For Love's Sake (14 page)

By the time dessert was served, Laurel could not stand another moment of conversation. In addition to the fact that she was at least thirty years younger than everyone except Christopher, she thought that she had to be the only one not completely self-absorbed.
Did these people really think that their opinions mattered to anyone except themselves?
Laurel knew that the man to her right thought that renewed interest in Gregor Mendel’s research of heredity was a complete waste of time, that Mrs. Meade hated cakewalks because they were ‘of the devil’, and that most people had only voted for President McKinley because they liked T.R. What she
didn’t
know was why anyone at all bothered to listen.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Although dinner had not gone as well as Christopher had hoped, it had managed to build his faith in Laurel. It proved that she could at least comport herself enough to be trusted on her own for a few hours, and he felt comfortable letting her roam the ship while he played billiards in the first class smoking room.

Laurel enjoyed exploring both above and below deck. The ship was like its own floating city, holding enough secrets to occupy her for the rest of the journey. The first afternoon that she was left alone, she stumbled upon a service stairway that led to the lower decks—mainly second-class accommodations—and far below that, steerage.

She longed for conversation, and over the course of the trip, began to grow resentful when Christopher left her alone all day. He belonged in first class; he embodied everything that they stood for: money, breeding, and taste. When they were together, everyone was pleasant and accessible, but when Laurel ventured out on her own, she had the feeling that everyone was sneering behind her back. After one awkward exchange too many, she decided to try the one place that she knew she would find people just like her—third class.

Certain that the coast was clear, she slipped as quickly as she could down the narrow stairwell. Laurel didn’t know whether she expected to find a sentry standing guard to keep out
undesirables
from moving throughout the ship, but it was surprisingly easy to pass into second class. Third class, however, was a bit trickier.

The thin, whitewashed walls were in sharp contrast to the rich, chocolate paneling of the first and second-class accommodations. Instead of the warm glow of electric sconces, the lighting in steerage consisted of little more than bare bulbs. There was also a little chain across the entrance, meant to keep third class passengers safely in their place. Laurel shimmied under it, and found herself in one of the cramped, dim hallways of the steerage deck.

She looked to her left, and then her right. There was nothing but closed doors in either direction. Trying to determine her bearings, she recalled the rooms in first class. Deciding that she would need to go left to reach the common areas, she hurried down the corridor before anyone spotted her.

At the end of the long hallway, Laurel found the third-class dining room. Accommodations below deck left much to be desired, and she was appalled at the disparity between these and those of the first-class passengers. She debated on whether to go any further when two men called to her from down the hall. Terrified of being discovered, Laurel picked up her skirts and ran in the opposite direction, discovering another narrow stairwell, which she hoped would take her back up to second class.

Instead, it spit her out on the third class deck. The wind tore at her delicate felt hat, and Laurel reached out to grab it just as it flew off her head. Clutching it in her fist, she searched the curious faces around her. They regarded her suspiciously, but she smiled as she eased down onto a bench beside a small, dark haired little girl. The child’s mother called for her, and when she ignored her, the woman came to pull the child away. Not deterred in the least, Laurel closed her eyes and took in the brisk sea air.

“Shouldn’t you be back up there with your own people?” a voice said.

She opened her eyes to see a pockmarked face glaring down at her.

“Oh, I’m not really one of
them,
” Laurel tried to explain.

“You’re dressed like one of ‘em,” the man said.

For the first time, Laurel saw herself as they must have—in a silk gown, and heavy, fur trimmed cloak. No one from steerage could afford an outfit like that.

“Well…I didn’t buy these clothes,” Laurel said. “They were a gift.”

The man bent down even lower, and she could smell his sour breath in her face. “From who?”

“A friend,” Laurel pushed at him with her gloved hands, but he did not budge.

“A man friend?” he asked, grabbing her wrists.

“It doesn’t matter. Now let go, you’re hurting me!”

Laurel’s heart began to beat harder and faster in her chest. Perhaps venturing down there was not such a good idea after all.

