Fortunate Age
By Alison Lanier
© 2009 Alison Lanier
All Rights Reserved
ISBN: 978-160844-272-0
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A Brief History
The United States of America was established in 1776, the dawn of the Revolutionary War. The newfound country had placed their trust in General George Washington, but in the wake of his death in pitched battle shortly before the army’s retreat to Valley Forge, the post of leadership fell naturally to the Marquis de Lafayette. After the triumph of the new nation at the British surrender in New York Harbor, the Marquis assumed the role of the nation’s first president.
Lafayette found himself under enormous pressure from the doomed Louis the Sixteenth, who had fallen fatally low in the public view, to convert the young country into a French colony, but to the disastrous disappointment of the king, the President maintained America’s independent status, though the culture of the thirteen colonies became predominately French. In the capital, La Ville de Lafayette, French was the dominate language. The President-Marquis enjoyed a luxurious existence, gratefully separated from his homeland’s revolution by the Atlantic.
When the Civil War arose, the resignation of President Grant in 1862 plunged the Union into disarray, which in turn allowed the Confederacy to sweep toward victory, establishing the Great North American Confederacy by 1865 after the rest of the country ultimately collapsed into a loose collection of states in light of the failure of its leadership. However, the nation’s collective view towards the practice of slavery turned extraordinarily dark within the first several years of its existence, and the Emancipation Proclamation was reissued under popular demand.
With the frayed political situation at hand, the technology of the time consequently moved in leaps and bounds in some fields and sagged behind in others. Steam power was dismissed after a disastrous series of accidents that resulted in the death of several popular celebrities; the Age of Sailing raced on, the ships becoming larger and more elaborate by the year with improved engineering. Railroads were laid out beginning in the 1870s after funding for the project was renewed following Kanata’s failed invasion of the Confederacy, attempted shortly after the northern nation had procured its independence in 1868. In its economy, the North American Confederacy had found a foundation as a global power as it entered the glamorous style of Victorian times.
1
A Mystery in the Parlor
It happened in this way on the seventh of October in the year 1889, in the great North American Confederacy.
On the west coast, along the Californian shore, lay the thriving urban community of San Francisco. Each day, ships rode the wind and waves out onto the wide, wild ocean, and I was immodestly proud to say that at least one half of these ships belonged to Trunup’s Shipping Industry, my father’s industrious chain of merchant, transportation, and cargo vessels that sailed over every horizon, in every direction, bringing in an astounding profit and recognition for the impressive figurehead of the company: Jonathon Trunup, the pride of San Francisco. My father had inherited a mere eight ships from his father, Jackson Trunup, and since then had continually expanded it and built it up to prosper, until our family could rightfully claim the position of the second largest shipping chain in the country, second only to that of the Robert Hugh Company, and that man had a sheer five ships more than my illustrious father. One more, in particular, a flagship that was built with all the advantages of the modern age consolidated into an elegant design. The Golden Eagle. but that was all, one ship, be it one enormous, almost miraculous ship. And so with that minute difference separating the two companies, the Hughs and Trunups rivaled and competed in the complex world of trade and economics, their wealth and success propelling them upwards into the velvet-lined luxury of High Society.
This entire business of the rise to greatness happened before I was born, of course, but before I could walk and talk, I, Sarah Trunup, was pompously headstrong of my great eminent father, and confident in the knowledge that, as Trunups, we were the best of the best, royalty in the domain of commerce.
Our house was the largest by far in the flourishing city of San Francisco, and undoubtedly the grandest. My father had a taste for power and superiority, and he made absolutely certain that when he built the mammoth dwelling (more rightly called a mansion) that it was peerless on all fronts, built from the ground up for the purpose to impress. The windows were large and lavish, the trim was exquisite, the paint was bright and eye-catching, and the doorknobs were set with little diamonds, so that even before you went inside, you had a hint of what awaited you. A taste of the potent aura, if you will. Our gardens were wide-spread, which was extremely rare in the city, and colorful, and in my young eyes they bloomed long before anyone else’s. Inside of the mansion itself, there was a formal dining room and an informal dining room, a forward parlor and three private parlors, eight bedrooms, a two-storey kitchen and a specialized kitchen for the foreign chiefs hired in for pricey weeks at a time, and nine servant’s rooms adjoined with a servants’ dining room by an inconspicuous staircase. All these were decorated extravagantly (all but the servants’ rooms of course) under the graceful and keen eye of my mother. She was younger than my father, who was undeniably getting on in years but not yet approaching elderly, and by comparison she was youthful and lovely, with her deep brown eyes and dark red curls. She wore only the best and the finest, and she made sure that the rest of her family followed suit. She and my father were an unmistakably perfect match: both wealthy, both powerful, both proud, and both accustomed to only the paramount lifestyle for their family and themselves.
My renowned parents were also extremely headstrong, if nothing else, and I thought, sometimes, that they lived only for the sake of making others appreciate them and all their money and grand standing in the delicate balance of prominent social life. They made very certain that all of their children knew that they were superior to all the rest, too. One of my earliest memories is of my father standing before myself and my two older brothers, Anthony and Thomas, lecturing us stolidly about what it meant to be a Trunup. He reminded us to strictly retain our authority and dignity, to keep up with what everyone else was saying, to respect those in a position above ours (“Who are very few,” as he told us), and most importantly never to mingle with the lesser folk.
