Greta smiled. ‘Then we look forward to meeting Miss Euphemia and sharing it with you all.’

  ‘I’m afraid Miss Allister won’t be attending. She wants to stay with her own family but when we are married, of course,’ he replied.

  ‘Of course,’ Greta nodded. ‘Please come in. I’ll show you how far I have got with grading the pearls for Euphemia’s necklace but don’t forget to bring the centre pearl. I do need to start with that first. Rhodabel will make us some coffee,’ she offered.

  ‘No, I can’t stay, much as I would like to. But you will come to the supper then?’ Jem seemed anxious to leave, backing from the doorstep, raising his hat with a smile. When he left Rhodabel was bursting with excitement. ‘What can I wear?’

  ‘We’ll think of something. I can wear my black Sunday best.’ She sighed, already sick of being drained by the dark colour but proprieties must be kept. ‘If we add bright ribbon trimmings to your Sunday grey, it will cheer it up. There’s no money for new, I’m afraid, but when we get to York I will make you the prettiest dress.’

  How she yearned for something new for herself. She was still young and full of life. Black made her feel old and worn. Perhaps she could dress her hair in a different way and put on her special necklace. Then she remembered it was sitting in the pawnbroker’s office or sold by now, but she had Kitty’s locket and she could hang it from a purple ribbon. She might not have Mr Abrahams’s necklace any more but Kitty’s cameo would brighten her drabness. It kept her sister close to her heart.

  Jem gave Martha such a string of orders she had to laugh. ‘Lordy, master, I shall need four pairs o’ hands to get fixed in time.’

  He wanted his new mahogany table to sparkle with polish, his silver candlesticks to gleam and the linen to be starched. He had twelve guests plus Greta’s girl who would help Martha in the kitchen.

  Effie wrote, telling him she was peeved that he wasn’t returning to her family but that his excuses had been accepted. He didn’t tell her how keen he was for the English widow to have a farewell Thanksgiving supper. No one should be alone on that special day when families gathered from far and wide to celebrate.

  He knew Greta was waiting to finish off the threading but he still hadn’t given her his last pearl. He sensed her thoughts were turning east and to her home in York. He knew all about that ancient city and had once passed through it on a train south. How different it was from Iowa which was still a young state full of farmers and loggers, but they were making history in their own way.

  Thanksgiving always made folks think of home and yearn to see families left behind. How he longed to see Perthshire again, but he had no one back there now, he must learn to belong here and grow roots with his new-found family in Clinton.

  Greta was rootless too after all these years travelling. Greta . . . Greta, always his thoughts turned in her direction and it troubled him. Why had he singled her out, asking her to dine? Why was he inviting her to meet with employees? Would it be misconstrued? Effie should be the one by his side, especially as Muscatine would be her own home one day.

  He knew she would want a large home high on the hill among the grand mansions, three storeys high with towers and fine views over the river and a large yard full of roses. She would need a cook and maids and the sort of society she was used to. He wasn’t sure Muscatine was ready for Euphemia Allister yet. It would be better to build her a home and let her arrive as his bride. That would take time and Greta Slinger would be long gone.

  Yield not to temptation, for yielding is sin, went the revivalist hymn. He had done nothing to be ashamed of. All he was doing was extending Christian charity to a grieving widow before she left for good. Surely there was nothing wrong in that?

  Greta put on her black dress and Rhodabel fixed her hair in a shapely bun. The girl coiled Greta’s dark curls in the latest fashion before pinning the strands in place with little pearl-studded pins, her one piece of ornamentation.

  ‘You will sit in the kitchen with the other servants and don’t gossip if they ask questions about us,’ Greta ordered, fixing her bonnet and veil carefully over her hair.

  ‘No, ma’am.’ Rhodabel was wearing new pretty pink braid on her skirt to disguise how the hem frill had been let down. They would go to church for a special service before walking to Mr Baillie’s house mid-way up Cherry Street, accompanied by one of his office assistants called Mr Cochrane and his wife, Mabel.

