Mr. Sala’s attention returned to Julian’s face. “Foreignness is measuring pole.”
Julian crinkled his forehead, trying to make sense of the words. “Measuring pole?”
“Si. You make to communicate. Defend me with nothing to gain. So I know you as honorable. How I measure you … your worthing.”
Julian realized the man had meant to say measuring stick. “Ah.”
With an arch of the brow, Mr. Sala glanced around the room. “I stay quiet from others, better for to be … how you say … protection? Some people want only to know my purse. They are no friend to me.” He grimaced and flung out his hand. “If I can speak no but Italian, they stay liberated of my pockets. Better. I no want to be put upon by fairly weathered fiends.”
Julian chewed his inner cheek to stifle a grin. “You mean, fair-weathered friends?”
The man’s dark eyebrows slanted down, thoughtful. “Do I speak it wrong?”
Julian lifted his wine and held it up in the sun, shamed by his own earlier motives—coming to the man’s assistance mostly to gain an investment. A ray of light refracted through the liquid and cast a spread of pinkish dots on the white table cloth. “On the contrary. You speak the sentiment perfectly, sir.” It appeared Judge Arlington had been right. Mr. Sala needed kindness, and Julian would offer that. He’d get his capital elsewhere.
“You keep secret for me, then?” Mr. Sala raised his wine goblet. “So I might be private.”
“I don’t see any harm in such a ruse. You have my word.” Julian clinked their glasses and took a sip of the warm wine.
Mr. Sala indicated the lump in Julian’s vest. “The wig—” He clamped his mouth shut as the waiter brought their meals.
Plates of food and warm, crusty bread filled the once empty table. The waiter bowed his head then left them to eat. Julian glanced through the aromatic steam at his companion. “I saw this hair today in the barber salon. The color reminds me of someone. So I acquired it to keep her memory fresh while I’m away from home. Away from her.” There. As close to the truth as he was willing to hedge. Mr. Sala appeared sincere, but Julian didn’t know or trust him enough to share his concerns about Willow.
The Italian’s lips set to a firm line. “This someone must be molto beautiful. Hair of such color … is rare. People pay high price for it.” Mr. Sala’s lashes turned down as he pulled free a slice of bread, his many rings glimmering in a strand of sunlight.
Julian started to look closer at them, but lost his train of thought when the Italian man barked a new question.
“She is your wife?”
A slight tickle shuddered Julian’s throat and he decided to concentrate on slicing his mutton. “My wife?” The knives provided by the restaurant were dull and barely made a dent. “No. Perhaps my sweetheart one day.” The memory of their chaste kiss stung him like a slap in the face. He finally tore off a small chunk of meat with his fork and savored the gravy as he chewed.
“Ah. Seduzione. You take adventure … to learn art of love.”
It was the most coherent thing Mr. Sala had spoken thus far, not to mention the most humiliating. “What makes you think I’m lacking in such training?”
“I see bristles in you, each time a lady does pass.”
Fighting a surge of embarrassment, Julian frowned. “Well, it’s not as if anyone offers instructional manuals on the subject.”
Biting the edge off of a salted fried cucumber, Mr. Sala smiled and pointed his fork at Julian. “You meet my troupe. The girls answer all such questions. Much more than brilliant ingénues, are they. You keep company with us this evening after their performance. You will attend the gala, yes?”
Julian nodded. Did this confirm what the men in the barber salon suggested? That the girls were only fronting as thespians … that they were less than savory—working on the fringe of morals? “Are these girls your daughters?”
Chewing thoughtfully, Mr. Sala became somber. “No family have I. Though I once had…” He waved his hand, as if to banish the slant in conversation. Julian was shocked to see the man’s eyes had misted.
“These girls … good girls,” Mr. Sala mumbled. “Care for me. Respect me. I consider them family, in that. Is why I take them to World’s Fair. Is competition on opening night—an acting guild. Champions go on around and around.”