I didn’t need to be reminded. I was every bit as headstrong as my parents. When I observed the sailors’ children running around those filthy docks, and throwing stones in the water, and sampling chewing tobacco they had secretly stolen from their “papas,” my stomach very nearly turned upside down. How could they be so low and disgusting? This was my family’s city, after all, and there they were, running up and down the streets, stained with muck and mud and who knows what other nastiness. I knew that they would grow up to be every bit as despicable as their horrid parents, those dirty sailors and their improper boat-wives. I took the greatest pleasure in wearing my finest gowns and jewelry whenever my mother, brothers, and I went to see my father off as he sailed out of the harbor to visit this important person or another in another notable city or town, even visiting President Alexander Stevens once. I loved the way the boat children would all crowd up behind our little group, staring in awe at our splendor and wealth, and how they whispered furtively to one another behind their hands, and how the little dirty girls would pluck timidly at their muddy and torn dresses, imitating the way I held my skirts, looking sideways at me to make sure they were doing it just right.
Sometimes I felt pity for them, those poor young souls who had to spend their youth running down the filthiest streets of our city, splashing in the mud and digging through the garbage, but all my sympathy vanished as soon as I saw them at play again, hurling rubbish at each other in mock battles on the street and plunging out into the water off the docks, swimming in those same unclean clothes they seemed to wear all the time. They were lesser folk and I needn’t become involved with their pitiful way of life.
I was a Trunup.
But worse yet than those lowlife children of the docklands were the pirates. I had never seen a pirate myself, but my father spoke most forcefully against them and their whole unlawful profession, which was really not a profession at all but really just a way of tearing apart someone else’s business in order to gain illegal riches for themselves, and then they would make mutiny against their Captain, and maroon each other, until, in the end, only one of the whole horrible lot was left with all the money while the others were reduced to less than nothing or hung on the gallows (and all the better for the rest of mankind). My father unluckily lost a cargo ship to pirates once, and we never did hear the end of it. The whole house was ablaze with fury at the attack, for the outnumbering pirate cowards had stolen some of Father’s best silks and crates of food, and then the scoundrels had fled, leaving a confused and frightened crew behind because the pirate leader had thrown a lit torch on the deck and the sailors had to scramble about to put it out before the entire ship was lost.
But however furious we were, all that need be done was to purchase more silks and outfit the Trunup ships with more firearms for surer defense. And that was just spending pocket money, really.
My life in its simplicity was built on the principles of pride, honor, wealth, superiority, and high-standing, and that was the only way. We were better than everyone else, and that was all there was to it. Only Robert Hugh stood in the way of our ultimate greatness. That is, until the seventh of October, 1889.
My family was sitting down to dinner in one of our lavish dining rooms, silk napkins neatly spread on our laps, just picking up our knives and forks, when all of a sudden one of the maids burst in through the door, her eyes wild, her face flushed, and her skirts a frenzy of a mess. My father stood up at once, like a lion getting to its feet, and my oldest brother, Anthony, rose too, his countenance stern and apprehensive.
“S-Sir!” gasped the maid, breathlessly struggling to compose herself. “Terribly sorry Sir, knowing it’s dinner and all, but it’s Robert Hugh’s ships, Sir! They-they’ve—”
But at that point her air ran short, and she had to put her hands on her knees and pant to refill her lungs. My own heart was beating just a little faster—no, no, that’s a lie: it was racing with anticipation. What had happened? And involving Robert Hugh’s ships? This had to be important, and if not disastrous, was bound to be positively glorious.
“For heaven’s sake, Hannah!” burst out Father, paler than usual with his dark eyes flashing, completely focused on the hysterical maid.
Hannah the maid straightened up, breathing rather harder than normal, but much calmer.
“It’s Robert Hugh’s ships, Sir,” she said. “They hit rough seas off up in the Bering Bay. They’ve sunk, Sir, all seven of ‘em. And you know what was one of ‘em? It’s the Golden Eagle. It’s gone, it’s down.I just heard it from the dockhands, because Mr. Hugh himself came to the dockside offices not an hour ago to talk with his lawyer over it. He might want to speak with you, Sir, if you aren’t busy. I’m not sure when, probably tomorrow, Sir, once he’s gotten things straightened out and all.”
I’ll never forget the look on my father’s face as Hannah was speaking.
There was a fierce delight burning bright in his eyes, and his lips were twisted in a merciless smile, triumphant in the shadow of Hugh’s fall. But make no mistake, I was rejoicing inwardly, too, and at the time I didn’t really notice how peculiar that look he wore was. I would remember it later though. Oh, I would remember it very, very well, and I would realize what lay beneath it.
All I saw just then was the end of a rivalry I had known all my short life. That was it: seven ships down at the bottom of the sea, up in the freezing, unpredictable waters around the Bering Coves, no less. Hugh was out of the running for good.
My mother was gazing up at Father in such an odd way just then, part admiration, part shock, part a harsh, hot triumph like his, and then she leapt to her feet, her silk napkin floating to the floor unnoticed, and the two of them embraced in celebration. My brothers looked utterly lost, their eyes hurriedly averted, but then they were on their feet as well, lifting up the wine bottles from the table and toasting to seven sunken ships—and then I stood, too, taking care to maintain my dignity and fold my napkin, replacing it back on the table neatly next to my fork. I felt that odd smile that Father had worn tugging at my lips now, eager and victorious, and who was I to refuse it? I let it break over my face, and it came like the earth being cracked open by an earthquake, cracking me so widely that I instantly knew it was wholly improper, but I couldn’t get rid of it now—oh no, it was there to stay, drawing me into the celebration along with the rest of my illustrious family.
A second later our servants rushed into the dining room in a tumbling flood, laughing and shouting and making a tremendous noise, all decent propriety completely forsaken in the face of success. The cooks had brought out yet more bottles of wine and they quickly set to work uncorking and distributing. My father refused to drink, despite the festivities, but my brothers were another story, and shortly they were drunk as I had ever seen anyone be, roaring riotously along with the servants, and then, through the throng, I saw Thomas bend his head forward and actually kiss Hannah. It was lucky my mother and father didn’t see—the consequences would have been more than unpleasant. I, on the other hand, had seen, and was embarrassed and ashamed and felt the disgrace for my entire family, a furious blush burning on my face and my eyes cast elsewhere.
