Lord Edwin Falls, page 2
Edwin had been working for most of the morning when it happened. The foreman glanced at the number and said, “Japanese silk. That goes on the shelves in back.”
But Edwin had been reading every crate he carried. It was a novel chance to practice what had once come easily, back when he’d been at school and his days had been spent doing something other than hauling and sweating. Some little bit of that person, the one who didn’t have to bow to everyone as they were all his betters and knew he knew things, popped out for a moment and said, “This one’s from China,” although he doubted anyone would listen.
The foreman glanced at the number again. “Manifest says Japan.”
Apparently, the foreman had listened. And now he’d probably be sacked for telling the foreman he was wrong. And then he wouldn’t get paid. And there wouldn’t be any jobs left for the day. “Manifest is wrong.” He put the box down on the shelf he’d been told to and turned to go back outside. Maybe if he kept his head down and kept working hard, they’d just think he was odd or contrary and let him finish the day. He’d carried more boxes than anyone but Dormer, and Dormer was built like a bull.
“Why do you say the manifest is wrong?” That was a new voice, calm, educated. Too educated to be another foreman.
Edwin turned and saw a man in a neat suit with a watch chain and polished Hessian boots. He recognized the cut of the coat as coming from a follower of Weston. Not as fine as he’d once owned—he’d once had several actual Weston suits—but good quality, respectable, proper, and far above anything he could afford now.
“Mr. Brideson asked you a question,” the foreman said.
Edwin realized he was staring. “The markings.” Belatedly he added, “Sir.”
“You speak Chinese?”
“No, I read some Japanese. The symbols are the same.” He swallowed. He should have kept his mouth shut. No good would come of someone knowing what he’d been.
“Go on, show me.”
Edwin considered saying something wrong, but then he’d be sacked for certain, and he couldn’t afford a day without pay, not if he wanted to eat. He pointed to the crate. “See that short box with the line through it? That’s middle. And the long one with the sort of ‘i’ with extra lines; that’s country or kingdom. That’s what China calls itself, the Middle Kingdom. Japan would be a rectangle with a line across the middle for sun and a sort of tree-shaped thing with a line at the base. The Sun’s Origin.”
“What’s supposed to be in that box, Humphries?”
“Silk from Japan.”
“Open it.”
Mr. Humphries nodded to Edwin. There was a crowbar near the stairs, so Edwin hurried to fetch it and pried open the crate. The gentleman leaned over to look inside.
“Porcelain. Humphries, see that it’s put away correctly. And then we’ll have to go through and open everything from that supplier and see that it is what and where it’s supposed to be. Who is it from?”
“Kittering.”
“If you notice more mistakes, make a list and send them to him. And you.”
Edwin straightened. He’d been proven correct, which might very well mean he’d be sacked anyway. “Yes, sir?”
“Write down those symbols for Humphries. Let him see what he should be looking for.”
“Yes, sir.” No word of him being sacked. Mr. Humphries smoothed the manifest page he was using and handed Edwin a pen from the desk so he could write out the symbols for China and Japan. He handed back the pen when he’d finished and said, “Shall I get back to work, sir?”
Mr. Humphries nodded absently, half his mind on the symbols Edwin had just written. “Go ahead.”
Edwin rushed for the door before anyone could change their minds.
Allen Brideson went back into the office but stayed by the door where he could watch the workers. It had been merest chance he’d heard the man tell Humphries something was wrong. He tried to avoid spending too much time on the warehouse floor during unloading so he wouldn’t be in the way of the workers or Humphries’s authority, but he’d taken to watching the men work once he realized the company would soon be profitable enough to afford regular employees instead of hiring day labor when ships came in. He was hoping to find some reliable men among those Humphries hired. But he had not expected to find one who could read the crates. That was a novelty.
The man was easy to spot. He was strong, but not as large as most of the other men. And a hard worker. He seemed to make the trip from the boat to the warehouse more often than most of the other men, and carrying crates that were clearly heavy, so not slacking off either. That was why Allen was watching him, noticing him. It had nothing to do with the way he moved or the tangle of hair that seemed to be asking for Allen to put it right, or the scared look in the green eyes that stared up from under thick lashes and seemed to want nothing more than to melt into a corner when Allen had questioned him. No, it was simply that he wanted to appraise his work as a potential permanent hire. Allen pulled himself away from the door and went to look at the manifests he had saved in a drawer. He’d seen the foreign symbols on them and had often tried to guess at their meanings. He was certain he had seen some that looked like what the man had described. It would be useful to know at least a little bit.
Once Allen had identified the symbols the man had described, he set to work on the manifest, trying to see if he could tell what might be mislabeled. He kept at it through the afternoon until Humphries came up to get the bag of money he used to pay the men. If he was dismissing them, Allen figured it was safe enough for him to go down and begin checking what had been ordered.
The worker’s translation—Allen wished he’d asked for a name so he could think of him as something other than “the worker”—proved to be reliable, and Allen was able to identify crates that were mislabeled almost immediately. He found one that he didn’t need to climb to reach and looked around for a crowbar to open it. The manifest said it was filled with snuff boxes from China, but the label seemed to match the symbols for Japan.
