Thief of Hearts (28 page)

Anna recovered first. She stepped away until she felt the reassuring solidity of the bureau at her back, and wrapped her arms around herself. She said "Good night" as soon as she could trust her voice.

It took Brodie longer. His blood and muscles and bones were in rebellion, daring him to leave her now. He meant to say good night, and was as surprised as she when he said instead, "It's better the second time, I swear it is." She knew exactly what he meant, he could tell from her face. "I know it scares you. Can you believe it scares me too? But it'll happen. It'll happen, Annie."

Threat, dare, boast, promise, she no longer knew what it was. But as she watched the door close behind him, a sinking, thrilling fear seized her that he was telling the simple truth.

Brodie stood on the top carriage step and took his first look at Jourdaine Shipbuilding. It was bustling and immense and intimidating, but he felt as if he'd seen it many times before because Anna's descriptions had been so colorful and accurate. To his left a tangle of masts, booms, and spars rose high above the waterline, and at the sight he felt an inner shifting, a sort of balancing because he was around ships again as if he'd finally straightened a crooked picture frame that had been aggravating him. He jumped to the curb and turned to help Anna down, taking another surreptitious swipe at his head with his handkerchief at the same time. "What the hell is this stuff?" he muttered, frowning at the oily spot on the linen cloth. "Pearlman slathered it on me this morning."

"It's macassar oil. Gentlemen use it to keep their hair neat. Nicholas used it," she added pointedly.

"Well, tomorrow he's giving it up. I smell like a rotten apple."

"You do not. And I think it looks rather nice."

He sent her an incredulous stare. "I look like an otter. And everything I put my head against gets greasy."

"That's why someone invented the antimacassar," she told him, almost smiling.

"The...aha!" He laughed as he made the connection. "Of course. First they invent something stupid, then something ugly to make up for it. We live in a wondrous age, Annie."

"Yes. Be that as it may, to your right are the buildings for the pattern shop, the foundry, the turnery, and the drawing office. The railroad spur runs behind them. We build some ships in those covered sheds, right in the water, and others, over there," she pointed to her left, "are built on slips and launched afterwards. You can see the scaffolding from here. The deciding factor is size, generally speaking. The mould and sail lofts are over there, those painted wooden buildings." She took his arm and they began to walk toward a handsome brick structure in the center of the yard. It was the administrative office, she told him, where Nicholas had worked, along with Stephen, Aiden O'Dunne, and the other company officers. "You're to have Father's old office; that was settled before Nicholas and I eloped." She broke off to smile and wave at someone across the yard. "That's Jonathan Wall, he's in charge of the joiners and fitters. He's shy, he won't come over."

"Did Nick know everybody by name?" fretted Brodie, beginning to perspire under his tobacco brown frock coat.

"No, of course not. Just the foremen, mostly, and I've told you who they are."

He grunted. "Don't leave me for a second today, Annie, do you hear? You have to keep me from sticking my feet in my mouth."

She did smile now, and wondered why she wasn't more on edge. Brodie's obvious tenseness for some reason had a calming effect on her. And she was excited and happy to be back at work, even under these surpassingly peculiar circumstances. "Those men over there are steam hammer drivers," she said, motioning. "They're going to work today on
The Four Winds
."

"
The Four Winds
: an eighteen-hundred-ton steamer with a screw propeller, for Connor Shipping Lines of Aberdeen, to be used in the Baltic trade for miscellaneous cargo. She's about half finished."

"Excellent," she said, patting his arm.

Brodie beamed. "Have you got an office too? Is it right next to mine?" He leaned closer, leering a little. "Or is there a dressing room in between?"

Her smile faded. "No, I don't have an office."

He stopped. "Why not?"

"Oh" She gave him the most obvious answer. "Because I don't work for the company. Technically."

"Technically? Annie, you work your behind off for the company."

She flushed and began to walk again. "That's the Acorn," she said quickly, "our local pub. Everyone eats lunch there. It's been here forever, before the docks were even—"

"Hold on, now. Tell me why you—"

"Hush! This man coming is Martin Dougherty, and he
will
speak to us. Do you know him?"

"Customer liaison. Helps with contracts. Bachelor, lives with his mother."

"His sister."

"Whatever. Hullo, Martin!" he called jovially, waving.

"Not quite so
hearty
," Anna hissed.

The first thing Brodie noticed about Martin Dougherty was that he wore a lot of macassar oil. He had white, white skin; he parted his shiny black hair in the middle and slicked it straight down on both sides. He reminded Brodie of a piano.

"How do you do, Mrs. Balfour?" Dougherty said formally. "Welcome back to you both."

"Hello, Mr. Dougherty. It's good to be home."

Brodie had no trouble with the small talk they engaged in for a minute or two. Then Dougherty asked him a question.

"Olufson won't settle for November after all and wants eight percent out of the escrow up front. What should I tell him?"