Julian remembered reading about the talent contest in his Threshold magazine. There was a rehearsal being held for the actors and actresses on the eve before the fair opened to the public. The winning thespian troupe would be paid to perform at all of the best playhouses around the States during the upcoming year. At least this explained why Sala was taking the girls to St. Louis. It was more than just a pleasure trip, after all.
Julian’s fingers played nervously with the bright-colored napkin that had earlier been fanned within his goblet like a peacock’s tail. Unfolding it, he wiped his mouth and the fabric snagged on his unshaved chin. “So tell me of your troupe’s acting experiences.” He tucked the napkin behind his cravat and tugged a piece of bread from the loaf. “What playhouses have you booked in recently?”
Taking a drink of wine, Mr. Sala met his gaze with intuitive perception. “Three months past. At the Britannia … in Hoxton. The girls perform a restoration comedy.”
Julian had read of this particular theater in a fine arts magazine once. “I thought the Britannia was home to a permanent acting company run by the Lane family. How did you, an outsider, manage a booking there?”
The Italian tried to cut a sliver of meat with the inadequate knife at his place setting, frowned, and dug around in his jacket pocket. He surprised Julian by drawing out a stunning silver scabbard about the length of his hand from wrist to fingertip. He slid out a dagger knife with a four inch blade, the sparkling handle accented with what appeared to be garnets. “Four years ago, the company parted their strays.” Mr. Sala said, ignoring Julian’s stunned stare as he proceeded to carve his meat with the meticulousness of a surgeon.
“They parted ways?” Julian asked, intrigued by the knife but refusing to be distracted from his original objective.
“Ah…” Mr. Sala chuckled at his tongue slip. “Si. Parted ways. Now they bid for outside talent most often.” He inspected the tidbit of mutton on his fork before sliding his lips over it and chewing thoughtfully.
Julian tore his gaze from the dagger. “What was the comedy your troupe performed there?”
“The Feigned Courtesans.” Mr. Sala’s eyes met and held Julian’s, as if awaiting a reaction.
Nearly coughing up his bite of cucumber, Julian smiled. Having heard of the play’s premise—in which the innocent heroines pose as famous courtesans to escape arranged marriages and the expectations of a suffocating society—he understood the irony. “You caught me.”
“I hear nonsense speak.” Mr. Sala wiped his mouth. “It is untruth. Are sweet, my girls. For to be stunning and talented is a crime, no?”
“It shouldn’t be. Any more so than being foreign and wealthy.” Julian cut off a sliver of mutton, then gestured to Mr. Sala’s dagger knife. “Beautiful workmanship. Did you make it?”
The man studied it thoughtfully, and a sentimental wrinkle formed above his brow. “No. I am … collector. Of things old and mystical. With enough magic in hand, one can right wrongs in past, yes?”
Julian listened intently as Mr. Sala proceeded to share the dagger’s intriguing history. According to rumor, a kind and peaceful pauper had once been accused of killing a king that had two sons. The eldest prince had a wizard beneath his thumb, and had once ordered a spell cast upon his dagger’s handle so it blazed to red hot flame when anyone else tried to hold it, rendering it usable to only himself. Once the younger prince proved the dagger as the weapon, there was no question that his brother had killed the king to steal the throne. Thus the pauper’s life and good name were restored.
Silence wreathed them as Julian let the story sink in. Moved by the fable, he wiped his mouth with a napkin and cleared his throat. “
What say I do everything in my power to see that the rumors of your reputation are silenced while upon this ship?”
“Grazie.” Mr. Sala raked the remaining gravy from his plate with a crust then scooped it into his mouth, grinning. “And I do everything in my power to see you be an esperto paramour.”
“An expert of romance, aye?” Julian grinned. “That’s going to take some doing.” He gulped down one more bite of mutton before deciding he was full. “Mr. Sala … might I ask you one last question?” He laid down his silverware with a soft clatter and reached into his pocket, putting on his spectacles.
“Naturalmente.” Mr. Sala pushed his own empty plate aside. He wiped off his dagger’s blade, sheathed it, and upon returning it to his pocket, drew out a plump cigar, offering one to Julian. After Julian refused graciously, the man lit up and puffed the smoke from the side of his mouth. The scent drifted across the table—a mix both sweet and pungent.
