Marrying Christopher
Page 4
Drinking some of my best port, Christopher imagined the captain thinking as he watched the man’s eyes narrow at the rate the inspector was downing his drink.
“Most intriguing.” The inspector’s glass was nearly empty. “Any future in it?”
“Mr. Niépce seems to think so.” Captain Gower returned the images to the table. “Joseph and I first became friends several years ago, when he and his brother invented the Pyréolophore. It was a mechanism, a machine, if you will, for powering boats upriver. He and I, we think alike.” Captain Gower tapped a finger against the side of his head. “There are better ways to do things, faster ways to get places. We’ve just got to find them.”
“And this Niépce, have his boats found success?” the inspector asked.
The captain’s face fell. “No.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Joseph and Claude did not give the Pyréolophore the time and attention it needed. Their patent has run out, and now Joseph believes this creating of pictures is the future.” The captain chuckled. “Though, in truth, I cannot see how making an image of a person is more important than the speed with which that person can cross the Atlantic, but we shall see. I am to deliver Joseph’s invention to some American investors in an attempt to procure financing to continue his project.”
The mention of American investors brought to mind their current problem— Mr. Thomas’s missing servant— and Christopher felt relieved when the captain offered to refill the inspector’s glass. If Miss Abbott failed to arrive before the inspector left, and if the captain truly intended to wait for her, who knew when they would be able to start their journey to America.
But the inspector had taken up a second drink and appeared completely untroubled
by the inconvenience of having to linger while waiting for the last passenger to arrive.
Christopher stood behind the two men, only half listening as the captain eagerly expounded on the merits and possibilities of each of the inventions he’d collected. Usually Christopher would have found this sort of thing most interesting, but his thoughts kept returning to the missing passenger and the possibility that something had gone wrong or would go wrong to delay them. If, for some reason, the Amanda May did not sail, if he had to return to Yorkshire and begin again to arrange for another passage, he was not at all certain he would be able to part from his sisters a second time.
Leaving them once had felt like tearing a piece of his heart out. He rubbed a hand absently against his chest, as if that might erase the ache— and the loss and the guilt— he felt. It was necessary, he knew, if he was to have this opportunity to start over, to have a fresh slate and a better life.
To make the name Thatcher into something noble and good.
But knowing a thing must be done and doing it were proving to be two entirely different things. He needed to get on with the rest of it now. The hard part had been leaving; he was eager for what came next. He’d been imagining America’s shores for so long now, imagining working the land with his hands, earning his own, fair wage, and saving and purchasing his own property. But none of that could begin until he reached America. And it appeared the captain would not begin their journey until Miss Abbott arrived.
The inspector also appeared to be reminded of her absence, and the late hour as well. He set his empty glass on the table. “I’d best be off now.”
“But if Miss Abbott arrives—”
“I’ve got a ship full of Irishmen to examine tomorrow morning,” the inspector said. “I’ll check in with you briefly just before. With any luck, you can still make your departure time— with Mr. Thomas’s servant aboard.”
“Thank you,” Captain Gower said, the sincerity of his gratitude evident in his voice. Christopher supposed this was a generous offer on the inspector’s part.
“Good eve to you, then.” The inspector tipped the hat he had just placed upon his head.
“Good evening,” Christopher said and followed the captain and the inspector out of the captain’s quarters. Captain Gower saw the inspector safely off of the ship while Christopher waited on deck, all the while busily scanning the wharf for any sign of the missing woman.
Marsali sat on the edge of her trunk and waited nervously inside the foyer of Madame Kelner’s Girls for Hire, both the closest establishment to where the coach had dropped her off and the one with the possibly least-offensive name. Under normal circumstances, or on a different street, “for hire” might mean any number of things. The red-velvet wallpaper, dim chandeliers, and heavy scent of perfume told her that it did not mean any of those other things here, but still, Marsali reasoned, this had to be better than stepping inside the Palace of Pleasure, farther down the street.
