by A. G. Howard
“Did you say … love?” Willow asked. The sun came out at that moment, highlighting the same expression of shock on his face that she felt sure she wore.
Julian’s ears turned a fiery red, matching the mark on his cheek. He struggled to speak, as if his tongue had been nailed to the roof of his mouth, until Newton shoved the door open and sauntered inside. He held up the ground plans.
“Well, there you are!” Julian rolled off of Willow, avoiding her gaze and sounding far too relieved to see Newton, much to her annoyance. Julian stood, smoothing his grease laden clothes. “Let’s you and I get cleaned up, mouse. I’m going to treat you to a tour of the first-class deck. What say?”
Diurnal assignments for Friday, April 22, 1904:
1. Love Willomena…
Lounging on the floor, Willow read the journal entry once more, taking full advantage of having the stateroom to herself in Julian and Newton’s absence. They’d been gone for an hour on their errands. Banking on Julian’s reluctant promise that he would practice caution and wouldn’t let Mr. Sala see Newton, she had relaxed enough to take a nap and clean up the breakfast mess. She’d just started to fold the fairgrounds’ map when Julian’s journal beckoned to her from the parlor table’s drawer. In spite of how angry he’d be for her nosiness, she read his diurnal assignment over and again. Now she could even see it with her eyes shut tight. Love Willomena.
Did he? Her heart danced on a lyrical pulsation, clamoring against her ribs like chimes on the wind. His tender concern when she shared her past, his tentative yet passionate exploration of her body while they shared the bed, they had all testified to the emotion.
Still, only when she heard it from his own mouth would she know it was true.
She realized he’d been taken off guard earlier; that a man as staid and analytical as Julian would be hard pressed to admit something so abstract, something which would render him defenseless to her own response. But she wondered if his hesitance to admit such might be because she had a wicked nature, and his sense of right and wrong made him reluctant to consider her worthy of commitment.
He’d seen the many pranks she’d pulled with Nick over the years without remorse. How the two used to combine their skills to pilfer bottles of wine from the cellar, or to lift trinkets of lesser value from guests, such as appliquéd handkerchiefs or jeweled buttons—all for the mere thrill of the lift. They had always returned the wine and curios: the wine bottle showing up in the kitchen, lighter by a few swallows; the buttons or kerchiefs appearing beneath the patron’s beds or pillows, none the worse for wear.
However, if Julian knew the exhilaration she’d experienced upon stealing the costume from the tailor or the electrifying rush of life that thrilled her upon each lesson in pick-pocketing offered by Newton and the Helget children, he would never think her “marriable.”
Even she wondered about herself … about this absence of contrition. From her experience, certain circumstances lent themselves to thievery—in fact condoned it. Sometimes people had to steal to survive: to feed the crying children they loved—to put a roof over their heads and quilts on their beds in the dead of winter.
The thought of poverty-stricken families brought to mind the Helgets, and Willow had an overwhelming urge to venture down to steerage and visit them. Julian had bought four boxes of chocolates early this morning to take to the immigrant children. He intended to deliver them later today. Willow couldn’t understand what harm there would be in taking them herself. Everyone in steerage already believed her to be a boy, after all.
There was one complication: Julian had made her promise not to wander about the ship without him. And if she expected him to uphold his promise to hide Newton, then she had to uphold hers, as well. But she knew where steerage was. Truth be told, there would be no wandering to it. Only a straight jaunt down the corridor to the stairwell … much like her prior vow to him, it was all in the wording.
Her conscience pricked. No. He’d be furious.
She had to find something to occupy herself here. Julian had suggested she read Emilia’s novel in his absence. Standing to tuck the journal back into the parlor drawer, Willow held the fair’s ground plans up to the window so the watery daylight glazed the back of the parchment.
The light pierced through a spattering of tack holes at the lower midst of the map. The perforations marked the Japanese Pavilion exhibit where the thespian competition was to be held. This was the reason Newton had shuffled into the bedchamber to burst her and Julian’s intimate bubble earlier. In some way, that location was personal to the widget. Willow only hoped this wasn’t further proof that Mr. Sala was his father.
