Victorian Dream

by Gini Rifkin

  She trailed her fingertips along the edge of the desk, and inhaled deeply of his essence so imbedded in the room. Then with a smile upon her lips, she wandered down the hallway to the kitchen.

  “Exactly what will we be serving tonight?” she asked the man sitting at the table.

  Willie Mathews seemed to be the only “servant” Walker employed. Willie was a long time friend, and being too old for sea duty, was now a landlocked butler, valet, and handyman.

  “Aye, good morning to you, Mrs. Garrison. Let’s see now,” he considered, and cleared his throat. “We’ll be havin’ wild turkey with stuffing and gravy, sweet potato pie, Indian corn pudding, and cherry cobbler.” The little bulldog of a man rattled off the menu with pride and anticipation.

  “And several pots of coffee,” she threw in, with a grin.

  “Dang blast,” he swore. “Oh, beggin’ your pardon. I just remembered we’re out of coffee beans. That won’t do.”

  “Where must I go to purchase some?” she volunteered, wanting to be sure her husband had his favorite hot beverage on hand.

  “Well now, it’s snowing pretty hard, Mrs. Garrison, and the store’s a goodly walk from here. I’m thinkin’ the Captain wouldn’t want you out on such a day.”

  “Nonsense,” she countered, feeling up for a good challenge. “We have snow in England, too, you know.”

  Despite her bravado, a quick glance out the window gave her pause. Although offering brief periods of respite, the billowy white flakes fell with determination. It was piling up quickly, adding a layer of pristine white to the old brown-tinged mounds already heaped up along the streets and walkways. Not to worry. She wanted to do this for Walker, wanted to contribute to the meal he was so intent upon serving them tonight.

  “I’d best be goin’ with you,” Willie offered, setting aside the silverware he’d been polishing.

  “No, please don’t interrupt your work. Besides, when Mother and Father awaken they’ll want breakfast, and you know where everything is and what’s available. Please,” she implored, fastening her cloak. “Just tell me the directions to the shop,”

  Willie met her request as she unearthed a woolen cap from a trunk in the front hall and snugged it into place. Tugging on a pair of matching mittens, she opened the door and stepped out onto the porch.

  “I ain’t feelin’ good about you goin’ off by yourself, as it were,” Willie called after her. “The weather here about can change in a heartbeat, and not for the better.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she called back. “Really I will.”

  The cold made her catch her breath, but it felt good to be outside in the fresh air. Watching for icy patches, she stepped along with a lightheartedness that came from being truly happy—happy with her husband, happy with her life, happy with the thought of simply completing this innocent little mission to procure something important for Walker.

  A burst of wind at her back pushed her along, and her smile broadened. See, even the elements were on her side. Although, she had to concede, the devious cold had already found passage through her layers of clothing, and her toes were tingly. No matter. There was the store just up ahead.

  Gratefully, she hurried inside, quickly shutting the door against the swirl of snow following in her wake.

  “Mercy,” she laughed, and made her way to the counter.

  The shop was small, but cheerful and immaculately clean with shelves full of various blends of coffee. A big shiny machine stood at the ready to grind out special orders if what was available didn’t meet one’s needs. It hadn’t occurred to her there would be so many choices.

  “Oh, dear.”

  Crestfallen, her gaze flitted around the room. She had no idea what Walker’s favorite variety might be. Perhaps the man behind the counter would know.

  “Good day,” she began. “I’m Captain Garrison’s wife. Might you be familiar with my husband’s preferred blend?”

  “Glad to meet you, Mrs. Garrison. I’m Andrew Benson. He usually requests Java—with just a hint of Turkish and a kiss of Brazilian.”

  “How extraordinary. It sounds as if you’re creating a perfume rather than coffee.”

  “To some the aroma is nearly as pleasing, the flavor like nectar.”

  “Very poetic,” she said, and smiled. “I promise to work on my appreciation for the infusion. Would you make some up for me, please?”

  “I heard the Captain had returned, and I have some right here.”

