The Halifax Connection

by Marie Jakober

  Chalk it up to an Eton education. “Have you ever heard of berserkers, Matt?”

  “As in crazy people?”

  “No. As in the old stories—the chaps who’d wear bear skins to be stronger and fiercer than ordinary men, and who’d keep fighting with an arm chopped off, or their guts hanging out, and never even notice … It was something like that … that kind of passion. Not madness. I knew exactly what I was doing, and I remember it well enough. But I think his two friends would have needed knives to stop me. Afterwards, they just stood aside and let me walk out the door.

  “So did I mean it? To tell you the truth, I really don’t know. I don’t even know how I feel about it now. Most times I regret it. I wish I hadn’t taken any man’s life. But once in a while … once in a while I think of what he did, and how he’ll never do it again, not to anybody, ever … and then I’m not so sure.

  “In any case …” He filled his wineglass and emptied it. “In any case, it’s hardly the sort of thing I should be discussing with a police constable, now, is it?”

  Matt shrugged. “Listen, mate, they judged you in England as they saw fit. Far as I’m concerned, that’s the end of it. Besides, standing up for a wronged friend ain’t the worst reason for breaking the law, not by a sorry sight.”

  “Well.” Erryn raised his glass. “Thank you for that.”

  Matt’s return salute was an unspoken promise. He would not judge Erryn Shaw—not on this. Maybe on something else one day, some other bad mistake. But not on this. He settled back in his chair, crossed his boots, picked briefly at a strand of torn upholstery.

  “So,” he mused. “You’re a genuine aristocrat, then? A real one? The kind that stand around getting their portraits painted in fur coats and silly wigs?”

  “The same.”

  “And what would you be if you still … if you still were what you was? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  Erryn thought for a bit before he answered.

  “Just between us, then? Word of honour? This is not something I want bandied around the taverns.”

  “Word of honour, mate. Your secret will die in my stomach.”

  “I’m the son of an earl, and an heir to the throne—very far down the line, but an heir nonetheless. Count back through all my great-greats and you’ll eventually find William the Conqueror.” He took another long, meditative drink. “Just think of it, Matt. If enough people were to keel over and die on the same day, I could be king of England.”

  “Now there’s a terrifying thought.”

  “Especially to me. Which is why I’m in the absurd position of having to pray often and earnestly for the good health of my kin … quite a few of whom I thoroughly detest.”

  “Very sad,” Matt agreed. “And here I thought being born a bastard in a Halifax brothel was bloody hard luck. It’s all relative, isn’t it?”

  In the silence that followed, Erryn could hear the rattle of a late night carriage fading down the hill, and the soft, maddening tick of a clock across the room.

  “There must be times,” he said finally, “when you’d like to empty a keg of beer on my head and throw me out in a snowbank.”

  “No,” Matt said. The smile on his face was warm, affectionate, utterly genuine. “Why should I do that? I’d lose my best friend. And anyways, I was only partly joshing you. I think it really is relative, most of it. There’s only so much a body can hurt without dying, doesn’t matter who you are. Bottom is bottom. I’ve been hungrier and colder and scareder than you ever dreamt of, probably, but I’d be a sorry damn fool to say I’d been further down. There’s a whole lot of different handbaskets a man can go to hell in.”

  “That’s true. Wooden ones, iron ones, pretty purple paper ones—”

  “Oh, Christ, forget I mentioned it.”

  They laughed and clinked their glasses, and decided that five-thirty in the morning was far too late to be going to bed and far too early to do anything that might require rational thought and attention; therefore the only sensible thing to do was open another bottle.

  Erryn would always remember it as the warmest, most companionable drunk of his life.

  CHAPTER 9

  At the Sailors’ Church

  O Belovèd, it is plain I am not of thy worth nor for thy place!

