Victorian Dream

by Gini Rifkin

  As he entered the room, she gave a start. “Oh. I didn’t hear you come in. I guess I was daydreaming.”

  “Dreams of me, one would hope,” he said, rushing to her side. “Every moment I waited for you seemed an hour. But the time was well spent. You are a vision.”

  She slid her hand free from his grasp. “I see your horse has recovered,” she pointed out, not falling prey to his flowery speech.

  “Yes, quite. But dash the horse, let me look at you. You are my life’s breath.”

  “Good heavens. I’m not sure I’m up to such a responsibility.” She couldn’t help but smile. It was hard not to be pleased with such glowing compliments. Knowing she shouldn’t, she did take pleasure in Lucien’s attention. “Since you prize me so highly,” she teased, “perhaps you would be willing to assist me in writing a letter to Parliament. I could use a man’s point of view on the subject.”

  “But of course. Pray tell, upon what subject do you expound?”

  “I’ve just returned from a visit with Father Woolsey, and…”

  “Great Scott,” he interrupted, “do not tell me you are contemplating another outing to the residue of society.”

  “Possibly,” she admitted. “But today I believe wielding the pen will prove to be more effective. Our topic is laudanum and opium.”

  Was it her imagination or did Lucien pale at her words? Surely it was just a trick of the afternoon light.

  “The misuse of these compounds is causing large scale devastation,” she pressed. “The drugs worsening the problems under which these people already suffer, offering only pipedreams. I intend to write to Parliament to encourage regulation of such dangerous medicine. Why, little babies are actually dying from it.”

  “What makes you think I know anything about opium?” Lucien asked. His expression remained calm, but he gave a nervous tug to his cravat.

  “I should hardly think you do, but you are very good at being persuasive. I need your help in phrasing a sensible and powerful letter. A masculine approach to solving the problem will lend more credence to my protest. It must fire the imaginations of all those stodgy old men of the Queen’s court.”

  “If that is what you desire, than let us begin immediately. I am flattered to be your anonymous inspiration.”

  For nearly two hours, they collaborated on the missive. They laughed, co-conspirators exchanging witticisms and glances of camaraderie. Yet in the back of her mind, thoughts of Walker colored her sensibilities. She both rued and treasured the day Walker had entered her life, and she continued to vacillate between pining for him and being furious with his unceremonious disappearance. At present, she was peeved at him, as well as at herself for a giving a tinker’s damn. Overwrought and frustrated, she flirted outrageously with Lucien, totally disregarding her previous pledge to keep him at bay and break off seeing him in the future.

  ****

  There she sat, the picture of heroic innocence, lips pursed as she steadfastly concentrated upon a particularly difficult passage. It was all Lucien could do not to shove the writing materials aside, lean Trelayne over the desk, and have his way with her.

  To keep from following through with his desires, he clasped his hands behind his back and paced about the room. The plight of the poor didn’t tug at his heart strings. If babies were dying, who cared? It was Nature’s way of killing off the unwanted. And what of the parents’ addiction? The more they spent satisfying their cravings, the more money he saw in his coffers. Even stricter regulation caused him no fear. If anything, it would create a black-market trade, driving prices higher.

  He had nothing to lose and everything to gain by assisting Trelayne in her endeavor. With any luck, his fabrication of concern would serve to raise him to a higher esteem in her eyes. The eyes of the one he desired so passionately. After they were married, of course, he would never allow her be so outspoken and independent.

  Standing at her side and feigning interest in her letter, Lucian tried to peer down the front of her dress.

  “For heaven’s sake, Lucien,” she cried, in annoyance, having caught him peeking. “Whatever has come over you? We are trying to save little children from the horrors of poverty and disease and all you can think about is looking down my dress. Can you not behave like a gentleman instead of a child yourself? I should insist you leave.”

  “Forgive me,” he begged.

  “The need for that seems all too frequent lately,” she pointed out.

  “I told you before, my willpower and fortitude are no match for your charms. Clear thinking, nay propriety of any sort, is hopelessly unattainable.”

