Chasing Boston Page 2

  "Because they are," I whine and straighten as the laces get tighter and tighter. My breaths shallower and shallower.

  "Well, out with it. What did you find it? Has our sweet little town of Himond been blessed with the infancy of a dragon meant to guard our lands till the day it dies?" Her tone is bitter, likely knowing exactly where I'm going with all this.

  "No, it's not!" I declare spinning to face her. She pulls a leaf from my hair. "I wandered all around Murphy's land and I found many things. None of them are dragons."

  Hilda huffs a breath and spins me back around to tie up my hair again. "It's a rat’s nest back here, Millie!"

  "I know, I'm sorry." I try and fail to contain myself, bouncing on my toes, excited to tell her exactly what I found. "Anyway, I know exactly what they saw that they clearly mistook for a dragon in its infancy."

  "Let me guess, a dog with mange caught up with an old cloak stuck to its collar giving it the appearance of wings."

  Well, that's what it usually is. Something so easily explained that no one bothered to try to look into it. Nobody but me, that is.

  "A frill-neck lizard!" I exclaim pulling away the moment she has my hair bound. My heart beats loudly inside my chest knowing I must hurry to get out to the dining hall. "I swear these people look for myth and legend in every single mundane thing."

  "Well, at least we have you to make sure we don't get our hopes up."

  I slip into the clean shoes waiting for me by the door. Hilda beckons me back with a wave of her hand. She sighs and pulls the apron at her waist up to my cheek to scrub away the last bit of dirt. Dropping the garment, she grabs my face with both her hands looking at me once more with as much seriousness as she can muster. "You must stop running all over town to chase down every bit of gossip you hear just to figure out if it is true or not. Your father will have my head if he finds out that I'm helping you like this. You should have outgrown this by now." The press of her lips against my forehead makes me feel almost sorry for worrying her. The truth of her statement tinging the concern with guilt.

  "Now, on your way." She drops her hands and shoos me toward the door. "I hope you have a good excuse for your father. They are waiting in the dining room."

  Forcing a nod to at least give her some hope that I've found a way to talk myself out of the trouble I'm about to be in, I make my way toward dinner. I catch a glimpse of myself in the long mirror that hangs in the hallway. My cheeks have become rosy from my run, my lips chapped from the wind, and my hair—despite the way Hilda attempted to tame it—frizzy. Those same sad brown eyes stare back at me, near the color of ground coffee, but not near as terrible as the countless amount of freckles dotting my skin like someone threw brown confetti all over me.

  The light within me always seems to snuff out a bit when I return home, though I don't blame it on my parents in the least. They've done their best to raise me. It’s not them necessarily…it’s the world we live in…the roles we have to play.

  When the hall ends, so has my time free of the responsibilities that await me. Put on a smile, Millie, apologize politely, Millie, remember your place, Millie. Perform, Millie.

  Because that’s all this is.

  Every single day is a new mask. A new act. My stomach roils at the thought, making the lingering scent of dinner less appealing.

  I round the corner and plaster the best grin I can muster onto my face. "Sorry I'm late!" I announce. "I lost track of the sun and had ventured farther from home than I realized."

  Not entirely true. I had forgotten to pay attention to the way evening had crept up on me but I was well aware of how far away from home I'd gotten myself. If I was anyone with less of a sense of direction, I'd have gotten lost.

  A chair scrapes against the floor and Desmond stands from his seat. He smiles broadly, a bit of broccoli caught in his teeth, I'm sure he's hardly noticed. With a glance at me, then back to the table, he snatches a small bouquet of flowers and extends them to me.

  "Miss Acker," Desmond says roughly, then clears his throat, "these are for you."

  My parents shuffle in their seats. I can already feel my father's bitter glare burning against my skin. I take a slight step closer to Desmond and open my hands for the flowers. I'm sure I'm supposed to be gushing over them.

  From his neatly combed, shoulder length orange hair, his bright eyes, and the gray suit he dons, he's everything a girl of my status could hope for. He comes with wealth, a nice home, and even a small dog. Sadly, the small dog is my favorite thing about him. Finally, my attention flicks down to the bouquet.

