The Arctic Fury

by Greer Macallister

  And if she didn’t get out alive, she wouldn’t have to worry about keeping that promise or any other.

  The snow was beautiful, in its way. Blue from within, like the color of the veins under a pretty girl’s pale skin. Virginia herself had never had skin translucent enough to see through, but her cousin Mary Catherine had, and she could hear her relatives’ compliments ringing out over this cold snow. How lovely. How delicate. The fact that she’d left Mary Catherine behind when her family had joined this wagon party—and the much more worrisome fact that the women she could hear speaking these words were clearly nonexistent—oh, those facts were simply not relevant right now, in the face of life-changing uncertainty. If her mind was developing ways to come to terms with it, that was to be expected.

  Was she going insane? And if so, what could she do about it? Perhaps the smartest thing, given how bad it had already gotten and the inevitable truth that it would definitely get much worse, would be to walk outside and throw herself facedown into a drift. If the fine snow didn’t choke or smother her straight off, she would quickly freeze stiff. Then death would come for her at last. Would it be pleasant enough? Would it be over soon? Would there be pain, if she simply let the cold carry her away?

  As she watched, fresh flakes of snow began to fall.

  They added to the ocean of snow that had already wiped the world away. How tall must it be? Ten feet, fifteen, twenty? And now more came down. The Breens’ God must be a cruel one indeed if he allowed this to happen, and yet they never seemed to rail against him. Why was that? What was the peace they’d attained that Virginia herself did not seem able to find? She wanted to rail every moment of every day. Even in those moments before the snow began to fall, in the perfect solitary quiet, she’d wanted to scream. Her fury threatened to boil, to burn her up from the inside, though it could never keep her warm.

  Her tears froze on her cheeks. She wouldn’t go inside, not yet. She would wait out here until she could get herself under control, even though the cold was already squeezing the breath out of her throat and she’d started to lose feeling in her left hand, specifically the first two fingers. The cold was pressing the life out of her, but the way it looked from her vantage point, there were things more important than life, at least what seemed to pass for life here and now.

  She couldn’t let the little ones see her cry.

  Chapter Thirty

  Stella

  Aboard the Doris

  July 1853

  As if it weren’t lousy enough, being cooped up on this ship, Stella felt herself growing. Expanding. Every day, she took up a little more room, when for all these years, she had been striving to take up as little room as possible.

  Back in Boston, the whole time she’d worked as a maid, she hated it when people remembered her. Or even noticed her. Her mother had worked her whole life in a factory, worked there still, and Stella would have done better to follow that example, like her sisters. But once she found work as a live-in maid, it was hard to give up that comfort. In some households, she found she didn’t even have to work that hard, which beat the ugly, dirty work of the mills hands down. Let her sisters spoil their beauty with long hours, their hands with lye burns and caustic dye. She could stay above it all.

  But no matter how quiet she kept, no matter how small she tried to make herself, the men of the house always ended up noticing her. She could often pinpoint the exact moment as it happened. A raised chin, a curious eye. Sometimes it was a glance that lingered too long; just as often, it was a hand that roamed. The household’s father, a son, a brother. It mattered little who took a fancy to her. Once he had his sights set on her, no matter what she did or didn’t do in response, it was always the beginning of the end.

  So she had a habit of thieving just a little bit here and there, building up a stash of goods. Items that were valuable but ordinary were the best. Diamond studs or pearl drops, for example, could be exchanged for hard coin or folding money without raising uncomfortable questions. But she was an opportunistic thief, tucking aside everything from silver thimbles to porcelain pots if the opportunity presented itself. Small things could be tucked away into the folds of dresses and secured in the lining of a knapsack, a mattress, a coat. In this way, when she was inevitably dismissed—sometimes mere days, sometimes several months after a man of the household first noticed her—she’d have something to survive on until she landed on her feet, like a cat, in her next situation.

  On the Doris, she’d been stealing things here and there purely from habit, but so far, none of the men had noticed her in that dooming, dangerous way. Her invisibility here was a small, treasured wonder. She’d once heard that certain animals smelled different in heat, sending out a scent that brought potential mates to them for a good rutting. Perhaps now, in her condition, she sent out the opposite of that. Neither the men nor the women seemed to have much interest in her, and she relished that lack of attention, all until the day things took the darkest turn.

  She’d misjudged the hour somehow and found herself arriving at the mess just as the women’s shift was ending. So as she came into the tight, fragrant space, the last of the women headed for the door as the men, still looking forward to their own meal, arrived. Had she been less hungry, she would have fled then and there, but her growling, avid belly would not let her. She stood her ground and served herself a trencher.

  Had there been more room and proper seating, the men would have kept their distance. But as the room filled up, there was simply nowhere else to stand, and the late-arriving men drew closer and closer to where she stood.

  She ate as quickly as she dared, but she was not done yet when a man took the last space in the cabin, immediately next to her. As they all shoveled food into their mouths wordlessly, everyone hoping to be done as quickly as possible, she saw the man next to her recoil.

