The Arctic Fury

by Greer Macallister

  “She was young yet. So young. And she would have—she would have settled down and gotten married. She would have been a wonderful wife, a wonderful mother. I would have liked to have seen that. But her whole future was stolen away by that woman.”

  His trembling finger points at Virginia, and even though part of her wants to roll her eyes at the cheap theatricality, there is also something terrifying in that accusing finger. She feels like a Salem witch on trial. Those women were innocent too, she recalls, for all the good their innocence did them.

  Mr. Collins is saying, “My daughter never would have gone with this stranger willingly. Someone without pedigree, without reputation? Never.”

  “How do you think she did it?” asks the prosecutor, sounding more than mildly curious.

  “God only knows,” the witness answers darkly. “There’s nothing to which people like this won’t stoop. Perhaps she had some associates threaten Caprice? Threaten us, her family? Caprice would have done anything to keep us safe. I think that may be why she went.”

  Virginia wants to leap up and shout, Lies, lies, all lies. He is simply fabricating stories to make what has happened make sense, even though it never will. She can’t help but wonder whether he believes any of this, but on the other hand, does it matter? What matters is what the jury believes.

  “To what end?” asks the prosecutor. “Why would the defendant want to spirit Caprice north?”

  “For one thing, Caprice was an excellent climber, proven to be able to withstand hardship, so any party of adventuresome women would be incomplete without her. An intelligent organizer would put her at the head, in fact. But I think they were using her just to get to our money. A great deal was taken from our accounts; we believe a male associate of the defendant impersonated me to make those withdrawals.”

  “Wouldn’t they have spent all the money on this expedition?”

  “What expedition?” guffaws Mr. Collins. “I’m not convinced there ever even was a party to the north.”

  The prosecutor speaks Virginia’s thoughts when he says, “There will be witnesses who say so.”

  “But how are we to know whether they can be believed?” Mr. Collins takes his time, letting his words sink in. “Unless you know where someone comes from, their family, how can you know whether to trust them? I don’t know these people. I don’t know what their word is worth.”

  “If anything,” adds the prosecutor helpfully.

  Judge Miller says simply, “Counsel.” His voice is perfectly steady, but it might as well be a growl; the rebuke is clear.

  “Go on, please, Mr. Collins,” the prosecutor says, signaling that the judge’s message, however subtle, has been received.

  “If there was…” begins Mr. Collins but trails off, reconsiders. “But no. No journey of hers would have ended this way. It wouldn’t. My daughter was headstrong, but she was a survivor.”

  A loud sob erupts from the gallery. Mrs. Collins, no doubt, with her kerchief and her gems. The silence after the sob hangs in the air for a moment. No one calls attention to it. The sound does not repeat.

  Mr. Collins goes on, his tone forceful, determined. “No matter who else didn’t make it back, Caprice should have. Caprice should have survived.”

  So he will simply lie, Virginia realizes. That is the sum total of his strategy. He knew it all, but because he doesn’t like how it ended, he’ll pretend he wasn’t part of it the whole time. He’ll pretend the money was stolen, not given. He’ll pretend Caprice was kidnapped, not sent. And if her own counsel will not protest—why doesn’t he protest?—there is nothing, nothing Virginia can do. Not until the Collins family decides that she has suffered enough.

  And she reminds herself that yes, perhaps it’s right that she suffers. This was the decision she made—they made—to keep this secret, no matter the consequences. So she bears it, her face a mask, her heart thumping inside a chest that might as well be made of stone. She feels like stone most days anyway.

  After Tiberius Collins testifies and it is time for her to go back to her cell, this time, she does not look at the five women in the front row. She can think only of those missing. They should extend to the right and the left. They should take up an entire row. If the women of the expedition have to be here at all, watching her fight for her life—or refuse to fight—they should all be here together. Ann with her gruff focus, Dove with her arrogant swagger, Elizabeth with her ever-watchful eye. Yes, even Caprice with her bluster and that nasty laugh she sometimes had, the one Margaret once likened to hot vinegar. They should all, one way or the other, be together.

