Duke of a Gilded Age

by S. G. Rogers

  “Mr. Duncan, you should know that whilst I was assembling these relief supplies, some things were stolen from the lot,” he said.

  “Are you certain you didn’t miscount?” Mr. Duncan asked.

  “I laid out shaving soap, brushes, and razors, ten sets in all. Only nine remained when I returned with the combs.”

  Mr. Duncan scratched his head. “How unfortunate. Thank you, Mr. Harrington. I’ll tell the captain.”

  As the barber left, Mr. Wilmington gathered the volunteers together. “Well, everyone…are we ready for distribution?”

  “I think so,” Louise said. “We’ve put gentlemen’s clothes on the right hand table. Ladies’ and children’s things are on the left.”

  “How are we to proceed?” Belle asked.

  “Mr. Duncan and I’ll go to the steerage deck and send passengers up alphabetically, in groups.” He brandished an Italian phrase book retrieved from the ship’s library. “I just hope I can make myself understood.”

  When the first group of refugees appeared several minutes later, Mrs. Stilton was amongst them. Belle was taken aback. “There must have been some sort of revolt below deck,” she whispered to Louise. “I’m pretty sure ‘Stilton’ does not belong in A through F.”

  “How right you are,” Louise replied, low. “And she looks as if she’s been sucking on a lemon.”

  Mrs. Stilton’s expression was indeed rather sour as she glanced over the clothes laid out on the table. “Insupportable,” she muttered. “Cast-offs and rags.”

  Nevertheless, she moved quickly alongside the table to have first pick of everything available. To Belle’s dismay, Mrs. Stilton selected the peach-pattern dress she’d donated. The woman also snatched up a very pretty petticoat of the highest quality, and Stacy’s gloves. With her nose in the air, Mrs. Stilton departed, sweeping past a trio of Italian ladies staring at the table of donated finery in awe. Despite her irritation, Belle ignored Mrs. Stilton and helped the ladies as best she could by encouraging them to pick up the dresses or to feel the fabrics. Finally they chose some things and left, well pleased.

  “Grazie. Grazie mille,” they repeated.

  Carl and Horatio were on hand to assist the men, and Belle, Stacy, Eva, and Louise worked with the women and children.

  “You know, this is rather fun,” she whispered to Louise. “Most everyone is thankful just to have a change of clothes.”

  “I agree. It makes me feel a little humble, really,” Louise replied.

  Shortly after the distribution began, she caught sight of the tall swarthy man who’d helped rescue Wesley and Stephen the night before.

  “Mr. Matteo?”

  He glanced over and a smile of recognition lit his face. “Buon pomeriggio, signorina.”

  Although Belle hadn’t a clue what Matteo had just said, she desperately wanted to convey her gratitude for his help.

  “Um…mille grazie,” she said. “Or is it grazie mille? Wait.”

  Belle called over Mr. Wilmington, who was roaming about with his phrasebook in hand.

  “Mr. Wilmington, I want to thank Mr. Matteo here for rescuing Wesley Parker last night. Can you help me?”

  “Er…” The Chief Officer began to leaf through his phrase book.

  “Wesley?” repeated Matteo.

  “Yes, Wesley,” Belle said.

  “Come è Wesley?” Matteo glanced around, as if looking for Wesley.

  Belle glanced at Mr. Wilmington, but he was still leafing through his phrasebook with a befuddled expression.

  “Wesley is resting,” Belle said. She folded her hands together and laid her head down on them as she pantomimed sleep.

  “Ah,” Matteo said. “Buono.”

  “Yes. Well, I just wanted to say grazie mille again.”

  She knew she was butchering the pronunciation, but Matteo suppressed a grin and waved off her thanks.

  “Non è niente,” he said.

  He gave her a little bow and went back to looking for clothes, just as Mr. Wilmington found what he was looking for on the page.

  “Ah, here we are…Grazie is the word you’re looking for,” he said. “That means thanks.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wilmington,” Belle said. “You’ve been a great help.”

  Flushed with success, Mr. Wilmington wandered off. At the end of the afternoon, most everything had been distributed, and the two Chief Officers thanked the volunteers.

  “Well done, everyone,” Mr. Duncan said.

  “We couldn’t have done it without you,” Mr. Wilmington said.

