Note From Author: First off, I wish to thank the lovely people who took out
the time to review! Next, I give James Cameron props to the tavern scene.
So if it looks familiar then.yeah.Titanic is one of my most favorite movies
ever, after Newsies of course!
CHAPTER NINE
The decrepit structure stood looming down at Darby Rockwell, broken and worn against the backdrop of the velvet night sky laced with veils of falling snow.
She inhaled in a large sum of bitter air, the sheer disgust in the pit of her stomach combining atrociously with the blistering cold of mid-December. She closed her eyes tightly and opened them once more, not wishing to believe what she beheld was truth. Alas, the weather beaten sign blowing wildly in the howling gusts told her otherwise: for on the splintered plaque of wood dressed in a coat of timeworn off-white paint were the letters stenciled in black of Ye Olde Tavern.
She quickly narrowed her dark blue eyes to slits and abruptly turned to Spot Conlon. He stood gazing up at the tavern, his hat on his heart as though saluting some kind of memorial, wisps of his dark brassy hair blowing about.
"What the HELL is this?" she hissed incredulously.
His green eyes slowly fell to her and it was as though he were regarded her for the maiden time. He shrugged. "Ye Olde Tavern?"
Darby rolled her eyes with a flourish of revulsion. "I know damned well what the sign says! But when I asked you before you clearly stated that you were not going to take me to a pub!"
Spot's eyes glimmered as a smile danced on the corners of his lips. "Dat's true, dat's true." He motioned to the tavern with his cap. "But I nevah said I wasn't gonna take ya to a tavern."
Darby stepped back in repugnance, nearly toppling over in the mounds of snow. "Now see here!" she cried, unsheathing her index finger and pointing it at him. "When we made plans this morning you told me that you were going to take me to dinner. Dinner! Not to some horrid, baseborn tavern so that I can partake in shots of ignoble moonshine produced by those inbred hillbillies down in West--"
Yet, Darby's words were stifled when the door to the tavern abruptly slammed open. She immediately jumped back, her features twisting into repulsion. For a rather stocky overweight man clothed in tattered brown trousers and a filthy jacket stumbled out of the doorway. He was bald at the crown and in desperate need of a shave and his nose was bright red, a sure mark of a night of heavy drinking. He stumbled and nearly fell, yet he grasped onto the doorframe with his left hand, his body swinging about until he crashed into the side of the tavern.
Spot was trying desperately to suppress his laughter as Darby watched with open disgust.
The man wearily arose, and began to sing to himself in a rather horrid, slurred voice. "How dry I am. How dry I am. Nobody knows how dry I am." He ambled forward, a bottle of whiskey glitter-shot in his hand. He lurched over to Darby, nearly tripping himself. She stepped back with a high pitched squeak after inhaling the disgusting odor of alcohol on his breath.
"Mum? Mum? Izat you?" he stammered, clawing at Darby's velvet overcoat.
Darby stared down at him with wide eyes, stumbling awkwardly backwards to miss the man's clawings.
"Mum? Mum? Izat you?"
Darby elicited a screech as her satin stiletto faltered from under her, the heel snapping. She fell with a thud into the bitter snow. Her eyes were wide in fear as the man approached, waving his arms about in front of him.
"Mum? Izat you?"
"I declare, I am not your mother, sir!" Darby cried in a terse voice.
She emitted a scream as, scuttling backwards, the man's eyes rolled up into his skull and he released a groan, falling with a thud between her spread- eagle legs. She peered down at the man, her breathing heavy, regarding him in sheer horror.
Spot Conlon's wild laughter suddenly filled the polar air.
Darby's wide blue eyes gazed up at Spot, filled with astonishment. He was doubled over, his face bright red, slapping his knees and figuring the whole ordeal one immense riot.
Darby could feel the impossible infuriation begin to well in her depths. With an audible, high-pitched scream stained with frustration, she raised her right leg, connecting the heel of her shoe with the man's nose. A loud crack was heard as his nose shattered.
Spot's laughter died and his features transformed into that of utter shock. Dark crimson blood, the identical color of Darby's outfit, began to gush out of the man's nostrils, staining the pure white snow with a deep, sanguineous hue.
Darby angrily tossed her head, throwing her flaxen curls over her shoulders, rising to her feet. Her face was heated and an eyebrow was raised insolently, as though tempting Spot to call her on being wrong. Yet, he only shook his head, his gaze flickering from the poor man to Darby's scowl. "Yowch. Dat's gonna hoit in da mornin'."
Darby still glared furiously at him, her height tapered due to the broken heel.
Spot once again broke out into that breathtaking smile as he walked over to her, "Awh, c'mon, ya not gonna let dat one little incident ruin da whole night, now are ya?"
Darby raised an eyebrow and glanced at him, quickly averting her gaze to the tavern. "No, I s'ppose I shan't. But if you really thought you were poised to get me that utterly blasted just to you could seduce me-well, let's just conclude that I do have one heel left and I don't fancy your nose any more than that horrid beast's!"
He released a snort as he slung an arm around her. "Dat's a goil! Now let's git inside befoah I freeze to death."
Spot had begun the task of walking to the tavern, Darby struggling to match his strides. He halted and turned over his shoulder. "What's it dis time?"
Darby glanced up at him, her face hot. "It's damn hard walking on one heel!"
Spot released a sigh and strode over to Darby, bending down on one knee in front of her. He took her foot in his grasp, as she placed a hand on his shoulder for support. With a flick of the wrist, he had removed her chartreuse heel. He arose, and raising his bent leg in the air, brought the shoe hard down on his thigh. The heel snapped, falling to the snow.
"Here y'are," he nonchalantly said, returning Darby her shoe.
Darby stood, gapping down at the broken heel. "That--that was from ITALY!" she howled, close to tears.
Spot was now at the tavern door and turned. "How many pairs d'ya already have, Dahby?"
Darby cast her gaze to him, the broken shoe dangling pathetically in her grasp. "Five."
He sighed and shook his head. "What I t'ought. C'mon, Dahby. Don't want to wait outside all day for ya ass. Ya can have a funeral for the dearly departed shoe when ya git home. I need a whiskey ta warm me up."
Darby released a disgusted noise and flicked her nose to the air, whisking past Spot in only one shoe. He exhaled and quietly closed the door behind him, yet not isolating them from the harsh cold.
As the door shut behind them, Darby was immediately shrouded in a bitter darkness. She shifted her weight, the ancient floorboards creaking under her, a roister of music being heard from someplace.
"What the hell kind tavern is this?" she asked in a soft voice, a sense of childish fear invading her. Darkness had never been a grand companion, thanks to good old Aunt Bernice's tales.
She felt Spot search for her hand, finally gripping it tight in his strong grasp. "It's downstairs, Dahby, don't worry," he replied in a reassuring voice over the music.