  “Why, thank you. Is it possible for you to put that on our account? I’ve left the house without a pence to my name.”

  “A wedding gift to the both of you,” the shopkeeper offered, handing her the canvas bag of fragrant beans.

  “How very kind. Again, thank you.”

  “Captain Garrison is well respected in these parts. And without his ships,” he added with a smile and a shrug, “the coffee wouldn’t get here in the first place. Enjoy.”

  “I will.” Following such glowing praise for her husband, her heart soared. “We will,” she corrected, and took her leave.

  Heady with pride and her love for Walker, she set off for home. That would take some getting used to, thinking of Walker’s house as home. Everything here seemed so different, yet people everywhere had the same hopes and dreams, the same fears and regrets. She supposed where one was born, or to where they eventually strayed, was one of life’s many mysteries. A year ago she could never have imagined being happily married, joyfully pregnant, and so very far away from England. Yet here she was.

  Beginning to feel the cold in earnest, she quickened her pace, glad her destination was not far. Willie’s prediction had come true, the weather had taken a turn. A blast of wind sent a blinding white veil across her path, limiting her vision to only a few feet. It whipped the once soft and fluffy flakes into needle sharp sleet and came at her from every direction. Struggling to keep her footing, she bent into the wind.

  “Carriage ride, ma’am?” a voice rang out.

  It was silly, she had less than two blocks left to travel, but the going was near impossible. Why not ride? Once home, surely Willie would have money on hand to pay for the service.

  “Yes, thank you,” she agreed, and clamored aboard the old fashioned transport. With a sigh of relief she settled back against the hard wooden seat. Then leaning forward, she called through the open space behind the driver. “I’m only going a short distance to the big house on the hill,” she instructed.

  “I know where you’re going, Mrs. Garrison.”

  Again, the glow of pride warmed her. Did everyone in town know Walker? He seemed almost to be an icon in New Bedford. As they drew closer to the house, she adjusted her woolen hat and gathered her cloak in preparation for the descent from the coach and the dash to the house. But rather than slowing down, the carriage picked up speed.

  “No, you’ve made a mistake. You’re passing the house.”

  “There’s been no mistake, Mrs. Garrison. Just a difference of opinion regarding your destination.”

  “Who are you? What are you talking about? I insist you stop the coach.”

  She pushed opened the door and contemplated jumping. Then thoughts of the baby ruled out such an option. As she reached for the door to slam it back shut, the bag of coffee slid from her lap onto the street. The canvas pouch struck a stone and burst open spewing out the beans—leaving a stain dark as blood in the pure white snow.

  ****

  Walker managed to get away from work earlier than anticipated. Rather than taking the chance of coming dockside during the horrendous blow, two of his ships were riding out the storm at sea. He tried not to view their misfortune as his good luck, but damn he was pleased to be heading home early.

  Home…he hadn’t imagined he would miss New Bedford so much. But his trip to England had reinforced his love of America, and his fondness for his seaside house.

  Disregarding the ice, he bounded up the front steps, skidded to the door, and chuckling at his own boyish enthusiasm, entered his
house.

  “Willie,” he called, striding down the hall. “How are preparations going for tonight’s dinner?” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Why don’t I smell that turkey roasting?”

  Gaining the kitchen, he stopped short. Willie and Trelayne’s parents sat around the table looking solemn as undertakers. Something was dreadfully wrong. The only one missing was Trelayne.

  “What’s happened? Where is she?”

  “She went out for coffee beans,” Willie said, “and ain’t come back.”

  A shock of heat flashed through him. Then a cold sweat broke out on his chest. Panic squeezed at his heart just as it had the day she’d been kidnapped from the charity bazaar. But that was crazy, Lucien was dead, and who else would want to harm her? There had to be a logical reason for her having gone missing.

  “When?”

  “A little over an hour ago. I shouldn’t have let her go alone, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Said you had to have your coffee tonight.”

