“Please,” she beseeched him, putting up her hands, touching his solid chest. “This will solve nothing.”
William’s eyes darkened. “It will make me feel better.”
Was that a flash of humor?
However, Finn was close against her back, and she could feel the tension coming off him in waves. Any moment, he would put her aside and lay into William. They were evenly matched, and it would be awful.
“It won’t make me feel better,” she assured William. “Please, go with me now.”
William’s eyes narrowed. At the same time, she felt Finn take a step backward.
“Please,” she said again. “I don’t want either of you hurt.”
William’s mouth hardened into a straight line.
What had she said wrong?
“That’s fine,” he told her. “You stay and conclude your business with your husband.”
With that, William left, not sparing a backward glance for either of them.
Silence enveloped her and Finn for a few seconds. Then he muttered, “Touchy fellow, isn’t he?”
Rose turned and slapped his cheek hard, smearing the blood across his face and leaving a wet trail across her own palm. Finn grabbed her wrist when she held up her hand, not to strike him again but to look at the evidence of what she’d done.
Her arm was shaking. All of her was shaking, Rose realized. She wanted to cry, though not in front of Finn who had caused so much misery.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, still gripping her arm. “I deserved that. But not from him.”
She looked up at his face. It was a sight to see, with his upper lip cut and a bruise forming at the edge of his mouth. His thick dark blond hair was standing up on his head and mussed everywhere else.
She wrenched herself free and ran after William, hearing Finn’s footsteps behind her.
“William, please wait,” Rose beseeched, catching up to her fiancé on the busy sidewalk. They couldn’t leave it like this, not with him furious at her.
He halted and turned, but there was no inviting expression on his face.
“I will not stand here in public and discuss this,” he said calmly but firmly. “I’ll talk to you anon, Rose. In private.”
Then he stalked off stiffly without his usual self-assured gait that bespoke of a confident William Woodsom, son of English nobility.
Rose stared after him until he disappeared into the horde of other Bostonians. She didn’t call him back to her — or even try to. What could she say after all? She let her tears fall, her insides aching for how she’d hurt him.
Realizing that Finn was at her elbow, standing in broad daylight with his battered face for all to see, she wiped her cheeks with her handkerchief.
“Should I go after him?” she asked, not caring that she was asking her own husband for advice on matters of the heart.
“No,” Finn said. “The man loves you and he has his pride, which has just been sorely wounded at seeing you come to my room. Give him overnight to think on it.”
Then Rose felt his hand touch her arm, and she whirled around to face him, feeling all her sadness transform in a flash to anger.
“You did this to him! You stayed away until he’d asked for my hand, and then you wouldn’t let me tell him. I will never forgive you for this.” Rose cared not at all for the people who paused or looked at her during her tirade. Let them stare.
Finn ran a hand through his hair and then said quietly, “You should not have come to my room.”
“Oh,” She stomped her foot. “Are you blaming me for this mess? I thought it best you knew the extent of the danger you’re in and that you’ve put me in, as well. I certainly wasn’t inviting a repeat of the manhandling from the last time I visited you.”
“Manhandling?” he asked, his expression hardening. “Is that what you call our kiss? I suppose next you’ll say I forced you to marry me and had my way with you. Except, wait, you’re still a dried up, prudish virgin.”
“How dare you!” she roared causing an entire family to shy away to the far edge of the sidewalk. He was being entirely unfair since she’d never been a prude. As for dried up—
“Perhaps you’re no longer an innocent!” Finn was now in high dudgeon, his voice as loud as her own. “Did you give your precious virtue away to Woodsom, knowing your family would accept him as your deflowerer far better than they ever would me?”
Without waiting for her next comment, he turned heel and went back inside The Parisien, barely limping, his back ramrod straight.
Rose stared after him, taking gulps of air and waiting for her emotions to settle, along with her racing heart.
In the span of minutes, she’d had both the men in her life walk away from her in anger. Was she to blame for all of this chaos? Or was Finn? One thing was certain — William didn’t deserve the pain he was in. Would he ever forgive her?
Chapter Twenty-Four
Charlotte took the North Ferry from Battery Wharf, and upon disembarking on Eastie’s Border Street, she easily found Kelly’s shipyard after a short walk.
Entering through the main gate, she asked a young man walking hurriedly with a planer in his hand for directions to the owner’s office.
“What’s this about, miss?”
“It’s missus, to be precise, and I would like to speak either to Mr. Kelly or to the yard’s overseer about the Garrard.”
The young builder nodded solemnly. “I wasn’t around when it went down, but the pall of it still hangs over the yard at the mention of her name. Sad business.”
“Agreed, sir. And all hands lost?”
“Yes, missus. Mr. Kelly isn’t here, hardly ever is anymore. You might have luck speaking with Mr. Walsh, our overseer. If you come this way, I’ll find out if he’s is in his office. A busy man, as you might expect.”
“Naturally. I won’t take up much of his time. Was he the overseer when the Garrard went down?”
“Yes, ma’am. The very same.”
