Nothing on Earth & Nothing in Heaven

by Susan Fanetti

  Chalford shook his head. “Perhaps you should have your teeth checked—with that mouth of yours, you’re only suited to marry the damned dentist! I won’t be speaking with your father tonight, Lady Nora, or any night.” When Nora started to tell him that he certainly would not be speaking to her father, he held up his hand as she took in the breath for the words. “And stop right there, my lady. One more impudent word, and I’ll see to it that no Tate will have another invitation in this Season or any other.”

  Her teeth clicked shut. She could ruin her father right now, with one more wayward word. She could destroy Christopher’s prospects for a good match. She held the whole of the Tate name, the Tarrin legacy, on the tip of her tongue.

  “Please excuse me, Your Grace.”

  “Indeed.” Chalford bowed stiffly. “Good evening, my lady. I thank you for the illuminating dinner.” Then he walked away, leaving her alone in the shadows.

  Nora let her knees fold, and she sagged in a heap to the grass.

  She just wanted to be home. With that thought, homesickness overwhelmed her, and she dropped her face into her hands.

  “Lady Nora, are you hurt?”

  The American accent stilled her stumbling heart. She lifted her face and found Mr. William Frazier standing just there, towering over her.

  “Did the duke hurt you?”

  Yes, he had. Badly. But Nora shook her head. “I’m well, thank you. Only tired.” She set her hands on the grass to help herself back to her feet, but Mr. Frazier bent his knees and took gentle hold of her arms, pulling her gracefully up.

  When they were both stood and facing each other, this handsome American unicorn lifted a single dark eyebrow, saying with that arch that he didn’t believe at all that she was well. “Forgive my rudeness in saying so, but Chalford is a pompous ass.”

  Nora laughed, feeling a glimmer of genuine humor. “Yes, he is, but we shouldn’t speak such things too loudly.”

  “He did hurt you, then.”

  “I think, were it to be known, it would be said that I hurt myself.”

  Mr. Frazier said nothing; he simply stared down at her—he was tall. And he was still holding her arms. The warmth of his palms enveloped her bare skin and seeped into her awareness. His hands were firmer, harder, than the hands of the lords she knew, and she remembered that he’d worked on his family’s railroad. Had he actually laid track?

  He’d inched closer, perhaps without realising it, and Nora felt her body lean in, as if pulled toward his magnetic poles. If she wasn’t careful, she would be kissed on the mouth for the first time tonight, in the shadows, by an American man, and pull the family name through the mud of scandal after all.

  She took a deep breath and stood straight, breaking the spell his nearness had cast. “Do you truly support women’s suffrage, Mr. Frazier? Or was that something you said to rile the others?”

  A smile broke out and went all the way into his eyes, deepening the creases at their corners. “My mother has spoken for suffrage many times—on the floor of the California legislature, in fact. She’s worked with Carrie Chapman Catt. Do you know Mrs. Catt?”

  “I don’t, I’m sorry.”

  “Ah, then you should do some studying on the movement in America. Mrs. Catt is our version of your Mrs. Pankhurst.”

  “Really!”

  “Indeed. I’m not the warrior my mother is, but I support her. I attend her talks, and I’ve posted bills for her.”

  “Then you are an ally to the cause.”

  “I hope I am, yes.”

  His voice had grown soft again, and his thumbs eased back and forth over her arms in a scant, but sensual, caress, and Nora saw again how close she was to forgetting herself with this man. This unattainable fantasy of a man.

  She sighed. “Mr. Frazier, you are truly a unicorn.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “It’s nothing. Forgive me.” Pulling her arms from his hold, she gave him her practiced Society smile and saw him recognise it for the affect it was. His expression tightened, and a lead weight settled on Nora’s chest. “Thank you for your concern, but I must go inside. Please don’t follow straightaway.”

  “I understand. Good evening, Lady Nora.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Frazier.”

