Excerpt: Anachronism part 2 (Updated)

“So, now that you’ve seen how our paper is run,” Stefan said in his deep, smoothly rolling voice, “Do you still want to invest in it?  We are not a particularly well-known or popular newspaper, but we do make some profits from our sales.”  I sat back in my chair, rubbing my chin as I absent-mindedly compared Stefan and Charles.  There were few similarities between the brothers.  Charles was about my own height, perhaps an inch or two taller, but Stefan towered above me, a full six feet plus a couple inches, his blond hair impeccably cut and neatly combed, his blue eyes direct, even forceful.  Like Edmund, he was heavily muscled, but retained a stately dignity despite it.

“I would,” I said, as if I had considered this only now rather than having come with my decision made, “But I would prefer it if you did not announce me as your patron until after the article concerning my company has been published.  I would not wish to be accused of cooking the books, so to speak.  I want the article fairly written and fairly published.”

“Is this one of your conditions for investing in the paper?” Stefan asked, briefly noting my request down in the margin of the day’s edition of the Star on his desk.

“Let’s make it one,” I suggested, and he nodded, so I continued, “My other is that I would like Charles to have steady work here.”  Stefan looked up at me warily, trying to gauge my intentions.

“You’ve taken an interest in my brother then?” he asked, driving forward to the heart of the matter.

“I found your brother an interesting gentleman during my interview,” I responded, “And I’ve read his articles.  He has a way with words.  He’s talented.  I would like to see that talent developed.  I can contribute to the Star’s expenses, but I can pay his salary also.”

“He is a talented writer, and he enjoys reporting the news,” Stefan said, looking a little relieved, “He is also my brother, and would have work here regardless, but it is a pleasant surprise to see someone else interested in his future.”

“I assume you say that because he is an albino,” I said frankly, following Stefan’s earlier example and going to the core of our discussion without further ado, “And I can only imagine the difficulties he’s had with living the life of a normal Englishman.  That said, I would like to ease that if I could.  I do not believe your brother any different from you or I, despite his albinism.”  Stefan leaned back in his chair, regarding me with sharp, thoughtful eyes whilst pressing his fingertips together in a steeple.

“You are an open-minded man, Mr. Springfield,” Stefan said, “Surprisingly so.  Growing up with, Charles, I always knew that he was much the same as the rest of us.  It is heartening to see someone outside the family feel the same way.”

“I am a great believer in equality of men in all things,” I said smoothly, a bit of a non-answer, but in the right spirit.

“Are those your only conditions?” Stefan asked, glancing at his notes, “Wait to announce you as our patron and your patronage of Charles in particular?”  I leaned forward, elbows resting on the arms of my chair, looking at Stefan intently.

“No, I’ve one more,” I said, “I want the Star to be a better paper than the others.  I want your writers, when they’re hunting down stories, to go first to the source, and then to corroborating sources.  I want them to ask for documentation and proof, and actively discuss it in their writings if it is available and mention if it was not.  The Star already seems like an honest paper, but we could make it the most reliable, most trustworthy paper in all of London.”  Stefan considered this for a moment, remaining reserved in manner, but his eyes burned with possibilities as they gazed through and past me.

“If our paper was truly so trustworthy, we could rival many others within a matter of months,” he said, “But we would need to slow down the production in order to collect the information.  Perhaps a weekly paper rather than a daily.”

“You would be able to improve your content ratio,” I pointed out, “You could pick and choose what to publish, based on merit of the story.  Your audience can gather their day to day information in any paper, but for the best, they would want to buy yours, even if it was four or five days since the edition was published.”

“Very well, I accept your conditions,” Stefan said after a few more minutes of consideration.  We began to discuss numbers and scheduled payments as well as bouncing ideas on how to transition the paper from daily to weekly back and forth.  Before long, Stefan checked his pocket watch and sprang out of his chair.

“I apologize, Mr. Springfield, but my wife expected me home for tea this afternoon and I am late,” he said, gathering his hat and slinging his coat around his shoulders.  He paused as he watched me get to my feet and collect my hat and coat.

“Please, don’t let me keep you then,” I said, “No need to keep your wife waiting.”

“Mr. Springfield, would you like to come with me?  I am sure my wife would not mind the company; we are also expecting my younger brother and his wife, and Charles too.  It would be an honor to privately announce your patronage while you were there.”  It was my turn to pause and I turned the offer over in my mind.  Mrs. Tottenham never expected me home for tea, only dinner, but I was hungry after having forgotten to eat lunch in furor to invest in the Star.

