So when his father joined Father Francisco for a trip to the local pub on Salem Street, Nic tended to Esther.
“I don’t want to go home.” Esther rimmed her finger around her teacup.
“You don’t have to. Ever again.”
She picked at her skirt. “Widow Barclay is with her sister and …”
“You don’t have to.” He repeated. “Esther. I will never make you go back there.”
Esther nodded. “Thank you.”
“Should I put on a fresh pot?”
Esther nodded. Yawned.
When he returned from the kitchen with the tea, her fist was curled under her chin and she was fast asleep. Nic didn’t want to wake her but it was hardly appropriate for her to spend the night with him and his father. He tucked a quilt around her shoulders and gently smoothed a strand of her short hair. The style suited her, but also made her look younger. His heart lurched. She looked so vulnerable in repose. He swallowed the ache in his throat and went to make a telephone call from the communal booth on the main floor.
Not a half hour later, Mrs. Leoni brushed a long strand of ebony hair from her forehead and brushed flour from her apron. “The poor dear.” She studied the still-sleeping Esther and set down a bundle of clothes arranged at the bakery for the church bizarre. “These will be her size.”
Nic nodded at the bundle. “Thank you. I knew that you would be able to help.”
“So you are in love with her then?” Mrs. Leoni always spoke in a hybrid of English with the same language flourished over the awning of her bakery in the North Square.
“Is it that obvious?” wondered Nic, gently shaking Esther’s shoulder to wake her.
“Love is a good thing.” Mrs. Leoni said. “Being in love is the best thing.”
“Esther,” Nic whispered. “I have found somewhere for you to sleep tonight. Mrs. Leoni will take you home with her. She will take good care of you.”
Nic helped her to her feet and tucked the Finding Ever After book under her arm. She might need a bit of comfort if she woke up and recalled the events of the day.
She smiled at the book then at him. ““You rescued me.” She murmured sleepily. “Going to the Herald.”
“No, principessa.” He pressed a kiss to her hair. “You rescued yourself.”
12
Weatherton Industries read bold and brash across the Boston headlines. Nic didn’t read all of the details, merely skimmed over the legal ramifications and the investigative measures taken in hopes that James kept to his word and Esther’s name was not mentioned.
He breathed a sigh of relief when it evaded him, though her father’s name was situated in a quote. It wasn’t ideal and Nic felt badly but it would come out eventually. Be sure your sins will find you out, Father Francisco once said.
Nic refilled his coffee cup and prepared his dad’s breakfast before collecting his satchel and moving toward the door.
“I’ll see you after class.” He called over his shoulder before locking the door and jogging down the steps to the first floor. But the moment he hit the tarmac, he was met by Widow Barclay and Mrs. Mayweather who marched him directly back up again.
“My class…” Nic explained.
“Father Francisco is taking your class. You must stay here.”
He led them into the flat, his father appearing from the kitchen.
“Nic?” he asked, concernedly.
“Dad, you remember Widow Barclay and Mrs. Mayweather.”
“Would you care for tea?”
“No time, no time,” said Widow Barclay sitting down next to Mrs. Mayweather on the sofa upon Nic’s invitation. “Nic is in very grave danger.”
“Please, Widow Barclay. You’ll startle my father.” He looked to his dad and read pained concern on the older man’s face.
“Nic?”
“Dad, you look as if the world is crumbling around you and we don’t even know what the grave danger is. Where is Miss Hunnisett? I left her at Mrs. Leoni’s last night and…”
“She is safe in my parlour.” Mrs. Mayweather assured. “My butler Jenkins wouldn’t let a house fly in without permission. No harm will come to her there.”
Nic nodded, his breath settling a little. “I assure you, ladies, that Thomas Weatherton is a brute but I have the height and weight advantage on him and I am not afraid if he prowls around here wanting a round of fisticuffs, I can handle him.”
“It’s Titus Fang. Thomas was railing about Fang this morning, Nic.”
“Oh.” Fang very much had the advantage. Size and weight and downright meanness. Nic surmised that from the little he had seen of the man. It was the one move he hadn’t anticipated when he and Esther had worked out this strategy.
