by Mackenzi Lee
Cheselden beams. “The same. He was here last month.”
“Giving lectures?” I ask.
“No, it’s a rather unfortunate situation. He had his license suspended several years ago and . . . well, it’s all a very sticky business.” He laughs, too high, his eyes darting away from mine before he finishes, “But he was here seeking hands for an expedition he’s undertaking.”
“He left on an expedition?” I ask, and it comes out pinched by disappointment.
“Not yet—he’s gone to the Continent, to be married. He sets off for the Barbary States on the first of the month to complete some research. You should write to him and say I recommended you—he’s less likely be put off by your sex than the men here in London. He’s taken on work with women before.”
Of course he has! I want to shout. He’s Dr. Alexander Platt, and I have excellent taste in idols! “Do you know where I might write him?”
“He’s staying with his intended and her family in Stuttgart—the uncle’s surname is Hoffman, and the bride is . . . give me a moment, it will come to me . . . Josephine? No, that’s not it. Joan?” He runs a hand over his chin. “Something beginning with a J and an O.”
My joy turns bloated and sick. When the name of one’s only childhood friend is brought up unexpectedly, years’ worth of memories you vowed to rid yourself of entirely bob to the surface. Particularly when that friendship ended as poorly as ours did.
“Johanna?” I squeak, hoping he’ll say otherwise.
But he snaps his fingers. “Yes, exactly that. Johanna Hoffman. Very clever of you.”
Of course. Of course another felled tree blocks my path. Of course the woman marrying Dr. Platt is the last person who’d want to welcome me into her home.
Oblivious to my strife, Cheselden goes on, “You might write to Dr. Platt via Miss Hoffman. I know he’s intending to set out as soon as the wedding is finished, so you may be too late, but you’ve no loss dropping a line.”
“When’s the wedding?” I ask.
“Three weeks from Sunday. Perhaps a bit optimistic for a letter to arrive by then.”
It is almost impossible that, in such a short time, my letter could find its way to Dr. Platt and he would find time amid marriage and planning an expedition to read it and he would be so taken with my written plea alone that he would offer me a position and I would then have enough time to travel to wherever he was leaving from and make his acquaintance. An even slimmer chance that any letter bearing my name would not immediately be ripped to shreds by Johanna Hoffman, a girl with whom I have a checkered history as expansive as the list of names upon the walls of the Great Hall.
But . . . if it wasn’t a letter that showed up on his doorstep, but rather me in the passionate, intelligent flesh, then I might have more of a chance.
Dr. Cheselden fishes in his coat pocket for a calling card and hands it to me. “Do tell Alex I advised you to write him.”
“I will, sir. Thank you.”
“And Miss Montague—the very best of luck to you.” He touches two fingers to his forehead, then turns down the street, his coat collar turned up against the wind.
I wait until he’s out of sight before I spin to face Monty and grab his arm, though he’s so bundled I mostly get a handful of sweater. “Look at that! I told you it all went according to my plan.”
Monty is looking far less enthusiastic than I’d anticipated—I had even been willing to let him hug me had he offered, but instead he’s rubbing the back of his neck with a frown. “That was . . . something.”
“Try not to sound too excited.”
“He was bloody patronizing to you.”
“Much less than anyone else was. And he gave me a card!” I wave the creamy stock engraved with Cheselden’s name and office address at him. “And told me to write to Dr. Platt—the Dr. Alexander Platt. You know, I was telling you about him yesterday at breakfast.”
“The one who lost his license to practice surgery?” he says.
“Because he’s a radical,” I reply. “He doesn’t think like the other doctors. I’m certain that’s why.” Monty scuffs his toe against the pavement, eyes downcast. I press the card between my hands like I’m praying over it. “I’m going to go to Stuttgart. I have to meet him.”
“What was that?” Monty’s head snaps up. “What happened to writing?”
