Whispering Twilight

by Melissa McShane

  “Does your head ache terribly? Mrs. Hainsworth would not begrudge you the use of a quiet salon,” a soft voice said. Bess opened her eyes and regarded Mercy Caines, who had taken a seat next to her without Bess hearing her approach. It was something of a joke among their friends that had Mercy had a Bounder’s talent, she might have made an excellent spy, she was so gifted at moving silently and being overlooked in a crowd.

  “It is nothing to signify yet, but I hope it will not worsen,” Bess said. “I did not realize you were in attendance.”

  “We have both been beset with partners, and Mama and Papa are unfortunately leaving now.” Mercy edged her chair closer to Bess, bringing herself better into focus. “I will call on you tomorrow, if you are agreeable.”

  “I believed you occupied with the seminary. Should you not be there now?”

  “I hope that is not a sidelong way of wishing me out of your hair,” Mercy teased.

  “When you become tedious, I will tell you,” Bess replied with a straight face.

  “I believed you knew I had left the seminary,” Mercy continued. “I returned home in August to help Mama when she was ill, and when she was well again, I found myself reluctant to return. It is not as if there is a shortage of French instructors, and I believe Lady Carteret wished to fill my position with someone who both speaks French and has talent.”

  “I suppose that is the sensible, economical approach.” Bess stretched her legs discreetly. “Please do visit tomorrow.”

  “I will. Good night, Bess.” Mercy pressed her hand briefly in farewell and was gone. Bess followed her progress until she became indistinct and then closed her eyes once more. Mercy’s visit would be something to look forward to.

  With her eyes closed, sounds became clearer, more sharp-edged. She idly picked out threads of conversations, not interested in eavesdropping for its own sake, but out of habit. Nearby, she heard a young woman say, “I declare I have not sat down once all evening!” Miss Lavinia Meldrum. A flirt, but a harmless one.

  “Nor I,” said her companion. That was the eldest Miss Joyner. Mama referred to her as the plain one among the five Joyner sisters, but Bess thought her sweet, if a bit simple. “There are so many handsome beaux here tonight!”

  “Indeed. Though Mr. Clary is much missed. I wish this war were over, and all the men returned.” Miss Lavinia yawned widely enough for Bess to hear it.

  “It is a shame about those who will not be returning. Poor Miss Hanley.”

  Bess flushed at the sound of her name. She ought to draw attention to herself, to prevent their conversation from becoming embarrassing. She opened her eyes and discovered there were several people standing nearby, none of them close enough for her to identify Miss Lavinia and Miss Joyner.

  “Though I heard—” Miss Joyner’s voice dropped to a loud whisper, one which Bess had no trouble hearing—“Miss Hanley and Mr. Newton were not actually betrothed.”

  Miss Lavinia gasped theatrically. “But—they corresponded, did they not? Surely Miss Hanley would not be so lost to propriety, even with her time in India?”

  “I say it is monstrous wrong of her to act the part of a bereaved widow if she was not betrothed. But then I would not expect less of someone so proud. She has always behaved as if her Extraordinary status set her above the rest of us.”

  That was too much. Bess had heard enough to mark the two women by their voices. She stood and took a few steps forward. “I beg your pardon,” she said, her voice shaking, “for my intrusion into your conversation, but your speech was such that I could not help overhearing.”

  Miss Lavinia and Miss Joyner turned to face her, guilt evident in their startled movements. “Miss Hanley,” Miss Lavinia said. “We did not—that is, I beg your pardon—”

  “If you are quite finished dissecting my character, I would like to pass,” Bess went on. She longed to correct their misapprehensions, but anger filled her to the brim, and she did not wish to insult her hostess by fighting with a guest. She pushed past the two without waiting for them to respond further, stumbled, and barely caught herself. Her cheeks burning with double humiliation, she walked on, not knowing where she was going or whom she nearly collided with.

  She found herself at a doorway and passed through it without knowing or caring where it led. Monstrous wrong…not really betrothed…set her above the rest of us…their words burned in her heart. She had thought those women, if not close friends, at least friendly, but now she wondered if she actually knew them at all.

