by Jane Goodger
“Oh, bother,” she said, standing for a moment on one foot as she determined her best course of action. She placed her carpetbag beside her, with her reticule on top, then leaned precariously over to retrieve her shoe. With a bit of triumph, she lifted the mud-covered shoe from its mooring, then plopped it on the ground in front of her and shoved her soaking and freezing foot inside.
“There,” she said with satisfaction. She would look a pure mess when she reached Mr. Cartwright’s home, but there was nothing she could do about it at the moment. She’d worn her best dress (a far cry from what she’d worn back home, but presentable enough), and now it was stained with mud and water and her shoes most certainly ruined. She bent to pick up her bag and stopped, her heart sinking with dread.
Her bag was gone. Her money, her jewels, her clothes, everything. Rose looked wildly around but saw no one absconding with her things, and no one nearby appeared to have seen anything. Turning, she looked for Charlie, but he’d long since departed the pier with his uncle. Oh, why had she decided to be stubborn about his accompanying her to Mr. Cartwright’s?
She stood there for a long moment, feeling completely alone. With a heavy sigh, and digging deep inside herself to find a stiff upper lip, Rose trudged toward the only cab left still empty; the others had quickly filled with the ship’s passengers. It would be humiliating, but she’d have to ask Mr. Cartwright to pay her fare.
“Hello, sir, are you available for transport?”
“I am. Where are you going?”
Rose gave him the address and moved forward to board the conveyance.
“That’ll be two dollars.”
“Very well. I’ll pay you when we reach the destination,” she said, waiting for the gentleman to lower the stair so she might board.
“No money, no ride,” the man said, folding his arms rudely and looking behind her where an elderly couple and a younger woman waited for another cab to appear.
“Dear sir, I said I would pay you when we arrive, and I will,” Rose said, smiling tightly. The man looked her up and down, then shook his head. No doubt she didn’t look like the sort of person who would be able to pay cab fare.
“This way, folks,” the man said to the people standing behind her, who hurried to take the cab. Within a few moments, their fare was paid and they were on their way, the cab driver shoving his hat down on his head to protect it against the bitter cold and snow. Leaving Rose behind, standing in the slush, feeling unbearably cold, her cheeks red from the biting snow.
Rose waited for a few minutes for another cab, but that driver gave her the same answer. There was nothing left to do but walk. She stopped a dock worker and asked directions, and was vastly relieved that Fifth Avenue was an easy walk down Broadway, “Not more’n five miles.” She could walk five miles, certainly. If only she didn’t feel quite so ill, it would have been an easy jaunt. As it was, she knew it would be difficult, but no more difficult than anything else had been these past few weeks.
Rose took the scarf that she’d bundled around her neck and lifted it up a bit so it protected her ears from the wind. It was April twenty-ninth. Imagine this sort of weather, and nearly May. She hadn’t been here long, but she already hated America.
Charlie sipped his beer and tried to pretend to be happy. His uncle was over the moon about having him travel to America and wanted to hear all the news from back home. George lived not four blocks from the pier, but he wanted to get out of the weather and headed directly to the nearest bar. It was apparent from the greeting he’d received when they’d entered that stopping at a bar “for a little taste” was something he did often. As they settled at the smoothly polished bar, George asked a dozen questions about Hallstead Manor. To be honest, the last thing Charlie wanted to talk about was Hallstead, but as George had spent his youth there in the very same stable where Charlie had worked, he wanted to know all.
“And what was Lady Rose doing, traveling with you like that? Her parents know? I can’t imagine they would approve. Where was her maid?”
Charlie couldn’t stop the blush from tingeing his cheeks, and of course his uncle didn’t miss his discomfort. “She’s traveling to be with her fiancé,” Charlie said, glad he’d been able to tell his uncle, if not the complete truth, then something quite close.
“Getting married, is she? To an American? Usually it’s the other way around. American girls heading across the pond to marry some title.”
Charlie grunted noncommittally. He felt hollow inside, as if something important were missing—or had been forcibly removed. Funny, he’d had such stupid hope that Rose might actually see him as a man worth marrying, even before he’d decided to move to America. He’d have cruel fantasies of her looking at him and finally realizing that she loved him as much as he loved her. In those fantasies, she’d left Hallstead and they’d lived in a smart little cottage with enough land to raise horses. How he could have ever thought that Rose would accept such a simple life was beyond him. And to be fair, she had no way of knowing he loved her; even his suggestion about marrying her had sounded like a bit of a joke. The irony of leaving England to get away from Rose only to have her live in the same country was not lost on him. Harry had once asked him if she was the reason he was leaving and he’d lied. She had been the reason.
Now, she was gone forever. She’d either marry Cartwright or go home. Either way, he’d probably never see her again and certainly would never feel her soft mouth against his. It would have been better not to have those memories, which would likely torture him for years.
“You start work Saturday,” George said. “Just kitchen work for now. Sweeping and washing dishes. But if you’re like me, you’ll be running the place before long.”
“I appreciate the chance,” Charlie said sincerely. He knew how difficult it was to find a job like the one his uncle was offering. He took a sip of his beer, thinking only that it wasn’t nearly as fine as the ale back home at the Boar’s Head Inn.
