Brokken Promises Page 6

  “There you are,” Mrs. Howe exclaimed, making them both jump. The woman had come into the lobby unseen. She pointed to the door with her thumb. “Get back to work now, Jenkins.”

  Miss Jenkins ducked her head. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She scurried away, and Fritz watched her until she vanished through the door. It took a moment for him to regain his bearings. Mrs. Howe stared at him and sent him a blistering look before she followed after the young woman. The sounds of Mrs. Howe berating Miss Jenkins carried through the thin walls. For a moment, Fritz wanted to scoop Camellia into his arms and carry her away. He scoffed at his fantasy and left without bidding the odious Mr. Bolt adieu.

  Chapter Nine

  As Camellia went about her day, she considered Mr. Brokken’s request, more seriously this time. He seemed a powerful man. The town was named after him, or, at least, someone in his family, and if she pretended to... She shook her head. That idea did not appeal to her. Whatever she was, she always strove to be truthful—unless she was forced to be otherwise. Well, at least if she did not always tell the truth, she did not lie and especially to a powerful man like Mr. Brokken.

  Surely, a half-truth might be enough for her to escape her fate at the H & B. She could travel to Brokken and leave from there as soon as possible. Afterall, Mr. Brokken had promised to help her, and she would only be taking him up on his offer. If he realized her subterfuge was meant to keep Sally Jane safe, safe from her own grandfather, Mr. Brokken must understand. But could she risk leaving with him? Wasn’t she safer here, far away from the danger of being found?

  Camellia shuddered at the memory of her father, although it had faded, frayed, unraveled, until it was only a misty moment caught in a web of half-truths. Or half-lies.

  She shrugged off the remembrances, as best she could, and hurried through her chores. However, throughout the day, her indecision haunted her. If she traveled with him, Mr. Brokken would insist on knowing why she refused to sign the adoption papers. How could she explain that by doing so Sally Jane would be placed in danger? Could she trust him if she confided about her father? What if he was the type of man to call her father into account? Then she’d be placing Mr. Brokken into grave danger, and her conscience would not allow that.

  She sighed heavily, still no closer to deciding how much truth would lead to the greatest good. Tormenting her, too, was the problem of Mrs. Howe and Mr. Bolt. They knew, had guessed, some of her story, although they did not know of her father, did not know what he was capable of. But what if they used what they knew, informed Mr. Brokken? Wasn’t that more reason to confide in him? He would never understand, no one would.

  Her mother had died trying to protect her and her sister. Camellia had no one, no one who could or would help her, no one she could fully trust with the truth. She was alone and would be alone until the day she died. Some days the thought weighed upon her with such force her legs weakened, and it was all she could do to not crumple in a heap and never rise.

  She sighed heavily again, and this time, Mrs. Howe, at her place at the table, gruffly told her to pipe down. She mumbled a reply and plunged her hands back into the water.

  What if she could trust Mr. Brokken? It was as if God had sent him to rescue her on the wings of an eagle. Or was he the eagle? His noble stature reminded her of one she’d seen long ago at her father’s lake.

  She shook her head darkly. Mr. Brokken had no intention of rescuing her. That was not why he was here. All he cared about was getting her signature on a paper, and she had to tread carefully and not let her flights of fantasy carry her away with absurd notions.

  She paused in her washing and considered his actual words carefully. No, his greatest desire was for her to reclaim Sally Jane as her daughter. For some reason, he despised his brother-in-law and wished to hurt him. There was more to the story than that Mr. Brokken and his brother-in-law had fought on opposite sides during the War—although that was reason enough, as the men she’d seen repeated over and over in the last few years. Would the memory of that blasted War never fade? Not as long as men wished to keep it alive.

  As far as Camellia was concerned, Mr. Brokken’s brother-in-law and sister were more than welcome to keep Sally Jane. Heaven only knew that she was safer with them than with her. They could protect her far more than they could ever imagine. They did not even have to know, although perhaps in order to better safeguard Sally Jane, Camellia should share her story with them. She’d decide if she ever met them.