“I’m honored that you wish me to be there, and I would be eternally grateful to your wife for a bit of repast,” I said with a broad smile.  Together, we made our way out to the street and began walking.  The Beilschmidts, as it turned out, did not live too far from the paper’s offices, and Stefan mentioned that he very much enjoyed the walk back and forth.  The Star’s offices were in a nicer area than those of my own company, but shipping needed to be near the docks and so I had less flexibility when it came to location.  We strolled up to a townhouse similar to my own, and the housekeeper ushered us in with a cheerful smile.

“Hello, dear,” said a lovely, tiny blond girl as she went to Stefan to touch his sleeve.  She turned her warm, fawn colored eyes on me, “But who is this?”  I swept my topper off my head and bowed to her in an overly formal fashion.

“Alexander Springfield, Mrs. Beilschmidt,” I said, holding my hat over my heart like a gallant hero, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.  I apologize for intruding so unexpectedly.”  I looked up at her with a playful smile on my lips and she laughed, curtseying in response.

“He’ll be having tea with us, Evangeline,” Stefan said with a hint of amusement in his face, “I have an announcement regarding Mr. Springfield and the business.  Oh, and Mr. Springfield, this is my wife, Evangeline.”

“How do you do?” she asked, her child-like face sweet and sincere, “Please, feel at home, Mr. Springfield, I always welcome the company.”  She laughed again and the sound buoyed my spirits with its genuine happiness.  Stefan looked at his wife with an indulgent expression, and her eyes, when turned on him, were adoring.  Here, then, was a happy marriage.  I wondered if Stefan’s younger brother were similarly blessed.

“Please, Mr. Springfield, put up your coat and join us all in the parlor, my brother-in-law, Henry, and his wife, Blythe, are already there,” Evangeline said, taking my hat and placing it on the coatrack near the door.  I hung up my coat and followed her and Stefan to their parlor.

“Charles isn’t here yet?” Stefan asked, “I wasn’t aware that he was going anywhere today.”

“Oh, he’s up in the study, writing as usual,” Evangeline said, “Margot was supposed to fetch him after you arrived.”  We entered the parlor together, a lovely, cozy little room with blue and white papering, but decorated with lovely golden furniture and cherry-finished wood.  There was a burly young man about Charles’ height there who must have been Henry, and a willow-thin young woman with jet-black hair who must have been his wife, Blythe.  They both rose as the three of us entered.

“Stefan, its good to see you,” Henry said, clapping his taller brother on the shoulder.  The resemblance was particularly striking.  Both were blonde haired and blue eyed, muscular, though one was tall and the other only of average height, and there was a certain arch to the eyebrows and definition of the face that clearly marked them out as siblings.  Similarly, their shape was the same though the proportions were different.

“And who’s this?” he asked, turning to me as Stefan greeted Blythe, “I’m Henry Beilschmidt.”

“Alexander Springfield,” I replied, shaking his hand.

“Of Springfield Shipping?” Henry asked, and I smiled.

“The same,” I answered.

“Would you look at that, Blythe,” he said, and his wife had turned her pensive gray eyes on me, “Mr. Springfield owns a very successful shipping business.  He’s known for being the best employer and the most reliable man for getting imports.”

“How do you do?” she asked, nodding her head and I returned the gesture.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Beilschmidt,” I said. 

“What have I missed?” Charles asked, appearing in the doorway with a twinkle in his bespectacled eyes that lit his entire face up when he saw I was there.  “Alexander!  What a pleasant surprise.  What possessed you to visit our household?”

“Actually, I have an announcement regarding Mr. Sprinfield’s presence here, but let Margaret serve tea first,” Stefan said.  We all took our seats and made small talk as the cook served the repast, apologizing to me and going for another cup when she realized that we were one short.  The present good weather was discussed, as were some of the little happenings around London, including an earl who apparently had accidentally made an appointment with one of his mistresses at the same time and place as one with his wife and had subsequently become terribly embarrassed by the ensuing scene.

“Ah, the toils of marriage,” Charles said, nudging me with his elbow from the chair next to mine, “Something neither Alexander nor I have to worry about!”

“Actually, I proposed to a sweet young thing the other day,” I said, sipping at my tea.  Charles stared at me until I winked at him and then he dissolved in uproarious laughter.

