To Dream Again

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  She should cry, but she remembered all the tears she had shed during her first eight years of marriage to James. Tears of heartbreak as a young bride who couldn't understand why her husband was always leaving. Tears of farewell when she again packed up everything to join him, and friends were left behind. Tears of worry when it all fell apart, when the bills inevitably came due and there was no way to pay them. Finally, tears of bitterness when the fire came, when Helen had died, when James had not been there.

  Too many tears, washing away all her love for him until there was nothing. Four years ago, she had run out of tears, and she had not cried since. She could not cry now.

  She had to think, she had to come up with a solution to the problem at hand. In a few days, everything she'd spent four years building would collapse, and she had no idea how to stop it.

  There was nothing else to be done. She had to find a way to hang on. In the morning, she would go to Joslyn Brothers and try to persuade them not to call in the loan. She went back into her office and gathered the company's account books, placing them in her worn leather portfolio. When she left her office, she found Percy at his desk. He had not obeyed her order to go home. He often worked late, and she knew he was underpaid for the hours he put in, but she couldn't afford to pay him more.

  Suddenly, she felt an overpowering urge to confide in him, to ask for help, for advice. He looked up, and the words stuck in her throat. She gave him a stiff nod of good night, and left the factory, but paused a moment to glance at the sign above the entrance: "Elliot Electrical Motors Company."

  Not for long, perhaps. She turned away and started for home. A stray kitten, its ribs showing plainly through matted gray fur, hissed at her as it slinked by. She felt like hissing back. She was in that sort of mood.

  She walked to her lodging house next door and heard the clock strike eight as she stepped inside. If only I had the money to pay off the loan, she thought, starting up the stairs. She shook off the thought impatiently. If only was a silly term, a child's wish. She didn't have the money and all the wishing in the world wouldn't give it to her. But the wistful words followed her as she reached the second level of the three-story building and turned to the door leading into her flat. If only...

  Preoccupied with her thoughts, Mara didn't notice the item on the landing until she stumbled over it. "Oh!" she cried and pitched forward, dropping her portfolio.

  After regaining her balance, she bent down, rubbing her shin and trying to discern in the dim twilight from the window at the end of the corridor what had caused her to stumble. It was a wooden crate filled with flat metal disks of varying sizes. What was such a curious item doing in the corridor?

  She didn't have much time to ponder the question before a loud pounding began above her head. Startled, she jumped at the unexpected sound.

  Mrs. O'Brien must have let the rooms upstairs. She hoped the new tenant didn't intend to continue that pounding all evening. What was he doing?

  The noise from upstairs stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Mara picked up her portfolio and fumbled in her pocket for her latchkey. Finding it, she turned toward her room, carefully stepping over the crate. She came to a halt before her door and frowned in irritation at the sight of it hanging slightly ajar. Three days now, and the lock still wasn't fixed.

  With a sigh, she pushed the door open and stepped inside her room.

  As rooms went, hers wasn't much. The ceiling plaster was cracked, the mattress sagged, and the table and chair were too rickety to be of much use. The view from her window was the brick wall of Elliot's. She had always intended to find better lodgings once the company was profitable, but there never seemed to be any profits.

  She had to take stock of her situation. After setting her portfolio on the table and turning on the gas lamp, she opened her window to let in the hint of summer breeze. She carefully lit a small fire in the grate and put on the kettle to boil water for tea. Then she pulled the information she'd gathered from the office out of her portfolio, placing the account books in neat stacks on the table along with pencils and paper.

  Her door had swung open again, and she tried to close it, but the latch refused to cooperate. The kettle began to boil, and she let the door go.

  After pouring out her tea, she sank down in the chair, feeling its uneven legs rock beneath her. She pulled the account books forward and began looking for some way, any way, to scrape together five thousand pounds.

