by Barbara Best
“You first.” Colette gives a little push. “Do not fight it.”
“No! No! No!” Sophie shudders, panic flying through her.
A fresh series of eruptions fill the room outside their glass cocoon and the lab ceiling comes down with a deafening crash. Two technicians near the back wall vanish in dust and debris. A vibration like an earthquake is felt under their feet and all heads turn in the direction of impending doom.
Sophie’s world goes instantly black and the most terrifying sensation of falling rips at her sanity. Her ringing screams are sucked into an airless void where there is no sound. There is no sensation of touch, no smell and no sight. She flails what she thinks are her arms, having nothing tangible to grasp. With paralyzing speed searing pain shoots through her veins like liquid metal. Reaching her heart, it explodes outward in a kaleidoscope of neon blue and white.
Just as she comes to pieces and a blanket of darkness enfolds her, Sophie’s last fiber of coherent thought travels on cascading shards of light that spill into the infinity of time and space. It is filled with a keen perception of guilt and regret for Jane and Bryce. A similar fate is no less than she deserves.
Chapter 24
THE GREAT STINK, 1863
“Their shoulders held the sky suspended;
They stood, and earth’s foundations stay;
What God abandoned, these defended,
And saved the sum of things for pay.”
“Poetry, Colette? Where on earth did that come from? And, why do they keep looking this way?” Sophie mutters behind a cupped hand.
“Ignore them.” Colette is poring over a flyer handed to her by a boy billposter. In big letters at the top, it says, “Theatre Royal, Liverpool — Annual Performance in the aid of the funds of the Ladies’ Charity.”
“I absolutely hate waiting,” Sophie sounds off. “How long does the man expect us to sit here in this carriage? I don’t see why we can’t climb down and walk around.” Her whalebone corset, different from the synthetic replica she wore at Civil War reenactments, is squeezing her midsection in a suffocating vise. Feeling cross, she challenges the men’s bold stares with one of her own until a number of unsavory winks and slanted grins cause her to avert her eyes.
“Father Cambrio will be out any minute.”
The soldiers march to the beat of a drum with the crusty heels of their worn boots pounding the street. Varied accouterments clink and clank as they go by. Their bright red uniforms are familiar.
“So many of them,” Sophie remarks.
“Ah, the British Army,” Colette says in admiration. “It is not an easy time for these wretched souls. Most are pressed into service without forethought or notice. Pried with a bitter brew at some local pub, they ultimately find themselves with a fearful hangover and having accepted the Queen’s Shilling. Meaning, enlistment for life.”
Colette smiles, “Handsome, no? And colorful even on a dreary day such as this.”
“I suppose.” Sophie is void of romantic notions. She glances sidelong at her forced companion.
The woman is a walking Wikipedia of information. Colette has a Ph.D. in American and European History, having attended one of France’s most elite institutions, Ecole Normale Supérieure. Her relationship with the Rite dates back to the famous American Benjamin Franklin and his illegitimate son William.
In 1730, William purchased Colette’s ancestor. A slave named King. Although William shared his father’s appetite for women, he was especially devoted to his European mistress, Lady Beatrice of Suffolk.
As the story goes, Lady Beatrice took an unusual interest in King. She taught him music and literacy and opened his eyes to the world. Because of King’s personal connection to William and Ben Franklin, he would become a Freemason and eventually serve a secret sect called the Supreme Divinity Temple of the Highland Gaelic Rite. The ancient order is exclusive and a mystery, even among Freemasons.
Scooting back in her seat under the bellows top of their carriage, Sophie gathers her cape up around her neck and folds her arms. Father Cambrio procured this miserable mode of transportation for the final stretch of their journey. Evidently, with moderate funds that Cambrio solely possesses, they are able to maneuver from Point A to Point B in the economy of 1863 Europe.
Her eyes draw to the downtrodden horse out front. Chewing incessantly on an ill-fitted bit, it suddenly whinnies and recoils to avoid a speeding cart that comes within inches. This causes their buggy to roll back.
