“Good boy. Go now and get a few things. Bring me back any money that’s left over.”
Seamus pulled out a billfold and peeled off a few bills. Henry’s eyes were round as he took the money, folded it carefully, and put it into an interior pocket of his jacket. Felicia noted how he kept it separate from the money he had taken from Seamus a few moments ago.
The room dipped and spun. Felicia grabbed for the table. Seamus was beside her in an instant and helped her back into her seat.
“Now, no fainting on me, agreed?”
“Agreed,” she whispered.
He poured her more tea and she took the cup, but did not drink, wrapping her hands around it for warmth.
Mrs. Washington let Henry out the back door and closed it. “Anything else you need, Professor?” she asked. “I have some work to finish upstairs.”
“No, we don’t need anything,” he said. Mrs. Washington left and the kitchen door swung shut behind her.
“I need to get home,” said Felicia.
“You need to rest. Your home doesn’t exactly exist yet.”
“Look, I’ve had fun with you guys and your dress-up. I understand. I really do. My housemate dresses up for conventions, and he gets completely into whatever role he’s playing. But it’s time I go home now. I have some important calls to make and a paper to write.”
“A paper?”
“I have a school paper to write tonight. For the university.”
“Right. Where you are a medical student. You are studying to be a doctor.” He said it triumphantly, as if he was having a great epiphany. It was endearing and irritating at the same time.
“Yes. I’m going to be a doctor.”
“A twenty-first-century woman doctor who is not a Spaniard.”
“The preferred term for me is Latina, thanks. I know the Victorians weren’t very politically correct, but still.”
“Victorians.” He said the word slowly. “Victoria is the Queen of England.”
“Very good, Professor.”
Felicia had an idea. She would call Doug and ask him to come get her. He didn’t own a car, but he could ride the bus and accompany her home. Under other circumstances, she might have asked Seamus or Mrs. Washington to drive her, but she didn’t want to put them out further or cope with their oddities. She pulled out her phone, but it had no reception.
“What is that?” Seamus put out a hand to touch it as if he couldn’t resist. Then he hesitated.
“It’s a phone. A wondrous phone from the twenty-first century. But I don’t have any reception. Can I use your phone?”
“Phone?”
She sighed. It was going to be a long night. Or day. Whichever it was.
Chapter 4
Hazel Dubois shoved her hands into her trouser pockets for warmth as she jumped out of the omnibus. She turned a corner in the direction of the dress shop that was next door to the Professor’s haberdashery in the French Quarter. The Professor’s money was tucked in her jacket pocket and she had a good idea of Miss Sanchez’s height and build. The errand would be an easy one.
She almost paused, but forced herself forward when she saw three older boys leaning against a building up ahead. They were sharing a smoke and commenting on passersby. One of them was drinking from a dark glass bottle and another shouted something she could not make out, but a couple passing by glanced at them and hurried along.
Hazel sized up the boys in an instant. They were as poor as she was, lean, hungry-looking and weary beyond their years. Street children then, though they were in their teens. Perhaps too old for St. Aggie’s, or they had broken the rules once too often. She racked her brain to see if she could remember seeing any of them before. She knew many of the children around the area, but these ones were unknown. They were young enough to not care about getting into trouble, and old enough to do serious damage in a fight with a younger boy. Or a girl.
She thought she recognized one of them, but didn’t want to get closer. She had the Professor’s money as well as her own, and she could not risk any kind of confrontation. Crossing the street was the best option. Even if it drew their attention, she would have a head start if she needed to run.
She crossed, jogging to make it across in time before a steam-powered carriage chugged and hissed past her, smoke puffing from a shiny brass exhaust pipe on top. It was beautiful with curtained windows and polished black paneling. The people inside were finely dressed and sat up tall and straight, seeing and being seen. Only the wealthy could afford such a conveyance. The working class and the poor made do with horses, mules or their own two feet. Some who worked with the dangerous machinery in the manufactories didn’t even have the latter.
She kept her eyes down, moving quickly but steadily along the sidewalk.
“Hey, Henry!” shouted one of the boys. “Where you off to in such a hurry?”
One of them knew her. She didn’t slow, but raised a hand in greeting. Now that she was closer, she recognized the boy. She had met him when she had been new on the streets, right after she had run away. What was his name? She remembered it was something Cajun-sounding, and that he was not raised in the city. She would not stop to speak with him, even if he asked her to. Boys in groups could get rowdy, too curious about what she might be doing, where she might be going, or what might be in her pockets.
Thankfully, the boy did not call again, and she turned down the next street. The music shop sat on the corner, and she promised herself that after her errand for the Professor, she would allow herself to look in the window. The coins in her trouser pocket weighed against her hip, but she needed them for other things, like food. Her eyes lingered on the music shop’s window display, but she kept her feet moving.
The dress shop had a new shingle out, painted apricot and white with the picture of a woman’s profile wearing a fancy feathered hat. Hazel paused for a moment. She still did not want a hat like that. Not yet. She was eleven, and knew that in a few years, she would supposedly be overcome with the desire for flouncy dresses and rouge and feathered hats. It was difficult to imagine.