“I know all about your kind,” the man said, his hand still clamped down on her wrists. “How much?”

“
What?
”

“I said, how much. You deaf? Or just dumb?”

Realization dawned on her, and Laurel cried out in disgust. “Get away from me!”

He pulled her against him and whispered in her ear, “Next time you’ll think twice about parading yourself around down here!”

With a quick smack on her bottom, the man released her. Laurel scrambled up the stairs to the first class deck amid jeers and laughter. Not even drunk boys at home had ever treated her so coarsely! She had never been so terrified in all her life, and there was no use hiding the tears as she slunk back to her cabin.

Even behind the safety of its locked door, Laurel couldn’t stop trembling. When the door adjoining her room to Christopher’s burst open, she almost fainted.

“Where the hell have you been? I searched
everywhere
for you!”

Christopher was furious, but when he saw the color drain from her face, he reached out and caught her before she swooned. Laurel shook so violently in his arms, that he regretted yelling at her like that.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scream at you. I was worried,” he said, trying to soothe her nerves. “You know that I would never do anything to hurt you.”

Laurel nodded, clutching her palm to her stomach. “
I can’t breathe.
”

The last thing she remembered was trying to claw her way out of her dress.

“What were you thinking going down to steerage?” Christopher asked.

When Laurel came to, she had confessed everything. Safe in his arms, that repulsive man from the third class deck seemed too far away to hurt her. Wiping her swollen eyes with the back of her hand, she tried to explain.

“I wanted to talk to my own people. I wanted to go where I belonged.”

“But you don’t belong down there, Laurel. Not anymore.”

“I don’t belong up here either! I’ve never belonged
anywhere
.”

Christopher pushed a damp lock of hair from off her cheek. “Now, stop all of that nonsense, and tell me what this fellow looked like.”

“Why?”

“So I can kill him.”

Laurel let out a strangled laugh. “You’ve never killed anybody.”

“You’re right,” he said. “But I’ve never been this close, either.”

“Christopher, what he said was true. I’m really nothing more than…a prostitute. Everyone onboard this ship knows what we’re doing together.”

“Yes, but they should have the good taste not to mention it. And I don’t want to
ever
hear you refer to yourself in that way again. You are not a prostitute!”

“But I am your mistress, which is really only one step up from that.”

Christopher rubbed his temples. “What about being my ‘lover’?”

Laurel’s breath caught in her chest. “Is that what I am?”

He looked into her eyes. “Yes.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Sleet rain beat down as Laurel looked out the porthole of her cabin. From what she could make out of England as the ship waited in Southampton harbor, it was a wet, miserable place.

“Does it always look like this?” she asked Christopher, who was tossing his shirts into the large open trunk on the bed.

He paused and leaned down to gaze out of the window. A slow smile spread across his face. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Everything looked so bleak and gray –
beautiful
was not the adjective Laurel would have chosen, but then again, at this point she would have said that the mill was beautiful if she could only see it again…

“We should arrive home in time for dinner this evening,” Christopher said with a slam of the lid and snap of the trunk latches. “You have packed your things, haven’t you? I do not want any delays.”

“I did it this morning while you were sleeping. There are benefits to getting out of the bed before noon, you know.”

As the cumbersome ship maneuvered into port, it gave a great blast of its horn, announcing its presence into the fog.

Laurel covered her ears with her hands. “I
hate
that sound!”

“Once we’re in Wiltshire, you won’t hear another,” a smiling Christopher explained. “There isn’t a mill, mine, or factory for miles.”

A glossy black coach waited for them in the driving rain when Christopher and Laurel arrived at the Amesbury station. One servant went to collect their baggage while another held the door open for them.

“Welcome home, My Lord,” the coachman said, rainwater dripping off his top hat and running down his nose. Laurel felt very sorry for keeping the poor men waiting outside in the dreadful weather, but Christopher seemed unconcerned.

“Thank you, Humphrees,” he said as he climbed into the brougham.

