He did not think it a very good prayer in terms of whatever proper words or phrases ought to have been in it. All he could do was say what was troubling him. What was he going to do for Julia? What could he do? He had to do something, even if he never saw her again—which in his heart he still refused to believe. The prospect was unbearable. He told that to God, too, while he was at it. If he was going to get things off his chest, he might as well cover everything. He spoke out loud, just as if he were talking to a person sitting next to him.
“Amen.” He knew enough about prayer to end with that.
The room settled into silence. He waited, but no great revelation burst into his brain. He felt marginally better for having expressed his troubles verbally, but it did not appear that any divine guidance was forthcoming. The Lord evidently knew when a prayer was offered in desperation from an unbeliever. Michael could only hope that Julia’s prayers, whatever they were, would be answered. She, at least, deserved it.
As he sat there, the frustration began to creep back into the few recesses it had vacated. Feeling suddenly restless, he stood up, walked over to the window, and looked out. The day was gray and drizzly, yet it perfectly matched his mood. He donned his coat and grabbed an umbrella. There was nothing to do but try to walk off this agitation. Solvitur ambulando.
He walked across the courtyard at Gray’s Inn, past solid brick buildings, past the venerable old dining hall where once Shakespeare’s company had performed The Comedy of Errors. Past all the things that were symbols to him of success, the proof that he’d buried his family’s unpalatable past and was gaining what he wanted from this world. He walked out the gate without a backward glance.
On Gray’s Inn Road, he turned left simply because there seemed to be fewer people in that direction. Michael had walked down this road countless times. He knew every way to reach the City and the courts. His surroundings were blurred by the rain and familiarity as he walked, so wrapped up in his thoughts that he saw little else.
Thunder boomed overhead, though it was barely distinguishable from the rumble of traffic on the cobblestones. The wind picked up, too. Michael turned up the collar of his coat but did not pause as he continued down the street. As the drizzle became stronger, he walked faster. Not to outrun the rain, but in a desperate bid to outpace his restlessness.
He was still so wrapped up in memories, worries, and self-recrimination that he was almost surprised to find himself standing at the corner of Leadenhall Street, where many of London’s important businesses were located. He paused, trying to decide whether to go left or right. The heavens opened in earnest.
Even Michael had to admit this was enough. He ducked into the doorway of the nearest building, a massive edifice with its entryway recessed under a cover of arched stone. He was content to wait it out, knowing a downpour like this was not likely to last long.
He watched the rain splatter on the road, heard it gush out of a nearby downspout. A few people rushed by under the scant protection of their umbrellas. Cabs and carriages continued on, their horses inured to the rain.
Michael breathed in deeply, finding this deluge almost refreshing. London was a dirty, smoke-filled place, with soot everywhere. A rain like this settled the dust, even if the price paid was more mud.
Gradually, as the rain slacked off, a sign on the building across the street caught his attention. It was the headquarters for the Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company. The firm co-owned by Jamie Anderson. An idea began forming in Michael’s mind.
Going in to see Anderson was not something he as a counselor would have advised a client to do, given Anderson’s wife’s connection to the lawsuit. Walking across the street and into the P&O offices might be inadvisable, especially with the court date looming. Michael disregarded all these considerations. This had nothing to do with the lawsuit. It had only to do with Julia.
Gray clouds were still overhead, but in Michael’s mind, a bit of sun had broken through.
The P&O headquarters was a large and busy place, but Michael soon found a clerk who could show him to Jamie Anderson’s private office. Everything in the room befitted the owner of a successful shipping enterprise: in addition to the large desk, there was a table covered with maps, papers, and even a yard-long model of a steamship. A bookcase, filled with shipping registers and other related books, dominated one wall; paintings and prints of ships covered the others.
Anderson received Michael courteously, although his surprise was evident. Once they were seated with the door closed, Michael explained his reason for coming. Doing so wasn’t easy. The plan was simple enough, but detailing what he had in mind without revealing the depth of his feelings for Julia—that was the challenge. Countless hours in the courtroom had made him proficient at displaying the right expression for any circumstance. But what had been easy to do for his profession was far more difficult when the matter was personal and so near to his heart.
His aim had been to give the impression of merely having a friendly interest in Julia. Based on the thoughtful way Anderson was studying him, however, Michael didn’t think he’d been entirely successful.
“I want to be sure I understand clearly,” Anderson said. “You want to find a way to anonymously fund Miss Bernay with a tutor so that she can pass the preliminary exam that will enable her to begin medical studies.”
Michael understood what Anderson was really asking. “I know this sounds surprising coming from me. But yes, that’s what I wish to do.”
“May I presume, therefore, that you don’t believe certain legal actions pending against the London School of Medicine for Women present an existential threat to that institution?”
Michael donned the polite, barrister smile that he used whenever he had to answer a client’s request in the negative. “I’m sure you understand why I am not at liberty to discuss that particular case. But I will point out that Miss Bernay has no connection to the lawsuit—nor, at this time, does she have any official connection with the medical school. My aim is only to help her be successful in her goal to acquire higher learning. What she does with the knowledge she gains is entirely her own business.”