“Alexander here would have you believe that he’s a heartbreaker,” he said when his laughter subsided.

“I heard that you’re very strict,” Henry said.  I laughed a little.

“In business, I am.  I have to be in order to make a profit.  If every man took a little here and there, I would be destitute in the streets,” I answered.

“Ah, but I’m sure there are many young girls who are after you,” Evangeline piped from between her husband and Blythe on the sofa.

“Henry, did you tell me that Mr. Springfield also had a reputation for being a rather sensitive man?  Not like some of those brutes you work with at Scotland Yard,” Blythe said quietly.

“That’s true,” Henry said, but I interrupted him before he could go any further.

“You’re with Scotland Yard?” I asked, feeling a little nervous.  Being a woman was hardly a crime, though some of society might have begged to differ what with my ambitious nature and apparent success, but I didn’t particularly want to be investigated either.

“I made inspector last month,” Henry said with a proud smile.

“Congratulations!” I said, “That’s wonderful!”

“Speaking of congratulations,” Stefan said, clearing his throat.  The sound had the effect of dampening all conversation.  “I’d like to make my announcement.”

“Oh, get on with it, Stefan,” Charles said, settling deeper into his chair.

“I would like to announce that Mr. Springfield here has decided to invest in the London Star,” Stefan said, and there was silence for a moment before everyone began talking at once.

“Really?”

“That’s wonderful, dear!”

“Fantastic news, Stefan!  A patron!”

“When did you decide to do this?” Charles asked me quietly, ignoring the hubbub and laughter.  His expression was suspicious, his eyes narrowed.

“It won’t be announced until after your interview with me is published,” I answered quietly, “I’ve no interested in changing your portrayal of me, Charles.”  He looked relieved.

“Well then, this is better news that I would have hoped,” he said, and then he turned to congratulate Stefan on my endorsement.  For the next ten minutes, I was profusely thanked and told that I was rather thought of as a member of the family now, and though I was happy to hear that they were all so fond of me, I dearly wished I could have truly been part of the family.  I snuck glances at Charles, infected by the spirit of happiness that was so pervasive, and felt a sense of longing.  How long had it been since I had wanted to be with someone?  But the knowledge of that startled me as I realized that I did want to be with him, to know him as a friend, but also as a female, a woman.  After that, despite the pleasantness of my time with the Beilschmidts, I was hard-pressed to hold my melancholia at bay.

~

The depression I had felt at the Beilschmidts’ home had lasted through two days, so when I went home that second evening, I let Edmund know that I wouldn’t be in to the office the next morning and instead settled down with several of our record books, the stack of invoices, and a pot of tea at the desk in my bedroom.  I had determined that there were at least two employees that we needed to fire, one Michael Morgenstern, and the other James O’Connell.  Both were middle-class gentlemen, though Michael Morgenstern had inherited his money from his father and would have had a chance to build upon that foundation had he not been a cheater.  I sifted through several of the invoices, mostly from private parties and shop owners, but a few were from clubs.  The most popular import that my company brought in was tea, but the truth was that we were not particularly discriminatory about what people wanted to buy.  If it was requested, we attempted to find it and make it available.  We were really far too small a company to pick and choose among the customers that we had.  If we wanted to expand and buy another ship, which would give us yet greater carrying and shipping capacity, and as such, would ensure greater profit.  It was a hard line to walk, between expanding in order to secure more profits and holding back on acquiring more ships.  Many smaller shipping companies similar to ours had expanded too quickly, taking hard losses at times and virtually running themselves into the ground.  While I did want to push the envelope a bit and be successful, it didn’t make sense to do so at the risk of bankruptcy.  That and I didn’t need debtors who would hire investigators to track me down and possibly even attempt to black mail me.  There was too much risk there of being found out. 

The idea of my secret being revealed to society at large, to be known as a female, was a frightening prospect.  I didn’t want to hear the whispers of me being unwomanly, and I didn’t want some man to attempt to force me to marry him in order to make me respectable and take over the company.  The blood, sweat, and tears I had put into Springfield Shipping were my own, and I refused to share that throne with someone who hadn’t earned it.  Edmund, while he had earned it, was also married, and it would have been difficult for him to pass me off as a distant female relation.  That, and it would ruin the company.  Scandal, as relished as it was in this notoriously gossipy society, was a two-edged sword.  It could have made Springfield Shipping a popular choice for the young and daring, but those who most often ordered were a little too old for those sorts of shenanigans and preferred the traditional, male proprietor.  That and all those young men would have been pressing me with offers of marriage that I didn’t want.  Much like many of the females, the young men were insipid, gossipy young things without much ambition in life.  They would have taken my money and destroyed the company while they were at it.  And besides that, there were a certain set of young men who might have admitted that they would have enjoyed ‘refining’ me, and turning me into a proper lady.  I was too modern to enjoy the life of a proper gentlewoman, too used to having my own way, first in my own era and now here, as a gentleman.

