Starlight (22 page)

“If we’re in agreement, I’ll send you home in the carriage with Griggs to collect your belongings.”

“And you say you’ll pay me double the factory floor? That hardly seems fitting.”

“His safety is paramount. His mother is no longer with us, and my attention must remain focused on the business.”

Polly tipped her head to one side. “Have you
no
family to tend him? Her people or yours?”

The idea of the Todds tending to his son had driven Alex to Scotland in the first place, but he was not at all eager to share those details. “No, I’m afraid it’s just the two of us.”

Mrs. Doward gently laid the infant in his bassinet, then sat beside it to continue the gentle rocking. “Thank you for the opportunity, sir.”

“No, thank you. Now if you’ll excuse us, I have matters to discuss with Miss Gowan.”

With Mrs. Doward’s nod, he led Polly into the corridor. Only a few days before, he’d fondled Polly in a rough tavern as if she were a prostitute, beaten and escaped from four constables, and experienced the most potent sexual experience of his life.

It seemed too banal to offer her more tea.

“Come with me,” he said.

“Where to?”

No more playacting. She was deep inside his world now. Having known him only from the factory floor, his office, and ribald encounters, he wanted her to see him in his element. Something true, even if he felt that truth warping and changing with each waking day.

But the stars still made sense.

“To my observatory.”

P
olly
didn’t follow him straightaway. She studied his wide palm as if she had never seen
any
man’s hand. Her mind was still in that nursery. The affection and concern shaping Alex’s expression had stolen a small piece of her heart. She could hardly think of something as abstract as an observatory when her questions were so basic. Who had been this frail child’s mother? What had she been to her husband? What did he feel now that she was gone?

Even after what had transpired between them, she could not imagine broaching such a personal subject. Perhaps because, in her heart, she knew her motives were not pure. She fancied Alex Christie. Whatever he felt and continued to feel for his late wife were potential complications.

Her body and her ambitions didn’t want complications—no more than she’d already conjured.

Finally she took his hand and they ascended the stairs. Creaky floorboards gave away every step. Her
pulse sped. Being near him pricked needles under her flushed skin.

He led her through the darkness, beyond the landing at the top of the narrow stairs. After rummaging in the dark Alex lit one lamp, then another, until the room in which they stood was filled with a warm glow. She slid moist palms along her skirts.

Silly,
she thought.
You’re being silly.

“Come in,” he said from beside the window.

He was standing by the largest telescope she could have imagined. With only a vague impression that the machine was used for stargazing, she’d pictured it more like a spyglass. This device was stabilized on three stout legs. The barrel was wider around than a beer stein. Nothing cluttered the floor around it, as if the space had been cordoned exclusively for its use. Only a small writing desk with a spindle-back chair waited nearby. A few rows of books and another chair covered in blue brocade could not compete. The telescope was the centerpiece. She was drawn toward it just as she was drawn toward Alex.

“It’s the largest one I own,” Alex said, almost reverently. As if he’d changed into a whole other man. To complete the transformation, he retrieved a pair of wire-rim glasses from among charts and papers on the little desk. “But for weeks now, I could’ve had it pointed toward a pile of muck for how often I’ve seen the stars.”

Polly smiled. “Glasgow isn’t exactly known for clear skies.”

Alex stooped over the eyepiece of the telescope.
He squinted, adjusted a few dials, and made notes on a chart of some kind. A half-f cup of tea served as a paperweight atop an inch-thick stack of papers.

He glanced backward. On occasions he appeared positively aristocratic—all strong lines and finely wrought symmetry—but that had clashed with his more brutal impulses. Now his glasses lent such an academic air that Polly momentarily questioned her sanity. What would the likes of him want with a girl like her? When he had treated her more . . .
roughly
, she almost believed him capable of forgoing everything in order to claim her.

On that evening, after having seen his son and his more composed nature, she despaired. A craving she hadn’t realized she possessed sank through to her heels. They had no more future than was permitted by their overlapping, occasionally conflicting interests.

And in a year and a half, he would be gone.

She swallowed and tried to find a light voice. “Are you looking for something in particular?”

“My hope was to write a paper to further examine the origin of the Orionids. I haven’t had much time of late.”

Polly nodded, although her understanding and a big chunk of her confidence were tumbling away in a sloping rush. “Care to explain, Professor?”

“I’m not a professor. Just an instructor until I earn my tenure. I’d hoped my paper would make that happen.” His quirk of a smile appeared a little forlorn. “It’ll have to wait.”

“Some dreams must,” she said quietly.

They watched one another for a long moment. The cut on his brow was healing well; he’d removed the stitches. But no matter how scholarly the glasses made him appear, she did not like them. They caught the lamplight and reflected the details of the room. The eyes she so anticipated studying were almost entirely obscured.

He returned to the telescope. “The Orionids are an annual meteor shower. When Earth’s orbit takes the planet through the path of a comet, particles from that comet enter our atmosphere. As they plummet to the ground, they catch fire and streak across the sky.”

“Shooting stars.”

“Exactly.” Another adjusted dial. Another note with his nub of a pencil. “The current debate regarding the Orionids has to do with which comet. I hadn’t thought to get involved because my opportunities to observe them back home were scarce. The latitude is all wrong. But here . . .”

“Here?”

He straightened. His smile broadened, electrifying Polly down to her soles. What a different man he was when he spoke about astronomy—not so reluctant as when he discussed business, not so rough as when he didn’t get his way.

“Have a look. We’re in luck tonight.”

