Steam Me Up, Rawley

by Angela Quarles

The cursing increased in volume and creativeness.

  “Loki, come here. I’m fine.”

  Her monkey stopped and clambered to her side. She placed him back on her shoulder, straightened her skirts, and marched away, intent on getting distance from the irate and lecherous and—from the smell of him—quite drunk sailor.

  “Thank you, Loki, for coming to my defense so gallantly.”

  “Ncct tree.”

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. She’d wandered into a rougher section. The buildings dripped with decay, rough characters stared at her.

  “Keep an eye out, Loki,” she whispered. No police were about, and she was by far the best-dressed person on the streets.

  Ahead, two drunks argued over a gin bottle clasped between them. Determined to hide her fear, she strode forward, only gradually angling her trajectory to pass them on the sidewalk’s far side.

  Good Lord, how far had she wandered while daydreaming?

  Gradually, fewer clumps of stinking garbage, sagging shacks, and unsavory characters lined the streets, and more patches of window box flowers, swept sidewalks, and fresh paint. Steps lighter, she soon headed for Dauphin Street. Encountering the sailor had given her an idea—the murderer could be a merchant seaman. It made sense. He could murder freely at each port and be away before discovered.

  Following that hunch, she headed to the paper and retrieved last week’s editions, writing down each merchant sea vessel that made port shortly before the first murder and hadn’t left by the time of the second one. There were two.

  Since she’d need to be back by the river anyway to keep an eye out for Dr. Rawley’s return, she searched out the captains of those two vessels, but the effort was for naught. One was on shore leave, and the crew didn’t know his whereabouts. The other was taking his luncheon at a nearby oyster saloon, and she had no time to get there, interview him, and get back before Rawley’s return.

  A listless half hour passed playing catch with Loki before the Bay Queen paddled back toward this side of Mobile Bay. She grabbed Loki and retreated into the shadowy alcove of a store closed for the afternoon.

  Of course, Dr. Rawley was one of the last passengers to disembark. She glared at him. He angled up toward Dauphin Street and disappeared around the corner.

  She scurried to the corner and peeked around. His tall form weaved through a light crowd.

  At one point, he looked in a shop window, and she whirled about, pretending interest in the Havana Cigar Depot on the corner of Royal and Dauphin, importer of the best brands of Havana cigars according to their sign. When he walked on, she followed. When he crossed the street, she did the same. She was getting pretty good at this.

  At the corner of Joachim, he turned left, and she hurried around the corner, though she was pretty sure he was headed back to the house. But she wanted to be certain.

  She looked at Loki. “See? I’m a professional at this. He doesn’t even—Oof!”

  A solid wall of black cloth scraped against her cheek and chin. She stumbled back a step. A masculine scent wafted over her. A familiar, masculine scent. Elegant black frock coat. Snowy white cravat with pearl stickpin. Strong jaw. Dimple in bottom lip. Yes, it was him. Under the guise of a gasp, she pulled in his scent.

  What the heck was her nose doing? This was the pompous weasel who so easily dismissed her. She lifted her head. His blue eyes sparked.

  “Miss de la Pointe, are you following me, perchance?” His tone was conversational, but she wasn’t fooled.

  Uh-oh. A hot flush crept up her neck and face. “I, uh. I...” Why did her big mouth have to choose now to play mute?

  “You were. Whatever for? I assure you, my life is not that interesting.”

  So you say. “You see, well...” She pulled at the lace collar around her neck and looked at Loki, who shrugged.

  “Confound your monkey. Answer me. Were you following me? And how did you know I’d be coming this way at this time?”

  “I...um...” Her brain’s gears locked up like a malfunctioning Analytical Engine.

  “You followed from the ferry. This is unbelievable. You owe me an explanation.”

  “You’re doing just fine answering for me. Don’t let me interrupt. Please, carry on.” Finally, her mouth was back.

  “Nreee eeee!” added Loki.

  Dr. Rawley’s eyes narrowed. He folded his arms and glared. With those narrowed eyes. For a good bit. His expressive eyebrows joined in the silent interrogation.

