The World of Tomorrow by Brendan Mathews

Author:Brendan Mathews
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction / Historical, Fiction / Family Life, Fiction / Sagas, Fiction / Urban
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Published: 2017-09-05T04:00:00+00:00

CENTRAL PARK

THERE WAS SOMETHING ABOUT Anisette. Francis hadn’t been lying about that. And it honestly wasn’t the money.

Francis had considered himself quite a ladies’ man in Dublin, but he had never gotten involved in anything serious. He was young and in the years before he got tossed into Mountjoy he’d had flash clothes and money in his pockets. He was known around some of the best brothels in the city—clever and kind to the ladies, and willing to spend what he had. His line of work also brought him in contact with well-to-do women who needed him to fetch items they couldn’t acquire in Dublin—books, yes, but also luxuries like perfume and silks that were heavily taxed through the normal channels. Their thanks for his prompt attention sometimes went beyond an extra pound or two as gratuity.

But he didn’t have any experience that made sense of the way Anisette worked at him. On the ship and at Bingham Castle, he had felt an impulse that he could only describe as protective. He had been warm, enthusiastic, and quick to gainsay those who seemed keen to prick the glossy soap bubble that surrounded her. But that was no more than being polite, wasn’t it? He thought again of her appearance at his stateroom door; she seemed completely without guile. She really was concerned about his brother. She really did want to wish him a good night (Mrs. Walter hadn’t even bothered with pretense, which bespoke an honesty all its own). But since Anisette’s performance on the violin and the way he had looked straight at her, wild-eyed, and she had looked straight back, he couldn’t get her out of his head.

Perhaps the Angus disguise was starting to affect his brain. Francis wasn’t the type to fall for some doe-eyed ingenue, but maybe Sir Angus was exactly that type. And the more time he spent with Anisette, the farther he fell.

He was probably violating half a dozen rules of etiquette but he sent a card to the Binghams early Wednesday morning asking if Anisette would perhaps be available for a walk sometime after lunch. What he could not say in the note was that he had gone to bed last night thinking of the particular shade of red in her cheeks when she raised the bow from the body of the violin. Or that the first person he’d thought of when he woke that morning was her. Of course he couldn’t write any of this, but neither could he believe that he was even thinking it. When had he become such a moony romantic? Half of him—his more cynical side—wanted to see Anisette in order to bring her off the pedestal she had occupied since Monday night. Reality would surely remind him of all the ways that she was just another girl. Lying in bed the night before, he had told himself that jail was the culprit. In Dublin, he had become accustomed to the tender affection of female company, and to have it taken away for so long had made him desperate.

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