Victorian Dream

by Gini Rifkin

  “What day is it? How long have I been here?” he demanded, his hand clenched into a fist around the hotel receipt.

  “Slow down, Walker Garrison,” the man said, and laughed. “Hargis Braunwinson will be trying to answer your questions. I am not sure of the date, but it is fifteen nights since I find you fighting with those men. I helped to even the odds for you.”

  Unconscious for over two weeks. God only knew what had been happening in London. Everything was going terribly wrong. He’d yet to find proof connecting Grimsby to Lanteen, and now he was useless as a child in taking care of himself, let alone in protecting Trelayne.

  “Does anyone know I’m here?”

  Hargis shook his head. “No one knows you are alive or where you are. Three of the men who attacked you will bother no one again. The other scurries painfully about the waterfront like an injured rat.”

  Knowing one of his attackers still lived was good news. The man might have vital information, and a witness, reluctant or not, would be a boon to his mission

  “I owe you my life. Again, I thank you.”

  “Hargis knows what it is like to need a friend. I am glad to help.”

  Walker glanced at his boots standing beside the bed. One of them held his money for safekeeping. Intending to give the cash to Hargis, he strained sideways, grabbed up his left boot, and felt inside. Empty. He guessed the man had already helped himself. His gaze shifted to the other man’s face.

  “Oh ya, ya,” Hargis said, with a big grin. “Your fortune is safe.” He pried up a floorboard, revealing a tin box beneath the planking. Liberating the currency from the box he handed it over. “You should not hide your money in your boots,” he said, with reprimand. “If a bad person knocks you out, he will most likely steal your shoes.”

  Walker felt ashamed for having doubted the big man. In his attempt to protect the St.Christopher family, it had become second nature for him to mistrust everyone.

  “I beg your pardon, Hargis. You have been more than generous, and how do I repay you? I treat you with suspicion and prejudgment.” He extended the fist full of currency, but Hargis refused to take it.

  “I work for my money,” the other man said. “When you know Hargis better, you will see I can be a loyal companion. And when you feel better, we will go to town. Then you can buy me a drink, and we will have a merry time with the women.” The man’s laughter again filled the room.

  “How long have you been in England?” Walker asked.

  “Only one half and two months. I am trying to go to America. That is where you are from I think. But I had only enough money to get this far, and now I work for the Queen of England.” Walker raised a brow at that information. “We rebuild the Royal Pavilion near here,” Hargis clarified. “It will be truly wonderful. And, I am one of the few men on the crew who works unafraid in the banqueting hall."

  “The others fear the room?”

  “Oh, ya. It is haunted by the ghost of Mary Gunn, the Brighton Bather. But alive or dead, Hargis does not run from beautiful young women. Besides, they pay me extra to work in there. Soon I will have enough to sail to America and start a new life in the new country.”

  “What trade do you claim?” Walker asked.

  “I am king of the forge, blacksmith you call it. I turn iron into knives and swords. Or I can change silver into anything you want, something to adorn your clothes, or perhaps a trinket to please your special lady.”

  “Did you make all of the things?” he questioned, nodding toward the wall.

  “Ya, I have done so, and there is much more at home in Norway. I cannot bring it all. I have here my finest work to show what I can do. Also, these things are good company. A piece of me is in each piece of work. What is it you do, Walker Garrison, besides fighting vandals who outnumber you?”

  “I build sailing ships, like the one you hope to take to America. In fact, I know a few sea captains who make port in Brighton. As soon as I’m well enough, I’ll arrange passage for you on one of them.”

  “I will be appreciating your help. For now though, we put another poultice to your wounds. Then you get some sleep. Tomorrow you must try to get up. It will be a hard day’s work so you had best rest tonight.”

