The Hummingbird Heart (Haunted Hearts Legacy Book 2)

by A. G. Howard

  The steward glanced across Mr. Sala’s broad shoulders at the half-opened door. “Someone broke into his room, you say?”

  With that, all of the peeping spectators shut their doors to a concert of clicking locks.

  Julian met the Italian man’s gaze. It struck him how dark his irises were—like glistening onyx stones.

  “Un fantasma,” Mr. Sala said. His thick lashes flickered as his voice softened to a plea. “Dirgli, per favore.”

  Julian cleared his throat against a lump of skepticism. “He’s convinced a phantom did it. He said he woke up in the night to see the braid floating through midair. He went back to sleep, thinking he was dreaming. Then he awoke this morning to find his hair gone. He wants another room. One that isn’t … haunted.”

  The steward’s face flushed to a red so flaming, his freckles disappeared. “B-b-b-but…” he stammered. “There ain’t no more rooms in the men’s quarters. And the cap’n won’t allow an unmarried man to lodge on the couples’ end or the ladies’ deck. It’s again’ regulations.”

  “Ho veduto altre singolarità.” Mr. Sala stomped his tasseled shoe, nearly in tears. “Richiedo una stanza differente!”

  Julian laced his hands behind him. “He claims to have seen other oddities. He insists you move him.”

  Beads of sweat appeared on the steward’s upper lip. “W-what kind of oddnesses?”

  Julian relayed the question. Upon Mr. Sala’s answer, Julian studied the Italian man, trying to weigh his sincerity. A shame Mother wasn’t here. She would know just by looking if he was lying or possibly demented.

  Hesitant, Julian removed his gloves—his hands growing uncomfortably warm. He redirected his attention to the crew member. “There are places in the room as frigid as the arctic. And when Mr. Sala walks through them, the hairs on his arms stand up … as if an electric shock passes through him. Sometimes, puddles appear upon the floor out of nowhere. And,” Julian glanced at the man who nodded him onward, “and he smells things.”

  The steward appeared almost relieved. “Well that I can fix. I’ll get a scullery maid in right this minute. She’ll take care of any stenches or leaks.”

  Julian tucked his gloves away. “You misunderstand. These things are otherworldly, according to your patron. The puddles appear and disappear without any warning. And the smells move from one part of the room to another, as if wafting on a breeze. There’s the scent of stagnant water then a woman’s perfume. And there’s one last thing.” Julian paused, trying to frame Mr. Sala’s concerns carefully to keep the man from sounding like a lunatic. “There’s a pair of antique shoes he found in his room when he awoke. They were sitting in the midst of his parlor. When he tried to pick them up, they clomped around on their own to escape him.”

  “Aw, c’mon. Surely he’s funnin’?”

  Julian regarded Mr. Sala’s pinched mouth, noting the worried tremble. “Looks serious enough to me. He wants the shoes thrown overboard.”

  Several rooms had eased open again throughout the course of the conversation, curiosity getting the better of their occupants. At this point, enough ears had heard the predicament that by afternoon, everyone on the ship would know about the haunting.

  The steward thrust a gaze over his shoulder. “This is wicked horrid. Wicked I say. This will be bandied about until no one will take the room. Aww…” He ran his hand across his forehead in an absent gesture, knocking his cap off again. “Cap’n will have my stockings to hang. I’ll be barefoot and jobless, you’ll see.” His adolescent voice took on a nasal quality escalated by his distress. “I should ne’er have discussed it out here in the open. But I couldn’t get Mr. Sala back in his room, right? He wouldn’t go in.”

  “I’ll trade him rooms,” Julian blurted before thinking it through. And it was the most unusual sensation, letting his tongue off its leash in such a manner. It was … liberating. Is this what spontaneity felt like? No wonder Willow liked it so much. One side of his mouth tweaked on a smile as he bent to pick up the steward’s cap, dusted it off, and handed it back.

  Both Mr. Sala and the boy stared blankly at him.

  “You’ll take the room?” the steward asked, returning his cap to his head. “You ain’t afraid of the specter?”

