"But true love is a durable fire, In the mind ever burning,

Never sick, never old, never dead, From itself never turning."

- Sir Walter Raleigh

 

1882 Liverpool, England

 

The lost years. That’s how Charlot referred to them. A hundred and twenty five had passed since Claudia’s death but her words burned fresh in his mind: Return to the spot they kill me. You will find me.

He’d gone to Liverpool to wait. Olivier, still indentured to the Benoit family, served Charlot as faithful retainer and companion. Every day their isolation amongst mortals, and their shared history, strengthened their friendship. With a small amount of money hidden before his incarceration, Charlot opened a shop downtown. His fluency in many languages, his elegant manners, and his unerring discretion gained him a wealthy and titled clientele who desired to own art in every form. As his reputation spread his fortune grew.

Eventually he built a modest house in an unusual spot, close to the Albert Docks and overlooking the place he had last seen his love. He told the curious that he wanted to watch his precious cargo arrive and this explanation was accepted without question.  He converted an upstairs room into a studio, placing an easel in the sunniest corner and surrounding it with brushes and pots of paint. In the other corner, he placed his cello. The space overlooked a small garden and each spring he tended to it, filling it with the flowers she loved; roses, and columbine, and peonies framed by masses of fragrant lavender.

Twenty springs came and went in that home and although none brought him what his heart desired, he remained vigilant and hopeful.

But while their neighbors aged, their hair graying, their backs bowing to the effects of time, Charlot and Olivier remained the same. People began to talk. Some claimed the pair could cast spells with their eyes. Children began to taunt them on the street. Devils, demons, they called out. Olivier insisted they move from Liverpool and Charlot knew that if Claudia did not return soon, he would be forced to leave without her.

For years he’d walked the pier daily, searching the crowds for any sign of her presence. Now he doubled, even tripled his efforts, searching at odd times of day and in all types of weather. When he spotted a woman with auburn hair and green eyes he followed her. On occasion he’d catch an engaging look. But none were Claudia. None could make his heart race like she could.

He began to wonder if she’d already come and gone. Plagued by questions he could not answer, he tortured himself with the possibilities. Would she be the same? Would he recognize her? And would she fall in love with him again?

At first he attributed the subtle signs of her return to his wishful thinking: the smell of lavender in the dead of winter, a soft brush along his cheek while he lay in bed, the familiar laughter of a woman on the street. But when she began to speak to him in his dreams, he allowed himself to hope again.

 

Early morning on a dank fall day, Charlot woke to her urgent voice. Find me!

He shot upright in bed and looked around at the gray walls. A dull light filtered through the window panes.

“Claudia!?” he whispered.

The room was still. Several minutes passed in silence. When he called her name a second time but heard nothing, he tossed back the covers and slowly placed both feet on the cold floor. Maybe it was just a dream. He stood, lifted his robe from the spindle of the bed and drew it around him. Shaking his head at the odd occurrence, he headed for the kitchen.

Olivier had warmed some water on the cast-iron stove and Charlot decided to make a cup of tea. As he lifted the boiling kettle he heard her voice again.

This time she shouted, Charlot!

He dropped the metal handle. The kettle spilled and the water scorched his fingers. Large blisters erupted on four of his knuckles. Despite the burning pain, he cried out, “Claudia, is that you?”

In that instant something unseen reached for his injured hand. Invisible fingers cupped his wounds and as the blisters shrunk and the redness vanished, the fingers intertwined with his. His heart raced faster than it had in years and he swallowed the large lump in his throat. Slowly the fingers slipped away. He pawed at the air, desperate to feel them again. Gone. He slumped to a small stool near the window and dragged his hands through his tousled hair.

Olivier entered the kitchen dressed in a tweed vest, wool trousers and an overcoat with a velvet collar. “Who are you talking to?”

“No one.”

He frowned suspiciously. “I’m off to the shop. Are you coming?” He lifted his bowler cap from a hook on the wall and tucked it atop his head.

Charlot pulled back the drapery. Patches of clear sky now broke through a worn layer of clouds. From this vantage point he could see the tops of masts of several ships. “No. I’m heading down to the docks.”

Olivier’s eyes changed from a warm hazel to an icy grey. But quickly his anger melted and he sighed, “It’s time for you to accept she’s not coming back.  And even if she does return, The Order will find out. They’ll hunt us down, kill her, drag us back to that hell. Is that what you want?”

No, he didn’t want that.

