"Except for Lady Talbot's grandson," she murmured to Mrs. Herceforth as they left, listening to the pealing laughter and feeling generally content with the evening. Casey was startled when the older woman suddenly put a hand on her arm and moved closer to her. At her questioning look, Mrs. Herceforth gestured with her chin to the bottom of the steps.
"Protestors, dear. They are seldom violent, but it's always wise to remain alert."
Indeed, there were several groups of men, and a few women, on the cobblestones, effectively blocking them in. It would be impossible to leave without a confrontation. Mrs. Herceforth did not stop, but continued regally down the steps, keeping Casey nearby. The protestors were quiet, content with just passing out pamphlets and urging the society members to concentrate their efforts on loyal Protestants. Casey had just begun to breathe easier when an ominous, familiar figure blocked her path.
She realized later that Sloan might not have recognized her if she hadn't stopped and looked right at him. She was, after all, wearing "girl" clothes: skirt and jacket, a fashionable wide-brimmed hat with a red scarf tied around it, and her long black overcoat. The shortness of her hair was hidden by the hat. There was nothing about her that looked like the boy who had worked at Harland & Wolff.
It was her face, and the fear she knew it showed, that made him take a closer look, as he paused in the act of handing her a pamphlet.
"Well, I'll be," he practically chortled, "it's Casey Wilson!" His head tilted to the side, an amused and mocking look twisting his mustached features. "Looking proper and all."
Angry, she snatched at the pamphlet he still held in his hand. "Mr. Sloan," she said flatly, "do you also disapprove of gardens?"
He managed to look innocent. "Ach no, Miss Wilson, 'course not." He gave a little bow. "We just want to make sure the society knows our wishes regarding where the gardens should be placed."
"In no Catholic backyards, I take it?"
"Aye, that would be one place," he said, without acknowledging her sarcasm. He tipped his hat to Mrs. Herceforth. "Madam. Hope ye are well this evenin'."
"Marvelous, Mr. Sloan, simply marvelous. How is your brother's London tour coming along?" Mrs. Herceforth seemed genuinely interested, and Casey stared at her. She had to be asking about the brother in parliament. The one Sam had said was a sectarian bigot.
"He's a warm welcome wherever he goes, Mrs. Good of ye to ask."
"So nice to hear it. Do send him my best. Now I must be getting this young lady home. Good night, Mr. Sloan."
"Night, Mrs. Herceforth, Miss Wilson." He stepped aside and no one else bothered them as they approached Mrs. Herceforth's carriage.
"Hop in, dear. I'm delighted to see you home, unless you have other arrangements?"
"Thank you," Casey murmured, confused at the exchange, but stepping into the carriage. "It's not far," she told her as Mrs. Herceforth sat across from her. "I was going to walk."
"Walk? Alone?" Mrs. Herceforth shook her head and tapped Casey on the knee with her parasol. "Lady Pirrie said you were a bit wild, but honestly, dear. Even in America, I don't believe they allow their young ladies to wander the streets at night without escort."
"No ma'am. I guess I just got used to wandering around as a boy. I keep forgetting. I'll make sure my guardian picks me up from now on."
"I take it you know our Mr. Sloan from the shipyard?"
Casey's lips tightened in annoyance. "Yes ma'am. I'm afraid so."
Mrs. Herceforth's laugh filled the carriage. "Such a delicate way to put it! He does mean well, you know."
Casey just raised her eyebrows, and Mrs. Herceforth sighed, folding her hands in her lap. "I suppose I should say that his heart is in the right place, although he is difficult to get along with, sometimes."
"Do you think we should not include Catholic areas in the planned gardens?" Casey asked her.
The older woman looked troubled. "I think it would be best if they had their own chapter and did the work themselves. It's so difficult for us to work with them."
"But surely, they need to associate in some way with the main group? Would they need assistance to get started?"
"I imagine they would. But I think it's best if Sir Plunkett handles that." Her fingers tapped along her arms as she answered Casey. "It's far too dangerous for the general membership to get involved. Ah. Here we are."
