Siobhan nods. “Of course. But are you sure there isn’t anything I can do to help?”
Virginia thinks of everything that has happened in that courtroom and everything that hasn’t. Her lawyer, the one person who is supposed to be on her side, is a puppet for her enemies. The prosecutor is beating her down word by word, witness by witness. The jury of well-off white men and the well-off white judge only trust people who look and sound like them, and those are not the people who will ever speak in favor of Virginia. Every day, every minute, she’s felt powerless. She gave up even before she got here.
But.
Even though the captain didn’t exactly speak up for her, he didn’t speak against her either.
Even though her own Siobhan is now beyond reach, this Siobhan is offering help. Help. Her wrist begins to twist in the familiar motion, independent of Virginia’s mind, moving on its own.
What if she didn’t give up? What if she tried?
If she really wants to live—does she?—she cannot just wait for salvation. She could pray to God for help, but that’s not the God she knows. If He is to work, He will work through human hands.
The new Siobhan says again, softly and urgently, “Can I help?”
What can she do? One thing, but oh, what a thing. She can carry a message. All Virginia has to do is decide who the message should go to and what she wants to ask for.
It comes clear.
“I have a message for you to carry.” She keeps her voice low and her eyes on the new Siobhan’s eyes. “I can’t offer you anything to carry it, but…in the spirit of honoring those we have in common, I would very much appreciate your help.”
“Miss Reeve,” says the new Siobhan in a low, lovely whisper, “I am at your disposal.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Irene
Massachusetts Superior Court, Boston
October 1854
It is torture to sit here day after day and watch Virginia’s trial unfold, and Irene never for a minute considered doing otherwise. She recognized the darkness in Virginia’s gaze when they met; it was the dark self-knowledge of a person who has once been unfettered and can never forget what happened in the feral days. She doesn’t know Virginia’s particular pain any more than Virginia knows hers, but those days make them kin, deep down, and she will never abandon kin.
All the survivors, the ones who are here and those who aren’t, owe Virginia a debt they can never repay. Perhaps that woman Dove—off to Crimea by now, surely—believes she saved her own life up there in the North. The rest of them know better. Virginia’s leadership protected some of them more directly for longer, but all of them, all of them, would have been at risk without her. Irene may not be able to do much to save her, but she can be here. She can watch. She can witness.
Today, she witnesses as, for the first time, the prosecution calls one of the five forward. “The prosecution calls Mrs. Ebba Green to the stand.”
Ebba’s eyes are wide. Her mouth falls open.
Irene, sitting next to her, grabs for and squeezes the Englishwoman’s hand. She always sits between Ebba and Althea. They always arrive at the same time, but in the courtroom, they barely glance each other’s way. The two former friends never speak to one another, never touch. When Irene’s hand squeezes hers, Ebba breathes in audibly and squeezes back. She clearly needs the comfort, however brief. Irene can practically hear her heart galloping in her chest. Irene can hear better than most.
Getting unsteadily to her feet, Ebba lets go of Irene’s hand and moves forward, almost lurching, putting her hand on the courtroom rail to keep herself from tumbling. She stands there a long moment. Perhaps she’s not as stable as she once was after losing those toes. One never realized how important all ten toes were to balance a person’s body. So small, so crucial.
Like a tongue, thought Irene. One had no idea how much it was needed until it was gone.
Irene suspects Ebba’s unsteadiness isn’t all about her injuries, though. The Englishwoman is delaying the moment she sits in the witness box.
But even as slowly as she creeps forward, she arrives, and in the swearing-in, she stands to face straight forward without any curve to her spine.
“Please state your name for the record,” says the bailiff.
“Mrs. Ebba Green.”
“You don’t use your husband’s name?” asks the prosecutor, sounding surprised.
“I beg your pardon? Green is my married name.”
“Oh, but I thought you upper-class ladies used the Christian name as well. Mrs.—what is your husband’s name?”
“Is?” asks Ebba quietly.
Was, thinks Irene.
The prosecutor mistakes her hesitation. “James? John? Henry?”
“Daniel.”
“Yes. So you could also call yourself Mrs. Daniel Green.”
“I could, should I choose to,” says Ebba slowly.
“Well, have it as you like. Do you miss your husband, Mrs. Green?”
Ebba can’t keep the emotion off her face this time. She is outraged. “Miss him? What could that matter to you?”
The judge looks to the defense attorney, who is rustling papers around—Irene cannot believe just how often the man rustles—but he does not object.
“I don’t usually hurry attorneys along,” says the judge, “but I’m beginning to see the need. Could you please get to the point, Counsel?”
“Of course, Your Honor. Question withdrawn, Mrs. Green, since you’re having trouble answering it. So let’s move forward. I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve asked you to testify for the prosecution, though you sit there in the front row with the supporters of the murderess as if you are proud to know her.”
“Accused.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Accused murderess.”
“Have it as you like, Mrs. Green. I hear that is English custom.”
“Get on with it,” says Ebba through gritted teeth, and Irene tries to send her messages with her eyes, Calm down, steady now, steady.
