 Nothing ever goes the way you think it will. That’s the lesson I’ve learned from my second book. You see, To Dream Again started with one of those tricky ideas that seems so easy and simple at first, and ends up being one of the hardest books an author ever writes. I found myself wanting to tell the story of a heroine who was a cynic and a hero who was an optimist, and it took me forever to figure out those two characters. After months of sweat, sleepless nights, and sheer force of will, I finished the manuscript and sent it off to my editor, sure I would have tons of rewriting to do. Nope. She had no problems with the manuscript at all (one of the few times in my career that’s ever happened!). And now, many years after its initial release, this book has been given a second life, one I couldn’t have envisioned when it was first published. Back then, the Internet was in its infancy, and e-book readers were a pipe dream.
I hope you enjoy To Dream Again, because it’s in these pages that the heroine and I both figure out one of life’s biggest lessons: things just don’t always go according to plan.
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Chapter One
Whitechapel 1889
Nathaniel Chase heard the loud, rather insistent knock on the open door and the irate voice calling his name, but being rather preoccupied, he did not look up from his task. "Yes, Mrs. O'Brien, what is it?"
The stout landlady followed the sound of his voice, dodging her way around moving men, steamer trunks, furniture, and wooden crates. In the center of the room she paused, unable to find her new tenant amid the chaotic jumble of his belongings. "Mr. Chase?"
"Over here," he called.
Peeking between a tall wooden Indian and a large telescope, she saw him on his knees beneath a table, his back to her, rummaging in a box.
She cast a curious glance at the tools and machinery that littered the table before bending to peer at the man beneath. "Mr. Chase, sure did I not say to have your things off the stairs by five o'clock?"
Nathaniel stopped ransacking the box and lifted his head to reply, forgetting that he was kneeling beneath the table. He hit his head with a bang, nearly tumbling his equipment onto the floor. "Ouch!"
He caught the legs of the table to prevent it from falling. Once it was stable again, he moved out from under it and jumped to his feet. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he said, rubbing his sore head and doing his best to look contrite, "but moving in is taking longer than I thought."
"Where do you want this one, guv'nor?"
Nathaniel glanced at the two men who stood nearby holding a huge crate between them. "Ah, my trains!" He pointed to an empty space beside the table. "Put it here, if you please. And be careful," he added. "It's somewhat fragile."
He returned his attention to his new landlady. "Mrs. O'Brien, I will have my things off the stairs as soon as I can find a place to put them."
She placed her hands on her ample hips. "You said you'd be moved in by the end of the day. Other tenants will be returnin' from work soon and won't like findin' they can't get up the stairs, yer boxes and things bein' scattered hither and yon. You promised me—"
"Yes, I know," he interrupted. "By the time my neighbors return from work, my things will be out of the way." He looked around with a frown. "I don't know where I'll put them. It seems I have underestimated the quantity of my luggage."
Mrs. O'Brien was never one to miss an opportunity. "I've a cellar you could use. Only two shillings the week."
Nathaniel considered that option for a moment. These were only temporary lodgings, of course, but he wasn't certain how long it would be before he could find permanent rooms. In the meantime, he would have to use his rooms as his laboratory, and he wanted his things close at hand. Mrs. O'Brien's cellar simply wouldn't do. There had to be another solution.
He raked a hand through his hair and glanced up, then paused as an idea struck him.
"The attic is directly above me, is it not?"
"It is." The landlady frowned suspiciously. "But I don't see—"
He pointed to the ceiling. "If I put in a hole, I could use the attic."
"A hole in my ceiling? Heavens, no!"
Nathaniel paid no attention to her protest. "Yes, that would work," he muttered to himself. His decision made, he turned to one of the men who was bringing in his things. "Mr. Boggs, could you come here a moment?"
The burly, bald-headed man stepped up beside him, and Nathaniel pointed above his head. "Could you cut a hole here and give me access to the attic?"
"Mr. Chase, I won't allow it. I won't let you tear me house down!"
Mrs. O'Brien's declaration was lost on the two men, who began to discuss the project. "Very good," Nathaniel finally said. "When can you begin?"
