The Hummingbird Heart

by A. G. Howard

“Have I?” She slipped five more buttons into place, allowing her to move without the back seam flopping open. “Have I truly? Or am I finally seeing you for the bugiardo viscoso you are?” Turning on her heel, she strode to the bedchamber door and opened it, squinting in the bright flood of lamplight from the parlor.

  Before her eyes could focus, Julian twirled her around, thrusting her against the door frame with his body. He held her arms to her sides. The wood pinched the buttons between her shoulder blades. “I never intended to lie to you. I was afraid, if you knew, you would slip away again.”

  She struggled to ignore his scent, his rough warmth, his sensual proximity. “So you let me humiliate myself. You let me prattle on and on about the exhibits at the fair … all the while knowing I was never to experience it. All the while leading me to believe that we might have a future together, when you cannot even bear to be seen in public with me.” She tangled her fingers with his in her effort to break free of his grasp. “I should just accept it. After eleven years of nurturing a half-starved dream. You will never love me … never want to marry me like I do you.” The moment the confession tripped off her tongue, her body drained of all blood.

  She tried to turn away.

  Julian pressed harder against her and released one wrist so he could catch her jaw. He tilted her face up, his expression no longer exasperated but arrested, as if he had stumbled upon something precious, unexpected, and rare. “What did you just say?”

  “Nothing.” She shoved him back with her free arm and broke away, but the moment she felt the slick wood of the parlor floor beneath her feet, she froze in place, her surroundings holding her captive.

  Yellow lamplight illuminated Julian’s mysterious preparations of earlier. A borrowed phonograph sat in one corner of the parlor—the origin of the music she’d heard through the door. Sketches hung from strings tacked to the ceiling with straight pins. Willow recognized them as the designs Julian had kept hidden from her on the trip. They were now painted; reds, greens, oranges, and purples filled the lines, bringing the pictures to life.

  Julian thumped the doorway’s frame with a knuckle. “Newton helped me color them,” he answered as if reading her mind. “Kept us busy while you were ill. I was hoping to sweep you off your feet tonight, to waltz you through the plans for my newest ride.”

  He came up behind her. Her skin remembered him … welcomed him with tiny twitches as he buttoned up the rest of her gown. Upon finishing, he pressed a kiss to her shoulder and stepped around her without a word. He leaned over to crank the phonograph’s handle, and the Doctrinen—the very same Eduard Strauss masterpiece she and Julian had danced to at their first gala—burst forth in a tinkly melody of notes, slow and evocative.

  Willow wanted to ask him how he’d found that particular song … she wanted to ask him how he’d remembered … but astonishment and shame simultaneously clenched her throat.

  “That one there,” Julian spoke over the music and pointed to a dangling picture of a plump queen holding a flamingo mallet, “is the Queen’s Croquet Court. And this one,” his finger reached overhead to sway a sketch of farcical characters around a table filled with cakes and kettles, “is the Hatter’s Tea Party. The ride will be called: Journey into the Looking Glass. I intend to have a gala when I’m ready to present the finished attraction. I’ll invite all of London’s most prestigious guests. And I hope to be the proud escort of my muse’s inspiration.” The short winding of music had played itself out. Julian turned to her.

  Dumbstruck, she regarded the sketches. Could it be true? That she had been Julian’s motivation for such a grand undertaking? He’d been so pleased with her when she’d read the second Lewis Carroll novel without any help. The fact that he still remembered and wished to honor her made her earlier indignation seem petty and trite. This terrified her … as anger was her only defense against the undertow of emotion threatening to drag down the walls of her heart.

  He’d heard her admission of love … even marriage … and had yet to say anything in response, other than having her be his escort to a gala. Despite this lofty gesture and his careful preparations, was his silence not proof that her feelings, her devotion and commitment, were unreciprocated?

  She blinked to fight the confused tears burning behind her lashes. Her gaze slanted to the other corner of the room where silver utensils glinted on a lavishly decorated table as if winking. A domed lid covered the main course. Steam seeped from the edges in a succulent fog and swirled around a vase of fresh peonies. The special dessert he’d mentioned had melted to slush in glass goblets.

