When the Walls Fell

by Monique Martin

  Simon opened his eyes and in an instant the warmth in his chest cooled. Long before he summoned the courage to turn his head, he knew she wouldn’t be there. Even knowing the truth, he couldn’t stop himself from looking.

  Closing his eyes he fought the discontinuity, trying to find some foothold on a dream lost in the morning sun. Nightmares had haunted him for years, but in the end, dreams were proving to be far crueler.

  Ignoring the unease he felt at the unfamiliar room, Simon tossed the sheet aside. Dreams and nightmares might taunt him at night, but in the day, reality was his to shape.

  Simon headed for the bathroom and prayed there was a shower. He would settle for a bath if need be, but they always reminded him of being a child. Very few of his childhood memories were pleasant.

  He opened the heavy paneled door from his bedroom suite and turned up the flame on the gas lamp. The concierge had assured him that the Palace had every amenity and he hadn’t exaggerated. The bath was as well-appointed as the rest of his suite, although, he could do without the bidet. Leave it to the French.

  Dark mahogany-paneled wainscoting covered the walls from trellised light wood ceiling to the mosaic tile floor. A brass framework of pipes that looked more like some medieval torture device than a shower wrapped itself around the inside of the standing shower enclosure. His grandfather’s estate in Sussex had a similar contraption and as a boy he used to pretend it was the exposed ribcage of a vanquished giant. Of course, that was when monsters had no life outside of books and stories, when turning the page had kept him safe.

  How time changes things, Simon thought as he carefully turned on the taps. Cool water sprang out in thin arching streams from a series of holes in each of the pipes. After some adjustment, the temperature was tolerable and he stepped inside.

  After his shower, Simon wrapped a large bath towel about his waist. At least now, he felt marginally prepared to meet the day. He wiped the steam off the mirror and ran a hand over his stubbled chin. Hardly an appropriate look for entering society, but he hadn’t brought his shaving kit, or a change of underwear for that matter. His mood soured distinctly.

  Rubbing a towel over his damp hair, Simon walked back into his bedroom. Glaring down at his day olds, he heard a muffled knock coming from the front door. Hoping it was the tea he’d arranged for the night before, he headed for the main parlor.

  The bedroom suite gave way to a long hall connecting to the parlor. Knuckles rapped smartly on the front door again. Simon draped the towel around his neck, quickly put on the hotel’s complimentary dressing gown and yanked open the door.

  A young steward swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple nearly jumped out of his throat.

  Simon waited, but nothing but a squeak emerged from the young man. “My tea?”

  “I’m sorry sir. I’ll see about the tea, but the tailor you requested is here.”

  The young man nervously stepped aside and an obsequious little man popped into view. Adjusting the tape measurer draped around his neck and pushing his black spectacles back onto the bridge of his nose, he smiled too broadly. “Anton Brandise, at your service Sir Simon,” he said with a bow, as his eyes took in Simon in an appreciative sweep.

  Simon gripped the edges of the towel around his neck and glared at the little man. When their eyes met, a blush stole over Mr. Brandise’s face and he quickly averted his eyes.

  Mr. Brandise cleared his throat then clapped his hands. “My trunk, boy.”

  The steward wheeled a large trunk to the door, but Simon blocked his path. “Sir?”

  For a moment, Simon considered turning them away, but the unpleasant prospect of having his inseam measured by Mr. Brandise was ultimately outweighed by necessity. Simon stepped out of the way and the steward wheeled the heavy trunk into the room, setting it down with a thud.

  “Be careful with that, boy!” Mr. Brandise barked then turned to Simon, his eyes drifting over Simon’s chest again. “So hard to find good help these days, isn’t it?”

  Simon stared down at the tailor in disapproval and a not so subtle reminder of who was working for whom. “Isn’t it?”

  The steward beat a hasty retreat and closed the door behind him.

  Mr. Brandise opened his trunk to reveal a full compliment of clothing and accessories. “I’m sure you’ll find Brandise and Merchant has the best gentlemen’s wares in the city. Perhaps something in the way of hounds-tooth?”