I rifled my fingers through what was left of my hair, sighing and pushing the papers away from me.  I was thinking too much to focus on the numbers, names and items ordered.  My mind tugged the memory of cutting my hair to the forefront.  It had been one of the worst moments of the transition here.

I had always been incredibly vain when it came to my hair.  It was as if my body, androgynous and entirely lacking in curves and narrow-hipped, like a boy’s, had tried to make it up to me with thick, luxurious brown hair that I had grown nearly to my waist.  After having not one, not two, but three run-ins with three different men who had all made it very clear that they thought of me as prey, as a victim, I’d made the decision to pretend to be a boy.  Unfortunately, the first thing that had to go when I made that decision was my hair.  I had gone to a barber in the ragged dress I had managed to acquire from a trash pile and offered to sell my hair.  He had been startled, openly questioning why I was so eager to get rid of what was obviously my most attractive feature.  I had lied and told him that I needed money to pay a doctor to see my mother, even shed a few crocodile tears to convince him.  He cut off my hair to make a wig out of, and then trimmed up what was left as becomingly as he could.  I had looked at myself in his cracked mirror and been satisfied that I looked boyish enough.  The barber, a kinder man than many I had met at the time, paid me a fair price for the hair.  That money had bought me a set of boy’s clothing, cheap and simplistic and used, but the little extra I saved bought me a pie that night, from a vendor on the street who had given me a second out of pity.  I had never been so thankful for the kindness of strangers in my life, but I could not live on kindness and pity alone, and fearing the workhouse, I had made my way to the docks and gotten a job with Lionel Edwards, quickly proving that I was unsuited for manual labor (I simply was too small to be strong enough) and eminently suited for book-keeping.  Mr. Edwards had had a son a little younger than I at the time, and the two of us had become passing friends, but the likeness of age between us had entrenched me firmly on Mr. Edwards good side and I was better paid than most would have been.  I scrimped and saved as much money as I could, living in a room in a boarding house and eating only once a day, but my perseverance paid off.  I made a deal with a tailor, money and a bit of labor, for a suit of fine clothes, and then I had asked Mr. Edwards to let me invest was I had left at the end of the year.

Mr. Edwards had readily agreed, and between the streamlining of the company I did for him and his decision to expand with the added profit as a result, I was fairly well off within my second year.    Midway through that year, Mr. Edwards offered me the partnership, praising my brilliant business strategies, and I had had to decline and break the news to him that I wanted to start my own company.  I had purchased a ship already, and Mr. Edwards, wanting to encourage me, had sent a few of his customers to me for their smaller requests.  Within a year, I had expanded rather dramatically, and within a second half-year, I was well established enough to be talked about frequently.

There was no denying that society found me somewhat fascinating.  Mr. Edwards had been quizzed many times, I was sure, on where exactly he had found me, and he likely always said that I had found him instead.  He had been fond of telling me so when I was working for him.  Yet, he knew nothing about my background, who my family was, or anything that might have smoothed my way into society.  The most that society knew was that I was an American, which my accent would have given away anyway.  Now, that accent had all but faded, my intonation more English that I would have imagined, but still painfully American at times.  Still, it made me rather exciting and exotic, and soon after having been considered successful, I had begun to receive invitations to parties and balls and from there, dinners with families with young daughters of marriageable age.  And while I was nobody’s first choice for marriage (perhaps for a few ladies, but certainly not where their families were concerned), I was certainly a capital fellow to flirt with, as far as I could see.

