by Karen Ranney
“While I admire knowledge of any sort, Bernie, I simply must claim willful ignorance. I have no desire to learn.”
Bernie sent her a look of such chastisement that Mary Kate resignedly accepted the gun. But the sound of the musket as she fired had her hastily dropping it. Bernie sighed as she retrieved it from the ground.
“Tell me, Mary Kate, have you dreamed lately?”
“Not since that night at dinner.”
“And that was, what, a week ago?”
Mary Kate nodded.
Bernie shot a round, necessitating that they wait a moment until their ears stopped ringing and the choking smoke cleared. “It’s as if she’s growing weaker, then.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you ever given any thought to the notion that Alice is very much alive, Mary Kate?” Bernie frowned down the sight of the musket. “Could it be that you have the ability to hear her thoughts?”
“As much as it would please me to learn why Alice St. John seems intent upon residing in my mind, I find that I do not care why anymore. I simply want her gone.”
Bernie only blinked at her.
“It is not an experience I would willingly have had. She is forever there, Bernie. There is much about my own life I would change, not the least of which is Alice St. John’s presence.”
“Have you ever given any thought as to why you are the only one who seems to have these dreams?”
“No,” she said. It seemed to close the subject, yet Bernie could not help but wonder if it was the complete truth.
“Here, hold this,” Bernie said, thrusting the musket at her.
Mary Kate made the mistake of gripping it by the barrel, nearly scorching her hand. Bernie jerked it out of her hand and laid it on the ground instead, shaking her head. Then she bent and drew up her skirts past her ankle. There, strapped upon a rather delicate-looking limb, was a length of satin. And within the satin sheath was a very wicked-looking knife.
“You look like a child beholding a rather large sweetmeat, my dear. Your eyes are as round as saucers.”
“That is a knife.”
“So it is,” she said absently, as if just now noticing it. Bernie was tossing the knife from one hand to another. Evidently Mary Kate could not keep her mind on the conversation, seemingly so entranced with the quickness of Bernie’s fingers. In a flash the knife was gone, embedded in a tree fifteen feet away, right in the center of a knot.
Bernie walked to the tree, extracted the knife, then proceeded to duplicate the perfect throw. “What is it about your life you would change, my dear?”
“Why do I think your curiosity as pointed as Archer’s?”
“Perhaps there is some link between the two of you, something not readily apparent. Why, for example, would Alice have chosen you?”
“Why a half-Irish servant girl, with no pretensions to nobility, few graces, and even less talent, is that what you mean?”
“Oh, pish, Mary Kate. Do you think you aren’t good enough because you once milked cows? Or took away chamber pots? Have I led you to believe that? As to your class, you pull such distinction around yourself; Mary Kate, in an effort to separate yourself from others. You remind me too much of myself. All scratchy with thorns, yet beneath, too vulnerable.”
“I’ve had to protect myself for too many years, Bernie.”
“And is that what you would change, then?” she asked, having been earlier told the tale of Mary Kate’s early years. “Perhaps your brothers did you a favor by leaving you on the side of the road. A rough type of affection, Mary Kate, but a gesture done with your well-being in mind. Do not forget that.”
“All the more reason to keep searching for them, Bernie. Even though there is no trail to follow.”
“And your uncle dead for ten years. A pity, that. I remember hearing of the sinking of that mighty ship. We St. Johns are not far from the ocean, my dear. It’s been our means of fortune, after all. Mary Kate?”
The look on the other woman’s face was one of spreading joy. A smile so blinding it could have mimicked the sun was turned on Bernie.
“Uncle Michael could not have been on the Royal George, Bernie. Daniel told me that he’d been to see the boys seven years ago! Why did I not reason it out?”
“Still, Mary Kate, this has been a tumultuous decade, and the occupation of sailoring carries its own risks. Do not hold out much hope for him, even if we find he was, indeed, not aboard the Royal George.”
“We, Bernie?”
