30. Pippa
PIPPA
Shemaiah returns just as I’m struggling to get myself into an elaborate evening gown Ruby packed for me.
The jade-green satin dress is gorgeous, but I can’t reach the buttons in the middle of my back.
When the door snaps shut, I spin to face Shemaiah, my hands pressed to my chest to keep the dress in place.
Standing just inside the room, his eyes consume me as if I were dinner. “You look stunning.”
“I can’t button it up.”
“Would you like some help?”
I turn my back to him. “Please.”
Through the mirror’s reflection, I watch him walk forward.
He stops behind me and tilts his head down.
His tongue peeks out as he wets his bottom lip.
His knuckles skim the middle of my back as he fits the buttons between his fingers.
Chills erupt on my skin, a spark snapping up my spine only to set fire between my shoulder blades.
Button by button, his skin against mine adds fuel to the flames inside me.
My breath turns shallow.
When Shemaiah lifts his head, our eyes meet in the looking glass.
Neither of us cross the divide by saying anything, doing anything. The look, however, is filled with an unspoken promise.
When he finishes buttoning the dress, he lightly places his hands on my shoulders. “Are you ready for dinner?”
I nod, unable to trust myself to speak.
“Let me change my shirt.”
He disappears into the bathing room and shuts the door.
I wait at the window mentally preparing to face Shemaiah after our conversation this afternoon.
If there wasn’t so much uncertainty between us, I might suggest having dinner brought to our room, but as it is, I need the distraction of a large dining hall.
The whole time Shemaiah was gone, I went back and forth, weighing the pros and cons. I’m still at war with myself.
The washroom door clicks as it opens. My chest warms, and my heart thumps with a sturdy rhythm when I see Shemaiah in his formal attire.
“You look handsome,” I say, though the sentiment falls short of what’s happening inside me.
He smiles and dips his head in acknowledgement. “We make a gorgeous pair.” He holds out his arm. “Shall we?”
As we enter the dining room, I try to calm my nerves with slow breaths.
The room bustles with people dressed in their finest. Men in formal suits, women in glittering dresses in a variety of colors, waiters meandering between them with their trays and drinks.
The din of conversation and laughter fills the space.
An empty dance floor waits in front of an orchestra playing soft music.
Three gold and crystal chandeliers offer ambient light to the whole affair.
It’s beautiful, truly, but I don’t belong among this kind of gleaming opulence. This is Shemaiah’s world. Not mine.
Just as Shemaiah pulls out a seat for me, the cruise director rushes over. “Oh, no! Mr. and Mrs. Roan, you can’t sit there. You’ve been seated at the head table. If you’ll follow me.” He motions toward a large table at the front of the room.
Captain Day is already there beside a beautiful, heavy-set woman wearing a black dress and a strand of pearls.
There’s a man next to her who I presume is her husband from the way he’s whispering in her ear.
Another man sits next to them. He’s younger, with the type of groomed beard men are proud to flaunt.
“Ah, Mr. Roan,” Captain Day stands when we reach the table. “So good of you to join us.”
I stifle a laugh at the implication that we had a choice while Shemaiah holds out his hand for the other gentleman.
Captain Day precedes to introduce Mr. Stevens and his wife, who are going to New Caldon for a holiday at the beach.
The final gentleman is Graham Pinkerton.
He looks remarkably familiar, but I can’t place him.
It seems unlikely that I know him at all.
He’s wearing a finely tailored suit with a silk cravat and gold pocket watch similar to Shemaiah’s. He drips elegant confidence.
His head tilts to the side, his eyes narrowing as I take the open seat across from him with Shemaiah on my left and Mrs. Stevens on my right.
“Will you be staying long in New Caldon, Mrs. Roan?” Mrs. Stevens smiles before taking a sip of her wine.
“We have yet to finalize our plans,” I reply.
Mrs. Stevens sets down her glass and absentmindedly twirls the pearls around her neck. There are matching pearl pins in her hair, and her dress is an expensive chiffon in the latest style. She wears it all with the casual grace of someone used to wealth.
“We adore the coast.” Mrs. Steven leans in like we’re conspiring about something before proceeding to tell me all about the best restaurants and shops to visit. The kinds of places Martin’s mother shopped. Places where a single dress would cost six months of my salary.
I take a sip of wine and hope the woman doesn’t notice my discomfort, suddenly feeling like a child playing dress-up in clothes that aren’t mine, worried that I might be found out at any moment. What would they all think if they knew I was nothing more than a poor, sick servant?
“Do I know you?” Mr. Pinkerton asks when the main course is set before us and Mrs. Stevens pauses for breath.
