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little children and review! Enjoy--
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"I can see it all now, I in a lovely dress of black lace--"
"Darby, stop."
"I walk down the aisle, the organ accompanying my journey with a death march--"
"Darby-stop!"
"Where I will be joined in holy matrimony, till death do us part, in sickness and in health before the eyes of God to my lawful wedded husband, the wonderful dark god Satan making an earthly appearance as David Charles Van Wyck--"
"DARBY STOP!"
"STOP? HOW CAN I STOP?" Darby Rockwell screeched, slamming the French doors with a passion, causing the panes of glass to shudder. She thrust her gaze to Katrina Van Witt, her eyes blazing, as the latter sat perched in the plush maroon chair, her pale skin stark against her green eyes.
Reading the fearful surprise in Katrina's eyes caused the ardor to wash away from Darby. She sighed and her body visibly collapsed, and she sunk into the chair mate, burying her face in her hands.
"I can't do it, Kat, I can't do it anymore," Darby sighed, battling to control her emotions.
Katrina softened and pushed her chair closer to Darby, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Yes you can--"
Darby violently shook off the embrace, her eyes blazing like blue fire. "No, I can't. You don't understand! How would you understand? You are not in my position!"
Katrina slammed back into the chair in a state of frustration. "Darby," she cried, desperately trying to restrain the temper in her accent. "How can I help you if you won't let me?"
Darby released a snort, rising from the chair and once again retreating to the French doors. She rested her forehead on the cold glass, relishing in the coolness against her hot brow.
Two days. Two days ago since she had assaulted David Van Wyck. Two days since she had last seen Spot Conlon. In that time span and endless procession, ranging from doctors to exorcists had paraded through that doorway. Although nothing had been found physically wrong with her, the doctors had speculated that she was just having some type of delusions and they would subside. The medicine had been plenty of rest. That meant locking the doors, main door to bedroom and French doors alike. It had only been when Katrina had clumsily scaled the trellis and jimmied open the French doors that she could parley with Darby.
Darby suddenly turned around when she felt a soft hand on her shoulder. "I know you're upset, Darby, devastated more like it. I know I could never fathom what you are experiencing, but I love you to death, Darby, just let me help you. Please."
The few sentences struck a chord, which vibrated in her heart, and though it was not one of Katrina's usual passionate, verbose lectures, it was all the more powerful. Without even realizing it, Darby was in hysterics with tears rushing down her cheeks like raindrops in a summer storm, collapsed on the bed.
"Oh, Kat, it's not fair! I never really took David Van Wyck as a serious threat. I mean, yes, there were allusions, always allusions, but I regarded them more as a stupid fairy tale and nothing more. I thought that I could somehow writhe out of the betrothal if I would utterly upset him or his parents-but nothing works! Don't you see, nothing works? I have tried everything in all these years that I could possibly think of, and nothing has worked! I swear, Kat, THEY JUST DON'T CARE. They don't care anymore! I can be as impossibly hideous as I want, but refuse to walk down that goddamn aisle, and they would have someone push me down and say the vowels for me just so they can get their capital! Their bloody money! They are so enslaved to greed that it blinds them. They don't give a damn about their offspring or their unhappiness, they just care about uniting their massive fortunes so the money stays in the family and isn't squandered and so they can be looked after in their old age. They don't care--"
Katrina petted Darby's hair like some expensive Persian cat as she shushed her. "Darby, I'm sure they cared once. They must have. They are your parents, for Christ's sake--"
Darby released herself from Katrina and sat hunched on the bed, gingerly reddening her eyes by brushing away the crystal tears. She slowly shook her head. "No, they never cared. If they had cared then they would not make me marry that bastard. They wouldn't be forcing me to--"
Katrina was now trying to be the level headed one. "But, Darby, plenty of people are placed in arranged marriages--"
"BUT NOT WITH DAVID VAN WYCK!" Darby's sharp as a shard of cracked glass shriek ripped through the room.
Katrina rolled her eyes, before collecting her emotions. "Darby, but you never got this upset over it before--"
"That's because I had two choices then, Kat. That's because then I was stupid and naïve." She arose from the bed, returning to the French doors and regarded the swirling gusts of snow outside. "I always thought that I could either say yes or no. I mean, deep down I knew it always would occur in good time, but I never forced myself to believe it. I never could believe it. I knew I wanted more in life that to become David Van fucking Wyck's little wifey and follow him around like a beaten and broken dog on his campaign trails. I knew that I didn't want to age into one of those withered old bats who reek of money and enter balls in a flourish of opulence, yet not knowing anyone. Sure, I would know their names, but I still would retain haughty notions of them. I would never have any companions. I can't live like that. I can't become my mother--" She trailed off, entranced by the snow, until she slowly turned around to Katrina, holding her wide green eyes. "But now I know that it a reality. I will marry David Van Wyck and become his wife. It shouldn't have been that hard a transition, of course I would spit and holler and put on a fuss, but I of course would have always knew deep down that I would wed him. Yet, now, it is so hard. It shouldn't be like that--"
Darby's eyes averted to the plush carpeting and raised once again to the gusts of immaculate white outside, as Katrina sat on the edge of the bed, solemnly absorbing Darby's words before a knowing smile adorned the corners of her lips.
Darby released a shudder as Katrina joined her, placing a gloved hand on her shoulder. "Why's it so hard, Darby?"
Darby suddenly turned over her shoulder, her blue eyes wide. "I-I don't know."
Katrina stepped back, wearing a smirk as though she knew the answers to the greatest secrets of the universe. "I fancy you correct. Outwardly, you would protest, but you would condition yourself to become use to Van Prick. Though, you say now it is hard to come to terms with marrying him. Why?"
Darby only shook her head.
Katrina continued, her eyes taking on a glassy glitter. "I think that before you were isolated from the outside world. Of course, you yearned to experience it, even the most minute shard of it, but you never did and this helped make the dawning of marrying Van Prick all the easier. You never knew what the true world was like, you could only dream. But, lo and behold, a slice of real life is dropped neatly on to your lap and you fall terribly for it. You have experienced a cut of life and you wish to have more. That's why it's so hard to come to terms with your betrothal. Before you knew only one life, the life of the high and mighty, and that was the lifestyle that you needed to become Mrs. David Van Wyck. But now, now you have experienced a slice of the ways of the world, and you realize that you would give up everything to be there then here. Your mind's back there, not here. Your conditioning had been ruptured. That's why it's so hard."
Darby's eyes were vacant. "In laymen's terms, please?"
Katrina released a disgusted sound as she stepped back, throwing her hands to the air. "FOR Christ's SAKE Darby, you're in love with the newsie!"
