How to Wed an Earl (32 page)

Over the rapid thumping of her heart and the murmur of the crowd, she heard the young man call out, “Wait! I don’t even know your name!”
And that’s how it would stay.
Such a gentleman would run a mile if he discovered her background. “A pity,” she sighed. The burst of sensation that had her stomach jumping as if a swarm of locusts had been let loose was a small moment of pleasure, one she would hold onto and weave into her dreams.

Once through the gate, Lillian took off at a run, dodging pedestrians and horses, ignoring muttered protests as she weaved her way toward the wharves. She reached the fence at the Hudson River Wharves, breathless, clutching at a sharp pain in her side. First she rattled the fence to get attention, then called out to a group of men gathered near a small building. After ignoring her calls for some minutes, a large, swarthy man strolled over to the fence and lifted his eyebrows in question.

“Briggs. I’m looking for Gerry Briggs. Is he here?” she asked.

“Who wants to know?” The man’s eyes ran up the length of her body, and he winked.

She shuddered at the insinuation. “I’m here on behalf of Walter Marshall. I have come to pick up a parcel.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “This is starting to sound a bit suspicious. Perhaps I should fetch the foreman.”

Fear, closely followed by a hot, rising anger at the demeaning situation in which her father had placed her, made it difficult to respond. A slow grin spread across his face, and he stepped through a gate in the fence, moving to her side. “It wouldn’t have something to do with a shipment of silver snuffboxes, now would it?” At her sharp intake of breath, he nodded. “Unfortunately Mr. Briggs has finished for the day, but I may be able to help you. Of course I will require payment for my trouble.”

“I’m sorry, but I have no money.” She knew exactly the payment he wanted, and it had nothing to do with money.

As she spoke, he flexed his right arm and ran a hand down his bulging bicep as if to show her what was on offer. He then traced a dirty finger down her arm. “No money, what a shame. How else could you pay me, I wonder?”

With a deliberate movement, Lillian reached for his wrist, lifted it from her arm and dropped it as if it was a poisonous snake, at the same time taking a step backward. “There appears to be a mistake. It seems I don’t need anything from you after all. In fact, I believe I would rather cut off my arm than accept your assistance.”

His mocking laughter echoed in her ears as she bolted across the road, not looking back until she was hidden in the shadows of a small copse of sweet-smelling crabapple trees. Warily, she edged around a twisted trunk and breathed a sigh of relief that the dockworker had disappeared back into the untidy group of buildings decorating the wharf.

The empty carpetbag hung accusingly from her arm, and Lillian cringed at the thought of her father’s wrath when he discovered she had botched the “errand.” It would do her no good to explain the man’s insulting behavior. Walter Marshall believed his daughter had been put on this earth to serve his needs and, until recently, she had not understood she had a choice. Even now, with the knowledge that she could accept George’s proposal and be free of Walter forever, a sense of filial duty and an unfathomable desire to please her father kept her at his side. And how could she marry George when the truth was she didn’t love him? He deserved someone who would return his love.

The hard, gnarly tree pressed into her back, and she let its living energy seep through her defeated body. At times like this, when self-pity bubbled inside her, Lillian had a strategy. She would open a door in her mind, throw all the unpleasant things through the door, and slam it shut before the black, slimy bits could slide back out. Then she would open another door, one that was filled with rainbow colors and happy laughter. But most of all, it was filled with music — music that filled her head and her heart with its cleansing sound.

She conjured up the last symphony from the concert at Battery Park, pushed away from the sympathetic tree, and let the beat of the music march her back toward the Bowery and home.

It was dusk, and the heavy aroma of beef stew wafted through the doors of the Bowery Mission. On Tuesday nights, Lillian volunteered at the soup kitchen, and any other night she would have stopped to greet Joseph, the hoary old man who ran the shelter. But two blokes, halfway down the shuffling line of eager clients, were jabbing their fists into the air, egging each other into a fight, and a rush of disgust washed through her at their show of male strength; one display of male muscle-flexing in a day was enough for her.

Further down the street, she spied the Bull’s Head Tavern. Chewing on her bottom lip, she considered whether to brave the stink of hops and the suggestive leers of drunken workers. If she helped Pa home, it might put her in his good book. The tavern squatted belligerently, leaning on an awkward angle, like its patrons when they stumbled out at closing time, and dared her to enter. The last time she had tried to haul her pa out, the silly old bugger had set up such a ruckus that Lillian had left him sitting on his bum in the middle of the floor where he had fallen, somehow still balancing a tankard of ale. With an indelicate snort, she made her decision and turned away.

The sudden rattle of a street barrow startled her, and she sidestepped onto the pavement. The flower seller chuckled and threw her a limp violet phlox, then moved the barrow on, urging passersby to purchase her day-old, bedraggled flowers. Lillian turned into Claxton Lane and trudged up the concrete steps that led to the entrance door of the small townhouse. With a deep breath to gather her courage, she reached for the doorknob. Before she could turn it, the door flew open and her pa, his arms spread wide in greeting, urged her into the front room.

What was Pa doing home so early and looking almost pleased to see her? Perhaps she should go out and come back in again. Or maybe she had walked into someone else’s home. She waited, trying to gauge her father’s state of sobriety as she watched him drop into his armchair.

