Line by Line

by Jennifer Delamere

  Of all the words to describe his early life, Douglas would never have chosen exciting or mysterious. “What makes you say that?”

  “Why, there are so many interesting things! The mountains blanketed in purple heather. The men in kilts playing their bagpipes. The mist on the lochs.” Her voice became dramatic. “The ruined castles, haunted by the tortured souls who used to live there.”

  Miss Rolland was imagining Scotland the way the guidebooks painted it. Or perhaps accounts written by the Queen herself during her frequent stays at her royal estate at Balmoral.

  “Aye, Scotland has many beautiful places, although my experiences were perhaps not as picturesque as Her Majesty’s.” Douglas allowed his Scottish brogue to come forward, softening a comment that might otherwise have sounded caustic. Most of his childhood had been spent in a squalid row house in the poorest part of Glasgow, near the bleak industrial shipyards. He had not romped among the heather as a child; he and his friends had played with sticks and discarded bits of iron on a narrow, grimy street. The only royalty there were the men who were kings at hard drinking and fighting.

  As a child, Douglas hadn’t known a single person who wasn’t struggling to keep the wolf from the door. At first, he had resented being taken out of school as a lad, forced into work to help support his family when his father had become unable to work. But being a messenger boy had shown him another reality: not everyone was poor. As Douglas shuttled telegrams between businesses and prosperous warehouses and the mansions of wealthy merchants, he saw a completely different side of Glasgow. Men in suits and top hats of the best quality, walking down the street as if they owned it. Homes filled with light and laughter. Fine carriages with splendid horses and footmen in their livery.

  Once he had confided to a neighbor that he would one day work his way up to owning such fine things. The man had scoffed. “They’ll ensure you don’t, my lad. They’re not interested in sharing the wealth, only in keeping us down and profiting off our backbreaking work.”

  But Douglas was proving that it could be done. He had come so far, and now he was on the verge of even greater advances. Even standing here in this meadow, talking with a wealthy young lady who was clearly interested in him, was proof of that.

  “Mr. Shaw?” She was looking at him quizzically.

  He gave himself a mental shake. How had it been so easy for those bitter memories to surface? He thought he had set those sorrows aside years ago. Other than sending money to his parents every month and the obligatory pilgrimage to their home a few times a year, he generally did his best not to think about them at all.

  There was no way he could hide his humble beginnings, but he could at least downplay the grimmer aspects. Otherwise, Miss Rolland might think less of him. She might even worry that he’d be like the drunken louts in the slums who mistreated their wives and children. At least Douglas’s father had been kind, if criminally lacking in ambition. He never rose above being a common laborer in the shipyards.

  “Och, me lassie, I was just pausin’ fer a moment to remember me dear home.” He struck a pose with his hand on his heart and his gaze cast off in the distance.

  Miss Rolland’s face lit with amusement. “And where was that? In Edinburgh?”

  Returning to a more casual stance, Douglas shook his head. “I grew up in Glasgow. While it is not as popular with tourists as Edinburgh, it is an important center for business. The shipyards provide the means for Great Britain to be the trading powerhouse that it is.”

  “Was your father in shipping?”

  “Yes,” Douglas said, allowing her to infer what she liked from that simple answer. “But London’s my home now. I’ve come here, to the place Shakespeare dubbed the very ‘forge and working house of thought,’ to make my own mark on the world.”

  “My goodness!” Miss Rolland exclaimed. “Mr. Shaw, I hope you leave time in your schedule for leisure activities. As the saying goes, ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.’”

  “I’m here today, enjoying a lovely walk with a charming lady. I would say that is the very best use of leisure time.”

  She preened. “You’re very kind. But there is even more fun to be had elsewhere. At the home of Lord and Lady Tilney, for example. Will you be going?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know much about it. Can you enlighten me?” He was already intrigued. To rub elbows with the aristocracy would be another feather in his cap.

  “You never know what famous personage might be there. The Tilneys know everyone! And of course, there is the dancing!”