  The hall was dim, but that made no difference to Bess save for a lessening of the pounding behind her eyes. Ahead, a bright spark of light burned, and she aimed for it, craving direction of some kind. The hall smelled of candle wax and faintly of smoke, and squares on the wall, dark against the light paint, suggested art or family portraits. She trailed her fingertips along the wall beneath the frames, disliking the dampness of the surface, but feeling uncertain enough of her surroundings to need its steadying influence. Her feet made almost no noise on the uncarpeted floor; the whisper of her skirts was louder than her footsteps.

  The speck of light grew, became a lamp hanging low over another door. Bess put her hand to the latch and pushed the door open before realizing the chill of the latch meant this door opened to the outside. She was so warm from the overheated room and her exertions, she welcomed the frigid air, though she would no doubt become too cold in a matter of minutes.

  No lights illuminated the porch, whose columns looked like white trees in the moonlight. Beyond the columns lay the featureless expanse of the garden, beautiful in the summer but dead and depressing now. She smelled the cold dampness that suggested rain was imminent, a freezing fall of water that would make the ride home unpleasant for her family and miserable for the driver. She took a few steps forward and rested her hand on one of the columns, running her fingers along its fluted ridges.

  “Miss Hanley? What are you doing out here?”

  Bess started as a dark figure detached itself from a nearby column and approached her. “Mr. Thorpe,” she said. “I did not see you there.”

  “It is far too cold. Pray, permit me to escort you back to the ball.” Mr. Thorpe stopped near enough for her to make out his round features, his grey hair, but did not offer to touch her. He was one of her father’s closest friends and someone she had known all her life, and was one of the few outside her own family who knew what aid would truly help her.

  “No, I did not intend to disturb you. I will simply stand here for a few minutes—the air inside is so close and warm—and then I will return.”

  “It is no trouble. I came outside for that reason myself.” Mr. Thorpe turned to face the unseen garden. “I hope you are enjoying yourself, and are not too troubled by well-meaning folk.”

  Bess remembered the overheard conversation, and her anger surged again. “Not very troubled.”

  “As I am troubling you now. I beg your pardon, I did not mean to touch on a sore subject.” He chuckled. “You have the misfortune to be a new subject of conversation. In time, some other focus for gossip will take your place.”

  “I hope that is the case. I despise being pitied.”

  “I assure you I will never pity you. I respect you too much for that.” Mr. Thorpe cleared his throat. “In fact, I had intended to speak with you tomorrow on a matter that might resolve your problem in some small measure.”

  “My problem?”

  “The problem of being pitied for something out of your control.”

  Bess blinked in surprise. “You intrigue me, sir.”

  “Then, if you do not mind accompanying me inside, I will lay my proposition before you tonight.” He offered Bess his arm, and she took it unhesitatingly.

  Mr. Thorpe pushed open the door, and Bess realized she had become chilled, after all, because the formerly oppressive warmth now comforted her. “You know I have mercantile interests all over the world,” he said.

  “I do.” She did not add that she also knew he had been shunned
by some members of polite society because his wealth smelled of the shop. It annoyed her that people could be so prejudiced.

  “I have a ship in the Orient preparing to embark on the Pacific sea route, intending to call in at Panama. The cargo is timber—far too large for a Bounder to convey. The journey south around Cape Horn is extremely hazardous, and I intend to make the experiment of landing my cargo on the west side of the isthmus and transporting it overland to be loaded on another ship. I have many Movers among my crew, and I believe the venture will be profitable.”

  “It sounds complicated, but I know little of trade.”

  “What I lack,” Mr. Thorpe continued, “is someone who can communicate with me and with the second ship, to coordinate our movements.”

  It was so unexpected it took Bess a moment to understand his meaning. “You…you mean you require a Speaker.”

  “An Extraordinary Speaker,” Mr. Thorpe said.

  “But…you wish me to join your venture? Why me?”

