Duke of a Gilded Age

by S. G. Rogers

  “Was it difficult to convince your mother to come today?” Belle asked.

  “After Mrs. Neal reassured my mother she would complete her tasks well in advance, my mother couldn’t refuse.”

  “Your timing was impeccable. I’d just asked my father if he would accompany me here today, but he declined.”

  “Why?”

  “For him, this isn’t a vacation. He works for you, Wesley, and he wanted to make sure your needs were met.” She giggled. “Fortunately, your needs have happily coincided with mine.”

  “I’m very glad. This is my first visit to Bedloe Island.”

  “How can that be?”

  “My father had planned to take us after the Statue of Liberty was dedicated, but he died before we could go.”

  “What a shame.”

  Belle glanced at Wesley. The day she’d first met him he’d been fresh from a street brawl. The warrior-like expression of the recent past had fallen away to reveal the raw emotional wounds underneath. Almost of their own volition, her gloved fingers reached out. She meant only to give his hand the briefest of squeezes, but he captured her fingers in his and held them fast. Belle locked eyes with Wesley for several seconds before she remembered to breathe. With an apologetic smile, she withdrew her hand.

  “Oh, yes, I know. It’s not proper,” he murmured.

  Belle stared straight ahead as she willed her heart to quit racing.

  Wesley wished the warmth of Belle’s hand would not fade from his fingertips quite so quickly. I shouldn’t have done that. She’s engaged, after all. And yet…had she felt nothing, wouldn’t she have pulled away more quickly? Perhaps Belle was too polite—or too concerned for her father’s continued employment—to rebuke him openly. I’ve put her in an awkward position, haven’t I? I should be more guarded and considerate in my behavior toward her.

  “I’m sorry Belle, if I took advantage of your kindness just now. It won’t happen again.”

  A long silence followed his words.

  “Thank you, Wesley,” she said finally.

  Her response was so soft that had he been less attentive he might have missed it in the din of the general conversation surrounding them. Wesley couldn’t bring himself to look at Belle’s face, for fear he would see relief in her hazel eyes.

  Chapter Seven

  The SS City of New York

  A TRIO OF SEAGULLS circled overhead as the ferry pulled alongside the dock at Bedloe Island. The awkward tension between Belle and Wesley seemingly dissipated as they joined the short queue to disembark. After they set foot on the dock, they practically raced toward Lady Liberty with coltish glee. Mr. Oakhurst and Lady Frederic followed at a more leisurely pace, reuniting with their children in the observation balcony at the top of the pedestal.

  “It’s a splendid view, but I’m rather keen to climb all the way to the top,” Belle said. “Would anyone care to join me?”

  “Belle, that’s quite a climb,” Mr. Oakhurst said, wide-eyed. “It was one hundred ninety-two steps to this observation deck. I’m told there are one hundred sixty-two additional steps to the crown!”

  “Then we’ve already done the hard part,” she replied.

  “If only I were filled with your youthful energy! I’m content to wait for you right here,” Lady Frederic said.

  “I’ll go, Miss Oakhurst,” Wesley said.

  Belle giggled conspiratorially. “Somehow I knew you would, Your Grace.”

  They joined the end of a small group waiting to go up. As the group of four children and two men filtered into the stairwell, Wesley made a sweeping gesture with his arm.

  “After you, Belle.”

  “Oh, no. Unless he’s escorting her on his arm, a gentleman always precedes a lady on the stairs when ascending, and follows her when descending.”

  “More rules for gentlemen I’ve never heard of? This process of civilizing me requires constant vigilance.”

  “The forging of a magnificent sword always requires heat and a hammer, but I’m certain the results will be worth it. After you, Wesley.”

  A sensation of light and warmth filled Wesley’s chest as he mounted the narrow metal steps. Belle just compared me to a magnificent sword, didn’t she? He loped upward at a good clip until reality began to stake a claim on his muscles…and his thoughts. Best not to read too much into anything. Nevertheless, it must mean Belle has put what happened on the ferry in the past. What a resilient and sweet temperament she has! He continued to climb more deliberately, pausing every so often to listen for the sound of her footsteps on the stairs. Excited chatter from children echoed within the statue, from higher up on the staircase. About halfway, he stopped climbing and peeked over the side of the spiral.

