“Be patient, Lansing,” Edward responded in his gravelly voice. “We have to time it right. We can’t spook the girl. She’s of age, so she can leave any time she chooses. But she has no particular skill set or training to support herself, nor has she any funds until she turns twenty-one. Of course, if she marries, everything changes.”
“Nor has she any funds.” The words left her chilled. This was about her and her fortune. Victoria was eagerly awaiting her twenty-first birthday. If only she could access the fortune that had been left to her, she would have been out of this house months ago. She was now counting down the days until that time.
“That time is coming soon.” The duke’s flat voice sent shivers up and down Victoria’s spine. If the villain from one of her novels could have walked off the pages, it would be in the duke’s image, she could swear it. She and Marian had laughed about it. From the tone of this conversation, however, it was no laughing matter.
“We must put things in motion,” he continued. “Shall we set a date of June twenty-first? We can begin inviting guests two weeks before. You’ll just have to keep her here until that time. Do you think you can handle a twenty-year-old girl?”
“Of course I can handle her,” Edward snappily responded. “I’ll have the staff keep an eye on her and lock her door at night. I don’t know why the silly twit doesn’t realize she needs to be married. I’ve tried to broach the subject with her before, and she continues to adamantly refuse, so there will be no talking her around to it. The girl doesn’t have a lick of sense in her brain. If she did, she’d realize that a title would take her places. We are doing what’s best. Her mother would have agreed. In the meantime, I’ve had my lawyer draw up the documents stating the funds I will receive upon your marriage — half of the inheritance, as we agreed. I would also appreciate an introduction to society.”
“Why Edward, your trust in my word is so flattering,” the duke responded, sarcasm dripping off every word. Victoria could just picture him looking down his pinched nose, which was accented by hollow cheekbones. “Very well. Let me take them to my solicitor, and we shall be on our way to mutual success.”
With that, his footsteps clipped out of the room and the door snapped shut behind him.
Edward Travers III spent another hour in his office. The time ticked by slowly for Victoria, who remained hidden but wide-eyed behind the sofa.
She had been a fool. Too naive to realize that her aunt had been right all along, too trusting to believe that her stepfather would basically sell her off.
Her mind worked furiously as she digested what she had heard and began making plans to escape before it was too late. June twenty-first was a month away. It didn’t give her much time, but she was determined that come that day, she would be far away from an altar.
She had attempted escape from her stepfather’s home, but he had been vigilant, and there was never an opportune time, despite her best plans and intentions. He had ensured she was well accompanied on any outing, and her door had proven locked throughout the night. She had written Sarah, relieved that her aunt had been able to make plans for her.
With a ticket sewn into one of her dresses, Victoria had finally found the chance to escape, with not a moment to spare.
Her first step was complete, and there was no looking back now.
2
As the horse’s hooves clipped down the street, Victoria swayed side-to-side. She unclenched her fists, which were tightly bunched in the folds of her skirts, took a deep breath, and began to seriously contemplate her future. Up to this point her plans had focused on getting away. Her anxiety had not waned, but the focus of it had turned — it now included a touch of yearning excitement for the unknown.
She had heard stories of the untamed, rugged wilderness of the North-Western Territory. Her Aunt Sarah’s letters had described wide open spaces with prairie and sky stretching as far into the horizon as one could see. She had also described dry, hot summers, bitterly cold winters, and hard work from sunrise to sunset.
Her aunt’s efforts, however, seemed purposeful, worthwhile. Victoria read adventure in these descriptions. How much more fun it sounded than walks through Hyde Park, reading in the gardens, or worrying if her hair had yet fallen out of place.
Victoria paid the driver and hauled her valise off the back. She navigated her way through the bustling crowds of the train station, sighing in relief when she saw the train to Liverpool still sitting at the station. It seemed as though every eye was upon her, but she shook away the paranoia. No one cared about her here — she was yet another passenger.
