'Til Morning Light

by Ann Moore

  At last, he drew up the carriage in front of a French restaurant that had opened to glowing reports, jokingly reassuring her that she would not have to eat snails or frog legs. She laughed politely, reminding herself that he had never experienced true hunger, let alone starvation; people ate what was available to them, what they had to eat in order to stay alive. Jokes like this weren’t funny to her, but she needn’t make an issue of it, especially not tonight when clearly her nerves were raw. Peter was a kind and sensitive man, she told herself, and she needed to keep her focus on the many things they had in common rather than on those things that made them different. She shook her head, determined to clear it of gloom, to fill it with the pleasure of this evening and of this man whom she loved.

  “Look at the crowd!” She made her voice lively as he helped her down. “Are they all waiting to get in?”

  “It’s a popular place,” he confided, proud of his decision to come here. “But I reserved our table in advance.”

  Reinders took her arm and led her through the crowd, which parted reluctantly until the people realized that this was quality coming out to dine. All eyes took in the lovely auburn-haired woman in the green dress escorted by the tall, commanding gentleman in top hat and evening clothes. Once inside, they were greeted by a harried, yet elegant-looking maître d’hôtel who led them to an intimate table on the far side of the room. He seated them both, then proceeded to announce in his heavily accented English that oysters were the specialty of the evening, presented in several different dishes, which he described at length, much to Grace’s delight. She stopped him several times to ask about the ingredients in certain sauces and to beg an explanation of the process of soufflé, giving him in exchange her grandmother’s secret for delicate sorrel sauce over salmon and buttermilk potatoes. The two got on so well that the maître d’ pulled up a chair and joined them, calling for a bottle of champagne, his gift to a fellow gourmand. Only the increasing grumbles of waiting patrons interrupted their conversation, and it was with clear reluctance that the fellow left at last, promising to return before the end of their meal.

  “Another admirer to add to your collection,” Reinders teased. “And this one comes with champagne! I don’t know how you do it. Even old Wakefield is smitten.”

  “He’s not so old,” Grace replied, fingers touching the stem of her wineglass. “And he’s certainly not smitten. Grateful, perhaps, for my seeing to Abigail and the house, but nothing more than that.”

  “Grace.” Reinders waited for her to look up. “Believe me, the man’s smitten. He can’t take his eyes off you for a minute, and his posturing … well, it’s proprietary, at best.”

  “Do you mean he acts as if he owns me?” Grace frowned.

  “Not own, no,” Reinders clarified. “But clearly he considers there to be a bond between you that is equal to, or maybe even greater than, the bond between you and me.”

  Grace shook her head. “You’re wrong, Peter. He’d no one else to talk with about Abigail and the child, for privacy’s sake, you know. But now Doctor Fairfax is back, the two of them will take it all over and leave me to my kitchen.”

  “You don’t know men like I do. Wakefield has no intention of leaving you to your kitchen.”

  “What are you saying? That the doctor plans on seducing me away from you? Is that what it is?” Grace asked angrily. “Because if so, then you’re giving me no credit a’tall for being my own person.”

  “I’m just saying he’s a man.” Reinders leaned back defensively. “No different from any other man.”

  “And you’re all just dogs, is that it? Only interested in what the other one’s chewing on, looking to take it away?” Grace sighed and her anger fell away as quickly as it had come up. “I don’t want to argue with you, Peter. Doctor Wakefield’s never been less than a gentleman with me, but if my working for him bothers you—and I’m thinking it does—then I say let’s be done with the whole thing.”

  “What?” Reinders blanched.

  “That’s right. I’ll quit the place straight off and come to you. We can be married next week, if you like.”

  “Next week? But what about the May wedding—church, flowers, dress, all that?”

  Grace shrugged wearily. “They’re only things. And things don’t matter next to people.” She leaned forward. “I know how much you wanted Lars and Detra to be at the wedding, how disappointed you were when you found out they wouldn’t be.”

