To Catch a Rake

by Sally Orr

  George appeared peeved. “You only need be away for a few hours.”

  Meta understood George’s wish to have his father’s presence at board meetings. Then whenever George proposed a change or improvement, his father could support him and provide the benefit of his experience in discussion with the members. “I don’t understand, sir. Why can’t a servant read to Mrs. Drexel? I know your son would appreciate your presence at these meetings.”

  The younger Drexel raised his brows and turned to his father. “See? Even Mrs. Russell thinks it is not necessary for you to stay at home.”

  His father shook his head. “My wife believes the servants have far better things to do. In fact, we are constantly short staffed due to the muck and dirt George brings into the house. They are overworked as it is.”

  Meta saw two gentlemen who needed her assistance. Nothing could make her happier. “Please, let me read to Mrs. Drexel. I read to my father daily, so I’m well practiced. Besides, Fitzy has come to show you his plasterwork, but he can stay too and occupy himself with drawing.” She turned to her brother. “Can you stay a couple of hours to help out the Drexels?”

  Fitzy beamed and turned to the younger man. “Can you provide me with paper and pencil? I have been meaning to make drawings of various model bridges in this room.”

  Mr. George Drexel beamed, while the older man remained hesitant.

  “Mrs. Russell,” George said, “I must leave immediately or I shall miss the meeting.” He turned to his father. “Please. We plan to discuss my suggestions for the new elevated drainage today, and your opinion carries weight with so many members of the company’s board. I could use your support.”

  His father studied his son but remained silent.

  Fitzy unwrapped his plaster cast of the bolt again and held it before the older Mr. Drexel. “What do you think of my casting? You of course will recognize it as the bolt holding the shield’s footings. Perhaps the size does not amaze you, but I have never seen anything like this. It is beautiful.”

  Mr. Michael Drexel smiled and slapped Fitzy on the back. “Congratulations. You really do have an innate sense of beauty that can be found in the commonplace. A true gift for an artist.”

  Fitzy’s chest swelled with the compliment. He turned to Meta. “I will stay, of course. Mrs. Drexel may even want to see my bolt too. And I can read to her, if you tire.”

  Meta patted his head, and he leaned sideways to avoid it, probably not wanting the grown men to see his sister treating him as a child.

  The older Mr. Drexel laughed. “Very well, I give in. We have been reading Redgauntlet by the author of Waverley. Have either of you read it?”

  Meta mentioned her sister was the only one that could finish the book.

  “Well,” the older Mr. Drexel said, “come with me and I will seek her approval and make introductions. No promises, mind. I want you to know that my wife retains full capabilities, except the ability to speak or move her right side. If she falls asleep, you can stop reading and…I hold her hand, but I suppose you need not do so.” He turned to his son. “Introductions will take no more than ten minutes, and then I’ll join you and we can head off to the board meeting.”

  The younger man smiled. “Right, I’ll wait. But we will have to bustle—don’t want to set a bad example by being late.”

  His father agreed and the three of them climbed the stairs, the younger Drexel remaining behind.

  Michael opened the door of his wife’s bedroom. “Stay here for a minute. I need to ready her to accept visitors.” He entered the room and shut the door.

  Meta whispered to Fitzy, “Thank you. I promise you your favorite roast chicken tonight for helping me.”

  Fitzy’s eyes brightened. “Roast chicken for just drawing and reading. That is a most excellent deal.”

  A little more than two minutes later, Mr. Michael Drexel opened the door and invited them in.

  Meta first noticed that on every square inch of the walls in the large, green room hung paintings of flowers. Most pictures had a black background that accentuated the flower’s brilliant colors. The stuffy, heavy air smelled faintly of lavender, suggesting the windows were seldom opened.

  Mrs. Drexel lay in bed wearing a small smile on her face. She did not appear old, as no wrinkles had yet to grace her countenance, but she was almost entirely hidden by a long lace cap. She sat up in bed, one hand holding her husband’s. Their joined hands rested on a small table standing next to the middle of the bed. The large chair next to the table suggested the table was placed there on purpose, so that the couple could hold hands for an extended time.