Ten minutes later, Charlotte found herself seated before a weathered desk, having to peer past a large decorative glass bottle with a three-master inside of it in order to see the overseer. Mr. Walsh was seated on the other side, his black eyes taking her measure. Did she imagine that he seemed none too pleased? His tone, however, was polite when he spoke.
“What can I do for you, ma’am? Something about the Garrard?”
“Yes, precisely,” she turned slightly to find the young man still standing by the door clutching his planer with both hands.
At her inspection, Walsh said, “Back to work, Murphy.”
When he left, the overseer muttered, “These apprentices. They don’t know what hard work is!” Then he focused on Charlotte once again. “Now then, ma’am, what is this about?”
She scooted her chair a few inches to the left to better see him. “How do you choose who goes out upon a test sail?” Charlotte asked.
The man’s eyebrows rose high. “That depends.”
“Upon?”
“Upon the vessel’s size, the newness of design, how far out the test will take her. For the most part, the master builder doesn’t go unless requested by the owner. That is, the one who commissioned the ship — not the yard owner. A few riggers and carpenters go, and a skeleton crew mans every position — sometimes we provide ’em, sometimes the ship’s owner does. Sometimes the owner himself goes.”
“I see.” Charlotte glanced at her notes. “Did the vessel’s owner go out on the Garrard on her fateful maiden voyage? There was none such listed in the paper.”
The overseer wrinkled up his forehead. “No,” he said with surety.
“Nor the master builder, Mr. Gilbert?”
“Why, no,” Walsh said.
“Also, none of the crew were from the owner’s company? They all came from the yard. Why was that?”
Walsh’s face reddened. “I can’t say for certain. Maybe they had none available for this particular ship until it would go into service.”
“I see. So only men from the yard died. Mostly young ones, it seems.” She scanned her notes. “A large number of apprentices, too. Is that normal?”
“No,” he started. “I mean, I don’t know why that would be the case.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Charlotte interjected. “You are the overseer, you were here at the time. Don’t the manifests go through you.”
“Sometimes,” he said, “and some go through our master builder. As it happens, this was Mr. Gilbert’s project. He could put on board whomever he liked.”
“And take off, as well, I suppose.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, pulling at his collar and fanning himself with the first piece of paper he grabbed.
“If someone’s name was on the ship’s manifest, is it possible that they were not on the ship?”
“Unusual but not impossible, especially with this type of voyage that doesn’t have the actual crew. Look, wouldn’t you rather speak with Mr. Kelly about all this when he returns?”
Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “Yes, I would like to speak with him. However, I saw your name mentioned in more than one paper as the representative for this yard, and I felt you had an outstanding command of all the circumstances.”
After all, to her way of thinking, the owner of the shipyard would be interested only in protecting its reputation and glossing over anything out of the ordinary, and Mr. Gilbert would have his own reputation to defend, especially if he had any fault in the matter of the ship’s design. Neither would offer up any nuggets of information that hadn’t already been in the paper.
“By the way, sometimes an overseer goes on a voyage, as I understand it,” Charlotte pointed out, fixing him with a questioning look. “Why didn’t you go on the test sail?”
After a pause, Mr. Walsh hung his head. “I should have. Always felt badly that I hadn’t. Not that I think I could have done something those on board couldn’t. You say there were many apprentices. That may be true, but there were experienced men as well.” He sighed. “By the time the ship was ready, I was to be married the following Wednesday, which cleared me from having to go since the ship was supposed to be out nearly four weeks.”
Charlotte pursed her lips. He seemed genuinely remorseful.
“You shouldn’t feel guilty, sir. I’m sure your wife was relieved at your being spared.”
“Aye.”
“You are familiar with the manifest.”
“Yes, went over every name after the sinking. Needed to say a goodbye.”
“To your knowledge, then, were all the men who were named actually on the ship?”
Walsh wrinkled his forehead again. “I have tried not to think overmuch about who was on or not since then, though there were two on the manifest who weren’t on the ship. Their families were notified immediately or even knew ahead of time that they weren’t on board.”
“Can you tell me why they didn’t set sail?”
“Not for any nefarious reason, ma’am, I’m sure. One, a rigger, came down with a fever that morning, and, well, I guess he was young as you say, 15 years perhaps. His mum was the one who came to the yard and said he couldn’t go. The other man, a ship designer, was removed on the order of Mr. Kelly, I believe.”
“That would be Mr. Berne,” Charlotte said.
“Aye, how did you know?” His eyebrows rose once again.
She smiled and shrugged as if it were inconsequential. “So that change must have happened at the last minute; otherwise his name would have been removed from the manifest, correct?”
“Yes, probably the night before, after the yard secretary had retired. He would have been too busy in the morning to redo the manifest.”
“Do you know why Mr. Berne was removed?” Charlotte paused with her fountain pen over her paper.
“Not a clue, ma’am. Could have been due to a bender the night before. Could have been a hundred reasons. Lucky man, though.”
