To Dream Again

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  She spent several hours with Michael, studying the supplies list. Afterward, she went upstairs and found Nathaniel sitting at the table, a pencil in his hand and a huge diagram spread out before him.

  He glanced up as she entered the office, but immediately bent his head again over his work. Mara came up beside him and leaned over the table, studying the diagram he was working on.

  "What are you doing?" she asked, watching him scribble notes in the margin.

  "I'm working on improving the design of our steam train." He made another notation in the margin. "Children don't care, of course, but I find it very irritating that steam trains leave puddles of water all over the place. It's sloppy. I'm trying to figure out a way to prevent it."

  She began to laugh. He paused in the act of jotting down another idea on the diagram and stared at her over the gold rims of his spectacles. He enjoyed the sound of her laughter but wondered at its cause. "What are you laughing about?"

  "You," she confessed with a wide smile. Eyes dancing with amusement, she pulled out the opposite chair and sat down. "The man who is always late, the man whose office is a disorganized maze, the man who's always losing his spectacles, is concerned because his steam train has the untidy habit of dribbling water on the floor."

  She was teasing him, and he liked it. "I may be disorganized, but I'm never sloppy about my work, I'll have you know," he informed her with mock sternness. "I hate the idea of selling a train that dribbles."

  "Why do you have such a passion for toy trains?" she asked, watching him scribble another notation on the paper before him. "Is it just because you grew up around the toy business?"

  "That's part of it, but I think it comes mostly from just plain stubbornness." He hesitated, and she thought he didn’t intend to elaborate, but after a moment, he set his pencil down and said in a low voice, "When I was a boy, my father refused to allow me to participate in any facet of Chase Toys. My elder brother was being groomed to take over the reins, but my father refused to consider giving me any similar preparation. He thought it unnecessary, since he never planned to give me any responsibility in the company when I grew up."

  "Why not?"

  Nathaniel pulled off his spectacles and set them on the table, then leaned back in his chair to gaze thoughtfully up at the ceiling. "My mother died in childbirth when I was born, and although my father never said anything about it to me directly, I always had the feeling he blamed me for that. And I was a disappointment to him when I was growing up. I was small, and often sick. I caught every illness that came along, and I had asthma. I couldn't play games and sports like other boys."

  He paused and picked up the pencil, rolling it thoughtfully between his palms. "There was also my stutter. My father really didn't have the patience to listen to me. I did very poorly with my studies because my tutors didn't have any more patience with it than my father did, and I was so ashamed, I didn't even learn to read until I was almost ten. In short, my father thought I was an idiot."

  The confession was made with a smile, but Mara didn't miss the slight flash of hurt that the smile was intended to mask. She thought of his terror when he'd stood on that table in front of the men. "The other children teased you," she murmured, feeling compassion for the boy Nathaniel had been.

  "Oh, yes." He said the words with a resigned sigh, then shrugged and tossed down the pencil. "I outgrew the asthma and the other childhood ailments. It took years, but I finally conquered my stutter, although it does return to plague me at the most inconvenient times."

  "When you're forced to give a speech?"

  "It reminds me of days at boarding school, standing up in front of the class reciting compositions, hearing the other children laugh." He shook his head impatiently, as if warding off painful memories. "As for the trains, well, I don't know myself how that really came about. I just found myself one day taking apart one of my trains—it was just a pull train—and studying the parts to see how it worked. I suppose I was about five years old."

  He smiled ruefully at her across the table. "My nanny told my father what I was doing, and he was so angry. He thought I was destroying it. I tried to explain, but he became impatient, and he ordered me never to do it again." He paused, then added, "But I couldn't stop. I had this insatiable curiosity. I just had to know how things worked. I think I took apart every toy I ever received after that. I studied them and put them back together. I even figured out ways of improving them. But I had to do it all secretly, or I'd be into trouble. I had these fantasies that someday I'd show my father my ideas, prove to him I wasn't the idiot he thought I was."

  Mara made no reply, but she studied Nathaniel's thoughtful expression and realized how hard it would be for someone with his creativity, with his innovative mind, to be forced to hide it as if it were something to be ashamed of. "What was your first invention?"

  He laughed. "A train, of course. I built a tiny steam engine and modified one of my pull trains so that it could be powered by steam. I was twelve years old. Steam-powered toy trains were just beginning to come out, but Chase Toys hadn't come up with one yet. It was Christmastime, and my grandfather was visiting. He caught me building it."

  His laughter faded, but his smile lingered as he went on, "My grandfather asked what I was doing, and I knew there was no way I could lie about it. I told him, but I was certain he'd tell Father and I'd be in trouble again. I made him promise not to give away my secret."

  Mara tilted her head, studying him. "Your grandfather was very important to you, wasn't he?"

  "My grandfather was the first person who listened to me. He was the first person who didn't become impatient or try to finish my sentences for me. After that Christmas, I spent every summer at his home on the Isle of Wight until he died when I was eighteen. We came up with dozens of toy ideas. He taught me how to fish. We took walks around the island and talked. He cared about me. He gave me a chance when no one else would. When he died, I lost my dearest friend."

