A Man Most Worthy. Ruth Axtell Morren
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looked away from her, and she bit her lip, afraid she had offended him. Her governess had always said she was too direct.
But he answered with no sign of displeasure. “She had to take us into the mill with her when we were young, and put us to work as soon as we could wind a thread around a bobbin.”
“She must have been a brave woman to raise four boys all alone.” His tale had haunted her last night. It had sounded so unbearably romantic.
He pocketed his handkerchief. He was standing in his vest and shirtsleeves. Even in his typical clerk’s attire, he stood out. There was something distinguished about him. “No matter how tired she was,” he continued in a quiet tone, “she always gave us a lesson after dinner in the evenings before we went to bed. She had saved a few school-books and one or two storybooks from her teaching days. Those and the Bible formed our only amusement at home.”
She pictured the cozy scene, a mother with her four boys surrounding her on a settee, or with her arms around them on a wide bed flanked by soft pillows. “It must have been nice to have a mother read to you at night.”
“Didn’t anyone ever read to you at bedtime?”
She blushed beneath his close scrutiny. “My nurse told me stories when I was very young, and then Miss Duffy, my governess, read to me when I was a little older.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t have a mother to read to you at bedtime,” he said softly.
His tone was so gentle it was as if he had known how lonely her childhood had been. Afraid he’d pity her, she set down her water bottle and picked up her racket. “Come on, let’s get back to our game before you have to work.”
He followed her out to the court. This time, she hit the ball a little harder and enjoyed watching him run to meet it. She, too, was forced to run across the court when he returned it equally forcefully. Laughing from sheer joy at the physical exertion, she swung at the ball and watched it clear the net.
By the time they finished their lesson, they were both red in the face, but never had she had more fun on the court.
“What about tomorrow morning?” she asked him, hoping she didn’t sound too eager.
“It depends on your father. I might be called back to London.”
Her shoulders slumped in disappointment. “Of course.” Trust Father to ruin her fun. “Do you think he’ll bring you back out again?”
“I have no way of knowing.”
“Well, if you should come back, I challenge you to a match.”
He nodded slowly, his deep set eyes looking into hers. “You’re on.”
As soon as he had a free moment back in London, Nick inquired of one of the clerks in the firm and found out where he could get tennis lessons. It meant money he could ill afford, and having to go across town to Regent’s Park, but he was determined the next time he faced Alice Shepard across the court, he would no longer be a clumsy novice.
He hadn’t been able to get the young girl out of his mind since he’d returned to the city, no matter how many times he’d told himself he was being silly to keep thinking about her.
But her smiling face wouldn’t leave his thoughts despite the effort he put into studying his employer’s files and tallying columns of numbers.
He’d never been in love. No young woman had yet caused him to veer from his single-minded focus on the path to success.
The feelings Miss Shepard elicited in him were a puzzle to him, not least because he didn’t know how to classify them. She was too young for it to be love, he felt. But if it wasn’t love, it certainly was a sort of obsession, which he’d have to eradicate sooner or later. He could ill spare time for such dangerous complications.
In the meantime, however, at a safe distance in London, he preferred to postpone the moment and content himself with daydreaming about her as he rode the early morning ferry to work, as he walked the distance to the office, as he made the return journey in the evening.
And every evening, after work and a light supper, he stood across the net from his new instructor, imagining Miss Shepard in his place. He’d spent part of his last salary on a lightweight pair of twill trousers and a linen jacket, vowing to look as dapper as any young gentleman when they next met.
Back and forth went the ball, the instructor calling out advice as he sent it across the net to Nick. Nick grew to enjoy the thrill of competition. He found it as thrilling as predicting the direction of the price of a company’s stock.
He remembered Miss Shepard’s words. You’re a natural athlete. Did it mean she’d actually looked past his shabby frock coat and seen something more than just her father’s secretary? He’d never thought of himself as athletic, even though until coming to London, he’d spent any spare moment outside when he wasn’t working in the noisy, dusty environment of the mill. But that was playing in the street with boys his age, with no sports equipment. A ball was a rotten cabbage, a cricket bat a broken chair leg. But even those had been few and far between as any piece of wood was quickly consumed in the stove, and extra food was rarely to be found.
Nick had no idea when and if he’d be going back to the Shepards’ country house, but he’d be prepared just in case, even if it cost him a fortnight’s wages.
He wanted to match Miss Shepard’s skill and show her he was a worthy opponent.
Each morning he joined the hundreds of anonymous young men clad in black frock coats and top hats hurrying down Fleet Street to their offices. He pulled open the brass-handled door, glancing a moment at the understated plaque to the right: Shepard & Steward, Ltd., Investments.
Some day it would read Shepard, Steward, Tennent, & Partners.
He hurried down the corridor to his office, nodding his head to the various clerks he passed. “’Morning, Harold. ’Morning, Stanley.” Rushed syllables as everyone hurried to his place in the maze of corridors and cubicles.
He entered the quieter sanctuary upstairs in the rear, the executive offices of the full partners. His own desk, situated in a small corner of an office he shared with the senior secretary, was neat, the way he’d left it the evening before.
Nick sat down and opened the file he’d been studying the previous day, glad for the momentary solitude. Mr. Shepard would expect a report by noon on the assets of the small factory, which manufactured iron fastenings.
“Shepard wants you.”
He looked up to find Mr. Simpson, the other secretary, walking to his own desk, the larger of the two in the room. The old man guarded his boss from all he considered intruders, including Nick.
Nick stood now and grabbed up his pad and pencil. “Yes, sir.”
The man stood by the doorway, as if to make sure Nick obeyed the summons. His bristly gray eyebrows drew together in their customary frown as Nick passed him with a curt nod.
Dark walnut wainscoting covered the walls of Mr. Shepard’s private office. Oil landscapes in heavy wooden frames lined the space above. Some day he would have an office like this one.
Shepard stood at a window overlooking the busy street below, his hands clasped loosely behind them. He turned only slightly at the soft sound of the door closing.
“Ah, Tennent, have a seat. I need you to take a letter.”
“Yes, sir.” Nick crossed the deep blue Turkish carpet and sat in the leather armchair facing the wide desk.
Mr. Shepard twirled his reading glasses in his hands. “This is to the Denbigh Coke Company, Denbighshire, Wales.
“Gentlemen—After a careful review of your firm, it is with regret that we inform you that we must decline the opportunity to offer you the venture capital you requested to expand your colliery. Although your firm’s net profits for the preceding