  She threw up her hands, Loki mimicking her. “Okay, fine. I’ve been following you.”

  “Why?” More glaring.

  Oh, this was awkward. She’d need to handle this delicately. “To see if you are Jack the Ripper.”

  “What?” his voice incredulous, slightly higher-pitched.

  “Surely you’ve heard the rumors?”

  He leaned forward, his heat and anger buffeting her, his sharp angles and stark beauty confusing her. “Enlighten me.”

  As awareness sizzled down her spine and made her feel more alive, she related the townsfolk’s speculations. “And then you came home late Sunday night all bloody, and another murder discovered the next morning...”

  “So you presumed I was the bastard who did this?” his voice tight, as if he must hold each word and launch it into the air individually or he’d lose control.

  “Well, no. I didn’t think it could be you, but at Madam Sophie’s—”

  “Madam Sophie’s? What in blue blazes were you doing at a brothel?”

  She patted her hair, hating how much his presence at the brothel bothered her. “I might ask you the same thing. I know you were there. I saw you this morning. And Lizzy worked there.”

  His gaze tracked her nervous movements and a considering look passed over them. “Who’s Lizzy?”

  “This morning’s victim,” she whispered. She felt like the biggest fool laying all this out to him. It was ridiculous to think he was Jack the Ripper.

  “Good God.” He blew a breath and leaned against the brick wall. “Come on, this is no place to have this conversation.” He levered away from the building and gripped her elbow. Confused, she allowed herself to follow his lead. A few steps later, he swung them into a dark alcove, his large frame blocking her from view of any passersby, while also blocking her escape.

  Strange. The situation should have alarmed her, being boxed in by a physically stronger male and murder suspect. But that wasn’t the feeling suffusing her as she looked up at him, his blue eyes the only clear thing in the afternoon gloam.

  No. Not fear. Protected. He protected her from gossiping eyes and ears. Maybe she was behaving like the ninny everyone believed her to be, but her instincts told her she was safe. And she had Loki.

  Chapter Eleven

  In Which Our Hero And Heroine Come To An Understanding (But Not That Kind Of Understanding)

  “Dare I ask why you’re interested in Jack the Ripper?” His voice was low, so low she leaned toward him in the darkened alcove.

  “I need a big story. Everything I’ve turned in so far has been rejected. Even the fact-based one I turned in on this latest murder. I need something that will engage the reader’s imagination.”

  “So you thought to name me the murderer,” he stated, voice flat.

  She gasped, and the breathy sound seemed to grow weight as it filled the small space. “Good Lord, no.”

  “But you were following me to see if I was.”

  “Exactly.”

  He leaned forward, his face now inches away. “And that’s different because...”

  “Well, obviously I needed to see if you were the Ripper. If I found sufficient proof, then I would out you, but I would not print speculation.” A blush warmed her face, and she waved a hand. “What you must think of me.”

  “Well, that is gratifying to hear. Although I doubt your compatriots would afford me the same courtesy.”

  She sighed. “That is true. Especially Mr. Peterson. He’s after the same position as I am. And he’s the one respo
nsible for speculating Jack the Ripper had crossed the Atlantic to terrorize the citizens of Mobile, Alabama. I mean, really.”

  “You are truly eager for this position.”

  “Yes.”

  He looked at a spot over her shoulder and propped his shoulder against the wall, gaze focused on her again. “Well, what do you know so far?”

  Goodness. He had a way of looking at one, with an intensity that was a little unnerving. But she wouldn’t be intimidated.

  She held up a hand. “Not so fast. You need to answer some questions first.”

  “To make sure I’m not the Ripper?” His British tones mixed with equal parts amusement and disbelief.

  “Exactly.”

  He took a deep breath, looked away, and fiddled with his hat. He met her gaze. “What do you wish to know?”

  “Why were you so bloody Sunday night?”

  “I’d been called to a...house where someone...” His chest expanded on a deep breath, eyes now looking everywhere but at her.

