Steam Me Up, Rawley

by Angela Quarles

  “Breakfast is served,” its tinny but serious voice announced.

  Great-Aunt Linette groaned. “Rex, can you please see to Walter? This is getting tiresome.” She turned to Dr. Rawley. “I swear it harbors an unhealthy fixation with that meal—no matter the time of day...”

  Rex stood. “I’ll see to it immediately. I’ll just help myself to some of Camilla’s delicious pecan pie. For fortification of spirits.”

  “I thought you were an archaeologist?” Dr. Rawley asked.

  Rex grinned and scooped a second helping of pie onto his plate. “You were not misinformed. However, I do like to keep my hand in all things mechanical.” He gave an impish wink and waved his artificial left hand.

  Everyone else moaned at the poor pun, but Adele flinched. How could he joke about such a loss?

  The door shut behind Rex and Walter, and the muscles holding her spine rigid unwound a fraction. She stuffed the unwelcome feelings deep inside and leaned toward Dr. Rawley. “Why cross the Atlantic if you’re not the adventuresome sort? And why Mobile?”

  Father replied instead. “Adele, let the poor man have a proper supper without badgering him.”

  “I’m curious too,” interjected her great-aunt.

  Father set down his napkin. “Dr. Rawley and I have corresponded these three years, and his professional knowledge complements mine. Last month I proffered an internship to complete his training. He accepted. End of story.”

  Dr. Rawley appeared unconcerned by Father’s abruptness, applying himself to clearing his plate. His gaze flitted to hers, caught, and held a second longer than seemly.

  Excitement shot through her, and below an unfamiliar heat bloomed.

  Father sipped his bourbon, eyeing her over the rim. “I also thought a different kind of partnership could be forged with the family.”

  She set down her knife and fork, the tink of silver against porcelain louder than she’d intended.

  Marriage. He meant marriage.

  Her brain staggered into flight mode, her thoughts whirling and flapping like a butterfly drunk on one too many mint juleps. How dare he? True, she was now nineteen, but she had no intention of getting tied down. No matter how handsome Dr. Rawley was, this was her affair. Her freedom. Her chance at grabbing multicolored fistfuls of life’s confetti, tossing them in the air, and running through them.

  She slipped her hands into her lap. Clenched fists at the table not exactly being polite and all. She took calming breaths and peeked at the person in question. Dr. Rawley gazed back, unflinching, a speculative gleam dancing in their beetle blue depths. So, he knew of this scheme. They’d planned this. Without so much as a by-your-leave.

  Dr. Rawley’s words from earlier came back to her: Indeed. I believe he does have it all arranged.

  At least Father hadn’t said anything more concrete. Wiggle room existed. And boy would she wiggle. No one would pin her down like a butterfly on a display board, to look pretty and be bored stiff. And when she got a chance, she’d turn the griffin to face the wall just to irk him. Never mind how much Dr. Rawley caused internal flutterings, this proved how dangerous he was to her, to her independence.

  Her independence. And what did that mean? What shape could it take? Like that butterfly, she felt as if she’d only recently transformed and spread her wings to dry, but didn’t yet know which direction to fly.

  But she did know her shortcomings, her quirks, were of a nature that wouldn’t make her suitable for the position of wife. Pascal had taught that much to her, and she had no desire to expose herself to another and be found wanting.

  After dinner, Phillip followed Miss de la Pointe to the front porch. Just a few minutes in her company. Some conversation to establish groundwork.

  She was far lovelier than her father had described, though rather more spirited, which made him uneasy. He raked a hand through his hair.

  She had a pet monkey for God’s sake. With armor. Whoever heard of an armored pet monkey? He was a friendly fellow, however, and clearly devoted to his mistress.

  He sighed. The monkey could be an issue.

  He required a peaceful household. No histrionics. A sweet, biddable wife to support him with her domestic arts. For her to be lovely in form as well as in mind and spirit, well, that would be a bonus.

  He pushed open the screen door and stepped onto the porch. Egad. Despite the evening’s darkness, it held onto some of today’s warmth. He found Miss de la Pointe perched on a wooden swing, and he smoothed his cravat and opened his mouth to remark on the evening’s humidity. She waved to someone coming up the sidewalk, and he paused.