“Who is this Fang?” his father asked, panicked. “Would he hurt you, Nic?”
“Fang is a violent man. You cannot stay here.” Widow Barclay said. “You need to go to England. Esther’s mother has family there. He will track the Herald evidence back to you and the ledgers Esther gave you. You are not safe here. Thomas hates you. If you give it time, the law will take care of him and Fang will find another master. And Esther…she won’t be able to leave her house without the scandal following her.”
“Esther should go. To England. Absolutely.” Nic said resolutely. It was bad enough her father’s name was in the papers. “But I have to stay.”
“No!” Milo said. “No, not if you’re in danger. Nic, I lost your mother. I cannot risk you.”
“I can’t just leave you without any one to see to you. I’ll take my chances.”
“I lost the use of my hand, son, not my mental faculties. I am not a wingless duck. If you care for me as much as to willingly stay you will recognize I will not survive the prospect of your being hurt.”
“I need to teach. To support you. You are not a wingless duck but you do have some limitations. In housekeeping and…”
“Mrs. Leoni will look after him.” Widow Barclay said. “And so will I. We can help with the housekeeping and the cooking. He will be well cared for and it will not be forever. Just until everything blows over.” She looked to Milo Ricci who gave an affirmative nod.
“Nic, you must go.” His dad was adamant. “For your sake and for Esther’s.”
“But with what money will you live? The money I send? I won’t have worked yet and I need to take care of Esther and …Dad, we don’t have as much saved as we should.”
“With my money.” Mrs. Mayweather intercepted. “Yes. Oh I see the way you two look at me. You won’t just take charity or pity. Men are so stubbornly proud sometimes, aren’t they? I understand that you held a position of a well-respected engineer before your dreadful accident.”
“Yes,” Milo affirmed.
“My husband needs a consultant for his company. Not as exciting as molasses, mind. He works in automobiles. You wouldn’t need use of your hands, Mr. Ricci. Only your brain.”
“You would…you would do that for us?” Nic asked.
“I would be doing no favors. His current consultant is a hopeless ninny. You would be making us money.”
Nic’s father rose from his chair and grasped Mrs. Mayweather’s hand with his own good one. “Thank you.”
“We will take care of Esther and make arrangements for a steamer.” Mrs. Mayweather assessed Nic fondly. “You should pack. And don’t forget your tuning tools. My husband has many business colleagues in London who could use your skill.”
Nic couldn’t be certain but just as the Widow and Mrs. Mayweather left, something lingered behind. Something left over from a look his father had shared with Widow Barclay that sparked a smile that may not have reached his mouth but lay dormant in his dad’s eyes.
“Well, that’s settled then.” Nic said, brushing his hair back, whistling lowly and feeling his world had turned on its axis before Nic had a chance to keep up. Or breathe.
“But you can’t stay away for long.” His dad’s eyes glistened.
“I won’t. I promise. Perhaps you can tea
ch the Widow Barclay how to play chess while I am gone.” Nic blinked his forming tears.
“Perhaps I can.” His father crossed to him and enfolded him tightly. Nic returned the hug with a sad smile. “I promised I would look after you. That I wouldn’t leave you.”
“And you are not abandoning me. You are the reason I found a new job and new friends who can help me in your absence. You will see some of the world with that beautiful young lady.”
“I know.” Nic looked out the window at a bit of his world: all red brick and uneven rooftops, riddled with fire escapes clanging to the tarmac below, resplendent with window boxes and strung with laundry lines. “But I will miss it.”
“I will miss you so fiercely, Nic.” His father cupped Nic’s cheek. “But as much as my heart will break for the time you are away, I am so delighted that it has finally happened.”
“What has finally happened?”
“A bit of what I wanted for you all along.”
Nic and Esther waited at the dock. The steamer would bear them across the ocean to her mother’s land and the next chapter of their future. Esther would miss Boston and Widow Barclay and Mr. Ricci as Nic would. But until the scandal cleared, it was the perfect place to build a temporary life. Esther was looking forward to learning more about her mother from an aunt and two cousins who had received her telegram with such enthusiastic interest they eagerly agreed to a telephone call to arrange things. Once finished in Mrs. Mayweather’s parlour, Esther felt like a new woman. A free woman. And not just on account of the breeze that nipped the back of her exposed neck.