  ****

  She shook her head at his Byronic platitudes. If only it were the elusive Captain Garrison who spoke such words and sought such liberties. Bother and damnation, she was doing it again—escaping into a make believe world revolving around an American enigma rather than reality. Curse the man anyway.

  “Trelayne?”

  Her thoughts snapped back to the present, and she stared up at Lucien. More and more he overstepped the boundaries of acceptable behavior, but this time she would keep her temper, and turn the incident to her advantage.

  “I will forgive you your ill mannered ogling, if you will agree to go with me again next month on rounds for the church. A few extra comforts will be just the thing to brighten Christmas for those in need.”

  Lucien appeared as if she had just asked him to down a tankard of pond water. Then his expression changed.

  “I will agree to go under one condition,” he said, daring to counter-bargain her request. “Consent to accompany me to the Festival at the Bond. You promised to consider my offer. Do say yes.”

  “I did consider your offer, and I must decline. All manner of debauchery and nonsense takes place there. I’ve been told it is one of the most notorious clubs in all London.”

  “Pure rumor,” he refuted. “There is no true danger there. I shall ensure we have a positively proper and boring evening. A few dances, perhaps an elegant meal. And I promise to take you home the moment you desire to leave.”

  “I don’t know, Lucien. I should not, and you know it.”

  “I see. You are quick to explore how the poor live, and to wallow in their mire, but you will not even think to experience the pleasures and delights of high society. You, my dear, are a reverse snob.”

  This theory gave her pause. Before making her rounds for the church, she had been frightfully ignorant of how the less fortunate lived. Was she being closed-minded now about the upper strata of society? Besides, it would be the last thing she could do to please Lucien before telling him they had no future together. Based on his reaction to her refusal of his marriage proposal, she could only imagine what kind of row terminating their relationship completely was going to cause. Going to the Bond would cushion the blow, and leave him with a fond memory.

  Of course, Merrick and Wynona would never allow her out of the house at night with Lucien. She would need to manufacture a story about being with Penelope.

  Her heart pounded. To attempt such a charade was contrary to the usual rules of deportment she followed. On the other hand, taking over the duties of both her parents had taken its toll. A little gaiety would go a long way in compensating for the stressful demands that seemed so overwhelming of late. What could it hurt?

  “I accept your daring proposal. But you must be the consummate gentleman and keep your promise about taking me home when I desire to leave.”

  The happiness on Lucien’s face was hard to ignore. How frightful to realize she had such a commanding effect upon his mood.

  “It’s just for a lark, Lucien. Nothing serious, no strings attached.”

  “Whatever you say, my darling.”

  ****

  After Lucien took his leave, Trelayne sat embroidering by the hearth, and her mind drifted from one subject to the next.

  After creating a final draft of the letter, she’d spent nearly an hour with Merrick, reviewing tomorrow’s proceedings for the Romney M
aiden. She admired Merrick and trusted to his wisdom, and was grateful for the faith he placed in her. Following their conversation, she felt confident, even optimistic, about negotiating the wages and cargo fares for the newly arrived ship.

  Merrick would accompany her to the docks, but remain in the background. There was no reason why the crew and merchants should be opposed to her offers. That is, once they accepted the idea of dealing with a woman. What could go wrong? And later, she would write to her parents detailing the affair. They would be proud of her achievement, and less worried about her and the company.

  Abandoning the embroidery in her lap, she stared at the flames in the fireplace. Merrick admitted he was worried about Walker’s long absence. Had something dreadful happened to him? Surely he was safe. Walker was the most capable man she had ever met.

  He must come back, because regardless of his feelings for her, she could no longer imagine the world without him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The morning arrived swiftly on the heels of a restless night.

  As their coach made its way down Little Tower Hill, Trelayne’s sparse breakfast fought for a foothold in her stomach. Face it, she was scared.

