Victorian Dream (2 page)

Her mother was fine. She would be home soon. It was just a silly dream
.

“At least,” her aunt teased, “your father will be spared another bout of apoplexy generated by our support of scandalous activities. And heaven help us should the Queen hear of such wicked goings on.”

“It would be the horrors,” Trelayne agreed, making an effort to play along. “I find it curious Her Majesty never doubts her own ability to rule the greatest empire in the world, yet she accuses women who express liberated views of being feebleminded and maddish.”

Aunt Abigail turned thoughtful. “Perhaps in order to govern a world dominated by men, the Queen need think like one. But lest we be dismissed as hysterical females, calm and decorum shall remain our watch-words. And,” her aunt stressed with surprising firmness, “you must never confuse open minded with empty headed. I near had apoplexy myself when Merrick recounted how you’d wandered off near St. Giles in an effort to assist some crying little beggar-boy find his way home.”

“Merrick wouldn’t have let anything happen to me.”

“Nonsense. You know better. He is a faithful family friend and employee—not a hired bodyguard. And he’s getting old to boot. There are ruffians about the city, men who could lay him low in an instant, leaving you defenseless in a part of town where people disappear on a regular basis.”

“But the little pip needed help. It’s impossible to turn a blind eye to the suffering running rampant in the streets.”

“I know, dear. But there are better approaches to addressing the problem. Openly crusading can be a bloody business—and a lonely one. I’ll not see you end up like me, a spinster gone to the shelf. I spent far too much time gallivanting around the world fighting for one cause after another, all the while battling the will of society.”

Trelayne hugged her aunt. “To be just like you would be a marvelous thing,” she said and meant it. Her aunt was one of the most unconventional and interesting women she knew. But she must agree. Being a spinster was not what she divined for her own future. She dreamed of a dashing hero of a husband and a gaggle of children.

Intent upon straightening the bed coverings, Aunt Abigail stood and grasped the quilt. As she gave a good tug, several books tumbled from the downy softness onto the floor.

“Good heavens,” she laughed. “No wonder you do not rest properly, your bed is full of Newgate novels.”

Trelayne grabbed at the treasure-trove of books remaining on the bed. “They aren’t crime fiction,” she defended, “they’re literature. See, I have Milton’s
Paradise Lost,
and
Ivanhoe,
and
The Lady of Shallot
.” The poor Lady of Shallot, watching the world pass by in the reflection of a mirror. At times, she felt the same.

“And what is the one you are hiding behind your back?” her aunt insisted. “Hand it over, please.”

Reluctantly, she offered up the forbidden material.

“Mercy me.” Her aunt’s voice rose an octave. “It’s
Vanity Fair
. Wherever did you come by this…this…questionable publication?”

“You know my dear friend, Penelope?”

“Yes, a lovely well mannered girl. Go on.”

“Well, you see, her brother is at Oxford now and he comes across the most intriguing material at school. And at home, Vauxhall provides pamphlets and tomes even more notorious. When he’s not looking, Penelope appropriates the best ones for us.”

“Penelope knows no bounds,” Aunt Abigail said, with a raised brow. “One would think the works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning more edifying. It’s a travesty she was passed over for Poet Laureate in favor of Tennyson.”

Flipping through
Vanity Fair
, a mischievous smile reclaimed her aunt’s lips. “As your guardian, I feel it my duty to peruse this one personally. I hear it does not end satisfactorily. At your age, you should only read stories with ‘happily-ever-after’ conclusions. The real world will soon enough strain your belief in such possibilities.”

The real world
. It seemed an obscure destination, a place she might never reach. Another London season was slipping away posthaste, and they had only stayed one week at Father’s London flat. Life was passing her by at a dizzying clip. Just the other day, Penelope stopped by to relate the details of the Queen’s outdoor concert. It sounded divine, and very romantic. There had even been one of those terrifying flying balloons soaring overhead, hissing like a dragon, with people dangling precariously beneath it in a wicker basket. To attempt such a feat was beyond her daring—but what a thrill to watch. Other than Penelope, they rarely had visitors. Except, of course, for Lucien.

