by James Allen
Damned if I didn’t. The get-up was old-fashioned, but smart enough. Derry looked me over and smoothed down the front of the embroidered white vest. “The waistcoat suits you. Ezra has a good eye.”
“He did all right,” I observed. "Though he never even saw me in it." The clerks had me in and out of it in five minutes after buzzing around with the measuring tapes.
"Hasn't he, then?" An odd little smile lifted Derry's lips, but before I could ask what that was about, Ezra came in, half dressed, damp hair curling over his forehead.
“We shall be late. Derry, is he…”
Ezra's attention fell upon me and the question trailed away into silence. As he stared, Derry nudged him with an elbow. “He does look a picture, eh?”
“Evidently a silk purse can be had of a sow’s ear.”
The comment didn't fool me. I could see his all too apparent admiration--and maybe just a little lust. “At least the sow’s ear is ready on time,” I retorted, tapping my wrist before remembering the gesture would be meaningless to them.
Ezra roused from his trance and scrambled to get into his suit. I went downstairs to look for Hannah and found her in the parlor, sweeping out the fireplace. She looked at me, wide-eyed but unafraid, and asked if I was really a policeman. I figured it was her way of asking if I was really from the future.
I grinned at her as if it were no big deal. “That doesn’t scare you, does it?”
She shook her head, but held on tight to the broom. “What’s it like?”
“Well, let’s see.” I eased the broom gently from her grasp and hefted it in my hands. “There’s a machine in the future, it’s got a motor at one end and a handle to push it around on the other and a bag in between and when you hook it up to electricity, it sucks up all the dirt and dust, whoosh, just like that.”
Her eyes were round. “Truly?”
“Cross my heart.” I handed her back the broom and took the music box out of the wrapper the clerk had put it in. “Here, kiddo. I got this for you. Sort of a good-bye gift.”
She stared at the toy as if it were even more alien than the man sitting in front of her. Thin, grubby fingers traced blue porcelain skirts, then she drew her hand back and rubbed it self-consciously on her coal-streaked apron. “For me?”
The kid was apparently not the recipient of a whole lot of gifts. “For you,” I affirmed, putting it into her hands. “Something to remember me by.”
I gave the tiny knob a couple of turns and the music tinkled, faint but cheerful, as the entwined pair circled on top. Hannah let out an awed breath that ended in a little sigh. She might’ve been holding the crown jewels in her hands. But as the music slowed, the light faded from her eyes. “I can’t, sir. Miss Kathleen wouldn't allow it.”
“You and I are friends, aren’t we?”
Flushed pink under her dirty cheeks, she broke from my gaze. “Yes, sir.”
“All right, then. Nothing wrong with a gift between friends, is there?”
“No, sir,” she ventured after thinking a minute.
“All settled. Good. Hannah?”
She peeked up through her copper fringe at me. “Yes, sir?”
“When Kathleen gets too tough on you, smile at her like this…” I slipped on an angelic grin. “And tell her, ‘My, Miss Kathleen, you’re looking pretty today’.”
Hannah giggled. “She’ll send me home for impertinence, sir.”
“Hey, don’t knock impertinence. It’s good for you.”
“And you may trust Mr. Nash’s vast wealth of experience with that particular trait,” Ezra said as he came up behind me. His attention fell on the music box in Hannah’s hands. “Take good care of that, my dear. It was chosen with great consideration.” He turned to me. “Are you ready? We really must go.”
As I stood, I planted a soft kiss on the top of Hannah’s sleek head. “’night, sweetheart. Don’t work too hard.”
Ezra waited until we were outside before he asked if I normally befriended servants to that extent.
“Something wrong with it?”
He mulled over the question. “I suppose not in Hannah’s case. I rather doubt she would become impertinent, even under your exemplary guidance.” He bent over the rail beside the steps and picked a blossom, gesturing me near so he could tuck it into my lapel. “That finishes you off quite nicely.”
“In more ways than one.” I sneezed.
“Ah. No need to gild the lily, I suppose--"
As he reached to take it, I caught his hand. “That’s all right. Doesn’t bother me much. But--aren't white roses a symbol of purity?”
"Indeed, yes," he said with a chuckle. "But it may also mean that someone finds you worthy of love." As the words left his lips, he caught my smirk and blushed to his collar. "Not that I was intimating..." He cleared his throat. "Yes. Right. Where the devil are all the cabs?"
As he fled to the curb, I indulged in a quiet laugh. The nineteenth century was turning out to be more entertaining than I'd ever thought.
Chapter Ten
Jem Montague's abode oozed calculated elegance, from the lush rugs to the glittering chandeliers, and all the sleek mahogany in between. And we were far from being the only guests. A number of people milled about in the parlor and for the first ten minutes or so, I felt as though I’d come to a costume party. The women in particular were dolled up in yards of silk and accessorized in every way known to man. I studied them one by one, wondering which was Charlotte. I found out when Ezra excused himself to hurry across the room to greet a slim, brown-haired woman in a pale pink dress. She allowed a small peck on the cheek and patted his arm with a white-gloved hand. She seemed glad to see him and talked on while I tried to slip a little closer, too curious for my own good.