  The ache of loneliness in his voice touched her deeply. She, too, had known loneliness, always moving from place to place, never having a home, never seeing her husband for more than a few months out of the year. She looked at Nathaniel across the table, and she realized that they had something in common. Impulsively, she reached out and placed her hand over his.

  He gave her a surprised look, and she realized what she had done. She started to pull her hand back, but he caught it in his and held it there, entwining her fingers with his, refusing to let her withdraw her tentative offer of friendship.

  They remained that way for a long time, saying nothing, thinking a great deal, as the clock on the wall ticked away the minutes. And, in that brief moment of companionable silence, Mara realized that Nathaniel was right. Sometimes, everybody needed a little help, even if it was only a comforting hand and the knowledge that there was someone else in the world who cared.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Over the next several days, Mara and Nathaniel saw little of each other. Michael was ill, and Nathaniel spent his time on the production floor, acting as supervisor while Mara worked on the business proposal for the bank.

  Mara tried to concentrate on her work, but she found her thoughts continually returning to that night in their office, to the man who had invaded her life and turned it topsy-turvy.

  Nathaniel. When she had reached out and touched his hand that night, she'd done it without thinking. She had tried to pull back, but he hadn't let her. He must have enjoyed the casual intimacy of those brief moments, too.

  Despite her lack of concentration, Mara managed to finish the proposal for the bank by Friday afternoon, and she went down to the mezzanine and scanned the production floor below to let him know it was finished.

  She caught sight of him almost immediately. He was leaning against a table, talking to several of the men. His waistcoat was off, and his white shirt was darkened with sweat from the heat of steam engines. He said something to the men, and he smiled when they laughed in response. Mara found her
self smiling, too. For several moments, she continued to watch him, feeling again his strong fingers entwined with hers, feeling again the blessed relief of knowing that she wasn't all alone.

  She'd been alone for so long. For those few moments, the ache of it had lessened, and life had seemed just a bit easier. The moment had passed, of course. She'd finally withdrawn her hand, and their contact had been broken, leaving her alone again, with all her fears, with all her doubts.

  Mara felt someone step up beside her and she jumped, startled out of her reverie. Emma Logan stood beside her, leaning over the rail. She, too, was watching Nathaniel, "'e's a peach, ma'am, that 'e is."

  Heavens, Mara thought, looking at the other woman. When she looked at Nathaniel, did her own face wear that worshipful expression? More sharply than she'd intended, she said, "Don't you have work to do, Emma?"

  "Yes, ma'am," she murmured and turned away, looking abashed.

  "Emma?"

  The girl turned back inquiringly. "Ma'am?"

  "I'm sorry," Mara said. "I didn't mean to snap at you."

  Emma's eyes widened as if that were the last thing she'd expected Mara to say. The girl gave her a tentative smile. "It's all right, ma'am."

  Mara glanced back down at the scene below and sighed. She'd come down for a reason, and now she couldn't even remember what it was. What on earth was the matter with her?

  A movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she saw Mr. Finch standing by the doors, waving to her. She beckoned him to come up, but as the solicitor crossed the room, he paused beside Nathaniel and the two men spoke for a moment, then walked together toward the stairs.

  Mara met them at the top. "Mr. Finch," she greeted, keeping her gaze on the solicitor. "What are you doing here?"

  "Good morning. Mara, my dear, James's things arrived from San Francisco. I thought you might want to go through them." He studied her dismayed expression and added, "If you'd rather not, you don't have to. I can—"

  "No," she interrupted, "I'll do it. Where are they?"

  He pointed to the production floor below. Mara glanced down and saw a steamer trunk beside the front doors. "I'll have it taken upstairs."

  "I'll find Boggs and have him bring it up," Nathaniel offered. "Why don't you show Finch our office?"

  He turned and went back down. Mara gestured to the stairs. "Shall we?"

  The solicitor nodded, glancing down at the production floor one more time before following her. "Quite a few changes have happened here. When did you move your office?"

  "A few days ago," she answered over her shoulder as she began to climb the stairs. "We're also doing some remodeling."

  "Yes, I noticed some men downstairs demolishing that corridor."

  "It shall be much more efficient when we're finished, but I've heard nothing but complaints about it. Everyone hates the dust and the mess."

  Finch followed her to the third floor and came to a halt in the doorway. "My goodness, this is a definite improvement."

  She glanced around. "It is rather nice," she admitted.

  Finch glanced toward her desk, noting its neat, organized appearance. He then looked at Nathaniel's side and laughed. "I can tell which side belongs to you," he said.

  She followed his gaze to the disorderly pile of papers strewn across Nathaniel's huge desk and sighed. "His laboratory's the same way. He won't let me touch a thing," she said. "He says he likes it this way."

  "And I do." Nathaniel's voice caused both of them to turn toward the door as he entered the room. "If she straightened my things, I'd never be able to find them again. I have my own way of organizing my things."

  The other man laughed. "Yes, I know. I've seen your flat."

  "Would you like tea?" Mara asked. "I can have Percy—"

  "No, no," he refused, shaking his head. "Thank you, but I can't. I have another appointment." He looked at Nathaniel. "There have been quite a few changes around here. Walk me down and show me what you've been up to."