  “Disappointed with Lars,” Reinders pointed out. “Not with you. Lars is the one who decided he had to be in Europe for the summer season and booked an earlier steamer without consulting anyone. I never expected you to change the wedding date because of that.”

  “But aren’t they your closest friends, your business partners all these years? Didn’t you say how you wished he could stand up with you?”

  “Well, sure.” Reinders slipped a finger inside his collar to loosen it. “But listen, Mack’ll do it. And Liam’s here, too. The important thing is that we’ve set a date and we’re moving forward on that. The house won’t be ready until then anyway, and I’m sure the children won’t want to leave Wakefield’s just yet.”

  Grace dismissed those reasons with a wave of her hand. “And why would they not? You’ve said Jack and Mary Kate can bring their dogs along, and won’t Mister Hewitt be happy to teach them wherever they live? As for the house, your housekeeper and I can take care of it ourselves.”

  Reinders was floored; for all his badgering, Grace had never once wavered in her resolve that theirs would be a May wedding, and he realized now that he hadn’t expected her to. The thought of marrying next week, of bringing Grace and the children—especially Jack, whom he had yet to win over—into the house, into his daily life, gave him serious pause, and he found himself stalling.

  “What about Abigail? You said before that you wanted to be there when she meets her child, help her with all that. And you’ll need more than a week to find a new cook for them unless Enid takes over. But then you’ll have to hire a new housekeeper …” Reinders’ voice trailed off as he felt the pressure of her hand on top of his.

  “Did we not have this very conversation at Christmastime? Only I believe ’twas I making all the excuses.” Grace smiled ruefully. “I’m tired, Peter. I don’t mind admitting it. I was tired before I left Kansas and now I’m all done in, weary to my very soul. I can’t take another step.”

  Silenced by the honesty of her confession, the captain picked up her hand instead and pressed it to his lips.

  “I came here to marry you, Peter; really I did. Mary Kate and Jack, they’ve been through so much, and I wanted a peaceful life for us all, a life with you. But instead, I got us all caught up in the lives of others.” Grace’s eyes filled with tears. “I should’ve married you in New York. But maybe Jack wouldn’t’ve found me. Maybe Mary Kate would’ve died in the cholera.” She shook her head. “I just don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. I didn’t marry you then, and I’m sorry. And I hope you can forgive me, and that you still want me after all I’ve been such an eejit, wasting so much time and all.”

  “I do,” he said quietly. “I do want you. More than you know.”

  They looked at one another through the flickering candlelight, and then the waiter arrived, setting before them each a beautifully arranged plate and another bottle of wine, which he opened with a flourish.

  “Are you all right?” Reinders asked when they were alone again.

  She nodded, but her hand shook as she lifted the glass to her lips and drank.

  “You’re overwrought. I can see that. It has been too much for you, and, sick as I’ve been, I’ve only added to your burden.” He leaned forward. “But you’ll feel better in the morning, Grace, and I think you’d regret rushing our wedding when everything has been arranged for May.”

  Grace nodded again and tried to smile, lips trembling tearfully as she fought to suppress the sadness now flooding her heart. Something had slipped away from them in that moment,
she knew it even as she tried not to. Something had been lost, and no matter what happened now, they would have to go on without it.

  “We will be married,” Reinders promised fervently. “I only want you to be happy, Grace. Whatever that means, whatever it is, I want you to have it. And you will have it. Just wait a little longer; that’s all.”

  “Aye,” she agreed quietly. “You’re right. ’Tis best to wait.”

  “That’s my girl.” He patted her hand, then picked up his fork. “Watch out; here comes your new admirer to see how you like your dinner. Better try a bite.”

  Grace dutifully lifted a forkful of baked oysters in butter and cream and breadcrumbs to her mouth and felt it melt there, though she tasted nothing at all.

  “How does madame like?” The maître d’hôtel waited anxiously for her reply. “Too much pepper, maybe, for you?”