“It’s simple. I have two questions. Can you answer two questions for the sake of your friend, the accused murderess?”
“That depends on what the questions are, sir,” Ebba says.
Irene can hear that she’s trying desperately to get herself under control. Irene wonders what they know about Ebba, why she has been chosen. To what use do they intend to put her? Do they know the ways in which Ebba and Althea differ, or do they think one is as good as the other? Certainly, if Althea had been asked if she missed her husband, she would have just said yes and been done with it. The prosecution probably doesn’t know that. But while a shot in the dark doesn’t always hit its target, if that target does get hit, it still ends up with a hole in the middle.
“Mrs. Green,” intones the prosecutor, “could you please name the twelve women of the expedition for us? There was testimony earlier from Mrs…let me see, yes, Mrs. Quinlan. She indicated the defendant told her that the expedition numbered twelve. We know some of them, but I think it would be helpful for our jury to hear you give the complete list.”
Irene sucks her breath in at the exact moment Ebba does, and she hears and feels the rest of the group breathe in too. Doro’s breath, Margaret’s breath, Althea’s, all five of them as one. She does not look over to see if Virginia is affected as well. She bets that Virginia is less surprised and better able to hide it.
They talked about this. Their answer was agreed upon. Now the only question is whether Ebba will, under oath, give that agreed-upon answer or another one.
Ebba says, her voice cool, “No.”
“I’m sorry.” He is incredulous, offended. “No?”
“No.”
“Judge,” complains the prosecutor, “can you compel her to list the women of the expedition?”
The judge looks annoyed, which
is not new, but this time, at least his disdain is directed at the prosecutor. “I suppose I could. I choose not to. What reason do you have for wanting them listed?”
Putting his hip out almost like a girl denied a stick of penny candy, the prosecutor says, “So we know the name of every woman Virginia Reeve failed to bring back.”
Irene leans ever so slightly forward in her seat. She can read the skepticism on the judge’s face. She knows what he’s going to say before he says it.
“Do their names matter?” the judge asks, his own answer to the question obvious in his tone. “They are not here.”
Irene takes this as a good sign for Virginia, a slight nudge in the direction of justice, until the judge goes on.
“She failed them,” Judge Miller says flatly. “There is one name that matters, the one this case concerns. Caprice Collins.”
To his credit, the prosecutor draws the curtain over his disappointment quickly and says, “And that is my second question. I hope, Mrs. Green, you’ll provide a more satisfactory answer to that one.”
Ebba looks down her nose at him. She is not generally haughty, but Irene appreciates her haughtiness now. She remains silent, which is suitable, since she hasn’t yet been asked a question.
Irene is far from the only one leaning forward in her seat now. She sneaks a look at Virginia; Virginia looks utterly impassive. Not uninterested but unemotional. Irene knows how hard Virginia must be working to look like she doesn’t care when her heart is a fierce and burning one.
The prosecutor takes a few steps, faces Ebba, and says, “Here is my question.”
He revels in the silence. She just stares.
“I only wanted to ask you what happened to Caprice,” he says. “Out on the ice. Now, we’ve heard from the police reports that the death happened on the ice, after the women of your party disembarked from the Doris. All the accounts—and we’ve read many—agreed in the main. Caprice was alive on the ship. So we know that out on the ice, that’s where she died.”
Ebba opens her mouth to speak, but he cuts her off.
“No, Mrs. Green, not your turn. I haven’t asked you a question yet.”
If Irene could bottle the fire in Ebba’s glare, she could melt ice in a heartbeat.
“So here’s your chance to tell us your version of the story. Exonerate your friend. Tell us, Mrs. Green, exactly what happened on the ice, exactly what you saw unfold before your very eyes.”
Ebba gets herself under control, just barely. Irene can still see the fire in her eyes, but she regains her posture, grips one hand with the other in her lap. She breathes in and out, and then she answers. “I’m sorry. I cannot.”
“Oh!” His surprise is so badly feigned, Irene realizes in a rush he has planned this all along. This, it seems, is the entire point of the Englishwoman’s testimony. “Why can’t you?”
Ebba admits, with clear regret, “We were not there.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Dove
Aboard the Doris
July 1853
The thrice-damned bitch, thought Dove.
She didn’t mean to find the loot. She only went through Stella’s belongings in search of something that might comfort the woman after what had happened, and what was her reward for trying? A cascade of thieved items, everything reported missing and more, cutlery and earbobs and half a dozen other items Stella had obviously stolen since the Doris set sail.
Another woman might have taken the stolen goods to Stella herself, asked her to explain them, but Dove couldn’t. Her priority was to protect herself. It always had been; that was the only reason she was still alive after years on the front. If she hadn’t been sentimental about her husbands, she wasn’t going to be sentimental about a girl she barely knew, no matter how sorry she felt for her.
Stella was in no state to explain herself anyway. She’d survived losing all that blood, but barely. Siobhan had stitched what had torn—Dove admired the neatness of her stitches grudgingly—and kept the incision site clean as a preacher’s collar. Then, they could only wait.