Casey disembarked and turn to curtsey. "Thank you for the ride, ma'am. I look forward to seeing you at our next meeting."
"I too, child. Ta!" She waved, as the driver clicked to horses, and the carriage moved smoothly down the street.
Chapter 15
February 1907
“Manager's meeting scheduled for 9:00 a.m.,” Ham informed Tom first thing on a bright day in early February. “Lord Pirrie wants to see you at 8:45 sharp. I’ve already moved the schedule around to free up the time.”
Tom nodded, but glanced quizzically at the calendar. "I thought he wasn't due in from London until Wednesday. Any idea what's up?"
Ham's raised eyebrows answered, Now why the heck would I know? as he handed Tom the morning's reports, and went back to his letters. Tom sighed. These meetings could go on and on, and he had so much to do…
Still, 8:44 found him climbing the stairs in the "corridor of power" to his uncle's panel-lined office. Lord Pirrie was positively jovial as he waved Tom into the leather visitor's chair, finished signing a few papers for Saxon to mail, and then turned to look his nephew up and down appraisingly. Tom returned the look, one corner of his mouth turned up in a quizzical smile. No doubt about it, the old man was up to something.
"Well, Tom," Pirrie began, "you're wrapping up the work on Adriatic. She's the last of the Big Four, and I have to tell you, I'm very pleased. Very pleased, indeed! We're still on line for the maiden voyage on the eighth of May, yes?"
Tom nodded. "All set. We're on the last bit of work for it. Painting is starting next week, cabinets and furnishings are due in after that. She's in good shape."
Pirrie leaned back in his padded chair, still with that appraising look, only now he looked like he'd swallowed the proverbial canary. What was he up to?
"Tom, we're due for some changes around here. I'm setting up a board of Managing Directors to run the day-to-day operations. I'll explain more about it in the meeting, but I want you to take one of those positions, in addition to your duties as Chief Designer."
"You'll be Managing Director, someday." Tom swallowed against the voice in his head, trying desperately not to think about that now. How could Casey know about a position that had never existed before? Had she mentioned something to Aunt Marge during that tea, who then gave the idea to Uncle Will? Who was sitting across from him and waiting for a response. Tom hurried to answer.
“Wonderful! You know I’m honored and delighted to take it. There is so much we can do.”
“Ah, and we’ll do it all, Tommy. We had a rough year in 1906, but the economy’s improving, and I think we have a good chance of getting the place on solid footing. This will be a busy year, but I will also continue to need your help in many delicate matters as time goes by. Be prepared for me to call on you from time to time, as I have in the past, but keep in mind these tasks may need discretion. Can you do that?”
“Certainly, sir.” Tom had no problem with this. Lord Pirrie’s requests had sometimes required a bit of traveling, but this gave him the opportunity to develop contacts around the world, and he enjoyed the trips. He looked forward to this work.
~~~
Lord Pirrie had called in everyone he wanted to assign as a managing director. As Tom followed his uncle into the chairman's conference room, he took the time to look them over. Nine men sat around the polished wood table, a few with cigars already lit. Most of them were old timers, like his cousin and boss, Alexander Carlisle. Mr. Kempster was there, of course, an outsider, but placed in a board position by Lord Pirrie to consolidate certain business deals. That still stung. Tom had felt he had a chance for that position, but h
is uncle had been extremely displeased over Tom's stand on the Home Rule issue, feeling he didn't quite have Tom's full support for his run at parliament. The promotion had been the price. Still, Kempster had proven to be an astute accountant and businessman, and if the firm had not flourished greatly under his tenure, neither had it suffered.
Tom felt good about most of the other men and was especially pleased that his good friend, George Cummings, had been selected. He acknowledged George's raised eyebrow with a small smile as he took his seat. They'd been friends since boyhood, and apprentices together as young men, and he liked to think they had what the company needed to carry on in the future.