Darby retaliated by taking a step back, placing a hand to her heart, and releasing a noise as though mortally taken aback. "ME? In love with the NEWSBOY?" her deep eyes were incredulous. "Pish posh, Katrina--"
Yet Katrina backed Darby into the French doors, her eyes and smile bright. "I'm correct, Darby, aren't eye? You've fallen for him! For the newsie!"
The look of unbelieving adorned Darby's face as the blindly fumbled for the door latch behind her back.
Katrina was in a state of rapture. "Oh, Jesus, Darby, tell me I'm right!"
Darby only released a string of stammers as the latch suddenly clicked and she abruptly pushed the French doors open, the polar air invading the room and blowing her hair forward. She stumbled backwards, the marble searing the bottom of her feet, wrapping her arms about her. "I AM NOT IN LOVE WITH THE NEWSBOY!"
Katrina remained in the doorway, the wind flinging her burnt red hair about. "Then why are you blushing from head to toe! It's the most color that I've seen in you all week!"
Alas, even as Katrina spoke, Darby could feel the fire surging its way through her veins. The words reverberated about her brain, so blunt that she could not comprehend them. "I-please, Kat, I'm Darby Lynn Rockwell, me fall for a newsboy?" she sniffed.
Katrina shook her head, her emerald eyes glimmering. "Ah, Darby, Darby, Darby. I know I'm right. You know I'm right."
Darby thrust her nose to the sky as she quickly strode forward, her entire being numb. With a cry, she was standing on the wonderful plush carpeting, curling her toes and slamming the French doors behind her. She turned over her shoulder to Katrina. "Kat, I have no idea what you are talking about. How could you possibly fathom something--"
"Then that night, why were you about to swoon at the very mention of his name?" Darby shied away from the question, striding past Katrina and to the bed, smoothing a turned-up corner. "I wasn't about to-swoon-over his name. It was just so dreadfully cold out that night--"
Katrina raised her perfectly arched eyebrow. "Well, Darby, you can go babbling on like a damn brook all you like, but it won't sway my opinion." With a smooth motion she had retrieved her dark hunter green scarf from the bed and had wrapped it about her neck, causing it go stark with her hellfire red hair. "All I want to know is: when are you going to go see him?"
Darby stepped back. "Go see him?" she cried incredulously. "Are you out of your mind, Kat? If my parents discover that I am not in bed--"
"I thought you said they didn't give a damn?"
Darby regarded Katrina with a challenge, until she exhaled and collapsed on the bed. "So I go see him, what shall I say? 'Ah, excuse me, I hardly know you but I am madly infatuated with you! And remember the fellow I told you I was destined to marry? Well, I still am but I just wanted to know if you wanted to have another go?'"
Katrina simply nodded. "Sure? Why the hell not?" She padded over to the French doors, her grasp on the gleaming gold handle. "Oh, and Darby, when you say it, say it in the accent. The New York accent. I'm sure it will sound more endearing."
A smile grew upon Darby's lips as she cried, "Oh, you!" and tossed a pillow at Katrina's head, the latter barely missing the blow by suddenly ducking.
Straightening, Katrina pulled open one of the French doors. "Darby, I'm not surprised that you didn't fall. That trellis is awful to climb."
With a smile, Darby watched as Katrina hoisted herself over the balcony, her emerald clothing bright in the white snow, and as she disappeared with great ease.
Darby arose and strode across the room to the immense bay window overlooking the front lawns. She leaned on the padded windowsill, regarding the flurries.
"See Spot Conlon again, Katrina have you lost your mind?" She shook her head. "No, Darby, you've lost you mind."
She released a sigh and slowly made her way over to the bed once more as a voice permeated through the great wooden door and into the room.
"Darby?" It was Ava Rockwell's nasal voice.
"What, mother?" Darby replied in a sharp tone.
"Why aren't you asleep? You need rest like Dr. Bangs said. If you don't get rest you're going to be sick forever and you'll never get better!"
"I'm sorry mother, your wonderful voice woke me up!" Darby hissed with contempt.
There was silence, as though Ava was contemplating the reply. It must have suited her fine for her expensive heels clacked down the hardwood hallway, fading into oblivion.
With a groan, Darby fell back against the bed.
***
Viewed from behind the glimmering glass of the French doors, the night was unusually tranquil. There seemed to be a great net high up in the heavens that caught the snow and the fierce winds had been bridled. The immaculate drifts of snow glittered in the moonlight and matched perfectly with the dark skies and cold stars.
Darby released a long sigh and allowed her eyes to flicker to the unrecognizable figure reflected in the great full-length mirror. Garbed in only her simplest clothing, her wild flaxen hair pulled loosely at the nape of the neck, void of cosmetics, and the look complete with an ebony cloak, the hood pulled over her head, she looked utterly indistinguishable.
What was the point of wearing the grandest clothing when one had indeed lost their mind?
This excursion to the lodging house in the middle of the night, Darby knew, was absolutely ludicrous. What kind of beings lurked in the dark crevices of Brooklyn, she didn't know, and cared not to know, either. Yet, she knew if she were ever going to see Spot Conlon, this would be her final chance. The dinner party where David would fall to his knees and he would slide that blinding, diamond encrusted engagement ring on her finger was happening tomorrow, only a little under twenty hour hours away.
It would be marvelously simplistic to slip out of the palace, past the wrought-iron fence and into the cold December night. Her parents had bustled off over to some fancy affair at the Frost's house, leaving the mansion all but empty, save for the servants tidying up.
Inhaling one last time and averting her gaze from the reflection, Darby stole through the French doors and down the trellis, the journey made quite easier in flats instead of heels. She landed on the fresh snow with a clean thud, and straightened, peering around before dashing to the front yard, down the walk and quietly opening the gates a sliver, sliding past them, shutting them behind her.
Darby walked a few paces, a zephyr blowing up her cotton skirt, though not being able to reach her wool-stocking covered legs, before she halted, and turned around. Every light was lit in the Rockwell mansion, like some gaudy fireball in the darkness.
She shook her head. It seemed impossible that she had called the monstrosity home for the past sixteen years. For the entire span of her life. A sudden sadness washed over her.
If life was anything what Spot Conlon had been like, then she sure had missed a hell of a lot of it.
Another set soon joined the echoing clicking of her heels. Darby cocked her head up to see Mr. Firth walking both of his little terriers. He usually gave her a hearty and warm hello, yet this time he only looked in her direction before straightening his head again.
Darby once more averted her gaze to the snow-laded sidewalk, the moon on her back. It was when she heard an ear-shattering scream that she finally picked her head up, and her breath bated in her throat. She was located in front of the bordello, that very same bordello about to walk into the same bench. Yet this time, it was overflowing with life.
