Forbidden Love Read online

  Forbidden Love

  By

  Shirley Martin

  ISBN: 978-1-927111-85-7

  PUBLISHED BY:

  http://bookswelove.net

  Books We Love

  192 Lakeside Greens Drive

  Chestermere, Alberta, T1X 1C2

  Canada

  Copyright 2012 by Shirley Martin

  Cover art by Michelle Lee Copyright 2012

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Chapter One

  Pittsburgh, 1891

  At the Homestead Steel Works, the steam crane lifted a ladle of molten steel from the topping level of the furnace.

  "So far, so good," Owen Cardiff muttered as the crane carried the ladle overhead to an ingot platform. Below, a pouring crew waited to fill the molds.

  For over eight hours today he'd toiled at this job, the mill temperature approaching 130 degrees. The noise blasted his eardrums; the constant vibrations challenged his sanity. He coughed, the steel dust settling in his throat. He reminded himself to concentrate on his job.

  He tensed, a flood of worries bombarding him. Here at the open hearth furnaces, they'd gone for a long time without accidents. How much longer would their luck hold out?

  From his position on a high platform, Owen looked down sideways at the process, his stomach knotting as he viewed Ryerson and Hobart by the molds. He wished he had a permanent replacement for the third man--the cinder pit man--needed to complete the pouring crew. Sturdivant, his former cinder pit man, still languished in the workhouse for beating his wife. Owen resolved to replace Sturdivant with a competent worker and get rid of the good-for-nothing, Callahan.

  Lacking a competent crew worried him. Hell, only look at Ryerson now, hazy with a hangover when he should be paying attention to the ladle. Owen clenched his hands. He'd have to replace the whole damn crew.

  Accidents happen because people don’t pay attention. How many times had he heard that admonition? One of these days . . . He shook his head, fearful of dwelling on possible disasters.

  "Almost done," he yelled to Hobart and Ryerson, giving them the thumbs-up sign. As a boss melter, Owen supervised five furnaces. At open-hearth #2, he sighed with relief, waiting for the whistle to announce the shift's end.

  Perspiration drenched his sleeveless shirt and corduroy pants. He wiped a handkerchief across his damp forehead and down his face, the cotton coming away soaked. Burn holes dotted his shirt and pants, a constant reminder of the hazards and discomforts of the job. Peering at all the workers around him, he saw faces reddened by the glare of the fire and hot steel; muscles standing out in knots and bands on bare arms; clothing frayed with usage and begrimed by machinery. None of us is dressed for courting the ladies, he thought on a note of self-mockery.

  Soon, he could go home, and--Jesus Christ, no! His stomach lurched. The ladle--it was tipping too soon! Ryerson!

  Oh God, oh God, oh God! Owen raced down the metal cat-ladder, shouting and pointing. The mill din muffled his voice. With only seconds to spare, he jerked Ryerson back. The scorching, hissing scarlet stream of molten steel spilled from the ladle and splashed onto the platform, then spewed into the air several yards away. Racing against time, all three men bolted toward the steps.

  Owen slumped against the ladder railing, his heart pounding. His breath came in quick gasps. He glanced at Hobart and Ryerson, their faces white with shock. Jesus! Ryerson could have burned alive.

  Sick to his stomach, Owen turned away.

  * * *

  A few weeks after her father’s funeral, Lisa sat with her mother in the comfortable parlor of their roomy house in Shadyside. Her mother sported new gold ear drops, a terrible extravagance in these straitened times. Resolved to contain her temper, Lisa looked out the parlor window and tapped her fingers on the arm of the rosewood chair.

  She returned her attention to her mother. “Don’t you understand, Mother? We can’t continue to spend money as we did when Father was alive. You and I must watch every cent and not buy whatever we desire, like those ear drops you’re wearing, or that black dress you bought at Kaufmann’s Department Store last week.”

