Broken Angel Read online

  Rachel nearly released a quick breath of irritation. Rachel. She gathered her calm back again. “I can assure you I’ve recovered, Lynette. The walk and air have done their duty.”

  “I am glad. Now you can dance and have the others green with envy!”

  “Lynette–”

  “In fact, charming Mr. Traxin has promised he won’t dance with another soul until he has shared at least two dances with you. He’s quite taken with you, dear. Isn’t that thrilling?” Before Rachel could respond, Lynette continued, undaunted. “I’ve set him to wait on the far side of the dance floor with the promise that I would fetch you and return straightaway. You should have seen his face, dear. It was fairly aglow with eagerness! I’m so jealous! I’ve but two beaus the entire evening and you’ve made the catch of at least five! You show such calm, making them wild with the want to impress you. You really must tell me your secret, dear.”

  “Disinterest, Lynette.”

  “Pardon?”

  Rachel released a soft breath. “It was nothing.”

  Two

  Perspectives

  Occasional gusts of early morning wind shifted Rachel’s traveling gown of emerald corduroy as the porters loaded her trunks onto the baggage car. Lynette dutifully wept her grief at Rachel’s departure, the latter questioning their sincerity when the performance was clearly viewed by a wide collection of unattached gentlemen. For some reason, however, that morning Rachel found amusement in how… adept the woman was at utilizing her femininity to receive what she wanted.

  In fact, Rachel smirked.

  “I had so hoped that we could have persuaded you to stay with us,” Lynette confessed, her head tilted to catch a halo of sunlight upon her hair. “When I think of all the parties we could have planned for you.”

  “I appreciate your attempt to soothe my boredom, Lynette,” Rachel offered. The woman would never understand that balls and masquerades were the least of her interests.

  “It was a joy, darling. You’re radiant by candlelight, and those gowns from Paris! Why, they make you a rival to Aphrodite herself!”

  Rachel swallowed the scoff before it could fly free. “Lynette, you only believe that because everyone else says the same.”

  Lynette protested, but the conductor’s infamous bellow of “All aboard!” interrupted further comment.

  Rachel turned toward the reserved coach and the porter waiting to hand her up.

  The woman followed in her wake. “Mr. Traxin was quite taken with you, Rachel darling. Be prepared for a surprise visit from him.”

  Mr. Traxin indeed. Rachel tempered the sneer from her lips. “I doubt our paths shall cross, Lynette. He seems to believe I live in Oregon.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It was nothing.” At the steps to the Pullman coach, Rachel dutifully faced the young woman. “Thank you for your hospitality. It was appreciated.”

  Tears glowed once more in the woman’s lack-luster eyes as she gathered Rachel’s rigid form into an embrace. “Have a safe journey, Rachel darling.”

  “Thank you.” Rachel counted off the timing of the recommended pressure before distancing herself. “I shall do my best to inform you of my safe arrival.”

  “All aboard!” The conductor sounded the final call as the porter offered Rachel a hand. “You be needing some help, Miss?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  He handed her up into the coach while the conductor ushered Lynette from the area.

  Giving one last wave of farewell, Rachel released a relieved breath and turned to enter the coach. The vision of red velvet couches, lush carpeting, intricate lace curtains, and elegant crystal chandeliers all bore the memory of her departure eight years previous. Fourteen years of age. Alone. Doing her best not to cry though her father—

  Thoughts scattered with her snap of fan against gloved hand as she forced her feet forward. She slipped her short white gloves from chilled hands and tossed them onto the mahogany table, gathering up the New York Times as she settled into the red velvet couch perpendicular to the outward windows. The social pages drew back the sneer at the too-large photograph of her in the company of her alleged “friend and confidant Lynette Hatcher.” She moved on to the business section. “Confidant?” she mused. “How did they come to that conclusion? The woman understands not one word of anything save men, petticoats, and how to arrange a bouquet ‘just so.’”

  “Ah. It appears this car is not so vacant as I was led to believe.”