“I don’t believe so.” I drop my head, remembering suddenly where I’ve seen him before, unnerved by the memory.
“Took out half the city,” Captain Day says, loud enough to draw our attention to the other side of the table. “Haven’t had a fire like that in fifty years.” He stuffs his mouth full of an overly large bite of meat.
Fire? The hair on my arm rises, an uneasy feeling circling like a cloud.
“Where?” Shemaiah asks, his voice as tight as my hand squeezing his arm.
Captain Day swallows and washes his food down with a drink of wine. “Why in Caldon. Haven’t you been listening?”
“Where in Caldon?” Shemaiah’s hand drops to my knee under the table as if bracing me for the answer.
“The west side mostly,” he replies. “I just got word before we left.”
“That’s going to put a lot of people out.” Mr. Pinkerton lifts his wineglass to his lips. Despite his words, he seems relaxed, unbothered.
I’m going to be sick. As if he can read my apprehension, Shemaiah hands me a glass of water, and I drink.
“The biggest issue is the Children’s Home,” Captain Day says.
My heart stops. “City officials asked us to bring the children back on our return flight to New Essik. Train’s full, and there’s nowhere for them to go in New Caldon, not with half the city in shambles.
” He glances at me and tugs on his mustache.
“Oh, don’t worry, Mrs. Roan, the upper city is just fine.
It shouldn’t affect your honeymoon too terribly. ”
“Can we get a ticket on that return flight?” Shemaiah asks, ignoring the man’s glibness.
“Well, I don’t handle tickets, you know. Normally, we don’t make a return trip so soon. We’re only going right back because of the children. It’ll be a skeletal crew.” His bushy eyebrows turn down. “Don’t you want to enjoy the city?”
“We’d like passage on the trip with the children.” There’s a firm resolve in Shemaiah’s demeanor that I’m certain the other man can sense.
Captain Day shakes his head. “Of course, Mr. Roan. We’ll make it work.”
I can feel Mr. Pinkerton’s gaze on me as Mrs. Stevens picks up her glass and lifts it in the air. “I dare say this might be good for the city. An opportunity to rebuild something a bit more… presentable on the west side. Oh, think of all the new shops and restaurants!”
“Think of the people who will be displaced,” I mutter under my breath.
“The Ressmussens!” Mr. Pinkerton snaps his fingers and points at me. “That’s how I know you.”
A chill drags up my spine like a fingernail.
“You worked for them in New Caldon.” He chuckles as his eyes move up and down, taking me in as if he can see every inch under the table. “If only Martin could see you now. He told me how you threw yourself at him, then tried to trap him with a pregnancy.”
Mrs. Stevens gasps, leaning away from me as if I’m contagious.
Shemaiah has gone very stiff beside me. His lips pinched closed, eyes nearly all the way black with violence. I squeeze his arm, not wanting him to make a scene or reveal what he really is.
“Martin always suspected it was a ruse,” Mr. Pinkerton goes on. “Seems he was right since there’s no child with you now.”
A low growl rumbles from Shemaiah, his fangs peeking ever so slightly from between his lips.
“Don’t,” I whisper only to him. Nothing Mr. Pinkerton is saying is new to me. I’ve been accused of all of this before. I can handle it. But I wouldn’t forgive myself if Shemaiah revealed what he is and put himself or his family in danger. “Please, Maiah.”
Mr. Pinkerton turns his attention to Shemaiah with a scowl. “Is that how she got you?”
The rest of the table gapes at him, but no one comes to my defense.
What defense is there to make? They don’t know me, and clearly they trust Mr. Pinkerton, however unfounded his accusations might be.
It’s all just another reminder that I don’t belong in this world where people scheme and plot and assume everyone else does the same.
A world that divides everything into the haves and the have-nots.
Shemaiah takes a deep breath with his eyes closed. When he opens them again, they’re no longer black, but the look he’s giving Mr. Pinkerton is no less deadly. He leans across the table. “Apologize to my wife. Now.”
Mr. Pinkerton laughs coldly. “Believe me, you don’t know your wife as well as you think. She’s a a gold-digger, a slut, and you—”
Before any of us can blink, Shemaiah’s on his feet, his fist around the man’s cravat, and he’s dragged Mr. Pinkerton half across the table. Dishes clatter as Mr. Pinkerton yells. “Unhand me.”
“I know every detail of my wife’s history, and I assure you, you’re in the wrong.” Shemaiah tugs a little harder, the material tightening around Mr. Pinkerton’s throat. “Apologize.”
Mr. Pinkerton scoffs. “She must have quite the cu—”