All Dressed in White EPB

by Michaels, Charis

And now he was flooded with relief. He would see her again.

  She continued, “Only I cannot come today, I’m afraid. My son will awaken very soon, and I’ve promised our nursemaid, Perry, the day off. But here.” She returned to the lacquered box and removed an envelope. “I’ve a copy of the letter I mailed to you informing you of the new dock and the original dock warrant. The letter should explain enough for you and Stoker to safely bring the brig in to St. Katharine tonight. The customs office will not be open until tomorrow morning, and you cannot unload without their inspection. Perhaps you can give your crew shore leave until morning, and I will meet you by ten o’clock? Would that be suitable?” She extended the envelope.

  Joseph stared at it, stared at her small hand and delicate wrist.

  It occurred to him that he was being dismissed. Politely and quite justifiably. He did not live here with her. He had very little to do with her at all.

  Now she would resume whatever it was that she did with her day. She was not his real wife. Never had she been his real wife.

  Still. They were finally in the same city, but she would meet him in the morning.

  You weren’t even going to seek her out, he reminded himself. His inclination to linger, to discuss the docking—to discuss anything—burned at the edge of his consciousness, a low flame at the edge of a dry leaf.

  “Alright,” he heard himself say. He took the envelope. “Tomorrow, then. Ten o’clock.”

  She smiled then, her first smile in what felt like an hour, and he drank it in. He almost, almost reached for her.

  Instead, she took up a bell and summoned the butler. The man appeared in the doorway, and Joseph followed him into the street.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tessa longed to wear any other dress than the grey wool. Or the taupe silk. Or the beige. Or the terrible green dress that reminded her of residue on a dry fountain. One by one, she ticked through the drab dresses in her wardrobe, frowning at each boring, matronly one.

  It was the day after Joseph returned and she dressed with care, if not color, while Perry, the nursemaid, sat in a chair with baby Christian. “I wish you’d consider the blue, Miss Tessa,” Perry offered. “Or any of the pinks. The red?” She rattled off an inventory of Tessa’s former wardrobe, as if the problem was recalling the pieces. Remembering was not the problem. Tessa remembered them all too well.

  “Today, of all days, it is imperative that I be taken seriously,” Tessa recited, frowning at the grey silk. “No distractions or misconceptions—not for Joseph or any other man with whom I’ve dealt at St. Katharine Docks.”

  Tessa could not say for certain that the drab, unadorned dresses had contributed to her newfound success as a novice businesswoman, but they could not have hurt. Certainly no man had pressed himself on her since she began donning the parade of muted plainness, and for whatever reason, wearing brown stifled Tess’s natural tendency to tease and flirt. She’d pushed away these tendencies, just as she’d pushed her beloved dresses to the back of the wardrobe.

  “Have you considered,” said her friend Sabine, leaning against the doorjamb, “that you are taken seriously because you’re conducting actual business with these men? This was bound to happen when you dealt in commerce rather than the relative smallness of your dainty little hands.”

  Tessa cringed, thinking of the vapid games she had once played. “If wearing grey will help distance me from any such nonsense, it is but a small price to pay.”

  It was also a small price for the damage that she had done to Joseph—and herself. She’d broken two hearts on her wedding night, and the truth was, the drab dresses matched her state of mind. Bright colors and silk flounces were difficult to stomach when she’d first moved to London. Meanwhile the world’s most boring dresses seemed like exactly what she deserved.

  Still, her hand hovered tensely over the grey gown, her fingers curled in a claw. For the first time in many months, she wanted to wear something light and cheerful. She wanted to appear pretty when she saw Joseph today.

  Perhaps the new dresses had contributed to her success or were more appropriate for heartache, but she had never felt truly like herself when she wore them. They were so mournful and dour. Still, she’d made a commitment to the New Tessa, and the dresses and tight bun were the outward show of that commitment.

  She sighed deeply and dragged the grey silk from the wardrobe.

  Behind her, Sabine made a snickering noise. Sabine managed to wear any old color—today she’d worn scarlet—and still seemed to repel unwanted male attention as a matter of course. But Sabine regarded all men with sharp distrust, and she carried around an air of isolation like a shield. But Tessa could never seem to manage isolation.

