Ghost of the Thames (18 page)

Her body was one of the miracles of
creation. She was an image that he wanted etched permanently in his
mind. Her skin, her breasts, her waistline curving to her rounded
hips, her long legs. He would relish the feel of them wrapped
around him, drawing him in.

He unbuttoned his pants, and she
watched his hands’ movements. The moment he freed himself, she
inched away from him on the bed and looked away.

The hesitation was enough to make him
think of her pleasure first. He discarded the rest of his clothes
and joined her on the bed.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said
simply.

Edward smiled and kissed her, drawing
her to him like a butterfly to the flame.

Sophy’s dark eyes were clouded with
passion when he ended the kiss. He took both of her hands and
pushed them away from her body. His mouth traveled to her breasts.
He tasted, teased, and gloried in her body’s tremors as her
excitement rose higher with every touch.

He gently brushed his fingers over her
stomach, moved lower and teased the dark curls. Her knees were
slightly raised and pressed together. He looked up at
her.

“Open for me.”

A deep blush spread from her cheeks
down her neck and past her collarbone. She looked as if she were
burning with fever.

She was hesitant, but ever so slowly
her knees parted. Edward’s fingers trailed a path downward,
slipping into her and touching her moist center. She quivered, her
lips parted. He moved down on the bed. Reaching beneath her, he
raised her buttocks, lifting her to his mouth.

Sophy’s back arched, and she cried out
aloud, but Edward held her in place. Quickly, her hips found the
rhythm of love, and he continued to tease and taste her until she
was riding the waves of passion into the very center of the storm.
Finally, with a desperate cry, she reached for him and brought his
mouth to hers.

He entered her, driving deeply into
her. She cried out and her limbs tightened around him. He thrust
hard and deep, quickening his movements until the hot wet grip of
her undid him. They came together, their cries of ecstasy blending
so that he couldn’t tell them apart.

It was some time before he found his
voice to whisper in her ear.

“It is safe to say there is no husband
. . . and no five children, either.”

CHAPTER 18

The house on Devonshire Terrace, near
Regent’s Park, was a handsome structure with a spacious,
brick-walled garden separating the home from the New Road. The
entrance was set into an impressive portico of brick and stone, and
two sets of bow windows overlooking the garden graced the three
floors of the house. Past the garden, a large coach house was
visible.

Inside, a large vestibule opened onto
a wide square foyer, where she and Edward were relieved of their
outerwear. To the left, a stairway curved gracefully to the second
floor gallery. On the right, through open doors that led to a
well-appointed library, Sophy could see long windows and, beyond
them, a brownstone terrace with steps descending into the garden.
Splendid ornamental columns framed the doorway to the dining room,
which also overlooked the garden.

Mrs. Dickens, navigating her way
through a brood of children and servants, was proud to show Edward
and Sophy the house as they awaited her husband’s return from his
afternoon walk. On the floors above, the drawing room, nursery, and
children’s bedrooms were equally bright and charming.

Sophy wasn’t sure she was ready to
meet with the novelist. But Edward had made the arrangements and
had even met with Dickens on his own yesterday. The two of them had
put together a plan of some sort that they wanted to share with
her.

They had no sooner entered the library
after their tour, when a serving woman entered. The youngest child
of the family, barely six months old, had become too fussy. Mrs.
Dickens left the guests on their own.

“A lively household,” Edward commented
when the two of them were left alone.

Upon entering, he had positioned
himself across the library by a window. She had not seen him since
yesterday morning. He’d left her while she’d still been in bed. It
was almost terrifying how much she had missed him. So often since,
she’d found herself daydreaming about what they'd shared. His
kisses, his touch, the way he had her come undone, and the
aftermath of holding her in his arms as if she were the most
precious thing in his life.

She looked across the room
at him. He was thumbing through a book he’d randomly selected from
the novelist’s shelves. Something had changed in Edward since their
night together, though, and that was troubling. He had seemed so
pleased when he’d left her, almost buoyant for a man of such a
serious temperament. This morning, there was a degree of reserve in
his treatment of her that exceeded his normal manner. It was as if
he’d closed off his emotions. Sophy turned and gazed vacantly at
the framed Hogarth print on the wall. It was from
The Rake’s Progress.
She
was surprised to recognize it. She’d seen it before.

The change in him had been immediately
obvious to her at her lodgings in Soho this morning. She’d
attributed his reserve to the presence of her landlady, but then it
had continued during the carriage ride here. No stolen kisses, no
affectionate touch, no talk at all of what had happened only a day
before. And no plans of what he was going to do to her again. He
only spoke in very businesslike terms about where they had to go
and what needed to be done. There was something seriously wrong,
and he was allowing no opportunity for her to ask him about
it.

Sophy felt the weight of his gaze from
across the room. Seeing that hint of tenderness, that yearning
glance that she recognized, she opened her mouth to speak. A sharp
tap on the door stopped her though, and Edward’s expression became
a mask once again as Charles Dickens strolled in.

“Miss Sophy. Captain Seymour. Please
forgive me for keeping you waiting.”

The enthusiasm in the novelist’s
salutation confused Sophy for a moment. Though he’d never been
discourteous to her before, his attitude this afternoon was
entirely different from their meetings in the past. He was carrying
a folded newspaper under his arm, and he directly walked to Edward
and handed it to him, pointing to a certain section.

“Another article on the topic we spoke
of yesterday.” Dickens turned and immediately came back to Sophy.
“Please sit. Mrs. Dickens tells me she has shown you the house. Tea
should be in shortly. I cannot tell you how delighted I am to see
you again.”