  A little while later, she set down her pencil and sat back, defeated. The cash-on-hand was meager, a tiny fraction of what she needed to pay back the loan. The only alternative was to sell assets, and there wasn't a single piece of equipment they didn't need in the factory. She'd been over the balance sheet a dozen times. The money simply wasn't there.

  Leaning forward, she rested her elbows on the table and rubbed her eyes with the tips of her fingers, feeling the cool smoothness of her kid gloves against her lids. If she didn't come up with the money, she would lose the company. If she lost Elliot's, what would she do?

  What occupations were there for a widow whose only work experience was managing a factory? No one would hire a woman for that. She lifted her head and stared down at her gloved hands. She supposed she could become a typist, but she imagined work of that nature would require her to remove her gloves.

  Mara tugged at the fingertips of her left glove and pulled it halfway off, staring down at the scars on her hand. People would stare at her with pity in their eyes. They might ask questions. She yanked the glove back into place, hiding the scars even from herself.

  What would she do? Visions of the future hovered on the edge of her mind, a future of poverty, a future born of the past. A dismal future, indeed, for a woman with no prospects and little money of her own.

  Desperation began to spread through her, desperation and a hint of panic. She rose to her feet. Walking to the washstand that stood in one corner of the small room, she took her tin bank from its hiding place.

  Tuppence for the bank, Mara. Her mother's words floated back to her from years ago. At least tuppence, every day.

  As a child, she had watched her mother put two pennies in a tin can each day. She'd said if they did that every single day, they'd eventually have enough to buy a home of their own. But her mother had died in a rented shack in a South Africa shantytown without ever seeing her dream come true.

  Mara had vowed to do better. She'd married James believing in his grand dreams, hoping to escape the poverty. She'd made her own tin-can bank and dropped pennies into it with all the optimism of a child bride. During the good times, it had been easy. But during the bad times, which had come more frequently with each passing year, most of the pennies had disappeared.

  She dumped the money out of the tin can and began to count what cash she had. The tiny salary she paid herself covered her basic living expenses, but there had been little left over to save for a rainy day. Now she was twenty-eight, optimism had long since deserted her, and she knew tuppence tossed daily into a tin bank added up to precious little.

  She sat down and stared at the tiny pile of money and thought of all the work she'd poured into the business, ail the hours, all the hopes. All for naught.

  She was so tired. She wanted to sleep, to banish the fear that threatened to overwhelm her. "Damn you," she whispered to her dead husband, hoping he could hear her. "Damn you and all your rainbow-chasing dreams to hell."

  Pushing aside the papers and the pile of coins, she folded her arms, rested her cheek on her wrist, and fell asleep.

  ***

  The sound was soft, but Mara awoke with a start. She lifted her head to stare at the door through the dark curtain of her bangs, which had lost their curl hours before and now hung limply in her eyes.

  The door was wide open. A man stood in the doorway, and he was watching her. Paralyzed, she stared back at him. Seeing a face of such flawless masculine beauty, she wondered if she were dreaming. The gaslight reflected off his hair, tawny, tousled hair that needed cu
tting. He stood with one shoulder against the jamb, arms folded across his chest, utterly still. She thought of golden eagles gliding on the wind, moving yet motionless.

  No, it was not a dream. In her dark dreams, there would be no such man.

  His eyes, the color of sea and sky, looked into her, seemed to perceive and understand everything about her in an instant. He tilted his head slightly to one side. "Why are you sad?"

  At the unexpected question she jumped to her feet and pushed back her chair. She felt the knot of her hair coming loose and her hat pin slipping. Her bonnet slid to one side, and she wished she'd remembered to remove it when she'd come in earlier.

  She attempted to straighten the mess as she backed away from the stranger, but her efforts only made things worse. An ostrich plume fell awkwardly over one eye and tickled her cheek. "Who are you?"

  "Didn't mean to startle you," he said. "Saw your door open. I don't think it shuts properly." He smiled briefly, and in that instant everything in the world shifted, fell into place, and became right. She sucked in her breath. Perhaps he was a dream after all.

