All Dressed in White EPB

by Michaels, Charis

  Slowly, haltingly, he asked, “How have you and the baby . . .” He paused, considering which of a million questions to ask her, “. . . gotten on?”

  “Oh, very well, thank you,” she said, also halting. Their conversation sounded as if their primary language was some foreign tongue, and they were practicing at English. “He is called Christian. You may remember this from my letter. Thank you for the money, by the way.” She looked up at him, a little abashed. It occurred to him that she felt beholden to him. Good lord, money had been the easiest sacrifice, it had been no sacrifice. His heart, his pride—these were a different story.

  He tried again. “Are you . . . well? Is he healthy?”

  “Quite well,” she said briskly. The formal, businesslike smile was back. He frowned. Was this all she meant to say? Her tone forestalled further discussion, but now he wanted to hear more. He suddenly, urgently, wanted to hear everything about the boy and Tessa’s journey into motherhood.

  He ventured, “I should like to meet him, when you are ready.”

  She’d been looking down, studying her notes, but now her head came up. She searched his face. What she looked for, he could not say. She studied him like she was trying to identify an insect in a book.

  Finally, she said, “He is napping at the moment, but I should like very much to introduce you. He is a lovely baby.” She paused for a moment. “Motherhood is nothing like I expected. But I like it. And I love my son. Above all, I love him.”

  My son, Joseph repeated in his head. Her words held an unexpected fierceness and it heartened him. Fierceness had been one of the qualities he’d loved about her in the weeks before the wedding. It felt good to see some connection between the girl he’d thought he’d loved and the stranger who sat before him.

  “But let me show you what I’ve done about the dock,” Tessa said, pulling his attention back to her notes. “All is not lost, I hope.”

  Joseph sighed and looked down at her notes. “I hope not.”

  Chapter Ten

  Tessa forced herself to push aside talk of the baby, though it had not been easy. She’d wanted to discuss the baby, to describe at length how happy and alert and round he was. She’d wavered half a second, debating whether to dart from the room, scoop Christian from his crib, and return to present him to Joseph, this little wonder with whom she had been entrusted by God. Proof that she had survived—nay, she had transformed—and that Christian was so very worth all the heartbreak.

  But of course, Joseph might not agree that he was worth the heartbreak, and this she could not bear. She glanced at him, sprawled on the opposite chair in the parlor.

  Her instinct was correct, she thought. An introduction now was wrong, odd and rushed and muddled with this other business. She had decided months ago that when she was finally reunited with Joseph, she would lead with her work on the docking rights and the brig.

  Removing a pen and inkpot from what she considered her office kit, Tessa ran a hand over the crease in her notebook. She considered the serious, businesslike expressions she had rehearsed in her mirror. Her reflection had always looked as if she was trying to repress a sneeze.

  Be direct, she reminded herself. All the progress she’d made since embarking on the new deal with the docks had been the result, in part, of directness.

  She cleared her throat and looked to Joseph.

  “Can you tell me where the brig is at the moment?” she asked, tapping her pen against the notebook. “You mentioned the Thames Estuary. But where exactly? Margate? Sheerness?”

  Joseph scrunched up his face, looking at her as if she’d spoken in code. “What difference does that make?”

  “Well, it will influence the steam tug company we use, won’t it? I see my error now in leaving word for you only with two tug companies. Of course you’d use Waterman’s if you’ve dropped anchor as far out as the Medway Estuary. But perhaps you made it to Canvey Island?”

  “Forgive me,” he said, speaking slowly. “I did not expect you to question me. When did you learn the difference between Margate and the bloody Medway Estuary?”

  Tessa closed her little book. Of course he would be surprised. Every man with whom she had dealt since she’d begun to rearrange his docking rights had been surprised by her—and they hadn’t even known the old Tessa, frivolous and featherheaded and coy. She was a young woman, and that had been surprise enough.