Polly scraped her teeth across her bottom lip, then smiled back. “Very well.”

With more nonchalance than she felt, she stepped toward the telescope. He smelled wonderful. Warm. Clean. A hint of shaving soap still lingered. The scent
would be so much more satisfying if she nuzzled the crook of his neck.

He turned both lamps down to near-darkness. “They’re just for recording notes. But it’s best to let the eyes work without so much contrast.”

“Such a ready explanation, master. As if you thought I’d suspect you of less academic motives.”

He sighed, still smiling a little. “You’re teasing me again.”

“Nicely spotted. Now, what am I looking for?”

“You’ll see.”

Polly leaned over the eyepiece as she’d seen him do.

“Close your other eye,” he said.

She did—and gasped. A dozen pinpricks of light seemed near enough to touch. Then they were gone, like sparks climbing out of a bonfire. Another two took their place before fading. Then four more. Pieces of light came and went across the deepening backdrop of night. A sense of floating outside of herself overcame Polly, as if she were watching quick, silvery sprites. So hypnotized was she by their fleeting performance, she nearly forgot about Alex.

But his voice . . .

“Beautiful, aren’t they?”

So low and so close.

“Beautiful,” she echoed, not knowing what other word would do. She hadn’t his breadth of language.

She was surprisingly moved by what she witnessed. A longing lodged in her chest, much as she experienced when thinking about faraway places. A
girl like her should be content with knowing such wonders existed, if she ever learned about them at all.

“They’re best seen out away from the city,” Alex said. “Factory smoke and electric lights obscure their true grandeur.”

She straightened, reluctant to leave those stars but knowing her place was on the ground. “Tell me, why did you want to show me this?”

He took off his glasses and set them next to the cup of tea, which could have been days old. His hazel eyes took on that darker, probing directness. Nearly all of the green was stolen by night shadows. His mouth, generally set toward some stern purpose, remained relaxed. A gentle smile held his lips in a soft caress. The dimmed lamplight made a thousand possibilities . . . possible.

“Lord knows what you must think of me after . . . after everything. I wanted to show you who I really am.”

Polly impulsively kissed his cheek. “I know what sort of man you are, master.”

“Please, don’t call me that again.”

The distant sound of Edmund’s cry jerked his gaze toward the door.

Too overwhelmed by that intimacy, she needed out. Edmund was the perfect excuse. “I’ll be leaving now. My family will expect me for supper. And you have your boy to attend.”

“True.” He stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. “With Griggs having taken the carriage, I’ll hail a hackney to get you home. The hour is late.”

Although she wanted to protest, she recognized his determination and relented. “Aye. I’d like that.”

It
was Monday morning, the day of Alex’s second official meeting with the mill masters. His first had been mere days after arriving in Glasgow, and he’d known nothing, held no opinions.

So much had changed since then.

He knew his mood was poor when he welcomed the distraction of Edmund’s cries. After heating a bottle, he sat in the nursery rocking chair and held his son.

His thoughts glanced toward Mamie, but perhaps not in the way a widower should regard his late wife. He should feel more guilt about how much he enjoyed Polly’s company, not to mention his undeniable sexual response to the young woman. However, Mamie had never been the sort to indulge in jealous fits. Quite the opposite. Her insistence that he take a mistress had been one of the more difficult conversations they’d navigated. Alex had refused. With consideration for his needs alone, taking a discreet mistress would’ve been the obvious solution.

He’d still held out hope that she would come around. One day.

Holding their son, with the sun angling through the eastern windows, Alex craved her level mind and keen sense of empathy. He wanted to understand Polly Gowan, which might be beyond his capacity. Mamie had been his emotional barometer. Social engagements, dinner parties, casual picnics on the
beach—the trivialities of human ritual made sense when she was there to help interpret. He’d gauge her mood and her reactions, then pattern his replies accordingly. They had become friends that way, with weaknesses offset and comfort supplied.

On his own, he had no North Star to guide him.

Worse than that. He had young Edmund to raise up to manhood, without the steadying care Mamie would’ve applied. Although fragile, maybe even broken, she had been such a generous woman. Fatherhood would not seem quite the terror with her to steady their little family.

“You tell me, Edmund. What do I do?”

Seeking advice from his infant was only slightly less desperate than talking to his dead wife. He closed his eyes. Images of Polly assaulted him almost immediately. Red hair. Wide eyes. Mischievous comments. He’d tasted her ardent kisses and pulsed inside her welcoming heat, but he had yet to see her body. That was a brutal truth.

He could not indulge again, not while keeping his perspective. Why hadn’t he left well enough alone?

Dawn found him before sleep did, with Edmund dozing in his arms. Arising, his back stiff, he settled his son into his crib. Agnes met him in the doorway, already dressed. Her salt-and-pepper hair was covered in a floral kerchief. Only two nights on from moving into Alex’s home, the woman was already a blessing.

“Good morrow, sir. Just come to check on the wee lad.”

“He was fussy during the night. Feeding him did little.”

She nodded and softly smiled. “Then I shan’t wake him now.”

He turned to go—and saw a note slid under his front door. Although he sprinted forth and faced the cool smack of a spring morning, he saw nothing of the message bearer. This was no ordinary postal delivery.

He recognized the handwriting. Josiah Todd didn’t even feel the need to disguise his threats anymore. Yet with each new letter, the scrawl was becoming more difficult to read. This was the fourth Alex had received. Always the same threats. Always the same “proof” that Edmund belonged to the Todds.