Starlight (21 page)

They turned the corner toward Dennistoun.

Tommy Larnach leaned against the wall of a bargain haberdashers. His ankles were crossed and he smoked a thin cigarette, all calm nonchalance. Polly tensed. She let go of Agnes’s supportive hold and rushed toward him. Grabbing his grimy collar, she hauled him into a nearby alley.

“You never answered me, Tommy.” Tension burst into a mean temper. “I need answers. Now. You know what’s at stake.”

“I do.” He exhaled smoke, which blended into the early evening mist. “But I wonder if you do. Making time with the master seems to have slowed your urgency.”

She slapped him. Her palm stung, but Tommy only grinned. The boy she’d once adored had turned into a much harder man. She cataloged his features and found no trace of his younger self. Dark brown eyes were narrowed and suspicious. An otherwise fine, thin mouth curled with animosity. And the hardship of life—perhaps made worse by time spent on the lam—was etched across his skin in tiny lines and too many scars. He led with his face, believing every punch was aimed right at him.

She’d only added to it.

“You have no right.” Her voice scraped out of her throat. No matter what had happened between her and Alex, she was still the same woman. To be accused of letting Alex take the place of those ambitions was one insult too many. “I have sacrificed my entire life to improve our lot. You once did the same. How can you have fallen so far?”

“I never had far to fall,” he said, his words quiet.

“Don’t play that pity game with me. So, you were born a bastard. But your aunt and uncle were good to you. I
know
you, Tommy. Now, tell me once and for all. Did you set off the explosion at Christie Textiles?”

He snuffed out his cigarette. Crossing his arms, he took a few steps away from her. Maybe he would run again. She would have to share her suspicions then. Tell her da. Leave Tommy’s fate up to the union membership. Instead, his limp was more pronounced than ever. Sleeping rough had taken its toll. Polly was reminded of what he, too, had sacrificed. But anyone could reach a moment when they’d had enough, when impatience and frustration lashed out quicker than thought.

Finally, he turned. His expression displayed none of his usual morbid humor. He was tired. The deep circles beneath his clouded eyes forced her to step forward and take his roughened hands.

“Tommy, please.”

“I didn’t do it, Polly.”

Relief forced an exhale from her tight chest. “Swear it.”

“I swear it on what we had. The good and the bad.
Nor did I have a hand in planning it—nothing of the sort.”

“Why weren’t you on the floor that day?”

He looked down at their joined hands. To Polly’s surprise, his ears were tinged with red. “I was sick with too much drink, found myself in a prostitute’s bed. And Lord, girl, my leg has pained me so fierce. I couldn’t face another day loading crates and feeling lower than shit. The union meeting riled me all over again, even though I know what you said is true.” His smile was lopsided. “I’d voted for you, lass, if that makes any difference.”

A lightness filled her heart. She did not doubt him. Not now. But she still needed facts, if only to refute those who would not believe him so readily. “And hiding?”

“Even you doubted me.”

Polly’s eyes glazed with tears. She blinked them back. Agnes walked toward them, her face composed and her gaze watchful. No judgment there.

“We’ll make it right, Tommy. I promise.” Pulling away, Polly gave him the strongest smile she could manage past her unhappiness. “Do you believe me? Will you trust me on this?”

He nodded once. The hardness had returned to his mouth, but his eyes were none too sharp. Even his shoulders had relaxed.

“Good,” she said. “Then take refuge with your auntie. Tell her I sent you. Until we figure this out and can clear your name, I’ll keep anyone from searching for you there.”

“Thank you.” His gratitude was but a whisper, and
his ears had tipped red once again. A man’s pride was a hard, prickly thing. “And Polly?”

She had begun to walk with Agnes, but turned to face her previous lover. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry for what I said about you and the master. I know you wouldn’t betray us that way.”

The bones in her neck rusted. She said good-bye, but a pit opened in her stomach. That pit didn’t swallow her burdens, only opened a wider chasm of doubt. She steered her people with no such doubts.