“Of course, my dear. Would you refuse to use the power of the St. John name? It would not be labeled pride, Mary Kate, should you spurn what connections you have. Call it pure stupidity and nothing less.”
“In that case, Bernie,” Mary Kate said, “I have no choice, do I?”
“No choice at all, my dear,” Bernie responded with a smile.
“We shall, of course, begin in London,” Bernie informed her at breakfast.
“Why London?”
Bernie waved her knife in the air. “Because the Admiralty is there, my dear. And before you wrinkle that nose at me, let me reassure you that information concealed from you will almost certainly be revealed to the Dowager Countess of Sanderhurst.”
“And Archer? Is he to know, then?”
“Archer concurs with my wish to visit the City, Mary Kate,” she said, standing and brushing her skirt of crumbs. It never failed, no matter how diligent she was, there were always specks of what she’d been eating upon her garments. “He does not say so, but I think he means me to acquire suitable fashionable attire.” There was a small, victorious smile. “Of course, I shall not illuminate him any further than that. Nor is he aware that you are accompanying me on my journey.”
“And you do not think it wiser to inform him?”
“Mary Kate, do you honestly believe Archer would willingly allow you away from his sight, especially if the purpose for which you are going to London is to find your family? He is lamentably possessive, my child, and the presence of an uncle or a few doting brothers is not the sort of thing he would welcome with open arms.”
Especially since he has grown so absurdly besotted over the past few weeks. Oh, Bernie had seen the signs, all right, the softening of his gaze, his laughter, the ease with which he comported himself, the inclusion of Mary Kate into his private world, a place heretofore kept sacrosanct and inviolate. No, Archer would not welcome Mary Kate’s family. Mary Kate’s only response was a slow, burning blush.
In little more than a day they were in London, where speed, blessedly, had to be sacrificed for caution. The speed with which they’d traveled had reminded Mary Kate too much of the accident that had begun her association with Archer St. John. None of her pleas, however, slowed them one whit.
Soon they were caught up in the throng of traffic known as London’s streets. Carriages, men on horseback, pony carts and horse-drawn wagons, barrows and rickety pushcarts laden with fresh fish, clams, mussels, cheeses, all vied for passage along the same thoroughfare.
If speech were given flavor, it would be a rich and varied stew, a hundred nationalities, dialects, patterns, all melding in the savory broth. Add to that other sounds, the calls of the barrow girls, the sounds of children singing their lessons, the pealing of sext bells. A jangling of noise that seemed to vibrate inside Mary Kate’s head and echo against her skull.
Strangely enough, she had not missed it, even though she had enjoyed living in London. Sanderhurst had proven to be as alluring in its way. There was no one in London to whom she might turn; she’d often suspected that Edwin had not been universally liked. There had been no one, other than Charles Townsende, to call him friend, no neighbor he’d wished to cultivate, not one person for whom he’d expressed a fondness. Even his funeral had been scantily attended.
The long coach ride had been made palatable by Bernie’s presence, by the stories the older woman told of her travels, of the characters she had met in the years away from England. During the last hour, however, they had
each grown quiet, as if the savoring of London required silence.
And in a way, Mary Kate saw a side of the city she’d never seen before, sitting propped against the plush squabs of Archer St. John’s carriage. As they approached his London town house, she recognized, again, the great gulf that divided them.
Help him….
Do shut up, Alice.
Bernie’s eyes were wide, her look one of startlement.
“I am sorry, did I say that out loud?”
“Well, yes, dear, you did. Is she speaking to you?” Bernie looked not so censorious as fascinated.
“She has not ceased since we left Sanderhurst. She does not wish me far away.”
“That in itself could be interesting, my dear. I wonder why.”
“I’m sure I do not know, Bernie, any more than I know why she has chosen me to torment.” Especially since it was not Archer, but some unknown lover, whom Alice wanted Mary Kate to rescue.
“Have you received any more visions?”