Olivier buttoned his jacket and lifted a key ring from a second hook. “The business should be easy to sell. We could leave by spring. There are ships heading to America almost daily. Research  If we went there we’d be far from the watchful eyes and ears of your father, Sara’s family and The Order. With any luck they’d give up their fight for you to marry her.”

 When Charlot spoke his voice was quiet and defeated, “One more month. That’s all I ask. If she doesn’t return by then, I’ll do as you say.”

Olivier stepped closer and placed a hand on Charlot’s shoulder. “You’ll be better for it, my old friend. It’ll be a new start.” Without another word he left.

Charlot returned to his room to dress. As he fastened the brass buttons of his trousers, his hands trembled. Was he giving up?

A dull ache grew in the space between his eyes. Soon, as if a vice had been clamped around his skull, his head throbbed miserably. The last time he’d felt such pain was the day The Order killed Claudia. But he did not feel the accompanying sinister vibrations he should feel if the tribe was close. As he struggled to pull on the rest of his clothes, the room spun. He nearly buckled to his knees but managed to stagger into the hallway and brace himself along the wall as he grappled his way to the front door. Air – that would help – fresh air. He grabbed his overcoat and hat from the last hook and stumbled out the door, down the brick steps and into the cobblestone street. With his head low, he moved swiftly past the steady flow of pedestrians. As he made his way in the direction of the docks, the pain dissipated. He felt an odd connection and tested the theory by disobeying the force and turning left and away from the water. Another sharp jab to his forehead – then to his temples. When he turned back toward the wharves, the pain disappeared.

He moved faster. By the time he reached the docks he was running. The crowd swelled the closer he came. Drivers edged their horse-drawn carriages to the side of the wharves and discharged their fares into teeming masses.

“I can’t drive into that mob, love,” a driver in a threadbare coat barked at a timid passenger. Charlot looked past him to the wall of humanity that pushed and shoved in the urgency of the day. A bell clanged, announcing the departure of a ferry for Birkenhead. A child screamed in its mother’s arms and with each step Charlot took, the noises grew louder. The smell of burning coal and of spoiling fish and the stench of raw sewage filled the air. But as he jostled past a circle of quarrelling Spaniards – past a group of Lloyd’s members come to inspect their latest risk – then wide-eyed Irish families, clinging to each other, as they prepared to sail to the New World, the sweet scent of lavender suddenly wafted up his nose. He tasted it on his tongue and wet his lips with it. When her sultry presence washed over him, the love that consumed him over a hundred years reignited like a flash of gunpowder. He stopped, barely breathing, and searched the crowd for her face. She was close. He knew it with certainty now.

At first Charlot ignored everything around him as logic pulled him to the end of the pier, and the spot closest to where he’d lost Claudia. But on his next step the unseen hand reached out and touched him again. Its powerful finger bore into his chest and stopped him in his tracks.

“No. I won’t go!” Was it her voice that he heard over all the others?

“You’ll do as you’re told,” an older woman barked. She and a fair-haired, youthful man of strong-build, gripped the arms of a young woman as they dragged her down the dock toward the ferry.

“What this one needs is a good horsewhipping,” the woman said.

“Let go of me!” The young lady writhed in defiance and tried to break free from her captors.

As she managed to yank one arm away from the man, he roared, “Get on that bloody boat, now!”

Charlot peered over the amused crowd that was gathering to watch someone else’s misery.

 “You’ll go and you’ll marry him and you’ll have his children and you’ll do what he says. And if you don’t he’ll tan your hide. Do you hear me!?”

“I will not marry him!” A wide-brimmed hat blocked Charlot from seeing the young woman’s face but hearing her voice again he was almost certain. Then at the sight of auburn hair peeking out of her collar, he froze.

The man tugged on the woman’s arm and Charlot’s eyes burned, signaling a change of color and of his growing outrage. He elbowed past the ticket taker and through the dense queue of passengers as they shuffled their way onto the ferry. The complaints of those he’d accidentally shoved in his efforts fell on deaf ears as he made his way toward the feuding couple and the old woman. In moments he stood directly behind the girl and as she broke free, she turned. Caught in the snare of her clear green eyes, Charlot came face to face with Claudia. The long, purple ghost of an old bruise colored one cheek. The air rushed from his lungs in a violent burst.

 “Ya bloody wench!” The fair-haired brute drew back a fist and reached for her again.

Charlot charged and seized the man by the collar and thrust him to the ground, “Leave the lady be!”

