Her Every Wish (5 page)

“Don't be,” Crash said cheerfully. “I daresay my family is more interesting than yours. I merely wanted to inform you that there's no need to squander your pity on me. I surely don't need it.”

If Crash could bottle his arrogance and sell it to the masses, English society would crumble within a decade. They'd never be able to govern their empire, not with talk of ruling by right of blood. The peers of the realm would renounce everything, mount their velocipedes, and ride into the ocean en masse while he looked on and laughed.

“But… Don't you ever wish for…for…”

“What?” Crash said. “Are you asking if I ever hope that maybe one day, a lovely young lady of good breeding and decent education might take pity on me, and I might give up all my wicked ways? Do you think that maybe I yearn for someone to transform me? Someone who will turn me from my path of sin with one speaking look?”

None of the women answered. Daisy imagined they were all silent, caught in the thralls of lust. He must know she was listening.

“Wonder no more,” Crash said. “I'm just looking for someone to share my…”

He paused, and the women sighed.

“What?” whispered Molly.

“My potted meat,” Crash said, exaggerating the word
meat
so there was little doubt that he was referring to something other than ham in tins. “What else?”

She couldn't bear it any longer. Daisy turned to him. “Crash, stop tormenting those poor souls. You're like a cat with a butterfly—you never can stop playing.”

“Allow me to defend myself, Miss Whitlaw.” Crash winked at her. “I wasn't tormenting them. I was tormenting
you.
Did I do a proper job of it?”

“You don't do proper jobs.” She sniffed. “
That
was always the problem.”

Crash inclined his head, as if granting her that point. “Ladies. I must be off.” He held his velocipede by the handles and walked toward her. “Come, Daisy. We've much to discuss.”

She shouldn't have agreed to this. She shouldn't have come here. As he stalked toward her, her stomach turned. Oh, she wished it was nausea.

She folded her hands. “We do,” she said. “Let's start with this. You should have been more punctual.”

Crash folded his arms. “I've spent the day looking for a space for my shop. There's little available, less in the right location. Find the right location, and the space is wrong. One place was perfect, but twice as large as I need.” He glowered in her direction, as if this were her fault. “On top of all that, I've been trying to obtain a carbolic smoke ball. So yes, Daisy. I do apologize. My future and my aunt's continued health should have taken second place to your minor discomfort.”

“Thank you. I take your apology for precisely what it is worth.” Daisy knew how she ranked in his estimation. “Your shop? What are you selling?”

He didn't look at her. “You remember. I'm not in the mood to pretend otherwise.”

So he still intended to sell his damned velocipedes. Idiot plan. Only a fool would want them.

He was probably going to make a fortune. There were always idiots out there willing to pay money to kill themselves. Crash had never had any problem obtaining
his
wishes.

A little steering column was attached to the front wheel of his velocipede. He took hold of this and began guiding the contraption down the street, walking next to her. Thank God he wasn't riding. She'd have had to crane her neck to look at him, and she felt uncomfortable enough in his presence.

It had been one of those days. She had been up since four that morning, tying bouquets.

He didn't say anything. He didn't tell her where they were headed or what he had planned. The wheels of his velocipede made a curious staccato sound as they passed over the cobblestones.

Crash's silence had once been welcoming, for lack of a better word. He had kept silent the same way another man might stand up from a seat on an omnibus. It used to make her feel as if he were making room for her.

This quiet felt disapproving.

“Oh, shut up, Crash,” she said, even though he hadn't said anything at all. “I'm sure you had a jolly day making wagers on my eventual public embarrassment and searching for your…balls.”

He made a little choking sound. “My carbolic smoke ball, you mean?”

“I spent
my
day at honest labor.” Her voice shook. “Honest labor where every man who found me alone felt it was his right to pinch my behind.”

“So why is getting your behind considered honest labor, while—” He cut himself off. “Never mind. I'm not arguing with you.” He glanced at her and shook his head. “Walk faster. We're almost there.”

