Chapter 18
Next day
“It appears, Lord St. Alban,” Mrs. Bloomquist began, “the tide has turned in your favor, and an exception is to be made in the case of your daughter’s admittance to our school.”
Determined not to gloat, Jake nodded a simple affirmative. He towered over the formidable woman, separated by an enormous oak desk that commanded most of her otherwise small, plain office. He’d respectfully declined her offer of a seat.
“This morning”—Mrs. Bloomquist came to her feet and made her way around the imposing desk—“Lady Nicholas Asquith successfully championed your daughter’s cause at the board of directors’ meeting.”
“Lady Nicholas? Not Lady Olivia?”
“Oh, there isn’t much those two disagree on,” the schoolmistress said.
Relief flooded him. Their methods didn’t matter one whit. He almost reached out to shake Mrs. Bloomquist’s hand before he thought better of it. Viscounts didn’t shake hands. “When can Mina begin class?”
“Miss Radclyffe may start tomorrow, if it suits her schedule.”
He detected a kernel of censure in the woman’s voice. “Mrs. Bloomquist, I can assure you that once you’ve met Mina, you will understand how right your”—He placed an ingratiating emphasis on the word—“institution is for her.” He couldn’t help adding, “She will be a credit to it as well.”
Mrs. Bloomquist bobbed a single dubious nod as if she’d heard hundreds of doting parents crow about their exceptional children and had yet to meet one who lived up to the acclaim. “I look forward to meeting your daughter.” She strode to the door and pulled it open, her dismissal of him clear. “Good day, my lord.”
He opened his mouth to reply when a familiar figure hurried past the doorway. He darted around Mrs. Bloomquist, who emitted a flustered gasp at his sudden movement, and peered around the doorjamb, just catching the swish of a woman’s skirts before the front door closed behind her.
Olivia.
“Good day, Mrs. Bloomquist,” he called over his shoulder. He’d intended to bestow a viscountly kiss on the woman’s hand for good measure, but he had no time for that now.
In three steps, he, too, was out the front door and treading a forever slick London sidewalk. His eyes swept up and down the street for the Duke of Arundel’s crest. No sign of it. How had her driver managed to skirt traffic and clear out so quickly? Unless . . .
Jake crossed the street, dodging oncoming traffic, and rounded the same corner from last week. He caught sight of her distinctly nondescript overcoat and bit back a smile of triumph. A few footsteps later it occurred to him that he was following Olivia.
Again. And he shouldn’t be. The Bow Street runner was handling the search for Jiro. But was he really following her to find Jiro? Or was it to see her, to be near her?
He tested the sound of her name on his tongue. Oh-liv-ee-uh. He loved the way it began on a broad O and ended on an exhale. A vulnerability lay within that soft uh. Her name suited her.
Until yesterday, he hadn’t understood how vulnerable and strong she was. She’d entrusted her deepest, darkest secret to him, rousing an intimacy different from what they’d experienced in his bed. The knowledge made his insides sing.
A smile curled about his lips. Her confession only proved that her system wasn’t rid of him. What was the word she’d used? Purged.
Their systems weren’t purged of each other. Far from it. Just this morning, that point had been made abundantly clear to him when the chambermaid had arrived to change his bed sheets. He’d turned her away. Why? Because Olivia’s scent of lavender and sandalwood lingered in his room, and he’d been unable to part with the last trace of her. Yet her scent grew fainter with each passing hour.
He snapped to, his lips assuming their habitual firm line, and exhaled a forceful breath. What was this wretched rot? These were the musings of a lovesick pup.
Only yesterday, he’d been courting a different lady. Miss Fox . . . Anne.
His insides stopped singing.
Ahead, Olivia happened upon a pair of vivacious twins and a scruffy little dog, the three engaged in a boisterous game of tug using a knotted scrap of rope. The twins couldn’t be more than four years old apiece. He kept an eye on the lively trio while Olivia presumably sought out a parent to secure permission to sketch the little group at play. Soon, she returned with a short, three-legged stool and began drawing to her heart’s content.
