A Tale of Two Hearts

by Michelle Griep

  She lifted her chin, then grabbed for her hat as a brisk breeze nearly lifted it off her head. “You’re right. I shall go to Father at once and explain the situation. If he allows me to attend the dinner for the sake of Mr. Barlow’s uncle, then I shall. If not, well, either way I must leave this in God’s hands.”

  Effie grinned. “I knew ye’d do the right thing. Shall I come along?”

  “No. I fear I’ve made you late enough as is. Thank you, my friend, and I’ll let you know how things turn out.” She whirled to go, then as suddenly turned back. “Oh, I nearly forgot.”

  With a heavy heart, she retrieved a small purse containing all her savings for Father’s watch fob. Though she tried to smile as she held it out, her lips didn’t quite cooperate. “Here is my donation to the Institute for the Care of Sick Gentlewomen. I thought you might add it along with yours and see that Miss Whymsy gets it.” Effie eyed her as she collected the offering. “I suspect this is costing you more than some coins.”

  “It is.” She nodded toward the pouch. “That was my sole funding to purchase Father a new fob for Christmas.”

  “Ahh, love.” Effie shoved the purse back toward her. “Surely betwixt the two of us, we can come up with some other way to help the institute.”

  “I have thought of another way, for the fob, that is. Would you stop over when you’ve some free time and help me cut my hair? As inconspicuously as possible. I plan to fashion a braided twist for Father to use. It won’t be as dashing as a gold chain, but it will be better than none.”

  Tucking the pouch into her pocket, Effie then straightened her shoulders and saluted. “My scissors are at yer command.”

  “Oh! One more thing.” She held out her other hand, offering back Effie’s second-chance coin on her open palm. “Here is your coin.”

  Effie curled Mina’s fingers back around the gold piece. “I’ll see yer contribution gets to Miss Whymsy, but you keep that coin. Tuck it in a pocket and carry it with you every day. When the right situation happens along, I’m sure ye’ll know just when to use it. And in the meantime, when ere yer fingers rub against the metal, think on more than just the second chance I gave you. Think on the second chance God gives us all, eh love? Now, off with ye.”

  “Thank you, my friend. I shall see you next week.” Turning on her heel, Mina tucked the coin into her reticule, then dashed down the lane faster than decorum allowed. But it was not to be helped. If she didn’t get this over with soon, she might lose the pluck to tell her father.

  At this time of the afternoon, only a few patrons sat with mugs in hand inside the taproom. It was the off-hour, the lull she would’ve taken advantage of to sneak off with her book if Father hadn’t confiscated it again. At this rate, she’d never finish David Copperfield.

  She strode directly to his office and rapped on the door before pushing it open. “Father?”

  Behind his paper-strewn desk, Father’s chair sat empty. Neither did the sweet scent of Cavendish tobacco waft in the air.

  Shutting the door behind her, she dashed to the kitchen. Perhaps he indulged in a bite of one of Martha’s meat pies.

  “Father?” She swung into the kitchen and stopped inches in front of Martha.

  “Peas and honey!” The cook retreated a step, a sprinkling of flour taking flight from her collar at the sudden movement. “Take a care, child.”

  “My apologies.” She offered the woman a sheepish smile, all the while knowing it was a poor show of contrition. “I am looking for my father. Have you seen him?”

  Martha swiped the back of her hand across her cheek, leaving behind a dusty smear. “He’s gone.”

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  “La, child!” Cook’s lower lip folded. “Don’t tell me ye’ve forgotten what day it is. Yer father left not an hour ago for his annual trip to Colchester to find this year’s best oyster seller. Can’t rightly have his famous stew for the Christmas Eve party if he don’t have the best oysters.”

  “Oh, dear,” she breathed out. She’d been so caught up in her own worries she hadn’t given a second thought to the date—or Father’s party preparations.

  “Now, now. ’Tain’t all that bad. He’ll be back in little over a fortnight.” A stray hair escaped from Martha’s cap, and she blew the rogue away. She edged a step nearer, lowering her voice. “I suppose you should know, though, that your father arranged for Mr. Grimlock to come by on the morrow to manage things while he’s absent.”

  Mr. Grimlock? She stiffened.

