by L G Rollins
It would be a grand way to begin the relationship once again. Two years had turned out to be a much longer time away from England than even he had anticipated.
Nathaniel returned to his motor car and, after a couple cranks, it started with a bang. In just the two years he’d been gone, even England herself had changed. Life was not as simple as it once was, and everything was becoming mechanical. His own mother had a long shaft installed in the back wall of their town house which led from the kitchen below to her own bath chamber above. The shaft was specially designed to corkscrew water, heated by maids in the kitchen, up two full floors and dump it into her tub. Hot water at the ring of a bell. It astounded him every time he thought of it.
Nathaniel turned down a small street, the evening air chilling his ears. The whole point and purpose of the two year, round-the-world, trip was to make enough money to leave him free to stay home for at least three, if not four years.
Some of his crew members were also staying on land for a time to be with their families. Others had found temporary positions on other ships and submarines; the extra money would send some of their children to the University.
They all had sacrificed much to be away for so long a time. Now, they could all enjoy the benefits.
For Nathaniel, that meant staying home.
His mind flitted back to his brief conversation with the unexpected Lord Chauncey and the beautiful Doctor Sterling. He might as well get practice turning down business proposals now. There was no chance by the gears above, or the gears below as the more colorful characters around the docks said, that anyone was going to drag him away from Melissa. Now not. Not when he’d only just got back.
He reached his townhome and parked. The tall doors opened the moment he alighted and started up the steps. He breathed in the crisp London air, and smiled at the butler he’d known his whole life. It really was good to be home again.
“Evening, Thompson.”
The wrinkled butler bowed in response, took Nathaniel’s jacket, and left to hang it up.
“Papa!” Melissa’s shriek filled the entry way. His daughter charged down the elegant stair case, braided pig-tails slapping against her back, and threw her arms around his waist.
“Hello, my Poppet.” Lifting her up, he squeezed her tightly to him. Yes, it was very good to be home once more. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his Gearhound, or that he wasn’t honored to sail with the crew who answered to him. But, each night aboard the submarine, he only thing he could see in his mind’s eye was Melissa—and when he got back he had been shocked at how she’d changed.
A firm, rich voice resonated from the doorway leading into the parlor. “You are supposed to be studying your French, Melissa.”
Melissa only pressed herself closer to Nathaniel.
“Hello, mother.” Nathaniel moved toward her, angling around Melissa in his arms, and kissed Mrs. Hopkins lightly on the cheek.
“Tell me ‘bout the circus!” Melissa yelled in his ear.
His mother shook her head. “The word is ‘a-bout’. Now say it properly.”
Nathaniel turned to his little girl. Did his mother always have to be so strict with her? He’d been home less than forty-eight hours and he’d been more than a little disconcerted at the firm hand his mother had adopted with Melissa.
However, Melissa only lifted her chin, smiled primly and turned to him. “Tell me about the circus, please.” Her voice was mellow. Nathaniel stared at her surprised. Where was all the excitement and sunshine Melissa was exuding only moments ago?
“That is much better,” his mother smiled softly. “Now hurry back upstairs. Do your French and your father can tell you all about the circus after supper tonight.”
Melissa climbed out of his arms—he let her go, wordless—and she daintily walked up the stairs, skirt held primly in both hands. He had expected to return and find her bigger, but she’d changed in so many more ways than size alone. Why couldn’t she stay the same rambunctious girl she’d been two years ago?
“Come into the parlor, dear. The vicar’s wife, Mrs. Grimshaw, and I are having a lovely visit. You must come join us.”
“Thank you, mother, but no.” His eyes didn’t leave the stairs his daughter had disappeared up.
His mother’s hand pressed lightly against his forearm. “Are you feeling quite well?”
He turned toward her and opened his mouth. But how to explain? When his wife had died soon after childbirth, Nathaniel was relieved and immensely grateful that his mother was willing to step in and help raise Melissa. Moreover, it wasn’t as though there was anything improper in the way his daughter acted. The exactly opposite was closer to the truth. Still, he missed the way Melissa used to prattle on and skip about the house.