He fell with a loud thump and the audience cheered.  When the man twisted and attempted to get up Charlot lunged at him and clamped his fingers around his throat.  He struggled to breathe and Charlot gripped tighter. The man’s eyes bulged. His face turned red then blue. Charlot could kill him. It would be easy. He could feel the man’s thick windpipe and for a second imagined crushing it under his fingers.

 “Peter!” Claudia cried.

She pulled on Charlot’s arm, “Stop! Please don’t hurt him.” Her voice – the voice he’d waited a hundred and twenty five years to hear again – stopped him.

Someone yelled for the constable. God, what had he done? He released his stranglehold. The man rolled on his side and gasped for air. Charlot sat back, his hat tossed aside, his shirt torn by the man, his lip bloodied. He turned his shame-filled eyes to Claudia.

For a split second she seemed to recognize him. But that look was replaced by fear. As Peter moaned and spat on the ground, the older woman knelt at his side and wiped his brow.

Like a shadow fading in the weak autumn sunlight, Claudia turned and disappeared into the horde.

“Wait!” Charlot plunged into the mob. “Wait!” His voice became lost in the din. When he spotted her again she was halfway up the dock and closer to the street. She walked with a steady clip and Charlot called to her again, “Miss.” She picked up the hem of her dress and ran.

 “Please, stop!” he shouted to her as he weaved in and out of the chaotic throng.

She looked over her shoulder at him, crinkled her brow, but kept moving. Her hat dropped to the ground but she did not stop to retrieve it. Charlot reached down, scooped it up and followed. When she emerged onto the street, she dipped between two carriages and vanished. If he used his ability of speed now, he’d raise suspicion. His lip had already healed and that could cause talk enough.

Then he caught sight of her just as she neared a corner. He yelled, “Don’t go. Please, I want to talk to you!”

Charlot heard a commotion behind him. Peter reappeared, sweaty faced and sharp-eyed, the smell of ale reached Charlot before he did. He forced his way through the swarm toward Charlot. When he reached him, he yelled, “Move it, you!” Then he called to Claudia, “Gillian, I’m sorry, love. Come back. We don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

Gillian, that was her name, Gillian. But before Charlot had time to savor her new identity, rage overcame him. He lunged for Peter and threw him up against several large crates lined up against a brick wall. Wood splintered everywhere as he crashed into the heap. Charlot’s eyes blazed with fury and he leveled them directly at Peter’s. Again he went for his throat. “I will not hesitate to kill you this time! Stay away from her.”

Peter slumped under Charlot’s crunching grip and he shrank away, his hands raised in terror.  “What kind of monster are you?” he choked.

Charlot heaved several deep breaths before he turned away and raced after Claudia. Up the stone-covered street where she’d fled, he raced. He swept past heavily laden carriages pulled by sweating, straining horses on their way to and from the docks. The street was packed with people, moving in all directions, coming in and out of shops and blocking the narrow walkway. He climbed onto the rounded base of a wrought iron streetlight to see if he could see her. He spotted her as she neared a fork in the street at a flat iron building. Watching carefully to see which path she took, he ran.

Finally he caught up, nearly tripping an elderly man as he passed. She walked with steely determination; head high, skirts billowing. He fell into step beside her and nodded politely, “Miss, I’m terribly sorry for what happened back there. I shouldn’t have attacked your gentleman friend, I’m not sure I got his name – Peter?” He offered her the slightly soiled hat.

She snatched it from him. Her jaw jutted out angrily as she pushed ahead.

It was only when he stepped in front of her and walked backwards that she acknowledged him with a stinging glare. “Mr. Hewitson, that’s his name. And no, you shouldn’t have.”

“I only meant to––”

“––to what!?” She stopped. Her face tightened. Her words came sharply. “You thought me some weak woman that needed your help? I can look after myself, thank you.” Gillian spoke with the piercing tongue and sing-song roll of the English working-class.

Charlot bit back what he wanted to say. He wanted to tell her that she was the strongest women he’d ever known – that if not for her strength he never would have survived these past years. Instead he replied quietly, “No. That is not what I thought at all.”

“If you really want to help me, go away sir.” She tied the black ribbon of the hat under her chin and took off in military strides across the street.

Charlot trailed behind. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because I need to talk to you, that’s why.”

She mumbled sarcastically, “About what? About what a fool I am for being with a man like that? Believe me, I’m well aware of my poor choice.”

“No. We all do things that in retrospect we might have done other ways. Far be it from me to criticize you for that. What I want to talk to you about is a far more urgent matter.”

 “And what could possibly be so important that you would harass a woman, a stranger to you, on the street? Are you peddling something?”

