by Amber Lin
Except when he’d looked at her, so pitiful and frightened, he’d believed her anyway. And then she’d begged… God, then. He had run her to ground like a fox on the hunt. She had almost died in the water and in the days after. Even now she was beaten and bruised. And she wanted to pay him back for his care of her.
Oh, and the cocoa. She hadn’t forgotten that on the tally sheet.
Whoever she had been, she wasn’t a thief now. Desperate and confused, maybe. But she had no desire to steal from him. He felt disgusted with himself. With the way he had touched her. With the way his body had responded. His body hadn’t minded that she was afraid and hurt and weak. No, it had been ready to take her right against the roof tiles.
Bastard.
He picked up the glass of whisky he’d poured for himself and stared at the crystal bottom. Empty. He set it down on his desk with a careless thud. It was useless to sleep now, just an hour from dawn. He couldn’t blame the girl for that, though. He’d never slept much while on dry land.
Mrs. Wheaton bustled into his study. Her eyebrows rose before she masked her surprise. Most nights he went to the Nightingale to sleep. Only rarely, if he stayed up very late and drank enough liquor, could he find a few nights’ sleep on the chair in here.
“I’ll come back later,” she said.
He waved a hand. “No, continue.”
She eyed him with something like curiosity before nodding. Her movements were quick and efficient as she collected the few empty glasses. At the door, she paused. “Breakfast, sir?”
“Send something up for the girl. But wait an hour or two, until she wakes.”
Mrs. Wheaton nodded and started out of the door.
“Wait.”
She turned back.
“Do you know what positions there might be for a young woman? Something with fair pay and stability?”
Her lips pressed together. “Assuming she doesn’t have a trade or a character reference…?”
“Assuming,” he confirmed.
“It would be difficult,” Mrs. Wheaton said with quiet bluntness. “There are girls who’ve been looking for months. However… we have a position for a housemaid here. Our last girl left a month ago to have her baby, and I’ve just heard she won’t be coming back.”
He felt stunned by the suggestion, though he wasn’t sure why he should be. A housemaid was a perfectly respectable position for a girl with no trade and no character reference. And he knew Mrs. Wheaton would be a fair taskmaster. But he’d never imagined employing the girl himself.
The girl. She didn’t even have a name. And he no longer felt right calling her “the thief” after their conversation on the roof. Or even calling her Julian, a false name she’d given in a moment of panic.
Mrs. Wheaton was watching him, waiting for an answer. In a matter of days his prisoner had taken up residence in his mind, his body. How much deeper could she affect him if he had to see her every day? He imagined her coming in to clean his office or finding her in the kitchens, her face flushed from the heat of the kitchen. God help him.
“She wouldn’t be able to work for some time,” he said. “If you need the extra hands, you can hire temporary help.”
Temporary. With that one word, he’d promised the position to the girl. If she wanted it. But what choice did she have? He could force her to work for him just by making the offer. He could force her to be near him.
And drive himself mad.
When Mrs. Wheaton shut the door behind her, Nate walked to the window. The fog had mostly cleared, making way for the orange glow across glittering water. The sun beamed pale white from above.
A boy was climbing up Nightingale’s mast, trading shifts, like a tiny ant on a twig. The rest of the boys would be assembled for breakfast before splitting up for chores and lessons.
Nate usually helped with morning chores onboard, especially the younger boys who were still learning how to tie correctly, and checked their work. Their faces were dirty, no matter how often the quartermaster told them to clean themselves before breakfast. And they were careless, slipping often enough that he had installed additional netting between the masts and mandated ropes around their waists.
They were, in summary, some of the worst crewman he’d ever worked with, and yet, they could run a ship as smoothly as a fully-manned crew. He couldn’t explain it.
The Women in Support of Destitute and Deserving Children had tried to hold a banquet in honor of Nightingale’s work. He had laughed, which the representative—a Countess, of all things—hadn’t appreciated. But he hadn’t known how to explain…it wasn’t a charity, what he did. Nor a public service. It actually cost him less to feed and clothe and pay a decent wage to children than to hire half-drunk louts who would steal from the larder given half a chance.
No, Nate wasn’t a good man, or a kind man.
And as soon as he found Hargate, he would also be a murderer.
He wasn’t anyone who should attend a ball, much less be the toast of one.
He smiled, wondering what the Women in Support of Destitute and Deserving Children would think of that. They would no doubt be horrified in their manicured parlor rooms. Except no Society had supported him when he was destitute. No one had protected him—
Pushing back, he turned and walked back to his desk. He drew the locket from the drawer and laid it on the leather blotter. Where had she gotten it? The perfunctory floral markings on the casing held no clue. He opened the locket again and studied the blurred images. Were those her full lips, with her hair piled on top of her head? He couldn’t tell.
On a whim, he pulled the knife from his pocket. Carefully, he slid the tiny sketches out. The edges had been crudely cut into a pointed oval so it would fit into the locket. He flipped them over. Blank.
There was nothing here. No clues. No conspiracy. She’d just been a desperate girl in the streets of London. Or maybe she really had been hired by a competitor. It didn’t matter. He would still help her.
But not by hiring her.
