To Dream Again (3 page)

***

The sound was soft, but Mara awoke with a start. She lifted her head to stare at the door through the dark curtain of her bangs, which had lost their curl hours before and now hung limply in her eyes.

The door was wide open. A man stood in the doorway, and he was watching her. Paralyzed, she stared back at him. Seeing a face of such flawless masculine beauty, she wondered if she were dreaming. The gaslight reflected off his hair, tawny, tousled hair that needed cutting. He stood with one shoulder against the jamb, arms folded across his chest, utterly still. She thought of golden eagles gliding on the wind, moving yet motionless.

No, it was not a dream. In her dark dreams, there would be no such man.

His eyes, the color of sea and sky, looked into her, seemed to perceive and understand everything about her in an instant. He tilted his head slightly to one side. "Why are you sad?"

At the unexpected question she jumped to her feet and pushed back her chair. She felt the knot of her hair coming loose and her hat pin slipping. Her bonnet slid to one side, and she wished she'd remembered to remove it when she'd come in earlier.

She attempted to straighten the mess as she backed away from the stranger, but her efforts only made things worse. An ostrich plume fell awkwardly over one eye and tickled her cheek. "Who are you?"

"Didn't mean to startle you," he said. "Saw your door open. I don't think it shuts properly." He smiled briefly, and in that instant everything in the world shifted, fell into place, and became right. She sucked in her breath. Perhaps he was a dream after all.

He nodded toward the table between them. "Shouldn't leave your money lying about like that. This doesn't seem to be the nicest neighborhood, I'm sorry to say."

Her gaze moved from him to the cash on the table. She stared down at the money and reality returned, making her feel foolish and awkward. She tried to push the feather out of her face. "Thank you for the warning."

She swept the money into her bank. Clutching the tin can to her breast, she gave him a nod of dismissal that bounced her feather back over her eye. She hoped he would take the hint.

He didn't. Instead, he came into the room and circled the table. She stepped back, retreating until her shoulder blades hit the mantel of the fireplace. She glanced down, but the poker was just out of her reach. He came closer, and alarm bells began ringing in her head. He was tall, and strong, and very strange. "Who...what are you doing?"

"Your feather is broken." He reached out and gripped the plume that dangled over her eye, then pushed it back, out of her vision. "I don't know much about the latest fashions for ladies," he added in a confidential tone, lowering his head until his perfect face was only inches from hers, "but I don't believe broken feathers are in vogue for bonnets this year."

He moved his hand, brushing the hair out of her eyes with the tips of his fingers, a light touch that made breathing difficult. She remained perfectly still, too terrified to move as he tucked a strand behind her ear.

He took a few steps back, and she began to breathe again. He surveyed his handiwork for a moment, then gave a satisfied nod. "Much better. Now I can see your face. No hair and ostrich tails to get in the way. Have you ever wondered how the ostriches must feel? Do they know their tail feathers are decorating the bonnets of women all over London?"

She didn't know whether to laugh or scream for help. "Who are you?" she asked, ashamed when her haughty demand came out as a helpless squeak.

"I've frightened you." His voice held both surprise and regret. "Terribly sorry. Didn't mean to. Allow me to introduce myself. Nathaniel Chase, brilliant inventor and rude terrifier of helpless ladies." He bowed, and the unruly strands of his golden hair caught the light.

"How...how do you do," she murmured.

"Very well, thank you." He straightened, shaking back his hair. Again he reminded her of an eagle in flight. "Fair play, ma'am."

She frowned. "Sorry?"

"I've given you my name. What's yours?"

"Mara." She licked her dry lips. "Mara—"

"That explains it then." He nodded sagely. "I see."

"What?"

"Mara means bitter. But I thought perhaps it might be Mariana."

"I beg your pardon?" Trying to follow his meaning was making her dizzy.

"'I am aweary, aweary,'"

She stared at him, wondering if he was a bit touched in the head.

"Don't you know your Tennyson?" he asked.

"Oh, poetry."

He laughed, a sound that was warm and rich and deep, filling her tiny room. "You say that as if it's your daily dose of cod liver oil." With another bow, he said, "It's been a pleasure, Mara Mariana, but I must be off. Opportunities await, and I have work to do." He turned away and looked around. "I had a reason for coming down here," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair and tousling it further. "What was it?" He paused, then snapped his fingers. "Ah! I remember."

He pointed to the open doorway and the wooden crate she had tripped over. "My gears."

She watched him walk out to the landing and lift the box. He gave her a nod of farewell through the doorway.

"The men must have forgotten to bring this up," he said with another of those odd smiles. "Better have that lock fixed," he advised and then disappeared, carrying his box of gears and whistling an aimless melody.

She wondered if perhaps he was a little mad.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Elliot," Percy said. "I never know what to say at a time like this."

Mara looked away from the sympathy in his green eyes. "You don't have to say anything, Percy. I know you had a great fondness for James."

"He was difficult to work for, but he gave me a chance when no one else would. Who else would hire a seventeen-year-old with no formal education, no background, and no experience to be his assistant?" He sighed. "Do you want me to make funeral arrangements?"

"No. Mr. Finch has already done that. There won't be a funeral, just a memorial service. Nine o'clock tomorrow at St. Andrew's Church."

"Is there anything I can do?"

She shook her head. "Not unless you have five thousand pounds tucked away somewhere."

Percy straightened in his chair, astonished. "Five thousand pounds! Whatever for?"