  He nodded toward the table between them. "Shouldn't leave your money lying about like that. This doesn't seem to be the nicest neighborhood, I'm sorry to say."

  Her gaze moved from him to the cash on the table. She stared down at the money and reality returned, making her feel foolish and awkward. She tried to push the feather out of her face. "Thank you for the warning."

  She swept the money into her bank. Clutching the tin can to her breast, she gave him a nod of dismissal that bounced her feather back over her eye. She hoped he would take the hint.

  He didn't. Instead, he came into the room and circled the table. She stepped back, retreating until her shoulder blades hit the mantel of the fireplace. She glanced down, but the poker was just out of her reach. He came closer, and alarm bells began ringing in her head. He was tall, and strong, and very strange. "Who...what are you doing?"

  "Your feather is broken." He reached out and gripped the plume that dangled over her eye, then pushed it back, out of her vision. "I don't know much about the latest fashions for ladies," he added in a confidential tone, lowering his head until his perfect face was only inches from hers, "but I don't believe broken feathers are in vogue for bonnets this year."

  He moved his hand, brushing the hair out of her eyes with the tips of his fingers, a light touch that made breathing difficult. She remained perfectly still, too terrified to move as he tucked a strand behind her ear.

  He took a few steps back, and she began to breathe again. He surveyed his handiwork for a moment, then gave a satisfied nod. "Much better. Now I can see your face. No hair and ostrich tails to get in the way. Have you ever wondered how the ostriches must feel? Do they know their tail feathers are decorating the bonnets of women all over London?"

  She didn't know whether to laugh or scream for help. "Who are you?" she asked, ashamed when her haughty demand came out as a helpless squeak.

  "I've frightened you." His voice held both surprise and regret. "Terribly sorry. Didn't mean to. Allow me to introduce myself. Nathaniel Chase, brilliant inventor and rude terrifier of helpless ladies." He bowed, and the unruly strands of his golden hair caught the light.

  "How...how do you do," she murmured.

  "Very well, thank you." He straightened, shaking back his hair. Again he reminded her of an eagle in flight. "Fair play, ma'am."

  She frowned. "Sorry?"

  "I've given you my name. What's yours?"

  "Mara." She licked her dry lips. "Mara—"

  "That explains it then." He nodded sagely. "I see."

  "What?"

  "Mara means bitter. But I thought perhaps it might be Mariana."

  "I beg your pardon?" Trying to follow his meaning was making her dizzy.

  "'I am aweary, aweary,'"

  She stared at him, wondering if he was a bit touched in the head.

  "Don't you know your Tennyson?" he asked.

  "Oh, poetry."

  He laughed, a sound that was warm and rich and deep, filling her tiny room. "You say that as if it's your daily dose of cod liver oil." With another bow, he said, "It's been a pleasure, Mara Mariana, but I must be off. Opportunities await, and I have work to do." He turned away and looked around. "I had a reason for coming down here," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair and tousling it further. "What was it?" He paused, then snapped his fingers. "Ah! I remember."

  He pointed to the open doorway and the wooden crate she had tripped over. "My gears."

  She watched him walk out to the landing and lift the box. He gave her a nod of farewell through the doorway.

  "The men must have forgotten to bring this up," he said with another of those odd smiles. "Better have that lock fixed," he advised and then disappeared, carrying his box of gears and whistling an aimless melody.

  She wondered if perhaps he was a little mad.

  Chapter Two

  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Elliot," Percy said. "I never know what to say at a time like this."

  Mara looked away from the sympathy in his green eyes. "You don't have to say anything, Percy. I know you had a great fondness for James."

  "He was difficult to work for, but he gave me a chance when no one else would. Who else would hire a seventeen-year-old with no formal education, no background, and no experience to be his assistant?" He sighed. "Do you want me to make funeral arrangements?"

