Victorian Dream

by Gini Rifkin

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Praise for Gini Rifkin

  Dedication

  I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Epilogue

  Author’s Notes

  A word about the author...

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Victorian Dream

  by

  Gini Rifkin

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Victorian Dream

  COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Virginia Rifkin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First English Tea Rose Edition, 2013

  Print ISBN 978-1-61217-727-4

  Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-728-1

  Published in the United States of America

  Praise for Gini Rifkin

  SPECIAL DELIVERY

  “A hot time in the old west.”

  IRON HEART

  "Iron Heart gives the classic epic adventures a run for their money.”

  ~Sizzling Hot Books (5 Hearts)

  “Rifkin weaves a tale of romance and adventure that could easily be shared around a blazing campfire.”

  ~The Romance Reviews

  “A wonderfully captivating blend of medieval history and fantasy!”

  ~TheMedievalChronicle.com

  LADY GALLANT

  “I highly recommend it to any fan of historical romance.”

  ~Long and Short Reviews

  “Rifkin's novel is epic in scope, meticulously researched and finely detailed. A genuinely sweet romance married to an exciting war/espionage story.”

  ~Romanic Times Book Reviews

  THE DRAGON AND THE ROSE

  “This is an ENCHANTING story!”

  ~The Long and Short Review

  “Rifkin is immensely knowledgeable about the story's time period.”

  ~Romantic Times Book Reviews

  Dedication

  In memory of Mom,

  who taught me to read and love books,

  Estelle,

  who read my books and encouraged me to write,

  and Gary,

  who was man enough to wear my pink baseball cap.

  With thanks and gratitude to

  The Wild Rose Press and

  the amazing Amanda Barnett.

  Dedicated to family who are friends—

  and friends who are family.

  I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

  ~Lord Byron, “Darkness”

  Chapter One

  1851, New Bedford Harbor, Massachusetts

  Alone in the dark, Walker Garrison stood on the dock of the deserted waterfront, his shoulders hunched against the nor’easter blowing down from Wellfleet. How many hours had he stood just like this, only on the deck of a ship?

  He usually found unrestrained nature exhilarating and conducive to clear thinking, but tonight nothing dispelled the nagging feeling something was terribly amiss. It was unwarranted of course. Lost in thought, he smoothed his mustache with thumb and forefinger then rubbed the palm of his hand across his clean-shaven chin. What could possibly go wrong?

  He narrowed his gaze, and the ghostly outline of the Alicia Elaine came into focus. Evening mist, cold and sinister, wound around her rigging and mast, and the huge vessel quaked as if it too felt danger lurked nearby. Standing taller, he tried to throw off the unease creeping through his body like a fever. Foreboding was a sensation he’d felt before—disaster had always followed.

  Maybe he was simply afraid of being happy. An infrequent visitor in his life, when happiness had come, it had never stayed long. Now it made him nervous when things seemed to be going too well.

  A bell tolled out on the reef, the mournful clang heading straight for him, striking a lonely chord deep within his soul. Shreds of fog, twisting and dancing, joined hands to form a thick gray wall. It felt as if it cordoned off his heart as well as the horizon.

  “Buy us a drink, luv?”

  Startled, he turned in the direction of the voice and spied two women-of-the-night plying their trade along the wharf. Their girlish laughter was a welcome interruption.

  “Not this evening, ladies,” he declined, with a slight bow and a grin. “But thank you for the...generous offer.” The last he added in response to the visual enticement the two well-endowed females boldly flashed in his direction.

  With a snort of amusement, he watched their hips as the women sashayed down the cobbled street. Even if he was not inclined to book passage, he appreciated a well-outfitted ship. At present, the creation of his transport line was his only passion. He had no time for attachments, or even simple diversions. At least that’s what he told himself.

  Besides, it was safer to love a ship than a woman. You could depend on a ship. She wouldn’t surprise you when least expected. You could be her master and trust her to be there when you needed her. All a ship demanded in return was your respect, and for you to know her limitations. Women were like the sea, unpredictable and hard to fathom. And even loving the good ones came at too high a price—when they were no longer there.

  Hands clasped behind his back, legs braced wide, he fought the haunting thoughts of days-gone-by. Tomorrow he would begin his new life, the culmination of many months of hard work, his last hope for salvation. His chance to escape the downward spiral into which his life had been heading. Now he had a reason for getting up in the morning—a purpose other than seeking forgetfulness. All the more reason there must not be one misstep.

  In truth, everything had gone like clockwork. He admired and respected Philip St.Christopher, his new business partner recently arrived from England. Earlier this evening, along with Philip’s wife, Ophelia, they had enjoyed a pleasant and leisurely dinner. The legal documents for the shipping line, signed and sealed, left only the ceremonial papers needing attention in the morning. There was nothing to worry about.

