Phillip took a deep breath. What choice did he have? “Very well. I will let you know in ten days’ time if I mean to pursue your daughter.”
“Good man. Now, about tomorrow. We have another parasol attachment to install, those are gaining in popularity, as well as...”
Phillip listened with only partial concentration as the doctor detailed the frivolous surgeries the wealthy hereabouts elected to have. It grated that none of their work improved anyone’s lives in any meaningful way. Dr. de la Pointe, however, seemed perfectly pleased.
What a waste. One of the leading experts in body enhancements, specifically artificial eyes, stood before him. Reportedly, he’d learned at his father’s knee. A father who had grown a substantial practice and produced many patents, outfitting American Civil War veterans with new appendages. His partner had inherited his father’s genius, but regrettably chose to help an entirely different class of people.
Adele doused the library’s gaslight, tucked her selection under her arm, and headed up the main stairs, the moonlight and night safety gleamers spaced around the house lighting the way. None of the books she had in her room appealed, and she was unable to sleep, restless.
Dr. Rawley’s proposal rankled more than it should. Why should she care? But when she pictured running into him on this errand, her belly had vibrated in an odd manner, so she’d waited until she’d heard him retire before venturing downstairs. Restless energy surged through her, needing an outlet as her slippers skished-skished up the wooden staircase.
Too much had happened today to hope for sleep any time soon. An unfamiliar worry also threaded through her. Would the neighbor go straight to Father? Could she find a story good enough? She had to land that position.
She rounded the top of the staircase and thunked into a solid wall. A warm solid wall. She bounced away, clattered into the hall rosewood table, and stepped on the hem of her night wrapper. She was going down.
Strong hands gripped her waist from behind and hauled her upright into a hard male chest. “Easy, easy,” whispered Dr. Rawley’s voice in her ear. He lurched forward, bringing his body more flush against hers, and straightened the teetering Limoges vase.
One of Maman’s prized vases. At the near miss, Adele’s heart stuttered. Careless handling when she and Rex had been younger had inexorably reduced Maman’s collection until only two remained. Then her blood pumped faster at the feel of Dr. Rawley’s body so inappropriately pressed against hers.
Time slowed as her body and mind argued on what to do. His breath rasped in and out by her ear. The scent of soap and fresh-washed skin settled over her. A corner of his robe fell and bumped against her calf. Another breath tickled her ear, and chills galloped across her skin. The visit to the brothel, and what men and women did in such an establishment, popped into her head, and heat flashed over the chills.
He straightened and stepped away, and she faced him, her skin tight and sensitized for no reason she could understand.
Her heart stuttered again. The strong, masculine lines of his face stood in stark relief in the ambient light, and the ends of his hair were damp, clinging to his cheek and just under his ear.
Tantalizing energy snapped between them, thickening the air, curling around her skin. Oh Lord, her naked skin. No confining corset or layers of petticoats under her night rail. She pulled in a ragged breath, and her breasts rasped against the cotton.
Her mouth went dry. In the semi-darkness, he stood in nothing but a dressing gown and slippers, the gown’s sash riding low on his lean hips.
He raked a hand through his hair, pushing those dark wet locks into a more presentable shape. “Forgive me. Didn’t mean to startle you. Just on my way back from...er...” He glanced down the hall, and finished the sentence with a hand gesture.
Seeing him flustered, seeing him vulnerable, seeing him stripped of polite layers had her discombobulated.
And achingly aware this gentleman had proposed only this morning to become even more intimate.
A fuzzy ball of heat dropped from chest to belly, and she shivered. “I understand. If you’ll excuse me?” She curtsied.
“But of course.” He bowed.
She stepped forward to go around him to her room, and bumped into his chest again.
“Excuse me,” she whispered at the same time he mumbled, “Pardon.” Lord above, this just made her feel so much more exposed, and not just physically.
He pressed flat against the wall.
Face burning, she swept past.
This was why having him board here was such a terrible, terrible idea.