I groaned as I realized I had spent the past two hours reflecting on the past four years and got up to stretch and take the tea tray down to the kitchen and Mrs. Tottenham for a refill.  I carried it easily, balancing the tray on the palm of my hand, pleased to see that my waitressing skills from a fairly short-lived interim job were still up to par.  I even sashayed my hips a little as I breezed across the landing, though I stopped to take the stairs a little more seriously.  It was a pretty tea set of white porcelain with a black damask design that some found plain and others found too striking.  But even when I had been in college, I’d liked the traditional medallion pattern used for most damask prints, even as far as buying a pair of like-patterned jeans, and finding one on a tea set in this day and age, though it had been a little pricy, had been an indulgence as much as a private joke.  Damask-print pants in public would have gotten me banned from every household until next year would never have been forgotten.

“Mrs. Tottenham, could I get another pot of tea and a snack perhaps?” I asked, walking into the kitchen.

“Of course, sir!” she exclaimed, abandoning the pot of soup on the stove, “Why didn’t you ring the bell?”  I shrugged as she took the tray from my hand.

“I needed a bit of a stretch,” I said, “Visiting the kitchen was a good excuse to get away from that desk.”

“I’ve not a single idea how you can stare at those numbers all day, dearie,” she said, moving the soup to put the tea kettle on the fire, “It isn’t healthy for a young man like yourself to be so cooped up in offices all the time, staring at numbers.”

“No, it’s not,” she declared, going into the pantry for a pair of tarts.

“What kind of tarts are those?” I said, inspecting one and taking a bite.  With a wink, she went back into the pantry for a third and set it on the place to replace the one I was eating.

“Raspberry and blackberry, sir, your favorite,” she said with a broad smile, “A slender young man like you needs a little meat on his bones!”  I went to kiss my cook cum housekeeper on the cheek and she beamed, filling the teapot with a little flap of her hand.

“You’re an angel, Mrs. Tottenham,” I said, “An absolute angel!”  This compliment had her glowing and laughing, and she ushered me out of the kitchen so that she could finish the soup I would be having for dinner.  I drifted back up the stairs feeling much refreshed and went back to my room, setting the tea tray in its former place and began the process of sifting through the invoices alone to find where I had left off.  It was at that point that something began nagging at the back of my mind.

I began flipping through the invoices, laying aside orders from the Amaranth Club as I found them.  When I had consolidated the pile from that client, I began perusing the items that had been ordered.  For the most part, it was ordinary, but every so often, there would be something truly strange.  Animal parts.  Fetishes.  Packets of powder from medicine men or shamans.  Suddenly, even the normal things that were being ordered seemed suspicious.   I lay the orders down and thought about it.  The things they were ordering, it was almost as if they were spiritualists…

Spiritualism embraced many different religions, faiths, and sects.  It could be used for good or for evil, depending on whether or not one believed in it.  I didn’t, but I found myself speculating as I considered.  After what had happened to me, after I had walked out of my own time and into this one, how could I simply dismiss magic?  If someone in London was performing magic, might there not be others?  My heart beat faster as I realized that answers to the questions I hadn’t asked since I had been struggling for survival from day to day might now be at hand.  More than that, if it was indeed magic that had brought me here, couldn’t magic send me back?

But the only place to start was with my own invoices, and so I began combing through the stack of papers again, looking at the items this time, rather than the clerks who had processed them or whom they had been ordered by.  I paused, looking through the orders and wondered if Charles might be interested in helping me.

~ 

“Alexander, my friend,” Charles said, slurring a bit as he waved goodbye to no one, “I knew you’d be here.  You’re always so…” he looked puzzled for a moment before he found the word he was looking for.

“Punctual!” he announced, throwing an arm over me and enveloping me in the scent of cheap brandy.  I wrinkled my nose, feeling a little jealous and a little sorry for him.  I hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol in four years, and here was Charles, practically pickled for the evening already.  If he didn’t start drinking water as soon as I could possibly coax it into him, he would have a screaming headache in the morning, I was sure.  His pale face was flushed so much that it looked like sunburn and made the whites of his eyes whiter and the crimson of his irises brighter.

“Punctuality is generally commendable,” I responded as I debated taking him to my home or whether I should attempt to get him home to Stefan and Evangeline.  I chose my own home, justifying it by telling myself that Evangeline and Stefan should not have to deal with either a drunk or hung-over Charles, but it was also an excellent excuse to be near him for an extended period of time without him remembering overmuch in the morning.  I wouldn’t take advantage of him, but I could enjoy the situation and myself a little, couldn’t I?  It still felt wrong, but after a few minutes of struggling with my self-control, I gave in to the temptation to take him home with me.

