Steam Me Up, Rawley

by Angela Quarles

  No, he could not pretend to be something he was not. If he did decide to pursue her, he’d have to win her with calm, cool logic. If he did win her, she would be in full possession of his nature, and their union would be equable and drama-free. If he failed...

  He pictured Charlotte sitting listless by the window library, chin in hand, face pointed toward the rolling moors, but her eye dull, unfocused. Whispers from doctors in darkened hallways of the dangers of such melancholy.

  But perhaps he wouldn’t need to woo the lady. Perhaps he had time to devise an alternative strategy. He lunged for the letter opener and, with shaking hands, slit it open, and fell back into the chair.

  His sister Louise’s handwriting leapt from the page. My dear Phillip...

  The screen door screeched opened, and she came inside. “I don’t understand why you protest so much.”

  He set the letter down and sighed. “There was nothing heroic at all in my actions. Please, do not read more into the situation. It required only a firm hand and a calm demeanor.” He darted a glance at the letter.

  She only smiled, her whole face lighting up, her eyes dancing merrily. “You are too modest, sir. I know what you are about. I’m onto you.”

  Her impish gaze drew him in, spoke of intelligence as well as good humor. Eyes that—then his brain registered her words, and he shook his head in befuddlement. “Whatever are you saying?”

  “You like to pretend to bumble or downplay your actions in order to be thought more daring and dashing. So people will think your accomplishments took more effort than they really do, and so garner more attention and praise.”

  What in blue blazes? “Miss de la Pointe. You are under a grave misapprehension.” He eyed the letter, fingers itching to pick it up. Loki’s eyes tightened, gaze intent on the letter now as well. He looked—miffed?—at Phillip’s fractured attention. Phillip sighed and focused on the current wrench in his well-structured plans for the day, Miss de la Pointe. “I do not pretend to anything. I simply am.”

  She cocked her head, and a small crease marred her smooth forehead. She waved her hand at him. Dismissively. “Yes, yes. All part of your ruse. As I said, I’m onto you. And you know what?” She lifted her chin. “I’m not going to indulge you.”

  “Indulge me?” This lady was preposterous, charming features or no.

  “That’s right. I will no longer become excited by your exploits. You don’t deserve it.”

  Phillip sat forward. “My exploits?” He didn’t think he’d ever done anything in his life that could be classified as an exploit.

  “That’s right. Your exploits. I will no longer be suitably impressed. So don’t think you can win me over by being thrilling. I won’t fall for it.”

  He spluttered. He mumbled. Had he arrived in a hysteria-ridden town? “If you will excuse me, I have work to do and a letter to read.” He tried to look as calm and imposing and non-thrilling as possible.

  He reached to grab the letter, hoping to signal this conversation was over. A tad rude, but it couldn’t be helped. Then his eyesight caught up to what his fingers were telling him: the letter was gone.

  Correction, the letter was raining in pieces from an upper shelf, the infernal monkey waving his hands in the air as the last pieces fell from his fists.

  And he couldn’t move as whatever news it imparted spilled over the floor.

  Miss de la Pointe gasped. “Loki! Get down from there. What in the name of the Holy Virgin Mary are you doing?” Her eyes snapped back to Phillip’s, and her skin’s shade morphed from confoundingly charming to fish belly white, as blood drained from her face. “Your letter?” she whispered. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.”

  She threw herself onto the floor, skirts billowing, and scooped up the small bits. She spread them and moved them around, and the implications of her actions finally struck him.

  He fell to his knees beside her. “Leave it.” He slapped a hand on top of hers. This was private.

  “Please, let me help you piece it back.”

  “No.” His tone was clipped, short; more than he’d ever allowed himself to be in front of a lady.

  “But it was my fault.”

  He unclenched his jaw to get out the next words. “Be that as it may, I would rather do it myself.”

  Her face turned to his, and she studied him. She must have sensed his barely controlled anger, for she nodded once and stood. “Come, Loki.”

  And she left.

