Chapter Nine

Luke Wainwright sank into his easy chair, full of chicken fricassee, and with hot buttered rum at his elbow. He closed his eyes, reviewing the day-long, exhausting meeting with Artemis Biddle of Biddle & Bancroft, the lending agency for the proposed new drydock. Biddle had been accompanied by his senior accountant, a man dry as toast and humorless, who pored over the proposal, M&W’s assets and debits, and the plans for the new construction.

“We will let you know soon, sir,” had been the final remark, again delivered with vast solemnity. But that was Biddle and Bancroft, two birds of a feather who squawked and chittered about spending a pence. He knew M&W could – and would – succeed.

After dinner, Luke took the matter to his father-in-law, laid up at home with that toothache which had grown worse overnight, it seemed. What he received was bad news, delivered by a man with his jaw wrapped.

“After your meeting with Biddle, I received a visit from Bancroft,” Magleby said, or tried to say. “B&B want a drawing of the proposal. Now that’s a fine how-de-do.”

“ What? ”

His father-in-law winced. “Talk softer! Something about competition for the loan from Hedges in Chatham.” He sighed, and touched his jaw tenderly. “Dunno why Biddle didn’t tell you. Hedges submitted a drawing.” A sigh ended in a moan. “We need a drawing, too. Damn that Hedges.”

“They’ve never asked for anything like that,” Luke protested, even as another part of his brain started hopping about, turning somersaults. An artist, eh?

“Find an artist,” Mr. Magleby said. Luke thought that was what he said, what with his swollen jaw and tooth so painful that even the heavy tread of Mrs. Magleby from the hall to the sitting room, and her cheerful greeting to Luke made the old fellow wince. “Now!” Or that might have been “Ow!”

He had an artist in mind, but how to finesse this? Another sip of rum helped. Luke opened the slim package from M. Cooper, brought to him by his housekeeper, who, from all appearances, wanted to know what it contained. “I could barely keep Sally from opening it on the spot,” the woman said. “I promised her you would show it to her in the morning over breakfast.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Gooch,” he said. When the housekeeper hovered, he added firmly, “And you will see it in the morning, too.”

This was his moment, his piece of quiet. Biddle and Bancroft could damned well wait. He slit open the package and a scrap of a portrait fell out. It was Mary, and it made him smile, even though it was a serious drawing. “Was this the end of your paper?” he asked her.

He turned it over, hoping for more, and was not disappointed. She had written in equally small printing. “I wish I could draw me smiling, but I haven’t had any practice with smiles. This will do…” He squinted at the tiny words on the edge of the fragment. “…for now.”

He thought about her prosaic words, something an artist would write, and gave it another meaning, this one for himself. “I haven’t had any practice with smiles lately, either, dear lady,” he whispered to the image. He set the portrait on the table next to the rum.

He took out the large picture, marveling at an artist’s rendering, largely in ink, of his house. He had watched Mary work her little landscapes, sometimes making basic outlines, to be filled in later. It was obviously his house, but some of the details were missing. She must have been in a hurry that day she left Sally here, getting just enough of the basic outline before dashing to catch another conveyance back to Liddiard.

He laughed to see Gargantua on the front step of the drawing, looking lazy and overfed as usual. Too bad Sally wasn’t there with him. He held off the drawing, and noticed what looked like ghostly figures in his sitting room. Mary had tried something, but working in ink wasn’t her forte yet, and she had tried to erase it. Still, what were they?

He squinted, then sucked in his breath. The smoky-looking smudge must be two people, one shorter than the other, a man and woman.

He could have slapped his head at his stupidity and wondered why anyone allowed Luke Wainwright, a certifiable idiot, to wander the streets, much less be a partner in a major business in Devonport. “Is it that simple, Mary?” he asked the portrait. “Were you trying to draw…us?”

He was probably over-thinking it, this smudge partly disguised with a curtain. He held off the picture of 152 Palmer Lane. From an arm’s-length distance, he saw only a house. He sat back, because he knew what was missing, having had it once before in his home. It was no smudge or his imagination. Love was missing.

That night, he tossed about in bed only briefly, because the matter resolved itself in pleasing fashion. In the morning, he would compose a letter to Mary Cooper, care of Notions, Liddiard, England, asking her to drop everything and come to 152 Palmer Lane. He would send it express, persuasively writing that M&W Shipbuilders needed her to draw the completed drydock to compete for the contract. He would offer her a hefty fee, state the urgency of the request, and include funds for a post chaise. Make it a business deal. That would get her here, and once she was here, he might remember how to court a woman. Surely he hadn’t forgotten everything. Perfect. He slept.

