Victorian Dream (17 page)

Fighting to remain calm, Trelayne turned back to the old woman. “How long has the baby been....dead?”

“Nearly a day and a half. She will’na let us take him from her arms. She has nothin’ warm to bury him in, and she’ll not have her Jordie spend all his eternity suffering in the cold ground.”

Trelayne glanced back into the room, and her throat tightened with sorrow.

“She hasn’t been right since the wee lad died,” the old woman lamented, “and after such a terrible birthing it were. She’s worried about the resurrection men too. We’ve no money to pay for a decent burial plot where the babe’s body will be left in peace and not stolen for the surgeons to practice on.”

Trelayne retrieved a one-pound note from her drawstring purse, and gave it to the tearful woman. “Please take this. Buy him a funeral that will put her mind to rest.” She entered the room and eased closer to the bedside, removing her cashmere shawl as she advanced.

“Now then,” she said softly. “This will keep little Jordie warm as he sleeps with the angels. He must truly be a special boy if our Lord wanted him back so soon. Come now,” she coaxed, extending the shawl closer.

The young woman turned her head toward the sound of her voice. She appeared young of age, but her eyes mirrored a hundred years of pain and anguish. Trelayne almost glanced away. The new mother released one hand from its fierce grip on the infant and shakily reached toward the fine woolen garment. A barely audible “thank you” passed her lips.

The elderly woman retrieved the tiny body from its mother’s arms, and carefully swaddled it in the shawl. Rolling onto her side, the girl shook with great sobs and moans, releasing all the grief and sorrow she had been holding back. Trelayne and the older woman quietly left the room.

“Bless you, missy, for what you done. The way she was acting we were afraid we would lose our Bessie as well as the little one. It were most unnatural the way she just stared into the air, clutching that poor dead babe to her breast. She never ate a bite nor spoke a word the past day and a half. And she never shed a tear until now.”

Trelayne blinked back tears of her own. “I’m glad I could help.”

****

Grasping Trelayne’s elbow, Lucien escorted her out of the house and toward the waiting coach.

“Good God, Trelayne. Heaven only knows what the child died from. Do you wish to contract it as well? We are leaving this fever nest immediately, and I’ll not listen to any protestation on your part.”

None came. In truth, Trelayne appeared stunned to silence. Meeting no resistance, he led her from the nightmare toward the refuge of the carriage. When she wasn’t looking, he shoved aside the throng of children begging for coins and kicked at a skinny dog hoping for a stray morsel of food.

“Get us out of here,” he barked, to Jeb as he helped her board. “The quickest way possible. Stop for no one.”

Social rules forgotten, he sat beside Trelayne. Her chin quivered, and she wouldn’t look at him.

“There, there,” he crooned, boldly putting one arm across her shoulders. “This is only your first experience with the crueler side of life. You will no doubt grow accustomed to it.”

Tears wet her cheeks, and she buried her face against his waiting shoulder.

“How can one ever grow accustomed such pain and sorrow? Perhaps I’m not suited for comforting the poor, or standing strong in the face of their suffering. I thought it would be different.”

“But you were wonderful, my pet,” he soothed, indulging in a self-satisfied smirk.

In retrospect, the day had not been a total loss after all. Trelayne was broken in spirit and turning to him for solace. Events could not have turned out better.

And this was just the beginning. In less than a week, she would be obliged to negotiate the wages and cargo fees for the
Romney Maiden,
her father’s ship.
If his plans for sabotage went well, that disastrous experience should be the final blow. With Garrison gone, and her parents still incapacitated, there would be no one to whom she could turn. And he would be there to pick up the pieces.

Chapter Fourteen

His body felt unbelievably heavy, as if cast from lead. Maybe he was dead. But was it Heaven or Hell to which he’d been assigned?

Opening his eyes, Walker peered around. The light from a nearby fire, brighter than a sunburst, nearly struck him blind. Pain shot through his brain, and his stomach heaved. He snapped his eyes closed. It must be the inferno of Hell. Then the comforting aroma of food filled his nostrils. Surely the devil would not offer such tantalizing fare.

“Where am I?” he asked, but only an animal-like croak came out of his mouth.