  “The ear rings were quite inexpensive, and I bought a black dress for mourning.” Lisa’s mother sat ramrod straight, her slender figure encased in a tight corset. A few gray hairs mingled with the brown locks on top of her head, but aside from that, she showed little indication of her forty-four years.

  “You already have two black wool dresses and your gray silk. That should be enough.

  Lisa sighed. “I don’t know what more I can say. As it is, I fear we may have to let some of the servants go, much as I hate to for their sakes . . . Higgins, for example. We don’t need a carriage. We can take a trolley whenever we go shopping or to church.”

  “A public conveyance, really!”

  “Just one example. I can think of many ways we can save money.” She took a deep breath. “I can obtain a position if I must. I’ve been reading the classified advertisements lately, by the way. Or since I do such fine needlework, I can open my own shop, sell doilies and such.”

  Amelia drew back. “Lisa, how can you even think of such a thing?”

  Lisa spoke with measured calmness. “I’m trying to show you how precarious our financial situation is.” She ran her fingers along the frayed brocade covering of the chair, frowning as her finger caught in a tear. Her gaze flew to the velvet draperies, whose once burgundy had faded to a dull pink, their camphory smell borne by the cold air that seeped through the wide bay window. She studied a cigar burn on the parlor table, aware they could never afford new furniture. At least the étagère in the corner that held her mother’s prized crystal and porcelain added charm to the room, but the rest of the parlor looked so drab. If only they could fix it up a little, with new tables and new draperies, even new chairs.

  Her mother drew her shawl closer about her shoulders. “It’s become so cold in this room. Why hasn’t Zora come to stir up the fire?”

  Lisa sprang to her feet to stir the dying embers in the fireplace, and then returned to her chair. “Zora’s had to assume laundry duties since the laundress quit last week.” Because she hasn’t been paid in ages, she wanted to say, but wisely kept silent. She looked out the bay window to see the elm trees thrash in the fierce wind. Across the street, young children bundled in their warmest clothing were making a snowman.

  “If you married, Lisa, it would be an answer to our prayers.”

  Lisa brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. “Let’s not discuss marriage so soon after Father passed away.” Her voice broke, and she turned away to press a hand to her aching head.

  Amelia spoke, her voice trembling. “I miss your father, too, but we must do something about money.” She twisted a handkerchief in her lap. “Dear, you’re twenty-one. Time you married, after a decent period of mourning, of course. How else can we manage?” she asked, her voice rising.

  “Look at me, Mother. Nothing special about me–brown hair, brown eyes, neither tall nor petite. Good heavens, it’s not as if I’ve had dozens of beaux.” She brushed a finger across her cheek. “And my freckles!”

  “But you’ve such a lovely smile, dear.” She looked at her daughter closely. “Besides, your hair isn’t just brown. It has beautiful golden tints. I realize you can’t attend any social activities now, but I wish you’d try to meet proper gentlemen, later, of course. Heaven knows, there’s enough eligible men here in Shadyside
,” she said with an airy gesture. “Now take that literary club you belong to–“

  ”Literary club? What has that to do with anything?”

  “How can you meet young men there? You’ve told me it’s composed of older men and women.” Her face assumed a pensive expression. “William Enright used to call on you before your dear father passed away. Perhaps he’ll resume his courtship in time.”

  “Perhaps.” Desperate thoughts raced through Lisa’s mind. What if she had to sell the house? But no, she couldn’t do that to her mother. Her father had built this house for his young bride years ago. She ignored her mother’s inquisitive expression while she sifted so many possibilities through her mind. She could manage well on her own, but always her mother’s happiness and security plagued her.

  William entered her thoughts again. He appeared to be a fine man, capable and dependable, and as a stockbroker, he had a responsible position. She wanted a home and children as much as the next woman. Could she learn to love William? She wondered. He had many appealing qualities. Yes, she could learn to love him, she felt sure.

