Woody drove by the Theodore residence alone, the loud orchestra music crashing through his tired muscles. He massaged his forehead.
Children couldn’t vanish into the night mists—the boys had to be somewhere he’d overlooked. He’d found nothing since the night he spotted Ollie. Too dark for further searching, this evening would be better spent poring over his city map with a good strong cup of tea.
Light glimmered through the tall hedges surrounding the Theodore property. As he passed the gardens, the perfume of roses assailed him. Was Ella there now, dancing with someone else? He gritted his teeth. What he’d give for the chance to stroll through such a garden with her.
If things were different, he’d take her on a tour of the elaborate flora at his parents’ home and … But things weren’t different.
At the thought of telling her the boys had left, his stomach curdled. He’d hoped to surprise her with good news—two sponsors had taken on the orphanage project since they last talked. The boys had to turn up soon. They’d survived too much together—
A woman’s cry rent the night.
Every cell in Woody’s body answered—he knew that voice. He yanked the horse to a stop, jumped to the ground, then raced across the street and lawn foliage.
I’m coming, Ella.
Where was she? Rounding a rose arbor, he found her struggling in the clutches of Jamieson Leech.
Woody spun the fool around by his shoulder and connected a hard right to his jaw. Leech’s spew showered the air, reeking of alcohol.
The scum.
Leech stumbled back, eyes glazed, a hand to his well-bloodied lip.
Breathing hard, Woody braced his legs and reassumed the offensive. Leech might be drunk, but he was no weakling—their self-defense lessons during the class of ’77 proved that.
“Elwood Harrison?” A clumsy laugh spilled from Leech’s gaping mouth. “I thought you’d have crawled into some alley and died by now. Spoiled rich kid like you.”
A symphony of gasps echoed his name through the throng leaking from the ballroom.
Woody stiffened, shifted his feet. No more anonymity. Back to people thinking of him as a fallen icon instead of a human being. All those years trying to bury the past, down the sewer grate.
In his peripheral, Ella edged a safe distance toward the house. Her safety was worth his reputation and more. But how could she settle for a man like Leech? Didn’t she know she was better than this?
Eyes widening, she clutched her neckline. “Uważaj!—Look out!”
The blow came from nowhere—pain exploded from his cheekbone, spread under his eye, through his teeth, and knocked him onto his back in a flowerbed.
Leech staggered over. “Get him out of here.”
Two chucker-outs shuffled Woody backward over the underbrush to the pounding of his heart. Resisting, he pled, “Ella, you don’t belong here. Don’t let them make you into something you don’t want to be.”
Like Molly. She’d never have chosen a brothel if she’d had a choice. He had to believe that.
Tears plummeted to Ella’s chin before she turned.
When his back slammed the ground once more, Woody rolled to gain his footing, resisting the urge to trip the gorillas who’d hauled him to the brick road.
Ella, still in view, ascended the path toward the house. Didn’t once look back.
What an addlepated fool he’d been, nigh swooning over her, believing he’d found the one woman who adored the street children as much as he. A woman unselfish, candid, untouched by society’s corruptive hand. A woman he could love.
As she disappeared into the crowd, he was struck with the night’s sick irony. What a match they were, she, pretending to be rich, he, pretending to be poor. Well, not pretending, since his father had disinherited him from the family wealth.
Ella though, in all her ballroom finery, was a fearsome beauty to behold—a marvel to any eye. No doubt full of plans he couldn’t begin to reason out.
And he’d created her.
He’d taught her how to walk like a duchess only to watch her glide away from him.
As he turned away, he cursed himself for worrying over her. She couldn’t know—if she was at all who she said—the pain in store for her if she pursued the heights of riches and ambition.
Ella entered the livery’s dimness, last night’s disaster weighting her steps. Spotting a man at the forge, she asked after Woody.
The smith jutted a smudged thumb toward a door in the back. “He’s expecting you.”
He’d heard, then. She had to explain.
