Victorian Dream

by Gini Rifkin

  He kicked his mount into a faster pace. He could still salvage the situation. Everything would be all right if Garrison only scrutinized the second set of books. Even if he compared them to the bank transactions, they should prove out. And once he sold the opium coming into Brighton, he could replace the money borrowed from the company to cover his gambling debts. Who would imagine one could lose a near fortune in only three days at the track and a few nights playing whist at the club.

  No more gambling, he silently promised. At least not for a while, and after he remedied this current catastrophe, he must concentrate all his energy on securing his future with Trelayne. Whatever it took, convincing her to become his wife was what mattered. Now more than ever, it would appear time was of the essence. His guts tightened into a knot, and chaotic thoughts pounded through his brain. He did not fancy the behavior she exhibited around the American. The man was an uncouth barbarian, yet he brought an enamored glow to Trelayne’s face—a reaction he had yet to garner.

  All in due course. He mustn’t ruin years of planning by panicking now in the eleventh hour. First he would make arrangements at the dockside office. Then he would speak to Bartholomew, and try not to strangle the incompetent fool.

  Chapter Five

  The floorboards creaked as Walker made another turn around his hotel room, anything to forestall lunch as long as possible. After three days of hotel food, maybe he’d try a local pub. At least today, there was good news regarding the St.Christophers. The most recent communication stated they were making steady progress—which was more than he could say for himself.

  It was proving harder to find his “Candy Man” here in London, than tracking a desperado through the entire Colorado Territory. And he should know. That’s where he’d finally caught up with the turncoat who betrayed him and his men as they fought alongside Zach Taylor. Fourteen American Marines died at the battle of Dominquez Ranch because of that man, and it had taken over a year to find the traitor and bring him to justice. Things were different now. There were other people to consider, and no luxury of unlimited time—no new clues either. But the answer had to be here in England, tied somehow to the man who liked chocolate.

  The business ledgers he’d seen the other day appeared to be in order. Still something about them didn’t ring true. The information contained within went back several years, but the books looked almost new—no ruffled edges, no wear and tear on the cover or deep creases in the spine. Perhaps the original tomes were damaged, and the information recently transcribed. Perhaps, but not likely.

  He raked his hands through his hair, and tried to ease the kinks and knots from his upper back. The lack of progress was wearing on him, so was the hustle and bustle of the city. It was hard to think straight amidst the cacophony of sound blasting forth from every corner.

  He stepped to the second story window, and glanced out at the commotion down below. Carriage after carriage clamored down the cobbled street, the vibrations rattling the panes of glass in the windows. So many people scurrying about with serious intent, their purpose defined, their expectations waiting to be fulfilled. He felt as if he were on the outside looking in, marching double time and getting nowhere fast.

  The same reaction dogged him in Hong Kong and Bombay. Chaotic, closed-in surroundings set his nerves on edge. He preferred wide-open spaces, like the sea, where a man could breathe deep and see forever. Even his emotionally charged visits to Royston Hall had been refreshing in comparison to London.

  Truth be told, he felt adrift in life, not just here, but in the world in general. His shipping line acted as his professional anchor, but his private life was without attachment or commitment. Freedom, he called it. But was it really? He felt more lonely than liberated.

  His gaze meandered the street then locked onto two familiar figures. Trelayne and her Aunt, their arms laden with recent purchases, strolled up the avenue. His senses quickened. Something about Miss St.Christopher captured his fancy. Besides being lovely to look at, she stirred his protective instincts, and not just because he’d been charged with the duty. He didn’t blame her for being reticent and not trusting him completely—hopefully, not a condition that would last forever. Merrick said she was headstrong and a bit impetuous, but also kindhearted and quick to laugh. All characteristics he had loved and admired in his wife, Kathleen.

  Katie…she was on his mind a lot lately. Why? Because his heart skipped a beat at the sight of this woman similar in size and demeanor?

  Since Katie’s death he’d had no long-term associations with a female. There had been a fair share of passionate interludes, but nothing meaningful, nothing of substance. He wasn’t sure he wanted that again—until now.