“A letter will not get his attention in the way I need to,” I reply. “I’m going to show up and introduce myself, and he’ll be taken with me and offer me the position.”
“You think you’re just going to show up on his doorstep and he’s going to hire you?”
“No, I’m going to go to the wedding and dazzle him with my exceptional promise and work ethic, and then he will hire me. And,” I add, though I know this trail is more treacherous, “I know Johanna Hoffman—you remember her, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” he replies, “but I didn’t think you two parted on good terms.”
“So we had a small falling-out,” I say with a flippant wave to undercut the grandness of this understatement. “Doesn’t mean it won’t seem perfectly innocent for me to show up at her wedding. We’re friends! I’m celebrating with her!”
“And how will you pay your way there?” he asks. “Travel is expensive. London is expensive—is Dr. Platt going to pay you for this work? Because as much as Percy and I adore you, sharing our bed is not a long-term living arrangement I am thrilled about. If he had a job for you that was studying medicine or working toward some kind of degree or license, that would be one thing, but it sounds like you’d be taken advantage of.”
“Well, maybe I’m going to let him take advantage of me. Not like . . .” I blow out a sharp breath, and it comes out wispy and white against the cold air. “You know what I mean.”
“Come on, Feli.” Monty reaches out for my hand, but I pull away. “You’re too smart for that.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?” I cry, and it comes out ferocious. “I can’t give up on medicine, and I can’t go back to Edinburgh, and I can’t marry Callum—I just can’t!” The only reason I’m not crying is that I’m so aggravated by the fact that I’m almost crying again. I haven’t cried in ages—even those first gray, lonely weeks in Edinburgh I had been stiff-lipped and stout-hearted—but in the space of a single hour, I’ve been on the verge of it three times. “I’m not going to spend the rest of my life hiding the things I love behind the covers of books that are considered appropriate for my sex. I want this too much to not try every last damn thing possible to make it happen. Fine, now you may hug me.”
He does. It is not my favorite. But if he can’t understand the hurt, I can at least let him apply a familiar balm. I stand in his arms, my cheek pressed against the scratchy wool of his coat, and let myself be held.
“Everyone wants things,” Monty says. “Everyone’s got a hunger like that. It passes. Or it gets easier to live with. It stops eating you up inside.”
I scrunch my nose and sniff. Maybe everyone has hunger like this—impossible, insatiable, but all-consuming in spite of it all. Maybe the desert dreams of spilling rivers, valleys of a view. Maybe that hunger will one day pass.
But if it does, I will be left shelled and halved and hollowed out, and who can live like that?
5
By the next evening, Monty and I have descended from civilized point-and-counterpoint to full-on bickering on the subject of my going to Stuttgart.
It is our only topic of conversation as the three of us walk to the pub in Shadwell called the Minced Nancy, which from the name alone brands itself a place where mollies like my brother and his beau can be together openly. We’re supping with Scipio and his sailors, whom Monty and Percy have been conspiring for a reunion with since their crew docked several weeks previous. The pavement is narrow, and we walk with me squashed between Monty and Percy, all of us tripping over one another in an attempt to huddle against the cold and also avoid being mowed down by carts. The air reeks of burning pitch fr
om the riverside, so strong I’ll be swallowing the smell all night. Soot falls in great clumps, as London sets everything that burns aflame to keep warm. Lacking coinage to spare for a lamplighter, our only illumination comes from the spitting spray off the knife grinders’ wheels and the blacksmiths stamping out their embers for the day as we pass their shops. By the time we find the address, I’m so tired of being cold and wet and hearing my brother’s infuriatingly sensible arguments about why I should not go to Stuttgart on a whim that I’m ready to turn around and return to the flat as soon as we arrive.
I expect the club will be crowded, loud, and reeking of booze, but it feels more like a coffeehouse, dark and warm, with oyster shells littering the floor so that the boards sparkle and crack under our boots. A thin veneer of smoke hangs in the air, but it’s a sweet tobacco, and welcome relief from the sludgy evening outside. The noise is mostly conversation at a level volume, combined with the soft clatter of cutlery on plates. There’s a man with a theorbo sitting on the bar, his feet up as he tunes the strings.
