by Sally Orr
Now he understood his parents. The loneliness banished from his mother’s face, replaced by an expression of calm joy when her husband entered the room. Then the moment reached its crescendo by the peace of holding hands with the person you love the most—a single breath of time that defined your life and gave it purpose.
Now his future happiness depended upon finding Meta in order to tell her about the love that coursed through his body and claimed the essence of his soul. Success meant little to him unless he could share it with her. If only she were here now, he’d be a happy man.
So he had fallen in love at last.
He had just enough strength to chuckle weakly. At sixteen, he believed he had fallen in love with the sister of a friend from school. He spent a year planning his life, marriage, and future happiness based on a stolen kiss in a stairwell.
What an idiot.
His sweetheart married another before she even came out. He believed he had been ill-used and the victim of the ultimate betrayal. His anger eventually turned into the certainty that he must have been unworthy of love, too tall and too dark or some other fault he would never be able to rise above. This sentiment remained with him for years until this moment.
This sweet moment of understanding himself better.
Nothing would ever make him happier than giving himself to one woman forever.
If she would have him?
He shouted a bark of laughter. Now he fully realized why his friend Boyce sang all the time after his marriage and why Ross hated to leave his wife’s side for even a day.
He dropped his head back and stared at the cloudy sky. Laying here on hard boards, soaking wet, under the gray heavens, he needed to rush to her immediately and place his weary, spent heart safely in her hands; tell her of his heroic actions; receive her praise and reassurances. He needed this now as much as he had needed air from a fragile leather hose.
At the bare minimum, he should have danced, laughed, or shouted his love to the world. But the memory of his many insults aimed toward Meta returned, the harsh words and bearlike bad temper.
Could she ever forgive him?
He masked his heartache from the thought of her refusal and told himself he did not deserve her forgiveness. He lay on the hard deck, feeling cold, fatigued, and worthless. His accomplishment of little meaning without her to share it.
Without her.
Without her, he was just another piece of rubbish floating on the Thames.
Twenty
George stabbed the shovel into a pile of muck. The scraping sound joined a similar noise made by the other men, all echoing throughout the tunnel. The week following the water intrusion, he found comfort in work, the exhausting physical numbness of hard labor mastered. Both the Brunels expressed their surprise when they frequently found him assisting the miners digging out the mud left behind by the leak. George considered his suffering, caused by the nauseating stench of sewage, a form of penitence. He told himself every good engineer must have personal experience doing the dangerous work he asked of others.
Meanwhile, it gave him a chance to assess his newly recognized passion for Meta—and left him wondering if the overwhelming sensations he experienced on the barge were transitory in nature—created by sheer exhaustion—and therefore might fade with time. But he knew better. He wholly recognized his love—romantic love—but he failed to devise a solution for his condition. He knew nothing about her late husband or the extent of her lingering feelings of fidelity or love. Moreover, she likely remained offended by his recent bouts of ill-tempered insults. He would not find it surprising, in the least, if she never forgave him.
What proper lady would?
So if she refused his suit, could he live with his need for her? She had become one of his life’s necessities, like food and air. When she rejected him, what would he do? Clearly, he would have to flee England. Live in a land far away, never to be heard of again, lost and forgotten—America, perhaps.
By the end of the week, his distress reached a level he was unable to relieve by himself. Courage failed him—her rejection a possible death sentence.
His only option was to discuss the matter and get another opinion. The choices were a best friend, like Boyce, or one of his new friends, like James, or a man of greater experience, like his father. Not desiring to appear weak or teased in front of his friends, he decided to discuss the matter with his father after dinner. As far as George was concerned, he’d rather have a blacksmith pull his eyeteeth out than discuss such a matter. But he was desperate.
Damnation, he had become a maudlin idiot.
That evening, he entered the parlor first after dinner. The rain came down in translucent sheets on the windows, but a vigorous fire in the hearth countered the onslaught of rain. After two glasses of brandy, he strode to the mantel and grabbed the pile of white cards. As long as he lived, he had no intention of responding to anyone, about either of the two field guides, ever again. He threw the cards into the fire and inhaled the sour smoke of burnt paper.
His father entered the parlor holding a note recently delivered to Mrs. Morris. “Wonderful. It appears young Fitzhenry will pay a call upon us tomorrow. I must say I miss the boy. Sometimes, on rare occasions, he reminds me of you when you were young.”
“Pardon?” Struck by the return of Fitzy paying a call, and whether or not his sister approved, he lost the thread of conversation. “Fitzy?”
“Yes. You never really appreciated the emotional impact of your drawings, just the intellectual accomplishment. On the other hand, Fitzhenry expresses a rare aesthetic appreciation for them. Rare too amongst most members of the general public, I have discovered. In the long run, he’ll find more happiness being an artist than a draftsman or engineer.” He looked at the note again. “This gives me an idea. Mrs. Morris,” he called, strolling out of the room.
George ground his teeth. He eyed the brandy and wondered if another glass would put him in his cups. If he became thoroughly disguised, could he effectively communicate his woeful situation with Meta to his father without making a damn fool of himself by blubbering out some nonsense that would never suit?
