The Glassblower (11 page)

As though to prove he wasn’t doing enough of the latter, church bells began to ring across the countryside, pure and melodic. Soon worshippers would travel along the road, returning to their homes or visiting with friends and neighbors. She would pass by, too. He wanted her to see him and stop. He knew she shouldn’t.

His hand throbbed, and he paused to soak it in a bucket of cold water, as Ilse Weber had told him he should. She was right. It wasn’t the first time he’d burned himself while learning to manipulate hot glass. But this was the first time the burn hadn’t been his fault. Not that he could prove that or do more than speculate how the accident occurred.

The water diminishing the ache in his hand, he resumed his work with the window, fitting a pane into the frame and holding it with the uninjured half of his left hand, so he could apply the caulking with his right. The position proved awkward, and when he heard her voice, the glass slipped out of his hold.

He caught it an instant before it struck the ground and broke. The sharp edge nicked his palm. He frowned, figuring it was what he deserved for not resting and worshipping on a Sunday.

And for thinking of Meg Jordan instead of the Lord.

“Mother would be ashamed of you, lad,” he muttered.

“I should think she would be indeed.” Meg’s voice brimmed with laughter. “You should have been in church or home resting that hand.”

“Ah, you sound like a schoolmistress.” He laughed, too, and turned to face her, his left hand outstretched. “I could not tie a proper cravat for attending the kirk, and I’m hoping the Lord will forgive my work if ‘tis for a good cause and not personal gain.”

“Oh Colin.” She cradled his hand in both of hers, the silk of her gloves snagging on his rough skin. “I was distressed when Thad told us about your accident.” She touched the blisters on his palm and pinkie finger so gently she gave him no pain. “How did it happen?”

“‘Tis what I’d like to ken myself.” He frowned at his hand.

Her gaze flashed to his face. “What do you mean?”

“I mean my grate—you ken where the pipe rests?—’twas hot enough to burn when it should have been as cool as this glass.”

“Colin.” She curled her fingers around the uninjured part of his hand. “How? I mean, were you in the glassworks alone?”

“I thought I was, but someone could have sneaked in while I was mixing the silica.”

“Why? Why would anyone want to hurt you?”

“‘Tis not unheard of in the glasshouses. Envy. Fear for their positions. Malice.” He set down the pane of glass he still held and smoothed the crease between her brows with the tip of his finger. “Do not fash yourself, lass. I’ll be more careful in the future.”

“I’ll tell my father—”

“Nay, do not. ‘Twill cause unnecessary trouble. I’ll heal.”

“But, Colin—”

“Go now.” He extracted his grip from hers. “You shouldn’t be here, you ken. You’re an engaged lady, and he’s likely wondering where you are.”

“We’re not engaged yet.” She grimaced. “Father still wants me to marry Mr. Pyle, but nothing is official until after the first of the year. And I’m hopeful—never you mind about that. I’m concerned about your not coming to church.”

“You needn’t concern yourself with me.” He injected as much coolness into his tone as he could manage with her close enough for him to catch her scent of apple blossoms. “The Lord knows the state of my soul.”

“Would He be happy with it?”

“Now that is a verra difficult question to answer. But I am thinking the Lord isn’t happy with me at all.” He turned his back on her and began to fit the glass into the window frame again.

She puffed out a breath. “Colin, you didn’t cause your father’s death.”

“Aye, but there you’re wrong. If I’d been with him—”

“You likely would have died, too.”

“I might have kept him from going out in a storm.”

“So you got your stubbornness from your mother?”

“Ah, Meg—Miss Jordan, you make me laugh, you do.” He did laugh, and his soul lightened. “Nay, I got my stubbornness from my father. But if I’d been working with him all along, he wouldn’t have felt the need to work too hard and be careless with his life.”

“I’m sorry. That’s a difficult burden to bear.” She moved up beside him, tugged off her gloves, and placed one hand on the glass to steady it in its frame while he applied the caulking. “But you’ve been forgiven if you’ve asked for it.”

“I ken that’s what the Bible tells me, but I don’t feel it in my heart.” He shifted his position for a better angle, and his hand brushed hers.

Like brushing fine porcelain, creamy and as smooth as her silk glove had been.

