This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are either fictitious or used fictitiously.
Copyright ©2017 by L.S. Johnson. All rights reserved.
Traversing Z Press
San Leandro, California
www.traversingz.com
ISBN: 978-0-9988936-1-7
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017943456
Poetry excerpts are from “Ocean: An Ode, Concluding with a Wish,” by Edward Young
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter I The Birds
Chapter II The Arrivals
Chapter III The Dinner-Party
Chapter IV A Secret Revealed
Chapter V Three Unpleasant Stories
Chapter VI Poetry
Chapter VII An Outing
Chapter VIII A Second Dinner
Chapter IX Departures
Chapter X A Reply
Chapter XI Follies
Chapter XII Harkworth Hall
Chapter XIII The Door Unlocked
Chapter XIV Leviathan
Chapter XV Confessions
Chapter XVI Changing Seasons
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Upon earth there is not his like,
who is made without fear.
— Job 41:33
ENGLAND
THE NORTH
1752
CHAPTER I
The Birds
I FIRST HEARD OF Edward Masterson the day of the birds, though I forgot about them through much of what happened after. Indeed, in the moment, their strange flight was only a disturbing inconvenience, as it turned my father back from his walk to the village on laundry day.
My father was a gentleman of small, regular habits. He walked to the village twice each week, to gain news of the wider world and have two pints of ale before walking back. In winter, he had Mr. Simmons, who served as our steward as well as sometime butler and valet, drive him. But in the fine weather of late spring he would set off walking, in his plain suit but with his sword polished and ready should he meet any ruffians.
The rest of our little household—myself and Mr. and Mrs. Simmons; my poor mother had passed when I was young—would plan much around this simple outing, for the house was too much work for the Simmonses alone. My father made no objection to my helping with light chores such as dusting, but he had recently been infected with the disease of matchmaking, and he feared for my prospects should I develop a working woman’s hands and complexion. His solution for our overworked staff was to simply hire more help as needed, but I often snuck into his study to review our account books and there was no surplus for such luxuries. Thus, I learned to separate want from necessity, and while other women my age were dancing at assemblies or practicing their needlework, I was scrubbing floors and learning to make pastry. I learned, and I learned as well to not reflect upon my circumstances, lest I fall into melancholy—and many days there was simply no time for such indulgence. As soon as my father left, I put aside my role as Caroline Daniels, landowner’s daughter, and became Caroline Daniels, maid, stableboy, or whatever we needed me to be. Laundry especially was a daylong affair, and more than once we had sent Mr. Simmons out to delay my father so we could get the last damp pieces inside before he returned.
My father left, drawing the door closed behind him. I waited in the hall, seeing in my mind’s eye his stout figure striding down the drive. Now he would pat his pockets, ensuring he had a shilling but little more, for he had once been robbed on his return and had a fine watch and several shillings taken off him. Now he would think about that watch, and touch his sword in reassurance. All was well and nothing was forgotten; he could enjoy his journey in peace, and we could set about our work. I counted to fifty, then with a deep breath seized the first laundry basket and began dragging it back to the yard—
—when I heard the terrible sound of the door swinging open again, and my father bellowing for Mr. Simmons. At once I dropped the basket, smiling brightly. My smile faded, however, when I saw the spatters on his hat and coat, including a red smear on his face.
“Are you all right? Did you fall?” I rushed towards him, thinking to stop any bleeding with my apron.
“Quite all right,” he said. “Only the birds are going mad.”
For a moment I stared at him, believing I misheard him, but then I saw movement in the sky past his shoulder. Birds of all sizes and shapes, flying at odd angles to each other but all heading inland. As I watched two collided, then set at each other with horrific shrieks and bared claws. Feathers drifted down as they fought.
“I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s quite late in the year to be mating, and there are gulls up there. They usually stay close to the shore—” My father suddenly broke off, frowning at the laundry basket. “What are you doing with that laundry?”
“I was looking for a petticoat,” I said quickly. “I cannot find it anywhere.”
He gave me a suspicious look, but I was saved from further inquiry by Mr. Simmons appearing. As he fetched my father a fresh coat, I slipped past him and went out onto the drive. Dozens of birds filled the sky, and save for when their paths provoked a conflict, they were doing so in near silence, as if they needed all their strength to fly. But what were they flying towards—or were they fleeing something? I scanned the horizon: there was not so much as a cloud, not a hint of an incoming storm.
Above me two more birds crossed paths, and the larger one viciously raked the smaller. It tumbled to the ground, then carefully righted itself and began limping forward, still heading unerringly inland.
“Caroline, dear, don’t distress yourself with such sights.” My father took my arm and led me back to the house.
“But what could be causing it?” I asked, still craning my head. “Something has frightened them, something worse than a storm.”
“They were probably startled by an animal—perhaps we have a wolf again. I’ll ask in the village,” he said. “Oh, and I forgot to tell you! I will be stopping at the Fitzroys’ on my way home. I was thinking if Diana spends the season in town again, perhaps you could join her? A stay of some weeks will help you become more comfortable in society, and develop your acquaintanceships further.”