  Roses. Plain, boring, everyone-who-aspires-to-be-in-love-buys-them roses.

  Oh, Desmond, I sigh internally. Someday maybe I'll find love in his feeble attempts at wooing. Surely I have to, because there is simply no other choice.

  "Thank you, Desmond." I try to make my smile widen, then add, "These are quite lovely" in an attempt to make it more convincing.

  Eagerly he nods. I watch as his dark forest eyes scan my body and his cheeks heat as if he is ashamed to let anyone know that he might appreciate the form of his future wife. When my father clears his throat, Desmond moves himself to the back of my waiting chair. Behind him, his empty plate comes into view. Oops.

  Monica, a girl amongst our staff, pulls herself from the woodwork itself and offers to put the flowers in a vase in my bedroom. I thank her quietly, reminding her to be wary of the thorns on the stems. I'd been pricked myself a time or two running through rose bushes.

  At last, I turn to face my father. Tucking my skirt, which I've just realized is a lovely shade of lavender, I settle into the chair and allow Desmond to push it under me. It's almost as if I'm allowing him to trap me at this table. At least that's what it feels like when I grip the edges of my seat and smile politely at my parents.

  "So glad that you could join us for dessert, Millicent," Father starts, rubbing his salt and pepper beard. I scrunch my nose at my full name. "Hopefully your lunch was good enough to hold you over. I wasn't about to have Mr. Schuler waiting around all night to eat."

  "And I'm so very glad that you carried on without me. It would be a shame for a man to wait to feast." While I keep my tone even, convincing of the act that I'd one day be a good wife, my father's yellow-green eyes flare knowing my true nature behind it.

  My mother sets her delicate hand against my father's. "Dear, tell her about the arrangements we've made for her to spend time with Desmond." She sends a soft, pleasant look down the table toward my fiancé as he settles back into his seat. If she likes him so much, why doesn't she just run off and marry him?

  Monica, along with others, reappears and begins dishing out small plates with thick slices of Hilda’s most famous chocolate cake. My stomach answers in kind with a loud grumble. I press my hands into my lap and pretend that it never made a sound.

  My father picks up his fork, piercing the cake but not yet taking a bite. “We’ve arranged for the two of you to enjoy a walk through Frasier Park together. Hilda will pack a picnic.”

  A walk. A very public walk as it would appear. To my father, there is no greater importance than showing off the fact that his only daughter is being married off to one of the town's finest bachelors. I mean, I guess we can call Desmond that.

  Boring. Boring. Boring. My mind screams in the silence that follows. I blink, suddenly remembering that I have to actually react to such news.

  “How lovely. Just as lovely as, um, my roses.” I nod and offer an almost rueful smile to Desmond.

  He grins back, cake falling from his fork and back onto his plate. He stabs at the piece again while he talks, more to the dish than me. “I’m very excited. I might even have another gift for you, one I’ve been whittling away on since the day we met.”

  Oh my God. How could I forget about his favorite hobby? He’s only told me about it a thousand times. Two words: Wood. Carving.

  Boring. Boring. Boring. I think again.

  “Also…lovely.”

  “Millicent,” my m
other starts. My eyes flare in warning at her, a plea to stop using my full name. She ignores me and continues—it’s the name they gave me after all. “I’m sure you can come up with something better to say than lovely.”

  Can I? Ugh, just pulling out this much conversation with these insufferable people is painful enough.

  Change the subject.

  “Can we bring Phoebe along?” I lift a brow, leaning over my plate toward my betrothed.

  “I think Phoebe would love a nice stroll in the park.” Desmond shoves another bite of cake into his mouth and I follow suit.

  At least I'll have Phoebe, a terrier of sorts with large buggy eyes. Sometimes she snorts when she breathes and it's so much cuter than anything Desmond could do.

