by Nia Farrell
What he meant to me.
Footsteps sounded in the hall, muffled by hand-tied Persian carpet runners, custom made to span its breadth and length. The door to the dining room opened. I took a breath, released it, turned…and saw Edward coming towards me with Daniel in his wake.
“Elena,” Edward said. “Lane. Daniel has arrived.”
Daniel stopped where he was, frozen in his tracks, his disbelieving eyes taking in the sight before him—a twenty-four-year-old changeling, my face familiar but strangely out of context, dressed as I was. He was nearly the same, of course, a little travel weary, perhaps. His plaid suitcoat was hardly wrinkled, likewise his dark wool pants and matching vest. A servant must have taken his hat. His soft ginger curls were tousled, as if he’d run his fingers through them before meeting me.
But it was his green glass gaze that I locked onto, willing him to accept this. Accept me. Eventually accept Edward, though I had no idea how in hell we were going to make that happen.
Daniel’s emerald eyes searched my gray ones, filled with a thousand questions and probing for answers that he might never find. “Lane?” He blinked, hard, and shoved a hand into his hair, overwhelmed at this turn of events. By sharp contrast, Daniel had changed but a little, the short ginger growth on his face making him look slightly older than his ever-youthful twenty-eight. I daresay that he’d fight anyone who questioned his manhood, and there was that contest he had won, but when he finally, finally smiled—thank God—there was no denying the sweetly impish exuberance that promised to make him forever young.
“Jaysus, Joseph, and Mary.” He stared at me, breaking eye contact long enough to take me in from head to toe and back again. “Yer… Jaysus. How? This? With God as yer witness, swear to me that what I’m seeing is real.”
I nodded. “Yes, Daniel. I’m sorry. I am so…so sorry.”
And then the most amazing thing happened.
He laughed. Almost giggled, actually. “Thank God,” he puffed. “Thank God. I thought…” He stopped short of finishing, reached into his pocket and pulled out an abalone shell, the jeweled hues as perfect as they’d been on the day that he’d given it to me as a reminder of a sunrise that we had shared.
“I brought it,” he said, his voice oddly gruff, as if my riot of emotion had spilled over to encompass him as well. “The list. I knew…Christ almighty, I’m not daft, am I, to think that I know what ye meant by it?”
Everything at the top was something connected with Daniel. The seashell that he’d given me. The pewter porringer that I’d used to feed him when he was fighting influenza. The Barlow knife, I’d kept with me, but the other had a handle that he’d made, fitted to a blade that we’d found while foraging in enemy territory in the summer of sixty-four.
I smiled a little. “No. You’re not daft. I just…I couldn’t tell you. I’m sorry, Daniel, but I couldn’t tell anyone. The risk was too great. I’d have found a way to survive, but if I’d lost you…. No. I could not risk it. But then Edward came, and the Pinkertons, and choice was taken from me. Please, can you forgive me for deceiving you? Truly, truly I meant no harm. When my brother died and left me alone, with the war going on…well, it was the only way that I knew to survive. And after the war, I thought it safer and wiser to maintain his identity, rather than be preyed upon by other men.”
There was no missing the look he gave Edward, sizing up potential competition and discarding the thought just as quickly, believing my stepbrother to be safe.
One corner of Edward’s mouth curved in a curious smile. “Elena, why don’t we sit, hmm? I’m certain O’Flaherty will find our table a vast improvement over a freighter’s fare.”
Our table? I didn’t know what game Edward played, but suddenly I felt as if I were a pawn on a chessboard, subject to his whims. I pasted on a smile to mask my nagging sense of unease.
“Please, Daniel. Come. Sit. There’s tea, of course, and whiskey if you would prefer a stronger libation.”
He stepped forward at my command, holding our seashell before him like a Magi bearing a precious gift to lay before the King. “Here,” he said, clearing his throat. “For ye. Again.” He caught his lower lip between his teeth and smiled sheepishly.