The party raged madly on. My parents themselves were caught in the middle of it all, and my mother was laughing loudly at something someone had said, and my father was beaming impressively around at the mob scene in the dining room, and I was shunted about, completely ignored, and even pushed to the ground once or twice, but it didn’t matter as it might have at another, more civilized time when I might have flown up in a righteous fury at the drunken man-servant who knocked me over. Tonight I merely pushed myself back to my feet, grinned with a happy stupidity, and continued to be jostled and jolted about roughly, but then—
I felt a glass being pushed into my hand, and when I looked down I found that it was filled to the rim with amber, foaming, bubbling beer.
Nervously I looked up at my parents. They were too busy to notice me, and my brothers were clearly too drunk to notice anything other than another glass of wine.
Surely it couldn’t hurt? Just one little sip?
Just to see what it tasted like, of course.
I’d never had alcohol before. My Trunup pride prevented even the tiniest drop passing my lips, but what were we doing here other than celebrating that very Trunup pride? So I raised the cup to my lips with careful delicacy and took a sip. I didn’t like the taste much, and I don’t know why I took another sip, and then another and another, until I had lost track altogether, and I was tottering where I stood, unable to see clearly or to keep my balance. And then it occurred to me very suddenly, like a hammer striking on an anvil, that I’d had more than one or two glasses by now…
I’m drunk, I decided cheerfully. How shameful! In a room full of servants as well…
I had forgotten that my brothers were drunk too, and all I could think about was how my parents would react when they spotted me, tottering like an ineptly spun top. I didn’t like it one bit, either. Not only was the smell horrid on my nostrils, but the taste was not ripe or sweet like I had expected it to be. My tongue felt heavy and furry and refused to form words. I tried to sneak away up the stairs to my bedroom to recover, but I tripped on the first step and had to catch the corner of a coffee table to support myself. My head spun…the room was a haze…Was I going to be sick? I didn’t know, I couldn’t see, the noise was deafening…
At that point I suppose one of the servants noticed me, because the next thing I knew a firm hand had a hold of my arm and someone was supporting me up the stairs. I don’t remember much afterwards, except the soft pillow under my head, and the blankets being pulled over me, and a soft, familiar voice—scolding? Praising? Laughing? I was asleep in an instant, dignity deeply damaged.
What happened next dwarfed it by comparison.
By three in the morning, the stormy weather that had sunk Robert Hugh’s ships had blown into San Francisco Harbor, rattling the window panes and breaking branches from trees. I awoke in the midst of it, still a little dizzy and much disoriented from my regrettable experience with the beer. Thoughts crawling along sluggishly, I pulled myself out of bed and stood blinking in the dim light of my bedroom. It was at the very top of the house, and consequently I heard the storm’s furious raging closer at hand than anyone else. Knowing it would be impossible for me to fall back to sleep, I stretched and blinked and tried to collect my scattered mind. Once I shook off the dreariness that I suppose was the aftermath of the drinking, I found myself wide awake.
The trouble was that I was the only one awake in the house and I was horribly restless.
The storm’s energy felt contagious, as if I was catching some vigor from the lightning and crashing thunder, and I wanted to go—to do something—to have another adventure? Well, if the beer was an adventure, I didn’t want to have another.
But surely there were good adventures, too? Why shouldn’t I go out right now and have one of them?
But that was absurd. We were practically royalty now, being the largest shipping industry in the country. Ships and cargo were the leading trade and travel in the country, after all, and being at the head of that, surely we were at the head of everything else, too. My father was the king, my mother the queen, my brothers princes, and myself? I was a princess of my domain. I should make a point of dressing more finely whenever we went down to the docks from now on. Those sailor children needed a lesson in who was in charge.
It was a minute before I came to the realization that not all of what I was hearing was the storm. That click-click-click noise was not being made by the rain on the window.... I listened more intensely, and it came to me. What I was hearing was the wheels of a carriage outside on the cobblestone street. But no, not anymore…the wheels were now crunching over gravel…
The gravel in the front drive.
Puzzled, I moved to the window. Raindrops thickly obscured the glass, but I could still make out the dark outline of a carriage pulled by two large horses coming to a halt outside our front door. Who on earth would be outside in this abysmal weather? And coming to our house?
It crossed my muddled mind that it might be Robert Hugh come to meet with my father. Surely he would be upset over the loss of his ships, and had come regardless of the time of day or the rampaging storm. Yes, that was it.
Convinced I had it figured, I felt not the slightest bit of disquiet as I watched a blurry figure emerging from the carriage and hobble up the front steps. I had never seen Robert Hugh before in my life, and I naturally assumed that his was the limping figure at my door.
Then the expected knock came on the door, loud and rapping. Sure to wake anyone in the house who wasn’t too drunk. My brothers, of course, would still be deeply asleep no matter how forcefully Mr. Hugh knocked, as would most of the servants, but my mother and father? They would be awake any moment to answer the door. I couldn’t, of course, because the dress I was wearing was disgracefully wrinkled, seeing as I had not changed clothes since the party. And, after all, a princess never appeared to the public in anything less than her finest.
So I listened to Mr. Hugh knocking again, and then a great scramble downstairs as a servant or two scurried to answer. I heard footsteps in my parents’ room, just beneath mine. Couldn’t they hurry? I wanted to meet Mr. Hugh, too, and the entire household was taking absolutely forever to see to him. Didn’t they see the opportunity? Our rival, conquered, and waiting at our door! What could possibly be better?
I, for one, moved quickly for being so bleary. I brushed out my hair, and slipped out of my rumbled dress and into a fresh gown, pulling on the stockings, struggled to tie the corset myself (and breathe at the same time), slipping into the camisole, the petticoat, the dress itself, gloves, the paper-thin soled slippers, donning a cap, and finally hanging my best pearls around my neck.