Newton’s family or no, something about the man made her nervous, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Even if she didn’t get a good look at his face during their collision in the corridor, she still couldn’t shake the sense that he was only wearing a nobleman’s mask. That there was more to him behind the disguise.
Folding the parchment, she slipped it into the drawer with the journal then poured a cup of tea. The steam warmed her cheeks and wound her senses in maple and vanilla. The ship’s engines hummed beneath her bare feet on her stroll to the bedchamber.
After setting the cup and saucer on the table by the bed, Willow found Emilia’s manuscript laid out on mattress, already open to a passage. She didn’t bother sorting through to find where she’d left off. Instead, the words drew her in, and she settled amongst the covers to read.
Easing inside the stone shed, Elizabeth closed the door behind her. The damp scent of mildew and soil banked within her nostrils. A soft flutter stroked her ears … a familiar sound, yet distant in her memory. Something she’d been missing.
She took another step, feeling her way through the darkness with the soles of her bared feet, afraid to light the lantern. What would her punishment be, should Benedict find she’d lifted the key from the pants he’d flung upon the bed during their lovemaking? How would his darker side react, should he learn that after he’d given her body such rapturous pleasure, she’d waited for him to fall into slumber so she could slip out from the sheets and venture into the forbidden garden to storm the shed in its midst?
Dirt rolled beneath Elizabeth’s bare feet. The flutters seemed to accelerate with her approach to the back wall. No longer able to resist her curiosity, she lit the lantern and grew nauseous at the sight that greeted her.
Black swallowtail butterflies —thousands upon thousands of them—butted against their glass prisons. Along the bottom of the cases, other butterflies crawled one upon another, resembling moving mounds of black and white speckled leaves. These had given up their will to fly, their spirits crushed.
Rage and revulsion crept over Elizabeth like shadows born of the lantern’s flickers. So this was why she had been bereft of her precious butterflies? Benedict had been capturing them and chaining their freedom to boxes of glass.
He had sworn his love and devotion. He said he only wanted what was best for her—wanted to heal her. Why then would he take the one thing that gave her spirit delectation and light, and hide it away here, imprisoned by darkness?
Willow stopped reading to sip her tea. Swishing the mild flavors through her teeth, she felt every bit the caged butterfly herself.
Regole senza senso. Men and their unreasonable prohibitions. What right did Benedict have to forbid Elizabeth from visiting the gardens … to keep her from her beloved pets? What right did Julian have to run about the ship all day and frolic with Newton, when he wouldn’t even allow Willow to visit her friends? She doubted he’d even let her accompany him to steerage later. She had a sinking feeling he expected her to stay in this claustrophobic stateroom until they docked in four days.
How absurd. She had already proven convincing as Wilson. Jaw clenched, she swung her legs over the bed’s edge and smoothed the wrinkles from her trousers. Her friends needed to know she and Newton were safe. She refused to have them worry all morning until Julian got around to carrying the
chocolates to them. If she didn’t apprise Christoff and Engleberta of her and Newton’s whereabouts, they might get into some sort of mischief this morning trying to find them. Willow wouldn’t allow that.
Resolute, she rearranged Emilia’s pages, tied them together, and placed them in the wardrobe. She put on some boots and pulled one of Julian’s hats low over her head, tucking her cropped hair beneath it. Then she adjusted her suspenders and shrugged into a frock coat. She had to roll-up the cuffs so her gloved hands could grasp the boxes of chocolates.
Stepping into the corridor, she tweaked her hat at a nobleman who returned the gesture without pause. The scent of lemon verbena wreathed her on his passing. There was her proof. Now that she looked the part of an upper class lad, no one would question her presence here. Julian had no need to worry or be angry. Besides, she would be back long before he even knew she left.
Fifteen
Julian adjusted his spectacles to regard a hanging assortment of ready-made gowns while the tailor, Mr. Higgly, measured Newton for a suit. Willow would be in steerage by now. Julian had no doubt of it. Asking that woman to stay put was like asking the wind not to blow.