  A pang of jealousy shot through her—jealousy of Sally Jane. If she was adopted, it bestowed a protection, a protection Camellia would never know. She bit her lip to keep her tears at bay. She had not cried before, and she would not cry now, especially not in front of Mrs. Howe. Besides, she should be ashamed of her jealousy, not giving into it.

  She cast a surreptitious glance toward Mrs. Howe whose head nodded as if she slept. Camellia doubted that. The woman feigned sleep to catch her or Miss Smith in imaginary offenses or to find out information to manipulate them. Mrs. Howe already knew more than she should, and Camellia could not restrain a shudder at the thought.

  Her back ached, and even though the water was not dirty, she picked up the pan and carried it out the back, under Mrs. Howe’s now wide-opened eyes. She flung the water out.

  The skinny pigs, ribs showing, raised their heads and squealed. Their smell drifted to her, intermingling with others she had no wish to identify. She’d grown used to them—so she thought. Now, they assailed her anew.

  No, she had nothing for the pigs, and a tear escaped as she watched their desperation as they pressed against the rickety fence. Surely, it would give way sooner or later although, perhaps, it was stronger than it appeared.

  She wiped away the stray tear as quickly as it appeared. She’d made up her mind, her shame of her jealousy deciding for her. If she could get away early, Mrs. Howe and Mr. Bolt need never know. She’d be far away when they discovered she’d gone, and there would be no reason to pursue her except for pure meanness—even if it was something they were fully capable of.

  As soon as she went back in, she’d ask Miss Smith if she had pen and paper. She’d never visited Miss Smith in her room in the hotel, but she planned to remedy that tonight.

  MISS SMITH HAD BEEN more than willing to help her carry out her plan, even offering to carry the letter to Mr. Brokken. Camellia guessed it was more from a desire to see the handsome man again than from any desire to help her.

  Camellia cringed at the poor quality of the paper, but being it was all she had, she set to work. After she had written it, with as delicate a hand as she could manage, she blotted the paper, folded it carefully, and placed it in the envelope.

  Miss Smith stood at her shoulder, reading as she wrote, so there was no need to seal the envelope. If she had not let the cook read it, she was sure the woman’s curiosity would have driven her to tear the envelope open as soon as she was out of sight of the hotel.

  When Camellia gave her the letter, Miss Smith set off cheerfully. Camellia didn’t know much about fancy hotels, but she doubted if Miss Smith would see Mr. Brokken herself. Someone at the hotel, maybe a fancy footman she’d read about in novels, would carry the letter upstairs. She imagined the scene, a young man, holding a silver tray with the letter upon it, carrying it to Mr. Brokken.

  She suddenly wanted to run after Miss Smith, snatch the letter, and rewrite it a better way, in a better handwriting. She calmed her fears. She’d done her best and there was no need to fret although her admonishments did not keep her from wringing her hands.

  She sat on the bed. Miss Smith’s room was almost as small as hers, no more than a small box tucked under the rafters in the attic, accessible only by a narrow stairway. Perhaps it didn’t have rats, like those that scurried beneath her room, but she saw more than one mouse racing across the floor. As she waited for Miss Smith’s return, she pulled her feet up on the bed to avoid the mice. She wished she had not decided to stay there alone. She could have gone with
her friend, but the fear of discovery from Mr. Bolt or Mrs. Howe was too great.

  The time passed with infinite slowness until, finally, she heard the sound of steps on the stairs. She held her breath, afraid it was not the cook. But it was Miss Smith who returned, unhappy with her journey.

  “Those snobby people,” she said. “They refused to let me see Mr. Brokken, would not even call him down to the lobby.” She frowned. “As a matter of fact, they hurried me out of the lobby as quick as a fly can blink its eyes. Guess they didn’t like the looks of me.”

  Smith had not removed her food-stained apron, so eager she’d been to be on her way. Camellia could hardly blame the proprietors of the hotel for being protective of one of their guests.