  She laid her pen on the table between them. “Well, I hope you did not expect me to cancel your existing docking reservation without learning how best to sort something else out.”

  “I did not expect you to cancel my docking plans at all.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I understand that you’ve had this . . . falling-out with your family and that you were trying to make some concession. But this does not translate into you knowing anything about steam tugs or the ports along the River Thames, does it? You’ve not even set eyes on the brig. I’m shocked you’re even aware of the existence of a steam tug.”

  And here was the second attitude Tessa met when she dealt with the men who ran the warehouses and docks. Condescension.

  Before she realized it, she was on her feet. “I’ve not had a falling-out with my family—on this I wish to be perfectly clear. On every point,” she clarified, “I want to be perfectly clear. I vowed to stop revising the truth on the night of our wedding.”

  She glanced at him. He stared at her as if she had grown a tail.

  She went on. “My parents have disowned me. I will never see them again. I can carry on, thanks most of all to you, but I proceed knowing that the family meant to support and love and provide for me did so only conditionally. I failed at their conditions and they have . . . forgotten me. In no way was it a falling-out, so let us not call it what it is not.”

  He pushed from his chair. “Tessa, wait, I—”

  “And,” she continued, “I have not made some concession for your docking rights, I have spent months learning the system of importation, levies, warehouses, buyers, and yes, docks, and arranged an alternative. Your unannounced arrival has caught me off guard, but I am prepared, nonetheless.”

  He opened his mouth to say something and then closed it.

  Tessa forged ahead. “Perhaps you will disagree with what I’ve done or perhaps you won’t, but I’ve made a study of every dockyard in London, and I’ve been methodical about it. I may be a student of the importation, and I may not have gotten everything exactly right, but it has not been for a lack of effort.”

  She felt too jittery to pace the room, so she returned to her seat. “Now,” she said, “I have every intention of explaining what I’ve done, but in order to do so properly, I should like to know where to start. So allow me to ask you again.” She took up her notebook and pen. “Where is the brig anchored? At this moment?”

  Joseph stared at her, blinking (in her opinion), far more frequently than strictly necessary.

  “Canvay Island,” he said finally. “I believe. We sailed as far as the Thames Estuary on the tide, and then a steam tug brought us to the West India Docks on the Isle of Dogs. A tender rowed Stoker and me—”

  “General Steam Tug then?” she asked, interrupting.

  The high volume of vessels on the River Thames made it impossible for large brigs to navigate the narrow stretch of the river in Blackwall. Instead, small, maneuverable steam tugs towed the large vessels from the Thames Estuary to the docks.

  He blinked at her again. “Yes. In fact it was General Steam Company. When I was turned away at the dock office, I paid a boy to row out to the ship and convey the news that we were dock-less until I could sort out something else. And then I came to find you.”

  She shook her head and made a note in her book. Absently fingered the tight bun at the base of her neck, lifting it up to relieve the pressure.

  “Your hair is different,” Joseph said, and Tessa’s hand froze. She glanced at him. He was watching her as if she was a puzzle to be solved. She dropped her hand.

  The old Tessa had re
veled in her long, blonde hair, styling it into different braids, chignons, or elaborate piles (really there was no other word). Tessa’s new attitude about her hair had been the less attention it gained, the better. She slicked it tightly back and pinned it into a low bun. It was hardly pretty, but the opposite of prettiness had been the desired result of all the behaviors on her lists.

  “Joseph,” she said, “the end result of what I’ve done is this—before I canceled your reservation at West India Docks, I visited all the other docks to learn if I could get similar privileges elsewhere along the Thames—in Blackwall if possible, because I saw the value of warehousing there.”

  He laughed. He actually laughed. “You did, did you?”

  Tessa frowned. “When I found a dock who would take you, and for nearly the same price, I transferred the booking.”