It's a good group. They're all devoted to the firm. Even Kempster has a stake in our success. Cousin Alex is the only one who ever gives Uncle Will a hard time and I have to admit, he always knows what he's talking about.
Tom had heard enough gossip to know the workers thought his uncle surrounded himself with men beholden to him, and that only Alexander Carlisle, who had come up in the firm from the beginning, alongside Lord Pirrie, had the freedom and gumption to choose his own way.
The light from the chandelier glittered off the brass handle of the cigar box making its way around the table, as Lord Pirrie laid out his new plan. They spent a few hours organizing the new structure and familiarizing themselves with new duties and reporting deadlines. Lord Pirrie, as usual, wanted to keep a tight rein on each department, and demanded frequent and detailed reports.
They had their usual work to do, as well, and Tom had little time to spare for the nagging worry that had tickled his mind in his uncle's office that morning. So it was that he finished a long and exciting day, and as he settled his office preparatory to leaving for home, Casey's voice suddenly came back to him. It was faint, just a whisper in his ear, but he pulled up short and stared at the papers in his hand. Managing Director… a ship called Titanic… he walked to the wall shelves and pulled out the drawing exercises his team had prepared after Casey left. He stood there holding the rolls for a while, then put them back without opening them. He didn't need to see them. He remembered every detail; indeed, he'd drawn a lot of them himself.
He knew his uncle. This reorganization was preparatory to something else. Something big, that Lord Pirrie would announce when he was ready.
Tom knew what he had to do.
He had to know.
Moving to his desk, he called Sam Altair to arrange a meeting. He was only a little surprised when the physicist invited him over for dinner that evening. Tom assured Sam that he had no problem with Casey being present. In fact, since the warning had originally come from her, he insisted on it. He looked forward to meeting her as she really was.
He could not imagine what she would say and found himself wondering what she looked like. He could still picture Casey the boy, small and thin, agile, close-cropped red hair under a cap, inquisitive green eyes, with small hands quickly bringing order to any system they encountered. Had she given up the boys' clothes and let her hair grow? It had been less than two months; surely it would not be very long, yet. Would she be wearing a dress? Would he recognize her?
He realized again that he had to know.
Perhaps about more than just Titanic.
The house was in the middle-class section of town, surrounded by a small, fenced yard. The grounds were tidy, with rows of hedges and winter vegetables growing along the side. The house was freshly painted and two chairs graced the porch next to a small table. He raised the knocker, letting it fall once.
Dr. Altair seemed pleased to see him, inviting him in with a delighted smile, and hanging his coat and hat on a rack. A delicious smell of bread accompanied the door opening, and Tom wondered if Casey were in the kitchen.
"Thank you for coming, Mr. Andrews." Sam was expansive. "I hope we are able to clear up many of your questions. Please, have a seat. I'll get Casey."
Tom remained standing as Dr. Altair left the room, unwilling yet to sit. He looked over the room. It was neat, and sparsely furnished: the divan, a couple of chairs, a small desk and telephone, a window seat with cushions and pillows that matched the lace curtains. One wall was covered with shelves and books. He smiled, remembering Casey once talking about how she liked to read.
Suddenly she was there, standing in the doorway. And wearing a dress. Tom stared. I should have come sooner, he realized. Casey had been a "pretty boy," as was often stated around the yard, but Casey the woman—for it was a young woman who stood before him and not the girl he had been envisioning—was more than pretty.
Her red hair had grown much longer than he would have thought, falling in curls to the middle of her ears. It was too short to wear up in the style preferred by young women, so she wore it loose, and it framed her face. Her cheeks were rosy from cooking, her green eyes wide and a bit wary. A hint of rouge touched her lips. The dress was blue, and its folds made him long to touch her. How could he ever have mistaken her for a boy? She stood with feminine grace, her dress curved over narrow hips, and a small bosom that was more substantial than he would have thought possible. How had he missed that all those months?