  What had seemed easily attainable last evening in the muted comfort of her home, felt less certain by the glaring light of day. Much hinged upon the outcome of this transaction—proper and equitable pay for her employees, her credibility at running the partnership, even her pride. More importantly, it would either bolster her confidence or lay low her capacity to face the responsibilities piling up against her day by day.

  The warehouses came into view, the sight anything but encouraging. High walls kept the sunlight at bay, the bricks and mortar cutting off the view to the south. Today, St. Katherine’s Dock was a dismal place, the oppressive atmosphere cluttered with dirt and debris. It even smelled unhealthy.

  She clasped her hands in prayer, but it was too late now for petitioning God, they had reached Irongate Wharf.

  “You’ll do just fine,” Merrick reassured, handing her down from the carriage. “Just keep your head, and don’t allow ’em to bully you into anything your gut tells you ain’t right.”

  As Merrick’s words struck home, she realized how many of life’s situations offered only two choices—fight or flight. Since she couldn’t leave, she would fight her fear, and if necessary, the men awaiting her arrival. As determination flared, it lit an ember of courage in her heart. Her hackles rose, and the physical reaction transformed foreboding into eagerness. Unlike the overwhelming situation surrounding the destitute children, today’s challenge was something over which she had control. Something she could sink her teeth into, on her terms, in her territory.

  As they boarded the Romney Maiden, the grand vessel rocked gently in her berth. Up ahead, men of varying social status assembled on the main deck and crowds formed along the loading area. It was almost as if today’s event had been publicized.

  Reaching the foredeck, she assumed her “entering a ballroom” demeanor, and while doing her best to avoid coils of rope and other seafaring equipment, she moved along as regally as possible. If they wanted a show, she would bloody well give them one. A murmur passed through the crowd, and she glanced toward the docks. To her surprise, several faces appeared sullen, her gracious smile returned with angry jeers.

  “Send us a man to do a man’s job,” a voice rang out.

  Her steps faltered, and she searched the faces in the crowd. The message had been loud and clear, but the person responsible remained anonymous, and the statement acted as a catalyst, touching off a round of heckling comments. Merrick’s stern continence appeared to be the only thing preventing the crowd from turning completely ugly. Thank goodness the men in her father’s employ remained steadfast.

  After locating the Commissioner of Trade Unions, Merrick escorted her to the bargaining tables. At her approach, the pudgy red-faced man appeared flustered and confused by the negative peer pressure issuing around him.

  Merrick made the introductions. “Mr. Abernathy, may I present Miss Trelayne St.Christopher.”

  “Oh, dear me. Dear, dear me.” The little man mopped the sweat from his brow with a huge white handkerchief.

  Hope for support from that quarter quickly disintegrated. The scared rabbit of a man would be too afraid to back her cause. She was on her own to drive a hard bargain with the buyers. Yet if her crew were to receive anything above their flat wages she must procure a good price. The bonus money was what paid their way and encouraged them to be the reliable men they were. They had worked hard, made this voyage safely and in record time. They deserved to be rewarded for their efforts. As Merrick retired to the background, she took her seat and silently vowed not to let them down.

  Ignoring the leers and attitudes of superiority, she waited for the negotiations to begin. But after several minutes of proposals and rejections, she could bear no more. Leaping to her feet, shaking with anger, she fought to control her temper. “This is preposterous. I know what a fair price for this shipment should be, and I’ll not take a shilling less.”

  “The way I see it, Missy,” countered one self-serving buyer, “you don’t have much choice.”

  “Oh, but I do, gentlemen. Before I allow you to manipulate me in such a manner, I shall burn this shipment while it is still crated, and pay my men their wages from my estate. Think it over, kind sirs. The Navigation Act of ’49 grants foreigners the right to carry British cargo, and the St.Christopher shipping line is now the Garrison/ St.Christopher line. We are twice as big and will soon be doing twice the business—in England, America, and around the world. When next you need our ships for transport out of London, I shall be setting the prices, and I won’t forget today.”