“And you always keep your word, unlike them,” Charles said, his defiance crumbling as he adopted the expression of a kicked puppy.  “They always make appointments with me, but then they are late, or they never come.  Why is that, Alexander?”  His eyes were pleading as I tried to hail a nearby cab.

“Who are ‘they’, Charles?” I asked, “Who were you supposed to meet?”

“Geoffrey was supposed to box with me…” he said, trailing off, “But Morgan was there and we had a few drinks, but I don’t think he drank as much…”

“I doubt anyone drank as much as you,” I answered, finally getting the cabbie’s attention so that he backed up and drove the pair of horses to the curb, “It’s only half-past seven, Charles.  How on earth did you get so inebriated so quickly?  Stefan told me that you only left the paper around four.  You haven’t been here that long.”  I had dropped by the Star’s offices to say hello to Stefan on my way to Charles’ club.

“Cabbie!” Charles said, straightening to his full height for a moment, “I want you to take my friend here home.”  The cabbie eyed Charles with a characteristically shrewd eye and I gave him my address, explaining that I would be housing my friend for the night.

“I don’t envy you, sir,” the man said as I helped Charles into the cab while he hummed and sang snatches of song.

“I’ll need you to visit his home too, to deliver a message to his brother and sister-in-law,” I said, “I’ll pay for the second as if it were a fare rather than just a message.  It must be delivered tonight.  Will that do?” I asked, handing over a few pound notes I had in my pocket next to my pocket watch.  The cabbie touched the brim of his hat.

“Yes, sir, that should cover both the fares.  It’s very kind of you sir to pay for them now,” the cabbie said as I climbed into the cab myself.

“You’re welcome,” I answered before I shut the door.  Charles was looking at me, his eyes narrowed.

“Alexander?  Where are we going?  I thought I was going to show you my club,” he said, finally remembering his invitation and plan.  I smiled faintly.

“You’re drunk, Charles,” I said bluntly, “I can tour your club with you another night.”  He frowned, his expressive face both disapproving and disappointed.

“I’m not that drunk,” he said, enunciating very clearly for that sentence before relapsing into his mild slur, “But I don’t want to show you the club tonight anyway.”  There was a note of petulance in his voice; it was the tone of an offended child.

“And why is that Charles?” I asked, crossing my legs at the knee as I attempted to keep my patience.  I had been excited to see him tonight because I had wanted to discuss the discrepancies in the records.  I had tracked down several to the same client, the Amaranth Club, and I’d noted that there was frequently an odd item or two in the orders.  Sometimes it was an odd book, other times it was some animal part.  One particularly odd request was for a packet of herb powders from a particular medicine man.  I recalled that particular order, remembering that the man had said that fellows of the scientific community who were members of the Amaranth Club would study it, but I was beginning to suspect them of having ulterior motives.  Someone in the club had to be using these things for something else, and there was someone in the company who was letting them underpay.  Yet, nothing could be said or done tonight, with Charles reeking and reeling the way he was.

“Because they’re all being children,” Charles snapped.  I took a guess at it, but it wasn’t hard to make the leap.

“You think they don’t like you because you’re albino?” I asked, genuinely curious.  I would have thought that, of all places, Charles had made friends in his club.

“They claim that it doesn’t matter, but of course it does.  They can pretend that it doesn’t, but they avoid me.  Make plans, ask to call, and then never come.  Not like you, Alexander,” he said, a strange, soft gleam in his eye, “You’ve been a faithful friend to me, and to my family too!”

“Are you talking about investing in the Star?” I asked, glad that he was mistaken but wanting to cover my tracks further.  “I needed to invest that money, Charles.  It doesn’t do much for me, just sitting in the bank, but it is wonderful that it benefits Stefan and Evangeline as much as you.”  I cursed myself with those last four words, but I could only hope that he would forget them as soon as he had heard them.

“Stefan has promised me that I will always have a job with him,” Charles reminded me unnecessarily, “But he told me that was one of your conditions too.  For investing in the paper.”  I tried to hide my flinch.  I hadn’t intended for him to know that.  It was a somewhat suspicious condition that might indicate that I felt something more for him than mere friendship.  If Stefan or Charles became suspicious of my intentions and I, what might they find out?

“I thought that if you had a better promise of steady employment, you might have better luck looking for a wife,” I said, diverting his attention, “You seemed a little put out over it when you interviewed me.”  His radiant, trusting expression dissolved.