“Thank you,” I said, managing to not touch his hand when I took it from him. “Again.” He stayed where he was, the closer proximity allowing him to make a more thorough study, as if to understand how I’m managed to fool him all these years.
He hadn’t run. There would be time enough for perusals and dismissals, observations and analysis. Closer looks and closer yet, if Edward got his way.
“Daniel. It’s tea time. I’d prefer to not serve stale sandwiches.”
Daniel recognized my tone and responded to it, submitting to my will as Edward had predicted. He took the seat that I pointed to across the table while Edward helped me into mine.
“You’ll find that the professor runs a rather less stringent household,” I told him, “eschewing formalities normally observed by the titled in favor of private, more intimate affairs.”
This tea was no exception. No steward hovered. No footman lingered. Once the table was set, the staff was dismissed until we were through. Daniel would be free to speak, to ask, to answer, as would I.
As would Edward.
Just the thought made my stomach pinch. Having revealed my gender seemed nothing to what lay ahead. The inviting warmth in Daniel’s eyes, the sweet relief that I’d heard in his voice…had he been attracted to me, too? Had he fought against it, thinking it unnatural to want another man?
If so, that impediment was removed…only Daniel seemed clueless that another remained, that I’d taken Edward for a lover despite my attachment to him. Edward’s eyes were never still. He studied the both of us, the light in his turquoise eyes electric, connecting the three of us in his mind as surely as if he’d run wires. Only Daniel seemed oblivious. Perhaps it was relief. Perhaps it was excitement for what this new turn of events might mean. Part of it, I was certain, was the pride he took in his accomplishment. He’d brought everything. All of my studio and the contents of my apartment.
I didn’t know what to say except thank you.
“Ye’re welcome” he said, and reached for another pastry, cherry this time.
“I’d tell you not to spoil your supper, but I know you too well,” I teased, feeling a bit more relaxed the longer that we talked. Edward spoke little, letting Daniel ramble on about his odyssey. What it had taken to build the crates, to protect the contents and pack everything. How the dockworkers misjudged the weight on a crate and nearly cost me a block of marble. The characters aboard ship. The awful bunk that reminded him of our winter camp in sixty-three. The foresight to number the crates and keep a copy of his manifesto, marking them off as they were unloaded so that he knew exactly what was missing. The crated block of marble was one of three found still in the hold.
“Edward?” I looked at him. “Where is it now? I mean, my things are somewhere. They certainly didn’t arrive in Daniel’s hackney cab.”
“They are being held,” he said. “I found a space but I wanted you to see it before I offered on it. There is no sense bringing everything here only to move it. I would rather unload the crates where you will be working, and Daniel, if he is still open to it, hmm?”
He called him Daniel. Not O’Flaherty. He was already moving us toward a more intimate acquaintance. But first Daniel had to agree to stay.
“Are you?” I asked, needing to hear his answer over the one that my heart was giving me. His was the final word, after all.
Daniel nearly choked on a bite of pastry that he quickly swallowed. “Aye. Jaysus, aye! That’s what we planned. It’s why I came—to help ye. Be yer studio assistant, like in Chicago.”
“But this isn’t Chicago, and I’m not the Lane that you thought you knew. He was my twin, and an artist in his own right until death took him from me. Since Lane Davenport is what I’m already known by professionally, I will continue using my brother’s nam
e for my art. At home, here, I am Elena. If I’d come with Mother, I would likely have stayed that way, since the English seem much more supportive of women in literature and in art. Still, I don’t know how you feel about working for a woman. You and Mrs. Bailey at the haberdashery didn’t exactly get along.”
Daniel blushed profusely, adorably, his Irish complexion flooding with color. “Well,” he said, grimacing. “That’s another story. She, um, well…shite.” The last word was muttered beneath his breath, and the lingering aftertaste cleansed with a mouthful of whiskey.
He looked across the table at me. “I have no problem working for a woman,” he said firmly. “Just that woman. And that’s all ye’ll hear about it from me.”
Having experienced Mrs. Bailey when she thought I was a single young man, it would not surprise me to learn that she’d been even bolder with someone in her employ.