  The streets behind the river were emptied, the whole town silenced as families gathered together on their porches to greet each other.

  As they left the church and walked slowly up the street holding onto their bonnets, Greta felt the first winds of winter beating at her chest as it used to do in York on a winter’s evening. She thought of Mam and Tom and Kitty and her friends in Aldwark and felt sick with sadness. There was nothing better than a loving family and close friends but she had only Rhodabel now. They were strangers in a foreign land and must endure a dinner with more strangers, however kindly meant. Greta paused, wanting to turn back for their house. ‘I can’t do this.’ Then she saw the excitement on Rhodabel’s face and knew she must make an effort.

  The thought of seeing Baillie in his own home stirred up a deep feeling of unease in her belly. It didn’t feel right to see him in this way. Better to meet formally in the street or when he brought work to the door. She was shivering and not from the chill.

  ‘We’re here.’ Mrs Cochrane pointed to a large house halfway up Cherry Street. ‘The young man started out with nothing but look how well he’s done for himself. He deserves his success, he works that hard for the mill.’

  They were ushered up steps and into a tiled hall where a maid took their coats and led Rhodabel into the back of the house. Greta found herself in a parlour with padded chairs and dark furnishings. Tall windows were netted with lace curtains so the street was hidden from view. ‘Come in, ladies, sit down.’ The room fell silent as she and Mrs Cochrane entered and Greta tried not to shake as she was introduced. She felt the eyes of the other women on her.

  ‘Well, I’d be fried for an oyster, if that ain’t the prettiest way to decorate your hair,’ said one of the wives, fingering the pearls securing Greta’s bun. ‘I’d never think to use them for any way but round my neck.’

  Greta smiled, relieved that their attention was on her hair and that her modest idea was approved of. ‘I don’t possess many pearls so I just thought . . .’

  ‘And your husband a pearl dealer . . .’ said Mrs Cochrane. ‘Oh, my dear, I forget myself and him not cold in his grave. I am so sorry.’

  It was a small town and they all knew her story. She nodded, backing herself into the corner of the room. James Baillie was nowhere to be seen so she smiled and accepted condolences from all the visitors. Then, to her embarrassment, they were called into supper and she found herself placed next to Mr Baillie as the honoured guest. He stood by her chair wearing a frock coat and a fancy tie, his hair for once combed back, untamed strands curling round the nape of his neck.

  ‘We’ll have to talk Mrs Slinger through all the different trimmings that go with our splendid turkey roast. They don’t do this in England. Here is cornbread, greens, sauces – all representing something from that first year when the pilgrims celebrated their harvest. Or so we are told. I’m not sure they ate turkey, just whatever they caught in the forest.’

  Everyone was chattering and asking her questions and she felt her host watching her as she tried to tackle the enormous plate of food. How her brother would have wolfed this all down. Her stomach was tight and she could hardly breathe.

  Then came pumpkin pie and pastries. She struggled to do justice to Martha’s cooking. ‘This is the sort of feast they call a belt loosener in Yorkshire,’ she offered and everyone laughed. The cordials packed a punch, going to her head and making her feel dizzy.

  Baillie stood up and lifted his glass. ‘In the whirlwind that is our life we all realize a longing for home and far-off kin but first we give thanks to God’s bounty for guiding us to safety on this special day. To absent friends and family.’

  They all stood and toasted in silence. The Cochranes came from Ireland, the Schindlers from Germany, the Causses had family in France. Greta took comfort that all of them must be thinking of another place called home. I shall remember this next year, God willing, when I’m back home with my own kin, back home where she belonged.

  They retired to the parlour where there was a piano and Mrs Schindler sat down to play. The piano was a little out of tune and tinny but they sang the old favourites: ‘Home Sweet Home’, ‘Loch Lomond’, ‘Sweet and Low’ and ‘Danny Boy’ which Mabel Cochrane sang with tears in her eyes.