  How could he rest with anxiety chewing at his conscience? He’d screwed up. Left Trelayne with no one but Merrick to look after her. A sense of panic squeezed at his chest, and he couldn’t catch his breath. He must recover as quickly as possible, but judging by the way he felt, it might be a while before he could fend for himself. He should alert Merrick to the situation, but risking a written or telegraphed communication seemed unwise. Someone wanted him dead, and he wasn’t about to give them another chance. All he could do was wait—something he was not very good at.

  Hargis re-wrapped his wounds, the herbs soothing his unhealed flesh, and he marveled at Hargis’ gentle touch. He’d seen the big man knock an opponent cold with one blow. Yet those same hands had sewn his torn body together with stitches tiny and precise enough to rival the finest embroidery.

  As he was thinking about how good a shot of whiskey would taste, Hargis grabbed a jug and poured out two portions of blood red liquid.

  “Here,” his new friend offered. “This will make the pain sleep. Then you can sleep too. I will have some as well,” he added, “because I am such a damn good nurse. To Odin.”

  Hargis swallowed his portion in one gulp, and stood by in anticipation.

  Walker tossed down his share. At first nothing happened. Then a burning sensation exploded in his belly and spread outward. It made his eyes water. Coughing and sputtering, his arms wrapped around his chest to splint his ribs, he tried to catch his breath. Hargis laughed at the sight of him, showing no remorse at having caused his distress.

  “Good stuff, aye,” Hargis added. “You get used to it. This is what keeps us warm in a Norwegian blizzard.”

  Still laughing, Hargis dampened down the fire, and put out the oil lamp. Then he crawled between the covers of the sleeping pallet situated across the room.

  “Be seein’ you in the morning, Walker Garrison. Maybe then you can tell Hargis who is Trelayne. Day after day, you been asking for her.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Trelayne paused outside the Vicarage, her mission today more rudimentary. Deliver the donation she carried, and flee before the Vicar recruited her for another round of visitations.

  The human misery thriving in the backstreets of London had been terrible to witness, and her lack of resolve to return soon, left her feeling ashamed. Small steps, she reminded, or rather small doses. Chin up, she gained the entryway and lifted the brass knocker just as the portal opened and old Father Woolsey all but collided with her.

  “Bless my soul, Mistress Trelayne, how good to see you. Did we have an appointment?” He peered at her over his spectacles, his thin white hair fluttered around his head, his brow puckered in confusion. “Or perhaps you’ve come to procure another list of those in need.”

  “No,” she denied, too loudly. “I mean, not this time. I’ve come to offer coinage rather than time. With Mother and Father still in America I’m afraid my days are filled to overflowing. Running Poppa’s shipping company is terribly complicated, and although Wynona and Merrick are invaluable, there are things around the estate demanding my personal attention and…”

  She clamped her mouth shut to stop the flow of prattle spilling forth to cover her unease. Oh, why couldn’t she be more like Mother and Aunt Abigail? They were the ones with courage and fortitude. They faced trials and tribulations so fearlessly.

  “Of course, my dear. Calm yourself. Come inside and we’ll have a spot of tea.”

  “I didn’t mean to inconvenience you. Obviously you were on your way out.” Did her weak-willed character hover about her like an apparition?

  “Nonsense, child,” he reassured, leading her to the parlor. “I was merely going for my constitutional. Oh, Mrs. Casterbean,” he called, in a kindly voice.

  A gray-haired roly-poly woman pop
ped up at the door. “Yes, your grace. What can I be doing for you?” Pink cheeked, a sparkle in her eyes, she smiled and wiped her hands on an embroidered tea towel.

  “If you can see your way clear,” the Vicar said, “a pot of tea and a biscuit or two would be most appreciated.”

  “I’ll be on it straight away,” she promised, retreating from view.

  “About that donation,” Father Woolsey said, as they settled into wingback chairs by the hearth. “Pardon my being so forward,” he added, unabashed, “but we sorely need the money. Our latest project is for the children. Poor pips, they suffer the most.”

  The vision of little Jordie and his grief-stricken mother still haunted her, and liberating the money, she pressed it into his hands “Yes,” she said barely above a whisper, “for the children.”