When she knocked, Woody answered, eyes serious and tired. Had he slept as little as she?
Hating this new wall between them, she spoke in Polish, knowing she’d never be able to get the words out in English. “There was a fire at the Theodore mansion last night.”
“I know.”
So did the whole city, apparently.
“It was my fault.” She massaged at the ache behind her eyes. “Before the ball, I noticed one wall lamp loose as I filled them, but the night’s excitement distracted me. I forgot to alert anyone of the needed repair.
“I changed back into my uniform after you left, so I would not be recognized. Then Mister Theodore discovered the fire and dismissed me. My landlord put me out, too, when he heard I was responsible for starting a fire.” Pausing for breath, her voice clogged. She closed her eyes. Father in heaven, help me. I don’t know what to do. “Mistress Theodore kept this week’s pay to cover damages. I can’t find work anywhere. Even if I had money for rent, no one would take me as a tenant now.”
Woody said nothing.
Helpless, Ella staggered backward. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I came here. I just don’t know what to do.”
He pushed off the doorjamb and grasped her arm. “Ella, the furnace.”
Gasping, she turned to face the flames.
Woody released her arm then led her back to his quarters, past orderly grain bins and an immaculate wall of tack, so characteristic of him. Frown persisting, he took care to prop his door open. Typical Woody—ever mindful of others and her reputation, even when upset. Crossing the raised-brick threshold, he held a hand out for her.
Craving the safety of his strong grip when her heart felt so raw and vulnerable, she curled her fingers against the temptation. Then, stuffing wariness aside, she clasped his palm and let him pull her into the room.
Pungent tallow and lemon oil perfumed his living space, while light from one window revealed a desk, chair, kitchen area, and stove. He scooted the chair out for her then circled the room, straightening an already organized collection of maps then a pair of boxing gloves and a teacup.
Seated, she followed him with her eyes, brushing her hand against the fabric of her skirt, the feel of his palm lingering.
Two books he replaced on a shelf in the corner. Then he set a miniature pair of shoes atop a clothing-filled crate and slid the box behind a curtain, revealing a tidy bed and washstand. On the desk’s far side, he placed his hands on his hips and rolled his lips inward. “I’m afraid I’ve some bad news as well. I had no chance to tell you earlier … The boys have run away.”
Coolness pricked her nape. She clamped the upholstered chair arms. “What?”
“I scoured the city and found Ollie. He knows where the others are and is trying to bring them back. In the meantime, I managed to get a couple of sponsors for the orphanage project. Unfortunately, the biggest sponsor withdrew his pledge this morning, as soon as he heard of last night’s spectacle.” He rubbed a thumb across his bottom lip. “Yours isn’t the only name feeding the gossips today.”
Something fussed at the back of her mind. What Leech said—
“Good news is”—he spread his fingertips on the desktop—“knowing you’d be in a strait when I heard about the fire this morning, I sent word to Pierce, to inquire if he’d hire you. Provide you with lodging. The maid wouldn’t let me in, because the house is taken with chicken pox, but she said you could come for an interview if you’ve had the disease before.” His thumbs bounced. “Have you?”
He’d made provision for her, knowing she deserved the consequences of her decisions? She fidgeted, more uncomfortable than ever in her elegant dress—her only decent option with her uniform returned and her homespun dresses threadbare. “No.”
He sighed, dragging a hand over his hair. “Right … Pierce will hire you eventually—he’s a good man—but you’ll have to live somewhere until the family recovers and …”
When light from the window fell across his features, revealing a bruised eye and several cuts, she lost the rest of his sentence. “Oh, Woody.”
He turned, gaze softening. Bits of dried blood clung to his chin, tattling his unsuccessful attempt to wash away last night’s fight and present himself as a gentleman.
Swallowing a wave of compassion, she forced herself to speak. “You don’t have a mirror here, do you? You should see yourself.”
“That charming, huh?” His voice lacked humor.