She trotted after him. They turned a corner and traversed a street. He dragged his velocipede through the mud of a park before he turned to look at her.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

He gestured to an abandoned gravel footpath that followed the line of a canal. The waters were brown and stagnant, running sullenly through the gray warehouses on either side. “Here.”

“Here?” She chafed her hands together. “What are we doing
here?
Could we not go somewhere warmer?”

“No.” He gave her a not-quite friendly smile. “We can't. You see, I'm going to teach you how to ride my velocipede.”

For a second, she had an image of herself hurtling into the canal at full speed. She flinched back. “Oh no. No. There isn't a chance of it. That is not at all what I had in mind.”

He pushed the contraption toward her. “Oh, yes,” he countered. “You are going to learn.”

She shook her head more violently. “First, your stupid veloci-whatever has nothing to do with the competition. Second, I could not walk on a fence rail without falling off, ever. I have no balance to speak of, let alone enough to manage that—thing. I'm not here to ride your da—your dratted veloci…tastrophe. You said you were going to help me win.”

“I did,” he said. “And this is how you're going to do it. You're going to—”

“Let me guess: I'm going to wear a revealing outfit, come flying through the crowd on a velocicylsm, hurtle through a flaming hoop, and land on the stage to tumultuous applause.”

He blinked and looked at her. “Well, that would be
one
way to manage it. But I had quite a different idea in mind. See, there's a trick to riding a velocipede.”

“You have to be a lunatic.” Daisy sniffed.

“Correct,” Crash said. “You have to be a lunatic, although that is rather unkind to the lunatics, don't you think?”

She made a noise in her throat in response.

“Here's the trick: you have to not care. Our bodies learn motion from walking. When you're walking, you learn to balance on your feet, to stay upright as you move. Height frightens us; speed more so. But all the rules we've told ourselves must be true about motion in general? They're wrong when we're on a velocipede.”

He was warming to his subject matter. He leaned the contraption against a bench and began to use his hands to demonstrate.

“On a velocipede,” he told her, “you don't need to balance.”

“How do you stay upright?”

“The faster you go, the more stable you are.”

She snorted in disbelief.

“I know it sounds unlikely, but it's true. When you turn, you might be afraid that you'll fall. You won't—but to make sure, you should lean into the direction you're turning.”

“Poppycock.” She swallowed. “You're trying to get your revenge. You're trying to kill me.”

He gave her an unreadable look. “You never did believe me, Daisy. No matter what you think of the other times we disagreed,
this
time I am simply right. The velocipede is a simple application of the principles of natural law. You've spent your entire life learning lessons.
Stupid
lessons. Keep quiet if a man pinches your bum. Don't speak loudly, or you'll turn heads. Express yourself in the mildest possible terms, so that no one can have any objection. There are reasons you have to act that way on a daily basis. But if you want one damned chance at success at this competition you've entered, you're going to have to forget them all. You can't forget
some
rules and hope for the best.”

She swallowed. She looked at the machine leaning peacefully against the bench. “But I could
die.”

He didn't call her overly dramatic. He didn't roll his eyes.

Instead, he raised an eyebrow. “Daisy,” he said slowly, “I assume you entered the competition to establish yourself. Because you wanted lasting financial security. At present, your future rests entirely on other people continuing to provide you with gainful employment. What do you think would happen if that stopped?”

He didn't need to ask her to imagine what would happen if she had no money. If she were tossed from her rooms, if she couldn't afford bread, if her mother…

Daisy didn't want to think of her mother. She swallowed. “I'm…I'm not going to win.”

“Ah, ah.” He held up a finger. “None of that. My only point is that there's no way around risk.” He gestured her forward. “That is precisely why you're learning to ride a velocipede. If you're going to risk your life, you had best risk it properly.”

She frowned. She was fairly certain there was a flaw in his logic. He'd always been able to convince her of anything and everything. Wagers? They were harmless, so long as nobody bet money they couldn't afford to lose. His prior liaisons with men and women? Well, so long as he was honest about what happened, and hadn't lied to anyone, who was hurt by it? She'd been so turned around that she'd accepted it all. Even now, she was certain that he had been wrong. She just wasn't sure how.