  As Kate unlaced her corset, Nora took her first real breath of the evening, and with it came her first impulse to cry of the evening. Through all her shame and awkwardness, the disappointment and frustration in her father’s eyes, the commiseration in Aunt Martha’s, the rapacious amusement in the looks of the other girls, Nora had at lease retained her composure. Even kneeling on the lawn, besieged with loneliness for Tarrindale Hall, she hadn’t shed tears.

  She didn’t want to now. So she took another deep breath and whisked the urge away as Kate helped her out of her underthings and into a sleeveless cotton nightgown. While her maid gathered up her discarded garments, still clucking over the pale green marks on the rose silk of her House of Worth gown—Nora had finished the evening with grass stains on her knees—Nora sat at her dressing table and stared into the mirror.

  Grass stains had been the least of her embarrassments when she’d returned to the drawing room from the garden. Chalford had left forthwith, not waiting to bid his hostess good night. He had, of course, but in the shadows, not properly. By the time she stepped in from the loggia, enough time had passed that rumors had started. One mercy: his abrupt departure indicated that Nora had not given him what he’d sought, so her virtue wasn’t in question. Yet she had clearly upset the Duke of Chalford, and the room resounded with whispered censure. The evening had dwindled to its blessed end shortly thereafter.

  Another mercy: Mr. Frazier had managed to find another way into the house and re-enter the drawing room from the main door. No one had suspected that they two had met.

  Mr. Frazier. The one bright light in a dark evening. But even he was shrouded in fog. If he’d been Lord Frazier, she might be smiling into this mirror right now. But he was not, thus she was not.

  Nora sighed and began digging in her hair for pins. She supposed things could have ended even worse, if Chalford had said anything unkind about her to her other guests, or if Mr. Frazier had followed quickly through the loggia door. If both of those things had happened, Nora might have been put on the train back to Kent today, her virtue besmirched beyond repair.

  There was no small appeal in that, honestly.

  “Don’t, now, milady,” Kate fussed behind her. “You’ll make me lose count of the pins.”

  Nora set her hands in her lap and let Kate take over the unmaking of her coiffure. Though she hadn’t said a word about it—and wouldn’t unless Nora opened the way—Kate had of course heard the details of the evening from the footmen. She knew Nora’s failings tonight as well as any guest at dinner, and she had been even kinder than usual in response.

  Kate had only been her lady’s maid for a few years, since she’d become too old to be attended by a governess. But, like the governess before her, she was the only woman Nora saw every day, for substantial portions of each day. Kate woke her, dressed her, styled her, tucked her in at night. She brought her first and last food and drink of each day. More days than not, Kate’s hands were the only that touched her.

  Thus, perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that on this night full of failures and frustrations, as the one person who was reliably with her, reliably for her, released the final painful pin from her hair and then eased strong fingers into the loose mane to massage her itching, aching scalp, tears rose up again, and this time Nora let them fall.

  “Oh, milady,” Kate cooed sadly. “All will be well.”

  If only that were true.

  FOUR

  “I must say, Mr. Frazier. I find your father’s idea perplexing. Why would he think we in England need to bring American ideas about the railway here? Americans have followed our innovations since we held you as colonies.” Simon Turnbull asked, leaning contemplatively back in his regal chair.

  Turnbull wa
s a London financier, wealthy but untitled—a man from a family that had worked for its wealth. The Turnbulls owned a clutch of textile mills in Manchester; Simon was the second son, sent to London to expand their fortune while his elder brother took on the oversight of the mills.

  In another setting—over drinks at a club, for example—William would argue that American innovations had improved on English ideas. The Brits might have had steam power first, but the Americans had made it work on a larger, faster scale. The Brits might have had the light bulb first, but Edison had innovated its mass production.

  But in this setting, as he sought a partner for his father’s new venture, William would allow Turnbull his sense of superiority—just enough to feel pride, but not enough to be blind to an opportunity. “What we want is a partnership, someone here in England who would invest in and oversee this expansion. We could also create a sense of seamlessness for transatlantic travelers. The Scot-Western Railway has the luxury market cornered for American transcontinental travel. The travelers on our Cruise Line pay a premium for a travel experience without the inconveniences of travel. You are a country full of people who would value that highest degree of luxury.”

