by Jane Goodger
Rose frowned. “Poor thing. She must be terribly bored. Perhaps I’ll check in on her later.”
“I wouldn’t,” Charlie said. “Mr. Browne was quite certain his wife was not up to a visitor. He did apologize, as he knows the two of you have become friends.”
Charlie’s heart gave a little tug as he watched a smile form on Rose’s lips. The two women had been inseparable for most of the trip, the close quarters making for a fast friendship. He couldn’t bear to tell her the news, and was relieved that at least that burden had been taken from him by his promise to Mr. Browne.
“She has become very dear to me,” Rose said. “I’ll no doubt see her tomorrow when we reach New York. Can you believe it, Charlie? America. I’ll have to pinch myself when we reach shore.”
She put aside her needlepoint and blew on her hands, even though she was wearing a pair of gloves. “I do hope it’s not always so cold. Goodness, it feels like winter, not spring.”
“I talked to one of the crew and he said this cold snap is unusual. It can snow in April, though, just as it can snow back home. The climate is quite similar, in fact.”
A gentleman walked by at that moment, his feet slipping perilously on the slick deck, and Charlie stepped out to steady the fellow. “Steady on,” he said, realizing almost immediately the man was unsteady for more reason than just the light snowfall. He reeked of alcohol.
“I’m fine, good fellow. Just fine.” And Charlie watched, chuckling under his breath as the man weaved down the deck.
“Was he inebriated?” Rose asked, sounding shocked.
“I believe so.” Charlie laughed aloud at the look on her face.
“It’s not amusing to be tipsy at ten o’clock in the morning, Charlie.”
He shook his head. “I had no idea you were a prohibitionist.”
“I’m no Frances Cobble, but I certainly don’t advocate public intoxication.” Rose sighed.
“Who is Frances Cobble?” Charlie asked, slightly put out that she’d thought the lady was so notorious that he would know who she was.
Rose’s cheeks flushed slightly. “She’s really an insufferable woman who blames all of society’s ills on working-class men who drink. I heard her lecture once, and she inspired tremendous fervor amongst her followers. I agree that too much drink is a dangerous thing, but to point out the weakness of only the lower classes seemed rather wrong to me.”
“So, my lady, you are a champion of the lower classes.”
Her brown eyes snapped. “Do not mock me, Charlie. If I was prejudiced against the lower classes, which is what I believe you are implying, I wouldn’t have agreed to accompany you on this trip.”
Charlie nearly choked. “You begged me to allow you to come,” he pointed out, trying to sound reasonable.
“Yes, I did. But as a woman who is not prejudiced, I was the one who considered it the less evil option.”
Charlie became quite still. Because he knew if he allowed even one muscle to move, he would lose the small bit of control he had over his temper.
“I think this is coming out all wrong,” Rose said in a small voice. “Each time I try to explain myself, I sound more and more like a hopeless snob. You know that’s not how I truly feel, Charlie.”
He looked at her a long while, enjoying the fact she began to squirm a bit in her seat. “I don’t know what you feel,” he said finally. “You are the product of your upbringing, as am I. The only difference between you and me, my lady,” he said as if her title was a curse, “is that I fully believe a man’s value should be weighed by more than who fathered him.”
“Of course,” Rose said, her cheeks flushing.
“You agree?”
She lifted her chin regally, a motion that incensed Charlie even more. He knew why he was getting angry, as much as he knew he shouldn’t. But why did she so completely dismiss him as a possible husband, even at her most desperate hour, even when he very well might be her most logical choice? He was a man she knew, whom she liked, but a man so completely inappropriate, even her situation hadn’t been quite desperate enough for her to consider him. He knew he was being unfair to her, but it still hurt to know she thought so little of him. “I do agree. You know I do. You’re just trying to be ornery, Charlie, and I do wish you’d stop.”
“And yet, you would never consider—” He stopped himself, thank God. Wasn’t it humiliating enough that he’d already offered to marry her and she’d dismissed his suggestion as if it was the grandest joke, as if such a suggestion was so absurd she never thought, not for one second, that he might have been sincere?