All of this was legally true; and ethically, it was on solid ground. But to Michael’s ears, he sounded like some attorneys he knew who overstated an argument in a vain attempt to add credibility to a questionable defense.
“You are providing this aid merely as a friend? Nothing more?” The slightest lift of a brow telegraphed Anderson’s real meaning.
The question hit home. Michael exerted every ounce of self-control to keep from shifting in his seat or showing any other sign of how uncomfortable he was. “You could say that.”
But Anderson had already gleaned his answer. He leaned back in his chair and said casually, “I understand your point about separating a . . . personal connection, shall we say, from what is going on in the larger context of current events. I have had to do plenty of that for the past ten years, so I sympathize with your situation.”
He paused, and Michael nodded in acknowledgment.
“My wife had already gained a good bit of notoriety before we’d even met. I never begrudged her any of that, nor did it prevent me from falling hopelessly in love with her, even though plenty of people warned me I’d regret it.”
Another pause as Anderson looked at him. Michael kept his expression neutral and mildly interested, as though not catching the undercurrent in Anderson’s words.
“She and I had a pact right from the beginning,” Anderson continued. “Our professional lives would be carried on independent of one another. I told her I meant to be a successful man of business, neither interfering with her pursuits nor being interfered with by her—except, of course, for the very natural conversations and advice we might informally give to one another as husband and wife. And, of course, we would cheer each other’s successes as well. She readily agreed, and we adhere to that rule to this day. From time to time, someone will try to urge me to publicly support—or interfere
with, depending on the person and the issue—something my wife is trying to accomplish. I tell them they are wasting their time by coming to me. What Dr. Anderson does in the public sphere is entirely her own business. The result of all this is that ten years on, we are still incredibly happy.”
There was one photograph in the room that was not related to shipping. It stood in a frame on Anderson’s desk. He nudged it a little so that Michael could view it clearly. The Andersons, along with their two small children, a boy and a girl, were seated together, looking the very picture of contentment. Michael felt a stab of . . . what? Self-pity? Sorrow? Jealousy? All the emotions he could not and would not allow himself to indulge in.
“I like to think that we are proof that marriages built on mutual support of separate pursuits can happily exist,” Anderson went on. “We are not by any means the first couple to do so, and yet I think such examples are still too rare. I should certainly like to see more of them. Wouldn’t you?”
A lifetime with Julia was something Michael would contemplate with immense happiness. If only it were possible. Since it was not, he had to steer the conversation back on track. “Perhaps in the future more men will be as forward-thinking on this subject as you are.” He paused long enough to allow Anderson to receive the compliment and acknowledge it with a slight tip of his head. “Now, about getting this money to Miss Bernay . . .”
Anderson didn’t press the point. He picked up his pen and pulled some paper from his desk. “Yes, let us devise a plan. I don’t believe it will be too difficult to find some plausible pretext for getting her the money. But won’t she suspect it came from you anyway?”
“Not necessarily. She isn’t surprised when gifts seem to fall on her out of the blue. She’s already ascribed many such incidents in her life to blessings from God.” He tried to add an ironic air to his words, to project that he himself did not believe them.
“I suppose this makes you an agent of God?”
Michael stared at him, nonplussed. He’d been many things over the years—son, brother, barrister—but that was certainly one description he would never have applied to himself. “I’m sure you know plenty of people who hold a far different opinion of me.”
Anderson laughed. “What a shame that I shall not be able to disabuse them of that notion, since you are determined to keep your identity in this matter confidential.”
Michael held out his hands in a gesture of mock defeat. “It’s a burden I shall have to live with.”
After a grin in response, Anderson began to tap pen on paper, thinking. “The school has many generous patrons. I’ll approach a few of them for ideas and let you know something in a day or two. How can I reach you?”
“I think a letter to me in care of the Carlton Club would be the best way.”
Anderson made a quick note. “Very good.”
He stood up, and Michael followed suit.
As they walked to the door, Michael paused to take a closer look at the model ship.
“That’s our newest,” Anderson said, beaming with pride. “I went to the shipyard in Glasgow just last week to have a look at her. She launches in two months’ time.”
Michael’s eye traveled over the full bookshelves. “Looks like you have been doing this for a long time.”
“Over twenty years. The company was founded by my uncle, but that doesn’t mean I was handed this position. I started as an assistant and worked my way up.”
“I suppose you know a lot about shipping worldwide—not just to the orient?”
“Naturally. It’s part of the job.” He eyed Michael and said with a smile, “You’re not by chance looking to change professions?”
“No, but . . .” Michael realized, with a sudden sense of things coming together, that there might well be a second reason he’d been led to come here. It could be a wild goose chase, but he would never know if he didn’t ask. “If you can spare a few more minutes of your time, I’d like to ask your advice on another matter. One that relates to merchant shipping.”