  His coffee? It was his fault she’d gone out. Now a barge-load of guilt was added to his concern. He turned to leave. “I’ll go check at the shop.”

  “Already did,” Willie said, stopping him. “Mr. Benson said she’d been there and gone. I was just figurin’ to go lookin’ for her in the other direction,” he added, wrestling on a sheepskin coat and a tattered beaver-skin hat.

  Willie at his side, Walker retraced his steps to the street. Squinting through the blinding white, he tried to push his fears aside as flashes of losing Katie in a blizzard clawed through his mind adding past terror to the present. Pacing north along the road, he spotted the torn canvas bag and heap of coffee beans. She’d been so close to home, but had kept going. Willie pointed out the barely discernible carriage tracks.

  “She left on foot,” Willie said, “but the weather wasn’t so bad when she set out.”

  It didn’t make sense. Had she been walking and someone picked her up? Had she taken the carriage by choice? Where was his wife, was she cold, was she frightened? And what about the baby? Anger now replaced his fear. The urge to tear something or someone to pieces brought a rush of energy surging through his body.

  He searched for a coach to summon so they might follow the trail before it was completely gone, but the street was deserted. Anyone with half a wit was inside, and most likely hunkered down in front of a roaring fire. He headed back toward the house and the stable where he kept two mounts.

  “Come on, Willie. No use trying to follow on foot. We’ll get the horses and head north—it’s our only hope.”

  Almost to the front steps, he heard someone calling his name.

  He turned to see a lone figure materialize out of the curtain of white. It was a lad, bundled up from head to toe, waving a letter as he stumbled along. Walker caught the youngster as he careened to an exhausted halt. It was Jimmy Thompson, the baker’s son. The family lived on the other end of town. Jimmy looked near frozen—the letter iced into his mitten-clad hand. Picking the boy up, he carried him into the house.

  Extracting the letter from his grip, he let Mrs. St.Christopher lead the boy to the hearth to warm him up.

  Willie peered over his shoulder. “What’s it say, Captain.”

  The parchment was wet and the ink smeared, but he was able to make out the heart-stopping message.

  If you wants to see your woman again, come

  to the old mill north of town at 5 P.M. Come alone.

  “I don’t get it,” Willie said. “Why ain’t they askin’ for ransom?”

  “A good question, Willie.” He turned toward the boy. “Jimmy, what did the person look like who gave you the letter?”

  Jimmy screwed up his face in thought as he stood dripping by the hearth. “He were on the burly side and mean looking. And he talked funny, like Mr. Northrop who runs that shop what sells them fancy gewgaws from England.”

  With a start Walker realized it sounded a lot like Bartholomew Grimsby. Adding in Captain Parker’s suspicion about there being a stowaway onboard the Alicia Elaine, it tied in perfectly. Damn the son of a bitch. In England, rumor had it he was still in France, but he’d been right there the entire trip, watching their every move, spying on them, waiting and plotting. Now he had Trelayne, and that meant he had Walker too.

  “You were correct,” he said to Willie. “This isn’t a matter of money. It’s a matter of unfinished business. Deadly, unfinished, business.”

  Chapter Thirty

  As the carriage skidded to a halt, Trelayne flung the door open and scrambled to the ground. The snow was deep, the footing slippery, her escape short lived. The man driving the coach caught her by the hood of her cloak, and near choking the life out of her, dragged her toward a hulking building.

  Inside, he shoved her into a chair, and with but a few quick turns of a waiting rope, secured her firmly to the piece of furniture. She kicked and struggled, her attempts useless. Seemingly amused at her futile efforts, he laughed and lit an oil lamp.

  Realizing she was accomplishing little other than exhausting herself and providing entertainment, she stopped struggling, trying to slow her racing heart as she studied her surroundings.

  The building was a deserted mill, the massive wooden wheels and cogs silent and draped with cobwebs. Torn burlap bags lay heaped in one corner, a pile of moldering wheat in another. A rat squeaked and took cover as the man walked toward a table to set the lamp down beside a pipe and a bottle of rum. As he took to the chair, the glow of light washed across his face. She knew him. He’d been with Lucien the day of the charity bazaar. It was Grimsby, the man Walker had long sought but could never make pay for his crimes.

