All Dressed in White EPB

by Michaels, Charis

  “Is it here? Have you docked?” she asked excitedly.

  Joseph nodded, allowing the sight of her to wash over him. She seemed barely to notice him, staring up with enthusiasm at the boats. Her face was lit by the sunshine and unmasked anticipation. She’d worn another horrible dress—dark grey mottled fabric with brown-black trim. She looked like a pearl inside the hard grey shell of an oyster.

  Oyster or not, he struggled to absorb the sight of Tessa Chance on a London dock. He was reminded of a sparrow in a church. He understood how she got in, but he had to stifle the urge not to whip off his coat and spirit her safely back the way she’d come.

  “Which one is it?” she prodded, waving the carriage away. She stepped lightly around a trio of laborers who bickered over an open flask.

  “There,” said Stoker from the gatepost. “Third brig.”

  “Mr. Stoker?” Tessa gushed, turning her smile to him. “How lovely to see you! I apologize for this change of plan with the docks. I am gratified to see that you’ve found a place to rest your head after all.”

  “Thanks to you,” he said, stomping out his cheroot.

  “But where is Cassin?” she asked, speaking of their third partner.

  Stoker made a hissing noise. “Halfway to Yorkshire by now.” He drew a timepiece from his waistcoat pocket. “He set out on horseback from Canvey Island yesterday.”

  “Home to see Willow . . .” Tessa sighed, her smile softening. “Of course he did. It was so difficult for Willow to say good-bye to him again after she’d settled at Caldera.”

  Joseph watched her closely. There had been happiness all around when Cassin and Willow’s marriage of convenience grew into earnest love; but now Willow and Cassin appeared to be the very last thing on her mind. She stared up at the brig with an expression of fascination. Joseph felt something squeeze in his gut. He had delighted in her enthusiasm over many things at Berymede. Enthusiasm from Tessa had been as reliable as the sunrise. But she had exclaimed over snowflakes, the ribbons on her shoes, the shine on his boots. He rolled his shoulders, admitting that this new enthusiasm was no less alluring.

  “Tessa,” he heard himself say, “we’ve given the crew an eighteen-hour furlough.” He sounded as if he were reading a speech, and he cleared his throat. “They’ll be back by sunset, and we’ll need to know our length of time in port. I’m prepared to take over from here—with our deepest gratitude for all you have done—but you’ll have to explain what they’ve told you about the warehouse space. And . . .” he hesitated “. . . I will need to know what’s become of the money. From the canceled warehouses at your father’s docks.”

  “Oh, yes.” She swung her attention back to him. “But there is no need to be cryptic about the money. Every shilling rests safely in an account in the long room of the dock house. Do you have the manifest? The searcher’s office is just here.” She pointed. “Hopefully Mr. Cosgrove won’t be too behind for today. I arrived as early as I could. There’s no point in coming before he’s unlocked and taken his coffee. Oh, and I have my own copy of the dock warrant, in case you’ve mislaid the one I gave you yesterday.”

  “I have the warrant,” Joseph said.

  She isn’t going, he thought, and he felt a rush of relief. He’d been afraid she’d give him an overview and disappear, return to her little townhouse and her new life. Without him.

  She isn’t going, he thought again. There is more.

  He looked at the line of men filing into the stone outpost that bore the sign Customs and Levies.

  “I have the manifest,” said Stoker.

  “Lovely,” Tessa said, sidestepping two more laborers and an overturned barrel of chum. She strode to the customs office as if she’d done it every day for a month. Joseph and Stoker were given little choice but to follow.

  Stoker shot Joseph a look. “Chin up, mate,” he said.

  The events that followed, first in Customs with the searcher and then with the auxiliary examiner, and after that with the cargo ledger clerk in the dock office, and finally with the indecipherable hierarchy of dock and warehouse workers, were nothing short of astounding.

  Tessa presided over it all with a balance of studied authority and delight. He thought she might actually clap her hands as she watched each new development fall into place. In Joseph’s experience, making port and warehousing cargo was a slow, tedious process; to Tessa, it was like opening night of an operetta—with her in the director’s chair.