“One more thing.” His eyes met hers. “It's called a
velocipede
. Or a bicycle. You're not stupid, so use its proper name. Call the product I will be selling a
velocitastrophe
one more time, and I will…”

They watched each other for a long moment.

“You'll what?” she asked. “Push me over?”

His lip curled in distaste. “I'll make polite conversation. Like this: How is your fiancé, Daisy? When did you last hear about him? Was his last letter everything you hoped for?”

His eyes were dark and narrowed, looking down at her, and Daisy felt a little crinkle slide up her spine.

She swallowed. It was an excellent threat. “Him?” She hadn't even given him a name. “Why would that bother me? I would gladly talk about…Edwin.”

“I'm sure you would. He sounds like quite the stick-in-the-mud. The two of you no doubt get along splendidly.”

F
or a second
, Crash thought Daisy would turn away. Instead, her chin went up. Her fingers, clothed in dark gray wool gloves, clenched at her side. Her eyes glittered like shards of blue glass.

“Go ahead,” she said. “I'm not afraid of you or your threats or your velossacre.”

“Velossacre?”

“I'm making this up as I go along.” She glowered at him defiantly. “It's derived from massacre. If you kill me with that thing, at least you'll hang for my death. I take what scant satisfaction I can find in this cruel world.”

Damn it all. He didn't want to remember why he'd once liked her.

He simply tsked instead. “Daisy, you know that my slightly less-than-legal activities are chosen so as not to harm anyone. I'm a reprobate, not a villain. Veloci-probate hasn't the same ring.”

Her nose wrinkled. “No. That sounds like an exceedingly swift Court of Chancery.”

“Ugh. Nobody wants that.”

She almost smiled. Almost. “Very well. How does one even get on this…monstrosipede?”

He wasn't going to take the bait. Instead, he guided her to a bench, one where she could hop up and reach the seat of his velocipede. It was a simple matter to brace the machine against his hip and gesture her forward.

“So,” he said. “Get on.”

“What, with you holding it?”

“Yes.” He rolled his eyes. “With me holding it. Do you think I'm going to let you fall?”

She gave him a dark look. Her nose twitched. “You might.”

“I might,” he said, returning her dark look. “That's one of the risks you'll have to take.”

She glared at him for a long moment before gathering her skirts to the ankles, awkwardly straddling the metal top bar, and lowering herself gingerly to the seat.

She shut her eyes instantly, clutching the handlebar. “Oh, God. It's very high. And
extremely
wobbly.”

“Well, then,” Crash said sarcastically. “I suppose our lesson is done. We'll leave the having of trades to men, and you can keep on getting your bum pinched in your flower shop.”

Her eyes flew open.

“That's better,” he said. “Yes. It's high and wobbly. That's because you're not moving. Now I'm going to come round to the side, and you're going to put your feet on the pedals. Understand?”

“But…”

He moved without waiting, and she winced as the machine lurched beneath her.

“You're touching me,” she said as his hand landed against her spine. “I said, no—”

He pulled his hands away and held them up in the air. The velocipede faltered, tilted, and—

“Touch me!” she shrieked. “I lied! I don't mind!”

He calmly took hold of her before she fell. “Come now, Daisy. I'm not touching you for my pleasure. If you die, I hang, and hanging is not in my plan. Besides, you have a sweetheart. I won't do anything that your dear Edwin won't approve of. My promise.”

She gave him a baleful glare.

“So,” he said. “Feet on the pedals. Push first on the top one. No, not to the side—down, smoothly down. Like that. Now the next.”

It took her a few revolutions to get the gist of the motion. She went slowly; he paced beside her. They started along the canal at a snail's pace. He kept one hand on the seat, the other on her spine, steadying her as she moved.

“A little faster,” he told her. “I can keep up.”