“That bruise under your eye is terrific. Do you have witch hazel and a cloth?”
He touched his eye. Boots echoing across the room, he pulled open a cabinet and took down the items.
Emboldened by his need, she snagged his arm and steered him to perch on the desk edge. “Let someone care for you for a change.”
“I could see to them.” The way he examined his swollen knuckles did strange things to her heart—brought sympathy for his suffering, pleasure at his caring enough to step in harm’s way for her. Her conscience ached. She should have championed him at the ball after his rescue. Maybe left with him. She couldn’t go back, though.
Strange she so often felt pained and cared for in the same moment when near him. Was that not a common symptom of love?
Love or not, she couldn’t marry him.
She focused on opening the bottle of witch hazel.
“When I heard you cry out, then found Leech with you …” His breath stirred her hair—no lemon drop scent this time. Just Woody. “I wanted to hurt him like I haven’t hurt anyone in a long time.” Serious brown eyes met hers, scanned her face. There was no steeling herself against the fragile warmth there. His leatherworker scent, suggesting gentle strength, invited her to stay this close to him forever, made her wonder how his arms might feel around her.
Hands trembling, she folded and doused the cloth, then helped roll his sleeve up to his forearm. Their fingers brushed. She pulled away, her calluses snagging on his shirt fabric, mocking her chances of being anything but a farm girl. How could she marry Jamieson now, knowing he was as Woody warned? She could justify her actions with the motive of saving Ina all she wanted, but Woody would know she’d compromised her ideals, all for a chance at Leech’s money. She couldn’t face Woody’s disappointment. Not when she’d …
Not when she’d come to love him.
Avoiding his gaze, she swabbed a scrape under his bruise and recounted Mother’s letter. “I permitted Jamieson Leech’s attentions because Ina is coming to America early. I thought if I convinced Leech to marry me, I could support her better.”
Did he flinch from the sting … or the touch of a traitor? Swallowing the threat of tears, she breathed deep into her lungs. Taking his chin in her hand, she dabbed at his cheekbone, all too aware of the roughness scraping her palm and the way he studied her features, her hair.
She refolded the cloth and pressed a clean side to the abrasions on his right hand, but he laced his fingers with hers. His steady regard held her captive. “Ella, how can I make you understand?”
The simple question leeched her breath and raised her defenses. “You can start with ‘Elwood Harrison.’”
Breaking eye contact, he pursed his lips and nodded. Releasing a deep breath but not her hand, he began. “Before I was born, my father, Wesley Harrison, foresaw the War Between the States and sold our Mississippi plantation to buy into the railroad. Father’s investment proved profitable. Very. Profitable. The Harrisons are now among the wealthiest in New York.”
She untangled her fingers from his, unable to reconcile the Woody she knew with this rich, powerful stranger before her. “Then why do you struggle to help the boys, seeking sponsors for the orphanage if you can pay for it yourself? Are you a gambler? A swindler?”
His brows rose and he huffed, touching his chest. “Ella, it’s me, Woody, remember?”
“Elwood,” she interrupted.
“No. Only my mother calls me that.” Propping his hands on his hips again, he leaned back. “Don’t make me a monster. I was disinherited five years ago. I don’t own a penny of my family’s wealth.”
Engulfed in shame, she averted her gaze and moistened her lips. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”
Grasping his necklace through his shirt, Woody rubbed his thumb over the material. “I was never close to my parents. Raised by a governess. Sent to boarding school. When I graduated and came home, I befriended an Irish maid in our house named Molly Gallagher.” His words came slow. “Little slip of a thing, orange hair sticking out in every direction.”
Ella dreaded the end of the tale, for it couldn’t be good.
“With all my school buddies living far away, Molly and I became fast friends. Nothing romantic. I didn’t want a miserable marriage like my parents’. My mother, an ambitious woman, never content …”
Shaking his head, he settled back on his palms, his vest rumpling between each button. His eyes narrowed, pleading with her to understand … something. “Mother disapproved of the friendship—had plans for me to marry a debutante from a powerful family. So when a servant suggested Molly wanted to lure me into elopement, Mother fired Molly without severance. Put her on the street. Worse, she spread the rumor among her society friends.
