“Prepare to meet your maker, rebel scoundrels!” taunted Stevenson, reaching for the spring pistol that lay by his side. Aiming it at Sam’s troops, he growled, “Hold your fire, men. Hold! Hold! Now!” He pulled the trigger and a pellet shot forth, taking one of Sam’s men full in the face. “Smile at that, you slave-whipping scoundrel. Smile if you can, without your head!”
Sam snarled his defiance and again sounded the rebel charge. “Ye gods! Still they come,” sighed Stevenson. “‘Tis a pity such brave men must die. But,” he cackled as he reached into his robe pocket, “it is time for the heavy artillery.” He extracted a half-dozen sleeve-links and shook them maniacally.
“Steady, men, steady. We’re gaining ground.”
“Fire!” yelled Stevenson, his voice cracking with excitement. Fighting back the urge to cough, he launched one of the sleeve-links at Sam’s troops, knocking two over outright and tumbling the thing viciously into two more. “Load again. You there! Ninny! Sponge out before you recharge. You’ll blow us all to smithereens.” He looked anxiously at Sam. “Where are these damn recruits coming from? Bedlam?”
“Bedlam’s in London,” laughed his stepson, back in his boy’s voice. “This isn’t England’s Civil War, Lulu. It’s America’s!”
“Well, yes. Perhaps. But they’re all the same, these civil wars.” Stevenson’s eyes widened with playful frenzy. “It’s madness. Utter madness. Brother against brother. Father killing son.”
“Son killing father,” laughed Sam as he thrust a metal marauder over the Bloody Angle and gored one of Stevenson’s men with his bayonet.
“Son killing father?” The new voice was high and heavily accented. The warriors looked up to see the baker’s daughter, Valentine Roch, standing above them with a tray in her hands. She loomed over the battlefield like a colossus in a black dress, white apron, and cap. “Is this what you English do to—how do you say?—to occupy your time on a quiet après-midi?”
“Bien sûr,” answered Sam. “Oops. Is that right?” He peered at Stevenson, who nodded. “Of course, we’re not English. Either of us. You know?”
“Of course,” answered the woman with a tiny smile. “I forget. And what battle is this, please?”
“Gettysburg,” Sam answered proudly. “From the American Civil War. It’s the fateful third day!”
“Oh my,” said Valentine. “Fateful! Excuse me that I have spoiled your fateful small war. But do you wish some coffee?”
Sam looked at his stepfather, who nodded. “Yes, please. Thank you, Valentine.”
The maid crossed to the table, careful not to stumble over the low Pennsylvania hills, and set the tray down with a graceful stoop. She was nearing thirty, but she retained a girlish figure—somewhat in contrast to Fanny, it had occurred to Stevenson, who was far shorter and inclined to plumpness. Stevenson’s doctor had recently outraged his spouse, in fact, by telling her she was substantially overweight and should be eating half of what her husband consumed. Only a few inches shorter than Stevenson, Valentine was slim but not slight. There was something mildly feline about her face—intense green eyes and strongly arched brows that swept down into a strong length of nose, and a small mouth that was slightly pinched unless she laughed. She had not married, it seemed, but not for want of physical appeal. At the same time, there was a collected aloofness about her that left Fanny feeling relatively comfortable about sharing her house and household with an attractive young woman—as inimical to deferential service as aloofness may have been.
“I should pour?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder at Stevenson.
“If you would, please.”
“And will you…mmmm…sit? Raise yourself from the floor?”
“No, you may serve us here,” smiled Stevenson. “Al fresco. We don’t want to disturb the battlefield. Or let the cannons cool.”
Valentine returned the friendly expression as she leaned over to hand a cup to Sam, then to his adversary. “Your ceinture? Your belt?” she asked, pointing to the center of the carpet.
“Oh, that,” laughed Stevenson. “That is the Emmitsburg Road.”
“Comment?”
“It’s a road,” Sam interjected. “A road on the battlefield.” The woman nodded as he took a sip from the steaming cup. “Yum. But very hot! Be careful, Lulu.”
Valentine adjusted her apron and stood back from them. “Now, please. Can you tell me who wins?”