Which details would attract her artist’s eye? The single lock of hair that curled to the left across one twin’s face while curling to the right across the other’s? The way their identical smiles created identical dimples in their cheeks? The dog dancing to catch the bit of rope just beyond its reach? Had she noticed the quick darting glances between the boys signaling their next move, known only to them? A twin herself, she likely felt a kinship with the pair that few others understood.
Before long, the boys and their dog ended up in a cuddle that turned into naps for all. Olivia collected her materials and resumed her progress down the sidewalk. His feet kicked into motion behind her, and he found his gaze straying to rest on the sway of her derriere.
An unproductive thought popped into his mind: two days ago, she’d been partially clothed. It nagged at him, his haste.
She’d been thoroughly pleasured, that wasn’t in doubt, but he could’ve gone slower. He could’ve controlled the situation better. He could’ve had her naked, stripped of her clothes, layer by layer until nothing but air and his lips kissed her sensitive skin. He could’ve viewed every inch of her, touched every inch of her, gratified every inch of her . . . Once wasn’t enough to purge their systems of one another, even if she refused to admit it.
She didn’t need to say it. He’d seen the knowledge in her eyes yesterday.
With each passing day, she revealed a new facet of herself to him. Like a diamond, she hid her cuts in plain sight behind her sparkle.
Within minutes of first meeting her, he’d noted her depths, but he’d thought an experienced sailor, like himself, would have the ability to skim along her surface. Yet he felt his vessel taking on water, pulling him into her depths, drop by drop. If he kept to his current course, it was only a matter of time before he was entirely submerged.
Yet, the more he learned about her, the more he wanted to sink a little deeper, to discover more, convincing himself all the while that he wasn’t going too far, that he would be able to find his way back to the surface before he drowned in her.
Yesterday’s confession hadn’t helped that problem. It had only fed his growing fascination. She was more than a carnal obsession.
She was principled, brave. At the same time that he wanted Mina’s path in life to be easy and clear, another part of him wanted Mina to be exactly like this woman. She would need to be, no matter how smoothly he paved the way for her.
He exhaled a humorless puff of a laugh. He admired the blasted woman. He was sinking deep, indeed.
Almost too late, he saw that she’d stopped in front of a humble gray door. He ducked around a delivery cart and slipped into the shadow of an abandoned doorway. She knocked and awaited entry, and he marveled at his first impression of her as nothing more than a ton frivolity. The rational side of him wished he could still see her that way. Instead, she’d become a mystery who dared him to solve her, and he couldn’t get enough, reason be damned. She’d become a physical ache in his body. Not since Mina’s mother had he felt this way about a woman.
Reality engulfed him like a cold blast of Arctic air. She, too, had been a physical ache in his body. And look how well that had ended. Disaster. Tragedy. Mina, yes, but heartache and public humiliation, too.
Olivia shifted on her feet and looked on the verge of moving on when the door swung inward and a man of Japanese descent stepped forward into the light. Attired as he was in the garb of an English dandy, it took a moment for recognition to spark and certainty to shoot through Jake. Surely, this was the man called Jiro.
Jake’s heart pounded in his chest as a side note to a memory long buried came to him. Fifteen years ago. Nagasaki. The powerful Kimura family’s compound. He’d shared space with this man who was Jiro, sitting unobtrusively in the corner of a state room, recording with his watercolors the events of the trading day.
This man had been a trusted member of the Kimura household, and he’d stolen the paintings and betrayed them, risking his life. For what reason? Not money. The man still possessed the stolen paintings. Then why? And why here in London?
Olivia stepped inside, and the door snapped closed behind her. Jake bit back a curse. He’d been too lax of late. Too focused on Olivia. What she and he shared was secondary to this. This—to find the thief and uncover his secrets—had been his reason for bargaining with her, not to understand her better. Not to know her every thought, her every feeling.
He’d been skirting the edge of disaster in his dealings with Olivia . . . Lady Olivia. Not only for his intentions regarding the art thief, but for his intentions regarding marriage, his intentions regarding his heart. Given his past failure at love, it was best if his head ruled his heart, rather than the other way around.
Today, Lady Olivia had fulfilled both ends of her side of the bargain. He must let her go.
He slipped into the shadow of an abandoned doorway and propped himself against mildewed stone, its damp seeping through his woolen overcoat, his eyes fast upon the empty door stoop, settling in for a wait.