The air was crisp, and it focused her on the event at hand. Victoria had luckily been to the station just the past week to see Marian off to visit her mother in Bath. It had been the perfect opportunity to learn the layout so she wouldn’t be scrambling on her arrival today.
Victoria ascended the steps onto the platform and boarded the train, taking one of the last seats in the second-class carriage. She smiled to the woman beside her as she settled in beside the window. Scant minutes later, the train rocked and began to move. Victoria gazed out the dirty window at the crowded, bustling early morning streets with the knowledge that this might be the last time she would ever see London.
Good riddance, she thought, as the city whipped by. London had never held anything of note for her. The Thames was dirty, the people rude, and the memories rotten.
Victoria’s heart began to beat faster in anticipation of freedom as the train finally rolled away from the station. She attempted to eliminate the knots from her tense shoulders. She tried to calm herself but knew she would not feel safe until the ship pulled away from the harbor. A little girl, ringlets framing her chubby round face, looked over the back of a seat ahead of her and grinned. Victoria stuck her tongue out at her, making her laugh, until the girl’s mother shushed her and pulled her back down.
Victoria pulled a book out of her bag. Marian had given her a copy of a new book from America — The Prince and the Pauper by Mark Twain. It was the third book of his she had read, and she was quite enjoying it. Her one small bag was probably half-filled with books. She knew it was silly, but she needed entertainment for the days of sailing. Dresses could be re-worn, but books re-read only so many times in one crossing of the Atlantic and half a continent.
The story was engaging, but her lack of sleep from the previous week soon caught up with Victoria, and she drifted off as the train rumbled down the tracks. Her head lolled against her chest as she dreamed of the sea and the sky, of fields of grass and sunshine on her face.
The train whistle sounded, pulling Victoria from her daydreams. “Liverpool!” the conductor called through the cabin. Victoria looked out the window. The sky was just beginning to lighten, welcoming the morning. The Parisian was set to leave shortly after the train’s arrival. Passengers were supposed to have boarded the night before, but Victoria could only hope they would still allow her to board this morning.
Victoria jumped up with a “pardon me,” to the open-mouthed woman next to her. She found her valise and was halfway down the aisle when she realized she’d left The Prince and the Pauper on her seat. She ran back, grabbed the book, and finally made her way through the aisles with sweet smiles and more pardons, and was off the train amongst the spill of people. She pulled up short at the crush of bodies moving quickly in front of her. It was a musical of smells and sights and sounds, people calling to one another, ship horns blasting, and seagulls screeching. The salt water scent filled the air. Children weaved in and out of adults loaded down with goods and luggage, and ships loomed over everything. Victoria asked the conductor on the platform where to find the Parisian.
“Across the road,” he answered, pointing at one of the larger ships as he stared at her with some wonder. She must look a fright. “You better hurry, miss. The ship is set to sail any minute.”
Victoria took off running as she heard the blast of the ship’s horn. “Please,” she prayed aloud, “don’t let me get this cl
ose and not make it.”
* * *
Callum lounged at the rail, enjoying the fresh, salty air on his face, pleased to be out of the cramped quarters of steerage. He appreciated the company below but he belonged outside. He’d spent his life outdoors — riding the Highlands, seeing his family’s people, and taking care of the land. It was his element, and it was why he had no fears of the world across the sea, with the promised open land and freedom as told about from those who had ventured so far.
The dock at Liverpool was bustling. With so many leaving England for new opportunities abroad, there were ships at every port waiting to cross the Atlantic.
From the deck of the Parisian, he could look out and see the mighty fleet of the Allan Line standing at attention, waiting for passengers to board. It was impressive. If only he’d invested in shipping, he thought with a wry grin.
He heard the sailors yell at one another to begin preparing to sail. Almost all the passengers were aboard, but the sailors hurried to assist the latecomers. Most were first class, Callum realized. The high-class English — their time was apparently so much more valuable than the rest of them who boarded on time. Callum was always early. To be late was putting one’s own time before any others.
