Dark Humanity

by Gwynn White

  “What is going on here?” she asked aghast. Sister Margaret yanked me away from Maggie, her fingernails digging into my skin. She squeezed my wrist until it ached.

  I pulled my arm free. Knowing I would be punished either way, I decided it was best not to lie. “Maggie was calling me names so I beat her a good one,” I told Sister Margaret.

  She looked down at me, her face furrowing deeply. She had an odd look on her face like she was suffocating rage. “This is the last time—” she began to say but stopped short when she heard Sister Sarah approach.

  “Are you sure, Mr. Fletcher? You did say you wanted a lad. The boys will be out any moment,” Sister Sarah said as she came up behind us. She sounded nervous.

  I turned to look. Sister Sarah escorted two gentlemen onto the yard. The man she referred to as Mr. Fletcher had long, curly gray hair. He wore small, round glasses, a tight blue shirt buttoned to the neck, breeches, striped stockings, and a top hat. The other man, also gray haired but balding, looked like he’d just rolled out from under a greasy transport. He wore a checked top with tan trousers, both of which were stained with grease. His two front teeth were missing.

  “No need. This one fights like an alley cat. She’ll do,” the man she referred to as Mr. Fletcher said, looking down at me. “What do you say, Mr. Oleander?” he asked his companion.

  “Let me see your hands, girl,” the other man, Mr. Oleander, said to me.

  I stuck out my hands and let them inspect me.

  “Dirty under the nails. Scratches on the knuckles,” Mr. Oleander observed. Both men seemed impressed.

  “But gentlemen, a young lady will need some refining, a womanly influence,” Sister Sarah said.

  “We’ve got a woman, don’t we, brother?” Mr. Oleander answered chuckling as he elbowed the other man in the ribs. They both laughed.

  “What is your name, young lady?” Mr. Fletcher asked.

  I looked up at Sister Margaret. Only once had I ever been asked my real name and that was on my first day there. A very old nun had written it and my parents’ names on a paper. She died a few days later. Otherwise, everyone called me Lily on account of my mother’s bouquet. Both Sister Margaret and Sister Sarah had come to St. Helena’s later, and that’s all they and all the others knew of my name. And in my mind, that other girl, the one my mother—who had never come back-had thrown into the Thames, was dead.

  “Lily.”

  “Lily what?” Mr. Fletcher asked.

  “Just Lily,” I replied.

  Both of the men laughed.

  “Yes, she’ll do. Where do we sign?” Mr. Oleander asked Sister Margaret.

  Sister Margaret and Sister Sarah looked at one another in shocked silence. After a moment, Sister Margaret looked down at me, her face still wearing the shadow of rage. I realized then I had chosen the wrong day to infuriate her. Indeed, it would be the last time. “This way to my office, gentlemen,” she said, directing them back to the orphanage. “Sister Sarah, please get Lily ready to go.”

  Lost in my memories, I was about to doze off when I heard a gunshot. Sal snored in his sleep and turned but did not wake. I rose and looked over the side of the Stargazer. In the dim light of the gaslamps, I saw a man run off. The shot man lay still in the street. Clearly, he was dead. The tower guards were soon on the scene. I sighed and crawled back into the hammock. I pulled out the laudanum and took double my usual dose. I snuggled close to Sal, reminding myself that the days with Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Oleander were long behind me. They were now ghosts who could only harm me in my memories. And then, just as I had wanted, everything went black.

  Chapter Ten

  Early the next morning we bundled up and set sail. Despite my best efforts, I could not shake Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Oleander. The memories added to feeling tense about the altercation in the opium den. I was unnerved. I woke at dawn feeling groggy, nauseated, and irritable. In fact, no one was feeling very happy once I shared how someone had tried to manhandle me in the opium den.

  “You think it was just a thief or did it seem like he was after you specifically?” Jessup asked.

  “I’m not sure,” I replied, hoping not to alarm them.

  Angus sighed. “I warned you. That kaleidoscope came with blood on it.”

  “Then the sooner we know what it is, and we get rid of it, the better,” Sal said encouragingly.

  Angus, however, went below and returned with loaded sidearms which he passed to Jessup and Sal. Both men took a gun without speaking a word about it.