Not ten minutes later, she reemerged, pulling powder blue gloves onto her hands, her business concluded. He pushed off the grimy wall. Now it was time to settle matters with Jiro.
He was crossing the street when the door again swung inward. Out stepped none other than Jiro, pulling on a pair of buff kid gloves. With no more than two seconds between him and discovery, Jake ducked behind the stalled delivery cart rank with rotten vegetables and caught sight of the man rounding a corner at the end of the block. Jake rushed forward and immediately stopped, thinking better of his actions.
A public confrontation would do him no good. He pointed his feet homeward.
Tomorrow, he would settle this matter, one way or another, and leave it in the past, where it belonged.
~ ~ ~
Evening
Jake opened a plain, white envelope, and two slips of paper slid out into his palm. One a note, the other a newspaper clipping, each unanticipated. He took in the note first:
Queen Street. 10 o’clock.
He glanced at his pocket watch. Nine o’clock. He had an hour.
He turned his attention toward today’s London Diary clipping scented faintly of lavender and sandalwood.
A house for his Queen
Perhaps more than a quick fling?
How soon ‘til banns sing?
It was absolutely about him and Olivia. He should mind, but he couldn’t quite muster the outrage. It might ruin his chances with Miss Fox, as her quick mind would remember Olivia’s mention of Queen Street, but he couldn’t deny, to himself at least, that part of him wanted his chances with Miss Fox to be ruined.
To what end? a voice of reason cut in. He would only have to find another Miss Fox.
The thought chilled him clear through to his bones. Better to stay the path he was on.
The French doors cracked open and into the garden slipped Mina. He crumpled the note and the London Diary clipping in his fist.
“Any stars shoot across the sky tonight?” she asked as she lay on a reclining chair and directed her keen gaze toward the crystalline sky.
“Not one,” he replied, dimming the lamp so they could better see the constellations. He relaxed his hand and let the tight ball drop to the ground, its only sound a single papery bounce.
She held a small, brass telescope to her eye. “The sky here is so different from the one hanging above Singapore.”
He detected a note of homesickness in her voice. “You were born under a sky similar to this one in Dejima.”
Telescope tight to her face, she said, “I would like to return there some day.”
Jake flinched in surprise. She’d never expressed this desire to him before. “Would you?”
“It’s the land of my ancestors. It may sound silly, but I would like to see how I feel there.” A dry laugh roughed her voice, even as her gaze held steady through the telescope. “Likely, I won’t fit there either, but I would like to go all the same.”
Her matter-of-fact tone broke something inside him. “Shall we board the next ship East? It’s not too late.”
She lowered the telescope to her lap and pierced him with a long, measured look. “I am like a puzzle piece that will never fall into place.”
“Mina—”
She held up a staying hand. “I have no true fit in either world, Father. East or West.”
“You needn’t worry about your place.” His hands clenched into fists. “I shall see to it.”
“A piece cannot be forced into place. It either fits, or it doesn’t.” She returned her attention to the ordered night sky. “London is as good as anywhere.”
He wasn’t certain which was worse: her utter acceptance of these facts, or her utter lack of despair. A gut punch from Gentleman Jackson himself wouldn’t have leveled him so completely as did her subdued words, so tolerant of a fate that he refused to accept for her.
“Perhaps,” he began, deciding it was past time to broach the subject, “a stepmother from the ton would help.”
“Father”—Mina hesitated—“even a stepmother with all the right connections wouldn’t help in the ways that matter.”
“She would see to it that the best of Society welcomes you.”
“On the surface, yes, but truly I care not about those people. Besides, a stepmother for me would also be a wife to you. Please don’t make a pragmatic choice based on me. From everything I’ve read on the subject, I think it’s best to let the heart have a say in the matter. I shall find my way.”
Mina settled back into her stargazing, and Jake controlled the urge to jump up and gather her in his arms. Instead, he reached inside his breast pocket, pulled out a letter, and silently handed it to her.
“What is this?” she asked, setting her telescope on a side table.
“It’s a letter from The Progressive School for Young Ladies and the Education of Their Minds.”
“Pithy, isn’t it?” She leaned over and turned up the dimmed lamp. Her humor was a welcome relief.