  “Captain Howe wants to convey his gratitude in a more practical manner,” Mr. Duncan said. “Beginning tomorrow, the captain will allow you to use the saloon for your dance practice, from two to four o’clock.”

  “Oh, joy!” Eva said, clapping her hands.

  “The volunteer club becomes the dance club once again!” Louise said.

  “That’s absolutely splendid,” Carl said. “Please convey our thanks to Captain Howe.”

  “He’s quite happy to oblige,” Mr. Duncan said.

  “Pardon me for asking,” Belle said, “but have you arrested the two men responsible for attacking the Duke of Mansbury and Mr. Van Eyck?”

  Mr. Duncan and Mr. Wilmington exchanged a sober glance.

  “No, miss. We’ve scoured the City of New York, but they’ve not turned up,” Mr. Wilmington said. “We’re beginning to think they may have jumped ship.”

  Horatio looked at him askance. “What, straight into the Atlantic?”

  “The Apollo longboats were set adrift after the refugees were brought on board,” Mr. Wilmington replied. “Perhaps Mr. Fife and Mr. Randolph decided to take their chances with one of them, hoping to be picked up by a passing ship.”

  “Of course, the only thing that’s for certain is uncertainty,” Mr. Duncan said. “There are a lot of places to hide in an ocean liner this size. I don’t recommend you young people go poking into any dark corners.”

  Louise shuddered. “We wouldn’t dream of it.”

  As Wesley dressed for dinner, he was surprised by how much he was looking forward to leaving his deck cabin—and seeing Belle.

  “You are favoring your right extremity a great deal,” Cavendish said. “Is your sprain worse?”

  “It’s quite tender, actually.”

  “Good.”

  Wesley’s eyebrows rose. “Good?”

  “Your injury provides the perfect excuse for you to borrow one of my walking sticks.”

  “That’s a very generous offer…but why do I need an excuse?”

  “I made some discreet inquiries this afternoon. The two men who assaulted you are still at large. The theory is that they fled the ship in one of Apollo’s lifeboats, but I don’t believe that’s true.”

  “No?”

  “No, unless one assumes these men are unintelligent as well as predatory. I believe they’re hiding, waiting for the chance to silence the primary witness to their crimes.”

  “Hold on, I’m not the only witness. Stephen Van Eyck saw them too.”

  “He’s far less of a threat. According to your account, Mr. Van Eyck never saw the man who hit him. Furthermore, he only saw the other gentleman for a few moments. I’m willing to wager both men have altered their appearances by now. Therefore, Mr. Van Eyck may not be able to identify them at all. Neither can you, if you are dead.”

  Startled, Wesley could only gape. Cavendish crossed over to his luggage, unlatched the clasp on the longest trunk, and threw open the lid. An assortment of walking sticks was revealed, resting inside custom-made trays.

  “You may have noticed most of my walking sticks serve more than one function. Sometimes, they can be quite deadly.”

  The valet lifted out two trays in succession and set them aside. In the third tray, at the bottom of the trunk, he selected a polished black walking stick with a heavy silver handle in the shape of a snake.

  “If you’re confronted with danger, simply insert your thumb in the snake’s mouth an
d press down on its tongue to release the catch. Then you may slide the blade free from the wooden sheath, like so.”

  Cavendish released the catch, unsheathed the sword, and traced a pattern in the air with an impressive swishing noise. “En garde!” he exclaimed.

  He lunged forward in a graceful fencing stance, withdrew, and then returned the sword to its sheath. “My blue glass topped walking stick is also a sword, but I believe it’s too short for you. This one should do nicely.”

  Cavendish presented the walking stick to Wesley. As he took it, Wesley peered at him. “Who are you really, Cavendish?”

  The man bowed. “I’m your humble servant, sir…and you are late for dinner.”

  Belle and her father were seated at the captain’s table with Captain Howe, Captain Yarborough, Mrs. Van Eyck, Louise, and Lady Frederic. Three empty places remained, and Belle kept glancing at the saloon entrance, eager for Wesley to appear. Strains of Chaminade’s Scarf Dance flowed through the crowded dining hall from the pipe organ set in the elevated orchestra niche. Belle twisted the napkin in her lap as she waited. She’d worn her best dinner gown, which was white with a black velvet bodice. Her puffy off-the-shoulder white sleeves were trimmed with tiny black velvet bows—the same bows were scattered across the fabric of her white skirt at regular intervals. The hem ended with a length of frilled chiffon that billowed as she walked. Although Errol thought the bodice was a trifle risqué, the gown was one of her favorites and she thought it was becoming.