“The battle or the war?” asked the boy.
“Either. Both.”
Sam turned to his stepfather in mild disbelief.
“The Union won,” explained Stevenson, looking obligingly at their questioner. “The Northern states. The rebels—the Southerners—were defeated at Gettysburg. And went on to lose the war.”
“So this revolution fails!” concluded Valentine, clasping her hands neatly in front of her apron.
“Yes,” answered Sam.
“Quel dommage! Such a pity! Here in France, we embrace revolution.” She turned to the writer. “Sometimes.”
“Some revolutions are indeed a good thing,” observed Stevenson, sipping at his cup. The coffee was very strong, very much to his taste.
“Our revolution against the English was a good one,” said Sam, looking up smartly at the maid. “You French helped us with that one, you know. Lafayette and all.”
“I am content,” replied Valentine. “It is good to help others. There is honor in helping.”
“Indeed,” said Stevenson. “And we are grateful for your help here, Valentine. And for your coffee.” He raised his cup in a small salute.
“De rien.” She dipped a shallow curtsy and looked back and forth between them with a bemused smile, struck perhaps by the oddity of employers who spoke to her from the floor. She began to leave, but then turned suddenly back. “Do you have French battles? Fight French battles? Or will you perhaps some day?”
“I don’t know.” Sam looked quizzically at his stepfather. “Will we, Lou?”
“If you’d like. But I should think it would have to be Wellington at Waterloo. Don’t you agree?”
“I guess so,” answered Sam. “And,” he added, with a grin at the woman, “I’m afraid that wouldn’t work out very well for you, Valentine.”
“Waterloo?” she asked.
“Yes,” answered Sam. “Lord Wellington defeated Boney, you know. Bonaparte. Completely.”
“I know this,” replied the maid. “I think, though, there are other battles of France you can do. Marengo? Austerlitz?” She studied them both again. “Balaclava? We French, we triumph in all.”
“Goodness!” said Sam. “That’s…that’s…” He turned to Stevenson. “Valentine knows a lot!”
“Of course she does. Which is why your mother hired her.” Stevenson eyed the maid kindly. It was hard to tell if the compliments brought out a slight blush, so composed was the young woman.
“Do your battles always end just as they happen?” she inquired a moment later.
“What do you mean?” asked Sam.
“I think she means,” offered Stevenson, “do we always go by the book—the history book? Or do we ever change history? The outcomes?”
Sam laughed. “How silly. Change history! History is history.” Valentine eyed him intently. “We change some things, if we wish, no? Imagine things different? Differently?”
“You sound just like Lou,” laughed the boy. “He’s a writer. He makes things up.”
Valentine nodded, adjusting her apron once again as she looked coolly at Stevenson.
“But that’s just writing,” Sam continued. “Stories and things. History is actual fact. What people really do.” He picked up an officer, poked his sword lightly into his own finger, and set him back down. “History really happened. Why would we want to do a battle that didn’t really happen that way?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied the maid, raising her eyebrows in what struck Stevenson as classically Gallic fashion. “Because it would be pleasant?”
For a m
oment, Sam simply stared at her. Then he looked at his stepfather. “Well, that’s not the way we play, is it?”
“No,” answered Stevenson. “At least not how we have been playing up to this point.”
“How haven’t you been playing?” queried a second woman, as she burst unannounced into the room.
Fanny Vandegrift Osbourne Stevenson pulled a scarlet scarf off her tangled locks and settled it snugly around her shoulders, looking attentively about. A strong and earnest brow, coupled with the slight natural downturn to her mouth, lent her an air of perpetual concern, even melancholy, but her dark eyes sparkled with wit and curiosity. She stood there waiting for an answer, very much the deeply tanned Gypsy Inquisitor.
“Inventing your own ending to battles, Mama,” answered Sam. “Valentine was saying we might change history.”
“Was she?” responded Fanny, with a smile of polite interest. “How quaint of her. Will she be joining your wars, then? Another Joan of Arc?”
“No war for me, madame,” replied the maid, with a breezy laugh. “It is not for women, these things.”