She opened the letter and scanned its contents. He couldn’t help but notice that in certain lighting, at certain angles, she was looking more and more like her mother. A full minute ticked by before he asked, “Will you go?”
“Yes.”
“Miss Bretagne will be thrilled.”
“You are correct, but thrilled might not be a full enough word to describe Lucy’s enthusiasm. I’m not sure there are full enough words in the entire world of languages.”
Her lips curved into a secret smile. A girlish smile that daughters didn’t share with fathers, only with other girls. His heart lifted on a fragile note of hope.
She collected the letter and her telescope and stood. “Good night, Father. You outlasted me tonight.” She bent her willowy form over him and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “An early morning? I should like to begin classes tomorrow.”
Left alone, he continued thinking how like her mother Mina had become.
His first memory was his strongest memory of her. He closed his eyes beneath the indigo London sky, so like the sky above the Bay of Nagasaki, and allowed it to lead him to that place for the first time in years.
~ ~ ~
The market on the trading island of Dejima was pure bedlam on a slow day.
But the Saturday morning market after a trading ship had docked and unloaded its cargo was a mayhem beyond mere insanity: chickens squawking; goats bleating; horses stamping; fish stinking; traders barking orders; sellers crying wares; customers hustling, bustling, jostling, haggling, dismissing, imploring, leaving, returning, buying, all before moving on to the next stall for another round.
These noises, these crowds, these smells conspired to produce an atmosphere of pure pandemonium that could render the uninitiated claustrophobic within seconds. Add to this intoxicating mixture, pungent spices and miscellaneous goods delivered by the sometimes generous, sometimes miserly, always capricious salty sea, and one had the exact scent of young beginnings.
The twenty-one-year-old Jakob Radclyffe striding through narrow market aisles had long settled into these uneven rhythms of Dejima. Nothing about this world surprised him anymore.
That wasn’t to say the life of a roving sea trader had lost an ounce of its charm. On the contrary. There was nothing life didn’t have on offer for him. It was just that he was confident, as only a youth could be, that he’d seen it all.
That was, until the day he slipped through a narrow gap in the crowd, turned his head as if by instinct, and saw her across the glassy expanse of a still, shallow pond.
She’d been a vision, poised gracefully over the railing of a footbridge arched above languid, undulating koi, while the crowd around her pushed past, each person eager to complete this or that errand. She had a way of remaining completely motionless that was unique to her.
It wasn’t this, however, that drew his notice. It was that she stood nearly a head above everyone around her. He was a tall man by anyone’s standards, but even from this fair distance, he could see that the top of her head would reach above his chin. Unusual in these environs. There wouldn’t be another girl like her for a thousand miles around.
He decided on the spot that he must have her. Brash, young men based such momentous decisions on less.
When he focused on the pleasant side of memory, he recalled that she’d seemed genuinely amused by his pursuit, granting him a coy smile now and again. She wasn’t only beautiful and unusual, but reserved and gentle, too.
Put plainly, she hadn’t discouraged his pursuit. And his twenty-one-year-old self hadn’t the wisdom to separate not discourage from encourage.
A year later, she was dead, and he’d known himself to be a man different from the one he’d thought himself to be. A man selfish, unbearably naïve, and capable of cruelty to his beloved in the face of public humiliation.
A long submerged wave of shame washed over him, pricking his skin with tiny beads of sweat. He’d pushed for too much, too fast. If he hadn’t been such a blind young man, she might have had a different future. She might have lived.
Likely not. It wasn’t the way of the civilized world to forgive such a foolish girl.
At the end, he’d done one thing right: he’d taken Mina.
Protect her, Jakob . . . she’ll have only you . . . only you can do it . . . for Minako, my little Mina.
He had a promise to keep: to protect Mina. Now that he’d secured her school, he would secure her reputation. Tomorrow, he would deal with Jiro, which left only one loose end to tie up tonight: Olivia.
And that must be the end of it, of them. He would be able to focus on finding a proper stepmother for Mina, a proper wife for him. Words true in his mind, but ones that were feeling more and more false in his heart. Perhaps if he repeated them to himself, over and over, they would seem less empty.
Perhaps his belief in them would return.