  She flicked a gaze at Merrick. He grinned and gave her a nod of encouragement. The smug expressions faded from the faces of the men, replaced by concerned speculation. The crewmembers within earshot of the conversation offered their support.

  The tide was turning in her favor, success nearly within her grasp, then two men roughly jostled into Merrick and laid hands on him. A third brandished a knife and held it at his throat.

  “Are you going to hide behind a woman’s skirt?” the man with the knife taunted the crewmen. “Ya bunch of seafarin’ pansies. What make of men are ye? She’s just a snip of a girl, what can she gain for you? Why you’d be better off to take yer money in cargo. You won’t be seein’ no bonus this trip.”

  Discontent rippled through the crowd, and good sense became scarce. A man tore open a cargo crate, grabbing at merchandise, throwing it about. Good Lord, what was happening? The crew appeared equally shocked. The men creating the mayhem were not sailors. They shouldn’t even be on deck.

  The crowd dockside scrambled about fighting to retrieve the booty as it landed at their feet. You could almost smell mass hysteria in the air. Now they were attempting to board ship. It was like being in the middle of a pirate raid.

  Outnumbered and out-muscled, Merrick was at a loss to gain his freedom. In desperation, she glanced around the deck and spied a trunk marked for Samuel Colt. A smile pulled at her lips. She sidled closer, pulled free the lock pin, and lifted the lid. Gun parts and more—just what she’d hoped for.

  Recalling Sam’s demonstration at the Crystal Palace, she gathered the necessary items, and pulse racing slipped the preloaded cylinder into place. Replacing the barrel assembly, she drove home the wedge by tapping it on the side of the crate. Her hands shook so badly she could hardly seat the firing caps. When all was in place, she pulled back the hammer and turned to face the man with the knife.

  “Let him go—now,” she challenged. “Lay down that knife, or lay down your life. The decision is yours.”

  The ruffian stared at the bore of the gun then glared at her. She didn’t know why, but now her hand was rock steady, and with unconscious effort she assumed the stance she’d been taught to use when handling a firearm.

  The man snarled in defeat, lowered the knife, and high-tailed it th
rough the crowd. The other two hooligans released Merrick and followed suit. As the weight of the heavy pistol took its toll, she was about to set the weapon aside. Then she recognized another crate of interest.

  The markings indicated it came from Persia, and she wagered it contained the magnificent carpet noted on the ship’s manifest. The rug had been specially ordered for one of the richest men in London. He would be furious if anything happened to his long awaited prize, and the buyer sent to collect it for him would be held accountable.

  She fired a shot over the bow of the ship, bringing the anarchy to a swift conclusion.

  “I’m willing to resume bidding if you will grant me an honest price,” she offered. “I’m also willing to start destroying this entire cargo, beginning with one very expensive carpet.” With the pistol trained dead center on the crate, she awaited their answer.

  Clamoring around the table, the buyers were eager to begin again. She sat down, cradling the pistol in her lap. This time, prices soared beyond her wildest imaginings. The exuberant crew sang her praises, and gave her three cheers.

  Having completed the paperwork, she wandered over to the seaward side of the great vessel and stood gazing out upon the water. Why had the crowd been so agitated? And who were the men attacking Merrick and encouraging the insurrection? It was all very curious.

  As puzzlement faded, she stood taller, and the thrill of victory quickened her pulse. She had held fast, had represented the St.Christopher name with honor. If only Walker had been here to witness her success. Would he have been proud of her? Wish it or not, his opinion mattered to her.

  Gripping the rail, she studied the seagulls soaring overhead. Walker had spent near a lifetime viewing the world from the deck of a ship; she could almost feel his presence at her side—see his rugged profile as he faced into the wind.

  Where was he? He’d been gone too long. Ire at his absence had once again shifted to concern, leaving her emotions in tatters. Maybe she was overreacting. After all, the man had sailed the world over, and heaven only knew the escapades in which he had engaged. So far he had managed to remain unscathed. Surely, a simple trip to Brighton wouldn’t be his undoing.