He began to walk forward, the antediluvian floorboards protesting with every step, Darby reluctantly following.
It was as they were trekking down steps that seemed as though they would cave any moment that she asked, "Spot?"
"Mm?"
"The people here-they are not like that horrid man outside are they?"
Spot couldn't suppress a smile as he concluded descending the stairs. "Well, Dahby, ya about to find out--"
"What do you--" Yet, Darby was unable to finish her thoughts as in one rapid motion Spot kicked open a door in the dark, causing it to slam open, and jerked his wrist, sending Darby head first into the room.
She miraculously regained her balance just before she nearly toppled onto her pate, and slowly straightened, taking in the room. The room was small and slightly cramped, bright and white-walled in splintering paint. Jubilant couples dressed as that of lower class danced arm and arm voraciously about the room, quickly dodging through the warped wooden tables adorned with glittery bottles and green tinted cups filled to the brim with alcohol and unhappy chairs, the rambunctious, fast pace melody of the small band of men in the corner playing the bag pipe, clickers, make- shift drum, and fiddle reverberating about the room.
Darby stood frozen, unable to will her body to move.
"C'mon, Dahby!" Spot's wild voice called over the infectious music as he strode past her, grabbing her upper arm and pulling her forward. "Let's dance!"
She harshly dug her heels into the floor, causing him to turn around. Her eyes were saucers. "Dance? Dance?" she choked incredulously.
He nodded, acting in a manner as though the atmosphere intoxicated him. "Yeah! Why not?"
Her eyes panned over the room and she felt unbearably self-conscious. She turned her eyes to Spot once more. "I-I can't dance," she concluded feebly.
His green eyes glimmered and a frown crossed his face. "Ya can't dance?"
Darby nodded her head furiously, breaking away from his grasp. "Yes, I mean no! I cannot dance. I look like an awful elephant when I do!"
He cocked his head. "Well whaddya gonna do?"
Yet, Darby was already stepping back to a set of unoccupied chairs circled about a bowed wooden table. "It's quite all right. I am tired after the long walk here anyhow."
Spot elicited a snort. "Long walk?" He then shrugged. "If ya say so!"
And with that, Darby watched as he shucked off his moth-eaten charcoal jacket, leaving it strewn on the floor as he joyously joined the dancing whirlwind.
Darby continued watching as she backed towards a chair, relief surging through her. "Thank God he didn't persist," she muttered as she took a seat. Alas, relief was also accompanied by a queer feeling of longing. She raised her eyes to see Spot had bounded onto a wooden raised platform in the center of the room, and now a gorgeous girl with fiery red hair was approaching him. An exuberant smile still danced upon his lips as he and the girl exchanged words and suddenly they had linked arms and were twirling about the platform, but not before he cast Darby a glint of a green eye and a wicked smile before turning away.
Darby sniffed, immediately turning her burning glare away from him. A sudden feeling was shooting about through her system. Darby knew what it was in an instant.
Jealousy.
She let out a whine as she slouched in the rickety old chair, just feeling herself turn a superb shade of green.
Well, let him dance about with that hussy if he wishes, she bitterly thought. See if he takes me to any sordid pubs again-
"Ey, dis seat taken?"
Darby immediately cast her eyes up to see two baseborn men, no more than their early twenties, gathered around the table staring down at her. An involuntary sneer crossed her lips as she took in their scraggly hair and unshaven faces and torn cloths-and the bottles of whisky they held in their grips.
"Yes," she haughtily replied, immediately straightening against the back of the chair and pushing it away from the table, suddenly crossing her legs very tightly.
Alas, the two men took no heed to her whatsoever, and lowered themselves into the chairs, one straddling it backwards and the one that had parleyed to her taking the seat closest to her.
"I'm Jim and dis Butch," he introduced through a belch, motioning to the man riding the chair about-face.
Darby slowly nodded her head, her nose pinched into disgust. "Charmed."
Quite keen on ignoring them, she allowed her eyes to fall to the rapturous band that tapped their feet wildly to the beat.
"Ain't ya hot in dat coat?"
Darby slowly turned her gaze one again to the repugnant man, an arrogant eyebrow raised. "Do you really fathom that I would take such an expensive piece of garment off for some ruffian to steal?"
Both men exchanged grins, baring their yellowed teeth, what teeth have they left.
The man leaned forward, and Darby tilted the chair back in surprise and revulsion as he leaned over her, grasping an ashtray. Both men broke up into laughter.
"Don't worry, little girl," he said through lighting a stinking cigar, "jist getting the ashtray."
His friend released a hoarse laugh as Darby rolled her eyes in disgust and let out the appropriate accompanying noise.
She sat for a few moment, her eyes trained on the band, the ecstatic music never missing beat, when the room suddenly felt stifling. She tried to sit in her heavy fur coat, yet the sweltering heat would not allow it. Finally, with an exaggerated sigh, Darby roughly untied her scarlet bonnet, throwing it on the table and slid out of her ostentatious jacket.
Her eyes fell once again to the wooden platform, where Spot still continued to dance wildly, flinging the red head about. Suddenly, he looked up and caught her eye, a devilish smile slithering up his face. He dipped the girl to the ground, and while bent glanced up at Darby, a challenge in his brilliant eyes before suddenly looking away.
Darby cocked an eyebrow. She regarded the challenge in his eye. Clearing her throat, she straightened in the chair, adjusting her curves and throwing her long golden spirals over her shoulder. She turned to the man sitting next to her, a large amount of smoke cascading out of his mouth from the cigar. "Jim? Did you say your name was?"
He grunted, first looking at her chest and then to her eyes. "Yeah," he replied, snubbing the cigar in the ashtray.
Darby widened her great blue eyes in innocence and smiled sweetly. "Well, then, Jim, you wouldn't mind if I had some of this?"
Without Jim's approval, Darby reached in front of him and grabbed his glittering bottle of whisky. Her eyes connected with his and she raised the bottle to him. "Bottoms up!" she merrily cried, bringing the opening to her lips. Without ever bringing the bottle down, she had consumed nearly the entire amount of alcohol, and wiped the excess off of her mouth with the back of her hand. "Well, Jim, that was mighty good, if I do say so myself. But now you wouldn't deny a lady's request to dance, would you?"
Jim immediately turned to his friend, who quickly nodded, and he turned his gaze back to Darby. "Nah, I wouldn't."
"Oh, goody!" Darby cried in a song-song voice. She rose from her seat, moving around Jim's chair and grabbing his hand, yanking him to his feet. "Very well, then," she said in a lower voice as she guided Jim to the middle of the floor.
Deliciously in time with the music beat, Darby placed Jim's left hand on the lowest part of her hip, snaked her hand about his neck, and clasped their free hands together. She looked into his watery steel gray eyes and emitted a high-pitched squeak before they both were taken into the many dancing couples.