Sophy felt like turning around and
making certain the novelist wasn’t talking to someone else in the
room. At best, she’d expected a lecture and words of guidance, not
flattery. She glanced at Edward. He had the newspaper spread open
on Dickens desk and seemed to be completely absorbed in what he was
reading.

“Any news of what occurred at that
warehouse two nights ago?” she asked, guessing that would be a
topic of interest to the captain.

“Yes, there was a brief report of it,”
Dickens answered. “Now, Miss Sophy, I wanted to talk to you about
your meeting with Mr. Acton. Captain Seymour has told me of your
visit to the Geographical Society.”

“Yes, it was quite enlightening. Now,
at least, I can identify the languages I speak.”

“That is indeed excellent. But the
captain tells me that no advances have been made in recalling
anything more of your past, prior to regaining consciousness,
wounded and floating in the Thames.”

Sophy cast another glance in Edward’s
direction. From the furrow in his brow, it was evident that he was
distressed by whatever he was reading.

She forced her attention back to the
novelist. “No. I do not remember anything else.”

“No names. No faces?”

“None.”

“No address where you might have been
staying in London?”

She shook her head.

Two young servants came in, one
carrying a tray of tea and sandwiches. The other had a note for
Dickens.

“Excuse me for a moment,” he said,
rising and going to a window where he read the note. While tea was
being served, Sophy rose and went to Edward. He closed the paper as
she approached.

“Is anything wrong?”

His dark gaze caressed her face for
moment before he answered. “No. Nothing that you should worry about
right now.”

“Is there any news of who owned the
warehouse?”

“The upper floors of that building
were sublet to a ‘Mr. Smith’. No one knows who he is, apparently.
The owner of the warehouse says the floors were supposed to be used
for sugar, and that he knew of no one staying there. The police are
still looking into the matter.”

Edward glanced at the door. Mrs.
Dickens had rejoined them, and the novelist immediately crossed the
room to his wife.

“I’d like to go back and see those
boys,” Sophy told him.

“Let me make the arrangements. That
can be a rough neighborhood. I don’t want you going back there on
your own.”

A few days ago she would have
protested, but today she was relieved to hear the note of
protection.

“Something else is disturbing you,”
she said quietly.

Instead of answering he motioned to
where their hosts had seated themselves. “I believe Mrs. Dickens is
waiting for us.”

Sophy felt a heavy weight form in her
chest as she walked back to her seat. The loss of memory and the
solitary awareness of an adventurous ghost was nothing compared to
this feeling of rejection. She took her seat and accepted the cup
of tea from the novelist’s wife.

“After our conversation yesterday,”
Dickens told her. “Captain Seymour and I both agree that
introducing you into London society might just be the nudge your
brain needs to recall some important facts.”

“But how could that be wise? I cannot
even recall my last name.”

“That should be no impediment at all.
I have already invented a name and background for you.”

She stared at him for a moment. “I
have no wish to be identified as a fraud.”

“We would never allow you to be
exposed in any way that would be injurious to you, Miss Sophy,” he
said. “As your sponsors, we too would be injured by any question of
impropriety.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, casting a
glance at Edward.

When she turned her attention back to
the novelist, Dickens and his wife were exchanging a look. They had
clearly discussed this beforehand. “Perhaps our new friend should
call you Kate from now on. Would that suit you, dear?”

“Of course,” Mrs. Dickens replied,
smiling at Sophy. “You will call me Kate, and that’s all there is
to it.”

The novelist nodded and
continued. “You see, five years ago we sailed on the
Britannia
to America.
And during our lengthy stay there, we traveled extensively--saw
many cities, met many families, and made countless
friends.”

Kate broke in excitedly. “And you will
be introduced as the daughter of one of those dear friends that we
made. You have recently arrived from America for a visit of
London.”

Sophy stole another glance at Edward.
He didn’t appear surprised by any of this.

“The question we still need to agree
on is where we should say you are from,” Dickens mused. “We don’t
want to have you originate in any city that London society knows
too little or too much about. At the same time, it is not wise to
have you from anywhere south, for there certainly will be questions
wherever you go regarding slavery.”

“We might say she is from
Philadelphia,” Kate offered.

“A handsome city, but
distractingly
regular
. After walking about the place for an hour or two, I
remember feeling that I would have given the world for a crooked
street. And the Quaker influence is striking . . . I wasn’t there a
day but the collar of my coat appeared to stiffen, and the brim of
my hat to expand.” Dickens’ attention turned to Sophy. “Do you know
anything about Quakers?”

“Nothing that comes immediately to
mind,” she admitted.

“No, Philadelphia won’t do,” Dickens
announced.

“What about New York?” Kate asked.
“You enjoyed New York, Charles.”

“It is certainly a
fascinating city. It may soon be the most beautiful metropolis in
America, but it is by no means as clean a city as, say, Boston.
Now,
there
is a
city. Many of Boston’s streets have the same qualities, except that
the houses there are more freshly painted, the sign-boards more
colorful, the gilded letters more golden, the bricks redder, the
stone of the great buildings whiter, the blinds and railings
greener, the knobs and plates upon the street-doors
brighter.”

“Why don’t you just say that you have
made up your mind for Sophy to be from Boston,” Edward
interrupted.

“Yes. Yes. Boston it is. The city is a
beautiful one and does not fail, I imagine, to impress all visitors
favorably. And in an hour’s time I can teach you all you need to
know and say about the city.”