“I’m not a peddler and you’re not a stranger to me. I know all about you.”

She stopped and curled one side of her mouth into a sardonic grin.

He hadn’t seen that expression in a long, long time. He resisted a joyful laugh and spoke softly, “I know that your favorite flower is lavender and I know the smile you make when you smell it.”

When her eyes widened they looked like porcelain saucers. This time when she curled her lip it quivered angrily. “I don’t know who you are, or what you’re up to, but I want you to leave me alone. Do you understand?” She turned on her heel and marched off.

 “Please, you must listen to me. I mean you no harm. Quite the opposite.”

 “Go away. You’re making a nuisance of yourself.”

“You’re an artist. Am I right?”

She did not respond or look at him. They passed a butcher’s and the smell of raw meat and spiced sausage drifted from the open doorway. Several men lingered nearby in the entranceway of a tobacco shop. Their eyes followed Gillian as she passed.

Charlot kept a steady pace with her and, when there was a brief break in the crowd, he kept his eyes straight ahead as he said, “He won’t allow it you know. You’ll be miserable. You’ll be lucky if he lets you touch a paintbrush again after you marry. Is that what you want?”

She moved faster, ignoring the shop windows of a dressmaker and millinery. When they crossed under the shadow of a large stone cathedral, she rubbed her arms to fight the autumn chill. Charlot followed her up the sloping street. The rounded roof of the Lime Street Railway station rose up in front of them. She carried no purse, no belongings and he wondered what she planned to do now.

As they approached the wide steps he tried to speak to her again, “Look, I’m certain you think me a madman. You’re probably right for thinking so. I am quite mad. But if you come with me, I promise to explain. Besides, he’ll be looking for you again soon. I suspect you’d like to hide from him and your aunt a while longer. Am I right?”

 She stopped. Her eyelids thinned to slits. “How did you know it was my aunt?”

Charlot exhaled, “I told you. I know everything about you. Please, come with me. I’ll take you somewhere safe. They won’t find you. I promise to leave you be, if you like – after you hear what I have to say.”

“Why?”

“Why what?” he asked.

“Why should I come with you?”

 “If you don’t come with me, where will you go that he and your aunt can’t find you? It’s cold now and the night will be bitter. I know places that are safe from prying eyes. I know a place where a vulnerable young woman can find sanctuary, from the world – even from me if she so wishes.” He stood still, quietly waiting, hoping to undo any lingering fears she had.

At the entrance to the station two burly policemen stamped their feet against the cold. They’d watched Charles and Gillian approach. A small cloud of steam rose above them as they whispered to each other. The one with the handlebar moustache looked a little harder at Gillian and Charlot stepped in his line of sight, blocking their view.

“Where?” Her eyes darted to Charlot and he knew he had only seconds to convince her before she ran off.

“There’s an inn up the road. The innkeeper, Mrs. Brookings, will vouch for me. She can tell you that I am a decent man with an unblemished reputation. She makes a fine stew, hearty and warm. She’ll chaperone our meal –You’ll be safe.”

“And you won’t bother me after that?” she asked.

“If that is what you wish, then I will comply.”

When she bit her lip, like she always did when nervous, he wanted to take her hands and tell her not to worry but he knew he couldn’t do that, not yet.

Charlot smiled. “My name is Charlot Benoit. You can call me Charles if that’s easier. Most people here find it to be. May I ask you yours?”

“You don’t know it?” she smiled.

He shook his head. “I heard that man call you Gillian. Is that it?”

“Gillian Delancey.”

“Ah, my fair and lovely, Miss Delancey. It is a pleasure.” He tipped his hat and bowed.

 

For the next ten minutes Gillian followed him down streets she had never seen before. They walked quickly and silently, all too aware of the hounds at their heels. When they came to a small doorway marked by a small brass sign, The Rose and Thorn, he opened the door, removed his hat, and waved her inside. A blazing fire greeted them and muffled voices of the guests on the wooden benches dipped for a moment as people nodded them in welcome.

A stout woman with wiry hair that peeked out from under a white cap and round eyes that creased cheerfully at the corners, greeted them, “Ah, Mr. Benoit, how lovely to see your face on this chilly day. Come in, come in.”

They’d arrived just a few doors down from his shop and Charlot knew all of the merchants in this part of town. Mrs. Brookings had never listened to the rumors about him. She still smiled when she saw him.

 “Mrs. Brookings may I present my cousin Miss Gillian Delancey who is visiting from the country. Miss Delancey, this is my esteemed friend Mrs. Brookings, the owner of this fine establishment.”