  Besides, under no circumstances could he cancel tomorrow’s proceedings. It would be monstrously unfair to his crew and all the people instrumental in this undertaking. They deser
ved a celebration before the Alicia Elaine took to the open sea on her maiden voyage. He could hardly justify ruining the dockside party and scheduled gaiety because of an attack of nerves. He needed to put these thoughts to bed, as well as himself.

  With the warmth of a lover’s caress, his glance slid over the sleek clipper ship. From keel to masthead, he’d watched her grow, watched her come alive.

  “You’re a proud free-spirited lady,” he declared. “Unquestionable strength, tamed by grace and beauty.”

  He’d named his first ship after his mother. She had possessed similar qualities. So had his wife. Too bad neither had lived to see this day. Too bad neither would be at his side tomorrow to share in his achievement.

  ****

  Twickenham, England, that same night

  The scream that awakened Trelayne St.Christopher turned out to be her own.

  Hair damp, nightrail twisted and clinging, she bolted upright in bed and gulped in great breaths of cold night air. The images, so vivid in her mind, were gruesome portraits of her mother and father. They were bloodied and injured, unable to move or talk, they were dying.

  Shivering with fright as well as the cold, she gripped the covers, and drew them up to her chin. Her gaze darted from corner to corner of the dark room. It was all in her mind, not real. At least not yet.

  “Trelayne, dear child, you’ve had another one of those beastly dreams.”

  Aunt Abigail entered the room, hurried across the floor, and sat on the edge of the bed. The flickering light from the candle she carried sent haunting shadows looming obliquely across the walls. The effect did nothing to calm Trelayne’s nerves

  “I’m all right, truly I am,” she lied, as Aunt Abigail set the candleholder aside. Then, like a mere child rather than a grown woman, she sought the refuge of her aunt’s embrace.

  “If only your parents were here,” the older woman fussed. “They would know what to do.”

  At the mention of her parents, she shuddered. It was only a dream. A horrid wicked dream. Maybe this one wouldn’t come true.

  “Darling, you’re shaking like the last leaf of winter. What is it? Describe the vision. Perhaps it will help.”

  “No,” she all but shouted.

  To speak of the nightmare might give it life, setting it free into the night. Although in her heart, she feared nothing could truly stop its course. As a child, prophetic dreams had occasionally come her way, but they were happy illusions, portents of when people were coming to visit, or helpful information to aid someone in finding a lost object. Then during adolescence, the dreams had stopped. Now, since the advent of womanhood, they had come back, and not pleasantly so. Usually the people involved in her dreams were strangers, and she had no way of knowing if what she saw came to pass. But this was different—this time it involved her mother and father.

  “Dear, dear child,” the older woman crooned, rocking Trelayne to and fro. “Isn’t there anything I can do? With your parents in America, and your brother Branwell jagging off to India, the family is scattered hither and yon. And you’re stuck here with me, your old Aunt Abigail.”

  “You’re not old,” Trelayne defended, easing back in her aunt’s arms. “And I’m not stuck, I’m unfettered. You’re much more lenient than Momma and Poppa.”

  Ten years ago, when her older sister died of typhoid fever, her parents not only suffered most grievously, they also instituted desperate measures to ensure she did not follow suit. No outings in inclement weather for fear of pneumonia. Visits to town only for necessities and fittings. Small soirées to be attended only if the known participants were in apparent good health. At times, it was quite stifling.

  In turn, most of the year, the family stayed at Royston Hall—breathing fresh air and eating a plethora of vegetables. And while her education, acquired via thoroughly scrutinized tutors, was extensive, she felt wrapped in metaphoric batting. Being insulated from the ugliness and hardships of the world was not the worst circumstance to be endured, but it eliminated the exciting adventurous parts—like the things she read about in books. Having Aunt Abigail stretch the rules on occasion was a boon to her existence

  She eased her grip on the counterpane. “This past month has been wonderful,” she insisted, as the wild thumping of her heart began to slow. “Our overnight stay at Amberley was especially enjoyable—exploring the ruins, stargazing at night, reading Byron by the light of the moon. And my mind is soaring with your suggestions for restoring the medieval dwelling.” How she loved the old fortress left to her by her grandfather.

  Aunt Abigail smiled, her expression enlivened by faraway memories. “As children,” she reminisced, “your mother and I had splendid times there. It was more primitive of course, no modernized kitchen like there is now, and hardly any furnishings. But we loved living the gypsy life, not a care in the world as we dreamed of knights in shining armor and perfected our renditions of Shakespeare grandly performed for your grandfather.”

