Victorian Dream

by Gini Rifkin

  Merrick’s wife returned with a tantalizing plate of roast beef and gravy, browned potatoes, and a fresh loaf of Cook’s earlier achievement.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, as they retired to a dining area. “I can’t tell you how much I needed a good home-cooked meal.”

  “You’re welcome, Captain,” Wynona sliced the bread, and poured tea for him and her husband. “Don’t make yourself scarce around here,” she added. “We enjoy visitors. Especially handsome ones.” With that, she gave him a wink and busied herself elsewhere.

  “We lost our boy in ’47, in South Africa,” Merrick said. “He would have been around your age, had he lived. She likes to see a young face at the table.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Merrick. It’s never right that a man should bury a son.”

  “I’m sorry too. I don’t hold with all this foreign fighting. If you ask me there’s plenty rebellion here in this country needin’ our attention. You ever been to war? Is that why you go by Captain?”

  “My title is due strictly to the good fortune of commanding a ship,” he revealed, between bites. “But yes, I’ve seen battle. The Mexican war, ’46 to ’48.”

  Merrick nodded his head thoughtfully, then both men fell silent. Walker cleaned his plate, and tried not to visualize in too great a detail the bloody memories stirred by their conversation. Other than being a grim training ground for life, war was a brutal useless phenomenon.

  Chapter Four

  The next morning, ignoring the kidney pie grumbling around in his belly, Walker left the hotel dining room. What he wouldn’t give for three eggs sunny side up, a rasher of bacon, and coffee—dark as sin and strong as Atlas. Anything but this blasted tea. Some of the food here was as disagreeable as the weather.

  A dirty mist hovered over the city. They needed a good thunderstorm to wash away all the grit and grime choking the breath out of London Town. At least he’d had the foresight to pack utilitarian clothes. Who cared if they marked him a “Yank” and garnered sideways glances? They were practical, which to his way of thinking counted for much.

  After a few blocks, soot-infused moisture beaded on his black canvas duster, and mud spattered his knee-high boots. He gave an amused smile. A few of the English women out and about seemed nonplussed by the elements. They discreetly hiked up their skirts and tiptoed through the worst of it. You had to give them credit for that.

  Following the directions given by the hotel clerk, he arrived at J. S. Fry & Sons just as the storefront shutters opened to patrons. Several people were already waiting for custom—chocolate was evidently in high demand here. As he waited his turn, he retrieved one of the precious candy wrappers, and flattened it as much as possible.

  “You’re up next, sir,” announced the young man behind the counter. “What might we offer you today?”

  “I’m interested in this particular item,” he said, handing over the foil.

  “A most excellent choice sir.” There was surprise in the lad’s voice as he studied Walker more closely. “This particular lot came from our Bristol establishment, although we do have a limited supply available here as well.”

  “I take it you don’t sell many of them.”

  “They are top of the line. And being a favorite with the Royal Family, quite expensive as it were”

  “Who besides the Queen has a taste for them?” he probed.

  “William Clarke always buys a box for his All-England Eleven when they win.”

  “When they win what?” He’d never heard of the man or the group.

  “When they win the match.”

  “Boxing match?”

  “Heavens no, sir. They’re high-class cricketers.”

  Of course, cricket. The New York City newspaper frequently touted the St. George’s Cricket Club. “Who else?” he encouraged, doubting this group had any interest in his shipping line.

  “Well, there’s the Ladies Temperance Organization. They may be against the drink, but they do love their sweets. And lately one of our rather frequent customers is a Mr. Lanteen. I don’t believe he buys them for himself, the gentleman is trim as fashion demands.” The young man fell silent as if realizing he may have slipped beyond sales-pitch to gossiping.

  Mr. Lanteen. This was getting interesting. Figuring no further information would be forth coming, he eased up on the questioning. “Sounds like esteemed company. I’d like to purchase a small box if you please.”