  Angus handed me an extra box of ammo. “Keep your weapon loaded, your head clear, and watch your ass.”

  The snow covered Alps, streaked with black rocks, went on as far as the eye could see. Even in July, the air was cold. It was, however, very fresh, so pristine I could nearly sense the divine. Navigating this beauty would be tricky all the same. I had done it before, but I was not in a mood for a challenge that morning. Low level clouds or stray winds would be certain, but I knew it would be manageable.

  “It’s like a fucking painting,” Angus said as we all stood at the bow of the Stargazer and looked out at the mountain range.

  “There are, in fact, several famous paintings of the Alps. There has been much consideration of the painting Napoleon Crossing the Alps by Jacques-Louis David who painted it for the King of Spain,” Sal offered.

  I pretended not to see the gestures Angus and Jessup exchanged.

  “Let’s just hope we meet with a better end than Bonaparte,” I replied.

  We did. After several crisp, beautiful hours of smooth flying, we cruised toward Venice. We passed over the forests, mountains, and farmland in Switzerland, and we were over Italy shortly after the lunch hour. By late afternoon, we approached the Vento area, and air traffic became much busier. At first we saw mainly European transport ships rigged for long haul travel. A steam yacht passed us; it was an unusual contraption held aloft by a cluster of balloons rather than a single balloon. Steam poured from the back of the ship. Since it carried water, it was heavy and low to the ground. As we neared Venice, however, we noticed more brightly colored personal yachts and transport air gondolas. The Venetian air gondolas shone with thick black lacquer, their balloons dyed scarlet red. The air gondoliers wore the same black and white striped shirts as their lagoon counterparts, but the straw hats were replaced with tan leather skullcaps. The colorful ships sailed toward the Venetian air towers on the Lido; it was like a slowly moving painting. I could feel I was in Venice. As I navigated the ship over the city toward the Lido towers, Sal narrated the sites.

  “We’re over the Grand Canal, Lily. There is the Rialto. Ah, there is Saint Mark’s…the Doge’s palace,” Sal listed.

  I took a peek below; the dark teal colored waters of the canals glimmered in the late afternoon light. From above, the orange-red tiled roofs of the palazzi reminded me of a jigsaw of bread loaves. Excited, I smiled. I had been around the world racing, but I had never truly been anywhere on holiday. It was an excitement I knew Jessup and Angus—both of whom had always worked for every crumb in their mouths—shared.

  “Go in port, Lily. There are international transport docks open on the upper platform,” Jessup called from above, his spyglass on the towers.

  The breeze off the Adriatic Sea made for a bumpy ride into the towers. There were more air towers located in Venice than I had seen anywhere else. Big ships like the Stargazer were anchored on the upper levels. There were at least a dozen large ships tethered there. I eyed the symbols on the balloons but didn’t recognize any of them. I did notice a British diplomatic vessel parked in one of the private bays. About twenty feet below the international transports were ports for the local gondoliers, yachts, and personal crafts.

  A Venetian ground crew, all dressed in scarlet, guided the Stargazer into her dock. Soon, Jessup and Angus were hard at work getting the ship tethered in. Once we were anchored, Sal spoke with the stationmaster.

  “My Lily, it seems Lord Byron has cleared the path for you. The Stargaz
er was expected, and your docking account has been settled. The stationmaster saw the Stargazer come in. As Lord Byron requested, ground transport has been arranged to take us to our lodgings,” Sal informed me as the Venetian stationmaster smiled appreciatively at the Stargazer. “And he is a fan of yours,” Sal added with a lowered voice.

  Angus and Jessup leaned on the deck rail, listening to the exchange.

  “Ask him if he’d like to take a look,” I replied motioning to the Stargazer.

  Sal spoke to the man. The stationmaster smiled excitedly at me, and with a nod, Sal led him aboard.

  “Well, Miss Important Friends, our lodgings, eh?” Jessup said with a laugh. “Where you suppose Byron set us up, Lily?”

  “Us? Well, I am sure a palace awaits me. I think I saw some stables on the Lido for you lot,” I replied with a laugh.

  Angus chuckled.

