Envy the Wind

by Anita Davison

  She sneaked a quick look behind them, but the officer was otherwise occupied and the man in the stovepipe hat questioned another woman passenger.

  “You can put me down now, sir,” Grace said as they stepped into daylight. That she was in no hurry for him to do so came as a surprise, and he bore her weight with no apparent difficulty.

  “Are you sure, they might still be watching?” His soft breath on her skin sent a strange shiver through her. He made no attempt to do as she asked.

  Apart from Frederick, no one had ever her before but his attempt at the threshold of their room on their wedding night ended abruptly when his back cramped.

  “Well they ain't,” Aoife said from behind them. “So, you can take your 'ands off her now. Not that it weren't kind of you to help an’ all that.” She retrieved her shawl that had slipped around Grace's elbows and trailed to the ground, dusting it down with firm strokes.

  “Pardon me.” The man set Grace down. Their eyes locked, her face inches from his due to the fact he kept his other arm firmly round her waist. “I didn’t mean to cause any offence.”

  “You did not, and I cannot thank you enough, sir.” Grace stepped back, conscious of the heat rushing into her cheeks. “And you did not, I assure you.”

  “You’re welcome, although I confess, I'm curious as to why you needed to avoid customs. However,” he nodded to Aoife. “Your companion will still need to get through immigration.”

  Grace slapped down her skirt and poked stray strands of hair back into place beneath her straw hat. “I hope you don’t think-”

  “I assure you I wasn’t thinking anything. Not that’s it’s any of my concern one way or the other.” He lifted his hat and turned to leave.

  “But I need to explain. I wasn’t trying to avoid customs. My papers are in order, it’s just that-” She glanced to where MacKinnon’s agent watched her from the door. “Could you take me wherever you are going?”

  “Grace!” Aoife gasped. “What are you thinking?”

  “Is there no one here to meet you?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I see. He lifted his cane from the ground slightly to indicate Aoife. “And what about you, young lady?”

  Aoife’s eyes flashed. “You don’t have to worry ‘bout me.” She folded her arms and adopted her cross fairy face. “I’ve made me own arrangements.”

  “I beg your pardon.” He sketched Aoife a polite, if theatrical bow. “I meant nothing by it.”

  “I did have a reservation booked,” Grace said, again feeling the need to explain. “But-” She dared not go to the boarding house the shipping agent had recommended. It was probably the first place Angus MacKinnon’s agent would look. “My plans have lately become flexible. “Do you live in Halifax, sir?”

  “Grace!” Aoife gasped, but Grace nudged her into silence.

  “I do not,” he replied, his mouth twitched as he fought a smile. “I shall be here for tonight. I leave for Prince Edward Island tomorrow.”

  “This island. Is it far?”

  “About two hundred miles. My home is in Charlottetown. Why do you ask?”

  “I see.” Grace frowned, thinking. Two hundred miles should be far enough away.

  “While you make up your mind, might I offer my services? My carriage is waiting to take me to my hotel. It’s the third from the front.” He waved the silver topped cane at the road. “If you have no accommodations arranged, I would be happy to obtain a room for you there.”

  “I accept.”

  “Grace!” Aoife gasped again.

  “Shall I summon a porter to fetch your trunk?” he asked.

  “My bags will be on one of the trolleys somewhere.” She looked around vaguely. “Ah, there it is. The portmanteau and brown leather valise on the top there.”

  “I’ll get my coachman to retrieve them for you. Perhaps we ought to introduce ourselves?” He raised his hat. “Andrew Jardine, at your service.”

  “I’m Mrs MacKinnon. Grace. And this is Aoife Doyle.”

  Aoife nodded, regarding him through narrowed eyes.

  “I’ll leave you to say your goodbyes.” He replaced the hat, giving it a final pat. “When you’re ready, Mrs MacKinnon, I’ll be waiting at my carriage.”

  Grace watched him stride away, his long overcoat swaying round his ankles. The driver climbed down onto the road at his approach and after a short whispered conversation, the coachman approached the porter, and between them, unloaded Grace’s luggage.