  On impulse, he shrugged into his duster and headed for the door, grabbing his practical headgear on the way out. For his money, the towering top hats other men wore served no purpose whatsoever. They were unstable as a torn sail in the wind, provided no relief from the sun, and in foul weather funneled the rain straight down a man’s collar. Settling the wide-brimmed hat he’d grown accustomed to in America securely on his head, he smiled. Just wearing it made him feel closer to home.

  At the curb, he located the two women, then hung back and discreetly followed, telling himself it was for the two ladies’ protection and not for his desire to be close to Trelayne.

  They paused to accept a handbill offered by a rather angry looking woman on the street corner. After they moved on, he grabbed one as well, receiving a startled look followed by a penetrating glare.

  For Ladies only.

  Meeting Thursday next.

  2:00 P.M. sharp

  at Miss Bonnie Rutherford’s.

  Bring ideas for letters to Parliament

  Long live the Cause.

  What was all this about? Ah yes, the Cause. There were similar activities going on in Massachusetts. Women seeking the right to vote, own property, have dominion over their children. They were marching in the streets. Or in the case of Amelia Bloomer, riding on bicycles and initiating a whole new trend in female clothing. Although often in the minority, he admired their spirit.

  The womenfolk he knew stood by their men, suffering the cruelties of war and the hardships of settling a new land. Why shouldn’t they reap the advantages so hard won? He supposed unflagging devotion to misguided ritual, and unbending tradition outweighed logic.

  A short distance up the street, Trelayne and Abigail entered a shop. While occupied within, he drew closer to see what commerce the store offered. The sign read “L.N. Fowler & Co.” and a large nondescript porcelain rendering of a head stared unseeing out the window. The replica was crisscrossed with demarcations, each one offering a written notation. It was a phrenology shop. How intriguing. In his travels, he had come across many a curious notion and philosophies. What a pleasant surprise to learn Trelayne enjoyed some of the more outlandish wonders of the world.

  Not wishing to be caught spying, he ambled up the street to the tobacconist shop, and lounged against the outside wall. As he waited, a young lad hawking a supplemental issue of the Times caught his attention.

  “Extra, Extra, take a gander. Spring Heeled Jack strikes again.”

  People rushed at the boy from every side, shoving coins into his hands and grabbing copies of the tabloid. What was all the commotion about? An older gentleman halted nearby to peruse the news. Walker levered away from the brick wall and peered over his shoulder.

  Miss Lucy Scales, daughter of a local butcher, was attacked as she walked home following a visit to her brother’s house. As she approached Green Dragon-alley, an unnamed assailant, enveloped in a cloak, spewed a blue flame right in her face and knocked her down.

  Miss Scales, of Narrow-Street, Limehouse, stated it could only be Spring Heeled Jack as the man not only emitted fire from his mouth, but flung it about as he bounded away over a high wall and into an adjacent walkway.

  “Who the devil is this man?” Walker asked in surprise.

  The old man glanced up. “Devil indeed.
Ain’t you never heard of Spring Heeled Jack? Where you from, mister?”

  “America.”

  The man looked him up and down, a spark of curiosity brightening his rheumy eyes and wrinkled face. “Yes, well, he attacks foreigners and English folk alike so you best watch your step if you be out after dark.”

  “Why haven’t they caught the ruffian?”

  “They had him cornered once, but they don’t call him Spring Heeled Jack for nothin’. According to the police, as they bore down on him, he clawed the air with gruesome silver talons, and let loose with a keening howl—crazy as the deuce. Then he lobbed a fireball at the befuddled officers, and leapt over a fifteen foot hedge.”

  “Sounds a monster from a nightmare.”

  “Tall and thin with a hideous face sporting glowing red eyes, I’d say he’s a right proper bogeyman.”

  Here was another reason to worry over Trelayne’s well-being. Did the creature haunt vicinities as far afield as Royston Hall? Cold concern gripped him, and he wished again he wasn’t obliged to stay in a hotel so far from the St.Christophers’ to facilitate his search.