Hearty music pulsated from the bordello as bright light filtered through each window. Women in colorful dresses with their breasts pushed high upon their chests were leaning out windows, waving handkerchiefs at men down below and taunting them playfully. The men shouted and the women screamed.
Darby was snared into the commotion below as a few gentlemen in rumpled suits bumped into her, nearly pitching her to the ground. Without so much as an apology, they had entered the bordello.
She pulled the hood over her brow more, suddenly wishing to be in the safe confines of her goose down bed, yet quickly shook the notion.
"You can't back down now, Darby girl, you have to find him," she murmured to herself, picking up her pace, her shoes crunching against the muddied snow.
If Darby concluded that the bordello surroundings were baseborn, then her mind could not possibly fathom the environment she was situated in now. Tall, burnt out shells of buildings loomed over her, God knows what hiding in their dark cavities. The streets were littered with absolute trash as crooked characters contorted themselves in the dark spaces, their cold eyes burning into Darby, causing her pulse to race tenfold.
She quickened her pace, keeping her eyes to the ground.
Keep your eyes to the ground, keep your eyes to the ground and maybe they won't snatch you. Oh thank God I am not wearing any of my good clothing, her mind raced.
A wild realization entered her mind as the lapping of water filled her ears.
Water. The lodging house had been by a lake or river or sea or something of that sort. Perhaps its just around the-
Alas, her thoughts were crushed as she elicited a scream and stumbled back. Through impossibly wide eyes, she took in the old crone situated before her. The old woman was bent over like some horrible hunchback gone awry, her skin a grotesque shade of pale green under her ripped black dress.
"Child, be good and give old granny your cloak. Old granny is so cold," the crone said in a horrible, cracking voice, reaching her hand out to Darby.
Darby released a marvelous scream and stepped back.
"Child, give cold old granny your cloak!" the crone hissed, and in her attempts suddenly grasped Darby's chin in her rough grasp, pulling her forward.
Darby elicited a cry as she winced away from the woman's elongated nose, skin covered in sickening boils, and oleaginous mass of black hair. "Witch, witch, witch! Let me go! You shan't have my nose for your awful potions!"
With a jerk, she had broken out of the woman's gasps and was running as though Satan himself were on her heels, her shoes crunching the snow, her breathing heavy, a stitch in her side, and her unkempt blowing wildly behind her.
She sprinted until her legs were about to rupture before her entire soul gave out and she collapsed into a mound of snow. As the cold snow leaked through her thin skirt, hot bitter tears found their way down her cheeks.
"Oh, what in the hell was I thinking? Going to see Spot Conlon again? Thinking that I actually had somewhat feelings for him. Thinking that he- Probably out somewhere with that little stumpet Adelle. Oh, Darby, Darby, Darby, how utterly foolish you are. To go chasing down a futile dream. And what about the lodging house? I was drunk out of my goddamn mind when he took me there, probably is on the other side of Brooklyn!" A mad laughter escaped her lips as she added, "But Darby, why are you crying, the lodging house is right above--" She raised her gaze skyward and her jaw dropped completely for a building loomed above her in the night in which a soft light radiated from the windows, casting upon the words Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House stenciled in chipping paint.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" she hissed incredulously. "What in the hell chances--"
Yet Darby bit her tongue, she knew better than to press fate. She slowly arose from the ground, her gaze never leaving the wording. "If there is a God, then he sure must have looked past all those times I fell asleep during mass."
She hurriedly made her way across the walk and to the stairs, and was poised to place a foot on the first rotting wooden step, yet halted.
Darby's maiden experience hadn't been to magically enthralling the first time at the lodging house and what kept it from shattering to pieces this time? She was about to turn around and trek through the ungodly regions of Brooklyn back to the glorious comforts of her goose down bed once more when she felt a strong hand find its way to her shoulder and a hot belch erupt in her ear.
Darby released an openly disgusted noise and shook out of the grasp. A clearly blasted newsie stood swaying on the steps, a glitter-shot glass of whiskey in his hand. "Hey, laday," he muttered, his eyes swiveling in their sockets.
She only groaned as within a moment he had fallen with a heavy thud onto the steps. Picking up her skirt, Darby tiptoed over him, back kicking the bottle out of his grasp so it rolled down the steps and landed in the snow.
Darby now stood in front of the splintering wooden door. With a great inhalation, she daintily knocked on it. When she was returned no response, she cautiously opened the door, peering her head in.
A singular lantern was emitting a soft light as it stood poised on a warped wooden table in the parlor, a group of five boys planted about it, all emerged in a game of poker. She loudly cleared her throat and entered the threshold, slamming the door behind her, causing the lantern to rattle. All boys shot icy glares at her.
Darby suddenly felt all her teachings being vacuumed out of her as she stood in the doorway looking like an utter idiot. "Pots Smonlon?" she finally stammered in an incomprehensible tone.
That caused the group to break up into silent laughter as one boy suddenly croaked, "Upstahs. In da bunkr'm. Playin' pokah."
Darby only stiffly nodded in his direction before she disappeared up the stairs, her face smoldering hot, their subtle laughter still ringing in her ears. "Still as awful as ever," she said in a low, spiteful voice, finding herself in a darkened hallway.
Yet, down at the very tail of the hallway glowed a dim white light. Using her better judgement, Darby slowly strode towards the light, the floorboards creaking under her weight as though they were being murdered.
The light was pouring out of an open door. As she gingerly looked in, she took the room to indeed be the bunkroom. Bowed, splintered bunks were crammed from wall to wall, with a slight opening in the middle where a slew of boys were sitting in a makeshift circle through a cloud of smoke and the glittering of alcohol bottles.
Catching her breath in her trachea, Darby tightly shut her eyes and softly knocked thrice on the cracked doorframe. Her eyes fluttered open a moment later to find all gazes on her, not all offering the gift of friendship.
"Ah, Spot Conlon?" she inquired shakily, as she regarded him.
Spot Conlon was propped against the leg of a bunk, in all but gray slacks with the suspenders at a heap on the floor and a pair of scuffed shoes. His dirty blonde hair was awry and a smoking cigar dangled from the corner of one lip, a glass bottle of gin companion next to him. His gaze flickered from Darby to the other newsboys and he slowly nodded, laying his cards down in front of him and arising.
"So, what, Spot, ya not playin' or what?" a boy asked in a deep voice.
Spot only nodded his head silently as he reached to the top of one of the bunks, revealing his threadbare jacket and applying it with a flourish. He hadn't even made his way to the doorframe before his lot of cards had been divvied among the others.
Without a word, he had passed Darby without so much as a glance and was making his way down the darkened hallway. Her wild gaze flitted from the poker players to Spot, who had already vanished.