“Good, then.” This, from Edward. “If you are not too tired, I thought I would show you both the space, to see if you think it will work for you. There is a loft that could be made into a suitable living space, but it would certainly be more convenient for Elena if you would agree to live here. There are any number of unused bedrooms to choose from, apart from hers and from mine. She has studio space on the third floor for smaller projects that can be completed here. On days that she works at her studio, you’ll be able to accompany her, see that she gets safely there and back, hmm?”
I could see the wheels in Daniel’s head turning, perhaps putting two and two together. Edward lived here. I lived here. He’d be a fool to choose a loft apartment over a bedroom across the hall from mine.
Daniel shrugged as if it didn’t matter, but I knew him too well. It did. It most certainly did.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The space that Edward found was a former church, ancient stone and broken windows. Above the massive twin front doors, a balcony stretched across the back of the sanctuary, propped on sturdy stone pillars carved to withstand the test of time.
At least a dozen pigeons exploded from the rafters at our intrusion. In the late August heat, it stank to high heaven. The stone floor was strewn with God knew what, and it looked as if it had sheltered some of London’s homeless on the bitterest of nights. There were at least two places blackened by fire. It was abused and derelict and one of the filthiest spaces I’d ever seen, and I was already madly in love with it.
My artist’s eye saw the potential. Replace the windows with clear leaded glass, allowing northern and southern light to flood in. Repair the roof to make it rain-tight. Make a clean sweep of everything not worth salvaging. Scrub it down from top to bottom and start hauling in my crates.
I couldn’t wait.
“Do it,” I breathed, though not too deeply when dust stirred by the pigeons still filled the air. “Please, Edward. It’s perfect. Just perfect.”
Daniel rubbed the back of his neck, seeking to ease the tension. “It will be perfect, ye mean. There’s massive work to be done afore we get there.”
“I know. I know. But just look. Look at it! Nothing else has come close, not within walking distance. To think, it’s only half a mile.”
I was willing to walk two. Three, if need be. I already owned sensible shoes. Anyone who’d marched with the infantry understood the importance of a low heel, a good sole, and proper fit. I knew full well that Daniel would need a pair. Two pairs. One for everyday wear, one for dress. His familiar sturdy boots would work for such times as they were needed, but this was London. We would be living among the gentry and courting them as customers.
I made a mental note to talk to Edward about a cobbler, and a tailor for expanding Daniel’s wardrobe.
Edward gestured towards the door. “I suggest that we continue this discussion in air that is fit to breathe, shall we?”
It was less discussion than listening to Edward’s plans. “The roof can be addressed while new windows are made,” he said as we walked toward his house. “I know a cleaning crew that will leave the interior immaculate. The next time you see it, it will be ready to transform into gallery and studio workspace. We’ll make a living space in the choir loft. A table and chairs for eating. A wardrobe and folding screen for changing into and out of work clothes or costumes. A daybed or fainting couch for those occasions when you need to quiet your stomach or ease your soldier’s heart.”
“Yer stomach?”
I stopped and turned to look at Daniel, walking behind us.
His face was etched with concern. “Is it…How have ye been?”
I smiled softly, hoping to reassure him. “Manageable,” I said. “Edward’s father Dr. Wainwright is a skilled surgeon and a germ theorist, like yourself. The two of you should rub along quite nicely. As for the other, it seems that news of my mother’s death and all the revelations in its wake have left me in a state of half-cock, ready to go off at the merest trigger. The episodes have been more frequent. Some of them have been…well…, like Falstaff’s.”
Daniel winced, knowing how bad that one had been. I thanked God that he’d been there to scrape me off the floor and help me home.
“Another reason for you to live at Edward’s,” I said, fighting the absurd urge to cry at the softness that shaped Daniel’s face, his tender regard. “He is gone much of the time, and although he has a very competent and capable staff, none of them know me, or understand me, as you do, Daniel. I’m selfish, I know, but I want you—I need you to stay with us. Please?”