Her trousers were too snug around her hips, and she knew they looked it. She was underweight, as were all of the street children, so she knew it was not luxurious eating that was causing the change. She was suddenly self-conscious, wondering if she looked as scandalous as Miss Sanchez had in her tight trousers. Her cheeks felt warm, and a slow shame curled around her heart. She pushed it, and the image of the person it conjured, out of her mind.
Instead, she thought of her violin, tucked away in the abandoned building where she would spend the night. It was the only hope she had of making a decent life for herself. She knew that time was running out before she would look like Miss Sanchez.
The dress shop display held lace-trimmed parasols and a variety of dancing slippers. One pale blue dress looked nice enough. It had a modest neckline and not too many flounces and ribbons. She thought that some day, she might like to have something like that. Maybe a simple dress, with soft fabric and no giant hoop skirt that took up half the room.
But she had business to attend to, and what boy would be seen staring into a dress shop window? She opened the door and pulled off her cap.
Half an hour later, she left with her jacket pocket lighter and the hope that she had given the dressmaker enough information to make Miss Sanchez a few decent dresses. Fortunately, the Professor’s friend was of medium build, and many of the styles had bodices that laced up, so knowing her general size was enough to get a dress that would fit her. As for height, Hazel had noted that the top of her own head had fallen just under the level of Miss Sanchez’s chin. Easy enough.
The shopkeeper had said to return in an hour, as she had one dress almost finished. Another customer of similar size had ordered it but then changed her mind. Hazel could bring that one to the Professor and Miss Sanchez today. The oth
ers would be delivered later.
She was pleased with herself, and more importantly, the Professor would be pleased with her. She liked the Mad Irishman, as some of the townspeople called him. He paid well and was kind to her. He didn’t ask her about where she lived or what she did during the daytime. And sometimes Mrs. Washington gave her milk and a sandwich or some bread and butter and even let her sit at the kitchen table. Some people were decent, real decent.
Now, time for the music shop. Hazel thought about simply lingering outside the shop window, but today was too good a day to waste. She would go inside, even if she could not afford anything. But she had to plan it a bit. She had to be patient.
A wooden stand holding an open book of piano music sat in the display window. She did not play piano, but looking it over, she could hear the notes in her head. It was a sprightly piece made for dancing. She wondered if she could adapt it for violin somehow.
She waited until a middle-class couple went into the shop, and then followed. The proprietor would help them, and perhaps leave her alone long enough for her to have some time to herself.
The inside of the shop smelled wonderful, of old paper and rosin and polished wood. Violins, violas, a cittern, a bass and a single cello hung along the wall on one side, while various brass instruments hung along the other. Percussion instruments lined the back wall. She studied the violins, mentally picking which one she wanted to own some day.
A thought occurred to her in that moment. She had held enough money in her pocket an hour ago to buy any of these violins. She could have done it, stolen the Professor’s money and done what she liked with it. She was ashamed that the thought had even crossed her mind. The Professor trusted her, and she was proud of that. Besides, from a purely businesslike perspective, stealing this money would mean less of it in the days to come. The Professor and Mrs. Washington’s coins had fed her many a night.
Yes, she had done the right thing.
The proprietor of the music shop spoke with the couple, though he shot a series of looks at her as he retrieved something from a shelf. She had seen him before when she had come into the shop a few weeks ago, but he had been absorbed with other customers and she had slipped out before he could speak with her. She glanced at the work table behind the counter and saw an unstringed viola. A broken bridge lay to one side. She studied it for a few moments.
Hazel found the sheet music for violin and thumbed through the booklets. She knew a number of the pieces already, but found one she did not. She flipped it open and scanned it, then went over it slowly, committing it to memory.
Her former music teacher, the man who had instructed her in her life before coming to New Orleans, had praised her for her ability to read music as easily as others read words and to commit whole pieces to memory quickly. It was her only talent, and she needed new pieces to play for the strangers who dropped coins in her open violin case when she played on the street.
The bell over the door jingled as the couple left. She was not finished memorizing the piece, but she was close.
“Well, boy, what are you doing in here?” The proprietor moved to stand close to her, but not too close, as if he was cautious around such a wild creature. His work apron was grimy, but his hands and face were clean. It was a broad face, and with his snub nose and rosy cheeks. She thought it might be a merry face under the right circumstances. He had thinning orange hair, with gray at the temples. Hazel glanced at his hands. They were large and he had short, thick fingers. She wondered how many of the instruments he could play.
“Just looking at the sheet music, sir. I play the violin.”
“Oh, sure you do. What, begging on the streets?”
Hazel flushed hot. It was exactly what she did.
“And a pickpocket too, I’d wager.” He put his hands on his hips.
“I most certainly am not!”
“Aw, sure. One like you, living honest?”
“I never stole a thing. I play violin and if people want to give me a coin or two, that’s their right and their business. And I do some deliveries for them that are too busy to do it themselves.”
“Deliveries. I can imagine what sorts of things someone like you delivers.”
