Victorian Dream

by Gini Rifkin

  “It truly is important,” Walker insisted. “A matter of life and death, so to speak.”

  “Well, you look as if you can take care of yourself. Just don’t underestimate the blackguard, or turn your back on him. He mentioned he was going to Brighton to meet a ship coming in from Africa. There’s only one port there deep enough to accommodate a vessel of any consequence, so that should narrow down your search. He was a mite secretive about his intentions. Not his usual blowhard self. Maybe it is important.”

  “How far away is Brighton?”

  “About an eight hour trip if you know how to ride and don’t dillydally. And if you be considering going by coach, don’t. With the roads still rutted from the late summer rains, it’ll take you twice as long and you’re bound to rattle loose a tooth in the process.”

  Eight hours. That was a relief. It amazed him England was such a small country. Back home a man could spend months, wandering the southwest territory with nothing for company but coyotes, cutthroats, and cactus.

  “Thanks for the information.” He laid down twice what he owed and turned to leave.

  “Thank you,” the old man exclaimed, scooping up the money. “And best of luck to ya.”

  Good luck couldn’t hurt, but right now what he really needed was a sturdy mount. They had lots of suitable horseflesh at Royston Hall.

  ****

  “You just missed him,” Aunt Abigail explained.

  “But why didn’t he wait?”

  Trelayne couldn’t abide women who simpered and whimpered; yet she had to quell the urge to stamp her foot and pout. She was hurt. Walker had come to visit, but couldn’t bother to accommodate her schedule and await her return from the nearby Vicarage.

  “To be honest, darling, he came about a horse, not you.”

  “A horse!”

  This was even worse news. They’d held hands, feverishly embraced, come a breath away from kissing, and after two days not a word. No courtesy call to prove his good intentions, no treasured trinket. Not even a note to express his feelings for her.

  Seeing Walker again was all she could think about. Apparently he had other things on his mind. She flounced across the room, yes flounced, and didn’t care.

  Well, it was her own fault wasn’t it? How silly of her to have so easily fallen prey to her emotions. In a matter of days, she’d allowed Walker to become the center of her world, a world spinning out of control.

  Her mind far removed from the charitable duties discussed during her visit with Father Woolsey, she set aside the list of handwritten information he’d supplied.

  Perhaps she misunderstood. Surely, Walker had asked about her, left a message regarding expectations of returning this evening to formally call upon her.

  “Will Captain Garrison be joining us later?”

  “According to Merrick,” Aunt Abigail relayed, “he’s off to Brighton, and will be gone two or three days. In his absence, he reminded us we should all be on our guard. And he specifically advised you should stay at home.”

  That bit of news left her torn between happiness at his concern for her safety, and ire at his presuming to dictate her comings and goings.

  “I suppose three days isn’t all that long,” she admitted.

  “I got the impression,” her aunt confided, “he was following up a new lead regarding the incident with your parents.”

  Now her emotional scale tilted to the forgiving/grateful side. She had been thinking only of herself. She shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. After all, he was on a mission to right the terrible wrongs befallen her family. An image of him slaying dragons and offering himself as her knight-errant-protector flittered through her mind. If properly nurtured, her memories of him from the party and their evening at the Crystal Palace would surely get her through the next few days.

  ****

  Walker glanced around, making sure he hadn’t overlooked anything. Then in preparation for an early morning departure, he placed the saddle-pack near the door to his hotel room.

  He regretted not speaking to Trelayne before his southbound trip. But if he had, it would only make leaving all the harder, stirring up thoughts best left sleeping. A clear head and quick reflexes were what he needed, not muddled daydreams, his actions slowed by visions of shell-pink lips and warm hazel eyes.

  While collecting the horse at the stable, he’d chanced to observe her arriving home from some outing. Knowing she was ensconced at Royston Hall and under Merrick’s watchful eye put his mind at ease—although being so close and not touching her put his private parts in an uproar.