  —Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  THE BELLS of Notre-Dame-de-Bonsecours had rung their long, melancholy summons and fallen still. Erryn sat on a rock a small distance away, his arms wrapped around his knees. Memories of Sylvie Bowen whispered across his mind: her rare bits of laughter, her North Country speech, the flash of hunger in her eyes when he offered to take her to the concert; the first shocking image of her face, turned full into the sun. So honest, that gesture, and so brutal, shredding all his fantasies like paper. The pretty sylph he had admired on the street two days ago was gone forever. In her place was a woman close to thirty, wounded and wary.

  A woman who still fascinated him. This he reflected on as well: his own fascination, and her remarkable ability to kindle it merely by existing. He wanted to untangle all the contradictions he saw in her: the decorum of the house servant, the toughness that spoke to him of something rather different—of waterfront taverns, perhaps, or Lancashire’s dark, satanic mills—a toughness not unlike Matt’s, self-contained and unapologetic. He wanted to talk to her for hours, to buy her exquisite dinners and take her to the theatre. He wanted to see her laugh, really laugh, full-hearted and joyous, for the sheer wild wonder of being alive.

  He thought of these things, and all the while he thought of them he remembered yesterday at the Morrisons’, the two experiences reflecting off each other like light in mirrors—or, perhaps, like ricocheting billiard balls, veering into unexpected corners as they struck. He was not so naive as to imagine that Sylvie Bowen’s life was a haven of innocence and honesty, and yet, remembering the party, he found himself waiting for her as for a clean summer rain.

  Certainly the party had been a success; he had accomplished everything he intended, even a first meeting with the Irish importer Daniel Carroll. Still, an air of unpleasantness remained with him, a deep distaste for some of the men he had encountered there, and equally, a measure of discomfort with his own manipulations and lies. And then there was Edmund Morrison’s collection. It had come just after suppertime, the host at the head of his table, the whole long grace of it shimmering with candles, the taste of superb food and wine still lingering in everyone’s mouth, and Morrison reminding them of the poor Southern refugees, the escaped prisoners, the brave soldiers who longed to return to the battlefield. Money poured into his silver tureen like wine.

  English money. A fine fat wad of it from Erryn Shaw’s hand.

  This was, of course, a legitimate expenditure for a spy, and indeed a familiar one. All such generosity bought Erryn status, credibility, trust. He was always quick to offer boat tickets, rent money, meals; gifts to ragged men from Johnson’s Island shivering in the cold. Here, for God’s sake, buy yourself a coat. He begrudged none of them food or shelter; they were not, after all, the men who had started the war. But he begrudged the Confederacy every man he helped to send back into its armies, and he begrudged in particular the good English money that paid for it. It was blood money, plain and simple, and more and more he disliked the smell of it on his hands.

  So he waited for Sylvie Bowen with impatience—far too much impatience for a sensible, grown-up man. The clamorous rue St-Paul was quieter than usual. Most of its traffic was pedestrian, and most of its shouting came from street vendors selling food: meat pies, fruit, chips in little pockets of newspaper. He noticed a carriole swing by, driven rather too fast, he thought, for a narrow Sunday street, but he paid no particular attention until he heard the crash, and the great stream of shouts and yelps and curses that came after.

  A hundred feet away an old cart lay tumbled on its side, its small, bony horse pulled down with it. The vehicle had obviously been overloaded, and its load was now rolling across the cobblestones: turn
ips and potatoes, hundreds of them, scattering willy-nilly like brown and yellow cricket balls. Dozens of strangers were stopping to gather them; others, equally numerous, stuffed as many as possible into their satchels or their clothing and fled. Curses flew in at least three languages and four directions, and dogs and running children chased after the tumbling vegetables as though it were all a game.

  Erryn unwound himself from his rock and went to help, as much from boredom as from any belief that he would be of use. And indeed, all he managed to save was one small turnip and the cart driver’s ruined hat, in return for getting his ribs elbowed and his left foot thoroughly tramped on.

  But he did see a carriage some distance back, a very fine carriage, waiting for the street to clear, and he was swept by a sudden, astonishing rush of happiness.

  What a fool I will feel if it is someone else.