  Short of telling the crew member and their multi-eared audience his family history, Julian couldn’t very well explain his neutrality toward ghosts. Though he’d never seen one himself, he believed they existed. And if this room had one, well, what better way to have an adventure than to befriend a ghost? Not to mention, he would be in the good graces of this Italian man who was obviously wealthy, judging by his attire and expensive finger jewelry. Perhaps he’d be so grateful he’d invest in Julian’s park plans.

  “I’ll take the room on the condition you leave the shoes with me.” Julian tagged on the caveat, remembering from his uncle’s story that spirits were often tied to objects. “And I’ll help you pack up Mr. Sala’s things and move them to my cabin, so he’ll have no need to go in again.” Julian glanced at the multitude of inquisitive gazes all along the corridor. “Unless one of you should like to volunteer your occupancy?” His offer was met with doors slamming, coughs, and nervous mumbles.

  Mr. Sala’s exotically handsome face smoothed with relief. He took Julian’s hand and pumped it. “Grazie.”

  Julian managed a smile himself. “You’re welcome.” Then he looked down at the steward. “Let’s get to it then, shall we? I have much to accomplish today, and I’m getting a late start.”

  Inside the wheel house, Captain Everett offered Julian a cup of coffee.

  Julian held it beneath his nose, letting the pungent, nutty steam fill his nostrils and warm his lungs before taking a sip.

  “I believe I can help you, Master Thornton. Aye, and help you I will. Least I can do for a hero. Mr. Sala holds a lot of clout in the shipping industry … he could’ve ruined my liner’s stellar reputation had things gone differently.” The captain smoothed the brownish-gray beard along his chin as he shuffled through some papers next to the navigation panels. “Now where is that passenger manifest?”

  The captain had already given Julian a tour of the wheel house. He’d explained the gauges and monitors: a variety of magnetic compasses, an indicator that showed at what angle the rudder was set, a clinometer which registered the degree of roll the ship was experiencing … most helpful in rough weather.

  Normally, Julian would have been thrilled to glut his mechanical appetite on the shiny brass and silver gadgets. But he was still wrestling with an image he’d seen earlier—an adolescent immigrant boy that he’d passed in a crowd of people while coming up to the promenade. Though the lad had held his head down, a large-brimmed hat blocking his face, something about his chin rang familiar.

  Julian couldn’t put his finger on it. But he would.

  “Ah, here it is.” The captain recaptured Julian’s attention. He scratched his beard and glanced through three sheets of paper. “Well, Mr. Sala, as you know, is one of the wealthiest men on board. Then there is a Judge Victor Arlington from St. Louis. Aye. He ate at my table last night at dinner. Spoke in some length of the hotel and sea-water bathing business he owned in Liverpool. He was in London to sell the properties … hopes to meet some enterprising young minds at the World’s Fair to invest in.”

  Julian set aside his coffee. Though inspired by the news, he had noticed the two-way telegraph radio at his left. “Might I send a wire while I’m here?” He had an urge to check on Willow … to tell his family to keep him posted on how she was fairing at Ridley’s.

  Captain Everett called over one of his crewmen. “Hymie will take care of you Master Thornton. Hope to see you this eve at the masquerade.” With that, the captain tipped his uniform cap and left the wheel house.

  After sending his telegraph, Julian headed downstairs to the barber shop.

  He took a seat, third in a long row of chairs against the wall. He had brought his Threshold magazine and laid it open on his lap. This issue outlined the exhi
bits being offered at the St. Louis’ World’s Fair, and last night before he retired to bed Julian had circled five he wished to visit. But at the moment, reading was the furthest thing from his mind.

  Instead, he was captivated by the gleaming barber pole in the salon’s center. The red and white peppermint swirl brought to mind his carousel at home and the tiny white squirrel now in his sister’s care. The snip-snip of scissors and glassy rattle of tonic bottles provided an almost hypnotic backdrop to his musings, lulling him deeper into thought.

  Julian wondered upon his family: Emilia, Mother and Father. How must they be faring in that lonely townhouse? Although he wasn’t there to suffer Nick’s absence daily, Julian felt the hollowed emptiness even in this foreign place. Yet at the same time, some good had come of his brother’s impromptu flight. For Julian had never felt closer to Emilia.

