Passing the long rows of courtroom seats, stepping into the witness box, he does not look out of place. He looks ready. Virginia keeps her face utterly still, but inside her mind, she is pouring anger toward him, sending it out in an invisible wave, willing it to disappear inside his rigid, arrogant body. He does not even glance in her direction.
He is here. Brooks is here. She doesn’t know how they could have found him, forced him to come, but he is here. Is it Captain Malcolm’s doing? This wasn’t what she asked him to do, but did he manage it somehow? Brooks can back up her story. Whether he wants to or not, he has no choice. Brooks will change the course of the trial, and someone will believe her at last. She is desperate to have someone, anyone, believe her.
He is sworn in and identified, all without incident. Virginia finds herself leaning forward in her seat while she waits for the prosecutor’s next question.
“And where do you hail from, Mr. Brooks?”
“Australia.”
Australia, of course. Another realization. Lady Franklin’s lackey was acquired during her days in Van Diemen’s Land, on the other side of the world. Life in America was famously easy compared to the hardscrabble life of the former penal colony Australia. A well-off patroness like Lady Franklin would have had no trouble convincing him to follow her to the other side of the world if it suited her purposes. And it has, all these years. But now he sits in front of the court, compelled to tell the whole truth and nothing but. It will be hard for him, she thinks, but he has no choice.
Yet he looks no more worried than he ever has in her experience. She felt like he always thought himself superior. Clearly, he still has that thought in his head.
“You’ve come a long way, sir,” says the lawyer.
“America is my home now.”
“As it should be. The land of opportunity.”
“Exactly.”
“Opportunity,” the lawyer muses, and Virginia can feel him winding up like a child’s toy with a key in its back. Once he’s wound up, he’ll let fly with his next question. What will it be?
He goes on, “We brought you here for an opportunity.”
Brooks looks mildly curious. “Well, I do hope it’s a worthwhile one. I’ve taken a great deal of trouble to appear.”
“Your testimony will be extremely helpful in setting the record straight. Now, I’ve been told that this defendant—Virginia Reeve—has claimed that a man named Brooks was acting on behalf of Lady Jane Franklin to send her on an all-female expedition to the Arctic.”
“A what?” Brooks interrupts. “Female expedition?”
“Yes, sir. I know, it sounds preposterous, but we are doing our due diligence here. The young lady’s life hangs in the balance, and though we believe her fully guilty—and all the evidence so far has pointed in that direction—it is our solemn duty to be sure justice is done.”
“Of course. You’re very conscientious.”
“I’m a man of the law.” The attorney nods gravely, enjoying plaudits. Virginia’s own attorney, of course, does nothing more than shuffle his papers. Looking at either of them will infuriate her too much. At the moment, she cannot decide which she hates more.
She turns her attention back to Brooks, who still sits comfortably in the witness box as if it were a box seat at the theater and he is watching a mildly interesting but not too lively play.
The prosecutor says to Brooks, “She claims that you are that man.”
“Levi Brooks? She specified the name?”
“As it happens, no. She couldn’t give your Christian name, only the last name, Brooks.”
“I see,” he says slowly, as if to suggest he doesn’t. “Then how was I chosen for the honor of testifying today?”
“We asked the local hotels within a five-mile radius to show us their records from a set of specific dates. All the hotels, mind you, from Porter House all the way down to some of the less reputable houses by the docks. All complied, without exception. I imagine you’re eager to hear what we found.”
“Well, yes, I’m sure I’m not the only one.”
The prosecutor continues, “You, sir, were the only person with the last name Brooks to stay in one of these hotels during the period when the defendant claims to have met the mysterious Brooks. Accordingly, it could only be you—if the mysterious Brooks exists at all, of course.”
The realization hits Virginia like a punch to the gut. No, it was not Captain Malcolm who brought Brooks here. She should never have fantasized that he did. She should have realized it sooner. Right away. As soon as he walked in. But her optimism, her completely misguided optimism, blinded her. She hadn’t been listening.
Brooks is testifying for the prosecution, not the defense.
His voice mild, his manner almost distant, Brooks agrees, “Of course.”
“So please, Mr. Brooks, we need your utmost cooperation in solving this mystery. Can you provide the confirmation that the defendant is eager to have you give? Can you tell us that you met this young woman and helped her arrange her travel and the travel of the women who accompanied her into the northern wastes?”
Brooks’s pause is mercifully brief. He does not try to keep them in suspense. He has that mercy at least.
In a clear, steady voice, he says, “Sorry to say, here in front of the court, seeing as there’s so much interest in it, but I’ve never met the woman in my life.”
In the stunning silence after, Virginia doesn’t know what she expects. Lightning, God, to strike him dead? Nothing strikes. He simply tells the baldest of bald-faced lies, and the world keeps on merrily turning.