  The baritone rumble drew Rachel’s gaze, and the rich chocolate eyes of the gentleman leaning against the dark leather chair across from her assaulted her focus. Dressed in a trim suit of navy blue, the color served his height and extreme good looks well enough to give her a moment’s pause regarding the state of her appearance—to her annoyance. “Excuse me, sir?”

  He smiled, his teeth a pure white flash of amusement against the natural tan of his smooth complexion. “Intrusion is not my intent, dear lady, though I seem to have stumbled into it regardless. Please forgive me this moment of indiscretion.”

  She arched an eyebrow, the timbre of his voice tickling her memory of a shadowed garden and “a gentleman who warned me before I could take a tumble.”

  He paused the duty of removing his gray traveling gloves. “Ah! The maiden with a poet’s air of melancholy.” He bowed at the waist. “Your servant.”

  Rachel inclined her head.

  He somewhat carelessly chucked his gloves onto the table with hers as he collapsed into the chair across from her with an air of boyish mischief. “I must confess I am relieved that I do not, in fact, have exclusive use of this coach this morning. Although, to be honest, I am curious as to the reason for the pleasant surprise.”

  The temptation to surrender a smile tickled Rachel’s lips as she relished the fact he had not waited for her invitation to sit. “A curiosity I do not fault you for in the slightest, especially considering my family has had this coach reserved for the greater part of three months.”

  “Indeed? Hm. I wonder if I–” He suddenly snapped his fingers. “Yes. I was to leave yesterday morning. Only I was waylaid by my friend.” At the gentleman’s grimace, Rachel’s smile escaped. He sat forward. “I say, truly, that if you would rather not endure my company, I espied a friend on my way through and can most certainly impose upon him.”

  “You are welcome to stay, sir, as there is room for us both.” Spending the three-day journey entertained by only old memories and rising questions did not appeal to her, especially not when teased by the possibility of sharing intelligent conversation for the first time in weeks.

  “Wonderful,” he said. “I must say traveling alone is seldom as… amusing as traveling in company. Although this other friend has a tendency toward….” The amusement sparkled in those lush eyes, feeding a surprising rise of intrigue. “Well, let me suffice it to say that he has a few more bad habits than what a gentleman should admit to genteel company.”

  “You cannot intend me to believe you have no ‘bad habits’ of your own, sir?”

  “Hah! On the contrary. Everyone has a fault. In fact, my father would classify mine as arrogance.”

  “ ‘Arrogance’, you say?” Her eyebrow arched as she regarded his distracted duty of adjusting his gloves upon the mahogany table. “You present with assurance and confidence, but I would hazard that a classification of ‘arrogance’ is false.”

  He chuckled, and his brown eyes shifted to meet her calm expression. None held her gaze long, a point of some pride for her, and yet the gentleman didn’t look away until a continuation would have been overly forward. Then he simply lowered his eyes to a feigned scrutiny of his nails. “While I appreciate that, I have come to discover many tiers to character flaws as well as character strengths. In point of fact, when too many strengths come together, they can often become tainted into flaws.”

  Curiosity and intrigue soared. “Explain, if you would.”

  “Of course. Certainty and confidence together often blossom to a
ssurance, and both are considered positive strengths to a person’s character. However, should that assurance be tainted with a pride that is, in itself, twisted by self-importance, arrogance takes root.”

  Rachel absently caressed the air about her face and neck with a subtle beat of her fan as she considered him. Classifying his expression, his words, and his body language as well as the tone in which he presented his argument. “Please do continue.”

  “Some say arrogance is a man’s destiny; to be assured – or arrogant, depending on his pride ― a good hunter, a better fencer, and intelligent regarding subjects of business, that is his role in this life. Yet, on the other hand,” the gentleman motioned toward her. “It is often expected of the woman to be emotionally sensitive, self-absorbed, and pre-occupied with fashion and the art of capturing a beau as well as the size and quality of the gems adorning her neck and fingers.”

  Her hold tightened upon her fan until she heard a soft pop. Rachel. She released a slow breath before continuing the gentle pump of the fan. The gentleman’s countenance did not shift from the darkly serious discussion, though a shadow had flickered across his eyes.