Gillian smiled stiffly.

“Will you be staying?” Mrs. Brookings asked Gillian.

Charlot replied before Gillian could, “She may stay as long as she wishes. Please send her account to me. For now we’d both like a bowl of stew and a quiet spot to sit, please.”

After Mrs. Brookings ushered them to a private corner with an unoccupied table, Gillian smiled awkwardly. He reassured her, “Money is not a concern. Your safety and well-being are. You are welcome to stay here if you like.”

She sat down, pale-faced, removed her threadbare gloves and whispered, “Why are you being so kind to me?”

Charlot sighed. After years of waiting, he found he was unprepared for actually being with her again. “That’s a fair question and I’ll answer it soon. First, will you tell me if it’s true, are you an artist?

She nodded. “I’d like to think so, but I’m to be married soon and now I find my fiancé wants me to give up my greatest love – my childish ways he calls it! He’s insisted we move to his family’s home. They own a large estate far away from anything you would call civilization. I thought he was a good man. But now…” her voice trailed off and she looked down at her hands.

Charlot forced his anger back down his throat, “When?”

“When what?”

“What date is set for the nuptials?”

“Three fortnights from now.” She turned her head toward the fire and studied the flames.

“And is this what you want?”

 She looked back at him. “Your questions are quite impertinent, Mr. Benoit. And yet you still don’t share with me how you knew my favorite flower or the fact that I’m an artist, or that the woman on the dock was my aunt.”

He wanted to touch her. As her lips moved, he wanted to lean forward across the table and kiss her. Instead he responded, “Do you believe in fate, Miss Delancey?”

“I’m not sure what fate is. Am I fated to marry that man? I suppose. Although, my aunt is the one who willed it.”

“Yes,” he sighed, “your aunt, the cruel woman who raised you after your parents died.”

Her eyes became hard green pebbles, “And how do you know that?”

He thought for a moment. Just as he went to speak, Mrs. Brookings arrived carrying two large bowls of stew and some bread.

“There you go. Warm pots to warm the hearts,” she said.

After she set the meals in front of them and wandered off, Charlot slid his bowl aside and leaned across the table.

“I know everything about you. You’ve haunted my dreams for years. When I saw you today on the pier, my heart raced faster than it should be allowed. If ever there was a moment that I would call fate, it was that moment then.” He swallowed and sat back against the hard bench.

Gillian tilted her head. Her eyes carried both the curiosity of a child and the skepticism of a woman. “You’re a very strange man.”

Charlot burst into laughter. It was infectious and Gillian laughed too. Tears streamed from his eyes and he dug in his pocket for a handkerchief and wiped the corners. “Yes. Strange indeed.”

They spoke a lot after that, but none about what Charlot needed to tell her. He waited for the right time but as the afternoon wore on, he couldn’t find it. Gillian’s apprehension about being with him seemed to lessen the longer they stayed. To Charlot it was like picking up where they’d left off, except that she did not know the secret. Her face softened and she smiled more and although she remained silent about her circumstances, he felt her pain as it rose from her eyes. He tried to ignore it and worked to distract her from her sadness by telling her stories about France and his childhood, leaving out the fact he’d not been home for over a century. He told her about Africa, its harshness and its beauty, but never about The Order.

When Mrs. Brookings arrived with a second pot of tea she gave an appraising glance before she turned and left them to their hushed conversation. Gillian stirred her cup pensively then set her teaspoon aside and lifted her eyes. “Mr. Benoit. What is it about you? What is the attachment? I sit here perplexed. A part of me wants to run from you, the other part finds you strangely familiar.”

He fought to steady his voice before he told her. “Do you believe in the mystical, Gillian?”

She shook her head. “I’m not sure what you mean. Elves and fairies?”

“No, those are false creatures, dreamed up by those who wish to explain mysteries they do not understand. I speak of others who spend their lives mixing into mortal society. To most they go unnoticed for what they are.  But there are differences and on second glance one might catch them.” Charlot allowed his eyes to change and Claudia sat up rigid in her seat. She looked around the room, wide-eyed. The inn had emptied for the afternoon. Outside a light rain fell and Mrs. Brookings went busily about lighting the lanterns in the room.

“Tell me what you are, please.” She sounded more inquisitive than scared.

He smiled. He had always loved Claudia’s fearless curiosity.

He looked at her graceful, tapered fingers and longed to hold them in his hands. “Gillian, if I may call you that, I have lived a long time, longer than humanely possible. I have loved you nearly as long, although you don’t remember those days. You have returned to me as a promise. One we made to each other many years ago.”

