Fade to Grey (8 page)

Flipping the first one on his shoulder as if it was a feather, he waited until she led him in the doorway, then down the hall.

“Tell the maids we’re going upstairs.”

“Yes, of course.” Now Royce was close to the stairs and he paused while Donna went into the kitchen to tell the maids what he requested.

“Are you familiar with the layout of the house?” she asked him as he followed her up the stairs.

“Yes, a bit, mainly from helping move furniture and such the last couple of years.”

“My room is on the third floor—the Crows Nest,” she said.

“Fine. We’ll have a chance to talk since I have four trunks to move,” Royce said. Setting the first trunk down in her bedroom, he paused as if to catch his breath.

“Are they heavy?”

“Not especially. They’re full of women’s clothing. The heaviest things are shoes and boots, but they’re really nothing to worry about. I just want to spend a little time with you.”

Donna felt flattered. If Royce was trying for a way to score points with her, he certainly had succeeded.

“Where did you get them? This is wonderful. I mean, I am sure this stuff will come in handy.”

“They were at the train station and have been for two years. I don’t want to look like I am pushing off old clothing on you, but perhaps it will help until your people send you more things from Chicago. I am not sure how long your visit is. If you are staying a few weeks, the maids will be glad to take you shopping in town.”

Donna waited for him to continue.

“Two years? I don’t understand. So you stole them?”

“No, I never stole anything in my life. They belong to a woman long dead. They’ll never do her any good now, but they will you. Let’s say we’re borrowing them, with intent to replace them later on.”

Donna gasped.

Royce popped open the latch.

“Here. Start acquainting yourself with everything. Plus we can talk while you do it.”

Donna looked at the unfamiliar objects and started taking them out and placed them on her bed.

Royce leaned against the wall, watching her. He unknotted a handkerchief from his neck and wiped his brow.

“The woman was near your size and height, though a bit bustier. If anybody—like the maids—question the trunks, just say I picked them up for you at the train station. I doubt if they will, though.”

Donna picked out a beautiful embroidered white blouse. “But what if the styles have changed?”

“No matter. Good quality clothing never goes out of style. The Bradentons probably would never bring it up. You could say they were imported from Europe.”

“Good thinking. You are right about classic styles. I could be into retro. But still, what about the woman’s death? Tell me about that.”

“In due time. Let’s go down to the wagon to fetch another one.” Royce puzzled what she meant by retro and why Donna would be in it, but now was no time to puzzle over a strange word.

Going down the hallway, Royce began speaking in a loud voice. “I looked around the train station and found some of your missing luggage. Wasn’t that lucky?” Then he began waving his hands.

Donna figured out his signal and spoke. “How can I ever thank you enough?”

Smiling at each other, they went back outside.

While lifting the second trunk, Royce continued filling Donna in on his morning’s activities.

“When Mr. Brandenton took his wife to the doctor, I decided to drop by the depot. I remembered seeing a pile of trunks in the back room ages ago. Luckily I remembered the woman’s family had never had them sent back to Chicago.”

“How did you know the woman’s size and all? Had you seen her around Saint Joe?”

Royce hoisted the second trunk on his shoulders. “No, I courted her maid when she was here.”

“Didn’t the man at the station see you taking the trunks?”

Royce laughed. “Not old Brewster! He’s drunk most days by this time of the morning. He doesn’t see much coming or going when he’s in his cups. I parked the wagon by the loading bays and casually entered the building as if looking for something, parcels perhaps for the Missus. No one paid much attention. I took a quick look around, saw the trunks, and loaded them up, posthaste.”

For the second time, they headed up the stairs. When they were safely in her room, he spoke again.

“There were two wealthy sisters, vigorous outdoorsy spinsters actually, who vacationed here two summers ago at one of the downtown hotels. They brought their own personal maids. I began seeing one of them when she had free time in the evenings and weekends.” He sat on the edge of Donna’s bed. She waited for him to continue.

“One day they decided to rent a rowboat and go out onto Lake Michigan. The maids stayed at the hotel. An unexpected wave swamped the boat and one drowned. The other was rescued by passing fishermen.”

