Daughters of Aether

by Nicholas Petrarch

  “Then you and I can go and we’ll carry Emmaline’s regrets personally,” Mary insisted. “It will make a better impression than only sending an apology.”

  Worthington thought it over for a moment, then nodded. He seemed satisfied with the decision. “Very well,” he said. “We’ll go. But as soon as Emmaline is well we should send her in person to apologize for her absence.”

  Emmaline groaned. The thought of seeing Edmond again was too much, particularly now that she knew what her parents intended for them. She noticed her father staring at her severely and her mother glaring and she swallowed hard. Had she groaned aloud? Her face grew pale, and she coughed to try and cover up her reaction.

  “Is there something wrong?” Worthington asked.

  Emmaline looked down toward the foot of the bed, unable to meet her father’s gaze. She wished sorely that her head could switch places with her feet under the blanket.

  “I’m sure she’s just ill,” Mary insisted.

  “I thought it was just a fainting spell,” Worthington said.

  “It is possible it was brought upon by another ailment,” Bertram said.

  Emmaline got the distinct impression that he was trying to shield her from the storm he sensed coming and she glanced thankfully toward him.

  Worthington’s gaze, however, remained stern and fixed. She could feel it probing her, turning up her defenses. Her focus clung to her feet. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. She wasn’t even sure how to look at him. He was as much a stranger as the people they passed on the street every day in their carriage rides. What was the correct expression to wear in a moment like this?

  Worthington frowned. He looked at his wife and she too averted her eyes.

  “You told her?” His voice sounded labored by the revelation.

  Emmaline’s mother squared her shoulders and stared back at him. “She was bound to find out eventually,” she said.

  “I thought we’d agreed to handle this privately.”

  “She’s a member of this family too,” Mary said. “She has a right to know.”

  “It’s not something she should be concerned with,” Worthington insisted. “Look at the effect it’s had on her already!”

  “It was only a matter of time,” Mary insisted. “Would you have her as unprepared as I was?”

  “This is neither the time nor the place,” Worthington said. “She’s too young. She won’t understand.”

  “Yes she does!” Mary said, her voice becoming strained. “She does, Terrin. You know she does! It’s not so hard to understand.”

  “It’s not her problem!” Worthington shouted, his voice rising with Mary’s.

  “It’s her future, Terrin,” Mary cried. “And you’ve held it in your hands all these years. We trusted you to come here—to do the right thing and prepare our home.” She shook as she spoke, rising to meet Worthington’s stature. “How could you do it? How could you disregard us after all these years?”

  Emmaline felt that her mother was speaking more on her own behalf than she was Emmaline’s, but she didn’t mind. It was taking her father’s focus off of her.

  “Enough!” Worthington snapped. “I won’t have you going into hysterics. Not here. Not again. If you’re able to collect yourself and carry on a semblance of a conversation, then perhaps we can continue this later. But not here.”

  “No,” Mary said. “We won’t keep ignoring this. Sooner or later we need to talk abo—”

  “I said enough!”

  Worthington’s voice echoed through the room and Emmaline clenched her blanket even tighter. She’d seen her father upset before but never had she seen him like that. His chest had bellowed so that his thick frame dwarfed the rest of them, heaving as he shook with exertion. His face was red and his eyes wide.

  The tension held for a moment, but then, as though someone had released a valve, it went out and all present were left feeling hollow.

  Her mother sat down on the edge of the bed, silently chastised, her chest heaving slightly as she fought against her sobbing. Emmaline felt the lightness in her chest and she wondered if she might faint again.

  “My Lord,” Bertram said, clearly aware of how unwelcome he was at the moment. He’d risen from his chair and interjected himself between Emmaline and her father. “I must insist, as Emmaline’s physician, that this argument end. She is in no state to carry on and I fear the effect it will have on her recovery.”

  “In a moment,” Worthington said. “Now that this unpleasantness has been opened there are a few things that must be said.”

  “With all due respect,” Bertram said, stepping forward to meet Worthington, “your family’s affairs are your own matter, but your daughters well-being is mine. I insist that you leave her be until tomorrow.”

  Worthington looked like he might object, but Bertram held his ground. Though he was considerably smaller than her father, he appeared somehow immovable. With difficulty Worthington bit his tongue. “Very well,” he said. Crossing the room he cast one final glance toward Emmaline and exited.

  “And that goes for you as well, Lady Worthington,” Bertram added.

  Mary cast Emmaline another look in earnest as though she were pleading with her. Emmaline couldn’t bear it and she turned away until her mother finally followed her father out.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Bertram said, making sure the door was closed behind them. “I know this may not be a simple request, but try not to think about all of that for now. Your first priority is to get well again. A good meal and a night’s rest should do you good. There will be time tomorrow to sort through this…”

  He couldn’t seem to find the right word.

  “I don’t want to,” Emmaline said, rolling over and covering her head with the blanket. “I never want to.”

  “Is that what has upset you?” he asked. “This boy, Edmond?”

  “Why do you care?” she asked from under the covers.

