“More likely so they can provide some exhibits. Of their nether regions.” The short fellow laughed so hard he nearly tottered off his chair.
Several other men muttered obscenities and chuckled.
Anticipation of his imminent afternoon with Mr. Sala settled over Julian like a dark fog. “Perhaps I should reconsider our luncheon.”
Judge Arlington closed the magazine. “No. I say you keep that appointment with him. Find out who he is so you can silence all of this foolish hearsay. Poor man. Can’t speak a word of English to defend himself. You’re his one opportunity for a fair shake, boy.”
Julian nodded. “He did have a kind smile. And he seemed to need a friend.”
“That’s the spirit.” The judge winked. “And if by some chance he turns out to be a notorious criminal, at least you’ll be on his good side. One, you saved him from a ghost, and two, you’ll have saved him from eating alone. Nobody likes to dine alone.”
Julian smiled, liking the judge more by the minute.
As Judge Arlington stood for his turn in the barber chair, Julian rose beside him, leaving his magazine on the chair to hold his spot. He stepped around men’s outstretched legs to make his way over to the hanging wigs. Unfolding his spectacles, he slid the earpieces in place. “You say the child brought Mr. Sala’s braid early this morn?”
The barber draped a sheet over the judge’s wide form. “Aye. He brought that, too.” He gestured with his foam-filled brush to the hair that looked like Willow’s. “And that’s highest quality. It was soft waves when I first laid hands on it. Now look at it. Takes a pin-curl easy as you please. No telling how far that little thief had to wander to steal such a mane. The lady must have been a beauty.”
Wander. Thief. Beauty. Unease simmered within Julian’s chest as he reached to pull down the cluster of hair. He nestled his nose in the curls. A familiar exotic scent gripped his lungs like a fist. The tune Willow sang while staring at her school uncurled within him, sultry and ethereal: I am a wanderer, a wanderer I am.
Perception, edged with dread, heated the tips of his ears. He’d caught her watching Abrams as the driver stumbled into the gardens. Then, shortly after they’d stepped into the school together, Willow disappeared from Julian’s view. He’d been besieged by a flock of governesses clucking like hens as they led him into the kitchen where they coaxed him to stay for coffee and fruit tarts.
When time came to leave, his hostesses forbade him to go upstairs to the girl’s quarters in search of Willow. He was forced to go without saying goodbye. If not for seeing Abrams—a blur of black in his cloak, scarf-covered face, and large brimmed hat—sitting rigid and sturdy in the driver’s seat, Julian might have turned back for the school and demanded to see Willow once more, just to ensure her resolve to stay. But he took Abrams’ sudden equanimity and sobriety as a good omen, that all was well in the world.
In one blinding flash of reason, Julian saw the flaw in his logic. No cup of coffee, no matter how black and potent, could have sobered the driver in that forty-five minute interim. With his body type being so small, a woman could easily have filled Abrams’ concealing clothes.
Julian squeezed the hair in his hand. How could he have overlooked such obvious facts yesterday? Then again … he had been distracted by Willow’s kiss.
“Oh, hell.” Julian turned to face the barber. “Whereabouts would one find this little boy?”
Scraping foam and whiskers off his razor into a bowl positioned beneath the judge’s rolled chin, the barber shrugged. “Steerage, no doubt. All the immigrants bunk down there. But there’s hundreds of them. You’ll never turn out one little thief … especially one of that size.” He proceeded to put more shaving cream on the judge’s cheeks, avoiding his moustache.
“We’ll see about that.” Julian headed for the door.
“Wait! That’s my hair!”
Julian paused, one hand on the door latch, the other tangled in the silken strands. He glanced over his shoulder. Two men stood up from their chairs, prepared to pounce on him.
Turning full around, he met the barber’s eyes. “I think I know who this belonged to. I will bring it back.”
“Absolutely not! It’s pin-curled to perfection. You’ll ruin it.”