  But it was not. The carriage stopped beside the church and he watched Sylvie Bowen step down with the same easy grace as before, watched her take the old woman’s arm and lead her slowly to the church steps. Her face was half hidden by her hair, and all her attention was fastened on her companion. She did not look for him. On the contrary, it seemed that she purposefully avoided looking for him. Nor did she come out of the church again for several eternal minutes, and then slowly, idly, as any servant might who had an hour to herself and was wondering how she might spend it.

  “Miss Bowen.”

  “Oh, Mr. Shaw. How nice to see you again.”

  There was not a trace of warmth in her voice. She might as well have been speaking to the milkman, polite and matter-of-fact: Three gallons today, thank you. Put it on our bill. Only her eyes betrayed her for a small, perilous moment before she lowered them.

  He said all the usual things—The pleasure is all mine, I trust you’re well, etc., etc.— and offered to take her to see the clowns in Place Viger.

  “Thank you, Mr. Shaw. But there’s not enough time for anything like that.”

  “But it’s Sunday. So it’ll be High Mass, won’t it? I thought a High Mass took more than an hour.”

  If she wondered how an English Protestant happened to know this, she gave no sign. “There’s no Mass at all,” she said. “Mass be in the morning Sunday. It’s only Benediction.”

  But you said … ! He stifled his involuntary wail of protest. “And how long is Benediction?”

  “Maybe twenty minutes.”

  “Oh.” Time to walk to Place Viger and turn around and walk back again. He forced himself to smile. “Well, no clowns, then. Where would you like to go instead? We could have tea. Chez Robert has wonderful sweets and pastries. Or we could just walk about and eat ices, and try not to get hit by a turnip.” He placed one arm over his breast and bowed elaborately, gracefully. “I am at your command, my lady.”

  Her mouth crinkled, just a tiny bit, such a tiny bit that he was not absolutely certain if he had seen it or if he merely wished to see it.

  “I’m most always inside with Madame,” she said. “It’d be nice to walk.”

  It was the briefest twenty minutes of his life. He bought them tourtières, and a pair of beautiful, mouth-watering apples. She ate hungrily, with obvious pleasure. They wandered up to the Champ-de-Mars, where there were benches and a vendor selling strawberry ice. They found a spot to sit. By this time the bell was ringing again at Bonsecours, and scarcely anything had been said between them except pleasantries.

  Through it all she remained cool to him—altogether proper and polite, thanking him for the food, answering freely to everything he said, and yet cool, distant, a stranger—a stranger she had not been on the riverbank two days before.

  He did not believe she was the sort to tease, to blow hot and cold merely to pique a man’s interest. He had not offended her in any way, as far as he knew. Which left the gloomy probability that she had given it all some thought and decided he was not the sort of man she would invite into her life—too much the fine young gentleman, perhaps, the sort who seduced and abandoned servant girls for sport.

  “Are you afraid of spiders, Miss Bowen?”

  “Spiders?” She regarded him as though he were daft. “Scraggy little things no bigger than my fingernail? Course not.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “Because there’s a big black one sitting”—he reached very slowly, very carefully—“right on your collar.”

  “Oh.”

  She did not react at all except to turn her head as he nudged the spider onto his finger. It panicked, of course, and dashed madly across his wrist and over his sleeve. Astonishing, he thought, how the little buggers could run.

  “Don’t kill it,” she said quickly. “Please.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. I rather like them, actually. Back home I had a friend who kept them for pets. The last time I saw him he had twenty-three.” He smiled. “Now you really think I’m daft.”

  “No,” she said. “I think you might be the sort what makes up stories.”

  “Me? I never told a fib in my life.” He plucked the creature off him with a dead leaf and dropped it in the bushes.

  “He really had twenty-three spiders?”

  “He probably had more, but they kept moving around. We got bored trying to count them and gave up.”

