Gambling on a Scoundrel

by Sheridan Jeane

  The ship was shrinking in the distance. Tempy couldn't make out the faces of the people standing on deck any longer, and when she looked around, she realized she stood alone on the shore of an uninhabited island.

  "Help!" Tempy cried. "Won't someone help me?"

  Tempy heard the splash of oars and turned to see a stream she hadn't noticed before. It emptied out into the ocean not far from where she stood. There was a man in the little boat. Actually it was little punt, like the ones she'd ridden along the Thames.

  With a glimmer of hope, Tempy ran toward it, but she wasn't fast enough because the stream became a river as it reached the ocean and the little punt picked up speed. It almost seemed to fly past her, and in just a moment it was bobbing in the ocean, just yards away from her.

  "Help me!" she called to the oarsman.

  At the sound of her voice, the man turned to look at her, and Tempy was shocked to recognize Mr. Dickens.

  He'd help her. Of course he would.

  "Mr. Dickens, I need your help," she said as politely as possible. "Could you please row me out to that ship? My father and my fiancé are on it, and I need to join them."

  Mr. Dickens smiled broadly. "I can do even better," he called back. "I'll lay a path for you."

  He reached into the bottom of the boat and pulled out a sheaf of papers. Licking his forefinger, he plucked the top sheet from the stack and carefully laid it on the surface of the ocean. He then grabbed the oars, pulled on them to move the boat a little farther away from her, paused, plucked another sheet from the stack, and laid it on the water. "There you go!" he shouted, clearly very pleased with himself. "I'll lay the path and you can walk there yourself."

  Tempy stared at the rectangle of paper floating on the flat, waveless ocean. "But how? Won't I sink?"

  "Sink? Why would you sink?" Mr. Dickens asked as he let another sheet of paper drift down and land on the water.

  She would, wouldn't she? She reached out her foot to test the solidity of the paper, and the white sheet sank beneath the water. "It won't hold me."

  "You have to commit," Mr. Dickens said, speaking slowly as though talking to a rather slow child. "Just step on."

  Tempy inhaled sharply and held her breath for a moment. She slowly released it as she closed her eyes and placed her foot on the paper...

  and she sank like a stone to the bottom of the ocean.

  Tempy's eyes flew open as she took a gasping breath of air. She was in her room. In bed...not under the ocean. Even now, she realized that the heavy weight of the water pressing against her was fading.

  Or rather, it was now centered on her chest.

  She focused on a spot just a few inches above her breastbone where Osiris, her cat, was perched on her chest, his two front feet poking into her ribs just below her heart. He peered into her face with what seemed to her to be a self-satisfied cat smirk and bumped his forehead against hers.

  She pulled him against her and pressed her face in his soft white fur. He permitted her embrace for only a moment, and then pulled away.

  "I suppose you think it's time for me to wake up and pet you."

  Now that his mission of waking her was complete, Osiris ignored her. He walked away, tail held high, and jumped to the floor.

  Tempy sighed and then noticed that her face was wet. She must have been crying, she realized, and vaguely recalled something about trying to walk across the ocean on sheets of paper.

  What an odd dream. And Mr. Dickens had been in it.

  Tempy sat bolt upright in her bed. Mr. Dickens! She glanced at the clock on her bedside table. It was nine o'clock, she saw with relief. She flopped back against her feather pillows. She wasn't late. The meeting wasn't until eleven, which meant she had plenty of time dress and review her notes.

  Her thoughts wandered back to yesterday's encounter with Mr. Hamlin, like a tongue worrying at a sore tooth. Yesterday her thoughts had bounced back and forth from Ernest's behavior on the docks to Mr. Hamlin's refusal to allow her to speak to any of his patrons. Whenever one topic became too painful or frustrating to ponder, she'd switched to the other, but she hadn't been able to find a resolution to either problem.