  “’Tis delicious,” Grace pronounced, smiling up at him. “The finest oysters I ever ate in all my life. The sauce is perfect.”

  “I am so very happy.” The maître d’ beamed. “And after your last course, you will have my famous gâteau chocolat. It is compliments of your friend Doctor Rowen Wakefield, as a gift for you on this special evening.”

  Grace bit her lip and looked at Reinders, who burst out laughing.

  “Maybe I’d better marry you next week after all,” the captain chuckled.

  “But of course.” The maître d’ shrugged his shoulders as if it were obvious. “Only a fool would not.”

  Thirty-four

  Customers of the the House of Good Fortune usually appeared surreptitiously and one at a time, two at the most, so the arrival of three together—two men and a woman—put Mei Ling on her guard.

  “Good morning,” she greeted them in her careful English. “Ah, how may I help?”

  “Good morning, madam.” Wakefield took off his hat and approached the counter. “Who is the owner of this establishment?”

  Mei Ling considered Chang-Li’s extended absence. “Mister Sung come later. Mei Ling can serve.”

  Wakefield suspected Mister Sung was at this very moment asleep in the room behind that curtain; though the shop had been aired, his trained nose caught a hint of stale opium smoke.

  “Mister Sung?” he called firmly. “Come out at once!”

  Mei Ling followed Wakefield’s eyes to the curtain and then she turned back to him, frowning.

  Clearly Wakefield was going to have to deal with this young woman. “We are looking for particular things,” he explained. “Things which have been stolen from us.”

  Mei Ling shook her head. “We buy only, sell only.”

  “Of course.” Now Wakefield spoke slowly, as if to a child, and raised his voice, as if the child were hard of hearing. “A woman—a servant … servant”—he repeated, pointing to Mei Ling—”stole from us. Jewelry.” He looked at Grace, but she was wearing none, so he mimed earrings, bracelets, a necklace. “Jewelry,” he repeated. “Understand?”

  Mei Ling nodded once, her face impassive.

  “Brought it here,” he continued. “To the House of Good Fortune. We want it back. We buy it back,” he corrected, and when she appeared puzzled, he began all over again. “A woman—my housekeeper—stole from us—”

  Exasperated, Captain Reinders stepped forward.

  “Excuse me, Wakefield.” He moved the doctor out of the way and then, to everyone’s amazement, he spoke to the girl in her own language, though haltingly and with much correction. Mei Ling listened more intently now, head tipped to one side, and then replied.

  “Could’ve saved me the trouble.” Wakefield’s tone carried a hint of irritation. “Why didn’t you say you knew Chinese?”

  “I don’t. Just enough to bark at dockworkers and order dumplings in a noodle house, but clearly you weren’t getting anywhere, so …” Reinders shrugged. “I tried to tell her about the stolen box and the things inside, and to describe your housekeeper. I don’t know if she understood me or not, but she did say ‘no’ twice.”

  Mei Ling watched them talk, only her eyes shifting in a neutral face; she understood them perfectly well—Missus Smith of the injured-husband-and-many-children story had been a servant of these people and had stolen from them, had taken away from them the wooden box. Mei Ling could not fully ascertain who the two men were, but the woman with eyes the color of a troubled sea was familiar. Mei Ling studied this woman out of the corner of her own eye and then it came to her—the portrait that hung in the window of the William Shew Gallery. There were several images currently displayed there, but Mei Ling had found herself drawn to that of the mother and children, to their quiet dignity and the way the children looked upon the mother with such love. Mei Ling had wished for the courage to go inside the gallery and see the others, but simply walking the streets as an independent person took all of her inner fortitude, and so she had been content to simply stand on the sidewalk and gaze at the mother from there. The mother. Mei Ling held herself very still.

  “We’ll look around, madam. Miss.” Wakefield’s voice boomed in the small shop, breaking Mei Ling’s reverie. “Tell her, Captain.”

