Meddlesome Madness: A Short Story Collection

by Beth Byers

  Jack glanced through the peephole and watched for a few more minutes before he waved only Violet out. She darted to the next room, knocked on the door, and waited.

  When there was no answer, she quickly unlocked it and waved the other three after her. They had lost their blithe belief that they’d get away with their mischief entirely unscathed. While Violet waited for the others to catch up, she glanced over the room.

  One of the beds was an unmade mess. Given that the ship provided staff to clean the cabins, Violet wasn’t sure why she was seeing such chaos. She flipped through the papers on the desk, which was shared, and found a neat, light hand and a familiar, much heavier hand. Before she could search further, the door opened and Jack ushered their two companions into the room.

  “We’ve got him,” Violet said holding up the sheet.

  “Oh,” Betty’s gaze widened. “Which one?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Who is in this room?”

  “My father’s secretary, Mr. Oliver Johns, and one of the executives at his company, a Mr. Leonard Jensen.”

  Violet’s brows lifted. Before she could formulate another question, Mildred asked, “What do you think of them?”

  “Well—” Betty’s mouth moued as she considered. “I…well…Mr. Johns has always been quiet and respectful. Mr. Jensen is one of Father’s go-to men. Perhaps a little…aggressive?”

  “With you?”

  “Well, no,” Betty said. “He’s always been quite respectful to me. He just seems to steamroll everyone else.”

  Violet frowned and turned back to the room. There was a trunk at the end of the bed on the clean side of the room, and Violet opened it without an instant of regret. Inside she saw stacks upon stacks of books. She grinned down at the baggage which would make any book-loving girl fall instantly in love and pulled a volume from the top. There was a bookmark in the pages and Violet read:

  “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depths and breadth and height my soul can reach, when feeling out of sight for the ends of being and ideal grace.”

  Violet pulled the bookmark out, letting her finger trace the words on the page. There were more books in the trunk, Violet thought, than the man could have possibly read simply because he saw what Betty reading. These were the books of a book lover, a book reader in his own right. No wonder he was intrigued by Betty. It wasn’t his position in her father’s company alone. They had such a large, shared interest.

  He was one of those lovers of words who would dive into the pages of a story after an exhausting day, after an argument, because he was feeling unwell. For someone like this—books were as vital as air. Violet liked the fellow immediately. She would very much like to spend an afternoon discussing favorite books with both the man and Betty and gather up some recommendations for new books for the sun and sand in Cuba.

  “I think,” Betty said slowly, “the writer must be Mr. Jensen. These notes here, they’re with a bill addressed to him. Here’s another, a letter that he signed his name to. It is the same hand.”

  Violet’s head tilted as she examined the girl. Perhaps the uncovering of her admirer hadn’t left her all that excited about the result. Was the dream better than the reality?

  Violet had once—not that she would admit to it—dreamed of falling in love. She had imagined different types of men who might capture her heart. Never would she have imagined a gentleman like Jack. Powerful, with penetrating, almost all-seeing eyes, a brilliant mind, and the complete opposite of her twin.

  Violet would have assumed that she’d fall in love with someone like Victor. He had seemed her perfect match. He was slim, a little lazy, with a frivolous turn of mind, and only occasionally dangerous. Jack, on the other hand, was rather clearly a warrior in all moments.

  There was a noise outside the door and Mildred gasped. Jack crossed to the door, peeked out and whispered, “Porter.”

  He watched carefully until the way was clear and then said, “We should take our chances, finish the hunt, and give Miss Grady time to determine what she would like to do with the information we’ve uncovered.”

  Betty didn’t reply, and her gaze was distant. Violet would have very much liked to know what she was thinking. They hurried to the library, through several more clues, and finally found the last one, which read:

  “At New Year’s Celebrations, I paint the sky with fire. What am I?”

  “Oh,” Mildred said, “Even I can guess that one. Though I suppose that the promised fireworks display does make it an easy guess.”