She glanced at the books jumbled upon the bed—her precious windows to the world. In an effort to rescue the remainder from confiscation, she shoved the books beneath the coverlet, and changed the topic of conversation.

“I do hope Captain Garrison accompanies Mother and Father on their return trip from America.”
They could be homeward bound right now, safe and sound.

“It would be a fascination if the good Captain did grace us with a visit,” her aunt agreed. “He seems a curious mixture of contradictions. Determined enough to insist your parents travel all the way to Massachusetts to sign the official papers, yet sentimental enough to insist upon naming the partnership’s first vessel after his mother.”

“He’s an American, Auntie. From what I’ve heard, they view the world through a different scope. Even his name is a bit odd,” she pointed out. “Captain Walker Garrison. Who would give their son two last names? ”

“I suppose someone with great pride in their heritage.”

That gave her pause for consideration. The colonists had no titles to bequeath, so perhaps this was the best they could do. If ever she had a son, she would carefully consider the name he must carry for the rest of his life.

She heaved a sigh. Why didn’t she have dreams about the good captain, this rugged man from a wild and savage land? A rush of desire streaked through her body, and lusty contemplations tripped through her mind. The errant tingling settled between her thighs, making her squirm, making her warm despite the ambient temperature.

“Over the years, I’ve crossed paths with several Americans,” Aunt Abigail mused. “They are an unusual breed. Rough around the edges, but bold as brass. It’s no secret they cherish their independence, and like children, they seem ever eager for escapades. They’re an intrepid lot, to be sure.”

“You sound as if you admire those traits,” she said, shifting around in the bed.

“I do. Always have had a penchant for a man with adventure in his heart. According to your father, Captain Garrison once lived with the Red Indians and fought in the territorial wars. Can you imagine that?” Aunt Abigail waived the book she held. “Men are always off having all the fun while we women are expected to sit at home reading and awaiting their return. But we’ll not be sitting around tomorrow. So close your eyes and think pleasant thoughts.” She glanced out the window. “Dawn is nigh, but after your upset you should rest a few more hours. We can’t have you losing weight. Being pale-cheeked is desirable, but a boney symmetry is detrimental in attracting eligible young men.”

“I’m afraid to go back to sleep.”

She knew the nightmare still lurked in a dark corner of her mind. Precariously held at bay, it was there, hiding in the shadows, less visible, less threatening, yet waiting to rear its ugly head.

Aunt Abigail smoothed Trelayne’s tangle of hair back from her brow. “Don’t be afraid, darling. I shall sit sentinel at your side, and forbid Morpheus to allow any troubling elements to enter your sphere again tonight. And,” she added brightly, “tomorrow after the lecture and shopping, we shall stop by Professor Fowler’s. Perhaps he has returned from traveling abroad. An in-depth phrenology session could shed some light on these dreams of yours.”

Her aunt took to a nearby chair, and began reading Thackeray’s dark portrayal of human nature. Trelayne mentally tiptoed toward sleep, lamenting she did not have nice dreams, or erotic fantasies. Either she suffered some twisted wretched imagining, or no dreams at all.

Eyes closed, but far from sleepy, she conjured naughty images of Captain Garrison—a most welcome and enjoyable distraction. Would she ever feel the touch of a lover’s hand? With all her heart she wished to be swept away by raw, overpowering, unstoppable passion—emotions like she read about in her purloined novels.

Lusty fantasies soon flooded her mind, blocking out everything else. Snuggling deeper into the downy mattress, a smile upon her lips, she wondered who danced through Captain Garrison’s dreams.

Chapter Two

So far, it proved to be a glorious morning, the kind that made a man feel good to be alive.

Striding dockside, Walker drank in the heady smell of autumn mingled with the brisk sea air. Then misgivings from the night before struck home, worrying his soul and cutting short his innocent interlude.

Ignoring the disquiet, he moved on, tugging at the stiff collar of his linen dress shirt. He reached to unbutton the restrictive waistcoat then recalled the reason he had chosen such elaborate attire. Hand clenched, he lowered his arm to his side. Homespun fashion was more to his liking, but today he’d foregone comfort and practicality for style. His business partner, Philip, always looked so damnably dapper—it made him feel like a backwoodsman. Not something to be ashamed of, just an observation.