  Douglas felt his stomach lurch. He swallowed. “Dancing?”

  “Yes! It’s their annual charity ball. There will even be some Scottish country dancing, as Lady Tilney’s father is a Scottish baron.”

  “Do you enjoy dancing, Miss Rolland?” Douglas asked, though the answer was painfully obvious.

  “Why, naturally! Doesn’t everyone?” She scrunched her nose. “Except for my father, and perhaps a few stuffy men of his acquaintance. But Mr. Busfield is quite an accomplished dancer.”

  There she was, bringing up that name again. Douglas didn’t think she sincerely favored the bank officer over him, but he couldn’t be sure. It was just that level of uncertainty that she was doing her best to instill in him. And in this case, Busfield probably did have the upper hand. Perhaps it was time for Douglas to have another try at lessons from that dancing master—or better yet, find one who was more capable.

  His throat constricted, but he forced himself to speak, keeping the greater goal in mind. This was an opportunity to meet titled and well-connected people. “It sounds lovely. Perhaps you might secure me an invitation?”

  “Yes, I’m sure I can. Lady Tilney’s sister is a particular friend of my aunt.” Her eyes were shining with excitement. “How wonderful it will be! My favorite dance is the waltz. Do you have a favorite dance, Mr. Shaw?”

  “Oh—well, I, er, I enjoy so many of them.” He patted her arm. “Why don’t you tell me more about this butterfly-collecting hobby of yours?” He tried to sound relaxed and carefree, as though the weight in the pit of his stomach at the thought of dancing were not becoming heavier by the moment.

  “I have a secret to tell you,” Miss Rolland whispered.

  “Oh?”

  “I don’t actually collect the butterflies myself. I secretly buy my specimens from a man in Kent. I know it’s terribly naughty to mislead my father about this. However, he likes it so very much that I have this hobby. I keep up the pretense because I’ve decided that as long as he’s happy, that’s the important thing. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “It’s hard to fault that logic,” Douglas answered, painfully aware of the irony of his words. In a sense, he had a similar goal with Miss Rolland. Unfortunately, he didn’t think there was any way to keep her happy without actually dancing with her himself.

  CHAPTER

  Fifteen

  It is a conundrum,” Carson said as he and Douglas talked over the situation in the boardinghouse parlor. True to her word, Miss Rolland had secured Douglas an invitation to the charity ball.

  “What’s the conundrum?” Hal asked, coming through the door in time to hear Carson’s remark. He was carrying a small pork pie, which he began eating as soon as he’d plopped down in one of the chairs. Hal often frequented the pie seller whose cart was located at the end of their street. Sometimes Douglas thought his friend single-handedly kept the vendor in business.

  “Don’t let Mrs. Taylor see you eating that in here,” Carson cautioned.

  Hal took a moment to enjoy a bite of his pie, his mouth turned up in a satisfied smile, and then swallowed before answering. “Today’s Thursday. Our dear landlady always goes to her friend’s house for tea on Thursday. Besides, if she fed us properly, I wouldn’t be needin’ to look elsewhere for more food, now, would I?” He took another bite. “What’s the conundrum?” he asked again, his mouth half-full.

  “Shaw has to learn to dance in order to successfully woo Miss Pene
lope Rolland,” Carson said, summing up the problem.

  “Has to finally learn to dance,” Hal corrected. “It’s not like we haven’t been trying to teach him these past two years.” He pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped a pie crumb from the corner of his mouth.

  Douglas groaned, rubbing his forehead. He’d overcome so many challenges that were harder than dancing. A veritable mountain of them. Why was this one thing so impossible for him to master? He’d even taken dancing lessons for six months. That had ended when the dancing master finally declared there was nothing he could do for Douglas, saying in a rather supercilious tone that some men were simply born without the capability to dance. He’d suggested that Douglas only attend parties where suitable excuses were available for not dancing, such as billiards or card games.