Callum was watching the work of the sailors and the camaraderie they shared as they tossed luggage in a ragged assembly line — “Here it comes!” and “Eyes up, mate!” — when his eye caught motion in the distance. Once he saw her, he couldn’t look away.
She was like a magnet, drawing every eye toward her as she practically flew toward the ship, skirts swinging, her bag clubbing those behind her as she bumped into people and objects, struggling to keep her hat on her head with the other hand.
“Sorry, sorry, beg your pardon!” he could hear her voice crisp and clear through the crowd, calling out as she ran.
There were no apologies necessary for the men who watched her go. Each set of eyes followed her progress as she made her way toward the ship. She stopped at the plank to the Parisian, had a quick exchange of words with the dumbfounded sailor, and finally he took her bag after an elbow from his partner, and onto the ship she came, the sailor following in her wake.
While no stranger to a pretty face, Callum couldn’t help but stare like the rest of the men. She was breathtaking, even from afar. Unruly curly dark hair spilled out of her ugly hat, and she had a figure that even her drab gray dress couldn’t hide.
He raised his eyebrows but halted his own thoughts before they went too far. He was a Highlander, through and through. He was from a proud clan, with deep, time-honored traditions. The sacrifices his family had made to support their people had left them with land, property, and each other, but with little income. He was traveling in steerage, while this Englishwoman was obviously making her way to a first class cabin. It was the last he’d be seeing of her, and so he shoved her from his mind.
“Hey!”
Callum was pulled out of reverie by a shrill voice. “The ship’s heading out and all our first class passengers are aboard,” the sailor told him. “Time to head below. We’ll be at sea soon.”
He pushed away from the rail and headed down the steps into the din, where men, women, and children alike spoke with voices raised in both fear and excitement. He hunched his shoulders and sat down on his small bunk, putting away his meager bundle of supplies. It wasn’t much, but enough for ten days. He sat with his elbows on his knees and contemplated the journey ahead of him.
His father had tried to purchase a first-class berth for him, but Callum refused. The money could be better spent elsewhere back at home, to improve conditions for their tenants on their land. He could sleep easier for a week on a hard cot knowing that his father hadn’t wasted any of the clan’s hard-earned money on a plush bed for him.
“Callum! Hey, Callum!”
The voice came from the bunk above him. Callum closed his eyes and asked for patience. He had met Jack shortly after boarding in Glasgow, and Jack had not stopped talking since. His incessant chatter was entertaining to a point, but Callum didn’t know how long he could listen to it.
“Aye, Jack?” he said, looking up at the wooden slats that held the big man up above his head.
“Did ye see that woman come aboard? God was shining on us today, Callum. Did you see her? She came just now. Like a violet she was — a beautiful flower. This will be a good trip, Callum, I can feel it. She’s like a good luck charm. Did you see her?”
“No,” Callum lied. “I’m not interested in pretty lassies. My task at hand does not involve high bred Englishwomen who think they’re better than the likes of us.”
“I never said she was high bred. Or English. Why do you think that?”
“Aren’t the best ones those that are unattainable? And we’re in England. So I would assume she is English.”
“I s’pose you’re right.” Jack sighed. “But that doesn’t stop me from looking!”
As Jack daydreamed about the woman, Callum stretched his long body on the bed. His shoulders nearly spanned the width of the small cot. He tried to get comfortable on the thin pallet and closed his eyes for a nap.
A rumble came from his stomach, causing Jack to laugh.
“Hungry down there, big man?”
“Aye,” Callum responded wryly. All steerage passengers received the same ration of food. Bread and butter twice a day with potato-beef stew for lunch might be enough for the children populating the ship, but a man his size was used to substance.
A youngster bumped into him as he whizzed by playing tag with friends. Callum smiled, and placed his pillow over his head as he dreamed of wide open plains, the wind through his hair, and the mission at hand.