  She tried to look sympathetic but could not keep the eagerness from her voice when she spoke. “Did he not send a message in reply?”

  “Oh. I almost forgot.” Miss Smith reached into her apron pocket to retrieve the missive.

  Camellia forced herself to open the letter calmly. It was short and to the point, and she looked up at Miss Smith when she finished reading.

  “Well?”

  “He is sending a man at 5 o’clock in the morning to fetch my trunk.” Her heart beat wildly, whether from the secrecy involved or the glee she felt at escaping from the H & B.

  Miss Smith let out a squeal and threw her arms around her neck. Camellia shushed her. “You’ll have Mrs. Howe up here any second,” she admonished.

  “Nope. She would never deign to ascend the stairs.” They both giggled, and Camellia said her final goodbyes.

  She regretted not becoming friends with her sooner. Lord willing, she would not be seeing Miss Smith again, but it was not too late.

  “I’ll keep in touch,” she promised and gave Miss Smith a tight hug before leaving to go to her tiny room on the porch.

  Camellia did not sleep a wink although she did lie down to rest. When she glanced at her pocket watch by the light of the candle, more time had passed than she had assumed. She dressed quickly but carefully, with full undergarments—a chemise, bloomers, corset, under petticoat, two petticoats, although not stiffened, and finished with the over petticoat. She did not have a crinoline to take the place of the petticoats and regretted that without one, she would not look as elegant as she wished. Not for Mr. Brokken, per se, but because she did not wish to embarrass him as they traveled together.

  After the undergarments were arranged to her satisfaction, she chose the green dress, with a fan-front bodice and long sleeves. Her skirt, not fresh looking although it would have to do, was three-flounced. Miss Smith would have been a big aid in helping her dress, but she finally managed to get the last button secured.

  To finish her ensemble, she found the bonnet that matched the dress and then pulled on her gloves. She wished she had a mirror to check the final result, but she’d done her best, and it would have to do.

  Camellia packed her trunk, including her two work dresses and apron, and as she finished, the man sent by Mr. Brokken arrived. She went onto the porch to give him his instructions. She wondered, for a moment, if she was to tip him for his services but decided it was something Mr. Brokken had already attended to.

  She followed the man around to the front of the hotel when someone stepped forth from the shadows, made more shadowy by the dense fog. The gaslight showed it to be Mr. Brokken, and she released a soft sigh.

  He tipped his hat and offered his arm. “Good morning, Miss Jenkins,” he said quietly.

  She wrapped her fingers around his arm, so happy to see him that she clutched too tightly. She was glad she did not have to follow the man with her trunk into the fog all alone.

  She smiled, afraid to speak this close to the hotel, although, more than likely, Mrs. Howe and Mr. Bolt still slept. They walked in silence, straight to the train station.

  She’d tried too long to live on her own, with no one, keeping her distance even from Miss Smith. Such secrets as she kept created loneliness, and she fought to remain in control of her emotions. She’d longed for someone to provide rest for her weary soul, but a respectable man like Mr. Brokken would have no use for her. To believe differently would only invite heartache.

  Still, to depend on him now, to gather strength from him, at least until they reached Brokken, would not be amiss. After she had a chance to meet with Mr. and Mrs. Hale, assure them she would never take Sally Jane away, and try to explain why she could not sign the papers, she’d board a train or take a stagecoach. Where, she didn’t know. Perhaps Mr. Brokken would keep his word and find her a position, close enough to Brokken, so perhaps she could visit with Sally Jane.

  She’d have to change her name again, just to be on the safe side, to make a new life, wherever and whatever that might be. She’d be alone again, but she would manage. At least, for now, she had the companionship of Mr. Brokken. She was silly to hope for more.

  “Miss Jenkins?”

  She startled. “Yes?”

  “You were a million miles away.” His warm eyes searched her own.

  “I am sorry. Did you wish to inform me of our travel arrangements?”

  “Yes. Fortunately, there’s a train leaving in a quarter of an hour. It’s not headed East, but North. We will depart the train at the first stop and take another from there.”

