“I’m not removed from anything.” His eyes were wrinkled in pain and his face was drawn and serious. “I held the lives of every single person and bot on that ship in my hands. You don’t think it ripped my soul in two every time one of them slipped between my fingers? You don't think I felt the sting of defeat and death the moment I realized we couldn’t outrun those bastards? Don’t ever assume, for one moment, that I will not carry with me, all my days, the sight of my crew members—my friends—lying dead in the hallways and on the deck or falling to their deaths in the ocean below, fighting gallantly so that we might live.”
“Oh, Jacques!” Marguerite whispered, “I’m so very sorry. Of course, of course… ” She unpinned her good arm from behind Vivienne, laying the girl’s head gently on the back of the bench, and carefully put both arms around his neck, weeping openly once again.
He pulled her to his warm chest without hesitation. They stayed like that, in each other’s arms, for quite a while. Marguerite had never been so confused in her life. So much had changed, so many things she had been sure of were no longer certain. And Jacques was at the center of it all. She had known he was nothing but a pompous renegade, a disgrace to his family and no better than any other military man. But something about him whispered strength and security to her soul and she couldn’t ignore that, could she?
Eventually, exhaustion overtook her and Marguerite slept soundly, her head on Jacques’s shoulder, until the sound of engines woke her. She blinked against what she thought was the morning sun but quickly realized was the searchlight from a rescue ship soaring above them.
“We’re saved!” She sat up, stiff from the short nap.
“Yes, we are.” Jacques stood up and waved. The aership signaled back with a series of blinks from the searchlight. “We must wake the others.” He quickly climbed over the seat to the middle row and gathered a few things before reaching over and gently rousing the two girls.
Marguerite was so weary, yet the feeling of relief that flooded her chest was warm and welcome. She turned to Vivienne who had slipped to an odd angle in the night.
“Vivienne dear, I’m so sorry for all of this.” Marguerite reached over to pull her back to a seated position. “We’re going to get you to a doctor as soon as possible.” Her ungloved hand smoothed the hair back from the other girl’s cheek. Her skin was ice-cold and as her head lolled into the light, Marguerite could see she was a slight shade of gray. She passed her fingers in front of Vivienne’s nose. No warmth escaped.
“No!” she whispered frantically. “No, no, no!”
Outil was by her side in an instant. “What is it, m’lady?”
“Outil! She’s not breathing!”
Outil quickly climbed to Vivienne’s side and searched for vital signs, all in vain.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The first few islands of New France came into view. Large, dark green patches were visible in the midst of the deep blue ocean now. Marguerite had spotted a small iceberg or two since taking her place on the deck earlier that morning. It almost excited her to think they may be islands capped with snow, but she had no heart left for excitement, and she was tired of having her hopes dashed. Now that she could see land and hear the cry from the crow’s nest, she was certain: New France really did exist and she was flying over it.
The rescue ship was not nearly as posh as the Triumph had been. It was a smaller military vessel made explicitly for search-and-rescue missions and for aiding in the delivery of mail and occasionally supplies to larger, slower ships. However, what it lacked in fineries, it made up for in speed. They had only been on the open sea for a few hours before they had been located using the homing signal in the life boat. And now it was only one day later and they would be arriving in Montreal in a matter of minutes.
Marguerite was wrapped in a thick woolen coat that clung tightly around her neck and poured all the way to the deck, covering her small feet. It was meant for someone much larger. She drew the hood down low over her head and stood with the wind at her back to keep out the cold. They were traveling much more slowly now that they were approaching Montreal, making the winds bearable. Outil was at her side, but neither said a word as they watched the land and sea take turns slipping quickly away beneath them and turning into rivers and lakes and farms.
Outil hadn’t left her mistress’s side since the rescue boat had found them. She had placed Miss Vivienne’s body carefully into the lift and secured it with the harness buckles, then did the same with the next lift for the weeping and despondent Marguerite. Jacques had tried to help as well, but Marguerite batted his hand away without looking at him.
Doctors and nurses were on hand to tend to the wounded, but quickly confirmed that Vivienne had passed away in the night, most likely from internal bleeding.
No one asked how she sustained her injuries. Everyone assumed it had been in the attack. The only questions were of names and next of kin, all of which Marguerite ignored and Outil supplied. They both watched without speaking as a sheet was drawn over Vivienne’s head and her pallet was taken away.
Outil was the one to point out Marguerite’s own wound and insist she be attended to. Her arm was swollen and angry, obviously infected. She sat stock-still on the examining table, biting her lip and moaning only a bit. It almost felt good to have a physical pain to challenge the pain in her heart.
The doctor shook his head as he removed the ball and swabbed the wound with expert hands.
“Pardon my saying so, but I’ve never had the pleasure of operating on a lady of your caliber, miss. I must tell you, you’re made of harder stuff than half the lads I patch up around here. Am I right?” He turned to his nurse. She nodded with a grave face and wide eyes.
Marguerite didn’t reply.
