I knew, as I looked up into that beautiful, innocent face, that I was
doomed. No other person, woman or man, had ever had me willingly on
my knees before them. I had never offered to take the floor when a
perfectly good bed – one that I had bought and paid for myself – was
in the same room as I, nor have I ever been so happy to give up the
creature comforts I had worked long and hard to attain. Nothing had
ever made me feel quite so good as the look of wondering thankfulness
that shone forth in her dark eyes.
I am, first and foremost, a gentleman, but I am also a man. When
she made the assertion that she did not feel obliged in that halting,
lyrical accent, there was very little I could do to resist. I did,
however, endeavor to treat her with the proper respect and tenderness
a young woman in her situation deserved. From the way she's snuggling
into me now as we rock together, I like to think I succeeded.
I cannot believe how good it feels to hold someone in my arms and
know that she is there because she wants to be. A part of me knows
that the reason I accepted her invitation, and the reason I cradle
her so close now, is because I have been deprived of touch. It has
been far too long since anyone has touched me in kindness. My mother
was never one for physical affection, or indeed, any kind of
affection at all. Though I have become closer to the men I work with
than any previous group of people before them, other than a slap on
the back or an impulsive bear hug or some equally "manly" gesture,
they do not touch me, either.
She has touched me, and not simply with her body. There is
something about her innocence, her strength, and her courage that
reaches me on a deeper level. Rocking with her in this chair,
listening to the quiet sound of our mingled breathing, I am overcome
with a sense of peace and a feeling that I cannot quite place. Maybe
this is the first stirring of love that so many poets like to ramble
on about. Whatever it is, it is frightening and pleasing at the same
time, and I let myself revel in it.
I am the one to break the silence with a murmured comment on the
situation back at the railroad camp. Shifting, she looks at me and
asks if I would help her people if given the chance. I start in
surprise, but find myself asking her what she means. As she details
her observations and hopes to me, I automatically begin to formulate
a plan to retrieve the necessary documents. My eyes widen as I
realize that I have already decided to help her. It wasn't a
conscious decision.
No, I am doing this because she asks it of me. I do not know if what
I feel for this beautiful creature is indeed love or not, but I do
know that the idea of disappointing her in any way repulses me. The
very idea hurts, in secret places long kept hidden and buried. I have
never felt this strongly about anything or anyone in my life, not
even when I was young and still trying so desperately to please my
mother. So yes, maybe this is love. A momentary surge of happiness
fills my breast.
Reality crashes down on me the moment I admit to the possibility.
Ours is a romance destined to fail. We are too different, and I do
not simply mean our outward appearances. We come from customs and
mores so far apart that it could never work, and even if we could
overcome them, the world around us would not even try. After I am
able to retrieve the ledgers and prove Mr. Browner the blackguard the
two of us know him to be, it would be best if we never see each other
again. And eventually, she would realize that the starry-eyed crush
she has on me is nothing more than exaggerated gratitude for
me "rescuing" her from a fate worse than death. Gratitude is not an
emotion to base a long-term relationship on, even if our other
differences were surmountable.
When this is all over, rather than give myself the time to attempt to
talk myself into a disastrous affair, I will try to find a way to
send her home to her mother. I will return her to where she will be
safe and can find someone to share her life. I will remain here.
Ultimately, it will hurt less.
Or so I tell myself.
And hopefully one day, I will be fortunate enough to experience this
exquisite feeling once more.
The End