The two men grappled Julian’s elbows and tried to drag him toward the barber. Julian considered pounding them both. Lord knew he’d been in enough scuffs with his brother to better these two city nobles. Instead, he dug his heels into the floor and didn’t budge. The men dropped their arms and backed up, as if surprised by his strength.
“What say,” Julian began, “should I bring the hair back damaged I give you the phantom shoes in exchange?”
The judge, with shaving froth dripping from his right cheek down to his jaw, studied Julian’s determined expression in the mirror’s reflection then glanced at the barber standing over him. “An ideal trade. Better than a trade, even. People will pay just to get a look at those shoes. You’ll make ten times what you could with that wig. And you have us all as witnesses to the bargain.”
Julian’s neck throbbed, awaiting the barber’s decision.
As he wiped his razor on a towel, the barber nodded. “All right. We have an accord.”
“Thank you.” Julian directed the words to the barber, but his gaze appointed his gratitude to the judge. It appeared he’d made a persuasive ally today. An ally he would find again later to talk over some business. Victor Arlington was a man Julian would enjoy working with.
“Don’t be expecting me to hold your place in line for a shave,” the barber called out as Julian rushed into the corridor.
Cradling the soft curls in his palms, Julian strode toward the service stairway. If his suspicions about Willow were true, a scruffy chin was the least of his worries.
Nine
Willow scooted her chair against the outer wall of the wheel house where the captain and several officers sat within, navigating the Christine Victoria. She turned her back to the windows. She disliked being so close to any crewmembers, but it was the most secluded place on the crowded promenade deck. And being noticed by the crew paled in comparison to what would happen should Julian see her. He would hold her captive then send her right back to Liverpool the moment they docked in New York.
She had to stay out of his sight at least until they boarded the train to St. Louis. Once there, he would have no choice but to let her join him on the tour of the World’s Fair. She’d waited her whole life for an opportunity like this … and she had every intention of seeing it through.
A canopy above Willow’s head shaded the row of chairs that lined the walls of the ship’s superstructure. Blankets hung across the whicker backs, waiting to accommodate lounging passengers, of which thankfully there were none at the moment. This location offered a bird’s eye view of everyone. Those who strolled the bright openness of the walkway to fill their lungs with salty air; those who stood at the rail and watched the sea breathe and billow as it spread all the way to the horizon in a gurgling and glistening swath of blues and grays.
Willow tugged her cap low on her forehead and propped an elbow on the chair’s arm, tapping the dimple in her chin. Ankles crossed, she moved her feet in time with her pulse, clunking the men’s boots she’d borrowed together. She enacted the boyish slump she’d been practicing for the last several hours and contemplated her clothes: the broadcloth jacket—scratchy and masculine, the tweed pants—liberating and roomy in spite of their itchy discomfort. She’d had to discard Abram’s cloak and hat lest Julian recognize them. These replacements, though suitable for her charade as Wilson—an immigrant man-child—offered little protection against the morning chill. Her pantalets and chemise underneath didn’t help much either. What she wouldn’t give for a soft, fleecy union suit. Such a men’s undergarment would insulate her from the wrists to the ankles.
Still, her gratitude toward her new companions, the Helget family, would not be stifled by this minor discomfort. They’d given her all they could upon her im
promptu appearance in steerage after she climbed out of the trunk she’d stowed away in on the wharf. Being German immigrants, the parents had limited knowledge of the English language. Their children, Engleberta and Christoff—were taught to speak English by their schoolmarm in Germany and had been Willow’s translator. The family had little money or possessions. Heavens. The dear children were even shaved bald, having succumbed to a plague of lice on their way to England. Yet everything they could spare had been rationed out to Willow—a man’s hat, clothes, boots. She had wanted to pay them back.
Willow opened her lapel to glance at the one article she’d brought with her for luck, having left the others behind at Ridley’s. The mother of pearl watch-pin from Uncle Owen might have been a fair trade, but she could never part with it so callously. The sentimentality held too strong a bind around her heart. So Willow had sold the only thing she could—cutting off the braid she had rolled up and tucked beneath Abram’s hat—and gave the proceeds to the Helget family.
