How to Please a Lady (12 page)

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.

T
hey 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 elegant 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.

“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.