Adele strode alongside the Mobile River, camera equipment in tow. There had to be a story here. Loki perched on her shoulder eating sunflower seeds from a burlap bag, the hulls flittering to the ground in their wake. A burly stevedore shoved past, steering a mechanical cart chock full of bananas. Loki squeaked and pointed, but Adele kept a firm hand on his waist.
Overhead, the morning airship flight from New Orleans buzzed by to land at d’Iberville Airfield, and she smiled. Despite her fear of water, she loved living in a port city. The idea that water bounded one side felt like she had unlimited possibilities at her back, not hedged in by a landlocked town. Combined with the daily airship flights to major cities and a network of railroads, options for adventure were endless. If she so chose. And that was enough. For now.
The clean morning mist smell, evoking new beginnings, warred with the growing work stench of the active port heating up in the Southern sun. Her nose crinkled with the unfamiliar cocktail of odors. She hadn’t been to this part of town since she’d moved back into Father’s house a year ago. Besides the sharp tang of sea salt blowing in from the Gulf downstream, she caught a whiff of gutted and rotting fish from the small oyster boats, as well as the bait buckets of local men fishing off any available spot for dinner fixings.
Intermixed with this, the acrid odor of industry: hot tar and burning coal, the aroma of fresh paint and decaying wood, and the sweet, wet dog smell of cotton stored in the Mobile Cotton Exchange. The unholy mix tangled with the breakfast she’d gulped. Gulped, because she wanted to be here, hunting. Not to avoid the more-enticing-than-he-ought-to-be boarder. Or to avoid the awkwardness after his ridiculous proposal. No, not at all.
And that run-in in the hallway last night. Oh, Lordy. Butterflies whipped up the breakfast sausage in her belly. Had he orchestrated the encounter on purpose? And she couldn’t quite pin him down; he was a study in contrasts. A staid, put-together exterior, but at other times, like last night, a totally different character presented himself. An intriguing dichotomy.
A sharp wind tugged at her straw hat. She tightened the red silk ribbons under her chin and shoved errant hairs beneath the brim.
All around swarmed a sea of men dressed in white overalls or sailor’s togs or frock coats and cravats. Some loaded crates or headed to or from their construction shifts, while others hung about supervising or looking for jobs. Those passing eyed her curiously. All right. She got it. She trespassed on their domain.
But this bubbling mass of humanity had to contain a story. Government contracts gone awry. Corrupt vendors. She’d heard dock workers talk of a possible war against Spain over Cuban independence. Something there maybe? Worth a shot.
She marched through the distorted, curlicue shadow cast by the iron arch looming ahead, spelling in intricate scrollwork, “Hunley, McClintock & Watson Shipbuilding Company.” Would their new military submersibles be visible? The federal government, as part of the Lincoln Restoration Act—the legacy of his three presidential terms—had contracted for submersibles to be built in Mobile. And...the main gate was under guard. Drat. The influx of new labor to accommodate the contracts meant the city, and port, was full to bursting—hence the reason Dr. Rawley was obliged to board with them.
What have we here? Ahead lay a massive ship in a dry dock, only the top visible above the dry dock’s sides. And made of glass?
“Excuse me,” she asked a passing sailor.
“What ship is that?”
“That there is The Neptune. Claim it will be the largest luxury cruise submersible yet made. Set to launch in a little over a week, I hear.”
“Impressive.”
So that was The Neptune. She’d read about it in the paper, but it had been a general announcement as to its purpose. If as big a deal as this sailor claimed, maybe it warranted a deeper look. Adele set her photo equipment satchel on a slight rise that afforded an unobstructed view of the mysterious submersible. From here, she could question workers and capture a few establishing shots in case a story on The Neptune panned out.
“Loki, keep an eye out, will you?”
Her monkey leaped onto a short creosote post, shielded his eyes, and looked around.
She popped the tripod legs into place and settled it on the ground. Next, she attached the bulky view camera, pulled off the lens cap, draped the black cloth over her head, and adjusted the scene through the focusing lens. Just a little... Ah, there—the sharp lines and smoke stacks of The Neptune snapped crisply into view, though upside down. She slid a glass plate into the camera’s side and counted to thirty, which should give the proper exposure.