  “I’ll need four pairs of trousers to start,” Simon said, not wanting this to take any more time than was absolutely necessary. “Striped worsted or cashmere. Black, dark brown or steel grey. Matching cutaway coats suitable for morning, business and day. Pinstripes no larger than an eighth of an inch. One suit, preferably black, for informal evening wear. And a complete formal arrangement including top hat. With all necessary accessories—waistcoats, cravats, collars, cuffs. And no hounds-tooth. Do you think you can manage that, Mr. Brandise?”

  The tailor took out his kerchief and wiped his brow. “Yes, of course. It will take some time though.”

  “Time is something I don’t have Mr. Brandise. If you can accommodate me by this time tomorrow you’ll be well recompensed. If not, our business is finished.”

  Stuffing his kerchief back into his pocket he bowed his head. “I’m sure we can accommodate your needs.”

  “Very good. Now unless you plan on measuring me from there I suggest you produce suitable undergarments for me to wear as soon as possible.”

  ***

  The big blob of strawberry jam landed smack dab on Enrico Caruso. No wonder Simon had always insisted on spreading the jam for her when they had breakfast in bed. She was a stain waiting to happen. Thankfully, this morning’s disaster had been narrowly averted thanks to Mr. Caruso and the newspaper. His scheduled appearance at the Grand Opera House was the most anticipated event of the season. It would bring the house down all right. His debut performance was the night before the earthquake. Elizabeth tried to put that thought out of her head and quickly wiped the smear off Enrico. Luckily, Mrs. Eldridge didn’t notice.

  Breakfast was an elegant affair: Silver service trays, delicate china and plenty of wonderful food. Elizabeth had tried to eat, but her corset had other ideas. She’d barely managed to force some toast and tea down when she started to feel uncomfortably full. Maybe she could market the corset diet on QVC when she got back home. First though, she had to save the world, or at least her part of it.

  “Don’t like my eggs?”

  Elizabeth jumped at the voice. Gerald, Mrs. Eldridge’s butler, was standing behind her. His natural expression was just this side of surly.

  He was definitely not what Elizabeth had been expecting. She’d always envisioned butlers and valets as Jeevesy, expressionless automatons. Gerald was anything but that.

  She guessed he was in his mid-fifties. It was hard to tell. His face was craggy with more than age. Despite his age and a slight limp, he was a powerful, raw sort of presence. His brick red hair grew off his head in angry waves. Bits of gray around the temples softened the overall effect, but with broad shoulders and at just over six feet tall, he cut an imposing figure.

  His relationship with Mrs. Eldridge was another surprise. She was the boss, there was no doubt about that; she was everyone’s boss. But their relationship was more than that. There was an ease with each other and a mutual admiration that she was sure wasn’t typical for mistress and servant.

  Gerald nodded his head toward her plate.

  “Oh, no, I’m sorry. I was just—” Elizabeth said and quickly shoveled a forkful of cold scrambled eggs into her mouth. Gerald watched her without expression. Elizabeth smiled gamely as she forced down the rubbery bits. “Good.”

  Gerald’s hard face cracked into a smile and he laughed. It was a deep, scratchy rumble and Elizabeth liked him immediately for it.

  “Gerald,” Mrs. Eldridge chided.

  “Just testing, Lillian,” he said. “Nice to a fault, this one.”

  “Is cook ill again?”
Mrs. Eldridge asked.

  Gerald picked up Elizabeth’s plate and gave her a quick wink. “Probably ate some of her own cooking.”

  “Or yours,” Mrs. Eldridge said going back to the paperwork she’d been doing.

  “Cook should be back this afternoon.”

  Mrs. Eldridge peered up from her papers, looking over her glasses. She smiled slyly. “Thank you, Gerald.”

  Gerald gave her a small bow and left.

  “He’s a wonderful butler and a dear friend, but a horrible cook,” she confided after he’d left. She took off her glasses and studied Elizabeth intently. “Now, as to your search for Mr. Graham. I think I might be able to help you on that count.”

  “It could be dangerous. I don’t want you involved any more than you already are.”

  “Aren’t you a dear? A few introductions,” Mrs. Eldridge said taking a sip of her tea. “What could be the harm in that?”