With a start, Darby sprinted down the hallway and down the stairs, catching Spot at the door as he bid his farewells to the newsboys in the parlor with a simple salute. She followed him out the doors, the raw coldness hitting her marrow due to the rapid decrement in temperature and the fresh veils of new falling snow.
Darby joined Spot at the bottom of the stairs, her arms wrapped about her, and she watched as he inhaled on the cigar once more and pitched it to the snow.
A flood of smoke streamed from his nostrils and he finally turned to her, looked at her, those green eyes burning into her soul. "So what d'ya want, Dahby?" he asked lazily.
Darby remained breathless, pinned to the spot by those ravaging eyes. "To- to see you," she finally stammered.
Spot exhaled, his breath coming out in apparent crystals, and he averted is gaze to the sky. "Why, Dahby?"
And suddenly Darby Rockwell felt as thought she were six again and Spot was her horrid governess, and he was talking to her in that condescending manner that the governess had always parleyed in, always causing Darby to feel like the utmost idiot. And suddenly she was an idiot with tears welling in the corners of her eyes. "Why? Why?" she asked in a strained voice, desperate not to let him view her break down. "Because-because I wanted to know if that night wasn't just a fluke."
He brought his eyes down to her, the moonlight glimmering off his hair. "A fluke? A fluke? What the hell kinda idea made ya t'ink dat it wasn't a fluke?"
Darby cocked her head, not being able to comprehend how one could be so cold. Inside her chest cavity, it felt as though her heart was being mutilated, and it got all the worse just by looking into those hard eyes of glass. "I-I don't know," she replied in a cracked, tear-stained voice "I-I just never felt that way before. Ever--"
Spot took a step closer to her, so their noses were barely touching, those eyes wrecking her soul. "Listen, Dahby," he started in a low growl, clutching a handful of her cloak at the neck, yet he halted, his gaze flickering over her shoulder. He elicited a low groan and Darby clumsily looked over her shoulder to see a the band of newsboys that had been playing poker in the parlor were now with their noses and palms pressed against one of the dust-laced window, taking in every word and action that had been relayed between the two.
"Come wit me," Spot hissed, striding forward with a vengeance, causing Darby to yelp as he forcefully tugged on her cloak, dragging her forward, her toes causing the snow to spray about.
She released a choke as she was slammed into the splintered side of the lodging house. Her hood fell back to reveal her wild hair and wild eyes. Spot's jaw was set and his eyes glimmering. "Why are ya really here, Dahby Rockwell?"
It was then Darby felt the absolute passion manifest itself in her soul, and with a sharp jerk she had ripped herself away from Spot, and was stumbling backwards, nearly tumbling off the snow covered pier and into the frigid river. "I'm here because I felt something that night that I never, ever felt before!" she screamed feverishly.
Spot shook his head with an air of disgust. He strode towards her, hands dropped at his sides. "Dahby, how the hell many oddah goils d'ya t;ink have said dat to me?"
Darby was poised to retaliate, yet halted, her head cocked and mouth opened. Words that Katrina had uttered filtered through her head. "'The girls-did I mention the girls--'" She snapped her gaze to his. "'Well, every lady in New York either fears Mr. Conlon or else is desperately in love with him. Whitie went on for about ten minutes listing all the names of girls that Spot has been with.'"
She shook her head in disbelief, not wishing to believe that this was a mere ruse, yet Spot approached her, nodding. "Yeah, Dahby, its all true. It was all a bet between me and me pals. See if we could nab two richies-and whaddya know?"
Darby stepped back, the protesting mounds of snow hindering her, her head furiously shaking, her hair falling out of the ribbon. "No! It's not true! That night I thought that you would indeed drag me up there like you do all those other girls. And you said you would never do that--"
Spot was growling in protest, yet Darby continued. "You said you would never do that, and I believed you and I believed you still. If you had half as much a wonderful time as I than I believe you! But you're just too proud. Too goddamn proud. You saw me with David Van Wyck and I told you, I told you that I was destined to marry him, and you asked me to dinner anyhow! But your pride was hurt!" He was furiously shaking his head yet Darby could read the truth in his eyes. "Yes!" she cried intensely, stepping backwards. "It's the truth! The absolute truth! I told you that I despised David Van Wyck with the utmost passion and that it meant nothing that day but what the hell could you say to your friends? That you, the fearless leader of Brooklyn, had been had been sent to the cesspool but a girl? A girl? But it's you who is to break the hearts, not the other way around. And when it happened to you it-Jesus Christ, it didn't happen! That's what I'm here for! That night must have been the single most spectacular moment of my life and if you are going to brush it off like it never happened, well then you're more an idiot than my mother!"
Spot only fell silent, his green eyes not being able to be detected, covering the distance between them. "Howd'ya know I was da "fearless leadah" of Brooklyn?"
Darby suddenly became flustered by the offset in the sudden calm in his tone. "I-I-I-Katrina."
"And who told Katrina?"
"Whitie."
Darby was now tottering on the edge of the dock, Spot no more than a mere inch away from her. Her eyes grew wide and breathing became labored.
"I knew ya were wit Van Wyck long befoah I knew you," he said softly, his fingers lightly dancing across the base of Darby's wrists, causing a shudder to dance down her spine.
Her eyes lit up in surprise. "You-you did?"
The snow was beginning to fall harder, and they had collected a dusting of white. He nodded. "Yeah, in da papes, dey have dat one section dat shows the high 'n mighty at all of dere fancy balls. You were always with him, and always looked so damn unhappy."
A grim smile formed on Darby's lips as she gazed to the ground. "You would look unhappy too if a vile creature such as that had literally been trying to rape you at the dinner table in front of all of New York's finest."
This brought on no reaction whatsoever from Spot, save he taking Darby's chin between his thumb and index finger and raising it. "Ya really have ta marry him?"
Darby released a haunting sigh and cast down her eyes. "Yes. I have to. Our parents want the money and he wants me. But it won't be every night, I suspect. He'll have his fair share of mistresses--" Involuntarily, bitter tears found their way down her cheeks.
"Christ," Spot barely whispered. "And I t'ought ya had such a chahmed life. Ya fancy cloths, good speakin', fancy house--"
They both fell silent, only the sound of ragged breathing audible in the ethereal clear night.
"Darby?" he finally asked, rupturing the silence.
"Um?"
"When ya said dat day dat ya would rathah be married to a flea-infested newsie like me than be married to someone as bad as Van Wyck--"
"Yes?"
"Didja mean it?"
Darby felt the utter air being stolen from her as she looked up and into the infinite depths of those green eyes. "Of course--"
And then their lips were pressed together, and a fire pulsated through them fracturing the coldness of the night, the taste of Darby's bittersweet tears that were streaming down her cheeks along with the taste of dated nicotine, combining in a gloriously hot sensation, burning away all thoughts of the world.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"I can see it all now, I in a lovely dress of black lace--"
"Darby, stop."