  Douglas had a feeling, though, that even if such pursuits were available at Lord Tilney’s ball, Miss Rolland wasn’t the type to take no for an answer. Visions of treading all over her feet filled his thoughts. What if he broke one of her toes? That would put an abrupt end to his chances with her.

  “Don’t lose heart,” Hal said between more mouthfuls of pie. “How much time do we have?”

  “The ball is in two weeks,” Carson answered. Douglas was still shaking his head, wondering how he was going to get out of this.

  “We’re in luck, then,” Hal declared. “There’s a tea dance at Ally Pally on Saturday. There’s always a congenial crowd, and the music’s good. Plus, my Mamie’s a right good dancer. I’ll bet she could teach you what you need to know.”

  “No!” Douglas blurted.

  The Ally Pally, or Alexandra Palace, was in fact an entire entertainment complex. Located on an expansive hill just north of London, the “palace” housed a theater and other meeting rooms. The grounds also boasted a race course, cricket and bicycling grounds, a lake, and a pleasure garden. Hundreds of people flocked there daily. There was no way Douglas was going to subject himself to dancing lessons in the middle of a crowded dance floor.

  He had spoken with such vehemence that his friends sat looking at him in surprise. He cleared his throat. “It wouldn’t do any good. Six months with the dancing master proved that.”

  “Ah, but sometimes the ladies can teach you something you might not learn otherwise,” Hal replied, speaking with the air of a sage.

  “Aren’t you worried about me dancing with your ladylove?” Douglas teased.

  “Not at all. She’s too sensible to fall for the likes of you—a handsome bloke on his way up in the world. She has no delusions of grandeur. She knows she’s better off settling for me.”

  Douglas raised his brows. “That’s some compliment.”

  Hal grinned. “I give her those kinds of compliments all the time. She likes it.” Having finished off his pie, he wiped his hands with his handkerchief. “So what do you say?”

  “Absolutely not. Thank you for the offer, but it couldn’t possibly work. Besides, I have something else to do that day.”

  “Which is?”

  Douglas scrambled for an excuse. “Well, there’s . . . work. Mr. Carnegie has agreed to meet with me in Liverpool in a few weeks. I need to be prepared.”

  “What are you going to do about the dancing?” Carson asked.

  “I’ll make up some excuse.” He thought back to the dancing master’s remarks about finding a diversion. What could he do or say to avoid dancing with Miss Rolland without disappointing her? He snapped his fingers. “I’ll say I twisted my ankle while riding and the doctor says to rest it for a few weeks. Perhaps even a month.” By then, perhaps, he might have secured her undying regard. After that, the rest would take care of itself.

  “You’re going to lie to her?” Carson said, looking appalled.

  Carson was the sort of chap who never strayed from the belief that honesty was the best policy. Typically, this described Douglas, too. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

  He said with grim determination, “I’ll deliberately fall off that horse if I have to.”

  “Is that your new penknife?” Archie asked.

  Alice had placed the new knife on the edge of her desk closest to Archie’s to ensure he saw it. She’d noticed his gaze on it several times, but he hadn’t said anything until now. Alice had been waiting for him to mention it.

  Nodding, she picked it up. “I bought it at that shop on the Strand you told me about. The man was very helpful, just as you said he’d be.” She held out the knife. “Would you like to see it?”

  Archie took it and looked it over. “It’s a good brand,” he said, reading the name painted on the metal handle. “May I test it?”

  “Yes, please do. I’d like very much to get your opinion. I believe he sold me a good knife, but I don’t know enough about these things to be sure.”

  To Alice, her words sounded like pandering, similar to that story in the spinster book about the widow who suddenly forgot how to send a telegram. But in fact, it was true. This was one area where Alice did not have much experience. At least she could be honest about it, and the words still had the desired effect. Archie looked pleased that she’d consulted his expert opinion.

  “I can tell you if it’s any good.” He opened the blade and scrutinized it, then tried it out on one of his pencils. “It’s acceptable,” he said, setting his pencil carefully back in the holder with the others. He gave the knife back to Alice. “I might have chosen one with more weight in the handle, but this is good for a woman, I think.”

