by David Starr
“Yes?” an older woman asks, appearing from inside the house. She is dark and short, with raven hair tucked underneath a cap.
“Hello,” I stammer. “I’m looking fer someone. A Scottish lass, Elizabeth Scott. Do ye ken her?”
She eyes me suspiciously. “There’s no one here by that name,” she says curtly.
I feel the wind knocked out of me at her words. “This is the Fry residence, is it not?” I say.
“What’s it to you?” she demands.
“’Tis everything to me,” I say. “I’ve been looking fer my sister fer years now, since she saved my life in Liverpool. Elizabeth — Libby Scott is her name. She’s supposed to be here. Mrs. Fry said so herself, back in London. I need to see her.”
The stony look on the woman’s face fades, for just a second, at the mention of Elizabeth Fry. Then it reforms. “I’m sorry, but I’ve never heard of anyone named Libby Scott.”
I stand in front of the door, head pounding. “Not here? Libby’s not here? Why would Elizabeth Fry have told such a cruel lie to me, Bill?”
“Hold on a minute, Trap,” says Bill from behind.
“Aye?” I reply, head reeling.
Bill steps up beside me. “Think about it. The Fry woman said your sister made quite a name for herself, is in hiding because of it, right?”
“Good day to you, sirs,” says the woman, suddenly looking alarmed. She tries to shut the door but Bill steps into the threshold, preventing it from closing.
“You must leave now or I’ll get the authorities!” she says.
Bill ignores her. “This woman don’t know us from Adam. Do you really think she’d admit to housing a fugitive to a couple of strangers?”
“Nae, I dinnae think she would.” Bill’s reasoning is making sense to me.
“That Fry woman told the truth about everything else, didn’t she?” Bill asks. “Right down to the nameplate on the door. Why would she lie about Libby? Besides, she’s nearly a saint she is, according to everyone in London. Lying ain’t something a person like that would do, seems to me.”
“I insist you leave at once!” The woman presses hard against the door, trying to dislodge Bill but he does not move.
“You’ve travelled across the world and back, Trap,” Bill says. “What harm is there in taking a few more steps?”
Bill is right. After so much, after so long I will not give up now. “I’m sorry about this, Ma’am,” I say, “but I cannae leave here without knowing fer sure.”
With that I lean hard into the door, pushing it open, pushing the woman aside. “Libby! Libby Scott! Are ye here?” I cry as Bill and I sweep into the front room of the house, but there is no response.
“Libby Scott!” Bill takes up the shout as well. “I’m with your brother Duncan! Can you hear me?”
Still nothing. We go deeper into the house, past the parlour. “Leave this house immediately! This is shocking! I must protest!” the woman says, following us closely behind.
I enter the kitchen but it is empty. “Libby!” I cry. “Please, fer guidness sake if yer here, answer!”
At first there is no reply, the terrible feeling that Elizabeth Fry has played a cruel trick threatens to overwhelm me. Then I hear the sound of a door creaking open.
“Who did ye say ye were looking fer?” comes a voice behind me. I spin on my heels to see a young woman emerge from out of a pantry. She has deep blue eyes and hair the colour of summer corn. I don’t reply, can’t speak at all. I just stand there, staring.
“Good gracious, Trap,” says Bill softly.
“I thought I told you to stay hidden,” says the older woman crossly. The girl ignores them both.
“Do I ken ye, stranger?” she asks, peering intently at me. Her eyes start to water, and her hands shake when she realizes that I am no stranger to her, no stranger at all.
“Duncan?” Her voice is scarcely above a whisper. “Can it really be you?”
“Aye, Libby,” I say as I take my sister into my arms, my journey of more than ten thousand miles finally complete. “It most certainly is.”
EPILOGUE
“I cannot tell you how sorry I am, Duncan,” says Elizabeth Fry. It is a warm, late-September day. Autumn asters and crocus bloom purple and red in the walled back garden of the Fry house in Bristol as Libby, Bill, Elizabeth Fry and I drink tea.
Mrs. Fry arrived just the other day, to the delight of us all. “I had to leave London and come to our Bristol house myself to make sure all was in order,” she explained. “I was so excited to see Duncan that I completely forgot to write him a letter of introduction. You were lucky to make your way past Mrs. Cavanaugh. She is very fond of Libby and quite protective.”
“You were at that, young man,” says Mrs. Cavanaugh, pouring fresh tea. Mrs. Cavanaugh, it turns out, is the Frys’ housekeeper, a formidable Irish woman who’d done her best to keep Bill and me out of the house when we first arrived.
