The Lioness of Morocco(4)

“So a dip in the harbor basin was not the little adventure you had hoped for?” Benjamin quipped, encouraged by her teasing tone.

Sibylla’s eyes roamed the large hall in search of her father. In vain. She began to examine Benjamin. His body, though concealed up to his waist by coffee, was bare. His shoulders were narrow, his skin pale, and his wet hair thin. His appearance in no way aroused in her the consuming desire experienced by the heroines of the romance novels she occasionally borrowed from her stepmother.

She sneezed again. “There is a draft in here,” she stated, turning away from Benjamin and stuffing her wet hair under the bowler hat a dockworker had brought her along with a striped flannel shirt; a pair of rough-textured, dark blue cotton pants; and an oversized pair of boots.

“The air has to circulate,” Benjamin explained, pointing to the louvered windows. “Light and warmth spoil coffee and destroy its aroma.”

Richard had taken them to the second floor of warehouse three and sent all of the workers outside. Having assured himself that his daughter and Benjamin were not changing clothes behind the same sacks of coffee, he had walked to the other end of the hall, which measured at least one hundred feet in width and twenty feet in depth, in order to inspect a new delivery.

Sibylla bent over to try to lace up the heavy boots. Benjamin, now dressed, stepped out from behind his stack. “It would be an honor for me to assist you, Miss Spencer.”

She hesitated at first, but then accepted his offer with a smile. “That’s very kind, thank you.”

He heaved a sack onto the floor for her to sit on, then kneeled before her. His fingers did not touch her as he got to work, and yet this action seemed much more intimate than earlier in the harbor basin, when he had held her above water.

“There is still some algae in your hair,” he said softly.

“Where?” she asked, just as softly.

“Here.” He reached up and pulled it from the strand of wet hair that had slipped out from under the hat.

“Ahem.” Richard was standing behind them.

Benjamin scrambled to his feet.

Richard looked his daughter over with a furrowed brow. “You look frightful! I will have the cover put up on the carriage for your ride home lest someone recognize you.”

But she did not look frightful to Benjamin at all. At first glance, she might have been mistaken for a man. Her soft features, however, betrayed her indisputable femininity. His heart began to beat faster as he rushed to help his boss into his coat.



All the rustling of papers and scratching of pens at the shipping company’s counting house came to a stop the moment Benjamin stepped over the threshold. Fifteen unabashedly curious pairs of eyes took in the sight of his peculiar getup.

Benjamin smiled. He’d always rather liked being the center of attention.

“What happened? Why are you dressed like that? Where is Miss Spencer?”

Benjamin stopped the questions with a wave of his hand. He relished keeping his coworkers in suspense and knew the tale of his adventure was sure to spread like wildfire anyway. This way, he’d appear a hero to his coworkers and the soul of discretion to the Spencers.

At last, Donovan, ever proper, admonished everyone to get back to work and leave Hopkins alone.

It was with some reluctance that the buyers and scribes, bookkeepers, and clerks finally returned to work.

The door to the counting house opened and Richard Spencer stuck his head in. “Hopkins, would you please come into my office for a minute? Donovan, have two cups of tea sent in.”



The boss’s office was a large square room. In front of the window stood a desk with an inkwell, pens, folders, and a gas-powered desk lamp, rather than one of the old oil lamps in the office next door. The boss also worked seated comfortably at his desk instead of standing like his clerks. The walls were lined with shelves filled with documents and scrolls of paper containing ship designs and, on one wall, there was a cabinet, secured with three locks, in which money and important documents were kept. A simple rectangular table with four chairs stood in one corner.

From the workshops in the courtyard below, muffled voices, hammering, and sawing could be heard.

There was a knock. An apprentice entered, placed a tea tray on the table, poured the steaming brew, and was gone.

“Please, be seated,” said Spencer, motioning to the table. He was an imposing man, with his meticulously trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and a corpulence bespeaking a fondness for fine food and wine. His eyes were clear and penetrating under their bushy brows.

Benjamin happily obeyed. This, after all, was the first time in thirteen years’ employment that he had been invited to tea with the boss.

Spencer stirred his tea several times, took a sip, and came straight to the point. “How many barrels did we lose today?”