  “You’ll be amazed at how quickly the ship will be unloaded,” she told Joseph as they stood quayside and stared up the hull of the brig. Stoker had boarded to work with the auxiliary examiner to weigh their barrels.

  “I’m told,” she went on, “that docking at St. Katharine is five times faster than any other dock on the river. You see how the cranes remove the barrels from the hold and swing them directly into the warehouse? From Point A to Point C. So efficient.”

  “Indeed,” said Joseph, watching cranes rise barrels of guano lightly into the air, fly them across the dockyard and lower them onto a warehouse ramp. He cast a sideline glance at Tessa. She watched the same machination with cheeks flushed and eyes that sparkled.

  I thought you enjoyed roses, he thought. And bunnies. And the sugar glaze on strawberry cake.

  The auxiliary examiner clomped down the gangplank, studying his bill for the tax they would owe on their cargo. When he reached them, he faltered. His eyes darted uncertainly back and forth between Mr. Chance and Mrs. Chance.

  “Do you mind?” Joseph asked Tessa respectfully. If she wished to facilitate the levy payment, he would not usurp her.

  “Please,” she encouraged him. When the examiner handed the bill to Joseph, Tessa nodded to the man. “Thank you, Mr. Hammond. Is it what we expected?”

  “Very nearly, Mrs. Chance,” said the examiner, walking on.

  Without thinking, Joseph held out the bill so his wife could see it.

  “Can you pay that sum?” she asked, looking at him. She winced a little. The levy they owed was not small by any stretch, but of course he had planned for this.

  “I can pay it,” he said. The question did not irritate him so much as rile some unforeseen defensiveness. “Despite this being my first time at St. Katharine,” he went on, “I have brought goods to port in the city of London before—hence my professional distinction as importer. The expertise you’ve collected in three months’ quick study may seem like a lot of common sense to you, but—”

  “Common sense?” she laughed. “Oh, Joseph. If only you knew the hours, the days I have spent at this dock, observing, taking notes, asking questions, making a nuisance of myself. Learning the very basics of what’s happened this morning has been like . . . like, like learning to fly. Please be patient with me.” She screwed up her face. “I’m still learning.”

  Joseph shook his head. “I don’t mean to be impatient. I . . . I . . .” He blew out a breath. “My hesitation says it all, doesn’t it? I find myself rather speechless.”

  She waited, and it occurred to him that he should find the words.

  “It is astounding what you have accomplished,” he said. “You should . . . you should be very proud.”

  It was a true statement, he was astounded. And she should be proud. Hell, he was proud and he had absolutely nothing to do with it.

  Tessa beamed again, an expression that pierced his heart.

  “And did you see? I’ve managed considerable savings compared to your previous arrangement. St. Katharine Docks is very keen to take business from West India, and the warehouse space was far less expensive.” She began flipping through her notes.

  Joseph had done the calculations in his head in the long room. She had saved them money. She had also negotiated more space and a longer time in port. This said nothing of the English-milled fabric she’d arranged for them to take under sail when they returned back to Barbadoes—also for a larger fee.

  But the notion of returning to Barbadoes—a priority just one day ago—seemed sudd
enly wildly reckless, shortsighted, impossible. The loose plan had always been for Stoker and Joseph to return to the island. They had sailed with a full hold, but there was more guano to be had.

  That said, it now felt precipitous for him to the Caribbean so soon. He’d achieved not one item from his Plan for the Future. He’d not called on the Earl of Falcondale, his mentor. His reunion with Tessa might have been accelerated, but had it been a proper reunion? They’d discussed levies and warehouses, for God’s sake.

  And what of her new manner and appearance and the way she bloody . . . passed her days? It was so far and away from what he had expected—literally nothing about her was as he had expected.

  No, the script he’d anticipated for their discussion of His Future would have to be reconsidered. After more time spent together. Much more time.

  He glanced at her. But did she wish to spend time with him outside of docks and warehouses? His eyes darted surreptitiously to her lips, the delicate line of her jaw, her perfect ear.