  "No. Mr. Finch has already done that. There won't be a funeral, just a memorial service. Nine o'clock tomorrow at St. Andrew's Church."

  "Is there anything I can do?"

  She shook her head. "Not unless you have five thousand pounds tucked away somewhere."

  Percy straightened in his chair, astonished. "Five thousand pounds! Whatever for?"

  "Joslyn Brothers is calling in our loan. I have three days to pay the balance owed or they take the company."

  Percy pulled at his auburn mustache, staring at the floor. After several moments, he looked up at her. "This means we're out of business."

  "No it doesn't," she answered, her voice hard. "Not if I can help it."

  "What do you intend to do?"

  She rose and picked up her portfolio. "I shall pay Joslyn Brothers a visit. I'll try to persuade them not to call in the loan." She started for the door, but she paused and turned around when Percy spoke again.

  "Do you want me to tell the employees?" he asked.

  She thought about it for a moment, then she nodded. "Yes, we probably should, but only about James's death. Don't say anything about the loan."

  "Of course not. Shouldn't we close down tomorrow?"

  "Close down?"

  "Most companies do close down on the day of the owner's memorial service. For mourning."

  She frowned.

  "Mrs. Elliot, forgive me if I'm being impertinent when I say this. I know that you and Mr. Elliot had problems, but he was your husband."

  She stiffened. "You are being impertinent, Mr. Sandborn."

  Percy made no reply. He just looked at her.

  She gave an exasperated sigh. "All right, then. Close down, make whatever arrangements you think best. I'm departing for the bank."

  She walked out before Percy could say another word. James Elliot had never been any kind of a husband to her, and she failed to see why she was expected to mourn for him. She would go to the memorial service for the sake of appearances, but she didn't have time to grieve for a man who'd never given the needs of his wife and daughter more than a passing thought.

  Portfolio in hand, she left the factory and began the short walk up Houndsditch toward Bishopsgate, joining the throng of delivery carts, cabs, and pedestrians that crowded the streets.

  As she walked, she went over all the reasons why Joslyn Brothers should not call in the loan. Elliot's was in much better shape now than when James had departed. He had left her with a pile of debt, almost no sales, and a line of creditors at the door. By planning carefully, watching every penny, and taking
no chances, she had turned things around. Surely the bank would see what she had accomplished.

  ***

  Mr. Abercrombie saw nothing of the kind. He took only a few moments to glance through the financial statements she had brought, then slowly shook his head and set the documents aside. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Elliot, but I'm afraid we will be unable to comply with your request."

  "But why?"

  "The terms of the loan are very clear." He tugged at his mustache and looked grave. "We must demand that the loan be repaid now."

  "But that will break us!" Mara leaned forward in her chair. "We are growing, but we are still a small company."

  "My dear lady, times are very uncertain. We can't afford the risk."

  "Risk?" Mara's chin lifted slightly at the word. "I assure you, sir, I do not take risks. My business philosophy is most conservative."

  "I'm sure it is."

  She did not miss the patronizing tone of his voice. "The company is solvent," she went on, fighting to keep her voice confident. "I am a good customer of your bank. I have always made the interest payments on time. You can see by my financial statements that our position has improved tremendously in the last four years. This year, I expect we will make a profit."

  She said it with pride, but he was not impressed. "There are other considerations. Your husband is dead, Mrs. Elliot. I sympathize with you, but we cannot allow sentiment to interfere with business decisions."

  "I would not dream of bringing sentiment into it, sir. The fact is that if you call the loan now, we will not be able to pay it. Elliot's will be forced into bankruptcy, all our assets will be sold, and you will be fortunate if you can recoup the principal amount."

  He said nothing, and she knew she was making no progress with him. She changed her tactics. "Then at least give me time to raise the money."

  He leaned back in his chair. "My dear lady, what good will time do you? A few days, a few months—" He shrugged. "What difference will it make?"