“I think,” he said, “I shall check in with Melissa’s governess and see how she is progressing.”
“She is fine dear. I spoke with her governess only two months ago. There is nothing to concern yourself with.”
“I know, Mother. I will be back down in a moment, before your guest leaves. I promise.” He squeezed her hand where it rested against his arm and then made his way up the stairs.
He could hear the sound of his little girl pronouncing French verbs from well down the hall. Pausing in front of the nursery doorway, he looked around. The room had changed almost as much as Melissa had. He’d left her, two years prior, sitting on the floor playing with dolls, water color ‘masterpieces’ hanging on the wall. Now, she sat upright at a small table, all toys and books were carefully placed on shelves, and the watercolor had been replaced with careful line drawing.
Melissa’s governess had a harsh bun atop her head and wire-rimmed glasses on the tip of her nose. Melissa turned her head, curious, when he walked in.
“Keep going,” he said to them both. “Don’t mind me.”
They both turned away from him, but the governess’ scowl seemed to deepen and she shifted multiple times in her seat. Though she wasn’t saying much, no more than a small correction here and there to Melissa, the governess’ discomfort at having him in the room was still loud and clear.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have bothered them during Melissa’s studies. It was a bit silly; he, a grown man, dawdling around a small nursery just to hear his daughter recite French verbs from a book. Ridiculous to be sure, but he had missed his little girl tremendously and now that he was home he couldn’t seem to get enough of her.
He turned his attention to the art work covering the wall. Melissa certainly had improved with a paintbrush. Several charcoal drawings were also interspersed among the collection. He fingered the corner of a painting of a chestnut horse. Nathaniel smiled, the pictures she used to paint weren’t nearly so detailed. Splotches of color on paper mostly, but she’d always been adamant that they were flowers, or houses, or her papa’s submarine.
He moved to another picture—two girls, friends most likely, sitting atop a pastel picnic blanket. Another—a bridge with autumn trees all around. Another . . .
Nathaniel blinked. What was this? He tore the paper from the pins holding it to the wall. He glanced over his shoulder at Melissa, who had stopped suddenly at the sound of paper tearing. His tight grip on the paper was no doubt an overreaction. It was only a drawing, after all. Still, what ideas, precisely, had she been exposed to in his absence?
“I believe that Melissa has had enough for today,” Nathaniel said quickly to the governess. “I wish to speak with her privately.”
The governess didn’t argue, or even respond. Instead, she quietly gathered a couple of books, dropped him a truncated curtsy, and left the room.
“Come here,” Nathaniel said to his daughter, his tone firm. So many times his navigator, Brownsea, had told Nathaniel that his only complaint with work was that his children undoubtedly found trouble whenever he was away. It was a sentiment many of his crew could sympathize with. It seemed, Nathaniel was getting his first taste as well.
Melissa, head tilted, walked in that refined manner he did
not doubt came directly from his mother. When she reached his side, he dropped to one knee so that they were on eye level and turned the picture toward her. “Why did you draw a gun?” One with deep red splotches surrounding it, no less.
Melissa didn’t fidget or in any way seemed embarrassed he found the art piece. Instead, she’d stood up straighter and placed her small hands together in front of her, much the same way he’d seen women at the circus do all afternoon long. She was growing up much too fast.
“Didn’t Grandmama tell you?” she asked.
“Tell me what?”
Melissa’s voice stayed matter-of-fact. “I have decided to become a werewolf bounty hunter when I grow up.”
Nathaniel’s stomach sunk into his boots. A werewolf huntress? Of all the possibilities open to women nowadays, why would she choose something so dangerous and cruel? For the second time since returning home today, he was left without words. The hunting and killing of werewolves without provocation was barbaric, though he knew several prominent individuals who believed it was the best approach.