  “Hullo down there!” he called out.

  His voice reverberated against the copper sheeting that formed Lady Liberty’s robes. Two spirals below, Belle leaned over the railing and turned her face toward him. With a merry smile, she waved.

  “How do you climb so fast?” she replied.

  “Why are you so slow?”

  “It’s these wretched skirts. But fear not, I’m right behind you!”

  Her head disappeared and Wesley resumed his upward trek. When he reached the small observation deck a few minutes later, perspiration was rolling down his forehead. The closeness of the quarters forced him to remove his top hat and even then he had to take care not to hit his head. He longed to shrug off his jacket but dared not, lest the dampness from his exertions be revealed. Fortunately, a crisp handkerchief was tucked in his pocket, which he used to mop his brow. When Belle joined him, he hoped he was more presentable.

  “Oh, my!” she said. “That’s indeed a prodigious climb…and it’s awfully hot in here, isn’t it?” She withdrew a lacy swatch of fabric from her reticule and patted the moisture from her face. “I must look a fright.”

  “I resemble a cat in a rainstorm. You, however, are merely glowing.”

  “That’s a very gallant thing to say, Wesley.”

  A semi-circle of twenty-five windows beckoned them near. As they found an unoccupied spot, Wesley gasped with pleasure. “What a gorgeous view!”

  Belle recoiled. “I had no idea how high up it would be!”

  “Come on, Belle. It’s perfectly safe.”

  Her feet edged forward, more slowly.

  “You can see forever from up here,” she said, her voice infused with wonder.

  As the children became bored and began to filter back down the stairs with their fathers, Belle and Wesley were left alone. They moved from window to window, drinking in the view of Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Governor’s Island. Sailboats and steamships painted a charming picture as they glided merrily through the sparkling harbor below.

  “We must remember to wave at Lady Liberty as we go past tomorrow,” Belle said. “Are you excited to make the voyage?”

  “Yes, although the prospect seems a bit unreal. Less than a week ago, I was a poor kid from Brooklyn, wondering how I could possibly afford a tin of biscuits. Now, I’m traveling first class to England, with a valet no less. My mother, however, is taking all this in stride.”

  “I believe my mother and yours have much in common. They both gave up a great deal when they married, and did so happily.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your mother married Lord Frederic Parker, knowing his inheritance was likely to be nothing. In my mother’s case, her father was a gentleman of extensive property. When she married, my grandfather cut her off entirely. As a result, I’ve never met anyone from that side of the family.”

  Wesley was taken aback. “How horrible!”

  “Many people, gentry and royalty alike, often pay a steep price for going against their family’s wishes. It’s more common than you may think, actually.”

  “I can’t imagine why they didn’t welcome Mr. Oakhurst with open arms. He’s reliable, steady, and everything amiable.”

  “Thank you, Wesley. Had my father been titled or exceedingly rich, my grand
parents would have adored him. Don’t feel too sorry for my mother. She loved my father unconditionally and was quite happy.” Belle smiled. “Shall we go back down?”

  “I take it you’ve no interest in climbing the ladder into the torch?”

  Belle laughed. “Until women may wear trousers, I’m afraid not!”

  “That’s not terribly likely, is it?”

  “I can’t imagine such a scandalous fashion ever catching hold, but if it does I’ll be the first to buy a pair.”

  Morning had long since dawned, but Wesley lay in bed on his stomach. The previous day’s exertions had transformed his legs into leaden weights so exquisitely painful he was unable to turn himself over without groaning. The door to his bedchamber opened, and someone entered the room. Moments later, the drapes were pulled back.

  “I’ve ordered breakfast sent to your suite, Your Grace,” Cavendish said. “Rise and shine.”

  “I can’t,” came Wesley’s muffled voice.

  “Why not?”

  “I climbed the Statue of Liberty yesterday and I can’t move.”

  “Ah. Well, I didn’t come away from my travels without resources.”