  Turnbull huffed a dismissive chuckle. “And you think our lords and ladies travel roughly? Believe me, they don’t.”

  Opening his leather portfolio, William laid out one of his sketches on the low table between them. “I know exactly how the most wealthy Englishmen travel. These are sketches of King Edward’s royal car.” He laid out two more sketches. “And these are the Visionary and Destiny suites on our Cruise Line, which anyone with the fare can reserve.”

  He’d caught Turnbull’s attention; the man studied the sketches for a long time, picking each one up and peering closely, comparing the Cruise Line sketches to the royal car. William had enough time waiting patiently to think that his father’s idea was a good one after all.

  Turnbull set the sketches aside. “These are impressive. I assume they are lucrative?”

  “Of course. They’d paid for themselves in the first month, and we’ve yet to run a Cruise Line with an empty car. There is a great demand for transcontinental luxury travel.” William leaned in. “I know the same is true in Britain. Wouldn’t you prefer to ride from Manchester like this?”

  “There are two problems I see at once that make me certain this idea will fail. The first is quite simple: if you believe that someone like me, regardless of my fortune, would be allowed luxury of regal magnitude, then you don’t understand aristocracy, Mr. Frazier. Even in a world of parliamentary governance, we cannot eclipse our king, no matter if our personal wealth in fact is greater.”

  William nodded, seeing the problem at once. After some time in the company of the noble class, he understood. “And the second problem?”

  “I think your sense of scale is off. We are not a large country. From Manchester to London is two hundred miles. From the northernmost tip of Scotland to the southwestern coast of England is barely more the six hundred miles. As I understand it, you have individual states wider than that. I think you’d find that most of our wealthy travelers consider their traveling arrangements sufficiently luxurious for the span of their journey. We don’t consider ourselves on a ‘journey’ to London, or a ‘voyage.’ We think of it as a ‘trip,’ or even an ‘errand.’” He made a neat stack of the sketches and handed them back to William. “My father admires your father very much, but capital investments are my responsibility, and I think your father is wrong on this score.”

  William did as well. The world was changing. Industrialization had democratized wealth—his family was a prime example—but it hadn’t democratized luxury. It was changing the very concept of it. Where his father wanted to expand the Cruise Line globally, William saw its eventual end. Soon, people would prefer speed to splendor in their travel. They would make their destinations luxurious and be satisfied with sufficient comfort between them.

  “Understood. Thank you for your time, Mr. Turnbull.” A thought as powerful as an urge struck him before he stood. “If it’s not too much of an imposition, might I run a thought of my own by you?”

  The rotund, slightly older mill man gave him a closed-mouth, paternal smile. “Of course.”

  “This isn’t a proposal, it’s an idea I’ve had, and I’d like to get an Englishman’s thoughts on it. You speak of how small Britain is. But what about continental travel? Europe is quite large.”

  Turnbull’s smile became vividly condescending. “Well, you do realize that we’re an island, yes? All rail traffic stops at Dover.”

  “Of course, it stops now. But I know an effort has been made to connect Dover and Calais.”

  Turnbull shook his head. “Some muttonhead gets it into his head occasionally to dig a tunnel under the whole of the Channel, but that will never happen. Too expensive, and too dangerous. I’m sorry, Mr. Frazier, but I don’t think there are opportunities for your American railroad company to improve on our system that works just as we want it to.”

  American railroads had burrowed through entire mountains, so William didn’t think the idea of digging underwater was so ‘muttonheaded,’ but he knew he’d lost Turnbull’s ear, so he stood and held out his hand. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

  “Of course. It was a pleasure, and I wish you the best.” Turnbull stood and shook his hand. “Please send your father my father’s sincere regards. And mine as well.”