  Meta bit her lower lip. Watching Mr. Drexel attend his wife, every movement between the two of them expressed nothing but the deepest love. Her heart almost broke at the affection in Mrs. Drexel’s eyes and the tender care her husband rendered her.

  Michael patted her hand and made the introductions. “Look, Mother, Mrs. Russell has come to read to you, and young Fitzhenry will make some drawings of George’s bridges.”

  “I say, sir,” Fitzy pronounced. “I just noticed these paintings. They are not really paintings, are they?”

  Mrs. Drexel wore a frail grin.

  Mr. Drexel dropped his jaw for a second. “I am impressed, young man. You’re correct. The flowers are constructed using small pieces of cut paper. Not many people discern that; you have quite the eye.” He obtained some paper and a pencil from a table under the window and motioned Fitzy to join him. “You can draw here or anywhere else in the house if you wish to.” He then walked over to the nightstand, grabbed a book, and handed it to Meta. “We’ve reached the part where Wandering Willie is telling a bang-up ghost story, so you may want to start by reading that part again.”

  Mrs. Drexel smiled weakly and nodded.

  Before Michael Drexel took his leave, Meta asked him to speak to George about the Learned Ladies’ surprise. Especially about how important it was to have both Brunels, Marc and Isambard, and the Thames Tunnel Company’s board members present that day.

  Mr. Drexel smiled. “I do not see any harm in your plan, Mrs. Russell. I will discuss it with George for your sake. I think it can be managed without too much difficultly. I must admit your surprise has me rather intrigued.”

  Both Drexels left the house and she sat in the stuffed chair by Mrs. Drexel’s bed. The older woman clearly felt no distress over having strangers in her room, because while Meta read to her, she wore a smile of gratitude. She did not seem perturbed and even made a noise like a giggle when Fitzy bounded in and out the room, eager to show both women his drawings.

  As the afternoon wore on, Meta’s heart broke a little more upon her full understanding of the woman’s condition. Other than the effects of the stroke on her speech and one side of her body, she retained her full faculties. How could the younger Mr. Drexel blame his father for giving his first priorities to remaining by his wife’s side? Meta stifled an urge to make him understand his father’s feelings on the subject when he returned, because, without a doubt, that discussion would prove unsuccessful and unwanted.

  Close to six o’clock in the evening, Meta sent Fitzy home for his dinner. It wasn’t until seven that the men returned. Michael Drexel praised her generosity for reading to his wife, thanked her profusely, and immediately left to visit the invalid upstairs.

  Mr. George Drexel stood in the drawing room, one elbow on the hearth, puffing a cigar. He blew the smoke upward toward the ceiling.

  Meta joined him by the hearth. “Shall I stay while you greet your mother and then return?”

  “Mother can wait. I’ve had some wonderful news.” His chest expanded as he inhaled.

  Meta considered giving him a scold for not thinking of his mother, but refrained. She did not want to dampen his current enthusiasm. Indeed, every part of his person seemed alive with happiness, expressing itself through rapid movements, joyous smiles, and laughing words he could not quite get out in any coherent order. “Mrs. Russell, you…you fabulous female. I cann
ot fully express my thanks.” He puffed on his cigar. “Thank you for being the instrument that let my father attend the board meeting of the Thames Tunnel Company tonight. It is through your good offices that I owe you my deepest gratitude.” He threw his cigar into the fire, then reached for her hand.

  She stared at their joined hands, marveling at the sudden transfer of warmth. Her hand had not felt cold before, but now encased in his warm skin, she enjoyed the pleasant, heated sensation.

  “It is because of you, dear madam, that the board plans to offer my name up at the next shareholder meeting for one of the positions of resident engineer. Do you know what this means for me?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “No, not in the least.”