As she had already concluded, Jim was not a very grand dancer, and being drunk, half out of his mind was not aiding one bit. Darby danced on her toes and led the lumbering man twirling about to where Spot and the red head were. "Oh, Jim, isn't this fun!" she squealed, her hair bouncing behind her.
Jim only released a groan and broke away from her grasp, diving a few feet away and disgorging his guts out.
Darby let out a small sigh and turned around, to see Spot had stopped dancing and was staring at her with a playful fire in his intense eyes. His breathing heavy, his dirty blonde hair falling in his face, and his top button undone due to the feverish heat in the confined room, he let his grip of the red head lax, and strode over to Darby, a slight smile on his lips. Darby only kept her eyebrow raised and her blue eyes uninterested.
There was a fast break in the music, and he ran his hands through his hair, and began to move his feet in an intricate jig, his scoffed shoes tapping against the hardwood. He glanced up at her as his feet moved fluidly about.
Darby only sighed and quickly picked up her feet, removing her broken heels that had came from Rome, throwing them to the nearest person. Picking up her trailing scarlet dress, she duplicated the jig, as Spot watched her with wide eyes. She bounded about in a circle, hitch kicking, her bright eyes on Spot. He then joined her, and Darby was spurred on by the enthusiastic clapping to the beat the spectators gave them.
She collapsed into him with feverish laughter. He released a cry and began to twirl about in circles.
Darby fancied she was in a glorious, dizzying dream. The never-halting, quickstep music filled her ears, as she grasped onto Spot's suspenders and leaned back, watching the world spinning upside down, her hair blowing wildly about.
She picked her head up once again to see Spot gazing at her with a mischievous glimmer in his eyes and wearing a marvelous smile. She released a drunken cry as he pulled her close, their elbows linking, as they spun about in a circle. Whether it was due to the force of gravity or of rapturous lightheadedness, Darby allowed Spot to swing her about, as she laughed hysterically, not being able to pick her head up.
The music now ceased and a faster, more rapid contredanse now began. Spot jerked her body so she was now standing upright, sharing in her drunk with wildness demeanor.
She closed her eyes tightly and fell into him, laughing wildly, "No, Spot, no!"
He only grinned as he let her fall back with slack, grabbing his wrists into hers, spinning on their heels in one dizzying circle. Spot released a cry as Darby let out a high pitched laugh, closing her eyes against the nauseating motion.
And as soon as it had started, the music ceased. They both halted and regarded each other, breathing heavy, slicked with perspiration, and smiles adorning their lips.
"C'mon, Dahby," Spot heaved, "I t'ink we'se needs some refreshments."
Darby nodded her head in agreement, as she allowed Spot to take her hand and lead her off the floor and over to the tables. Weaving through the dancing couples, he espied a table at which an arm-wrestling match was in session. Reaching over the dueling men, he stole two glasses of alcohol, handing one to Darby who polished it off in one gulp.
Spot stared at her incredulously.
She wore a proud smile. "What? You don't think a lady of my caliber can drink?"
Spot was poised to answer when Darby released a shriek, stealing over to the table. "Oh, arm-wrestling!" she cried. "When I was little the two little boy cooks would play this! They taught me but it's been so long!" She tapped one gentleman on the shoulder who was interlocked in a match. He turned to her.
"Oh, I remember you! Butch! It's me! Miss Darby Rockwell!"
The man gave her a peculiar looking, knowing that she of course was already blasted.
Darby fixated her hands upon her hips. "Well why are you looking at me like that? Move over so I can play!"
The man warily cast a glance to his opponent who simply shrugged.
He turned once again to Darby. "Be me guest," he said, arising.
Darby squealed and immediately took his place in the chair, yet not before reaching over the table and placing her opponent's cigarette in-between her lips. "Now, you musn't be scared," she said matter-of-factly, propping her elbow upon the table. She looked at the man with wide blue eyes. "Well, come on then! Don't be scared, place your elbow on the table, now."
The man cast a backward glance at friends as a snicker rippled throughout them. "Alright, girly, alright."
He clasped his left hand into Darby's right and immediately went to slam her arm to the wooden table when, in an inhuman burst of strength, he found his arm on the harsh splintered top of the table causing the glasses to quiver with the force.
He peered up to see Darby with smugness radiating from her features, the cigarette smoke streaming from he mouth. "Fancy that, you lose."
Immediately, the men around her erupted into cheers.
Darby released a sigh and slid the chair back, causing it to scrape against the floor. "Look, Spot! I won! I wuh--"
Alas, Darby Rockwell was not able to conclude her statement when she fell into Spot, blacked out from the consumption of alcohol.
***
It was the fantastic waves of nausea and the marvelous pounding in her skull that found her first and then the searing cold of the black December night.
Darby awoke with a start, not even, taking to heed the fact that she was situated on a dock, and pulled herself on her hands and knees to the edge of the wooden structure, regurgitating all the wonderful alcohol into the river.
She simply lay there, her head and left arm dangling from the edge, her not paying attention to her tangles of flaxen hair that blew in the glacial winds. The tornado that was ripping through her insides was too excruciatingly unbearable, and somehow she felt as though lying on her stomach soothed it.
A small laugh sliced through the night. "Hey, so ya finally awake."
With a moan she lifted her head to see Spot Conlon sitting next to her, his legs dangling over the edge of the pier, skipping pebbles in the glassy surface of the water, shattering the image of the stars and the moon. She let her head fall back once more to the dock, yet this time she faced him.
"Go to hell," she grunted.
He laughed and skipped another rock again. "You asked foah it," he said warningly.
She let out a deep cry as she placed a hand to her forehead trying to be rid of the awful thudding sensation. "I asked to die? How could I ask for a slow, agonizing death?"
Spot sighed. "Ah, Dahby ya ain't dyin'. Ya jist havin' ya foist hangovah."
Darby, intrigued at his words, slowly brought herself into a sitting position, yet found the nausea to much and leaned over, placing her head on her elbows. "And what, may I ask, if a hangover?"
He released a laugh. "A hangovah is what ya havin' now. Have one too many drinks and it feel like ya dyin'. But, Christ, I know ya small but ya only had one drink--"
A sudden recollection came to Darby. "No, while you were dancing with that- girl-I had a bottle of whiskey--"
"WHISKEY?" Spot shouted, causing her to almost burst into tears at the way it aggravated her pounding head. "Jesus Christ, Dahby, no wondah ya feel like shit."
Darby raised her head slightly to glare up at him through her wild hair. "Don't yell. And I do not have a hangover. Hangovers are for people like you."
Spot looked taken aback. "People like me? I'se so sahrry ta tell ya, sweetheart, but ya gonna git ya share of hangovahs jist like I did--" A wicked grin played on his lips. "Jist like ya liddle boyfriend ya were dancin' with--"
This in turn caused Darby to release a grand cry of protest as her forehead hit the dock. "I wouldn't have danced with him if you hadn't gone and danced with that bitch."