After taking care to practice a sweet, innocent smile to my mirror, I waited impatiently to hear the maid coming to fetch my father from his room for his meeting with Mr. Hugh. Sure enough, while standing at the top of the little flight of steps that led up to my bedroom, I heard the nearly frantic footsteps coming up the grand staircase up from the front hall. I heard Hannah panting before she spoke.
“Sir,” she said, “there’s a—um—gentleman downstairs in the parlor that’d like a word with you. He says it’s very urgent, Sir.”
“What is his name?” my father’s curt voice replied immediately.
“He said to tell you that he was called Bait, Sir; said he thought that’d mean something to you, Sir.”
There was the slightest pause downstairs. I realized I was holding my breath. Bait? What kind of a name was that? Definitely not Robert Hugh, the man I had dressed myself up so finely to meet? And at this time of night? My subconscious began to bubble with suppressed suspicion, but I was too preoccupied and suddenly too uneasy to notice. There had to be a reason, there was sure to be a reason…
After a few tense minutes, still poised at the top of the steps, I heard my father’s black slipper pumps tapping down the stairs and away in the direction of the main parlor. My mother’s soft footsteps followed shortly after, moving in the same direction, but they stopped as my father’s kept moving.
Curiosity is an awfully dangerous thing. I later wished I had stayed up, safe and tucked away in my luxurious bedroom in my glorious dress with my rich pearls round my neck, and wished that I had never heard what my father and the stranger said, but that doesn’t change the fact that hear it was what I did.. I tip-toed most carefully down the seven stairs, into the upstairs corridor, and down a second, narrower flight of stairs, into the servants’ kitchen. It was a plain, coarse room, neat and shining with copper pots and pans hung all around the walls and wooden counters, an oven, a stove, a sink, and a low wooden table near a window that opened up onto the back garden.
I didn’t come here often, and why should I? These were lesser folk living in my own home, and because they lived in my own home they were not quite as low as some lesser folk, but I didn’t mingle with them unless it was absolutely unavoidable. Like last night. I hardly ever spoke directly to one of the servants or cooks, or even the prompt and proper butler.
But it was from this room that I could see and hear Father and the Bait stranger, so I stood close to the door that led into the parlor, and opened it a crack to peer through.
I was looking into our lavish parlor, the room my mother took the most care to adorn impressively. Statuettes stood on the mahogany mantle, along with glimmering gold treasures that my father had brought back from far-off, exotic places like the Republic of Tokyo and the vast Sahara Empire. The golden clock from the thriving southern Mayan Lands showed the time at three-thirty. Red velvet covered rich, deep sofas and armchairs. A large, oriental carpet blanketed the dark wood floor, and the forks of lightning from the storm outside illuminated everything in sharp, creepy detail. An alcove lined with windows lay at the far end of the parlor, and that was where my father and the stranger were preparing to sit down by the coffee table in the light of a single, soft lamp. The whole arrangement, tucked away in that obscure corner, struck some part of me as conspicuous, but most of me was too trusting and mystified to suspect a thing.
This was the strangest sight I had seen in my life. The stranger was none other than an elderly, filthy sailor, his thin frame draped in tattered ship-wear; much like the despicable dockhands wore, torn and patched and stinking and dirty. His hair was dirty, too, and matted, and I could see the awkward shape of a wooden leg from where I was watching. But most startling of all, I found, were the man’s eyes: they were only a deep mud brown, but they looked startlingly alert and alive, unlike the rest of him, which could have belonged to a corpse…. except for those eyes…Those eyes darted around the parlor from between wrinkled and shadowed folds of sagging skin. He looked quite old, much older than my father, a skeleton dressed in withered flesh.
Then my father moved the ornately painted standing screen he had imported especially from Yokohama in front of the alcove and the table and the two men, and I could see the strange Bait no more, but I could make out the two men’s silhouettes through the thin screen’s design of cranes and flowers. The sailor was reclining into his cushioned armchair, and I heard a scratchy, satisfied groan.
“This ‘eels betta,” he mumbled, his voice coarse and gritty with his old age. “There en’t nothin’ on that stinkin’ boat comfortable as this.”
“I’m glad you think so,” said my father. He sounded agitated, and to my shock he was treating the ragged old sailor with the utmost respect. “But since your rather unorthodox arrival you have given no reason for your visit, and I’m quite certain that you didn’t come just to sit and have an easy cup of tea with an old friend. That is, if you still consider me a friend.”
“Still a friend?” said Bait, chuckling darkly. “Na, ye en’t a friend, more like a common ally—and maybe not that, even. The fellas ‘aven’t been all that trustin’ o’ folk since ye was aboard, but we owe ya somethin’ for the wealth ye gave us, and we come around to give it back to ya, but after this debt is done and paid, we’re off, and we en’t comin’ back on no friendly terms. Ya understand, Ten?”
“Of course,” said my father curiously, seemingly oblivious to the horrid man’s blatant threats. “But how do you intend to repay me, Bait? How are you going to give me back all that wealth that I gave you? In deed or material?”
“Ye could say both,” said Bait. “The deed’s what I’m about to be tellin’ ya, and the material’s yer life. How’s that sound for ya?”
A hesitation. Father’s life? What on Earth—?
“I must say, I’m intrigued,” he said after a few moments. “And what force will you be protecting me from this time, Bait?”
The old man’s sandpaper voice sounded completely at ease, untroubled, contented. This might have been any chat but for the tension in the air. “This is gonna take some time for me ter tell, so don’t be gettin’ too jumpy and anxious, ‘cause ya know I hate it when ye fidget ‘round like that while I talk.”
“Please, go on. I suspect my wife will get curious and start wandering too near and I would greatly prefer it if she didn’t overhear.”