The question was whether she could steer her desires with equal strength.

Half
an hour after talking with Tommy, Polly and Agnes arrived at Mr. Christie’s residence: an unassuming two-story detached home on Circus Drive in western Dennistoun. The brick exterior had seen better days, with chipped paint on the front door and on the trim of a small bay window. An overgrown garden had suffered the worst of the winter, leaving behind only withered vines and warped evergreen hedges.

Polly peered down the narrow little street, surprised to realize that the master of Christie Textiles counted such a modest home as his castle. Although, comparing it to the cramped quarters she shared with her family, she couldn’t help a twinge of envy. To have her own room would be like a welcome from Saint Peter. The temptation of starting her own household—no matter the husband who made that possible—stemmed almost entirely from that desire. A little space of her own. To breathe. To think and to be.

She and Agnes walked up a crooked flagstone path. Polly used the creaking brass knocker to make their presence known. The cold had seeped into her fingertips, leaving them numb and clumsy. She huddled into her mother’s wrap.

A man answered the door, dressed in a uniform coat that had also seen better days. The sleeves were frayed at the hem, and the braid sagged at his collar. His face was oddly triangular, with the distinctive ruddy coloring of a Highland man. No potential for friendliness could be found in his expression. “Yes?”

“We’re here to see Mr. Christie. He’s expecting us.”

“I can offer you tea while you wait.”

She had pegged him correctly. His Highland brogue revealed that Alex had hired him locally rather than bringing him from America.

Following him into the foyer, Polly slipped the kerchief off her head. Her eyes were drawn to the ceiling that lifted high above a wide front staircase. Her family’s home was tight and small like a warren. Sometimes she felt she’d go mad from the close press of those four walls, but at least they kept warm.

“May I ask your name?”

“Mr. Griggs.”

“Mr. Christie’s butler?”

“And valet, coachman. As he requires.”

Again Polly was puzzled. She had assumed Alex to be of means. How could he be the son of the famous William Christie without inheriting a fortune? Yet he lived in a modest part of town, and his butler attended to the tasks of three men. Was
Alex miserly? Or was there yet another mystery to be solved? That prospect whacked a headache across her brows. She couldn’t stand being in possession of so few answers.

“Seat yourselves,” he said upon reaching a small parlor. Its lone, wide window faced the street where children had come out to play, likely after hours spent working. The vigor of youth. “I’ll ask Mrs. Percy to fix the tea.”

With that, he disappeared between a pair of pocket doors.

The smell of vinegar and lemon told of a room recently cleaned. No pictures adorned the walls, and no mementoes decorated the mantel. Only shelves and more shelves, all lined with books. At what cost had he sailed so far with such a collection? Were they so very important to him? Again he trod that line between a street tough and an academic. Polly didn’t know which to trust. She had no faith that any man could be both.

Minutes passed as tea was served. She and Agnes talked in hushed tones about the house, their families, and the way the factory had so quickly recovered from its wound. Their chat was so companionable and relaxing, despite the unfamiliar surroundings, that only the opening of the parlor’s pocket doors alerted her to Alex’s arrival.

His thick shoulder pushed casually against the dark wood frame. In the fading light, his hair shone deep, deep gold, and the green was bright and strong in his hazel eyes. Her mouth dried.

Again he wore simple garments. Although neatly
pressed and well crafted, they were assembled without care. He had shed his coat, which revealed dark blue suspenders pulled taut along his chest. She imagined how easy it would be to slide them down his arms, unfasten a simple row of buttons, and gaze upon bare skin.

She clenched her hands in her lap. “I’ve brought Mrs. Doward.”

“As I see.” He turned his eyes away from hers, then greeted Agnes as the older woman stood. “Good of you to come. I’m looking forward to finding the right woman to guide Edmund through the next year and a half.”

“Year and a half?” Polly asked in surprise.