  "Perfect! And I'll talk with Hilda, make sure she cooks up those brownies you loved so much on our last visit." Look at me, trying to be thoughtful. At least that's how I hope it appears to the rest of the room because secretly, I'm scheming. Maybe if I beg Hilda enough, or am just sneaky enough, I can find a way to slip some sort of laxative into those brownies, you know, to encourage the date to end quicker. Nothing like ending the day by pooping your pants.

  Desmond takes the last bite of his cake and wipes at his face with the napkin in his lap. Turning his wrist, he takes a quick look at his watch and grimaces. "Regrettably, I have to be going." He looks to my parents. "It was an amazing meal and your company is always so pleasant." Then to me. "I know we've only gotten to spend a small amount of time together this evening but we can make up for that tomorrow." Then he gives me his soft smile.

  I set my fork down, much louder than I should, already springing from my chair. "Let me walk you to the door."

  He gives me one nod, then offers me his arm. Together we leave behind my stuffy dining room and make a break down the long hall that leads to the entryway. We pass pictures of my brother and me at various stages of our lives. In each one, we are posed like dolls and dressed just as frilly too. The one on the end is my favorite. Boston's hair is slicked down except for one strand that pokes up at an odd angle. He looks so silly it always makes me laugh.

  Luckily, Desmond doesn't have anything to add to the conversation and our walk is silent. When we reach the door, I drop my hands from his arm and clasp my fingers in front of me. He stands, a good foot taller than me, lanky and awkward, and waits.

  "I'm sorry for being so late." Again. "But I'll see you tomorrow it sounds like."

  Closing the space between us, he takes my hands in his. Those green eyes simmer with something I can't reciprocate. His thumb rubs against the back of my hand and though it is soft, the sweeping motion aches as if he's been rubbing the same spot all evening.

  "You know," his throat bobs as he tries to find his courage, "since your father has arranged this marriage and we've been on a few visits now I feel like it might be appropriate for me to kiss you goodnight."

  "Kiss?" I ask, tone full of amusement.

  "Yes. The act where two people put their lips together."

  "Desmond." I chuckle. "I know what kissing is." My laugh sounds nervous, not because I've never kissed a boy before but because I'm struggling to find some sort of attraction to him.

  "That's a good start." He runs a hand up my arm, then hesitates and finally cups my cheek.

  "Shouldn't we wait to kiss till tomorrow? Won't that be more romantic?" Hopefully he doesn't hear the worry that I have to do it ever at all in my voice.

  "If we wait till tomorrow then it won't be a goodbye kiss." He straightens himself slightly, examining my face, but his hand stays put—warm and sweaty on my skin.

  "Oh, I guess you're right." Another awkward laugh.

  Desmond doesn't hear my disdain though. He only hears a girl nervous about what should be her first kiss. It isn't my first kiss. Far from it actually. The corners of his full lips tip upward and he lets out a small shaky laugh of his own. He dips his head to mine, and my eyes widen.

  "Just relax," he whispers, his lips brushing mine. He closes his eyes first but I...can't. I just can't believe that I have to do this right now.

  He crushes his mouth to mine, his mouth already feeling slick with saliva. Just when I relax, thinking he’s about to pull away, his tongue slips through my lips parting them forcefully. He does a sweep of my mouth with his tongue, pulling it back to the edge of my mouth then shoving it back in. Like a lizard.

  I gasp against him in surprise. He pulls back, a smile of triumph on his face. It isn't that Desmond is ugly, because he isn't. I'm lucky to have been paired with him. It's just that...shouldn't there be some sort of chemistry? I've kissed men before that made me melt in their arms. Those men weren't nearly as boring as this wood whittling, socially awkward man.

  "Goodnight, Millie." Desmond walking out the door and disappearing into the evening is the best thing I've seen all day.

  "Goodnight, Desmond," I call to him with a wave. Closing the door behind him, I fall against the wood and sag. Nothing like a bad kiss to sully a perfectly good mood.

  Monica pokes her head out of the door that leads into our sitting room with a broad smile on her face. She's one of the youngest of those employed in our home, just a few months younger than me.

  "So, how was it?" She giggles and covers her own mouth with the tips of her fingers.