A fork of lightning flashed brilliantly across the sky outside, and for a split second I could see right through the screen. My father was sitting forward, eyes bright and feverish to match Bait’s, and Bait was looking coolly back at him, leaning back in his chair, grinning from ear to ear.
“Fine, jus’ don’t go interrupting me, and I’ll get it done quick as I can.
“We was in dock down in the San Miguel Islands when I ‘eard about it. See I was out for the night with another one of the crew at the port tavern. They let our type in round there. Anyways, so it’s just me and ol’ Pricks sitting at the table near the back, just like always, a’ right, so then we hear the name ‘Trunup’ from up at the bar. Now, ya can pretta well imagine we was listenin’ real tight to what was said next, ‘cause we hadn’t nearly forgot ‘bout you, Ten, not at all. It was a well-to-do man talking to a bunch of his cousins, as we ova-heard, and he was fiery in the eyes, boy, angry as anythin’.
“‘There’s big talk ‘bout this Trunup man,’ he says to his cousins, and he was too drunk to know they was his cousins, I bet. ‘The Hugh man lost seven ships up north, and now everybody’s talkin’ like mad ‘bout this man Trunup. Lives up in San Francisco,’ ‘e says, ‘big house an’ all. Stole it all from Benny a while back, see, when the devil Trunup was still real busy raidin’ ships.’
“Now, Ten, I know we never really figured many knew ‘bout you an’ the ‘ole story of those accursed deeds and all, but this guy did, clear as polish, ‘e did. He knew every little detail, and he rattled them off quick as a snap to ‘is cousins. He was in a fury, that man, like I’d ever seen a man in my life, and a drunken fury at that—but that weren’t all. It turns out this man’s the nephew of Benjamin Dovers, Captain of the Silver Crescent, all right, and ‘e was in a state ‘cause he’d just ‘eard the truth ‘bout ye, an’ all ye’ve been getting’ outa the chain and all.
“So when his cousins asked ‘im, ‘What ya gonna do, Fred? What ya gonna do to ‘im?’ that man just looked straight back at ‘em and said real passionate-like, ‘I’m gonna make ‘im pay every penny back, ‘long with the deeds and all, and I’m gonna go to ‘is ‘ouse and knock that diamond-knobbed door down, all right. And if ‘e don’t gimme what I’m wantin’ ‘e’ll be real sorry, ‘e will.’
“So I come here fast as I could, and the Captain had us anchor the Falcon three miles from port, so nobody would spot us, ‘cause this is a respectable harbor, see, and I had to row all the way into the dock in this bloody roarin’ mess. But I came fast as I could, just to repay a debt to a man who nearly killed his ‘ole crew a-purpose, and me in it, too, and I come ta help ya just so I can sleep betta at night. I’m even willin’ to help ya escape if I can.”
Another fork of lightning flared outside, drawing Bait’s story to a startling, dramatic close. The light revealed that the sailor was not grinning in the slightest anymore, but sitting ardently forward on his seat, his chin resting in his cupped palm, and looking with a stony sternness at my father, who was looking pensively back, his fingers interlocking, elbows resting on the tabletop, staring at the other, ragged, grimy man over his knuckles. His face was smooth, stoic, veiled.
There was a tremendous clap of thunder, and as it faded, it left a stressed, pressing silence in the parlor.
“Escape, Bait?” said my father after a few long, soundless minutes. “You make it sound as if this man has the smallest capability to harm me. I assure you, he will not get anywhere near me or so much as glimpse this house. All I must do is alert the local police, and when this ‘Fred’ arrives, he will be met with a rather unpleasant surprise. What shall I accuse him of? Robbery? Threats to a man and his family? Improper public behavior? Drunkenness? Murder? The possibilities are grotesquely endless. That is, if he actually deems to turn up at all. You know, Bait, he was probably just stupid with drink, drunk as both my sons put together. In all likelihood, he woke up the next morning with no recollection of his threats and quite possibly, not the vaguest idea of who I am.”
I saw Bait’s face contorted into a twisted grimace by the light of another burst of lightning.
“Ya don get it, Ten,” said the old sailor forebodingly. “The man’s crazy with it. ‘e’ll come an’ break down the door, like ‘e said. Or ‘e could jus’ come up and ask ta talk ta ya, like a real gentleman. ‘e wasn’t poor nor disrespectable, mind. The police wouldn’t stop ‘im, wouldn’t think o’ it, an’ without evidence ta any crime—”
“There will be evidence. I’ll make sure of it.”
“—an’ besides, what if ‘e tells them police the story ‘bout the Crescent? They’d listen to ‘im then, I reckon, and then the police would be afta ye. They wouldn’t protect ya no more. Ya’re in a fix, Ten. Ya’re in a real tight one, that’s where ye are.”
Lightning bloomed in the sky outside, tracing the contours of the clouds beyond the window. Father’s face was suddenly perplexed and somehow much, much older. It looked drawn. Exhausted. “And what, Bait, do you suggest I do?” he said, as quiet as death.
“My advice?” Bait said. “Ya never asked my advice afore, Ten; ya were usually the one who were comin’ up with the plans an’ such. But all the same, I’m thinkin’ that ya should run for it—”
“Preposterous—!”
“—That man can’t be that far behind, if I got here this quick. Ya can come aboard the Falcon again.”
I saw my father’s silhouette shake his head. “And be ripped to pieces? I’m sure your debt to me would not extend far enough to let me live. That’s suicide. What I need is a place to stay, to disappear to for a time, somewhere out of the way…But my family? How could I explain this to them?”
“Do they know anythin’ ‘bout yer escapades on the Falcon?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Not even yer wife?”
“Not even her. Do you know what happens to the likes of us when we wander into the hands of the law?”