The practiced movements, the skill it took, and knowledge she was engaged in something worthwhile, buoyed her movements. Her enthusiasm slipped, remembering she must cover an afternoon tea. But that was later. Right now—right now, her whole body hummed with purpose.
Time up, she scrambled from under the cloth and retrieved the exposed plate. She eased it into an empty slot in her plate box and pulled out a blank one.
Loki screeched in warning, and something shoved her slightly to the side. The glass plate flew from her hand and shattered on the cobblestones. Drat. Those things cost a dollar each!
“Pardon me, miss. I’m so sorry.”
A bedraggled and rouged woman sprang away in a tangle of brightly-colored skirts. A doxy! Clearly still up from the previous night, if her elaborate dress and sagging makeup indicated anything. Panic flashed across her face. She glanced at Adele’s neck tattoos. “Miss de la Pointe,” she whispered with what sounded like...awe? But then she was up and running along the river before Adele could ask how she knew her.
Cursing under her breath, Adele picked up the glass pieces and pulled another from her case. She slid it into place and covered her head with the black cloth. One more shot, but with the sun shining bright and clear today, she’d try a much shorter exposure.
Running footsteps came from the right, and she peeked through the cloth. A well-dressed, dark-haired gentleman dashed along the embankment and crossed in front of the lens while she was exposing the plate. Another dollar wasted! So much for the new hat she had an eye on at Naman’s. Not her morning.
She pushed the cloth away. The man definitely chased the prostitute. Why? Had the woman pilfered something of value from her latest customer? Was she witnessing a crime before her very eyes? Time to find out and render aid if need be.
Confound the cumbersome equipment. She unscrewed the mount, knowing she couldn’t disassemble it fast enough to catch up to them. She smelled a story, and she’d be dashed if she’d pass up the opportunity.
Phillip scratched a pencil across a slip of paper—a prescription for this last patient, then he could break and read his sister Louise’s letter, a letter which had settled like a weight in his pocket ever since it arrived in today’s post. Surely she’d have news of their sister Charlotte. He fingered the crisp, thick letter as said patient enumerated his aches and pains, complications from his latest cosmetic surgery performed by Dr. de la Pointe.
He showed his patient to the door, offered last-minute admonishments, and let the screen door bang shut. A light rain peppered the ground, the fresh scent of wet grass spicing the humid air. He looked up—Good Lord, the climate here changed at an alarming rate. The sky had been clear this morning.
He shook his head. He would never have thought he’d find himself in a foreign land. And now, here he was. A gamble that might not pay off.
At last, the letter. The news it might contain regarding Charlotte had his stomach pitching and rolling. Plus it should contain the private telephone exchange he could use to call and the times Louise would be there, away from their mother’s hearing.
He straightened his desk, put away his instruments and tools, and pulled the missive from an inner pocket. He grasped the edge to tear it open, then pulled in a deep breath. He was a calm, rational man. Not given to impulsive and excessive display of emotion. He flexed his fingers, let the envelope drop, and retrieved a letter opener.
A frantic scream cut through the still, early afternoon air, feminine in nature. Miss de la Pointe! Phillip dropped the letter opener and bounded to the steps on the front porch.
Traffic bunched and slowed in a knot directly in front. In the knot’s center, a lady on an Arabian stallion. A steam car honked, and the horse reared onto his hind legs and pawed the air, eyes rolling back until only the whites showed.
He whinnied high and loud, wild nostrils flaring, snorting spittle that mingled with the desultory rain. A lady riding side-saddle sawed desperately on the reins. But it wasn’t Miss de la Pointe.
Curiously, relief bloomed inside until the pedestrians’ inactivity finally registered.
The lady screeched and yanked on the reins again.
No, no, no. Phillip leaped down the steps and ran to the beast’s side. He grabbed the reins and cooed to the animal.
“Shhh. Shhhh. Ma’am, if you value your safety and that of your horse, please abide me.” He kept his tone calm but commanding.
The horse bobbed its head several times and pawed the ground. It crouched and reared again.
