Free Nine Buck's Row by Jennifer Wilde Page A

picking up her knitting, and I examined the books in the dark, heavy bookcase, selecting one of the Bronte novels to reread. Almost an hour passed before Maggie yawned and said she was ready for bed.
    â€œComing up, dear?” she asked.
    â€œIn a little while. I—I’d like to play the piano. Would it disturb you?”
    â€œNot at all. Nice to have music in the house again. Well, I’ll say good night, Susannah. It’s wonderful to have you here.”
    She kissed me on the forehead and left the room. I heard her climbing the stairs, footsteps weary, and a moment later I could hear her moving around in the room directly overhead as she got ready for bed.
    Without consciously making a selection, I began to play Chopin. The sad, emotional melodies perfectly expressed my mood, and soon I was lost to all else, merely a tool through which the music was conveyed. The oil lamps flickered, shadows danced on the walls, the soft, subdued music filled the room, suggesting anguished hearts and tears.
    I don’t know how long I played, how long it was before I became aware of someone watching me. I stopped abruptly, turning around on the stool to meet his dark, brooding eyes.
    â€œPlease don’t stop on my account,” Nicholas Craig said.
    â€œHow—how long have you been standing there?”
    â€œFor several minutes. You’re quite an accomplished pianist, Susannah. Technically perfect, with that extra quality, quite rare—the ability to express feelings.”
    I made no reply. I stood up, nerves taut, a curious, hollow feeling inside.
    He was leaning against the door frame, his body long and lazy, arms folded across his chest. The black suit was even more rumpled, the maroon vest sadly creased. He looked weary, his face lined with fatigue. The smudges beneath his eyes seemed darker, the hollows under his cheekbones more pronounced. Locks of hair spilled over his high forehead, the one silver strand making a stark contrast. He looked like someone who had worked to the point of exhaustion, or someone who had overindulged in the most demanding of dissipations.
    He stared at me. It was a detached stare, unnerving. It made me feel extremely vulnerable. No man had ever stared at me this way before. Nicholas Craig stood up, heaved his shoulders and moved across the room until he was standing only two or three feet away from me, those magnetic eyes still studying me. I could smell his body and the odor of leather and damp tobacco.
    â€œYou’re a beautiful girl,” he said. The remark was cool, an indifferent observation.
    I met his gaze with a calm, frosty manner that didn’t deceive him at all. His wide, firm mouth spread into a mocking smile.
    â€œI take it you’ve been told that before?” he said.
    â€œA time or two,” I replied.
    â€œAnd have you ever been kissed?” he asked. His voice was low.
    I wanted to lie, but I couldn’t. I shook my head. My wrists felt weak, and my knees seemed suddenly unable to support the weight of my body.
    He lifted his hand and touched my cheek, his fingers lightly brushing the skin. He still smiled, and his eyes were darker than ever, glowing. Then, abruptly, he stepped back. A deep frown creased his brow, and his face was suddenly hard, severe. He reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief, thrusting it into my hand.
    â€œHarlots wear rouge,” he said icily. “While you’re under my supervision, you won’t act like a prostitute. Is that quite clear? Take off the rouge, Susannah, and don’t ever let me catch you wearing it again!”

6
    With bottle of milk and chipped blue saucer in hand, I started up the back stairs, hoping that Scrappy had confined himself to the sandbox I put out. It was after noon. I had spent the morning with Maggie in the shop, watching her make hats in that bright magpie’s nest of a workroom cluttered with ribbons and feathers and bolts of cloth. We had had