A soft gust of wind licked her neck where her cropped hair stopped just beneath the brim of her cap. Despite the bright sun, the air had a bite to it. Goose bumps rose on her nape, the skin vulnerable without her long locks to cover it. Closing her jacket again, she reached up and rubbed the soft bareness, the ache of detachment bristling her palm.
It unnerved her, this reaction. She’d never thought of herself as vanity-stricken. But then, she’d never realized her hair was such an integral piece of her identity. Precious memories had been tangled within that mane. Perhaps that’s why she used to wind it around her fingers, so she could feel tied to lost moments of her past.
In her earliest childhood, her mother used to brush out Willow’s long hair and braid it each night as her papa played at nursery rhymes. He’d touch Willow’s right eye, then her left, his fingertips grazing her mouth and ending with a tender pinch on her tiny nose. Slumping lower in her chair, Willow mimed the song he would sing during the ritual in his deep Italian brogue. “This is the beautiful eye and this is its brother; this is the little church and this is its door bell.” Although it never rhymed, or even made sense for that matter, it had been one of her favorite nursery songs.
Beneath the shaded canopy, she fought the moisture welling in her eyes as her nose twitched in remembrance of his and Mama’s tenderness.
She refused to cry. Instead, she thought upon happier memories tied within her hair. At the Manor, Aunt Enya used to set Willow’s auburn locks in pin-curls as together they recited sonnets by Lord Byron—their beloved English poet. Appreciation of his work was the only thing the two ever held in common.
Then there was Julian. Throughout their youth, each time he’d find her atop a tall tree, he’d tease her from below: “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.” And Willow would toss a handful of leaves or unripe fruit into his face—depending upon her mood.
Now, Julian was no longer her childhood playmate. He was a man, and she couldn’t forget how his fingers had wrapped within her hair yesterday afternoon when he kissed her. How the sense of him, intertwined with some living part of her, had been more stimulating than any scene she’d read in Emilia’s novel. What would Julian think of her now … sheared like a sheep as she was? He wanted her to become more of a lady, not less of one.
A birdlike whistle rippled Willow’s depths of self-pity. Looking up, she caught sight of six-year-old Newton. The tiny boy had sidled into a group of unsuspecting aristocratic men packed like cattle at the ship’s bow. Most of them were married. One could tell not only by their wedding bands, but by the fervor with which they smoked their cigars and clung to every boisterous joke as if these things were the last remaining lifelines to their manhood.
Newton’s black, round eyes flashed in Willow’s direction. He gestured with his chin toward a lanky, balding man in the midst of the crowd. Willow nodded. Upon her response, Newton ducked between men’s legs and into the depths of the group unnoticed. She bit her lip. If he was caught pick-pocketing, she would take the blame. It was her desire to attend the Greek gods and goddesses masquerade ball tonight. All so she could be close to Julian … to spy upon him from behind a mask.
She could not endure the torture of knowing they were both on this ship yet a world away from one another. She couldn’t have Julian attending the gala without her, dancing with beautiful women, possibly kissing some wanton trollop with those soft, sensual lips of his.
Willow pressed her fingers to her mouth.
Luce del cielo. How could a man who’d never kissed a woman be so blasted good at it? He’d barely grazed her lips yesterday. But just thinking on the sensation, on the promise behind that gentle restraint and simmering heat, left her eager to discover what that mouth and tongue would be capable of given the proper nudge. She couldn’t allow some other woman to unlock that side of him.
The party was for upper class passengers, being held in the first-class music room. The only way she could have access to an appropriate costume would be to steal one along with some ribbons, scarves, and lace from the ship’s tailor, then alter it enough to warrant it unrecognizable by this evening. She planned to return the costume tomorrow morning, so it was actually more like borrowing.
Willow and Newton had peered into the tailor’s boutique windows earlier. They spotted three goddess costumes upon the wall—Hera, Medusa, and Aphrodite—complete with masks and wigs. Since they needed no petticoats or crinoline beneath the form-hugging gowns, any of them would suffice. The sign upon the boutique’s door had pledged the tailor’s return at eleven sharp. That gave them one hour. Seeing as he was preoccupied up here for the moment, all they needed were his keys.