  That sounded ominous, but before Elizabeth could ask what she meant, she heard loud voices out in the hall. The voices grew louder and the door opened with a flourish. Maxwell Alexander Harrington III swept in like Lawrence of Arabia, pulled off his driving goggles and dirty, cream colored topcoat and tossed them carelessly on a chair. “I’ll buy you new petunias, Aunt Lillian.”

  Mrs. Eldridge, who didn’t seem the least surprised by his abrupt entrance, calmly walked to the window and peered out. “They’re begonias. And you certainly will.”

  Maxwell raised his hands in submission when he noticed Elizabeth. “Well, hello again. So you weren’t a dream.”

  Mrs. Eldridge sighed heavily, but Max ignored her. “Aren’t you going to introduce us? Really, Aunt Lillian. Where are your manners?”

  “Elizabeth West, it’s my dubious pleasure to introduce my nephew, Maxwell. I believe he nearly ran you over yesterday.”

  “An accident. A most fortuitous accident,” he said as he took Elizabeth’s hand.

  He smelled like lavender and gasoline.

  Mrs. Eldridge turned from the window. “And a developing theme.”

  Max, still holding Elizabeth’s hand, took the seat next to her, one knee almost on the ground, the very picture of the earnest suitor. Maybe it was the lighting, but she could have sworn one of the honey colored flecks in his light brown eyes actually twinkled. It was all Elizabeth could do not to giggle.

  “And what brings you to our fair city, Miss West? It is Miss, isn’t it?” he asked, flashing blindingly white teeth set off by his deep tan.

  None of which she should be noticing. Even if her heart was in tiny little pieces, they belonged to Simon. She pulled her hand out of his grasp and smiled her best “genteel, but watch your boundaries” smile.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, running his fingers through his floppy blond hair. “I’m a bit of a fool when it comes to a beautiful woman.”

  That remark won him a delicate snort from Mrs. Eldridge.

  “Somehow I find that hard to believe,” Elizabeth said.

  Mrs. Eldridge returned to her seat at the table. “Maxwell is quite the man about town.”

  There was little doubt of that. He was ridiculously charming and painfully handsome, the sort who could jump over a tennis court net and somehow not look like a complete jackass.

  “I wouldn’t go that far, Aunt Lillian. More tea?” he asked Elizabeth, holding up the pot.

  The thought of another cup made her stomach gurgle in a most un-genteel way. Her eyeballs were already floating. “No, thank you. Five’s my limit.”

  He laughed and set down the pot. “Oh, I do like her, Aunt Lillian.”

  “Then make yourself useful,” Mrs. Eldridge said. “Get that…thing out of my flower bed and clean yourself up.”

  “Yes, Aunt Lillian,” he said with a sigh.

  “You’re taking Elizabeth out.”

  “Yes, Aunt Lillian,” he said with much more enthusiasm.

  Before Elizabeth could protest, Mrs. Eldridge continued. “Control yourself. She needs an introduction to Victor Graham. I believe you’re acquaintances. Do you think you can manage that without crashing into something?”

  “It would be my pleasure,” he said with a broad smile.

  Elizabeth wasn’t sure this was the best idea. How was she ever going to get anything done with the Great Leslie glued to her side? Not that she really had much of a choice.

  Elizabeth smiled as demurely as twenty years of independence would allow. “This is very kind of you, Mr. Harrington.”

  He grasped her hand and helped her stand. If they’d had them in 1906, his smile would have flipped the circuit breakers. “Call me Max.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Simon. Simon Cross.”

  The man behind the desk gave the pages of his book a circumspect study. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t see you on the list.”

  The concierge at the Palace had recommended the Haven as the most prestigious private club for a man of means. Judging from the haughty indifference of the man behind the desk and the expensive smelling cigar smoke wafting under the large oak double doors, it was the perfect place to find the people he needed to meet. “I’m not surprised. I’ve just arrived in town.”

  “I see. And your references? Do you have a letter from a member?”

  Simon had expected that and pulled an envelope from the inner breast pocket of his overcoat. He handed it to the clerk.

  Inside was a tidy bribe and formal paper. The man smiled as he pocketed the money and handed the paper back to Simon.