  “My dear,” Mr. Thorpe said, “I have seen you a handful of times since your return. You appear to be chafing under the limitations of your position at home. I do not mean to criticize your parents; it is simply natural that, having experienced the freedom of the War Office, you might feel yourself stifled now. And, as I suggested, you are a novelty and as such the subject of much talk, not all of it kind. I think it would do you good to get away for a spell.”

  The idea captivated Bess. To leave home again, to take ship for a time—for months, even—to once again see new sights…the thought was compelling. True, she might achieve the same if she were to go to London, but Mr. Thorpe’s words had cast an unexpected spell on her. “From the Orient to Panama, and then to return?” she asked.

  “Or you might take ship on the second vessel, if you wished a longer voyage.”

  “Then…you would Bound me to the ship? Because I cannot imagine it will wait for me to make the ocean voyage from England.”

  “Yes. The ship Mary Peirce waits at Penang, and a Speaker will summon the ship’s Bounder to convey you whenever you like—if you accept.”

  Bess stopped. “But if you have a Speaker—”

  “The Speaker is stationed at Penang, not associated with the Mary Peirce. And I find I prefer the assurance of receiving direct reports rather than having them filtered through several people. As I am a Mover, I must depend on others for that. Hence my desire for an Extraordinary Speaker.” He laid his free hand atop Bess’s where it rested on his sleeve. “What do you say, Miss Hanley? Are you interested in another adventure?”

  Bess thought about the endless round of visits and reading and sewing that awaited her at home, thought too of Miss Lavinia and Miss Joyner’s careless words. “Mr. Thorpe,” she said with conviction, “I believe I am.”

  Chapter 3

  In which catastrophe strikes

  Three months later, Bess stood at the starboard rail of the Mary Peirce and clung to it against the movement of the ship, relishing how it felt like a dance in which one’s partner was permitted to toss one about like a kitten. The image brought to mind the night all this had been set in motion. How distant her frustration and anger felt now—though not distant enough that she felt like a fool for taking ship. Even her grief over John had faded, though there were still moments when she wished she might share her experiences with him. How he would have laughed at her encounter with the Borneo natives!

  She braced herself against another toss of the waves and shivered. For the first time during their voyage, it felt like winter. She knew from Captain Vallance’s conversation over the dinner table all those months that the seasons were reversed south of the equator, but it was difficult to conceive of a January or February where the sun beat down upon one with the force of a summer day. The weather until this day had been clement, with even the storms they had encountered proving relatively warm and the rain mild.

  This particular afternoon, however, the sky was nothing but shades of grey, and the temperature had dropped enough that Bess was grateful for her wool spencer as the wind whipped about her. Far below, the waves churned like boiling grey soup. Between that and the tint of her spectacles, she felt herself caught in a brine-scented twilight world, chilly and dim. She had never felt more grateful that she did not suffer from sea-sickness as Mercy did. Mercy had never been to sea before, and her sea-sickness had been an unwelcome surprise, but fortunately the voyage had been calm enough that until this day it had rarely been a problem.

  I will relay Lady Carteret’s message to Mercy, Mrs. Grantham, she Spoke. Though just between the two of us, I do not know that Mercy wishes to return to the seminary.

  Whyever not? She was well-treated, and well-liked by her pupils, Mrs. Grantham replied.

  Oh…she simply has developed other interests. But, again, that is a supposition, and not something you should spread around.

  Of course not. Mrs. Grantham’s indignation came through the connection clearly. It is for Miss Caines to decide, naturally. Now I must ask you to excuse me, as I am needed downstairs.

  Bess opened her eyes as the connection ended. Mrs. Grantham, etiquette instructor at Bess’s old school, was intelligent and logical, but lacked the emotional spontaneity that would have given her a better understanding of Mercy’s disinterest in continuing as a teacher. But it was true that Bess did not know if Mercy was interested in taking her old position at the Carteret Seminary, and Bess intended to relay Lady Carteret’s offer and leave it to Mercy to decide.