The man rubbed his jaw. "I'd need t'get me tools and buy the goods. And I'll want me boy to 'elp. Tomorrow afternoon be all right, guv'nor?"
"Of course. Before you leave today, would you and your men bring the rest of my things off the stairs? Just pile them anywhere you can find room."
A wail from Mrs. O'Brien caused Nathaniel to turn to her. "Are you unwell?" he asked, noting her flushed face and distraught expression.
She placed a hand to her heart. "Holes in me ceiling. Oh, heavens."
She seemed quite upset to Nathaniel. This was a matter of simple carpentry, easily repaired when he moved out,
and he couldn't understand her distress—until he looked into her eyes and perceived a shrewd gleam in their green depths.
He pulled his wallet from the inner pocket of his jacket. "If I leave, I will pay to have everything put back exactly the way it was before," he assured her. "And I'll pay you half rent for the attic."
He began to count out money. "And there's five pounds to you, my dear lady, for all the inconvenience."
"Well, now," she said, brightening considerably, "that's somethin' I can agree to." She snatched the money from his hand.
Nathaniel turned and tossed his wallet toward his desk, where it landed in an open drawer. He took the landlady by the elbow and turned her gently toward the door. "Mrs. O'Brien, you are a pearl beyond price. I thank you."
"Will ye be needin' anything else, sir?" she asked, tucking the money into the pocket of her apron as Nathaniel guided her past Mr. Boggs and around a stack of crates. "Breakfast, tea, an' dinner? I'm a fine cook, I don't mind sayin'. Three meals a day for, say, two quid the week?"
"That's a tempting offer. A man does appreciate home cooking. I will consider it." He gave her his most charming smile and pushed her out the door. "I'll have my things off the stairs shortly," he promised. "Good day."
She hesitated a moment, then bobbed her head and turned to go down the stairs. "Very good, sir. If there's anything else you need—"
"I'll be sure to let you know."
"Lad's got more money than sense," she muttered as she descended the stairs and finally disappeared.
Nathaniel turned back around and caught sight of the huge crate that contained his trains. He grinned. He didn't have much money, and he probably didn't have much sense either. But he had his dream, and that was enough.
Mara Elliot walked along the mezzanine of the factory with a brisk, no-nonsense stride that bounced the ostrich plume of her straw bonnet and caused the heels of her high-button shoes to hit the floor in rhythm with the steam engines on the production floor below.
The six o'clock whistle sounded, a loud squeal over the rumble of machinery, and she turned, leaning over the rail to watch as activity ceased below. Steam engines shut down, conveyor belts came to a stop, and the deafening roar of machinery faded away. People began heading for the doors.
When she caught sight of her secretary beckoning her to come down she turned away from the rail and joined the women leaving the mezzanine.
"If me Alfie thinks of gettin' any tonight, he's off his chump," one woman declared to another, pausing on the stairs in front of Mara. “Passing me wages to a pubkeeper! I won't stand it."
"Good for you, Emma," the woman beside her said.
"And shovin' me around. Who's 'e think 'e is?" Emma paused for breath and glanced over her shoulder, catching sight of her employer standing only a few feet behind them. "Evenin', ma'am," she said respectfully and moved back, pressing herself against the wall to let Mara pass. The other woman did the same, and Mara walked between them.
She had never been the sort to fraternize with her employees. She knew other small business operators who did, regarding their workers as a sort of extended family, but Mara preferred to keep some distance between herself and her staff, feeling it gave her more respect.
She was very conscious of her position. She was not the owner, she was the owner's wife. Her authority was always at risk, and she knew the best way to maintain respect was to remain cool and efficient.
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, her secretary was waiting for her. "What is it, Percy?"
"Mr. Finch is waiting in your office. He needs to speak with you."
"Here?" Mara was surprised. She couldn't recall the solicitor ever coming to her office before. "I'll go immediately."
She started across the production floor, and her secretary fell in step beside her. "Did he say what he wanted to see me about?" she asked.
"No, but perhaps it's about the gentleman who was here this morning."
Mara stopped walking. "What gentleman?"
Percy also came to a halt. "I didn't have the chance to tell you earlier, but a man came this morning asking to see Mr. Elliot while you were out. He seemed surprised to find that your husband wasn't here."