  That glorious little crinkle was playing on her mouth again. He went on:

  “They were his second hive, or swarm, or whatever it is you call a bunch of spiders. His landlady killed off the first ones. He had an arrangement with the maid, you see: he left her tuppence every week and she left his spiders alone. One day the maid was sick and the landlady came to do his room. Of course she saw all the spiderwebs hanging in the corners, and being one of those who look on cleanliness as next to godliness, she fetched herself a great godly broom and swept them all to perdition. When he came home, he found one poor spider scared half to death, hiding under his pillow. All the rest were gone.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He told the landlady someone had been in his room and taken his personal property. She went all into a dither. First the maid had left his room a shameful mess, and now someone had robbed him—and him her favourite tenant, too, a fine young constable who always paid his rent on time and didn’t steal the silverware … Well, the poor lady was practically beside herself, until he told her what it was he’d lost. Then, I understand, things got interesting. I wouldn’t have minded being a spider on the wall myself. But he won the day when he called her a heretic.”

  “A heretic?”

  “Quite. She put her foot down, you see. She told him no, absolutely not, nobody could keep spiders for pets, she wouldn’t stand for it, it was unnatural. So he asked her, wasn’t she a Christian? ‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘No, you’re not,’ he said. ‘You’re a heretic. You’re saying God didn’t make spiders.’ ‘I’m saying no such thing,’ she said. ‘Of course God made spiders.’ ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘then you’re saying God went around making unnatural stuff. That makes you a worse heretic.’

  “Well, he turned the thing upside down and inside out till the poor lady didn’t know what she believed. Besides, it meant a lot to her, having him in the house, old as she was and living in a rough part of town. So she went back to her parlour and he went out for a beer, and that was the end of it. Nobody bothered his creatures again.”

  All the time he was telling the story Sylvie was watching him—cautious, he thought, unsure of him, but also intrigued. Bit by bit her coolness left her, falling away like a forgotten shawl. He was sure now she had never really felt it; she had only wrapped it around herself for safety.

  “So why did he pick spiders? Instead of a cat or something? Did he ever tell you?”

  “He said they were elegant, and they killed flies. Said he hated flies.”

  “I can understand that.” She stood up—regretfully, it seemed. “I must go back, Mr. Shaw.”

  “Will Madame Louise be in a good mood, do you think? Being Sunday and all, and having been to church twice?”

 
“Why?”

  He tucked her arm into his as they moved quietly onto the street. “Because I would like to meet her. Reassure her that you are in the hands of an honourable gentleman from a perfectly respectable family, and persuade her to let me take you to the concert.”

  “She’d be horrified.”

  “Dear heavens, am I as ugly as that?”

  “Oh, no, you’re not ugly at all, you look perfectly fine. I mean she’d be horrified at me. Going down to the river when she told me not to. And meeting you like this.”

  “Well, we don’t have to tell her about the riverbank. You can say I helped you rescue a poor old man who got knocked over by a carriage on the street.”

  She regarded him very dubiously indeed.

  “Well,” he said cheerfully, “I did rescue a turnip.”

  “Mr. Shaw.”

  “Erryn. Please.”

  “Erryn. I’d like to walk out with you. I’d like it more than most anything. But Madame …” She paused, searching for words. “Madame has been so kind to me. I don’t want to make her angry.”

  “But—”

  “She’s a good woman, please don’t ever think different. But she told Miss Susan right out she didn’t want someone who’d be flirting with the lads every time she turned around. I think she were frightfully unhappy with her husband, and she hasn’t much use for it at all—young folks walking out, I mean, and courting and such. She told me once I were the only young woman she knew who had any sense. And she’d think I’d lost it all, taking up with a man on the street. Especially one so … so fine and well bred like yourself.”

  Especially? But of course. We should all keep to our own …

  “But I thought you worked for someone else. A Miss Susan, you said, wasn’t it? So even if Madame got annoyed at you, would it matter very much?”

  “It might. She can’t read anymore, and she used to love it. She has a house full of books. She says after I go back to Miss Susan, I should come on my half day to read to her. I read to her every day now, since we’ve been travelling together. When I don’t know what a word means, she tells me, and tells me how to say them. She says I be learning fast, and if I take care of them I might have books to take home with me, to read by myself. She says even a poor lass can make something of her life here in Canada, if she has a bit of ambition.”