by A. G. Howard
The confession slid between her life lines and reached into her heart, surrounding the organ in an icy vise. “But you don’t have to miss me. Don’t you see? Take me with you. Remember how we used to read Huckleberry Finn? How you helped me with the hard words? It is only fitting that we see the Mississippi in one another’s company. Wade through the mud, chase frogs, ride a steamer. Together it would be so much more jolly.”
He laid her hand gently back in her lap. “It would. No doubting it. But you must stay here and graduate. Uncle has already paid for your education and then some. Besides, you haven’t the necessary papers, and propriety forbids an unmarried lady to travel with a man.”
Willow fought the urge to scream. To have made such headway and then to have the old, fastidious, righteous Julian reappear to level it all to dust. “Yet here I am with you in the berline, without an escort.”
“You know that’s different. We’ve only travelled a few dozen miles. And we have Abrams as a chaperone.”
Willow rolled her eyes. “That drunken pandanoodle couldn’t chaperone a rock.”
“This time apart,” Julian continued unscathed, “will help us make sense of what we’re feeling. A lot has happened to overturn our lives the past few days. We need to assure we’re not simply reacting. We must understand our inner selfhoods before we commit to anything prematurely. Neither of us are even accomplished yet. A person has to reach their full potential as an individual before they can give themselves over to another.”
Of course. Back to him wanting her to be a courtly, well-behaved lady; to prove herself worthy of his affection by graduating from a finishing school. Willow itched to strangle him.
Accomplished. Full potential. That’s why she was here. So she could master the lardy-dardy art of winning a man. Easing her fingers into her crocheted gloves, she settled her ivory touring hat atop her head and adjusted the broad brim to a slant. The lacey netting along with an arrangement of apricot feathers dangled down the back of her neck and tickled.
“You’re right as always, Julian.” With dramatic flair, she flung her pingat across her shoulders, daring him to try to help her. As if reading her hostility, he flattened his hands on the seat beside him.
A raucous clamber shook the roof as Abrams scrambled down from the outer seat to lower the steps for them.
Willow arranged her drop curls so each one hung in front of an ear lobe the way Aunt Enya had instructed. She glared at her fellow passenger. “I’ll certainly be able to embrace my inner self though needlework, etiquette, and dancing. Such an environ is so much more fertile to the soul and mind than say … philosophizing with scientists and inventors at a World’s Fair in a foreign land rich with heterogeneous traditions and folklore. I can become so much more accomplished by knitting a doily with my own two hands than by viewing the inner-workings of a sewing machine at the Singer Manufacturing Company exhibit, yes?”
“You’ve been reading my brochures.”
She gathered her handbag, casting a sneer his way. “Your own fault for strewing them about the townhouse in effigy to my miserable destination.”
The door flung open and a cold wind burst inside, smelling of rain and stale defeat. Willow’s curls flapped about her head. She tucked them behind her ears, delighting just a little in her rebellion against Aunt Enya’s desires.
Julian, having managed during her tirade to put on his own gloves and hat, climbed out first to help Abrams rub down the horse’s legs after its earlier run. Willow waited in the carriage. She wished to hold off stepping onto the accursed grounds until the last possible moment.
After giving the strawberry roan some water, Julian sent Abrams ahead with Willow’s luggage. “And get some coffee upon delivering the bags within,” he commanded the retreating tiger. “I expect my ride to the docks to be smoother than our journey here.”
Julian held an upturned palm to help Willow down.
She gritted her teeth and accepted his assistance. A soft patter of mist coated the trees and her face. While he checked the luggage rack to assure the drunken tiger had taken the proper bags, she shivered and gawked at the house.