A little faster meant there was a bit of wind as they moved. The breeze whipped her bonnet off her head and left it trailing behind her, held in place only by bonnet strings. It stole little tendrils of pale hair from Daisy's braid. A little faster meant that his hand was no longer steady against her spine. His palm jogged with his pace, up and down, up and down.

The cold lent color to her cheeks. Her determination gave fire to her eyes. God, he missed Daisy.

It wasn't the first time he had missed her.

It happened at odd intervals. When he heard an amusing story and thought of telling her. When he had an idea he wanted to share with her. When he saw her on the street and accidentally smiled before he remembered.

He didn't
really
miss her. He missed the woman he'd once believed she was.

But he missed that woman now, almost intensely. He missed the way she gritted her teeth as she concentrated. He missed the way she kept trying, no matter what life threw at her. The way she gripped the handlebar, as if holding on more tightly would save her from a fall.

He missed the way she'd once trusted him, the way she had used to look at him.

“See?” he told her through even breaths as he ran alongside her. “Keep going. You're still very high up, but you're less wobbly, aren't you?”

Her teeth gritted. “Maybe.”

“You can go faster.”

“But if I do?”

“I'll be right here,” he lied.

She went faster.

It wasn't hard to get to the point where he couldn't keep pace with her on the velocipede. She had her gaze trained ahead; she didn't even notice when it happened. He let go and she kept on pedaling. For one moment, then two. Her grip relaxed. Her teeth stopped gritting together.

Her expression began to shade into exhilarating wonder.

It lasted for precisely one second. Then she realized that he was no longer supporting her. She looked around, jerked the handlebar—

Crash winced as she toppled to the ground. He jogged up to where she lay on the path, a tangle of skirts and pedals and indignation.

She pushed herself up on her hands, brushing gravel away. “You said you'd hold me up!”

“I lied,” he said succinctly.

She unraveled her scarf from the mess on the ground and unwound her skirts from the pedal where they'd tangled. “I ought to have known.”

“It was worth it,” he said. “You had the feel of the velocipede for one second. For one second, you understood. All you have to do is go fast enough, and you don't wobble. You fell because you
stopped.
Not because of me. That's how it works. Don't stop. Don't question. Go faster.”

She brushed debris from her skirts and stood. “What has any of this to do with Daisy's Emporium?”

“You let fear stop you,” he told her. “You stood up in front of the crowd and lost your nerve. I know you, Daisy.” And he did, a little. “Your figures are no doubt sound. Your plan is well thought through. You've likely researched every last item you want to sell in your shop. You know how much you can purchase it for in quantity and how much it will sell for. None of that matters, because nobody will ever know how good you are if you lose your nerve. That's what you need to work on, Daisy. Not your speech, not your facts. Your nerve. You will be high up in front of everyone with no support, and when you get scared, you can't falter. You need to go faster.”

“You…” Her jaw squared and she looked at him with suspicious eyes. “You think my plan is well thought through?”

“I'm not going to repeat myself.”

One of the things he'd once loved about Daisy was this. She looked down at her skirts, now decorated with a liberal smear of muddy snow down the side. She shook gravel from her gloves. Her jaw squared and she lifted her chin.

“Very well. I'm getting back on.”

It took Daisy an hour to achieve the minimum skill she needed to pedal down the footpath. An hour of wobbling and catching herself. An hour during which she fell twice. Her gloves tore. Her gown ripped. Daisy gritted her teeth and kept going.

An hour of Crash watching her, his heart aching for what they had almost been to each other. It was an hour until he steadied the velocipede against the bench one final time. Until he took her hand to keep her from falling as she dismounted and almost didn't want to let go.

“Tomorrow?” he asked. “You need more practice.”

She shook her head. “The next day. I need… I need…” She didn't say what she needed. She stood on the bench she'd used to disembark and looked down at him with wide, hurt eyes.

“Why?” she asked finally. “Why are you really doing this?”

Of course she knew it wasn't about the damned wagers. If she'd talked to anyone at all about him, she had to know he'd refused to take any bets about the charity bequest at all.