  “What can ye be thinking, Grace?” Aoife tugged her shawl around her shoulders. “Goin’ off with a stranger.”

  “I have few options if I don't want to be taken back to England. And did you know your Dublin accent gets stronger when you're angry?”

  “I’m from Waterford if you wants to know.” Aoife lifted her chin but didn't look at all insulted. “Though I ain't been there since I was a nipper.”

  “I apologize, and I’ve heard Waterford is quite lovely.”

  “Not the part I was born in,” Aoife mumbled. “You’ll be all right won’t you, Grace?”

  “I doubt I’ll be in any greater danger than you are. You’ve agreed to marry a man you haven’t yet seen. Anyway, you heard him. He’s leaving for this Charlottetown place tomorrow. If he takes me with him, maybe I’ll settle there instead?”

  “I'm going to be wed, while you’re goin' off to some hotel with a man you just met. There’s rules about how ladies should behave. It’s different for me.”

  “Different, how?”

  “I dunno. It just is.” Aoife shrugged. “You got to admit though, he’s a foine looking fella.”

  “I didn’t notice,” Grace lied, sneaking a look at Mr Jardine, then back at Aoife. “I suppose it's goodbye then?” She pulled Aoife to one side to avoid the stream of passengers hauling bags, suitcases and trunks behind them on an exodus towards the line of carriages.

  “I suppose so.” Aoife sniffed. The man in the stovepipe hat had disappeared, though the Customs officer lounged against the doorframe, staring at them. “I’ll be there in a minute.” Aoife gestured he was to wait.

  Grace laughed and threw her arms around her. “I’ve enjoyed our short time together. I wish you luck in New Brunswick.” Her voice hitched as it occurred to her they would probably never see each other again.

  “Now don’t you be goin’ all soft on me.” Aoife pushed Grace firmly away and wiped a hand under her nose.

  “You’ll be foine if you keep your money close and don’t let fella-me-lad over there take liberties.” She cocked her chin at the carriage, where Mr Jardine’s coachman was loading Grace’s meagre luggage.

  “As if I would, but that’s good advice.” She blinked away tears as she gave Aoife a final, fierce hug. “You should go and join the line, or you’ll be here all night.” Aoife hauled her bag into her arms and with a final, cheery wave, sauntered back towards the hall, her green shawl billowing like a sail behind her.

  At the door to the customs hall, she delivered a slow wink to the officer and skipped past him into the hall.

  He pushed away from the doorframe and shaking his head slowly, he ushered her back inside.

  Chapter 5

  The Waverley Inn, Halifax, Nova Scotia

  “When I said my carriage, I meant a hired vehicle.” He settled onto the seat opposite Grace, one leg crossed over the other and his cane propped against the door.

  “There’s no need to apologize, Mr Jardine.” Grace adjusted her hat which had collided with the doorframe as she climbed in. “This hackney is no worse than any found in London.” Why he cared what she thought of his conveyance escaped her.

  “Not quite, but I wouldn't want you to think I owned this one.” He raised a sardonic eyebrow at the shabby upholstery and cracked varnish on the window frames. “My father-in-law keeps a very fine carriage, or at least it was considered so some twenty years ago. It's quite shabby now and the ride is so uncomfortable, even his sister prefers to walk, and she’s a lady wh
o is a stranger to exercise.” Her smile at the memory died as the cab lurched forward onto the road, aware she had no idea where he was taking her. “Is - um, is this hotel you mentioned far?”

  “A few streets away, although if you prefer, I could take you wherever you planned to stay this evening?”

  “Uh, no, I had nowhere specific in mind,’ she lied. The hotel where she planned to stay was too close to the harbour and bound to be known to the agent. “You won’t be staying long in Halifax, Mr Jardine?” She recalled something he said earlier about going home.

  “Only for tonight, I hope to be on my way to Prince Edward Island tomorrow.”

  “I see.” She nodded, stricken by the thought that in twelve hours she would be on her own again with Angus MacKinnon’s agent on her trail.