  Was this a life she could love, if she were safe and sheltered by a good man, secure from harm? When she looked up at Baillie, he was staring at her again with those dark deep eyes and her stomach lurched with longing. She felt as if she were being drawn to the very heart of him like a magnet clung to metal. She knew her cheeks were pink.

  It was time to leave before she disgraced herself. ‘I must say thank you for such a wonderful feast and such pleasant company,’ she said to him quietly as she made her way to the door, not wanting to break up the party.

  ‘I will walk you back, it’s dark out there. Or better still get you a cab.’

  ‘I wouldn’t hear of it. The fresh air will do Rhodabel and I good. Thank you, Mr Baillie, for your kind invitation.’

  ‘No, I insist, the party will go on, knowing my staff. I will walk you home.’

  She stood in the hall while a maid brought her cloak and bonnet. Then Rhodabel appeared ready for the off as Baillie wrapped the cloak around Greta’s shoulders. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  She could smell the pomade in his hair, the tobacco on his breath and something she couldn’t name, something manly and mysterious. It was a heady mix.

  The three of them walked downhill, through the silent streets. Candles flickered in the windows as revellers enjoyed their parties but as they got nearer to the shore she heard all the raucous singing and shouting rising up from the riverside bars. Down there was another world of wild men and women. The sky had cleared and now was full of stars, the moon almost full. When they reached their porch, Rhodabel dashed ahead to open up and light the lamps.

  Greta paused and turned, looking up into his face to thank him again. He smiled, disarming her. For a second she sensed something was about to happen but then, stepping back, she slipped on the ice. He reached out to steady her, his face shadowy, intense, and her breathing quickened.

  When he kissed her she made no protest. His lips covered hers and she shuddered as he pressed his body against hers. No, No! Her body was responding, telling her what her mind didn’t want to hear. She wanted this to go on for ever. A wildness she didn’t recognize took hold of her as she revelled in his touch. They were kissing with such passion, her limbs melted. In that moment all she wanted was to be crushed under him, drowning in deep water, but yet she struggled to breathe, to surface, fighting all her senses to reach some sort of sanity.

  She pulled away just as Rhodabel stood in the open door. Greta could hardly stand. ‘Good night, Mr Baillie, and thank you.’ She held onto the porch rail as she climbed the stairs in confusion.

  Later she lay sleepless, going over and over their embrace, the ecstasy of his body close to hers. Never had she had such feelings with Eben. This was something far beyond her experience, a wild torrent, the most exciting sensation she’d ever known.

  If this was how she felt with just a kiss, where would it lead? Her limbs wanted to know more of him. How would her body respond to . . . if they . . .?

  She stopped herself going further. Baillie was engaged to another girl. He shouldn’t be doing this when he was attached elsewhere. Was he taking advantage of her because she was poor, widowed, lonely and at his mercy? Was this invitation merely a ruse to get her to succumb to his lust?

  Had he planned this assault all along? Did he want her for his mistress? How could she have been silly enough to think he wanted her for herself? Suddenly her desire turned to fury. How dare he do this when her defences were so battered? Did he think her so cheap as to fall for this false friendship? Greta Costello was no sixpenny whore, not then, not now. He could go hang!

  41

  When the last of his guests had gone, Jem paced the floor, reluctant to turn in. What had he just done? Was it the punch, the wine, the evening or the holiday that had gone to his head? Was he just sorry for the widow with the sad eyes and the look of longing on her face when they were singing the songs of home? He had seized a moment of weakness in both of them, taken his chance to taste her lips, to feel her response to his and now he felt nothing but shame.

  Effie was beautiful and full of poise and feminine charm. Yet there was something about Greta that had captured his attention in a way Effie’s charms never had. Greta was careworn, her face pinched by sorrow and her accent broad and yet there was a beauty of a different hue in her features. Was it that he felt he owed her attention and help because of Slinger’s fate? Had she in turn cast a lustful spell over him? Was she luring him into an entanglement that would end in tears?