Had Sir Isaac Newton ever met Willow, he would not have coined his laws of motion, for she would’ve disproved every one … least as they pertained to the forces acting on a body and the motion of said body. And speaking of bodies, as alluring as Willow’s was, most especially when the light shimmered along her skin just so, and her amazing eyes showcased that ravenous desire shaded by the uncertainty of virtue … she could entice the blasted planets into her orbit and they’d have no choice but to drop down and follow.
Julian himself was a testament to that—hopelessly helpless to resist her pull, and often duped by her schemes. But this once, he felt sure he’d bettered her. He’d left the chocolates out in broad sight to tempt her. He’d left the manuscript turned to the perfect passage in hopes to light her inner fire.
With or without his prompts, he knew she wouldn’t stay in that cabin. Oh, she would try. Possibly clean up their breakfast mess … perchance even take a nap. But in the end, her nomadic tickles would get the better of her, and she’d soon be gallivanting all about the ship in search of the haunted shoes.
Thus the genius of his plan: give her something else to do. Something that would take her directly to steerage and back to the stateroom without any detours in between. For she would be arrogant enough to think Julian wouldn’t suspect a thing so long as she returned before he finished his errands.
He rubbed his shaved chin, smirking at how she would react when he confronted her about the missing chocolates. She wouldn’t make any excuse. She would be straightforward and unapologetic. One of many things he admired about her.
Julian lost track of his thoughts as across the room Newton wriggled upon his stool, a disgusted scowl upon his face.
Julian couldn’t blame the mouse, especially in such gloomy surroundings. Devoid of any windows other than the glass door, the shop relied upon electricity for illumination. The yellowish lights dimmed in popping intervals, evoking an aura of melancholy. The bolts of fabric and hanging tools offered the only form of décor. This place was not nearly as inviting as his mother and uncle’s shop at home—full of natural light and beribboned with laces and feminine splendor. A few vases of fresh flowers could do wonders for the musty smell here, as well.
Newton rubbed his nose, as if cued by Julian’s thoughts. With the new haircut, Newton’s resemblance to Mr. Sala was uncanny. They even shared some of the same mannerisms. Julian would abide by his vow to Willow the rest of the day. But come tonight, he intended to find Sala and speak to him. Man to man.
Newton blew some air out of his nostrils, sounding like a disgruntled pony. Grumbling, the tailor resituated him, forcing his arms out straight then over his head and around as if the lad were a windmill.
Trailing his finger along a lush velvet trim, Julian admired the pre-made gowns once more. He wondered which one Willow would like. He had every intention of restoring her wounded sense of femininity; even if it meant spending the last of the extra money his father had given him. The finances would work out. If Judge Arlington conceded to a partnership, Julian would ask for a good-faith deposit … enough money for return train fare and the ship ride home. If the judge resigned interest … well, Julian might have to sell his own hair.
Julian glanced up as the tailor pursed his mouth so tight his face resembled an albino prune. Though Julian couldn’t read lips like his mother, it took no such talent to know that Mr. Higgly was annoyed with Newton’s energy. He clenched the child’s elbow to spin him on the stool and stooped, trailing the measuring tape from Newton’s hip to his ankle.
The child faked a sneeze across the tailor’s balding head. Mr. Higgly dropped the measuring tape and growled as he dabbed the top of his scalp with a handkerchief.
Julian grinned. He understood Willow’s strong attachment to Newton in such a short time, especially considering her broken past. Julian’s gut twisted to think she would soon be hurting again … that he would be the cause of her heartbreak when he reunited Mr. Sala with his son.
This new maternal side of Willow was quite surprising. Julian had never thought of her as a mother; she didn’t even like to play with dolls as a youth. But after learning of Tildey—how Willow blamed her parents’ deaths on her concern for the toy—he finally understood that quirk.