“You chose this place?” I ask Monty as I look around. “Your taste has gotten far more civil since I last saw you. No one’s got their top off.”
“Please don’t compliment me on my morals; it makes me feel very obsolete.” He’s put on his best coat for the occasion—a coat he apparently could not spare for accompanying me to the hospital—and his face is washed. It’s an approximation of looking presentable, though he still looks less like a gentleman and more like the raw ore mined to create one. “It’s just that I can’t hear a bloody thing if it’s noisier than this.”
“There’s Scipio.” Percy waves, and I follow his gaze to the familiar crowd in one corner. Monty fumbles for Percy’s hand, and I follow them across the room.
Privateering suits the crew of the Eleftheria. They are all better dressed and less gaunt than the last time I saw them. Most of them still sport sailor’s beards, but their cheeks don’t valley beneath them anymore. The ranks have shifted—I know Scipio, Ebrahim, and King George, now a whole foot taller (but just as enamored with Percy, as proved by his sprint across the room and tackle-hug). But with them are two other dark-skinned men I don’t recognize, one with a curled mustache and golden earring, the other with three fingers missing on his left hand. There’s a third, much smaller and smooth-faced person, in a shapeless tunic and a headscarf, so hunched over a mug that I can’t immediately tell if it’s a man or a woman.
Scipio claps Monty and Percy warmly on their backs and gives Monty’s newly shorn hair an affectionate ruffle before he takes my hand in both of his and kisses it. “Felicity Montague, what are you doing here? Did you come all the way from Scotland just to see us?” Before I have a chance to answer, he asks, “And have you grown taller, or am I shorter than when we last met?”
“She’s not; it’s those damned boots of hers.” Monty slings himself into the booth beside Ebrahim. “They’ve got the thickest soles I’ve ever seen.”
“He’s sore I’m taller than him,” I say.
Scipio laughs through his nose. “He lost several inches in cutting that hair.”
“Don’t.” Monty claps a hand to his heart in reverence. “I’m still in mourning.”
“You’ve got a new crew.” Percy reaches down to shake hands with the two men I don’t recognize, then slides into the booth beside Monty, unfolding his long legs under the table while I take the chair across from them.
“We needed more hands sooner than expected,” Scipio says. “This is Zaire and Tumelo, picked up from the tobacco trade in Portugal. And that”—he points down to the slouching youth at the end of the table—“is Sim, from Algiers, who adopted a legitimate life to join us.”
Sim looks up from her beer. Her face is heart-shaped and small, made even more pointed by the frame of her headscarf. Her features seem almost too large for such a small canvas. The two men stand to shake hands around, but she doesn’t move.
“How have you found sailing as merchants under the British crown?” Percy asks as we all settle into the booth.
Scipio laughs. “I am of a far calmer temperament than I was when we sailed without patronage. We’re still questioned more than most British crews when we’re on European soil, but at least we have letters now.”
“Where have you been traveling?” I ask.
“Still in the Mediterranean, mostly,” he replies. “Portugal and Algiers and Tunis and Alexandria. It’s all dead cargo—your uncle’s kept us away from the Royal African Company,” he says to Percy. “We saw him in Liverpool last month and he seemed very well.”
Percy smiles. Percy’s aunt and uncle, though ready to see him committed to an asylum, were far from tyrants. His uncle had been gracious in using his position to aid the crew of the Eleftheria as thanks for the role they’d played in our safety while abroad. In contrast, Monty and I had each written one letter to our father, letting him know only that we were not deceased but also not coming home, and received nothing in return. While my father had been hostile to Monty and indifferent to me, he was the sort of man who would have cut off his own hand if it meant avoiding scandal. And two children mysteriously disappearing on the same trip to the Continent would have all the bees buzzing back in Cheshire.
