Forbidden Love (3 page)

An inexplicable despondency vexed her as he disappeared from sight. She recalled his rugged good looks, his firm
jaw–a sign of resolve,
surely–and regretted that his visit had been so brief. Aware she’d never see him again, she wondered why that certainty should disturb her.

Chapter Two

"You've made me so happy, Lisa." William took her hand, a satisfied smile on his handsome face. "Ever since I bought the mansion on
Ellsworth Avenue
, I've wanted to entertain, meet the important businessmen of this city. As a stockbroker, it's advantageous to know many people--those who matter, of course-- such as Henry Clay Frick, vice chairman of the Carnegie Steel Company." He paused, running his forefinger across his blonde mustache. "I need a wife to help me, dear." He spoke in a slightly nasal tone Lisa hoped she'd get used to. A strong musk scent clung to him, and she hoped she’d get used to that, too.

She drew back, fixing him with a level gaze
..
"Is that why you want to marry me, just so you'll have a hostess?"

"Of course not," William replied, his face flushed. "I have the greatest respect and admiration for you. You mean so much to me, darling.
Truly."
He edged closer to her on the sofa. "Since I have no family, I need someone to keep me company, Lisa," he murmured. "I need
you
."

Lisa smiled, seeing those expressive blue eyes that seemed to hold no secrets. If the eyes are the mirror of the soul, she mused,
then
surely this man has put his heart and soul into his look

The logs crackled in the fireplace; the parlor was warm and restful as William moved ever closer, his gaze drifting around the room. "One thing I must tell you, dear. My work as a stockbroker often takes me from
Pittsburgh
. I like to investigate many of the stocks that go on the New York Stock Exchange, not only for the sake of my clients, but for my own gain, too. I invest much of my money in stocks, you understand." He paused, a thoughtful look on his face. "That reminds me, I don't want you to worry about any debts your father may have incurred. I shall assume his debts, and any assets, of course."

Lisa nodded, smoothing the folds of her brown merino dress. "I appreciate that, William, and I know my mother will, too." Running her finger along the back of his hand, she observed his smooth skin and manicured nails. Would she miss him while he was away? She hoped so.

Resolved to dismiss her doubts, the knowledge that their relationship lacked any loving warmth, she studied his eyes, the trace of a smile on his face. Surely their love would develop and grow, bringing them
both happiness throughout the years
.

"How soon shall we marry?" she asked as heat flooded her cheeks. What a bold one he must think her!

"As soon as possible, if that suits you."
He grinned.

"Very well.
I'll see about the arrangements, but our wedding must be a small one," she said. "Since my father's death . . .”

"Of course, dear Lisa.
I understand."

Misgivings still lurked within her, but as he embraced her, she shoved all her worries aside.

* * *

With his friend Hugh O'Donnell, Owen walked past the exit of the Homestead Steel Works, both men having finished the grueling day shift. Other workers trudged home, their faces lined with dirt and exhaustion, heads bent against the icy wind. Catching a rush of cold air down his neck, Owen turned up the collar of his mackinaw as he watched his step on the ice-slippery street.

Winter darkness had descended over the borough of
Homestead
, the sky's blackness
overladen
with dirt and waste from the mill. Gray plumes of smoke drifted upward from the stacks of long, low mill buildings. Newly-fallen snow, mounded in drifts along the street, was already a sooty gray. The men's thick-soled shoes crunched on the snow as they hurried past the shacks and tenement houses of the Second Ward, where most of the Slavic workers lived.

Worried faces pressed against frost-covered windows. Anxious wives, ever mindful of mill accidents, waited for their men to return home from work. A half-starved mongrel dog, its bones showing through mangy skin, poked through a pile of garbage in a narrow alley. A ragged street urchin of indeterminate age, with a runny nose and red-tipped ears, rushed past them to head for the
millyard
. Owen guessed he was looking for scrap iron to sell; he'd done the same in his younger days.

"How about visiting tonight?" Hugh asked, his breath steaming in the frigid air. Slightly shorter than Owen and with a slender build, his full mustache dominated his face. The intermittent whistle and the clang of metal on metal from the mill caught at his words, forcing him to raise his voice. "You know my wife and I enjoy your company. Her unmarried sister is visiting, by the way," he said with a teasing smile. "We can play bridge, if you like."

Owen held up a hand to indicate it was too noisy to talk. After they left the mill behind, he spoke in normal tones. "Thank you for the invitation, but not tonight.
Some other time."
Self-consciously, he took a deep breath. "You won't believe me when I tell you what I am doing tonight, after I eat and change my clothes, of course." He paused for effect. "I've decided to join a reading group."

"A reading group?"
Hugh blurted. "Here in
Homestead
?"

Owen brushed at the steel dust from his hair and jacket. "No, Shadyside. Saw a notice for the group in the newspaper. It said 'Newcomers Welcome'. You know what a bookworm I am. So what the hell! I might enjoy it."

Hugh slid a steady look his way. "Well, well, Shadyside, is it? Hobnobbing with the rich, Owen?" Laughing, he gave him a playful punch on the upper arm. "So you're looking for a wealthy wife, are you?"

Owen slapped the palm of his hand to his forehead. "You guessed it. My secret is out."

"Well, I wouldn't blame you if you were," Hugh said, grim-faced. "I'd like to lay my hands on some extra money.
Might need it if the Amalgamated strikes in July."
He shook his head, a worried frown on his face.