  “It means the possibility of advancement and a higher salary. But of more importance, this recognition also means more exposure for my inventions. One board member even expressed interest in my card-shuffling device. Imagine the potential earnings once the machine is patented and put into production.” He threw his head back and laughed. “And all of this because of you, dear lady. I must admit my father is rather taken with you. He says you help others in need without expecting something in return—a true gift to others, surely? Well, you have decidedly given me a gift.”

  “I’m pleas—”

  “My father and I also discussed your request in regard to your surprise. I believe I can accomplish what you wish. Give me a firm date, and I will arrange for the members of the board, and both Brunels, to be on the site within the next couple of weeks.” He gave her hand a swift kiss. “Would that be acceptable?”

  “Yes.” She managed to hold her hand steady and not offend him by jerking it away.

  “My concerns remain, however, because the stakes are high. If a water intrusion or accident happens when everyone is assembled, and the public has full view of the accident, it may hurt the tunnel’s chances of drawing further investors. Even worse, if a major leak happens in front of an elevated personage, Parliament and all of London could turn against us. The resulting bad press might end the tunnel’s chance of being completed forever.”

  She nodded and pulled her hand free, missing the warmth of his immediately.

  He focused on her hand as it was pulled away, his brows knit.

  She took a step backward.

  Upon her movement, he stared at her until their gazes held.

  Holding her head high and stepping backward again, she neither shook nor stumbled but continued to hold the stare. Her retreat formed a message loud and clear: I may desire you, but I can resist you too.

  A corner of his mouth lifted, and he draped his arm on the mantel. Quite the vision of a gentleman at leisure, despite a few mud spatters on his shiny black boots.

  Stepping back again, she neared the wall across from him and realized his power to move her with his physical presence had been greatly diminished. She took a deep breath and gave him a carefree smile. “Will Tuesday next be suitable for the Learned Ladies’ surprise?”

  He drummed his fingers on the stack of white cards on the mantelpiece. “Tuesday next then. I’ll get back to you by tomorrow, if that date proves impossible.” He took a single, large step closer.

  Her heartbeat became noticeable. Forcing her voice to remain calm, she said, “Thank you. I know you will not be disappointed.”

  “Women rarely disappoint me.” He took another step in her direction.

  She almost laughed. “Indeed.”

  He stepped forward again. “By persuading my father to join me today, you’ve helped me in ways I cannot adequately describe. My career may turn on this chance.”

  Now only a couple of feet away, she considered holding her palm out to stop him from advancing further.

  He paused. “Madam, may I have permission to kiss my favorite pet? You have no worries I will come closer. I will not force my attentions on you. This time it is you who must take the step.”

  His meaning was perfectly clear. Since she had instigated a kiss in the mews, he was giving her another chance to do the same.

  For some unknown reason, she wanted to kiss him—desperately. Desire spread through her, while on the outside she could only stare.

  He shifted his weight to one leg in a more casual stance. “I repeat. May I express my gratitude by having the honor, the pleasure, and the celebration of my victory complete, by kissing you?”

  Ready words failed her.

  “No kiss then?” Good to his word, he remained fixed in place.

  “How many women have taken you up on your…unusual offer for a kiss?”

  His chest swelled. “All.”

  “All!” While the word “all” was an English word used by humans, she heard a cock crow instead.

  “I promise you, none of the ladies ever regretted it in the least.”

  “I do not doubt you, but I do not need a kiss, thank you.” She struggled to make her laughter sound carefree, but she knew she treaded on dangerous ground. “Do you always express your happiness by kissing the nearest female?”

  Why did she ask him that question?

  Did she seek confirmation that he was not angry over her refusal or that she had lost his interest altogether? She inhaled deeply and steeled herself against the appearance of the bear.

  “May I ask why you have refused me?” He remained calm, the bear kept in check.

  “You know why. I have no expectations of a relationship between us and do not seek one. My situation in life is settled and happy.” The full danger of her situation hit her. She found him as appealing as an irresistible sweet, even though any alliance would likely be about bodily desires only. The other option—and the real danger—was the possibility that she might fall in love again, fall in love with a man who likely never considered marriage. Besides, if she did wed a second time, all of her fortune and property would belong to her husband, thus limiting her ability to freely help her siblings. No, another marriage would never do, but a kiss would certainly be nice. Should she reconsider, take her fill of him while he offered himself? If so, could she steel herself against falling in love?