“Be happy to,” Anderson responded amiably. “What would you like to know?”
CHAPTER
25
THE EARL’S HOME WAS TWO MILES from the train station. Julia decided to walk the distance, since the money she’d spent on the train ticket was all she could spare. It had been raining all week in London, but here the roads were reasonably dry. The gray clouds overhead appeared threatening, but it was windy, too, so Julia thought there was a good chance they would blow over.
She got directions from the station attendant, who pointed her toward the road leading out of the far end of the village. Repinning her hat against the breeze, she set off.
Julia was no stranger to walking, and the distance was easily covered. She knew she was at the right place when she reached two stone pillars framing a wide entrance to a private drive. The house itself was barely visible, being set back among stately oak trees. Although evidence of the earl’s large household staff was everywhere, from the perfectly tended hedges to the raked gravel drive, Julia saw no one about. The elegant wrought-iron gate was open, so she did not hesitate to walk through it, striding purposefully up the long drive.
Despite her resolve to come here and speak to the earl directly, Julia couldn’t help feeling daunted as the mansion came fully into view. It was massive and imposing, with a semicircular set of stone steps leading up to the wide front door. Flowers and statuary abounded on the green lawns around the house. She marveled that Edith was so willing to leave this opulence behind.
As she approached the door, Julia imagined finely dressed women holding their skirts delicately as they walked up these same steps, accompanied by gentlemen in silk top hats. It was a testament to how vividly the place spoke of grandeur and wealth, for she was not normally prone to such daydreams. She reached the door and, not knowing what else to do, rapped on it soundly.
The wind rustled the trees and brought a sprinkling of raindrops to her face. A very long minute or two elapsed, during which the rain began in earnest. Julia was about to knock again when the door finally opened.
Tall and dignified in his black coat and stiff white collar, the butler looked at Julia and then glanced beyond her, as though looking for a carriage or any other conveyance that might have brought her here. Seeing she was alone, and clearly had arrived on foot, his expression took on a suspicious frown as his gaze returned to her. “May I help you, madam?”
“Is Lord Westbridge at home?”
“May I ask what brings you here today?” he countered.
“I am here on business for Lady Edith.”
The name had a visible effect on the butler. His head drew up in surprise. “Are you saying she is known to you personally?”
“Yes, that’s what I’m saying.” She could not believe they were having this conversation while she stood in the rain. “May I come in?” she prompted. “It is rather wet out here.”
With the air of conceding to a burdensome request, the butler stepped back, motioning Julia forward. Once she was inside and the door firmly shut against the weather, he said, “Wait here, please.”
She watched as he crossed the cavernous entry hall, heels tapping on the tile floor, and disappeared through a door at the far end.
As the minutes stretched by, Julia imagined the conversation going on between the butler and the earl. “She says she is here on business, my lord,” the butler would be saying, scrunching his nose a little. “Business?” the earl would reply, to which the butler would utter, in half-whispered tones, the forbidden name: “For Lady Edith.” The earl would be flabbergasted. Or maybe irate. Or more likely, unyielding in his refusal to speak to her.
At this thought, Julia decided to remove her coat. She placed it and her hat, which was wilted from the rain, onto a narrow side table. It was a positive action to demonstrate that she wasn’t going to be put off from her purpose. She was fully prepared to force her way in to the earl’s study if need be, like the knights of old storming castle w
alls. Now that she was inside the gates, so to speak, she could not be turned back.
In the end, however, extreme measures were unnecessary. The butler returned and announced, “His lordship will see you.”
She followed him back down the hall, and he ushered her into a large library. Bookcases two stories high held hundreds of leather-bound volumes. A sofa and leather chairs were comfortably arranged near an impressive stone fireplace. Tall windows looked onto the expansive garden. Julia immediately thought that if she were ever asked to describe her idea of heaven, it would look just like this.
Except she might not have included the scent of cigar smoke hanging in the air. Or perhaps it was a pipe. It wasn’t altogether unpleasant, giving the impression of masculinity and the lord of the manor. It was not something she was well acquainted with, having only been exposed to it while on occasional visits to Mrs. Staunton’s home in Clifton. She’d noticed it once or twice at the Barkers’ residence, too.
And there was the lord of the manor himself, standing next to a chair that he must have been occupying before the butler had alerted him of Julia’s arrival. He was staring at her coldly. “State your business, madam.”
“Good afternoon, Lord Westbridge,” she said, refusing to be cowed by his gruff manner. “I’ve come all the way from London, and I thank you for taking time to speak with me.”
He advanced toward her, moving slowly and stiffly. “How long you stay has yet to be determined. You say you have come on business for the woman who calls herself Edith Morton. She has sent an ambassador—someone who hopes to win me over, perhaps.” Upon reaching Julia, he stood very close, staring down his nose at her. “Has she finally seen the error of her ways? Does she wish to make amends?”
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