The Revelation of Louisa May

by Michaela MacColl

  Marmee walked past the front door to the alley on the far side of the tavern. Glancing about the street, she chose a moment when no one was paying them any notice and pulled Louisa into the alley. Marmee slipped through the back door of the tavern, Louisa close on her heels. A half dozen cases of whiskey almost blocked their way. Mr. Pryor must have received a shipment early this morning, she thought.

  Louisa’s eyes explored the tavern, taking in every detail. At this hour, the tavern was empty of customers. Mr. Pryor was rubbing down the bar with a cloth. He was of medium height and wore a bright white shirt tucked into his workaday black trousers. His nose had been broken at least once, Louisa noticed.

  Marmee coughed and caught Mr. Pryor’s attention. He looked at her sharply and said, “You shouldn’t be here. We can’t be seen together.” He hurried to the front door to lock it tight.

  “My train leaves in three-quarters of an hour. In my absence my daughter Louisa is taking care of our package.”

  His quick glance took in all of Louisa, from her scuffed boots to her untidy hair, then dismissed her. “She’s too young.”

  “I don’t have a choice,” Marmee snapped. “But Louisa is very responsible for her age.”

  “Does she understand the risks?” Mr. Pryor asked, his face sour as if he sucked on a lime.

  “Of course,” Marmee said.

  “I was the first to meet George,” Louisa added. “He’s my responsibility.”

  Pryor hissed. “No names!”

  Louisa pressed her lips together in a flat line. Marmee gave her elbow a comforting squeeze. Pryor went on, “I’d be happier if your package was safely on his way.”

  “When will the other packages arrive?” Marmee asked.

  “Four or five days. We’ll just have to keep him well hidden until then.” He fixed Louisa with a stern stare. “So you, Miss Louisa, should avoid any other chance meetings with that slave catcher.”

  “I will.”

  “And tell your pet philosopher to avoid your house for the time being.”

  “Do you mean Henry?” Louisa asked.

  “No names!” He glowered at her. “I run a tight ship.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Louisa said, just managing not to clap her hand over her mouth.

  “Those two have a bad history. Your slave catcher would like nothing better than to turn us all in, just to spite our friend.”

  “What happened between them?” Louisa asked. Her mother frowned and glanced at her watch, but didn’t interrupt.

  “I don’t know the story. I heard there was a woman involved.” Pryor shrugged. “There always is.”

  Marmee gave Louisa a quick concerned glance, but Louisa kept her expression stoic. Apparently Henry had a knack of getting into trouble because of women. When she had time, Louisa was going to have to reevaluate her regard for him.

  Pryor, unaware of all that was going on in Louisa’s head, was still talking. “The catcher left town about five years ago. I heard he was a just a few steps ahead of the sheriff.”

  Marmee was fingering her watch. “We must go,” she said.

  Louisa wanted to know more. “Just one minute, Marmee,” she begged. “What did Finch do to run afoul of the law?” In her mind she was really asking, “What is this man capable of?”

  “Nothing serious. Some importation without taxation,” Pryor said with a chuckle.

  “Smuggling,” Marmee summed up in a word, nostrils flaring and her mouth pinched.

  “What’s a little smuggling between friends? It’s harmless,” Pryor said. “Staying on the right side of the law is bad for business.”

  “Not for everyone,” Marmee said with the prim air inherited from one of Boston’s most straitlaced families. “We do not approve of lawbreaking.”

  “So what are you doing with the Railroad?” Pryor asked, raising his bushy eyebrows.

  “That’s a matter of principle.” Marmee’s voice was proud. Proud enough to rankle Pryor.

  “And what principle absolves the Alcotts from paying their bills, Mrs. Alcott?”

  Marmee stiffened. “Good day, Mr. Pryor,” she said in an icy voice. Taking Louisa by the elbow, she pulled her out of the tavern’s back door. In the alley, she said angrily, “How dare he say such a thing?” Her color was high and her dark eyes hard.

  “It’s true, though, Marmee,” Louisa said. Between Marmee and herself, she thought, there should be complete honesty. “It’s only through the intervention of kind people like Mr. Emerson and your family that Papa is a free man.”