Was there even any truth to the story about asking the hotels for their rosters? Or was that just a fig leaf concocted by the prosecution? Has he been paid for his lies, or does he give them freely to sever Virginia, once and for all, from his employer for the sake of keeping the Franklin name unsullied by this failure?
“You may step down,” the judge says to Brooks, his voice almost friendly, warm with kind regret. “Thank you for your service.”
She looks at the survivors in the front row and realizes none of them ever met Brooks. They must have been excited because his name was read out, but even Ebba and Althea never met the man, only Virginia herself. They could testify that they’d corresponded with someone named Brooks, but they could testify to Lady Franklin’s name being used as well, and yet no one could prove Lady Franklin had really sponsored their travel. The coin was untraceable. Letters would be inconclusive, even if they’d kept them, which she knew they hadn’t.
And her own letters that might have served as proof, well, she knew exactly what had happened to them.
As Brooks leaves the court without even glancing her way, she curses him under her breath for his cleverness. He and Lady Franklin had been three steps ahead this whole time. From the very beginning, it seemed. Keeping her at arms’ length and everyone else even more distant, their connection indirect. Perhaps Caprice had met Brooks—she alone among them might have—but a fat lot of good that does Virginia now. The Collins parents, too, had likely met him, but since they want Virginia dead, they won’t be the ones to come forward with evidence that would set her free.
Franklin and Brooks are in control. And with that thought, there is only one question that nags at her.
Why is Brooks here at all? In America, let alone Boston? His testimony is damning but not defining. What is the point of his presence when he could have avoided this entire charade by staying far away? There must be a reason, and the fact that she has no idea what it is burrows down into the base of her skull and rests there, awkward and heavy.
The five survivors still sit there in the front row, and the hope is gone from their faces. In its place, she sees nothing but disappointment. She holds the gazes of her friends, her compatriots, and wonders how many more times she will see them. How many more times she will be led in shackl
es to this room where her fate will be decided.
Our Father, she prays, whatever happens, and I fear the worst will happen, I pray only that when my judgment comes, you receive me with forgiveness into your holy kingdom.
But why should God prove more merciful than anyone else in this world? Than this judge, than this jury? God, after all, like this judge, like these lawyers, like every single juror who holds Virginia’s fate in his hands, is a man. With precious few exceptions, she has not known men to take her part or smooth her way. She can only think of two men who’ve ever truly helped her when push came to shove: Ames and Captain Malcolm. And even so, both of those precious two also failed her, each in his own fashion. If God guided her safely out of the Very Bad Thing and home from the Arctic, she owes Him praise for that, but it doesn’t mean that He, too, won’t fail her when the reckoning comes.
World without end, she prays. Amen.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Virginia
On the Expedition
July and August 1853
Quickly, the party established a reliable rhythm. During the day, instead of stopping for meals, whoever was riding in the shallop—most often Stella—would pass around each woman’s ration of pemmican or meat. They ate walking. Every third night or so, they did stop for a nighttime sleep, overturning the shallop and huddling tight together underneath for warmth. The dogs snuggled among them, their warm fur better than any blanket, their reeking breath becoming a familiar comfort.
Irene had the job of constantly scanning the horizon for game, and when she spotted a pack of caribou or a smattering of wild sheep, she rapped on the shoulder of the nearest woman, who gave a soft whistle of warning to bring everyone to a halt. Three to five women were sent in the direction of the animals while Ann quieted the dogs, and they did not get underway again until the animals had either scattered or been successfully brought down. Irene was a crack shot from the beginning. Elizabeth was steadily gaining in aptitude, quickly establishing herself as a natural talent. Virginia and Ann both had excellent aim but lacked skill in staying quiet enough not to disturb the animals; Stella was the opposite, all stealth and no precision. Caprice preferred not to hunt, which Virginia was willing to overlook for now; while they’d become friendlier, she was still somehow uneasy with the idea of the mountaineer putting her hands on a loaded gun.
As the days grew short enough that an hour or two could actually be called night, if it was absolutely necessary in order to make camp, they burned a lamp of precious whale oil for enough light to see by. On the occasions when a larger fire was needed, especially when roasting game, they had to find kindling. The dogs made a game of picking up dry sticks, but to get the fire started, something finer was needed.
So each delved into the precious pack that she’d brought with her, and if there was paper or delicate fabric to be burned, they burned it.
And it all went up so quickly. A letter of Stella’s she declined to share the nature of, though Virginia spotted a letter C in the signature before the licking flames devoured it. A worn hair ribbon of Elizabeth’s. Siobhan paged carefully through her single medical text, plucking out pages she felt would be least useful, one on exotic tropical diseases, another on social diseases like chlamydia. Sometimes she read them aloud to amuse the women before committing them to the flames. In turn, every contribution went up with a golden, liquid light.
For Virginia’s first turn, she offered up the first letter she’d received from Lady Franklin, which she had long since committed to memory. The wind was rough that night, and though she had hoped to use the letter and the envelope on separate occasions, it took both to get the flame to catch.