  Cavendish removed his jacket, hung it in the closet, and rolled up his sleeves. Wesley suddenly found the covers whisked from the bed.

  “What are you doing?” he exclaimed.

  “I’m going to give you massage using ancient techniques I learned in China.”

  “A what?”

  “Just relax, Your Grace.”

  Ten minutes later, Wesley rolled out of bed in shock. “I can move my legs again! Cavendish, you’re a marvel!”

  “No, I’m a valet. There’s a large difference.” With a twitch of his waxed mustache, Cavendish rolled his sleeves down and retrieved his jacket. “I believe I hear the breakfast cart arriving. If you’ll don your dressing gown, I’ll set up the meal in the sitting room.”

  Wesley gaped as Cavendish left. Now I’m certain I need a valet!

  Lady Frederic was already eating breakfast when Wesley slid into his chair. She wore a dressing gown of flowing floral silk, and her hair was hanging loose about her shoulders.

  “Good morning, Wesley. I hope you don’t mind me starting without you, but I like my eggs hot.”

  “I’m glad you did, Mother.”

  The extensive number of dishes on the white, linen-draped table included broiled ham, smoked bacon, scrambled eggs, toast, muffins, and oatmeal. There were also pots of coffee, chocolate, and piping hot water for either English, green, or Oolong tea.

  “With so much for us to do this morning, Cavendish was very thoughtful to order up breakfast. He’s quite a find,” Lady Frederic said.

  “Yes, he is. He’s laying out my suit as we speak.”

  “Mrs. Neal is preparing my traveling gown and drawing my bath. I feel so spoiled, but I’m beginning to wonder what I ever did without her.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  As he reached for a freshly baked fruit muffin, Wesley noticed yet another one of Cavendish’s walking sticks propped up in the corner. This one was slender, fashioned of a highly polished dark wood, and sported a deep blue cut-glass knob handle. I wonder how many walking sticks the man has?

  Since there was much to be done, Cavendish didn’t allow his master to linger overlong at breakfast. After Wesley bathed, the valet gave him a shave and manicure. Wesley examined his buffed fingernails, impressed.

  “I’m not uncouth anymore,” he said.

  “I daresay you never were, Your Grace.”

  “Tell me, Cavendish, how many walking sticks do you own?”

  “I’ve never actually counted them, Your Grace, but I am quite the collector.”

  Wesley read Jules Verne until his mother was ready to go, while Cavendish sat nearby reading a pocket-sized copy of L’Art de la Guerre. Wesley gave the book’s title a curious glance.

  “Is that French?” he asked.

  “Yes. It’s The Art of War by Chinese military general Sun Tzu.”

  “He speaks French?”

  “No, he lived thousands of years ago. This is a translation from Chinese.”

  “Why don’t you read it in English?”

  “Sadly, the English translation does not yet exist.”

  Wesley returned to his book, puzzled. The man is extremely learned for a valet. Could there be more to Cavendish than meets the eye?

  Mr. Darling ordered a Concord hotel coach large enough to accommodate the Oakhursts, the Parkers, their servants, and whatever luggage remained. Mr. Darling slipped Wesley his business card while the luggage was being loaded.

  “When you return to New York, the Fifth Avenue Hotel will always be at your service,” he said. “Bon voyage.”

  “I couldn’t imagine staying anywhere else,” Wesley replied. “We’ve enjoyed ourselves immensely.”

  Wesley shook Mr. Darling’s hand, entered the coach, and took a seat across from Belle. He immediately noticed dark circles under her eyes. “Didn’t you sleep well, Miss Oakhurst?”

  “I confess my love of exercise yesterday exceeded my ability, Your Grace. I was most appreciative of a long hot bath this morning,” she replied. “Even now, I can’t move without remembering those extra one hundred sixty-two steps most fondly.”

  Wesley laughed. “I understand. If not for Cavendish, I believe I’d still be languishing in bed.”

