to learn English, and he possessed the skills to teach her. He wasn’t about to let that opportunity slip by without asking.
The moment Leech left, Woody climbed from the box and rounded on Ella.
Her radiant smile caught his breath and wouldn’t let go. “Dziękuję,” she whispered. “Thank you so much.”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and almost forgot to use Polish. “You don’t have to whisper anymore, he’s gone.”
As her joy faded, he wanted to snatch back the words and gulp them whole. From “brilliant” to smile-killer in ten minutes. Well, when you’re neck-deep, you might as well swim.
“If you want to thrive in America, you need someone to teach you the language.”
She nodded, pensive, and pivoted toward the door.
“Why not let me?”
Her green eyes met his, and that spark flared again. Small, work-roughened fingers worried her bottom lip while her cheeks pinked up. “I don’t know.”
Time to sweep her away with his signature rascal’s grin. He pocketed his hands and leaned a shoulder against the confessional. “Where else will you get lessons from a native English speaker?” He raised his chin. “Free ones?”
The priest cleared his throat.
Woody straightened and coughed. All right, so maybe he’d lost the pretty-boy factor when he first learned to shave.
Ella quit pulling at her lip—a most distracting habit, by the way—and glanced at the robed man. When she cut her eyes at Woody, a shy smile peeked through before she turned to exit the building. “Fine. You will teach me.”
Eureka.