He felt rather than saw Anna go rigid, then sag a little. Olufson, Olufson. He put his thumbs under his arms and stared at his feet. Pieter Olufson, the Gander Line, a Danish outfit. Jourdaine was building them three barks for the South American copper-ore trade. One of them must be off schedule, and Olufson didn't like the delay. "Tell him he can have four percent, and his barkentine will come off by the first of October. I'll speak to Hardy and arrange it." Michael Hardy, the yard superintendent.

"Fine, I'll take care of it. Good to have you back, Nick."

"Thanks, Martin."

"Good day to you."

Dougherty walked away. Brodie reached unconsciously for Anna's hand, frowning, worrying the inside of his lips with his teeth. "Well? Was it all right? I forgot to jingle my change. Did I answer him right?"

Anna was quietly jubilant. "John, you were perfect, it's exactly what Nicholas would've said. Now, when you speak to Mr. Hardy, be a little abrupt; tell him you've given your word and he
has
to have the ship ready by October. And don't worry, he will." She pulled on his hand to get him moving. "Now let's hurry. Nicholas was never late for anything."

He let himself be pulled along, grinning, almost laughing with relief. By God, it was working! But that wasn't even the best part. The best part was that she'd finally called him John.

"This doesn't do you justice, Annie."

It was afternoon. The morning had been busy but blessedly uneventful, and lunch at the Acorn had held no unpleasant surprises. Now Anna looked up from the foundry superintendent's report to see Brodie smiling down at the framed photograph of herself on Nicholas's desk. "That? On the contrary, I've been told it's very flattering."

"Told by who?"

"Whom. Everyone. Aunt Charlotte, Jenny, Milly. No, not Milly—Milly said I looked like I was sitting on an anthill." She colored as soon as the words were out, belatedly perceiving their indelicacy.

Brodie laughed heartily, as she might've known he would. "I like your friend Milly. I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to talk to her."

"Mm." Anna was sorry
she
hadn't gotten a chance to talk to her, when she'd gone to see her yesterday in her dingy Lord Street rooms. The footman had said Mrs. Pollinax was not at home. She wondered again if it were true, or if it had only been Milly's misguided way of protecting her. She'd left a note; if it went unanswered for long, she intended to take more aggressive steps to see her friend.

"Let me have it," she told Brodie, hand outstretched. "I'll take it home with me."

He cradled the photograph in his arms protectively and leaned back in Nicholas's chair with pretended alarm. "Oh, I couldn't part with it!" Her expression made him laugh. "I'm serious."

"But you just said it was ugly."

"I did not, I said it didn't do you justice. It doesn't show how pretty you are."

She got up from the corner of the desk, blushing foolishly, and handed him the foundry report. "You are an idiot. Here, read this; Mr. Ketchurn is coming in the morning to—"

There was a light knock at the door, it opened, and Alden O'Dunne stuck his head in. "Welcome home, Anna, Nick!" he said loudly. He came in and closed the door behind him. Anna embraced him; Brodie came out from behind the desk, hand out, grinning. There were low-voiced expressions of gladness and subdued backslapping. They felt like guilty conspirators, delighted to be safely together again. O'Dunne recounted an uneventful meeting in Southampton with Dietz and three Ministry officials, then asked how events were proceeding so far in Liverpool.

"Well, I haven't given the game away yet," Brodie grinned. "I think the trick is to keep moving."

"He's been wonderful, Aiden," Anna said. "No one suspects anything, I'm sure of it. You would hardly believe how easy it's been."

"Good, excellent. But don't relax your guard or become complaisant, either of you. This is a tricky business; all it would take is for one person to begin to—"

Another knock at the door. All three started nervously and glanced at each other. "Come in!" called Brodie after an instant's hesitation.

It was Stephen. Brodie had thought him a stiff, starchy sort of fellow at the welcoming party, but compared to his bearing at work, he'd been frisky as a new pup that night. His gray suit looked like someone had pressed it for him a few minutes ago, and he carried himself as if two strings from the ceiling were holding his shoulders up. He and Aiden shook hands with formal cordiality. O'Dunne assured him, when he asked, that his father in Scotland was much better, and then Stephen got down to business.

"This must be a mistake, Nick," he said, handing Brodie a piece of paper.

He glanced at it. "No, I don't think so," he said pleasantly. Seeing the veiled alarm on Anna's face, he handed it to her, then sat back down in the chair behind his desk.

"What is it?" asked O'Dunne.

Stephen told him. "It's a copy of a letter Nick's written to Horace Carter."

"Who?"

"An American businessman. While you were away, Carter wrote to us asking for a meeting. Naturally I didn't respond."

"Naturally?"

"He says he wants to form a partnership with Jourdaine to build a line of luxury passenger ships." He turned toward Brodie. "I only put his letter in your stack of correspondence for your information. Surely you don't really intend to meet the man."

Brodie raised his brows. "Why not?"

"Because," Stephen answered, laughing, "we don't build passenger liners. Much as Anna might wish otherwise," he added indulgently.

Brodie leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his stomach then recalled himself and stood up. He began to pace between the desk and the window, jingling the change in his pockets. "Until a few years ago we didn't build motor launches, either," he said briskly. "I hope that doesn't mean we have to close the corporate door on the idea forever, just because it's something new."