Cinders to Satin. Fern MichaelsЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Chapter One

      It was a peculiar dark that fell over Dublin that night during the long hours before dawn. Damp mists, like the wraiths of souls tormented, hung low over the narrow, cobbled streets, their specter fingers stretching into doorways and rising to dissipate vaporously near the flame of the gas lights. There was a chill in the air, but it wasn’t the kind of raw cold that was usual for early March. Tonight there was a promise of the coming spring.

      A small figure dodged in and out of the shadows, running as though the night were reaching out to clutch at her. She carried an ungainly grocer’s basket close to her thin body, struggling against the weight of it as she searched for a particular alley, praying to find it quickly so she could scurry into its obliterating darkness.

      Callie James held her breath, not daring to make a sound, choking back the need to take in great gulps of air as she crouched behind an abandoned cart whose iron-rimmed wheels had long ago been removed.

      The space between the cart and the back wall of a local pub was narrow and more cramped than she had anticipated, yet she dared not make a move to reposition herself. She listened intently and could hear them, her pursuers, running along the cobbled street, calling in muted shouts to one another, questioning for signs of the “filthy little robber.”

      The voices came closer, almost to the entrance of the alley, and Callie’s heart beat a wild tattoo. If they came up the alley, she would be trapped, something she had not considered when choosing her hidey-hole. Fear gripped her. She felt her hair standing on end, and her eyes squeezed shut against her fate.

      Even as she prayed, she cursed herself for her impetuosity. How had she dared to steal the grocer’s basket that had stood outside the market awaiting delivery? In these poor times here in Ireland only the rich could enjoy such luxuries as this basket held. Even through her terror Callie could smell the sweet salty perfume of the smoked ham and the ripe aroma of oranges. And the bread. Dear God, the blessed bread! Huge loaves of round, crusty dough still warm from the oven. The temptation had been too great—the hunger too painful.

      The penalty for stealing was death by hanging, a justice meted out under an English martial law whose tenuous grasp on law and order was maintained by making examples of felons. That’s what she was now, Callie realized with shame—a felon. And if caught, no amount of pleading or claiming extenuating circumstances would save her. The grocer was an Englishman, that hated breed of men who sucked life from Ireland with their laws and edicts. While the Irish starved because of the potato blight, the English dressed in their finery and ate their fill each and every day. There would be no pity for her, no forgiveness from those who had full bellies and who possessed no understanding of starvation. Others had died at the end of the rope—men, women, and children. Only in punishment could the Irish find equality in the eyes of the English.

      Boots scraped upon the cobbles, the sounds coming closer and closer. Now someone was actually entering the alley! She squeezed her eyes tighter, not daring to open them to face her horror. Oh, Mother of Jesus, why had she taken the basket? Callie thought of leaving it and making a run for it. Unencumbered by its weight, she might have a chance to save herself. Moving to put her burden aside, she heard the rustle of tissue paper, betraying the fact that there were eggs within. Eggs for the little ones. Food. That was why the unguarded basket had been such a temptation. Eight in the house and only her own poor pittance of a salary from the textile mill to support them.

      Thomas James, Callie’s father, had lain in bed for nearly two years complaining of back pains, malingering and defeated, refusing to seek even the lightest employment. Her grandfather, old Mack James, was too old to work, and no one would hire him.

      Only her mother, Peggy James, had any backbone—in Callie’s opinion—but her work at the mill had been interrupted by the birth of the twins. Owing to the lack of food and an unclean birthing, Peggy was a sick woman. Bridget and Billy, the two-year-old twins, and Hallie and Georgie, now eight and nine, and still another babe on the way, Callie thought in disgust for her father’s lusty inclinations. Too sick to work but not dead enough to hinder him from putting another babe in Peggy’s belly. And him strutting about like a cock o’ the walk, with no thought as to how this new mouth was to be fed!

      The heavy tread of boots brought Callie back to her immediate terror. They approached closer still; someone was indeed in the alley. She held her breath, her hands covering her face against the dread of seeing the grocer’s plump, well-fed face when he reached through the shadows to seize her. One step and then another, the beat of a purposeful march. He finally reached the dilapidated wagon and stubbed his foot against it. With a mighty heave he tilted the cart, and Callie anticipated those heavy butcher’s hands capturing her, holding her like a trapped bird, threatening to crush out her existence.

      She heard the cart topple, and her hands flew away from her eyes in wide-eyed panic. Blinded by the sudden light of the flare he carried, she couldn’t see beyond it to the face of the man who had discovered her hiding place.

      A shout came from the street, calling into the alley. “Have you found the little barstard, sir?” It was the voice of the grocer, harsh and out of breath, yet Callie could not mistake his tone of respect when he spoke to the man with the flare.

      The sound of his voice jolted her, so near, booming down at her, and it was a moment before she could grasp his answer to the grocer. “Nothing in here, man! Just an overturned dogcart!”

      “Well, thank ye for your assistance, Mr. Kenyon. I wouldn’t want to trouble you further on my account. The little thief must’ve run the other way. I’ll get me goods back, don’t you worry, sir. No guttersnipe is going to get away with six pounds of me best wares. There ain’t another ham the likes of that one in all Dublin. It was brought in special for his Lordship, Magistrate Rawlings.”

      “Good luck to you then,” her savior’s voice replied. It was the most wonderful sound she’d ever heard.

      Now that the flare wasn’t being held directly in front of her, Callie was able to make a quick appraisal. His boots were knee high and polished to a shine. A gentleman’s boots. The light buff of his trousers clung to his long, lean legs, and the whiteness of his shirt showed in stark relief against the dark of his hair and the rich cranberry of his coat. But it was his face that held her attention: the lean jaw, the smooth wide brow. The kindness in his light-colored eyes. His finely drawn lips twisted into a wry smile, lending a suggestion of cruelty that contradicted the expression in his eyes. No, not cruelty, Callie amended. Rather a strength of character, a type of righteousness, a possession of authority. “Mr. Kenyon” the grocer had called him, she now remembered. He lifted the flare higher, drawing it away from her.

      Byrch Kenyon stood transfixed by the sight of Callie crouching against the tavern wall, defending her stolen basket. He had expected to find a dirty-faced street urchin with hard, defiant eyes. Anything but this terrorized young girl with her bright clean