A Thin Line (59 page)

“Habit,” he said, dropping his hand.

“You are the stubbornest damn Scotsman I know.
 
Can you even concentrate on your job with the pain you’re in?”

“We’re in the middle of a war, two wars now.
 
This isn’t a bloody tea party we’re having.
 
Everyone has to make sacrifices.
 
I have and will continue to work through the pain.
 
Tell them it isn’t going to happen.”

“I don’t think you understand, Mack.
 
You are
not
being given a choice.
 
This is an order.”

“You agree with them don’t you?”

“Mack, I don’t want to lose my last brother.
 
I want my children to grow up and know their uncle.
 
Besides, Grandmother has threatened to come and sit with you.”

“She wouldn’t dare.”

“We both know she would.
 
Yes, you are irreplaceable, but you need to heal,
completely
,” the Duke of Hawkescliffe emphasized.

“No one is pushing me out of my office.”

“It has already been done.
 
For the next month, you will be restricted from setting foot on the premises.
 
Roger Presley will be stepping in for you during those weeks.
 
I suggest you take the time to rest and let your body strengthen and heal.
 
Then, maybe you will be in a better frame of mind and not so belligerent to everyone who comes within ten feet of you.”

“Get out,” Mack growled.

“Mack, you will see it is for the best.”

“I said, get the bloody hell out of my office!”
 
He roared, as he stood and braced his hands on his desk.

“We’ll talk once you’ve had time to calm down.
 
Presley will be by later this afternoon to be debriefed.”

“He can go get himself…”

“Now, now,” Gabe cajoled.
 
“Once you have had the opportunity to think further on this, you will see this is in your best interest.”
 
Gabe shut the door just as a heavy paperweight crashed into the wall.
 
“Mr. Preston, I would not go in there for the a few hours.
 
It is going to take him some time to recover from this.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”
 
Preston looked at the door to the director’s office and felt pity for him.
 
He was a proud man, and it was going to be difficult for him to step down, even temporarily.

***

Cassiopeia Graham stepped out of the hired hack and paid the driver.
 
She had followed this same protocol for the last year, to no avail.
 
She entered the small house she had lived in with her father for the last decade.
 
Her father needed to live in London so that he would have access to the parts he needed for his inventions.
 
So, when her mother passed away, there was nothing left to keep them attached to the seaside village she had grown up in.

“Any word on your papa, Missy Cassie?”

“No, Chang,” she answered, dejection coloring her voice.
 

“There, there, Missy Cassie,” he patted her arm affectionately, “all will be fine.
 
I bring you tea.”

“Thank you, Chang,” she gave the old man a smile and tugged her gloves off.
 
She laid them and her reticule on the hall tree, and then hung up her pelisse.
 
It was mid-June and the weather had turned extremely warm.
 
The house was small and cozy.
 
There were three bedrooms, a parlor, a study, and a kitchen.
 
In the back was a detached building where her father worked on his inventions.
 
Cassie strode to the study and sat down at the desk.

She crossed her arms on the desk and laid her head on them.
 
Where could he be?
 
Why wouldn’t Director McKenzie at least let her know that her father was well?
 
She had been haunting his office for almost a year now.
 
Surely he could see how worried she was about her father?
 
No, he doesn’t know how worried she is because he has refused to see her every single time she has been to his office.

Cassiopeia, or Cassie as she was known to her family, had been raised to be a free thinker.
 
Her father was known for his inventions.
 
Her mother had studied the sciences, most especially astronomy, thus how Cassie’s name came to be.
 
Cassie’s interest lay in the written word.
 
She had been supplementing her income by writing political articles under the name C.E. Jones.
 
The name came from a combination of her name, Cassiopeia Elizabeth, and her mother’s maiden name, Jones.
 
All correspondence between herself and the publisher of the paper was through mail or one of the newsboys, so her identity remained anonymous.

When she was not writing political pieces, she threw herself into writing what really interested her—stories about dangerous, brooding heroes, and the women that fell in love with them.
 
She lifted her head, sniffed, and dabbed at her eyes.
 
She pulled her manuscript close to her and read back over the last few pages she had written.

“Here you go, Missy Cassie,” the little Chinese man said, as he laid down the tray on her desk.
 
“What happens next in story?
 
Is Lord Bartleby the bad man?”

“No, Chang, Lord Bartleby can’t be the bad man, he’s the hero.”

“But he so mean.”

“He has a past he is trying to work through.”

“The women, they swoon when they read this.”