Damnation. “Lean forward, ma’am. Keep the reins loose.”
Eyes wide and glazed, she did as instructed.
The front hooves slammed to the ground, the animal’s great sides heaving like an overworked bellows.
Phillip uttered soothing noises and urged it forward, up the expansive front lawn and away from the street. He rubbed its neck as he walked it, not blaming the horse in the least for being spooked by the hectic and noisome surroundings. Not his milieu. Though his new home had a strange languid briskness to it, which held a perverse fascination for him. It seemed to fit the town’s denizens as well.
“You’d like to be in the country, wouldn’t you?” he whispered. “Clean air, sweet hay, none of this claptrap. Shh. Shh.”
The rain now pelted in earnest, soaking him thoroughly. In his haste, he’d neglected to don a hat, and his hair was now plastered to his skull. He blinked and blew rainwater away from his mouth.
Finally, the creature calmed. He continued stroking its neck.
“Oh, thank you, sir,” the frightened lady said from her perch.
“Ma’am, you should return home—”
Skirts swished behind him, and he knew, knew, who it was. “How dashing you were, Dr. Rawley. I witnessed the whole of it.”
That voice, breathless, settled over him. No. Sank into him, each syllable a silky-soft claw that raised invisible welts of awareness down his back. Already familiar, the tones and accent made his blood rush a little faster, like a conditioned response to a drug. He glanced back. Miss de la Pointe, her face flushed, her brown eyes alight with energy, her monkey bouncing on her shoulder.
His breath got lost somewhere along the way; he’d need to look for it. Against the dreary sky, the colorful splashes of her light purple walking dress and red umbrella cheerfully vibrated. Her hat, a frivolous contraption, sat at a jaunty angle on her head, one brown lock of hair curled against her neck. His fingers itched to right the hat.
By God, he envied her energy. He wished he could be so open, so fun-loving, so convinced the world lay at his feet.
Inwardly cursing, he shoved fingers through his wet hair—again he stood before her in a disheveled state. Like the first day they’d met, an unsettling feeling overtook him, as if his body couldn’t determine if it were about to step off a cliff
or fall into a cloud, luxuriant and buoyant. An uncomfortable feeling on the whole, making him on edge.
No. Enough. Her effect on him could not be tolerated. Every time he was around the blasted woman, the firm grip on his control loosened. A hard-won control. He would not succumb to emotion like his mother. A mother who screeched at the vicar’s dinner party about the mutton’s temperature, his father sitting across from her, face blank, muscles rigid. A mother in hysterics about idle village gossip, and his father quietly leaving the family sitting room. Phillip didn’t want the same.
But, Charlotte. What choice did he have? Forget his preferences. Control. He had to exert better control.
She stepped close, admitting him to her dry, protected space under her umbrella. He gripped the reins tighter in case the horse spooked again.
Her monkey gave him a gimlet eye. A delicate scent teased him—hers. Floral mixed with a dash of excitement. Or was that the monkey? Her heart-shaped face, inches away. The alabaster skin and straight nose he’d found so pleasing now sported pink cheeks, amplified by her umbrella’s redness. His breaths became shorter. Had she been running? He glanced down. Her bosom was agitated to a degree, suggesting a shortness of breath. And a fine bosom it was. Blood rushed to his loins, and he swayed. Resist.
“Truly marvelous indeed,” she said.
“Your pardon, miss. To what are you referring?” He resolutely returned his gaze to her face.
“That was so heroic of you. Charging over and calming this great beast. You were certainly brave to do so. Who knows what could have happened?”
“It was only an agitated horse.”
“Exactly!”
Were they speaking the same language?
He turned back to the lady on the horse, who watched him curiously. “I suggest, ma’am, you take the quieter streets back to your destination.”
“Indeed, sir. Thank you again. You saved my life.”
Phillip groaned.
The letter. The letter was all that mattered now. He brushed past Miss de la Pointe and took the porch steps two at a time. If he had to be thrilling, he was doomed. Doomed. Wooing ladies was already an endeavor he did not excel in, but with such a spirited one as she?
Steam Me Up, Rawley Page 5