The monster grimaced back at her. Tearing her gaze from its ugly façade, she caught sight of movement along the side path woven through the rhododendron shrubs which surrounded the school. Abrams’ small frame was tottering toward the back of the house, no doubt to take a piss in the gardens before carrying her luggage inside. He looked as indiscriminate as a smudge against the dreary landscape in his black cape, a scarf that covered all of his face except his eyes, and a black wide-brimmed hat which devoured his head. He tripped once as he rounded the corner. He’d end up passed out under some bush before all was said and done. He probably wouldn’t even be discovered until the next day when the groundskeeper did his weeding and pruning.
Until the next day … after Julian’s ship had sailed.
A wicked grin teased Willow’s lips. “I am a wanderer, a wanderer I am.” The song from her childhood curled her tongue on a melodious murmur.
Julian appeared at her side. “What were you looking at just now?”
Willow turned her back to him. “Simply admiring my prison.”
“But I heard you mumble something … something about being a wanderer.”
“I was singing a harmless ditty.”
Grasping her elbow, he whirled her around to face him. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Think about what?” Smug, she watched the condensation transform his concerned expression to a showcase of glorious, glittering skin.
“Running away. I want your word, Willow.” The muscle in his throat throbbed while the ends of his hair flailed beneath his hat. “No.” He took off his glove. “Better yet, I want you to shake on it.”
“On what?” She feigned innocence, batting her eyes as tiny droplets gathered on her lashes.
“That you will be here upon my return from St. Louis. I want you to promise I’ll see you again without having to search the corners of the world for you … we still have much to discuss of our future.”
Our future. She did like the sound of that. But what was this future contingent upon? And could she trust him to come back from her dream destination unfettered—the same man he’d been when he left?
He planned to read chapters from Emilia’s book. Willow had walked through those pages … an awakening of a most sensuous kind awaited him. And he would be on an ocean liner filled with sophisticated women—the same ilk as Nick’s many conquests.
Nick’s warning nibbled at her psyche: “He’s my brother. My twin. All it will take is him dabbing it up just once with a lady of refinement.” Twin … twin … twin.
No. Julian wouldn’t find someone else. Wouldn’t vanish from her life like her parents had. She wouldn’t allow it.
“Promise me, Willow.” Julian held out his bared hand.
She paused, her face hot in spite of the gelid wind. “Naturalmente, il mio piccolo cavolo. I promise you’ll see me again without having to go to the ends of the earth.” Pasting on her most angelic smile, she peeled off a glove and spit into her palm. The saliva sat on her flesh in a lukewarm spray, a reminder of such pacts they’d made in their youth.
Julian stared at her hand. The beads on her cape rattled, stirred by the wind.
“If you want to shake on it,” she prompted, “we should do it up right. As you know, a spit pact is irrevocable.”
His jaw clenched. He spat into his hand. Upon grasping hers, he dragged her behind the carriage—out of eyeshot of the school. Then he drew her close until she was on her tiptoes, their palms pressed together between their chests. His free fingers molded her nape beneath the hat’s netting and tilted her head up. She felt them weave into her hair, tasted his breath as he spoke.
“We’re adults now, Willow. High time we change our bargaining tactics.”
Willow’s pulse danced in her neck. She inhaled a thin strip of air.
As if tied to her breath, Julian’s mouth moved in t
o skim hers. A gentle, chaste peck, slick with rain—but more exacting in its dominion over her than any impassioned kiss she’d ever experienced in her wildest fantasies. Her legs weakened, and had he not been holding her up, she surely would have melted into the earth.
When Julian broke the soft, warm contact, he kept their foreheads pressed together, eyes closed. With marked reluctance, he freed his fingers from her hair then drew back, leaving her lips—her entire body—aching for more of him.
He squeezed their joined hands one last time. A feverish light shone in his gaze. “Now a double pact has been made. There’ll be no breaking it.”
Entranced, Willow nodded. The once tepid wetness between their palms grew hot—an element as binding as glue.
Their clasps released in unison. He pulled his glove back on without wiping his hand.
She followed suit, struggling to stand against a torrent of vertigo, pondering how his lips had tasted of ink and rain, as if she’d savored the very essence of his soul: prolific and pure.