Breakfast with Sally proved even more of a delight. Luke propped up the picture on the empty chair in the breakfast room and couldn’t help his huge smile as his daughter roared into the room in her usual lively fashion, saw the drawing, let out a whoop!, then capered around the room. “It’s Mary’s drawing! I know it!”

“It is indeed, right down to Gargantua on the front steps.”

She nodded and sat down to breakfast. He watched her as she ate, her eyes on the drawing. “Papa, it’s wonderful, but it lacks something,” she said finally.

“What is that, dearest?”

“Mary.”

“I plan to remedy that,” he told her. “I’m sending her an express delivery letter this morning, asking for her assistance, which we do need, and not just in this house. It’s a business matter. I predict she will be here tomorrow.”

Sally kissed his cheek and returned to her omelet while he wiped the egg off his face, blew her a kiss and started for the office, even hailing a hackney to speed him along. He smiled, grateful to the dratted Hedges for a drydock rendition that necessitated a response in kind. Thank you, Mr. Hedges , he thought.

Content, with that letter already composed in his head and needing only pen to make it real, Luke picked up his usual stack of mail and took it to his office. From habit he scanned the various letters, in case there was something more important to deal with immediately.

Good God, there was. He dropped the other correspondence on his desk and stared at an official-looking letter from Mallard Counting House, Aunt Luella’s bank. He silently cursed his own thoughtlessness, knowing he should have sent Mallard a letter after her passing, telling them he would be in touch when he had more time. Hopefully it was nothing he couldn’t solve with a letter of his own.

He opened it, swore as impressively as those navy men he worked with daily, and sank into his chair. “God help me,” he whispered. “God help me.”

There it was, laid out simply, his own orders come back to haunt him. “’Sir, you told me three years ago that when Luella Wainwright passed from this life, I was to padlock the shop, to prevent trespassing. I have done that. Rest assured that the contents of Notions, and her other possessions are safe. Let me know when we can meet and finalize her affairs. Yrs. Sincerely, Jedediah Mallard, Esq.’”

Luke closed his eyes in utter misery. It was as though a cosmic hand had suddenly thrown a bucket of cold water on him. He shivered as he thought of Mary trying to get into Notions, and finding no way. She was too poor to lodge in a rooming house, had Liddiard even possessed one. She knew hardly anyone, and was not the sort of person to ask for help, grounded as she was in the reality that people of her station in life expected little.

He rang the bell for his second in command. “Sir?” the young man asked moments later. In terse sentences, Luke told him he was in charge for the next few days. “I have a family emergency in Liddiard and I cannot discharge the duty to anyone else,” he explained. “I know you can manage,” he said more calmly. “You’ve been training for this moment for several years now.”

“Yes, but…”

“Lad, I only hire the best, you included,” Luke said. He spoke precisely and in the doing, felt himself growing in the position. “Do what you have seen me do.” He looked at his cluttered desk and handed yesterday’s notes to the young man, who, to Luke’s relief, looked more serious than frightened now. “Everything you need is here. I hope I will not be long. Certainly no more than a day or two.” He smiled, on sure ground. “You know ships.”

“Very well, sir,” his assistant said calmly. “I hope your business is successful.”

G od in heaven, so do I , he thought. He sent a note to his father-in-law, explaining the situation briefly. He returned to his house to pack a small bag, and hurry away before Sally was aware.

Sally would have none of it. Her eyes filled with tears when she caught him sneaking down the stairs, bag in hand.

He fumbled about, trying to explain what had happened and why he needed to be in Liddiard as soon as possible. “I am coming, too,” she announced.

Luke tried to think of all the reasons that was not a good idea. Try as he might, he couldn’t come up with anything except that feeble parental admonition he had used upon occasion – “No, and that is final.” He couldn’t say it. When had he not been anything but a disappointment to his daughter?

Her bruises had faded, and she didn’t cling to him so much. He knew he owed both circumstances to Mary, who had been far more aware of Sally’s situation after the briefest of observation. He had been too busy for his daughter. He was still trying to shirk his responsibility. It was time to change.

“Yes, come along, by all means. Get one of the maids to help you back a bag.”

She nodded and nudged him. “Papa, their names are Trudy and Jane.”

“I’m not too observant, am I?” he asked in all contrition.

“You can change,” she told him, wise beyond her years.

Y es, I can , he thought, humbled to the dust. I had better begin now, if I am not too late.