Willow held her breath and studied her watch again. Newton popped out from the crowd. He wore a nefarious grin—strangely out of place on such a cherubic face. He glanced her way and patted his jacket pocket, his small legs strolling briskly toward the staircase.
Pulse jumping, Willow scanned the men. None of them seemed the wiser. The tailor was still tied to his conversation with the overweight fellow next to him. Willow stood, and attempting a masculine stride in her heavy boots, followed in the footsteps of her accomplice toward the second deck where the stores and barber salon were located.
Willow clasped Newton’s small hand in hers. Because of their height difference, his wide-brimmed hat scraped her waist from time to time with their shared steps. They wound through the quiet corridor of the men’s quarters, both keeping their heads down when they passed anyone.
By looking down and resisting eye contact, they gave the impression of being on an errand. At one point, they were stopped and questioned by an elegant Englishman leaving his cabin, but Willow spoke deep from her chest—in hopes to sound like an adolescent male—and used Italian. The befuddled man finally gave up, assuming Willow and Newton were lost. He shrugged them off like fleas and went on his way, too busy to care what became of the two impoverished boys.
Tucking the stolen costume deeper within her buttoned jacket, Willow gulped against a sandy throat. How she longed for a raspberry ice to moisten her tongue. She didn’t want to be here in the men’s hall. It was too risky. But she took solace in the fact that Julian would already be out and about for the day, marking off errands in his journal as he accomplished each one.
Due to Newton’s inability to speak, Willow had no idea why they were here or what they were after. But when he asked her to follow with erratic hand gestures, Willow acquiesced. She owed him for all he’d done for her since they’d met. First, he had taken her clipped hair to the barber and sold it to keep her identity secret, then he’d lifted keys off the tailor and stood watch at the shop’s door as she stole a costume. They were partners in crime now, without question.
The mask slipped out from beneath the hem of Willow’s jacket when she and Newton rounded the last stretch of the men’s quarters. She wedged the disguise higher between her breasts.
Without any warning, Newton came to an abrupt halt in front of one of the staterooms. He glan
ced up at Willow then hammered the brass knocker. As if echoing the rhythm, Willow’s heart slammed into the satin mask pressed against her sternum. What was he leading her into? Who did he know here?
The lock clicked. Newton shoved the door and it swayed open to reveal a lush sitting parlor complete with oriental rugs, wood floor, and mahogany walls.
Willow forced herself to step over the threshold alongside her companion, greeted by the faint scent of brackish water and a woman’s perfume. Freezing air rushed over her then vanished, as if she’d walked through an invisible wall of ice. The hairs on her body lifted in response. She glanced to the other side of the door and struggled to make sense of it. There appeared to be no one else in the room, only Newton ushering the door shut behind them.
The Helget children had known Newton for a week before she met them all, and they jabbered to her constantly about his many magic tricks. She hadn’t believed them. Children were notorious for rapid flights of imaginings, especially in the poverty sect where lack of toys and books left them bored. But what else could explain his power to unlock the door without a key?
Already light-headed over her lack of breakfast and the morning’s excitement, Willow dropped into a high-backed chair lined with heavy cut velvet. “Newton … how did you do that?”
The boy lifted a finger to his mouth, shushing her. He stood stiff in his tattered suit and cap, looking every bit the serious, miniature man; such an endearing pose, she would have smiled had the situation not been so queer.
His rustling clothes became the only sound besides the purr of the ship’s motor. Willow watched in silent wonderment as the child proceeded to spin in a slow circle, his expressive eyes touring the parlor … searching.
She had a passing suspicion that he might have come to steal a map or two. Christoff had told her of Newton’s obsession with any sort of geographical chart or topographical depiction, of his tendency to sneak into first-class rooms and steal maps to foreign lands. He had quite a collection already. She supposed he liked to imagine travelling to such places.