Forbidden Love (2 page)

Despite the hour, a murky darkness covered the room. Neighbors’ houses appeared barely visible from his window, giving the area a ghostly quality. Winter’s snow-laden clouds deepened the perpetual haze that blanketed the borough of
Homestead
, where the sun rarely made an appearance. What a day for business calls, Owen thought as he shoved his blankets aside.

Shivering in the cold air, he swung his legs out of bed and reached for his bathrobe, then headed for the bathroom to wash and shave, his mind on union problems that nagged him night and day. If the chairman of the Carnegie Steel Company tried to lower their wages–and rumor had it that Frick intended to do just that–then the Amalgamated had no choice but to strike. Damn that Henry Clay Frick, he fumed, angling his razor along his chin, cursing at the cut he made. He rinsed his razor off and went back to his room to dress, reflecting on a personal dilemma that dominated his mind even more than the threat of a strike. He wanted to quit his job at the mill, where a man could go crazy with the noise and the steel dust, the heat. Is this what he had to face for the rest of his life–day after day, watching a gigantic steel crane carry a huge ladle of molten steel to be poured into molds, knowing that a slip could spell disaster?

Yeah, like last week, when the molten steel almost scalded Ryerson to death. What a way to die!

Yet the job paid well, he mused, grabbing a white shirt from his closet and slipping his arms through the sleeves. And that was more than you could say for just about any other job. He finished dressing, resolved to forget his problems for now. With that tenuous resolution, he eased into his woolen coat and headed downstairs to the kitchen.

The small kitchen held comfortable warmth, a pleasant oasis in a house difficult to heat. The fragrance of baking bread, rich with aroma of yeast and cinnamon, blended with the scent of freshly-brewed coffee.

Emma
Hrajak
,
Owen’s
part-time housekeeper, sat at the table, her blonde hair braided and wrapped in a bun. Pallid cheeks and a gaunt frame revealed a life of poverty in the old country.

“Ah, Mr. Cardiff,” she said, rising from the chair. “You not sleep today. You want coffee?
Breakfast?”

Owen motioned for her to return to her seat as he sniffed at the coffee that simmered in a pot on the stove. “Just coffee, Emma.” He reached into the cupboard for a cup. “No breakfast. Have to hurry to the depot, catch the train for
Pittsburgh
.”

The appearance of the kitchen had certainly improved under Emma’s thoughtful care, Owen mused, his gaze covering the shiny linoleum and gleaming wooden cabinets. Flowered curtains brightened the small window, giving the room a touch of cheerful color. Canisters sat in a neat row along the back of the counter; brightly-polished pots and pans hung from pegs on the wall. A place for everything and everything in its place, as his mother had always said. And better than a bachelor could do by himself.

He poured the coffee and held the cup gingerly to his mouth, taking a slow sip. “How’s Anton doing at the Carrie mill in Rankin?” he asked over the rim of the cup. “Is he getting used to the blast furnace?”

“Is hard work, Mr. Cardiff, but my husband is strong. He can do it.” She wiped a corner of her spotless apron across her forehead. “He
work
in steel mill in
Slovakia
. He knew it not be soup and noodles here.”

“Well, I’m happy to see he’s doing well.” He flashed
her an
encouraging smile. “I’m sure he’ll settle in real soon, be like one of the old-timers.” He set the half-empty cup on the counter and straightened his tie, thinking. If Anton had worked in a steel mill in
Slovakia
, why not try him as the cinder pit man? But would the other workers resent him? Might present a problem, but it was worth a try.

He brought his mind back to the present. “If I tarry any longer, I’ll miss the train.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Cardiff.”

“
Na
schledanou
, Emma.” With so many Slavic workers at the mill, Owen welcomed every chance to speak their language, knowing his fluency could mean a matter of life or death.

* * *

The New Year came, and with it, more debts. In a rare fit of indecision, Lisa studied the bills that spread out on her wide oak desk. She pressed a hand to her throbbing head as she picked an itemized statement from the pile and glanced at each charge, wondering if she could postpone its payment. No, she must pay it now.

William
Enright
had resumed his courtship but had said nothing about marriage, and even if he did propose, how in God’s name could she marry a man she didn’t love? You have no choice, her careworn heart reminded her.
And if he never proposed?
She’d have to find a position or open her own shop. At any rate, she’d be obliged to work for a living. Wouldn’t that shock the neighbors?

A knock on the door brought one of the maids into the
room,
her gray uniform patched and faded, another indication of precarious finances in the Bradley household.

“Yes,
Zora
?”

“A gentleman to see you downstairs, miss.”

Lisa’s stomach lurched.
A friend?
Or a creditor?
“Did he give his name?”

“Owen Cardiff, miss.” She rolled her eyes expressively. “And he sure is good-looking, miss–tall, dark hair and–“

”Very well.
Tell the gentleman I’ll be downstairs shortly.” She thought hard.
Cardiff
. The name sounded familiar. “I’ll be downstairs presently,” she repeated as
Zora
remained by the door.

“Yes, miss.” The maid hesitated with her hand on the doorknob. “Miss, about our wages . . .”

“I’ll see that you receive your wages as soon as possible, and yes, the rest of the staff, too. You’ll get paid,
Zora
, I promise.”
But how?

“Thank you, miss.”