  “Thank you, Martha,” she forced out, then spun away before the cook could read the disgust that surely coloured her cheeks. Now not only would she not be able to tell Father about the dinner at Uncle Barlow’s, but she’d have to dodge Gilbert Grimlock’s perpetual advances. The man had proposed to her twice already. Of all the men Father could have chosen to tend the inn for him, it had to be Gilbert Grimlock? She narrowed her eyes.

  Or had Father chosen the man on purpose as part of his never-ending scheme to marry her off?

  CHAPTER TEN

  The civility which money will purchase is rarely extended to those who have none.

  Sketches by Boz

  Mina pressed her back against the corridor wall before she reached the kitchen, shrinking farther into the shadows as Gilbert Grimlock strode out the door. Please don’t come this way. Please don’t even look.

  She’d spent the better part of the past week dodging the fellow. Despite her efforts, he’d occasionally caught her off guard. Such had been the case earlier today. After suffering a morning of the man’s ego and innuendoes, she’d begged off with a headache. Which was no lie. His thinly veiled talk of marriage and continual boasting of his accomplishments never failed to throb in her temples.

  Just past the threshold, Mr. Grimlock paused, the great hulk of him a dark, unmoving blob. She froze. What would she say if he turned back around and found her skulking about in her finest dress when he thought her abed? Think. Think!

  But as unexplainably as he stopped, he once again set off, creeping toward the taproom like a giant spider.

  She waited until he disappeared, and her crazed heartbeat slowed. Pushing away from the wall, she padded the rest of the way down the passage and slipped into the kitchen. Thankfully, Martha bent over a pot on the hearth, humming a folk tune and stirring up a frenzy. Mina shot toward the back door and eased it open and shut before Cook noticed.

  Outside, brisk evening air slapped her cheeks, and she shivered as she dashed to the back gate of the small courtyard. She yanked it open, and when Will turned toward her at the creak of the hinges, the night lost its chill.

  “Good evening, Mina. Though I can’t say I like this stealthy business, I am happy you came.” He offered his arm. “Shall we?”

  “We shall.” She smiled. How could she not? The gleam in Will’s eyes pulled her into the adventure of the evening, erasing the smudge of Gilbert Grimlock on her day and easing the tension of trying to slip out unnoticed.

  Together, they stepped into the evening throng of London’s streets. The aged thoroughfares never slept. Gas lamps glowed like miniature suns, lighting their way. They strolled past shift workers going to and from factory jobs, washerwomen scurrying home to feed their families, and even a few children peddling matches or candle stubs.

  Down at the next corner, William hailed a cab, twice the size of the one they’d ridden in when they’d gone to tea, with four wheels instead of only two.

  She grasped Will’s hand and climbed into the carriage. But this time when he shut the door, sealing them in shadowy possibilities, her high spirits faltered. If Father knew what she was about, his wrath would be unbearable. And well deserved. This was scandalous. She was scandalous. But was not man’s life worth a ruined reputation?

  Will sank onto the seat across from her, and she edged into the corner, as far from him as possible. What a sorry tale this might turn out to be were William Barlow not a man of integrity, which he was. Wasn’t he? She swallowed. What di
d she really know of him other than her inflated imaginary image?

  “Mina, I…” Spare light crept in as they passed near a streetlamp, highlighting a strange look on his face. He worked his jaw as if he struggled for words. Did he feel the gravity of their charade as much as she?

  But then half a smile quirked his lips, and a familiar twinkle reignited in his eyes. “What I mean to say is that I appreciate you coming along for the sake of my uncle. I realize I’ve put you in somewhat of a compromising situation, and I will strive to protect your reputation. I vow I shall have you home at a decent hour.”

  So, he did understand. Warmth flared in her chest. Will was gallant after all, a true hero, and she chided herself for having doubted him. “Thank you. And yes, if you don’t mind, as soon as your uncle names his heir, I really must return to the inn.”

  “Understood.” He nodded. “Let’s hope it’s not a fourteen-course meal, hmm?”

  Fourteen courses? How long would that take? She sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh! Do you think—?”

  “It was only a jest, Mina, and a poor one at that. Forgive me?” A lopsided grin played across his face. “You shall return to your regular life in no time and not be bothered with mine.”