  They stood in silence for a minute or two, listening to the chimes from the tall clock in the hall. During this time, his fingers remained surprisingly still, a first in her presence. He kept his eyes focused on her, a wry smile upon his lips. Today the magnificence of his figure, dressed in a scarlet waistcoat and those shiny black boots, attracted her more than she dared to admit.

  He broke the silence with a chuckle. “I had hoped I could move you into a higher category, and I’m quite disappointed on that score. Surely had we kissed again, you could have reached the exalted honor of Wilting Flowers or Eager Out of the Gate or…” He gave her the wicked, sensual smile. “Perhaps your performance would be up to a Happy Goer?”

  Meta’s first response centered on indignation, embarrassment, and the type of surprise similar to what Lily must have felt when she found herself classified as a Happy Goer. “Ah, the honor is my loss, sir. I believe it is time for me to leave. We will meet again when the Learned Ladies deliver their surprise.” She gathered up her gloves and bonnet. Before she left, she turned and said, “No, I prefer my original category, thank you. I like rabbits, so I’m quite happy to remain a rabbit in your book.”

  He came near, lowered his head, and dropped his eyelids a fraction.

  Any female with a brain would’ve fled. She stood fixed, indulging in the memory of his kisses. Then she let her thoughts tumble even further into forbidden territory. First, she itched to reach up and remove his snowy cravat and rough coat. How long and hard would it be for her to fully remove his garments? Was there a private place where they could remove their clothes and spend the day in lovemaking? These amorous desires caused her body to respond in languorous preparation. She started to pant.

  He spoke in a silky baritone, “Very well, you will be my favorite rabbit. My rabbit who I cherish hopes that one day I will call my special Happy Goer rabbit.”

  That moment, the word
s that tumbled from her mouth reflected her sexual desires. “Are you so sure I’m not a goddess rabbit?”

  He approached close enough to place his foot between her legs; his thigh touched hers. Then he tenderly dragged the back of his hand slowly across her cheek. “My dear Mrs. Russell, is that a promise? I must say I am intrigued.”

  Eleven

  George glanced up to the platform where his father stood in conversation with Mr. Marc Brunel. With the ease of one familiar with soliciting funds, his father had arranged a meeting with the majority of the tunnel’s important personnel. Without their knowledge of a pending event, the tunnel’s principals now gathered at the site on Cow Court. While his father and others poured over the account books on a wooden platform next to the giant pit, George and several other engineers, including Mr. Isambard Brunel, Mr. Beamish, and Mr. Gravatt, conversed below at the bottom of the pit.

  Twirling his pencil between his fingers, George wondered if Mrs. Russell’s surprise would indeed take place. If it did, and proved successful, his promotion might be sealed. He would be given more responsibilities than he had at present. Moreover, the one hundred and fifty pounds added to his salary would go a long way toward helping pay for the construction of models for his proposed projects.

  However, he considered himself a realist, so failure could be in his cards too. His acquaintance with Mrs. Russell had not been long enough for him to have complete confidence that she could deliver upon her promise. After all, she had guaranteed success once before. She had promised that if he performed the onerous office of setting James straight on the initials in the field guide, James and Lily would resume their engagement. Decidedly, that did not happen. So today, would she and her “Learned Ladies” come through with their surprise? Thankfully, if she failed, no one would be the wiser. Most of the tunnel’s principals were engaged in normal duties, so a failure to deliver on her part would have little detrimental effect upon his chances of advancement.

  In the middle of an argument with the cement supplier about the latest lot’s inability to dry within the specified amount of time, George heard a commotion above him. He and the other engineers looked up to the platform. As if orchestrated by an unseen conductor, all of the men working on the tunnel also turned to look up to the street.