Mara's brows drew together in a frown. "James is in America now. At least, I thought he was." One never knew with him. He could be anywhere. "Did the man say what he wanted?"
"No, just that he had business with Mr. Elliot and was expected. Mr. Elliot supposedly had arranged a meeting with him here."
She almost laughed out loud. It was just like James to arrange a meeting in London when he was probably wandering around the Arizona desert. "Did you tell him James has been away for quite some time?" Four years. "And that we don't anticipate his return in the near future?"
"Yes, ma'am. He mentioned that Mr. Elliot had arranged for them to meet here in London, and that he had come all the way from San Francisco, expecting Mr. Elliot to be waiting."
More fool him, Mara thought cynically. Anyone who expected her husband to be where he was supposed to be was doomed to disappointment. "San Francisco? An American gentleman?"
"No, he was British, I believe. I explained to him that you were in charge during Mr. Elliot's absence, and he requested a meeting with you. I made an appointment for him to meet with you Thursday morning at eleven."
She sighed. "Oh, very well. I'll meet with him if I have time. Go home, Percy. I'll see you tomorrow."
Percy walked away, but Mara remained where she was, lost in thought. She couldn't help wondering why someone had come all the way from San Francisco to see James. She didn't like the sound of it. Knowing her husband, it was probably some get-rich-quick scheme. Well, if he intended to take out another loan to pay for it, he was mistaken. It was hard enough to make interest payments on what he'd already borrowed.
With a shake of her head, she dismissed the stranger and her wandering husband from her mind and turned down the hallway leading to her office.
"Mr. Finch," she greeted the gray-haired gentleman as she entered her office and closed the door behind her. "What brings you down here?"
The solicitor rose to his feet, but he did not give her his usual smile of greeting. "A matter of some importance, I'm afraid."
Mara caught the stilted sound of his words and began to feel slightly uneasy as she studied the solicitor's worried face. "Is something wrong?"
Finch tugged at his collar. "Perhaps we should sit down."
"Of course." Mara crossed the small room. "What is this about?" she asked, circling her desk.
"Mara, dear, you'd best sit down."
"What's the matter?" He looked so grave, her uneasy feeling grew into alarm, and she knew something terrible had happened. "Mr. Finch, what is it? You're beginning to frighten me."
"Mara..." He paused and sighed deeply. "James is dead."
"Dead?" The news hit her like a punch in the stomach, and she sank into her chair. Numbly, she stared up at the solicitor. "How? When?"
Finch sat down, taking the chair opposite her across the desk. "I received a cable from California a few hours ago. Evidently, he had purchased a gold mine near San Francisco and was there to take a look at it. I'm told there was an earthquake while he was in the mine, and he was killed. Seven days ago. They dug his body out and buried it, but it took a bit of time to learn who he was."
She leaned her elbows on the desk and pressed her fingers to her suddenly throbbing temples. Then she closed her eyes, recalling the last time she'd seen James. He'd been packing to depart for America, babbling rubbish about adventures in the untamed West, and some new deal in railway stocks.
He'd said he would send for her and Helen once he was settled, but she had told him no, that this time she wasn't dragging their daughter halfway across the world to follow him. She had reminded him of all his past promises to settle down. She'd asked him to stay for Helen's sake. Then she'd thrown pride away and begged him to stay, using the only plea she had left.
If you truly love me, you'll stay. You'll do it for me.
That, of course, had not worked. He'd gone to America anyway. He had handed over the reins of the company to her and left her with the debts. Alone, she'd had to take care of their daughter. Alone, she'd had to deal with the pain when Helen had died. Alone, she'd been forced to make a living from the tattered remnants of a company he'd tired of after less than a year.
The company. Mara lifted her head sharply. "What about Elliot's? Do I inherit it?"
"Although your husband evidently died without making a will, the company would still come to you as his wife, but—"
"Thank heaven." She breathed a sigh of relief. "At least I have that."
"No, Mara, I'm afraid you don't."
For a moment, she didn't understand. Then the realization hit her, and she sucked in a sharp breath. "The bank. The loan. Dear God."
The solicitor's slow nod confirmed her worst fear. "Joslyn Brothers is calling in the loan on Elliot's. I'm sorry, Mara."