  The look on Jessup’s face told me he had not considered that Byron had only arranged for me, not all of us. But, I knew Byron. He took care of those he loved and trusted. Despite his reputation as being mad, bad, and dangerous to know, Byron had a good soul and treated well those who did not abuse him—unless, of course, he had asked for it.

  After Sal’s tour was over, the stationmaster—who kissed me on each cheek and spoke excitedly to me in Italian, thanking me and blessing my next race, or so Sal told me—led us to the lift. I was glad a race fan was keeping watch on the Stargazer; I knew she would be safe.

  The clockwork gears ground as the stationmaster operated the lift levers. The massive gears turned, and the lift lowered us slowly toward the sandy beach below. A warm wind blew in from the sea. As much as I disliked the water, Venice was truly beautiful.

  Sal and the stationmaster exchanged a few words, and when we reached the Lido, we headed off in the direction of the vaporetti, the steamboat taxis. Sal was wearing a knowing smile.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Ah, my Lily, how Lord Byron must love you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Sal only smiled.

  “Sal,” I warned playfully, sliding my hand under his shirt to tickle his ribs.

  “You’ll see,” he replied, grinning as he grabbed and kissed my fingers.

  Sal spoke a few words to the vaporetto taximan who transported travelers by water from the Lido to the city. The vaporetto itself was a sleek, dark wood boat with a thick coat of polish. A blue and white striped awning covered the taxi seats. The taximan guided us aboard. As we settled in, I followed Sal’s gaze to the copper piping that created the steam propulsion. Angus, too, was straining his neck to get a look.

  As we set off, the taximan eyed me over. My belongings were stuffed into a sack hanging over my shoulder, but under my arm I carried the box containing the gown Byron had sent. The sailor’s gaze had made me feel self-conscious, and though I was not inclined to wear the dress, I was suddenly glad I had it. As we approached the city, passing more Venetians, I better understood the look. The Venetian women looked like china dolls. Their hair was done perfectly. Their ornate dresses looked like bouquets of wildflowers strewn in the wind. While they had their intricately designed jewels and tinkered trinkets, overall their look was soft. English women had their own style. Air jockeys more so. In Venice, however, things were different. I now understood Byron’s gift.

  The vaporetto slipped into the Grand Canal. Moments later we were gliding past the pastel colored palazzi: pink, peach, white, and tan façades faced the water. Most buildings, though somewhat decayed, were decorated with white marble or stone trim. Arching windows with ornate trefoil, carved cherubs, theater masks, regal animals, and other designs trimmed the elegant palazzi. Much like the Venetian women, the buildings were refined in their beauty.

  “Palazzo Mocenigo,” the taximan called as we approached a Venetian palace. The tan façade of the palazzo was trimmed with both wrought iron and stone balconies that hung over the water. The palazzo looked to be four stories in height. In all, the palazzo had four buildings. The gondolier guided us toward one of the middle buildings.

  “Holy Christ,” Jessup whispered. He had grown up on a farm in Norwich and was, no doubt, as impressed as I.

  Indeed, the palazzo was striking. I looked up at the building to see the various carvings of lions’ heads looking down at me.

  Sal smiled at me. “You see,” he whispered.

  The taximan docked and extended a hand to help me debark. A Venetian butler who was fluent in English came to meet us.

  “Signorina Stargazer, welcome to Ca’ Mocenigo. I am Vittorio and am at your service,” he introduced, kissing the back of my hand.

  I introduced the others. Vittorio led us down a marble hallway, the floors polished to a mirror shine, to a stairwell with an ornately carved banister. Golden sconces and magnificent oil paintings lined the walls.

  “You will have two floors, Signorina Stargazer,” Vittorio explained as we went upstairs. “On the second floor you will find the piano nobile where you may entertain guests. Please let me know if you would like to arrange any dinners, and we shall be at your service. Are you expecting Lord Byron?”

  I could hear the excitement in the man’s voice. Byron was famed for his poetry but was infamous for his behavior. He’d been in Venice the few years prior. I’d heard a story about how he’d swum naked in the Grand Canal, holding a torch aloft so he would not be hit by a gondola. I’d laughed until I cried when I heard it. Given Byron’s ways, I had no idea if I was expecting him or not. That was partially why our relationship worked so well.