3
Victoria tried to catch her breath as she followed the sailor through the ship to her cabin. Moving quickly to keep up with him, the heels of her boots clipped over the wooden planks. It had been a mad dash through the shipyard and onto the Parisian, and they kept up the fast pace as the ship was soon to embark on the ocean crossing. The first class quarters were luxurious, but space was tight. They passed door after door through the long hallways, seeing a few passengers as they found their way to Victoria’s cabin.
“I’m meeting someone here,” she told the sailor between breaths.
He turned and stared at her with a glint in his eye but didn’t say a word.
“Oh!” she said, her cheeks warming at his assumption. “It’s my chaperones I’m meeting. Mr. and Mrs. Harry Gamble. I don’t know their cabin.”
Once Victoria had urgently sent a telegram to her aunt, Sarah had gone into immediate action, planning everything for Victoria, including her crossing the Atlantic with an old friend of hers. She paid an extra five pounds — five pounds that she likely could have used elsewhere, Victoria thought guiltily — for a first class cabin so that Victoria could travel with the Gambles, who were to make reliable chaperones. Victoria was not overly concerned about her reputation — who would be the wiser? — but if it made Sarah happy and the couple could keep her company on the trip over, then it was fine with her.
“Right here, Miss,” the sailor stopped and pointed to the door of room 90. “I believe your chaperones are right next door. I’ll take your bag in.”
After the sailor gave her the key to her room and moved on, Victoria knocked on the small rounded door beside hers with a bit of trepidation. She was spending a week with people who she hadn’t seen since she was quite small. She hoped if they were friends with her aunt Sarah they would be the friendly sort.
The door opened, and a motherly figure with a large bosom and wide open arms came out the door. “Victoria, sweetheart!” She enveloped Victoria in a hug. “Look at you! Isn’t she absolutely beautiful, Harry? I’m so happy you made it. Sarah will be thrilled to see you, I know. She’s written of nothing but you for months on end. What a trip already, and we’ve only just begun. Such an exciting adventure. Come on in! Or would you prefer to get settled first? No, you must stay for a bit and then you can go to y
our room and we shall prepare for dinner. You must call us Martha and Harry, of course. How wonderful to have you here!”
Victoria was pulled into the room, and soon Martha practically placed her on the small bed, squeezing her hands together and chattering away. A tall, thin man with a warm and smiling face sat on the sole chair in the room. He nodded his head and smiled at her with his warm eyes. “Hello, dear,” escaped from underneath his bushy gray moustache, though it seemed it would be the last words he would attempt.
It was cozy in the small cabin. Martha had laid woven blankets over the bed and there were candles lit in the corner, bathing the room in a warm light. A washbasin sat atop a wooden cupboard, with the shelves above already overflowing with the Gambles’ belongings.
“Thank you for agreeing to accompany me on the journey,” Victoria said, looking up with gratitude into the eager faces as Martha practically leaned over top of her, her hands clasped underneath her bosom. They were all so close in the cabin. “I am very grateful. I’m unsure of how much Aunt Sarah has told you…”
“Yes, she filled us in,” interrupted Martha, waving a hand in the air. “You stepfather seems quite the awful man.”
Victoria tilted her head, unsure of how much to share with the Gambles. It was true — she hadn’t had a particularly easy time of it since her father had died when she was seven years old. When he had fallen from his horse, he had taken with him Victoria’s childhood. Her mother, born Maxine Worthington, had returned to their country home long enough for her to sell it, along with most of Victoria’s fathers possessions and precious books.
“Unfortunately, my stepfather saw me as a means to an end more than anything else,” Victoria finally managed, as Martha nodded in understanding. “His newspaper was floundering, and he saw all of the funds he needed sitting in a bank account — but in my name. The name of the woman living in his home.”
Callum’s Vow: The Victorian Highlanders Page 2