  “Raspberry ice,” she whispered.

  “Not as fine as the ones back home.” Julian strode to the table. His half-buttoned shirt gaped to reveal his chest as he picked up a goblet and held it to the light. A reddish glow reflected off his face. “They don’t serve ices on the ship. I had to shave the block myself. And the raspberry syrup, well, it is just the water they boiled the berries in for the compote they were serving tonight. I added some sugar to it. Bristles would like the concoction, no doubt. But a lady’s refined taste might not be as forgiving as a squirrel’s. So … should I pour it over my head, or allow you the honor?”

  Willow stared at him, disoriented. “Whatever do you mean?”

  He set the goblet down. “The look in your eyes when you found out I’d sent the wire to Uncle … you were seeking something to throw at me. Some way to lash out at me.” His focus on her sharpened. “Is that what made you say those extraordinary words? Were you trying to topple my defenses? Or was the sentiment sincere?”

  Willow’s body tensed. What did he expect of her? That she should say them again? Lay out her affections on the chopping block and give him the ax? She couldn’t bid such courage. Instead, she dropped her gaze to the floor.

  The thump of Julian’s shoes metered out irreversible increments of time and distance as he came to stand over her. His palms cupped her shoulders and their eyes met.

  “That was cowardly of me,” he offered. “A man should be a man. A man should have the backbone to speak his heart, regardless of the outcome.” He leaned in so his forehead pressed to hers, his thick blonde lashes closing. Weaving trembling fingers through her hair, he nuzzled her nose. “I am a mechanist. A designer of frivolous rides and amusements. I’m not one who can easily conjure pretty words.” He huffed, his breath a warm and ambrosial veil across her face. His eyes opened to hold hers once more. “I tried to show you the depth of my feelings through my actions tonight. But now … well, now I understand that a lady needs to see and hear it.” He jaw twitched nervously. “Another layer falls away from the mystery of the fairer sex. I fear I’m to be buried beneath a mountain of them before it’s all said and done.”

  Willow watched the tension in his throbbing throat, sensed it in the way his hands shook as he knelt to the floor in front of her and clasped her fingers in his. All of her vulnerabilities resurfaced—raw and exposed—as the man became the boy again … the boy with inky hands and moonlit eyes working out some intricate universal mystery as her own world stalled on its orbit around him … waiting for even one breath ushered over her skin, one look in her direction, so life could recommence.

  Her cheeks flushed and the pulse throbbed in her neck like a runaway metronome. A hopeful smile tugged at her lips, but she held it in check, a practiced patience she had learned over years of unmet expectations.

  Julian looked up at her and opened his mouth to speak then closed it on a gulp before trying again. “I-I—” Another gulp. “I … oh, blast it.” His face paled. Clearing his throat, he tried once more, blurting out the Italian equivalent: “Ti amo.” Color rushed back into his face, as if that small step had unleashed his courage. “Yes. Ti amo. I … love you. From the first moment I saw you adjust the pistons and cylinders on a compressed air engine, I was yours. Now I can’t remember a time when I didn’t belong to you. And … and even should you not return my feelings … well, that will never change. Not for the rest of my life.”


  Willow’s smile broke free then, along with a rush of tears down her cheeks. She dropped to her knees, throwing her arms around his neck. “And you said you had no pretty words. Was that so difficult?”

  He clutched her to him. “Wretchedly so,” he answered, lips smiling against her cheek. He drew back and held out quivering hands. “See? I’m shaking like a scarecrow in a windstorm.”

  Willow sniffled. “I find it most endearing.”

  His grin deepened and he wiped tears from her jaw with his thumbs. “And here I was hoping for virile.”

  Running the back of her fingers along his jaw, Willow nodded. “Oh, that too. Always that.” She sobered. “I love you, Julian Anston Thornton. So very much. For so very long.”

  “Quite so.” With a relieved smirk, he helped her stand. “I rather suspected such. Otherwise, I mightn’t have been so forthcoming.”