“Not a one, but a constant pain in the back of my head. Almost as if one would be imminent if I allowed it.”
“Then, my dear, you must certainly do so.” Bernie almost rubbed her hands together in glee.
“It isn’t that I don’t want to help, please understand that. It’s just that I hate losing myself in her. I can barely tolerate it.”
“And the longer it’s gone on, the less easy it is.”
“How did you know?”
“As odd as this might sound, my dear, you’ve just described my marriage.” A chuckle was the response to Mary Kate’s expression. “Archer’s father was a very domineering sort, who insisted that everyone be exactly what he wanted. I had to dress his way, and speak his way, and only occupy myself in those pursuits which he dictated suitable for his countess. I suppose, in a very strange way, your relationship with Alice is like a union, of sorts, in which there is more power on her side than on yours. Anyone would balk at that, I think, given the circumstances.”
“I wish she would find someone else, Bernie. Her presence is rather loathsome.”
“But you say at Sanderhurst she does not bother you as much?”
Mary Kate could feel herself flushing, a sure sign that her cheeks were pink. She shook her head, deciding that silence was the most prudent response. Bernie’s answer was another chuckle.
The palatial town homes faced each other proudly, as if nodding appreciatively at their counterparts’ broad fan-lights and cobblestone approaches. Heavy velvet adorned tall, wrought-iron-trimmed windows, as if to shield their occupants. Bright brass knockers adorned each of the black painted doors, but there was no number to identify each residence, no nameplate to announce its owner. It was as if each inhabitant dwelled here in utter secrecy, the possession of money or nobility deserving of some measure of anonymity on these quiet and secluded streets. It was a daunting place to trespass, was Grosvenor Square.
Archer St. John was singularly irritated.
Women kept disappearing from his life with increasing regularity. First his missing wife. Then his mother, and finally Mary Kate, whose position in his life was so tenuous and amorphous that he could not yet decide what to label it.
For a man called hermit, he had spent an inordinate amount of time traveling from one point to another. Even more daunting was the fact that he sought females while doing so. Was he the only man so oppressed by the women in his life?
He was known for his tenacity. It was both his greatest gift and his most formidable weakness. He never gave up easily, often going beyond the bounds of rational behavior to achieve some feat he’d assigned himself. As a child, it had been to learn chess. He’d read everything he could on the subject, practiced with any one of the servants or villagers who knew the game. Only when he could beat every one of his opponents did Archer feel as though he’d accomplished his goal.
He’d also not been content to leave well enough alone with the St. John coffers. The spice trade had brought in millions over the years, a steady, secure source of ever-increasing funds. Archer had expanded the spice line with turpentine and camphor oil.
Yet Mary Kate with her incredible story, her stubborn insistence, her habit of disappearing with regularity, was his match in pertinacity.
Archer rolled the silk shade up for a view of London. Tall spires and angled rooftops vied with a jangle of color here and there. Soot and smoke puffing from innumerable chimneys offered up punctuation marks against the gray winter sky.
She was gallivanting all over England with his mother, for what purpose he did not yet know. Was it to track down his missing wife? Did they honestly think he had not tried to find Alice?
The question was, what would he feel if his wife magically appeared one day? Vindicated? Surely that. Saddened, possibly, by the chasm that stretched between them; memories of desertion would be difficult to breach. And the other? An antediluvian sense of honor dictated that he be faithful, especially if he and Alice were to craft anything from the ruins of their marriage.
Mary Kate. He would have to say farewell to Mary Kate.
“I am more sorry than I can possibly say, my dear. To have raised your hopes so high, only for them to be dashed so cruelly.” Bernie placed her hand under Mary Kate’s elbow, and together they left the Admiralty building.
They had been greeted by Sir Anthony Pettigrew himself, the great man having learned of Bernie’s presence from the same clerk who had refused to grant Mary Kate any information the previous visit.