  Finally.

  He stared at the tiny pieces on the wooden floor and willed his anger to settle. After a moment, he picked the pieces up and spread them on his desk. It took him an hour, but he got them fitted together enough to read his sister’s words.

  And the tightly packed knot he’d carried since his departure from England, and his family, wound tighter and settled in.

  Charlotte was still in depressed spirits, and this spell had lasted longer than any other. He must settle this business quickly for Charlotte’s sake. Her seeking an end to her pain through her own hand haunted his waking hours.

  So, heaven help him, Miss de la Pointe was his savior. And she thought him thrilling. What a joke.

  He’d pursue her, but he’d make sure she knew his true nature from the start. It was the only way to guarantee a harmonious partnership. And hope to God she stopped stirring whatever-the-heck-it-was within him that made him flail, and be so, so...raw.

  Chapter Six

  Which Deals With a Murder Most Foul

  “Loki, I can’t believe you did that,” Adele whispered as she walked into the main house. Criminy. The letter had seemed terribly important. She’d wanted to make amends, she truly did, but one look at his stormy face told her it was better to retreat.

  Father stepped into the hall. “Adele, come to my study.”

  Dread curdled in her belly. The brothel. It had to be about the brothel.

  Father closed the door and stepped behind his mahogany desk. Great-Aunt Linette sat in a chair, her kind features molded into a grim cast. The aromatic blend of ink and worn leather—his study—used to fill her with delight, for it meant time with him. But as she grew older, and those times had always proved superficial as well as parsimonious, the smell came to represent her ambivalence to her remaining parent. He motioned to the chair in front of the imposing desk. Definitely not a good sign. She perched on the edge and steeled herself for the admonishments.

  He sat forward, arms crossed on the desk, and held her gaze—the pose of a parent finally taking control. Uh-oh.

  “Needless to say, I’m disappointed in you, Adele. Your aunt and I were discussing the latest development.” He took a cigar from his inlaid wooden box and fingered it, rolling it back and forth, back and forth. “Some say I overindulge you, and I’m wondering if they’re not right. Perhaps if I’d been firm with you all along, you’d be more settled in your demeanor. I’ve been far too lax since your dear mother passed. I thought sending you to my sister’s family would be best for you, but now I’m not so sure.”

  At the rare mention of Maman, Adele jerked. She stared at the edge of his desk, throat clogged. She blinked rapidly and shoved the unbidden feelings deep, deep down.

  Under control again, she shifted in her seat and rearranged her skirt’s folds. A myriad of thoughts and feelings remained, but uppermost, resentment churned. Sure, he indulged her, but mainly because he couldn’t be bothered. His work took the highest priority. Hadn’t that been the real reason he’d sent her away?

  “Word has reached me you were seen leaving a brothel of all places. Please, tell me the gossips were mistaken.”

  “No. It’s true.”

  “By the Blessed Virgin, what has possessed you?”

  “I wished to see if I could do a story for the newspaper.” No need to get into specifics.

  His face turned a mottled red. “A story? This is exactly why I have a problem with you working. A society reporter is one thing. This?” He sliced his hand through the air.

  She straighte
ned. “I’d love your support.”

  “Why?” He trimmed his cigar and lit it.

  Ah, yes. Ink, worn leather, and pungent cigars.

  “Because it’s what I want to do. I want to make a difference in the world, and I feel like this is exactly the line of work that’ll allow me to do so.”

  “You said the same about nursing.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Now, Eustache—” interjected Great-Aunt Linette, brow furrowed.

  “Before that it was being a lady animal doctor.”

  Adele squirmed. “That was before—”

  Father talked right over her. “Let’s not forget your grand idea to captain an airship.”

  “Father. You’re not being fair.” Adele gripped her knees. The study had shrunk, crowding her. Those were all legitimate interests.

  “Fair? Adele, ever since you came back to live here and your engagement failed, you’ve flitted from one idea to another. How am I to take any endeavor you embark upon seriously when it’s likely to go the same route as the others?”