  “You . . . ?” he began. He paused. He appeared to be thinking over what she said. He continued slowly, “Forgive me if I struggle to comprehend how you knew where to go or for what to ask. You’ve no notion of the type of brig, the length or the height. You didn’t even know the date we would return—”

  “Yes, well, I suppose I asked, didn’t I?” she said, watching his expression. How gratifying it was to watch his disbelief dissolve into shock. “I asked and asked and asked. I am still asking and still learning, but I am not the mindless girl you left ten months ago.”

  “I never thought you were mindless, Tessa,” he said quietly, seriously.

  “Yes, well.” She was unsettled. She examined the nib of her pen. “Perhaps that was how I viewed myself then.” She forced herself to return to the topic at hand. “Regardless, I’ve asked you a question, and I should like an answer.” She returned to her notes. “Also, can you tell me how much poundage you carry?”

  “No,” Joseph said, “I cannot. Who has taught you the term poundage?”

  She screwed up her face. “Have you been listening to a word I’ve said? I’ve taught myself. I do speak the language of English and can expand my vocabulary with negligible effort.”

  “And this—this—has been your preference? To bother yourself with learning jargon like poundage?”

  “Well, if I wished to sort out the levies on imported goods—yes. And if you must know, I found it rather fascinating. Exciting, really, to learn the business of which my father and brothers have made such a study all these years. Perhaps their rejection only fueled my desire to learn.”

  He thought about this. Finally said, “Fine. What if I tell you the poundage is 121 tons?”

  “You’ve squeezed 121 tons into a ninety-foot brig?” Tessa’s head snapped up. “Your previous booking called for only 118 tons.”

  He smiled then, a proud, handsome smile. “We’ve been very busy, Tessa.”

  “Well done,” she enthused, and she meant it. “121 tons.”

  “Of course, I’m doubtful I’ll find available warehouse space to store it at such short notice.”

  “I’ve arranged for 20,000 feet of additional space just in case,” she told him. “But I believe we can broker more.”

  “You’ve what?” Now he shoved up. “Tessa—stop. Simply stop. I understand your motivation, that you wanted to help. I believe that you have been very diligent, although I still do not understand why. But this discussion is beyond the pale. For the love of God. I’ll admit that you have learned a few new words, but you—a woman, alone, who has never lived in London and who has no notion of shipping or docks or even bloody commerce, and who has a new baby—could not have arranged a dock reservation, and certainly not warehousing.”

  Tessa crossed her arms over her chest. She had expected this. “I can, and I have,” she said.

  Joseph shook his head. “Look, I believe you have been rejected by your family, and for that, I am sorry—truly. I also know your regard for me is very low. I hardly think being disowned is reason enough for you to try to manage even a fraction of this on my behalf.” He spread out his hands wide. He was almost shouting.

  Tessa blinked once, twice, and then snapped. She bolted up, standing nearly nose-to-nose with him. She began to rattle off the facts.

  She told him the name of the new dock, which was St. Katharine.

  She said the name of the dock master, Mr. Harold Blue.

  She quoted the size of the slip, the contingencies for their unknown arrival, the cost, their time in port, the dimensions and security of the warehouse space, the levies on the poundage . . . The list went on and on, and she explained it all, one detail after the other, months of research and negotiation and diligence—and results. So many solutions to so many problems.

  And she had loved every minute of it. She wondered if this came through in her litany of names and numbers. She wondered if he would care.

  She was winded when she finished, her chest heaving up and down. He stared at her, not blinking, his expression beyond disbelief. He looked as if someone had sloshed a bucket of cold water on his handsome, golden face.

  While she had his attention, she added, “And you have no idea of my regard for you, clearly, so please don’t suggest that you do. I can appreciate that you are surprised, Joseph, but I refuse to hear that my work is not legitimate or does not count simply because you didn’t expect it. I refuse.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Joseph couldn’t remember the last time his brain let him down. His brain had always been so very reliable and so fast. When his heart led him astray or his body gave out, his brain leapt adroitly forward, quick and smooth, with no confusion or fogginess or doubt.