She was altogether enchanting, and as he stared at her, she moved a hand in front of herself, as if self-conscious. Then she seemed to recover, and moved toward him, holding out her hand to shake his. "Mr. Andrews! It is so good to see you!"
She spoke with complete sincerity and he smiled as he took the hand, which was softer than he could have imagined.
"Casey," he murmured, looking into her eyes, and then deliberately bending to kiss the back of the hand. She flushed to her roots, but made no move to reclaim her hand. "You're wearing a dress."
She tilted her head in acknowledgment. He continued, "It's a very lovely dress."
She laughed then and took back her hand, looking pleased and embarrassed. "Thank you," she said simply. "I hope you are well?"
"I am. But something…" his lips quirked as he remembered his errand, "there have been changes at work and I wanted to talk to you, about what you said before you left."
She nodded. "I'm glad you've asked. I know this is all very strange, but we really do want to help you."
He nodded as he answered, his voice shaking a bit, "Thank you. I know this is sudden, but I didn't want to put it off."
She gave him a small smile, moving aside as Sam came in with a tea service. "Just let me get things on the table. I'll only be a minute. Please sit down."
She left the room as Sam poured tea. "We have an occasional cook, but we sent her on home," he explained, handing Tom a cup as Tom sank into a chair. "No interruptions that way. Anyway, Casey is an excellent cook."
Tom found his eyes returning to the doorway after the missing girl. "I am astonished at the difference."
Sam laughed. "I guess it is amazing when you're not used it. Should she put on the costume and hat to show you how it's done?"
"No!" Tom shook his head vehemently and said again, more quietly, "No, not at all. I want to talk to her as she really is."
Sam looked more serious. "She's from the American West, Mr. Andrews. I believe in some ways, she was allowed to conduct herself in a more casual fashion than European society approves. The adjustment has been difficult for her."
"I see," Tom murmured. He actually did, having met many American girls on his voyages for Pirrie.
Casey returned with a tray of crackers and cheese that she placed on the small table near Tom. She accepted a cup from Sam, sitting in a chair across from Tom, who found he was taking every opportunity to examine her closely, especially the way the dress fit her.
"How is Ham?" she asked quietly. "Have you found someone to help him?"
Tom laughed a little. "He's fine and we have, although Ham is not very pleased with the caliber of your replacement. The young man does not catch on quite as quickly as you did."
"I'm sure he'll improve." She sipped her tea. "You said something had happened at the yard?"
Tom nodded, then told them about the rest
ructure and his suspicions about his uncle's plans. "You previously mentioned the Managing Director position when no such position existed," he told Casey. "I believe you owe me an explanation. What is this all about?" He placed his cup on the tray and continued, "I'd like to ignore all of this and just forget about it, and I'm hoping that more explanation from you will help me do that."
"Hmmm," was all Sam said. Casey glanced at her guardian as she stood. "Forgetting may not be possible, but it is, of course, up to you," she said to Tom. "Dinner is ready. Why don't we go to the table and Sam and I will tell you whatever you need to know."
The dining room was small, but a lace tablecloth covered the table and there was room for four to sit, even with the old sideboard against the far wall. For a few minutes, talk of warnings was superseded by dishing out food, pouring drinks, and buttering bread. Tom admired the food out loud and then silently admired the embarrassed smile this brought to Casey's face. He really should have come sooner, for no other reason than to see how she was doing. But he returned to the purpose of his visit. "Casey, while you were at the firm, we talked about building safer ships. You were quite interested in the subject, but why that particular scenario? Why a specific ship, which, by the way, does not exist?"
She blushed, but looked at him squarely. "It doesn't exist yet, Mr. Andrews."
He felt a twinge of impatience. "Are we speaking metaphorically? As in, shipping rules are an accident waiting to happen? Or are you going to tell me you know the future, that you can read the stars or wind currents and tell me my fortune?" His sarcasm bordered on rudeness, but he didn't care. If they turned out to be a couple of charlatans, he just might tell Mike Sloan to do whatever he wanted. "Who are you? What makes you think that you can help me?"
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