  “Yes? If you’re worried about my delicate feminine sensibilities, please remember I am a physician’s daughter. I’ve seen and heard it all.” Not really, but she wouldn’t let on. Father never shared; she’d learned all by eavesdropping.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Very well. A woman had an operation performed by a quack, and predictably it did not go well.” His fists tightened. “The lady wouldn’t stop bleeding. I was called in to save her.”

  A thrill shot through her that this man was treating her like an adult and being candid. “Did you?”

  His shoulders tensed. “No,” he said on a shaky breath.

  Raw pain flashed across his face in the alcove’s shadows, and her muscles tensed, ready to flee such emotion, such vulnerability.

  But something inside her stretched at his need, at the realization she was the only one available to console him. Father never gifted her with sharing his everyday work. She knew what he withheld. But this, seeing this vulnerable emotion was unexpected. It made her feel privileged in a way she’d never experienced.

  She slowly reached forward, scared of opening herself to his pain, unsure if she knew how to help. But she had to help. Somehow.

  “I...I...” She swallowed hard. “I think I know how you must feel.” She was certainly familiar with the pain of failure. “But you know, don’t you, deep in your heart, that you did your best. You did your best, Rawley.” She placed her hand lightly on his arm and stroked upward.

  She pleaded with her eyes for understanding. Had she said the right thing? Done the right thing?

  His gaze grew less troubled, and he nodded.

  All right, so he hadn’t been in town long, and already he’d visited Madam Sophie’s in the middle of the day. Two days after he’d come home bloody. The madam’s cageyness yesterday. His evasiveness on the type of operation. She gasped. “It was one of the girls at Madam Sophie’s, wasn’t it?”

  He looked down and nodded, a jaw muscle jumping. He yanked off his gloves and slapped them against his thigh.

  “A botched abortion?” she whispered.

  His head whipped up. “How do you know of such things?”

  “I’m the daughter of a physician.”

  He nodded, fingers twisting his gloves. Again, that need gripped her to console, and her fumbling attempt had been a success. She placed her hands over his. He caught her gaze, his eyes inscrutable, and she squeezed. He looked down at them, and puzzlement dashed across his features, quickly chased by another emotion she couldn’t discern, but it had his jaw flexing. As she was about to pull hers away, embarrassed, he pulled his own hand away and placed it on top, enclosing her hands in his warm grasp. “Thank you.” His eyes darkened, and his nostrils flared.

  Wait. This was the man Father intended to tie her down with, who’d asked her to marry him one day and the next dismissed her. Like her mouth, her body did things without her permission. She snatched her hands away and fussed with her hat, heat blooming from her chest. “You’re welcome,” she mumbled.

  “So, are you assured now I’m not the Ripper?”

  She laughed, though it came out a little shaky. “Yes.” She glanced at him. “I didn’t think you were, you know. I just had to be thorough.”

  “I understand. For your story. Let’s return home and discuss this further.”

  “Let me get Miss Smarty Pants first. I can give you a ride.”

  “Who on earth is Miss Smarty Pants?”

  “Oh, it’s my electric tricycle. That’s what I named her. Don’t worry, it’s a two-seater. Loki rides in the basket in front.”

  “Lead the way.” He stepped to her side in the dark alcove, and his warm hand settled on the small of her back, urging her forward.

  Heat spiraled from the point of contact, the warmth from his body imprinting on her skin through their clothes and making her insides flutter from chest to lower belly.

  Drat. Her body had the craziest responses. She kept her face impassive, however, and stepped into the afternoon light as the nearby cathedral chimed the half hour notes. No way would she betray how he affected her. She didn’t suit him? Who cared—he didn’t suit her either.

  Even if she did wish to marry—and she “suited him”—she had to remember how he made his living: charging exorbitant fees to cosmetically alter Mobile high society. Such a distasteful way to make a living and showed his true colors if nothing else did. He was in it for the money and prestige, like Father, like Pascal Du Page.

  They strolled down the rest of the block to where she’d left Smarty Pants.

  “Hop on. It won’t take long to reach home.”

  On the ride back, his brooding presence crowded next to her on the bench seat, his warm, muscled thigh pressing just so against hers, making her breath a little short. As they neared Dauphin Street, Smarty Pants chose that moment to coast to a stop.