  “Forthcoming? Ha!” Willow giggled and shoved at his shoulders. “I’ll expect you to say it thrice each day from this moment forward … so you might learn to recite it without stammering.”

  His amused expression flickered to desire as he pulled her closer. “I love you, Willomena Antoniette. I intend to prove it as soon as the opportunity allots itself, by making you my bride, and bedding you right and proper.”

  The words washed over her like rain from heaven. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth to drink of them … to make them hers forever.

  “How’s that for not stammering?” he asked, his breath hot on her ear.

  “Perfetto,” she said, lifting on tiptoes to loop her arms around his nape. She smiled against his shoulder, scraping a tear from her chin onto his shirt. “But you’ve still one more recitation left for today.”

  His lips followed the curve of her lobe and sent delicious tremors throughout her neck and spine. “Hmm. I believe I’ll save it for just before I tuck you in tonight, so you can have something other than a pillow to rest that pretty head upon.” He gave her a lingering kiss on her temple—gentle and sweet. “I suppose I’ll have to try to squeeze in a few extra dozen tomorrow before we part ways, to last you until I return home.”

  Willow snuggled her head beneath his chin, not wanting to think of them being apart. She fought the self-righteous ebb of anger rising again.

  As if feeling her muscles tense, Julian murmured, “I’m not commanding you to go home. I’d be a fool to assume I can tell you what to do in any instance. You’re going to follow me if you wish, no matter what I say. Should I even attempt to force you, you’ll outwit me at every turn. So I am pleading, Willomena. There are no longer any doubts. You’re in danger here. Possibly more than we even imagined. At home, you will be safe.”

  Willow sighed. Even though she knew without a doubt that his precluding her from the fair came from a place of love, she still considered stowing away on the train.

  “Wait.” She pulled back, not even trying to hide the horror she felt chilling her cheeks. “You said you couldn’t risk leaving me alone and with child. You’re afraid something will happen to you. That you won’t return.” Her heart chilled like her face—drained of blood.

  His gaze slanted to the left, not quite meeting hers. “No, no. That’s not it. I’m just … it’s a precaution.”

  His evasion tactics left her even more rattled. “You have Judge Arlington as an investor. There’s no need for you to go the fair now. Come back home with me.”

  Eyes trailing back to hers, Julian traced her trembling lower lip with his thumb and shook his head. “It’s not so simple. I should get at least one more investor. I’ve learned from my dealings with Lord Desmond that I should have a secondary means of income. I also need to find an artist who will carve figurines for the displays, now that Nick’s away. And there are challenges in maintaining the temperature within the ride during the summer season; if I talk to other inventors, scientists even, I can find a solution.” His chin set to granite. “Most importantly … I plan to find Sala. To confront him.”

  Willow balked at the thought of him pursuing the mysterious Italian alone. “Why? I don’t care if he stole the shoes! I care only for your safety.”

  Julian frowned. “There’s a puzzle yet to solve before we can close the door on your past. Ends to wrap up. I can’t be sure how the shoes fit. Perhaps Sala bought them from the real thief, or hired the thief himself. He fancies himself a collector of antique oddities with unusual stories attached to them. Those shoes definitely fall into that category. But he seems to be genuinely terrified of them … of Nadia’s ghost. Perhaps he had something to do with her death. If he did, I suspect it was accidental. He feels remorse for it. I’ve seen it on his face.” Julian led her to the table and eased her into a chair. “What say we talk about this over dinner? I’ve already lost my chance to dance with you before the little mouse returns.”

  At the mention of their orphaned cabin mate, Willow leapt out of her chair, causing it to topple with a clunk. “Newton! Is that why you’re confronting Sala? You can’t still mean to return him to—”

  “No.” Repositioning the chair and coaxing Willow back into place, Julian took the seat across from her. He draped a napkin over his lap and spooned out some fragrant roast duck onto Willow’s plate. “I discovered something most disconcerting while searching Mr. Sala’s room this morn. I only got a glimpse before he started to stir from his dozing, but I distinctly remember some studded shoes within his wardrobe, just like the ones you described. The ones used by acrobats and aerialists. I also recognized a scent emitting from the trunk today before you closed the lid. Sala smokes cigars from Italy that share the very same aroma.”