  “A too-limiting expectation for society to force onto others, wouldn’t you say? Yet when a person, myself being the prime example, present actions and conversations so opposite society’s expectations, we are classified as arrogant. So I, upon many occasions, can be classified as arrogant or prideful, though such may not be anything more than one person’s skewed perception.”

  Rachel regarded his frank countenance and experienced, for the first time, a whisper of sincere interest and attraction into his person, like a brush of hand.

  The gentleman suddenly sat forward. “Miss, I do apologize if you took offense. That, yet again, wasn’t my intention. I’m not usually so vocal regarding my philosophical differences with to society’s views of male and female roles. I find that my stand on the subject is generally scoffed at. Or minimized at the very least.”

  Well do I understand that! “Your stand being?” His eyes darted away from their scrutiny of her stature and he shifted his position. An intriguing development, she mused, cataloguing the response for a later review.

  “Excuse my hesitation to answer,” he said after a clearing of the throat, “but I have no wish to risk continued offense with a too-quick response.”

  “Noted.” And appreciated.

  A crooked smile tugged at his lips. “Yet you still desire an answer.”

  “Correct.”

  “Hah! Well, old man, see what crypt you’ve built for yourself….” Releasing a deep breath, he gave a slight shake of his head before retrieving a handkerchief from his pocket and offering it forward to her. Intrigue teased an eyebrow upward as she leaned forward to retrieve it. “The monogram there. Whom do you suppose crafted it?”

  Considering subjects of needlepoint and embroidery were not her forte, Rachel couldn’t tell if the monogram of R.L.T. had been tastefully planned, delicately crafted, or appropriately positioned within the corner of the kerchief. She approved the deep blue of the thread against the antique white of the kerchief, however, and the very modesty of it seemed to make it more dignified.

  Rachel lifted her gaze to meet his. “A sister?”

  The gentleman’s lips twitched upward. “No. Only child.”

  “Pardon me.”

  He waved a dismissive hand before once more motioning toward the kerchief. “Again?”

  “I yield, sir.” She offered the kerchief back again. She knew nothing of crafts, but could not admit to that truth.

  The kerchief drew his whole attention, and an amused twist played about his lips before he once more met her focus. “I was curious one day and crafted it myself.” She blinked at him, shock preventing even a simple response. He chuckled. “I do not jest, I promise you. My mother offered a few well-timed suggestions and directions, certainly, but mostly the task was my own.”

  Teasing the corner of the kerchief, his chocolate gaze focused beyond, to a history which began to tickle the edges of her intrigue. “I must admit I receive a bit of satisfaction having it in my pocket, proving that even a man can perform a delicate task such as this. Though,” he let fly a soft scoff as he lifted a hand for deeper scrutiny. “Large fingers presented quite the challenge, and I experienced several spiteful jabs before the project could be called done.”

  Amusement tickled her lips upward. “I can only imagine.”

  “However, self-pity isn’t my point. Oh… that was horrible. Excuse the pun.”

  He threw back his head and laughed a delightful baritone rumble. Rachel found the entire scenario fascinating, as most of the gentlemen in Europe were too rehearsed to present themselves as genuine, to say nothing of their lack of any morsel of humor.

  “The fact that you assumed the kerchief to be crafted by a woman would have been the… well… the point. That assumption proves society’s view of a female’s role within it, unfortunately limiting all involved: Men and women.”

  “Hm. Apparently I have become as tainted by society’s views as others,” Rachel observed, the fact causing irritation, as well as admiration at how deftly he revealed the point.

  “Considering it is impossible not to be… influenced by surrounding environments, that fact shouldn’t cause too great of consternation for you, Miss. We’re all guilty of it. Even I myself instantly classified you as a lady of poetic nature when I first saw you in the garden last evening. Mostly, I believe, due to the extreme angst and distance in your stance. I generally only observe that in poets and artists. While I still haven’t yet classified your expertise, considering the paper there beside you, I doubt it involves artistry of the… general sense of the word.”