  Great-Aunt Linette appeared surprised as well at Father’s unusual bout with parenting. But she nodded and leaned forward. “Adele, I must say I agree with your father. I fear you’ll awaken one day and find you’ve missed what’s truly important in life, because you’ve been too busy jumping from one thing to another. You need to settle down.”

  Settle down. Probably the phrase she hated most in the English language, and she included “irate alligator” and “vegetables are good for you” in her lexicon. Staying busy was the key to her happiness. Staying busy prevented boredom. Staying busy prevented bad decisions, prevented messy emotions from seeping in. Settling down would make it impossible to stay busy.

  “Yes,” Father said. “I concur wholeheartedly. I have been too indulgent. That’s changing.”

  Adele stilled. “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean is, you need to be settled, and you need a firmer hand than mine. You’ll abide by my wishes and marry Dr. Rawley. The sooner the better in my opinion.”

  She leaped from the chair, heart pounding, and stared at him. “Y-you can’t be serious!” He was going to use this incident to push his marriage scheme?

  “Indeed I am, young lady. It’s past time you married. You’re, what, nineteen? Twenty? And Dr. Rawley is a stable, level-headed fellow. He’ll suit you.” He blew two smoke rings.

  For a moment, all she could do was stare as indignation choked her throat, competing with her blood’s fierce thumps as it rushed through her. “Suit me? Suit me? Don’t I get a say in this?” she finally blurted.

  “No.”

  His bald denial rocked her. But his eyes betrayed how difficult this was for him. He’d never taken this tack as a parent, and he wasn’t used to it. Like anyone adopting a new role, he might either stick doggedly to his perceived definition of how he should act, or he’d crumple completely, unable to maintain it when challenged.

  “He already proposed, and I turned him down.”

  “Yes, I am aware.”

  “Well, how do you know he’s still interested?” He’d been holding himself at a distance from her since the proposal—who could blame him?—and she kept telling herself she didn’t care. Because she didn’t.

  Father ashed his cigar. “Why would he change his mind?”

  Because now that he’d spent time with her, he’d concluded she wasn’t suitable? Just like Pascal. Just like you.

  Adele swallowed around a lump in her throat. “Father, this isn’t fair.”

  “You’re getting too old for these childish pursuits.” But he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  She took a step forward. “Childish?”

  “Yes. A lady your age should be respectably married by now and raising a family.”

  Adele choked back a hysterical laugh. She’d embarked on that path before with Pascal. Her corset constricted her chest. No. She’d played the debutante before and fell all giddy into Pascal’s schemes—his professions of love and their future together.

  How foolish, how naive she’d been. It was only after their engagement that reality asserted itself—his declaration that they would move to New York, of course, after they married, without consulting her wishes on the matter. His detailing what he expected of her—and all the time her soul thrashed and screamed, But what about my dreams? My wishes?

  But the truly scary thing that covered her in chills whenever she let herself think on it? She’d been so smitten she would have gone along with all of it, New York, the whole thing.

  And how could part of her not see this was a different way of pawning her off when she’d become too much trouble? Just like after Maman died. When Adele had needed him most. But she kept all that old bitterness and fear stuffed inside and said instead, “He’ll expect me to quit my job.”

  “Of course he would. Would not do to have one’s wife working. Would reflect poorly on him.”

  Adele clasped her hands behind her back and squeezed. “This is 1890, Father, not 1860. Ladies have more choices now.”

  He leaned back. “But you can’t seem to settle on one, can you, so what does it matter?”

  With so many interesting things to pursue, of course she’d had a hard time deciding. If she picked one, it eliminated all the other fascinating choices. “This is it. I swear, Father. I want to pursue a career as a reporter. Work my way to editor.”

  She ached to make a difference in the world. Be someone. And have that someone be more than reflected status from a husband. She could do this. She could. She was meant for more.

  He heaved a sigh and closed his eyes.

