The call had ended there, the earpiece on her end obviously left dangling as it clattered on the table where it had been installed after much persuasion. And then a familiar voice, Mrs. Ryan, previously my housekeeper at the townhouse.
“Is everything all right?” I inquired, concerned that Aunt Antonia might have taken a tumble.
“Quite all right, miss. She’s taken herself off into the gardens with her camera, and then we are off to Miss Lenore’s so that she can take a photograph of Miss Charlotte.” She had then added, “Is there word about a new residence for yourself and Mr. Brodie?”
I assured her that we were investigating different possibilities and hoped to make a decision quite soon. A slight exaggeration.
“Excellent!” she announced. “I have found that your adventures are quite mild in comparison to those of her ladyship.”
She had then informed me, “She has made it known that she wants Mr. Hastings to accompany her about London for the next photographs she wants. She insists that he learn to drive the motor carriage.”
I had the deepest sympathy for Mr. Hastings, my great aunt’s head coachman, who, it appeared, was being catapulted into the new century by way of a motor carriage.
“Is there a difficulty?” Brodie inquired as the call had ended.
“None at all, unless one considers Aunt Antonia unleashed on the streets of London in the Benz motor carriage.”
I could have sworn he smiled. “Something I have to look forward to as well for yerself?”
I ignored that comment as we had set off across the river.
Waterloo station was crowded with morning travelers departing for various parts of London and beyond, Portsmouth merely one of those destinations.
We made our way through more than a dozen booking offices with numbers above for the destination. Those on holiday, others in business suits, and others gathered in lines to purchase tickets. A series of overhead boards contained arrival and departure information.
Brodie constantly scanned the faces of those around us, his hand tight about my arm, as he guided us through and we found the ticket office for Portsmouth.
He requested a compartment rather than the usual coach fare.
It was a bit costly, but I did not question his choice. I had learned there was always another thought behind everything he did.
We quickly found the boarding platform for our train. It had arrived earlier. We found our compartment. Brodie pulled the inside shades down, then took the seat across from me. He laid his revolver on the seat beside him, under his right hand.
There was a knock at the door a few minutes later as the train prepared to get underway. He took no chances that we might have been followed, or that someone involved with all of this might have boarded the train as well.
His hand closed over the revolver. He angled it behind him just out of sight to whoever was in the passageway, then slid the door open, glanced past the attendant, then handed him our tickets.
Two hours or more until we reached Portsmouth. In that way that he could sleep anywhere, Brodie returned to the bench seat across, stretched his legs before him across the aisle, the revolver once more beside him, and appeared to fall asleep. So much for conversation.
“Do ye miss taking yerself off on yer adventures?”
Some time had passed since leaving London, and I was surprised not only that he apparently had not been dozing, but by the question. I might have laughed, except that he seemed quite serious.
“I have thought about taking myself off to Australia,” I replied. “If it didn’t take quite so long to reach it.”
“Wild creatures as well as wild men?” he commented from under the brim of the hat he wore, that dark gaze just above the yellow and purple mark watching me.
“What could possibly compare to animals such as Burke or Mr. Brown?” I replied. Linnie’s former husband, or our father. The lowest of the low.
There were others, of course, over the past handful of years since I had first inquired about his inquiry services. The list was quite long.
Never one to miss a detail, “And wot of wild men?” inquired the man whom some would consider part of that same club, one of those who had lived outside the mold of what was considered a gentleman. With fine clothes, a proper education, a title, and polished manners that often hid secrets.
I would take a gentle man with fire in his eyes, education that came from the streets, and manners...well, there was that part, but with arms that held me until I thought my bones might break but didn’t. Then, his way rushed with an intensity of something more that lay just beneath the surface, almost as if he was afraid that I might disappear. And that dark gaze that made it impossible to look away, or want to.
I shared the thought that came with it.
“Youare my adventure.”