“Months passed before I received Molly’s letter. Without references, she couldn’t get work …” His mouth closed, pulled to one side. He inhaled and the next words came out in a rush. “She was starving. Sold herself for a piece of bread, started working in a brothel, then took her own life. The letter was a suicide note.”
When his eyes reddened, Ella’s watered as well. A twitch started in his cheek, and his voice grew hoarse. “She wrote to thank me … for being her friend. Sent this ring—her grandmother’s. I made a cad of myself to get back at Mother, shamed my parents until they kicked me out.” He flexed his doctored hand. “On the street for two years, I survived by my fists, using boxing skills I learned at school to fight illegally for money. Then Pierce found me beaten on a curbside. He recognized me as the son of a famous railroad tycoon, took me home, and patched me up like a Good Samaritan. Later, he led me to Christ. No one from my old life speaks to me but Pierce. So I settled here, hoping the state line would provide a buffer for my parents and my past.”
She couldn’t fathom having her parents close, but estranged. “Do you ever go back home, try to visit?”
“Couple times, but Mother would never allow me entrance. Especially not after this …” He lifted his fist. “I’ve resurrected the family scandal. People will remember my behavior, how it reflects on my parents—the last thing I wanted for them … or for the orphanage.” Lacing his fingers on his knee, he gave a bitter laugh. “Furthermore, seems I’ve given my heart to a woman both bent on seeking wealth like my mother and desperate enough to sell herself to the highest bidder, like Molly.”
“Woody, that’s not fair.” Not when his confession chafed her conscience and summoned her affections at once. “It’s not the same thing.”
“Isn’t it? When you’re willing to settle for a scoundrel like Leech?”
“You know my reasons,” she whispered.
“You’re worth so much more than that.”
Tears blurred his strong, familiar frame. “I must consider my family, my sister. I—I don’t even know where I’ll sleep tonight, much less how to support her, too.”
“You’ll stay here.”
She jumped away and dropped the cloth. “What?”
With his fingers circling her wrists, he pulled her back. “I’ll sleep at the boys’ shelter down at the canal, in case they come back for something in the night. I’ve already told the livery hands I might lend the place to you and charged them to look after you.”
Trembling beneath his gentle hold, she blinked at the way his thumb caressed her wrist.
His mouth tilted. “That, or you could marry me.”
The words mule-kicked Ella, and Woody’s grin froze, then faded into something infinitely more serious. The most somber, handsome, vulnerable, unfair look he’d ever given her.
“I’ve fallen in love with you, Ella.” His voice rasped like fine velvet as he scanned her face, laying bare her vulnerable heart. He caressed her cheek with the backs of his knuckles. With the bridge of his nose. His breath. His lips.
Her eyes slid shut on a sigh, her insides twisting deep and long at the answer she had to give. She put a hand to his shoulder for support, and the words came hoarse. “Woody, you know I can’t.”
Stiffening, he pulled away.
Desperate, her words flowed unchecked. “Not yet. Maybe if you talked to your parents—”
Dragging a hand down his face, Woody stood and laughed. “So you’re only interested if I’m rich.”
“It’s not just about my family, Woody. You talk like wealth is evil, but you refuse to acknowledge the good it can do. Funds to help the boys lie at your fingertips and you in your pride won’t reach for them.”
“I told you, Ella, I tried.”
“In the last year? Month? How can you talk about doing great things for the street children if you won’t cross the state line and apply your own resources to help them? I don’t understand.” She raised her hands. “I don’t understand you Americans!”
Bending low, he gathered a bag from beside the desk, a fat bag with furled maps sticking out the side. After settling his hat on his head, he slung his suit coat over his shoulder and paused at the door. “Double-check the front door at night. The lock’s finicky.”