  Marmee shook this argument off like a dog shook water off his fur. “Well, Pryor’s a fine one to talk. When he took over the tavern, it was about to fail. But now it’s a thriving business. Even the best businessman can’t manage that.”

  Louisa stepped closer, leaning in to catch every word. “What do you mean?” Louisa asked.

  “Did you see that stack of crates? Delivered off the back of a wagon in the middle of the night. He doesn’t pay the duty on all his liquor,” Marmee retorted. “It’s how he keeps his prices lower than every other drinking establishments’ in town. It’s an open secret.” She glanced at her watch. “I cannot miss this train. Let’s find May.” She set off down the alley.

  Louisa looked from the tavern door to Marmee’s outraged back marching down the alley. Who knew so much was happening beneath the surface in Concord? Louisa needed to pay closer attention.

  As Louisa emerged on the street, Marmee was already entering the general store seven or eight doors down. Louisa started to follow when a hand grabbed her arm.

  “So we meet again, young lady,” a voice said. “Or should I say Miss Alcott?” He pushed her a few steps back into the shadow of the alley.

  Louisa looked up the hand, along the arm, and into the mocking face of Mr. Finch.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jo would have gladly run away, if she could, but

  she was perched aloft on the steps, and he stood at

  the foot, a lion in the path, so she had to stay and

  brave it out.

  Let me go, Mr. Finch,” Louisa said, trying unsuccessfully to pull her arm away. The odious man grinned at her, relishing her discomfiture. She could see passersby crossing in front of the alley; she had only to call and help would be forthcoming. But she preferred to solve her own problems. Using skills learned from years of playing with neighbor boys, Louisa kicked Finch hard in the shin with her booted toe. He cried out and released her arm.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Louisa asked sweetly, “Did I hurt you?”

  With a hostile look, he shook his knee as though it was numb. “Not at all,” he muttered. He inhaled deeply, then managed to speak more pleasantly. “What a pleasure to see you again. I’ve learned quite a lot about you and your family since we met yesterday.”

  “Not the least of which is my name,” Louisa agreed politely, proud of how level her voice was. She was face-to-face with the enemy. Louisa must outwit and outthink Finch if she were to save her fugitive slave.

  “I’ve discovered the Alcotts are among the leading abolitionists in town. Second only to Henry Thoreau. So it’s interesting that you pretended not to know him.”

  Better to admit what he already knew, Louisa decided. She opened her eyes very wide. “Oh, did you mean that Henry Thoreau? Of course I know Mr. Thoreau. He’s a close friend of the family.”

  “He’s not easy to find—I don’t suppose you’ll tell me where he is?”

  Louisa shrugged, keeping a small smug smile on her lips, knowing it would infuriate Finch.

  “Never mind. I’ll find him on my own,” Finch snapped. “But my first priority is to locate some missing property. From the South,” he added meaningfully. “You might be able to help me there.”

  “If I take your meaning, and being tarred with the abolitionist brush I think I do, I find the suggestion of helping you find anything, or anyone, unlikely,” Louisa said, letting her distaste show plainly.

  “Look, Miss Alcott, one of th
e things I’ve learned is that your whole family doesn’t have two coins to rub together. If you help me, I can change that. I’ll pay good money for information.” He pulled out a billfold thick with currency.

  Glancing back down the alley, Louisa saw Mr. Pryor come out with an empty crate. Spying Finch and Louisa, Pryor’s eyes widened when he saw Finch’s money. His dismay only strengthened Louisa’s resolve. Pryor didn’t think she was able to handle the slave catcher on her own. Well, wouldn’t he be surprised.

  She lowered her voice so Finch had to come closer to hear her. “Mr. Finch,” Louisa began. “I would do anything to help my family. What kind of information do you need?”

  He smiled. “I’ll show you,” he said, pulling a folded piece of paper from his billfold. Keeping it hidden from anyone passing by, he unfolded it and displayed it to Louisa. It was a wanted poster, illustrated with a drawing of a fugitive slave. She caught her breath, then forced herself to exhale normally. It would not do for Finch to realize how recognizable George’s likeness was. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Pryor still watching them.