“How horrible,” Donna said, shuddering.

“Yes, it was. The remaining sister left immediately after the funeral. She said the family would send for the belongings later on, but they never did. We assumed they were so griefstricken they couldn’t bear to see the clothing again.”

He stood to leave. Donna stood also, but he motioned her to stay.

“It’d be better if you don’t follow me each time. The maids might suspect something. Just stay and sort through the clothing.”

“Good thinking.”

Royce then left, though not before brushing her hand. Though a slight movement, it was sincere and touching.

Donna turned to her task, lifting out the neatly folded clothing. Little sachets had been packed in each layer, so the clothing had a sweet, fresh smell even after two years. Donna also detected the aroma of fine perfume. She rationalized that if the train station was completely dry all the time, clothing would be in a finely preserved state if it was laundered properly before being packed. She took hangers from the wardrobe and began hanging and smoothing each garment. At first she felt a bit queasy at the thought of wearing a dead woman’s clothing. But she thought of people who regularly purchased items are resale shops around Chicago and it didn’t seem to bother them. Besides, she was in desperate straits. Inspecting the clothes was secondary. She wanted to savor the touch of Royce, the outdoorsy smell that he had on his coat. Being touched by a man was not new to her, but in this time and place it seemed to have a stronger pull on her senses. She wanted to spend more time with him now that she was getting to know him a bit. Royce returned with the third trunk, and then the last one. He popped the latch on each one and showed her how the devices shut.

“I can’t leave the team down there any longer. I have to get them back to the stable and my chores wait also. Come see me later…in the early evening if you can.”

She grasped his arm. “Why are you helping me? You don’t even know me.”

“I can’t explain it. Something inside told me to get the trunks today. The timing was right and you certainly needed clothing to carry out your charade of normalcy while here at Fallow Field. I figured we could create other things to make your past believable. We’ll work together.”

Impulsively, Donna reached out and clasped her arms around his neck. Royce’s face was but a hairsbreadth from hers. Her heart began pounding and other household sounds faded away. She pressed her lips to his with urgency, as if she might never see him again. It felt silly, but she could hardly breathe when she felt the heady pressure of his mouth against her. She wanted him to know how much this kindness meant to her. He, in turn, slid his arms around her waist and returned her kiss with ardor. She tingled inside and felt suddenly feverish. Without another word, he turned and left. Donna finally relaxed.

The early morning doctor visit threw off everyone’s schedules. The maids resumed their routine, Mrs. Bradenton rested in her room and her husband requested a tray of cold cuts and cheeses to eat in private. It appeared not so much that the hosts were rude, but perhaps just exhausted. Donna figured that she would be entertaining herself for a while longer and that was fine with her. She wanted to visit Royce anyway. She asked the maids to make her a sandwich of some cold meat and mustard and said she would eat it in the library while she read. When the rest of the household was busy cooking or napping, she thought it an opportune time to slip out to the stable.

Entering the front door, she saw Royce with his back to her, grooming one of the mares. This was the first time she had seen him without his coat and it was difficult not stare at the sheer masculine beauty of his broad back.

“Hello!” She tried to speak before she startled the horses.

“Hello, yourself!” Royce replied, turning around. “What might I do for you this fine morning?”

“I’ve got another problem. Maybe you can help me.”

“Of course you have.” In a lower voice, he said, “At least we solved the issue of missing clothing today.”

He walked closer and placed his curry comb and brush on a bucket. When he walked up to Donna she detected a distinctively male scent to him. It was musky and appealing. She untied her white cap and let her hair tumble from under it.

“It’s my hair. I need it dyed.” With the backwash of afternoon light, her highlighted hair glinted tantalizingly.

“How on earth…what do you mean, dye it?” Royce asked incredulously. He walked closer to finger the gold strands. Being so close to him again took her breath away. She remembered how his mouth felt against hers.

“Dye it, stain it. Do you have something around here? Perhaps there’s an item in the stable that you could use?” Donna’s voice was strained. She knew when she was a girl she read about pioneer girls staining their lips and cheeks red with crushed berries. Colonists dyed fabrics and yarns with nut husks and clay and other natural things.