Julian leaned back in his chair. “Is there someone on this ship that might have a vendetta against you? An immigrant, perchance, or even someone posing as one?”
The expression that passed over Mr. Sala’s face should have been one of surprise, not one of guilt. “Why for you ask such?” He slapped smoke away from between them.
Julian played with his fork. “It has been rumored a young immigrant might have snipped off your hair last night as you slept.” He couldn’t divulge any other details without betraying the barber’s confidence.
Mr. Sala held his cigar off to the side and guzzled down his remaining wine. He returned his goblet to the table none too gently. “No. No. It was phantom. Un fantasma … as I say. You no to believe my own sight? These,” he pointed to his eyes, “infightable.”
Infallible. “I see. So, why would this phantom choose you to haunt?”
Mr. Sala’s face darkened and he waved his hands as if swatting gnats, causing smoke to billow all around them. “No wish to discuss. The happening … is finished. Phantoms everywhere on ship. Shoes run away. Phantoms no haunt me now.” His chin clenched as he placed the cigar back in his mouth. “Is finished, my part. Is finished forever.” His eyes watered, and Julian debated if it was from the smoke or from something deeper-seated.
Silence overtook as the waiter reappeared to present an ornamental box of French plums laid upon a glass dish garnished with brightly colored sweet meats. He took away the men’s plates, dumping the remaining bread crusts and pieces into a basket looped around his arm before he left. Julian had seen servers do the same at other tables, and absently wondered what they did with the leftover, gnawed-on bread.
Not the least bit hungry for dessert, Julian forced himself to take out a sugared plum from the box and popped it into his mouth—an excuse not to speak. He didn’t know what to make of Mr. Sala’s queer reaction to his question. To be fearful was one thing. But this was more. The man seemed downright defensive … even sad. It appeared ghosts had been tormenting Mr. Sala for much longer than Julian had originally assumed.
The lines in Mr. Sala’s forehead smoothed when he motioned over the quartet of beauties from his troupe. Julian, realizing he was about to be introduced to all of them, stood to leave, but too late. Suddenly, he was surrounded by the ladies and choking in a dense fog of foreign perfume and estrogen. His throat grew tight and his palms clammy as he kissed each one’s hand.
The most voluptuous one of the bunch didn’t release him upon the gesture. “So, Master Thornton. What in particular do you do?”
He forced a tight smile. “I … give rides to ladies.” The words tripped over his lips like a discordant melody. “That is to say, I’m part of an amusement park.” Wincing, he bit his tongue for its blatant disobedience.
The lady squeezed his hand. She glanced at her companions who each took turns raking his body with approving gazes.
“Is that so?” Another one of the beauties spouted. “You must be quite the popular attraction.”
They all giggled.
Julian felt as if he were drowning. After Mr. Sala graciously turned the conversation to the ship’s cuisine, Julian dismissed himself on the grounds his food hadn’t set well—which wasn’t far from the truth. On top of feeling like a bloody fool, he was still worried sick about Willow.
When he stepped into the corridor, a scullery maid approached him, her mop cap puffed atop her head like a gray mushroom. “Master Thornton, I thought ye should know. I saw some scallywag immigrants roaming your hall earlier. When I checked your stateroom, the door was ajar. Let the Cap’n know if anything’s gone missing.”
Julian thanked the woman and took a detour to his cabin, his pulse hammering. There was only one thing he had worth stealing, although they didn’t belong to him at all. His footsteps hastened as he wondered if the shoes would still be there.
Pinching her nose, Willow sipped her lukewarm, lumpy soup and studied the dim surroundings of steerage. Her right shoulder ached from its collision with the Italian nobleman in the men’s corridor. He had been a sturdy one. Though Newton had quickly absconded without being seen, the man had looked her right in the face. His hat had been knocked off kilter, and his brim shaded most of his features so she didn’t get a good look back, but her ears still stung from his vocalizations as he scrambled to his feet and backed away from her.