  With the upcoming meeting with Mr. Dickens looming, Tempy could only think about finding a way to access Mr. Hamlin's casino. She had briefly considered visiting one of the other casinos London had to offer, but discarded them as all being too ordinary in comparison to Hamlin House. It would be as though she'd hobbled herself before beginning to write her article. Hamlin House was the premier gambling palace in all the city. If she wanted to write about the effects of gambling, she could hardly ignore the most popular and successful casino in London.

  She'd noticed Hamlin's reluctance to grant her access to his establishment when they first met at the tea room, but still, he'd said she could visit. What had happened during the time that had elapsed since then that had caused him to all but rescind his invitation? This had been the question upon which her worries had become stuck all day yesterday, and a good night's sleep had done nothing to move her any closer to understanding Mr. Hamlin's motivation. He was hiding something. She was certain of it.

  Tempy glanced at her bedside clock again and let out a heavy sigh. She bounded out of bed and yanked at the bell pull to summon one of the servants. She'd made a point not to hire a lady's maid. After all, this house already boasted three upstairs maids, and any of them could help her with the few small personal tasks that needed doing.

  After about a minute, one of the maids appeared. She was carrying a tray bearing Tempy's morning bowl of oatmeal and a teapot. She slid the tray onto a small round table in front of Tempy's bedroom window and then placed the silver egg-shaped tea infuser into the pot to allow it to begin brewing.

  Another maid entered with a pitcher of water which she placed next to the wash basin. Both of the young women left the room, and Tempy settled onto the little upholstered chair by the table and began to eat. By the time her meal was done, she had also finished her mental preparations for her meeting with Mr. Dickens.

  She discarded her dressing gown, and as soon as she'd slipped into her fresh pantaloons and shift, she pulled the bell cord again.

  Tempy had already selected the dress she planned to wear today. It was a silk afternoon dress, the color of tea spilled on a white napkin. Crisply pressed pleats ran across the top edge of the high-necked top, and they continued down the side of the bodice where it would fasten with a row of small buttons along her waist at her side.

  But first she needed her corset. Tempy chose a plain one, unhooked the row of fasteners down its front, and swung one edge of it around her back in a practiced move that allowed her to deftly catch the other end of it as it wrapped around her body. She aligned the row of silver hooks down the front of it and swiftly fastened them from just below her bosom to below her hips.

  The same young woman who had delivered her tea slipped into the room. Tempy offered her back and the girl made quick work of the task, alternating between tightening the upper set of corset strings and the lower set as she pinched Tempy's waist in far enough so that the dress would fit over it.

  "I think that will do," Tempy said, as soon as the corset felt right. She picked up the bodice of her dress and shrugged into it, testing the fit to ensure that the corset was tight enough. Fortunately, it fit perfectly on the first try, and the row of buttons easily slid into their buttonholes. Satisfied, Tempy thanked the maid who then retrieved the breakfast tray and departed.

  Tempy made quick work of donning the skirt and the voluminous petticoats that would give her the required inverted-tulip silhouette.

  As the last step of her morning toilette, Tempy pulled her hair into a rather severe bun and fastened it with a handful of hairpins. She used a lot of them, knowing that she'd be losing them all day. This was the only part of her morning routine that lacked finesse, but she was inept when it came to doing anything more elaborate. Unfortunately, this was a talent that the upstairs maids were lacking as well.<
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  Mr. Dickens wouldn't care. He wasn't interested in her ability to arrange her hair, but rather her ability to arrange words on a page.

  Tempy's stomach tensed. What if she was wrong? What if he didn't like her writing? But he had to still like her writing, didn't he? She hadn't changed in that respect.

  But what if he'd changed his mind? Just like Ernest?

  She jabbed another hairpin in place, wincing as she scraped her scalp in the process. This was no good. She couldn't wind herself up like a child's clockwork toy. She needed to compose herself.

  Headlines.

  BLISS BUILDS BRIDGES

  Hmm. Not a very good headline. Not very descriptive. It made her sound like she was engaged in construction work.

  BLISS MEETS DICKENS

  Still not good. Very flat. It didn't capture the imagination at all.

  She'd need to work on this one.