“No woman would have me,” he said, “What woman would find this,” he gestured to himself here, “Attractive?  I wouldn’t.  I cannot ask them to.”  His words were touched with the slightest hint of a German accent now, leftovers from learning his pronunciation at his parents’ knees first since he was the oldest.

“You needn’t ask them for anything, Charles,” I said, my temper provoked, but he continued as if he hadn’t heard me.

“I met a girl the other day.  Her name was Felicity.  She was so lovely,” he said dreamily, “Her hair was a dark brown, and her eyes were the same, but bright, like a pair of stars set in a face as white as the moon.”  My heartbeat had sped up toward the beginning of his description because I had dark brown hair and eyes, but I was tawny from too many years spent living in California, and I felt my spirits dampen a bit when he mentioned her paleness.  Of course, I thought bitterly to myself, he would find pale skin more attractive.  I knew enough about psychology to know that we would find those most similar to ourselves more attractive than others, but to think it would be as simplistic a detail as that was maddening, and it didn’t explain why I found Charles as attractive as I did.  Perhaps there was similarity in the symmetry of our faces?

“And what became of her?” I asked, my voice a little dull.  Charles’ expression failed, the half-smile turning into a dejected frown.

“When I asked if I could call on her again, she very politely let me know that she wasn’t interested.  But I heard her talking to her mother on the way out and she said that she was worried that her children might be like me…”  He shuddered and fire bloomed in my breast and I gritted my teeth to contain it.  That little bitch!  Was that all she was worried about?  Truthfully, no, she was also likely worried about her social standing, which would have likely fallen with being married to an albino writer, even if he did have steady work.  Like most, she was likely a shallow creature, hardly worth the time and effort that would have gone into courting her.  I looked up at the dejected looking Charles and my anger was stoked as compassion took over.  It was so tempting to reach out to him and embrace him, but would he balk at that?  I didn’t know, so I stayed on my side of the cab, clenching my hands tightly in my leather gloves.

“Do not think of it,” I said stiffly, “A pretty face isn’t everything, Charles.  There will be plenty of pretty faces, but you must find one that finds yours pretty also.”

“Do you think me handsome?” he asked, switching tactics, peering at me through the dark.  I sputtered, hoping he couldn’t see me blush as my ears and neck flamed with the urge to tell him exactly how fetching he really was.

“Of course,” I said in a monotone to control my voice, but he cut me off there.

“You do not,” he said, suddenly strong again, “I understand.  My looks are too shocking to be found attractive.”

“No!” I said vehemently, nearly bellowing in my frustration, surprising us both, “You are not overly shocking, rather, you are striking.  Your looks may take some getting used to, yes, but your hair and eye color are no excuse to ignore the strong and fine features of your face.  You are handsomely molded, Charles, and do not believe otherwise.”  Charles was silent for a mere moment before he replied.

“Ah, but neither am I very masculine in build,” he said rather quietly, “You can identify.  We are both slender, rather effeminate.  Nothing like your friend or Stefan.  Not even like Henry.”  It took me a moment to realize that he meant Edmund by ‘your friend’, but then I growled.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Charles,” I said, “Your build is not an issue.  Edmund, Stefan, and Henry are stronger, but they are also slower.  You are still strong, I’m sure, with all of the boxing that you do, but better yet, you are faster.  Surprise can be more valuable than brute strength, and you know it.  Do not sell yourself short.”

“You are angry,” Charles said, his voice becoming child-like and provoking my long-buried maternal instincts.  His eyes were wide as he continued with, “Why are you angry?”  I calmed myself, smoothing my expression, sighing.

“You have long felt inadequate because you are different, Charles,” I said at last, “But being different is not a bad thing.  You should appreciate that you stand out from the rest.  You do not put society’s norms before your personal desires.  I see much to admire in you.”

“Truly?” he asked in a small, disbelieving voice.  I felt my face soften with sympathy, empathizing with his self-doubt.  It was like hearing my own fears voiced; the causes might have been different, but the concerns were the same.  Even growing up, I’d been too androgynous to be pretty, but now I was too androgynous to really be considered handsome.  I’d been concerned about how I looked, trying to compensate with action, my entire life.  Though Charles and I were raised in different eras, though our situations were so very, very different, we felt similar pains.