If he were forced to see her every day and not talk to her, not touch her…
Preparing to replace the portraits, he flipped the locket open in his palm. He would return it to her tonight when he visited her room.
He froze.
Engraved into the inside of the locket where the metal casing had been covered, were initials. JH.
H. As in Hargate.
Hargate’s first name was Stephan. But the girl…she’d said her name was Julian.
JH. Julian Hargate.
No. It couldn’t be her. He didn’t want it to be her.
But the plain block letters did not change.
Ice crystalized in Nate’s veins, restoring the cruel sangfroid that had sheltered him for most of his life. He rifled through his desk and found the file on Hargate.
Like any good revenge seeker, Nate had ordered surveillance on the man, his struggling business, and his long hours. The answer to his ruin had been clear. And fitting. Nate liked that he had taken away what Hargate had stolen in the first place. That was fair. A fortune for a fortune. And for his father’s life…that would also be fair. A life for a life.
Once his plan had been made, Nate hadn’t bothered to look at Hargate’s personal information. His friends. His family. In truth, Nate hadn’t wanted to know who else would be affected in Hargate’s fall. But that had been a weakness. He saw that now.
Had Hargate cared about who else was hurt when he had cheated Nate’s father? Had he cared who would grow up orphaned when he’d ordered Nate’s father killed to cover up Hargate’s crimes?
No.
In fact, he had disposed of Nate in the most efficient, most profitable way possible.
He leafed through the papers. And there it was, in black scrawled ink.
ONE CHILD. A GIRL. JULIANA HARGATE.
The woman upstairs was past being a child. He had pulled water-logged clothes off her slender form, frantic to get her warm, needing to make sure she didn’t have any broken
bones—and he’d found out she was a woman.
A woman who had made a mockery of him.
Julian! He laughed, the sound harsh to his ears.
No, her name was Juliana. Juliana Hargate. And she wasn’t a random thief. She hadn’t been sent by some greedy competitor to scout for information. She wasn’t even someone Hargate had hired. She was his daughter. And she had been lying about losing her memory.
Of course she had. Juliana couldn’t tell him her real name.
And Hargate. Where the hell was he hiding? She would know. Maybe she’d been on her way back to him last night. He could follow her. Yes, that was a good plan.
Except…
Except he didn’t have to scurry after her through the slums of London, hoping not to lose sight of her. She was the man’s daughter. He could use her and discard her, the same way he’d been used and discarded. That would be a suitable punishment for what Hargate had done to him. And Nate would enjoy it much more than he would enjoy killing the man.
Oh, yes, he would enjoy ruining her very much.
But more important, it would be fitting. And Nate liked things that fit.
…
Julia…Julian…whoever she was…wasn’t sure where she’d gotten the strength to climb the chimney, because she had barely gotten out of the bed for three days straight. Mrs. Wheaton brought a tray twice a day and quietly urged her to eat. She had obeyed, even when lifting the spoon felt insurmountable. Her limbs seemed heavier than normal. Her eyelids felt as heavy as lead weights. She slept more than she was awake.
The pirate visited every day, in the evenings. He smelled of saltwater and clean sweat, as if he had been working on a ship all day long. His interactions with her were solicitous and so far removed he might as well have still been on the docks.
He asked perfunctory questions and barely registered her answers. Was she feeling well? Did she have everything she needed? Only one exchange stood out in her mind—the very first night he’d come to her after their conversation on the roof.
He had turned away and stared out the window. “You can’t recall your name?”
She couldn’t remember anything. A blast of freezing water. Dark, wavy shadows. Sinking, drowning.
Nervousness fluttered in her belly. He had been true to his word and hadn’t locked the door. She had no reason to doubt his sincerity when he said he wouldn’t turn her over to the authorities. But the topic flooded her with unease, nonetheless.
“I’m sorry,” she’d said in answer.
“Do you know some thieves…or those who wish to masquerade as someone else… they choose a name similar to their own? That way, they can still answer to it naturally, and are less likely to forget it.”
“And you think…you think I did that?”
“Julian,” he said in a musing tone, as if she hadn’t spoken. “What names are similar, do you suppose?”
She considered it. “Julia?”
He turned back briefly, flashing the white of his smile. She had the sudden image of a wolf in the woods, of bared teeth in warning. But his voice was mild. “Yes, indeed. Julia would be very close to Julian. Should we call you that, then? Julia?”
He already was calling her that, and one name was as good as another. Embarrassment heated her that she couldn’t remember. Of all the things not to know…her own name. It made her feel stupid and useless—as if her complete dependence on him weren’t enough to accomplish that.
“All right,” she said softly. “Julia.”
She told herself later that it was the harsh lighting. She told herself she’d imagined the hint of hatred in his eyes. Why would he hate her? Why would she matter at all?
It unnerved her enough that she inquired to Mrs. Wheaton the next day. “How long have you worked for Captain Bowen?”
The older woman was quiet as she bent to stir the fire. It remained lit almost constantly, keeping her bedroom warm through night and day. It struck her as an extravagance for the modest house. The only night it had been cold, Nate had been waiting for her on the roof, and she understood now it had been a trap, leaving the chimney unlit so she could climb up.