  “I take it your tour of making rounds went well?”

  She swallowed back the words of protest. “It was very…enlightening. Have you read Dr. Hunter’s recent article in the Lancet?” she asked, changing the subject. Her father subscribed to many journals, and she had leafed through this one only yesterday.

  “An excellent discourse,” Father Woolsey acknowledged. “He’s proven the relationship between poverty and disease. Still, to elevate the habits of the masses to a more healthful way of life is a long way off.”

  At his words, her stomach knotted. “Isn’t there some means to help them with more expediency? Cannot the government force change upon the people? After all, it’s for their own good?”

  “A worthy thought. But who decides how much force is appropriate? As it is, the common man complains about too much Parliamentary intervention. If we dictate the factory owner must refuse work to women who are with child, these women will see it as being denied employment when they need it most.” He shook his head. “Protecting the child without further burdening the parent is a conundrum.”

  “We could start by educating the groups most affected,” she countered. “People usually make mistakes out of ignorance, not choice.”

  Father Woolsey veritably beamed at her. “Quite perceptive. Education is our greatest weapon. We’ve recently discovered many of the infant fatalities listed as malnutrition and respiratory distress are actually deaths caused by accidental overdoses of opium and laudanum.”

  “They give opium to children?” The outrageous possibility nearly brought her out of her chair.

  “Oh, yes indeed. In copious amounts. Mother's Friend, Godfrey's Cordial, Atkinson's Royal Infants Preservative, call it what you will, they all result in the infant wasting away from starvation. And all the while, the parents do not see the correlation between the drug and the deaths. They give it to the children so they sleep at night, and the people who tend the children while the parents work use it to make the babies less troublesome by day. The poor mites are being dosed around the clock.”

  “But it’s just common sense,” she murmured.

  “Common to us, but not to them. One druggist in Nottingham admitted he sold four hundred gallons of laudanum annually. ’Tis a shocking amount.” He fell silent, but his countenance brightened as the housekeeper delivered the tea. “Thank you, Mrs. Casterbean. The biscuits look delicious.”

  “You’re welcome. Now don’t be spoiling your noontime fare by eating too many,” the elderly woman clucked on the way out. “There’s corned beef today, your favorite.”

  Trelayne served the tea, indulged in a sip, and ponder the predicament.

  It sounded hopeless, her donation a mere pittance in the face of such overwhelming need. They must raise more money, much, much more. She would be sure to sponsor a booth at the next charity bazaar.

  “At the least,” she persisted remembering the squalor, “something could be done to eliminate the dirt and grime permeating their houses.”

  “They have no water for cleaning purposes. They queue up at the commons for hours—in all sorts of weather—for water barely enough to meet their drinking and cooking needs. One can hardly expect them to take such a hard-earned staple and use it to scrub walls and floors.”

  “But surely their clothes…”

  He raised a hand, staving off her question.

  “Sadder still, if they use the water to wash their clothes, what do they wear while the wet articles dry? Many have but one set of threadbare coverings.”

  There seemed no answer to the never-ending problems.

  “We have made great strides,” he reassured. “But what we need most is to alter political philosophies, proving the poor are not indolent, self-indulgent, or immoral."

  “Then we must effect change through legislation. I shall compose my letter this afternoon. What topics are of the greatest importance?”

  “Two things come foremost to mind,” the old Vicar said, his enthusiasm remarkably undiminished. “First, we must force a ban on infant insurance. That will help prevent child murder for the sake of burial money.”

  She nearly choked on a biscuit. “This truly happens?”

  “Cruelty and greed are found in all walks of life, Trelayne. The starving and downtrodden are no exception. Money does strange things to people—the having of it, the lack of it, and especially the wanting of it.”

  Heaven help her. How could she have lived so long never recognizing the existence of this alternate world, its customs as unfamiliar to her as a foreign country? It was a land with its own language, with a set of fearful rules and consequences. She understood the reason her parents sought to protect her, but keeping her isolated also left her unprepared for the challenges she now faced.