  “We must be at the end of the hunt,” Violet said with quite an aggressive yawn. The morphine was fading and the aching was returning. She took Jack’s arm and leaned rather heavily on him as they headed towards deck where the fireworks show would take place at midnight. It was just on the other side of the dining salon that had been transformed into a ballroom.

  “There will probably be little potted shrimps and canapés for those who need a little something along with the fireworks. Perhaps some mulled wine or something warm to drink.” Mildred guessed. “I suppose I should find my Niles. Dare I tell him of the…what did you call them? ‘Hijinks’ you’ve pulled me into?”

  “Shenanigans are always best when relived,” Violet told her around another yawn. “That way you don’t have your heart in your throat from the threat of the porter and discovery. You already know you’ve triumphed.”

  Chapter 4

  The portion of the deck where they were setting off fireworks did, indeed, have staff circulating with trays, and Violet snagged the first steaming mug that passed.

  “What are you going to do?” Violet asked Betty, taking a sip of the mug. The mug had been filled with spiced wine and it settled into Violet’s bones, reminding her that she was quite tired and ready to return to her bed. She wanted nothing more than to place herself in the exact position that eased her ribs.

  With the returning pain, she was realizing just how…mad…she had been over the evening. Morphine was to be avoided at all costs. Crying and giggling. Seeing things in her food, itching her arms. She had said overly honest things and even thrown a glass of champagne in Harold Grady’s face. Violet winced and glanced up at Jack, who seemed to be following her thoughts. Betty, however, answered before Violet could apologize.

  “I suppose I’ve spent my life dreaming of being like Jane Eyre or Phylis Benton from the Bulldog Drummond books. I…well…I think I shall have to be brave. That’s him.”

  Violet followed Betty’s direction to Jensen. He was what Violet had expected to fall in love with—slender and smooth. Handsome in that popular way, his hair was slicked back, his jaw was smooth, his tuxedo was fitted. No longer did Violet find men like him so attractive.

  Betty’s mouth twisted and Violet took in her beau and then said, “It didn’t seem real before. I didn’t think being brave would be so very difficult.”

  “You can do it,” Violet told her. “Just imagine dying old and alone and always wondering what would have happened if you had just been brave.”

  Betty screwed up her face and crossed to the gentleman, Leonard Jensen. He smiled down at her with a charming grin and said something that had Betty smiling in reply. He cast a look past Betty towards an older man who was standing with her brother. The older man nodded once and Violet suddenly wondered—was this pre-arranged?

  “Jack…”

  “I saw it.” He snarled a little in the back of his throat with disgust just as Victor and Kate arrived.

  “Darling, Violet, you must be feeling quite poorly.” Victor winked at Violet with the smirk that declared he had been one of the early returners from the scavenger hunt despite his lackadaisical beginning. “You were nowhere near the beginning of those to return. I expected to have you crow over me as the complete winner.”

  Violet’s gaze was fixed on Betty and Mr. Jensen. She wasn’t quite sure there was anything more disheartening than seeing Betty be brave chasing the ending of one of her books while her father and hi
s executive conspired against her romantic heart.

  Perhaps it wasn’t so. Perhaps that nod and glance between the men had been interpreted incorrectly. However—Violet didn’t think so. Her mouth twisted with distaste and the ache of her injuries intensified.

  “I need to sit.” She didn’t want to watch the crumble of the dream. Without answering her twin, she turned, handed Jack her mulled wine before he could take it from her, and left without another word. She went through the doors into the dining salon that had been transformed for midnight dancing and took the first seat she could find.

  A gentleman glanced up from an open book, blushed brilliantly, and cleared his throat. “Ah…hello…I could…I…”

  “Please don’t let me intrude.” Violet waved a passing waiter over and took a new mug of mulled wine. She’d finally realized that Jack and Victor had been conspiring against her and her desire for a cocktail, but Violet was going to enjoy this cup of wine before they could take it from her.

