“You’ve got your hands full with that one,” observes Mr. Burnside.
“She’s a good girl, really. Just impulsive when she’s excited. As most children are, at this age.”
My voice is crisp, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His hand reaches for the gear lever. “She doesn’t get that from her daddy, that’s for sure. Never saw a man with a more even temper than Mr. Fitzwilliam. Nothing troubled him. Cool as January. I always figured it was the war, see. You survive something like that, and … Oh, look at that. It’s one of his ships. Your ships, I mean.”
I turn my head to the cluster of vessels awaiting the lifting of the drawbridge. “Which one?”
“The steamer, there at the end. Loaded up with fruit, I’ll bet, and headed for Europe. Though I’d have to check the schedule in the office to be sure.”
“Yes, I’d like that.”
“Oh, I don’t mean you, ma’am. There’s no need for you to trouble yourself with the business side of things.”
The wooden deck draws slowly upward before us, foot by foot, and Evelyn gasps for joy. Claps her palms together, leans trustfully into my hands. The creaking of the gear reaches a breaking point, above the rumble of the Packard’s idling engine, and the ships begin to bob forward.
“But that’s why I’m here, Mr. Burnside. To learn about Simon’s business. Since it now belongs to me.”
“Now, Mrs. Fitzwilliam. Why bother yourself like that? That’s what we’re here for, to keep your affairs running all nice and smooth, so you don’t need to dirty yourself. The dirt of commerce, I mean. Just you live in comfort and raise your daughter and maybe find yourself another husband. A nice, ladylike thing like you. It’s hard work, you know, running a business like this.”
“I’m not afraid of hard work.”
“Well, now. Have you ever run a business before, Mrs. Fitzwilliam?”
“No. But that doesn’t mean—”
“Then I think you’d best just leave everything to us, ma’am. Those of us who know the business, inside out.” He leans back contentedly against the seat and crosses his arms over his broad, damp chest. “Trust me.”
Well! At the sound of those words—Trust me—I’m nearly overcome by an urge to laugh. High and hysterical, a little mad, the kind of laugh that will make this kind, round-bellied lawyer shake his head and think, Women.
Trust me. My goodness. Trust me, indeed. I’ve heard that one before.
But I don’t laugh. Poor fellow. Why disturb his satisfaction? Instead, I watch the progress of the ships through the gap in the bridge, paying particular attention to the nimble white steamship at the end, which—I now see—bears the name of its company in black block letters near the stern.
PHANTOM SHIPPING LINES
AS IT HAPPENS, SIMON’S DOCK is empty of ships, except for a small boat that Mr. Burnside informs me is a tender. “The others are out to sea,” he says, chewing on the end of a long and unlit cigar, “which is a good thing, mind you. Good for profits. Our aim is always to turn the ships around as smart as we can.”
We’re standing at the end of the Phantom Shipping dock, and the Indian River swirls around the pilings at our feet while a hazy white sun cooks us inside our clothes. Evelyn, restless, swings from my hand to look for fish in the oily water. Thirty yards away, a tugboat steams slowly upstream, trailing gray smoke from its single stack. The air is almost too hot to breathe.
“What about the warehouse?” I ask.
“Warehouse?”
I turn and nod to the rectangular wooden building at the base of the dock. Like the ship at the drawbridge, the building identifies its ownership in confident, no-nonsense black letters above the massive double door: PHANTOM SHIPPING LINES. The paint is fresh, on both the signboard and the white walls of the warehouse itself. There are no windows. I understand this keeps the fruit fresh and cool in its crates, waiting for a ship to transport it across the ocean. Citrus, mostly, but some avocado as well. There’s a growing taste for more exotic fare in the London drawing rooms, apparently, after so many years of restriction and rationing and self-denial. A growing taste for adventure.
“Oh, there won’t be anything to see in there,” says Mr. Burnside. “The ship’s already loaded and left, and we’re not due to receive any goods this morning.”
“I’d like to have a look, all the same.”
He nudges aside his sleeve to check his watch. “Well, I can’t object to that. But it is nearly lunchtime, and we’ve still got the offices to visit, haven’t we? And your poor daughter looks like she might stand in need of a rest and a cool drink, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, you do seem pleased to offer up your opinion on a variety of matters, Mr. Burnside.” I strike off down the dock, holding Evelyn’s hand. “Even without being asked for it.”
“That’s what I’m paid to do, Mrs. Fitzwilliam. Give you my opinion. Your husband, in his will, made very clear that—”
I turn so quickly, Mr. Burnside nearly stumbles into my chest. He’s an inch shorter than I am, and his eyes are forced to turn up to meet mine. I can tell he doesn’t necessarily welcome the mismatch.
“Let me make very clear, Mr. Burnside, that my late husband’s wishes are really no longer the point. My wishes are your business now, and if you find that task impossible, I’m afraid I’ll simply have to find myself a new lawyer.”
He steps backward. Snatches the cigar from the corner of his mouth. Widens his eyes to regard the cast of my expression, which—after two and a half years of motherhood—is formed of iron.
“Of course, ma’am.” He inclines his head. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”
“I’m sure you didn’t. I presume the warehouse is locked?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you have the key?”
“I do.”
“Then let’s proceed, shall we?”
I swing Evelyn onto my hip and cut through the sweating atmosphere in long, masculine strides to the white double doors at the base of the dock.
As it turns out, Mr. Burnside is correct. The warehouse doors swing open to reveal nothing at all: no cargo, at any rate. No waiting crates of citrus and avocado. Along the walls, ropes and tools hang at neat intervals, and the air—unexpectedly cool—smells of the usual dockside perfume, hemp and tar and salt and warm wood.
And something else.
I tilt my chin and sniff carefully. There it is again, sweet and spicy and tonic.
“Is something the matter, Mrs. Fitzwilliam?” asks Mr. Burnside, lighting his cigar.
“Nothing at all.”
“What smell, Mama?”
Evelyn’s wrinkling her tiny nose. Her face has grown pink from the heat, and I consider the possibility that Mr. Burnside’s correct about this, as well: she needs a rest and a cool drink.
“Smell, darling? What do you smell?”
“It’s my cigar, I expect,” Mr. Burnside says quickly.
“No, it’s not that. I smelled it, too.”
“Just the fruit, then.”
“Possibly.” I try the air again, but the flavor has disappeared in the overpowering fog of the lawyer’s cigar. “Though it didn’t smell like fruit to me. If anything, it smelled like brandy.”