  “I don’t know him,” she lied. “But even if I did, why would I tell you when I could collect the whole reward? For my family’s sake, of course.”

  His eyes narrowed, but the smile stayed on his lips. “If you read carefully, the reward is for capture.” Finch kept the amount of the reward folded so Louisa couldn’t see what George was worth. “This slave is dangerous and won’t go back South without a fight.” He casually drew back the coat to reveal a pistol stuck in his belt. Leering over Louisa, he spoke in a confiding voice that made Louisa wish for a tub of hot water, soap, and a stiff brush. “I, however, am prepared to take him by force. I just have to bring him back breathing. His condition is entirely up to him . . . and to anyone foolish enough to hide him.”

  Suddenly, the game Louisa was playing tasted sour in her mouth. “Mr. Finch, your occupation is vile. I know nothing about your missing slave—but if I did, I’d rather shoot you dead than give him up to you!” She tore the poster from his hands and ripped it into pieces. He grabbed at it and she pushed him away with all her might. He stumbled back a step but recovered himself easily.

  Mr. Pryor came rushing forward. “Miss Alcott, are you hurt? Is this man pestering you?”

  Shaking with anger, Louisa nodded. “Of course, Mr. Pryor. Mr. Finch was just telling me about his business of hunting men like animals and returning them to their owners for a life of degradation!”

  Finch glared at her.

  “I think you’d best leave the young lady alone,” Mr. Pryor said, shooting Louisa a stern warning look.

  “Stay out of this,” snarled Finch. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you were in on this Railroad business, too.”

  Pryor was a good actor and didn’t flinch. Shaking his head in a puzzled fashion, he said, “Mr. . . . Finch, is it? I have no idea what you’re talking about. I was just trying to spare Miss Alcott the embarrassment of a public scene.”

  “I don’t need your protection.” Louisa’s words were drowned out by Finch, who said loudly, “That’s very noble of you, Pryor, especially when you seem so eager to avoid public scrutiny.”

  Mr. Pryor’s eyes narrowed and between lips drawn tight, he asked, “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been watching you. You own this tavern, don’t you?” Finch’s eyes were fixed on Pryor. “My hotel room looks out over your alley. Imagine my surprise when I saw you receiving deliveries in the middle of the night. I thought, what a dedicated businessman this tavernkeeper must be.”

  “When you own a business, you work all hours,” Pryor muttered.

  “Now, I’m in town looking for a missing slave. So I naturally wondered if there was any possibility your shipment was of the human variety. And then of course I see the daughter of an abolitionist slipping out of your alley . . . Mr. Pryor, it looks suspicious.”

  “You must not have looked very closely when you were spying on me last night.” Pryor had given up any pretence of politeness. “I received a shipment of whiskey early this morning. The early bird gets the worm, I always say.”

  “I saw the whiskey, but then I asked myself another question. Do all those cases of whiskey have the proper tax stamps?”

  Pryor was quiet, but his sudden stillness spoke the truth.

  “If Miss Alcott will excuse us, shall we discuss it further?” Finch said.

  Mutely, Pryor nodded and let Finch go ahead of him into the alley. Pryor held back for a moment and whispered for Louisa’s ears only, “I told you not to talk to him!”

  “I didn’t have a choice,” Louisa retorted. “And at least the only dangerous secrets I have are about our package. Can you say the same?” Pryor glared at her but followed Finch down the alley. Louisa wondered if Mr. Pryor was quite safe. If Finch threatened him with exposure, would Pryor keep their confidences?

  Louisa started purposefully toward the general store to rejoin Marmee when a voice called her name from the porch of the new Middlesex Hotel. Reluctantly, Louisa halted and watched Miss Whittaker come down the front steps. Dodging a carriage and a farm wagon laden with straw, she made a beeline for Louisa.

  Miss Whittaker was slender, with the graceful neck of a swan. Her dark hair tumbled down her back in ringlets that appeared loose but were actually carefully arranged. Her traveling dress was of a royal blue and was corseted to make her waist appear tiny. Louisa envied the rich fabric, if not the corset. She smoothed her own skirt, wishing the scorch marks from when she stood too close to the fire didn’t show up so much on the pale cloth.

  Louisa plastered a fake smile on her face. “Good morning, Miss Whittaker.”