  As she shuffles back from her wooden cage in the court to her iron-and-granite cage in the jailhouse, the one who consumes her thoughts is Siobhan. Siobhan, with her smattering of freckles like tiny, glowing suns. Siobhan, with her capable hands. Siobhan, one of the only women on earth who could stand up in front of this room and swear to the absolute, absolving truth: she saw exactly what happened between Caprice Collins and Virginia Reeve out there on the ice northwest of Repulse Bay. Siobhan, who had cried with her, laughed with her, starved with her as the sunlit nights gave way to colder, dimmer days and the light itself waned into nothingness.

  Siobhan, who is not here.

  Chapter Eleven

  Siobhan

  Harborside, Boston

  April 1853

  The classmates spilled out of the front door of the tavern and into the street, raucous and wild. They were drunk enough not to notice that one of their number, the stout young one they knew as Perry—Christian name Sean, not that they used Christian names—was not nearly as drunk as the rest. And Perry was an excellent actor, pretending to be woozy, shouting along with the crass drinking songs, letting out a well-timed belch.

  She’d honed her craft well. There was too much at stake if she didn’t.

  The young men at the front of the pack straightened themselves up, dusted themselves off, laughing. Warren, who’d gotten them ejected from the tavern, called back to the rest, “Their loss! Shall we progress to the Green Dragon?”

  “Long way up to Union.”

  “But the barmaid there’s sweet on me…two ales for the price of one.” Warren held up two fingers to illustrate, squinting to be sure of his count. Without asking for confirmation, he proceeded, though the young men toward the back of the pack were still milling. The group began to stretch out until they were only loosely a group, flirting with the edge of entropy.

  The one they called Perry dragged her feet. She’d taken a risk joining them in the first place. It was time to end the ruse for the night, get home to her parents and Sean, who at this very moment inhabited the role of Siobhan in the way she inhabited Sean’s role. They shared a fear of discovery for each other as much as themselves, their twin spirits fused in a way no one who was not a twin would ever understand. She had to keep herself safe, undiscovered, for both their sakes.

  She had lingered so long that she was the last one standing in front of the tavern, one fellow lingerer beside her, and she’d come to his notice.

  “Perry!” shouted Bergin, clapping her on the back. “One more, y’think?”

  Siobhan Perry was still forming her answer when the shape of a dark-haired young lady, clearly unaccompanied, came toward them in the dark. Siobhan felt a knot gather in her stomach.

  Her fear was justified when Bergin, drunk, slurred, “Miss! You lost? Lemme help you!”

  He lunged for the unknown young lady, who twisted away in surprise. She managed to evade his grasp, but her sudden movement took her over a loose stone, and she fell, tilting, plunging.

  She hit the street and cried in pain.

  “Lemme help you!” said Bergin again, but his words were slurred into a heavy burr, and the leer on his face suggested he had more than one type of help in mind.

  “No,” said the young lady from the ground, her voice clear and firm. T
he dark curls in her topknot were dislodged, one tumbling down along the length of her face, but she did not lift a hand to fix it.

  “But you’re so lovely! I jus’ wanted to tell you. Nothin’ wrong with admirin’ a fine woman, is there?”

  “Sir, leave me alone,” said the young lady crisply, struggling to get back up. She was moving her ankle with care—it had likely been twisted in the fall—and when she found it would not bear her weight, her anger was undercut by her low moan of pain.

  Siobhan could not stay back any longer. Keeping her voice in its lower register, the voice she thought of as Sean’s, she said, “The lady said to leave her alone, Bergin.”

  She knelt next to the dark-haired woman and laid a hand on her elbow. The young lady clearly wasn’t a doxy or a shipyard slattern; she must have gotten lost after visiting one of the shops in the more reputable section of the docks just to the south. Siobhan made her grip gentle but firm. She didn’t want to scare the young lady any more than she’d already been scared, but she didn’t want Bergin to make the situation worse either, so she had to lay claim in some way, as a man would.