  Captain Marking aside, Tessa quite enjoyed men, and she harbored no wholesale distrust of the entire gender. She was quite certain that she could never lie with a man after what happened with the captain—Joseph had been her one and only go at that—but this particular fear hardly surfaced in day-to-day interactions.

  Ironically, Sabine was the most classically beautiful of the two friends in Belgravia. Her large green eyes, small nose, and pink mouth were aligned with perfect symmetry. Her hair was so black, it shone almost blue in some light. And her skin was the color of fresh cream.

  Meanwhile Tessa’s beauty was more a trick of motion and light. Anyone with hair as blonde as Tessa’s was bound to cause men to look twice. Add bright blue eyes and a ready smile? The Old Tessa had merely played up these features with beautiful dresses in bright colors, fluttering ribbons and lace trim. Oh, how she had adored lace trim.

  Or she had, before she’d made a point to mute everything about her appearance and bearing. Hence, the grey, which she donned now with due irritation, wincing at the stiff fabric.

  “Where is the grey bonnet, Perry?” She turned around to allow Sabine to do up the back of her dress.

  “Oh, but not the eel-colored bonnet, Miss Tessa?” said Perry innocently.

  “Yes,” sighed Tessa, “the eel-colored. Can I trouble you to get it?”

  The maid cooed over Christian and laid him carefully on a blanket in the center of Tessa’s bed. “If I owned ten bonnets,” the maid said, “I can tell you that the eel is the very last one I’d wear.” She trudged from the room.

  “How will you go?” asked Sabine softly.

  “Carriage,” said Tessa, looking over her shoulder. “Won’t you reconsider and come with me? Stoker is sure to be there.” Sabine had been the first of the three brides to marry and move to Belgravia. Her union with the brooding and enigmatic Jon Stoker had rescued Sabine from an abusive uncle. But within hours of the wedding, Sabine had bidden Mr. Stoker to deliver her to Belgravia and leave her. According to Sabine, she’d left her new husband with little more than a formal thank-you and the suggestion that he should carry on with his life as if they were not married at all. It was exactly the way the brides’ advertisement had been originally conceived, and yet . . .

  Sabine shook her head without hesitation. “Oh no. Mr. Stoker will not expect to see me, nor I him. And you can very well manage the docks without me in the way. I would not dare attach myself to your crowning moment. That said,” Sabine went on, “would you mind delivering this letter to Mr. Stoker? If you see him, that is. And it’s not too much trouble.” She produced a tidy envelope from her pocket and held it out.

  Tessa barely stopped herself from whirling.

  “Pleasure,” she said simply, flashing a smile. She took the envelope and tucked it into her own pocket. She eyed her friend, so very anxious for details but she dare not ask. And now Christian was fussing on the bed.

  Tessa scooped her son into her arms. “They’ve finally come home, Dollop.” She kissed the top of his soft round head. The infant’s chubby legs churned.

  “I wonder if his father will endorse his nickname?” chuckled Sabine.

  Tessa went still. “It’s far more alarming to hear, ‘Father’ than, ‘Dollop.’”

  “But Mr. Chance is Chri
stian’s legal father. He remained married to you after all. And I might add that he sought you out literally within hours of his return. And now he will see you again today? If he does not threaten divorce or annulment now, he never will.”

  Tessa laughed. “That is hardly guaranteed. Yesterday proved nothing more than our future together is . . . undefined. But I can live with undefined—for the moment.”

  “You are afraid to press him,” guessed Sabine.

  “Yes.” Tessa nodded. “It’s no small thing, what I’ve done to him. Entrapment? Fatherhood? He has earned a bit of freedom from being pressed. When I saw him again, I promised myself that I would not allow emotion to spill over into our discussion. No heartbreak, no longing, not even regret. I will not manipulate him any longer, even unintentionally. I had only two goals yesterday: to reveal this split with my parents and to discuss what I’ve done with the docks. By some miracle, I achieved both.”