Anthony Pettigrew wasted no time in formalities, simply planted a rather boisterous kiss on Bernie’s open mouth. “Damme, Bernie, it’s good to see you. Never thought you’d get back to England. Thought I’d have to run into you in India again.”
“Well, as you can see, I am here, hale and hearty.”
“And looking as sprightly as ever. The English climate does the very best for you, Bernie. It truly does. Are you here to stay, then?” He lifted her hand and brushed his lips against her gloved knuckles. Bernie only smiled and withdrew her hand as quickly as she could.
“No, just for a few more months. I had a yen for home.”
An inquiry for tea was met with the same bemused response, and it was not until an hour later that Bernie felt herself free of the web of Anthony Pettigrew’s solicitousness. The head of the Admiralty had been charming, handsome in an elder statesman kind of way, and possessed of the oddest habit of winking at her from time to time, as if they shared a particularly humorous joke at the expense of the rest of the world.
“The fact of the matter is, my dear, I cannot recall one single thing about him. Not where I met him. Not his face. Nor anything about him. Isn’t that the oddest thing? From the moment I saw him, I experienced this blank fog. I do hate when that happens.”
“Well, you are bound to remember him,” Mary Kate said, “at a time when it will not matter.”
“Truly, it does not matter now, does it? After all, he has done everything anyone could do. At least we know your uncle was not aboard the Royal George. The problem is, we do not know his current berthing.”
“Or even if he is still alive.”
“Oh, my dear girl, I do realize I told you not to hold out much hope, but sometimes you simply must not listen to me. I am sure your uncle will be found. Quite, quite certain of it. But if we cannot solve one mystery, there is still Alice to consider.”
“I do wish, Bernie, that I had never heard that name.”
“Then you would have never met Archer. Is that what you truly wish?”
Mary Kate merely closed her eyes, as if this was not the first time the question had been posed.
“Perhaps we should consider cutting our visit to London short, my dear, and returning to the scene of the accident. Perhaps you will have some sort of vision there, something with which to fine-tune our investigation.”
“I remained at the inn a full week, Bernie, and have told you all my dreams. Besides, I refuse to travel with you, unless you tell the coachman
to slow his speed. I would like to arrive at our destination alive.”
“Nonsense, child. Simply close your eyes, hang on to the strap above the window, and think pleasant thoughts.”
“Closing my eyes makes me nauseated, and the only thought I have is that while I may have been lucky during the first occurrence, it is doubtful I shall be so blessed after the second accident.”
“You must begin to show more adventure, my child.”
“And you, Bernie, more moderation.”
“That sentiment is too like something Archer would say. I think the two of you are well matched.”
I think the two of you are well matched. Could it be that simple? How absurd. And how oddly right. Had Alice simply paired the most unlikely of people, from the most improbable of circumstance? And what did that mean? That Alice St. John could not possibly be alive. Living wives do not find companions for their husbands. Their search, therefore, must change direction, and concentrate instead upon Alice’s fate, not her willful disappearance.
“What is on your mind now, Bernie?” Mary Kate interrupted the flurry of thoughts racing through Bernie’s mind. “You have the most unholy look of satisfaction upon your face.”
“I think it time we contact the spirit world, Mary Kate,” she said. “Perhaps we’ve gone about this all wrong. Why not ask Alice where she is?”
Chapter 29
“Oh, thou Phytic oracle, that which sees all, which knows the heart and cleanses the soul of man, aid us in our quest.” Bernie’s voice was low, the turbaned head tilted back, her eyes closed. The backs of her hands rested upon the table, palms curved up.
The candle flickering in the center of the table seemed to be curiously disposed to follow the tone of Bernie’s voice, until Mary Kate noted it was placed so close that any breath from the other woman impacted its flame.
Mary Kate sat opposite Bernie, who sat to the right of Harrellson, the very proper London butler whose face glowed from the effects of St. John port. To Mary Kate’s left was an underfootman who claimed to have had spiritual visitations prior to this evening.