“’Course I know. I got sumthin’ between me ears, haven’t I? But this man, Fred, has got no quarrel with yer family, nuttin’ what-sa-eva. He just wants ta get at ya, an’ that’s all. Yer family’ll be safe enough right ‘ere. It’d be more dangerous ta take ‘em with ya.”
“Even so, don’t you think it would be better to move them? Not take them with me, but just move them somewhere that this Fred wouldn’t know where to find them? I have connections in the English Empire that might take them in, and some of my contacts in Lafayette City might be able to harbor them as well. They could live there until the authorities have apprehended this man.”
“Moving yar family, yes, that’d be a good idea, but ta the capital? Everybody’d notice ‘em there, and Fred woul’ get wind o’ it and show up there and knock down that door. ‘e’d find out where ye was then, an’ there’s no guarantee ‘e’d be peaceful towards ‘em, even if ‘e ent got a quarrel with ‘em. Na, not Lafayette City. Look fa some place small an’ outa the ways a bit, like ye said, not some place like New Boston, neither, ‘cause he’d catch wind o’ ‘em stayin’ there, too. The English Empire migh’ not be such a bad idea. It’d take Fred a good long while to find where ye all’d gone then. But your family ain’t the target ‘ere. It’s ye we gotta worry ‘bout afore we start worrin’ ‘bout yar family.”
The next crash of thunder was softer, distant. The storm was passing rapidly, and there was no more lightning by which to see the two men, but their oil lamp shone through the screen, too, I could still see the dark outlines of their profiles. My heart was beating so furiously I thought it just might pound itself out of my chest altogether, but the conversation was not done yet. The men continued to talk of all sorts of troubling things— how many men would gather information for this Fred, and if even now he was on a swift journey to our home. Was I waiting to hear a knock at the door? Was I waiting to hear the door being pounded to splinters?
My father recited a dozen havens, metropolises and foreign nations, but Bait shook his head and laughed them away. It sickened me to hear my father, Mr. Jonathon Trunup, begging—begging— the scratchy, slurred advice of this disheveled, unhygienic old sailor. Surely there was some sort of logic behind this crazy exchange, some sort of sense behind the insanity, but if there was, I could not detect it. All I could do was wait, and watch, and listen, and pray that somewhere, deep in this horrible dream, there was a chance of waking up to a bright, clear, peaceful morning.
The only break in the conversation came when Mother unexpectedly floated into the parlor with her usual, superior grace, like a magnificently beautiful ballerina on stage, carrying our finest silver tea set, and casting a look of fiery, blazing suspicion at Bait. But she set the shining tea tray down on the tabletop, her poise flawless, revealing none of the discomfort I knew she was feeling, and floated out of the room, silent as any servant.
And speaking of servants—why hadn’t a servant delivered the tea? But I already knew: Mother had wanted to see the guest with whom her husband was talking so privately, so she had prepared the tea downstairs in the larger, grander kitchen, used the best tea set, and taken it up herself. Her powerful pride was deeply hurt by the exclusion, and now scarred by seeing the unseemly guest.
Finally Bait said, “Well, the obvious solution is ta go somewheres far ‘way from the water. ‘e won think o’ lookin’ there for a good long while. ‘Course, ye’ll travel under a false name. Jonathon Trunup’ll attract too much ‘tention on a second-class train headin’ inland. Head fa a small town up in Kanata—ye speak French, don-cha?—take some money, and fare-thee-well. Jus’ like the ol’ days, aye Ten? Adventure, an’ all that?”
Adventure. Wasn’t I just thinking of adventure, going off on a good adventure…?
“I will take your advice into consideration, Bait, but bear in mind that my disappearance will account for a lot. I’ll take the deeds to the chain with me. It would be foolish to leave them behind.”
“Gud luck, Ten.”
What is this name, this ‘Ten’? Father’s name is Jonathon…
Father nodded, and the two of them stood up, my father’s silhouette tall and fit and impressive, and Bait’s short and bent behind the painted cranes. They shook hands, and Father moved the screen away. I took painstaking care to be sure that the door was open just the tiniest of tiny cracks, just enough that I could see through and into the parlor. Oh why had I chosen such a bright, shimmering gown? I was practically emitting light with which to be seen by, and if they caught sight of me…
Bait hobbled out of sight, down the stairs, his wooden leg clunking loudly, wood on wood, on every other step, Father at his side, leaving me crouched in the servants’ kitchen, my mind reeling.
I only dared to move when I heard my mother and father walking back up to bed and the sound of the clack clack clack of Baits carriage had faded to silence. I stood up, horribly stiff but more than that, horribly, horribly worried. I was unused to the discomfort, any discomfort at all. Physical discomfort was a rare thing for someone like me, a Trunup, who lived in a small, silky, safe world, but tonight, I couldn’t bring myself to mind the ache much at all…
I hobbled slowly but silently back up to my attic room, changed into my sleeping gown, and crawled into the warm, cozy sanctuary of my bed. I was unhappy and baffled and scared and shamed. Who was Bait to talk so casually with my father, and to disturb us in the midst of the night? How had my father known him? And “…the devil Trunup was still real busy raidin’ ships.”? My father had never had anything to do with raiding ships, of course he hadn’t. Bait must’ve been mistaken, that’s all…
But my father was running away, running away on the advice of a ragged old sailor. I realized then that he had never come to a decision on where to send us. He’d never decided.
And the shame! This was the most shameful night of my life, without a doubt. I had been drunk, knocked to the ground, carried upstairs by a servant, and then crouched behind a door, eavesdropping on my father, drinking in the words of a revolting, lowlife seaman.
2
A Stow Away at Midnight
When I awoke the next morning, groggy and mystified and still dreadfully stiff, my father was gone.