  “That sounds like an acceptable plan. Thank you.”

  His brown eyes softened further, and he nodded. “It’s my pleasure.”

  His words, although innocuous, brought heat to her cheeks. She would have to strengthen her resolve not to yearn for the unattainable.

  Chapter Ten

  Fritz had his hat pulled low over his eyes. The monotony, the gentle swaying of the train, and the low buzz of the other passengers’ chatter had him stifling a yawn.

  If he’d been on horseback, the cool November wind blowing in his face would have had him more alert, albeit more uncomfortable. Traveling by train with an amiable young woman was more to his liking although perhaps he should not admit that, even to himself.

  Cam had retreated to the sleeper car over an hour ago. He’d paid dearly for the sleeper, although she need not know that.

  After only a few days of travel, he’d begun addressing Camellia by her given name and soon shortened it. Cam suited her, somehow. She had needed a little coaxing to use his first name but soon acquiesced. Thankfully, she was becoming more comfortable with him, after their travel together of four weeks.

  He suppressed a smile. Cam, that first day, when he’d stepped forward to meet her, had been arrayed in finery. Once on the train, she’d soon learned to simplify her dress and had begun wearing her work dress from the hotel. She’d soon given up on her hair, too, abandoning the more elaborate hairstyle for a simple sweep into a bun.

  True, that first day, she’d looked stunning in the green dress, but like the name Cam, the simpler dress and hairstyle suited her. And also suited him. He relaxed in her presence, not having to keep up a pretense of good manners and breeding—not that Cam did not have impeccable manners. She did, although she was a tad too submissive, too differential, but he was sure she would change in time as she knew him better.

  Her employers had browbeaten her into submission. Thinking of the pair made his blood boil, and he sat up straight, removed his hat, and raked his fingers through his hair.

  At least, if he accomplished nothing else, he had gotten her out of an untenable situation. Finally, he’d done something right, even though no one could ever know. Would folks in Brokken accept her if they knew the conditions he’d found her in?

  He moved restlessly. She had said she would not live in Brokken, that she’d give up any claim on her daughter, and yet he did not believe her. Once she saw Sally Jane, she was sure to change her mind.

  He shook his head. She had reasons for not taking Sally Jane back—namely, no husband and no way to support the little girl. If she would allow him, he would remedy the situation, offer her a job at the General Store or in the bank. She would make someone a
fine wife, and who better than his best friend Klint Caper? Once married, she would want her daughter with her.

  What should have cheered him made him melancholy. He sighed deeply and stared out the window that fogged with his breath. Riding outside in the cold would be good for him right about now.

  Cam’s voice startled him from his reverie, and he jumped to his feet as she took a seat across from him.

  Her smile, too, seemed tinged with sadness. Who could blame her since she was traveling to sign away her rights as a mother? He frowned in awareness his motives had changed. He no longer wished to hurt Chance or Deborah. He now wished to help Sally Jane be reunited with her mother, as she should be. Cam, Klint, and Sally Jane would settle in Brokken and be happy, he was sure of it.

  Cam had been chattering, and he focused on her words. “I cannot rest properly,” she was saying.

  “Are the accommodations not to your liking?” he asked, politely, planning to speak to the porter if need be.

  She laughed her silvery laugh that lifted his heart. He leaned back in the seat, perfectly comfortable in her presence; no, more than comfortable. Happy.

  She waved a hand. “Everything is wonderful. I am afraid it’s more a matter of conscience.”

  Fritz nodded, well aware she must be rethinking her decision. Sally Jane living with strangers must be difficult for her to contemplate.

  Her eyes were veiled although he knew, or sensed, she watched him carefully. She sighed deeply and placed an elegant hand to her throat—a hand that did not look as if belonged to a former dishwasher. She blinked at him before clearing her throat. “Fritz, I have not been entirely honest with you.”

  He gave a nod of encouragement, not speaking, learning in the past weeks she was as shy as a doe with a fawn, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.

  “There are things you do not know about me, things that I am afraid would shock you.”