To hell with it.
There were times when a man needed many, many bumpers of strong brandy, and this was one of them.
His father returned and plopped down on the ivory chair before the fire. “I sent him a note in return. I’m going to ask young Fitzhenry to bring certain supplies tomorrow. I have a plan to engage the lad to create a present for you mother. She will be delighted; I know it.”
For the first time, he neither questioned nor complained about his father’s attentions to the woman he loved. Instead, it inspired him to consider a future gift for Meta, someday, if he ever got the chance. “I know Mother will appreciate that.”
His father cocked his head. “Do you? I’m pleased to hear that.”
Right, here goes. “I wonder if I might have some advice?” George congratulated himself on taking the first step. Seeking advice pained him; it might even be fatal.
“Certainly,” his father said, a broad grin increasing the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “On what subject? Love?”
George choked on his swig of brandy.
His father beamed. “I was being facetious, but from your expression, I must have hit the mark. You know I never expected us to discuss that subject, but I’m pleased, dear boy, pleased indeed. My father and I never discussed females. It was just not the done thing in those days.”
“I’d never say a word either if I hadn’t made a mull of it.”
His father chuckled. “All men make mulls out of romance. I promise you that. It’s that lovely Mrs. Russell, isn’t it?”
George nodded, then took another gulp of brandy. “I blamed her for my troubles. Justly, in some cases, unjustly in others. I should apologize first, of course. But I’m not sure how to proceed after that. I just cannot go on without making it right between us.”
“Have you given her the offer of your hand?”
his father asked, leaning forward. The refection of the fire danced in his dark eyes.
George shook his head and focused on his knee. “No, but now I realize I must offer.”
“Regardless of the outcome?”
His stomach seized and it felt like he had eaten a clay bag with hazel sticks protruding from it. Staring into his father’s gleaming eyes, he realized there was only one answer. “Yes, regardless of the outcome.”
His father burst out of his chair, took two strides, and pulled him to his feet. This was followed by a rare hug. “My son, my son.” His voice cracked. “I never thought I’d live to see the day you”—he playfully punched his shoulder—“would fall in love. Understand the emotion too.” He threw himself into another tight embrace. “So happy. Wait until I tell Mother.”
“Please don’t. Nothing may come of it, and I’d be embarrassed. Promise?”
His father paused, then returned to his seat. “Not a word, I promise.”
“I just need a little advice.” If he was honest with himself, a significant amount of advice. “You see, we are currently not on speaking terms.”
“It’s unfortunate you are estranged. I’m not going to ask you why, since I doubt it will help. Will it help?”
George shook his head.
“Then the only advice I can give you is from my own personal experience. And that lesson is to not rush into expressing your affections. Take the time to build up the friendship and trust again. I know your first instinct is to rush in and wrestle the situation to rights, tell her you love her, and expect an affirmative reply—but don’t. You may irrevocably offend her if you do.”
His heart beat erratically. His first instinct to remedy the problem was rejected. “Then how should I proceed?”
His father stroked the gray stubble shadowing his chin. “Do her a service, or make one of her loved ones happy, such as persuading James to resume his addresses to her sister. If those are impossible, just make the time spent in your company a pleasant and enjoyable experience. I know nothing of the relationship or if the result you hope to achieve is even possible, but you understand the idea.”
“That’s easy enough. I can have lunch with James again. I’d like that.”
“Good. Then once she is aware of the service you have rendered her, you express your attentions someplace she feels comfortable. Whether that is at home or a crowded ball, you would likely know the answer better than I do.”
George sipped his golden brandy and stared at the smoldering fire.
They sat for several minutes in silence.
“If none of my suggestions are successful,” his father said. “Then there is only one recourse.”
He turned to stare at his father, brow constricted, unsure of what followed.
“When you are alone and both standing, you must move to hold her. Take it slow, so as not to frighten her, but hold her in an embrace—nothing more. Remain unmoving until you are both comfortable. If there is no chance of a reconciliation, she will not stay in your arms long.”
Would he ever be granted that chance? “Thank you for the advice. I will think about it carefully, before I try anything rash.” He set down his brandy and prepared to journey to the tunnel. He had many things to consider, and hard labor had always succeeded in putting his problems into sharp focus.
His father noticed this. “Are you off?”
“Yes, there is a board meeting to discuss the riverbed and the possibility of laying large oilcloths on the bottom of the Thames above the area where we are currently digging.”
“Your mother is sleeping, so I’ll have to return home soon, but would you like me to join you for the first hour?”
George bit his lower lip. Now he fully comprehended the strength of his father’s motivations to stay. “Thank you for the offer, but no, I’ll handle it.” Of course, he might not be able to handle the situation, but if that came to pass, he decided to be positive and learn from the experience.