After that she was shown to the mess hall with her arm in a clean bandage and sling. The officers had supplied hearty, warm food but Marguerite waved it away and asked to be shown to her quarters. She spent most of the day sleeping on the rough sheets in her dirty clothes while Outil recharged in the corner. When she awoke it was nearly time for supper and a package of new clothes had been delivered along with a note.
We are sorry for the loss of your companion. Arrangements have been made for burial services once we reach Montreal. We also apologize for the lack of female clothing on hand. Please accept these as temporary, albeit clean, alternative for the time being.
Marguerite picked up the folded clothing, an aerman’s jumpsuit, and set the note on the small bed. Another piece of paper was on the floor. She picked it up and read.
My deepest sympathies. Please meet me for dinner?
—Jacques
She flung the scrap on the bed with the other note.
“Miss?” Outil’s voice was quiet. “Who is the letter from?”
“Jacques. He thinks this is a fine time for a dinner date.” Her voice was bitter, a darker version of her old sarcastic self.
Outil picked up both notes and glanced at them. “I believe he merely wants to help with the current predicament over a meal.”
Marguerite turned on her bot. “Outil, I have half a mind to blame all of this on him! He’s the idiot of a new captain who couldn’t fly around a few corsairs and then tricked me into a compromising situation when I should have been tending to my friend. If I’d only kept her warm instead of letting him hold me … ” She pushed her back to the door and held the jumpsuit to her face with her good hand, sobbing bitterly into it for several moments.
Outil did not stop her from crying. She merely waited until the sobs died down, then gently led her to the bedside and helped her undress and wash from a basin on the night stand.
Somehow the bot’s slow methodical movements helped Marguerite calm herself and let go of her feelings for a moment.
Outil held up the aerman’s jumpsuit. Marguerite looked at it hesitantly, then gave in and resigned herself to wear it only as a necessary evil. Outil smoothed and gathered her curls into a larg
e bunch at the back of her head. As Marguerite gazed into the mirror of their room, for the first time in her life, she felt and looked common. Worse than common, she looked haggard and wretched. The last thing she wanted to do was eat, or talk to anyone. She needed fresh air.
“Let’s go on deck, Outil.”
***
As they stood in the open wind watching the dark earth fly beneath them, Marguerite shoved her hands deeper into the scratchy pockets of the borrowed coat. She let her fingers caress the cool brass of the small cricket, the only possession she had left. The land was growing thicker and the sea had dissolved into small patches of lakes and rivers below. They would be in Montreal before sunset. Despite the hood and tie of the coat, the wind whipped stray pieces of hair into her eyes. She wished desperately that she’d grabbed her goggles before leaving the escape boat, but she had been thinking only of Vivienne. The goggles were a small loss compared to the death of her friend.
There were so many things she wished she’d done differently.
A bot approached them as they felt the slick metal deck slope slightly to the bow. He spoke quickly over the wind. “We’ll be landing in Montreal soon. It is recommended that you go below deck to the observation room.”
“Thank you,” Outil boomed, before taking Marguerite carefully by her good arm and leading her to the stairwell where she added more quietly, “It’s almost done, m’lady.”
Below deck the warm air surrounded them like blankets. Marguerite shed the coat and hung it back on the hook by the stairwell for the next adventurer to use. She kept the cricket firmly in her hand and plunged both deep into the pocket of her flight suit.
They made their way to the observation room at the bow of the ship, all the while feeling the elevation drop steadily. There were a few chairs set out, mostly filled with women wearing similar suits, some still in their less-tattered dresses. A few bots milled around, offering assistance and food.
“M’lady, you should probably have a bit of tea or toast. Your body needs fluids and nourishment.” Outil put her hand gently on Marguerite’s shoulder.
“I suppose I could drink some tea,” she admitted.
“I’ll fetch it right away.” Outil reminded Marguerite of one of the manor dogs back home, quickly bounding off to fetch a stick she’d thrown for them. What would she have done without this bot? She pondered all the amazing things Outil had done for her over the past week as she found a seat and watched the city loom nearer.
The glass had been tinted to block out the brightest rays of the setting sun. Still, golden arms stretched from the horizon straight at them, embracing their slow approach. Marguerite gazed in wonder at the beauty of it all, but felt her heart drop as she thought about Vivienne never seeing this amazing place.
The St. Lawrence River danced and sparkled in front of brick buildings like a rich necklace laid out on the land. Pillars of steam rose into the sky from a patchwork of rooftops and trees. Marguerite could only guess which were factories and which were workhouses. It was like a bustling mini-Paris. Her nerves began to calm a bit at the familiarity of it all. She imagined the last ounces of energy being pulled from every bot and human in the city before night fell, the steam rising up from the efforts of their diligence.
A hand alighted on her shoulder, and she turned expecting to accept tea from Outil, but instead came face to face with Jacques. He had crouched down beside her and began to say something in a low tone. She turned back to the amazing scene before her and imagined herself alone, flying like a bird to land in one of the bell towers of one of the many little churches she could make out now.
“Marguerite?” He sounded kind, but insistent. “Did you hear me?”
She did not look at him, but only squeezed the cricket harder. “I’m sorry, no.”