A week had passed, and they’d moved Stella back into her own bunk, but she said nothing, ate little, mostly slept. That was why Dove had thought to cheer her with something treasured. But the treasured things she’d found in Stella’s pack, lo and behold, were others’ treasure. Now there’d be a reckoning.
Nor would she take these things to Virginia. Virginia might be in charge of the mission, but she wasn’t in charge of the ship. No. The captain needed to know.
Dove’s mistake, if she’d admit to making one, was confronting the captain as soon as she saw him instead of waiting for a private moment. The moment she unfolded the cloth and the silvered gleam of two nested spoons caught the air, a sailor saw too, and word spread.
She explained where she’d found the goods. The captain thanked her for it. They stood close together on the deck, heads bent over the cloth bundle. And then everything broke wide open.
“What a lovely tête-à-tête!” crowed Keane. He pronounced it teat.
“What is it, Keane?” said the captain through gritted teeth.
“We see you’ve found the thief, sir,” the mate responded, his voice louder than it needed to be. He had a voice that carried. “We’ve got some thoughts on what you might do with her.”
“I’m not a thief,” said Dove hotly.
“Round up the other women!” Keane called out to the crew, and though the captain opened his mouth to belay the order, Dove saw the moment when he decided he could not.
She hadn’t realized he was afraid of his men. She could tell the whole situation was on the cusp of exploding, but who would be left standing after it did, she could not be sure.
Then, Virginia was charging toward them.
“What’s the meaning of this?” she said. “Malcolm? Dove?”
“I am sorry,” said the captain without preamble, his throat tight, though with what emotion, Dove could not guess. “We can no longer deliver your party to Repulse Bay.”
“What?” The word came out of Virginia like a bark, sharp and cutting.
“I am sorry,” he repeated. “The thief is among you. Such behavior cannot be tolerated.”
“You?” Virginia asked Dove.
“Stella.”
Her gaze flicked over to where Dove now saw the women were assembled. They clustered together like doves in a cote. What had they been told and by whom? Even Stella herself was among them, pale but upright, with an Englishwoman on either side to steady her.
Virginia drew close to the captain. “Can we discuss this privately?” Her eyes darted around, her message clear. But if she hadn’t figured out yet that the captain had lost control of the crew, she would soon.
Keane grabbed for her arm. “No, miss. You can have this conversation in the presence of God and everyone instead of trying to seduce the good captain with your little mousehole.”
“Watch your language, Keane,” growled the captain.
“I told you this would happen, sir. Taking these women on. And here we are. Two dead in their party and a thief. Not to mention the near miss with the ones what went in the drink. Put their party off before the next death is ours.”
“Put us off?” said Virginia incredulously. “In the middle of Hudson Bay? I suppose you would like us to swim.”
Now the crew began to chip in. Sounds good. Yeah. See if they float.
“Might be we’d give you a craft. Might even be one that doesn’t leak much,” Keane said, his face smug.
“Not your decision, Mate,” said the captain.
Behind Keane, though, Dove saw some of the larger men gathering. She recognized the one named Coffin, who had fists like sledgehammers, and an equally large seaman she’d only heard called Bear.
“Five hundred miles from where you promised to deliver us,” argued Virginia, her
voice clear and strident, unbowed. “Nowhere near Repulse Bay. Nowhere near the search area. Making it impossible for us to complete our mission before winter comes.”
“Your mission ain’t our business,” Coffin growled. “Our business is staying alive.”
“Would you have us do less?” Caprice shouted at the huge man, her coat a crimson splash like blood against the navy and gray of the rest of the crowd. “Abandoning us on the shore hundreds of miles from civilization? No idea where we are or where we’re going?”
“If we did take you to shore,” the captain said, his voice quieter, “you could go south to Prince of Wales Fort. Churchill’s just beyond. Probably a month’s journey, but just hug the shore, you can’t miss it. All you have to do is turn south.”
“Or we might turn north,” Caprice said, a challenging light in her eye.
“Or we could stay on board until Repulse Bay, per our agreement,” Virginia said loudly. Turning herself to directly address Captain Malcolm, she added, “And you could keep to your contract, as a man of your word.”
“Like a siren she calls!” Keane countered, stepping between her and the captain, the huge men behind him moving in concert. “We knew it from the first. You said they would bring us no harm. Yet there’s been nothing but harm from the beginning. Do you see now? What they are? What they do?”
Dove saw her moment and interrupted, “Not all of us, sirs.”
The captain’s gaze flicked from face to face, uneasy. Then, answering Dove’s question without looking her in the eye, he said, “I’m sorry. The men of the Doris want you gone.”
“But we’re not all troublemakers,” said Dove. “Take me, for example. I know how to get along.”
“Dove!” Althea’s voice was shocked. If she’d had pearls at her neck, she would have clutched them.
“Didn’t mean anything by it,” Dove said. “I only meant that if some of us were to stay on board, we would listen to you, Captain Malcolm. Obey your orders. Fall into line like any of your sailors. We’re not all bad luck, you know.”
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