  Waiters had begun to take orders when Stephen appeared in the doorway. Instead of coming inside the saloon, however, he was looking the other way—as if waiting for someone. Moments later, Wesley arrived with a walking stick in hand. Both men wore dark cutaway suits with white vests and bow ties. Belle thought they were devastatingly handsome. With a broad grin on his face, Stephen shook Wesley’s hand and said something that made him laugh.

  When they entered the saloon, a ripple of applause ensued. The Gazette had printed Louise’s account of the entire adventure, as told by her brother, and there were few who had not read it. The clapping became louder and more enthusiastic as the two young men made their way toward the captain’s table. Stephen beamed at the attention, but a dull flush darkened Wesley’s cheekbones. Belle felt a tug of pride. Wesley is a man content to do good deeds without fanfare from anyone. She joined in the applause, feeling at once like a silly schoolgirl in the throes of her first infatuation.

  To Belle’s great pleasure, Wesley took the empty seat next to her. As he did so, he handed off his walking stick to the waiter for safekeeping. She glanced at Wesley’s hair.

  “If you hadn’t mentioned your singed ends in your letter, Your Grace, I don’t think I would have noticed,” she said.

  “If I didn’t know you were scrupulously honest, Miss Oakhurst, I’d say you were telling a little white lie,” he replied.

  Stephen slid into the chair between his mother and Louise and gave Belle a wink.

  “It’s too late for dissembling, Miss Oakhurst. I’ve already abused him about his appearance.”

  Belle winced at the black and blue bruise visible on Stephen’s temple. “I’m afraid neither of you emerged from your adventure unscathed.”

  “It’s good to see you lads up and about.” Captain Howe signaled to the waiter. “Let’s have some champagne.”

  “Captain, it’s good to be here.” Wesley glanced around the table. “I’ve many of you to thank for that.”

  “As do I,” Stephen said. “I thank you, Wesley, most particularly.” He paused. “There was one moment on the Apollo when I truly thought we were done for. Do you remember that?”

  “How could I forget it? It was on the bridge, when the ship nearly rolled over,” Wesley replied.

  A haunted expression flickered in Wesley’s eyes as he spoke, and Belle suppressed the urge to take his hand. Stephen’s expression was also uncharacteristically sober.

  “I was at my lowest just then, but Wesley said, ‘I won’t have it.’ And he proceeded to fight like the devil to make sure we survived.”

  “We fought alongside one another,” Wesley said. “And you hung onto me, at the end.”

  Stephen grinned. “Only because I hate it when you show me up.”

  Everyone laughed. Stephen picked up the flute of champagne that had been set before him. “I raise a glass to Wesley Parker, the best of men and one of the bravest.”

  Her heart nearly bursting with emotion, Belle drank the toast. In the next moment, however, a new arrival made her nearly spit it out.

  “Forgive me for being late,” Mrs. Stilton said.

  The gentlemen stood as Mrs. Stilton seated herself next to Captain Yarborough. The woman was clad in Belle’s peach-pattern dress, and her ample flesh strained the seams.

  “Rather than wear this hideous garment, I almost chose to take dinner in my cabin,” Mrs. Stilton said.

  Belle felt the blood rush to her face, and she lowered her gaze to the napkin in her lap. My dress isn’t a hideous garment!

  “But then I remembered I have no cabin; I’m in steerage,” Mrs. Stilton continued. She leveled a hard look in Captain Howe’s direction.

  The captain ignored the verbal jab and went around the table making introductions.

  “I think your dress is uncommonly pretty, Mrs. Stilton,” Wesley said finally. “How did you come to be in possession of it?”

  “It’s a cast-off. All my worldly possessions sank with the Apollo, I’m afraid.”

  “Not all,” Stephen said. “You still have your dog.”

  Belle bit her lip, trying not to laugh.

  Mrs. Van Eyck shot her son a quelling glance. “Mrs. Stilton has been through a terrible ordeal.”