  “What is the second issue we must address?” She carefully swallowed, steeling herself for the answer.

  “We need laws to control the sale and use of the opium. It’s a sinful drug, and has nearly brought the Chinese empire to its knees. Their misfortune must not become ours.”

  Finally, here was a subject she could attack with zeal. But what difference would one letter make?

  “Right now,” he encouraged, as if privy to her doubts, “you may feel like a tiny pebble cast into the rushing stream of despair. But many pebbles mortised together by God’s love and direction can build a stalwart dam capable of stopping that stream.”

  As she considered the contents of the letter she would write, the housekeeper peeked into the room. “Pardon the interruption, Father. I was to be reminding you there is a christening to follow your noon repast.”

  “Yes, right you are.” He gained his feet. “Thank you, Mrs. Casterbean. I’ll be along momentarily.”

  The Vicar walked Trelayne to the door. “God bless you and keep you,” he said with sincerity as she took her leave. “I know you’ve had many burdens to bear lately. And I’m gladdened to see you have been strengthened by your sorrow and hardships rather than embittered by them.”

  As the coach swayed its way home over the rutted fall roads, she thought how wrong Father Woolsey was. She wasn’t strong at all, or for that matter high-minded. Until recently, she had only thought about the poor when she accidentally crossed paths with them in town. And she had yet to learn how to put her money to proper use. Even restoring Amberley Abbey would be a labor for her enjoyment, a tribute to her heritage, not society.

  More often, her thoughts were engaged in wondering what the newest fashion might be, or when she might see Captain Garrison again…if ever. But this new approach to championing the downtrodden was inspiring and revitalizing. She could hardly wait to put pen to paper. The trick, of course, was to be polite as well as mordacious. Unfortunately, she was much better at the latter.

  If only Walker were here. With his help, they would construct a dynamic letter with an irrefutable masculine appeal. These days, animated statements offered by women only succeeded in labeling the woman a hysterical female, her cause looked upon as trivial. But a man’s opinion was a different matter. Regardless of how obscure, over reactive, or outlandish his view might be, a man was at least given a chance to state his case. Society was frustratingly biased.

&
nbsp; ****

  As Royston Hall came into view, she noticed Lucien’s horse tethered out front. For once, she welcomed his intrusion. He could assist with the letter.

  Jeb swung down from up top the coach, and walked her to the door.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Trelayne,” Wynona greeted at the foyer. “Mr. Lucien insists on seeing you. He declared he was determined to wait even if it took all day. He was adamant. Said if I did not grant him entrance, he would sit upon the front steps lamenting his treatment right out loud. He’s been ornery since he was young,” she insisted, “and he’s not improved with age. He’s in the dayroom if you care.”

  “Would you like me to assist him off the estate, Miss Trelayne?” Jeb offered, a gleam of anticipation in his eyes.

  “No, thank you. We mustn’t take Mr. Lanteen too seriously. If we show our discontent it will simply encourage his roguish behavior. I will see him in the library.”

  “As you wish, dear,” Wynona said, “but keep your eyes as well as the door open. If you ask me, Mr. Lucien has too many wild ideas in his head. Your Aunt Abigail went to town with her friend, Lady Morton, and Merrick’s seeing to the drainage ditch in the fields to the north, but I’ll be near at hand.”

  While Trelayne waited, it struck her she must break off her relationship with Lucien. This resolution was not based upon what may or may not happen with Captain Garrison, more so it was based upon how Walker made her feel regardless of whether he would ever become a part of her future.

  Her relationship with Lucien would never go beyond platonic. She could see that now. The thought of being with him did not set her mind to whirling and her heart to fluttering. And during his absence, she did not grieve and yearn for him body and soul. She didn’t think about him at all. Occasionally, when they were together, he aroused lustful needs and piqued her curiosity about doing it, but that wasn’t love. It was unfair to lead him on. She would never be satisfied with Lucien.