“This way, and bring your trunk.” The young woman who’d first answered when Marsali had rung the doorbell a few minutes earlier had returned. She inclined her head toward a side door off the foyer and walked toward it, clearly expecting Marsali to follow. This she did, dragging her trunk behind her with the same terrible scraping noise it had made as she’d lugged it across the street.
The woman opened the door, and Marsali moved awkwardly past her into a cozy sitting room. Decorated in subtle tones of green, the room was considerably less offensive to the eye than the foyer had been, and Marsali left her trunk just inside the room in favor of sitting in one of the chairs before the empty fireplace. She sank into its softness and felt herself relax just slightly. Holding her hands out before her, she realized they were both freezing and shaking, and she wondered that she’d not noticed before now just how cold she’d become.
From fear. The temperature itself was warm enough this time of year. Whatever the cause, she felt grateful for this temporary shelter. Behind her the door clicked shut, and Marsali removed her gloves and stretched her fingers.
“Used to hard work, are you?”
Marsali started at the voice above her. A woman considerably older than herself and considerably more beautiful stood behind Marsali. She came around in front of her, a purple satin gown swishing about her ankles. A matching necklace lay at the base of her throat, pointing down to the V of her dress, a far more daring décolleté than any Marsali had ever seen. Feeling most uncomfortable, she forced her eyes to the woman’s face and noted the careful application of rouge and powders, which Marsali suspected were intended to conceal the woman’s actual age. White-blonde curls were piled high atop her head, with a few kept down on either side of her face. She reached out, taking one of Marsali’s hands in her own and examining it.
“These hands will need some healing. It will be a while before I could use you. Gentlemen pay for soft hands— not rough.”
“Oh no.” Marsali extracted her hand from the stranger’s as she shook her head vigorously. “You misunderstand. I haven’t come looking for… work. It’s only that I’m in a bit of trouble.”
The woman arched an eyebrow. “With child?” She leaned forward and took Marsali’s chin, turning it, so her profile was presented. “What a pity. You would be popular. Though the other girls wouldn’t like it.” She let go abruptly and sat back in her chair, her gaze drifting to Marsali’s waistline. “How far gone are you? It’s possible it could still be taken care of. Though that would mean even longer before you could work.”
“I am not with child,” Marsali said. “And I do not wish—”
“Well, I’ve no need for any more maids right now, especially not one as pretty as you. It would only cause problems.” The woman stood, indicating their conversation was over.
Marsali resisted the urge to rub both her hand and chin where the woman had touched her. Instead she stood as well. “I am not here applying for a position as a maid— or anything else,” she quickly added when the hopeful, speculative expression reappeared on the woman’s face. “My coach mistakenly dropped me off outside your… establishment, and I am in need of transport to the Waterloo dock. I have passage on a ship that is to leave tomorrow morning.” She held her breath, waiting to see if the woman might offer any help.
“I thought, perhaps, I might offer you something in my trunk in exchange for a coach to take me.”
“Have you anything of value?” The woman seemed possibly interested again.
Marsali’s mind reviewed the contents of her trunk— scant compared to those she’d arrived at her aunt’s with four years earlier. And scant compared to the opulence— however distasteful— she’d glimpsed upon entering Madame Kelner’s establishment. She wondered suddenly if Madame Kelner herself was standing before her.
“Well?” the woman asked, impatience in her tone.
“I do not have much,” Marsali admitted. “But the trunk itself, perhaps? In exchange for an old carpetbag or even a sackcloth in which I might carry my things.”
The woman shook her head. “What need would I have for a trunk, and an old one at that? No one around here is going anywhere. I am afraid I cannot help you. Now, if you would be so kind as to remove yourself from my premises. Customers will be arriving soon, and you wouldn’t want any of them becoming confused about you, would you?” She smiled in a knowing sort of way, and Marsali had the uncomfortable feeling that the woman had guessed every thought and revulsion she’d felt since first walking through the door.