  She met her mother’s contemplative look. “Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves? William doesn’t even love me, or at least, he hasn’t said so.” Recently, she’d found herself thinking of him more and more. She knew she’d developed a fondness for him, an emotion that could certainly become love, if she really tried. But–“He’s given no indication that he cares for me.”

  Her mother waved her hand. “Oh, pshaw. Men never talk about their feelings. But he does care for you; I can tell it by the way he looks at you.”

  “We’ll see. If William proposes, then I’ll accept. But since we’re still in mourning, we must wait awhile. Even then, it must be a small wedding, with only family and close friends.”

  “The answer to our prayers, dear Lisa.”

  * * *

  Owen Cardiff forced his eyes open, his alarm clock jolting him from a sound sleep. He flipped his arm across the bed to turn the clock off, then lay still for several minutes as he resisted the urge to go back to sleep.

  Drowsily, he glanced at the clock on his bedside table to see it was only mid-morning. Since he’d gotten home from the night shift at the steel mill a few hours ago, he should have been able to sleep as long as he wanted, but no such luck today. He had to go to Shadyside to make a payment on land he’d recently bought, a task he’d put off far too long. After that, he had to meet the national president of the steelworkers union to discuss looming trouble between the Amalgamated and the Carnegie Steel Company. Hell that could take the rest of the day.

  Despite the hour, a murky darkness covered the room. Neighbors’ houses appeared barely visible from his window, giving the area a ghostly quality. Winter’s snow-laden clouds deepened the perpetual haze that blanketed the borough of Homestead, where the sun rarely made an appearance. What a day for business calls, Owen thought as he shoved his blankets aside.

  Shivering in the cold air, he swung his legs out of bed and reached for his bathrobe, then headed for the bathroom to wash and shave, his mind on union problems that nagged him night and day. If the chairman of the Carnegie Steel Company tried to lower their wages–and rumor had it that Frick intended to do just that–then the Amalgamated had no choice but to strike. Damn that Henry Clay Frick, he fumed, angling his razor along his chin, cursing at the cut he made. He rinsed his razor off and went back to his room to dress, reflecting on a personal dilemma that dominated his mind even more than the threat of a strike. He wanted to quit his job at the mill, where a man could go crazy with the noise and the steel dust, the heat. Is this what he had to face for the rest of his life–day after day, watching a gigantic steel crane carry a huge ladle of molten steel to be poured into molds, knowing that a slip could spell disaster?

  Yeah, like last week, when the molten steel almost scalded Ryerson to death. What a way to die!

  Yet the job paid well, he mused, grabbing a white shirt from his closet and slipping his arms through the sleeves. And that was more than you could say for just about any other job. He finished dressing, resolved to forget his problems for now. With that tenuous resolution, he eased into his woolen coat and headed downstairs to the kitchen.

  The small kitchen held comfortable warmth, a pleasant oasis in a house difficult to heat. The fragrance of baking bread, rich with aroma of yeast and cinnamon, blended with the scent of freshly-brewed coffee.

  Emma Hrajak, Owen’s part-time housekeeper, sat at the table, her blonde hair braided and wrapped in a bun. Pallid cheeks and a gaunt frame revealed a life of poverty in the old country.

  “Ah, Mr. Cardiff,” she said, rising from the chair. “You not sleep today. You want coffee? Breakfast?”

  Owen motioned for her to return to her seat as he sniffed at the coffee that simmered in a pot on the stove. “Just coffee, Emma.” He reached into the cupboard for a cup. “No breakfast. Have to hurry to the depot, catch the train for Pittsburgh.”

  The appearance of the kitchen had certainly improved under Emma’s thoughtful care, Owen mused, his gaze covering the shiny linoleum and gleaming wooden cabinets. Flowered curtains brightened the small window, giving the room a touch of cheerful color. Canisters sat in a neat row along the back of the counter; brightly-polished pots and pans hung from pegs on the wall. A place for everything and everything in its place, as his mother had always said. And better than a bachelor could do by himself.