  “That’s what the shopkeeper told me,” Alice said, trying not to roll her eyes. The clerk had had the same condescending attitude toward women that Archie had.

  Alice considered this the end of her experiment with Archie. Hopefully the goodwill she’d gained from it would remain, which would make the whole endeavor worth it. She was unlikely ever to use that knife, except perhaps from time to time when Archie was watching. She’d just have to be careful to use her pencil-sharpening device only when he wasn’t around.

  One sign that Archie’s agreeableness was going to last—at least for today, at any rate—occurred a short while later when Alice prepared to go on her lunch break.

  “You can leave those with me,” he said, pointing toward a stack of messages to be sent out. “There hasn’t been too much incoming today, so I’ll probably have some time.”

  Alice thought her jaw was going to hit the floor. Archie never volunteered to do extra work. Especially not outgoing messages. Many of them needed to be encoded before sending, and he was generally too lazy to go through the extra effort of thumbing through the codebook to find the needed words. That was why he preferred to work the incoming messages. With those, he could simply write down verbatim what came in and give the messages to Mavis to decode as she typed them up.

  “Are you sure?” Alice said, blinking in surprise.

  He frowned at her. “Do you think I’ll get something wrong?” he accused. The business with the pencils had eased some of his surliness, but it hadn’t changed his basic nature. He still got testy far too easily.

  “No, no, of course not.” Alice handed him the messages. “Thank you.”

  Still marveling, she collected the food she’d brought for lunch and the current issue of the Telegraphic Journal and Electrical Review that she planned to read while eating. She glanced at Douglas’s office as she walked by, but the door was closed. He’d only been out twice all morning, and those times he’d seemed distracted about something. Alice thought he might be worried about a complicated legal issue that had arisen with a shipment in customs. Perhaps when she got back from lunch, she’d check to see if there was anything she could do to help collect the required information to take to the customs house.

  As she passed Mavis’s desk, Mavis put out a hand to draw her over. “How did you get him to start being nice to you?” she whispered, pointing toward Archie.

  “Always appeal to their conceit,” Alice said. Smiling, she went out to enjoy her lunch.

  Rea
lizing he’d been reading the same sentence for a quarter of an hour and its meaning still hadn’t registered in his brain, Douglas finally dropped the paper onto the desk and leaned back in his chair. He rubbed his eyes as though they were somehow to blame, when he knew the problem went deeper.

  With the amount of work he had to do, it was foolish to allow something as simple as a dance to derail him. Realistically, he’d always known that if he aspired to rise in society, he would have to conquer this issue. Now he was at the point of do or die. He had to find a solution.

  Despite his earlier declarations to his friends, he was still undecided about what to do. Feigning injury was the coward’s way out. On the other hand, attempting the dance would have as much chance of success as the Charge of the Light Brigade.

  As he generally considered himself to be a man of integrity, Douglas also contemplated the more honest route of simply admitting to Miss Rolland that he couldn’t dance. Perhaps he was overestimating how she would react to that news. Maybe it would make no difference to her. On the other hand, even if she snubbed him, it would be a setback but not the end of the world.

  “No,” Douglas said. He stood up and began pacing his office. If there was one thing he hated, it was admitting defeat. He wasn’t ready to do that yet.

  He paused at his window, which opened onto the street behind the building. He noticed Alice McNeil coming out of the little lane that ran alongside the office. The lane where he’d overheard her berating Archie Clapper. He chuckled at the memory. It provided a much-needed bit of cheer after the morning he’d wasted fretting.

  Alice had a newspaper tucked under her arm, and she carried a small oilcloth parcel that probably contained food. He wondered if she was planning to eat her lunch at the nearby church, which had a small park attached. Workers in the area often sat on the benches under the trees to eat their midday meal. Douglas had sat out there himself a number of times, especially if he was mulling over a problem. It was a rare and pleasant little patch of green in the city’s maze of brick and stone.