And there were so many replies I wished to make, all at once. The Fitzroys were our closest neighbors, and Diana my oldest friend. Having both lost our mothers early, and without siblings, we had been for a time closer than sisters. The memories of our girlhood, pretending to be the pirates Anne Bonny and Mary Read, or the tragic princess Caroline, still filled me with longing. But the Fitzroys’ finances had flourished where ours had declined, and I took no pleasure in the prospect of marriage. A season with Diana promised only embarrassing shortfalls and uncomfortable encounters.
I wanted to say all these things, and that I had seen far worse than a wounded bird in my life, for had I not seen my own mother die in childbirth? But such was not the speech of a dutiful daughter, and I quailed at the thought of disrupting our affectionate relationship. I was still struggling for words when he kissed me on my forehead and shooed me back inside, as if I was still a little girl.
I anticipated some return to the subject of laundry when my father came home, and I took care to soothe my reddened hands well before his return. But his disapproval never arrived. The Theophilus Daniels who returned was gaily whistling and positively beamed at the sight of me, despite the fact that I was helping Mrs. Simmons set the table for dinner.
“You will never guess where I have been,” he declared, sitting on a stair riser and wrestling off his muddy boots.
“You were at Uncle Stuart’s, sampling his port,” I said, laughing, as I bent to help him. So close had we been with the Fitzroys’ in my childhood, that I
had taken to calling Mr. Fitzroy “Uncle,” and Diana referred to my father as the same.
“Indeed I was,” my father said, smiling like a little boy. “But I was not the only one! He had another visitor.” He held out his fingers, as if ticking off a list. “A business acquaintance, staying in the village. Older than you, but quite worldly and prosperous. Looking for an estate to let, where he can bring friends for the weekend.” His smile broadened. “Such conversation! Such carriage, such refinement! I tell you, Caroline, I have not met such a true gentleman since we were in town last season. Did I mention his business? He runs a most successful trading company. The stories he had, some of the places he’s been! I could have listened to him all evening.”
“And what, pray tell, is this magical man’s name?” I asked, helping him up from the stairs.
“Pardon?” He blinked at me, as if brought up short by the question, and then burst out laughing. “Oh my, I didn’t even say, did I? His name, my dear, is Sir Edward Masterson.”
CHAPTER II
The Arrivals
OVER THE NEXT few weeks my father went to the village or the Fitzroys’ almost every day, and each time returned with some new information regarding Sir Edward. Now we learned he had a younger brother with his own shipping company; now we learned that not only was Sir Edward keen to take up residence on our coast, he was intent on letting Harkworth Hall, a sprawling estate that had been empty for years.
Situated at the farthest end of the bay, the Hall had an uneasy history, having been built a century ago by the Harkworth family, who had subsequently fled to France under threat of death. What crime they had committed, no one knew: the most popular stories ranged from smuggling to sedition. In my own lifetime, a kindly gentleman named Archer had leased the Hall and installed his wife and young children there. For a few years, it had been the center of summer life for every well-to-do family in the county. Many of my early memories were of playing games on its grounds, and sharing in the Archers’ lavish picnics...until I had wandered into a tunnel that ran from the kitchen to a folly in the gardens, a spot so enclosed in greenery, I had believed myself utterly lost. My fright put an end to our summertime visiting. That fall, my mother and infant brother both died, and the following spring our section of the bay collapsed from the heavy rains, turning our gently sloping coastline into a useless cliff-face and destroying our pier in the process. My father withdrew for a time, and when he could finally bear to renew his acquaintanceships, the Archers had quit Harkworth Hall, declaring it too remote for their liking. Since then, it had stood empty, its surrounding copses mere smudges on the horizon, one of many memories my father and I never discussed.
Until now, it seemed. Suddenly Harkworth Hall was a topic again, as my father mused on its condition, its land, and what it might become in the right hands. I was both startled by his newfound interest in the property and curious to meet the man who had kindled that interest. But I could not bring myself to rush off to the village, to join in the gawking and parade myself before this Sir Edward—or worse still, to visit the Fitzroys and find a rival in Diana, when I longed instead for the intimacy of our youth. To find myself battling her for the attention of a stranger, competing in fashion and flirtation—no amount of curiosity could make me embrace that prospect.
Thus, I gently refused all my father’s invitations and congratulated myself on my restraint. But my father can be wily when he chooses, and he was determined that if Mohammed wouldn’t go to the mountain, he would bring the mountain to Mohammed.
One afternoon, I heard a vehicle in our drive, though my father had walked to the village. The Simmonses came to me in quiet alarm: a plain black carriage was coming towards our house, who could it be? It was with wild thoughts of surgeons and injuries that we rushed to the front door, myself still in my apron from dusting the library.
When the carriage came into our drive, it halted abruptly. I did not recognize the driver, a surly-looking man who barely touched his hat. To my relief, the first person to emerge was my father, his face ruddy with ale and his expression beaming. I could not remember the last time I had seen him so happy. He came to me and took my hands in his.