  “You’ve managed a new baby almost entirely alone,” recited Sabine. “You’ve learned London’s dockyards—also alone. Your behavior before the wedding was not ideal, I’ll grant you, but you needn’t present yourself as if made of stone.”

  “For my part, I’m committed to professionalism with Joseph—this is all I mean. Any overture must come entirely from him, with no leading agenda by me. I’ve led him too far already.”

  “Overture?” said Sabine.

  Tessa shrugged. “Widest possible definition of the word, I mean. Warmth toward me, forgiveness. Overtures toward the baby. Although, surely no one is prepared to bandy about the word papa just yet. Honestly, I dare not speculate. I have forced myself not to speculate.”

  “But I thought you said he was receptive to the baby?” Sabine took up a rattle from the bed and handed it to Christian.

  “He was many things, I suppose. Irate and adversarial in the beginning. After that, quiet and pensive and almost . . . contrite?” She shrugged and began to wrestle Christian into his tiny jacket. “In the end, his regard could best be described as shocked. Which was the most satisfying of all, I must admit. I wanted to appear . . . changed to him. To be proficient and business-minded rather than frivolous and wily. He was right to be shocked, considering the avalanche of information with which I inundated him.”

  “But he showed nothing more than this? Nothing of the affection or devotion from before your confession?” Sabine grabbed hold of one of Christian’s swinging feet.

  “Well, there were flashes, I suppose, of what one might call curiosity. He asked about the baby. And he asked about my hair.” Absently, she touched the severe bun at the nape of her neck.

  “Well, your hair is a mystery to us all,” said Sabine.

  Tessa smiled weakly. “It was hardly the sort of conversation to which one could pin her future. And besides . . .” she hoisted Christian on her hip “. . . I’m not even certain I want a future with Joseph Chance.”

  “Now that is perhaps the biggest lie of all,” said Sabine.

  Tessa crinkled up her face, running her nose along her son’s sweet-smelling profile. “You’re right.” She let out a deep breath. “Of course I want a future with Joseph. I wanted him then, and I want him now.” Tessa looked up. “But I want so much more now that I am a mother, now that I’ve . . . managed all of the business of the docks. Perhaps too much.”

  “Well, I’ll not argue this point. You’ve never wanted enough for yourself in my opinion.”

  “Stop. Mine has always been the longest and most elaborate list of desires.”

  “Not bows and fripperies, Tessa. What do you truly want?”

  Tessa opened her mouth to put her off again, but Christian kicked in her arms and affected one of his signature, long, determined coos. Tessa stopped. She kissed her son. The New Tessa was honest, even with herself.

  “I want,” she began, “a modest house that I can call my own. Nothing grand but tidy and safe and a place Christian may grow up. I want a means to support the two of us. I want to scrimp and economize and possibly save enough to send him to university when the time comes. I want to have a go at more work like the arrangements I’ve made with the brig and dock. Assuming I have not mucked it up, I have more ideas for how to do it better next time, more efficiently, faster, with a larger profit.” Her voice had grown louder and more convicted. She squeezed her son to her chest.

  “And I want Joseph as he was. In the weeks before the wedding. I can forgive his reaction when I confessed. The things he said, the cold, bitter manner in which he hauled me to London and left me? It was truly awful, but what I’d done was so very regrettable. I understand, and I deserved awfulness, I suppose. But if he means to always behave this way, if this is his future regard for me, I’m not sure I could abide him. I want him, but I will not feel forever resented, I cannot be merely tolerated.”

  “Well said,” Sabine chuckled, smiling at her. “As you should not.”

  Tessa added, “I could not allow even a sliver of resentment toward my son. Not a sliver.”

  “No,” Sabine agreed. “Look, Tessa, no one is more committed to a solitary life than myself—you know this—but Willow and I both feel that you should have Joseph Chance if you want him. On your own terms, that is.”

  Tessa nodded, putting her lips to Christian’s soft, warm forehead and pressing another kiss. She turned away, bouncing the baby gently against her.