George, Charlie was quickly finding out, was a man who liked to talk, and his favorite subject was Delmonico’s. The food, the staff, the building, the chef, the clientele. As maître d’, George had a bit of power over the wealthy patrons who visited the restaurant, and it was clear he relished it. It was he, after all, who could determine if a reservation could be made, a special room reserved, a highly visible table procured. “The mayor himself knows me by name,” George said proudly.
But he’d never invite you to his house, now, would he? Charlie would never say such a thing aloud, but his uncle’s bragging was getting a bit tedious, so he let his mind wander. He wondered if Rose were safe and warm, sitting before a fire in Mr. Cartwright’s home, easing into her reason for traveling to New York. She’d be nervous, and Rose tended to talk a bit quickly when she was nervous. How was Mr. Cartwright taking her proposal? Would he laugh? Just the thought made Charlie’s blood burn hot. Or would he fall to his knees and thank God such a beautiful woman had deigned him worthy of her?
A noisy group of men pulled him away from his pathetic thoughts. Back home, the pair he was looking at would have been the type to lift a rich man’s watch without his being any the wiser. They had that shifty look about them. The young man, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he talked excitedly to his friend, dug into his pocket and displayed what appeared to be a handful of coins. And then he saw, resting on the pub’s floor, the familiar sight of a carpetbag with cabbage roses embroidered on the material, thick leather handles, and shining brass hardware. He stared at the bag a long moment, his brow furrowed. What were the chances that the man would have the exact same bag that Rose had been carrying?
And then the man pulled out a necklace, its blue sapphire stones glinting in the lamplight.
Charlie didn’t remember moving, but the next thing he knew, his large hand was wrapped around the man’s throat, the fellow’s Adam’s apple jutting into Charlie’s palm as he tried to swallow.
“Where the hell did you get that necklace?”
The ma
n just stared at him, his eyes bugging out of his head.
“Answer me,” Charlie roared.
“I don’t think he can talk wid your hand on his windpipe there, chum.” This from the second man, who watched with near amusement.
Charlie adjusted his grip because he had been choking the life out of the scrawny scoundrel.
“Where. Did. You. Get. That. Necklace.”
The man panted, clutching one hand to his throat. “Some lady just off the boat. She dropped it. It were just layin’ there like she was beggin’ someone to take it. So I did.”
The roar in Charlie’s head made it difficult to understand what the guttersnipe was saying. He didn’t care. All he knew was that Rose was in a foreign country, alone, with no money, and no clothing except that which was on her back. Charlie grabbed the hand that was holding the necklace and he squeezed until the man cried out, dropping the necklace to the floor.
“The lady wants her things back, you piece of shit. Now get the hell out of here. If I see you again, I may not be so nice.”
The other man grinned. “You might as well do as he says, Nate. This chap looks like he could mop the floor with you. Just off the boat and already itching to kill an American.” The man laughed at his own wit. “Come, Nate. Cut your losses, eh?”
Nate gave Charlie a scathing and completely ineffectual look before heading toward the door, straightening his jacket as if he’d been the injured party. “Fuckin’ foreigners,” he muttered, just before walking out the door.
Charlie picked up Rose’s bag and the necklace off the floor. The bag was heavy, which meant most of her belongings were likely still within it.
George came up to him and slapped him on his back. “I think we’re going to get along real well, Charlie. What the hell was that all about, anyway?”
“These are Lady Rose’s things. And that means she has no money, nothing.”
George let out a low whistle. “She was heading to Fifth Avenue? Those cab drivers wouldn’t have brought her anywhere if she couldn’t prove she could pay.”
“You mean she’s likely walking?” Something dark and painful settled in Charlie’s gut.
“Don’t know how else she’d be able to get where she was going, unless someone helped her out. It’s a good four miles. Maybe more.” George looked out the window at the snow still coming down, blustering in a wind that seemed relentless.
“I’m going to make sure she got to her destination all right,” Charlie said, shoving Lady Rose’s bag in his uncle’s hands and pocketing the necklace. He knew when he found her, she’d only care about the jewelry her grandmother had given her. “Do you remember the address? Eight hundred and something. Damn, I can’t remember.”
“Eight hundred twelve,” George said with certainty, looking at Charlie a bit curiously. “I’ve got a mind for numbers. That’s the address, I’m sure of it.”
“Eight hundred twelve,” Charlie repeated, trying to stem the panic in his heart. Surely someone had taken pity on her, a woman just robbed, new to America, and wanting a ride. Surely she was warm and safe, maybe already sipping a nice cup of hot tea. He refused to allow himself to picture her walking in the snow, cold and sick. And she had been sick, no matter that she’d said she was not. Why had he allowed her to go by herself? He should have demanded that she allow him to accompany her. Bloody hell, if something had happened to her, he’d never forgive himself.
Chapter 11
If your friends are really desirous to have you pay them a visit, they will name a time when it will be convenient and agreeable to have you come, and you may accept the invitation with the certainty that you will not incommode them.
—From The Ladies’ Book of Etiquette, and Manual of Politeness.