  “Because,” he explained, “just because it’s not a cut or illness doesn’t mean that it can’t leave a scar. I can’t tell you the number of men and women I’ve seen to who’ve suffered more at the hands of their circumstance than any disease.”

  “It’s not something anyone can fix,” Emmaline insisted.

  “I surely doubt that,” Bertram said. “I know plenty of people, not the least a few young women like yourself, who have changed the course of their lives where others said it was impossible. No life is so far gone that it can’t be mended, but only if the life worth mending understands its own worth. And it’s clear that you, Emmaline, are worth a great deal.”

  Emmaline kept silent. His words were comforting, but they hovered over her at a distance, unable to penetrate the fog of her distress. When it was clear she wouldn’t say anything further, Bertram nodded to himself.

  “Well, it seems I’ve overstayed my welcome.” He gathered his things and snapped them into his case. Bowing slightly, he made for the door, pausing before he went out. “I understand if you don’t want to speak, but I hope you’ll consider what I’ve told you.”

  With that, he left Emmaline to herself.

  Emmaline lay in her bed unsure of what to do. She was certain there would be no sleep for her that night. Not when she knew what was to come the following morning. How could she face her father again? He’d lied to them. He knew what he’d done and the consequences he’d face. Did he really expect them to endure it quietly?

  She rolled over in her bed, wrestling with her covers as she looked out as the last traces of light faded through the window.

  And what of her part? Did her parents really expect her to atone for their sins? She wasn’t sure she could do it. For her family she would have faced the world, but what about them? Was this really how family treated one another? In the space of a few short hours it felt as though everything that resembled family had been stripped from her. Somehow they’d been replaced by strangers.

  Strangers with dark secrets.

  Emmaline
sat up suddenly, a thought coming to her. Her father had kept secrets from them, that was true. But had he kept those secrets from himself?

  Throwing back the covers she leapt out of bed. Her feet clumped loudly on the floor and she cursed under her breath, immediately regretting her haste. Tip-toeing to her door, she cracked it slightly and peered into the hall.

  She could hear her parents’ voices coming from downstairs. They were showing Dr. Bertram out, muttering weak apologies mixed with weaker excuses. Quickly she slipped down the hall trying hard to absorb the impact of her steps.

  “She’ll be just fine,” she heard Bertram say. “But I do suggest you let her rest as long as she need tomorrow. Send Anne to check on her in the morning with a large breakfast. And I’d recommend avoiding any…”

  Emmaline skirted around the banister, clenching the skirt of her nightgown close to her body. Her bare feet pattered quietly across the floor until she was at her mother’s room again. With a prayer she turned the handle and whispered another in thanks as it clicked opened.

  Inside she located her father’s diary on the table where her mother had left it. Snatching it up, she traced her footsteps back to her room. When she was sure the door was pulled shut and that she would not be disturbed she sat down on her bed, crossing her legs as she rested the book in them.

  She turned it over a few times, taking in the worn cover and its plain detail. It felt like a relic in her hands. The leather was smooth from handling, and the edges bent from transportation. It had been written in it often, she realized. What sort of things, she wasn’t sure.

  Would he have written about his affair?

  Would she find herself mentioned?

  Whatever it contained, somewhere between the cover were the answers she was searching for. She swallowed hard and opened it up to the first page where her father’s bold handwriting began.

  It was time Emmaline got to know her father.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Lying Low

  “ANY SIGN OF HER?” MARGARETE ASKED, rising from the stairs by the stage as Faye appeared once again at the door.

  “None,” Faye shrugged, slipping in through the front. She struggled with the door. Its warped frame and uneven hinges made it difficult to close, but after a bit of exertion she managed to shut it behind her.

  Margarete sat back down, her heel tapping against the aged step. It wasn’t like Charlotte to be late; she wouldn’t have stood for it. Either something had come up back at the house that needed her attention or else something had happened to her.

  Margarete hoped the prior.

  While she fought to control the anxiety that pitted in her stomach, Faye clambered up on the stage and set about cleaning up. The theater had been picked at over the course of years. Much of the wood was splintered and hacked, likely used by vagrants for a bit of warmth before they passed on. Each had left a footprint behind in what they’d taken away from the place. What remained wasn’t much, but for now it was enough to serve Margarete’s purpose.

  They’d set up a little camp of sorts for her, draping blankets in a corner where she could sleep and clearing a spot where she could heat water or cook a simple meal. She’d only had time to gather a few things before she’d left and her few possessions were kept in the case beside her makeshift bed. The rest she’d relied on Faye or Margarete to bring.

  It was no dignified living arrangement by any stretch of the imagination. Margarete had often seen hovels set up in the Basin District and always felt pity for those such a situation, but to be homeless herself brought on a whole new sense of empathy. It was constraining. Gone were so many luxuries she’d overlooked, replaced by the basest needs of survival. Each day was a chore as she slept, ate, and hid, waiting for time to pass—for what end she was unsure.

  To feel so limited dampened her spirit, tainting her every thought with bleak expectation. It rivaled anything she’d endured before.

