The Purple Nightgown Read online

  “We are friends, aren’t we?” He rested a hand on her shoulder, but her perfume enticed him closer. If he didn’t remember his station, he might kiss her. An act that would cost him his job, his dream, and Stella. He withdrew his hand and took a step back.

  “Best friends.” Her words came out as rough as the first crank of the automobile’s engine.

  “Tell me about the disappointing gentleman.” Henry rested his elbows on the worktable behind him, listening as Stella related the dinner and her uncle’s disapproval.

  “I’ll never be good enough. He wants me to be a proper lady, to find a husband, and heaven knows what else. But none of the men he brings have the qualities that matter to me. We both know that if it wasn’t for my inheritance, none of them would give me so much as a second glance.”

  Henry shook his head. “We don’t know any such thing.” He stepped in front of her, capturing her gaze. “If those nincompoops don’t have the brains to see you for who you are, they aren’t worth all this fuss and bluster. Besides, you said yourself they weren’t the type you’re looking for. Who cares what they think? You’ll know when the right one comes along, and you’re too good a person to give your heart to someone who doesn’t deserve it.” He licked dry lips. He’d already said more than he ought. “You’ve told me you don’t think you’re pretty, but I wish you’d stop.”

  Stella’s eyes glistened, and Henry ached to put his arms around her. Like he had in the motorcar when her headache returned. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

  His heart throbbed in his throat. “You’re beautiful.” He tucked an obstinate curl behind her ear, but it sprang out in rebellion. “But it has nothing to do with your dress or your hair or whatever else people put so much value on.”

  Her smile slipped. “What then? If I’m plain on the outside, none of the men Uncle Weston invites to the house will see me as more than a bank account.”

  “Stella, when you were holding Ethel’s baby today, easing her burden, standing up for her when her brute of a husband spoke ill to her—that was the most beautiful you’ve ever been. It was as if you found your purpose, something that went far deeper than fabric swatches and posh benefits. You were passionate, and it shone in your eyes. You were stunning.”

  Stella took his hand and gave it a squeeze. The fog of unspoken words thickened between them. So many things he yearned to say, but propriety kept them imprisoned behind his teeth.

  “Thank you.” Stella returned her hand to her lap, leaving his with a cold, empty sensation. “Sometimes I think you’re the only one who sees any value in me.”

  “That’s not true.” He stepped back. “What about your uncle? He must value you after hearing your ideas for expanding the clothing line.” The business she would soon control should be a much safer topic.

  “I brought it up this morning.” Stella reached into his toolbox, pulled out a wrench, and weighed it in her hand.

  “How’d it go? I know you were worried the thought of expanding the line wouldn’t be well received.” He rubbed sweaty palms on his pants. If he didn’t find something to do, he’d be tempted to overstep his bounds and say something that wouldn’t be well received.

  He took the wrench from her then scooted under the motorcar. Looking busy provided a better option than wrapping his arms around her and experiencing the inevitable sting of rejection.

  “Uncle Weston said he’d speak with the board on Monday.” He heard the eye roll in her tone.

  “But you don’t believe him?” He tightened an already fastened bolt on the motor.

  “He didn’t sound too keen on the idea.”

  “Probably because he didn’t think of it.” Henry scooted from under the automobile to meet her gaze. “I thought you wanted to pitch the idea to the board of directors yourself.”

  She chewed her lip. “I asked about that, but he said the company needed me to pick fabrics for the fall clothing line.” She plucked at the rag covering his copy of Linda Hazzard’s book.

  Henry’s stomach dropped to his toes. Please, God, don’t let her notice. He scrambled off the floor and slipped beside her, blocking the book with his arm. Surprised by how close to her he stood, he inched backward.

  Stella raised a questioning brow, a childlike spark ignited in her eyes. “What are you hiding?” She peeked around his shoulder, but he shoved the cloth-covered book back with his arm.

  “It’s nothing.” Did he sound as guilty as he felt?

  A smile turned her lips. “I’m almost certain it’s the opposite of nothing.” Mischief danced in her smile.