Movement in his peripheral returned his attention to the tailor shaking his finger at Newton. Julian’s shoulders tensed. As much as Mr. Higgly obviously disliked children, it was better he didn’t know that Newton had helped steal a costume. Julian had brought the robe and headpiece in on his own, claiming to have found it outside the door. At first he’d felt ashamed of the lie, but now, he could see the wisdom in it.
Julian took off his spectacles and dropped them into his pocket. Then, singling out the fitted gown he’d chosen, he freed it from its hanger. He cleared his throat and strode in their direction, stopping the tailor in mid-snarl.
“Mr. Higgly, surely you’re done with the lad. He appears every bit as weary of the measurements as you are.” Brown paper patterns, tacked to the wall, rustled upon Julian’s passing—generic silhouettes of shirts, bodices, skirts and breeches which were to be draped over the body and pinned to the appropriate size before cutting fabric replicas. He stopped at the sewing table. “I’d like to purchase this and be on our way. We’ll return for his suit later … say, tomorrow afternoon.”
Upon seeing the expensive dress draped over Julian’s arm, the tailor’s choleric scowl morphed into an illustrious smile—complete with crooked white teeth. “Yes, Master Thornton. Tomorrow should suffice.” He jotted some measurements then dragged Newton down from the stool, hedging him toward the sewing table.
Upon their arrival, Julian placed a hand on Newton’s shoulder in a show of support, surprised and pleased when the boy didn’t tense beneath him or jerk away. After laying out his money, Julian spread the gown over the table’s scarred surface, imagining Willow’s curves sheathed in the coppery satin. He prayed it would fit. It looked to be the right size. Should it need any alterations, his mother and Aunt Enya could fix it at home. He leaned down to whisper to Newton. “What do you think, mouse? Will she like it?”
The boy nodded, his little fingers running along the slick fabric, as if he’d never touched anything quite like it.
“Splendid choice for your lady back home, Master Thornton. You have a fine eye for fashion.” Mr. Higgly’s spidery-veined hand brushed Newton aside. “Don’t wish to soil it, young sir.”
Julian drew Newton against his thigh and rubbed his head reassuringly. They both watched in silence as the tailor proceeded to tuck the black chiffon sleeves inward, making a straight line of the side seams.
“The buttons down the back can be tricky. And this beaded fringe requires extra care. It is French-jet and mercury glass. And the pleated chiffon train should be removed and cleaned separately.” With a mast
er’s precision, he folded the gown into a crisp square. “There is a pair of ruffled gossamer mitts that accompany this ensemble. I’ll wrap them along with the gown in some paper for you.”
The instant the tailor disappeared into the store room in back, the bell on the front door tingled. Julian turned to see Judge Arlington step across the threshold.
“There you are.” The judge yanked off his hat on the way in, shaking raindrops from the brim. “Been looking for you on the upper deck. Quite a drizzle up there. Ran into the captain. He told me about … ah, this must be one of your brothers.”
Julian tamped the tangle of nerves rising in his throat. “Yes, this is the youngest one. Newton.”
The judge wobbled over, crouched down, and looked Newton in the eye as he shook his hand. “You’re a dapper young lad, aye? Going to be as handsome as your brother, I see.”
Newton wrinkled his nose and snorted.
“Not so sure he takes that as a compliment.” Julian laughed, trying to curb the nervous edge to his voice.
The judge arched his eyebrows. A merry smile danced beneath his white moustache. “So, how old are you then?”
Newton stunned Julian by holding up six fingers. He hadn’t expected the boy to respond at all; but then again, after being treated like a recalcitrant puppy by the tailor, Julian supposed Newton was thrilled to find any nobleman who would treat him as an equal.
“Six years.” The judge returned his hat to his head. “Ah. I remember when my youngest boy was six. He had the best time riding a ferry along the Mississippi. Are you going to visit the river?”
Gazing up at Julian, Newton shrugged.
“Hmm.” Judge Arlington balanced his hands on his lumpy knees. “Haven’t planned that far yet? Maybe you’ll be going straight to the fair to ride the Ferris wheel. I hear tell it’s two-hundred-and-sixty-five feet high. Doesn’t that sound grand? Think of how far you’ll be able to see.”