At his pitiful utterance, someone drew near. Squinting open his eyes, he focused on the hulking form towering over him.

“Praise Odin. You are back from the darkness.”

The man’s booming voice reverberated from wall to wall, making him cringe.

“I am called Hargis. What is your name, fine fellow?”

A good question. What
was
his name? The pounding in his head increased as he tried to reason out who he was, and what had happened. Having nothing to offer, he remained silent.

Moving only his eyes, he studied the small room. An odd assortment of animal hides, shields, and weaponry covered the walls. The metal gleamed as if newly polished, the intricate designs were of finely wrought patterns and runes. It wasn’t Hell—it was Valhalla.

Maybe he was dreaming. He tried to move and the pain took his breath away. He was wide-awake now. Hargis reached to settle him back against the pillows.

Illuminated by lamp glow, the man dwarfed the room, his shadow darkening the walls. A golden beard, mustache, and shoulder-length hair surrounded his piercing blue eyes. He looked like a Norseman, stepped from the pages of
Beowulf.

“I been calling you Little Hern,” the big Viking informed him, “after my brother, Big Hern. You remind me of him. He is dead and buried five years now, gone for a soldier in the old country. He had the fighting spirit just like you.”

Hargis touched Walker’s brow then stood back and smiled. “Your fever is finally broken. For a while, I feared my possets and poultices were not equal to the seriousness of your injuries. Only in wartime have I seen a man hurt as badly.”

Turning, the big man fed more wood to the fire then stirred what was cooking in the pot hanging over the flames.

Walker tried sitting up. Pain slammed through him again. He sucked in a deep breath, regretting the action as what felt like the tips of broken ribs stabbed at muscle and ligament. He collapsed back on the cot, his mind a dizzy blur of urgent questions needing answers, but he couldn’t pull together a decent thought.

“You are not ready to be sitting up ways, friend,” Hargis pointed out the obvious. “I get for you some water and good hot soup. Don’t be worrying about your horse,” he added, gathering the bowls and spoons.

The horse?
He’d forgotten he even had one.

“I found a ticket for the stables in your pocket. Someone at work knew what it was and where to find the barn. I gave the man money to feed and watch over the animal.” He ladled out the soup. “It has been one hell of a few weeks.”

A few weeks—good Lord. Again Walker tried to speak, but his tongue, too big and unresponsive, sabotaged the effort. It stuck to the roof of his mouth making even swallowing an effort. Resigned to silence, he ate the soup while casting a covetous stare at the bread and cheese on the cutting board beside Hargis.

“No solid food for you yet friend. Cheese will bind you. You must be up and about before I dare let you eat such fare. You will tell Hargis your name now?”

He still couldn’t remember who he was, or what had happened. Only that it seemed vitally important he find out. “Thank you for taking me in,” he managed to say, his throat soothed by the hot soup. “I can’t remember much of anything,” he admitted, scrubbing a hand across his brow, “including my name.”

“Maybe it is here on this paper?” Hargis rummaged around in small trunk. “It was also in your pocket. I’m good at many things, but reading is not one of them.”

Intrigued, he slowly reached for the proffered parchment. It was a receipt for a hotel in London, signed by a Captain Walker Garrison. Seeing the name in print opened a door in his brain, and the trapped memories slowly fought their way to freedom.

“My name is Walker…Walker Garrison,” he muttered. Saying his name aloud prodded his jumble of thoughts into a more logical order.

Relief eased through him as detail after detail fell into place. Then an image of Trelayne blotted out everything else. Was she safe? How long had he been gone? He had to get back to Royston Hall.

“What day is it? How long have I been here?” he demanded, his hand clenched into a fist around the hotel receipt.

“Slow down, Walker Garrison,” the man said, and laughed. “Hargis Braunwinson will be trying to answer your questions. I am not sure of the date, but it is fifteen nights since I find you fighting with those men. I helped to even the odds for you.”

Unconscious for over two weeks.
God only knew what had been happening in London. Everything was going terribly wrong. He’d yet to find proof connecting Grimsby to Lanteen, and now he was useless as a child in taking care of himself, let alone in protecting Trelayne.

