Chapter 9
Why had she blurted that out? After such a kiss?
She’d panicked.
Never had a kiss affected her like that. As a married woman, the marital bed had been pleasant, her husband’s attentions ardent, enthusiastic. But this… this was a brand-new, breathtaking experience.
She’d felt passion before, so what was this even more intense emotion?
Dottie wondered how her legs held her up as they walked back to the curricle.
She was sure if she let go of Sampson’s arm, she would crumple to the ground.
When his lips touched hers, nothing had existed except his mouth on hers, his breath against her skin.
It was frightening and deliriously wonderful.
Sampson helped her into the curricle and paid the boy.
She heard him thank the lad for putting the top up, and the boy’s gasp when given a coin.
Climbing in, Sampson clucked to the horses, his beaver hat back in place, his face a polite mask to any passerby.
No one would ever know they had just shared an earth-shattering moment.
For Dottie was no longer sure what love was.
Her limited experience had not prepared her for the touch of this man, the genuine goodness she saw him in.
“So tell me, why America?” His soft voice had a new pitch to it. Hurt, perhaps?
“Why not?” She shrugged. “I thought the farther away I went, the easier it would be to start again.”
“Running from memories?”
The clack of the horses’ hooves echoed in a taunting rhythm against the cobblestone.
Tell him. Tell him. Tell him.
But the words wouldn’t come. Her feelings were too new, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about… anything. Him, that kiss, leaving England. She was so confused. Would he tell people who she really was if she confided in him? Her instincts screamed no, but her instincts had been wrong before.
Sam bumped her shoulder with his, and there was a lighter tone to his words. “We can make new memories here, together.”
Dottie blinked back tears. Why couldn’t she have met him first? She was damaged goods now, and he deserved so much more. He pulled up on the reins, and she realized they were back at the tavern.
“Have I done something? Should I have waited longer to kiss you?” he asked, tipping her chin with a knuckle and turning her face toward him.
“I think about you all the time. You are in my dreams when I close my eyes, in my thoughts as I drink my morning coffee or take my supper. And when we kissed, I knew you had found your way here.” He took her hand and held it against his chest. Even through his greatcoat, she could feel the steady thump of his heart.
“We hardly know one another,” she managed weakly, her resolution failing.
He shook his head. “We’ve been meeting for over two months. Many couples marry after a courtship of that length.”
She opened her mouth, but he put a finger against her lips.
“No, you aren’t ready for a proposal, but I don’t think it’s too soon to tell you how I feel. I was not alone under that tree. It was a mutual passion.” He leaned forward and brushed her lips, once, twice. “Can you deny there is something between us?”
Dottie shook her head. “There is so much you don’t know about me.” Her words were a ragged whisper. “And there’s Violet. She’s become my responsibility.”
“We have nothing but time, Dottie. I don’t know what you’ve been through.
There is a haunted expression I see in your beautiful eyes when you think I’m not looking.
I want to know everything about your past and Violet’s.
” He kissed her forehead. “There are bits of mine you will learn, and I hope we will not judge each other.”
“I have no right to judge anyone.” She shook her head, laid her hand on his cheek. “You are a good, caring man. One who will make a difference in people’s lives.”
“Let us make a difference together. I have an idea for a hospital for unmarried mothers. You could be an important part of that. I need someone by my side with intelligence, a partner, who can help me with my plans. One who would understand the girls—women—and educate them to be independent, self-sufficient.” His eyes were almost brown in the dim light, but his excitement shone brightly.
“Who better to help those in need, than those who have walked their same path?”
With a deep breath, she nodded. There was a ring of truth to that statement.
The downtrodden knew how disingenuous the upper class could be, doling out aid which always included stipulations.
What Sampson offered was sincere—assistance on their terms, giving them ways to help themselves long after they left the hospital.
“Will you think about it?” he asked. His voice was husky as his thumb stroked her jaw, and she leaned her cheek into his palm.
Dottie closed her eyes when his lips touched hers. At that moment, she could deny him nothing. She would have to find the right time to tell him about Robert. And prayed he would understand.
The next day
Sampson rose from the dining room table to fetch the port.
Mrs. Olssen had fixed a delicious meal of guinea hen, mashed turnips, carrots, fresh bread, and pear tarts for dessert.