Spot cocked a brow, interested. "Oh, if I wouldn't have danced with da bitch, aye? Well what if I said dat da bitch was Adelle?"
Darby raised her head and presented him with a death glare. "You fantastic-- "
Spot broke into stitches and waved his hands in front of him. "No need to go callin' me names, there. Dat wasn't Adelle. Don't even know who she was. Jist did it ta make ya come out and dance."
"Well," Darby sniffed. "You sure did weave your magic spell. It's not right to go about making young ladies jealous. It ruins our complexions."
Spot's jaw dropped as he regarded her mischievously. "I made YOU jealous?"
Darby immediately sat up, the cold winds chilling her to her bone, obviously flustered. "No-that is NOT, most definitely NOT what I meant--"
"You'se only makin' a comparison, right?" he asked, leaning closer to her, obviously relishing in having the upper hand.
Darby pulled back, baffled. "I-I-where the hell are we anyhow?" she inquired stormily.
Spot's gaze flickered past her before interlocking with her eyes. "Da lodgin' house."
"The lodging house!" she cried indignantly. "If you thought for one moment, sir, that you could drag me up to one of your little bunks drunk blue out of my mind and just--"
Spot fell back, his glimmering eyes stark with his crimson cheeks. "I nevah would do dat."
Darby cocked a brow. "Hum. That's not what I heard. Rambling on for ten minutes about only a portion of your conquests. That you've seduced nearly every woman in the tri-state area."
Alas, she halted as Spot's features seemed to darken. "Yeah, and who da hell did ya here dat from? Findin' out information on me?"
She fell back, unable to find the words. Instead, she watched as he angrily threw back his arm and pitched a stone into the water, and as it ruptures the stillness of it.
Darby suddenly felt ashamed. "I-I'm sorry," she quietly said.
Spot abruptly turned to her, incredulous. "What?"
She regarded him, wide-eyed. "I said, I'm sorry."
He snorted and shook his head, his scarf picking up in a howling gust of wind. "D'you know why I'm even with you right now?"
Darby suddenly felt her interest being ignited. She shook her head, causing the pounding to tenfold.
Spot raised his gaze from the dark waters to her. "Because, you'se a bitch."
Darby elicited an angry noise and fell back, yet Spot only smiled. "Yep, ya a bitch and ya arrogant and ya proud. Not like anyone I eveh met. And who evah told ya dat's right. I usually do sleep with 'em all. But you, you are sharp and ya have a comeback foah everything-Jesus, I'se ramblin' here. Ya jist so damn interestin' ta tawk to."
Yet, Darby did not seem to comprehend the meaning behind Spot Conlon's speech. She only had heard his first statement. She raised herself up indignantly. "I'm a bitch? I'm a bitch? Well, I do declare! At least I don't go waltzing about making other's lives absolutely hellish! First, sir, you wake me up at the crack of dawn yelling out your dreadful headlines! They you inquire if I would like to go to dinner, no shall I say make me back up to you little Adelle! And then you bring me to a baseborn tavern and get me absolutely drunk out of my--"
Darby Rockwell's words died in an instant. She must have been blind by petty rage, for she never saw it coming. She only felt Spot Conlon's cold lips press against hers. And he then suddenly pulled away, leaving Darby absolutely stunned and breathless staring at him wide eyed as he regarded her, breathing heavy.
And Darby could only think of one thing to do at that moment. She suddenly leaned over and pressed her lips against Spot's and he soon returned the favor. Despite the glacial weather, the coldness cracked, ruptured and all either could feel was a sweet, hot temptation. Darby released a small noise as Spot pressed more passionately, violent alarms and hues erupting in her mind. Her hands were raking through his hair when she felt herself suddenly give way and her back fell against the dock, Spot falling with her. Darby moved her hands to the sides of his face, desperate for more of the wonderful warmth. Spot propped himself on his elbows, then his spread palms, raising his arms taunt.
Alas, it was Darby that broke the embrace as she felt the effects of her grand old hangover work their magic and she once again was leaning over the side of the dock, as Spot sat laughing slightly, his hair absolutely disheveled and Darby's red lipstick covering the lower half of his face like a comical red beard. "I think it's time we git ya home, Dahby."
***
Darby lay in the delectable warmth of the goose-down bedding, safe and locked away in John Rockwell's immense palace for at least one more night.
She released a sigh into the dark room. The princess had been rescued for a blip in time from the confines of her evil stepparents and had denied the behemoth her hand, all while having grand old time with the prince whom had swept her off her feet.
The prince. The behemoth. Spot. David.
What was it that so desperately lured her to Spot Conlon, newsboy, Darby had not a clue. Perhaps she was only indulging herself in him, perhaps this was a petty holiday romance. She of course envied him, envied his freedom. But did she adore him?
Darby did not even have to delve too far to fathom an answer. Flickers from that night's wild whirlwind flashed back to her. Oh, and when he had led her home. She had been on the balcony and he on the trellis, his eyes full of absolute adoration. And then their lips had met again and Darby still reasoned she did not fall off the balcony. She had felt like that damn Juliet from William Shakespeare's play. All that would have been needed to make the writing correct were if she would have opened her mouth and cried, "Romeo, Romeo where for art thou, Romeo?" thus beginning the poetic relaying of romantic lines-
But fairytales were not true. Her abominably strict governess and numerous dull professors had taught her that. It already was written in stone that sometime in the near future she would indeed become Mrs. David Van Wyck-
But Katrina was a dreamer. She had been waiting on pins and needles in Darby's bed when she arrived home, just bursting to know what had happened. And all through the telling of the story Katrina had made swooning sounds and stricken sighs. Katrina rather fancied that Darby was going to run off with Spot Conlon into the sunset and live happily ever after.
Darby sighed again. He had wanted to see her again. She had promised to rendezvous with him, only inconspicuously if he sold his papers outside the wrought-iron gate. But, now, she was second-guessing her decision-
A soft knock was suddenly heard on the door, as it slightly cracked open, splashing the darkened room with a dim yellow light.
"Darby? Darby? Are you awake?"
It was Mrs. Rockwell.
Darby released a false yawn and stretched her arms above her head. "Um, yes mother?"
Ava Rockwell approached her daughter's bed, her hair in curlers and in her nightdress, carrying a soft lantern. "I just wanted to see how you are feeling."
Darby was about to reply that she was feeling superb, when, alas, she felt the linger effects of her first hangover once again as she leaned over the side of her bed parallel to her mother and regurgitated what was left in her stomach. And suddenly flashing through Darby's mind made her remember the alcohol and the tavern and wild dancing and Him and all her doubts were washed away.