  He knew that look.

  He tried to step away, but she’d already reached under his arm and worked her fingers into the spot that made him lose control. Just like when they were children and he dared to defy her, she tickled him until he moved away from the workbench. As he writhed out of her reach, laughter doubled him over.

  As soon as he left the oil rag unattended, Stella lifted it. Eyes wide, she met his gaze. “Why were you hiding this?” She picked up the book and ran her hand over the spine.

  “Well, I was—”

  “Thank you.” She sent him a warm smile.

  Clearly she’d misunderstood his objective, but setting her straight may not work in his favor. “You’re welcome? But I’m not sure why you’re thanking me.”

  “You’re looking into Linda Hazzard’s treatment plan.” She stepped toward him and secured her arms around his waist. “You want to understand so you can help me. It means more than you’ll ever know.”

  Her fragrance stole his ability to reason, and he wrapped her in a friendly embrace—they were friends after all. Best friends, to use her words.

  She shifted, and the letter in his pocket crinkled. The one he planned to post in the morning bearing her name and address. Thank goodness she’d only found the book.

  He should tell her the truth about the letters. It wasn’t fair to keep sending them. Not when she believed the man writing her was a member of her economic class.

  “Stella.” The word exited his mouth as a rasp, so he cleared his throat.

  “Yes?” She backed away, smoothing her dress with gloved hands.

  How did the fops her uncle paraded through the house as potential husbands not see how beautiful she was? And why did Weston continually set her up with men who, while wealthy, were deficient in the areas that truly counted? He drew in a sharp breath. Telling her the truth about their correspondence could change the dynamic between them.

  “Well?” She fiddled with her hairpins, doing more harm than good.

  His confession could leave her feeling betrayed. Bile climbed his throat, burning the words he ought to say. “I think we should go through the fasting book and see if Linda Buzzard might be on to something.” Why couldn’t he muster the courage to get the truth out? Shameful coward.

  Stella blocked a laugh. “It’s Hazzard.”

  Henry shrugged. “I don’t see the difference.”

  “You’re impossible, Clayton.” She shook her head.

  “It’s taken years of perfecting my craft.” He cracked his knuckles. “Glad to know my hard work has paid off and I’m officially impossible.”

  “When do you want to start?” Stella waved the book.

  “How about now, Miss Burke?”

  Chapter Six

  Stella’s pulse pounded in her ears. Why had Jane planted the idea that Henry had feelings for her? And why had the thought transformed her into an awkward schoolgirl? She’d taken leave of her senses, and now he must think her a fool. When she met his gaze, he flashed a crooked grin. The same one he’d beamed after stuffing a frog down her dress one summer day ages ago. Her heart fluttered against her rib cage.

  She shouldn’t have hugged him. But when he’d wrapped his arms around her … Never had she felt so safe. So loved. Not since Papa died. In that moment, memories and longings embraced and the jumbled jigsaw pieces of her life had fallen into place for the first time. But that wasn’t right. He wasn’
t a piece in her puzzle box. He didn’t belong to her. Not in that way.

  What had he told her when she practically pleaded for a declaration of his feelings? She upturned the graveyard of her mind for those painful words.

  Friends care for each other.

  Friends. Nothing more. And nothing in his actions indicated he felt any differently for her than whatever other friends he might have. Her heart slowed. What if he was courting someone else? She had little idea what he did on his weekly day off. For all she knew Henry was on the cusp of marrying some lucky girl.

  She swallowed hard, but the knot in her throat remained. Uncle Weston would never give his blessing to her and Henry. It was best he found a girl who could make him happy.

  She ran her hand over the book’s cloth cover.

  Her uncle might approve of the man she’d been corresponding with since Papa died. Judging by his eloquence, he was educated. And the way he spoke denoted his presence in the same circles she traveled. He could be anyone really. Maybe she’d met him before. But if she had, they hadn’t spoken at length. None of the young men of her acquaintance inquired about her ideas or dreams. Their concerns rested in trivial pursuits. Unlike her mystery correspondent.