  Nathaniel met the solicitor's eyes, and a look of understanding passed between them. "Certainly."

  Finch turned to Mara. "If you need anything, my dear, let me know."

  "I will," she murmured. "Come for a longer visit next time."

  "Of course," he answered, and the two men walked out. A vague sense of disquiet came over her. It had been evident they wanted to talk privately, and Mara wondered what they had to discuss that did not involve her.

  A sound in the doorway caused her to look up. Boggs stood there with the steamer trunk on his broad back, gripping the stout rope that was wrapped around the trunk. "Where d'you want it, ma'am?"

  She pointed to the center of the room. "Just leave it there, please."

  The workman lowered his burden to the ground and pulled the key to the trunk from his pocket. Dropping the key on top of the trunk, he departed.

  Speculations about the secretive behavior of Nathaniel and Finch fled from her mind as she stared down at the steamer trunk on the floor. She'd expected her husband's things to arrive eventually, but she hadn't expected the emotions that overcame her at the sight of that familiar old trunk.

  Mara walked slowly over to the trunk and knelt down. But she didn't open it. She stared at it for a long time, thinking about the past. The sight of this old steamer trunk had always meant hello or good-bye. Separation or reunion. She took the key and turned it in the lock, then lifted the lid.

  She pulled out items one by one. There were several shirts and well-cut suits. His shaving kit. The gold cuff links she had given him during one of the good times. A sketch of Helen that she'd done when the child was five. The wedding ring he'd always worn. Her letters to him tied with silk ribbon.

  She went through the letters, but the last one she'd written, the one telling him never to return, wasn't there. He'd thrown that letter away and forgotten it. Just like James to ignore what he didn't want to face.

  Mara set aside the sketch of Helen. She would donate the rest of his things to St. Andrew's. It was foolish to give away the ring and the cuff links, but although she couldn't bear to keep them, she couldn't bear to sell them either. She bent back over the trunk, but only one item remained.

  It was a box tied with string, and she knew it was a gift for her. As if a present could wash away all the hurts and make everything right. She pulled out the box and put all the other things back in the trunk, then stared down at the box for a long moment.

  He must have bought it after he'd met Nathaniel, after he'd made plans to come back to England. With his incredibly self-centered optimism, he'd assumed that when he came back, she'd forgive and forget. For abandoning her, perhaps she could have forgiven him, because she knew that came partly from her own inadequacy— her love had never been enough to make him stay. But she couldn't forgive him for abandoning Helen. For that there was no forgiveness.

  Mara fetched a pair of scissors, cut the string tied around the box, and lifted the lid. She pulled the gift out of the box and stared at the gown of blue silk in her hands. A ball gown.

  The absurdity of it struck her and she began to laugh. Bitter, humorless laughter. James had often talked about how, when they were rich, they would go to balls and dance the waltz and drink champagne from crystal goblets, about how he'd buy her a ball gown of blue silk.

  Before she could stop it, the laughter changed, dissolved into tears. Mara buried her face in the soft blue silk of a gown she would never wear, and she cried for the first time in four years. She cried for her own shattered dreams. She cried for her daughter, who would never grow to womanhood. She cried for all the lost love and all the lost chances. Most of all, she cried for James, who had never been able to live within the prison of reality.

  ***

  Nathaniel waited until they were outside the building. He leaned one shoulder against the brick wall of Elliot's and faced the other man.

  "I assume you want to know about your brother's company first?" the solicitor asked.

  "You've found out so
mething?"

  "Nothing definite, but plenty of rumor."

  Nathaniel was, in some ways, a traditional man. He liked his dessert last. "Tell me about the other major competitors first."

  Finch pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket and scanned the notes written there. He gave Nathaniel an overview of the primary competitors for the toy train market. Bassett-Locke was doing well, but their selection was limited. Ives, the American company, didn't make models popular with the British market. And Issmayer, although they appeared to have invented a sectional train track, wasn't doing anything with it.

  "As for your brother," Finch went on, "it seems he's having problems."

  "I'm listening."

  "Union troubles, for one thing," Finch said. "You heard about the explosion at Chase Toys?"

  "I did. Faulty boiler, the paper said."

  "That was true, apparently. The unionists have organized there, and there is a great deal of pressure on your brother to improve conditions at his factory. Rumor has it that conditions at the company are hazardous, the hours are exceptionally long, and the wages he pays are pitifully low."

  "I'm not surprised," Nathaniel said, staring across the alley at the brick wall of Mrs. O'Brien's. "But I'd have thought even Adrian would come up with the cash to improve things once the unions put enough pressure on him."

  "He might not be able to."

  Nathaniel turned his head sharply. "Financial problems, too?"

  Finch nodded. "Again, this is merely gossip, but it seems he might be close to queer street. Sales have been falling over the past few years."

  "I've seen some of the products Chase has been putting out," Nathaniel commented. "No innovation, nothing new. I've been keeping up on things—I've seen their catalogs. The last new product he had was that mechanical bank, and that was one of my inventions from years ago. Besides, the quality of his toys is poor. It's no wonder his sales are falling."