And Ava Rockwell only stepped back, somewhat disgusted. "Hum, that Spanish Influenza certainly is horrid!"
CHAPTER NINE
The decrepit structure stood looming down at Darby Rockwell, broken and worn against the backdrop of the velvet night sky laced with veils of falling snow.
She inhaled in a large sum of bitter air, the sheer disgust in the pit of her stomach combining atrociously with the blistering cold of mid-December. She closed her eyes tightly and opened them once more, not wishing to believe what she beheld was truth. Alas, the weather beaten sign blowing wildly in the howling gusts told her otherwise: for on the splintered plaque of wood dressed in a coat of timeworn off-white paint were the letters stenciled in black of Ye Olde Tavern.
She quickly narrowed her dark blue eyes to slits and abruptly turned to Spot Conlon. He stood gazing up at the tavern, his hat on his heart as though saluting some kind of memorial, wisps of his dark brassy hair blowing about.
"What the HELL is this?" she hissed incredulously.
His green eyes slowly fell to her and it was as though he were regarded her for the maiden time. He shrugged. "Ye Olde Tavern?"
Darby rolled her eyes with a flourish of revulsion. "I know damned well what the sign says! But when I asked you before you clearly stated that you were not going to take me to a pub!"
Spot's eyes glimmered as a smile danced on the corners of his lips. "Dat's true, dat's true." He motioned to the tavern with his cap. "But I nevah said I wasn't gonna take ya to a tavern."
Darby stepped back in repugnance, nearly toppling over in the mounds of snow. "Now see here!" she cried, unsheathing her index finger and pointing it at him. "When we made plans this morning you told me that you were going to take me to dinner. Dinner! Not to some horrid, baseborn tavern so that I can partake in shots of ignoble moonshine produced by those inbred hillbillies down in West--"
Yet, Darby's words were stifled when the door to the tavern abruptly slammed open. She immediately jumped back, her features twisting into repulsion. For a rather stocky overweight man clothed in tattered brown trousers and a filthy jacket stumbled out of the doorway. He was bald at the crown and in desperate need of a shave and his nose was bright red, a sure mark of a night of heavy drinking. He stumbled and nearly fell, yet he grasped onto the doorframe with his left hand, his body swinging about until he crashed into the side of the tavern.
Spot was trying desperately to suppress his laughter as Darby watched with open disgust.
The man wearily arose, and began to sing to himself in a rather horrid, slurred voice. "How dry I am. How dry I am. Nobody knows how dry I am." He ambled forward, a bottle of whiskey glitter-shot in his hand. He lurched over to Darby, nearly tripping himself. She stepped back with a high pitched squeak after inhaling the disgusting odor of alcohol on his breath.
"Mum? Mum? Izat you?" he stammered, clawing at Darby's velvet overcoat.
Darby stared down at him with wide eyes, stumbling awkwardly backwards to miss the man's clawings.
"Mum? Mum? Izat you?"
Darby elicited a screech as her satin stiletto faltered from under her, the heel snapping. She fell with a thud into the bitter snow. Her eyes were wide in fear as the man approached, waving his arms about in front of him.
"Mum? Izat you?"
"I declare, I am not your mother, sir!" Darby cried in a terse voice.
She emitted a scream as, scuttling backwards, the man's eyes rolled up into his skull and he released a groan, falling with a thud between her spread- eagle legs. She peered down at the man, her breathing heavy, regarding him in sheer horror.
Spot Conlon's wild laughter suddenly filled the polar air.
Darby's wide blue eyes gazed up at Spot, filled with astonishment. He was doubled over, his face bright red, slapping his knees and figuring the whole ordeal one immense riot.
Darby could feel the impossible infuriation begin to well in her depths. With an audible, high-pitched scream stained with frustration, she raised her right leg, connecting the heel of her shoe with the man's nose. A loud crack was heard as his nose shattered.
Spot's laughter died and his features transformed into that of utter shock. Dark crimson blood, the identical color of Darby's outfit, began to gush out of the man's nostrils, staining the pure white snow with a deep, sanguineous hue.
Darby angrily tossed her head, throwing her flaxen curls over her shoulders, rising to her feet. Her face was heated and an eyebrow was raised insolently, as though tempting Spot to call her on being wrong. Yet, he only shook his head, his gaze flickering from the poor man to Darby's scowl. "Yowch. Dat's gonna hoit in da mornin'."
Darby still glared furiously at him, her height tapered due to the broken heel.
Spot once again broke out into that breathtaking smile as he walked over to her, "Awh, c'mon, ya not gonna let dat one little incident ruin da whole night, now are ya?"
Darby raised an eyebrow and glanced at him, quickly averting her gaze to the tavern. "No, I s'ppose I shan't. But if you really thought you were poised to get me that utterly blasted just to you could seduce me-well, let's just conclude that I do have one heel left and I don't fancy your nose any more than that horrid beast's!"
He released a snort as he slung an arm around her. "Dat's a goil! Now let's git inside befoah I freeze to death."
Spot had begun the task of walking to the tavern, Darby struggling to match his strides. He halted and turned over his shoulder. "What's it dis time?"
Darby glanced up at him, her face hot. "It's damn hard walking on one heel!"
Spot released a sigh and strode over to Darby, bending down on one knee in front of her. He took her foot in his grasp, as she placed a hand on his shoulder for support. With a flick of the wrist, he had removed her chartreuse heel. He arose, and raising his bent leg in the air, brought the shoe hard down on his thigh. The heel snapped, falling to the snow.
"Here y'are," he nonchalantly said, returning Darby her shoe.
Darby stood, gapping down at the broken heel. "That--that was from ITALY!" she howled, close to tears.
Spot was now at the tavern door and turned. "How many pairs d'ya already have, Dahby?"
Darby cast her gaze to him, the broken shoe dangling pathetically in her grasp. "Five."
He sighed and shook his head. "What I t'ought. C'mon, Dahby. Don't want to wait outside all day for ya ass. Ya can have a funeral for the dearly departed shoe when ya git home. I need a whiskey ta warm me up."
Darby released a disgusted noise and flicked her nose to the air, whisking past Spot in only one shoe. He exhaled and quietly closed the door behind him, yet not isolating them from the harsh cold.
As the door shut behind them, Darby was immediately shrouded in a bitter darkness. She shifted her weight, the ancient floorboards creaking under her, a roister of music being heard from someplace.
"What the hell kind tavern is this?" she asked in a soft voice, a sense of childish fear invading her. Darkness had never been a grand companion, thanks to good old Aunt Bernice's tales.
She felt Spot search for her hand, finally gripping it tight in his strong grasp. "It's downstairs, Dahby, don't worry," he replied in a reassuring voice over the music.
He began to walk forward, the antediluvian floorboards protesting with every step, Darby reluctantly following.