“Oh, tell Felicity the story about the goats in Tunis,” Monty demands, though I’m spared by the distraction of Georgie returning with the beer.
“Have you been corresponding?” I ask Scipio. I know Percy organized this reunion but not that there has been much more communication between them.
“On occasion,” Scipio replies.
“Here, Miss Montague, you and Sim may have something in common,” Ebrahim interrupts, and calls down the table. “Sim, what do you think of London?”
She raises her head. Her face doesn’t change, but I can feel the rehearsed nature of this bit, like she has been called upon to do it more than once and is growing tired. “I hate it.”
“Why do you hate it?” he goads.
“Too many white men,” she replies. Ebrahim laughs. Sim doesn’t. Across the table, she meets my eyes, and some invisible string seems to tighten between us. Her head cants to the side as she inspects me. It makes me feel like a specimen pinned open on a corkboard for students to study.
I’m given an excuse to look away when Scipio says to me, “How have you taken to the north? Percy said you’d been in Scotland.”
“She’s already tired of Scotland,” Monty answers. To compensate for his deafness, he’s taken to either staring with off-putting intensity at whoever he’s speaking to or turning away so his good ear is toward them. I know it’s necessary for his hearing, but the latter makes it look as though he isn’t paying attention, magnifying the already dismissive air he’s prone to giving off. I shouldn’t be annoyed by it, but I’m an easily stoked fire tonight. Monty pokes me in the ribs with his elbow. “Maybe Scipio will take you to the Continent.”
When I don’t smile, Scipio looks between us. “Are you traveling again?”
“No. Monty is being cruel,” I say.
“I’m not being cruel!” he protests. “It was an honest suggestion! You’ve got no other means to travel.”
I glare at him. “And you know Stuttgart is entirely landlocked, don’t you?”
“I do now,” he says into his beer.
Across from me, Sim’s head snaps up. She has both fists resting on the table, knuckles notched into each other and her thumbs pressed into a steeple.
“What business is taking you to Stuttgart?” Ebrahim asks.
I let out a heavier sigh than I mean to, and my spectacles fog. “My friend Johanna Hoffman is getting married.”
It seems the simplest explanation, but leave it to Monty to show off the dirty underside of everything. “She wants to go to Stuttgart because her friend is marrying a famous doctor Felicity’s obsessed with and wants to work for.”
“I am not obsessed with Alexander Platt,” I snap.
“She’s been turned down by every surgeon
and hospital in Edinburgh, and she doesn’t have any money or way to travel, but she’s still ready to go gallivanting off because Dr. Cheese Den told her that this Platt fellow is theoretically possibly maybe hiring a secretary.” Monty looks to Scipio. “Tell her it’s a terrible idea.”
I want to kick Monty under the table, but there are so many legs tangled up I’m afraid I’d misjudge and dig an unwarranted toe into an innocent stander by. “It is not a terrible idea,” I snap before Scipio can answer him. “And it’s Cheselden. Not cheese den.”
“Do you have any opposition to oysters and eggs for supper?” Scipio calls down the table, interrupting Monty and me before we can properly show our claws. “Georgie, come help me carry plates.”
As soon as they’ve gone and Ebrahim has turned down to converse with the other two men, I give my brother a hard stare. I would have tossed that mug of warm beer in his face if I hadn’t suspected I’d soon need it, as I am no great lover of oysters.
In return, he adopts a wide-eyed innocence. “What’s that look for?”
I lean in, my tone clipped as a fingernail. “First, you don’t have to be a smug prick about the fact that I don’t have money or means to travel or that I was barred from the hospital, because in spite of what you and Callum and everyone else seem to want, I am not going to give up and settle down. Second, you are not in control of my actions simply because you are the closest man to me. What I do is not up to you, nor to anyone, particularly someone so ignorant of the difficulties of my current position. And third, Monty, that’s my leg.”