  “Begging your pardon, miss,” she said in Sean’s voice. “I’m a medical student at Harvard College. If you’ll agree, I could take a look at that ankle, make sure it’s not seriously injured.”

  Before she could answer, Bergin was squatting next to her, so close she could smell his ale-laden breath. “Now, now, Perry, I’ll handle this. Miss, ignore ’im. I’m the man you want. I’ve looked at more women’s ankles than I can count.”

  “It’s true you can’t count that well,” muttered his classmate. “I don’t think she’s looking for your kind of attention.”

  “Women love my attention! I ain’t had no complaints.”

  The young lady looked back and forth between their two faces. Siobhan kept up the pressure on her elbow, steady but light, willing her to make the right choice.

  Bergin butted in again, saying, “Don’t let this one fool you. He’s a lady-killer for the ages. Just wants his own private viewing.”

  Raising her chin, the curly-haired young woman said defiantly, “No one views anything I don’t want them to. Not unless they want to lose an eye. Or both eyes.”

  “Ho-oh!” said Bergin, raising his hands and backing away. “That kind of woman we have here, then? I thought she was a lady!”

  “She’s a patient,” said Siobhan in Sean’s voice, “and it sounds like if she doesn’t like you, you’ll be one too. How about you catch up to the rest? I’m going home from here.”

  “Suit yourself,” Bergin said with something bordering on a sneer, and then he was gone.

  When it was just the two of them, the young lady said, “Thank you.”

  Siobhan took the young lady’s ankle in both hands. “I apologize for Bergin. He’s an oaf.”

  “I’ve heard worse. You don’t need to apologize for your friend anyway.”

  “Oh, he’s not my friend, I assure you. A classmate.”

  “At the college?”

  “Yes. I endure sitting next to him and his like in lectures, but I assure you, my attention is on our professors. Let me just take a quick look at this ankle. How much does it hurt?”

  “Only some. Feeling a bit better already.”

  She turned the ankle gently, one way and then the other. Siobhan could feel the young woman studying her, probably seeing what everyone saw: a solid-bodied young man, clean-shaven, with graceful, strong hands.

  “Perry, did he say your name was?”

  “Yes. Sean Perry.”

  “I’m Virginia Reeve.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Reeve. Nothing broken, I’m pleased to say. May I help you up?”

  They gripped each other’s hands—Siobhan was so used to planting her feet wide as a man’s, she didn’t have to think about it—and then they were standing next to each other. They were around the same height, Siobhan larger and heavier, a slightness to the young lady that went beyond how much space her body took up. Almost as if she wanted to take up even less space than she did, though that might have had something to do with the darkness around them, the looming atmosphere of the docks, her obvious suspicion.

  “May I walk you to your residence?” asked Siobhan, forcing gallantry.

  But this Virginia Reeve’s eyes were locked on her, raking over her chin, her throat, and back to the hand she held. And Siobhan’s heart began to hammer. Did she know?

  “You’re…” began Virginia.

  In fear, Siobhan interrupted, words spilling carelessly from her lips. “The greatest healer it’s ever been your good fortune to meet? I know! Isn’t that a piece of good fortune? For you, I mean. In your time of need.” Even as she heard herself stumble over her words, she knew the blustery confidence didn’t sit well on her, but she did not know what else to do. Run? She’d given the young woman her name—Sean’s name—but she wasn’t a threat, was she?

  Virginia Reeve took a step back, considered her words, looked around to see if anyone else was listening. They were alone. She said, with obvious care, “I believe you and I have a great deal in common.”

  With equal care, Siobhan framed her response. “What makes you say that?”

  “Oh, nothing in particular. At first glance, I’d say you seem like…a very kind young man. But the journey I’m about to go on, unfortunately, no men are allowed.”

  “Indeed?” she ventured, careful but curious. “What kind of enterprise?”