“Because.” His voice came out a growl. “Because I want you to understand for once. I don't get to stand still—if I did, I would fall. Unlike you, I never had a choice. If I start to wobble, I have to go faster.”

She flinched. “I
said
I was sorry.”

“I recall that you said you forgave me.” At length. That unwished-for absolution still rankled.

“And that's why you're still angry? I've seen you brush off harsher insults a thousand times.”

He held up a hand. “No. That's where and why this ends. Tell yourself I could have lived differently all you wish. I can't stop you; you are remarkably good at lying to yourself.”

She stared at him.

“I am
good
at going fast,” Crash said. “So good that sometimes all anyone sees is a blur. Insult me all you like. Deep down, though, you know better. You know who I am.”

Her eyes glittered back at him. “I know you very well, Crash.
Everyone
knows. You make a point of it.”

The things everyone knew about him… He held up a hand. “No. That's where and how this ends. Tell yourself I could have lived differently all you wish. I can't stop you; you are remarkably good at lying to yourself.”

She stared at him.

His teeth ground together. “But don't lie about me when I'm standing right here. I don't need your holy dispensation to exist.”

“Just as well,” Daisy shot back. “You don't have it.”

D
aisy
unwound her scarf and set her ruined gloves in a wad on the entry table. Her body ached from the exertion and from the falls. She'd be sore the next day.

How fitting. Crash had a tendency to leave her sore in the morning.

The single room that she shared with her mother was still warm, a good sign. She always had to tell her mother to burn coal and never mind the cost. Winter was hard on her, and heat was one of the few things that kept her mother's pains away.

Today, her mother had actually listened.

“Mother?” Their flat was a scant two rooms—one, really, but they'd rigged a curtain. Somehow, two tiny rooms seemed more luxurious than one small one. She peered around the fabric into the alcove where their shared bed stood. “Mother?”

She could smell something delicious—crisp jacket potatoes and something savory that might have been fish. But there was no answer.

Good. Her mother wasn't here. Daisy found a rag and scrubbed at the mud on her skirt. The hem needed repairing, but it could be fixed. For now, a pin or two would manage.

She'd hastily tacked the fabric in place when the door opened behind her. Daisy turned guiltily. “Oh, Mama. There you are.”

Her mother removed her own scarf and gave Daisy a bright smile. “I'm feeling better today. I was thinking that perhaps I'd take on a little more lacework instead of just the two pieces a week we agreed upon.”

It was always a delicate balance. The more her mother earned, the easier it was to purchase coal. The more her mother worked, the worse her rheumatism became.

“Mama.” Daisy stood and set her hand on her mother's shoulder. “The last time you tried, your rheumatism had you laid up for weeks. It's not worth it.”

Rheumatism
.
That's what they assumed it was. Years ago, they had spent money they didn't have for a physician. When he'd come, he'd examined her mother for a cursory three minutes. Then he'd pulled Daisy aside.

“There is nothing wrong with your mother,” he had told her in a quiet voice. “Women of her age don't get rheumatism. She is malingering. She wishes to stay in bed, and so she's invented aches and pains to do so. She doesn't need compassion or medical treatment. She needs someone to insist that she work.”

Daisy had wanted to slap the man's supercilious expression off his face. Instead, she'd paid his fee. So much for physicians, then.

“I have supper ready,” her mother said, “and I cleaned up a little—it does look nice, doesn't it?”

“It does.”

“Sit,” her mother said. “Eat.”

They sat.

“Tell me about your day.”

Daisy looked over at her mother. Her hair was beginning to go white in wisps. Daisy still thought her pretty. She had a lovely smile. But speak of unrealistic wishes. Here was one. A single woman could hardly support an aging mother on her own.

Daisy knew it. The doctor had known it. Her
mother
knew it. Her friends tried to hint at it, to tell Daisy that she should—gently—do her best to disentangle herself.

Daisy held on through sheer stubbornness. They would make do as long as Daisy had good work. As long as neither of them got sick. As long as nothing bad ever happened, she could manage it all.