Esther’s hand-me-down dress cinched in a little more than was the precise fashion but silhouetted her curves marvelously. Her mother’s parasol dangled from a hand netted with lace half-gloves. She felt like a new person leaning against a man whose Sunday best was far from the sartorial lines, stripes and pleats Thomas was so proud of.
“In less than five weeks,” she mused for not the first time at the way her life had been so completely turned on its ear. “I didn’t realize that it took such a short amount of time to fall in love.”
“It’s like anything, I suppose.” Nic interlaced their fingers. “Some chess matches took us days, some had you surrendering your King to me in an hour.”
“I take it you plan on marrying me then? Since we’re about to head completely unchaperoned to the other side of the world.”
Nic flicked his eyes down at her, surveying her silently under long lashes…too silently and for several moments.
A pinch of fear caught Esther’s chest. Perhaps he didn’t mean to…? But surely...
“Oh.” she said.
“The King has to be captured, Esther,” He chastised with a broad smile. “He is powerless to the omnipotent Queen.” He clucked his tongue. “I cannot fathom spending the rest of my life with someone who is daft enough to forget the core rules of the game.”
“Oh.”
“Esther,” his voice was warm at her ear. “It’s your move.”
To Nic’s surprised delight and the consternation of grumbling ladies juggling hatboxes and men leaning on walking sticks to afford themselves a better view, Esther set her parasol down and without disengaging their joined fingers, lowered to one knee.
Draw: Any game that ends with either player winning
Entangled in chess and music and with nothing but wide adventure, they married in a small service in Whitechapel and settled into a flat in a neighbourhood without the prestige and white walls of Mayfair. Sure, Esther often forgot to save a ha’penny for the radiator, but they were close enough to hear the meandering bells of grand churches swelling through skies at times foggy and sometimes as bright blue as the sun stretching over the Common at home. They wrote to Nic’s father and Widow Barclay who planned a celebration for their marriage upon their return.
And happily ever sometimes looked like thrice steeped tea leaves poured into a bobbly, chipped pot. Sometimes it looked like a day old loaf of bread burnt to a crisp and served alongside runny eggs as Esther stepped toward domesticity. Sometimes it looked like a silly argument that raised their voices or a stolen kiss under a torn umbrella.
Mostly it looked like the pop of chestnuts over the hearth and an unexpected move or two on a second hand chess board.
And it certainly looked like Nic’s face when enough pounds from piano tuning and math tutoring magically materialized into a second-hand piano that accompanied Esther in unending Mozart.
Finally, it looked like the clear neat lines of a telegraph from Beacon Hill and the Mayweather residence.
“Esther!” Nic picked her up and spun her several times over their flat’s creaky boards. “We can go home.”
Esther laughed and parted his lips under hers. “Darling,” she murmured against his mouth and tightened her hold. “I am home.”
Author’s Note
Author’s Note:
If you would like to finesse your skills in either piano tuning or chess, I highly recommend not looking to this story as a guidebook.
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY:
Rachel McMillan is the author of the Herringford and Watts mysteries, the Van Buren and DeLuca Mysteries, the Three Quarter Time series of contemporary romances set in opulent Vienna, and The London Restoration (Harper Collins, August 2020). Her first work of non-fiction, Dream Plan Go: A Travel Guide to Independent Adventure releases in 2020. Rachel lives in Toronto, Canada.
Also by Rachel McMillan
The Herringford and Watts Series
A Singular and Whimsical Problem
The Bachelor Girl’s Guide to Murder
Of Dubious and Questionable Memory
A Lesson in Love and Murder
Conductor of Light
The White Feather Murders
The Van Buren and DeLuca Series
Murder at the Flamingo
Murder in the City of Liberty
The Three Quarter Time Series:
Love in Three Quarter Time
Rose in Three Quarter Time
Of Mozart and Magi
Entanglements Page 9