“Really?” Fanny turned to face the younger woman. “Then I believe I may have wasted all those hours I spent practicing with my pistols.”
“Surely no,” declared Stevenson as he struggled to his feet and gathered his robe about him. “You shall be our security, love. When next we cross the Russian steppes. Or…goodness, I am stiff. Sam, would you mind if I take back the Emmitsburg Pike? I must secure my nakedness.”
“Louis!” Fanny glanced in exaggerated alarm at both Valentine and the boy. “Sometimes your company is an embarrassment.”
“Then there is life in me yet,” laughed Stevenson. “All dire medical predictions to the contrary.”
Fanny slapped him playfully on the arm and walked over to Sam, her richly patterned skirt swinging jauntily behind her. She patted him on the head, then trailed her hand down to the nape of his neck. The boy squirmed, seeking Stevenson’s gaze.
“Does madame wish coffee?” asked Valentine.
“Not just now, thank you. Perhaps later. I will let you know.” “Très bien, madame.” The maid left them, descending once again to the kitchen.
“So,” said Fanny, planting her hands on her hips. “You’ve both been enjoying yourselves?”
“We certainly have,” replied her husband. “Killing thousands. This has been the single most lethal day in the history of warfare,” he explained—adding, as Fanny shook her head with amusement, “to date.”
“To date,” agreed Sam. “The slaughter will likely get worse.” He grinned at his stepfather with affected savagery.
“Honestly,” sighed Fanny, as she walked back across the room to her wonted chair. “Of all the things you could be playing at.” She settled on the edge of the seat, knees tightly together with her small hands folded on top.
“Well,” said Stevenson, rising to the game. “I suppose we could be playing Noah’s Ark.”
“With thousands of animals dying,” added Sam. “And plenty of people, too. Evil ones.”
“Or we could be playing Henry the Eighth.”
“With dead wives lying all over the place.” Sam dissolved into giggles.
“Enough,” cried Fanny, slapping her knees imperiously. Still, she beamed at the sight of her two men, so obviously happy in each other’s company. “So, Louis, have you written today?” she asked at length.
“Not yet,” shrugged Stevenson. He sniffed and reached for a box of cigarettes.
“Louis!”
“Damn it, Fanny!” He looked abashedly at the boy.
“You’ve been so much better, love,” urged his wife. “Every cigarette you don’t smoke is a hundred coughs un-coughed.”
“And a hundred words unwritten,” sighed the writer. “More likely a thousand. Tobacco is fuel, Pig. Tobacco and wine.”
“Sammy,” Fanny said softly, turning to her son. “Perhaps you could give Louis and myself a few moments of privacy. Then maybe we’ll take a stroll down to town. To get our blood flowing.”
“But Mama. It’s no secret that Lulu—”
“Samuel Osbourne!” Fanny said sternly. Then more gently, “Please.”
“Oh, all right.” The boy reached towards his toy soldiers, starting to pick them up.
“You can do that later. We’ll pick up together.” “That was hardly necessary,” declared Stevenson, once the boy had left the room.
“No? It’s bad enough he should see you ill. I don’t want him to see you claiming your talents depend on…depend on anything but your fine parts.”
“My fine parts!” scoffed Stevenson. He kicked at the soldiers lying closest to him. “Honestly, this damned shapeless behemoth you have enslaved me to is sucking the life right out of me.” He grabbed his pajama legs and held them out to either side, kicking his slipper-clad feet in comical fashion. “I am a mere husk here, Fanny. The lees of the grape. A scraped-out potato skin.”
Fanny took a deep breath before responding. “Look at all you’ve written so far, Louis. How many pages? How many chapters?”
“How many utterly lifeless scenes, you mean? How many stilted, stupid, brainless characters? Prince Otto?” He threw his hands in the air and sputtered. “I don’t know. He’s one part Hamlet, only less decisive; and…and one part some foppish baboon from a Gilbert farce.”
“You’re far too hard on yourself.” Fanny reached mindlessly for the cigarette box, caught herself, and sat back with a guilty smirk. “You are! For example, finally—finally—you have some strong women in the making. Wonderful women.” She adjusted her scarf and smiled encouragement.