Owen clenched his gloved hands. "I'd like to lay my hands on Henry Clay Frick, the son of a bitch. I'd clean his clock, for sure." He aimed a vicious kick at a piece of iron pipe on the street. "That damn union buster's threatened to lower the tonnage rates. Hell, that's how we're paid! No one will stand for a reduction." Owen heaved a long sigh. "Still, I hate the idea of a strike. Last thing we need."

"Right," Hugh replied. "But we'll strike if we have to. And something else--every steelworker in the area will back us. The whole country will stand behind us. How can we lose?"

"Hugh, there's logic in everything you say. So why do I get the feeling that Frick has some tricks up his sleeve?"

Hugh wagged his finger, a look of determination in his dark eyes. "You wait until our contract expires in June. We'll see who has the bag of tricks then." He stopped by a grimy storefront boasting a sign that said 'Bowman's Bake Shoppe
..'
"Here's where we part, my friend. Promised the wife I'd fetch bread for dinner. Enjoy your meeting tonight." He winked, then opened the door and disappeared inside the shop.

Long strides rushed Owen past the banks, shops, and countless saloons lining both sides of
Eighth Avenue
. Saloon doors opened and closed as steelworkers stopped by for a drink on their way home.

"Hey, Owen!" a worker called outside O'Brien's Saloon. "How about joining us for a whiskey? Wash that steel dust from your throat."

Owen tried to look properly regretful.
"Sorry, Joe, not tonight.
I have other plans."

Joe grinned. "Aha!
A woman!"

"Could be," Owen said with an enigmatic smile before walking on.

Thoughts of Shadyside spawned a hundred memories of the young lady he'd met there, a woman who'd occupied his thoughts since their meeting, more than he cared to admit. He recalled her glossy brown hair, swept up like a crown atop her head; the spray of freckles that dotted her nose and cheeks; her soft voice and graceful hand gestures. But why think of her? He'd never see her again, not this evening, not ever. Ships that pass in the night, he thought with inexplicable regret. Anyway, they belonged to different worlds. That much was obvious.

He left the business district and climbed up the hill to his home, taking the steep elevation in stride. The houses, so depressingly similar in the daytime, became scarcely distinguishable in the late afternoon darkness. Bare ailanthus trees swayed in the howling wind, the cold air making his eyes water. Snowflakes danced an erratic pattern before settling on the ground. Houselights twinkled in the darkness, but everything remained quiet, the whistling of the wind through the trees the only sound.

As Owen strode past the houses, he vowed he'd live in a better area within a few years, but that goal would take much work and more money than he had in the bank. Above all, he had a dream, one that haunted his mind night and day. He wanted to become a civil engineer, if only he could save enough money. Just a matter of determination, he assured himself . . . or tried to.

Lost in his thoughts and thinking about his future, he was startled by a young, frowsy-looking woman who slipped out of the dark and bumped into him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

He pushed her away. "Go bother someone else."

"You look lonely,
dearie
," she said with pouted lips.
"How about company?"
She smelled of onions and cheap perfume, bleached blond hair piled high on her head.

Smirking, Owen stepped back, aware she was after his wallet as much as his manly performance. These fifty-cent prostitutes who roamed the streets of
Homestead
were adept pickpockets. He'd learned that the hard way over ten years ago.

 
"See," he said, pulling out empty pockets.
"Nothing there."

Before he knew what she was doing, she bent over to slip her hand to his crotch. "But I'll wager you have something here, don't you?" She caressed him, a sly expression on her face.

Raw lust stirred in his loins, but he managed to laugh and thrust her hand away. "Like I said--find someone else." He turned away and proceeded up the steep hill. Despite the cold, heat flooded his body as he searched his mind for a distraction.

* * *

"'Waste not your hour, nor in the vain pursuit...'" Lisa rested her book on the arm of the mahogany side chair as she read
The
Rubaiyat
of Omar Khayyam
aloud to the Shadyside Literary Club. She glanced up occasionally to admire the room, where glass-fronted bookcases filled to the ceiling with books lined a far wall of the spacious library in the host's mansion. A Persian carpet stretched the length of the room, its shades of purple, black, and gold complementing the purple draperies at the windows. Logs blazing in the fireplace radiated warmth.

She paused as a low, resonant voice carried through the closed library door. Her heart pounded against her ribs. That voice sounded so familiar, but it couldn't possibly be--

Her recent visitor?
The library door creaked open and Owen stepped inside, his look settling on Lisa. They exchanged glances of startled recognition as Lisa caught her breath.

Recovering his poise, Owen made a slight bow. "Good evening, ladies, gentlemen."

Their host, Angus
Eldredge
, addressed him. "Good evening,
Mr
. . ."

"
Cardiff
, sir.
Owen Cardiff." At a gesture from the host, he took an empty chair next to Lisa and leaned back, his smiling glance encompassing the group.

While the other members introduced themselves, Lisa slanted a look his way, observing things she'd missed on his visit to her house. At first, it occurred to her that with his well-cut suit and
clean
good looks, he was the typical
Pittsburgh
businessman, but his broad shoulders and the play of muscles beneath his suit belied that conclusion. No, she surmised, this man didn't spend his days at a desk. Physical labor came to mind, an idea appealing in contrast to all the professional men she'd known throughout the years.