Victorian Dream

by Gini Rifkin

  “Royston Hall, out on Killingstone road,” she requested, with all the authority of lady born to the manor. “And be quick about it.”

  The carriage lurched into action, and her anger kept pace. She glanced down at her dress. She couldn’t slip in and pretend to be one of the favored guests, but she could spy on them from afar, and watch from behind the scenes. Anything to find out what magical power that woman held over her Lucien.

  The rough country road and the churning of the wheels fuelled her ire, bolstering her courage and keeping the audacity of her impetuous action running high. As they rounded a curve, the Manor came into view, an imposing site even at a distance.

  “Stop here,” she ordered, afraid to get too close. As she paid off the driver, he gave her a sideways glance. “Well, get along with you then,” she snapped, his attitude ruffling her feathers. He weren’t no better than her. He slapped the reins, sending the horse into a trot.

  Sidling off to the side of the road, she sought the welcoming darkness, and with her cape gathered close, edged around the north side of the great house. Near an open window, she paused to inhale the aroma of fine food, expensive cigars, and perfumed ladies. Music drifted through the open doorways into the night, and for a moment, she swayed to the melody—pretending she was a guest rather than a sneak in the night.

  At the far side of the house, she slipped through a backdoor and crept silently toward the sound of music coming from ballroom. The garlanded hall was a kaleidoscope of color, laughter, and emotions running high. Hiding in the shadows, she watched and searched for Lucien, praying for a glimpse of the man she loved, yet ruing the fact he would be in the arms of another woman.

  There was the uppity Miss St.Christopher, just as beautiful as the miniature Lucien kept of her on the mantelpiece. But she wasn’t dancing with Lucien. The man who held her was taller, with dark hair. She couldn’t see his face, and she didn’t see Lucien anywhere.

  “Here now, what you doin’ just standing there in the corner?”

  She spun around, mouth so dry she could hardly speak. The servant girl facing her carried a tray laden with more food for the buffet table.

  “I was to help in the kitchen,” Beatrice lied, “but was delayed getting here.”

  “If you was any later, you needn’t have shown up at all. The kitchen’s that way.” The girl nodded her head indicating the direction. “Uniforms are in the cupboard by the pantry,” she added over her shoulder, as she went to deliver the food.

  When the girl was out of sight, Beatrice sneaked up a nearby staircase. It had been a long expensive ride to get here, no need to leave so quickly. How irritating that her fib about being a servant had been so readily accepted. It would have been nice to be at least momentarily mistaken for a guest.

  She ambled down the hall, peeking into one room after anther. Then coming upon a room unmistakably belonging to the strumpet, she slipped inside, closed the door, and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light offered by the moon.

  “Saints be praised,” she murmured, turning full circle. “This little pigeon has quite the gilded cage.”

  Cheerful blue and white wallpaper brightened the mood of the room. Ruffled curtains framed two inviting window seats, and the matching dust ruffle, comforter, and canopy were celestial in their gauzy white splendor.

  Ambling about, she systematically opened drawers and rifled through letters and papers. Maybe she could uncover something bad about the woman. Something that would make Lucien not like her anymore. Maybe she had secrets too. Or was she as perfect as she seemed?

  Unsuccessful, she wandered over to the vanity and plopped down on the little stool in front of the mirror. Her reflection glared back. Dark circles saddened the expression in her eyes, and her hair was mussed and wispy. She sat up straighter, smoothing down the bodice of her dress. At least her heavers were still perky and full, not just a scrawny handful to be easily missed during a grope in the dark. Absentmindedly, she toyed with the collection of pretty matchboxes lining the dresser top. Most held pins or fair tokens, but the heart shaped one held a scrap of paper. She plucked the tiny missive from its porcelain cocoon. She’d been working to improve her reading skills, and although they were shaky at best, this was easy enough to decipher. It was a person’s name. The one she’d heard Lucien and Bart arguing about.

  Captain Walker Garrison. Mrs. Walker Garrison. Walker, my love. Walker forever. It were the rantings of a schoolgirl. The little twit was in love with this captain fellow. This was good news. But what about Lucien? The silly goose of a woman didn’t even want him. Beatrice’s protective instinct for the man she loved drove her hatred for Trelayne even higher.