  The harbour with its rows of wharves and warehouses behind them, the hackney entered a tree-lined street wider than any Grace had ever seen in England. A majority of the houses had boarded facades as opposed to brick or stone, most with bay windows covered verandas and porches, all freshly painted in pastel colors, like a child's toy village just out of its box.

  “You are being very kind to me, Mr Jardine, when you know nothing about me. Are you not curious? After all, I might be a dangerous criminal.”

  “And are you?” He raised his eyebrows slightly.

  “No, of course not.” She lifted her chin, affronted by the suggestion despite the fact she invited it. “I've never done anything remotely illegal in my life.” Reckless, maybe, even mischievous, but not criminal.

  “Then I'm sufficiently confident I've not offered hospitality to an undesirable.” He turned towards the window and lowered his voice. “In fact, you are exceedingly desirable.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Grace asked, feigning ignorance, although she heard him quite well.

  “It's of no importance. Ah, here we are.” Almost before the carriage came to a complete stop he leapt out onto the street, a hand extended to help her down where they waited in companionable silence for the coachman to unload their luggage.

  The Waverley Inn boasted two square bay windows on either side of a short flight of steps up to a canopied front door with bevelled stained-glass panels. Pale painted clapboard clad the building and, from the lower ground floor up, a red tiled roof covered all three stories.

  “It's charming.” Grace's gaze took in the neat dimity curtains at the windows and the picket fence that bordered the front and sides.

  “I always stay at The Waverley. It’s a favorite of mine when I come to Halifax and not the sort of establishment a customs officer would frequent.” He stood aside for the driver who unloaded their luggage and began transferring it through a side door.

  “I wasn’t evading cust-” she began, her voice trailing away as he had already crossed to the pile of luggage the driver placed on the road.

  “You don’t have a trunk? Just these two bags?” Mr Jardine nudged the scuffed leather bag gently with a toe of his shiny black shoe.

  “Er-I plan to send for the rest of my things later,” she repeated the excuse she used when Priscilla asked the same question.

  “I see.” He raised a sceptical eyebrow, then held open the door for her to pass ahead of him into a lobby that smelled of cinnamon and beeswax overlaid by the smell of something savoury from a kitchen in the rear.

  A young man behind the front desk, greeted Mr Jardine like an old friend, then summoned a porter to take them upstairs.

  “Your room is on the floor above mine,” Jardine cocked an eyebrow, “in case you were worried.”

  She assured him she had not been, though the fact he mentioned it came as a relief. Pleading fatigue, she requested a light supper served in her room, to which he acquiesced without a word.

  The heavy oak furniture and dark floral wallpaper were reminders of the English style. The high canopied bed with its thick mattress looked vastly more comfortable than her narrow lower bunk on board ship. At night her head had been regularly in danger of colliding with the communal vanity sink on the wall.

  Once the door closed behind the maid who brought her supper of soup and sandwiches, Grace relaxed for the first time since she spotted the Albano's bow speed towards them. “She ate her meal and unpacked, arranging her silver vanity set on the bureau. It was one of her most treasured possessions as it had once belonged to her great-great grandmother.

  From the comfort of the vast bed, she tore Angus MacKinnon’s telegram into tiny pieces and tossed them in the direction of the wastepaper basket.

  After such an eventful day, sleep came easily, only to be interrupted by a dream

  Aoife emitted silent screams for help but remained unreachable as the water dragged Grace down. The ship’s horn wailed in its final death throes and daylight faded into a diminishing beam above her.

  At the point where blackness engulfed her, Grace cried out and bolted upright, the covers clutched beneath her chin. Panicked, she lit a candle with shaking hands to banish the shadows, repeating over and over that it was only a dream. She lay staring at the ceiling until her thoughts calmed and the candle guttered out.

  She woke for the second time to the sound of brass rings being rattled over the curtain pole by a maid, flooding the room with wintery light.

  'Good morning to you, ma'am.” The girl set a pitcher from which a spiral of steam arose on the dresser.