“I asked if you would like help making arrangements with immigration and”—he paused—“Vivienne.”
She kept her face straight ahead. “No, thank you. Outil and I will manage.”
“Marguerite,” he nearly whispered, “look at me. Don’t be foolish. What’s the matter?”
She turned quickly and caught him with her cold blue eyes. “I know I am a fool, sir. I do not need you to remind me.”
Outil stepped in. “Your tea, miss?”
Jacques stood. “Excuse me, Outil.” He took a few steps back while Outil handed Marguerite her cup. He looked like he wanted to say more, but by then many eyes had turned from the spectacular view of the city to the captain of the now-lost Triumph and the woman who was rumored to be his mistress.
Chapter Twenty-Five
A circus of people and machines was waiting for them as they deplaned in Montreal. The docks were alive with newspaper reporters carrying the latest in photographic equipment. Flashes of light and smoke were exploding all around them while officials tried to sort the mess out.
Marguerite held Outil’s arm firmly as their lift touched down on the wooden planks. While small, Montreal was a modern city. Glancing around her, Marguerite could see that the clothing was probably not as fine as back home, but some of the automated carts and bots were as fine as any her father owned.
Another military ship docked just after them. It had been collecting survivors farther out in the wide seas. The whole town seemed to be alight with the excitement of it all. Marguerite was just glad to know that more ships had found more people besides the handful on her vessel.
Marguerite and Outil rode a large cargo lift with a sailor and two other girls. She felt like they were descending into the middle of an ant pile. Anxiety started to creep into her throat and her chest tightened. When they alighted on the deck the sailor and several other military officers helped push them through the crowds as reporters called out questions and quick-draw artists furiously scrawled sketches in notebooks as they passed. News had spread quickly of the pirate battle and the loss of France’s newest airship. Everyone wanted to know how they felt, how they survived and most of all—their names.
Marguerite thought of all the loved ones waiting back home to hear if their daughters had survived; she thought of Vivienne’s parents receiving the telegram, but she quickly pushed those thoughts aside as she pushed her way through the crowd after the sailor.
A group of nuns was standing at the back of the throng, their hands demurely folded and their eyes bright with searching. As she approached, one of the portly little ladies reached out and pulled Marguerite into a warm embrace.
“You’re safe now, dear, come with us.”
It was not an unwelcome gesture.
The commoners obviously respected the clergy here in New France. They immediately parted and let the women in black and white robes pass through with their charges. A few stayed back to wait for the girls aboard the latter rescue ship, but as Marguerite followed her hostess she heard a cry go up from the crowds once again. She turned to see what the commotion was.
Jacques was descending in the lift now, along with two armed guards and two bots. He appeared to be shackled. People were frantically crying out all kinds of questions. Her heart raced for a moment as she wondered what had happened, but she remembered his last words, about how foolish she was, and turned her head back to the path the nun was leading her down. Her free hand found its way back to the little cricket in her pocket.
The convent was warm and smelled of cinnamon. The nuns were all very compassionate. They had already been informed of Marguerite’s loss and had prepared welcome quarters for her and Outil to rest in. An official was on hand from the town coroner’s office. Word had already been sent to Vivienne’s family. They should know by now about the loss of their daughter.
Marguerite felt relieved, but wondered at the fact that there was nothing for her to do. Everything had been arranged and it seemed to be a matter of just waiting.
Waiting for what? She found herself pondering this again and again as they walked her through the passages and explained the life she would be living in New France. How had s
he come to be in a tiny bed in a convent wearing a flight suit and speaking in hushed tones to nuns?
“What would you like to do now, my dear?” asked one of the elderly ladies cautiously approaching what would be her room.
That seemed to be a fine question. What did she want to do?
She sat heavily on the bed. Her arm and shoulder ached. She hadn’t noticed it with all that had been going on, but now it was distinct and distracting. She looked out the little window, then down at her lap where the cricket lay. Suddenly her purpose came back to her.
“I need to find Claude.”
“Claude?” The elderly woman seemed puzzled.
“Yes, Claude Vadnay. He’s a soldier. He would have come here two weeks ago. I need to find him.”
“Oh!” The nun nodded. “Of course! Yes, we’ll help you find him first thing in the morning, but I meant what would you like to do tonight. Are you ready for some dinner or would you like to be left alone to sleep?”
How silly, of course that’s what she meant. Thinking of Claude filled her heart with the slightest bit of warmth and she felt she could eat. She slipped the cricket in her pocket and agreed to go to the dining hall.
Outil started to follow her. “No, Outil, stay here and recharge for a bit. I’ll be all right.”
“Are you sure, m’lady?”
“Yes, quite.” She took a step into the hallway then turned back. “And Outil?”
“Yes, miss?”
“Thank you.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The hearty meal did her much good. She was given a bath and clean nightclothes more suited for a lady and clean dressings for her swollen and bloody mess of an arm.
“I suppose you won’t mind me throwing these things out?” a younger nun asked while gingerly holding her flight suit aloft.
The Perilous Journey of the Not-So-Innocuous Girl Page 18