  “What is amiss?” His clipped, cultured tones tickled her ear.

  “Nothing that can’t be fixed in a jiffy.” She hopped off and did her little routine, flipping up the wicker hood and reattaching the loose wire, while he stood behind and looked on.

  “Does this transpire often?”

  “Hmmm? No. Not often. I think it jiggles loose over time, and it takes me only a second to plug it back in. Almost... Ah, there.” She brushed her hands.

  Rawley looked from her to the engine and back to her. “It would take only a few minutes more back at the house to fix that so it won’t vibrate off.”

  She shrugged. “No doubt you’re right.”

  Rawley stepped forward, but stopped and stared over her shoulder, his eyebrows raised. Curious, she glanced back and found what intrigued him—Miss Eilands in her old-fashioned sixties-era hoop skirt and ruffles gliding toward them, frilly ribbon flapping and trailing behind her in the breeze she generated.

  “May I be of service?” the elder lady asked. “I’ve seen you break down before.”

  “That’s all right, Miss Eilands, I—”

  But the lady paid no attention. She flipped aside her skirt’s hem, exposing her prosthetic legs and the wheels attached as feet. A small leather pouch was strapped to her calf, bristling with small screwdrivers, wrenches, and other assorted tools. She selected a few and set to work soldering the connection.

  “I heard you wish to speak to those merchant captains,” the lady said. “I’ve noticed in my preambles they are usually on board in the morning and leave around noon to spend their day ashore.”

  Adele was surprised at how quickly the news had spread, but then Miss Eilands was a fixture around downtown Mobile as well at the docks; if anyone knew of the various comings and goings, it would be her. “Thank you! Miss Eilands, if I may, can we meet for coffee soon? I bet you know some good stories.”

  “I’d be delighted to, dear. You know how to find me.” She stood, closed the wicker hood, and gave it a quick pat. “All fixed.”

  Adele opened her mouth to thank her, but she’d rolled away. Energized, Adele spun around and
hopped back on Smarty Pants. “Now come on. Time’s a-wasting.” She patted the seat next to her.

  “Forgive me for speaking of delicate matters, but I couldn’t help but notice.” The tricycle dipped as Rawley took his seat. “What happened to her legs?”

  Adele bit her lip. “An accident left her bereft of her lower legs, and she was fitted with those wheels. We call her Floatin’ Island.” She started the engine.

  “Apt. Now that kind of cosmetic surgery I can understand. Is there a reason for her old-fashioned attire as well?”

  “She apparently promised her beau to remain unchanged when he went off to fight against the North. She kept her promise and awaits him, dressing the same so he can recognize her.”

  But his other comment piqued her curiosity. “You’re a cosmetic surgeon. Do you not approve of the work you do?”

  “When applied in her case, yes. But these frivolous enhancements the townsfolk here indulge in? No.”

  She sat back in her seat and stared at him.

  “Tell me,” he continued, “is this penchant for cosmetic surgery the same elsewhere in your country?”

  “I’ve been only to New Orleans, so I can’t know for sure, but I think it’s unique to our city.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I think after the Late Great Unpleasantness, it was initially done by the wealthy to show solidarity for the many veterans who’d lost limbs. After a while, it became simply fashionable, and I think most have forgotten the original impetus. We had a surgeon here who became quite skilled, and veterans from all over, North and South, traveled here to be operated on.”

  “Your grandfather.”

  “You know of him?”

  “He’s quite well known in my field—a pioneer in creating functional limbs suited to their needs and environment. Some of his patents were quite visionary. It’s why I first struck up a correspondence with your father, to increase my knowledge.”

  By this time, they’d pulled up in the backyard. They sought privacy in the lattice gazebo, the shade a welcome relief as she’d been gallivanting all day in the bright April sun. It suited for other reasons too—perfectly respectable, but far enough from prying ears. She let Loki loose to terrorize any birds or cats in the yard and crossed to one of the seats bordering the gazebo’s edge. From there she could see the yard—dappled now with that magical, yellowish late afternoon sunlight that brightens the colors of the leaves before it fades and mosquitoes get to biting—and keep an eye on her monkey.