Wanted: One Scoundrel (5 page)

“Thanks.”

By the time they reached shore, the boy was shivering, coughing and effusive in his gratitude. The winter wind struck chill through Jed’s wet waistcoat and shirt. He shuddered. When the boat reached the shallows, he leapt out and helped beach it.

Esme waited with the gig amid a gaggle of onlookers. She handed Jed his coat and wrapped the boy in a carriage rug.

“Take him home,” Jed said. “I’m close enough to the boarding house. I’ll walk.”

“Fine.” But her eyes were bright with concern. She looked beyond him and picked a familiar face from the crowd, the Smith household’s factotum. “Francis, could you see my friend home?”

“Sure and I will, Miss Esme.”

“S-s-sir, I m-must know your name,” the boy interrupted.

“Jedediah Reeve.” He allowed his hand to be shaken for far too long. The hero worship in the boy’s dark eyes embarrassed him.

“I am Gupta S-Singh, and I thank you. You saved my life, Mr. Reeve. I will not forget. And you, s-sir.” He turned to the man with the rowboat.

Esme ended the scene, directing Gupta Singh into the gig and scattering spectators as she set off at a smart trot.

“Lovely girl, Miss Esme,” Francis said. “We’d better do as she says and get you home.”

“I can manage.”

Francis just grinned and kept pace with him, the message clear: what Miss Esme wanted, Miss Esme got.

Jed half expected Esme to come and check on him at the boarding house. Instead, she sent Dr. Palmer, who grumbled.

“Lot of fuss about nothing. A dip in the river’s not going to hurt a strapping lad like you, not even in the middle of winter. And I see you’ve got the right medicine.” He looked approvingly at Jed’s glass of hot toddy.

“Mrs. Hall doesn’t believe in drinking, but Francis informed her I was a hero.” Jed raised the glass. “Hence the toddy.”

“Good luck to you.” The doctor snapped his bag shut. He studied Jed as he sat comfortably in his trousers and dressing gown by a roaring fire, his feet propped on the fender.

The cuckoo clock on the wall whirred, then completely failed to chirp the hour.

“I disabled it,” Jed said.

“Yes, give me a decent grandfather clock any day.” But Dr. Palmer spoke absently. “I’m traveling to Perth, tomorrow. If you care to travel with me, I’ll put your name down at my club.”

Jed raised an eyebrow. Club sponsorship was a far greater issue than a mere introduction to the governor. “I appreciate the offer, sir. Forgive my curiosity, but is it a favor for Esme or a reward for my jumping in the river?”

“Ha! When Esme introduced you at Friday’s afternoon tea, I didn’t know what game she was playing. None of us know you from Adam. But I think she has the right of it: Nicholas Bambury is stirring up the authoritarian, aristo elements, the ones who want the rich to become richer and the disenfranchised to resemble slaves.”

“That’s harsh. Slavery is—”

“I know what slavery is,” Dr. Palmer interrupted. “I’ve treated men for infections when their backs were opened by brutal whippings. I’ve seen the marks of manacles and the devastation of rape. Our society has a chance to rise above such things, to give all people the right to freedom, dignity and security. I’m damned if I’ll stand aside and let such hopes rot so men such as Bambury can increase their wealth.”

“I admit I don’t admire the man.” Jed swung his feet off the fender and leaned forward. “But what is it you think I can do?”

“Speak in opposition. Remind people of other values. Bambury whirled in on the glamour of his Eastern family name and has stroked egos and wooed men to think of themselves, of their own advancement. He’s stoking an unhealthy sense of elitism. There are good men here who don’t agree with him, but like me, they have responsibilities that keep them from giving the time to politics that is required. Bambury is politicking full-time. If Esme is prepared to fund you to do that—and I’m guessing she is—then you have my support.”

“Ah.” Jed stood and put the empty toddy glass on the mantel. “You know, I didn’t come to Swan River to enter politics. Engineering is my field. I’ve been following the work of Nikola Tesla—”

Dr. Palmer interrupted, uninterested in technological tomfoolery. “And this isn’t your fight? I understand, but you’re wrong. Travel with me, tomorrow. Hear for yourself Bambury’s insidious, pernicious nonsense. I saw you at the tea and the ball. You have charm, and now, you’re a hero. You can do a lot of good—for however long you’re here.”

“I fear you overestimate me, sir. But I accept your sponsorship.” He had, after all, promised Esme to represent her Women’s Advancement League in the men’s clubs. “With thanks.”

They shook hands and the doctor departed.

Jed stood at the window. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown.