Un fantasma. He’d repeated it at least four times before turning about and stumbling the opposite direction, obviously shaken. As she’d picked up the costume and shoes that had fallen from the box, Willow couldn’t help but wonder how he could have known about the ghost tied to them.
Drinking another sip of soup, she put the episode from her mind. It didn’t matter at the moment. All that mattered was that she had managed to get back to steerage without seeing Julian.
Sighing, she pressed her back against the wall, sitting cross-legged on her hammock-style bunk—one in a line of a hundred others like it that stretched along the walls across rows of iron tubing. In the bunk above her, a man muttered something in his sleep and turned over, his bulk weighing down the canvas so it crushed the top of Willow’s head. Making a fist, Willow whacked at his backside. “Get off, you nodcock!” With a snort, the man rolled again until the weight lifted from her head then resumed his deep breaths.
This was the main reason Willow had opted to dress as a boy. There was no privacy here in steerage … no division between the sexes. Unmarried women quartered among men and were offered no more respect than if they lived promiscuously. Better off to be a man, or at least a reasonable facsimile thereof.
Here in the ship’s belly, devoid of any portals, steerage had an air of stuffiness and gloom about it. Lanterns hung in distant intervals upon the wall to cast hazy yellow clouds that reached barely two feet from their origins. This left the entire midsection—where trunks, luggage, and cargo formed a tribute to society and commerce—a breeding ground for ominous shadows.
Ever since she was little and a sack swallowed her head to blind her while a man etched a tattoo on her back, Willow had required light to help her relax enough to sleep soundly. Whereas most people preferred the black of night to shutter their thoughts and settle their inner meanderings, for Willow, such blackness formed an easel whereupon disturbing memories and imposing fears played out in a spectrum of vivid color. Light chased away these images … obscured her past, sheltered her soul. So without her own lantern by her bed last evening, her sleep had been restless.
And now, though it was merely afternoon, several of the bunks held sleeping bodies that snored, grunted, or coughed. The unusual symphony acted as a contagion and tugged at Willow’s eyelids. She fought their weight. Tired as she was, she wouldn’t give in for risk of oversleeping and missing the masquerade in a few hours.
To keep herself awake, Willow slurped some more soup and shifted her attention to the sounds of the Helget children and Newton playing seek and find amongst the shadowy luggage and trunks. They had finished their paltry lunch of barley and bread crust porridge. Re-energized, they busied themselves w
ith the frivolities of childhood. Something she envied.
Most of the other children and adults that usually occupied steerage had retreated upstairs to the third-class promenade deck to partake of the sunlight and fresh air. Willow had stood in line with Newton and the Helget family earlier when the stewards brought down the huge kettles to dole out the swill—provided for one farthing per dinner pail. With so many different cultures present, miscommunication bred chaos, and the stronger pushed and crowded so that the weaker were left with lesser portions. Rumor held that here on the Christine Victoria, the lower class’s meals were concocted of the leftovers from the first class dining room. Not that it mattered. The balmy, pestilential air from sweat-ridden bodies and unsanitary toilet conditions made for an ill-faired dining experience anyway.
Now, done with eating, Willow carried her pail to where the others were stacked so they would be ready for collection by the stewards when they brought dinner later. Then, remembering she wouldn’t be here for dinner, she wove her way to Newton’s bunk on the opposite wall and, after moving aside his collection of maps, sat down. Leaning over, she drew out the shoe box from beneath the canvas hammock.
Upon their arrival to steerage, Willow had kept her costume stuffed in the box to prevent the shoes from having space to move, fearing someone might hear them and make off with Newton’s treasure.
Willow had tried to speak to Newton earlier, to understand his connection with the ghostly woman. With each question she asked, Newton would glance up as if the specter were standing right beside him, distracting him from listening. He enacted that odd way of hand gestures and moving his lips with nothing issuing forth—the same way he had communicated with the ghost while in Julian’s stateroom. It was unlike any sign language Willow had ever seen, and she’d learned signing aplenty, living with Miss Juliet on the manor. Willow had tried to have the child write out their mysterious conversations on a piece of paper. But it appeared the only thing Newton had ever learned to scribble was his name.