Her husband had broken his nose, no explanation requested or offered, and in return for setting the bone, she had provided a delicious dinner.
Sam had bought the fowl, and Mrs. Olssen and her daughter had taken care of the rest.
“I have to say this bartering for services is delicious,” said Benjamin. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and ran a hand through his dark-blond hair. “I haven’t had custard that good in ages.”
Clayton shook his head and patted his belly. “I agree. Thank you for the invitation. You could have had three more meals out of this if we hadn’t helped.”
“True, but I’d have missed the fascinating intellectual repartee of my brothers.” Sam grinned as he returned with the port and poured three glasses. He looked at his two brothers, so different yet so much in common.
Ben was quieter, more studious, with a slighter frame and lighter coloring.
Clayton was heavily muscled, though not barrel-chested like Harry, with darker coloring.
There was nothing quiet and assuming about Clayton.
He enjoyed socializing and had a natural confidence that Sam and Ben had always envied as children.
Of course, Clay’s self-assurance and adventurous spirit had also been the cause of misadventures when they were younger, as Sam and Ben had always been eager to follow his lead.
“Remember the time we thought Old Man Wheeler was kidnapping babies?” asked Ben, shaking his head.
The elderly eccentric had lived next door, always ranting about his “lazy Irish” neighbors, the beggars on the street corners harassing hardworking folk, and the upstart radicals wanting change.
“Now I understand Paddy and Maggie took pity on the lonely widower and didn’t want the neighborhood children taunting him.
But they should have told us that instead of making Wheeler out to be a villain. ”
Sam took the first step of the portico, then paused. What was that noise? He waited for it to come again—a high-pitched mewling. He ran up the rest of the steps and burst into the hallway. No one was in the parlor, and only Cook was in the kitchen.
“Have you seen Ben or Clay, ma’am?” he asked her, hopping from one foot to another.
She gave the dough on the table a final pat, wiped her floured hands on her apron, and turned to him with her hands on her hips. “What’s got your fur flyin’, Sampson?”
He only shook his head. “Just need to find them.”
“Last I saw, they were following August out back.”
He ran for the rear door.
“Fresh biscuits in the tin,” Cook called after him.
He slid to a stop, backed up several steps, and opened the canister. The smell of molasses and oats tickled his nose. Grabbing four, he murmured a quick “thank you” and let the door slam behind him.
Sam saw Gus’s large frame first. He was standing under a tree, a bucket of water in his hand, and Dublin the wolfhound tied to the tree trunk. Clayton clutched a piece of soap, and Ben held a brush and towel.
“What happened to Dublin?”
“He rolled in something dead, I figure,” answered Gus. “Dead fish, I think. Maggie says he can’t come back in the house until he’s had a bath.”
“Are those biscuits all for you?” asked Clayton, a smirk on his face as he held a hand out.
Sam shook his head. “Got one for all of us.”
“Let me have mine before I’m wet as a rat in the Thames,” Gus said, scratching the wolfhound’s wiry gray coat.
They ate their biscuits, enjoying the shade beneath the leafy boughs. The sound of munching and a tail thumping the ground in hopeful participation punctuated the momentary silence.
Gus finished, wiping his mouth with his forearm and wiping his hands together to dust off the crumbs. “Sam, you can hold Dublin’s collar while I douse him with water. Clayton will soap him up, we’ll all scrub, then I’ll rinse him.”
They all nodded solemnly. Giving this giant beast a bath was no easy feat, and every one of them would end up as wet as the canine.
Sam was surprised the dog only shook his coat twice while they were scrubbing.
Ben laughed when Gus got suds in his eyes, but the smile quickly faded with a glare from the bigger boy.
By the time they had finished, Dublin was rolling in the grass, determined to find a bit of anything to rid himself of the clean scent. Cook had brought out lemonade, and the boys sat sprawled on any patch of fairly dry grass they could find.
“So why did you come running out here with that funny look on your face?” asked Ben.
Sam had almost forgotten. “I heard some odd noises coming from Old Man Wheeler’s house.”
“Don’t go over there,” warned Gus. “Maggie will take a switch to you.”
The boys all snorted at the thought of the Irish woman laying a hand to any of them.