  Rachel sent a slow and thoughtful glance to the paper before once more allowing the gentleman’s handsome features to draw her attention; completely.

  He smiled, an expression that seemed to spend the most time in those eyes, and then motioned toward her. “But now I would much rather escape to safer subjects, such as where you journey off to so early in the morning?”

  “Boston.” Though why she should feel no qualms with a more personal conversation with a stranger met only once before Rachel had no idea. However, for the first time since arriving from Paris, she was blissfully free from suspicion. I suppose that alone should cause suspicion. She smirked.

  One of his eyebrows twitched, but he simply said, “Ah. Highly refined and lovely city, that.” Then he further examined her expression before speaking again. “I’ve found myself there once or twice. The people are relaxed and compassionate. At least, in the circles I subjected myself to.”

  Yet another eerie coincidence. Rachel, don’t be ridiculous, she scolded. Who hasn’t been to Boston at least once in their life? “Family?”

  He smiled slightly. “Of a sort.” The gentleman motioned toward her. “Have you been away long? Your fashion suggests you were most recently of Paris.”

  Lowering her gaze to a brief glance of her traveling habit, Rachel once again felt a wave of… relief. Intriguing.

  “Your contemplative silence causes me to wonder if my more personal questions have given you pause on the wisdom of our discourse.”

  Rachel met his gaze. “Not at all. Simply thoughtful preoccupation.”

  “Oh? Regarding what, may I ask?”

  “A growing dread of conversation and all that entails,” she found herself admitting. “Suspicion of their intentions is to be expected—who shows their true colors in this day and age, I ask you—but dread is crippling.” The slight motion of wrist and fingers encompassed his entire relaxed, athletic form. “Since leaving Europe, yours is the first discourse which has not encouraged any emotion save intrigue and interest. The change is welcome.”

  Mischief twinkled behind his eyes and danced on the slight curve of his lips. “My humor has a tendency of both causing annoyance and tears, so These conversations with you have been a welcome change as well. You haven’t even hinted at a desire to st
rike.”

  A smile caressed Rachel’s lips. “The day is young, sir.”

  He laughed, a sound that Rachel had begun to classify as unique, as she hadn’t ever heard a sound as rich and full of mirth while not being offensive or overly loud.

  Then he sat back in the chair, the amusement still plain on his expression, and motioned toward her. “So you’ve recently returned from Europe, where you resided for quite some time, if I gather correctly.” At her quizzical tease of eyebrow, he continued, “There is a French lilt to your speech.”

  Does he miss nothing? It was an oddly unsettling experience to be so transparent, and yet her mind fairly hummed with the challenge to improve the stealth of her reactions.

  “What kept you in Europe for so long?”

  “Studying.” She lowered her gaze to the silk-screened fan, which she opened with a deft motion of wrist and fingers. Her brow furrowed ever so slightly. Such a simple word could not possibly contain the entirety of her metamorphosis. She had re-worked the very nature of her soul’s identity.

  The gentleman remained quiet for a moment, and her sidelong glance noticed a screen of caution fall across his features. When he asked “What were your areas of study?” there rang a soft overtone of… hesitation? A first from him.

  “Business practices. My father has no son; therefore, I am his sole heir.”

  Caution blossomed to a clear shadow of guard, which ruffled awake a surprising emotion of suspicion. “Investments?”

  “Yes. In the Pacific Northwest territories.”

  “Ah. Where one’s fortune evolves from few things: A successful trading post, logging, or railroad. There isn’t much else.”

  The pinch of suspicion passed, freeing a soft laugh. “You have spoken true.”

  “Although, I have heard of gold within Oregon’s central region.”

  “Yes, and what a shame that they have resorted to dredging for this new wealth instead of preserving the state’s natural beauty.” Rachel leaned forward. “I ask you, do they not realize that changing the very direction of a river will thereby affect the nature and wildlife that lives there? How can they be so short-sighted? Can they not research a more— No. No, a less invasive procedure to harvest the gold?”