  He was weakening. She pressed on. “Recently, Nelly Bly completed her circumnavigation of the globe for the newspaper she works for. Before that, her exposé on the lunatic asylums inspired me.”

  He opened his eyes and fixed her with a determined glare. “All right. Here is my condition.” He sat forward and pointed his cigar toward her. “If you are serious about this profession, you will treat it as such, be extra diligent, and secure the beat reporter position.”

  “Or else?”

  “Or else, you’ll marry Dr. Rawley and relinquish these ridiculous schemes.”

  She sat back down in her chair with an exasperated sigh, the world feeling like it was shrinking. She peered closer. Did his determination have any discernible chinks?

  “I mean it, Adele,” his voice hard, his mouth thinned.

  It appeared he did mean it. Criminy.

  The next morning, Adele headed out the back door on her way to the paper to turn in her first story. After unsuccessfully chasing the Lady of the Night and witnessing Dr. Rawley’s heroics, she’d spent the rest of the day pounding out her Neptune piece on her Crandall Typewriter. Due to launch in eight days, the luxury cruise submarine generated much excitement downtown.

  THE NEPTUNE: A FLOATING PLEASURE PALACE OR A WORKER’S NIGHTMARE?

  This would be the piece. The prose would stun Mr. Tonti. Loki bounced excitedly on her shoulder. She spotted Mrs. Tuttle coming up the sidewalk and veered over to the wrought-iron fence to greet her.

  “I have that book for you on Wollstonecraft, like I promised.” Mrs. Tuttle held up a paper-wrapped parcel and handed it to Adele over the fence. “Are you on your way out?”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Tuttle. That was so sweet of you to remember. I’m looking forward to the read. And, yes, I’m heading to the newspaper now.”

  “Have you thought anymore about what I said at Mrs. Chastang’s party?”

  “I have, and I’m sure this is what I want to do, consequences be dashed.”

  Mrs. Tuttle gave a soft chuckle. “Only testing your resolve, my dear. I know you don’t feel like you wish to marry, but you might not feel that way later, and pursuing the new position at the paper—well, that’s a manly pursuit, make no doubt. It will severely limit your marriage prospects.”

  “Good. I’m firm in my resolve not to marry, so there’s no issue. Now I just need to prove
myself to Mr. Tonti.” Adele filled in the older lady on the position she was trying out for. “I don’t know just where to start. How to find stories. Until now, the society articles have been assigned to me.”

  “What you need to do is cultivate contacts in the community so when potential stories crop up, they will reach out to you. If you wish, I can suggest some influential people for you to speak to.”

  “Would you? That would be wonderful.”

  Five minutes later, Adele strode into the paper. Alfred, the young copy boy, skidded around her but clipped her side and sent papers flying. Adele knelt to help the out-of-breath aspirant. “What has you in a lather?”

  “There’s been a murder.” He gulped, eyes wide. “A doxy down by the docks. Happened last night, they reckon.”

  Adele stared at Alfred, his coat buttoned askew, a graphite smudge on his chin. “Doxy?” Could it be the one she saw running early yesterday morning? She’d not been able to find her after she’d finally packed her equipment. She’d been afraid the man chasing the unfortunate woman had an ill intent, and it twisted her stomach to think she’d not been able to help and a person she’d seen, stared into the eyes of, had been foully murdered.

  Eyes alight, Alfred jumped up and down, papers flying again. “Yes. She’d been strangled, they say. And her stomach had been slashed open. Blood and—”

  “All right, Alfred. I think I get the picture.” She shuddered. “Where’s the body?” She’d need to get there, and fast, before another reporter scooped her.

  “Down off Theatre Street.”

  She fished in her reticule for a sucker and handed it to him. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you, Miss Adele,” he whispered, taking the candy. He straightened, gave a jaunty salute, and dashed away.

  She strode from the office and onto the street, her hand holding Loki’s side as he perched on her shoulder. He knew the drill: he swung down and gripped her neck, his legs wrapping part way around her torso. “Nteeech. Breetch!”