  “An expedition to the frozen north.”

  “You don’t say.” Narrowed eyes, a thoughtful pause. “How interesting.”

  “An expedition of women.”

  Careful now. “As you said, I would not be allowed.”

  “Someone very much like you would be. Someone with a sharp eye, medical training, the ability to adapt. If you happened to know a young woman with your skills, she would be most welcome.”

  “Women are not permitted to develop skills like mine.”

  “That is a shame. One could be excused for arguing that equal potential for knowledge exists in both sexes,” Virginia said.

  “I have no female friend as you suggest.” The very idea of such an expedition was outrageous. And Siobhan wanted desperately to be a part of it. It would mean giving up her lectures for the rest of the semester, but that was no great loss; only her apprenticeship remained after this, and if she were paired with an eagle-eyed doctor who saw through her guise, she would lose everything.

  Could she go? Sean would encourage her, of course, and their parents had already shown themselves capable of supporting their children even in the wildest pursuits.

  Virginia was watching her, waiting, her face open and trusting.

  Siobhan took the leap. “I do, as it happens, have a sister.”

  Virginia’s eyes instantly brightened. “Do you indeed.”

  “And this sister… I have taught her everything I know. I dare say she would do as well as I on such a trip. Perhaps I could extend your invitation to her.”

  “I would very much appreciate you doing so.”

  “Her name is Siobhan.”

  “It would be a pleasure to make Siobhan’s acquaintance,” said Virginia.

  Their eyes met.

  Perry, whether she was Sean or Siobhan or neither or both, could not help but smile.

  Chapter Twelve

  Virginia

  American House, Boston

  April 1853

  When Virginia allowed herself to think of the Very Bad Thing, which was not often, she tried to only think of the good that came from it. She’d discovered her faith, for one thing, which was her rock, her guiding light. She would not trade that faith for anything. From that, she learned that even in the midst of the worst luck, a flower of good luck can bloom. In those dark days, she learned to be tenacious, to never give up
hope. She had seen the hopeless waste away. But mostly she valued the Very Bad Thing because she knew no matter what else might happen to her in all her life, nothing else could ever be that bad.

  In the safety of her rooms at American House, as she tested her sore ankle to be sure it had healed from the incident at the docks where she’d met Siobhan, the dark memory flitted across her mind like a black stallion’s shadow. She reminded herself that she would not have the skills to carry off this expedition without it. Her physical strength and endurance would be tested once they sailed north—the Very Bad Thing had honed those too—but it was her sense of danger, her instinct for who and who not to trust, that snapped into sharp focus in those dark days she tried hard not to remember.

  It was that instinct that had led her to trust Doro and Siobhan and invite them along on the journey. And last night, in the ladies’ ordinary, she’d asked Thisbe to join the expedition as well. She seemed intelligent and bull-headed, both attributes that would serve her well on a journey. Brooks had given Virginia only days to secure three dauntless women, and she’d done it. She could not help but feel a swell of pride at that. It augured well for the journey.

  The same instinct that helped her recognize Siobhan’s feminine soul under her masculine trappings told her that Brooks was not entirely trustworthy. So when he appeared at her door unexpectedly, two days after her visit to the docks, she was ready for him.

  Brooks had told her to expect him on Wednesday, and it was only Monday, but she was still ready. Bubbling with anticipation in fact. She was sure he hadn’t expected her to find three ideal recruits in such a short time. For once, she felt like she had the upper hand.

  “Yes?” she said, stalling in the doorway, trying to force the discomfort on him that he’d clearly intended to make her feel.

  “A lovely day to you too, Miss Reeve,” he said with a glimmer of sass and stepped inside uninvited.

  A woman from society would’ve pretended to succumb to the vapors at that, but he knew she was no such woman. She supposed that was the point. Mixing with higher society kept reminding her of her shortcomings. Once they went north, she told herself, that would change. In the wilds, she’d be the one who knew what to do.