When I went downstairs into the family dining room, I found my mother sitting at the mahogany table, sobbing into a lace handkerchief, her strikingly pretty face streaked with salty stains where the tears had dribbled down her cheeks. Anthony and Thomas were standing stolidly beside her, mournful expressions clouding their imperious faces, so very much like our father’s. Hannah was positioned by the door to the downstairs kitchen, shifting her weight uncertainly from foot to foot, and the prompt and proper butler, whose name was Mr. Witherings, was standing against the brightly wall-papered wall beside the mantle. His expression was non-revealing, completely closed to the outside world. That look made me fume. How could a living, breathing human being express so little emotion when there was such sorrow so obvious around him. He must not have a heart. I should have realized that before. Our butler had no heart, nothing beating inside him to feel sad or pitying or sympathetic…He just watched the tears fall, and felt nothing behind that proper mask of his.
I paused on the threshold of the sorrowful room, looking around at all the somber faces, and that one, appallingly blank one. My mother looked up with red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes at me for the briefest moment, and then buried her nose in her lacey handkerchief, hiding herself in it. My brothers paid me no attention at all, just exchanged significant glances, as if I should know that simple minded little girls couldn’t understand such things as were playing out in front of me, and didn’t deem me important enough to take notice of. I knew immediately what had happened, though, which only added to my mounting collection of useless shame and self-disgust. Father, my eminent and dignified father, had taken the advice of the ragged, haggard Bait and deserted us.
Just then, as Mother shifted into a more convenient position to sob in, I noticed a slightly wet, folded paper by her elbow. I hesitated. I had never seen her undone like this—the graceful, glowing hostess of dignitaries and company presidents—and I was frightened. What was I supposed to do?
Nothing, it seemed, I could do absolutely nothing at all.
I crossed, self-conscience, to where she was sitting and, as discretely as I could, picked up the note, and slowly—dread working its way up my throat—unfolded it. I recognized my father’s neat, elegant scroll at once. My heart beating painfully fast, I read it through eight times, a little, miserable part of me wanting to disregard it as some terrible mistake. But I couldn’t. Not after Bait.
The note was short and formal, but I could sense my father’s anxiety, like a thin sheen of sweat, coating the tidy print. He wrote that business (unavoidable) was forcing him to go away for a time, somewhere distant, somewhere we wouldn’t want to—shouldn’t—follow him. He suggested a holiday, a long holiday, to the English Empire, to spend some time in London, a stay in Bath, perhaps even take the ferry south to Le Demain de Francais for a spell…but, no, it wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order, a command, and it was too agonizingly apparent that this wasn’t a carefree holiday. It was running away: he’d gone first, and now he wanted us to follow suit. And there was a promise, right there, at the tail end of the abominable letter, “I’ll meet you in England come the New Year…”
And then his signature, familiar and showy, and nothing else. Nothing at all.
I replaced the note on the table, feeling like a ghost, light and insubstantial, and made of nothing but memories and troubles. The situation was unreal. Mother never cried. Anthony and Thomas, the energetic, youthful pair never looked so grim and stood so still and silent. Rosy-cheeked Hannah never looked so pale. I felt so strange just standing there in the midst of it all, all of it that could never never NEVER in a thousand, thousand years, exist.
Hannah cleared her throat.
“Excuse me, Ma’am, but I think you could do with a nice, hot cup of tea. You’d like that, Ma’am? Yes?—Sarah, you can help.”
I could never remember Hannah—any of the servants, in fact—calling me by name. It was always “Miss Trunup” or “Miss” or “Mistress Sarah” or something to that effect. To hear my name—a princess’s name—coming from someone like Hannah infuriated me, enraged me, made me want to lash out and smash the flower vase centerpiece on the table. But I was too miserable to protest or to scold or to do more than hang my head and follow, like a loyal little lapdog, kicked, but still desperately clinging to what it knows.
Hannah gave me a quick, knowing look, closing the door to the kitchen behind us. I didn’t acknowledge her. I never imagined knowing something could carry such a weight…Where was Bait now? Where was Father? What was he doing? Was he waiting for us to arrive in the English Empire, or was he hiding in inland Kanata with a false name?
I didn’t like to think about it. I simply stood there, dumbly watching Hannah pull jars down from the spice racks, boiling water, and tip just a touch of sugar into a silver teacup. One of the teacups from the tray last night. I felt a lump settle in my throat. Hannah never asked for my help, of course she didn’t. She had only wanted me out of that cheerless room, out from under their sorrowful eyes…and besides, she knew I couldn’t make tea. Servants made tea, not princesses. But was I a princess anymore…?
Tap-tap-tap! A knock at the front door!
Hannah threw off her apron and flew out the door with superhuman speed. And then I heard Hannah’s courteous serving-girl voice drift through from the front hall:
“Just a moment, Mr. Hugh, and Mrs. Trunup will be with you shortly. If you would wait in the parlor, please, Sir?”
My heart leapt into my throat. The real Robert Hugh. The man I had put on my best pearls to meet just hours ago. I stood straighter, royalty again—I had to be, I had to, had to defend the family name. Father…wasn’t at home. Mother was hopelessly dissolved in tears. My brothers, for all I knew, could still be suffering from severe hangovers... It had to be me. I turned on my heel and walked briskly out of the tidy kitchen where the teacup sat, half-filled on the counter, up the carpeted staircase, and made an spectacular entrance, back straight, neck stretched, eyes half-lidded.
A lady to the core.
And just a view paces away was Mr. Robert Hugh, about to settle onto one of my red velvet sofas.
Mr. Hugh was tall and gangly, not powerfully built like my father, nor imposing to look at. But he had that impressive sense to him when you looked closely, that air of lofty superiority hanging around his shoulders, not at all like Father’s fierce, steady pride. His hair was black, streaked with bands of silver, sleek and shiny and oily, and a thin mustache curled, equally oily, above his thin upper lip. He was grasping a cane with a silver top carved to look like the head of a hunting dog—not because he needed a cane to walk, no, but to drive home the idea that he was wealthy enough to have an entire collection. He wore an overly-showy, expensive, frock coat suit, complete with satin lapels. He looked like an over-dressed, greasy tree.