"Joslyn Brothers is calling in our loan. I have three days to pay the balance owed or they take the company."

Percy pulled at his auburn mustache, staring at the floor. After several moments, he looked up at her. "This means we're out of business."

"No it doesn't," she answered, her voice hard. "Not if I can help it."

"What do you intend to do?"

She rose and picked up her portfolio. "I shall pay Joslyn Brothers a visit. I'll try to persuade them not to call in the loan." She started for the door, but she paused and turned around when Percy spoke again.

"Do you want me to tell the employees?" he asked.

She thought about it for a moment, then she nodded. "Yes, we probably should, but only about James's death. Don't say anything about the loan."

"Of course not. Shouldn't we close down tomorrow?"

"Close down?"

"Most companies do close down on the day of the owner's memorial service. For mourning."

She frowned.

"Mrs. Elliot, forgive me if I'm being impertinent when I say this. I know that you and Mr. Elliot had problems, but he was your husband."

She stiffened. "You
are
being impertinent, Mr. Sandborn."

Percy made no reply. He just looked at her.

She gave an exasperated sigh. "All right, then. Close down, make whatever arrangements you think best. I'm departing for the bank."

She walked out before Percy could say another word. James Elliot had never been any kind of a husband to her, and she failed to see why she was expected to mourn for him. She would go to the memorial service for the sake of appearances, but she didn't have time to grieve for a man who'd never given the needs of his wife and daughter more than a passing thought.

Portfolio in hand, she left the factory and began the short walk up Houndsditch toward Bishopsgate, joining the throng of delivery carts, cabs, and pedestrians that crowded the streets.

As she walked, she went over all the reasons why Joslyn Brothers should not call in the loan. Elliot's was in much better shape now than when James had departed. He had left her with a pile of debt, almost no sales, and a line of creditors at the door. By planning carefully, watching every penny, and taking no chances, she had turned things around. Surely the bank would see what she had accomplished.

***

Mr. Abercrombie saw nothing of the kind. He took only a few moments to glance through the financial statements she had brought, then slowly shook his head and set the documents aside. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Elliot, but I'm afraid we will be unable to comply with your request."

"But why?"

"The terms of the loan are very clear." He tugged at his mustache and looked grave. "We must demand that the loan be repaid now."

"But that will break us!" Mara leaned forward in her chair. "We are growing, but we are still a small company."

"My dear lady, times are very uncertain. We can't afford the risk."

"Risk?" Mara's chin lifted slightly at the word. "I assure you, sir, I do not take risks. My business philosophy is most conservative."

"I'm sure it is."

She did not miss the patronizing tone of his voice. "The company is solvent," she went on, fighting to keep her voice confident. "I am a good customer of your bank. I have always made the interest payments on time. You can see by my financial statements that our position has improved tremendously in the last four years. This year, I expect we will make a profit."

She said it with pride, but he was not impressed. "There are other considerations. Your husband is dead, Mrs. Elliot. I sympathize with you, but we cannot allow sentiment to interfere with business decisions."

"I would not dream of bringing sentiment into it, sir. The fact is that if you call the loan now, we will not be able to pay it. Elliot's will be forced into bankruptcy, all our assets will be sold, and you will be fortunate if you can recoup the principal amount."

He said nothing, and she knew she was making no progress with him. She changed her tactics. "Then at least give me time to raise the money."

He leaned back in his chair. "My dear lady, what good will time do you? A few days, a few months—" He shrugged. "What difference will it make?"

"I would have time to find investors willing to capitalize Elliot's."

"Investors?" He stared at her in amazement. "You'll have difficulty finding investors with your present situation."

"The company is a fine investment. If you look at my financial statements again, you will see that—"

"Mrs. Elliot," he interrupted gently, "the fact is that you are a woman. You have little experience in the harsh world of business. It is difficult enough for a man of the world to succeed, much less a lady such as yourself. I doubt you will be lucky enough to find investors who feel differently."

"Lucky?" Mara forced herself not to grind her teeth. "I don't believe in luck, Mr. Abercrombie, and I would have thought that a man of logic and reason such as yourself would not believe in it either."

He stiffened. "The fact remains that your husband is dead."

"James has had nothing to do with the management of Elliot's for some years now. I have been in charge. You know that. I've come in every Monday for the past four years to make deposits, go over our account, and manage our financial affairs."

"Mrs. Elliot, I realize that circumstances forced you to take on some responsibility for the business when your husband went to America. But all this time, he was still within reach of a telegraph if the need arose for serious decisions. Now that he is dead, who will make those decisions?"

"I have been making those decisions for four years now, sir. My husband was a brilliant man in his way, with an uncanny knack for making money, but he also had an uncanny knack for losing it. I assure you, I never telegraphed to him for advice. It was neither necessary nor desirable for me to do so."

The banker was unconvinced. "Nonetheless, your husband owned the company, and he was responsible for it. Now that he is dead, the bank wishes to remove itself from any possible future losses resulting from his death."

"This is ridiculous!" Mara burst out, frustrated by the sheer unfairness of it. "I have been responsible for Elliot's. I have worked very hard to make the company profitable. I will not stand by and watch it all unravel!"

The banker seemed uncomfortable at this display of female emotion. He picked up the documents and handed them to her. "The decision has been made. I am truly sorry if the company is forced into bankruptcy, but this is business."

Mara stared down at the neatly penciled figures of her balance sheet, feeling her options slipping away, but she would not beg. She would not confess that if she lost the company she would have nothing. She could not.