“Six, sir,” Benjamin replied anxiously. But seeing Spencer nod, he ventured to add that the insurance company would surely compensate them for the loss.

“Excellent, Hopkins, excellent.” Spencer seemed well pleased. “Go ahead and add the four barrels we lost from the Unicorn last year. What are we paying such horrendous premiums to those cutthroats for, anyway?”

Benjamin nodded but wondered about the real reason he had been summoned. Had there been too many losses in recent months? But he was taken unawares by what Richard Spencer said next.

“My son is taking part in his first cricket match next Sunday.”

“Your daughter had mentioned it, sir.”

Spencer cleared his throat. “Ah. So you know. Very good. Then perhaps you will join us at St. John’s Wood on Sunday and cheer the boy on. I’m sure my daughter would be pleased to see you.”

“It would be my honor, Mr. Spencer!” Benjamin shot out of his chair to take a bow. “It would be a great honor to see your charming daughter again.”

Spencer emptied his cup. “That’s settled, then. See you on Sunday.”





Chapter Three

St. John’s Wood, June 1835

Benjamin Hopkins watched Sibylla, who looked very pretty in a cornflower blue dress, noticing how the color brought out her eyes. The blonde hair visible under her hat was coiffed in tight ringlets and the hat was secured with a coquettish side bow. The ladies with their parasols, colorful dresses, and patterned silk scarves resembled birds of paradise, and the gentlemen in their dark dress coats, top hats, and long slender pants seemed very elegant.

Three thousand Londoners had assembled at the cricket ground at St. John’s Wood in Regent’s Park on that warm Sunday in June in order to attend the most important social event of the season: the annual cricket match between Eton and Harrow, the two best schools in the country.

The game had been going since morning, and now Sibylla’s younger brother, Oscar, had just scored the winning run for his team. Time for tea.

Looking as proud as any family member, Benjamin stood next to the Spencers and received the congratulations of the other spectators. Today, he was no mere observer of the rich but one of them.

With a smile and a bow, he escorted Sibylla to a picnic area the servants had set up in the shade of an ancient plane tree. There were blankets spread out on the lawn, silverware and crockery on a folding table, and a jug of lavender lemonade and a bowl of fresh strawberries sat prepared. Richard opened the wine and champagne bottles, while Sibylla handed out ham-and-salmon sandwiches and her stepmother, Mary, sliced the cheesecake.

The enjoyment of these delicacies in the open had been made popular by Princess Victoria, and Lord’s Cricket Ground, a green oasis right in the middle of London, was excellently suited for it.

“Would you please get the tea, Oscar?” Mary asked.

“Why me? I want to celebrate!” Oscar replied, holding his champagne glass for the servant to fill. He looked sweaty, his white cricket uniform dusty, his hair disheveled, but he was beaming with pride. Having spent the previous year as a substitute, he had not been thought capable of such heroics.

“If you continue guzzling champagne like that, we will have to keep you away from the kerosene cooker,” Sibylla teased.

“Says the woman who fell into the harbor,” he retorted.

“A piece of rather good fortune, I daresay. For, had I not saved your esteemed sister, I would not be present here today,” Benjamin boasted.

“Incredibly good fortune, indeed,” Oscar said under his breath. He wondered whether his sister could really like this tall, pale Hopkins or whether he was just another hapless suitor whom she would scare away before long.

“Mr. Hopkins, if I might ask you to take care of the tea, please?” Mary sighed as Sibylla attempted to swat her brother with a napkin. “And, Sibylla, did you bring your father his sandwich?”

Mary had married Richard shortly after Sibylla, then just four years old, lost her mother in a riding accident. She had raised Sibylla and loved her no less than she did her biological son, Oscar. But her gentility had not rubbed off on her stepdaughter. Sibylla was mercurial, quick witted, and difficult to manage. Richard did not approve of her behavior and was constantly trying to rein her in. Yet the older Sibylla became, the harder she fought to make her own decisions.

Mary threw a furtive glance at Mr. Hopkins. Perhaps, she thought, he might be a husband for Sibylla at last.

She did have her misgivings, though. Richard had shared with her that Hopkins came from an honorable but humble background, and she knew well that a man who rose in society as a result of his marriage was rarely taken seriously.