  Alighting from the coach, she’d disengaged her bonnet, allowing her hair to escape in a free-spirited tumble, the sun adding a burnished glow to her tresses. How he longed to tangle his fingers in those curls. How he longed to do so many things with her—and to her. But for now, desiring her from afar was the best idea. No, make that the only idea. Or better yet, not desiring her at all should be his approach to the matter.

  Ambling around the room, he raked his fingers through his hair then unbuttoned his shirt. The chance of getting any sleep tonight seemed slim to none. Still, he needed to try and rest. He unearthed a flask from his pack, and downed a healthy shot of Scotch whiskey. The fiery liquid mellowed in his stomach and spread outward, the warmth soothing the thoughts haranguing his mind.

  However, nothing blunted the unrequited need torturing his body.

  Chapter Twelve

  As night slackened its hold, Bartholomew cinched his coat tighter and jammed his misshapen hat further down over his ears. It always seemed coldest just before dawn.

  For him, the road to Brighton was a familiar one, with Oxted and Burgess Hill not far off. He’d already passed Merton and Croydon where unsuspecting villages slumbered peacefully, unaware that one such as he prowled the neighboring fens.

  Glancing uneasily back the way he’d come, he patted the old flintlock pistol at his hip. He’d be glad when this particular shipment was safely ashore and stored at Amberley Abbey. There were dangers to worry about in this business, what with pirates and magistrates. Government officials could be bought off to avoid the usual tariffs and troubles, but cutthroats were hard to reason with. And although he’d made a name for himself in the district, and knew a few cullies for hire, he’d be left to his own devises once he reached the coast.

  Getting old, that’s what the trouble was. It made a man afraid. Afraid he couldn’t keep up, afraid of change, afraid things would never change. Lately he felt his time was running out. He wondered if Lucien would truly be satisfied with his latest endeavor. Probably not. The ponies and gambling dens always drained away his fortunes. Betting and greediness seemed as much an addiction for Mr. Lanteen as opium was for Beatrice.

  “Bah, you know the truth, Barty old boy,” he growled. “Lucien will bleed ya dry of services and anything else he can get. Just as he does with all who come into contact with him.”

  Thoughts of his sister came to mind—poor old nug. What anguish did she suffer at Lucien’s hands? The man harbored a vicious nature and was a randy sonofabitch—never satisfied on that account either. He doubted she would ever run away with him as they’d talked about. Still, Beatrice was better off being Lucien’s wagtail than a three-penny upright in a White Chapel back-alley. They all had to do what was necessary to survive.

  Too tired to think about it, he yawned and scrunched around trying to find a more comfortable position in the saddle. He’d left London in the wee small hours of the night, and now as his horse plodded along, the rocking motion nearly put him asleep.

  Hours later, as fingers of lights splayed up from the eastern horizon, he stopped to breakfast in a small glade. Brighton and Chain Pier weren’t far off now, and he’d earned a few minutes out of the saddle. Retrieving bread and hard cheese from his pack, he left his horse to graze, and tucked in beneath the shelter of a large oak. A mound of fallen leaves served as a natural cushion, and he ate his victuals with enthusiasm, wiping his grubby hands on his stained
jerkin. Occasionally he took a pull from the silver flask, feloniously procured many years ago. He could no longer remember the face of the unlucky victim. His list of prey had grown too large to commit to memory.

  He damped his mug with more Old Tom, and set his thoughts to wandering. They snagged and held on Captain Garrison. Dispatching that foreigner was a chore to look forward to. The mere idea of arranging a painful demise for the Yankee roughneck cheered and invigorated him. He wouldn’t get away a second time. Too bad this trip had postponed their destined engagement. Still, if all went well, he’d be back in London soon enough. He grazed his hand across the stubble on his chin and laughed. Sending the Good Captain to his final rest had become a personal challenge, a battle of wits as well as brawn.

  ****

  The sun broke free of the horizon as Walker took his leave on the southbound road to Brighton.