  He planned to give them to Miss St.Christopher. The feeling he had much for which to atone regarding the condition of her parents still bothered him. And although a rather meager start, the chocolates would show his personal interest in her comfort. Was Lanteen also plying Trelayne with sweets on a regular basis? That put a bit of tarnish on the uniqueness of the gift.

  “Thank you, sir. That will be Ł10.”

  Ten pounds...He quickly worked out the monetary conversion in his head. Good Lord. That was nearly a month’s wage for a sailor.

  “The papers are made with gold-leaf,” the clerk added, at his hesitation.

  “Well, that makes all the difference then,” Walker said, working to keep the sarcasm from his voice. He handed over the coinage, took the small decorative box, and slipped it into his pocket. Personally, he’d rather have a piece of blueberry pie.

  ****

  “Lucien, what a surprise. Had we an engagement I’ve overlooked?”

  Trelayne rose to meet her ardent suitor. What, she wondered, would be his excuse for showing up unannounced this time?

  “No, darling, we made no arrangements. I was overcome by the most curious sensation straight from out of the blue, and I thought you were in some sort of trouble. So I set out immediately to reassure myself all was well.”

  This was a new twist on his usual fabrications. Now he was being inspired by communication from the ethereal realm. Yet how could she complain about his perseverance and attention? Although a bit overwhelming at times, it was flattering to be doted upon, and it wasn’t as if ardent admirers were beating down the door. Mother was from old money, Father was not, and their combined fortune was far from vast. Therefore, over the years, the number of acceptable suitors had been sparse, and viable marriage proposals even more paltry.

  “I’m perfectly healthy and sound, Lucien. But there is news regarding Mother and Father. News of which you must be apprised.” She took a seat on the divan, and Lucien followed suit. “They’ve suffered a most grievous accident in America.”

  “Your parents? Oh, my dearest. I am sorry.” He scooped up one of her hands and held it to his chest. “You’re bearing up magnificently, my brave girl. Tell me everything.”

  “It happened in Massachusetts, during the christening of the partnership’s new vessel. There was an incident on the wharf. Mother and Father are both in hospital, under the strictest care and protection. Their recovery has been assured, but apparently it will be quite some time before they are able to return home.”

  “And you will remain here rather than making for America?”

  “Yes. Since we do not know if it was a true accident or a malicious act, Captain Garrison felt it more prudent for me to remain in England.”

  Dropping her hand as if it had sprouted warts, Lucien sprang to his feet. “Garrison. He was not injured?”

  “No, Lucien. He’s perfectly fine, and stopped by yesterday.”

  “He’s here? This is outrageous. How dare he bother you at a time like this?”

  “But he’s been no bother, Lucien. He’s arranged for weekly reports from the doctor and has offered to help me with the shipping business until my mother and father return.”

  “I’m sure he has been most helpful indeed.”

  The cold anger in Lucien’s voice was near palpable, and the expression in his pale blue eyes did nothing to warm the atmosphere.

  “Next he’ll be pressuring you for money, and seeking your family name to back his enterprise. You must not sign any papers regarding the formation of the partnership concocted by hi
m and your father.”

  “You are full of presumptions today, Lucien. Captain Garrison has done nothing of the sort. He has acted the gentleman in every respect.”

  Although there was not a reason in the world for it, unquestionably defending Walker seemed the correct thing to do. She had not forgiven him for his part in her parent’s misfortune—still she couldn’t bring herself to malign him in front of Lucien.

  “Fortunately,” she added, “all the papers were signed prior to the accident. The partnership is in full-swing.”

  Lucien turned pale as cream, and couldn’t have appeared more stricken had she announced the permanent closure of the Ascot racetrack. He paced about like a caged animal, grinding the fist of one hand into the palm of the other.

  “This is preposterous,” he stormed, coming to a halt before her. “You know nothing about this man. How can you blithely trust his intentions or his ability to run your father’s business? You should have consulted me before handing the reins to this…this American.”