He slowed to a halt, and the warmth of the morning sun muscled aside his nagging pessimism and penchant for letting the past rule his future. Today, the
Alicia Elaine
seemed in high enough spirits. Her brilliant white sails snapped smartly in the mild breeze, and her brass gleamed and sparkled like jewels at the neck of a princess.

Calm reflection eased his concerns until the creaking of wood and hemp caught his attention. Like a bad omen, a shadow passed overhead. He glanced up and sidestepped out of the way. A cargo crate, suspended by one fragile rope, swayed alarmingly above the dock. Where the hell had that come from?

“Seaman,” he barked to a man onboard ship. “Report dockside and secure that crate. And find out who was fool enough to put it there in the first place.”

“Aye, Captain,” the man saluted. “I’m on it, sir.”

That damnable sense of foreboding gripped him again. Jaw tight with dismay he studied the skyline. In typical New England fashion, the weather was taking a turn. A squall was mounting a determined attack, heralded by a northerly wind blowing to portside. They were in for another blow.

Out maneuvered, the morning sun retreated behind a wall of fuming black clouds, and without its warmth, the air turned damp and discontented. Soon, an ethereal mist coated the lines and every strip of gleaming brass upon the ship. The crew and their families, gathering for the promised celebration, seemed unaware of the climatic change. They laughed and slapped one another on the back, but the
Alicia Elaine
took note and began to gently heave against the waves.

Too late to change course now… Mustering a cheerfulness born of necessity, he turned to greet Phillip and Ophelia.

“Good morning. I feared our weather might deter you, Mrs. St.Christopher.” Concerned for her safety, he wished it had. His heart rate picked up speed as he listened to her reply.

“On such a grand day as this,” she declared, slipping one hand into the crook of her husband’s elbow, “’twould take more than a bit of blustering breeze to keep me from my Phillip’s side.”

As if to challenge her courage, a gust of wind battled Ophelia for possession of her bonnet. It took liberties with her cloak and skirts as well, but with a smile and good grace, she managed a victory in each instance. She appeared determined to tough it out with the men, and after meeting her last evening, he hadn’t expected less. Heads down, they huddled together.

“I suggest we expedite the christening with all haste,” Walker shouted, to make himself heard above the crowd and the inclement weather. “We can dispense with the ceremonial documents until another time.”

“Splendid idea,” Phillip agreed.

Allowing the St.Christophers the honor, he handed them the magnum of champagne. As they traversed the dock toward the prow of the ship, Walker was waylaid by a young child.

“Captain, Captain,” the lad sang out, grabbing his coat sleeve and impeding his progress. “You be needin’ any more cabin boys on this voyage? I got experience.”

The boy didn’t look old enough to have experienced his eighth birthday. “Not this time, son. But I’ll keep you in mind for the future. I can see you’ll make a fine sailor one day.”

The child beamed with pride. Walker tousled the boy’s hair then followed the St.Christophers. They were already in place. The bottle broke over the hull, and a great cheer rose from those gathered around. Caught up in the moment, Walker halted mid-stride, adding his whoop and holler to that of the crowd. Head back in jubilation, his expression froze, and the sound of joy choked off in his throat. His order hadn’t been obeyed.

As if in slow motion, the crate tumbled downward. Bystanders screamed in horror. He lunged forward to push his friends from the path of the deadly freight. They were too far away. Aware of their plight, fear contorted their faces. They clutched at one another, and in a heroic effort, Phillip shielded Ophelia from the huge object as it crashed to the ground.

The cargo container smashed onto the dock, burst open, and spewed its contents in all directions. Thank providence it wasn’t a direct hit, yet the couple was trapped beneath slabs and heaps of splintered wood.

“Send for a doctor,” Walker shouted.

He pushed past panic-stricken people, ignoring the blur of comments about it being too late to save anyone caught beneath the mountain of rubble. With his bare hands he ripped and tore at the debris. Soon, others came to their senses and rushed forward. Employing a board and a barrel, they levered the accumulated weight off the pair. Their twisted bodies lay side by side, their hands still clasped together. Life barely flickered in either one of them. The unsigned ceremonial documents blew forlornly across the dock and into the sea.