He had entered into agreement with Esme light-heartedly enough, intent only on learning more of her and perhaps indulging a pleasant flirtation.

“I should have stayed with my trade.” He looked at the sky. The clouds were back, grey and low, promising more rain. “Politics!” A rueful smile tugged at his mouth. “Oh lord. What would Father say?”

Perhaps there was no escaping one’s heritage?

Esme hung her coat in the hall. “I’m fine, Maud.” She refused offers of assistance and the recommendation of a hot bath. “A little rain won’t hurt me.” She ran up the stairs to her room.

A personal maid was one of the trappings of wealth she’d steadfastly refused, just as her father rejected the notion of a valet. If you weren’t careful, wealth could rob you of all privacy.

She closed her bedroom door with a sense of relief and leaned back against it. A deep tremor shook her.

When Jed had dived from the bridge, all the horror stories she’d heard of lives lost in the river had risen to torment her. Only the strongest of disciplines enabled her to maneuver the gig through the crowd and wait with outward composure. She’d been so relieved, so glad, when Mr. Vann pulled Jed and the boy from the river.

Common sense said a handful of days wasn’t nearly long enough for her heart to stop at the thought of losing Jed.

The intensity of her reaction spooked her and she’d grabbed for the excuse of returning Gupta Singh to his family and an ayurvedic practitioner’s care. She’d left the boy excitedly recounting his adventure to his aunt and uncle, and singing Jed’s praises.

“Jed Reeve.” She straightened from the door. If he was a scoundrel, he was one with intelligence and courage, and compassion—she’d seen how he’d danced with the wallflowers at the ball. A small sign, and yet…

Perhaps her intense response to his peril wasn’t so strange? He’d become a friend.

“So you’re the hero of the hour?” Nicholas Bambury drawled. “Rescuing a Hindoo from the river. Quite an achievement.” His tone disparaged it.

The wood-paneled, leather-furnished, understated luxury of the men’s club fit Bambury like a tailored backdrop. Here, he was the undeniable leader, handsome, athletic, a son of the aristocracy.

Jed shrugged. “I felt like a swim.”

The comment won a few laughs and the tension Bambury had been building dissipated. Men turned back to a discussion of horses and, by degrees, of newer forms of transport.

An elderly gentleman was loudly in favor of automobiles. Although he wanted them powered by steam. Younger men decried such adherence to old-fashioned notions. Steam was all very well, indeed, they wanted tracks laid for steam locomotives to power across the country, joining the west and eastern coasts.

“But gasoline is the future.”

“The smell?” Jed queried mildly.

Questions of smell were brushed aside as nothing compared to horse dung on a hot summer’s day.

As in the Smiths’ drawing room, a miniature railway circled the room, but nothing moved on it.

“One of Amberley’s failures,” a young man said dismissively. His protuberant eyes blinked behind smoked glass goggles. Wearing those brass-framed monstrosities inside was a misguided fashion decision in every sense. “The old dabbler hooked it up to run on electricity using magnets—you have seen our electric lighting?”

“Indeed,” Jed said politely, although the crude lighting made a poor show compared to the bright natural sunlight pouring in the windows.

“The generator is in a cupboard behind that wall. Amberley redesigned it to increase the power outlet, but then when he ran the magnets, it was a disaster.”

“Spoons!” A middle-aged man, wearing the wig of a barrister, brayed his amusement. “Club management had replaced the silver spoons with stainless steel. Thought to save money. Every spoon whipped through the air to clang against the powerful central magnet.”

The young man looked disapprovingly at such unregulated amusement. “Amberley keeps promising to fix the machine, but so far it remains too dangerous to use. Mr. Puddlington’s glasses were ripped from his face.”

“Inventions naturally require tweaking. Why perfection straight out of the box, or the workroom…”

Jed let the discussion drift on while he observed the men. Their number increased as the lunch hour approached. Dr. Palmer returned from his business and introduced Jed to his cronies, including the barrister. Jed shared a table with them, eating a substantial roast beef meal followed by Christmas pudding. He grinned to see this remnant of midwinter festivities. The inhabitants of Swan River had a unique but enjoyable approach to life—taking the best of their home countries. He was glad, though, that they didn’t waste good brandy setting the pudding alight. Cognac this fine deserved to be savored, and he took his glass with him to sit by the fire.

Nicholas Bambury chose a chair close by. He hitched his trousers carefully before sitting. “So, Reeve, I believe you’re a friend of Captain Fellowes?”

“I have that honor.”