Mrs. Wheaton straightened and tucked a strand of pale blond hair behind her ear. “Long enough.”
Julia didn’t take offense. She had learned that the housekeeper was a woman of few words.
“Does he often have guests?” she asked, before realizing what sort of guests a bachelor might entertain. “I mean, of a charitable nature?”
“Captain Bowen doesn’t believe in charity, Miss.”
“Oh.” She struggled with how to ask the question in her mind. Can I trust him? But it would never be that simple. Guilt had been her constant companion. Guilt that she had stolen from him, or at least tried to. Guilt that she was using his hospitality.
And most of all, guilt because she could not bring herself to trust him completely, despite the kindness he had shown her.
Mrs. Wheaton paused by the door. “If someone were to ask me, I’d say there were no finer man than Captain Nathaniel Bowen.”
Juliana breathed in pure relief. Where Nate was stormy waters, Mrs. Wheaton was a calm pond. Julia could trust her.
“Thank you. That does ease my mind.”
“Although…”
“Yes?” she asked hopefully. Advice from this woman would be like a life raft, something to hold on to in a turbulent sea.
Mrs. Wheaton’s pale blue eyes softened. “Worry about gaining your strength back. Captain Bowen will attend to everything else.”
…
Julia did as the housekeeper bade her, sleeping long hours and reading the books that Nate brought her. A doctor by the name of Richards came on the third day after she’d awakened and pronounced her mostly healed.
“No strenuous activities,” he said with a faintly disapproving note. Clearly, he had some idea of what strenuous activities an unchaperoned woman might do in a strange man’s house.
However, he cleared her of any long term effects from her fall. The cut on her side was healing. Her ankle only hurt when she wasn’t careful enough.
She heard Dr. Richards speak in low tones to Mrs. Wheaton outside the door. After a few minutes, the housekeeper came inside the room carrying a large bundle of cloth.
“The doctor says you can be up and about. These are your dresses.”
So he had ordered her dresses made, after all. Accepting dresses from a man…well, Julia may not know her real name, but she knew what that meant. It meant he was her…patron. Even if he would never avail himself of those rights.
But she didn’t have any other choice. She had no other clothes.
“How did he have so many made?” she asked as Mrs. Wheaton hung dress after gown in the wardrobe. Six, she counted. The imbalance tilted to his side even more, leaving Julia lightheaded and faintly nauseated.
“Captain Bowen found a dressmaker who altered what she had to fit your measurements.”
How did he know my measurements? She didn’t voice that question. Perhaps Mrs. Wheaton had taken them while she was sleeping. And yet, she knew that hadn’t happened. The pirate had known. He had thought about the shape of her body. He had described it to a stranger. Possibly touched it.
A sudden blush suffused her cheeks.
“Would you like to try one on?” Mrs. Wheaton asked, her gaze averted.
Julia peeked again at the clothes and realized she wasn’t entirely sure how to put them on by herself. However, she knew exactly how to move as Mrs. Wheaton tucked her into the dress. Julia sucked in her breath at all the right times. It was as natural as breathing, lending credence to Nate’s theory that she had once been wealthy, with a maid to help her dress.
“When is the captain expected to return?”
“He keeps his own hours.”
Well, then.
Only after Mrs. Wheaton had left did Julia smooth her hands over the flossed silk and wonder at it. There were far plainer, more serviceable dresses available for sale. Ready-made clothe
s for maids and shopgirls and servants. They must exist, somewhere, even if Julia wouldn’t know where to find them. And yet, he’d gotten blue silk with pale blue petticoats.
A dull sense of dread formed in her stomach. What would he expect in repayment?
Breathe. She was being unfair. He had been nothing but kind to her, when he had every reason not to be. She could be sitting in gaol right now, awaiting a trial. She could be in a workhouse.
Or if he hadn’t jumped in to save her, she could be dead.
Yes, she was fortunate to be here, under his charity and protection—even if he preferred not to call it such. The problem was that she didn’t know anything about him. She knew his name. She knew that he was captain of a ship that helped orphaned boys. It was a charming portrait but hardly complete. Did he have family?
A wife?
Her corset suddenly felt too tight. Her breath came shorter. Why did she keep supposing he had designs on her? Ah, yes. Because he had backed her against the chimney and pressed up against her body and kissed her. That was certainly enough to make her worry.
She had to figure out his intentions. Learn about the man who held her life in his large, capable hands.
The home itself was modest and compact, but the furnishings were designed for comfort. The rug had a simple design and thick, plush pile. Perhaps downstairs she’d find something more illuminating.
She opened the door and peeked into the hallway. Empty. The scent of oranges and vanilla and something baking wafted up from the kitchens. She crept down the stairs, feeling like an intruder. Like a thief. She wasn’t here to steal anything, but what she was doing was just as bad. Betraying his trust. But no matter how she tried, she couldn’t stop feeling there was something important she was missing.
Paintings on the wall depicted the sea and waterscapes, and the magnified interlocking pieces of a ship. No land in sight. A low hum of voices and dishes clinking came from below. The main floor appeared to be unoccupied, but then, a maid might not make a sound. She would be silent, stealthy…