The past repeated itself over and over again. No matter how hard she worked, how hard she fought, it never made any difference. Think, Mara, she told herself, fighting to remain calm. Think. "What about this gold mine he bought? Wouldn't I inherit that as well?"
"There's no gold in it. Your husband, it appears, had not consulted mining engineers before he purchased it. The mine is worthless."
How characteristic of James to die in a worthless gold mine. It was the inevitable fate of a man who always wanted to find the end of the rainbow. Again, she was the one who had to deal with the consequences. She shook off the bitterness that swept over her. "What do I have to do to keep Elliot's?"
"The terms of the loan James took against the company
are quite clear. The balance and any interest become due and payable ten days after his death. To keep Elliot's, you have to pay off the loan. Within three days from now."
Mara felt sick. The principal was at least five thousand pounds. She could never raise that kind of money in only a few days.
She thought of all the work she had done. All the careful planning, all the worry, all the sacrifices to make a life for herself and become an independent woman. After four years of struggle, Elliot's was finally solvent. The future had actually begun to promise the security she craved.
Gone. In the blink of an eye, it was all gone.
Mara walked slowly through the now quiet factory, moving between the machines and tables. Finch had tactfully left her to grieve in private, but she found she could not grieve. James was dead, but in her heart he had died a long time ago. He had died by degrees, day by day, year by year. She should feel sad, she supposed, but she felt nothing at all.
She should cry, but she remembered all the tears she had shed during her first eight years of marriage to James. Tears of heartbreak as a young bride who couldn't understand why her husband was always leaving. Tears of farewell when she again packed up everything to join him, and friends were left behind. Tears of worry when it all fell apart, when the bills inevitably came due and there was no way to pay them. Finally, tears of bitterness when the fire came, when Helen had died, when James had not been there.
Too many tears, washing away all her love for him until there was nothing. Four years ago, she had run out of tears, and she had not cried since. She could not cry now.
She had to think, she had to come up with a solution to the problem at hand. In a few days, everything she'd spent four years building would collapse, and she had no idea how to stop it.
There was nothing else to be done. She had to find a way to hang on. In the morning, she would go to Joslyn Brothers and try to persuade them not to call in the loan. She went back into her office and gathered the company's account books, placing them in her worn leather portfolio. When she left her office, she found Percy at his desk. He had not obeyed her order to go home. He often worked late, and she knew he was underpaid for the hours he put in, but she couldn't afford to pay him more.
Suddenly, she felt an overpowering urge to confide in him, to ask for help, for advice. He looked up, and the words stuck in her throat. She gave him a stiff nod of good night, and left the factory, but paused a moment to glance at the sign above the entrance: "Elliot Electrical Motors Company."
Not for long, perhaps. She turned away and started for home. A stray kitten, its ribs showing plainly through matted gray fur, hissed at her as it slinked by. She felt like hissing back. She was in that sort of mood.
She walked to her lodging house next door and heard the clock strike eight as she stepped inside. If only I had the money to pay off the loan, she thought, starting up the stairs. She shook off the thought impatiently. If only was a silly term, a child's wish. She didn't have the money and all the wishing in the world wouldn't give it to her. But the wistful words followed her as she reached the second level of the three-story building and turned to the door leading into her flat. If only...
Preoccupied with her thoughts, Mara didn't notice the item on the landing until she stumbled over it. "Oh!" she cried and pitched forward, dropping her portfolio.
After regaining her balance, she bent down, rubbing her shin and trying to discern in the dim twilight from the window at the end of the corridor what had caused her to stumble. It was a wooden crate filled with flat metal disks of varying sizes. What was such a curious item doing in the corridor?
She didn't have much time to ponder the question before a loud pounding began above her head. Startled, she jumped at the unexpected sound.
Mrs. O'Brien must have let the rooms upstairs. She hoped the new tenant didn't intend to continue that pounding all evening. What was he doing?
The noise from upstairs stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Mara picked up her portfolio and fumbled in her pocket for her latchkey. Finding it, she turned toward her room, carefully stepping over the crate. She came to a halt before her door and frowned in irritation at the sight of it hanging slightly ajar. Three days now, and the lock still wasn't fixed.