Surprise flared in her eyes and she glanced at the door for an escape.

“Please, I mean you no harm.”

“Then tell me what you are – or should I stay with the devil I know rather than risk trusting the one I don’t?” She picked up her gloves, drew her hands to her lap and waited for his response, her body poised for flight.

“You must promise to listen with a progressive mind and an open heart.”

“My mind is far more progressive than most women, Mr. Benoit. My heart has suffered a great deal.” Her eyes searched his as she slid her hands back to the table. “Yet I have the feeling I should trust you…whatever you are.”

“And you must promise to tell no one. I fear what may come if you do.”

“Is my life in danger for it?”

“I would be telling a lie if I said no.”

He noticed her eyes as they moved around his face, suspiciously, as if she were studying him. “Your skin is not translucent like they say of a vampire. Nor does it appear pale.”

He laughed again, “I’m not a vampire.”

“Are there such creatures?”

He smiled wistfully. “I don’t know. I’ve never come across one. I would hate to think what would happen if I did.”

“What are you?”

“I’m a man like any other, yet blessed – or cursed – depending on how you see my circumstance – with eternal life.”

“Can you not die!?”

“It would be difficult, but not impossible to destroy me.”

“You’re immortal then.”

The word sounded shameful to him, filled with strange images of the walking undead. He hadn’t used it himself in years. No. He was alive, strong and vital. True, parts of him had aged. His heart, his mind – both bore the decaying marks of death. His soul had crouched and hidden in a dark corner when Claudia died. But as Gillian sat here before him, it strained its limbs and clawed its way to back to the light.

He answered, “Call me what you will but I am also the man you fell in love with over a century ago. You are Gillian today, but to me you are still Claudia: my lover, an artist, a friend – the one I have waited for. You promised me your return and I promised to find you. We have fulfilled that commitment and I wonder what I am to do now that you’re here.”

She sat motionless for an arduous minute before her eyes moved over to the far wall and fixed on the panes of the window. She appeared in a daze as if she were trying to remember her previous life. Then she turned back to him. “What do you want to do, Mr. Benoit?”

He laughed, almost shyly, and hesitated before he spoke. “I’d like to take you home with me, keep you safe, remove you from the ugly side of life. I’d like to dress you in fine silks, feed you the most tender portion of the bird. I want to read poetry with you and play my cello while you paint. Then, when you finally trust me, I want to invite you to my bed.”

The sudden horrified look on her face told him he had gone too far. “Please forgive me. I quickly dissolve to the past. I can’t help it.”

 She slid abruptly from the bench and stood, fumbling with her gloves, avoiding his eyes. “My aunt will be worried and as much as I dread her most days, I dread her wrath even more. Peter is worse and I should go.” She fastened the button of her cloak. The worn hem had been repaired many times.

“I will not allow it. They are both cruel. You mustn’t return to them.”

“But I mustn’t stay, either. My mind is in a great fog. You’ve given me much to dwell on – far too much for a day such as this. I had only begun to think about my present circumstance before you ...”

“You will go then and leave me to my pain?”

She shook her head. “I do not wish to leave you to your pain. I feel a tether to you. But I would call myself a fool for allowing those feelings a place now. I must attend to my current affairs before I tend to anything else.”

Charles sunk in his chair and buried his face in his hands. He’d divulged too much, too soon. He should have waited. He could have filled her dreams, shown her the past that way, seduced her slowly. A fool he’d been!

“Mr. Benoit –Charles – please look at me,” she urged.

It took great effort for him to raise his eyes to her. He felt their change of color, first of green now of black. “If you leave me now Gillian, I fear you will never return.”

 “Go home. If it is in the heavens and stars for us to be together, then it will be.”

“Where will you go?” he asked.

She looked out the small dirty window at the driving rain. “I don’t know. I’ve no money, no other family to run to. I suppose I will return to the dock. They know I’m dependent on them. They’ll be waiting there, I’m sure.”

“Like wolves waiting for a lamb,” Charles said quietly. He stood and removed some notes from his wallet.  “Please, take these.”

The tears he’d watched her work so hard to conceal now betrayed her and her voice shook, “I’m not in the habit of taking from anyone, let alone money from a –”

“– I’m not a stranger.”

He gently took her gloved hand and slid the notes into her palm. Then he wrapped her fingers around them, holding on as he spoke, “My lovely Gilllian, be safe and come back to me.”