“Hold on,” Sophie squeals. She throws one hand to Colette’s arm and they brace for a drop. The deep puddle leaves one wheel catawampus and pitched higher than the others. Sophie hopes the horse is securely hitched to the iron post on the curbside. Condemned to a life of servitude, the poor beast stomps and blows moisture out its gyrating nostrils.
A rainy day does not keep the citizens of Liverpool, England, from their daily work, habits and responsibilities. They methodically move from place to place, rain or shine, under cover or not, and up to their knees in muck — an endless stream of people, animals and moving obstacles. The mixture of sogginess, raw sewage and unwashed bodies is enough to make Sophie barf. She cannot imagine what it would be like in the heat of summer.
The Great Stink, Father Cambrio recalled history’s name for it.
When they arrived, Cambrio said flatly, “The sooner we sail out of this toxic cesspool, the better. The city is a hotbed for disease.” Even he, appropriately charitable in his role, is affected. Cholera is their greatest fear.
“How do these people stand it?” Sophie puts a handkerchief to her face to cover her nose and mouth. It does little good. “This place is deplorable!”
Colette abstains from snapping, get over it. Instead, she speaks to Sophie’s original question.
“It is war poetry, madame. An epitaph of sorts. An Army ditty.”
“Really.”
“Oui. Although, it is not written yet,” Colette snickers.
“No kidding,” Sophie grumbles, frustrated by her deranged situation. “I bet we could get rich quick making predictions around here.” At Colette’s frown, Sophie shrugs, “Just a thought.”
Sophie has never been in such a state of disarray. Her old life and new life are poles apart. There is nothing to make her feel grounded — no plans, no social outlets, no husband, no place to live, no job and definitely no skills to apply.
The two she is traveling with, on the other hand, are totally invested in and thoroughly entertained by the period. Evidently, jumping realities is as easy for them as jumping off a log. In fact, they are quite taken with the whole affair. Each day brings a plethora of awe-inspiring events, which they absorb like sponges.
“Blue Crown Inn,” Sophie reads out loud. The colorful sign dangles from hooks and chains over the entrance of the establishment’s three-story brick facade. Cut into the shape of a shield, it has the carved figure of a foxhound marked with a spiky blue patch of fur on its head. Amusingly, it resembles the punk mohawk hairstyle of modern day.
“Food and rest for the weary,” Colette smiles.
“And well deserved, ladies.” Father Cambrio peers into the carriage. His sharp eyes assess his ward’s conditions. “All arrangements have been made. I trust it will satisfy. Colette, would you see to Widow Downing’s needs?”
“Widow? You know I don’t like being called that,” Sophie scowls, and peers down at the black silk fabric of her dress. She is reminded of the crepe veil that drapes from her bonnet to her waist. All shades of ink and about as gloomy as her mood.
“Please, let me help you,” Colette offers. She clucks her tongue, “You really must cover your face. It is suitable for a woman in deep mourning.”
“The proprietress of the inn, Mrs. Thatcher, is also widowed,” Father Cambrio comments. “It wouldn’t due to insult her status. I hope you will refrain from making unnecessary remarks. If she should ask, remember you lost your husband to—”
“I know, I know,” Sophie breaks in. “You’ve only le
ctured me how many times.”
The condescending tone in Cambrio’s voice is not lost on either woman. It seems Father Cambrio has disappointingly morphed into “pater familias” — brandishing his power over their meager trio and embracing the role of superiority men enjoy in this time slot. He is a man quite at home in a man’s world.
Soon, they are climbing a steep, dingy stairway that would never pass building safety codes of the future. It leads to a decent-sized room facing the front of the inn with a shuttered view of the street below. Humble furnishings dot the space, including a small wooden table with an oil lamp, a trunk, and a chamber pot that is discreetly slid under the bed.
Sophie shakes her head tiredly. It’s no surprise the bed is not long enough for her.
“Let’s sleep diagonally,” Colette chirps cheerfully. Her own small frame and short stature are apposite for the era. “We will make it work.” She retrieves the only chair in the room. The legs scrape noisily along the wood plank floor and Sophie helps her shove it up against the bed.