  The newcomer sported dark ringlets under a tasteful hat, as well as the curious tattoos on her neck, and approached with an easy familiarity. “I hoped to find you out here. I have news.” She espied him and stopped. “Oh, hello.”

  Miss de la Pointe startled and darted a wary glance his way. She stood and approached the girl, clasping her hand. “Molly, this is my father’s new intern, Dr. Phillip Rawley. Dr. Rawley, this is my best friend, Miss Molly O’Flanigan. Dr. Rawley is also boarding here for the time being.”

  Miss O’Flanigan’s eyes lit up, and she glanced between himself and Miss de la Pointe, but all she said in reply was, “Interesting.”

  They settled onto the swing, their whole manner bespeaking a long friendship. He shifted his feet. He should leave.

  “Join us, Dr. Rawley,” her friend said. “Adele won’t mind.”

  The lady in question smiled tightly, but she nodded and waved him over.

  He eased into a wicker rocker and allowed its rhythm to soothe, the throaty roll of wood against wood a pleasant underpinning to their excited tones.

  “So you have news?” Miss de la Pointe asked after they’d caught each other up on their day.

  “Yes. At dinner, my father said Mr. Rufus Fry just up and quit. No notice. He’s off to follow a comely widow he’s fallen madly for, word is.”

  Miss de la Pointe turned with a little hop and faced her friend more fully. “Mr. Fry quit?”

  “I thought you’d find that of interest.”

  Phillip sat forward. “Who’s Mr. Fry, and what did he quit?”

  Miss de la Pointe leaned away, shoulders tense, eyes not meeting his, but Miss O’Flanigan piped up. “He’s an investigative reporter at the Mobile Register, our daily newspaper.”

  “Oh, Molly, this is terrific. This is just what I needed to hear.” She clapped her hands. “Provided Mr. Tonti doesn’t fire me outright for Loki’s latest stunt, this is my answer.”

  “Your answer to what?” he couldn’t help but ask.

  “I mean to apply for that position. Make my own way in the world.”

  Alarm flashed through Phillip. Investigative reporter? All sorts of dangerous situations erupted in his mind—her brushing shoulders with unsavory characters, vindictive politicians pushing her, or worse. A lady should not be exposed to the indelicate underbelly of a man’s world.

  But rather than being circumspect, this particular lady was bouncing in her seat, springing loose errant curls from her elaborate coiffure. She peppered her friend for details, and they planned an approach with her boss, her enthusiasm almost, almost, infecting him.

  Phillip took his leave, although they spared him no notice. But his steps echoed with a new resolve. First item: notify his sister Louise that the time table would be pushed forward. Second: initiate his plans on the morrow, and thereby save the lady from herself, for it was obvious she needed rescuing. And really, no reason existed to delay. After all, it was the reason for his arrival.

  Chapter Three

  Wherein We Cringe And Say, “Poor Dear”

  Energized by the decision to make her case to her boss, Adele skipped down her home’s back porch steps into the late morning sun, diffused by dark slates of clouds. She’d find that wiggle room. And thanks to Molly, she had the perfect wedge. Now, to convince her boss.

  A stirring to her left stopped her from swinging Loki onto her shoulder
s. She gripped her leather satchel and spun around.

  From the darkness in the porch’s deep end, Dr. Rawley stepped forward, hat in hand. “May I speak with you a moment, Miss de la Pointe?”

  Her heart had swooped downward at the shadowed movement and now thumped harder at his appearance. “Certainly.” She rejoined him on the porch.

  He regarded her a moment longer and nodded. “My dear Miss de la Pointe. I know our acquaintance is of a short duration, but I have hopes my suit will find favor.”

  “Your suit looks perfectly fine.” Very fine, expertly cut to fit his muscled frame. “A little different than what we wear with our climate, but easily remedied.”

  Crimson spread up his neck and stained his ear tips. “You misunderstand.” He cleared his throat and found his hat of interest, twirling it around and around. “I meant...that is to say...” Then he, oh dear Lord, went down on one knee. “I would be most honored if you would consent to be my wife. You would make me the happiest of men.”