  William took the rejection in stride, as he had all the others, and he knew his father would as well. Like his father before him, Henry Frazier chased his dreams. He had, therefore, failed often. He absolutely insisted, however, that a failure not be a stoppage. William could telegram his father and tell him that his meetings had been unsuccessful and this idea seemed to be dying, but when he sent that message, he had to be ready to offer a suggestion for the next idea.

  He’d been thinking that a Channel tunnel might be the next thing. Imagine being part of the team that connected Europe for seamless travel. Turnbull had certainly disagreed, but one nay vote was not a failure. And if he couldn’t find a ‘muttonhead’ in England who was thinking in the same vein, maybe he would take a ferry to France and see what they thought of it in Calais and Paris.

  First, he’d need to do a lot more research. This wasn’t a refinement of an existing system; this would be a wholesale construction project on foreign soil. There was much he needed to learn before he could even craft a worthwhile proposal. Would his father be willing to fund an extended stay at the Dohring through the business?

  There was one way to find out. If not, William could fund it himself. He was not without substantial means of his own.

  TRNBL ALSO A NO – STOP – SENDS REGARDS – STOP – NO INTEREST HERE – STOP – NEW IDEA – STOP – WILL WRITE WITH DETAILS – STOP – NEED LONGER STAY FOR RESEARCH – STOP – PLS CONFIRM – STOP

  When William left the telegraph office and passed the front desk on his way to the elevator, the young desk attendant hailed him. He changed course, lifting his eyebrows in curiosity as he approached.

  “You have a telephone message, sir. I was just about to put it in the cubby for your suite.” The young man handed him a tidy sealed envelope.

  “Thank you.”

  “Of course. Is there anything you require?”

  William paused. It had been nearly two weeks since the Tate dinner, and, beyond a quick note of thanks, he hadn’t been in contact with Chris in all that time. Though he’d left the evening under friendly terms, he knew that he’d been too much an irritant among that set, and too much a distraction from the lovely Lady Nora, whose night it was supposed to have been.

  He missed his friend and worried that he’d crossed too many lines of British propriety that evening, but the one who’d truly occupied his thoughts in these days since was not Chris but his sister.

  Particularly the image of coming upon her kneeling in the grass, her head bowed and her face in her hands. She’d been a portrait of perfect desolation, and
William had been surprised at the strength of the anger the sight had kindled in him. He’d seen her leave the drawing room with her arm hooked with Chalford’s, and he’d been sure that ass had done something to her—and he still believed he was right, despite her protest to the contrary.

  As distraught as she’d been, she’d smiled up at him and bravely composed herself. William hadn’t been able to let go of her, and he’d nearly drawn her into a true embrace. He might also have kissed her, even while his fury at Chalford still smoldered, but she’d pulled away.

  He’d felt the strangest, strongest impulse to rescue the girl. Since that night, that drive had hummed in his chest. Rescue her from what, exactly? She’d handled the danger of the pompous ass well enough on her own, so what was the worst thing that could happen to her? A little embarrassment? A dull marriage? Hardly the stuff to slay dragons over.

  Thinking about Lady Nora Tate’s lovely fair skin in the moonlight, or its satiny smoothness under his hands, or the heave of her chest as she stood before him finding her emotional equilibrium, or the sad glimmer in her eyes as she smiled up at him, only made that heroic impulse stronger. What he needed was a distraction of his own. He hadn’t been with a woman in weeks, and loneliness was turning his mind to sentimental fantasies.

  So he tucked his sealed message in his suit coat pocket, leaned on the desk, and asked the attendant, “How might I go about finding a companion for the evening?”

  The young hotelier didn’t blink. “Would you like someone to share a night out with you, or a night in, sir?”

  “A night in, I think.”

  “Certainly. Would you like me to send someone up, or would you like an address?”

  He trusted a hotel of this caliber not to send him some bawd off the street. The Dohring would have a contact to procure the most elite selection of women for lonely men of means. “Send someone up. At nine o’clock.” He’d have dinner alone in the hotel dining room first. Before he turned from the desk, he added, “Not a blonde. A redhead, if possible.”