Melissa pointed at the picture. “I drew this so you would know which gun I wanted for Christmas.” She leaned forward, growing serious. “I need to start practicing my aim soon. But I don’t suppose I’ll need silver bullets for a few more years yet.”
His jaw clenched tight. For a few more years yet? Seriously? She was barely seven; they had just celebrated her birthday a few days prior. “And you’ve told Grandmama about this, have you?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve heard her say many times that we need more hunters. But she says I can’t be one because I’m a girl.” She began tugging on his arm, her small hands pulling softly against him. “But I can be one, right Papa? You said I could be anything I wanted to be.”
Nathaniel pinched his lips together. How had Mother not brought this to his attention? Granted he’d only been home a couple nights now. Still, there had been a number of times when Melissa was not in earshot that she could have, should have, said something to him.
“Poppet,” he began. But her wide eyes stopped him. How did a man explain the brutal reality of life to his sweet-hearted daughter?
Drawing in a deep breath he tried again. “Dearest, of course you can be anything you want. However . . .”
Well, for one who could clearly communicate complex naval instructions in the mist of crisis, he certainly wasn’t doing so well now. “You need to understand. Werewolves aren’t wild animals.” So long as they weren’t in wolf form. “They aren’t prey.” Again, when not in wolf form. “They’re people.” Mostly.
Melissa’s face scrunched. “Did you see what one did to Mademoiselle Dubois? I’m going to make sure that doesn’t happen again. To anyone.” She held her chin high, and then abruptly turned back to the picture. “So, I need this gun. Do you know what type it is?”
*****
It was well after their neighbors had left, after dinner had been served and removed, after he sung to Melissa as she snuggled deep in the covers, before Nathaniel had a moment alone with his mother in the parlor. It was comforting that, after being gone so long, the dark woods and burgundy accents which filled the room still felt like home.
“You have failed to mention to me, thus far, of Melissa’s new ambitions.” Nathaniel was in no mood for beating around the bush as he strode toward the mantle. Night had barely begun to darken the sky, and already exhaustion weighed him down as though he’d just finished an eighteen hour shift.
With a heavy sigh, Mother stuck her needled deep into the fabric on which she was embroidering small flowers and rested the whole of it on her lap. Removing her spectacles, she rubbed a wrinkled hand against her eyes.
“Oh that.” Her own voice sounded nearly as tired as he felt. “It’s been ever since Adaleigh Dubois’ accident. Melissa absolutely adores Mademoiselle Dubois.”
“You mean”—Nathaniel pointed to the top of his own shoulder—“it was a werewolf attack?”
Mother nodded. “Have you seen her then?”
“Today at the circus.” He had of course wondered when he’d seen Mademoiselle Dubois at the circus today, her high collared shirt not quite covering the bronze gears and wires connecting her arm to her body. Deuces—what a horrible ordeal that must have been.
“I am glad to hear she’s finally coming back out into society,” Mother said “Poor thing. Many thought she never would.”
“How long ago did it happen?”
“My,” Mother thought for a moment. “It couldn’t have been more than four or five months ago. When Melissa heard the story, she cried for three days straight. The doctors weren’t certain at first if Mademoiselle Dubois would survive. She lost a lot of blood, I hear.”
At least Nathaniel understood where Melissa was coming from now. After seeing how Mademoiselle Dubois had suffered, was it surprising Melissa would want to prevent others from suffering similarly? “Have you tried to dissuade her?”
“Melissa? Oh heavens, yes. I’ve told her over and over that bounty hunting is not an appropriate occupation for a lady of her standing. Though goodness knows we could use a safe way to rid our society of the monsters.”
Nathaniel’s head snapped up. “They aren’t monsters. They’re people who—”
“People who what?” Mother’s voice was firm. “People with a disease? That’s ludicrous. I would have thought for one who has traveled the world as much as you have, you would see the impracticality of treating werewolves as anything but wild, savage animals.”