With a sigh, she pushed the door open and stepped inside her room.
As rooms went, hers wasn't much. The ceiling plaster was cracked, the mattress sagged, and the table and chair were too rickety to be of much use. The view from her window was the brick wall of Elliot's. She had always intended to find better lodgings once the company was profitable, but there never seemed to be any profits.
She had to take stock of her situation. After setting her portfolio on the table and turning on the gas lamp, she opened her window to let in the hint of summer breeze. She carefully lit a small fire in the grate and put on the kettle to boil water for tea. Then she pulled the information she'd gathered from the office out of her portfolio, placing the account books in neat stacks on the table along with pencils and paper.
Her door had swung open again, and she tried to close it, but the latch refused to cooperate. The kettle began to boil, and she let the door go.
After pouring out her tea, she sank down in the chair, feeling its uneven legs rock beneath her. She pulled the account books forward and began looking for some way, any way, to scrape together five thousand pounds.
A little while later, she set down her pencil and sat back, defeated. The cash-on-hand was meager, a tiny fraction of what she needed to pay back the loan. The only alternative was to sell assets, and there wasn't a single piece of equipment they didn't need in the factory. She'd been over the balance sheet a dozen times. The money simply wasn't there.
Leaning forward, she rested her elbows on the table and rubbed her eyes with the tips of her fingers, feeling the cool smoothness of her kid gloves against her lids. If she didn't come up with the money, she would lose the company. If she lost Elliot's, what would she do?
What occupations were there for a widow whose only work experience was managing a factory? No one would hire a woman for that. She lifted her head and stared down at her gloved hands. She supposed she could become a typist, but she imagined work of that nature would require her to remove her gloves.
Mara tugged at the fingertips of her left glove and pulled it halfway off, staring down at the scars on her hand. People would stare at her with pity in their eyes. They might ask questions. She yanked the glove back into place, hiding the scars even from herself.
What would she do? Visions of the future hovered on the edge of her mind, a future of poverty, a future born of the past. A dismal future, indeed, for a woman with no prospects and little money of her own.
Desperation began to spread through her, desperation and a hint of panic. She rose to her feet. Walking to the washstand that stood in one corner of the small room, she took her tin bank from its hiding place.
Tuppence for the bank, Mara. Her mother's words floated back to her from years ago. At least tuppence, every day.
As a child, she had watched her mother put two pennies in a tin can each day. She'd said if they did that every single day, they'd eventually have enough to buy a home of their own. But her mother had died in a rented shack in a South Africa shantytown without ever seeing her dream come true.
Mara had vowed to do better. She'd married James believing in his grand dreams, hoping to escape the poverty. She'd made her own tin-can bank and dropped pennies into it with all the optimism of a child bride. During the good times, it had been easy. But during the bad times, which had come more frequently with each passing year, most of the pennies had disappeared.
She dumped the money out of the tin can and began to count what cash she had. The tiny salary she paid herself covered her basic living expenses, but there had been little left over to save for a rainy day. Now she was twenty-eight, optimism had long since deserted her, and she knew tuppence tossed daily into a tin bank added up to precious little.
She sat down and stared at the tiny pile of money and thought of all the work she'd poured into the business, ail the hours, all the hopes. All for naught.
She was so tired. She wanted to sleep, to banish the fear that threatened to overwhelm her. "Damn you," she whispered to her dead husband, hoping he could hear her. "Damn you and all your rainbow-chasing dreams to hell."
Pushing aside the papers and the pile of coins, she folded her arms, rested her cheek on her wrist, and fell asleep.
The sound was soft, but Mara awoke with a start. She lifted her head to stare at the door through the dark curtain of her bangs, which had lost their curl hours before and now hung limply in her eyes.
The door was wide open. A man stood in the doorway, and he was watching her. Paralyzed, she stared back at him. Seeing a face of such flawless masculine beauty, she wondered if she were dreaming. The gaslight reflected off his hair, tawny, tousled hair that needed cutting. He stood with one shoulder against the jamb, arms folded across his chest, utterly still. She thought of golden eagles gliding on the wind, moving yet motionless.
