Dear Future Husband

10. Dinner is Served

10 March 1889

It was seven o'clock, and Maximilian Walker had nothing to wear to supper.

He briefly considered his options. He could politely decline the invitation to dinner, but he his mouth watered at the thought of eating a meal that did not consist of stolen scraps... and he wanted to spend more time with Rosalie. Maximilian did not want to disappoint her. On the other hand, the thought of appearing in his shabby clothes seemed particularly demoralizing, imagining his fraying cuffs and missing buttons next to Rosalie's fine silks and muslin. Would he be able to bring himself to steal something to wear from one of the passengers' luggage? What could he do?

The musty scent of the passengers' baggage reached his nostrils while he heard the sound of footsteps. Startled, Maximilian jumped nearly a foot in his hiding place, cursing under his breath as he hit his head on a box. As he reached to steady it, he saw that the intruder or visitor was Lord Winthrop. Rosalie's father had a twinkle in his blue eyes and a smile partially obscured by his greying beard.

"Hello, young Mr. Walker." Lord Winthrop whistled cheerily. He came closer, and though Maximilian did not mistrust the man, he found it difficult to fully place his trust in anybody after the recent events of his life. Even men who appeared to be respectable, could hide their immorality. "Is this your hideout?"

Now he felt a sense of shame, almost, at the crumpled nest of sorts that he had made for himself. The boards of the cargo hold were littered with one crumpled shirt, some crumbs, and had previously been occupied by a family of mice. "S-sometimes, my lord."

The stutter that escaped his lips was an old habit, one Maximilian thought himself to have discarded in early childhood. Yet it still slipped free when he was particularly anxious or feeling upset about something. He cursed himself for it, a flush rising in his cheeks.

Carefully righting one of the precariously leaning stacks of crates, Lord Winthrop asked, "How would you feel about a new abode?"

There was something in his tone and in his mannerisms that reminded him of Gideon and Aunt Caro. Their kindness wasn't brought on by a desire to appear righteous and moral to others, but by the sincere motivation of serving others and being kind. It was something he had never experienced at the orphanage, something he had always doubted he would ever see in others.

"What... What do you mean by that, sir?" He cleared his throat as his voice cracked, the tenor going embarrassingly high.

Lord Winthrop looked him in the eye, and asked, "You seem like a bright young man, and I would hate to see you wind up in prison, in the way of so many bright young men who are unable to find work. Stowing away on this ship is a punishable offence, but my daughter has taken such a liking to you that I'm afraid I cannot risk her happiness. I spoke with the captain, and he has agreed to move you into one of the cabins in second class, with a bunkmate."

If he had been one for physical affection, or more comfortable around Rosalie's father, he might have been prone to fling himself into the man's arms like a nephew to his uncle. As it was, he remained stock still, but a smile made its way across his face. "Thank you, sir! I shall not disappoint you, sir."

With a chuckle, Lord Winthrop led the way out of the cargo hold. "I know, Maximilian. I know."

***

"Dinner is served," announced the waiter as he set down a silver-domed platter onto the white cloth-covered table.

The three of them-Rosalie, her father, and Maximilian-sat in the dining suite, which had been privately cleared out for Lord Winthrop to dine without peering eyes. Maximilian wondered if it was for himself, really, so that the Winthrops might not be seen associating with someone of such low breeding. But, he was grateful for the opportunity not to be judged as he wondered if he was using the correct fork for his beef Wellington or the right spoon for his soup.

As the waiter began doling out portions without a trace of emotion on his face, contempt or disgust or otherwise, Maximilian sat very still, watching the way Rosalie chattered to her father. Their relationship seemed so very strange to him, not due to any lack of affection between them but because of a seeming lack of discipline. Lord Winthrop, for the most part, gave in to many of Rosalie's whims, though he balked at donning the napkin that she folded into a 'crown' for him to wear.

He thought of his own faint memories of his parents, who had been quite poor, leaving him to be tended to by the neighbour woman, who already had five children of her own. They had been constantly tired when they did have time to spend with him. Then, one day he had received the news that his father had died in an accident at work. His mother had died shortly after of scarlet fever, leaving him in the care of a distant aunt. That aunt had put him to work in her shop, but she had had to close the shop when arthritis took away her use of her limbs and had gone into the care of her older son. He had been left at the doorsteps of the Watford Orphanage Asylum.

"Maximilian?" Rosalie said. From the hint of irritation lacing her tone, she had been saying his name for quite some time now.

He jolted to attention. Was he spilling gravy down his shirtfront? Committing some horrendous social faux pas? "Yes?"

"I was only going to tell you to relax," she said, something akin to a pout forming on her face. "You seem so tense."

The smile he wore in response felt a bit less stiff than his previous expression. "Apologies. I was only thinking."

"About what?" she leaned forward.

He thought of a subject hastily, after taking a sip of cider. "The Exposition in Paris. I've always wanted to see it."

Rosalie nodded, her blue eyes brightening. She spooned pea soup into her mouth. "Yes! Papa, were you not saying the other day, that you wished to see La Tour Eiffel?"

Lord Winthrop smiled fondly as his gaze landed on his daughter. He broke off a piece of bread, buttering it as he spoke. "I was commenting on what your Aunt Celia must think of it. Your uncle and aunt in France have very opposing opinions on the subject."

"Really? Why is that so?" Maximilian inquired, leaning forward.

Rosalie's father launched into an explanation. "Well, a great many Parisians consider to be an attack on the traditional architecture of their city..."

As Maximilian and Rosalie listened with rapt attention, Maximilian wondered if he would ever travel the world. He wondered if he would ever be able to become so secure in his place in the world, that leaving it would not make him feel like he was drifting through space, lost and without an anchor. He wondered if he would ever find a home, so that he could seek new adventures without wondering if he would have a soft place to land.

Beneath the table, something touched his hand. He nearly jumped out of his skin, though the sensation was not entirely unpleasant. With a cursory glance toward Rosalie, he realized her hand had migrated beneath the table, the backs of her knuckles brushing against his. He sucked in a breath of warning. She was not looking at him. It could have simply been an accident.

But it was not an accident when he curled his fingers around hers, squeezing, and thought that perhaps he might finally find a home, not in a city or a house or a town, but in a person.