  “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding, Sir Simon.”

  Simon handed him a few more bills. “I’m sure you’ll find that adequate for my initial dues.”

  “Forgive me, Sir Simon. I’m sure I’ve misplaced your letter of introduction.”

  He opened a small drawer in the desk and pulled out a piece of paper. “Here it is,” he said as he wrote Simon’s name onto an empty space on what was obviously a well-prepared letter for just such an occasion. “Ah yes. I see you’re an acquaintance of Major Tuttle. The Major is rather forgetful. Hasn’t been the same since that business with Spain, I’m afraid. Doesn’t get out much anymore.”

  For once, Simon was pleased his low opinion of human nature had been proven correct. “Of course.”

  “Welcome to Haven, Sir Simon.”

  ***

  “Your chariot awaits,” Max said as he opened the gate to the street with a flourish. “You aren’t afraid of automobiles, are you? Don’t believe anything my aunt says. I assure you it’s an entirely safe form of transportation. The horseless carriage is the wave of the future.”

  Elizabeth swallowed her smile. “I’m sure.”

  She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it definitely wasn’t something so beautiful. His car, although still nestled in Mrs. Eldridge’s flowerbed, was exquisite. And huge. It had to be nearly twenty feet long.

  Catching her smile, Max quickly moved to rub dirt off one of the brass, gas lamp headlights. “She’s something, isn’t she? Had her sent over from England a few weeks ago.”

  “She’s amazing.” She’d never been one to pay much attention to cars, just enough to keep her Bug running, but this was a work of art. Everything about it was elegant and powerful. It was a sleek convertible with an aquiline hood and broad sloping fenders. The cream colored paint, she realized, matched his suit.

  “The English don’t do much well,” Max said. “But Rolls knows what they’re doing when it comes it automobiles.”

  “Rolls Royce?”

  Max seemed inordinately pleased. “You’ve heard of them? The 40/50. Finest automobile I’ve seen. I’m a bit of an aficionado. Planning on making the Peking to Paris rally next year. That’s off the cuff, mind you, nothing official yet.”

  Dear God, it was the Great Race. He really was the Great Leslie. “Sounds very exciting.”

  Max dug under one of the seats and produced another pair of goggles and a topcoat. “Driving with me is always exciting.”

  He gestured fo
r her to come around to the left side, as the steering wheel was on the right, and helped her into what was obviously a coat meant for a woman. Max was nothing if not prepared for the ladies.

  “Perfect fit.”

  He took her hand, helped her up onto the running board and into the seat which was more like a large leather reading chair for two than any car seat she’d ever known. After tucking in her voluminous skirts, she took the offered goggles. There was a windshield, but it was far too small to offer much protection. Great. It took her five minutes to get the dang hat on straight in the first place. The feathered plume tickled her nose as she took out the pins.

  Max moved around to the driver’s side and flipped a switch. Gently, he eased a few levers on the steering wheel into position then jumped out again.

  “Have it going in a tick,” he said as he moved to the front and inserted the crank. He fiddled with the choke for a moment and then gave the crank two robust turns. The engine roared to life and Elizabeth gripped her seat. The sound was nearly deafening and the entire car shimmied in place. Securing the crank, he jogged back to the car and moved a few more levers.

  “Off we go,” he said as he released the parking brake on the right-side running board and simultaneously manipulated two of the three pedals on the floor.

  They lurched forward as the wheels finally got a grip in the beleaguered flowerbed and bumped off the curb. Without a seatbelt to be found, Elizabeth nearly bounced out of her seat. Where was Ralph Nader when you really needed him?

  Across the street a horse pranced nervously in place in front of its carriage. The driver pulled the reins in with one hand and made a very unpleasant gesture with the other. Max waved back as they trundled down the street.

  Even though they were only going about twenty miles an hour the world passed by in a blur. Between the bumpy ride and the deep scratch on her goggles, which no matter how you sliced it, did not bode well, she could barely see anything. Apparently, Max couldn’t see much either as he narrowly swerved around another carriage. He squeezed the rubber bulb of the car’s horn and a loud squawking honk came out. That and the sound of another angry carriage driver were left behind them as they sped away.