  The poor man blushed again. He was a ginger with a ripe case of freckles that covered nearly every inch of his face. He had a close-cut red beard that framed a strong jaw. Violet made herself an internal bet that he’d grown the beard to hide some of those freckles.

  He had large green eyes with thick red lashes and the most delightful self-deprecating grin. “I…of course not. I…”

  “Violet Carlyle,” she said, holding out her hand.

  He took her hand, squeezed lightly, and then said, “Oliver Johns. It’s a pleasure.”

  Violet’s head tilted and she examined the book in his hands. Oh. Ohhhhh. Mr. Jensen, the lover of Betty Grady? Perhaps not. She examined Mr. Johns closely, noting the particularly placed bookmark in the book. Nearly as obsessively neat as the stacks of books in his trunk.

  “You’re with the Grady family, I think. I just enjoyed the scavenger hunt with Miss Grady.”

  If possible, the poor man blushed even deeper. “Ah, yes. I work for Mr. Grady as his secretary.”

  “You’re a book man, I think,” Violet said gesturing to his book. “What are you reading?”

  He held up Arthur Conan Doyle’s The White Company.

  Violet searched back for the quote from that book and repeated, “You are my heart, my life, my one and only thought.”

  “Such a glorious quote. People don’t take Doyle seriously because his work is so fanciful. Yet that string of words is perfection. If only the love it describes existed in everyday life instead of just books.” His blush intensified.

  “I just saw the most amazing love story this evening,” Violet told him. “So perhaps it does. Listen to this tale. Miss Grady received a series of love notes with quotes from her favorite books. It ended in quite a touching interlude right there on the deck when she found the bravery to confront the secret admirer and…”

  Mr. Johns was nearly on fire with the redness in his face. A deep frown appeared and settled into his expression as though it had always been there and that no other expression was possible.

  Violet’s head tilted as she examined him. He didn’t respond to her and seemed to be struggling to hold back a slew of curses.

  Violet sipped her wine, wishing for a little more morphine. She hadn’t realized how accustomed she’d become to pain until she stopped hurting. The return was most unwelcome.

  “Seems to me,” Violet started, sipping her wine with closed eyes. She was utterly exhausted. She wasn’t sure she wanted to walk back to her stateroom. It was so very far away. “That our story has taken a twist. Don’t you think it’s past time to straighten things out?”

  Mr. Johns blushed so hard, Violet felt as though she could warm her hands on his face.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

  “Mr. Johns, may I ask you a very bold question?”

  His jaw clenched, making the close-cut hair of his beard move. Violet took a sip of her wine before she said, “I have discovered the rather transitory nature of life in the last few years with the unfortunate view of seeing people losing their futures. Too many lives cut short. Perhaps, some deserved their demise, yet others were innocent. I am sure, however, that each person wished for more time. They wished for what you have right now.”

  “What is your intent, Miss Carlyle?” He was not enjoying her lecture and the bright red of his cheeks and ears told her that only manners were keeping him from telling her to mind her own business.

  “My intent is to point out that your very lovable Miss Grady is currently being hoodwinked by the very unlovable Mr. Jensen and her conniving father. Am I right?”

  Mr. Johns cleared his throat and nodded once.

  “Yet you love her, is that true?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Violet followed up with another question. “Of all the quotes that were given to her, which is the truest to who she is?”

  “None of them,” he ground out. “The truest? Some quote from Hamlet who lost his Ophelia in his pursuit of justice. Beautiful words without enough meaning.”

  Violet looked up to find Jack with Miss Grady on his arm enter behind Mr. Johns. He was speaking low to her, but they’d both stopped to listen. Jack nodded at Violet and she felt sure he’d stepped in with Miss Grady and Mr. Jensen.