Taking advantage of her thoughtful silence, Julian cupped her elbow and escorted her around the carriage and across the grounds. Then he climbed the veranda stairs alongside her and stepped over the threshold to deposit them both within the monster’s gaping mouth.
Part II
There is something … sets the gypsy blood astir.
We must rise and follow her;
When from every hill of flame, she calls and calls each vagabond by name.”
~William Bliss Carman
Eight
Diurnal assignments for Thursday, April 21, 1904:
1. Get a haircut and a shave; 2. Acquaint the captain and acquire a passenger manifest; 3. Befriend any and all tycoons onboard; 4. Learn how to properly kiss a lady…
Julian sat up in his canopied bed, his back propped on pillows. He nudged the spectacles where they pinched the bridge of his nose and glanced over his journal once more. Dawn funneled through the ship’s portholes—rosy, cylindrical waves of light. The bed’s azure curtains filtered the glow, bluing the pages on his lap and causing the script to appear to dance. Upon closing the book, Julian shoved off his covers and parted the canopy.
The room felt chilly but the sun warmed his shoulders, molding around his muscles to ease out the knots. He swung his legs over the side of the bed then stretched while appraising his first class surroundings. The color scheme—bed clothes of deep blue against a wall and rugs of rich cinnamon hues—reminded him of the fall season at the manor, when the burnt orange and saffron leaves fluttered against a penetrating autumn sky.
He wondered what the other first class interiors looked like here in the men’s quarters. One thing they all shared, according to the steward who had helped him transport and unpack his luggage, was their floor plan. Each private stateroom bragged a sitting parlor, a separate sleeping quarter, large portholes, electricity, and a bathing room with a hip bath and private water closet. Julian had taken full advantage of the bath last night … washed up with the complimentary lavender and mint soap. Though his skin still retained the calming scent, the tactic had failed to produce a good night’s sleep.
Here in the sleeping quarter, with the entrance to his parlor closed, he felt boxed in. Cinnamon velvet, cushioned like quilts, covered the back of the door and the walls from floor to ceiling. Luxury stretched around him on a landscape of pillows. Every piece of furniture—the bed, wardrobe, and nightstand in the bedroom along with the winged back chairs and table in the parlor—was nailed to the floor. Should the waters get rough, one could simply affix themselves like a barnacle and hold on for dear life.
But from his perspective, the cushioned walls seemed more like a padded cell. And if he continued on these lunatic meanderings, he would be acquainting himself with such accommodations long after their liner docked in five days. He was going mad dissecting every thought and action of those last moments with Willow.
He had sensed the wanderlust in her. A desire for freedom. He’d seen it in Great Aunt Bitti enough to recognize it. By kissing Willow, he’d hoped to stifle that nomadic stir in her heart. To give her a reason to be patient and wait.
But to perform as if he were smooching the muzzle of a pet … closed-mouthed and juvenile … no doubt she thought him a bluenose puritan.
Little did she know his thoughts had been anything but pure from the moment she’d straddled him in that berline’s cab. She’d awoken every attribute that marked him a man. The mere thought of her soft curves flush against him, her pelvis shifting across his thigh—
That is what had truly inspired that kiss, not the threat of her running. And even such a small sampling had been tantalizing. Her lips were sweet and creamy smooth. She tasted of honey, salt, and heat.
He wondered what it would have been like, had he followed the impulse to intrude upon her further. To pin her against the carriage, to explore her mouth’s warm recesses with his tongue. But he didn’t know the first thing about braving such an expedition. He’d read of such oscular feats in Emilia’s novel … seen them played out between couples on the manor. He knew they existed, yet knew nothing of enacting them.
Julian pressed two fingers against his lips, warming them with his breath. It appeared his worldly brother had been right all along. Julian lacked practice. Romancing a woman of higher carnal aptitude than him once or twice would’ve honed his wooing capabilities. He wanted to sweep Willow off her feet. Not trip her over his blatant lack of sophistication.