  They’d spent that first night of Nick’s departure together in the drawing room, nursing little Bristles to health. Over the next few days, the squirrel became their binding tie. Once the tiny white rodent got his bearings, he showcased a most charming and comical personality. He’d won everyone over and had become an established member of the family before Julian and Willow had left. In fact, upon their departure, Bristles sat on Emilia’s shoulder, nesting within her dark hair as she waved goodbye to the retreating carriage. Julian had no doubt the little fellow would keep his sister occupied and happy until his return.

  “So … did you get a gander at the phantom shoes?” An American accent startled Julian from his thoughts.

  Julian refocused on the magazine in his lap. “Pardon?” He tucked the magazine between his leg and the seat as he shifted his glance to the American man just ahead of him in line for a shave.

  The heavy man resituated in his chair, rolling from one hip to the other until satisfied with his progress. “I’m Judge Victor Arlington, from St. Louis.”

  Hanging his spectacles over his vest’s placket, Julian took the hand offered him. He couldn’t believe his luck. Now, if he could just hit it off with the man, he might have a prospective investor. “Julian Thornton. Nice to meet you, sir.” The shake was firm but not crushing. Julian’s father had taught him that much could be said of a man’s character through a handshake.

  Straightening the navy blue vest which barely contained his bulges, Judge Arlington grinned. His greenish-blue irises nearly vanished with the effort, as if invisible threads had been sutured through his puffed cheeks and eyebrows then cinched tight over his eyes.

  “Sorry for intruding upon your introspections.” His tanned skin glowed in places with a rosy sheen, especially his nose and cheeks. Paired with his greyish-white hair and the long moustache waxed to curl up at the edges, he had a jolly appearance. “You’re the talk of the promenade at the moment. Everyone knows of the haunted room. I was just curious what the infamous shoes look like.”

  Julian leaned back in his chair, soothed by the ethers of hair tonic and cologne surrounding them. “Ah. Well, I assure you, they’re unique. I know a bit about trends, having a mother and sister invested in ladies’ fashion. I’d venture the shoes are from the eighteen hundreds, judging by the embroidered fabric and inward-curved heels. The toes are pointed beyond what could possibly be comfortable, but they’re immaculately preserved. And the color is most unusual…” Julian paused as he noticed the men on both sides of him were listening with their mouths agape. He tamped the urge to laugh out loud. To think, here he was in a barber shop, entertaining men with talk of ladies’ fashions.

  “Go on,” Judge Arlington urged, oblivious or uncaring as to their audience.

  “Um … they’re yellow. Rather like buttercups at the cusp of spring. And then there’s the sparkling buckles.” With this, Julian stopped short. As nice as the judge seemed, diamond studded shoe buckles could awaken a surge of greed in any man. Julian surmised that the one reason Mr. Sala hadn’t tried to take them was due to his own superstitions.

  Julian had considered selling the shoes himself so he’d have no need for any investors. But in good conscience, they weren’t his to sell. Not to mention that something about them called to him … as if they were capable of affecting emotion. They felt frail, in need of protection. This determination to keep them safe had prompted him to find a hiding place for them during his absence from the room.

  “Buckles, aye? Some kind of jewels, maybe?” the judge asked.

  “Nothing of value,” Julian answered without pause. “Glass gems were all the rage back in the eighteen hundreds, you know.”

  “Of course.” Judge Arlington’s plump expression folded to a sheepish smirk. “I know nothing of the sort, actually. But I believe you’re trustworthy, lad. You have a good handshake.”

  Julian returned his smile, feeling a bit chagrinned for his lie, but warmed by the shared sentiment. “So … you say you’re from St. Louis? Are you on your way home then?”

  “I am. And just in time to attend the World’s Fair with my family.”

  “I’m attending as well.”

  “I suspected such.” The judge tipped his head to indicate the magazine beneath Julian’s thigh. “Might I have a gander? I collect Threshold, but haven’t seen this month’s issue yet.”

  “Of course.” Julian tugged it out and handed it over. He decided this was the perfect segue into a discussion on investments. “Do you have any specific reasons for attending?”

  Opening the magazine, the judge nodded. “Actually, yes. I’m seeking—”

  “Have you made contact with the specter yet?” A blonde man in the barber’s chair interrupted the judge. The customer gawked at Julian from the mirror’s reflection. One shoe tapped against the chrome foot rest as if impatient for the answer.

