by Sally Orr
It smelled like paper.
Her heart broke a little. She was not sure what she expected, but she would have recognized if it smelled like George’s normal perfume of coal smoke mixed with mud and the well-recognized odor of a man in close proximity. His scent had always set her heartbeat off in a gallop.
But it smelled like paper, washed linen, perhaps a little whiff of iron-laden ink or the lavender-scented drying sand.
She ripped open the note too fast, causing the paper to tear. Bother.
In his large handwriting, she read:
Madam, please do me the honor of being my guest at a banquet Friday next. The location will be at the Thames Tunnel. Unless I hear otherwise, my carriage will arrive on your doorstep at five o’clock. If you wish decline, I will understand. Let Fitzy deliver your regrets.
You have my deepest regards,
Geo. Drexel
What a curious invitation, moreover, an equally curious site for a banquet. Did the bear plan to roast the rabbit at the tunnel? Any further thoughts were interrupted by a thumping commotion descending the stairs.
“What ho?” Fitzy said, reaching the bottom and immediately leaning over the letter in her hand until his nose hovered inches away.
She whipped the invitation behind her back. “If you must know, it is private correspondence and none of your business.”
“That’s a gammon. It’s from George; I can tell. Did he mention me? Does he need my assistance?”
She reached out with one hand and tousled his hair. “No, it’s an invitation to dine.”
“I told you before, don’t touch my hair. I’ve grown up now. I hope you’re going to accept his invitation.” He tilted his head in a quizzing manner, perhaps suspicious of her ability to restore the relationship between them.
“Should I?”
“What’s stopping you?” He pulled an apple out of his pocket and took a bite with a loud crunch. Juice covered his cheeks, so he wiped them with his sleeve.
She frowned. “Have you forgotten? He blames me for the publication of The Ladies’ Field Guide to London’s Rakes.”
Upon the sudden realization that he flaunted the house rules about eating, he whipped the apple behind his back. “Oh pooh. George has forgotten that, I can tell you. Every time I pay a call he asks about your health. Besides, if he was irrevocably angry with you, why would he invite you to dinner?”
The first words that came to mind were a dressing-down. She feared a scene similar to their last encounter. Still, he did send her the dinner invitation. “Perhaps you are right. Are you visiting the Drexels soon?”
“Tomorrow. I’m putting the finishing touches on a plaster cast I’m making for Mr. Drexel and his wife. I must admit it is not my best work. I may have to cast it again.”
“Then it will be better the next time, I promise. But before you leave, I will give you a short note accepting his kind offer to dine.”
“Yes, yes, capital.” He started to run toward the schoolroom.
“Slow down! For heaven’s sake. We don’t want another chandelier accident.”
He slid to a stop and furtively looked up. Then he slowly walked out of the room.
That evening in her bedroom, it took Meta over an hour to write three simple lines. She inquired about the well-being of his family, thanked him for the invitation, and communicated her delight in attending the celebration at the tunnel.
Hours later, she ended the evening by a thorough wardrobe inventory. What is the appropriate dress for a banquet held at the tunnel? She had no idea where the tables might be placed. Would it be held outside under a canopy, nearby in rooms at the church, or in the tunnel itself?
Early the next morning, she visited her modiste and ordered a new bronze silk gown, an elegant design with only a few frills on the sleeves and no train. If the banquet was to be held outside the tunnel, a train might be ruined by water and mud. By the end of the day, she had purchased a completely new outfit, the gown and lovely kid shoes instead of silk ones, also to defend against water. Her final purchase was a simple turban of rich claret-colored silk.
For the remainder of that evening, she tried on all of the jewelry in her casket. Standing before a looking glass, she held up a small piece of the bronze silk to determine which of her necklaces would complement her new gown. The bull’s-eye Scottish agate drops and necklace won the final choice. Once her garments and jewelry for the banquet had been decided upon, she went to bed. Sleep eluded her until early dawn.
What if the gown turned out to be a failure?
The next morning, she repeated the process again. This time she purchased a blue silk gown, with white embroidered roses along the bodice, and a gold-feathered evening turban. She was satisfied that this alternate choice of dress should meet her expectations, if the first one failed after she tried it on. For the final touch, she chose jewelry for this gown, a parure of the clearest blue aquamarines. She inhaled and relaxed. At least one of these outfits should set off her features well. The question was which one?
On the day of the banquet, she rose early. She needed the extra time for her maid to pin her hair in various styles—all in an effort to determine which one was best at hiding her two strands of gray hair—an unjust occurrence for one just twenty-four.
She spent the remainder of the day in an animated agony. With her mind occupied by the upcoming banquet, none of her directions to the staff made sense, she lacked the discipline to read to her father, and her siblings openly questioned whether she had gone mad.
Forty minutes before George was expected, she sat waiting for his arrival in her drawing room. Fingering the silver chain on her reticule, she gained confidence from knowing that inside the small bag was her last minute addition of her vinaigrette. Not to cover up any stench from the Thames but more as a restorative to divert her nerves from the agitation now overwhelming her. She pulled out and opened the small-latticed silver box. Holding it to her nose, she inhaled deeply. The tingle caused by the vinegar steadied her. The man she loved invited her to a celebration. She inhaled the acid again.