Daniel Cartwright was exhausted and in a foul mood. Having gone directly to Washington, D.C., from England, he was glad to be home but carried with him the disappointment of his work. Nothing had gone as he’d wanted and it looked as though a new trade deal with England would take far longer than his political allies wanted. And, of course, they blamed him and with some good reason.
Now he faced an empty home, a pile of unread correspondence, and rooms that were uncomfortably cold. His staff hadn’t expected him so soon and hadn’t bothered to light the fires. They were busy doing so now, thank goodness. He headed to his study, the first room to have a fire lit, and settled behind his desk to stare bleakly at the large pile of correspondence that he knew he would have to go through before tackling his next project.
“Sir.” His butler, Mr. Brady, stood in the doorway of his study looking slightly put out. No doubt it had to do with Daniel’s neglecting to inform Brady that he would be arriving two days earlier than planned.
“There is a man to see you. He says he’s from England and is inquiring about a Lady Rose.”
Daniel furrowed his brow. “Lady Rose?” he repeated, searching his mind, for the name sounded familiar. “Where is he now?”
“In the foyer, sir.”
And that told Daniel at least some of what he needed to know. If the man had been of the aristocracy, Brady would have immediately placed him in a parlor, fire or not.
“I’ll see him,” Daniel said wearily.
He walked to the foyer to find a man, snow clinging to his coat, pacing and leaving a trail of water in his wake. The fellow looked up when he heard Daniel’s approach, his blue eyes slightly wild. Daniel knew one thing immediately—he had never seen the man in his life.
“Is she here?” the man blurted, coming forward, and Daniel immediately stopped, tensing. He had no idea if this stranger meant him harm and felt slightly comforted knowing that Brady had followed behind him.
“Who, sir?”
“Lady Rose Dunford. She sent a telegram. She was on the Adriatic and arrived today. She was coming here, but she was robbed and . . .” The man swallowed, clearly distressed. He stepped forward again, his manner almost threatening. “My God, man, answer me. Is Lady Rose here?”
“She is not.” Daniel, for the life of him, couldn’t imagine why she would be. He remembered her now, vaguely, a pretty thing who was about to be married to some duke. They’d talked about a mutual acquaintance, Mrs. St. Pierre, but for the life of him that’s all he could remember. “Why would she come here?”
“Because she had it in her head that you’d be agreeable to marrying her,” the man growled.
“Good God,” Daniel said.
“Mr. Cartwright, if Lady Rose is not here, it means she’s out there,” the man said, his voice cracking. “I have to find her. She wasn’t well and she was walking.”
“Walking! From the pier? In this weather?” Daniel turned to Brady. “Get my coat immediately, and have Robert and Phillip report here. What is your name, sir?” he asked.
“Charlie Avery. I worked at Hallstead Manor and escorted Lady Rose here. It’s a long and complicated story and I have no time to explain,” he said, backing toward the door. “I’m heading south, toward the pier.”
“Very well. We’ll cover the other directions. We’ll find her, Mr. Avery. Have no fear.”
Charlie had never felt so desperate in his entire life. Where could she be? It was dark and still snowing, though it was finally coming down slower. It had been four hours since he’d said good-bye to Rose at the pier. Four hours she’d been out in this weather. Perhaps she’d found an inn or hotel along the way with an owner who had taken pity on her. Yes, that had to be it. Because it would not take four hours for Rose to walk five miles, even in this weather.
Unless she was ill. Unless she had collapsed on the streets and lay there now, frozen and dying. Tears coursed down his face and he wiped at them impatiently with his shoulder. He could not give up hope. She had to be somewhere; he prayed she was somewhere safe.
The streets were relatively empty, most people home trying to stay warm. Only a few hardy souls were walking, mostly men, heads bent against the howling wind, hands clasping their hats to keep them on. Each time he saw the shad
ow of someone walking toward him, his steps quickened, only to slow, again and again. It was so damned cold. A body could only take this cold for so long, especially someone as small as Rose.
Why were there so many human-shaped shadows lining the walk? Everything looked like a prone body, stiff with cold. The gaslight streetlamps gave a weak light, illuminating only the snowy patch beneath them. Charlie stopped, his heart sick. He wasn’t going to find her. How could he? She could be anywhere. She could have taken a wrong turn, fallen. It was a huge city, sprawling and completely unfamiliar to her. Her coat had not been thick and warm; she’d not had her warmest hat and fur muff as she should have had in such weather. Her shoes. What shoes was she wearing? Certainly nothing serviceable that could have withstood such wet and cold. No doubt she’d donned her best pair, knowing she would be meeting Mr. Cartwright that day.
He wanted to scream. How could he live if something happened to her? If only he’d insisted he accompany her. Why had she been so stubborn? He clutched the top of his head with his hands and looked around desperately, swallowing down another sob. That’s when he saw it, a small dark form on a stoop not thirty feet away. It might be a dog or a statue or even some trash the owner had placed in a sack.
Charlie started walking toward the dark form, trying not to get his hopes too high, and failing. Please, God, please let this be Rose.
“Rose,” he shouted, and the form moved, making his heart soar with hope. “Rose!”