Sophie grabs a blanket from the trunk and folds it small enough to make a cushion for her feet when the time comes. She lifts her veil off her face and walks to the window. “The smell is so bad down there, maybe we shouldn’t open it. Look at me. I probably smell just as bad.”
“We have paid for a bath, so a bath we shall have. You must be famished. Perhaps Widow Thatcher can help us. I will be back in a few minutes, madame.”
“There’s no need to call me madame in private, you know.”
“Oh, but it is all savoir faire,” Colette waves, and motions Sophie to come close. In a whisper, she says, “The walls have ears. Have you not noticed?”
At her words, the rhythmic thumping, creaking sound from an adjoining room reaches a hysterical crescendo. It can easily be heard through the paper-thin walls. Both women throw their hands to their mouths to stifle their peeling giggles.
Rubbing tears from the corners of her eyes, Colette gently squeezes Sophie’s shoulder. “We needed a good laugh. Please rest if you can,” she says. A pang of sympathy swells for her charge. For all her quirks, Colette had not intended to like Sophie so much. She feels it is a good thing since they are together by a binding circumstance.
“I’ll try,” Sophie tugs the sash under her chin to remove her hat and veil. She carefully folds her cape over the back of the wingback chair covered in a hunting theme print before plopping down on the bed. She unfastens the hooks on her bodice and takes a deep breath. Allowing herself to fall back on the mattress stuffed with who knows what, she half expects a cloud of dust, but there is none. Their room is relatively clean.
She wonders how Father Cambrio is doing. Once the priest had secured their accommodations, he announced he was straight for the docks to inquire about a ship destined for America.
Sophie can’t believe they are about to add their names to a list of passengers booked on one of the hand-nailed ocean bearing vessels in Liverpool’s port. They aim to make a dangerous Atlantic crossing on a ship that is supposed to hold their heads above water. The thought of it is totally ludicrous. She worries that feeling the incessant stress of constant danger creates a neurotic state of mind that is not healthy for her or her baby. Somewhere along the way she must conclude, in order to survive it is necessary to live in the moment, not looking ahead or behind. It is the only way to manage her bizarre fate and keep her sanity until she adjusts.
Colette is trying to help her shape a more positive outlook on life. Father Cambrio assures her God has a plan even for misfits like them. An exhaustive sigh escapes Sophie’s lips. Her eyelids droop. Somehow she drifts off.
Chapter 25
CHIVALRY OF THE SOUTH
Father Giovanni Cambrio drains his tankard of porter beer in a dimly lit Liverpool public house. He squints his brown eyes, the color of cultivated soil in the rich hillside vineyards of Siena, Italy, and digs in his pocket for twopence to cover the cost. The impact of his flat hand striking the bar counter signals the barkeep for another.
Cambrio is not fooled by the side-glance of scrutiny from people around him. The white of his collar is a gleaming beacon for curious stares in a place like this, but he doesn’t care. They can think what they will. His time here is only temporary and this pub is no different from the many he visited in Scotland on a Saturday night.
Nearby, an intimidating group of British soldiers, their red coats redder still in the flickering lamplight from overhead, are clustered round a table. Raised voices and a lot of backslapping indicate some sort of merriment that will probably lapse into a heated brawl as the night goes on. A couple of finely dressed gentlemen are perched on stools to Cambrio’s right. Their damp wool coats smell like being downwind from a flock of wet sheep. Yet, he cannot help shifting to within hearing distance of their animated conversation. One of the men sounds like he is especially irritated.
“Right-oh! You know the one. That petticoat abolitionist who has taken up the slavery freedom-fight of those hostiles across the big pond. It spells trouble for us. Mark my words. Someone needs to put that piss and moan in her place before her poppycock fills the heads of our decent, law-abiding women here.”
“Who, Miz Shirreff?” The shorter of the two gentlemen acts fairly surprised.
“That’s her, eh, and her fine crony Miz Taylor. One thing about women, you give them an inch and they will take a mile. Her spoutin’ off is a bold affront to—”
“Ah well, my good friend,” the shorter gentleman interrupts. He sets his dog-eared top hat to one side and scratches the back of his head like a flea hopped on him. “You’ve read The Chivalry of the South then, Mr. Gibbs,” he says, referring to the evidence on the counter.