  I try to muster a smile. "Wet. Abrasive."

  "What a shame because he is so pretty." She sighs.

  "Hey, you can have him." I walk from the door to the small table where they often bring in our mail. Leafing through the envelopes, I search for a letter with my name. Nothing. I crumble a little bit more.

  "Sorry, Millie." Monica pats my shoulder before she starts back toward the sitting room.

  "For what?"

  "I'm sorry you had a bad kiss. And I'm sorry your brother hasn't written to you yet." Her gaze mirrors back the sadness that I feel, then she's gone to the other room busy with her chores before bed.

  The thing is, though, it's not just that my brother hasn't written to me yet. It's the fact that his ship was due back to harbor over a week ago and still no sign of him. And no letter. He always writes me letters.

  With all the grace of my years of training, I glide down the hall and back into the dining room. My half-eaten cake is gone from the table but my parents remain. Mother pats my father's knee. His hands are folded and placed on the roundness of his stomach. I always liked to tease Boston that one day he'll trade in his flat stomach for a gut like Father.

  "Millicent, this is getting out of hand," he starts and I already know where he is going with it. It's the same long speech about responsibilities and becoming a lady, a wife, and then a mother. So on and so on. Such is the way of life here in our city. It's just not the life for me.

  "Boston hasn't written," I interrupt and his gaze softens.

  "Honey, I'm sure he just got busy," Mother chides.

  "This isn't the first time he's been late to harbor and I'm sure it won't be the last."

  "Aren't you worried? Even in the least?" I wear my concerns on me like a thick winter coat, heavy and burdensome.

  "Of course we are worried." My mother sighs.

  "But you shouldn't worry." My father’s tone shifts back to something dangerous. "You have one job and that is to marry, wed, and grow your family."

  Anger shakes through me and I clench my jaw tight. "Because I am a financial burden," I manage to grind out.

  "No, that is not true," Father calls after me but I've already turned and am heading up the stairs to my room. "Because it's your duty as a woman!" he shouts through the space between us and I'm glad I can't see the way his face changes color or how spit flies from his mouth.

  I step lightly, even though I want to stomp my feet all the way up to my room. But a lady doesn't stomp. A lady doesn't fight back. A lady...a lady...a lady...Sometimes I wish I wasn't a woman. How easy would it be to have been born a man?

  At the top of the stairs I grip the banister, thinking about the many different things I c
ould yell back at my father. Desmond’s only been gone a few minutes and we’re already shouting at one another. It’s better for me to stay quiet though.

  My father’s red face comes into view at the bottom of the stairs. The nearly black hair on his head combed to hide his receding hairline. “You will not leave this house unless I allow it until further notice. Do you hear me?”

  “I’m an adult.”

  “You are my responsibility.”

  “How unfortunate for you,” I snarl before I take the last few steps and round the corner of the upper hall.

  Within seconds, I'm closed in my room, my father’s voice far enough behind me I can’t hear him complain anymore. I storm through the space not caring if they can hear each stomping step below me. I tear Boston's last letter off of my dresser. The letter he left me before his ship departed. There are always two letters. The letter he leaves me and the one that he sends. Both are equally as exciting for me, but the second hasn't come.

  I crinkle the paper in my fingers, staring at the words as if I haven't already memorized them.

  Millie,

  I find myself rather busy with trying to fix our father's failing fortunes, but I promise to write to you again as soon as I am able. I can’t wait to hear all about the myths you’ve debunked while I was away. Just remember, that some legends ARE real. And I’m going to find one. The Treasure of Talifi.

  Recently, I’ve heard a rumor at the docks of another captain who comes to port often, a man named Rumi Williams, in the business of helping people get where they ought to go. I’ll find it and you’ll be spoiled for the rest of your life, content to prove any myth or legend wrong as you see fit. When you find the ones that are true, I’ll be right there with you—telling you ‘I told you so.’

  Try not to get in too much trouble while I'm gone.

  Yours truly,

  Boston

  Rumi Williams, a man in the business of helping people. That's where I need to start—and soon.