“Never mind all that,” I say. “We’re together now and safe at last.”
“Together, perhaps, but not quite safe,” Mrs. Fry reminds us. “Libby cannot be safe as long as she is in England. After all, she put her life at risk, and some corrupt rich and powerful men were brought to justice because of her. These are men with long memories and even longer reaches.”
“Aye,” Libby says. “’Tis a shame. I quite like Bristol, but I ken I cannae stay here.”
“It is to that end I came,” says Mrs. Fry. “Apart from making sure you found each other, of course.” She reaches into a small leather satchel she has with her, and removes a leather pouch.
“This came for you just after Duncan left London,” she explains.
“What is it?” Libby seems confused that anything should have come for her, let alone a mysterious bag.
“Payment for what you did,” Mrs. Fry explains. “Your story sold a great many papers. I ensured that you would get a percentage of that for your great bravery in Newgate.”
Mrs. Fry hands Libby the pouch. My sister gasps when she looks inside, as do I when she shows the contents to the rest of us. “’Tis a fortune!” I exclaim, staring shocked at the pile of gold and silver coins.
“Not quite a fortune and certainly less than she deserves for what she did, but enough to allow a brother and sister I know to get out of England and start a brand new life wherever they may fancy.”
Libby holds the bag of coins tight to her chest. “So where shall we go, Duncan? Scotland? Malta? Ye said it was nice there.”
After my parents’ death, Scotland no longer holds any appeal, and while the port of Valetta was warm and friendly, I know that life holds more for us than a small city on a small island in the Mediterranean can provide.
“I think I ken a place.” My mind is suddenly back on the Sylph, looking at the tidy strips of farmland that ran up from the banks of the St. Lawrence. “Perhaps it’s time we finally sailed across the Atlantic together, Libby.”
The money Libby has earned, along with my few remaining coins are more than enough to provide us with a grand life in Canada.
She beams at the suggestion. “Montreal?” she says. “Though I’m not certain I want to travel as far west as ye went.”
“Aye, Montreal or near abouts is fine fer me,” I say. Of course Bill and I have heard Libby’s tale since arriving in Bristol, just as she has heard mine. She was fascinated with the stories of the voyageurs and my adventures in New Caledonia with Simon Fraser and the people of the river. Besides, farmland or not, I know I have a job waiting for me at the North West Company headquarters.
Once a Nor’Wester always a Nor’Wester.
Mr. McGillivray himself said that to me, and the head of the North West Company is a man of his word. That I know from personal experience.
Libby looks at Bill. “There’s money enough fer three to travel,” she says.
“I couldn’t impose,” Bill replies.
“Impose? Don’t be ridiculous, Bill! Ye saved my brother’s life on the Cerberus! It’s th
e least I could do.”
Actually ’twas I who saved his life, I think to myself but decide not to spoil the moment.
“In that case I say yes!” Bill laughs.
“So what do we do now, Duncan?” asks Libby. “Yer the world traveller, after all.”
Before I can say anything, Mrs. Fry speaks up. “Somehow I had a feeling you’d consider going back to Montreal,” she says.
“As you know my husband’s family are chocolate merchants. They sell their wares across Europe and across the Atlantic to Canada and the United States. It just so happens we have a rather large delivery of chocolate scheduled to sail next week on the Walrus from Bristol to Quebec City. The captain is a friend of my family. He said there’s room enough on board for two.”
Mrs. Fry grins at Bill. “Though I’m certain he can squeeze in another.”
“Elizabeth!” Libby hugs the woman at the news.
I can’t help but hug Elizabeth Fry myself. “So, Libby, you ask, ‘what do we do now’? I suggest we pack what few things we have and then use a few of yer coins to get some guid winter coats. Believe me, it gets colder in Montreal than ye can possibly imagine!”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
David Starr is a prize-winning author of five previous books. In The Nor’Wester, he told Duncan’s story of fleeing Scotland to Canada, where he joins Simon Fraser on his epic 1808 voyage by canoe down the Fraser. Bombs to Books chronicles the stories of refugee children and their families coming to B.C. Golden Goal and Golden Game are young adult soccer-themed books for reluctant readers. The Insider’s Guide to K–12 Education in B.C. is a resource guide for parents about the B.C. school system. David grew up in Fort St. James in northern British Columbia, and he now lives in Greater Vancouver with his wife, four children and a dog named Buster. He is one of the UBC Faculty of Education’s Top 100 Graduates and a school administrator in Metro Vancouver. For further information and readings availability, visit www.davidstarr.org.