  She returned the slip of parchment to its hiding place, her mouth stiff with anger as she drummed her fingers on the dresser top. About to gain her feet, the gleam of gold caught her eye. Half hidden in the folds of the lacy dresser scarf was a filigree chain attached to a perfectly formed heart locket. It was much nicer than the one Lucien had so offhandedly thrown in her direction. She held the locket at her throat, and as the harsh reality of her life faded away, she pretended this was her room, her fine and beautiful possessions.

  In a trance, she opened the clasp and fastened the chain around her neck. What was it like to live like this? Loosening a few buttons at the neck of her dress, she smiled into the mirror and swayed to a waltz heard only in her head. The little heart necklace nestled perfectly in the soft mounds of her cleavage.

  The pouting and posing ended abruptly as the clicking of heels sounded in the hall. Oh Lord, don’t stop here. The footsteps were coming closer. They were just outside the room. The knob turned. The chrysalis of fear broken, she sprang to her feet and secreted herself behind a three wing screen near the hearth.

  It was the chambermaid. She turned down the bed, filled the wash pitcher with fresh water, and laid out her mistress’s nightgown. Then she fluffed at the pillows, and left.

  After counting ten, Beatrice scrambled upright and made a beeline to the door. When the coast was clear, she fled down the passageway to the backstairs, and straight out of the house. Leaving the lights and gaiety behind, she ran blindly toward the back of the property.

  At the far edge of the garden, she stopped to catch her breath. Adjacent to the area were several ricks of wood, each covered with large oilskins. Shaking from head to toe, she edged between the towering mounds and wrapped her cape around her body. As she snuggled the material in at the throat, her fingers grazed across the gold locket still hanging around her neck.

  “Oh Sweet Savior,” she exclaimed, in a high-pitched whisper. “I didn't mean to take it. And I can’t be returning it either.”

  Guilt nipped at her conscience. In the past, she’d been reduced to stealing, but only when she was down on her luck and near starving. Shoving the locket into the bodice of her dress, she gave a little gasp as the cold metal came in contact with her bare skin.

  She would have to hide it when she got home. God forbid Lucien should see it. Surely he’d recognize it, ask questions, and punish her for leaving the flat. He would never believe she took it by accident. She shivered with dread at the thought of what he might do.

  Swallowing her fear, she eased away from the ricks of wood and stared at the winding road leading back to town. Having left in such a dither, she hadn’t thought about how she was going to get home. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She would have to hoof it, which would take hours.

  Resigned to her fate she made to step forward, but a hand grabbed her shoulder holding her back. She screamed in surprise and turned to face what lurked in the dark. Her breath came in fits and gasps as panic set in.

  “It’s only me, Beatsie old girl,” whispered Bartholomew. “Didn’t mean to scare the living daylights out of you. Did you think it was the boogie man come to get you?” He growled and leaped about, amused at her fright.

  “You big bloody fool,” she screeched, and slapped at his chest. “You scared me so I near peed my knickers. What are you do
in’ here anyway?”

  “I might ask you the same, luv.”

  “You go first while I catch my breath.”

  “Lucien sent me here to keep me ogles on Captain Garrison.”

  Garrison again. She’d like to meet this man some day. “What you watchin’ him for?”

  “Just to see where he goes and what he’s about. He’s living on borrowed time. I got plans for the likes of him. I stepped out here to light a pipe,” he added, stuffing a candy wrapper into his pocket.

  “Is that who was dancing with the grand lady?”

  “Aye. He’s spent most of the night with the angelic what lives here.”

  “Why ain’t she dancin’ with Lucien?”

  “He ain’t even here, Beatsie. He’s already got home. And he’s in as foul a mood as I’ve ever seen. What are you doing out here? Him coming home and finding you gone is what put his rant over the top before he sent me out.”