Inside, tufted leather seats and padded walls made Laurel feel quite cozy, and despite the rain pounding on the glass outside, it was relatively quiet. As she studied her surroundings, her eyes fell upon a curious looking brass tube in her corner.

“What’s this?” she asked as she reached for it.

Christopher could only laugh as he pushed her hand away from the contraption. “It’s for speaking to the driver. Leave it alone.”

“I want to say something into it.”

A loud shout of laughter erupted from Christopher’s mouth before he had time to politely stifle it. When looking at the world through Laurel’s eyes, everything that seemed so normal to him was suddenly strange and new.

As they ventured out of the town and down a muddy lane, the scenery transformed from tall buildings and narrow streets into a tunnel of creaking, groaning trees with low branches that scraped the roof of the coach. Beyond that lay rolling pastures, bordered with roughly-made fences meant to either keep animals in or people out—which one it was, Laurel was not quite sure.

Before long, the driver pulled off from the lane, making a sharp turn at a twisted old Yew tree, and headed down a path that wound through the open countryside. As they neared the end of their journey, the chimneys of an ancient manor house slowly began to pierce the dismal gray sky. From the appreciative smile that crept across Christopher’s face, Laurel assumed that this was to be her new home.

The house itself was protected by a high stone wall, which had been worn smooth from centuries of rain, and covered with brittle, brown vines. The courtyard within was paved with stone and shadowed by the two-story house.

The manor was built of rubble stone and slate, and when the newest wing had been added during the Tudor dynasty, half-timbering and lattice windows were incorporated into the façade.

Laurel stood in the courtyard, transfixed by her surroundings, as the rain pelted her navy blue traveling suit. In the corner, a heavy wooden door creaked open, and a woman beckoned her to come inside. Without waiting for Christopher, she splashed through the puddles gathering between the stones, and fled to the shelter of the doorway.

“You’re soaked to the bone,” the woman said as she helped Laurel out of her wet jacket. “His Lordship should have known better than to bring you all the way out here in this weather.”

They both glanced out the door to see Christopher helping the footman unload the trunks from atop the coach. He ran inside with one trunk, which he dropped on the floor with a loud
thud
before he ran out to grab the next one.

“I’m Mrs. Humphrees, the housekeeper,” she said, draping the sodden velvet over her arms, and taking the limp sable cap from Laurel’s hands.

“Oh…Isn’t Humphrees also the name of the coachman?”

“Coachman
and
butler,” Mrs. Humphrees answered. “I’m the housekeeper, the cook, and in your case, even the lady’s maid. We have a very small staff, but I assure you we run a very tight ship.”

That was a great relief to Laurel, who heard stories of wealthy English lords who kept entire armies of servants at their disposal.

“That young man there,” said the woman as she pointed out the door to the other person standing in the rain. “He is the groom as well as the groundskeeper. You may call him James if you wish. And there is another young lady named Flora who helps with the cleaning.”

Christopher brought in the last of their luggage, and shrugged out of his heavy black frock coat. Mrs. Humphrees silently took that and his soggy homburg hat from his outstretched hands.

He smiled at Laurel as he shook the rainwater from his hair. “I hope that you are not disappointed.”

“Disappointed? No!” she said, looking around for the first time.

There was narrow hall with a low ceiling, which led to a cozy drawing room. In there, she could see a warm fire crackling in the large stone fireplace. The high-backed tartan armchairs positioned in a circle around it, as well as the rich wood paneling, glowed warmly in its orange light.

“Dinner is waiting if you would like it now, My Lord,” Mrs. Humphrees reminded them both that they had not eaten all day.

Christopher was starving, but he was also drenched. One quick look at Laurel’s sodden skirts told him the same. “I think we should at least change, don’t you?”

Laurel nodded, suddenly aware that she had dripped water all over the well-worn wooden floor.

“Mrs. Humphrees,” Christopher said as he took Laurel’s hand to lead her to her room, “Have Miss Graham’s trunks brought up.”