"I walk down the aisle, the organ accompanying my journey with a death march--"
"Darby-stop!"
"Where I will be joined in holy matrimony, till death do us part, in sickness and in health before the eyes of God to my lawful wedded husband, the wonderful dark god Satan making an earthly appearance as David Charles Van Wyck--"
"DARBY STOP!"
"STOP? HOW CAN I STOP?" Darby Rockwell screeched, slamming the French doors with a passion, causing the panes of glass to shudder. She thrust her gaze to Katrina Van Witt, her eyes blazing, as the latter sat perched in the plush maroon chair, her pale skin stark against her green eyes.
Reading the fearful surprise in Katrina's eyes caused the ardor to wash away from Darby. She sighed and her body visibly collapsed, and she sunk into the chair mate, burying her face in her hands.
"I can't do it, Kat, I can't do it anymore," Darby sighed, battling to control her emotions.
Katrina softened and pushed her chair closer to Darby, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Yes you can--"
Darby violently shook off the embrace, her eyes blazing like blue fire. "No, I can't. You don't understand! How would you understand? You are not in my position!"
Katrina slammed back into the chair in a state of frustration. "Darby," she cried, desperately trying to restrain the temper in her accent. "How can I help you if you won't let me?"
Darby released a snort, rising from the chair and once again retreating to the French doors. She rested her forehead on the cold glass, relishing in the coolness against her hot brow.
Two days. Two days ago since she had assaulted David Van Wyck. Two days since she had last seen Spot Conlon. In that time span and endless procession, ranging from doctors to exorcists had paraded through that doorway. Although nothing had been found physically wrong with her, the doctors had speculated that she was just having some type of delusions and they would subside. The medicine had been plenty of rest. That meant locking the doors, main door to bedroom and French doors alike. It had only been when Katrina had clumsily scaled the trellis and jimmied open the French doors that she could parley with Darby.
Darby suddenly turned around when she felt a soft hand on her shoulder. "I know you're upset, Darby, devastated more like it. I know I could never fathom what you are experiencing, but I love you to death, Darby, just let me help you. Please."
The few sentences struck a chord, which vibrated in her heart, and though it was not one of Katrina's usual passionate, verbose lectures, it was all the more powerful. Without even realizing it, Darby was in hysterics with tears rushing down her cheeks like raindrops in a summer storm, collapsed on the bed.
"Oh, Kat, it's not fair! I never really took David Van Wyck as a serious threat. I mean, yes, there were allusions, always allusions, but I regarded them more as a stupid fairy tale and nothing more. I thought that I could somehow writhe out of the betrothal if I would utterly upset him or his parents-but nothing works! Don't you see, nothing works? I have tried everything in all these years that I could possibly think of, and nothing has worked! I swear, Kat, THEY JUST DON'T CARE. They don't care anymore! I can be as impossibly hideous as I want, but refuse to walk down that goddamn aisle, and they would have someone push me down and say the vowels for me just so they can get their capital! Their bloody money! They are so enslaved to greed that it blinds them. They don't give a damn about their offspring or their unhappiness, they just care about uniting their massive fortunes so the money stays in the family and isn't squandered and so they can be looked after in their old age. They don't care--"
Katrina petted Darby's hair like some expensive Persian cat as she shushed her. "Darby, I'm sure they cared once. They must have. They are your parents, for Christ's sake--"
Darby released herself from Katrina and sat hunched on the bed, gingerly reddening her eyes by brushing away the crystal tears. She slowly shook her head. "No, they never cared. If they had cared then they would not make me marry that bastard. They wouldn't be forcing me to--"
Katrina was now trying to be the level headed one. "But, Darby, plenty of people are placed in arranged marriages--"
"BUT NOT WITH DAVID VAN WYCK!" Darby's sharp as a shard of cracked glass shriek ripped through the room.
Katrina rolled her eyes, before collecting her emotions. "Darby, but you never got this upset over it before--"
"That's because I had two choices then, Kat. That's because then I was stupid and naïve." She arose from the bed, returning to the French doors and regarded the swirling gusts of snow outside. "I always thought that I could either say yes or no. I mean, deep down I knew it always would occur in good time, but I never forced myself to believe it. I never could believe it. I knew I wanted more in life that to become David Van fucking Wyck's little wifey and follow him around like a beaten and broken dog on his campaign trails. I knew that I didn't want to age into one of those withered old bats who reek of money and enter balls in a flourish of opulence, yet not knowing anyone. Sure, I would know their names, but I still would retain haughty notions of them. I would never have any companions. I can't live like that. I can't become my mother--" She trailed off, entranced by the snow, until she slowly turned around to Katrina, holding her wide green eyes. "But now I know that it a reality. I will marry David Van Wyck and become his wife. It shouldn't have been that hard a transition, of course I would spit and holler and put on a fuss, but I of course would have always knew deep down that I would wed him. Yet, now, it is so hard. It shouldn't be like that--"
Darby's eyes averted to the plush carpeting and raised once again to the gusts of immaculate white outside, as Katrina sat on the edge of the bed, solemnly absorbing Darby's words before a knowing smile adorned the corners of her lips.
Darby released a shudder as Katrina joined her, placing a gloved hand on her shoulder. "Why's it so hard, Darby?"
Darby suddenly turned over her shoulder, her blue eyes wide. "I-I don't know."
Katrina stepped back, wearing a smirk as though she knew the answers to the greatest secrets of the universe. "I fancy you correct. Outwardly, you would protest, but you would condition yourself to become use to Van Prick. Though, you say now it is hard to come to terms with marrying him. Why?"
Darby only shook her head.
Katrina continued, her eyes taking on a glassy glitter. "I think that before you were isolated from the outside world. Of course, you yearned to experience it, even the most minute shard of it, but you never did and this helped make the dawning of marrying Van Prick all the easier. You never knew what the true world was like, you could only dream. But, lo and behold, a slice of real life is dropped neatly on to your lap and you fall terribly for it. You have experienced a cut of life and you wish to have more. That's why it's so hard to come to terms with your betrothal. Before you knew only one life, the life of the high and mighty, and that was the lifestyle that you needed to become Mrs. David Van Wyck. But now, now you have experienced a slice of the ways of the world, and you realize that you would give up everything to be there then here. Your mind's back there, not here. Your conditioning had been ruptured. That's why it's so hard."
Darby's eyes were vacant. "In laymen's terms, please?"
Katrina released a disgusted sound as she stepped back, throwing her hands to the air. "FOR Christ's SAKE Darby, you're in love with the newsie!"