  “Um. No.” Despite the man’s rudeness and ill-timing, Julian had no choice but to answer now that the seven other customers and the barber were staring at him. “I’ve seen some puddles of water, but when I bend down to mop them up, they vanish.”

  Several men caught their breaths.

  “But no ghost, as yet?” The blonde man was a persistent inquisitor.

  Julian considered telling them about the one strange episode he’d experienced. His wardrobe had flung open and a jacket slipped off its hanger to swirl around the room as if someone wore it. Someone invisible.

  Looking at the men’s enraptured expressions, he decided against sharing. Were he to divulge such details, he’d have a line of hopeful spectators at his stateroom door within the hour. “No. I’ve seen no ghost. I was only in the cabin long enough to unpack my things. And the steward was with me most of the time. Perchance the phantom’s shy.”

  Everyone but the silver haired barber guffawed at Julian’s joke.

  The barber slathered foam on his patron’s face with a brush. “You’d do well to take it serious and sleep in a nightcap,” he mumbled, “lest you end up scalped like that Italian hoodlum.”

  “Hoodlum?” Julian shifted in his chair, the wrinkles of his trousers cutting into his thighs.

  The short man next to him snickered, swinging feet that almost failed to touch the floor. “Have you not heard? Carmelo Sala is rumored to be a don for the Cosa Nostra.”

  “The Italian mafia?” Julian’s blood curdled. “He invited me to lunch later today.” This was a bit more adventure than he’d planned on. “Surely it’s not true.”

  “True enough that I won’t be displaying my most recent purchase.” The barber set aside a moustache cup filled with shaving cream. He opened a drawer beneath his marbled countertop then fished out a glossy black braid. “I bought it from an immigrant runt this morn. Just after dawn. I’d no idea what had taken place in the night … no idea it was Mr. Sala’s. It’s not worth my neck, though.”

  Julian’s interest perked. Could it be that Mr. Sala had dreamt the hair-floating incident after all? That in fact, someone had snuck into his room and snatched it off his head as he slept? But how could a child have broken into the cabin unnoticed? He’d checked the lock himself upon ta
king the room. There were no scratches on the latch indicative of someone picking it. Besides, how would any of this explain the self-propelled shoes? “You say a child sold you that?”

  “Aye. Quiet little lad, no bigger than a pup.” The barber coiled the braid back into the drawer then pointed to a laundry line strung from one corner to another against the back wall. Instead of towels or rags, differing colors and textures of hair hung from it like hirsute flags. “Those urchins are always selling hair to me for my wigs. I never ask where it comes from. Might be changing that policy now.”

  Morning light filtered through the portals to shimmer on the display. One in particular caught Julian’s eye. Not yet formed into a wig, it was a deep auburn cluster of ringlets, the same shade as Willow’s hair—though it was far curlier than hers. Julian’s mind wandered. What must she be doing at the moment? Music lessons or something equally stimulating. He grinned, envisioning her plunking away at the piano, composing a song so flat and off key it would sour the cream in the head governess’s tea.

  “You’re right to laugh.” The judge flipped a few pages in the magazine, recapturing Julian’s attention. “For heaven’s sake. It’s like being in a roomful of tittle-tattling dowagers. A don. Just because he’s Italian and enigmatic.” He snorted.

  The short man leaned forward to see around Julian. He narrowed his eyes at the judge. “If it not be true, then explain the four exotic beauties he boarded with. They haven’t the look of prudential about them. They’re prostitutes, to be sure. He’s here to recruit some of your American fare for his ring, no doubt.”

  “Nonsense.” The judge grimaced. “Those women are rumored to be his daughters.”

  The little man huffed. “No doubt they think they be. His kind ain’t above stealing little girls then raising them for their own uses.”

  Judge Arlington absently flipped through some more pages as he looked his antagonist in the eye. “It is my understanding that they are a family of traveling thespians. In fact, they’re to perform a snippet from a play tonight at the masquerade. They’re taking a side trip from their bookings. Mr. Sala’s chaperoning them to the World’s Fair so they might see the exhibits.”