  He poured the coffee and held the cup gingerly to his mouth, taking a slow sip. “How’s Anton doing at the Carrie mill in Rankin?” he asked over the rim of the cup. “Is he getting used to the blast furnace?”

  “Is hard work, Mr. Cardiff, but my husband is strong. He can do it.” She wiped a corner of her spotless apron across her forehead. “He work in steel mill in Slovakia. He knew it not be soup and noodles here.”

  “Well, I’m happy to see he’s doing well.” He flashed her an encouraging smile. “I’m sure he’ll settle in real soon, be like one of the old-timers.” He set the half-empty cup on the counter and straightened his tie, thinking. If Anton had worked in a steel mill in Slovakia, why not try him as the cinder pit man? But would the other workers resent him? Might present a problem, but it was worth a try.

  He brought his mind back to the present. “If I tarry any longer, I’ll miss the train.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Cardiff.”

  “Na schledanou, Emma.” With so many Slavic workers at the mill, Owen welcomed every chance to speak their language, knowing his fluency could mean a matter of life or death.

  * * *

  The New Year came, and with it, more debts. In a rare fit of indecision, Lisa studied the bills that spread out on her wide oak desk. She pressed a hand to her throbbing head as she picked an itemized statement from the pile and glanced at each charge, wondering if she could postpone its payment. No, she must pay it now.

  William Enright had resumed his courtship but had said nothing about marriage, and even if he did propose, how in God’s name could she marry a man she didn’t love? You have no choice, her careworn heart reminded her. And if he never proposed? She’d have to find a position or open her own shop. At any rate, she’d be obliged to work for a living. Wouldn’t that shock the neighbors?

  A knock on the door brought one of the maids into the room, her gray uniform patched and faded, another indication of precarious finances in the Bradley household.

  “Yes, Zora?”

  “A gentleman to see you downstairs, miss.”

  Lisa’s stomach lurched. A friend? Or a creditor? “Did he give his name?”

  “Owen Cardiff, miss.” She rolled her eyes expressively. “And he sure is good-looking, miss–tall, dark hair and–“

  ”Very well. Tell the gentleman I’ll be downstairs shortly.” She thought hard. Cardiff. The name sounded familiar. “I’ll be downstairs presently,” she repeated as Zora remained by the door.

  “Yes, miss.” The maid hesitated with her hand on the doorknob. “Miss, about our wag
es . . .”

  “I’ll see that you receive your wages as soon as possible, and yes, the rest of the staff, too. You’ll get paid, Zora, I promise.” But how?

  “Thank you, miss.”

  After the maid closed the door, Lisa rose from the chair and looked at her reflection in her dresser mirror, conscious of the mended spots on her shirtwaist, the snug fit of the white cotton across her bosom. Despite the house’s central heating–erratic, at best–she still had to wear woolens under her clothes, which made them fit even tighter. She shrugged. It was an old blouse and her only clean one, so it would have to do. She swept a few stray locks of hair back atop her head and tightened the pins, then left the room to go downstairs.

  Outside, snow-laden clouds darkened the sky, but here the sitting room lamps and gas candelabra gave adequate illumination. At the bottom stair, Lisa stopped and rested her hand on the newel post while her eyes took in the dark-haired man sitting with his back to her.

  She walked across the carpet to greet him. “Sir, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  The gentleman rose and made a slight bow. “Owen Cardiff, madam. I came to see your father, but if another time is more convenient . . .”

  Lisa caught the look in his eyes, the way his gaze swept over her. More conscious than ever of her blouse’s tight fit, she folded her arms across her chest.

  “Sir . . .” She spoke past the lump in her throat. “My father passed away a few weeks ago, but if you’re agreeable, you may state your business to me.”

  He frowned. “I’m so sorry, Miss Bradley. I had no idea.” He paused. “Possibly I should come at a later date,” he said with a question in his voice. “Or talk to your mother.”