Still, inside Madame Kelner’s had to be better than out alone on that street. Two more women had taken up their posts before she had made her way inside. She did not want to be out among them and the men who would soon be arriving to peruse the offerings. “Please,” Marsali begged. “I have nowhere to go.”
“I am not running a charity.”
So she is Madame Kelner.
“The girls around here work for their keep. You could work for yours as well.” Madame Kelner stepped closer, her eyes boring into Marsali’s. “I could fetch a high price for you— even if it was just for one night. I would even see to it you had a proper gentleman.”
“No.” Marsali shook her head and backed away.
“Then get out.” Madame Kelner’s hand shot forward, narrowly missing Marsali’s face. “See that you are gone immediately, lest I receive an offer for you too good to pass up.” Madame Kelner swept past her in a swirl of satin. “Kimberly will show you out.”
She exited the room, and the young woman who had shown Marsali in returned.
“This way,” she said quietly and bent to pick up one side of the trunk. “We’ve a back entrance. It will be a little better than going straight out to the street right now.”
Marsali nodded, swallowing back the tears she felt threatening. Lifting the other end of her trunk, she followed the girl out of the room, through the foyer, and past the long staircase leading to the upper floor. They entered another door and crossed through a kitchen. Marsali’s stomach growled with hunger as they passed by an oven and the scent of baking bread overtook the other, less pleasant aromas of the building. They left the kitchen and came to a narrow hall with several doors leading off it.
“Wait here,” Kimberly said, lowering her end of the trunk. She turned away, hurrying down the hall and disappearing through one of the doors. Marsali sat on the trunk and tried to think what she must do next. She had no idea whatsoever which direction the wharf lay, and even if she did, it wasn’t as if she could pull her trunk along with her.
Kimberly reappeared in the hall, something folded over her arms. She came closer, holding the offering out to Marsali.
“I overheard your conversation with Madame, and I thought you might be able to use this.” She shook open the bundle, and Marsali saw that it was a large cloth sack, the kind flour was sometimes delivered in.
“Thank you,” she said, only slightly relieved. She still had no idea how she was going to reach the docks. “And I shall give you my trunk in return for coach fare?”
Kimberly shook her head. “I haven’t any money. I’m sorry. I still owe Madame for…” Her voice trailed off, and Marsali was left to surmise what might have incurred the debt.
“But I can tell you how to get to the docks,” Kimberly said. “And you can carry your belongings— some of them, at least— in this. It will be easier than your trunk.”
“Thank you.” It wasn’t much, but it was a better option than any she could think of, and Marsali felt a rush of gratitude for the young woman, likely risking more trouble with Madame by helping as she was.
She fished the key out of her reticule and unlocked the trunk. Kimberly held the sack open while Marsali made instant decisions about which items she must take and which she could live without. Her hairbrush, yes; woolen petticoat, no. Hopefully her employer would provide her with another when winter came. Two of the three dresses she owned, beyond the one she wore, yes. Her least favorite, no. Nightgown and cap, yes. Underclothes, yes. Books, no. Sewing kit, no. She held back tears and suppressed a sigh. She pulled her cloak and a heavy woolen shawl from the trunk and set them aside, knowing neither would fit in the nearly full sack. No doubt it would have held more had she had the time to fold and arrange things properly, but she’d shoved each item in as quickly as her shaking fingers would allow.
The last item in her trunk was a bundle of mostly faded hair ribbons, one of the last gifts from her father. Marsali placed these in the flour sack, and Kimberly helped her tie the string tightly around the top.
“Hold this,” Kimberly instructed, handing her the sack. She snatched the shawl from the edge of the trunk where Marsali had placed it and hurriedly tied two large knots at the back. Then she draped the shawl over Marsali’s shoulders and tied it securely in front. When this was accomplished, she layered the cloak over the shawl, pulled the hood up over Marsali’s head, and tied it as well.