  The coach headed west toward the river, and then south to Pier 46, where the City of New York nestled against the dock in sleek black breathtaking splendor. The ship was five hundred sixty feet long, sixty-three feet across, and its three evenly spaced smokestacks jutted skyward as if the ocean liner were thumbing its nose at the elements. The clipper bow featured a fantastic carved female figurehead reminiscent of those on vessels long ago. The City of New York was also equipped with three auxiliary masts and sails, wholly unnecessary to her ability to maneuver, but beautiful nonetheless.

  As porters took their luggage aboard, Wesley lingered on the pier to admire the ship from stem to stern. Mr. Oakhurst and Cavendish flanked him on either side.

  “Her top speed is twenty knots, Your Grace,” Mr. Oakhurst said. “She was built in the Thomson Shipyard in Scotland, christened by Winston Churchill’s mother, and has a British staff and captain at the helm.”

  “I’m looking forward to making the ship’s acquaintance,” Wesley said.

  “May she act like a lady all the way to Liverpool,” Cavendish added in his rich, deep voice. “Afterward, she can let down her hair and cavort like a hoyden.”

  At that, Wesley and Mr. Oakhurst laughed.

  “She can indeed, Cavendish,” Wesley replied.

  Boarding the City of New York proved challenging due to the throngs of people on deck. The Parkers separated from the Oakhursts at the saloon deck entrance, as each family was shown to their accommodations. A uniformed steward named Finnegan led the Parkers one floor up to the promenade deck, where they were obliged to weave through an exuberant crowd. Wesley was jostled to and fro and nearly lost his hat.

  “Pardon me, Mr. Finnegan,” he said. “I thought the ship only held about two thousand passengers and crew? There are far more than that onboard.”

  “Most of these people are friends and family who’ve come to see the passengers off,” explained the steward. “They’ll leave when the captain sounds the warning bell.”

  A slight tightening of his throat made Wesley swallow hard. No one would be there to wish him or his mother bon voyage. He wondered if anyone from the neighborhood would really miss him at all.

  Mr. Finnegan first showed Lady Frederic and Mrs. Neal to their deck cabin, and then led Wesley and Cavendish to a nearby deck cabin of their own. Inside were a sitting room and an attached bedroom, with a private lavatory and bath. The suite was richly decorated, not unlike the one at the Fifth Avenue Hotel—but without the hanging chandelier. The windows, covered with fringed drapery, looked out over the ocean.

  “Why, it’s a little house!” Wesley
exclaimed.

  “With a very big view,” Cavendish remarked, glancing out the window.

  “This sitting room converts to a sleeping chamber for your valet, Your Grace,” Mr. Finnegan said. “Mr. Oakhurst felt you and Lady Frederic would be more comfortable with your servants close at hand.” He gestured toward a green glass bottle nestled in an ice bucket on the table. “May I open this champagne for you?”

  Wesley had never tasted champagne before, but he feigned a sophisticated demeanor. “Absolutely, yes. That would be very helpful.”

  While the steward wrestled with the champagne cork, Cavendish began to unpack Wesley’s trunks. Wesley suddenly noticed a second set of very fine luggage in the corner. The chests and trunks were Mediterranean blue leather, with black bumpers and brass locks, braces, and rivets.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Finnegan, but I believe this luggage must belong to someone else,” Wesley said. “I don’t recognize it at all.”

  Cavendish paused from his duties. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. Those are mine. I had them forwarded to the ship yesterday.”

  “Oh, of course,” Wesley said.

  The pop of the cork distracted Wesley from the luggage. Mr. Finnegan poured him a glass of the clear bubbly liquid, and Wesley took a sip. Although the champagne tasted like grapes, the bubbles tickled his nose.

  Mr. Finnegan checked his pocket watch. “We’re to set sail at one o’clock sharp, a little over an hour from now. As we’ve no steerage passengers heading east, we’re sailing light. I’ll make the rounds shortly with the passenger list.”

  “Passenger list?” Wesley echoed. “Whatever for?”

  “It makes a nice souvenir of the voyage.” The steward leaned forward as if to impart a confidence. “And the list helps passengers decide with whom to acquaint themselves and whom to avoid.” He winked.

  “Aha.”

  “If there’s anything I can help you with, please let me know.”