  “We should go back again soon,” Trelayne suggested. “I shall take my charcoals and make sketches. And we’ll bring more food and stay longer.”

  She must keep busy, be too exhausted to dream. If only she could stay up all night and not risk dreaming at all.

  “It sounds like a good plan,” Aunt Abigail agreed. “In hopeful preparation we can procure supplies tomorrow while we’re in town for the lecture on the cause. Your mother will be green with envy for having missed the meeting.”

  Her mother was fine. She would be home soon. It was just a silly dream.

  “At least,” her aunt teased, “your father will be spared another bout of apoplexy generated by our support of scandalous activities. And heaven help us should the Queen hear of such wicked goings on.”

  “It would be the horrors,” Trelayne agreed, making an effort to play along. “I find it curious Her Majesty never doubts her own ability to rule the greatest empire in the world, yet she accuses women who express liberated views of being feebleminded and maddish.”

  Aunt Abigail turned thoughtful. “Perhaps in order to govern a world dominated by men, the Queen need think like one. But lest we be dismissed as hysterical females, calm and decorum shall remain our watch-words. And,” her aunt stressed with surprising firmness, “you must never confuse open minded with empty headed. I near had apoplexy myself when Merrick recounted how you’d wandered off near St. Giles in an effort to assist some crying little beggar-boy find his way home.”

  “Merrick wouldn’t have let anything happen to me.”

  “Nonsense. You know better. He is a faithful family friend and employee—not a hired bodyguard. And he’s getting old to boot. There are ruffians about the city, men who could lay him low in an instant, leaving you defenseless in a part of town where people disappear on a regular basis.”

  “But the little pip needed help. It’s impossible to turn a blind eye to the suffering running rampant in the streets.”

  “I know, dear. But there are better approaches to addressing the problem. Openly crusading can be a bloody business—and a lonely one. I’ll not see you end up like me, a spinster gone to the shelf. I spent far too much time gallivanting around the world fighting for one cause after another, all the while battling the will of society.”

  Trelayne hugged her aunt. “To be just like you would be a marvelous thing,” she said and meant it. Her aunt was one of the most unconventional and interesting women she knew. But she must agree. Being a spinster was not what she divined for her own future. She dreamed of a dashing hero of a husband and a gaggle of children.

  Intent upon straightening the bed coverings, Aunt Abigail stood and grasped the quilt. As she gave a good tug, several books tumbled from the downy softness onto the floor.

  “Good heavens,” she laughed. “No wonder you do not rest properly, your bed is full of Newgate novels.”

  Trelayne grabbed at the treasure-trove of books remaining on the bed. “They aren’t crime fiction,” she defended, “they’re literature. See, I have Milton’s Pa
radise Lost, and Ivanhoe, and The Lady of Shallot.” The poor Lady of Shallot, watching the world pass by in the reflection of a mirror. At times, she felt the same.

  “And what is the one you are hiding behind your back?” her aunt insisted. “Hand it over, please.”

  Reluctantly, she offered up the forbidden material.

  “Mercy me.” Her aunt’s voice rose an octave. “It’s Vanity Fair. Wherever did you come by this…this…questionable publication?”

  “You know my dear friend, Penelope?”

  “Yes, a lovely well mannered girl. Go on.”

  “Well, you see, her brother is at Oxford now and he comes across the most intriguing material at school. And at home, Vauxhall provides pamphlets and tomes even more notorious. When he’s not looking, Penelope appropriates the best ones for us.”

  “Penelope knows no bounds,” Aunt Abigail said, with a raised brow. “One would think the works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning more edifying. It’s a travesty she was passed over for Poet Laureate in favor of Tennyson.”

  Flipping through Vanity Fair, a mischievous smile reclaimed her aunt’s lips. “As your guardian, I feel it my duty to peruse this one personally. I hear it does not end satisfactorily. At your age, you should only read stories with ‘happily-ever-after’ conclusions. The real world will soon enough strain your belief in such possibilities.”

  The real world. It seemed an obscure destination, a place she might never reach. Another London season was slipping away posthaste, and they had only stayed one week at Father’s London flat. Life was passing her by at a dizzying clip. Just the other day, Penelope stopped by to relate the details of the Queen’s outdoor concert. It sounded divine, and very romantic. There had even been one of those terrifying flying balloons soaring overhead, hissing like a dragon, with people dangling precariously beneath it in a wicker basket. To attempt such a feat was beyond her daring—but what a thrill to watch. Other than Penelope, they rarely had visitors. Except, of course, for Lucien.