From his corner chair, Dr. Palmer frowned suspicion.

“And of his niece, Miss Esme Smith.”

Jed inclined his head.

“Nouveau riche, of course,” Bambury continued. “But a spirited beauty.”

Men around them chuckled knowingly.

Jed found his hackles rising. There was something condescending in the comment, as if Bambury judged a horse’s points.

“It’ll take a strong man to tame her.” The tilt of Bambury’s head was the faintest of preening movements. The message was clear: he was a strong man and he considered Esme and her inheritance his.

Jed studied his untouched brandy. Then he tossed it onto the fire and watched the flames flare blue.

The men stared at him.

Jed held Bambury’s gaze. Whatever he said would be repeated and embellished—and he would not risk Esme’s reputation. But if he said nothing, Bambury would win the encounter.

“Interesting how alcohol burns. Pure energy. Perhaps one day, they’ll invent a car to run on it. Now, there’s fumes I’d like to smell.”

“But the waste, man. The waste,” the barrister said.

Men laughed.

Jed stood and looked down at Bambury. “Yes. Fine spirits definitely shouldn’t be wasted on men who can’t appreciate them.” He nodded in general farewell, point made. “Gentlemen.”

After the musty warmth of the club, he enjoyed the bracing outside air. It lacked Fremantle’s tang of salt, but had its own odor of busy city life lived beside a river. It reminded him of the leisurely trip down the Mississippi that he’d taken two years ago.

Perth sat twelve miles inland. Apparently, the first governor had been a military man and hid his settlement behind a substantial hill, safe from ship-based cannon fire. The goldrush had led to a frenzy of building, and ornate shops and houses intermingled with square Georgian buildings from the earlier era.

It was a city finding its place in the world. Esme and Dr. Palmer weren’t exaggerating. This was the time of opportunity, to set a new pattern of equality and freedom, or regret it for all of the coming century.

And sleek golden devils like Bambury were fattening on Swan River’s possibilities with all the disgusting tenacity of swollen ticks.

Jed slammed his hat on his head and set off with long strides toward the newspaper office. That was the place to pick up the trends and gossip swirling through the colony.

Because he’d be damned if Bambury got richer on Swan River—or by wooing Esme.

“I’ve hardly seen you.” Esme bit her lip. The complaint had escaped her even though she’d promised herself—sworn by the Southern Cross in the night skies—that she’d not mention Jed’s lack of attendance.

He was, after all, doing exactly what she’d contracted him to do. Everywhere she went she heard people singing his praises—though none were quite so ridiculous in their admiration as Gupta Singh. The boy copied Jed’s style of dress, hair cut and way of walking. There was even a hint of an American drawl when Esme encountered Gupta at the Chai House in Bombaytown.

Three weeks Jed had been in Swan River, and for the last two she’d hardly seen him. He spoke in men’s clubs, at political meetings, in the town hall, coffee shops and in print. He was amiable and intelligent. He signed the letter to the editor she wrote in his name.

Match-making mamas trailed him hopefully, attending her Women’s Advancement League meetings that they had heretofore scorned.

“Never mind that,” Esme said hastily. “I’m very pleased with all your work.”

“It is work.” Jed peeled another chestnut, inhaling the nutty steam even as he burned his fingers. He’d bought them on impulse, having seen them unloaded from a skimmer-boat just in from Australia’s eastern colonies, and brought them to share with Esme, roasting them in the library fire. The sweet smokiness reminded him of Christmases at home—and he began to see the wisdom of Swan River’s midwinter celebrations: recalling old joys and creating new ones. “And some of the giggling young women—are you sure all women should have the vote?”

“I could say the same of some men,” she retorted smartly. “Empty-headed popinjays.”

“Touché.” He handed her half the peeled chestnut.

She popped it in her mouth. “Thank you.” She swallowed. “But you are convincing people, Jed. I’ll need to get more pamphlets printed. In fact, I think you should meet my printer.”

“You have too much energy.”

“It’s only early afternoon. We can catch Angus easily.”

Jed sighed and dusted chestnut debris from his fingers. “You know, when you said you’d hardly seen me, I thought we might be able to steal a quiet hour.”

“You’re too young for quiet hours. Besides, we’ve finished the chestnuts.” She shook out her skirts and checked her hair in the mirror over the fireplace. She tucked the few loose strands under her hat. In the mirror, she saw Jed move to stand behind her.

She turned inquiringly. It brought her too close to his muscled frame, but with the fire at her back, she couldn’t retreat.

“Just checking
my
hair,” he teased.