I laid my gloved hand upon the sleeve of his jacket. He dropped his gaze to where we were connected and inhaled sharply, flicking his gaze to Edward then back to meet mine.
There was a new, lambent warmth in his beautiful green eyes. He was mine. He was still mine.
“Fine,” he said softly, his Irish brogue making it sound more like foin. “Fine.”
“Splendid,” Edward hummed, stepping into the street to hail an approaching hackney carriage. “Daniel, if you would, please see Elena home. I shall see about buying her studio, hmm?”
The cab’s fare had no objection to sharing. I had yet to learn Daniel’s openness to it, but Edward was giving us the privacy that we needed to explore our options. He shook Daniel’s hand, then reached out and stroked my cheek.
I caught his hand, turned my head, and kissed his palm. “Thank you, Sir.”
There was no mistaking the blue flame that sparked in Edward’s eyes. Daniel saw it, too, but held his tongue until Edward was in the cab and on his way.
We stood there in awkward silence broken only by birdsong and the occasional chirp of a cricket.
“Tell me,” he said, bracing himself for the worst.
I squeezed his forearm. Beneath the layers of cloth that separated us was the tensile strength of corded muscles.
“Tell me,” I parried. “You packed my studio. My apartment. All of it, including my sketchbooks. Did you look at them?”
His jaw clenched. “Aye,” he grated.
“The list. The sketches.” There had to be hundreds. I’d been drawing him for years. “Surely you must know.”
Daniel’s eyes narrowed, sharp as a hawk’s. “Yer last ones were of him.”
I pulled back my hand, breaking contact, stung by the tone of his voice. “Yes, they were. Edward came and provided a new face, a safe face for my fantasies. He’d soon be gone and I wouldn’t have to lie alone in my bed and struggle against the urge to make them a reality. Daniel, what would you have done if I’d come to you, ready to confess six years of secrets? Some men would have seen only my short hair and male attire and judged me unnatural. Ugly. A freak. A liar.”
He shook his head slowly. “Ah, Lane.”
“Lanie,” I said softly, wistfully. “Or so I was called, once upon a time, anyway.” Hearing it, I realized how much I’d missed being her—young and carefree, bursting with dreams and ready to live life to the fullest.
“Lanie.” He rolled it on his tongue, testing it and finding it to his liking. Let Edward call me Elena. To him, I would gl
adly be Lanie. “If anything, ye are unique. A handsome lad and a handsomer lass. An independent woman, which is a freakish thing in most men’s minds. I won’t argue with the liar. Just swear to tell me the truth from here on out, will ye?”
“I swear,” I said, with every intention of honoring his request.
He looked at me a long moment, bored into my gaze and held it, unwavering, until he was satisfied with what he saw. “Good.”
I released the breath I’d been holding when he proffered his arm. I took it, and we began walking again. To the casual observer, we were a couple enjoying a pleasant stroll on a Sunday afternoon, but a new tension had taken hold, and I had a good idea where it would eventually take us, if Daniel was willing to share me with Edward.
Of course, Edward would want to share Daniel, but that remained to be seen. I had never known Daniel to keep company with a man—other than myself, of course. Then again, he had been my boon companion.
Silence fell between us, less awkward than heightened with a growing awareness of each other in our new roles, male and female, though professionally we had not changed. I was still the artist. Daniel was my assistant. I gave directions and issued orders. Daniel occasionally balked but ultimately obeyed.
“Come,” I said, sweeping past Young Frank, who’d answered the door for us. Although I lived here, I still felt a guest and knocked like any other. “Let’s find you a room and get you settled.”
I showed him the one directly across from mine. “You can look at the others,” I told him, “but my room is there.” I nodded towards the closed door. “If you’re here, and we’re breakfasting or doing whatever together, it makes sense to be close, don’t you think?”
“Aye,” he said, dropping his gaze and shifting on his booted feet.
“So we are agreed? You’ll take this one?”
He shrugged a shoulder as if he didn’t care, but there was an energy about him that said it mattered very much indeed. “Aye. Like ye said, it makes sense.”