She glared at him.
“I think you ought to leave,” he said.
“I’m a paying customer. Same as anyone.”
“Then what are you going to buy? I can’t sit and watch you. I have work to do.”
“Fixing that viola back there?” She tipped her head at the instrument behind the counter. “You had to replace the bridge, I see. But the new bridge you replaced it with is cracked. A real thin crack, but there all the same. You can barely see it. It’ll split in a day or two once the strings are tightened. Then your customer will be upset.”
“What are you talking about?” He went to look at the viola, and Hazel was gratified that he had believed her at all.
She went behind the counter with him and pointed to a tiny hairline crack.
“You’re right,” the man murmured, then looked at her, evaluating. “And you know about instruments?”
“Only strings. I can’t do repairs though. Although I did fix a collapsed bridge once. It wasn’t broken. But I know you have to loosen all the strings, put the bridge back in place, then tighten the outer strings first until they hold the bridge. Then you tighten the inner strings and retune it.”
“Not bad.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“So you are a paying customer, eh?”
She drew herself up and met his eyes. “That’s right.”
He busied himself behind the counter and Hazel returned to the sheet music. She found a thin booklet with three Hayden pieces for violin, including a serenade with a single high note that sounded over and over, like a plaintive cry. It was beautiful, and it was a penny cheaper than the others.
“I think you need more baroque pieces,” she said. “You have plenty of Renaissance and pieces from the last few decades. There’s a big gap though. Not much baroque.”
The owner nodded, as if considering it, but Hazel wondered if he was just humoring her. The sheet music cost three cents, much more than she wanted to pay. But she was an equal to this man, a working person. She took the booklet to the counter, pulled out three pennies and set them on the counter one by one. The proprietor opened the register and dropped them in. She folded the booklet and put it in her jacket pocket.
“So why don’t you live at St. Aggie’s?” he asked.
He was talking about the orphanage that the sisters ran. It was attached to a convent school, and the sisters educated the orphans and made sure they had enough to eat, most of the time anyway. Some of the children who were injured by the machines in the manufactories lived there as well, ones that were no longer of any use to their masters. It was crowded, and children were sent away if they misbehaved too often. At this time of day, she should be at the convent school.
She turned to leave. There was no way she could tell this man why she could never go to the orphanage, or to the school. A warm bed and enough to eat were a powerful incentive. But she knew what would happen if she ever went there. No, she would find another way.
Then she noticed something. The shop owner had moved stiffly, as if he had an injury or was stiff with age. Two weeks’ worth of dust coated the instruments and shelves and a broom lay on the floor in a back corner, as if it had been dropped and not picked up. A cane leaned up against a wall, the tip of it worn from use.
She had an idea. It was bold, but nothing ventured, nothing gained, as her late father used to say.
“You had an assistant, didn’t you?” she asked. “And he left a few weeks ago?”
The man grew wary. “You know him?”
“No, but I can see the place hasn’t been dusted in a few weeks and that you need
someone to help you. I can tune instruments and clean the shop. I can also make deliveries.”
Surprisingly, the man seemed to be mulling it over.
“Come back later. I’ll think about it.”
Chapter 5
Felicia needed to get home. She was not well yet, but she felt a little better. A slow-building headache was starting to throb in the back of her skull, but at least her nausea and dizziness were under control.
“I’m sorry my house doesn’t have the phone you are looking for,” said Seamus. “But I can ask Henry to deliver a letter for you when he returns.”
“No, that’s fine.” She checked her mobile phone again, but it still had no reception. Maybe if she stepped outside she would have better luck.
Seamus’s house was beautiful and historically authentic as far as she could tell. But why would anyone choose to build a house with no phone? Perhaps for the same reason they had a large black wood-burning stove and no refrigerator.
“I need to get going. Thank you for everything. I really appreciate it,” Felicia said, rising.
“No, please,” said Seamus. “You need to stay here. At least until Henry comes back with some decent clothing.”
“I’m sorry, I have things to do.”
Seamus seemed to be considering something. “I’ll get you some writing paper. Then you can make out a note and by that time, Henry will be back.”
The man was nothing if not persistent. But her repeated attempts to excuse herself had been met with offers of more tea, food, even lodging for the night. His Southern hospitality, or perhaps his Irish hospitality, had crossed a line into being unsettling.
“Sure,” she said. “Why don’t you get me some paper and a pen and I’ll write a note to my housemate.”
“Wait right there,” he said, taking one last look at her.
The moment his footfalls on the stairs faded, Felicia slung her purse over her shoulder and made for the front door. The front hallway of the house was pleasant and uncluttered. There were only two paintings, one of a horse and rider and the other of a verdant landscape. They were set off from the pale green patterned wallpaper by heavy wood frames. A marble-topped table with clawed feet stood near the front door with a blue and white vase of fresh daisies on top. That must be Mrs. Washington’s touch, as Seamus, with his wild hair and Attention Deficit Disorder, didn’t seem the type to think of such things.
The Time Corps Chronicles (Complete Series) Page 3