  Until now.

  Until the spiel of facts and figures tossed out by his wife had literally ground all intellectual function to a dead stop. Once stopped, it hung there, flapping uselessly in the windy place inside his skull.

  He felt himself drop into his seat. Everything she’d said—about the dock and the warehouses, the levies and the cargo—made perfectly reasonable sense. And not the kind of sense that compelled him to marry her for £15,000 and the potential of a pretty wife. It made literal sense. He understood everything she’d said. He saw the reasoning behind it. He would have done it the same bloody way himself.

  He looked up to her. “Why didn’t you lead with this?”

  “I beg your pardon?” she said.

  “Tessa, to say that I am stunned at your . . .” He shook his head and tried again. “I am stunned at what you claim to have accomplished. Forgive me. All I can think at the moment is why you did not tell me this first.”

  She turned away, dropping her pen back into its little box. “Yes, I suppose it was rather foolish of me to believe we would . . .” she cleared her throat “. . . have a proper meeting about it and . . . collaborate. In the manner of colleagues. That you would think of me as an associate with a derby and a moustache.”

  “I’ve hardly gotten used to your . . . brown dress, and now I’m to think of you with a moustache?”

  To this, she had no answer. He pressed, “You want to be my colleague, Tessa—is that what you want?”

  “I want . . .” she began, but then she moved to the window. He could no longer see her face. “It doesn’t matter what I want. Certainly I am in no position to ask you for another thing.”

  He made a scoffing noise. “Asking for things might be an excellent start, where you are concerned.”

  She turned back. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, there was a time that I would have given you anything—you needed only but to ask. Instead of . . .” he trailed off.

  “Instead of tricking you,” she provided softly.

  “Instead of concealing the depth and breadth of your situation.”

  She nodded. “In hindsight, perhaps I can see the error in that. Perhaps not. It is impossible to communicate how very afraid I was of driving you away.”

  He watched her, waiting for an elaboration.

  Finally, she said, “The work I did on behalf of the docks was meant to be the opposite; it was meant to be clear and seamless.”

>   “It was clear and seamless. I’m so very impressed.” He made a gesture to her notes. She hadn’t looked at them, not once. She knew the information by heart.

  He asked, “You’re certain you’ve arranged this all on your own?”

  She closed her eyes. She had the look of someone who had just been given an undeserved shove. He swore in his head.

  “’Tis me alone, Joseph,” she said tiredly. “You cannot escape what I’ve done, I’m afraid. Sorry.” She turned to face him, bright blue eyes sad and somehow older now, but no less beautiful.

  His heart gave a lurch. “Don’t apologize,” he managed.

  “I feel like I shall apologize to you forever, and it will not be enough.”

  Apologies were never what I wanted, he thought. I wanted you. Instead he said, “Please stop.”

  She brought an idle hand to the tight bun at the nape of her neck and patted it, wincing slightly. He had the impulse to go to her, to study the mystery of where she had bound all of her magnificent hair and to liberate it. To rub the place on her nape that caused her to wince.

  “But how would you like to proceed?” she asked on a sigh, her hand still gently massaging her neck.

  I should like to touch you, he thought. I should like to ask you why you’ve hidden your hair and why you’re wearing that terrible brown dress.

  I should like to meet the baby.

  I should like to hear what you meant to say when you almost told me what you really wanted.

  Now he knew his brain had shut off. These were his wishes for the other Tessa, the fraudulent one, the one who lived only in his memory. He had no notion of this Tessa, the Tessa that managed his business and slicked back her hair and wore brown.

  “Obviously I cannot fully comprehend these arrangements without you present,” he said. “You’ll have to come to St. Katharine with me, to advise me.”

  She took a deep, steadying breath. Relief? Endurance? Mettle? He couldn’t say.

  “Yes—of course, yes,” she said.