“Yes, I suppose he is.” She decided to press her own luck. “Mr. Berne still works here, doesn’t he? I would like to have a quick word with him if I may, and with Mr. Gilbert.”
“As to Master Builder Gilbert, he has moved on, and I couldn’t say where he is. However, I can get Mr. Berne to speak with you.”
The overseer lifted his telephone, speaking to someone in another building on the yard. He asked succinctly if Mr. Berne were available, mentioning how there was a journalist there to see him about the Garrard. He waited a few moments. “I see.”
His expression tightened before he gave her what she could only think of as a blank stare.
“Oddly, he left early today, not long ago, in fact.”
“How peculiar, and precisely when I want to speak with him, too.” She stood up. “I appreciate your time.” She nearly left a message for Berne along with her calling card. However, the idea of this stranger — who had escaped death to collect a large sum on an insurance claim and had gone missing from his job — the idea of him showing up at the home she shared with her husband and children stopped her cold. A little caution was in order.
“I will come again to speak with Mr. Berne,” Charlotte promised. “And Mr. Kelly as well.”
***
Rose had thought she would have to seek William out at his home or worse, appear at his office under the scrutiny of the State House secretaries. Instead, as she finished drinking her coffee the next morning and poking at a dish of sliced fruit, the housekeeper announced that her fiancé was in the front hall.
Rose glanced at her mother, whose face was a picture of concern, then pushed her chair back and scrambled for the door.
“Invite him to have some tea and oatmeal, of course, if he’s hungry, dear,” her mother called after her.
Rose doubted that he would want either. She had spent the night wondering how to make amends for her inexcusable actions, half dreading seeing him again, yet now he was there, she couldn’t wait to see him. He was her beloved, after all.
She stopped short in the foyer. William looked terrible. Clearly, he hadn’t slept or taken the time with his grooming that morning. His hair was charmingly in disarray, his clothing unkempt, and dark circles under his eyes. And it was all her fault.
“Where can we speak privately?” he asked, his tone flat.
“In my father’s study,” she answered at once. She knew Evelyn would expect him to pop in to greet her first. William clearly looked in no condition to do so.
“Jillian,” she addressed the maid, “please show Mr. Woodsom to the study and get him some tea or whatever he’d like. I’ll be along directly.”
She watched him trail along behind the young woman, looking defeated even from behind, and not the man with boundless energy and a zest for life she’d come to know and love. Her guilt weighed heavily like a wet wool cape.
Poking her head around the dining room door, she eyed her mother. “Mama, I’m going to have a private chat with William for a few minutes. He’s not feeling quite himself today, a touch of indigestion perhaps, so he’s not going to stop for breakfast with us.”
“Oh dear,” Evelyn said. “Tell him to have some ginger tea, or chamomile. Emily can brew him some directly.”
“Yes, Mama.” She turned to leave.
“Rose,” her mother added, narrowing her eyes, “there is no tea that cures a broken heart. I know that from experience.”
Indeed. Both she and her mother shared the experience of widowhood and the long pangs of heartache it caused.
“I know, Mama. Unfortunately, I know.” She paused, about to tell her mother that things were not going smoothly when she thought better of it. Before turning away, Rose forced a smile. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
As she walked along the hallway to the back of the house, she realized those were the precise words she’d said to William that day on the Common when she should have told him the truth about Finn’s return. The words were a lie then as they were now. There was plenty of reason to worry.
Rose entered the study and close
d the door behind her. William was slumped in the comfy tufted seat that faced her father’s desk. She had sat in it many times to converse with her father when she was a child — exciting, lengthy discussions that had fueled her spirit.
With his back to the door, despite his height, the top of William’s head was barely visible above the high overstuffed back of the seat. Rose decided not to take her father’s leather chair and put the barrier of the desk between them. Instead, she rested her behind on the edge of the desk on the same side as William and gave him her full attention. She had made this mess, and she would deal with the dire consequences. And they were extremely dire — that she could tell.
William’s fingers were steepled together, and he was staring at them intently.
Rose looked at them, too, seeing a little bruising on the knuckles of his right hand. She knew better than to mention it, though she dearly wished she could take hold of those bruised fingers, kiss the marks, and tell him how sorry she was.
At last, William looked up at her. “I’ve been thinking of the irony that I found out about Bennet during The Lady of Lyons.”
She had not thought about it, but he was right of course.
“Am I the jilted marquis? And is Bennet the one who returns as a hero to win your love?”
“This is not a play,” she reminded him, though the similarities suddenly struck her as eerie.
“You married this man you barely knew,” William said, his tone even and precise, “and he deserted you for over three years. He returns bringing nothing but heartache and potential danger. Now what? What are his intentions toward you?”
“I don’t know.”
Silence hung between them like a thick curtain for a long moment.
Then William said, “I guess that’s not as important as this question: Do you still love him?”
Rose hesitated and that seemed to be all it took to push William over the edge into despair. He stood up abruptly and paced the room.
“Perhaps I always sensed there was something you were holding back from me. Not this, of course! This was beyond imagining.”
An Inconceivable Deception Page 26