“Truly,” I said quietly, and then we both lapsed into silence, together in the dark and yet alone with our thoughts.  Eventually, Charles leaned against the side of the cab, just beginning to doze and I mused on our conversation.  Who would have thought that the bright and tenacious Charles Beilschmidt had been so vulnerable beneath his bold and defiant exterior?  The cab jerked to a stop and the cabbie clambered down to open the door of the cab.

“We’re here, sir,” he said, “Do you need help with your friend?”

“No,” I said, feeling irrationally jealous, “I can handle him just fine.”  I gave the cabbie instructions on getting to the Beilschmidt household and to tell Stefan and Evangeline that Charles was with me, and then I focused on half-lifting and half-dragging Charles out of the cab.  He supported some of his own weight as he stumbled out, but he was heavier than I had thought and I had to pick my way into my own household with care since I’d given Mrs. Tottenham the night off to visit her son who was sick. 

“Come on,” I muttered, hiking Charles’ arm and shoulder further around my neck after abandoning my top hat on the side table near the entrance and locking the door.  I attempted to guide him up the stairs and he woke up unexpectedly.

“Huh?” he asked, looking around, his eyes glazed and hazy.  His eyes fell on me, his expression shifting.  I froze, trying to interpret this new development.

“Hello, pretty,” he said, the ever present purr in his voice dropping his tone nearly a full octave and smoothing it into something seductive.  Panic flooded me, my eyes growing wide as saucers.

“Charles?” I asked, forgetting to moderate my tone as I became truly alarmed, my voice higher pitched, my own, somewhat girlish tenor making a decided appearance and squeaking besides.  He trapped me in the stairwell, lifting his arm from my shoulder and leaning against the wall, closing the space with his body.  He rested his other hand on the back of my neck as he pressed closer, his breath hot on my face.  My hands rose automatically to attempt to put space between us, but then he kissed me.  The sensation of being kissed after four years of working around the clock as a man did strange things to me, boiling my blood in my veins and robbing me of breath.  It was like drowning in bliss, especially being able to kiss Charles, the current object of my fantasies, and having him initiate it?  Paradise had found me on earth and I was loath to have to break it, but break it I did because I had to and if he took this any further, there would be no concealing my secret.  I knew instantly that my self-control was on the verge of failing.

“Charles,” I gasped, gritting my teeth, “You’re drunk.”

“Is that so?” he asked lazily, his lips brushing mine again, lingering there as he spoke against them, “Do you mind?”  I struggled to hold onto my train of thought, to remember why I should not allow this.  The truth was that I didn’t mind, but he would have, if he had realized what he was doing.

“Yes,” I said heavily, lying as best I could, “I do mind.”

“Too bad, pretty,” he murmured, pressing his lips to mine again.  I struggled against him, but found my fingers gripping his jacket pocket and the edge of his waistcoat.  His lips trailed from mine along my jawline, his cheek very slightly rough with stubble, and then he nuzzled my neck, frowning when he met the collar of my shirt.

“These damned high-necked dresses,” he grumbled, but there was a slur in his voice again, and he fell against me with a sigh.  I was rigid as he leaned on me, trying to figure out why he thought I was wearing a high-necked dress rather than a shirtwaist, but came to the realization that he’d fallen asleep leaning on me.  I grumbled angrily, shoving him off and resuming our previous position with his arm over my shoulders while I blushed.  I muscled him up the stairs by pure force, depositing him on the bed in my never-used guestroom.  I paused for a rest, huffing as I hemmed and hawed over undressing him.  Still, sleeping in one’s clothes was uncomfortable, so I gave in and pulled off his shoes and socks, untying his cravat and tossing it on the bedside table before unbuttoning first his jacket and then his waistcoat.  I deposited the shoes and socks on the bedside table with the cravat before hanging the jacket and waistcoat in the armoire, pausing to examine the olive waistcoat in the moonlight.  There was a light wood-and-spice scent rising from the worn satin, the fabric pilling where it rubbed most against his jacket and shirt.  Curious, I held it to my face and inhaled, barely suppressing a moan of longing as I wondered when I’d become such a masochist.  I’d kissed Charles, against my better judgment and at great risk to my secret, not fifteen minutes ago.  I could only hope he was too drunk to remember what he’d done in the morning.  I hung up the waistcoat with the jacket, gritting my teeth and making myself leave it behind.

I tucked Charles under the bedcovers with effort before leaving the room, closing the door firmly behind me and moving decidedly to the kitchen where I made myself a cup of tea and brooded over it for perhaps an hour before I made my way to bed too.