  “Does he only prowl about the city?” he asked.

  “Our boy Jack harries folks all over the countryside,” the old timer enlightened. “Some say he hides out in the marshes down by the Lea River east of here, near Bromley by Bow. Lately, he’s been sighted on Clapham Road and Lavender Hill.”

  “You seem to know a lot about this fellow,” Walker pointed out.

  “Hard not to. Been readin’ about his antics since ’38. The penny dreadfuls had their turn at him, too. There was even a play what featured him called Terror of London. Don’t know how much is fact, and how much is fiction, or just plain hysterics, but it keeps this old man entertained.” With a chuckle and a shake of his head, he tottered on down the street.

  As Walker digested the information, Abigail and Trelayne exited the shop. He eased back into the shadows of the alleyway until they passed then followed at a prudent distance.

  Good Lord, they just turned up Lilac Lane. He quickened his step closing the distance. That’s where the newspaper said Spring Heeled Jack had been operating. Or was it Lavender Lane? Now he wasn’t sure, remembering only that it had some damnable flower name. The town was a maze of juxtaposed streets and alleys, all with seemingly irrelevant names and no proper numbering system.

  Unable to stop himself, he drew ever closer, hoping to grab a bit of conversation.

  “How fortunate Mr. Fowler returned yesterday from Edinburgh,” Trelayne said. “I was so disheartened at having missed him the last time we were in town.”

  Abigail nodded. “And to offer you a personal phrenological examination was most generous, and unexpected. People wait months for an appointment with him. No doubt your pretty face had something to do with his enthusiasm.”

  Walker balked at the thought of some man freely exploring the shape of Trelayne’s head and running his fingers through her hair—lustrous strands he’d yet to savor. It was unsettling and unfair for a stranger to touch her so intimately, while he must suffer self-imposed boundaries and admire her from afar.

  “It was impossible to write down all the information,” Trelayne put in. “And Mr. Fowler spoke so softly at times I could barely hear him, yet I feared to request he speak up or repeat himself.”

  “I remember he referred to each area of the head as a brain organ,” Abigail recalled. “It seemed such an odd term it stuck in my mind.”

  “Yes, that was it. And he mentioned my sensitivity to ethereal spirits and veiled imaginings. Very intuitive as we hadn’t told him about my dreams.”

  What was this about dreams? For a moment, Walker wished one of them might have been about him. How ridiculous. Yet the idea she might devote a few moments of her nighttime wanderings or even a daydream to him was nice. He often thought of her. It made him feel younger than his thirty years of age. Younger and in fine fettle, but those were dangerous feelings. A man was bound to lose his edge when a female occupied too much space in his brain.

  “He hit the mark regarding your well-developed sense of color and love of music,” Abigail said. “You enjoy needlepoint and playing the piano.”

  “I do,” Trelayne agreed, “but had he actually heard me sing, he might have reconsidered. I best liked his comment predicting I was to fall in love with a tall stranger from a foreign land.” She gave a quick peek over her shoulder.

  Nearly caught trailing the women, Walker turned aside and stood staring into a shop window. Had she been referring to him? He snatched the hat from his head and continued his pursuit. He had to hear more.

  “When did he say that?” Abigail asked.

  “Right before he requested payment.”

  “Surely you misheard him, dear. He’s not a palmist or a gypsy. Too bad they outlawed fortunetelling. I do know a woman who dabbles in the black arts…”

  Trelayne shifted her packages all to one arm, and slipped the other around her Aunt’s waist, giving her a hug. “Of course you do. But we’ve no time for that today if I’m to have my final fitting for my new dress. Lucien is ever so persistent about taking me to the Crystal Palace. How sad Mother and Father aren’t here to attend.

  “Regardless of their cheerful letters, I know they must be lonely and suffering terribly from their injuries. I feel guilty taking in amusement when I know they are in pain and bored to tears in dreary dull America.”

  “You must stop fretting. They’re safe and on the mend, and your father is giving Dr. Robison a run for his money at the chess board.”