  She turned her face to the window. His words echoed like a death knell, clanging loud and deep in her soul. Once this night was over, they’d go back to their lives. He stopping by for a pint now and then, and she pressing her nose to the glass each time he left. Endless hours of serving customers and dodging pinches. Helping Martha shell peas or Father manage deliveries. A regular life? How dismal.

  But there was no sense dwelling on such melancholy thoughts now, especially when some good may come of this evening, if Will were named heir. And if nothing else, she’d have gotten to share a cab with a handsome gentleman and attend a fancy dinner, just like in one of her novels. As the wheels of the carriage bumped over cobblestones, she straightened in her seat and determined to enjoy the ride, no matter what the next hours might bring.

  The cab halted, and when her feet touched ground, she stared up at a magnificent, three-story building. It was hard to tell if the bricks were brown or deep red in the darkness, but regardless, the proud structure stood like a soldier on parade. Candles burned in every window, and merry gas lamps flickered on each side of a grand front door. It was a jolly sight. Like a new friend bright eyed at the prospect of meeting her. She followed Will up the stairs and onto the landing, where he rapped a lion-headed knocker against the door.

  Moments later, golden light poured out the opening, draping a luminous mantle on the shoulders of a butler in a black suit. He bowed his head and swept out his arm in invitation. “Good evening, Mr. Barlow. If you and your lady would step this way.”

  Leaving behind the chill November night, Mina stepped into a June morning—or so it seemed. Brilliant light bathed the large foyer, and long-fronded ferns and other plants sat on pedestals of varying heights around the perimeter. How magical! She might almost imagine herself at the center of an enchanted garden.

  Will helped her from her coat and handed it over to another servant, then doffed his as well. The butler led them to a sitting room, where Uncle Barlow rose from his seat the moment she met his gaze. Beside him, perched on the edge of a settee, Percy and Alice pouted, or maybe frowned. It was hard to tell. A surprising twinge of pity squeezed Mina’s heart. How awful to go through life with a perpetual sourness festering inside.

  Uncle Barlow clapped William on the back with a “Happy you made it, my boy.” Then he stopped in front of her. His big hand gathered her fingers, and he pressed a light kiss atop them. “‘The pain of parting is nothing to the joy of meeting again.’”

  She grinned at his Dickens quote. How sweet that he’d remembered her love for Nicholas Nickleby. “Thank you, sir, but the pleasure is mine.”

  He released her and chuckled. “I didn’t think it possible, William, but your wife’s charm outshines yours.”

  Will’s gaze sought hers, and a strange gleam deepened the blue in his eyes—a look she’d never before seen from him.

  Will cleared his throat and, in a flash, the look disappeared, replaced by a familiar playful twinkle. “She is rather brilliant, is she not?”

  Across the room, Percy rose like a black cloud of doom, pulling Alice up along with him. “We are here for dinner, I believe. And I, for one, am famished, Uncle.”

  “Well then.” Uncle Barlow rubbed his hands together. “I suppose we shall have to remedy that, eh?”

  He led their entourage out of the sitting room and into a corridor lined with oil paintings and crystal wall sconces. Mina soaked it all in as she walked at Will’s side, memorizing the way light played off the gilded frames and the softness of the thick Persian runner beneath her feet. She blinked, praying the dream would not fade. This was a storybook palace, and she was a princess strolling next to her prince.

  “Look at that gown.” Behind her, Alice’s ugly whisper stabbed her in the back. “Puffed sleeves went out of fashion at least three seasons ago. And not a glimmer of jewels, not even some simple earbobs.”

  “Knowing my cousin,” Percy rumbled in a low voice, “it’s the best they can afford. Elizabeth Hill did right when she cut him loose, for he’s likely neck-deep in debt. Obviously this woman was too dull witted to credit his faults and pull out before it was too late.”

  “I’d say she is a drab.”

  The venom in their remarks worked a slow burn up her neck, dimming some of the grandeur of Uncle Barlow’s fine home…and who was Elizabeth Hill?

  Will leaned close, his breath warm against her ear, making her forget about his cousins’ jabs and a woman named Elizabeth—especially when he whispered for her alone, “Ignore them, Mina. You look lovely and would even had you worn your taproom apron.”

