Dear Future Husband

8. Get Your Dog Off Of Me!

5 March 1889

"Where are we going?" Maximilian asked, trying not to lose Edgar as he walked quickly through the crowd, pushing past men in bowler hats and tailcoats and women in hoop skirts and carrying large leather-bound trunks that he had to dodge. They were at the Port of Tilbury, loud foghorns and conversation making it difficult for the wind to barely carry his question into Edgar's earshot.

"Nowhere you need to be concerned about, boy." Edgar still rarely called Maximilian by his name. It was something he had grown used to.

In the past few months of staying with the Wakefields in their London town home, he had discovered many an interesting thing about the family. First of all, Daisy Wakefield, Caro and Gideon's infant daughter, liked to crawl and sink her teeth into anything she could get her hands on-which sometimes included Maximilian's ankles. Second of all, Edgar Wakefield was a drunk.

Though he had been taught by the nuns not to say anything that was disparaging of others, he had also been raised to speak the truth. And the truth was, that in addition to his constant smoking of meerschaum pipes, he also liked the bottle a great deal. When all the others had gone to sleep, sometimes Edgar would force Maximilian to stay up with him and look over accounts or small trinkets, and during those times, Edgar would be drinking late into the night, the pungent aroma of whiskey on his breath palpable.

In the mornings, however, he would be up bright and early, having bathed and rinsed off the scent of alcohol so that it no longer clung to his clothes. He would behave as though nothing were wrong, but even when Aunt Caro discussed putting brandy in a sauce or someone else made the slightest mention of alcohol, something shifted in Edgar. His expression became hungry, his posture stiffening. Maximilian wondered how he afforded all the liquor that he drank. Though he had never touched the stuff himself, Maximilian always noted Edgar's expensive bottles of gin, sherry, wine, and whisky. That was in addition to the flashy waistcoats, gilded pocket watches, and heavy rings that adorned his person.

The Wakefields' family business, he knew after looking at the accounts, was moderately wealthy. They had made enough to be comfortable, but Aunt Caro instead of relaxing and becoming a lady of leisure as he had assumed a rich man's wife would, kept busy. She chased after her own child and was constantly sewing, cooking, or managing some other household affair. Did it mean that they were not as rich as Maximilian thought, or did it simply mean that Aunt Caro disliked being idle?

The smell of saltwater splashed against his face, the clammy sensation of damp fog sending a shudder down his nape. It was constantly grey in England and the poor weather was compounded by the fact that they were now by the docks. Were they meeting a client here? That would not make sense, not when Edgar constantly harped on about the importance of appearances and how significant it was to always meet someone at a location of sufficient luxury that would sufficiently impress them.

"What are we doing at the docks?" Maximilian asked, hopping over a puddle in an effort to keep up with Edgar's long strides. He carried a large trunk, one that Maximilian had not seen before, and a leather portfolio tucked under his arm.

"One more question, boy." Edgar glowered down at him, but Maximilian would not be so easily cowed, especially since the man had never finished his threat. He had escaped Mistress Masterson's watchful glare relatively unscathed, and he would fight this, too. They finally stopped at a gangway that led to a large ship with a mermaid as the figurehead on its prow. A man stood there, glancing down at his watch and tapping his foot. "Here are the papers you requested, Captain."

"Are you sure this lad is old enough?" The man asked, his large hat obscuring most of his face. Maximilian could make out a hooked nose and green eyes. He swallowed nervously. Why did it matter how old he was?