  She hurried out of her bedroom and down the stairs, making good time. Mr. Dickens's offices were less than two miles from her house

  She arrived at the offices of All the Year Round about ten minutes before the time of her appointment. The dark building had a curved corner entrance at the intersection of Wellington Street and Tavistock Street. It was just off Covent Garden, and it had been pleasant to walk there this morning.

  BLISS HAS GREAT EXPECTATIONS

  Hmm...maybe.

  A bell attached to the door rang as she pushed it open, and Mr. Dickens's secretary, a neat young man with short blond hair, looked up as she walked in. She introduced herself.

  The young man glanced at a day calendar that lay open on his desk and slid his finger down the page. "You're early." He looked up at her disapprovingly.

  "Yes."

  "He's still in a meeting. You'll have to wait." He gestured toward some empty chairs and then returned to perusing a sheaf of papers.

  Tempy nodded and sat down in one of the wooden chairs along the wall. The office was on the ground floor and had large windows, so Tempy could watch people passing by on the street. It was a rather busy intersection, and Tempy was able to keep herself entertained by trying to imagine where each person who passed by might be going.

  It wasn't long before the door to Mr. Dickens's office swung open and two men emerged. The first, a bearded man of about forty and wearing wire rim glasses, leaned heavily on a cane.

  Tempy immediately recognized his round, boyish face. It was none other than Wilkie Collins, the man who had written the novel being serialized for All the Year Round. He was followed by Mr. Dickens.

  Tempy watched Collins keenly as she rose to her feet. She'd heard rumors that he was sorely afflicted with a joint ailment. Based on his stiff movements and his heavy reliance on his cane, Tempy realized that the rumors had not been exaggerated.

  Mr. Dickens followed his friend out of his office as the two men chuckled over some shared jest. Mr. Dickens's gaze immediately fixed upon Tempy, and he paused. "Miss Bliss, I'm sorry if I kept you waiting," he said, and then stepped forward to greet her.

  She smiled and held out her hand. "I arrived a bit too early. It's a pleasure to see you."

  Mr. Dickens performed the introductions, and Mr. Collins smiled encouragingly at her. "I can't tell you how happy I was to hear that you will be writing for the newspaper," Mr. Collins said.

  "The honor is all mine," she said, focusing on Mr. Collins. She noted that his pupils were oddly dilated. "I hadn't expected to have the opportunity to meet you today. I particularly enjoyed your book, The Woman in White."

  Mr. Collins's round face brightened with an affable smile. "Why, thank you. I hope you'll find that you also enjoy No Name as you read the serialized version over the next few months." He glanced back at Mr. Dickens and then returned his gaze to Tempy. "I found it necessary to finalize a few details before leaving for Bath. It's my hope that the waters there will help with my affliction. I count myself lucky that my dear Caroline and her daughter will accompany me. Having close friends and family make afflictions easier to bear."

  His words sent a sharp jab of pain through Tempy, and suddenly she envied this man, with his painful joints and his purported opium addiction and the love of his friends and family. "I couldn't agree with you more." And she would have that kind of love, too, as soon as she won back Ernest. She had to, because it was the only way she could have her family back. Well, Ernest's family, yes, but they would also be hers as soon as they married.

  Mr. Dickens clapped his friend on the shoulder. "I think Bath is just the place for you. Take as much time as you like. You needn't rush back to London. If I have any questions, I can write to you."

  Mr. Collins nodded. "Then I'll be off. It was a pleasure to meet you," he said, tipping his hat to Tempy and then stepping carefully out onto the street.

  Tempy watched through the rectangular panes of glass as the man limped painfully down the street. She sent out a fervent wish for him to find some relief from his pain in the waters of the ancient hot springs in Bath. Many people had sojourned there over the centuries, so there must be some truth behind the rumors of its curative effects. She hoped so, for Mr. Collins's sake.

  "Please, come into my office," Mr. Dickens said, waving his arm in a broad flourish. Like Mr. Collins, he was bearded, but Dickens favored a mustache and a rather wiry goatee. The warm brown of his beard matched his hair, but his receding hairline and arched brows left him with a slightly surprised air. Overall, he appeared to be a genial man, with a kindness about him that immediately put Tempy at ease.