  She startled him by gasping, “Oh!” She held up a finger. “I’ve a letter from Sabine that I’m meant to give to Mr. Stoker.” Her eyes widened conspiratorially. “Can you believe it?” she whispered.

  I no longer know what to believe, he thought, but he simply shook his head.

  It occurred to him that, more than anything, more than settling the warehouse space or contacting the buyers or making the rounds at all of his favorite London shops or calling on Falcondale, he wanted to solve the mystery of Tessa Chance. To finally, perhaps, truly understand her. Intimacy? Reconciliation? He would not yet allow himself to hope for those. He would begin with understanding.

  It was a dangerous endeavor—she had already broken his heart once. Was it foolhardy to study the very qualities that had once enchanted him? Perhaps, but he struggled to see how she could rebreak an organ that had never fully healed. The resulting calluses would protect him, along with the bitter grudge he’d muscled on like a coat of armor for the past ten months.

  She was, after all, his wife. Their futures, however impersonal, were forever linked. It was only fair to make some effort to understand her. And if he could also make peace with her, more’s the better.

  He watched her call to Stoker from the gangplank and hand him the letter. Stoker studied it for the briefest second, frowned, and then shoved it in the pocket of his waistcoat. She gave a little wave and then returned to Joseph, her step light. She looked so very happy.

  He considered various ways to ask her to meet him to discuss . . . something more. Despite his poetic regard for the calluses on his heart and the armor-like grudge, the thought of her rejecting his invitation made him sweat.

  She was nearly to him before he lit on the perfect, undeniable request.

  “Tessa,” he said casually, staring indifferently out on the Thames, “if you would permit it, I should like to meet the baby. When you are ready.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Two days later, Tessa was situated on a blanket in Hyde Park, arranging a picnic basket. Her hands shook, despite the mundane task. She blew out a breath, irritated by her nerves. She and Christian had enjoyed the park from the vantage of this very blanket, beneath this very maple tree, all summer long. Today would be—

  Well, today would be marginally different.

  Today would steer the entire rest of their lives.

  Tessa took three quick breaths, telling herself she had accommodated Joseph’s request to meet the baby. She’d wanted to gush, Oh, but let us rush home so you may meet him immediately! But this was the Old Tessa’s answer. The New Tessa did not gush or rush. The New Tessa knew the meeting should occur when Christian was happy and rested, where Joseph would feel the least overwhelmed or confined.

  Christian tended to be happy on his blanket in the park, and they would not have the stuffy interruption of servants. Best of all, perhaps, Joseph could arrive (and then subsequently depart) in a manner that made him feel the least . . . trapped.

  Trapped. It was a horrible term, and Tessa had danced around the risk of it. But she quite liked her new policy of simply calling things as they were. Joseph had been trapped. There were times when Tessa herself felt a little trapped. The potential for a negative reaction was very real—hence, the park. Who could feel trapped in a park?

  “Oh, but you’re not so demanding are you, Dollop?” Tessa asked the baby.

  Christian lay on his stomach in the center of the blanket, gainfully lifting his chin and sucking on his fist.

  “Well, perhaps just a bit,” she corrected. “When you are hungry. Or wet. Or tired. Or stuck on your stomach when you would like to flip onto your back. But these are all significant frustrations, aren’t they? Who doesn’t become demanding when faced with challenges such as these?”

  She chattered away, smiling down at her son as she unpacked a strawberry tart and ate the berry from the top. Purposefully, she did not scan the open green behind her nor the paths to the right and left.

  She would not watch for him, she had told herself. She would not fidget or check the timepiece in her basket or, God forbid, stand up and pace. She would be calm and contained, the serene picture of experienced motherhood, just as she had been for every other outing to the park. A young mother and her baby, enjoying the sunshine. In no way should she appear to be rapidly unspooling inside because her beloved son was about to meet the man she herself once loved and wanted to love again. The man who he might refer to as Papa.

  Christian made a signature squawking noise and lashed out a slobbering hand, rocking to his side. “Oh, you almost have it,” encouraged Tessa, smiling at the baby’s favorite new trick. Any day now, he would rock himself over from his stomach to his back. Christian squawked again and lashed out an erratic hand, grabbing a fistful of beige silk.