  Disoriented, as if reliving a nightmare, she glanced around half expecting Lucien to materialize out of the dark. But he was dead, and she was here in America, and this was to be a special night with her family and husband.

  “What do you want, Mr. Grimsby?” she snapped, angry with this man for disrupting her life. “If it’s money you’re after, you could have selected better accommodations to await the transaction.”

  “So you’ve recognized me,” he said, the pride evident in his voice. “No, it’s not money for which I’ve come, but recompense of a more personal nature. This is where it all started, and this is where it will end. The good Captain has escaped death twice, once right here in New Bedford, and once in Brighton. But as the saying goes, the third time’s the charm.”

  At his inference, the blood drained from her head leaving her dizzy and sick at her stomach. He didn’t want money. He didn’t want her. He only wanted her husband. And Walker would surely come—she was the perfect bait. She and the baby. This monster must never realize he had two bargaining chips.

  “What have you against him?” she pressed, trying to reason out his obsession with murdering the man she loved.

  Grimsby uncorked the bottle, took a healthy swig, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “It’s a matter of principle,” he barked, slamming the bottle down on the tabletop. He sounded belligerent, and she guessed this was not his first nip of the day. “I don’t like leaving unfinished business. And it’s a matter of loyalty. Because of him two of my boys in Brighton are dead, and one’s in jail. And I’m also doing it for Beatsie.”

  Beatsie? He must mean Beatrice, Lucien’s mistress.

  “I remember her. What was she to you?” If she kept him talking, maybe she could learn something useful to turn his intentions.

  “She was my sister. And from what I hear you helped her off the top of that Abbey.”

  “No, it’s not true. It was an accident. I wished her no harm. You weren’t there, how could you know?”

  “I ran into Lucien before he burned up in your barn. He denied it was his fault, and that leaves you. It did my heart good to see what he’d become. Just deserts if ever there was any.” He grabbed the bottle and took another pull. “In the end he were no better than me. And he were no smarter. Now I’m going to finish what he couldn’t. I’m gonna kill
the Captain, and give you a taste of what it’s like to lose someone you love.”

  “He won’t come for me,” she lied. “We had a terrible fight. I hate it here in America—didn’t want to come in the first place. I’m going back as soon as the weather permits.”

  “Ha, that’s a good one, Mrs. Garrison. I seen the two of you aboard ship, cooing and petting like the lovers you are.”

  “You were the stowaway.”

  “That I was. No use wasting good money when you can get the ride for free.”

  “Oh, I wish they’d caught you and thrown you overboard.”

  “If wishes were horses the postman would ride,” he chortled. “Now shut yer yap and stop prattling.”

  She fell silent, and the stillness of the cavernous building was unnerving. A tomb or mausoleum couldn’t be more inhospitable. Then the wind switched direction, making her jump as it spattered sleet along the north side of the millhouse. It grated and scraped against the wood like sand blasting out of a hot desert, but it was far from hot. She shivered with cold, wishing this night to be over, yet dreading what it might bring.

  ****

  “The note said to come alone,” Walker pointed out, changing into warmer clothes.

  “Well, I ain’t staying behind,” Willie insisted. “I was with you when that mizzen mast broke and they dug the two of us out of the rubble, and I been with you through a dozen other hair-raising experiences. I’ll hang back and stay out of the way.”

  “All right,” Walker conceded. He wouldn’t mind having another gun along. There was no guarantee Grimsby was in this alone. “But you stay low. I don’t want you getting hurt. You’re not as young as you used to be.”

  “Of course I ain’t as young as I used to be. That’s an impossibility. What kind of thing is that to say? Here,” he tossed a pair of fur-lined gloves at Walker. “It’s cold enough out there to freeze the balls off a brass monkey,” he muttered.