  Whomp. A vice-like grip wrapped around her lungs and squeezed, squeezed.

  No. He could not be serious. The constriction around her chest eased, and she inhaled a deep breath. “Are you in earnest?”

  “Indeed, I am.”

  Sweat slicked her hands, loosening her grip on her leather satchel, and her breaths came in and out in fast little draws. Blood pounded in her ears, the beat matching the dip and swoosh of a nearby bee at an azalea bush.

  No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. Not again. “But, you hardly know me, sir.” And if you did, you probably wouldn’t be on bended knee before me.

  The emotion gripping her was more intense than when she’d been engaged to Pascal for being so sudden, so unexpected. But the cause remained the same. Pure panic that she must share more. Pure panic that she must risk more. Pure panic that she must be more. And pure panic that she would fail.

  Others were cut out for marriage. Not her. When would everyone stop trying to squeeze her into this pre-defined role? It would be like writing The End to her life. A shudder crawled up her legs and slithered up her back. The endless social calls, the expected obedience to the husband, the crocheting of socks for everyone, or whatever they did. Heaven forfend! No. Not the life for her—especially not wife to a superficial cosmetic surgeon who, like the rest of his ilk, couldn’t see someone without picturing how to “improve” them.

  “I understand it’s rather sudden, but your father spoke highly of you in our correspondence and he told me you were of an age and ready for matrimony, and well, I have need of a wife.”

  “You have need of a wife,” she said, voice flat. Heat again flashed across her skin. So, it had nothing to do with who she was as a person. Of course it didn’t. Delving into his eyes, she found the same impersonal indifference she’d learned to recognize in Pascal’s. Yep, like her ex-fiancé, he had a preconceived notion of who she was and would be disappointed upon further acquaintance.

  “Yes,” he said. “Once I find a suitable home, we can marry, and you won’t need to work at the newspaper.” He smiled and waved his hat toward her, but the smile had a taint of confusion, as if he’d thought he was on sure footing, had found it a tad slippery instead, but was determined to forge on.

  This just got more and more appalling. She stared. How to reply? She took a deep breath and counted backward from ten. Her impetuousness always landed her in trouble, and this was her way of pulling back. Not the time to let her impulsive nature come shooting from her mouth in all its ugly glory.

  “Sir, I’m deeply flattered.” Not really. “However, since we’re practically strangers and so have no notion of whether we’d suit, and since I have no intention of quitting the paper, I must decline your offer. If you’re in need of a wife, there are ladies in Mobile who would be delighted to fill that role.”

  As Phillip knelt before Miss de la Pointe, a horrible stillness overcame him. Heat crept up his neck, ears, and face, and his stomach had dropped to the porch floor. This was not going at all as he had imagined. Not at all.

  After stillness, came the urge to flee—his muscles, his nerves, hell, even his bones, tightened, vibrated with the need to leave. How could he have so miscalculated the situation? Far from being amenable to marriage, his employer’s daughter was adamantly opposed. He felt as if he’d been handed an invitation to the opera, dressed the part, knew what to expect and what was expected, and walked into a prize fight. And got slugged in the gut.

  After the urge to flee, came a hot wave of anger, quickly suppressed. Dr. de la Pointe had completely misrepresented the situation. Had it been on purpose? Surely not. He would have no reason to lie and thereby place Phillip in such a humiliating position.

  What seemed most logical, as he gazed at the spirited lady above him, was her father didn’t truly know his own daughter. He’d presented it as an easy matter, that his daughter would be most willing.

  Of course, Phillip had initially been skeptical. But through their correspondence, the good doctor had allayed any misgivings. Enough to convince him to leave beloved England. Dash it all—he’d let himself believe, because he so desperately needed it to be true. A lot rode on this endeavor. And, all right. Perhaps, an easy engagement had appealed. Less drama, more time to devote to his career.

  Phillip swallowed hard and shoved the humiliation, the anger, into that corner of his soul where he stuffed such needless emotions. Every scrap, every shred, he rooted out. He was not his mother’s son in this. Emotion did not rule him. Emotion was a weakness.