You will survive this evening. Be brave.
Twenty-two
When the hired carriage pulled up in front of the Broadshams’ home, George thought his heart might fail him on the spot. After all, there had to be a limit to the number of beats per minute for one small organ. He opened the door, tugged on his coat tails, and strode to their front door.
In the muddle of his rapid thoughts, he tried to remember his father’s advice. Should he hold her the instant the moment presented itself or wait? The first choice had the appeal of getting the gesture over with, a manly course of action. Then he might relax and enjoy his evening, if not start some event of a more tender nature. But his father had advised him to make his advances slow, with deliberation.
Damnation.
He had never, never felt this nervous about an encounter with any female before. The bear grew inside, so he silently growled and glanced at his flexing fingers. Take it easy, man, calm yourself. You love this woman, so live up to her expectations of your character. After a deep breath, he anticipated a successful greeting, so he smiled.
Here goes.
He pulled the bell.
Rather than the expected family retainer, the object of his affections herself greeted him at the door. Resplendent in sky blue silk, his bravado of the previous minute wavered. “Good evening, madam.” He executed his deepest, most respectful bow.
Her bright blue eyes appeared unnaturally wide. “Good evening, Mr. Drexel.”
Still bent in his bow, he looked up. “Can we return to George?”
“Of course,” she said, with a barely detectable rush of exhaled air.
He straightened his shoulders. “I’m pleased to hear that.” He withheld his hand for a moment, since he knew it shook. Then he held it out to assist her into the carriage.
After perhaps a second longer than necessary to make a decision, she placed her gloved hand in his.
&nbs
p; They exchanged smiles before they entered the town carriage and started their journey to the south side of the Thames.
The coachman started off at a brisk pace.
George was silently grateful for the bumpy ride, since they were able to spend the first awkward minutes clinging on to the handles. He pulled himself up tight, close to his side of the carriage, so as not to bump her against the windows or touch her in any way that might cause offense.
His breathing and heartbeat raced. He doubted he could speak without revealing his distress. Therefore, for the entire journey, they exchanged only the slightest of pleasantries: an inquiry about the health of their respective families and their admiration of the pleasant weather for the banquet. All the while, his brain repeatedly asked a question. Had he ever realized the extent of her beauty before?
He glanced over once or twice and discovered her looking out of the window on her side.
Damnation.
The air in the carriage grew both frosty and heated at the same time. He repressed a desire to punch the roof. He laid back and closed his eyes. Then he cursed his existence, cursed his ineptitude, and cursed his blasted, vulnerable heart.
When she exited the carriage upon arrival, she placed her hand in his and graced him with a simple smile.
He returned the gesture, his heartbeat soaring even higher. Perhaps this purgatory of pleasantries nonsense had come to an end.
Once they arrived at the bottom of the pit, he saw at least two hundred people, many in official regalia, mingling around the tunnel’s entrance.
The tunnel’s walls and floors had been scrubbed clean. The walls were then covered with giant pieces of crimson velvet. Two long tables, capable of seating at least a hundred guests, stretched down each of the two shafts that made up the tunnel. The tables were covered with fine white cloth and adorned with tableware more at home in a duke’s dining room—not surprising perhaps, because he soon noticed three dukes amongst the assembled crowd.
The most remarkable decorations, however, were four giant gas candelabras he learned were provided by the Portable Gas Company. These tall light fixtures were placed on plinths and a few directly on the tables themselves. The sum total of the light brightened the tunnels until it seemed like daylight. Sitting in the tunnel, directly behind the long tables, the Coldstream Guards played Der Freischütz.
Once formal introductions were made, the guests took their seats. The dukes and distinguished ladies and gentlemen sat at one table, while in the other tunnel archway, the miners sat at an identical table just a few feet away.
During the excellent dinner, Meta sat next to him and the conversation between them once again became desultory. He seemed inordinately aware of her gloved arm just inches away from his. Damnation. If he failed to get reassurances of her affection tonight, he decided to give up entirely. His spirits had spun into a type of volcano about to explode. He had to dismiss them or else lose his sanity altogether.
During the dinner, toasts were made—many, many toasts. After each toast, everyone in attendance consumed a liberal amount of champagne.
He alone drank at least a bottle during the speeches, giving him courage not to flee this torture. Meanwhile, he heartedly joined in the toasts to the King (four times four), a blur of several dukes, the navy, the army, and some other fellows. The band played the appropriate song for each, including “Rule Britannia” and “See the Conquering Hero Comes.” In the middle of a toast to the miners, and a moment of unbridled enthusiasm, he even took the bottle himself and hovered it over her flute for a fifth glass. “Champagne?”
“Yes.”
He began to pour. “I see our conversation is reduced to single words again. How comforting.”
“Indeed.”
“Enough?”
“Yes.”
They caught each other’s glance and went through a fit of exchanging smiles and chuckles. From then on, after each toast, their stares locked first, then a smile ensued, and laughter followed.