  At first, she simply thought he was disgusted by her ravenous, graceless way of eating, but when she snuck a look at his increasingly horrified face, she looked down to see what he was recoiling from.

  Blood. Her blood.

  Now, at the moment she most needed help, Stella was truly alone. She’d always prided herself on taking control of things, whether that meant handling the persistent advances of her employer to her own advantage or squirreling away her mistress’s lesser-loved valuables against a rainy day. This last time, when her mistress had informed her gleefully she was to be dismissed, she herself had suggested she be sent on a voyage—because if I am still here in Boston, Mrs. Holliday, don’t you think Charles will come look for me? And if he finds me, he will want to marry. I’m not sure I could refuse him if he asked. This was not the kind of journey she’d meant, but it would do. As a child, she’d imagined herself on the deck of a ship like this, hair blowing in the wind, face thrust forward with anticipation. An adventure, a true adventure. Had Charles been the only one to notice her, she would have happily run away with him or stayed in Boston as his mistress, but when his father noticed her also, that awful clock had begun to tick, and there was no coming back from it. There was also no telling which one of them had put this unwitting passenger in her belly, but in so many ways, it didn’t matter.

  And now this. Bleeding in the mess, crimson blood mixed with some other, clearer liquid running down her leg onto the worn wood of the floor. She’d seen enough women in the family way to know that the kernel growing inside her was nowhere old enough to live and breathe. She should have had at least two more months, probably three. Every day since she guessed about the passenger, she wondered what would happen to her, to it, but at this moment, she wondered no more. She knew, with an awful, dire certainty deep in her gut, exactly what was about to happen.

  The only question was whether there would be one death or two. The bloody puddle on the floor grew.

  “You there!” she heard a man shout, far off, miles away. “Here! Help!”

  A rumbling caught her ears. The men wer
e annoyed by something. If she could gather the strength to look up, pull herself together against the wringing pain that threatened to steal her breath, her mind, her everything—yes. They were mumbling their discontent to one another because a woman walked among them, her skirts brushing their knees in the narrow space, and she did not seem even a bit sorry.

  Stella swallowed down bile and looked up so she could face the woman.

  It was Elizabeth.

  Pain and dizziness smeared the other woman’s features, and it was only the color of her skin that made her stand out.

  Of all the rotten luck, Stella cursed to herself.

  What was she doing here? Of all the women who could have crossed her path at this moment, why did it have to be this one? She must have been passing when the man yelled for help, dragged her here.

  Stella could not form words, but there was one thing she could do. She did not want to do it. She had to do it or die.

  She stretched her hand out toward Elizabeth in the way Virginia had taught them, palm facing outward. Help.

  Then Elizabeth was by her side, offering her arm, which Stella clutched hard like a drowning woman, balling a wad of cotton in her fist.

  “It’s coming,” she whispered.

  Elizabeth said, “Do you want me to take you to someone? Or bring them here?”

  “I—it’s hard to move,” Stella said. “But the men can’t see this.”

  “I’ll take you to Siobhan. She’ll know what to do.”

  “All right.”

  Stella flung her arm around Elizabeth and almost brought her down, but the shorter woman didn’t complain. She braced her feet hard, leaned over to place one hand on the table, and said in a low voice, “Let’s try again.”

  They edged out from between the men, hearing the grumbles as they went. A roll flew through the air and bounced off Stella’s shoulder; she ignored it. Elizabeth moved forward grimly, in silence. Then they were out of the mess. The door swung shut behind them, and she heard the dull roar of their celebration, laughing at the woman who’d had to be carried out, rejoicing that their precious room belonged solely to sailors again.

  Still silent, still clinging to one another, Elizabeth and Stella made their way through the ship. They did it slowly, with halting steps and staggering missteps that sent them both careening into boards and rope heaps and doors that swung open under their weight into rooms they’d had no intention of entering. Every time the motion of the ship swung them off course, Stella listened for Elizabeth’s determined sigh, and they moved as one back in the right direction.

  Finally, finally, Stella arrived in a tiny, dark cabin she didn’t recognize, and standing over her was the familiar face of Siobhan, saying, “You made it. Just rest. Just rest. We’ve got you.”

  She fell onto something that might have been a pallet and lay still, relief swirling in with the pain.

  Stella barely had time to notice that Siobhan hadn’t said anything at all about things turning out all right before she slipped out of consciousness, the dark curtain descending.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Virginia

  Aboard the Doris

  July 1853

  The day and night and day that Stella labored were some of the longest of Virginia’s life, and she’d had days before that would have put seasoned soldiers in the madhouse. But the limbo of Stella’s labor was terrible. If the baby had been born right away, that would usher in a whole new host of problems, but the prolonged situation in which the baby was eternally on its way was somehow worse. Everyone knew what was happening but not how it would resolve. All they knew was that it could not end happily.

  All the women came and went, offering their prayers or their hands, their support or their sympathy. If Virginia had been merely a disinterested observer, she would have found their varied reactions fascinating. Perhaps Margaret was recording them for posterity, she found herself thinking. That woman was always writing something down. Were her notes accurate? Desperate to distract herself, Virginia let her mind wander.