“Caroline,” he said solemnly, “we have a guest.”
I looked over his shoulder. Disembarking from the carriage was a slight young man, his suit plain but well-tailored, his handsome profile framed by thick, dark hair bound in its ribbon. A youthful, kind face—surely he could not have achieved so much at such a young age?
And then a third man emerged from the carriage and at once my blood ran cold. My father cleared his throat and I quickly looked away, trying desperately to maintain a calm appearance.
“May I present,” my father said formally, “Sir Edward Masterson and his secretary, Mr. Jonathan Chase.”
I found myself dropping into an awkward curtsey, simply to gain another moment to rally myself. When I pulled myself upright I found myself face-to-face with Sir Edward.
He was everything my father had claimed for him: a most handsome man, unusually tall and broad, and more handsome for his age. His suit was expensive, his wig fashionable, his sword just ornate enough, his cravat plain but of a glaring whiteness. His face was marked by the slight hauteur of the truly wealthy and his eyes were as appraising as his smile polite. In short, he was a gentleman.
Yet, from the moment I saw him disembark I felt an instinctive revulsion, and my whole body trembled with foreboding. His slightest movement only increased my fear; I was as terrified as if he had been a rabid dog. When he took my hand, it took every ounce of self-control I possessed to keep from snatching it away, or screaming, or both.
“Miss Daniels,” he said in a deep voice. “Your father praised you as exemplary, yet now I find he fell far short of the mark.”
“Sir Edward,” I murmured in response. He bowed and kissed my hand and it was as if his lips were ice, so nerveless did that appendage become. When he stood again his eyes ran over me, pausing at my dusty apron. “Welcome to our home,” I managed to add, though the word welcome seemed freighted with an unspoken meaning, as if I were admitting something more than a mere guest.
“Miss Daniels,” Mr. Chase said, coming up the steps behind Sir Edward. “We apologize for the imposition, only the inn’s comforts were few and the promise of your father’s company too delightful to refuse.”
I turned to him with relief, only to find myself discombobulated again: here, too, there was something odd, though he did not provoke the fear that his employer did. He bowed deeply, then took my hand and kissed it, his lips just brushing my knuckles. As he straightened, he reached inside his coat and tugged at his clothes, just under his arm. The gesture seemed odd yet familiar, but I could not think on why as my father was speaking.
“Sir Edward has agreed to stay with us while the Harkworth Hall lease is finalized.” He put an arm around my waist, and I found myself pressing close to him. “Won’t it be marvelous to see the Hall opened once more? We are overdue, I think, to make new memories there.”
It struck me then. The gesture of Mr. Chase was precisely that of a woman tugging on her stays. But why would a young man wear such a garment?
“And so you shall again, my friend, for I hope to be settled within the month,” Sir Edward said. He turned to his secretary. “We are still on schedule, yes?”
Mr. Chase nodded. “I am meeting with the lawyer in the morning, and if all are amenable then we will proceed with haste.” As he spoke, his gaze met mine and I fancied I saw something sly in his eyes, as if we shared a secret. Could it be? It was ludicrous to even think it—what a scandal if she were discovered! Traveling with an unmarried man, walking about in nothing but breeches. In town, I had seen actresses go about dressed as men—but what honorable gentleman would have an actress for a companion? It was far more likely that he had some illness or malformation that required the garment.
“Marvelous,” my father said. “So, you can stay for dinner?” He gave my waist a little squeeze. “I s
ent word to Fitzroy as we left the village, my dear, to join us. Won’t it be splendid? It’s been far too long since we entertained.”
Behind me Mrs. Simmons gave a little squeak of fright, and I swallowed my own instinctive cry. Six for dinner, with no notice? And what if there was something improper about Mr. Chase?
“That’s very kind of you,” Sir Edward said, looking at Mr. Chase. “But I believe we have other matters that must be seen to besides the lease—”
“Certainly, I cannot stay late,” Mr. Chase put in. His voice was soft, almost lilting, yet no one seemed to notice. “But a good dinner would allow me an early start in the morning.”
I had always prided myself on a robust constitution. I could walk all the way to the village, I rode well, I had insisted on being taught to shoot to help provide game. I could dress meat and muck out the stalls as well as Mr. Simmons himself. Yet now I felt decidedly faint. We were to entertain this strange, possibly scandalous, pair, with Diana and her father as witnesses, and all on a few pigeons and a bowlful of vegetables—
“Then it’s decided,” my father declared. “Simmons, help the coachman please. Let us all go into the drawing room for some refreshment.”
I made myself smile, smile as if my life depended on it, and stepped aside to let my father and Sir Edward precede me into the house. As he followed, Mr. Chase seemed about to address me, but I quickly curtseyed again and he passed without speaking. His movements were so lithe, so easy—oh, if the impossible were true and he truly was a woman? She would be my girlhood games come to life, the very incarnation of the etching of Mary Read I had pored over in my youth: trousered, hair down, striding boldly through the world.
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