He stood. The engines hummed beneath his bare soles—a soothing rhythm that caused his nightshirt’s hem to sway gently beneath his knees. Despite his drowsiness and confusion, he needed to get out and about. He had much to do on this first full day aboard the Christine Victoria, all of which he’d need to accomplish before the masquerade ball being held in the first class music room tonight.
He strode to the wardrobe and opened the hinged mahogany doors. Cedar chips and pine needles—stuffed in cheesecloth and tucked into his shoes by the steward—greeted his nostrils with an invigorating freshness. Considering his choices, he took down his burgundy frock coat and black pinstriped trousers. He opted for a tombstone shirt with a beige silk vest and puff black tie. Then, to top off the ensemble, a derby hat of pecan felt. Once he’d spread his trappings out on the bed, he set his spectacles on his nightstand and brushed his hair to draw it back into a queue.
As he shrugged into his shirt, he noticed his limbs felt dated and dense, as if moss had grown over his cartilage and bones throughout his sleep. He’d tossed and turned the moment his head hit the pillows last night, worrying if he’d made the right decision in sharing his perplexed emotions with Willow.
What if Willow decided she didn’t care for him after time to think it over? What if he was too boring for her?
He could address that on this trip: step outside of his comfort zone, stop being dull as dishwater and find some adventure. Were he to have some grand tale to tell her upon his return, she’d view him in a different light. She’d view him as a man like Nick. A fearless swashbuckler … a man worthy of a lady’s affections and admiration.
Julian filled his lungs and smoothed the high-notched lapels of his vest where they expanded with the movement. Then, dropping the derby atop his head, he gazed one last time at the cheval mirror against the back wall and smiled. Here it was breakfast, and he had a sudden craving for some raspberry ice.
He headed for the parlor to search for his gloves. No sooner had he opened the bedroom’s door than he heard a commotion in the corridor outside his stateroom. It appeared the actual purpose for the cushioned sleep chamber walls was to insulate against sound.
Grabbing his gloves from the parlor table, Julian stepped out the main door and locked it.
Standing in the corridor three doors down, a powerfully built passenger in a brown pinstriped Birmingham suit growled at a steward. “Un fantasma!” The aristocratic man pointed to the room behind him, his bass voice booming. “Un fantasma nella mia stanza!”
The man’s Italian complexion deepened as he shook a fist. “Richiedo una stanza differente!”
Several doors cracked open throughout the hall to reveal other men in nightshirts, men with periodicals in their hands, men straightening button plackets or ties—all of them either curious or annoyed by the uproar.
Compassion for the young steward drove Julian into the heart of the confrontation as he pulled on his gloves. First, he tipped his hat to Mr. Sala, then to the befuddled crew member. “Might I be of some assistance? I’m familiar with his language.”
The steward, who looked a bit like an owl with wide yellow eyes, tufted brows, and a round face, nodded so hard Julian feared his head would bounce off and roll across the carpeted floor. “Thank you. Thank you, Sir.” He shoved his sailor’s cap over his cropped red hair.
Julian turned to the Italian and offered his hand along with an introduction. The man’s many rings nearly crushed his fingers. Mr. Sala’s chiseled features—a good twenty years older than Julian’s—became animated as Julian listened intently to his complaints. The man ended his spiel by yanking off his Borsalino hat and spinning on his heel to reveal the back of his head.
“Hmm.” Julian turned back to the steward. “Well, it appears someone cut off Mr. Sala’s braid while he slept last night. He said it used to go down past his waist.” Both Julian and the steward regarded the jagged remains of the Italian man’s hair. He still had the ends secured at his nape, so short they stuck out from the edge of the leather band like a bobcat’s tail. “Apparently, he sleeps with it plaited and someone snipped it off at the first winding.”