“Does anyone know I’m here?”

Hargis shook his head. “No one knows you are alive or where you are. Three of the men who attacked you will bother no one again. The other scurries painfully about the waterfront like an injured rat.”

Knowing one of his attackers still lived was good news. The man might have vital information, and a witness, reluctant or not, would be a boon to his mission

“I owe you my life. Again, I thank you.”

“Hargis knows what it is like to need a friend. I am glad to help.”

Walker glanced at his boots standing beside the bed. One of them held his money for safekeeping. Intending to give the cash to Hargis, he strained sideways, grabbed up his left boot, and felt inside. Empty. He guessed the man had already helped himself. His gaze shifted to the other man’s face.

“Oh ya, ya,” Hargis said, with a big grin. “Your fortune is safe.” He pried up a floorboard, revealing a tin box beneath the planking. Liberating the currency from the box he handed it over. “You should not hide your money in your boots,” he said, with reprimand. “If a bad person knocks you out, he will most likely steal your shoes.”

Walker felt ashamed for having doubted the big man. In his attempt to protect the St.Christopher family, it had become second nature for him to mistrust everyone.

“I beg your pardon, Hargis. You have been more than generous, and how do I repay you? I treat you with suspicion and prejudgment.” He extended the fist full of currency, but Hargis refused to take it.

“I work for my money,” the other man said. “When you know Hargis better, you will see I can be a loyal companion. And when you feel better, we will go to town. Then you can buy me a drink, and we will have a merry time with the women.” The man’s laughter again filled the room.

“How long have you been in England?” Walker asked.

“Only one half and two months. I am trying to go to America. That is where you are from I think. But I had only enough money to get this far, and now I work for the Queen of England.” Walker raised a brow at that information. “We rebuild the Royal Pavilion near here,” Hargis clarified. “It will be truly wonderful. And, I am one of the few men on the crew who works unafraid in the banqueting hall."

“The others fear the room?”

“Oh, ya. It is haunted by the ghost of Mary Gunn, the Brighton Bather. But alive or dead, Hargis does not run from beautiful young women. Besides, they pay me extra to work in there. Soon I will have enough to sail to America and start a new life in the new country.”

“What trade do you claim?” Walker asked.

“I am king of the forge, blacksmith you call it. I turn iron into knives and swords. Or I can change silver into anything you want, something to adorn your clothes, or perhaps a trinket to please your special lady.”

“Did you make all of the things?” he questioned, nodding toward the wall.

“Ya, I have done so, and there is much more at home in Norway. I cannot bring it all. I have here my finest work to show what I can do. Also, these things are good company. A piece of me is in each piece of work. What is it you do, Walker Garrison, besides fighting vandals who outnumber you?”

“I build sailing ships, like the one you hope to take to America. In fact, I know a few sea captains who make port in Brighton. As soon as I’m well enough, I’ll arrange passage for you on one of them.”

“I will be appreciating your help. For now though, we put another poultice to your wounds. Then you get some sleep. Tomorrow you must try to get up. It will be a hard day’s work so you had best rest tonight.”

How could he rest with anxiety chewing at his conscience? He’d screwed up. Left Trelayne with no one but Merrick to look after her. A sense of panic squeezed at his chest, and he couldn’t catch his breath. He must recover as quickly as possible, but judging by the way he felt, it might be a while before he could fend for himself. He should alert Merrick to the situation, but risking a written or telegraphed communication seemed unwise. Someone wanted him dead, and he wasn’t about to give them another chance. All he could do was wait—something he was not very good at.

Hargis re-wrapped his wounds, the herbs soothing his unhealed flesh, and he marveled at Hargis’ gentle touch. He’d seen the big man knock an opponent cold with one blow. Yet those same hands had sewn his torn body together with stitches tiny and precise enough to rival the finest embroidery.

As he was thinking about how good a shot of whiskey would taste, Hargis grabbed a jug and poured out two portions of blood red liquid.

“Here,” his new friend offered. “This will make the pain sleep. Then you can sleep too. I will have some as well,” he added, “because I am such a damn good nurse. To Odin.”