  What if he was old? She cringed. What a cruel trick that would be. Or he could be married, which would be worse still. She should ask in her next letter.

  Nevertheless, something about the turns of phrase he used struck a chord. As if she knew the man who penned the words and had for a long time. Should she ask his name? If she did, the spell might be broken. He might prefer to remain a mystery, and she ought to respect his wishes.

  “What are you thinking about?” Henry wiped his wrench with a grease rag.

  She shook her head. “Nothing.” And everything. Thank heaven he couldn’t read her thoughts.

  “Would you rather wait until morning to start reading?” He grinned. “Dr. Buzzard’s book can wait.”

  He’d offered to study the book with her, and if she didn’t capitalize on his generosity, he may change his mind. “Let me read you Dr. Hazzard’s definition of fasting.” Stella leaned against the worktable and flipped to the first chapter of Linda Hazzard’s book. Henry slipped back under the automobile, wrench in hand. “You’re not listening.” Her chest twinged. How would she persuade him to take her to Olalla if he hid under the motorcar and didn’t try to understand?

  “I read the first page. The one with Milton’s work.” He poked his head into the open, lips pursed and brows raised. “She’s taking his words completely out of context. Using that line in Paradise Lost to push her crazy theory.” He dramatically rested the back of his hand on his brow. “If only Eve had fasted instead of eating the apple, the human race wouldn’t have plunged into sin.” His voice carried the lilt of mockery.

  Stella bit back a giggle, but it escaped in a fitful burst. “Maybe that wasn’t exactly what Milton meant.”

  He chuckled. “Maybe? The thought never crossed his mind.” Henry returned to his job beneath the auto. “But go ahead and read her definition of fasting. I promised I’d help you decide if the Therapeutical Institute would be a good fit for you.”

  “Institute of Natural Therapeutics.” Stella shot him a mock scowl then found the paragraph she sought. “Here it is.” Her finger guided her across the line. “Fasting is defined as follows: ‘The voluntary denial of food to a system which is diseased, and which, because of disease, does not require nourishment until rested, cleansed, and eager again to take up the labor of digestion. Then, and not till then, is food supplied; then, and not till then, does starvation begin.’ ”

  She glanced at Henry, whose face was hidden under the motorcar.

  “Well?” She slipped her finger between the pages.

  He crawled from the ground then brushed off his pants and shirt. “So who gets to decide when your system is ready for food?” He shook his head, eyes clouded. “Where is the threshold between fasting and starvation?”

  She shrugged a shoulder. “I guess when my headaches are gone, I’ll know I’m ready to eat again.”

  “I’ve noticed a pattern with your headaches.” He reached into his toolbox and pulled out something Stella couldn’t identify.

  “What sort of pattern?”

  His brow creased as if he’d thought the matter over at length. “It seems after you’ve been stressed, headaches follow. Like today. After you stood up to Ethel’s husband and dealt with the heartbreak of those needy children, your symptoms set in. While you were speaking with Ethel and holding the baby, you seemed more your old self than I’ve seen since—”

  “Since Papa died?” Tears blurred his face from view.

  He nodded.

  “I did have the initial symptoms of the headache just before Ethel invited us in.” She traced the title of the book with an index finger. “But they went away for about an hour.”

  “Can you pinpoint what brought them on and describe what you felt?”

  He would never understand. Unless he experienced one of her headaches, the usual course of symptoms would sound like she’d swallowed too much laudanum.

  “I smelled something vile in the hallway, and little bursts of light started at the corners of my eyes, then I felt like I was watching myself from somewhere outside my body.” She shuddered. “I hate thinking about it for fear another headache will strike.”

  “Perhaps you should keep a journal and write down the circumstances surrounding each headache. Maybe there’s a common thread we’re missing.”

  Did that mean he wouldn’t help her get to Dr. Buzzard’s clinic? Her jaw clenched. Now he had her thinking the woman’s name was Buzzard.

  “I’ll still see you safely to the clinic if you feel it’s the best option.” He took a step closer, and her breathing faltered.