It was as they were trekking down steps that seemed as though they would cave any moment that she asked, "Spot?"
"Mm?"
"The people here-they are not like that horrid man outside are they?"
Spot couldn't suppress a smile as he concluded descending the stairs. "Well, Dahby, ya about to find out--"
"What do you--" Yet, Darby was unable to finish her thoughts as in one rapid motion Spot kicked open a door in the dark, causing it to slam open, and jerked his wrist, sending Darby head first into the room.
She miraculously regained her balance just before she nearly toppled onto her pate, and slowly straightened, taking in the room. The room was small and slightly cramped, bright and white-walled in splintering paint. Jubilant couples dressed as that of lower class danced arm and arm voraciously about the room, quickly dodging through the warped wooden tables adorned with glittery bottles and green tinted cups filled to the brim with alcohol and unhappy chairs, the rambunctious, fast pace melody of the small band of men in the corner playing the bag pipe, clickers, make- shift drum, and fiddle reverberating about the room.
Darby stood frozen, unable to will her body to move.
"C'mon, Dahby!" Spot's wild voice called over the infectious music as he strode past her, grabbing her upper arm and pulling her forward. "Let's dance!"
She harshly dug her heels into the floor, causing him to turn around. Her eyes were saucers. "Dance? Dance?" she choked incredulously.
He nodded, acting in a manner as though the atmosphere intoxicated him. "Yeah! Why not?"
Her eyes panned over the room and she felt unbearably self-conscious. She turned her eyes to Spot once more. "I-I can't dance," she concluded feebly.
His green eyes glimmered and a frown crossed his face. "Ya can't dance?"
Darby nodded her head furiously, breaking away from his grasp. "Yes, I mean no! I cannot dance. I look like an awful elephant when I do!"
He cocked his head. "Well whaddya gonna do?"
Yet, Darby was already stepping back to a set of unoccupied chairs circled about a bowed wooden table. "It's quite all right. I am tired after the long walk here anyhow."
Spot elicited a snort. "Long walk?" He then shrugged. "If ya say so!"
And with that, Darby watched as he shucked off his moth-eaten charcoal jacket, leaving it strewn on the floor as he joyously joined the dancing whirlwind.
Darby continued watching as she backed towards a chair, relief surging through her. "Thank God he didn't persist," she muttered as she took a seat. Alas, relief was also accompanied by a queer feeling of longing. She raised her eyes to see Spot had bounded onto a wooden raised platform in the center of the room, and now a gorgeous girl with fiery red hair was approaching him. An exuberant smile still danced upon his lips as he and the girl exchanged words and suddenly they had linked arms and were twirling about the platform, but not before he cast Darby a glint of a green eye and a wicked smile before turning away.
Darby sniffed, immediately turning her burning glare away from him. A sudden feeling was shooting about through her system. Darby knew what it was in an instant.
Jealousy.
She let out a whine as she slouched in the rickety old chair, just feeling herself turn a superb shade of green.
Well, let him dance about with that hussy if he wishes, she bitterly thought. See if he takes me to any sordid pubs again-
"Ey, dis seat taken?"
Darby immediately cast her eyes up to see two baseborn men, no more than their early twenties, gathered around the table staring down at her. An involuntary sneer crossed her lips as she took in their scraggly hair and unshaven faces and torn cloths-and the bottles of whisky they held in their grips.
"Yes," she haughtily replied, immediately straightening against the back of the chair and pushing it away from the table, suddenly crossing her legs very tightly.
Alas, the two men took no heed to her whatsoever, and lowered themselves into the chairs, one straddling it backwards and the one that had parleyed to her taking the seat closest to her.
"I'm Jim and dis Butch," he introduced through a belch, motioning to the man riding the chair about-face.
Darby slowly nodded her head, her nose pinched into disgust. "Charmed."
Quite keen on ignoring them, she allowed her eyes to fall to the rapturous band that tapped their feet wildly to the beat.
"Ain't ya hot in dat coat?"
Darby slowly turned her gaze one again to the repugnant man, an arrogant eyebrow raised. "Do you really fathom that I would take such an expensive piece of garment off for some ruffian to steal?"
Both men exchanged grins, baring their yellowed teeth, what teeth have they left.
The man leaned forward, and Darby tilted the chair back in surprise and revulsion as he leaned over her, grasping an ashtray. Both men broke up into laughter.
"Don't worry, little girl," he said through lighting a stinking cigar, "jist getting the ashtray."
His friend released a hoarse laugh as Darby rolled her eyes in disgust and let out the appropriate accompanying noise.
She sat for a few moment, her eyes trained on the band, the ecstatic music never missing beat, when the room suddenly felt stifling. She tried to sit in her heavy fur coat, yet the sweltering heat would not allow it. Finally, with an exaggerated sigh, Darby roughly untied her scarlet bonnet, throwing it on the table and slid out of her ostentatious jacket.
Her eyes fell once again to the wooden platform, where Spot still continued to dance wildly, flinging the red head about. Suddenly, he looked up and caught her eye, a devilish smile slithering up his face. He dipped the girl to the ground, and while bent glanced up at Darby, a challenge in his brilliant eyes before suddenly looking away.
Darby cocked an eyebrow. She regarded the challenge in his eye. Clearing her throat, she straightened in the chair, adjusting her curves and throwing her long golden spirals over her shoulder. She turned to the man sitting next to her, a large amount of smoke cascading out of his mouth from the cigar. "Jim? Did you say your name was?"
He grunted, first looking at her chest and then to her eyes. "Yeah," he replied, snubbing the cigar in the ashtray.
Darby widened her great blue eyes in innocence and smiled sweetly. "Well, then, Jim, you wouldn't mind if I had some of this?"
Without Jim's approval, Darby reached in front of him and grabbed his glittering bottle of whisky. Her eyes connected with his and she raised the bottle to him. "Bottoms up!" she merrily cried, bringing the opening to her lips. Without ever bringing the bottle down, she had consumed nearly the entire amount of alcohol, and wiped the excess off of her mouth with the back of her hand. "Well, Jim, that was mighty good, if I do say so myself. But now you wouldn't deny a lady's request to dance, would you?"
Jim immediately turned to his friend, who quickly nodded, and he turned his gaze back to Darby. "Nah, I wouldn't."
"Oh, goody!" Darby cried in a song-song voice. She rose from her seat, moving around Jim's chair and grabbing his hand, yanking him to his feet. "Very well, then," she said in a lower voice as she guided Jim to the middle of the floor.
Deliciously in time with the music beat, Darby placed Jim's left hand on the lowest part of her hip, snaked her hand about his neck, and clasped their free hands together. She looked into his watery steel gray eyes and emitted a high-pitched squeak before they both were taken into the many dancing couples.