Darby retaliated by taking a step back, placing a hand to her heart, and releasing a noise as though mortally taken aback. "ME? In love with the NEWSBOY?" her deep eyes were incredulous. "Pish posh, Katrina--"
Yet Katrina backed Darby into the French doors, her eyes and smile bright. "I'm correct, Darby, aren't eye? You've fallen for him! For the newsie!"
The look of unbelieving adorned Darby's face as the blindly fumbled for the door latch behind her back.
Katrina was in a state of rapture. "Oh, Jesus, Darby, tell me I'm right!"
Darby only released a string of stammers as the latch suddenly clicked and she abruptly pushed the French doors open, the polar air invading the room and blowing her hair forward. She stumbled backwards, the marble searing the bottom of her feet, wrapping her arms about her. "I AM NOT IN LOVE WITH THE NEWSBOY!"
Katrina remained in the doorway, the wind flinging her burnt red hair about. "Then why are you blushing from head to toe! It's the most color that I've seen in you all week!"
Alas, even as Katrina spoke, Darby could feel the fire surging its way through her veins. The words reverberated about her brain, so blunt that she could not comprehend them. "I-please, Kat, I'm Darby Lynn Rockwell, me fall for a newsboy?" she sniffed.
Katrina shook her head, her emerald eyes glimmering. "Ah, Darby, Darby, Darby. I know I'm right. You know I'm right."
Darby thrust her nose to the sky as she quickly strode forward, her entire being numb. With a cry, she was standing on the wonderful plush carpeting, curling her toes and slamming the French doors behind her. She turned over her shoulder to Katrina. "Kat, I have no idea what you are talking about. How could you possibly fathom something--"
"Then that night, why were you about to swoon at the very mention of his name?" Darby shied away from the question, striding past Katrina and to the bed, smoothing a turned-up corner. "I wasn't about to-swoon-over his name. It was just so dreadfully cold out that night--"
Katrina raised her perfectly arched eyebrow. "Well, Darby, you can go babbling on like a damn brook all you like, but it won't sway my opinion." With a smooth motion she had retrieved her dark hunter green scarf from the bed and had wrapped it about her neck, causing it go stark with her hellfire red hair. "All I want to know is: when are you going to go see him?"
Darby stepped back. "Go see him?" she cried incredulously. "Are you out of your mind, Kat? If my parents discover that I am not in bed--"
"I thought you said they didn't give a damn?"
Darby regarded Katrina with a challenge, until she exhaled and collapsed on the bed. "So I go see him, what shall I say? 'Ah, excuse me, I hardly know you but I am madly infatuated with you! And remember the fellow I told you I was destined to marry? Well, I still am but I just wanted to know if you wanted to have another go?'"
Katrina simply nodded. "Sure? Why the hell not?" She padded over to the French doors, her grasp on the gleaming gold handle. "Oh, and Darby, when you say it, say it in the accent. The New York accent. I'm sure it will sound more endearing."
A smile grew upon Darby's lips as she cried, "Oh, you!" and tossed a pillow at Katrina's head, the latter barely missing the blow by suddenly ducking.
Straightening, Katrina pulled open one of the French doors. "Darby, I'm not surprised that you didn't fall. That trellis is awful to climb."
With a smile, Darby watched as Katrina hoisted herself over the balcony, her emerald clothing bright in the white snow, and as she disappeared with great ease.
Darby arose and strode across the room to the immense bay window overlooking the front lawns. She leaned on the padded windowsill, regarding the flurries.
"See Spot Conlon again, Katrina have you lost your mind?" She shook her head. "No, Darby, you've lost you mind."
She released a sigh and slowly made her way over to the bed once more as a voice permeated through the great wooden door and into the room.
"Darby?" It was Ava Rockwell's nasal voice.
"What, mother?" Darby replied in a sharp tone.
"Why aren't you asleep? You need rest like Dr. Bangs said. If you don't get rest you're going to be sick forever and you'll never get better!"
"I'm sorry mother, your wonderful voice woke me up!" Darby hissed with contempt.
There was silence, as though Ava was contemplating the reply. It must have suited her fine for her expensive heels clacked down the hardwood hallway, fading into oblivion.
With a groan, Darby fell back against the bed.
***
Viewed from behind the glimmering glass of the French doors, the night was unusually tranquil. There seemed to be a great net high up in the heavens that caught the snow and the fierce winds had been bridled. The immaculate drifts of snow glittered in the moonlight and matched perfectly with the dark skies and cold stars.
Darby released a long sigh and allowed her eyes to flicker to the unrecognizable figure reflected in the great full-length mirror. Garbed in only her simplest clothing, her wild flaxen hair pulled loosely at the nape of the neck, void of cosmetics, and the look complete with an ebony cloak, the hood pulled over her head, she looked utterly indistinguishable.
What was the point of wearing the grandest clothing when one had indeed lost their mind?
This excursion to the lodging house in the middle of the night, Darby knew, was absolutely ludicrous. What kind of beings lurked in the dark crevices of Brooklyn, she didn't know, and cared not to know, either. Yet, she knew if she were ever going to see Spot Conlon, this would be her final chance. The dinner party where David would fall to his knees and he would slide that blinding, diamond encrusted engagement ring on her finger was happening tomorrow, only a little under twenty hour hours away.
It would be marvelously simplistic to slip out of the palace, past the wrought-iron fence and into the cold December night. Her parents had bustled off over to some fancy affair at the Frost's house, leaving the mansion all but empty, save for the servants tidying up.
Inhaling one last time and averting her gaze from the reflection, Darby stole through the French doors and down the trellis, the journey made quite easier in flats instead of heels. She landed on the fresh snow with a clean thud, and straightened, peering around before dashing to the front yard, down the walk and quietly opening the gates a sliver, sliding past them, shutting them behind her.
Darby walked a few paces, a zephyr blowing up her cotton skirt, though not being able to reach her wool-stocking covered legs, before she halted, and turned around. Every light was lit in the Rockwell mansion, like some gaudy fireball in the darkness.
She shook her head. It seemed impossible that she had called the monstrosity home for the past sixteen years. For the entire span of her life. A sudden sadness washed over her.
If life was anything what Spot Conlon had been like, then she sure had missed a hell of a lot of it.
Another set soon joined the echoing clicking of her heels. Darby cocked her head up to see Mr. Firth walking both of his little terriers. He usually gave her a hearty and warm hello, yet this time he only looked in her direction before straightening his head again.
Darby once more averted her gaze to the snow-laded sidewalk, the moon on her back. It was when she heard an ear-shattering scream that she finally picked her head up, and her breath bated in her throat. She was located in front of the bordello, that very same bordello about to walk into the same bench. Yet this time, it was overflowing with life.