  Oh, dear. Now heat flooded beyond her neck and spread in a flame across her cheeks. She dipped her head as they entered the dining room, lest he see the effect.

  Uncle Barlow stopped in front of a large table draped with white linen and sporting silver-edged place settings. “I’ve taken the liberty to arrange seating. Percy and Mina on this side.” He lifted his right hand. “Alice and William, opposite, if you please.”

  Percy skirted past her to grab the chair nearest Uncle Barlow’s, then backed off at the grim shake of Uncle’s head. Uncle Barlow advanced and held the chair out for Mina. Across from her, William did the same for Alice.

  As soon as all were seated, servants entered, placing domed platters atop the table. When they lifted the lids, Alice and Percy leaned forward, eyes narrowed at the food.

  Mina settled her napkin in her lap. Whatever Will’s cousins were concerned about now, at least they weren’t scrutinizing her, and she could go back to reveling in her fairy-tale night. Uncle Barlow slid a browned piece of roasted fowl from a serving platter onto her plate, then spooned an accompanying gravy atop it. The savory scent rained drops at the back of her throat. If she could remember everything about this dish, perhaps Martha might be able to copy it.

  Across from her, Alice sniffed and stared at Uncle Barlow. “Is something the matter with your cook?”

  “No, nothing at all.” Uncle speared a large bite of his meat and chewed with such gusto, the tufts of hair near his ears jittered. “Why do you ask?”

  “No soup? No fish course? We begin with naught but a main dish?”

  “Do you object to fowl?”

  Alice’s lips puckered for a moment. “No.”

  “Then why not enjoy what has been served?” Uncle Barlow chuckled. “I assure you, it is by no mistake I have chosen to reduce the courses. A year ago now, my physician suggested my gout might improve should I lose a stone or two. It has, and so I continue to eat a lighter fare.”

  A rumble sounded deep in his chest, and he pulled out his handkerchief. His cough wasn’t as hacking this time though, and for his sake, Mina hoped he was truly on the mend.

  “Humph,” Alice grumbled, then looked down her nose
at Mina. “I suppose this is a feast for you.”

  She smiled, ignoring that somehow Alice meant her words as a cut. But how could they be? This was a feast, for she’d never sampled anything like it. The rich aftertaste of her first bite yet lingered in her mouth. “It is quite delicious.”

  “I agree.” Across the table, William winked at her.

  From the corner of her eye, she noted that Percy didn’t eat his meal. Odd, for was he not the one who’d declared himself famished? He pulled out a slip of paper and a pencil from his pocket then scribbled down some sort of note, all beneath the cover of the table. The others couldn’t see, but she did. Why would he be writing instead of eating?

  “Mina.” Uncle Barlow tapped a finger on the table, drawing her attention. “Do you remember the scenes in Bleak House when old Smallweed demands Judy to ‘shake him up’?”

  “I do.” She set down her fork, a grin spreading. “I own that we are supposed to loathe the man, but secretly”—she inclined her face toward Will’s uncle and lowered her voice—“I rather liked him.”

  “Ha ha! So did I.” Uncle Barlow raised a fist in the air and gruffed out in his best Smallweed imitation, “‘Shake me up, Judy. You brimstone beast!’”

  Mina laughed, not just from the man’s antics, but also from the raised brows on both Will and Alice.

  Percy turned slightly away from them all, scribbling furiously. Mina’s laughter faded. Whatever Percy was taking notes on couldn’t be good, not if he must hide the contents.

  “Tell me, William,” Uncle Barlow’s voice rumbled. “Has your wife made a reader of you yet?”

  Her face shot to Will’s. The reminder that Uncle Barlow thought them married was an unpleasant jolt, and worse, that it was their deception alone that had earned her a seat at his table.

  The tips of Will’s ears reddened. “Not yet, sir.”

  “Well I”—Alice interrupted—“find reading tiresome. Tell me, Mina.” She dabbed her lips with a napkin, as if speaking her name was a stain to be rubbed off. “Do you not find it hard to distinguish fact from reality after immersing yourself in falsehoods? For that is what novels are, are they not? A great collection of fabrications and imaginary people?”