He took a deep breath to stop his heart from skipping any more beats than it already had. “I need to bring my family here and keep my work to be truly obedient to the Lord. Just like you’re needing to marry that fine gentleman your father wishes you to wed.”

“I’m not convinced my father really does wish me to marry Joseph.”

Colin dropped his knife. “I beg your pardon?”

“I haven’t told anyone, even Sarah, and I probably shouldn’t say anything to you.” She peeked at him from beneath those extraordinary lashes. “I like talking to you. You listen to me and don’t treat me like I’m a child who should run along and play.”

“You should, you ken. Perhaps not play but run along.”

“That’s common sense, but my heart says otherwise. I mean—” She pressed her free hand to her cheek. “By my heart, I mean the feeling I get inside when I see others in need, not my heart in how a lady feels for a—should I stop up my mouth?”

“Aye, probably so.” Chuckling, Colin made the mistake of looking at her mouth, those pretty lips that always seemed to curve in a smile. His mouth went dry.

She laughed, too. “I talk too much. You do understand what I’m saying, do you not?”

“I understand.” Realizing that he held the caulking knife and was doing nothing with it, he set back to work.

He couldn’t avoid looking at her, though. The windowpane reflected her lovely face.

“You want to make me a charity,” he made himself say. “Take me in and pamper me like one of your kittens, or teach me American history like the charcoal burners’ children.”

His words hurt her. He read it in the way her face stilled and her body tensed.

“Your father’s already doing plenty for me, Miss Jordan.” He gentled his tone. “I have no need of your help.”

“What if I could get your family here faster? Would that help you to—to feel worthy of the Lord’s love and forgiveness?”

“You’re a kind lady, Margaret Jordan.”

So kind, so pretty, so giving, he feared he was more than half in love with her.

“But I have to do this myself. ‘Tis the only way I can make up for letting them down.”

“You can never make up for letting them down, Colin.” She placed a bit of emphasis on his Christian name, an emphasis of her defiance of convention, like talking to him at all was. “We can’t make up for any of our mistakes, no matter what we do. That’s what God’s forgiveness is all about.”

“I have to try.” He finished with the pane but couldn’t place the next one with her standing between him and the frame. “I’ve been given so much. A runaway lad of twelve years should not have found a place in the Edinburgh glassworks, but I did. They needed assistants to carry the molten glass to the glassblowers, and I was quick. I fell in love with the craft and persuaded the master glassblower to teach me.” He faced her instead of her reflection. “I have the gift for it. I have to use it to make up for what learning of that gift stole from my family. You ken? I have to do it.”

“I don’t agree with you, but I understand. I was away at school when my mother died. I didn’t want to be there, but Father wouldn’t let me come home. That’s partly why this school is so important to me. If it works out, children won’t have to leave home to get an education. And children from families without the means to pay for boarding school will have an equal opportunity.”

“You’re a fine lass.” Colin stooped to retrieve another pane of glass. “Thaddeus Dalbow warned me to stay away from you if I wish to keep my employment.”

“Thaddeus Dalbow tried to kiss me when he was eighteen and I sixteen.” She laughed. “We were friends before that, and he got some notions. Father sent him packing with a flea in his ear.”

“But your father doesn’t like you being too friendly with the workers,” Colin said, still selecting glass from the box on the ground.

“No, but—” She sighed. “He doesn’t think it good to possibly play favorites. On the other hand, he is already showing you favoritism, and besides that, Ilse Weber is our housekeeper. She raised me after Momma died. I never talk to her husband because I never see him, but I have few secrets from her, and I’m sure she tells him.”

“It makes no difference.” He rose, holding the glass between them like a shield, while a wild notion formed in his brain, a spark of hope ignited in his heart. “Will you be asking your father if he cares if you talk to me when we meet up?”

“I—could.” She looked dubious.

“If you’re thinking he’d say no, then get yourself home now. But if ‘tis otherwise, I—” He met her eyes, hoping his look conveyed what he dared not say.

Her heightened color suggested she knew exactly what he was saying—she brought sunshine and warmth into his life, and he cared for her more than he should.

“I’m staying to help you finish.” She took the glass from his hands. “It’s my school. Now show me how to fit this into the frame.”