After the maid closed the door, Lisa rose from the chair and looked at her reflection in her dresser mirror, conscious of the mended spots on her shirtwaist, the snug fit of the white cotton across her bosom. Despite the house’s central heating–erratic, at best–she still had to wear woolens under her clothes, which made them fit even tighter. She shrugged. It was an old blouse and her only clean one, so it would have to do. She swept a few stray locks of hair back atop her head and tightened the pins, then left the room to go downstairs.

Outside, snow-laden clouds darkened the sky, but here the sitting room lamps and gas candelabra gave adequate illumination. At the bottom stair, Lisa stopped and rested her hand on the newel post while her eyes took in the dark-haired man sitting with his back to her.

She walked across the carpet to greet him. “Sir, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

The gentleman rose and made a slight bow. “Owen Cardiff, madam. I came to see your father, but if another time is more convenient . . .”

Lisa caught the look in his eyes, the way his gaze swept over her. More conscious than ever of her blouse’s tight fit, she folded her arms across her chest.

“Sir . . .” She spoke past the lump in her throat. “My father passed away a few weeks ago, but if you’re agreeable, you may state your business to me.”

He frowned. “I’m so sorry, Miss Bradley. I had no idea.” He paused. “Possibly I should come at a later date,” he said with a question in his voice. “Or talk to your mother.”

“Please sit down again, sir.” She indicated the chair he’d just vacated. “My mother is not at home, and now is as good a time as any to talk.’ She licked her lips. “Would you like tea or coffee, Mr. Cardiff?”

“
Neither,
thank you.” He returned to the side chair, and in spite of her grief, something about this man captured her attention. He had thick eyebrows, topping gray eyes that appeared to miss nothing. His nose was straight and well-
shaped,
his mouth neither thick nor thin. Dark wavy hair glistened by the light of the gas lamp, a lock falling across his forehead.

She observed the cut of his black suit, his polished shoes, and he was clean-shaven, a rarity among her male acquaintances. He seemed to dominate the room, emanating strength and vitality. Yet, she sensed
a certain
unease about him, as if he would rather be anywhere but inside this elegant house in Shadyside.

“Actually, I came to make a payment on the land I bought from your father.” Another rarity–his teeth were white and even; most of the men she knew had tobacco-stained teeth.

“Oh, yes, the land in Munhall.
Mr. Cardiff, I’ve assumed my father’s financial affairs, so you may deal with me.”

His face held a look of doubt. “Very well, if that’s the way you want it.”

“That’s the way I want it, sir.”

“Yes, of course.” He withdrew a check from his vest pocket and set it on the lamp table.
“The second payment, Miss Bradley.
Your father and I had an agreement that I’d make monthly payments at three percent interest.”

“Very good, sir.”
Now she could pay the servants, she thought with relief. Sudden resentment flared inside her that she should have to depend on this check to pay the servants, but she had no choice. She frowned as she held the check under the bronze table lamp.

“Is something wrong, Miss Bradley?”

As if scorched, Lisa dropped the check on the table.
“Oh, no.
It’s only that I never heard of this bank before. To tell the truth, I never heard of
Homestead
, either.”

“
Homestead
, Miss Bradley, is another borough on the outskirts of
Pittsburgh
. Not as fancy as Shadyside, I’ll grant you, but decent folk live there.” He raised his chin. “No rich people, of course.”

With his cool gray eyes and pugnacious jaw, no one would best him in an argument, Lisa felt certain. What a lawyer he’d make. “I understand.” Something told her she’d hit a sensitive spot, and she reminded herself to choose her words more carefully in the future.

“Hard-working people live in
Homestead
.” A look of annoyance crossed his face before he turned to study the crystal in the étagère.

Lisa sat up straight. “I believe you’ve made your point, Mr. Cardiff.” He’d made it clear, too, that he considered a woman incapable of handling finances, she mused as she gazed at his profile. Was he right? She hoped not, but how in the world would she pay all those bills on her desk?

He rested his hands on his knees, turning his attention her way again. She had the craziest feeling he could read her mind, perceive all her troubles, yet even while she thought that, she knew it was an absurd suspicion. With his unwavering eyes and upright posture, she sensed a certain strength and determination in him, as though he could handle any problem that came his way.

“Well . . .” He gathered his tall frame from the chair. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. In the future, would you prefer that I mail my payment or leave it here in person?”

She wished she could fathom the look in his eyes. Was it warm speculation or impatience to be on his way? The latter, most likely, but why should she care?

“Miss Bradley?”

“Oh, whatever is easier for
you.
” But no, that wasn’t what she wanted to say. Come as often as you like, she wanted to tell him, quickly berating herself for her foolishness. What was there about this man that should affect her this way, a man from a working district? A rush of self-reproach warmed her cheeks. Who was she to judge? She might soon be a working lady.

He smiled. “I think it would be easier for you if I mailed my payment.” He made a small bow. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, although I regret the circumstances that made it necessary.”

“Yes, but I do thank you for coming, sir.” She walked him to the entrance hall to retrieve his overcoat and hat from the hall tree. She admired his movements, quick and concise, as he slipped on his coat. His fedora clutched in her hand, she opened the door onto a blast of frigid winter air, shivering with the onslaught.

Owen smiled again, taking his hat from her as he stepped outside.
“Good-day to you, Miss Bradley.”
He turned away, the wind whipping at his coat and ruffling his hair before he set the hat on his head. After closing the door, Lisa watched him from the hall window, noting his long strides, his erect posture.