The smell of boiled cabbage and old grease drifted from the kitchen and briefly drew her attention to the small dining table, where plates and cups were strewn haphazardly, ready for the evening meal. Their daily helper, Marjy, had an extremely narrow repertoire of meals — most of them unpalatable — but she had outdone herself with this one.

“Ah, Lillian, my love. Come and talk to your old pa.” Even the smell of Marjy’s cooking seemed not to have spoiled his mood. She inched forward, licked her lips, and took one more step toward him. “Come on. Over here where I can see your pretty face.”

She frowned at his kind words. He actually appeared sober, although his eyes were red-rimmed and the veins on his bulbous nose throbbed blue in the dim light. His gaze had not reached the empty carpetbag. Yet.

“You’re going to be so excited when I tell you what we’re about to do, my girl.”

What scheme was he hatching now? It obviously included her, as usual. And, as usual, she had not been consulted. But his peculiar behavior indicated this was no ordinary scheme. A sense of foreboding seeped through her as a stream of possibilities churned her mind. She clenched her jaw, her heart a slow drum roll in her chest, while she waited for his next words.

“You and me, we’re going on a grand adventure.” He nodded and leaned forward as if the most exciting bit was still to come. “Back to England.”

The breath caught in her throat as she reeled back at his words. Walter Marshall stood from his worn armchair, hooked his thumbs into his braces, and expanded his chest. “We are at last returning home.” He paused for effect. “And we are going on one of the fastest, most magnificent ships ever built anywhere in the world.” He brandished two tickets. “We sail to England in six days.” He slammed the tickets down on the table and spread his arms in triumph. “On the
Lusitania
.”

With a sharp gasp, Lillian slid limply into a chair, the carpetbag still dangling from her wrist. Every fiber of her being protested at the sickening thought of reliving the memory of her first rough, cold, and terrifying journey across the Atlantic. She had been eight years old when they’d left Liverpool to sail to New York. After the crossing, she had begun to have nightmares of the water sucking her into its inky depths. She had sworn it would be her last sea voyage. A hundred reasons not to go flashed through her mind. America was her home, England only a faint memory. And what about George? They both owed him so much. Pa was asking the impossible.

“I can’t do it, Pa. I won’t go on any ship. I’m not leaving New York; I can’t,” she said.

Walter was on his feet, his beefy fingers jabbing at her chest. “What do you mean, you can’t go? I’m not giving you a choice.”

She pushed his hand away. “My mind is made up. I’m staying here.” Her head snapped back from the force of the blow, and the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. Raw anger almost choked her as she pressed herself against the back of her chair. “Your family in England won’t want you. And they’ve never wanted me.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. Your dear departed mother was the perfect daughter-in-law. Marrying her was the first thing I had done right in my family’s eyes. After she died and they disinherited me — for a minor indiscretion — they wanted you to live with them. But I kept you away. If they didn’t want me, then they weren’t getting you, either.”

Confusion at his words fogged her mind. “But why now?”

He moved toward her, his eyes narrowed. “Because this trip will net me a fortune. The ship will be teeming with rich nobs who will fall over themselves to play poker with me once word of my skills get out. I will be the prodigal son returning home, triumphant. And you will be the honey to sweeten the deal.”

She blinked, unable to comprehend the extent of his mad self-deception. “Then you will be going on your own, Pa.”

“You ungrateful, disobedient, useless piece of baggage. You’ll do as I say! We’re going, my girl, whether you bloody like it or not. It’s time my family accepted me back and I was reinstated to my rightful place in society.” He kicked out with his foot, tilting Lillian’s chair precariously. As she leapt from the chair with her arms flailing to gain her balance, his gaze snagged on the empty carpetbag. “Where are the snuffboxes?” he shrieked. She threw the bag to the floor as if that would disassociate her from the fiasco. With one menacing step at a time, Walter approached until he was inches from her face. “Answer me, you stupid girl.”

She took a step back, her arms in front of her for protection, his unstable temper turning her back into a trembling child. “I did my best, Pa, but the bloke you told me to ask for had gone home for the day.” It was better to leave out the fact she’d arrived late.

Walter’s neck flushed red with anger, and his bushy eyebrows folded over each other as he scowled at his daughter. For a moment he looked as if he would strike her again but then seemed to change his mind. Not daring to move, she watched him take two deep breaths, give his head a shake as if to rearrange his thoughts, and then lower himself back into the armchair. Lillian watched, unmoving, as Walter again pushed himself up from the armchair, straightened his waistcoat, and took measured steps to the front door. With his hand on the doorknob he called back to her. “I don’t want to say something I will regret, so I am heading out for a quiet ale. I will eat dinner when I return.” The door slammed as he left the house.

She stared at the back of the closed door, tears dripping onto her bodice. He had never mentioned her mother before. She always believed she’d been abandoned by everyone except her pa. Now it seemed he’d kept her isolated from his family for his own petty revenge.

Despite the shock of her pa’s words, she knew she had to keep her wits about her, to keep ahead of his greedy schemes. Each new scheme was always going to be the last one — the big one that would make them rich. And each time, something went wrong. There had been a few occasions when he had won big at the gaming tables, but within days he had lost it all again.

Without a word, she climbed the narrow flight of stairs to her bedroom. Lord, it must have been a big win to buy tickets on this famous ship. She swallowed; even the thought of sailing to England made her nauseous.

But as much as she determined she would not go, she suspected Walter would find a way to convince her.

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