“Did you say you will handle…” His father jumped to his feet and rushed over to pat him on the back. “So pleased, Son, so pleased.” He sat on his chair. “Since our very likely one and only father and son talk is coming to an end, there is something I wish to say to you while I have the chance. I understand your disappointment, sometimes bitter, although you try to hide it, when I cannot be by your side at the board meetings. I just want you to know that I appreciate, and respect, the fact that you never mentioned your displeasure to Mother. You could have easily complained to her, but you kept from her your fears that without me by your side, you might fail. And for that I thank you.”
George paused. Without a doubt, in the past he had bitterly resented his father’s absence and felt abandoned at crucial moments of his life. But he would never add to his mother’s woes by placing pressure on her to release him. Now after the full realization of his feelings for Meta, he understood the reasons behind his father’s actions better. “Yes, I blame my resentment on the foolishness of the young, which for me lasted until thirty. I hope that today, I’m a wiser man.”
“Good. You are fully capable of being a success on your own merit.”
He chuckled and smiled, pride swelling inside him. “Thank you, Father. For the first time, I believe you.”
That evening, George stayed awake most of the night, considering his father’s advice. Obviously, his female troubles were a well-trodden path for the male of the species.
Early the next morning, he was truly delighted to see Fitzy bound through the door and greet him without reservation or awkwardness.
“Drexel, I am so happy to see you. Is your father here? Wait till you see what he has planned for a surprise. I cannot wait.”
George smiled. “Sit down and tell me about your family, but first explain why you sent a note announcing you’d pay a call. We got so used to you coming and going without a formal invitation, you seem like part of the family. Now the entire household is delighted to learn of your return.”
The young man blushed. “Meta said I shouldn’t bother you, because the two of you had some sort of falling out.” He wrung his hands. “I am sorry about that, Drexel, I truly am. Meta has not included me in her confidences, not really. I know it’s some hum about that field guide nonsense. All these hard feelings over a silly book. I don’t understand it.”
He smiled. “You’re right. A silly book, indeed. But if she warned you not to bother us, does she know of your visit today?”
The boy nearly jumped in his chair. “Yes, she urged me to come because of the leak in the tunnel. We all were so worried when we heard the news. She sent me over as soon as she thought you would not be so busy and my visit would be reasonable. Funny thing is, she has not been able to eat since, so I know her concern about the fate of the tunnel must be upsetting her no end.”
From the sudden unique sensation within his chest, George came to the conclusion that his heart must be soaring in place. Then wisdom prevailed. Perhaps it was the success of the tunnel after all, and not his welfare, that caused her lack of appetite.
“And as far as that silly book those ladies wrote is concerned,” Fitzy said, “well, she and I, with James’s help, bought up every copy in London.” He laughed. “You should have seen James’s face when he ran out of the Temple, arms full of the ladies’ field guide. I thought I’d laugh so hard, I’d do myself an injury.”
“Your sister and James did what?” He held his breath, while his mind raced.
“Bought up all those field guide books she said insulted you. They’re piled high in the schoolroom now. I wonder what she’ll do with them. There are so many of them, they’d make a bang-up roaring fire.”
His father then stepped into the parlor and greeted Fitzy. “I have a job for you today. Come, follow me.”
Fitzy fell in step behind his father as they both disappeared upstairs.
Once at the tunnel, George attended the meeting, then spent several hours on the tunnel’s new drainage plans. He accomplished nothing excep
t drawing a square and sharpening a pencil. Instead, he marveled over the news that Meta had bought up copies of the ladies’ field guide in a gesture surely meant to save him and make amends. He thought of showering her with presents or words of gratitude, but nothing sounded right.
He laughed aloud. In the past, many people at one time or another had called him a rake. If he was truly a rake, he should know how to please a female in every way, not just in bedroom behaviors and empty words of flattery. No true rake would ever find himself in his current befuddled, anxious condition without an easy solution.
An hour later, Fitzy and his father returned to the parlor. Fitzy had white plaster on his coat and waistcoat. George worried Meta may be angry, so he ordered the boy to the kitchen to be cleaned. “What have the two of you been up to?”
His father and Fitzy exchanged smiles. “I asked Fitzy to make a cast for your mother.” A sigh escaped him, then he explained to Fitzy. “I might die before her, you see. If she has a memento beside her during her last years, I know it will give her comfort when I’m gone.” The older man’s eyes suddenly became a little watery.
George gulped before his throat closed. The subject of his parents’ mortality pained him deeply. However, it spurred him to consider the expediency of what he needed to do: how to deliver himself into Meta’s good graces, how to restrain himself, and how to offer his hand in marriage at the proper time—the time when her only possible answer was yes. The pain centered deep in his chest grew. Right now, he’d give everything he owned, or would own in the future, just for the opportunity to kiss her once.
Twenty-one
Passing through the vestibule of the family’s town house, Meta saw a note on the hallway salver addressed with remarkably large looping penmanship she recognized as George’s. Since his admonition about withholding an insult and repeated cuts at Lady Sarah’s ball, she had no choice but to believe their relationship was truly at an end. For a reason she could not fathom, she picked up the paper, held it to her nose, and inhaled.