  There wasn’t much to do to pass the time, and so she’d settled on picking at the cracked fragments of paint that still remained in the derelict theater. She imagined how once this space might have been used and what type of shows would have been performed. Some high-brow drama in the days when the Basin District was still respectable? Or perhaps some raunchy comedy? The seats would have been filled with smiling faces as they enjoyed a carefree evening of entertainment.

  But no one was smiling now. At the moment, Margarete was quite certain that nothing could make her smile.

  “She should have been here by now,” she said as Faye relocated another batch of broken wood.

  “She’s a busy woman,” Faye said. “Maybe something has detained her.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about,” Margarete frowned.

  The anxiety was driving her mad. She felt detached from everything and it killed her not to know how the girls back at the house were doing. The thought that her ill fortune might still plague the girls made her feel selfish hiding away while they shielded her. It wasn’t right that the others were paying for her decisions.

  “Sorry I’m keeping you from heading back,” Margarete said, her head slumping onto her knees. “You’ve lost a whole day because of me.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Faye said. “I don’t mind. I haven’t been working much lately anyway. It’s been a chore keeping up with Hetty. I’ve worked with difficult girls before but…” She shook her head. “She’s a stubborn girl.”

  “We all came like that,” Margarete said.

  “Maybe,” Faye said, “but if she’s not careful, she’ll never settle in here. I keep hoping that she’ll connect with at least one of the girls, but it’s as though she’s against making friends. She’s too guarded to let anyone in.”

  Margarete smirked at that with grim humor. She might have been better off if she’d adopted such a philosophy when she’d come to the house. It might have saved her this mess with Worthington. But then as quickly as she thought it she realized she’d have missed the opportunity of befriending Charlotte. She wasn’t sure she’d have made it very far without her.

  It seemed both paths had their own set of thorns.

  “Are you doing alright though?” Margarete asked. “You’re not overwhelming yourself, are you?”

  “Oh, I’ll be fine,” Faye assured her. “I have a little savings put away that I can fall back on if I need to. And Charlotte is helping with Hetty as much as I am. I’m doing fine. It’s only for a moment, anyway. When this all blows over things will return to the way they should be.”

  Margarete frowned deeply. The way they should be… without her.

  “I forgot to ask,” Faye said. “Do you know where you’re going yet?”

  “I don’t know,” Margarete shrugged. “Nothing is certain anymore now that things have gone so poorly. Everything is up in the air. Charlotte is confident that with her connections she can find me a way onto a ship heading for Madura. She says it’s not so difficult to get started there.”

  “What will you do once you’re there?”

  “Find work I suppose,” Margarete said. “Perhaps I can governess for a family?”

  “That wouldn’t be so bad. You might need to get creative with your work history though,” Faye teased. “No one is going to let you near their children if they knew your background.”

  Margarete sense the effort to lighten the mood, but the effort wasn’t contagious. “I’ll come up with something,” she said. There was nothing amusing about having to leave everything behind—even her story.

  She’d be remade, stepping into a life that almost seemed fabricated out of whole cloth. It was a second chance. A fresh start. However, all Margarete could feel was the loss.

  “I’m not sure I’m ready to leave,” she said. “I’ve never realized until these past few weeks just how much I’ve relied on the house. On the girls. I don’t know how I’ll make it when I’m on my own without them.”

  “You’ll find a way,” Faye said, coming over and sitting down next to Margar
ete. “We all found our way here on our own. That proves we’re not so soft as some might think.” She hugged her softly, resting her head on her shoulder. “But we will miss you,” Faye added.

  Margarete smiled then as she thought of each of the girls back in the house. None of them had come without enduring some struggle or challenge. Many of their journeys made Margarete’s pale in comparison. Faye was right. They may have been an undervalued group, but they were strong.

  She’d find her way. They all would.

  They were sitting like that when the latch on the front door was heard opening. Reflexively Faye and Margarete jumped up, ready to flee at the first sign of trouble. After a moment of tension while the visitor struggled with the door, Charlotte appeared in the doorway.

  “Finally,” Faye said, letting out a sigh of relief. “We’ve been wondering where you’d been. What kept you?”

  Margarete felt relieved too, but something gave her reason to hesitate. Something seemed off.

  Charlotte had stopped in the doorway, her hands clinging to the doorframe.

  “Is something wrong?” Margarete asked.

  But Charlotte didn’t answer. Her body convulsed, and she fell forward to the ground.

  “Charlotte!”

  Both Margarete and Faye rushed off the stage and down the aisles to Charlotte’s side. Kneeling down beside her, Margarete tried to assess what was wrong. Charlotte was pale, and she shook fitfully with the effort to speak, but nothing was coming out clearly.

  “Let’s get her to the bed,” Margarete said, but as she leaned forward to lift her she froze. Her hand touched something wet where she held her, and as she withdrew it her eyes opened wide in horror.

  Her hand was drenched in blood.

  “Septigonee’s misfortune,” Faye whispered, noticing as well. “Who did this?”

  “A man,” Charlotte said weakly, her breaths coming sharply. “A man in a uniform. He was… looking for you. I’m sorry… I’m so sorry for coming here. I didn’t think I could make… it anywhere else.”

  “No,” Margarete assured her. “You did the right thing. You’ll be alright. We’ve got you.”