  Did Margaret note how long Irene stayed, far longer than any other, gripping Stella’s hand with both of hers even when the woman was unconscious, unaware? Could she tell that Elizabeth was the only one Stella seemed to recognize, how she made a weak gesture with her hand, the help motion, every time the dark-skinned woman came near? Did she record Althea’s brief, perfunctory stay and the way Ebba, unlike her friend, chose to linger?

  At no time did the ship’s doctor offer his services or his instruments, though they occupied the medical cabin without apology. Siobhan did her best, though she confessed to Virginia and Dove that her medical lectures had not at all addressed the mechanics of childbirth; Dove replied that she’d supervised a handful of labors, all in intolerable conditions. She did not say how many of the babies and mothers had survived the ordeal. Neither Virginia nor Siobhan asked. They simply turned their attention back to the patient and offered her the comfort they could.

  None of the three left Stella’s side. Virginia felt it was her duty, though the stink of blood made her ill. It reminded her all too sharply of butchery, the way fresh wounds smelled different from older ones, how the scent changed as rot began to set in and then again when it really, truly took hold.

  Her head was swimming, a cloud of black threatening the edges of her vision, when she felt a heavy hand clasp her shoulder.

  “You ever seen a baby born?” asked Dove.

  Virginia did not think Dove cared about the answer, but she grasped at the conversation to take her attention off the carnage. “No. You said you’d seen how many?”

  “A few.”

  “Is it always like this?”

  “Dear Lord, I hope not,” said the nurse and turned away again.

  Stella had lost consciousness, and Siobhan and Dove took the opportunity to argue about her when she couldn’t hear. They kept their voices down, but Virginia caught the gist of it. Siobhan wanted to try to save both the baby and the mother. Her lectures hadn’t told her much, but she’d read plenty of anatomy texts, and she thought Stella had not yet lost a dangerous amount of blood. If they took care to keep the area clean and let things take their course, they could at least reduce Stella’s chances of succumbing to childbed fever. Dove, for her part, thought Siobhan was a fool.

  Just as Virginia opened her mouth to put in her own two cents, Stella awoke with a guttural howl, writhing in pain, her legs flailing.

  How long can this last? thought Virginia, her stomach twisting. How long can any of this last?

  It lasted far longer than any of them would have liked, and it ended in a way none of them would have wished.

  At the end of the second day, when even the ridiculously long hours of sunlight began to give way to what passed for a summer Arctic twilight, Stella’s hoarse screams came one upon another upon another. Between her legs, Dove held her hands out, and something landed in them, wet and dark and red.

  Virginia held her breath.

  After a long moment that stretched over the horizon and into oblivion, Siobhan looked up, caught Virginia’s eye, and shook her head in the negative. No breath. No life. The child was not a child but already a body, no more.

  Virginia spoke in a whisper, but even her soft words fell with a thud in the sudden silence. “I will tell the others.”

  It was only after she left the close, fetid air of the cabin that she realized she should have stayed until they knew whether Stella would survive. The other women would ask her, and she had no idea.

  Halfway down the hallway, her steps slowed, too dazed to move forward. She was not at all sure she could force herself to go back.

  When the big hand grabbed her arm, she was too stunned to react, and she was being pulled, stumbling, faster than her feet could plant themselves to resist.

  Captain Malcolm pulled her inside his cabin and slammed the do
or shut, his breath a ragged pant. “Did you know?”

  She had never heard such emotion in his voice. He sounded like a different man. He’d been holding so much of himself back, she saw now, and his face was alive in a way she’d never seen it: as if the next words out of her mouth could save his life or break his heart, and the entire world would stand still until she spoke.

  Not now, she thought. Not here. She had been accustomed to thinking of the captain as an extension of his ship, as merely an instrument, and she could see now she’d done him a disservice. Or perhaps she had only seen what he wanted her to see until now. Now, she saw everything.

  He prompted her, more gently, as if he were afraid he’d scared her into silence. “Virginia, did you know?”

  She could not lie. “Yes.”

  “How long?”

  “A week.”

  Low and certain, he said, “You should have told me.”

  For a moment, wrecked, she could not form words. His cabin was close and almost warm, with an unmistakable musky scent. Virginia knew it well. The smell of unwashed man, closed in, cooped up. It did not scare her, but it put her on guard.

  She forced herself to meet his eyes and read the anger there. He was not wrong, she knew, to be angry at her. She was angry at herself.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have. But what could you have done?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, and then again, softer, lower, “I don’t know.”

  “The child died,” she said, the harsh words a small explosion in the dimly lit, tight space.

  “Eternal Lord God, you hold all souls in life,” he said, not to her, and turned away from her to continue the prayer, muttering softly, his words only between him and his God. She remembered early in the voyage, after Christabel’s death, when his bare hands had clasped hers in prayer. Now they both wore mittens to keep warm at night, even inside their cabins, and for this prayer, his hands clasped only each other.