  Reinders glanced at Mei Ling, who nodded politely and gestured to the glass-topped counter under which lay displays of jewelry, coins, timepieces, guns, knives, and a selection of table silver. Grace came forward and joined Wakefield, bending over the case and shading her eyes to see more clearly through the glass. Slowly, they inched their way along, until suddenly Wakefield stood straight and tapped the glass excitedly.

  “Aha!” the doctor exclaimed. “This bracelet belonged to Abigail! She wore it at Christmas! See here, Missus Donnelly—does it look familiar to you?”

  Grace moved in closer. “Aye,” she agreed. “I think you’re right.”

  “Madam! Miss!” Wakefield waved Mei Ling over and showed her what he was interested in. “This belonged to my sister. How much to buy it back from you? How … much?”

  Mei Ling opened the back of the case and removed the bracelet, then checked the little tag that hung from it. “Thirty dollar.” She kept her eyes lowered.

  Wakefield looked as if he were about to protest for a moment, but then he closed his mouth and got out his wallet. Mei Ling reached under the counter for paper in which to wrap his purchase. Grace continued to look through the things, hoping to see Morgan’s ring or gold hoops, but it was Captain Reinders who exclaimed next.

  “Those are my cuff links, by God!” The captain put both hands on the case and peered even more closely. “And that’s”—he looked up at Grace incredulously, and then back down—”that’s Darmstadt’s pocket watch!”

  “Arnott,” Grace said, voicing her suspicion.

  “The bastard. I’ll have him strung up by the ballocks for this. Damn his eyes!”

  “Captain.” Wakefield glanced pointedly at Grace and the young Chinese woman.

  “Pardon me, ladies,” Reinders apologized between clenched teeth, but then continued his muttering. “Lot of nerve … top dollar and time off, beside. I’ll give him time off, all right.” He turned to Mei Ling. “Wrap these up.”

  Again Mei Ling opened the case and removed the objects, checked their tags, and announced their price. Reinders paid, threatening to take it out of Arnott’s hide, while Grace continued to look the length of the case, eyes straining to see into every corner. And finally she spied something familiar.

  “Peter! Your ring!”

  He came over immediately, then squeezed her shoulders when he saw what she’d found.

  “Here!” He called over his shoulder. “We’ll take this one, too.”

  “Hopkins must’ve brought the box in,” Grace speculated hopefully. “The ring was in the box. It must be here!”

  “I’ll ask again, but …” Reinders hesitated. “Hopkins might’ve taken the ring out, Grace. She might’ve thrown the box away before she ever got to this shop. Just don’t get your hopes up.”

  Grace nodded and turned to Mei Ling, watching the girl’s face with excruciating
focus as Reinders attempted again to communicate. When he described the box, gesturing with both hands, Grace was sure she saw a flicker of something on the girl’s face—recognition, perhaps, she hoped, and her heart soared—but then Mei Ling lowered her eyes and shook her head, saying only a few quiet words.

  “Either she doesn’t know what I’m talking about, or she doesn’t have the box. She says the woman who brought in the bracelet also brought in the emerald. That’s all. I’m sorry.”

  “At least we got your ring back.” Grace tried to smile. “That’s something, then.”

  “Your ring.” Reinders handed it to her. “And it’s not much. Considering what you wanted to find.”

  Grace’s eyes filled with tears and she turned away, hoping he wouldn’t notice, but suddenly she was sobbing, unable to control herself. She covered her face with her hands, mortified and desperately trying to regain her composure.

  “My dear!” Wakefield hurried to her side and started to put an arm around her, but then patted her shoulder instead. “Please, Missus Donnelly, please. Calm yourself now. All’s not lost. I promise we won’t leave any stone unturned.”

  “What else do you suggest?” Reinders asked, irritated with the doctor for what he thought was nothing more than the prolonging of Grace’s misery. “What other stone is there?”