As she spoke, they came around another turn in the road climbing the hill. This brought into view Amelia’s childhood home—the place where she had grown up, the place where she had returned after her husband had so abruptly perished. She’d come back here in a cloud of confusion, technically in mourning but actually plagued with what felt like guilty relief.
This was the place where she belonged most out of anywhere in the world. Home? Home.
The house stood before them, a row of mulberry trees flanking each side. All but the last fruits had been picked over by birds, and now a pair of magpies tussled in the broad green leaves over the final remains. The Union Jack lay limp on the flagpole by the road, occasionally kicking up a desultory end when a tiny breeze swept past. The two stories of the house were crammed into the side of the hill.
But the thing that made Amelia’s heart race was the cart pulled up to one side. A piebald mare was tied to a trough in the back; the driver, an unfamiliar man, sat in the shade. He nodded to the two of them.
A cart and an unfamiliar driver. It meant only one thing.
Mrs. Flappert had arrived.
A sick sensation rose in Amelia’s belly. Her palms prickled; cold fear ran down her spine. Expectation, she told herself. Hope. And if that emotion maybe felt something a little more like dread, surely that was because of her ruined gown and the failed experiment she should not have been conducting.
Certainly it was not because she felt any consternation at Mrs. Flappert’s arrival. How could she when she had never met the woman?
She looked behind her at the captain. He was here, he had said, looking for someone. He had smiled, and his smiles had seemed genuine, and Amelia had talked to him and shown him her invention, which did not sound so bad when she said it that way, but, oh God. She had, in essence, shown him her underthings, and Mrs. Flappert was here.
There was nothing to be done. She turned to him. “I must beg a favor of you.”
“Don’t say that.” He sounded amused. “I’m a trader. If you beg a favor of me, I’ll expect one in return.”
“I don’t care about that,” she said with a wave of her hands. “I’ll give one in return. I will owe you dreadfully. It’s like this.” How to set forth a logical explanation of Mrs. Flappert? Or her son, Alden Flappert? Amelia thought about trying to convey her situation to this man in front of her—he had been understanding thus far; surely, he would understand now?—and felt a well of inexplicable shame rise in her. She finally settled on this: “I am supposed to marry Mrs. Flappert’s son.”
He blinked once, then glanced at her hand, which had crept to the pocket where she had placed the letter he’d given her. “Ah. Are congratulations in order then?”
He didn’t have to sound so doubtful. It was rather rude of him. “Not yet.” She shut her eyes. “His mother has yet to approve of me.” She pointed at the cart. “His mother is here. Early.”
That same slow, steady blink giving nothing of his thoughts away. “He’s fallen in love without parental permission, I suppose?”
Oh. God. She could feel herself blushing. “Of course not. I’ve never actually met him.”
He blinked a third time. “Of course not? You’ve never met him? Did you just say you were marrying?”
She could feel the heat rising under the collar of her blouse. “You see my dilemma,” she forged on, ignoring his all-too-salient questions. “I can’t meet Mrs. Flappert with my skirt split and…” She gestured around them.
He did not blink at this. “And a man like me in tow?”
She winced. “Any man would be a problem. You know what they say about women like me.”
“And about men like me.” He looked into her eyes. “Plus there’s this: I make you smile too much, and your skirt is split.”
He said that without a hint of expression, but she felt her face flame. He had hit precisely on half the problem. He made her smile too much. He’d talked to her, and he hadn’t pshawed her invention. He’d talked to her instead of about her, and she had hoped for one moment against all possible hope that he was Mr. Flappert, come in his mother’s place.
It was an obvious fiction—her mother would have mentioned before now if Mr. Flappert were a Black man. She wouldn’t have approved.
Still. She’d wanted to believe. He would likely have been more than just bearable. Amelia wouldn’t have had to muster up all her courage to marry him on no acquaintance. If he was the one coming for her, she would have worried all these last nights for nothing.
Mr. Captain of Uncertain Name did not ask again why Amelia was set to marry a man she had never met. Instead, he looked her in the eye with an intensity that sent a shiver through her.
“Mrs. Amelia Smith,” he said. “Also known as the Silver Fox.”
Unfair that he could remember two of her appellations when she couldn’t recall a single one of his. “If by known as you mean teased by my brother with, then yes.”
“You seem like the sort of person who keeps her word once she gives it.”
She found herself blushing. “Well. Yes. Don’t most people?”
“You’re too old to believe that.” He had not looked away from her, and the fierceness of his gaze was unnerving. “You haven’t actually committed to Flappert the Unmet, have you?”
She exhaled. “How could I when his mother hasn’t yet approved of me?”
His brow furrowed. “Then I’m asking for that favor you granted. Don’t. Not until you’ve had a chance to read that letter from your brother. Not until you’ve had a chance to talk with me. I have an offer to make you.”
Amelia had heard of stupider things happening than a ship’s captain proposing to a woman within fifteen minutes of their meeting. She had contemplated stupider things than accepting such a proposal. For instance, she was meeting a man’s mother who intended to propose marriage on zero minutes of acquaintance. For a moment, she let herself believe this wild fiction. There was a heat in his eyes, a low intensity to his words.
“An offer of…?” Her heart slammed against her chest.
“Employment,” he said, bringing her down to earth.
He must have seen the alarmed look in her eyes because he immediately added: “Respectable employment. In an office.”
Respectable employment. Of course there was no other offer a man like him would make her.
But—employment? In an office? Really?
“I’m a woman,” she informed him.
“Thank you for explaining.” A hint of a smile touched his lips. “Women are also employed in offices. With some regularity. I’ll be back in half an hour. Find an excuse to come out with me. I came here looking for someone whose name I did not know; pick someone you can take me to. Alone. I’ll need no more than an hour of your time to explain.”
“Employment.” She spoke the word dubiously.
“Employment,” he confidently echoed back at her. “As in I want your labor in exchange for money. That’s the offer. We can quibble over the exact details in a little while.” He smiled. His smile was so easy, so sunny, that she felt her spirits lift inexplicably.
“You must be an excellent trader.” She bit her lip. “People will just give you anything you want, won’t they?”