  “Dear Louisa!” Miss Whittaker gushed. “Is it true? Your mother is leaving us?” Her arms were as outstretched as the tight sleeves of her dress allowed. Louisa imperceptibly stepped away from the possibility of any embrace. A furrow appeared between Miss Whittaker’s eyebrows, then disappeared. Miss Whittaker dropped her elegant hands to her sides. “When does Mrs. Alcott leave?” she asked.

  “In less than an hour,” Louisa said. “She’s doing some last-minute shopping. So if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  “Of course. And please be sure to tell her that she needn’t worry about dear Mr. Alcott. I’ll drop in every day to make sure he is coping without her.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of my father,” Louisa said sharply, ignoring Miss Whittaker’s lips pursing. “It’s not necessary for you to bother him while he is writing.”

  Miss Whittaker tried another tack. “And he must write, write, write! My investors want only the best essays.”

  Louisa’s attention sharpened at the word “investors.” “Miss Whittaker, I hope you aren’t expecting any financial contribution to your magazine from my father.” Thank goodness Marmee wasn’t here to scold Louisa for her presumption. But Marmee had left her in charge—the sooner she started, the better.

  “Of course not,” Miss Whittaker assured her. “His contribution is his name and reputation. And Mr. Emerson’s and Mr. Thoreau’s, of course. My investors are confident that they will recoup their money.”

  “How much have you raised?” Louisa asked.

  Miss Whittaker’s eyes narrowed, and she answered grudgingly. “Nearly a thousand dollars so far. Enough to fund several issues of my new magazine.” She fingered one of her ringlets, almost purring with satisfaction.

  “A thousand?” Louisa repeated faintly. “And how much of that will go to the writers?”

  “At first, nothing. But as soon as we are established, then we will pay the writers very well indeed.”

  “But without their essays, you have no magazine,” Louisa argued. “They should be paid from the start.”

  “Mr. Alcott assured me that that would not be necessary,” Miss Whittaker said.

  Louisa sighed. That, unfortunately, had the ring of truth.

  Mr. Finch emerged from the alley alone and headed straight for Louisa. “Miss Alcott, I do
n’t think we finished our conversation.”

  Miss Whittaker turned to the new arrival and Louisa was surprised to see her porcelain complexion whiten like bone.

  “Won’t you introduce me to your friend?” Finch said, coming face-to-face with Miss Whittaker. He stepped back in surprise. “Edith? Is that you? Edith Climpson?”

  Miss Whittaker touched Louisa’s arm to steady herself. “Whittaker,” Miss Whittaker said hurriedly. “My name is Whittaker.”

  “Of course. Edith Whittaker,” he said, a malicious smile on his lips. “It’s been several years since I saw you last. It was in Washington, wasn’t it?”

  “The less said about Washington, the better,” Miss Whittaker said, with a glance at Louisa.

  “Of course. Whatever you like. Tell me, what are you doing here?” he asked. “Were you looking for me? I was born and raised in Concord.”

  “Certainly not!” cried Miss Whittaker. “I had no idea that you were from this area. I’m here on business.”

  Louisa watched the two of them, feeling like a spectator at a masquerade. “Business?” Mr. Finch stressed the word. “Perhaps I can be of assistance?”

  “Not likely!” Miss Whittaker spat. She saw the surprise on Louisa’s face and became more ladylike. “I am perfectly capable of managing my own affairs.”

  “Nevertheless, I’m at your service,” Finch said.

  “It’s completely unnecessary,” Miss Whittaker insisted. “Now Miss Alcott and I must escort Mrs. Alcott to the train.”

  Marmee, May in tow, finally emerged from the general store and looked impatiently up and down the street. Midmorning was a busy time for the Main Street shops and at first Marmee didn’t notice Louisa. Louisa whistled to draw her mother’s attention, ignoring Miss Whittaker’s scandalized look. Marmee turned and saw her, waving her arm for Louisa to come.

  “I’m afraid we are in a dreadful hurry, Miss Whittaker,” Louisa said. “I’ll just leave you here with Mr. . . .” She watched Miss Whittaker, curious to know if he too had answered to a different name in Washington.