  She shouldn’t have come out here to whine about her terrible dinner companion. Taking a giant step backward toward the door, she chewed the inside of her cheek. “What do I have to say to prove I really need to talk to Dr. Buzz—Hazzard for myself?”

  An aggravating smirk quirked his lips, and a breeze blew through the open door, ruffling his nutmeg hair. Despite the good looks of her uncle’s guest, James paled in comparison to Henry. How had she never noticed the dimple in his cheek before? “I’ll take you to see the old Buzzard once you finish her book and journal for a week. We can review the journal together if you like.” He crossed his arms. “If we can find a way to help you without going to her extremes, it would be best. Besides, do you think you could go without ice cream until she starves your headaches away?”

  “She wouldn’t starve me.” Stella flipped to the first page of the book. “Clearly, you weren’t listening when I read her definition of fasting.” She cleared her throat. “ ‘The voluntary denial of—’ ”

  Henry slipped the book out of her grasp and held it above his head. “I heard you the first time.”

  She reached for the book, jumping for momentum. Why did he have to be so tall?

  He dangled it within reach then jerked it away when she grabbed for it.

  “I’ll name my next headache ‘Henry.’ ” She wiggled her fingers in the traditional tickling gesture.

  Henry’s eyes widened, and he handed her the book. “You play dirty.”

  Stella lifted her chin, biting her lip to hide a grin. “I learned from the best.”

  Moths fluttered around the lantern, and lights on the main floor of the mansion flickered off. “You should probably go.” Henry rubbed the back of his neck. “Jane will be looking for you.”

  Jane. Stella’s heart seized. She’d think Stella had acted in direct defiance, talking to Henry. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She handed Henry his copy of the book then ran for the door.

  “You’ll work on that journal?” Henry leaned against the doorframe.

  Stella nodded. “I’ll start keeping record in the morning.”

  Sunlight streamed through Stella’s bedroom windows. She rolled over in bed, reaching for the letter f
rom her anonymous friend. One more perusal couldn’t hurt. Especially after Jane’s scolding last night.

  Stella’s throat prickled as regret washed over her. Once her week of journaling ended and Henry took her to the institute, she’d cut ties with him.

  She shouldn’t wait that long. The sooner she stopped speaking to him the better. She could make him take her to Olalla now. After all, she was the master and he the servant. But the thought of pulling rank made her chest ache.

  Why was life so unfair? If fortune didn’t tether her to a life of duty, she and Henry could remain friends, or maybe more if he was keen. Nothing would have to change.

  But Jane was right. Her uncle would never give his blessing to someone of Henry’s station, not even for something as simple as friendship. Would any of that matter once she turned twenty-five? Though she wouldn’t live under Uncle Weston’s guardianship, she had no other family. Could she disrespect him so?

  Doubt fogged her mind. If she wasn’t certain of her feelings for Henry, it wasn’t fair to string him along. He might truly care for her. Best to let him go now, rather than wait and inflict additional pain. Tears trailed hot down her cheeks. That meant no more drives to the coast. How she’d miss those times spent with the person who knew her best.

  The letter crinkled between her fingers. Well, whoever wrote these letters understood her too. Maybe now was the time to devote herself fully to this friendship. Though she may never know the man’s name, there was something romantic and tragic about writing letters and sharing bits of her heart with someone she’d never see face-to-face.

  Unless he was old or married, of course. But she may never receive answers to those questions either.

  She unfolded the page then scanned the sharp, slanted words.

  My dearest Stella,

  I pray this letter finds you well. In fact, you’re in my prayers and not far from my thoughts every day. Have your headaches improved with the sea air?

  In your last letter, you mentioned your idea for expanding your father’s clothing business, and I must admit, it’s brilliant. How the stuffed shirts on the board didn’t think of it sooner is a mystery. Offering goods to a wider client base could only grow the business. Have you considered a clothing line for children? That may be another avenue that would increase the company’s profits while providing jobs to the working class. Just a thought which you’re free to ignore.