Hearty music pulsated from the bordello as bright light filtered through each window. Women in colorful dresses with their breasts pushed high upon their chests were leaning out windows, waving handkerchiefs at men down below and taunting them playfully. The men shouted and the women screamed.
Darby was snared into the commotion below as a few gentlemen in rumpled suits bumped into her, nearly pitching her to the ground. Without so much as an apology, they had entered the bordello.
She pulled the hood over her brow more, suddenly wishing to be in the safe confines of her goose down bed, yet quickly shook the notion.
"You can't back down now, Darby girl, you have to find him," she murmured to herself, picking up her pace, her shoes crunching against the muddied snow.
If Darby concluded that the bordello surroundings were baseborn, then her mind could not possibly fathom the environment she was situated in now. Tall, burnt out shells of buildings loomed over her, God knows what hiding in their dark cavities. The streets were littered with absolute trash as crooked characters contorted themselves in the dark spaces, their cold eyes burning into Darby, causing her pulse to race tenfold.
She quickened her pace, keeping her eyes to the ground.
Keep your eyes to the ground, keep your eyes to the ground and maybe they won't snatch you. Oh thank God I am not wearing any of my good clothing, her mind raced.
A wild realization entered her mind as the lapping of water filled her ears.
Water. The lodging house had been by a lake or river or sea or something of that sort. Perhaps its just around the-
Alas, her thoughts were crushed as she elicited a scream and stumbled back. Through impossibly wide eyes, she took in the old crone situated before her. The old woman was bent over like some horrible hunchback gone awry, her skin a grotesque shade of pale green under her ripped black dress.
"Child, be good and give old granny your cloak. Old granny is so cold," the crone said in a horrible, cracking voice, reaching her hand out to Darby.
Darby released a marvelous scream and stepped back.
"Child, give cold old granny your cloak!" the crone hissed, and in her attempts suddenly grasped Darby's chin in her rough grasp, pulling her forward.
Darby elicited a cry as she winced away from the woman's elongated nose, skin covered in sickening boils, and oleaginous mass of black hair. "Witch, witch, witch! Let me go! You shan't have my nose for your awful potions!"
With a jerk, she had broken out of the woman's gasps and was running as though Satan himself were on her heels, her shoes crunching the snow, her breathing heavy, a stitch in her side, and her unkempt blowing wildly behind her.
She sprinted until her legs were about to rupture before her entire soul gave out and she collapsed into a mound of snow. As the cold snow leaked through her thin skirt, hot bitter tears found their way down her cheeks.
"Oh, what in the hell was I thinking? Going to see Spot Conlon again? Thinking that I actually had somewhat feelings for him. Thinking that he- Probably out somewhere with that little stumpet Adelle. Oh, Darby, Darby, Darby, how utterly foolish you are. To go chasing down a futile dream. And what about the lodging house? I was drunk out of my goddamn mind when he took me there, probably is on the other side of Brooklyn!" A mad laughter escaped her lips as she added, "But Darby, why are you crying, the lodging house is right above--" She raised her gaze skyward and her jaw dropped completely for a building loomed above her in the night in which a soft light radiated from the windows, casting upon the words Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House stenciled in chipping paint.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" she hissed incredulously. "What in the hell chances--"
Yet Darby bit her tongue, she knew better than to press fate. She slowly arose from the ground, her gaze never leaving the wording. "If there is a God, then he sure must have looked past all those times I fell asleep during mass."
She hurriedly made her way across the walk and to the stairs, and was poised to place a foot on the first rotting wooden step, yet halted.
Darby's maiden experience hadn't been to magically enthralling the first time at the lodging house and what kept it from shattering to pieces this time? She was about to turn around and trek through the ungodly regions of Brooklyn back to the glorious comforts of her goose down bed once more when she felt a strong hand find its way to her shoulder and a hot belch erupt in her ear.
Darby released an openly disgusted noise and shook out of the grasp. A clearly blasted newsie stood swaying on the steps, a glitter-shot glass of whiskey in his hand. "Hey, laday," he muttered, his eyes swiveling in their sockets.
She only groaned as within a moment he had fallen with a heavy thud onto the steps. Picking up her skirt, Darby tiptoed over him, back kicking the bottle out of his grasp so it rolled down the steps and landed in the snow.
Darby now stood in front of the splintering wooden door. With a great inhalation, she daintily knocked on it. When she was returned no response, she cautiously opened the door, peering her head in.
A singular lantern was emitting a soft light as it stood poised on a warped wooden table in the parlor, a group of five boys planted about it, all emerged in a game of poker. She loudly cleared her throat and entered the threshold, slamming the door behind her, causing the lantern to rattle. All boys shot icy glares at her.
Darby suddenly felt all her teachings being vacuumed out of her as she stood in the doorway looking like an utter idiot. "Pots Smonlon?" she finally stammered in an incomprehensible tone.
That caused the group to break up into silent laughter as one boy suddenly croaked, "Upstahs. In da bunkr'm. Playin' pokah."
Darby only stiffly nodded in his direction before she disappeared up the stairs, her face smoldering hot, their subtle laughter still ringing in her ears. "Still as awful as ever," she said in a low, spiteful voice, finding herself in a darkened hallway.
Yet, down at the very tail of the hallway glowed a dim white light. Using her better judgement, Darby slowly strode towards the light, the floorboards creaking under her weight as though they were being murdered.
The light was pouring out of an open door. As she gingerly looked in, she took the room to indeed be the bunkroom. Bowed, splintered bunks were crammed from wall to wall, with a slight opening in the middle where a slew of boys were sitting in a makeshift circle through a cloud of smoke and the glittering of alcohol bottles.
Catching her breath in her trachea, Darby tightly shut her eyes and softly knocked thrice on the cracked doorframe. Her eyes fluttered open a moment later to find all gazes on her, not all offering the gift of friendship.
"Ah, Spot Conlon?" she inquired shakily, as she regarded him.
Spot Conlon was propped against the leg of a bunk, in all but gray slacks with the suspenders at a heap on the floor and a pair of scuffed shoes. His dirty blonde hair was awry and a smoking cigar dangled from the corner of one lip, a glass bottle of gin companion next to him. His gaze flickered from Darby to the other newsboys and he slowly nodded, laying his cards down in front of him and arising.
"So, what, Spot, ya not playin' or what?" a boy asked in a deep voice.
Spot only nodded his head silently as he reached to the top of one of the bunks, revealing his threadbare jacket and applying it with a flourish. He hadn't even made his way to the doorframe before his lot of cards had been divvied among the others.
Without a word, he had passed Darby without so much as a glance and was making his way down the darkened hallway. Her wild gaze flitted from the poker players to Spot, who had already vanished.