  “Oh, but let us not eat Mama’s dress?” She tugged, preventing the fist’s unerring progress to Christian’s mouth. “It’s horrid, I know, but the dye may not be safe. Here, let us find Goose . . .” She dug in the bag for his toy.

  Perry and Sabine had tried to persuade Tessa to wear one of her old dresses, but Tessa resisted. Not today, when the most important interaction with Joseph Chance would take place.

  Joseph had been very stoic at the docks, but it had been obvious that he regarded her bland, suffocating new dresses with confusion, if not outright distaste. But her appearance had no bearing here; what mattered was how Joseph regarded her son.

  With this in mind, Christian had been carefully dressed in a gown of bright white with blue embroidered dots around the collar and hem. He wore a white cap with the same blue embellishment, and if the day turned cold, there was a matching blue jacket.

  Tessa’s one concession to her own appearance had been her hair. When Perry had volunteered to braid it loosely and rope the yellow plait across the crown of her head, Tessa had complied. She did not think she could bear the tight bun or a dour bonnet today—not in the shade of the park. The last warm days of September would give way to autumn soon, and she would allow herself to enjoy a small straw hat while she could. Besides, the stiff bonnet brim got in the way when she lifted her son to her mouth for a kiss.

  Perry had been delighted and pinned the straw hat and a whirl of ribbon to the left of the plait, a pretty little flourish, a bit of whimsy. Tessa almost wept at her reflection. She patted the braid now, delighting in the freedom from the bite of pins at her nape.

  “Tessa?”

  Her hand froze above her head.

  She looked down at Christian, chewing on the beak of Goose. She looked at her half-eaten tart.

  He is a decent man, she reminded herself. He will not reject a baby.

  He hasn’t even rejected me yet, not really.

  Her heartbeat increased to an accelerated pound. She drew a shaky breath and then looked up, shading her eyes.

  Joseph Chance sat mounted on a chestnut stallion, staring down at them from the path. He wore an emerald green coat, grey waistcoat, and ivory cravat. His breeches,
molded to his muscled legs, were tan, and the sun glinted off black Hessians. His hat was rakishly low. The combination of elegance and easy confidence in the saddle was not lost on her, and she thought absently of how the Old Tessa would have appreciated that look. Now she only cared how he would or would not appreciate her son.

  “So you have found us,” she said lightly. She put a palm on her son’s warm, soft back.

  “So I have,” he said, unmoving. His eyes did not leave hers.

  The baby, she willed. Look at the baby.

  Christian let out a shrill squawk and pitched the goose doll so that it fell just out of reach. His squawk turned into a fuss and Tessa quickly replaced the toy.

  “I . . . I assumed you would be walking.” Joseph nodded to the empty pram beside the tree.

  “Oh,” she said, looking at the pram, “no, anything but that, I’m afraid. If I push him, he will fall asleep. Better that he sleep at home, when I can be busy with other things. When we reach the park, we generally spread out on the ground. Won’t you—that is,” she tried again, “can you—?”

  Before she could finish, he slung his leg over the horse and stepped down. “May I join you?”

  “By all means.” Tessa stared down at her son, who chewed willfully on the foot of his goose.

  The horse’s tack jingled as Joseph wordlessly secured him beside the maple.

  “Your horse is well mannered, I hope,” she said. She worried about the large animal so close to Christian lying prone on the ground. Worry was now a mainstay of her life.

  “He is,” Joseph said. He came to stand beside her. It occurred to her that the logistics of this meeting would be strange. Joseph was dressed to promenade, not sit on a blanket beneath a tree.

  “I’m sorry there is no easy place to si—”

  He dropped down beside her, spreading his legs in front of him. He crossed his shiny black Hessians at the ankle. “It’s impossible to overstate how much I value solid earth after five weeks at sea.”

  “You are gracious to say so.” She wanted to look at him, to really look at him. Even in their brief courtship at Berymede, they had never sprawled out on a blanket. It had been winter, and he had been so very careful to resist situations that would tempt them before the wedding. Oh, the irony.