Humphries had finished dismissing the workers and came over with the needed crowbar. They got the crate open and looked inside to find a jumble of cloth wall scrolls.
Humphries leaned the crowbar against the shelf. “Now those are pretty.”
Allen held up one of the hangings so Humphries could get a better look at it. “I thought so. And easy to sell. I might hang some in the shop when we open it, let clients see what they’d look like in their entryways.”
“What do the letters say?”
Allen glanced down at the invoice. “Poetry about the seasons.”
“As long as it’s not dirty limericks. Would be a good joke on us, though. Here we’re importing Kittering’s List of Hong Kong Ladies and not getting the profit. Not as profitable as Harris’s List of Covent Garden Ladies I daresay, but still a worthy effort.”
Allen tried to get up the energy to scowl at Humphries, but the man seemed to be daring him to, so he merely shook his head and put the scrolls away. “There should be another batch of them in the next shipment. If Kittering labeled everything properly. Remind me to do an inventory and check on that before I write him next.”
“And you’ll know what’s right and wrong how?”
Allen shrugged. One box had been easy, but a whole ship’s worth was another matter. “I’ll figure something out. Did you save the bit of paper with the symbols on it?”
“Right here.” He held out the manifest with the words written on the back.
“I wonder where he learned it.”
“Probably from a sailor who’s been there I would think. He seemed like a bright fellow. And not bad looking once you get past the grime.”
“Hmmm.” Allen ignored the last bit. Humphries liked to tease. He should be used to it by now. He was merely curious about an odd fellow they’d hired. The docks were full of odd fellows. Humphries should not be making it out to be anything more than that.
Edwin flopped down on his narrow bed. He was sore everywhere again. He’d have thought there would come a day when he’d be used to the hard work, but so far he still ended every day dripping sweat and sore in every muscle. But at least the Brideson Warehouse had been interesting. The porcelain had been beautiful. Made for the Western market he was certain, in the style of the old masters, though. What other wonders were there? And Mr. Humphries had been fair. Strict, but he probably had to deal with all sorts at the docks. He couldn’t single out one man as being a harder worker than the others.
And Mr. Brideson. Mr. Brideson who filled out a suit so nicely, who had been watching the unloading from the window in his office above. It would be so easy to pretend he was what was being watched, possibly admired. Edwin rolled over, careful not to roll off of the narrow bed entirely, and forced his thoughts to something else. Anything else. He tried to find a cool spot on the pillow, but it was thin enough that the heat from his arm seeped through almost at once. He shouldn’t think about Mr. Brideson like that. Not if he hoped to work for the man again.
{---*---}
Allen leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms. They had another ship due in the night. Less than a week since the last. At this rate, he’d be able to stock the shop he was looking for in Mayfair and continue to supply all of the shops he was already working with. He might even have to take on more permanent staff sooner rather than later. And he was finally in a position to begin approaching the patronesses of Almack’s. If he could get accepted there, he was sure to find someone willing to marry off a daughter for his money. And then he’d have truly pulled himself into the upper classes.
Humphries interrupted his thoughts by poking his head around the door. “On my way out, sir. Do you need anything before I go?”
“No, everything is fine here. I’ll be leaving in a bit myself. The Juliana is coming into port, so we’ll need men to unload her in the morning.”
“I’ll see to the hiring on my way in. Good night.”
“Good night.” He paused. The last ship, there had been that man, a worker. There had been something about him. “Humphries, see if you can find that man who read the box the last time. He could be useful.” Allen waited to see if Humphries was even close enough to hear him.
“Yes, sir,” Humphries called from what was clearly halfway down the stairs. “I’ll find him for ya.” The last was said in the same teasing tone he’d have used if he were finding him a lady of loose morals.
The man had the potential to be useful, that was all. That was why he’d remembered him. Allen put the rest of his papers in order and pulled on his overcoat. That and the novelty of running into someone who could read the foreign writing on the boxes, and apparently better than his own contacts in the actual country of origin could. That was all that it was. He’d said he needed to make an inventory, and he’d put it off long enough. A man who could read the symbols could be useful for that. Allen locked up and walked swiftly towards the nearest street where he could find a hack to take him home. He’d have to get around to getting himself a carriage if he wanted to be taken seriously by the ton. Maybe tomorrow. He could leave the ship to Humphries.
The sweeper darted out as he went to cross the street. Allen slowed so the man could keep ahead of him then reflexively pulled a coin from his pocket and dropped it into the man’s hand.
No, he should probably be there to see to the ship himself. Humphries was certainly capable, but after the mislabeling that had occurred the time before, he shouldn’t leave it all on his shoulders. And he had told him to bring the man again. The unusual man. That had to be why he’d dreamed of him twice since then. Someone unusual enough to stand out even in his sleeping mind. Although that didn’t explain all of it. Not why he had dreamed the man had approached him in Hyde Park, had gestured to the hidden paths. Why the dreams had the man stripping off his shirt, showing him his broad chest, and letting Allen run his hands over it, run his tongue over it. Why the man had leaned against a tree and let himself be touched, then had fallen to his knees and undone Allen’s breeches and had run his tongue all over...