  One thing he did know was that it must not happen again. He would never spend time alone in her company and he’d make sure he was in Clinton for Christmas. He must apologize for this lapse in behaviour. He’d write Greta a contrite letter and make sure he stayed away.

  Jem always prided himself on his sense of honour. He was a fair employer, a fair judge of men and he tried to hear both sides of any dispute. He was respected in Muscatine. What on earth was he thinking of, kissing a frail woman, giving her ideas that there was a future in this relationship with him? In the eyes of many, what he had done was tantamount to a proposal. What if she made overtures? What if Effie got to hear of this behaviour? She didn’t deserve this betrayal. It had to stop, right here, right now. Damn those Slingers, first the husband and now the wife, unsettling his ordered regime. He would distance himself from their house. He’d send any pearls with Martha and that would mean he didn’t have to see her again. Once she received his letter she would understand how things were. Perhaps he could help her leave Muscatine, ease her and the maid’s passages home but how could he arrange it without it looking as if he were buying them off?

  ‘You look pale, Miss Greta,’ Rhodabel said as she spat on the iron to test its heat.

  ‘I’m fine, just get on with your sheets,’ Greta snapped, knowing she was being unfair to the girl but unable to stop herself.

  The weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas were a blur of laundry. All the rooms in the house were full of steam and damp washing. There had been no more jewellery repairs. At this rate it would take months before they could leave for home and she could no longer settle in the river town.

  In those first days after that dinner she was relieved that Baillie did not return to press his attentions on her but then, to her surprise, she felt the icy draft of his absence and missed his casual visits. She wondered if Rhodabel had witnessed them kissing. Had she seen their loss of self-control? Now Greta felt ashamed of her weakness. It was Martha who brought things to a head when she arrived on the doorstep with a letter.

  Dear Mrs Slinger,

  Please forgive my abominable behaviour last week. I have no excuse other than too much wine and the merriment of the occasion. I am sure you will agree that it is better not to be seen in company together. People are closely observed in this town. I would hate to compromise your reputation.

  As I cannot find that last pearl to complete the necklace which you have so carefully worked on, I intend to leave the rest in your hands as payment for all your time on my behalf. Please feel free to dispose of them as you see fit.

  I know how eager you are to return to your family. I hope they will help you on your journey.

  Yours sincerely,

  James Baillie

  Greta’s first instinct was to throw the paper into the stove. How dare he? she thought, indignation burning in her throat. Yes, it was a breach of bad manners to take advantage of the moon and starlight but she hadn’t kissed him, he’d kissed her first and now he was paying her off for her silence with a tray of pearls, to hell with that!

  ‘Martha, just a moment,’ she called out. ‘Please take these back to Mr Baillie.’ She rushed to find her toolbox and the package of pearls and the half-threaded necklace, putting them all together into the servant’s hands. ‘Thank him for his note. I shan’t be needing these and they are far too valuable for me to keep.’

  The coward hadn’t the nerve to say all this to her face. What did he fear? That she might compromise his standing if she made a fuss? Perhaps he thought she would write to Miss Euphemia and spoil his chances? How dare he think so little of her? How many times had she rehearsed what to say when they met again? How dare he get in first and spoil her own dramatic lines of reproof? How dare he back away from that kiss, the power of which still lingered on her lips?

  His letter stung her confidence. With his help she had overcome the horror of Eben’s deeds and the relief at his death but she was surviving independently, without a man, and had given an orphan a home. Her pride now withered.

  For one brief moment she had found comfort in his arms and then he’d sent this cowardly letter.

  Those pearls would see them home safely but to keep them would mean she was being bought off, that her presence must be banished from his sight because he felt foolish. Stuff and nonsense, she was worth more than that. When they returned to York it would be on her terms and without the help of any false friend. Even if it took a year she would stay the course and defy him. If he felt uneasy around her living in Muscatine, so be it. That would be his burden not hers. Here she was staying until she was good and ready to go.