Ezra looked around at me as if he knew I was trying to eavesdrop. Apparently resigned to his babysitting duties, he introduced us. Warm brown eyes looked me over with utter innocence. Here was a kid with no idea of what she was getting into. She reminded me of a doll, the kind girls kept on a shelf so it wouldn’t break.
“America,” she marveled. “I’ve not been. Father has and claims it is quite charming, if just a little rough around the edges. You must be terribly homesick, Mr. Nash. Even a month in the country leaves me longing for the sights and sounds of home. Don’t you find it the most lonely feeling?”
“I do,” I said frankly, then caught Ezra’s curious glance. “But Ez here and good old Derry have made me feel more at home.”
“Derry’s a perfect angel,” Charlotte exclaimed and then looping an arm through Ezra’s, gave him a teasing little smile. “Of course you are as well, my dear.”
“A perfect angel,” I agreed with the hint of a much slyer smile than Charlotte’s.
Ezra got back at me by ignoring it completely. “I think your brother has spotted us, my dear. We should have begun under the stairs this time.”
She giggled behind her fan and looked around at the scowling fellow heading our way. If he was Charlotte’s brother, she’d gotten all the looks. The only thing he had going for him was the black hair that rode the top of his head in a thick, wavy crest. His lips, like hers, were a small pink heart in a rosy-cheeked face and it didn’t suit him nearly as well—especially with the ferocious look he was wearing now as he descended on us and wrapped a little too possessive arm around his sister.
I got a cold, suspicious look and I was the lucky one. He fixed on Ezra with intense dislike. “You will remember yourself, sir.”
“We are engaged,” Ezra reminded him mildly.
And Charlotte had been clinging to Ezra----not the other way ‘round--I wanted to add, but decided it would be better to keep my mouth shut. The guy looked ready to take a swing at Ezra and while I thought Ezra could probably take him, a scene like that would not go over too well with the host. But before big brother could press the subject, Ezra changed it. “George, may I present Mr. Morgan Nash of New York.” He might’ve been introducing the president, from his tone, and I realized he was
doing it deliberately, to get under George’s skin. I knew for sure when he finished off-handedly, “Morgan, Mr. George Edward Blanchard.”
“The third,” George tacked on icily.
“The third,” Ezra solemnly agreed. I caught the bright sparkle in his eye as he glanced at me. He didn’t like George any more than George liked him. I looked Georgie up and down with presidential aloofness. “How’s it going?” I asked with a nod.
His feathery brown brows drew together. “I beg your pardon?”
Ezra covered his mouth with a hand and coughed. “You haven’t visited America yet, George?”
“No. Nor do I intend to.” He smoothed his moustache and shot a glance at me as if he thought America entirely uncivilized and here I was, the proof.
I grinned at him. “Not afraid of us, are you?”
Charlotte was doing her best to not laugh, biting her lip as her cheeks went a rosier pink. George’s did too, but not in a good way. With a glare at us, he whisked her off. She gave us an apologetic look over his shoulder but didn’t put up any real resistance. Ezra’s smile turned rueful. “He hasn’t quite reconciled himself to our engagement.”
“No kidding?”
“I believe he thinks Charlotte should do better.”
I shrugged. “She’s a sweet kid. She deserves a man who’ll love her, body and soul. Don’t you think?”
He didn’t answer but I saw the dark gleam of regret in his eyes. Derry and I weren’t the only ones who knew he was making a mistake. He stayed quiet as we made a circuit of the room and the acquaintance of our fellow dinner guests. They were a peculiar assortment, from a Russian noblewoman to a young, good-looking clerk who, I assumed, was a more-than-good-friend of Jem’s. I noticed that Sidney was absent, which made sense if Jem was hoping to land Ezra. I caught sight of Jem across the room, in conversation with a pretty young woman and a beefy older guy sporting serious muttonchops and features that were strikingly like Jem’s.
"His dad?" I whispered and Ezra nodded. "Who's the girl?"
"Clara Alworth. An engagement, I think, in the making."
"He's following your lead?"
"Ah--no. I believe he loves her. I cannot say if those feelings are returned."
"Really? So old Jem swings both ways?"
Ezra looked puzzled but he didn't get the chance to ask for a translation. Jem saw us and slipped away from the circle to greet us. He shook my hand, holding on as he leaned toward me to whisper, “Do be a good fellow and escort Mrs. Petrova to dinner, will you?”
Ezra had a peculiar little grin on his face and I sensed I was being set up. “Escort her to dinner?”
Ezra’s grin broadened a fraction. “Gentlemen do escort the ladies to the dining room in America, I hope?”
I should have invested in an etiquette manual my first day here. “Yeah, maybe. Mrs. Petrova. That’s the woman who nearly shook my arm off, right?”
Jem clapped my shoulder in sympathy, but he was grinning, too. “Think of it as a rite of passage. Every man here has had to endure her through at least one dinner.”
“Please don’t tell me that’s the reason you invited me.”
Jem laughed, a hearty deep bass. “I have my reasons, dear Morgan, and that is assuredly not one of them.”