  The storm was growing severe enough that perhaps she should go below, but she enjoyed the ship’s movement so long as she was standing still. Crossing the deck while it bucked and heaved beneath her was less pleasant. She listened to the snatches of the sailors’ speech as the wind carried them to her ear, though the howling gusts made them unintelligible. They did not sound afraid, though, and that reassured her.

  “Miss Hanley!”

  That was Mr. Rawleigh, the ship’s first mate. Bess turned to see Mr. Rawleigh crossing the deck toward her, balancing easily despite the movement. “Miss Hanley, you should go below,” he said when he was near enough not to need to shout. “The storm is coming up quickly, and it will be quite the downpour. May I assist you?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Rawleigh, yes,” Bess said, accepting his arm with no hesitation. From the start of their voyage, Mr. Rawleigh had proved alert to what Bess’s actual needs were and had never treated her like an invalid. He reminded her much of her father in this way, and the two of them had struck up a friendship despite the differences in their age and social standing.

  They crossed the deck, Bess staggering only a little, to the companionway, and Bess descended it like a ladder as she always did. Pride was all very well, but falling down the steps was far too likely, and she cherished her safety more than she did her pride. Besides, Mr. Rawleigh would never think less of her for being sensible.

  The wooden walls rose up around her, dark and comforting and warmer than on the weather deck. Lanterns glowing with an orange-tinged light banished the darkness very little, but Bess knew the lower deck very well after three months’ residence, the smell of damp wood and the bitter scent of tar, the rough surfaces of the bulkheads under her fingers. She easily made her way toward her cabin. “Will the storm last long, Mr. Rawleigh?” she asked.

  Mr. Rawleigh’s reply came after an unexpected hesitation. “It may,” he said. “But you have nothing to fear. We sighted land before the storm came up.”

  Bess turned to face him. “Then there is danger.”

  “I have said there is not.”

  “It is what you do not say that tells me otherwise. Something is wrong.”

  Mr. Rawleigh was silent. “Come, Mr. Rawleigh,” Bess said. “I would prefer to know the truth. Otherwise I might go mad with fearing the worst.”

  Mr. Rawleigh sighed. “We have been blown far off course already, into the westerlies—a different system of winds,” he explained when Bess gazed at him in incomprehension.
“Much farther south than we intended. And this storm shows no sign of blowing itself out any time soon.”

  “But then…is the ship in danger?”

  “Unlikely. But if it comes to that, Mr. Ames will take you and Miss Caines to safety.”

  Arthur Ames was Mary Peirce’s Bounder. “Then I hope it does not come to that,” Bess said. “Thank you for your honesty.”

  Grimacing, Mr. Rawleigh said, “I suppose I should have told you this sooner, as you ought to Speak to Mr. Thorpe and to those waiting for us at Panama City. But Captain Vallance hoped we might correct our course.”

  “I understand. Please excuse me, and I will Speak to Mr. Thorpe immediately.”

  She pushed aside the canvas “door” to her makeshift cabin and stepped inside. The light dimmed even more, as there was but one lantern within, and it burned low. Bess trimmed the wick and crossed the room to stand by Mercy, who lay still in sleep. Her bed, similar in shape to a large canvas cradle, rocked with the motion of the ship. How fortunate that Mercy could sleep through the storm. Bess had insisted on laudanum when it became clear Mercy’s sea-sickness was growing worse.

  Bess tried to sit on the edge of her own cradle, but found herself forced to balance against the ship’s movement so precariously she could not focus on Speaking. So she lay back in the bed and composed herself, removing her spectacles and closing her eyes. Sounds became amplified: the creaking of her bed, the distant howl of the wind, the first sounds of heavy rain striking the hull.

  Bess drew in a slow breath through her nostrils. She was accustomed to the smells of the ship, but every so often they drew attention to themselves, the scent of wet oak, the stink of lamp oil, the smell of boiling salt pork. At this hour, the latter should have been predominant, but it seemed everyone was too preoccupied with the storm for food.

  She drew in another breath and let it out in a long stream from between her lips. She did not need quiet or calm to Speak to her reticulum of other Speakers, but when addressing a non-Speaker, she found it easier if her mind was relaxed.