No, it was not a dream. In her dark dreams, there would be no such man.
His eyes, the color of sea and sky, looked into her, seemed to perceive and understand everything about her in an instant. He tilted his head slightly to one side. "Why are you sad?"
At the unexpected question she jumped to her feet and pushed back her chair. She felt the knot of her hair coming loose and her hat pin slipping. Her bonnet slid to one side, and she wished she'd remembered to remove it when she'd come in earlier.
She attempted to straighten the mess as she backed away from the stranger, but her efforts only made things worse. An ostrich plume fell awkwardly over one eye and tickled her cheek. "Who are you?"
"Didn't mean to startle you," he said. "Saw your door open. I don't think it shuts properly." He smiled briefly, and in that instant everything in the world shifted, fell into place, and became right. She sucked in her breath. Perhaps he was a dream after all.
He nodded toward the table between them. "Shouldn't leave your money lying about like that. This doesn't seem to be the nicest neighborhood, I'm sorry to say."
Her gaze moved from him to the cash on the table. She stared down at the money and reality returned, making her feel foolish and awkward. She tried to push the feather out of her face. "Thank you for the warning."
She swept the money into her bank. Clutching the tin can to her breast, she gave him a nod of dismissal that bounced her feather back over her eye. She hoped he would take the hint.
He didn't. Instead, he came into the room and circled the table. She stepped back, retreating until her shoulder blades hit the mantel of the fireplace. She glanced down, but the poker was just out of her reach. He came closer, and alarm bells began ringing in her head. He was tall, and strong, and very strange. "Who...what are you doing?"
"Your feather is broken." He reached out and gripped the plume that dangled over her eye, then pushed it back, out of her vision. "I don't know much about the latest fashions for ladies," he added in a confidential tone, lowering his head until his perfect face was only inches from hers, "but I don't believe broken feathers are in vogue for bonnets this year."
He moved his hand, brushing the hair out of her eyes with the tips of his fingers, a light touch that made breathing difficult. She remained perfectly still, too terrified to move as he tucked a strand behind her ear.
He took a few steps back, and she began to breathe again. He surveyed his handiwork for a moment, then gave a satisfied nod. "Much better. Now I can see your face. No hair and ostrich tails to get in the way. Have you ever wondered how the ostriches must feel? Do they know their tail feathers are decorating the bonnets of women all over London?"
She didn't know whether to laugh or scream for help. "Who are you?" she asked, ashamed when her haughty demand came out as a helpless squeak.
"I've frightened you." His voice held both surprise and regret. "Terribly sorry. Didn't mean to. Allow me to introduce myself. Nathaniel Chase, brilliant inventor and rude terrifier of helpless ladies." He bowed, and the unruly strands of his golden hair caught the light.
"How...how do you do," she murmured.
"Very well, thank you." He straightened, shaking back his hair. Again he reminded her of an eagle in flight. "Fair play, ma'am."
She frowned. "Sorry?"
"I've given you my name. What's yours?"
"Mara." She licked her dry lips. "Mara—"
"That explains it then." He nodded sagely. "I see."
"What?"
"Mara means bitter. But I thought perhaps it might be Mariana."
"I beg your pardon?" Trying to follow his meaning was making her dizzy.
"'I am aweary, aweary,'"
She stared at him, wondering if he was a bit touched in the head.
"Don't you know your Tennyson?" he asked.
"Oh, poetry."
He laughed, a sound that was warm and rich and deep, filling her tiny room. "You say that as if it's your daily dose of cod liver oil." With another bow, he said, "It's been a pleasure, Mara Mariana, but I must be off. Opportunities await, and I have work to do." He turned away and looked around. "I had a reason for coming down here," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair and tousling it further. "What was it?" He paused, then snapped his fingers. "Ah! I remember."
He pointed to the open doorway and the wooden crate she had tripped over. "My gears."
She watched him walk out to the landing and lift the box. He gave her a nod of farewell through the doorway.
"The men must have forgotten to bring this up," he said with another of those odd smiles. "Better have that lock fixed," he advised and then disappeared, carrying his box of gears and whistling an aimless melody.
She wondered if perhaps he was a little mad.
 
WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO NEXT?
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