“Forgive my impertinence sir,” He said. “But have we met before? I’m sure I know you from somewhere.”
The approach was startling and unexpected. I kept a small circle of confidants. My acquaintances at the club were primarily from my school days, or clients of my auction house who kept my favor so that they might find an advantage when something they wanted to purchase came to market. I had not seen this man before, I was sure of it. I would have known, after all, the man’s American accent, stylish garb, and confident attitude were traits I was attracted to and would have remembered.
“I don’t believe we have met before,” I admitted.
“John Edwards of Massachusetts,” The man said, his hand reaching for mine. I was not wearing my leather gloves and an awkward moment hung in the air as I looked at the man’s naked skin. His hand was slender, pale and his fingers were long and nails manicured. My heart throbbed with the anxiety of what I was about to do. I fixed my features, hiding my discomfiture.
“Benedict Hannan”, I introduced leaning forward to take his hand.
“Charmed,” Edwards drawled.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Edwards,” I said as our skin touched and fingers entwined. His hand felt small and soft in my own large oafish hand but touching his skin did not make me erupt into a ball of flame, in fact, it felt surprisingly good.
“Oh, please, call me John!” He said in a manner so boyish that it made my gut clench for reasons I did not want to think of.
“Very well, then you must call me Ben.” I cajoled.
“I’d rather call you Benedict. It’s such a lovely distinguished name, don’t you think?” John admitted, unmanning me as his cheeks coloured.
If I had not consumed my goblet of Port and felt the relaxing warmth of the liquor in my veins I would have reacted differently, and steered my behavior in another direction, but I as had drunk the whole cup and wanted a second, I looked at the intriguing American who sought my company, and smiled.
Mr. John Edwards and I conversed for hours. He spoke of his journey across the Atlantic. I learned that John enjoyed art and antiquities, was well-traveled, and appeared to be moneyed. I did not realize the lateness of the hour until I noticed we were together alone in the lounge, the other travelers having gone to bed. I checked my pocket watch and saw it was one a.m.
“Goodness. We quite lost ourselves!” I said meeting John’s smiling eyes.
“We did!” He was sitting low on his chair, legs parted, the dregs of a tumbler of whiskey in one hand and his pipe in the other. The position drew my gaze to the bulge at his crotch.
“Only a few more hours until we cross the border, yes?” He said, tapping the smoldering remnants of his pipe tobacco into an ashtray.
I did not want this conversation to end. John fascinated me. He was quick-witted, knowledgeable, and well-spoken. I had enjoyed my hours with him more than I’d taken pleasure in human interaction for some time.
“Are you traveling for business or another matter?” I asked, for the hours of conversation had flowed seamlessly and neither of us had yet divulged why we were on the overnight train to Scotland.
“I have some business to attend to outside of Glasgow.” He said cryptically. “You?”
“I also travel for business.”
“Well, I do hope the weather holds. I’ve heard Scotland’s a harsh mistress in winter!” He said.
“That she is, that she is.” We stared at one another as our conversation ceased and my mouth went dry. I did not know what I wanted to say. John looked a little lost, and tongue-tied himself. I knew I needed to retire to my compartment, but this meeting felt somehow unfinished.
“Are you in London often? You must pay me a visit. I run Hannan’s Auction House, in Fitzrovia. We could have dinner at my club?” I ventured with a hopeful raised brow.
“Thank you. That would be an excellent reason to visit London.” John agreed, but to my deep disappointment, I noted he did not formally accept my invitation. He placed his empty glass on the side table then stood tentatively, and bowed his head.
“Goodnight, Benedict. You’ve been the most entertaining company. Thank you. I wish you a safe and pleasant journey.” And with that, he turned and strode through the empty lounge towards the sleeping compartments, the silver lace clasps on his splendid boots jingling with every step. I wanted to follow him, I truly did, but to my eternal regret, I did not
.
The Collectors
Tuesday 21st December 1897
I slept fitfully on the small cot bed, my mind replaying the conversations with Mr. John Edwards of Massachusetts. Meeting him had made me feel a little less curmudgeonly and alone for a few hours. In my secret self, I hoped I would see him again one day, for he was the type of interesting man I would truly like as a friend.
I did not know where John alighted, but when I departed the train at Glasgow Central Station I searched for him in the crowd but did not see him.
It was a well-known fact that in Scotland the celebration of Christmas Day was abolished in 1640 and even though the ban was officially repealed in 1712 the Scottish Church still looked down upon the celebration of Yule and punished any who was discovered celebrating the festival. The Scots folk didn’t even get so much as a day of rest while Queen Victoria’s entire kingdom celebrated Christmas. So as I looked around Glasgow Central Railway Station it was