  “Mama loves Christian,” she whispered, squeezing him. “Be a good boy for Perry while I go out, alright?” The baby made the loud, shrill shriek, the contented squawk of a baby exploring the full capacity of his voice.

  “Here, let me have him,” said Sabine. “Go. Show them all you’ve accomplished. You’ve been waiting nearly a year for this.”

  Tessa kissed the baby again and handed him to Sabine with a grateful look. “Do you suppose Perry has located my eel-colored bonnet?”

  Sabine danced the baby to the window. “Good lord, let us pray she has not.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Joseph Chance paced back and forth at the gates to St. Katharine Docks, casting shrewd glances at the morning hustle. A rank-smelling crowd of laborers loitered behind him, shiftless in the wake of being passed over by the foreman. Hired men grunted and swore just inside the gates, applying their muscle to the backbreaking work of unloading cargo. Everywhere, drunken sailors wove in and out, staggered to vessels after a night on leave. Swabbing crews sloshed pails of filthy water and shipwrights cursed their apprentices. Up and down the quay, messdecks were emptied into the Thames with an intermittent chorus of heavy, slurping plops.

  “Absolutely no place for a woman,” Joseph ground out. “No place. It’s not safe. It’s not decent. It smells like . . . like . . . rot.”

  “What did you expect?” drawled Stoker, leaning on the gatepost behind him. The smoke from his cheroot masked the other grime-and-gin-fueled odors that hung like a dead animal in the air.

  “How could I have known she was dashing about the docks of London, trying to . . . trying to . . . ?” Joseph swore, unable to define all that his wife seemed to have achieved in the months since he sailed away. Behind him, a drunken sailor emptied the contents of his stomach into a boot.

  Joseph swore again and spun away. Stoker was correct, of course. What had Joseph expected? That St. Katharine Docks was somehow different from any other port in any other corner of the bloody world? Clean and tidy and populated with respectful, gentlemanly men?

  They’d managed to dock the brig by sundown, but only just, and a moonless night had precluded Joseph’s opportunity to take a proper look around. It was a new dock after all, barely two years old, and known mostly for luxury goods. In the light of day, he could see that it was exactly like any other dock he’d known before, complete with vomiting sailors.

  “Look sharp,” mumbled Stoker, and Joseph turned back.

  There was a commotion at the far end of East Smithfield Street. Sailors shouted and leapt from the path of a briskly moving carriage. The driver, smartly dressed but not l
ivered, ignored them, navigating the busy road as if he knew it well.

  Tessa. It could be no other. It occurred to him suddenly that he had sailed from England without arranging a vehicle for her. In truth, he’d left England without providing for her in any tangible way, except a bit of money. The fine carriage must belong to Willow.

  My wife has made her way around London in a borrowed conveyance.

  To arrange for my business.

  Shame burned his face. He’d felt so betrayed when he left, he had not thought beyond his own anger to consider how her daily existence would play out. In his view, Tessa had overtaken his life, what more could he give? In hindsight, he might have given any number of simple things, things that were negligible to him but would lend convenience and status to her difficult months ahead.

  Joseph made a mental note to write to Cassin and Willow and ask to buy Willow’s carriage if Tessa liked it. Or perhaps he would have a new carriage built for the—

  A footman leapt down from the bench and opened the door.

  Joseph felt an unfamiliar gush of anticipation. He narrowed his eyes. There was movement inside carriage. He held his breath, he leaned in. He braced himself for—?

  What?

  The dock logistics she would now walk him through? Who anticipated logistics?

  The balance of the money from the canceled slip? She could keep the money.

  News of her move?

  Her regret?

  Her penance?

  And then he realized. He braced himself simply for the sight of her. Those blue eyes. That infectious smile.

  He’d always braced himself. The response of his body and heart threatened to overwhelm him.

  Even now? he wondered, tightening his gloves.

  Even now.

  From the carriage door, he saw steel-grey silk. Next, black glove, black bonnet, black boot. More grey silk.

  And then there she was, stepping lightly down, notebook clutched to her chest. She waved smoothly to him. She shaded her eyes with a gloved hand to stare at the tall ships in a line along the quay.