He showed her. With her assistance the work sped by. With time together their conversation grew lighter. As he had the day she stopped to fish with him, he talked to her more in the next hour than he had talked to anyone in the past week. Talking felt like a gift. Listening to her lively way of speaking, gathering the words in his memory felt like treasures he could take out and appreciate in the long hours after work ended for the day and he returned to his empty cottage.

When the work was finished, however, no excuses remained for either of them to stay. Besides, clouds were blowing in from the east, bringing the scent of rain on a chilling breeze.

“We’d best be on our way.” He picked up the box the glass had been in and turned to the road without taking a step in that direction.

“I know. I don’t want to get my dress soaked in the rain.” A stronger gust of wind caught the frill at the bottom of her skirt, and she flattened her hands against the fabric to hold it in place. “Do you have enough provisions to make yourself a fine Sunday dinner?”

“Martha Dalbow sees to my meals. She’s a fair good cook.”

“That’s good then. I worried you weren’t eating well.”

“You cannot be worrying about me, Miss—Meg.” She wrinkled her nose. “You can’t stop me.”

“Nay, I have no doubt few people can make you do anything you do not wish to do.”

“I expect I’m spoiled.”

A blast of wind bearing moisture slammed into their faces.

“We’d better run.” Instead of heading to the road, though, she darted around the end of the building. “Leave that box in here.” She produced a key from her reticule and unlocked the door. “You can go faster.”

“Aye and the straw won’t get wet.” He dropped the container inside the building, waited for her to lock the door, then left for the road, being careful to measure his longer strides to her shorter ones.

“I knew the fine weather this morning lasted longer than we deserved in December.” She sounded breathless but refused to slow down.

They rounded the curve to the intersection. Already the burn roared louder than when he’d passed it earlier, testimony of rain upstream. Above them the tree branches creaked and groaned, and the lightning-struck tree where he’d first seen her leaned more precariously over the water.

And a bundle of black-and-white fur clung to one of the whipping branches.

“The foolish beastie!” Colin shouted above the wind. “He’ll be blown down.”

“I don’t know how something so small can travel so far. It must be like us walking twenty miles and climbing a mountain.” She stopped, and her hat blew off her head. Wind caught her hair and sent her curls flying out like banners. She shoved her hair behind her ears. “We can’t just leave him there.”

“We should, but, nay, we cannot.” Not liking the idea of climbing the unstable tree, Colin began to remove his coat.

“Wait, let’s call him first.” She laid her hand on his arm then did not remove it when she began to call, “Here, kitty-kitty.”

The cat didn’t move.

“He’s too frightened.” Colin removed his arm from her restraining grasp, feeling coldness where her hand had rested. “I’ll fetch him. You run along home.”

“But what if you fall?”

“I hear a horse. Perhaps ‘tis someone who will take you up in a carriage.”

“I should go up. I’m lighter.”

“Do not dare.” He caught the edge of her cloak and found himself holding nothing more than wool.

Meg had slipped out of the garment and darted forward.

“Stubborn braw female,” Colin grumbled and sprinted after her.

As Meg set foot on the lowest branch, the kitten leaped from its perch and onto Meg’s shoulder. From there it soared to the ground. Colin dove to grab the creature. It slipped past his hands and into the road—right under the hooves of the trotting horse.

Meg screamed and darted for the road. Her flying skirt tangled in her legs, sending her tumbling to the ground. Gravel stung her hands and knees, and the horse’s flailing hooves filled her vision.

“I got you.” Colin lifted her aside, as though she weighed no more than the kitten, then he lunged past her and bumped his shoulder against the horse’s massive flank.

The animal whinnied and leaped aside. The rider shouted a protest.

Dodging another thrashing hoof, Colin snatched up the kitten, then he turned to offer Meg a hand. “Are you all right then, lass?” His fingers were warm, hard, and strong around hers. A firm, reassuring hand with strength enough in the arm to lift her with a gentle tug.

Meg clung to him, swaying a bit and gazing into his face with awe. “You saved my silly kitten.”

“And probably crippled my horse.” Joseph Pyle stalked toward them, his face red, his blue eyes flashing. “What nonsense were you about, man?”