Nathaniel had seen enough of the world to know most wild beast attacked out of fear and a need to protect themselves, not because they were innately evil. But as he looked down at his mother, the wrinkles blossoming around her eyes, the gray peppering her hair, he held his tongue. She had helped him and Melissa so much during the past years since his wife passed, he wasn’t going to begrudge her an option, no matter how outdated it was.
The weight of the day pressed down on him. Who would have guessed that returning home—leaving work and spending his days with family and neighbors—would have turned out to be as exhausting as commanding a full crew?
“You know,” Mother continued. “The problem with Melissa is that she has it in her head that she can be whatever she wants. That decorum has no place in society anymore.”
Did they have to argue this tonight? Another day, another time he would help his mother see the opportunities available to women now were a boon, not a scandal. A change of topics was in order. With any luck, he could distract Mother and they could revisit women’s rights another time.
“I met Doctor Sterling today. Are you acquainted with her?”
Mother picked up her embroidery and pulled on the needle. “That is exactly what I’m talking about. Young women these days—no propriety at all. Miss Sterling calls herself a research doctor. Rumor has it she’s even presented to the Committee for Scientific Advancement.” The tone of her voice left no room for question as to Mother’s opinion of Doctor Sterling’s actions. “That one is none too safe.”
He probably shouldn’t have hedged a conversation regarding women’s rights by bringing up Doctor Sterling. Nathaniel moved to a small chair across from the settee and sat hard.“What the blazes is that supposed to mean?”
Mother’s eye brow lifted clear up her forehead.
Nathaniel dragged a hand down his face. “Pardon me.” He wasn’t aboard the Gearhound with his crew anymore. He ought to watch his language better. “What did you mean by that statement, if you please.”
She must be tired as well, Nathaniel figured, since she didn’t lecture him on his choice of words. “I merely mean that while Miss Sterling—”
“Doctor Sterling.”
Both her eyebrows went up this time. Nathaniel truly needed to retire to his bedchamber; his frustrations were getting the better of him.
He raised a hand in submission. “I only mean that if Doctor Sterling has taken the time to study and become a doctor, I feel it would be rude to discount tha
t.”
Her lips remained pursed. “I meant that Doctor Sterling, while not yet old-maid status, will surely find herself there soon if she doesn’t make finding a husband more of a priority.”
Nathaniel nearly laughed out loud. Make finding a husband a priority? Melissa had better grow up with more in her life than the ambition to find a husband. Moreover, was Mother sharing such opinions out in society? His mother always meant well, but some of her ideals were a bit old. “She can’t be more than one and twenty.”
“Men.” Mother rolled her eyes. “She is no less than six and twenty. One would think she does not care for marriage at all.” Mother spoke the last bit under her breath, as if to herself, though Nathaniel seriously doubted she hadn’t wanted him to hear.
So much for a change of topics. His gaze moved to the glowing red embers in the fireplace. Still, he couldn’t help but think that if Doctor Sterling was twenty-six, that made her much closer to his own age than he had previously assumed.
For some reason, he liked knowing Doctor Sterling was not so very much younger than he. Truth was, he found it easier to respect someone who wasn’t barely out of finishing school. He liked thinking of her less as a wet-behind-the-ears idealist, and more as someone who had faced setbacks and chosen to press forward regardless.
“How was it you became acquainted with Doctor Sterling?” Mother asked, apparently finished with her rant.
“Lord Chauncey introduced us. The two were interested in hiring out the Gearhound.”
“Oh, Nathaniel you can’t.” The earnestness of Mother’s words surprised him.
“Don’t worry. I said no.” He could see the relief sweep through her, as her shoulders sagged and her mouth relaxed. She must be struggling to raise Melissa more than he had realized.
There came a knock at the parlor door and Thompson walked in, a letter atop a silver platter in his hand. Nathaniel’s name was written across the front in a bold script. Who would be writing him so very late in the evening? Nathaniel tore it open. The thick signature demanded attention: Lord Chauncey.