  She preceded him into the room and then sat on the chair next to his desk. Mr. Dickens's desktop wasn't cluttered. Far from it. Everything seemed to be meticulously arranged. In the bright sunlight shining into the room, she noticed surprisingly few dust motes. When she glanced at the papers on his desk, she saw he favored blue ink. An anachronistic quill pen rested on his desk blotter. These days, most people preferred metal nibs since quills required careful preparation, but apparently Mr. Dickens wasn't among them.

  Mr. Dickens pulled out a low-backed wooden desk chair, causing its wheels to clatter on the hardwood floor. He sat and relaxed against its curved back. His pose was casual, with one arm draped over the unpadded armrest. As he observed her, he crossed his legs, rotating the ankle of his raised foot as though it had a kink in it.

  "Have you decided upon a focus for your article?" he asked.

  "I'm narrowing it down," Tempy replied. "A friend arranged for me to have access to a casino." She intentionally omitted the fact that she'd only been invited to go there when it was closed. After all, that detail didn't matter, since she'd already decided to ignore that particular restriction. "I want to understand the various effects gambling has upon the wealthy members of our society."

  "Excellent. That will fit in perfectly. I can count on you to deliver it in two weeks?"

  Tempy swallowed. Two weeks? How would she manage to write this article when she also had to find a solution to this problem with Ernest? But looking into Mr. Dickens's confident eyes, she realized that there was only one acceptable answer. Only one answer she could live with. "Yes."

  Dickens slapped his leg and grinned. "I knew I could count on you. Your reputation for tenacity and reliability precedes you. Have it here two weeks from this Monday. Or the night before, if you can manage it."

  That gave her a couple of more days than she'd expected. An entire additional weekend. A knot of tension in her stomach that she hadn't even been aware of suddenly eased. This kind of opportunity didn't come often, and she was determined to impress Mr. Dickens with her writing, her timeliness, and her professionalism. This could lead to many more writing opportunities. Or to none at all if she failed.

  And failure wasn't an option.

  They chatted for a few more minutes, and then Mr. Dickens escorted her out, just as he had done with Mr. Collins. His show of respect was like a balm, and Tempy walked out of the doors of All the Year Round with her head held high and a bounce in her step.

 
Mrs. Jenkins, who lived two doors down from Tempy, was approaching with her daughter, Beatrice. Tempy had known them both for years, but not well. She smiled and nodded a greeting.

  Mrs. Jenkins glanced up at the sign on the building Tempy had just exited and frowned. Then she let out a huff and grabbed her daughter by the arm and hurried them both past Tempy without even acknowledging her presence.

  All of Tempy's good humor disappeared. Could she really blame them? After all, anyone who was seen speaking with her ran the risk of having Earl E. Byrd write about them in tomorrow's newspaper. And what kind of mother would let her daughter consort with a female journalist?

  There was no acceptance here on the street from the privileged members of society. It could only be found inside the doors of All the Year Round with people who truly understood her.

  And with Ernest's family.

  8 - A Visit to Hamlin House

  BLISS BREACHES BASTION

  Why did she even own a carriage if she never used it? Tempy hadn't wanted anyone to identify her carriage at the casino, so she'd decided to hire a hackney. At least this one was newer and cleaner than the one she'd taken to the docks.

  There'd been an article in the paper today by her nemesis, Mr. Byrd. Either he'd seen her at the docks yesterday or someone had told him all bout it, because he'd informed all of London about her fainting spell. She only hoped the man wasn't following her tonight, but tonight's weather would make following her difficult.

  It only took a few minutes to travel to Hamlin House. The hansom cab swept through the low-lying fog that had rolled into London along with nightfall. She could see little as she gazed out into the street, but she marked the passing of the gas streetlights, and they helped to orient her in the otherwise formless landscape. Occasional gaps appeared in the fog, but she saw no one in those brief glimpses of Mayfair. She knew there were people around her, however, because their voices drifted through the night.