“Do you think, Chang?”

“Yes.
 
Your mama be so proud.”

“Thank you, Chang.”

“You write two hours, then I come get you for your lesson.”

“Yes, Chang.”
 
Cassie poured herself a cup of tea, took a sip, and began furtively working on her novel.
 

True to his word, Chang arrived two hours later.
 
She begged for more time, but he remained firm.
 
Cassie went to her room and changed into the light Oriental pant suit she wore for their sparring sessions.
 
Once she had changed clothes she met Chang in the small garden.
 
Together they went through their stretches, then they began sparring with one another, using an ancient oriental practice that had been passed down through Chang’s forefathers to him.
 
Chang did not hold anything back because Cassie was a woman.
 
Both of Cassie’s parents had felt it important that their daughter be taught how to protect herself.
 
Cassie shifted her hip and swept her foot, causing Chang to flip and land on his back.
 

“Chang, are you all right?”

“I think I taught Missy Cassie too well,” the man laughed.

Cassie laughed as well before sitting on the ground next to the older man.
 
“Papa is all right, isn’t he, Chang?”

“Your papa could take care of himself very well.
 
These not good times we live in.
 
Too much fighting.
 
Sir Graham is smart man.
 
Wanted by many people.
 
He is fine.
 
He too valuable alive.”

“I hope you’re right, Chang.”

“Of course I’m right,” he said, and patted her leg.
 
“Now, help an old man up,” he teased her until a smile spread across her face.

***

Mack entered his quiet little house late that evening.
 
After spending hours training Roger Presley on all that he needed to know, Mack had reluctantly left the office.
 
He had gathered up several stacks of papers and stuffed them in his case.
 
Unable to let go of the nervous energy he felt, he stopped at Gentleman Jackson’s.
 
Even that had not gone as he had hoped.
 
The fighting master had refused to let him spar with anyone, claiming him to not be fully healed for that type of activity after demanding to inspect his healing wound.

Frustrated with everyone, he had ended up at White’s for a short while, sitting quietly in a dark corner as he drank.
 
The golden liquid helped abate his anger somewhat.
 
Had Liverpool lost faith in his ability to run the office?
 
He had been back at work the week after Percevel’s assassination, even though the doctor had insisted he was a fool to do so.
 
He thought back on the argument, a roguish smile turning up the corners of his lips.

“I have a bloody war to fight!”

“Someone else can fight the war for you,” Dr. McGregor calmly replied.

“You don’t understand…”

“No,
you
don’t understand.
 
If you do not take some days to heal, then you are not going to get better.
 
You are lucky that rib stopped the bullet.
 
If it hadn’t you could very well be visiting with St. Peter.
 
As it is, you have a broken rib and a damaged lung.
 
I don’t know how else to say it, but your body needs rest.”

“A week is all I can give you.”

“Damn stubborn Scot.”

That conversation had occurred three weeks ago.
 
In that time, they had buried a prime minister, another had been appointed, and the upstart colonists thought to wage war against their mother country.
 
And who could forget the assassination attempt on Prinny last year?
 
Had it only been a year ago
, he mused introspectively.
 
Time rushed past at an amazing rate of speed and he could do nothing to slow it down.
 
Forty loomed ever closer, causing him to catch his breath at times.

Now, Mack sat in the comfortable leather chair in his study and lifted his booted legs onto the ottoman.
 
He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
 
He welcomed the silence as it soothed his soul.
 
He was glad that when he moved to London all those years ago, that he invested in this house rather than taking rooms at one of the hotels in London.
 
He missed the Highlands of Scotland, but doubted he could ever go back there.
 
Laird McKenzie would not welcome him, and his mother belonged with her husband, as it should be.

“Sir, I didn’t hear you come in.
 
Would you like something to eat?” John Bartlett, his man servant asked.
 
John did everything for Mack, except keeping the house clean.
 
For that, he had a woman come in once a week.

“I slipped in a few minutes ago, John.
 
It seems I will be underfoot for a while.”

“And why’s that?”

“I have been relieved of my position.”

“But you are the Director of the War Office.”

“Not anymore.
 
It seems people are concerned about my health.
 
I say I’m too ornery to die.”

“Too true, sir.
 
Well, what do you plan to do?”

“Either prove to everyone I am as healthy as an ox, or prove Presley is inept.”

“And how do you plan to do that.”

“The hell if I know, John,” Mack sighed, holding his aching, bandage-wrapped side.

Coming Late Fall/Winter 2014