As she had already concluded, Jim was not a very grand dancer, and being drunk, half out of his mind was not aiding one bit. Darby danced on her toes and led the lumbering man twirling about to where Spot and the red head were. "Oh, Jim, isn't this fun!" she squealed, her hair bouncing behind her.
Jim only released a groan and broke away from her grasp, diving a few feet away and disgorging his guts out.
Darby let out a small sigh and turned around, to see Spot had stopped dancing and was staring at her with a playful fire in his intense eyes. His breathing heavy, his dirty blonde hair falling in his face, and his top button undone due to the feverish heat in the confined room, he let his grip of the red head lax, and strode over to Darby, a slight smile on his lips. Darby only kept her eyebrow raised and her blue eyes uninterested.
There was a fast break in the music, and he ran his hands through his hair, and began to move his feet in an intricate jig, his scoffed shoes tapping against the hardwood. He glanced up at her as his feet moved fluidly about.
Darby only sighed and quickly picked up her feet, removing her broken heels that had came from Rome, throwing them to the nearest person. Picking up her trailing scarlet dress, she duplicated the jig, as Spot watched her with wide eyes. She bounded about in a circle, hitch kicking, her bright eyes on Spot. He then joined her, and Darby was spurred on by the enthusiastic clapping to the beat the spectators gave them.
She collapsed into him with feverish laughter. He released a cry and began to twirl about in circles.
Darby fancied she was in a glorious, dizzying dream. The never-halting, quickstep music filled her ears, as she grasped onto Spot's suspenders and leaned back, watching the world spinning upside down, her hair blowing wildly about.
She picked her head up once again to see Spot gazing at her with a mischievous glimmer in his eyes and wearing a marvelous smile. She released a drunken cry as he pulled her close, their elbows linking, as they spun about in a circle. Whether it was due to the force of gravity or of rapturous lightheadedness, Darby allowed Spot to swing her about, as she laughed hysterically, not being able to pick her head up.
The music now ceased and a faster, more rapid contredanse now began. Spot jerked her body so she was now standing upright, sharing in her drunk with wildness demeanor.
She closed her eyes tightly and fell into him, laughing wildly, "No, Spot, no!"
He only grinned as he let her fall back with slack, grabbing his wrists into hers, spinning on their heels in one dizzying circle. Spot released a cry as Darby let out a high pitched laugh, closing her eyes against the nauseating motion.
And as soon as it had started, the music ceased. They both halted and regarded each other, breathing heavy, slicked with perspiration, and smiles adorning their lips.
"C'mon, Dahby," Spot heaved, "I t'ink we'se needs some refreshments."
Darby nodded her head in agreement, as she allowed Spot to take her hand and lead her off the floor and over to the tables. Weaving through the dancing couples, he espied a table at which an arm-wrestling match was in session. Reaching over the dueling men, he stole two glasses of alcohol, handing one to Darby who polished it off in one gulp.
Spot stared at her incredulously.
She wore a proud smile. "What? You don't think a lady of my caliber can drink?"
Spot was poised to answer when Darby released a shriek, stealing over to the table. "Oh, arm-wrestling!" she cried. "When I was little the two little boy cooks would play this! They taught me but it's been so long!" She tapped one gentleman on the shoulder who was interlocked in a match. He turned to her.
"Oh, I remember you! Butch! It's me! Miss Darby Rockwell!"
The man gave her a peculiar looking, knowing that she of course was already blasted.
Darby fixated her hands upon her hips. "Well why are you looking at me like that? Move over so I can play!"
The man warily cast a glance to his opponent who simply shrugged.
He turned once again to Darby. "Be me guest," he said, arising.
Darby squealed and immediately took his place in the chair, yet not before reaching over the table and placing her opponent's cigarette in-between her lips. "Now, you musn't be scared," she said matter-of-factly, propping her elbow upon the table. She looked at the man with wide blue eyes. "Well, come on then! Don't be scared, place your elbow on the table, now."
The man cast a backward glance at friends as a snicker rippled throughout them. "Alright, girly, alright."
He clasped his left hand into Darby's right and immediately went to slam her arm to the wooden table when, in an inhuman burst of strength, he found his arm on the harsh splintered top of the table causing the glasses to quiver with the force.
He peered up to see Darby with smugness radiating from her features, the cigarette smoke streaming from he mouth. "Fancy that, you lose."
Immediately, the men around her erupted into cheers.
Darby released a sigh and slid the chair back, causing it to scrape against the floor. "Look, Spot! I won! I wuh--"
Alas, Darby Rockwell was not able to conclude her statement when she fell into Spot, blacked out from the consumption of alcohol.
***
It was the fantastic waves of nausea and the marvelous pounding in her skull that found her first and then the searing cold of the black December night.
Darby awoke with a start, not even, taking to heed the fact that she was situated on a dock, and pulled herself on her hands and knees to the edge of the wooden structure, regurgitating all the wonderful alcohol into the river.
She simply lay there, her head and left arm dangling from the edge, her not paying attention to her tangles of flaxen hair that blew in the glacial winds. The tornado that was ripping through her insides was too excruciatingly unbearable, and somehow she felt as though lying on her stomach soothed it.
A small laugh sliced through the night. "Hey, so ya finally awake."
With a moan she lifted her head to see Spot Conlon sitting next to her, his legs dangling over the edge of the pier, skipping pebbles in the glassy surface of the water, shattering the image of the stars and the moon. She let her head fall back once more to the dock, yet this time she faced him.
"Go to hell," she grunted.
He laughed and skipped another rock again. "You asked foah it," he said warningly.
She let out a deep cry as she placed a hand to her forehead trying to be rid of the awful thudding sensation. "I asked to die? How could I ask for a slow, agonizing death?"
Spot sighed. "Ah, Dahby ya ain't dyin'. Ya jist havin' ya foist hangovah."
Darby, intrigued at his words, slowly brought herself into a sitting position, yet found the nausea to much and leaned over, placing her head on her elbows. "And what, may I ask, if a hangover?"
He released a laugh. "A hangovah is what ya havin' now. Have one too many drinks and it feel like ya dyin'. But, Christ, I know ya small but ya only had one drink--"
A sudden recollection came to Darby. "No, while you were dancing with that- girl-I had a bottle of whiskey--"
"WHISKEY?" Spot shouted, causing her to almost burst into tears at the way it aggravated her pounding head. "Jesus Christ, Dahby, no wondah ya feel like shit."
Darby raised her head slightly to glare up at him through her wild hair. "Don't yell. And I do not have a hangover. Hangovers are for people like you."
Spot looked taken aback. "People like me? I'se so sahrry ta tell ya, sweetheart, but ya gonna git ya share of hangovahs jist like I did--" A wicked grin played on his lips. "Jist like ya liddle boyfriend ya were dancin' with--"
This in turn caused Darby to release a grand cry of protest as her forehead hit the dock. "I wouldn't have danced with him if you hadn't gone and danced with that bitch."