  “Goodness sakes, Lucien, do calm yourself. Captain Garrison has been around ships and transport lines for a good portion of his life. I’m sure his intentions for the partnership are to see it prosper and grow. Besides, while you are fabulous at overseeing father’s legal affairs, you hardly know one wit about the day-to-day running of the shipping business. I have spent more time on the docks with Poppa than have you.”

  What was wrong with Lucien? The only time she had seen him this distraught was following a three-day losing streak during Derby week. She should ring for tea, perhaps a cup would settle him down. She gained her feet, and was about to reach for the bell pull when the maid entered.

  “You’ve another visitor, Miss Trelayne. ’Tis Capt. Garrison.” The girl blushed like an ingénue, barely suppressing a giggle, her mannerisms a far cry from those she exhibited when announcing Lucien.

  “Should I show him in?”

  “Yes, of course. And Bitsy,” she added, “please arrange for tea.”

  Heart racing, Trelayne patted at her hair and smoothed her skirts. What a frantic morning. Another unannounced visit. Had the world gone mad? Yet somehow, she didn’t mind Captain Garrison’s intrusion.

  She glanced up. There he was, as tall as she remembered, and so commanding, his broad-shouldered visage seeming to fill the doorway. A long black duster draped over his left arm, he gripped a very large black hat in his hand. The other clothes he sported were modest, and more suited for genteel labor than for visiting.

  Form-fitting brown trousers hugged his muscular thighs before disappearing into rugged knee-high boots. His shirt, of fine linen, sported a band collar disallowing for a cravat, and his top jacket made of thick wool appeared warm and inviting. She gripped her hands together, but what she really wanted to do was ease them up inside the garment.

  Their gazes locked. Like the needle on a ship’s compass, she felt a magnetism drawing her in his direction. It urged her forward, but she held her ground.

  He remained unmoving as well, boldly staring at her. Not wishing to shatter the moment, she stared back in silence, noting how his dark hair, thick and abundant, curled over the top of his collar. He possessed a strong nose, nicely balanced and refined by an equally strong chin. But what truly fascinated her was his mustache. She had wicked thoughts of touching it. It was not a foppish pencil-thin affair, but a full-fledged, well-groomed healthy accumulation, and it aroused some primal response in her soul.

  Lucien had tried growing a mustache. It had been a scraggly failure, soon shaved off and never referred to again. Captain Garrison’s facial hair seemed an integral part of his being, adding a hardy no-nonsense air to his countenance. It was difficult to imagine him without it, but it was easy to picture him upon the sea. He appeared entirely capable of commanding a ship—or a woman—to do his bidding.

  “Good morning, Miss Trelayne,” he finally said, jogging her thoughts back to her surroundings.

  “Good morning, Captain Garrison,” she returned, with a little shake of her head. “How fare you so far in London?”

  “I’m doing quite well. Thank you.”

  With a none-too-subtle cough, Lucien reminded her of his presence.

  “Oh, I am sorry. Captain Walker Garrison, may I present Lucien Lanteen.”

  To her surprise, Walker’s gaze narrowed and a muscle jumped along his clenched jaw as he took stock of Lucien.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he finally said. Ambling forward he extended his hand. His words were cordial, but there was a hard edge to his expression and manner.

  “Indeed.” Offering little enthusiasm, Lucien returned the gesture with a limp shake of the proffered hand. “If you need the services of a tailor while you are here, I could put in a good word for you with mine. I’m sure he would make time for someone so desperately in need of his skills.”

  Walker stepped back, amusement turning up one corner of his mouth. “Why thank you, Mr. Lanteen. And you let me know if you’re ever interested in being outfitted in clothes suitable for activities more energetic than tea parties.”

  Covering her mouth with one hand to hide her smile, she fought not to laugh. Score one for Captain Garrison.

  Lucien appeared positively livid. The air between the two men seethed and crackled with unchecked emotion. Had it been visible, it most definitely would have been blood red. The awkward situation was saved when Aunt Abigail sailed into the room. The maid followed in her wake, carrying the tea service.