  Fear blasted through her like a bolt of lightning, and she began to sweat. She had planned on returning home before Lucien knew about her escapade. They must have near passed on the road. There would be hell to pay now, delivered by the devil’s favorite minion.

  “You got a horse, Bart?”

  He gave a nod. “He’s staked out over yonder in them woods.”

  “Will you take me home quick as possible?”

  “Sure, ducks. I guess Captain Garrison won’t be goin’ nowhere for a while.”

  “Thank you. I’d best face the music and get the arse kicking over and done with.”

  “More likely you’ll be facing the back of Lucien’s hand.”

  “It won’t be the first time. I’ll tell him I went for a walk. You won’t let on you seen me here will you?”

  “’Course not,” Bart reassured. “Why don’t you leave Lucien for good? You deserve better.”

  “I might deserve better, Bart. But deserving and getting are two very different things. I stay for the same reasons as you. There’s nothing else out there for me.”

  “I got money saved,” he revealed. “When this next job is over and done, we’ll strike out on our own. We’ll get by somehow.”

  “If only we could, Bart. That’d be a dream come true. ”

  Her brother, big lummox that he was, gently took her hand and led her through the darkness toward the waiting horse.

  Chapter Ten

  The carriage swung onto the avenue adjacent to Hyde Park, and the Crystal Palace came into view. Like a towering arrangement of earthbound stars, the gleaming glass and metal sparkled in the night—the image forever imprinted on Trelayne’s memory.

  Her enthusiasm running high, Trelayne grabbed Walker’s arm. The intimate action and her squeal of delight forced Aunt Abigail to issue the mandatory cough of disapproval, but the reprimand was followed by a smile the older woman couldn’t suppress. Walker chuckled, and patted Trelayne’s gloved hand.

  They sped past a fountain spewing water 250 feet into the air, wending their way through a collection of statues claiming safe-harbor within the boundaries of the surrounding park. At the geological display, life-size restorations of extinct animals peered back at them in terrifying splendor.

  It was a magical evening, and it was all Walker’s doing. Reaching the front entrance, they presented their “by special permission only” invitations, and unlike opening day in May, when 26,000 people clamored for a glimpse of the royal family, the anticipation hovering over tonight’s select group was wrapped in an almost reverential hush.

  “What a magnificent achievement,” her aunt murmured. “We are part of history, child, remember this night.”

  With Walker at her side, how could she forget? It was almost as splendid as dancing in his arms. Edging closer to him, she wondered if he treasured their night together too. Then, realizing she was missing the here and now by fixating on their previous romantic interlude, she took in the sights and sounds, and reveled in the drama of it all.

  Along with a towering tree, grand bits and pieces of nearly every country were nestled beneath nine hundred thousand square feet of Birmingham glass. Wooden floors gleamed underfoot, louvers at the top ushered in fresh air, and in the Retiring Rooms, patrons were forming a queue to use George Jenning’s revolutionary “necessary convenience.” Only a penny per customer.

  “No dawdling, ladies,” Walker advised, escorting them along. “The Queen is expected at any moment, and we’ve barely a chance to secure a vantage point from which to enjoy the ceremony.”

  In a flurry, they hurried past Egyptian sarcophagi, Russian bronzes, and America’s Goodyear exhibit of India rubber goods. Not daring to lag behind, she grabbed a handful of fabric from her new dress and hiked it up to keep from tripping. The voluminous skirt swished playfully from side to side even as it threatened to lay her low. Admittedly too long, she had refused to send it back. The ensemble had arrived from the dressmaker late this afternoon, alterations would have meant not wearing it tonight—a thought not worth entertaining. Accented by the matching hat, a miracle of feathers wrought by her favorite milliner and plumassier, this was the long awaited outfit she had intended to wear for Lucien.

  Guilt fought for a foothold, but nothing could conquer her delight in the costume’s unveiling being instead for Walker. Following the Michaelmas party, feelings for her American sea captain dominated her life, and thoughts of him were the balm desperately needed to sooth the horror elicited by her new nightmare. The one filled with blood and terror. The one in which she was the central character. It was the first disturbing vision she’d had since her parent’s accident. And the only one she’d ever had about herself.