Spot cocked a brow, interested. "Oh, if I wouldn't have danced with da bitch, aye? Well what if I said dat da bitch was Adelle?"
Darby raised her head and presented him with a death glare. "You fantastic-- "
Spot broke into stitches and waved his hands in front of him. "No need to go callin' me names, there. Dat wasn't Adelle. Don't even know who she was. Jist did it ta make ya come out and dance."
"Well," Darby sniffed. "You sure did weave your magic spell. It's not right to go about making young ladies jealous. It ruins our complexions."
Spot's jaw dropped as he regarded her mischievously. "I made YOU jealous?"
Darby immediately sat up, the cold winds chilling her to her bone, obviously flustered. "No-that is NOT, most definitely NOT what I meant--"
"You'se only makin' a comparison, right?" he asked, leaning closer to her, obviously relishing in having the upper hand.
Darby pulled back, baffled. "I-I-where the hell are we anyhow?" she inquired stormily.
Spot's gaze flickered past her before interlocking with her eyes. "Da lodgin' house."
"The lodging house!" she cried indignantly. "If you thought for one moment, sir, that you could drag me up to one of your little bunks drunk blue out of my mind and just--"
Spot fell back, his glimmering eyes stark with his crimson cheeks. "I nevah would do dat."
Darby cocked a brow. "Hum. That's not what I heard. Rambling on for ten minutes about only a portion of your conquests. That you've seduced nearly every woman in the tri-state area."
Alas, she halted as Spot's features seemed to darken. "Yeah, and who da hell did ya here dat from? Findin' out information on me?"
She fell back, unable to find the words. Instead, she watched as he angrily threw back his arm and pitched a stone into the water, and as it ruptures the stillness of it.
Darby suddenly felt ashamed. "I-I'm sorry," she quietly said.
Spot abruptly turned to her, incredulous. "What?"
She regarded him, wide-eyed. "I said, I'm sorry."
He snorted and shook his head, his scarf picking up in a howling gust of wind. "D'you know why I'm even with you right now?"
Darby suddenly felt her interest being ignited. She shook her head, causing the pounding to tenfold.
Spot raised his gaze from the dark waters to her. "Because, you'se a bitch."
Darby elicited an angry noise and fell back, yet Spot only smiled. "Yep, ya a bitch and ya arrogant and ya proud. Not like anyone I eveh met. And who evah told ya dat's right. I usually do sleep with 'em all. But you, you are sharp and ya have a comeback foah everything-Jesus, I'se ramblin' here. Ya jist so damn interestin' ta tawk to."
Yet, Darby did not seem to comprehend the meaning behind Spot Conlon's speech. She only had heard his first statement. She raised herself up indignantly. "I'm a bitch? I'm a bitch? Well, I do declare! At least I don't go waltzing about making other's lives absolutely hellish! First, sir, you wake me up at the crack of dawn yelling out your dreadful headlines! They you inquire if I would like to go to dinner, no shall I say make me back up to you little Adelle! And then you bring me to a baseborn tavern and get me absolutely drunk out of my--"
Darby Rockwell's words died in an instant. She must have been blind by petty rage, for she never saw it coming. She only felt Spot Conlon's cold lips press against hers. And he then suddenly pulled away, leaving Darby absolutely stunned and breathless staring at him wide eyed as he regarded her, breathing heavy.
And Darby could only think of one thing to do at that moment. She suddenly leaned over and pressed her lips against Spot's and he soon returned the favor. Despite the glacial weather, the coldness cracked, ruptured and all either could feel was a sweet, hot temptation. Darby released a small noise as Spot pressed more passionately, violent alarms and hues erupting in her mind. Her hands were raking through his hair when she felt herself suddenly give way and her back fell against the dock, Spot falling with her. Darby moved her hands to the sides of his face, desperate for more of the wonderful warmth. Spot propped himself on his elbows, then his spread palms, raising his arms taunt.
Alas, it was Darby that broke the embrace as she felt the effects of her grand old hangover work their magic and she once again was leaning over the side of the dock, as Spot sat laughing slightly, his hair absolutely disheveled and Darby's red lipstick covering the lower half of his face like a comical red beard. "I think it's time we git ya home, Dahby."
***
Darby lay in the delectable warmth of the goose-down bedding, safe and locked away in John Rockwell's immense palace for at least one more night.
She released a sigh into the dark room. The princess had been rescued for a blip in time from the confines of her evil stepparents and had denied the behemoth her hand, all while having grand old time with the prince whom had swept her off her feet.
The prince. The behemoth. Spot. David.
What was it that so desperately lured her to Spot Conlon, newsboy, Darby had not a clue. Perhaps she was only indulging herself in him, perhaps this was a petty holiday romance. She of course envied him, envied his freedom. But did she adore him?
Darby did not even have to delve too far to fathom an answer. Flickers from that night's wild whirlwind flashed back to her. Oh, and when he had led her home. She had been on the balcony and he on the trellis, his eyes full of absolute adoration. And then their lips had met again and Darby still reasoned she did not fall off the balcony. She had felt like that damn Juliet from William Shakespeare's play. All that would have been needed to make the writing correct were if she would have opened her mouth and cried, "Romeo, Romeo where for art thou, Romeo?" thus beginning the poetic relaying of romantic lines-
But fairytales were not true. Her abominably strict governess and numerous dull professors had taught her that. It already was written in stone that sometime in the near future she would indeed become Mrs. David Van Wyck-
But Katrina was a dreamer. She had been waiting on pins and needles in Darby's bed when she arrived home, just bursting to know what had happened. And all through the telling of the story Katrina had made swooning sounds and stricken sighs. Katrina rather fancied that Darby was going to run off with Spot Conlon into the sunset and live happily ever after.
Darby sighed again. He had wanted to see her again. She had promised to rendezvous with him, only inconspicuously if he sold his papers outside the wrought-iron gate. But, now, she was second-guessing her decision-
A soft knock was suddenly heard on the door, as it slightly cracked open, splashing the darkened room with a dim yellow light.
"Darby? Darby? Are you awake?"
It was Mrs. Rockwell.
Darby released a false yawn and stretched her arms above her head. "Um, yes mother?"
Ava Rockwell approached her daughter's bed, her hair in curlers and in her nightdress, carrying a soft lantern. "I just wanted to see how you are feeling."
Darby was about to reply that she was feeling superb, when, alas, she felt the linger effects of her first hangover once again as she leaned over the side of her bed parallel to her mother and regurgitated what was left in her stomach. And suddenly flashing through Darby's mind made her remember the alcohol and the tavern and wild dancing and Him and all her doubts were washed away.
And Ava Rockwell only stepped back, somewhat disgusted. "Hum, that Spanish Influenza certainly is horrid!"