  “And to you.” Grace propped herself onto one elbow, blinking against the sudden assault on her eyes. She slid from beneath the coverlet, pulled on her dressing gown, grabbed a few coins discarded on her nightstand and thrust them at the maid. The girl’s start of surprise and deep curtsey told Grace she had been overly generous.

  She had obtained the coins from the purser’s office on the Parisian with only a vague idea of what they were worth. She would have to put that right if she was going to keep a close eye on her finances.

  Once the maid left, Grace spotted a note had been slid under her door. The first fluttering of fear as she opened it was quickly dispelled when she saw it was from Mr Jardine. He informed her in a bold sloping script that he would meet her for breakfast in the dining room. She exhaled in relief, reminding herself that Angus MacKinnon was not all powerful. Neither he nor his agent could have tracked her down in so short a time. Even so, the sooner she left Halifax the better.

  She dressed quickly, repacked her things and went down to the lobby where she asked the eager young man at the desk the location of the dining room.

  “Please prepare my bill for me.”

  “No need for that, ma'am. Mr Jardine has taken care of it.”

  “I see.” Frowning, she returned her purse to her bag and went to join him in the half-full dining room.

  Andrew Jardine, reading a newspaper, occupied a table for two in the bay window. He looked up as she approached, refolded the newspaper and placed it on a nearby chair “Did you sleep well?” He rose and waited for her to take the chair opposite before sitting again.

  “I did indeed, thank you.” She cleared her throat and before she lost her nerve, said, “I appreciate your assistance with my - predicament, sir, but I'm not penniless.”

  “I did not assume you were.” His brow furrowed. “Have I done something wrong?”

  “Unwise perhaps. You paid my bill.”

  “Ah!” He adjusted his napkin on his lap. “I meant no insult, Mrs MacKinnon. The manager added your accommodation to my account for expedience.” He lifted a silver pot in enquiry. “Coffee? And I’ve ordered for you. I hope you don’t mind?”

  “Thank you.” She waited as he poured a dark stream of steaming coffee into her cup. “And I don’t mind at all, but I wish you to know, I fully intend to pay my own way. In every respect.”

  “I apologize for the misunderstanding. In which case I hope you won’t take offence when I say I have presumed again and taken a precaution on your behalf.”

  She took a sip from her cup; the brew was hot, rich and very welcome. “If you have a chaperone tucked awa
y somewhere, I-’

  “Nothing like that,” he interrupted. “The manager has agreed to be discreet regarding your presence here.”

  “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.” She replaced her cup in its saucer, both relieved yet embarrassed. It made sense the agent wouldn't give up looking for her when her name was on the passenger list, but the thought of how the manager must now regard her made her shudder. Hardly an auspicious start to her new life.

  “It will take that customs chap some time to work his way through every hotel and boarding house in town and by then we shall be gone.”

  “As I explained yesterday, it wasn’t a customs man I was-” she broke off as the waiter appeared and slid a plate in front of her which contained sausages, bacon, eggs and what looked like a beef steak. The server placed a slightly larger meal in front of her companion before he bowed and withdrew.

  “This looks wonderful.” She inhaled the heavy, meaty smell of sausages and bacon. “I ought to say that I couldn't possibly eat all this, but I rather think I can.” She could hardly wait for the server to leave before she took a warm, floury roll from the basket in the center of the table and picked up her cutlery. “The ship was still sinking when we left the harbour. Do you know what happened to her?”

  “I do. Fortunately the nine hundred passengers and crew disembarked safely. As a disaster at sea it doesn't register very highly. Not that the owners would agree. The damage was not quite as serious as it might have been. Pumps were set to reduce the leakage from the compartment and kept running all night. However, in the early hours of this morning the aft compartment bulkhead gave way and the two forward compartments were flooded. The stern deck was submerged, and water flowed into the engine room. I only hope they get it under control before it reaches the cylinders.”

  “You appear to know a good deal about it. Are you acquainted with the owners then?”

  “Actually, I’m one of them.”