“Never consider what?”
He dipped his head, shielding his eyes from her, for he had a terrible feeling they showed too much. He knew he was upset about Mrs. Browne, about seeing Roger’s grief. He was raw and tired and in love with a woman who didn’t see him as more than precisely what he was, a servant. Who the hell did he think he was?
Jesus, he’d let this charade muddle his head and make him think things he had no business thinking.
“Charlie? Why do I have the feeling I’ve made you angry again?”
He chuckled, more at his own stupidity than her words. “Have you ever considered not marrying? Perhaps getting a position?”
Rose looked up at him and wondered if he knew how superior he sounded. Yes, she would simply hang out a sign and get a job. As a woman with no skills other than French and needlepoint, she no doubt could apply to any position and live quite well in a strange city. Was that what he believed? A man had so many more options than a woman. She had considered working but, other than servants and shopkeepers, she’d never known another woman with an occupation. Did Charlie think she should be someone’s maid? Or perhaps work in a textile mill?
“I have thought about finding a position,” she said, and she could see the surprise on his face. “I thought I might look for a position if Mr. Cartwright sends me packing, which no doubt he will do. The problem is I have no skills and no references.” Rose hadn’t been brought up to do anything except run an efficient household as the lady of the manor, and she would have done that quite well. She knew how to host a party, write polite invitations, deal with servants and shopkeepers—all skills that had been drilled into her since she was out of the cradle. She knew how to play the pianoforte, was excellent at needlepoint, and could carry on a lively conversation when she needed to. She could dance fifteen dances, knew which garment to wear at which time of day, and how to eat a ten-course meal without appearing like someone common. She knew, she realized, how to be what she was—a lady. And with those dubious accomplishments, there really was only one position for which she was even remotely qualified, that of a governess, the most dreaded position of any woman who had any upbringing or education.
“I thought perhaps a governess, but I have no references and very few funds to hold me over until I do find a job. I’m afraid I’ll have to return home. I even thought I might sell my jewelry, but the only piece I have of real value is my sapphire necklace. Do you remember it? I wore it on the night of my engagement.” She let out a soft sound of dismay. “I can’t sell that, Charlie. It was my grandmother’s. She’s the only one in the family I even like.”
A gust of wind whipped around the deck of the ship, finding her despite her relatively sheltered spot. It was so cold and her head was starting to ache from bending it so long over her needlepoint. “I think I’ll go below. I’m afraid it’s too cold for me. Perhaps I’ll take a nap. I’m awfully tired. Perhaps that’s why I’m so cranky.” She gave Charlie a small smile, hating that he seemed to be still angry with her, though she hadn’t any idea why.
“Here,” he said, taking off his own jacket and wrapping it around her. It was so warm and smelled so good, of Charlie and home, and Rose suddenly felt as if she might cry.
“Thank you, Charlie.” She stood looking up at him, so close that if she got on her toes and leaned forward just a bit, she could kiss him. It would be wrong, of course, even if they were a mar
ried couple, for everyone knew how coarse such displays were. Her mother would have been mortified by the public affection some of the men showed their wives on board, arms slung over their shoulders, kissing and holding hands. Rose had been taught such displays set apart the classes, but when Rose saw Mr. Browne putting his arm around Charlotte, she hadn’t been offended. She’d been envious. What must it be like to have a man not care who was watching, to have him look at her as if she were the most important thing in the world?
Charlie stepped back, and Rose was grateful he was sensible enough not to encourage her. She could not be sensible, not when it came to Charlie. How had that happened? When had Charlie gone from a dear employee to someone she thought about in ways she’d never thought about another man.
About the time you kissed him, Rose, she told herself.
Chapter 10
A man servant is rarely grateful, and seldom attached. He is generally incapable of appreciating those advantages which, with your cultivated judgment, you know to be the most conducive to his welfare.
—From The Ladies’ Book of Etiquette, and Manual of Politeness
They reached Castle Garden near the tip of the island of Manhattan the next day as snow swirled around them. Those in first and second class boarded another, smaller boat, leaving the passengers in steerage behind to be processed by immigration.