  Willow had a bite of duck balanced on her fork, but couldn’t bring herself to taste it. Her hand dropped, the silverware clanging against the porcelain plate. “You mean to say—”

  “That trunk is his. He had your doll.” Julian’s ears flashed to red. He paused, as if to measure Willow’s expression, then pulled apart a loaf of bread, dropped some on her plate, and continued. “There was a rumor being tossed about … that Sala has a ring of harlots … that he kidnaps girls at a young age and raises them to serve in his ‘troupe’. In which case, being actresses is merely their front.”

  A faint palpitation rippled Willow’s lower back—ugly feathers of ink, hate, and terror breaking loose. The room seemed to spin around her, as if she were high upon a trapeze, unable to contain the momentum of the ropes.

  Her parents were murdered because they wished to protect her from being preened as a specialty whore? What mother and father wouldn’t try to prevent such a fate for their daughter? How could something so natural as protecting your offspring merit death?

  The senselessness of the revelation left her empty and shattered. A queasy throb festered within her stomach, reminiscent of seasickness, and she spun again on her dangling ropes.

  “Willow.” Julian grasped her hand. “I am so sorry to have to tell you this, tonight of all nights. Are you all right to hear it?”

  She nodded, letting his concern anchor her until she swayed to a stop and could focus. She sucked in a threaded breath. “Why? Why would he have wanted me?”

  Julian leaned closer, pressing her knuckles to his lips before continuing. “He was enthralled with your hair that afternoon I dined with him. Said something about such color being rare … people paying a high price for it. At the time, I assumed he meant for a wig. But now—”

  “The old man,” Willow interrupted, unwilling to let him finish his speculation. “The moth-eaten cripple that Berta and Christoff spoke of?”

  “A decoy? Most likely one of his girls in full costume. I intend to find out tomorrow. I have yet to understand how the acrobatics and contortionism could possibly fit into this scenario. Unless…” His lips fought a tremor, either of disgust or disbelief. “Unless it’s to explicate a higher price for their services.”

  Willow’s nausea resurfaced. All of those years of training at the orphanage, she had always felt so safe and at ease soaring upon the
heights. Now the memory deteriorated to filth beneath such lascivious motives. If Julian was right, if it was Sala who had murdered her parents, then she couldn’t use his frailties against him like she had planned. From her memory of bumping into him in the corridor, he was robust and healthy. A faceless shadow-giant … like the man of her memory, standing in the tent’s opening, smelling of expensive tobacco. A full body shiver shook her.

  She no longer cared to go to St. Louis. She no longer cared to tour the fair. She wanted only to go home. “I-I don’t want to see him when we disembark tomorrow.”

  “Of course. You will stay here in the stateroom until everyone else is ashore. I’ll have the judge and Newton wait with you while I scope out steerage.”

  Willow nodded, shutting her eyes to retain her precarious balance. Her cowardice shamed her. It proved she wasn’t the plucky wanderer she’d always prided herself to be. In light of this new wrinkle, her childhood fears trumped all earlier thoughts of revenge. Evasion came into focus with suffocating clarity. All she could think of was escape. For her … for Newton.

  For Julian.

  She opened her eyes to find him kneeling on the floor next to her, one hand on her quivering knee to steady it.

  “You know I will protect you.” He lifted the other hand to stroke her hair.

  She grasped his wrist and pressed her temple to his palm. “But who will protect you? And what of Newton?” She could only whisper against the nerves bundled in her throat. “We cannot let him find the little widget—ever.”

  “I agree. I aim to keep you and Newton both as far from that man as possible. And don’t you worry for me. Judge Arlington will be accompanying me to St. Louis, in the same as our mouse will accompany you and Leander back to London where he’ll live at the manor … where he’ll be safe. He’s in our care now, Willow. Dependent upon us to keep him out of the clutches of his corrupt father.” Julian squeezed her knee. “His safety matters most. So please, no more tricks, no more stowing away or furtive escapes. He needs you for stability. Go home with him; help him adjust to his sister’s absence.”