  “We’ll see. We are not expecting visitors at this time,” I told the man politely.

  He smiled, but his disappointment was evident. “Now, this is the sitting room,” Vittorio said. He pushed open heavy double doors at the top of the stairs to reveal a Renaissance style parlor. The wear on the ornate plaster was evident, and discoloration marred the pale blue walls, but the beauty of the place could not be denied. The grey-flecked marble floors gleamed. The walls were trimmed with gold leaf. Tapestries, oil paintings, and statuary filled the place. An elaborate bird cage contained two doves who cooed nicely when we entered. The place was filled with vases of cut flowers—all lilies—and sumptuous furniture.

  “Follow me,” he called, leading us through the room to a second set of doors. He pushed these open to reveal a dining room with soft yellow paint and glimmering white marble floors. A gold and crystal chandelier hung from the roof where plaster was chipped away. Filigreed mirrors and oil paintings of Dionysian delights lined the walls.

  “This is your formal dining room,” Vittorio said then led us through one final set of doors to reveal a sunny room in the front of the palazzo. “And finally we come to the drawing room,” he said. The room, painted pale peach, looked out on the Grand Canal. It was comfortably arranged with small groupings of chairs for private conversation, and again, the room was filled with lilies.

  “If you need a private work space, Miss Stargazer, there is also a small office through here,” Vittorio added, opening a door just off the drawing room to reveal an office in which a large desk, and only a large desk, sat in the very middle of the space. “Lord Byron worked here when he was in residence,” he added proudly.

  I nodded, and for a brief moment, envisioned Byron laboring over the desk, his dark curls falling into his eyes as they were sometimes apt to do. I smiled.

  “This way.” Vittorio led us upstairs and showed us each to a bedroom. We arranged to have dinner in a couple of hours, and Vittorio left. Angus and Jessup, examining their lodgings, grinned like school children. My room, which was the same Byron stayed in when he was in Venice, as Vittorio had informed me, looked out onto the canal. Double glass doors opened to a magnificent vista. The heavenly smell of lilies filled the room. The bedroom was papered with red brocade that was torn in the corners. Gauzy white fabric draped the tall, four-poster bed.

  Since the men were settling in, I was alone. I took a drop of laudanum and stood in the opened d
oorway overlooking the canal. Gondoliers poled passengers and crates up and down the green-blue canal waters. As one singing gondolier passed, he tipped his hat at me and called out what sounded like a compliment. I blew him a kiss, and he smiled. Moments later, Jessup and Angus burst into the room behind me.

  “Can you believe this, Lil?” Jessup said excitedly.

  “My màthair would not believe her eyes,” Angus added, pulling Jessup and me both into a hug as we stood looking out at the Canal.

  “Gents, just think. If we can start pulling first place wins, we could really live like this from time to time,” I said.

  Angus and Jessup both turned serious. “If we place first in Valencia and then in Paris, and if Cutter drops to third at least once, we can pull it off,” Jessup said.

  “Cutter doesn’t race well in Valencia. This year we might take him,” Angus added.

  “We need modifications,” I said. “I saw Souvenir in Zurich. He was getting work done to his ship. We need to consider what we can do to reconfigure the Stargazer. Truth is, we need more speed.”

  Sal, who had been leaning against the door frame and listening to the conversation, spoke up. “In Master Vogt’s workshop he showed me a reconfiguration of one of the propulsion gears which requires less muscle to give speed, using centrifugal force over raw power. May I draw it and show you, Angus?”

  Angus looked at Sal, and the look on Angus’ face told me that in that moment he’d finally figured out what Sal was all about. Sal was arrogant. And Sal did offer more suggestions than were needed, but Sal was also a genius.

  “Let’s have it. In fact, why don’t we adjourn to the drawing room and further consider the matter,” Angus said, putting on a mock sophisticated accent that made us all laugh.

  With that, the four of us spent the next two hours huddled over a table as Sal and Angus considered what could be done to reconfigure the Stargazer. The smell of food wafting in from the kitchens on the first floor had my stomach aching. When Vittorio returned to tell us it was time to eat, I was grateful.