  “Good morning, all,” she greeted. After kissing Trelayne on the cheek she took up her post at her side. Her cheerfulness lightened the atmosphere, and the two men came to attention and eased back into metaphorical neutral corners.

  “To what do we owe the pleasure, Captain?” her aunt asked, ignoring Lucien. Apparently she figured he was present for the usual non-reason. “Any news from abroad?”

  “Nothing to report regarding Phillip and Ophelia,” Walker began. “And do please pardon my unscheduled arrival. If it would not be too inconvenient, I was hoping to check the inventory at the warehouse and perhaps familiarize myself with Philip’s accounts.”

  “I am responsible for the bookkeeping, as well as Phillip’s legal concerns,” Lucien growled.

  “Then I’m sure all will be found in good order,” Walker countered.

  “Today is not convenient. I thought to take Trelayne to see the Crystal Palace.”

  “Lucien, we talked about going next week, after my new dress and hat have been completed. Let us accommodate Captain Garrison. I’m sure it would be most helpful for him to become acquainted with the business he has graciously offered to oversee.”

  “As you wish,” Lucien deferred, but the contempt in his eyes never wavered as he aimed a heated glare at Walker. “I’ll have the books available, and inform the clerk at the office of your impending visit.” Rudely, he turned his back on Walker. “Now what might I do for you, my darling?” he asked.

  “Nothing. Thank you for your concern and for coming to visit.” She added the last by way of dismissal and prayed he would oblige.

  After a moment of awkward silence, Lucien took the hint and stalked across the room. Walker shuffled sideways to avoid being winged by the man’s determined exit. Then the front door slammed shut.

  “Shall we have our tea before it cools?” Aunt Abigail cheerfully offered, ignoring the incident.

  At the suggestion, Walker appeared disappointed, his expression not holding a dram of enthusiasm. She pictured him more comfortable with a mug of ale or some such brew rather than a teacup. He seemed so earthy and genuine in an overwhelmingly masculine sort of way.

  He gave a quirky good-natured smile, however, set aside his outer wear, and wedged himself into a chair. As she poured, he retrieved a small package from his jacket pocket, and set it upon the silver-serving tray.

  “I happened by a shop selling these this morning,” he explained, “and I thought they looked enticing.”

  She stared at the little box and won
dered why he had just lied to her. Fry and Son’s was a far cry from conveniently located between the hotel at which he stayed and Royston Hall. How curious.

  “Thank you, Captain Garrison. These are my very favorite chocolates.”

  “I thought we agreed you were to call me Walker.”

  “I promise to do so in the future,” she amended.

  Her heart warmed to the idea, and her cheeks warmed to the way he looked at her. Yes, she longed to do just that, call him by his Christian name—unusual as it was. But she dare not. She must keep some semblance of proper distance between the two of them. After all, she hardly knew the man, and he had a perilous effect upon her mind and body. She had only seen him twice, but she wished to see a great deal more of him. He was an intriguing foreigner, and unduly handsome. He seemed a hot spark, and she felt like dry tinder, lying in wait.

  ****

  Lucien rode posthaste to the office. He must review the books, both sets, and make sure everything appeared as it should.

  Had there ever been a more frightful morning? It was beyond belief. One set of shocking news following upon the heels of another. The partnership papers already signed, sealed, and delivered, and that meddling bastard Garrison healthy as a horse and here in London.

  He’d seen the Alicia Elaine docked at St. Katherine’s harbor, but never dreamed it brought such disastrous cargo. The finalizing of the partnership would severely hamper his control over the situation, offering too many opportunities for interference and prying eyes. Damnation…he raised a fist and railed against the heavens. Maybe the contract papers were forgeries. He should have demanded to see them.

  Months ago, he tried to kibosh the partnership, but that had not worked. Philip thought teaming up with this uncouth American a grand idea. It was an outrage. Barely thirty-five years had passed since England had been at war with these Yankee upstarts, yet Philip welcomed them with open arms. Then before he knew it, the St.Christophers were sailing for New Bedford. Another personal affront. He hadn’t even been asked to go along to handle the paperwork.