While he had not been able to hold her, much less touch her yet, his spirits lightened considerably. He might survive this evening, after all.
After the dinner and the toasts, George thought of a plan to have a moment alone. “Please allow me the honor of showing you the giant shield.” He pointed deep into the blackness of the tunnel. “It is that hulking iron structure that resembles a ladder at the very end of the tunnel.”
She looked at the looming dark structure at least an additional two hundred feet behind them. “Is it safe? I mean it is very far back in the tunnel.”
“Yes, don’t worry on that score. The tide is low, so there is little pressure on the ceiling at the moment.” He whispered in her ear. “I’ll keep you safe.”
She let out an involuntary sigh. “Yes, I believe you will. It’s funny, when I first saw the tunnel, I thought it was wonderful, amazing even. I praised it to the skies. Now I realize those words were spoken in ignorance. Men will likely die digging this tunnel. They always have in great endeavors like this one. I suppose good men’s lives are the price we pay for our future.”
“Drexel, my boy!” shouted the Duke of Somerset. “Just the man.”
“Your Grace,” he said with a bow. “May I introduce Mrs. Russell?”
“Ma’am, a delight.” The duke nodded, then turned to address him. “Heard from Brunel you were just the man to talk to. I need a bridge. Well, I personally don’t need a bridge, but I understand you are the man to build it.” The duke glanced back to Meta. “Ahem. Yes, yes, I apologize, ma’am. Not the sort of thing to speak of in front of a lady. Drexel, we will discuss this when I return in a fortnight, dear boy. Have lunch with me at the club.” The duke nodded. “Ma’am.” Then he strolled back to the brightly lit party, still in boisterous high spirits.
Right now George wanted to sing, a feeling that gave him a better understanding of his friend, Boyce. A man who always believed that sometimes happiness just bubbled up from your toes and overwhelmed a fellow until he broke out in song.
“Congratulations,” she said, beaming.
He picked her up, spun her around twice, and put her down immediately after he regained his senses. He remembered his father’s advice to be pleasant and take it slow, so he stepped a few feet backward. “It’s important to me that you heard that offer.”
“If so, I’m pleased and honored, thank you.”
Oh, if he could only kiss her now, he’d die a happy man.
He shook his head; he had turned into the idiot again. They started down the tunnel. Once they had gone past the first one hundred feet, he noticed her agitation.
“I see now why some people are afraid to enter,” she said, staring at the ceiling and pulling her spencer tight around her shoulders.
“You’re not afraid?” He took her cool hand and kept it, since they were deep enough not to be noticed by the guests mingling around the tunnel’s entrance.
She squeezed his hand. “No, I’m not afraid.”
“That is very bad news. I may have to change your classification to something other than rabbit.”
“Friend?”
“Not specific enough. Although I would like to take this opportunity of thanking you for your efforts to buy up all of the copies of the Learned Ladies’ version of the field guide. I’m now convinced that it helped further the recovery of my reputation. Perhaps the scandal has lessened enough that the duke proposed such a marvelous offer of considering one of my bridges.”
“It was the least I could do, since my efforts led to its publication in the first place.”
“And the loss of your sister’s engagement was due to my efforts. I apologize for that.”
She looked at him in a quizzing fashion. “Perhaps the initial reason James called off. But you behaved like a gentleman and set the situation to rights, so he offered again. No, Lily is the only one responsible for the failure of their relationship. She could not let herself be vulnerable, remaining too proud and too frightened to speak. However, she
made significant progress at the ball to overcome her fears. There may be hope for a reconciliation yet.”
“I’ve had a few conversations with James recently, and I believe it won’t be long before we hear some good news. I do believe he will be able to convince her to change her mind.”
“I certainly hope so. But if it fails, the loss there is not your fault in the end. Besides, you heard the duke. You impressed Mr. Brunel, so the credit is all yours.”
“Thank you.” It struck him like lightning that this was the moment his father spoke of. The moment to hold her close. He cleared his throat. “May I give you a hug?”
She batted her eyelids in surprise. “Will it be as dangerous as hugging a bear?”
“Of course, madam, but not lethal, I promise you.” He wrapped his arms around her and waited.
Would she flee?
Remaining still, he counted to three: one, two, three.
Unmoving, she seemed frozen on the spot too.
She dropped her head to rest on his chest.
“Happy?” he asked, simultaneously agitated and at ease.
He felt her nod on his breast. His breaths quickened upon the thought of his victory in the holding-her-close challenge.
She had not pulled away, but she remained silent. She probably couldn’t find the right words either, which seemed a bit odd. Given his extensive knowledge of females, he knew they possessed the ability to talk at all times, except for one time for some ladies—and that sound could never be mistaken for speech.
He stepped back, then cradled her cheeks in his hands.
Her eyes shone; her posture remained relaxed.
He kissed her. Never had a kiss been sweeter to him. Every manly inch of him melted at the touch of her tender lips and the sight of her peach-tinged cheeks below the soft blue pools of her eyes revealed in the weak gaslight. Inside, he sang in happiness, he cried in frustration, he never wanted to leave her side again.