Too soon, Virginia knew her turn would come again, so one morning, she stole a few moments of privacy, plucking at the red wax seal with numbed fingers. It was well past the time that Lady Franklin would have wanted her to read the third letter, but her journey had become something Lady Franklin had never foreseen. This was her decision. It was one small way she had of asserting that she was in charge of what would happen next. Lady Franklin could not help or hurt her now. Only the other women here. Only nature. And, of course, Virginia herself. She could still choose well or badly.
She unfolded the fragile paper, hands shaking, and read the third letter for the very first time.
Dear Virginia,
I may call you Virginia now, may I not? I imagine I hear your assent. We have been through a lot now, you and I. In the reality in which I write this, we met only yesterday, but you are in the third month of your journey, which means a great deal of time has passed and many miles in that time.
I am with you in the only way I can be. I wish I could have been with my husband in this way.
You know by now, I think, that I am not just writing these letters for you. I am writing them for me. The process of poring over maps, plotting out courses, measuring miles against months, is like a balm to me. I imagine you and your ship in each of these places, and I imagine my husband and his ships there as well. The broad expanse of the straits, the piled ice that lines each shore, the buckled, hazardous ice fields that surround King William’s Land. I can see you silhouetted there in my mind’s eye, and more importantly, I can see John.
I encouraged him to go. You may not know that. Our experience in Van Diemen’s Land ended poorly, and he needed a new post, a way to prove himself, so I made sure he had this one. He went there because I wished it. Now I wish his return. So you see it must be so.
Did I do right, sending you? Is it a fool’s errand? Some part of me hoped to prove that women’s intelligence and fortitude could compare to men’s, but I fear there was a flaw in the design of my experiment. No matter how many women you have with you, there is no real safety in numbers, is there? Your will, your leadership, are still subject to the whims and desires of men. Ah, the desires of men. The words I could write to you on this subject would fill far more than the stack of paper sitting here beside me. But you know that as well as I. And I fear your education on the matter grows every day.
Virginia, I owe you an apology. I did not want to close you in on a ship with men who think women inferior, only there is no other kind. They are raised to think themselves superior in every way. I chose you because you have proved yourself more than capable, a true survivor, and a woman like that does not trifle with who thinks what of whom. She sets her goal and accomplishes it. That is all I expect from you, and if you stay true to your goal, then no matter what happens, you will have succeeded.
Am I feeling sentimental? It seems so. Then I will end on a note of a personal nature. Virginia, I am sorry for your hardships, both those you have endured and have yet to endure. May the latter category be far less than the former.
Yours very truly,
J
Two nights later, they burned the envelope, nurturing the flame into a fire that roasted a brace of rabbits Irene had brought down nearly single-handedly. Ann excused herself to toss morsels to the dogs, and the other women huddled shoulder to shoulder around the fire, devouring the warm meat with gusto. This close to the roaring flame, they could remove their mittens just long enough to eat, and once the animals’ skeletons had been gnawed down to bare bone, every woman licked and sucked the rich grease from her fingers with a thorough, eager tongue.
The fire had died down to embers, and the women were arranging their shallop shelter for the night when Doro took Virginia and Ann aside.
“I can unfold the map to show you,” said Doro, “but I don’t want to lose my fingers.”
“Tell us, then,” said Virginia, Ann nodding alongside. She could barely form words in the evenings, let alone thoughts and certainly not strategies, but Doro would not have brought an idea to her if it weren’t worthwhile.
“On one of the Rae maps, I think I’ve found a spot we should stop. A cache.”
Ann leaned in. “What is that?”
Doro s
aid, “A cache. A place to set aside food and supplies for future expeditions or for the same expedition if it’s coming back the same way. John Rae came up this way more than once and found that he and his group were able to bring in more game than they needed to feed themselves—not the way it usually goes, obviously—so I think there may actually be something to find in this spot.”
“Shall we go, then?”
“It does take us off our intended course.”
“By how much?”
She squinted and seemed to be calculating in her head. Virginia had done the same countless times for familiar distances, but up here, she would not dare to guess at a path. It would be like taking a pickax to a patch of ice, not knowing how deep it went or what lay underneath.
At last, Doro said, “About three days, I think. To get off our course, check the cache, and get back on. We’ll join the trail farther up, of course. So maybe we lose two days, two and a half.”
“Worth it in your opinion?”
“Worth it.”
“Well then. Let’s go.”
Doro smiled, a rare smile for her in these days. “In the morning.”
“In the morning,” Virginia echoed.
As they turned away from the last glimmers of light from the fire’s embers, the ghost of Doro’s smile remained.
* * *
Three days’ hard travel later, they found the cache.
“I see something,” Caprice said, pointing off into the distance.
The Arctic Fury Page 25