With a start, Darby sprinted down the hallway and down the stairs, catching Spot at the door as he bid his farewells to the newsboys in the parlor with a simple salute. She followed him out the doors, the raw coldness hitting her marrow due to the rapid decrement in temperature and the fresh veils of new falling snow.
Darby joined Spot at the bottom of the stairs, her arms wrapped about her, and she watched as he inhaled on the cigar once more and pitched it to the snow.
A flood of smoke streamed from his nostrils and he finally turned to her, looked at her, those green eyes burning into her soul. "So what d'ya want, Dahby?" he asked lazily.
Darby remained breathless, pinned to the spot by those ravaging eyes. "To- to see you," she finally stammered.
Spot exhaled, his breath coming out in apparent crystals, and he averted is gaze to the sky. "Why, Dahby?"
And suddenly Darby Rockwell felt as thought she were six again and Spot was her horrid governess, and he was talking to her in that condescending manner that the governess had always parleyed in, always causing Darby to feel like the utmost idiot. And suddenly she was an idiot with tears welling in the corners of her eyes. "Why? Why?" she asked in a strained voice, desperate not to let him view her break down. "Because-because I wanted to know if that night wasn't just a fluke."
He brought his eyes down to her, the moonlight glimmering off his hair. "A fluke? A fluke? What the hell kinda idea made ya t'ink dat it wasn't a fluke?"
Darby cocked her head, not being able to comprehend how one could be so cold. Inside her chest cavity, it felt as though her heart was being mutilated, and it got all the worse just by looking into those hard eyes of glass. "I-I don't know," she replied in a cracked, tear-stained voice "I-I just never felt that way before. Ever--"
Spot took a step closer to her, so their noses were barely touching, those eyes wrecking her soul. "Listen, Dahby," he started in a low growl, clutching a handful of her cloak at the neck, yet he halted, his gaze flickering over her shoulder. He elicited a low groan and Darby clumsily looked over her shoulder to see a the band of newsboys that had been playing poker in the parlor were now with their noses and palms pressed against one of the dust-laced window, taking in every word and action that had been relayed between the two.
"Come wit me," Spot hissed, striding forward with a vengeance, causing Darby to yelp as he forcefully tugged on her cloak, dragging her forward, her toes causing the snow to spray about.
She released a choke as she was slammed into the splintered side of the lodging house. Her hood fell back to reveal her wild hair and wild eyes. Spot's jaw was set and his eyes glimmering. "Why are ya really here, Dahby Rockwell?"
It was then Darby felt the absolute passion manifest itself in her soul, and with a sharp jerk she had ripped herself away from Spot, and was stumbling backwards, nearly tumbling off the snow covered pier and into the frigid river. "I'm here because I felt something that night that I never, ever felt before!" she screamed feverishly.
Spot shook his head with an air of disgust. He strode towards her, hands dropped at his sides. "Dahby, how the hell many oddah goils d'ya t;ink have said dat to me?"
Darby was poised to retaliate, yet halted, her head cocked and mouth opened. Words that Katrina had uttered filtered through her head. "'The girls-did I mention the girls--'" She snapped her gaze to his. "'Well, every lady in New York either fears Mr. Conlon or else is desperately in love with him. Whitie went on for about ten minutes listing all the names of girls that Spot has been with.'"
She shook her head in disbelief, not wishing to believe that this was a mere ruse, yet Spot approached her, nodding. "Yeah, Dahby, its all true. It was all a bet between me and me pals. See if we could nab two richies-and whaddya know?"
Darby stepped back, the protesting mounds of snow hindering her, her head furiously shaking, her hair falling out of the ribbon. "No! It's not true! That night I thought that you would indeed drag me up there like you do all those other girls. And you said you would never do that--"
Spot was growling in protest, yet Darby continued. "You said you would never do that, and I believed you and I believed you still. If you had half as much a wonderful time as I than I believe you! But you're just too proud. Too goddamn proud. You saw me with David Van Wyck and I told you, I told you that I was destined to marry him, and you asked me to dinner anyhow! But your pride was hurt!" He was furiously shaking his head yet Darby could read the truth in his eyes. "Yes!" she cried intensely, stepping backwards. "It's the truth! The absolute truth! I told you that I despised David Van Wyck with the utmost passion and that it meant nothing that day but what the hell could you say to your friends? That you, the fearless leader of Brooklyn, had been had been sent to the cesspool but a girl? A girl? But it's you who is to break the hearts, not the other way around. And when it happened to you it-Jesus Christ, it didn't happen! That's what I'm here for! That night must have been the single most spectacular moment of my life and if you are going to brush it off like it never happened, well then you're more an idiot than my mother!"
Spot only fell silent, his green eyes not being able to be detected, covering the distance between them. "Howd'ya know I was da "fearless leadah" of Brooklyn?"
Darby suddenly became flustered by the offset in the sudden calm in his tone. "I-I-I-Katrina."
"And who told Katrina?"
"Whitie."
Darby was now tottering on the edge of the dock, Spot no more than a mere inch away from her. Her eyes grew wide and breathing became labored.
"I knew ya were wit Van Wyck long befoah I knew you," he said softly, his fingers lightly dancing across the base of Darby's wrists, causing a shudder to dance down her spine.
Her eyes lit up in surprise. "You-you did?"
The snow was beginning to fall harder, and they had collected a dusting of white. He nodded. "Yeah, in da papes, dey have dat one section dat shows the high 'n mighty at all of dere fancy balls. You were always with him, and always looked so damn unhappy."
A grim smile formed on Darby's lips as she gazed to the ground. "You would look unhappy too if a vile creature such as that had literally been trying to rape you at the dinner table in front of all of New York's finest."
This brought on no reaction whatsoever from Spot, save he taking Darby's chin between his thumb and index finger and raising it. "Ya really have ta marry him?"
Darby released a haunting sigh and cast down her eyes. "Yes. I have to. Our parents want the money and he wants me. But it won't be every night, I suspect. He'll have his fair share of mistresses--" Involuntarily, bitter tears found their way down her cheeks.
"Christ," Spot barely whispered. "And I t'ought ya had such a chahmed life. Ya fancy cloths, good speakin', fancy house--"
They both fell silent, only the sound of ragged breathing audible in the ethereal clear night.
"Darby?" he finally asked, rupturing the silence.
"Um?"
"When ya said dat day dat ya would rathah be married to a flea-infested newsie like me than be married to someone as bad as Van Wyck--"
"Yes?"
"Didja mean it?"
Darby felt the utter air being stolen from her as she looked up and into the infinite depths of those green eyes. "Of course--"
And then their lips were pressed together, and a fire pulsated through them fracturing the coldness of the night, the taste of Darby's bittersweet tears that were streaming down her cheeks along with the taste of dated nicotine, combining in a gloriously hot sensation, burning away all thoughts of the world.