  Yesterday afternoon, while procuring the horse, he entrusted the majority of his belongings to Merrick. Now with his hotel bill paid in full, he rode along unencumbered, confident in purpose and destination.

  Departing last night had been a consideration, but this proved a better choice. Traveling by the light of day gave him a chance to study the lay of the land. Of course, as predicted, a good night’s sleep had been impossible. He’d only gotten snippets of rest interspersed with disconnected thoughts, and absurd arguments about whether he should or shouldn’t risk falling in love with Trelayne. He couldn’t seem to leave the subject alone. Like a pebble in his boot, it kept begging for attention.

  Based purely on logic, the resolution was obvious. But considering the urges in his body and the yearning in his heart, he was leaning toward falling head over heels. Maybe being away for three or four days would put things in perspective.

  Touching his St. Brendan medal for safe travel, he kept alert for the bogs Merrick had warned about, wishing this trip over and done. Wishing he were riding away from rather than toward Brighton. He was about to kick the big gelding into a more urgent pace, then reconsidered. A long day’s ride lay ahead, and if his mount was to make it in good stead, it wouldn’t do to wear him out in the first few miles.

  What was the ship’s payload, and how would it tie back to the Lanteen? He supposed the squab was good looking in a “need to be mothered” sort of way. But he also reckoned evilness simmered beneath the dashing veneer. And when it boiled over, there would be hell to pay.

  Suddenly, he regretted not speaking to Trelayne before hitting the trail. He should have done something more grandiose than sending the souvenir gloves, commemorating their night at the Crystal Palace. The street vender had promised to complete and deliver the pair by currier as soon as possible. Hopefully, she would receive them today.

  He patted the pocket of his long coat, and retrieved the kid glove taken from her hand that evening. Soft as her skin, he raised the scrap of leather and inhaled deeply. Her fragrance lingered, sending hot blood surging to his groin. He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. Lord, how he wanted to make love to her, claim her as his woman. But these were basic emotions, not necessarily related to love. Going it alone was good enough, it was safer not needing anyone, and he’d gotten along all right so far since Katie’s death. He was doing just fine. Besides, Trelayne had a life of her own, years in the making. He was a recent interloper—moving too fast where his emotions were concerned.

  ****

  By mid-afternoon, the coastal hamlet came into view, and Walker turned east at Seven Dials then followed Buckingham Place until it merged with the Terminus Road. Winding past the train yards and the clock tower, he took Queen’s Road to the pier area. Spotting a local eatery, he decided a well-earned meal sounded soul saving.

  Dismounting, he took off his hat and used it to beat the trail dust from his trousers and coat. Then he bought a copy of the Brighton Gazette. The lad hawking the papers did so with little enthusiasm, acting as if he would rather be off fishing, enjoying the last warm days of fall. Hat in hand, the newspaper tucked under his arm, he entered the rustic eating establishment.

  A middle-aged woman of ample girth sashayed his way. With a high-spirited twinkle in her merry brown eyes, she gave him a thorough perusal.

  “Are all the ladies working here as fetching as you?” he teased, shamelessly taking advantage of her interest.

  “’Course not, luv,” she sparred back. “They only send me out when the customer be a strapping young man needing something pleasant to look at while he fills his belly. What’ll you have besides a good gander at me?”

  He glanced at the chalkboard on the wall by the kitchen. “The clam-haddock chowder and a mug of spiced wine would be welcome.”

  “Smart choice,” she agreed. “I’ll be back in a heartbeat.”

  He skimmed the newspaper as he waited, trying to get a feel for the town and the people who lived there. It was devoid of anything of interest, and when the waitress returned, placing the food before him, he set the paper aside.

  “Looks delicious. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, luv. What brings you to our town?” She bent low and swept at imaginary crumbs, offering a playful display of her ample bosom.

  “I was hoping they’d were hiring on the docks,” he answered, “or perhaps there’s a ship ready to sail needs another hand on deck?”