  Perhaps Mr. Johns’s next words would clarify things further. He quoted, “Now, I’m not going to deny that I was aware of your beauty. But the point is, this has nothing to do with your beauty. As I got to know you, I began to realise that beauty was the least of your qualities. I became fascinated by your goodness. I was drawn in by it. I didn’t understand what was happening to me. And it was only when I began to feel actual, physical pain every time you left the room that it finally dawned on me: I was in love, for the first time in my life. I knew it was hopeless, but that didn’t matter to me. And it’s not that I want to have you. All I want is to deserve you. Tell me what to do. Show me how to behave. I’ll do anything you say.”

  “So she’s not lovely?” Violet asked archly, deliberately misunderstanding the quote, drawing out his words for Betty Grady.

  “She’s beautiful. But her beauty is accented so thoroughly by her goodness that I cannot be sure which is more important. Only that I have succumbed thoroughly and completely to all that she is. I love Miss Grady, Miss Carlyle. I love her with a fervency that hurts. I love her with a devotion that is a tightness in my chest. To see her father and Jensen come up with their plan, to use my own time and effort to discover her pleasures, to…to…this isn’t a happily ever after, Miss Carlyle.”

  “Then what is this thing between you and Miss Grady?” Violet demanded.

  He seemed almost broken and his words were filled with pain as he said, “We aren’t even enough to be star-crossed lovers. We’re more of a mismatch of Romeo and Juliet. Their families might have hated each other, but at least they were equals. What am I?”

  “What are you?” Violet glanced at Betty and noted her wide, shining eyes fixated on Mr. Johns.

  “I am not good enough for her. I am not worthy of her love and her devotion. Jensen…Jensen…I won’t give him the credit of being good enough for her. But I? I am a secretary. What can I do? Throw myself at her feet and beg her to what? Live a life of poverty? Surely, I love her too well for that. What we are, Miss Carlyle, is nothing more than a secret, impossible love on my side. And nothing on hers.”

  “You know,” Miss Grady said, making poor Mr. Johns leap in his skin. “You could do just say that. Throw yourself at my feet. Tell me what is in your heart.”

  He had gone so swiftly from red to pale that Violet was a bit concerned he might faint.

  “I will not,” he said. Violet watched his hands tremble as he took her drink and sipped it desperately.

  “I am rather wealthy in my own right,” Betty offered, lifting a brow.

  “I…”

  It was evident from the dueling emotions on his face that Mr. Johns rather abhorred the idea of connecting himself to a woman so far beyond him. And yet…the way thei
r gazes connected. The way that they stared in longing at each other. It made Violet’s heart crack.

  “Miss Grady,” Jack said. “Perhaps you had better turn away. An honorable man without fortune thinks himself too poor for you. Go, find the conniver Jensen. Spend the rest of your life miserable, knowing you could have been well and truly loved, and allow the better-connected Jensen to take advantage of your good heart, your connections, your wealth rather than the man who would love you and protect you even if he could not provide for you as you’ve become accustomed. Surely that is the better course—wealthy misery.”

  “Bloody hell,” Mr. Johns snarled. He thrust his hands into his hair and grasped tightly. The very conflict in him was more than he could contain.

  “I am not in love with either of them,” Miss Grady said. “Mildred suggested I follow my instincts and five minutes into the dance with Mr. Jensen, I knew I could never love him. When you asked Mr. Jensen about the outcome of the Doyle book and Jensen was unable to answer, I knew what had happened. When he threw his heart at my feet, seeming to believe that a few words from other writers would be enough…I was forced to decline it.”

  “Betty!” The voice came from behind them and they turned to find her father striding across through the dancers as though a bull charging an intruder in his herd. “Did you…” Mr. Grady sputtered and then demanded, “Did you truly turn Jensen down? Do you think that you will receive a better offer? What the devil are you thinking, girl?”

  “Father,” Betty told him clearly, “any offer that was nothing more than machinations and false attempts at romance with little recognition of my soul is of no more worth than chalk paintings on the sidewalk.”

  “Betty!”

  “Father, it was a rather good plan. If I didn’t have the advice of clever women, I might have succumbed to the lies before I realized my fate.”

  “And what is that?”