Victorian men were apparently hopeless flirts. Two could play that game. “Don’t suppose you’ll let me in on the others? Before Mrs. Petrova decides she wants to take home a little more than a doggie bag?”
“Doggie bag?” Jem and Ezra repeated, looking at me, mystified.
I was rescued by a servant announcing dinner. Expecting a mad rush, I was surprised to see no one move toward the hall. Then the guy Ezra had introduced as Sir Andrew Dallin offered his arm to one of the women and proceeded through the doorway. That was apparently some kind of prompt, as the others followed suit, pairing up until the only guests left were me and Mrs. Petrova. She waited expectantly, eyeing me through a gold pince nez with way too much female appreciation. I had been set up.
I’d been to some fancy dinners before, but this outdid them all. Servants as still as Easter Island statues stood vigil around a table draped in white and decorated with fresh roses and slender ivory candles. Arranged around each plate were at least a dozen pieces of silver and I was damned glad I wasn't the one doing the dishes tonight. The place settings also bore name cards and I looked in glum expectation for Mrs. Petrova’s. I found her card to the right of mine, Charlotte’s to my left.
I felt a little relief at the sight of Ezra across the table. He looked at me, obviously concerned I was going to do something unforgivable, like help myself to an orange from the bottom of the artfully tiered fruit. He motioned for me to take off my gloves and I saw he’d removed his, as had all the other men. I pulled them off gratefully and stuffed them into my pocket. A servant with a soup tureen appeared at my elbow and in the most gracious quiet voice asked if I would care for some.
“Oh, do,” Mrs. Petrova said, leaning toward me. “The most delicious turtle.” She’d already tried hers. I couldn’t bring myself to take any. I’d had pet turtles when I was eleven. Even though there was no way this particular turtle could be Rocket or Joltin’ Joe, he might have been some distant ancestor. I had better luck with the next two courses, bypassing the mutton and tongue in favor of salmon and chicken. I didn’t involve myself much in the chit-chat. It was more interesting listening to it. Charlotte waited until her brother, a few chairs away, was deep in conversation and paying no attention to her before she dared talk to me.
“I didn’t know Ezra had any friends in America, Mr. Nash.”
“Oh, there are probably a few things you don’t know about Ezra.” I glanced across the table to see him chatting away with an older woman seated to his right. I had the opportunity to be honest with Charlotte, but I decided to keep silent. This was Ezra’s mess, his life to do with as he pleased. Charlotte, for her part, seemed unfazed by my comment.
“If you’re speaking of his spiritual gifts, Mr. Nash, I know all about that,” she said with the complacent confidence of the young and engaged. “Ezra tells me everything. I believe two people who vow to love each other for all their lives should be nothing but completely honest with each other.”
An involuntary shudder went through me at the thought. “You know, guys who reach Ezra’s age can sometimes be carrying around some dark secrets. And they say ignorance is bliss.”
“I don’t,” Charlotte countered with warm passion. “I want to know everything about him. An intelligent wife will not be kept in the dark. She will share her husband’s burdens and he will share hers.”
I had a suspicion there might be the early stirrings of a feminist behind that demure smile. I wondered how long it would be before she got tired of her brother’s overzealous chaperoning and decked him, with any luck, when I was still around to cheer her on. “I guess I can’t blame you for wanting to know the deep dark secrets of the man you’re going to spend your life with. I hope you do weasel it all out of him. The sooner, the better.”
It came out more emphatic than I’d meant it, but she took it for sincerity. “Aren’t you sweet.” She pressed a hand to my arm impulsively. “You will come on Friday, I hope.”
“You bet I will,” I said, remembering Derry’s mention of something going on Friday evening. Whatever it was, I knew Ezra wouldn’t be too thrilled that I’d been included on the invitation.
Charlotte shone with pleasure. “Thank you, Mr. Nash. I can quite see why you and Ezra are friends. You’re a good man, just as he is.”
I didn’t know whether she loved him. She certainly seemed to care for him and was willing to give the arrangement the old college try. She seemed to want to confide in me further, but something held her back. Then the footman appeared with another dish and Mrs. Petrova took advantage of the lull in conversation to reel me in.
“My dear sir, you will try the braised beef, yes? A man cannot make a meal of fish alone, I think. Not such a man as you.” She punctuated
the comment with a motherly pat of my shoulder. “American men, they are working hard. I know. Russian men, they are the same. My Vladimir, he watched over the mills from sunrise to sunset, God keep him. Nothing but mutton and potatoes for him.”
Mrs. Petrova couldn’t have been more than about fifty and I’d have bet poor old Vlad wasn’t much older when he keeled over. I couldn’t think of a better reason to pass on the braised beef. “Thanks, I had a late lunch.”
She wagged a jeweled finger at me. “Progress is not made on an empty stomach, my dear Mr. Nash.” She dumped a generous portion from her own plate to mine—a serious breach of etiquette judging by the raised eyebrows of the woman seated across from her.
Jem sent me a deeply amused look from the other side of the table. “If progress is that dependent on fine dining, Mrs. Petrova, Paris should be the most modern city in the world.”