  “And Mother promised to send each of us a pair of those shocking bloomers all the rage there. Penelope will be over the moon when she learns there is to be a set included for her.”

  “Precisely,” Abigail encouraged. “They want us to soldier on, and not mope about on their account.”

  “The after-hour gala at the Palace would be a boon to my sensibilities,” Trelayne admitted. “How romantic to see it at night—the stars and moon shining through all that glass-work But it’s very select, by invitation only.”

  “I can’t believe the Queen is to make an appearance just to bestow her royal sanction on some Amazonian flower named for her,” Abigail mused.

  “But it isn’t just another water lily,” Trelayne countered. “It’s very rare and blooms only after sunset. What a thrill to be part of such an entourage.”

  Walker smiled. Here was the perfect gift for Trelayne. One Lanteen couldn’t match.

  Chapter Six

  Leaves of russet and gold pirouetted across the floor of the ancient ruin. Overhead a string of snow geese cheerfully honked their way south. Autumnal delights did not serve to brighten Lucien’s world.

  In this section of Amberley Abbey, the roof was missing and glancing up, he shielded his eyes against the glare of the fierce blue sky. Where the hell was Bartholomew? He’d been waiting here for two days, and still the man had yet to arrive.

  In a huff of impatience, he shifted about and leaned one shoulder against the crumbling wall of the medieval structure. A woman sat upon a heap of nearby stones. His gaze raked the familiar contours of her form. Beatrice’s face was far from comely, but she was well endowed, kept fastidiously clean, and was wanton as a Lime Street harlot.

  When he was bored, such as now, he concocted scenarios for severing their relationship, for surely one day it was wont to come to pass. Or perhaps, after he was married, he could keep her on the side. Either way, it never hurt to be prepared. Unfortunately, she was Bartholomew’s sister, so eliminating Beatrice from his life would mean terminating a perfectly good business relationship with Old Barty.

  At present, things were best left as they were. A bottle of gin and a few opium cigarettes, and he could do as he willed with Beatrice. She was a cheap enough diversion.

  Early in life, he realized people would do his bidding—no question asked—if his request was accompanied by money, blackmail, or brute force. Of course, people would also respond out of earned l
oyalty and respect, but those methods took too long. He was not a patient man. He favored plotting and strategizing, not waiting.

  Tall and slight of build, he emanated a pale stricken nature reminiscent of a poet, or so he’d been told. And the Percy Shelley approach could be quite effective with women. They were all foolish romantics.

  In business and in life, his forte was cleverness and inciting other people to action. Having successfully eliminated the nuisance of conscience and guilt from his psyche, regret and concern for others did not accompany his propensity for taking advantage where and when he could.

  A raven landed on a ledge, dislodging a slew of pebbles. The cascading noise interrupted his reflections and he ambled toward Beatrice. She hunkered down with the wariness of a frightened rabbit, trembling as he reached to touch her face. Was she expecting a gentle caress, or the sting of a slap? He liked to keep her guessing.

  Roughly, he grabbed a handful of mouse-brown hair at the nape of her neck. Yanking her head back, he stared into her wide-eyed face. Sometimes he hated her—her and all women. You could never fully trust a female. They lived by their emotions, and would betray a man in an instant to save themselves.

  As he held Beatrice captive, his prurient desire rose, then waned. What he wanted was to fulfill his fantasies with Trelayne. How many nights had he tossed and turned, fevered by his passions, reliving their imagined lovemaking repeatedly in his mind? He was trying to beunderstanding, had devised his plans well, and set them in motion years ago. Yet Trelayne remained out of reach.

  She toyed with his affections and rebuked his advances, not taking him seriously. Marriage seemed the furthest thing from her mind. But someday that would all change. And as his wife, she would bend to his will. Then he would live out what so far had been only a dream.

  Beatrice squirmed in his grasp, and he jerked his hand aside. She half fell, half slid away from him.

  “Go prepare something for us to eat,” he ordered. “Maybe your fool of a brother will have shown up by the time the food is ready.”