  “I think the dress is very pretty, too,” Louise said, somewhat heatedly. “In fact, it was Annabelle’s.”

  It was Mrs. Stilton’s turn to flush a mottled red. “In that case, I thank you, my dear Miss Oakhurst,” she said with a tight smile. “I’m sure it looked far better on you.”

  Because she didn’t know how to respond politely, Belle said nothing.

  “My daughter has always had a generous nature,” Mr. Oakhurst said.

  “I’ve noticed that myself, even on short acquaintance,” Wesley said.

  Belle’s distress at Mrs. Stilton’s insult eased. What are the comments of one sour woman when compared to the praise of friends and family!

  “Indeed, Miss Oakhurst’s tireless efforts on behalf of the refugees drew the admiration of all who witnessed them,” Captain Howe said. “Miss Van Eyck was remarkable as well.”

  Captain Yarborough lifted his glass to Louise and Belle. “On behalf of the Mount Olympus Shipping Company, I thank you both.”

  Mrs. Stilton’s audible sigh indicated her boredom.

  Chapter Twenty

  Undone

  AFTER MRS. STILTON HAD CONSUMED several glasses of champagne and a quantity of artichoke appetizers, she seemed to mellow.

  “I apologize for my temper,” she said. “I’m usually not so disagreeable, but after the boiler blew up on the Apollo I thought Princess and I would perish. Fortunately we did not, but I left my jewelry case behind on the ship. It contained many fine pieces given to me by my late husband, and they were all I had to remember him by.” She sniffed and touched her napkin to the corners of her eyes.

  “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Van Eyck said. “I would be upset too.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Van Eyck. I do appreciate all you’ve done for me, Captain Howe…and Miss Oakhurst.” Mrs. Stilton added that last part grudgingly.

  “I was merely doing my duty, madam,” Captain Howe said.

  “It was my pleasure,” Belle murmured, more out of obligation than sentiment.

  “Tell me, Mrs. Stilton, what is your business in America?” Mr. Oakhurst asked.

  “My son left England to make his fortune in the New World. I’m to visit him in San Francisco,” she replied.

  I wonder if he’ll be happy to see her when she fin
ally arrives? Belle thought. Poor man.

  As the meal progressed, Mrs. Stilton interrogated Captain Yarborough on how the Olympus Shipping Company planned to make up her financial losses and what she could expect in terms of completing her voyage. Belle’s resentment of the woman grew; she wanted to hear from Wesley and Stephen, not Mrs. Stilton. When the dreadful woman paused to take a sip of wine, Belle seized the opportunity to change the subject.

  “Your Grace, I encountered your Italian friend this afternoon…Mr. Matteo. I thanked him for his part in your rescue. Given the language barrier, I hope he understood.”

  “Ah, yes, Matteo. He was very helpful with his countrymen on the Apollo when I was explaining the need to evacuate,” Wesley said.

  “Wesley had a little help from Providence in that regard,” Stephen said. “If not for his Saint Christopher’s medal, I don’t think the Italians would have listened to him.”

  Wesley chuckled. “I must write my friend Sergio back in Brooklyn and thank him again for that medal.”

  “I find your situation extremely interesting, Your Grace,” Mrs. Stilton said. “Mrs. Van Eyck informs me you are an American who inherited your title just recently?”

  “Yes, I inherited it from my late uncle, Septimus Parker. He was the tenth Duke of Mansbury,” Wesley said.

  “My husband was Septimus’s younger brother, and predeceased him several years ago,” Lady Frederic said.

  “Annabelle’s grandfather is a baronet,” Louise blurted out. “Perhaps she’ll inherit the baronetcy from him someday.”

  Belle’s heart began to hammer, and she felt her father’s eyes upon her.

  “The title of baronet is not inheritable by females, my dear,” Mrs. Stilton said.

  “Ugh! I’ll never understand this business of titles,” Louise said. “How do you British keep it all straight?”

  “It’s not always easy to do so, I grant you. Some people count on the ignorance of others to puff themselves up as royalty when they are not,” Mrs. Stilton said. “If you make enough inquiries, the truth will out, sooner or later.”

  Belle forced a laugh. “Your Grace, ‘The truth will out’ is a quote from Shakespeare. Can you guess which play—”