“Walk hunched over, with your head down, and it will appear as though you’ve a hump on your back,” Kimberly said. “Shuffle your feet, keep your face covered as much as possible, and it’s likely the only people who will take notice of you will be the lads who loiter by the wharf— and they’ll only taunt you about being old and decrepit or throw a rock or two.”
“Will this really work?” Marsali asked as she clutched the sack to her and pulled the cloak tight around it.
“Aye. I’ve done it myself a time or two. It’s important you keep your head down and walk just so.” She took a few shuffling steps down the hall and back again. “See how it gives the appearance of the old and infirm?”
Marsali nodded, though she wasn’t certain her performance would be as good. It had best be. My very life may depend upon it.
“You must make sure to keep your head down. And if someone approaches you, don’t look up, but start coughing and gagging. Spit on the street if you must— anything so it appears you’re very ill. Go now.” Kimberly turned Marsali toward the back of the hall and pushed her along toward a door at the end.
“But I don’t know how to get to the docks,” Marsali said, her panic returning at the thought of being thrust into the alleyway alone.
“I’ll draw it out for you.” Kimberly stepped in front of her, opened the door, and went outside. She searched around a moment and found a broken bottle, then picked up a jagged piece of it, bent to the dirt, and began drawing.
“We’re here.” She marked the spot with an X. “You’re going to walk to the end of the passageway, then turn left. You’ll be on Lime Street again. Stay on Lime until you get to Hanover. Go right on Hanover, and stay on it a good long time until you reach the docks. I’m not sure which direction your ship will be, but you can walk up and down until you find it.”
“How long do you think it will take me?” Marsali asked, loath to leave this small security yet anxious to be gone as well.
Kimberly shrugged. “An hour or two, I’d think. Longer, perhaps, if your ship is at one of the far docks.”
“Thank you,” Marsali said, looking into the girl’s eyes. “May God bless you for helping me.”
Kimberly shook her head. “That’s kind of
you, miss, but it ain’t likely to happen. One good deed against my many sins is not likely to balance out. But I thank you just the same. Be gone now.” She waved her hands, as if shooing away a pigeon or a stray cat. Her heart aching, Marsali turned away. Why does life have to be so unfair? So difficult for so many? Were circumstances different, she felt the girl might have been a friend.
Had Papa still been alive. And had Kimberly had a father to see after her as well. We might have taken tea together in the afternoons and gone on carriage rides around the park.
Leaning purposely forward, Marsali shuffled down the alleyway. But those things are not to be. Not for me. Not for the women on this street. Who has time for tea or going to the park when simply surviving requires so much?
Christopher sat on a crate alongside the rail, where he could easily see the comings and goings on the dock below. In the hours since the medical inspector had left, the wharf had grown quieter and the street darker as the business of the day had been completed, excepting the boardwalk taverns, from which an occasional burst of raucous laughter came whenever a door opened.
“Rethinking your decision?” Captain Gower hung a lantern on a nearby post and came to join him.
“Not at all,” Christopher said, though his thoughts had been turning to home— or his sisters’ homes, at least. He had no qualms about traveling to America aboard a steamship, and neither did he regret his decision to leave England. He only wished there might have been a way to bring Grace and Helen. He missed them, their companionship, their evenings full of talk and laughter. “I was simply enjoying the solitude you promised,” Christopher said. “I admit to being unaccustomed to such. It may take some getting used to.”
“That it does,” the captain agreed. “When I am long from the sea, I find myself yearning for it, for quiet hours at the ship’s wheel with nothing to disturb me except the cry of a gull or the fin of a dolphin skimming through the waves. But then, when I’m out on the ocean, when all is calm and quiet, I cannot help but think of home, of my wife and wee’uns and how desperate I feel to return to them. It seems a man— at least one destined to sail— cannot ever feel entirely satisfied.”