“Who hasn’t? It spreads like pestilence. We should put an end to that conniving organization of radicals before it is too late. Did you know that woman has called for English support of America’s North in their conflict?” He flicks an offensive middle finger at the battered pamphlet. “Women! Poking their noses into politics. It’s outrageous!”
“Yes, the North and its Great Emancipator. The lines of a bloody struggle are well defined.”
“Right you are, Mr. Casey. Once those Rebel bastards get the Frenchies firmly in their back pocket, others will follow suit. The Confederacy will gain the upper hand and that paper-thin blockade the Union touts will crumble. You wait and see.”
Mr. Gibbs studies the ruby-brown liquid in his glass. “I say it is none of her damn business. Ladies’ London Emancipation Society, humph!” The man swipes at his mouth with the back of his hand before taking another swallow of his brew. His protruding Adam’s apple bobs up and down like a yo-yo and the tip of his tongue briefly shows when he lowers his glass.
“You speak with authority, ol’ chap,” says Mr. Casey.
“Aye, I do. A client.” Mr. Gibbs darts his eyes and makes a sloppy shush gesture. “You-know-who insisted I look into it.”
“Do tell.”
“Indeed, I have read Miz Shirreff’s work from cover-to-cover. Have a good part of it up here too.” Mr. Gibbs puts a bony digit to his head and aggressively taps a couple of times. “Chivalry of the South, my arse! Balderdash and gibberish, I say.”
Throwing his hand out as an orator might, “And I quote, ahem.” Mr. Gibbs’ theatrical stance rocks sideways and he grabs the seat of his stool for balance. “The scenes of licentiousness in a slaveholder’s home make an Eastern harem seem like an abode of purity. The slaveholder is trained from boyhood to see how far womanhood can be degraded.”
“So she opposes slavery,” Mr. Casey shrugs, seemingly unimpressed or worn down by the subject. “We both know, Mr. Gibbs, Liverpool’s wealth is attributed to the slave trade. Why our last British slaver, the Kitty’s Amelia, legally sailed to Jamaica from here in this century.”
“But that’s not the full of it, Mr. Casey. It appears Miz Shirreff is making an officious nuisance of herself and getting too big for her bloomers. That American author, Harriet Beecher Stowe,
has not only put fancy ideas into that pretty head o’ hers, but there is also a sly comparison. She suggests we are treating our women like beasts of burden,” Mr. Gibbs coughs into his fist as if the thought of it sickens him. “Freeing the slaves isn’t enough, is it? Now it’s equal rights for all.”
“Bravo, gentlemen,” Father Cambrio interjects, thumping the counter.
Both men abruptly shed all facial expression as they turn to Father Cambrio. Their sharp blue eyes under feathered brows, matching muttonchops, and prominent hooked noses give them the sketchy appearance of two rather ruffled bald eagles. Their turned-down mouths portray a sour view of the world. Cambrio would guess they are brothers.
“It is ill-mannered of me to eavesdrop. Please kind sirs, forgive my boldness.” Cambrio continues in an appeasing manner, “But you see this fine gentleman here makes an excellent point.” His method of speech smoothly falls in line with the period.
“Not a problem, Father,” the shorter man recovers first and forms a mischievous grin. His eyes are glued on Cambrio’s collar. “You haven’t come to convert us, have ye now?”
His companion chuckles at this and props forward on one elbow along the highly polished counter.
“No, not at all,” Cambrio smiles genuinely and competes with the noise in the room.
A riotous whoop comes from the table of soldiers and chairs scrape the wood floor when three scantily dressed women sashay down a stairway from a second-floor balcony. One throws her leg over the railing. Her petticoats lifted, she exposes a nicely tapered calf and ankle. This gets more catcalls from the eager spectators.
Cambrio focuses back on his bar fellows. “All men are created equal. Liberty and justice for all,” he submits wryly. His shade of sarcasm delights the men and they chortle overly at the remark.
“Bah, Americans! I say let them tear themselves to bloody pieces, but leave us out of it.” A vulgar belch punctuates the last part of Mr. Gibbs’ sentence.