Allen swatted himself hard on the thigh. He couldn’t let his mind wander there, not on a public street, certainly not with the latest fashion in breeches which would show any passerby the general direction of his thoughts. And not before he was supposed to attend the Gatwells’ ball either. He spotted a hack and hailed it. Safely inside, he forced himself to consider the dreams with logic.
All right, he was having dreams of being seduced by a handsome man. Not unusual for him; it had been a while. The last had been... He had to think and realized it had been Randolphe before he’d left for Japan, and that had been only one night, and Randolphe had been in his cups. All right, that explained why he was dreaming of being seduced by a handsome man. It was only unusual in that it was a real person he’d met and not some passing stranger or a figment from a painting or some such. Not seduced; he’d clearly been paying for the man’s services in the park.
All right, that was his sleeping mind remembering that he had met the man because he had hired him for other work. Or perhaps telling him he should hire the man. Hadn’t he just said to Humphries he could be useful? Perhaps that was it. An intriguing mystery who could be useful. No wonder the man had been haunting his dreams. Simple enough to explain.
{---*---}
The sun was fully up by the time Edwin had finished working and collected his money. Edwin blinked up at it for a moment as he came up from the depths of a cattle barge, then his eyes adjusted. He shoved his coins into his pocket and started for home. He was too exhausted to look for something to eat. There had been no work at all for him the morning before, but Mulgrave had offered him an overnight job mucking out a cattle barge. He’d taken it. It was money after all. But he was in a foul mood when he left. He’d have thought after his first four months on the docks, when he’d been slim and soft-handed and no one would hire him to do anything but muck, that he’d have gotten used to it, but four months might have calloused his hands and strengthened his muscles and dirtied his skin and taught him to speak and swear in the accent of the docks, but even three years had done nothing to stop him from hating the work.
He passed Mulgrave’s hiring station and continued walking. Almost no one was there, but there were still a few people. So more candidates than jobs, and late enough that the jobs were probably all mucking. He’d collapse from exhaustion or misery before the morning was half over if he took another one.
“Hey, Martin,” he heard Mulgrave yell, “job for you. Warehouse.”
Edwin paused. His shoulders and back ached, but a warehouse was better than the ships, and money was money. He’d learned not to turn down any work during the first winter of his disgrace, when there had been no ships and he’d had to take work on a night-soil crew and spent more than one hungry night selling himself down at Moorefields where the men liked a bit of rough as they said, and even tried his hand at mud-larking and pure collecting. He turned back.
He recognized Mr. Humphries from the Brideson Warehouse standing by the platform. He started walking when he saw Edwin and gestured for him to follow. A job for him. So had Mr. Humphries asked for him specifically? Perhaps he wanted help with the language. Or perhaps he had seen how hard he worked and how careful he’d been of the crates that had come from China once he’d known some of them could be fragile.
Allen watched the men passing under his window from the ship to the storage area and back, but he didn’t recognize the man from the other day immediately. The man was dirtier, and there was a wobble to his step that hadn’t been there. For a moment, Allen worried that the man drank. That would explain how someone with knowledge of languages ended up a laborer on the docks. Allen didn’t think he wanted to get involved in the life of a drunk. There would be no end to the need for money. Then the man yawned as he stacked a crate on another, stretching his jaw wide, and Allen realized he was merely tired. But even so, he plodded along, not shirking or trying to catch a nap behind the crates as he’d seen other men do.
“All right, Humphries, send him up.”
Humphries nodded and left.
Allen paced the room. What was he doing? Just because the man knew a few characters of Eastern languages... That wasn’t it. If that was it, it would be logical. It was the dream. He closed his eyes. There had been another one, only in this one, the man had not been a prostitute but a guest at Lady Gatwell’s ball. And they hadn’t been hiding in the park but had been in one of the rooms of the house, one that was decorated in the Chinese style, with a silk blanket on the bed that had rubbed against his chest as he strained for the man’s touch. And that had merely been a dream. The real man would be nothing like that.
As soon as the man entered the room, Allen knew he was nothing like the dream. The man in the dream hadn’t stunk. This man smelled like he’d rolled in a dung heap then tried to sweat it off. Allen tried to school his face into a look of calm, but some of what he thought must have shown on his face.
“Sorry if I offend. I spent the night mucking stalls on a barge. Had a choice between spending the pay on dinner tonight or a bath. Seeing as I’d be sweating for you all day, I picked dinner.” The man glared, challenging him to say something.
What was there to say? “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...” Truly there was nothing good he could say, especially if the man was telling the complete truth, and judging from the glimpses of exhaustion he’d seen, he probably was. “Truly, I am sorry. Can we start again? I’m Mr. Allen Brideson, company owner. We met the other day when you helped with some translation.” He held out his hand.
The man stared at it, clearly unsure what to do. Then he ran his hand through his hair. “Ed Martin, sir. Sorry I took offense. I know what I look like, what I smell like. You don’t have to shake my hand. Believe me, I wouldn’t want to.”
Allen considered insisting, but the conversation was awkward enough as it was, so he plunged ahead and hoped it would get better. “You said you know a little of Eastern languages.”