It was slightly tousled and she reached out without thinking, only withdrawing her hand at the last minute. She was slightly breathless. “Your hat will hide any deficiencies in your grooming.”

The teasing gleam vanished from his eyes. He regarded her steadily for several moments before stepping back in silence. As she passed him, he put a light, guiding hand on her waist.

Other gentlemen had employed the courteous gesture with her, but she’d never been so aware of the warmth of their hands. His palm branded her skin despite the layers of wool and cotton petticoats, not to mention her lightly laced corset. It was as if her senses leapt to meet him.

“Let us visit your printer,” Jed said quietly.

She nodded. Whatever had entered the library at his closeness, she was suddenly, ridiculously aware of being alone with him.

Every feminine instinct in her shrieked
danger!
and wanted to rush toward it.

She drew a deep breath, summoned common sense and walked into the hall.

He held her coat for her and his fingers brushed her throat. “Do we need a carriage?”

She shivered at the inadvertent caress. “No. Angus has a shop on the outskirts of town. We can walk to it.”

And maybe the walk will shake me back into sanity
. Her hyper-awareness of Jed was making her awkward and unnatural.

The view from the front of the house showed the harbor and the ships at anchor. The sooty marks of steamships smudged the horizon. Closer at hand, the town rang with noise and energy. Someone was learning to play the trumpet and sharp discordant blasts carried on the breeze.

She strode fast to the quieter, southern edge of Fremantle, tucking her hands into the pockets of her coat. It was most unladylike, but it meant she could ignore the offer of Jed’s arm. Touching him would not be a good idea.

A derisive blast from the amateur trumpet player faded behind them.

The streets narrowed. The shops huddled close, smaller and interspersed with workshops and family homes. The smoke from wood fires curled up, fragrant and reminiscent of the country. Tiny plots of land held vegetable gardens. Lemon and orange trees were glossy green, occasionally starred with white blossoms already anticipating summer.

The familiar walk restored her composure. She took her hands from her pockets, relaxed enough to gesture naturally as she gave Jed some background.

“The native people live here. In their own language, they are the Nyungar. Some have adapted to European ways and gained artisan skills—like Angus, my printer. Others still live nomadically. I would like them accepted as full citizens of Swan River, regardless of their lifestyle choices.”

They passed a small school and heard a chorus of children’s voices reciting the multiplication table.

“Segregation,” she said sadly. “A lot of white people won’t accept that the Nyungar are equal.” She gripped his arm. “We must change that. These children should be free to follow their dreams.”

“The attitudes of hate that lie behind segregation are hard to change.” He covered her hand with his for a second. “But we’ll try.”

They walked into the printers. The floor of the wooden building shuddered to the sound of a printing press. Esme walked around the counter to the doorway of the workroom. “Hello, Angus.”

A large black man looked around with a smile. “Miss Esme.” He wiped his hands on a rag and came toward them, ushering them back into the shop and closing the door to the printing room for a bit of quiet.

“Jed, this is Mr. Angus Warren. Angus, Mr. Jedediah Reeve.”

“I’ve heard of you, Mr. Reeve.” The printer extended his hand.

Jed shook it.

“We need more pamphlets printed,” Esme said.

Angus took out his order book, questioning numbers and timing.

“May I ask a personal question, Mr. Warren?” Jed asked.

“Go ahead.” The printer didn’t look up from his copperplate note taking.

“At home, in America, the black people are mostly former slaves or their descendants. Much of their culture was lost and they’ve had to rebuild it. But how do you, living in your own country, reconcile your traditional beliefs with all this?” His gesture encompassed the printing office, town and the whole goldrush explosion of activity.

“It’s not a question many people ask.” Angus straightened from the desk. “The missionaries still think we’re godless heathens. We’re not. I’m Christian-baptized. But I’m also me, son of my father, child of the Dreamtime. I say my people make their lives with old beliefs, but new practices.”

“In a way, that’s what I hope for all of us,” Esme said. “The best of the old and the new, and a strong sense of who we are, of pride in being part of Swan River Colony.”

Angus’s smile was tolerant.

Esme’s hand tightened on her purse. “I know you think I can’t understand your struggles, Angus, seeing as how I’m white and wealthy. But all of us have to fight to be the person God intended us to be.”

“That is true, and He made you a burning lamp, Miss Esme, one who shall not be put out in the night. Proverbs, Chapter 31, Verse 18,” Angus said.

She blushed at the biblical compliment.

“Amen,” Jed said and his voice was a soft caress. “A valiant woman, her price is above rubies.”