“Yes. That’s how long we’re staying in Scotland.”

The bluntness of his words struck her in the chest. She hadn’t ever thought to ask. He would leave.

How did one simply . . .
leave
?

What would that be like?

A girl like her never left Glasgow. Not only was it terribly frightening to consider, but it would mean turning her back on her family and her entire community. Not good enough for them, they’d think—worse than a climber like Sarah Fitzgibbons.

Even if the desire to see more of the world sometimes dug holes in her chest and ripped at her heart, she knew it was never meant to be.

“Mrs. Doward,” Alex said. “I hope you won’t be offended when I say I’ve already inquired after your family and background.”

Polly marveled at how solicitous and kind he sounded. She’d heard very different tones. Suddenly
she was greedy for that degree of softness. To be spoken to with such courtesy by a man she fancied. It was as unknown to her as the thought of leaving Glasgow.

“I wouldn’t expect no less,” Agnes said. “Not from a father worth his salt. And you seem steady enough of mind to be such a man.”

If anything, Alex stood a little straighter. Some of the tautness around his mouth eased. “You’re welcome to stay here in the house. I have a spare room off the kitchen that is adequate, very snug and warm. The pay will be double what you make at the factory.”

As Agnes’s eyes widened, he eased into the parlor and stood near a faded yellow brocade settee. The wallpaper over his left shoulder was beginning to peel along the doorjamb.

“I would enjoy that, sir.”

“Then consider my offer official. And now it’s time you met Edmund.”

Alex led the women into Edmund’s nursery, where Esther, the nursemaid, was just changing his nappy. Mrs. Doward bustled forward to take over the chore.

Esther only shrugged at the silent dismissal, offering him a graceless bob. “Good evening to you, sir.”

Edmund let loose a satisfied belch. Mrs. Doward swaddled him in a way that proclaimed expert levels of practice, then took a seat in the rocking chair near a gentle fire. A soft lullaby barely reached Alex’s ears, though they stood but a few feet apart. She appeared as if she’d been sitting in that chair for ages, not a few moments.

“It’s good to hold a little one again,” she said, almost to herself.

Polly stood against the wall closest to the door. Her gaze had gone soft, an expression he had seen once before. Mamie had often worn such a look of confused yearning. Her inability to tolerate even Alex’s gentle touch meant they would never have children, although her longing for one had never ebbed.

Then came Mr. Todd’s threats. He challenged the legitimacy of their marriage on the grounds it had not been consummated. That it had been, only once on their wedding night, was no business of his. Mamie’s hope was that a child would prove the validity of their union. They would again escape Mr. Todd’s machinations, while satisfying her longing to hold a babe in her arms.

Now the fruit of that difficult time was Alex’s sole charge—all of Mamie he had left to keep safe. His steady purpose.

The strangeness of seeing Polly in this environment rather than in a place of toil and noise twisted a place under his ribs. With rosy coloring and lively eyes, she looked far too soft to belong anywhere other than places of comfort. That she had removed her kerchief upon entering his domain, revealing her fire-red curls, was a familiarity he craved.

She could relax here. Be at home here.

He tore his attention away from her unexpectedly tender expression.

Mrs. Doward smiled, still rocking Edmund. “Why, this wee one is no fuss at all.”

“He’s ten months old and already experimenting with solid foods. My hope is that he’ll be able to do without a wet nurse very soon. But I would consider your advice on the matter.”

“Small for a lad of ten months, if you don’t mind my saying, sir.”

“He was born four weeks early.”

“Och, but he’ll be hearty soon enough. Too much of his da and grandda in his bones.”

“You knew my father?” Alex asked with a frown.

“Everyone knew little Will Christie. He left, just as he should’ve. Such a soul could never stay in a place as tight as Calton.” She sighed and touched her nose to Edmund’s forehead. His eyes had drifted shut. Such contentment. “But those are stories for another time, I think. This wee one needs his sleep.”