  Fool. He’d been a fool.

  Miss de la Pointe gave a little nod, turned, and traipsed down the steps. Her monkey turned back and gave a small shrug.

  Slowly, Phillip stood.

  Now what? Had the whole move to Mobile been for naught?

  No. It couldn’t be. His sister Charlotte needed him. Needed him to marry this maddening creature.

  No, he simply had to make this work.

  Chapter Four

  Bosses, Brothels, and Bungling Menfolk, Oh My

  Adele screeched to a stop on her Davenport Horizon electric cell tricycle, or Miss Smarty Pants for short. Above, the three-story, yellow-brick facade of the Mobile Register loomed.

  Excitement and urgency pulsed from the hurly burly of Government Street, its honking steam cars and neighing donkeys pulling outdated carts.

  She put a shaking hand to her hair and patted. All in place. All right. She puffed out a short breath.

  That proposal.

  How awkward.

  Part of her hadn’t processed it. Criminy, make that most of her. But all the swirling thoughts and emotions did spiral into one overriding sentiment: resolve. She had to get this position. The grace period she’d had after her failed engagement was now dissolving.

  She felt it in her bones—this was how she’d make a difference, forge her own way. And have the added benefit of making her completely unfit to be a wife.

  She marched inside the Register’s offices, head high. Fellow reporters stretched across her path and grabbed missives from others. Copy boys pulled rolled-up papers from a metal tube and sent the empty canisters back to the third floor via the pneumatic delivery system. The shthwoop of the suction slashed through the shouts and conversational chatter. Spears of light from the floor-to-ceiling windows sliced through thick wads of pipe and cigar smoke.

  This. The bustle, the unity of purpose, the energy of important work wove through her and enlivened her steps.

  Beneath her feet, the rhythmic click-click-thrunk, click-click-thrunk of the basement steam engines provided a pulsing counterpoint to the delightful chaos. The lights, the presses, the tubes—even the gears and pistons of the giant Analytical Engine dominating the far wall—all powered by the basement behemoths.

  “Nchht niiik chtniii.”

  “I know, Loki. I know.” She ruffled the fur under his chin, his favorite spot. “This will be good. This will work out,” she whispered.

  Adele took a deep breath. The
combination of ink and sweat and steam spelled excitement, although her shaking hands spelled nervousness. Drat. She smoothed sweaty palms down her seersucker skirt. She’d make Mr. Tonti see reason—march in, ask for better assignments, leave as a bona fide reporter, not a gossip slinger. She’d ignore that this felt too adult, too daring, too who-did-she-think-she-was-kidding.

  Last night, she and Molly had discussed how to handle Loki’s punchbowl incident. Be forthright and professional and from the start, go after the main goal with determination; make that the focus.

  She pushed through a cloud of steam gusting from a vent. Ugh, just what she needed, another layer of moisture; her nerves and the Southern humidity supplied plenty. She plucked a hankie from her sleeve and dabbed her face and neck. Then, eyes on target, she strode to Mr. Tonti’s office door and knocked.

  “May I have a moment of your time, sir?” She pitched her voice loud to override the newsroom clatter and to penetrate the frosted glass pane.

  Barely audible, his come-in grunt was her only answer. She swung the door open and stepped inside.

  Not glancing up from his paperwork, Mr. Tonti waved toward the free chair. Typical. During their first meeting, his grandfatherly looks had fooled her. Now she knew better than to let down her guard.

  She straightened. “Please, sir. It’s important.”

  He heaved the overburdened sigh of an adult put upon by impertinent youth. At least, that was how it felt. He motioned her in. Not until she was seated did he set down the papers and pin her with dark brown eyes. The signal to talk. And make it quick.

  She leaned forward and channeled the chest flutterings and edginess into determination. “Sir, I want to write more challenging pieces. Chasing Mobile debutantes is not exactly earth-shattering.”

  He folded his hands over his paunch. The overhead fan’s lazy rotation made the white hairs atop his balding pate wave like underwater cilia. “No, but it’s what I pay you for.”