  “It’d be a shame sendin’ the likes of you out to sea,” she bemoaned. “Think of all the lonely ladies you’d be leavin’ behind. Why don’t ye seek employment in the city? Then you could come by now and again. I’d make sure you got only the best—of everything,” she added, with a wink.

  Walker gave a bark of laughter, admiring the woman’s zest for life.

  “If only I had met you sooner,” he played along, “before I lost my heart to the sea. I’d be as lonely without the ocean as you pretend you would be without me.”

  “Well, if there’s no changing your mind, you might be visitin’ the Wayside this evening. It’s out by the docks, and the place most of the recruiting gets done. But be watchin’ your step. Many a quarryman frequents there as well as sailors, so the fightin’ and fuedin’ breaks out regular like. I’d be feeling gawd-awful if I was responsible for sending such a fine specimen as you into any danger.”

  He appreciated the woman’s concern, but from Shanghai to Montevideo, he’d crossed the thresholds of the roughest establishments in the world. He could take care of himself—in a fair fight. Of course fair and the Wayside didn’t sound synonymous.

  As more customers arrived, his server tore herself from his side to see to their needs. Finished eating, he leaned his chair back against the wall, and tried for the appearance of nonchalance. Then bored with reading the newspaper, he laid down a generous tip and left.

  At a reputable stable, he bedded down his mount, and for an extra fee rented a box to stow his few clothes, his hat, and other gear. Then he procured lodging in a less reputable hotel.

  When darkness fell, he followed the waitress’s directions to the Wayside and lingered in the shadows. Each time the door opened, a rousing combination of merriment and heated arguments escaped into the night.

  A group of men materialized out of the fog. Probably quarry workers coming off shift. Most miners were honest God-fearing souls, but this coven looked a motley crew at best.

  As the group entered the pub, he eased forward, blending in with the tail end of the ragtag collection. Once inside, he surveyed the layout, veered off to the right, and made for the far end of the bar. With the security of a solid wall to one side, he waited and watched and ordered an ale.

  The only two women in the tavern appeared tired and faded. They plied their trade in dimly lit alcoves offering questionable enthusiasm and well practiced skill. All the while, the crowd grew more boisterous and agitated—the scuffles and disagreement more prevalent and serious. A few unfriendly glances were aimed his way.

  Beckoning for a refill, he tried some tactful palavering. “To your health friend,” he said, after the man set him up.

&nb
sp; “I’ll watch me own damn health, Yank. And I ain’t your friend.”

  So much for that idea. Although he’d forgone his hat, his appearance and speech still gave him away.

  “Truth be told,” the man added, “we ain’t too partial to your kind around here. Hasn’t been all that long since we gandered one another through the sights of a rifle, if you get my drift. Why don’t you head back to where you come from?”

  “I’d be more than happy to oblige,” Walker replied, with forced congeniality. “Fact is, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than to leave your precious little island, but you’ll have to accommodate me a job first. I need money to book passage.”

  “Bloody hell,” the barman sputtered. “You want us to feed you, and wipe your arse for you, too?”

  Walker ignored the insults. “I heard there’s a Mr. Grimsby down here offers short term employment at considerable wage. All a man needs do is work hard and know to keep his mouth shut.”

  The rotund man’s eyes widened slightly then his expression hardened. “You heard wrong,” he growled. “There’s no Mr. Bartholomew Grimsby here. And there’s no high paying jobs. Finish up, mister, and get out. We don’t like drinkin’ with strange dogs bearing strange notions.”

  He’d struck a nerve. He hadn’t mentioned Grimsby by his first name, but the tavern keeper had. The two obviously knew one another. Refusing to be hurried, he eased back against the wall, returning the defiant stare.

  Still chewing on a disagreeable expression, the man headed for the far end of the bar to tend his other patrons. A few minutes later, he beckoned a raggedy lad, spoke to him quietly, and sent him packing.

  ****

  Bartholomew lounged in a private area off the main room of the Wayside. It was a cozy hideaway reserved for special customers. It came with a less tired, less faded girl. And for an extra tip, the poor doxy even pretended she was enjoying herself.