“I can help you, aye,” Royce replied. “But you’ll have to tell me the reason why. Are you on the run from someone in the city?” He looked Donna straight in the eye. “I’m a pretty good judge of character, too, so don’t think you can fool me.”

“I wish it was that simple.” Donna replaced her cap, and walked farther into the stable in case anyone should chance by. “I’m a pretty good judge myself. And from the looks of you, Royce, you’re a trustworthy man. Sooner or later I’ll have to tell you the truth.” She walked to what looked to be a portable mounting block and took a seat on it. “Would you like to talk while you groom?”

“Yes, that would look appropriate in case we had a visitor.”

Donna sighed with appreciation. It was nice to actually have a man think of propriety. As long as it appeared she might be stuck back in this time, she might as well soak up some of the old fashioned manners. She certainly was attracted to Royce, yet she understood his hesitancy for showing public displays of affection.

“Now tell me, why are we doing this? Is there something you're not telling me that I need to know?”

Donna flinched inwardly and felt a knot forming in her stomach. She knew she would soon have to take someone into her confidence. But it would have to be some somebody that she could trust explicitly. Would Royce be this person? She didn't have any other reason to believe otherwise and her female intuition told her that he was trustworthy. There was something in his demeanor that she found reassuring. She’d never been in a position to trust someone with her utmost confidences, actually her life in this case. She hadn't considered the worst case scenario, which could be jail or public punishment.

Though she hadn't technically done anything illegal, she was passing herself off as a relative and the family had taken her in and fed and clothed her. She hadn't stolen anything but in their eyes she could be misrepresenting herself, perhaps to trick or defraud them. In any case, her actions and speech would cause anyone to wonder exactly what her true intentions were. In modern times, people like this were called con artists and charlatans, sometimes robbing families of their possessions and money.

Telling Royce all the truth at once might backfire on her, she realized. Perhaps it would be better to dole out the truth in small chunks and gradually get him to trust her, to help her out. And what exactly was she going to ask him to do after disguising her hair? Help her travel back to the future? Would he be open to what she would tell him, or would he scoff?

“Please, let’s get on with the dying and we’ll talk then. Can we do it in private—just in case someone would happen by?” She’d had enough close calls with meddling maids for a while.

“Yes, we could go to my cottage. That is of course if you don’t mind.” Royce smiled.

“It won’t matter to me if it won’t matter to you. I don’t want to put your job in jeopardy,” she said.

“No it wasn’t that at all. I wouldn’t want anyone talking about you. I’ll shut the filly back in her box; you just go to my cottage. The door’s open, just go on in.” He unchained the horse and Donna stood up. She turned as if to say something to him, but then thought the better of it.

Royce sensed a feeling of fear that emanated from her. Women were touchy creatures he had found over the years, what with their usual female problems and volatile dispositions. Her frightened look seemed to pass away and she smiled warmly at him. He smiled back.

“It’ll be alright,” he said. “Whatever it is, your secret’s safe with me.”

Donna walked out into the sunlight and turned out of his sight. Royce led the horse to her box and bolted the door. Going to the tack room, he got a bucket, some old tin cups, and a variety of stains and dyes he used on the harness when it was new and needed to be softened and oiled. Feeling a bit stealthy, he looked out the windows and saw nobody in the stable area. Then he went to his cottage. When he pushed the door open he saw Donna sitting at his small work table, admiring his scrimshaw work from the previous night.

“You do scrimshaw, Royce?”

“Yes, I learned it when I worked on a steamboat. It helps to while away the hours when you out on the Lakes.”

Donna picked up a piece of whalebone he had been carving. “But freshwater sailors typically aren’t scrimshanders, are they? What is the design you’re doing on this piece?”

Royce took the piece of whalebone from her hand. “To answer your first question, an old salt taught it to me. He had learned it on an old whaler out of Boston. We ended up on the same ship for a while, when he was at the end of his career on the high seas, you might say. Gave me some of his old sail making needles too. I already had the knives.” He rubbed the design thoughtfully.