They’d conducted a hasty, hushed meeting on the street outside the hotel and arranged a system of communication so they could most efficaciously avoid finding one another in the future. Theresa let him know she was not dead and sent him actual droll letters of her exploits months after she accomplished them.
Luckily Grayson hadn’t been present to tattle on him to the rest of his family. Not that Captain Hunter would, but he wouldn’t have seen it as tattling. Benedict was effectively a child on an apprenticeship. Judith asked for regular letters about her brother’s performance, and even if Grayson didn’t mention it to Judith, he wrote to his brother, Adrian, who was married to Camilla, one of Benedict’s other sisters. Camilla and Judith talked. One could never be too careful.
Since Bombay, between Benedict’s pretended incompetence in the search and his actual competence in warning his sister, they’d managed to avoid a repeat of their meeting.
He scrawled out a far more truthful, and amusing, description of how he had spent his day at the hotel before sealing up both his letters. They’d take months to arrive in the hands of his family, and by then, he’d have more non-news to deliver.
Until then… He thought of Mrs. Smith and Chinese telegraphy. He was going to be the best liaison who had ever liaised.
God, he loved not being in England.
Chapter Sixteen
The first few weeks of employment seemed to blur together. Amelia felt as if all of her time was occupied: settling into a home for her and Merry, making a list of what she needed, tentatively making decisions, panicking at the fact she had to make decisions, and then second-, third-, and fourth-guessing those decisions.
She sent her first letter to Grayson within three days—one that she’d mulled over at all hours of the night, hoping it would not make her sound too pathetic. She eventually transformed it into a twenty-word cipher with the help of Benedict.
Dear Captain Hunter, her original letter had read. I have made a list of steps that I believe must be taken in order to fall within the timeline you have given me. In order to best accomplish this, we will have to hire two additional employees for the office. I hoped you would offer me some guidance in that regard. I had thought to provide the following criteria so you might comment as you saw fit…
He had not yet started laying cable, according to Benedict. “It’ll take a few days to send the letter to Hong Kong,” he had explained, “and then a few minutes to wire to the coast of Japan. He’ll answer before he leaves.”
She received the telegram—one that had come from Japan to Hong Kong before being sent by courier ship to Shanghai—a week and a half later.
The telegram read in its entirety: 19.
Dutifully, Amelia opened up the drawer where she had stored the stack of letters he’d given her. She hadn’t looked at them since she’d received them; she couldn’t think of them without thinking of the warmth of his hand against her cheek, the touch of his lips against hers, the scent of him, musky and slightly sweet all at the same time…
She was busy. She didn’t have time for any nostalgic nonsense.
Yet upon looking at the unopened stack of letters, all that wistful emotion flooded back into her. She thumbed through the stack of envelopes. It took some time, as he had not given them to her in exact numerical order, a thing she found somewhat offensive. She reordered the envelopes, retrieved number nineteen, commanded her heart to stop beating swiftly and her mind to stop remembering the taste of his lips on hers, and opened it.
Would there be reprimands? Would there be further information?
Mrs. Smith, his letter read, you’re doing very well. Carry on with what you believe you need. Benedict has been instructed to see to any details you need him to address.
That was it? Her eyes narrowed. Carry on? Talk to Benedict? What if she were making a dreadful mistake? Would he even have told her?
Amelia looked up, then to the side, and threw her hands in the air. “Oh well,” she told the telegram. “I suppose he shall have to bear the consequences of any of my mistakes.”
The rocky coast of northern Japan was still visible but swiftly receding, green and gray sliding into ocean caps. The shore line had been laid by the Celerity; the flow of current through the telegraph line to shore had been confirmed to cheers, and the second of three multiple-thousand-mile segments across the Pacific had been started.
It was after the Daily Disoccupation—Gray had accompanied the crew in celebratory tunes—when Lightfoot approached him.
“Captain Hunter?”
“Yes?”
“You asked me to tell you if the on-ship telegraphic system was functioning.”
“Ah. Yes.”
“It is.” Lightfoot grinned. “Works like a charm. And I have a message for you already.”
“Yes?”
Lightfoot looked at him. “It’s from Mrs. Smith.”
The engineer was watching him just a little too carefully. Mr. Lightfoot and Mrs. Smith had spent time together on the Celerity. Grayson had done his best to keep some kind of distance from them but… Perhaps they had talked? About him?
“Here,” Lightfoot said, holding it out.
Talked about him. God, who cared if they had? Not he.
He grabbed the message. The first few words of the ciphered message read: REPLEVIN ENCLOSURES…
Grayson was going to have to consult his cipher notebook on this. Lightfoot may already have done so.
“Thank you,” Grayson said. “Is that all?”
A tiny corner of Lightfoot’s mouth ticked up. “I have nothing more for you.”
It took him half an hour to decode Mrs. Smith’s message. The Lord Traders commercial cipher was optimized for business messages, not for sending messages about Chinese telegraphy.
My problem now is how to handle enclosures within enclosures. The “end enclosure” signal is not specific—am I ending the first, larger one or the second, smaller one? The characters could go both ways. I don’t expect you to answer this, but I need help—someone to talk these things over with, and Benedict scarcely understands Mandarin. Where should I go?
Grayson tried not to think of Mrs. Smith too often or too much. He definitely tried not to think of that kiss, of the feel of her lips on his, of how it had felt to give in to his wants…
It would be one thing to have sex. He’d done that before. He liked sex, liked being with someone and making them feel good. He liked knowing they both understood what they were to each other.
He did not understand what he was to her. If it had just been attraction, it wouldn’t have mattered. But he found himself invested in her in a way that terrified him. There would be no kissing and agreeing that it meant nothing beyond a satiation of physical want.
He could scarcely even talk to his own family without guilt. There was no way to build something with a woman he had just met.
If he had encountered her in earlier times…
For a moment, he allowed himself to think about what it would have been like if they’d met one another back when he was more carefree. He might have teased her more. Complimented her. He might have found ways to stay in Shanghai so that he could answer her questions in person and watch her bloom.
He might have answered the questions he knew he shouldn’t ask, like whether she blushed all over. He might have been able to have her, truly have her.