The very instant he saw me, his foul, deeply dark eyes danced with something remarkably like malice. I returned it with a high-held nose and a look brimming with all the dignity and royal pride I could muster, white-gloved hand resting on the ruby red velveteen arm of the sofa. He was sitting in a lady’s presence—a revolting breach of etiquette!
Hannah, who had been lurking behind Mr. Hugh’s couch, speedily collected his cane (she was already holding his hat), and disappeared, catching my eye. A warning…
We were left alone.
Behind him, I could see the table and chairs in the tiny alcove where Father had sat with Bait and talked about things I didn’t want to understand—and I found myself suddenly disliking Mr. Hugh thoroughly, deeply, from the toes of his polished black shoes to the tips of each oily strand of hair, though he had not yet spoken a word.
“Ah, young Miss Trunup,” he said, his voice slick with scorning spite and something else I couldn’t distinguish. Oh, how I hated him…“It issss Sarah, isn’t it?”
“Yes Sir,” I said, layering my voice with thick, patronizing honey. Poisoned, venomous honey. “And you are Mr. Robert Hugh?” I did not deem to give him time to answer, but plowed smoothly on: “It is a pleasure to finally meet the man my dear father always spoke so…much about.”
He caught the implication right off the bat.
“And the ssssame to you,” said the loathsome creature. I settled myself on the sofa opposing his, glaring at the hideous leech over a floral arrangement on the marble-topped coffee table between us. “But you are aware, of coursssse, Misss Sarah, that we have no location of your dear father, or, more to the point, any reason for him to have left his family in such conditions.”
I could have stood up right then and slapped his horrible, gangling face, but I sat still, contained, mastering myself, hating him. Control, I told myself, measuring my breathing. Control is the key…you’re a princess, you’re in control…but then why is he so arrogant?!
“I can think of several,” I retorted. “He may have had some urgent and unavoidable business elsewhere, as he said, and he did leave specific instructions for my mother, Anthony, Thomas, and I to travel immediately to the English Empire, where he will meet us.”
“Oh, I know that is what his letter ssssaid.” The beast on the other side of the flowers was sneering intolerably. I could now discern that other, odd note in his voice clearly: it was amusement. “The authoritiessss have already declared him missssssing.”
He caught the shock on my face before I could mask it with royal indifference.
He went on: “In the circumstances of his sad, ssssudden disappearance, we can only assssume his absence has to do with ssssomething unlawful. There is no evidence to suggest otherwisssse. The policccce will be arriving within the day to question your family and yoursssself, but—.” And here he heaved a heavy sigh, as if he was actually troubled, actually cared in the slightest, but I knew he didn’t. He was a terrible, dirty gloater. “–I am ssssorry to report that conditions do not look favorable, not favorable at all...”
I wanted to cry, I wanted to hit him, I wanted to use this despising heat that was rising in me. But I could only be motionless, and try to be clever, though I thought my very heart was trembling inside me.
“The police, Mr. Hugh? I hardly think—”
“I am sssso ssssorry to say that the police had their ssssuspicions about your father, and how his business has been conducted…and his vanishing does suggest—”
“It isn’t true! Father isn’t a criminal—My father is not a criminal, Mr. Hugh.”
The man’s smile did not falter. He simply continued to sneer at me and drawl on in that disgusting, condescendingly oily tone.
“You should be ready to tell that to the policccce,” said Mr. Hugh. “I believe they will be mosssst curioussss in your determined arguments in your father’s innocencccce. Some would call that conspicuoussss behavior.”
“Mr. Hugh,” I said—Don’t cry, I mustn’t cry, don’t cry!—“If—If you are daring to suggest that I’m lying—”
“Oh, I am not ssssuggesting that you are lying, Missss Ssssarah. I am ssssimply suggesting that you are ignorant of ccccertain facts concerning your father.”
I could find no words to answer. I was so furious, so suddenly frightened—I longed to snatch up the Greek marble bust of an ancient scholarly-somebody on the pedestal behind me and throw it at Hugh’s greasy, gangly nose.
“Do you know what the only thing your father took with him issss?”
“No, Mr. Hugh, but I hardly think—I don’t expect that that has anything to do with—”
“Well, Missss Ssssarah, the only thing your father took with him was the deed to Trunup Sssshipping Indusssstry.”
I knew that, you rat! I knew that before you did! You’re not worth a single pearl; why did I ever want to meet you? This is calculated cruelty, you horrible—
“What is your point, Mr. Hugh?”
“Well, Missss Ssssarah, your father has the deed to your family’s company with him. And your father dissssappeared early this morning, leaving no hint as to where he might be… So, the deed is rightly—and sssso unfortunately—deemed missssing along with Mr. Trunup. And as long as we do not know where the deed issss, we might be led to assssume that it does not exisssst at all...”
The blood drained from my face like water down a kitchen sink drain. Oh, the hideous pleasure this is giving him—And who do you suppose might lead the public to believe that, Mr. Hugh? Who would dare to accuse Father of illegitimate business? Who had a failing, desperate company with lost ships and goods up around Bering Bay—who was stupid enough to send them there at this time of year in the first place—?
“If the deed does not exissst, therefore, your family has no claim whatssssoever to said company... It is just as much mine as it is yourssss at thisss moment in time. Or I could reassssonably ssssay that it is more so mine. It would be ssssuch a wasssste to disssspose of all those able ships and put ssssuch fine sailors out of work, don’t you think? Sssso I presented an idea I had to my ssssuperiors, who presented it to the courts, and everyone think it is for the bessst—”