Page 14 of To Love a Beast

Lightfoot shook his head, unimpressed by Everett's quip. "It's not a man's appearance that forms his identity, it's his character. You are more than your face, Griff. You always have been."

The stabbing returned to his head. "Tell that to my mother."

Turning his back on his valet, he strode to where the trunks were stacked and took up the first handle, waiting impatiently for Lightfoot to grasp the opposite end and refusing to meet his friend's gaze.

Everett's mother hadn't looked him in the face since the doctor removed the bandages five years ago. He could still hear her sobs. "My boy! My beautiful boy!" She'd mourned him as if he'd died. She'd avoided him as he'd convalesced, hiring nurses so she wouldn't have to see his mangled face. Father made excuses for her, claiming she blamed herself for what happened. That was why she couldn't bear to look at him. The guilt cut too deeply. Perhaps there was some truth to that, but shouldn't a mother care more about alleviating the pain of her child than seeking her own comfort? She hadn't even seen him off at the train station when he'd left to come to Texas. The most she'd sacrificed was letting her cook leave New York to become his housekeeper.

She'd written the first year. Twice. On his birthday and at Christmas. The letters had been full of chatter about what was going on in society. About an art exhibit she had visited. A few lines about his father's business. No apologies for her neglect. No mention of missing her youngest son. No promise of a visit.

Everett hadn't bothered to reply. The letters ceased after that. It seemed to suit them both to learn second-hand information through his brother. Alex at least asked how Everett was faring and looked for ways to help. He'd found a gallery in Houston willing to sell some of Everett's work and recommended a few investments that had allowed Everett to support himself instead of continuing to live off of Father's charity.

After hefting both trunks onto the handcart with Lightfoot's assistance, Everett took the lead and dragged from the front, leaving Lightfoot to push from the back. It felt good to strain his muscles, to focus on transporting physical luggage instead of contemplating baggage of an emotional sort. Miss Rosenfeld's trunks might be heavy, but they felt like feathers compared to the weight that pressed upon his spirit with crushing force whenever he thought of his family and the future that should have been his.

More than his face? Everett scoffed at Lightfoot's assessment. Maybe that held true for most men, fellows who found their worth in running a successful business or taming the land by the sweat of their brow. Everett didn't fit that mold. His value had always stemmed from his pleasing appearance and charming manner. When Lillian March destroyed the first, the second soon deteriorated to the same extreme.

He was a beast now—inside and out—and no bookish beauty, regardless of her tenacity, was going to change that.

Chapter 6

"Have another scone, dear." Mrs. Potter slid the plate of delicious biscuit-like pastries toward Callista, her grandmotherly smile promising no judgment. "You haven't tried my strawberry preserves yet, either." She scooted a small jam jar equipped with a ready spoon across the tea table. "Give yourself a good dollop and let me know if you like it better than the peach."

Callista blushed, recognizing the ploy for what it was—thinly disguised kindness. The moment the housekeeper had shown her into her personal quarters and insisted she share a spot of tea with her, Callista's stomach had growled with embarrassing ferocity. She'd not eaten since breakfast, and the porridge she'd consumed had emptied from her belly hours ago.

A practical woman at heart, Callista set aside her pride and the societal definitions of ladylike behavior and cut open a second scone. She'd need to keep up her strength if she wanted to maintain this position. Not only physically but mentally as well. Pitting herself against Mr. Griffin day after day would require a sharp wit and a firm constitution, both of which operated more efficiently on a full stomach.

Callista reached for the strawberry jam and dutifully slathered a layer onto her scone as Mrs. Potter refilled her teacup.

"Thank you." Callista looked into the older woman's sweetly round face and sensed a kinship weaving between the two of them. "Not just for the tea and treats, but for welcoming me into your domain."

She glanced around at the homey space. Tatted doilies draped each piece of furniture in the small sitting room. Red and gold roses bloomed on the papered walls, and lacy curtains framed the two windows. She couldn't imagine Mr. Griffin ever entering such a feminine space.

"Of course, my dear. As you might suppose, I get very little female companionship around here. Having you stay with us will be an absolute delight."

Curiosity burned in Callista's chest, but she swallowed her questions about Mr. Griffin's aversion to women along with a bite of jam-laden scone. She was an employee, not a guest, no matter what Mr. Griffin's staff might say. It wasn't her place to question the man's behavior or preferences. He was the master of the manor and could do whatever he pleased.

Mrs. Potter poured herself a second cup of tea as well, then winked at Callista as she stirred in a heaping teaspoon of sugar. "I'm proud of you for standing up to him the way you did. Not many people, men included, can hold their own with Everett Griffin when he's in a temper. I've got a good feeling about you, Miss Rosenfeld."

"I wish your employer shared your optimism."

"Pish posh." Mrs. Potter dismissed Callista's concern with a wave of her hand. "You're here, aren't you? Not bundled up with your trunks in Lightfoot's buggy on your way back to town. You found a way to overcome the most formidable hurdle—getting the master to let you stay. The rest should be easy. Just do what you came here to do."

Callista sipped her tea, but it did little to settle the sudden eruption of doubt in her midsection. How many clients had she served who believed her father had done all the bindery while she acted as a mere assistant? And what about the time Papa had bragged on her work, giving her full credit when Mr. Weathers came to pick up his set of bound travel journals? The customer had been waxing poetic on the fineness of the leather tooling when he'd thought Papa responsible for it. Then upon discovering she had been the one to wield the tools, he picked it apart, pointing out the tiniest flaws. He'd accepted the books but insisted that Papa handle his next project personally. After that, Callista had persuaded Papa not to draw any special attention to her work. Let people assume what they would. Better to satisfy the customers than drive them away by satisfying her pride.

Hiding behind Papa had never been an option with this job, so she'd convinced herself that it wouldn't matter. That her work would stand on its own merits. But that had been before she'd met Mr. Griffin and learned of the great prejudice he bore against her gender.

"You've gone awfully quiet." Mrs. Potter sought Callista's gaze. "What's troubling you?"

"I suppose I'm feeling the pressure to live up to my bold proclamations. I'm sure of my skills, but I can't control how they will be perceived."

"Especially by someone predisposed to find fault with the fairer sex." Mrs. Potter nodded as if satisfied with her deduction, then reached across the oval table to pat Callista's arm. "Don't you worry, dear. Griffin will give you a fair shake. I've known him since he was a boy, and he's always had an appreciation for artistry, no matter the gender or ethnicity of the artist. Probably because his mama is a painter and was his first teacher."

The housekeeper's voice took on a nostalgic tone. "He hasn't always been like this, you know. He used to be full of light and mischief, charming everyone he met with witty anecdotes and a ready smile."

Charming? Mr. Griffin? The roaring, inhospitable man with beastly manners and a permanent snarl? Callista prided herself on possessing a rich imagination, but she struggled to conceive such a possibility.

"He was especially popular with the ladies. Oh, how they vied for his attention! And he loved every minute of it, handsome young rogue that he was." Her expression sobered. "Until one of them turned on him." Mrs. Potter met Callista's gaze. "It was a young lady who slashed his face and damaged his eye."

Callista's chest ached as if the weight of one of her heavy trunks had just dropped upon it. Someone had done that to him . . . deliberately?