“They have to check them for disease,” Charlie explained as their smaller group was politely escorted from the ship to the ferry that would bring them to their destination.
Rose, who hadn’t been feeling well since the previous day, was grateful they wouldn’t be forced to stay behind with the third-class passengers, who looked on as they departed with no small bit of envy and some hostility. Though she was exhausted, she hadn’t been able to sleep. The excitement of the day, the noise of the engine, and all her worries combined to make sleep impossible. It was no wonder she was feeling less than well. Her head ached and, despite the frigid air, she was perspiring beneath her winter coat.
The passengers were excited to finally reach land, and the tears she’d seen when they’d departed England were nowhere to be seen now. Which made her think of Charlotte, whom she’d hadn’t seen in three days. She craned her neck but was unable to spot her friend’s familiar red hair amongst those moving about on the ferry.
“Where are the Brownes?” Rose asked, but Charlie was apparently too far ahead of her and didn’t hear. He found them a cozy spot to sit inside, their small amount of luggage at their feet. Rose leaned against the bulkhead and looked out a thick window coated with salt, which made it impossible to see anything of the shore. She’d gotten a glimpse of the Castle Garden depot, half expecting to see some sort of castle. Instead, she saw only a large brick building that reminded her of the hospitals for the poor in London. The area surrounding the building seemed bleak indeed, with hardly any vegetation to speak of other than a few scraggly trees, still bare from winter, shuddering in the icy wind.
Rose toed her carpetbag and frowned; she’d left so many cherished belongings behind in her haste to escape. Dozens of gowns and shoes, books and bits and pieces of her life she likely wouldn’t see again. Charlie hadn’t brought much more than she had, and he’d planned his trip for months. Many of the other passengers had large trunks that had to be carried by stewards from the boat to the ferry, which caused only a small delay. It was clear the men had done this many times before, for they were quick and efficient, stopping to listen to questions from passengers and responding with courteous assurance.
As they sat waiting, Rose’s eyes felt unaccountably heavy and her head nodded sleepily.
“You can put your head on my shoulder if you like,” Charlie said, leaning toward her, his voice low.
“I couldn’t,” Rose said, hearing her mother’s voice in her head that a lady would never show such weakness in public, nor such demonstrative behavior to a man who was not her husband. She didn’t see Charlie’s frown, the way he shifted away from her. She leaned her head against the cold bulkhead, clasping her gloved hands in front of her. Her eyes burned, she was so tired.
“Are you unwell?”
Keeping her eyes closed, she said, “Perfectly well, thank you.”
Charlie chuckled, though she didn’t know why. He would do that sometimes—oftentimes, now that she thought of it—and she never knew why. “Why are you laughing at me?” she asked sleepily.
“Because you could be attacked by a shark and you’d still sound like a lady,” Charlie said fondly.
“That’s because I am a lady, Charlie. I cannot be what I am not, you know. No more than you can.” She said this last so softly, she was quite certain he couldn’t hear her. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him to hear; it was that she simply wanted to sleep.
Rose hadn’t realized she’d drifted off until Charlie woke her by jostling her a bit. She forced her eyes open, feeling as if someone had given her a bit too much sherry. Her head felt thick and odd.
“We’ve arrived, my lady,” he said close to her ear, and she smiled because the man still refused to call her by her given name. “New York.”
He said it like a prayer, and in a way, Rose thought it was. She was pinning all her hopes on this city, on one man she’d met at a single ball. “New York,” she repeated, hoping that if she said it like a prayer, it would have the same power.
“You’re flushed, my lady. Are you certain you’re well enough to travel?”
“Oh, yes,” Rose said, rallying. “Quite well enough, given we’ve reached our destination. Have you seen the Brownes? I did so want to say good-bye to Mrs. Browne and perhaps exchange addresses with her. I thought I’d have plenty of time for that.”
“Perhaps they are on another boat, since they are headed to Boston.”
“Yes, of course.”