“Unlike Treasure Island.”
“It was good of you to oblige Sammy with Treasure Island,” she said soothingly. “It meant so much to him. And so to me, too. But,” she went on, folding her arms more assertively, “everyone, I’m sure, has been waiting for someone like Seraphina. Your ‘woman of affairs’?” She eyed him for some kind of response.
Stevenson snorted. It had been fortunate that Sam had banned any significant female characters from his pirate story. He was certain he had no talent for them.
“A princess who’s beautiful, like in any romantic fable. But she has, what did you say? ‘Manlike ambitions,’ too!” Fanny’s eyes sparkled. “She’s brilliant, Louis. A Rosalind for today. I’m so eager to see what she gets up to.”
Stevenson squinted at his wife, then loosed an exhausted grin. “Don’t try to commend me, dearest. Not when I’m in the pits. It’s perverse of you.”
“But honestly!” Fanny persisted. “What a welcome novelty to come across a woman who’s got the gumption, when her man dithers off into dreamland, just to take charge! Damn it, she’s good.” She smacked a fist into the palm of her hand. “No feckless mooning for Seraphina. No Elizabeth Bennett pride and…” She shook her head and scanned the ceiling for a word. “Prissiness!”
Stevenson jerked up straight as a fencing foil. “What a deplorable mischaracterization that is, Frances!” How much better, he thought, to have been continuing on with Gettysburg! Easier, at least. “I refuse to stand by and let you to call Elizabeth Bennett a feckless mooner.”
“Well, that’s what she is. To me she is. Why, she wouldn’t last a minute in this day and age. Can you imagine her or any of those silly sisters of hers trying to survive in a town like Virginia City?”
There was an especially fine image, thought Stevenson. Something for a drawing in Punch decrying the rise of American power. “Maintaining their bourgeois virtue, I suppose you mean, in a town full of bars and bordellos?”
“Precisely.”
“As you yourself are alleged to have done?”
Fanny shot him a scathing glance. Spying his tired but affectionate grin, she went ahead and plucked a cigarette from the small ormolu box.
“Aha!” laughed Stevenson. “I see it was only a matter of time.”
“I am weak. I should be strong.” She lit the cigarette and inhaled robustly. Stevenso
n drew in his breath along with hers and held it in a moment of vicarious indulgence. When she exhaled, he watched wistfully as the thin jet of smoke diffused in the air between them.
“Was it weakness, dear,” he asked at last, “that led you to cross the Isthmus of Panama unaccompanied by a single white soul? On a mule? And heavily armed?”
Fanny’s eyes twinkled at the memory. “I was younger then.”
“Ah, yes. And remind me…had I, at that date, even been born?”
Fanny kicked a shoe at him, but it fell short of its mark. “I have not had an easy time of it, Mr. R. L. Stevenson. And you are not making it any easier right now.”
“Do I detect a smile behind that calculated petulance?” He craned his neck to inspect her more closely. The hint of a blush suffused her dark skin.
“If there is, then it’s very much against my will,” she replied. “Setting my own experience to the side, though, the challenges any woman faces today require strength and a bold character. So it behooves any serious artist to represent them that way.”
Stevenson studied her impassively. “I am inclined to think,” he said deliberately, setting his chin on his fist, “that the challenges women face have remained rather similar through the ages. As have their capacities and means for survival.”
His wife looked at him with surprise. “Look at you! You’ve gone and turned into a philosopher of the sexes! How thoughtless of you to have left me completely in the dark about such an important new development.”
Stevenson waved his hand and chuckled. “My dear Fanny…once women here have earned the vote—and perhaps when your own country elects a woman president—then the terrain will be substantially altered.” He eyed his wife playfully. “You are now in your second marriage, if I am not mistaken. Is your need for a husband any less than that of any of the Bennett girls? And has your skill with a pistol proven to be an avenue to financial independence?” Her eyes opened wide, wresting from her husband an unlooked-for surge of compassion. “Damn it, Fanny! You didn’t deserve that,” he said quickly, making as if to rise and go to her.
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