  With a shiver, she glanced up at Walker. When he was at her side, the nightmare seemed cowed and far less threatening. He made her feel safe and able to overcome anything thrown in her path. Swallowing her fears, she defied the unease. She would let nothing ruin a night holding so much promise.

  Walker glanced down at her, giving her hat the once over. He opened his mouth as if to comment, but instead fell silent, and smiled at her. She wasn’t sure if he approved of her chapeau, or was suppressing an urge to laugh. He was more of a mystery than any man she had ever known. And perhaps if elegant did not describe him, virile and self-confident surely did. Proud to be on his arm tonight, she wished they might stroll along leisurely, savoring the experience, but they rushed onward like children at the fair—reaching the South American exhibit with only moments spare.

  Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, seated majestically beside the display, appeared more than ready for the ceremony to begin. With royal flair, the great woman nodded, and the botanical masterpiece was unveiled. Shiny green leaves, nearly three meters across, drew a murmur of awe from the crowd. Then drenched in moonlight, the exotic white female flower opened. Astonishment turned to delight. Tomorrow at sunset, the mysterious plant would bloom pink, and transform into a male flower.

  Jockeying for a better view, Trelayne shifted about. To accommodate her attempt, Walker eased her sideways to stand in front of him. After that, the ceremony became a blur as every fiber of her being was devoted to sensing Captain Garrison’s rock solid body at her back.

  The essence of manly soap and cologne issued around her, and the warmth of his breath played across the nape of her neck. Without thinking, she leaned back ever so slightly. As if answering the silent call of her body, he pressed forward, sending a desperate yearning coursing through her. These were not the pangs of girlish desires. These were cravings raw and lustful, beyond anything she had ever known. It was an awakening. All previous thoughts of love and romance were reduced to mere watercolor illusions when compared to the dazzling vibrant emotion evoked by simply standing beside Walker.

  “The lily pales in comparison to you,” he whispered in her ear.

  Did he also entertain a reckless thought or two?

  Her knees went weak, and a sweet lightness filled her chest. She wished they were alone in the moonlight with no one to see as they slid to the ground, lost
in one another’s arms.

  Suddenly a cheer rose up, jolting her back to reality. She’d missed the entire ceremony. Everyone was clapping as the Queen and her consort took their leave. Still under the spell of enchantment, Trelayne brought her gloved hands together intending to follow suite. Instead, she clasped them in prayer, and gave thanks for such an exceptional evening of newfound delight.

  Walker turned her around to face him. The heated expression in his eyes left her fighting for a decent breath. Lips parted, heart pounding, she felt herself being drawn closer and closer to him, and although it was only in wayward thought and delicious contemplation, in her mind, they kissed—long and sweet and passionately.

  “Garrison, you old scallywag. You’re a sight for these sore eyes.”

  As if caught doing more than simply staring at one another, they reared back in unison. A tall rambunctious man bore down on them, halted at their side, and slapped Walker on the back.

  “Sam Colt,” Walker exclaimed, the joy evident in his voice. “You rough ridin’ son of a gun. Dressed in such finery, I hardly recognized you. You haven’t gone citified on me have you?”

  “Hell no. Oh, pardon the language ladies,” the fellow begged, with a tip of his hat to her and Aunt Abigail. Then he tugged at his shirt collar, and tried to tame his riotous beard and mustache. “I’m simply out to impress some of the gentry here about in the hopes of procuring financial backing.”

  Walker nodded in understanding, then introduced his friend. “Samuel Colt, may I present Miss Abigail Royston and Miss Trelayne St.Christopher.”

  Trelayne extended her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Colt.”

  Colt gave Walker a strange look then bowed over her hand. She could have sworn there was a questioning expression in the man’s eyes, followed by a spark of curiosity.

  “Exactly what is this project of yours?” she asked, when he relinquished his hold.

  “It’s my new Navy revolver, Miss Trelayne. Even more striking than the Army Dragoon—if I say so myself. Here’s the one I promised you, Garrison.” He liberated a pistol from beneath his frock coat, and held it up for all to see.