The ferry docked at the East River Pier, and the passengers, despite the frigid and now thickly falling snow, gathered on the deck, anxious to finally set foot in their new home. The snow made it difficult to see the city’s skyline, but Rose was able to make out the dim shape of buildings. The port was bustling with activity despite the poor weather, and Rose wondered if hiring a hack in America was the same as hiring a hack in London.
And then, they started moving, a line of people shuffling down the gangplank. Rose’s stomach was a jumble of nerves. In just a short time, she’d be standing on the front step of Mr. Cartwright’s home, announcing her arrival. She’d sent a telegram, so he knew to expect her, and she fleetingly wondered if he might have even thought to meet her getting off the boat. She looked around the crowded pier, but didn’t see anyone she recognized among the dark shapes standing near the gangplank. She had a sudden and awful feeling that she wouldn’t recognize him even if he were standing there. Would he recognize her? She would have laughed if she hadn’t been so frightened by that thought.
She walked with Charlie, side by side, until they stepped onto the hard dirt. Charlie smiled broadly. “We did it, Rose,” he said, laughing aloud and putting a hand on each side of her face. For a second, she thought he might just kiss her, right there in front of the passengers and possibly her future husband. But he dropped his hands and looked toward the city, unable to hide the pure joy he was feeling at reaching their destination.
“Charlie. My God, you’ve become a man.” A distinguished gentleman approached them, and Charlie immediately rushed to him, giving him a strong embrace. “How was your journey?”
“Uncle George, I didn’t realize you were coming to meet me. What a pleasant surprise. I’d forgotten how much you look like my father. When I first saw you, I thought my father had put on his best suit and decided to come to America, too.”
“People thought we were twins. How is the old man?”
“Well, sir, and he sends his regards.” Charlie turned to Rose and made the introductions, and if his uncle found it strange that she was accompanying his nephew, he didn’t show it on his face. “Lady Rose, my pleasure,” George said with an ele
gant bow, which Rose found unaccountably comforting, as she’d secretly feared men in America wouldn’t know how to behave properly.
“Uncle George, I need to escort Lady Rose to her destination. You don’t mind, do you?” he asked, bending to pick up her bag.
“Mr. Avery,” she said, using her firmest tone. “You’ve done quite enough for me. I shall never be able to repay the debt I owe you for acting as my escort on our journey. I wouldn’t dream of delaying you further. Please, there is no need for you to bring me to Mr. Cartwright’s home. I’m perfectly capable of climbing on and off a cab. But thank you.”
Charlie looked uncertain, but Rose had a feeling he didn’t want to delay starting his new life by first bringing her to Fifth Avenue.
“You know his address?”
“Eight hundred twelve Fifth Avenue,” she said immediately, having stated that address over and over in her head on their journey.
“Are you certain? It would be no imposition, my lady.”
“Perfectly certain, Mr. Avery. Look, there is a line of cabs right over there.” She held out her hand and Charlie shook it, and something in Rose’s heart shifted just a bit. This was not right. This was not how she was supposed to say good-bye, not as if they were two acquaintances who meant nothing to one another. But with Charlie’s uncle gazing on and looking a bit impatient about standing out in the foul weather, that brief shaking of hands would have to do. “Thank you, Mr. Avery,” she said, looking in his eyes and trying to convey to him just how much it had meant to her, having him keep her safe.
“Of course, my lady.” He turned to go, then stopped and looked back. “If you need me, send word to Delmonico’s, will you?”
She forced a smile, because at that moment she felt unaccountably like weeping. “I will.”
Walking away from Charlie was far more difficult than she would have imagined. It was so strange; saying good-bye to him seemed far worse than leaving home, and she had to stop the insane impulse to chase after him. Instead, Rose adjusted the grip on her carpetbag, lifted her chin, and walked to where a line of hacks waited. Beneath her feet, the snow had turned to a thick slush, mixed with mud, and her practical shoes no longer seemed so practical. As she walked, her shoes proved little protection against the cold, and her stockings and skirts were drenched by the time she reached the first hack. She was not ten feet from the line of hansom cabs, when she stepped in and out of a particularly deep patch of mud, leaving one shoe behind.
