Lily Cigar

by Tom Murphy

  She stood up then and smoothed down her rich black challis dress, and left Lily’s cabin. It was just as she’d suspected, then. A love child! You had to get up pretty early in the morning to have a head start on Sophie Delage. Life had taught Sophie to spot even the earliest of pregnancies almost as they happened. There was something about the eyes, a gentle swelling, an infinitesimal dilation, a certain extra glow to the skin. Oh, surely she’d known the child was pregnant the minute she laid eyes on her.

  Well, still and all, Lily was a sweet little thing, pregnant or not. Her secret would be safe as houses with Sophie. Up to a point.

  Sophie climbed the narrow stairs now and walked on deck. The repairs were coming along well, if not speedily. Nothing, she had been assured, happened speedily in lazy Valparaiso. And, God knew, there was little enough to do in the wretched town. It was almost a blessing to have Lily to nurse. Almost. Sophie smiled, and walked on.

  21

  Brooks Chaffee looked across the room at his hostess and smiled. For a shopkeeper’s daughter, Marianne Wallingford had come a very long way.

  There she stood, the Baroness West of Westover, at the head of her marble stairway, decked in the Westover diamonds, greeting the crème de la crème of London society as though she had been born to do no less.

  Marianne smiled, Marianne glittered, Marianne was charming, but there was something disturbing about Jack’s sister, a new hardness, a sharp edge of desperation that hadn’t been a part of the girl Brooks remembered from less than two years ago in New York.

  Of course, time, he reflected, thinking on his own happiness, can make all the difference in the world. And it couldn’t be easy, being married to Clarence. Brooks had never liked the baron, even before the Baron’s sexual predilection for stableboys became common knowledge. What Clarence possessed in titles and land and money was hardly matched in his own charm or character: he seemed to Brooks effete, overbred, thinned out, infinitely weary of the world. There was a waspish, feminine, petty-gossiping side to Clarence that made Brooks uncomfortable.

  Clarence was always ready with a bad word about someone, a new scandal, a nasty bit of tale-telling, told, to be fair, with a certain wit and style. But still, Marianne remained Jack’s sister, and it would have been rude not to visit.

  And Caroline loved the idea of staying with a real live nobleman. From Caroline’s point of view, Marianne was the perfect hostess, taking her to all the best shops, to tea parties with other titled ladies, a garden party at Buckingham Palace itself, and cheerfully enrolling Caroline’s assistance as confidante and courier in Marianne’s latest love affair.

  This only amused Caroline, but it outraged Brooks, and their first harsh words were exchanged on the subject.

  “You mean to say,” Brooks asked his wife late one night in Westover House as they were getting ready for bed, “that she just came right out with it, with no shame, no sense of honor?”

  “My darling, where lies honor when you are dealing with a degenerate like Clarence? I feel sorry for the poor girl. After all, she is young, and…healthy in her womanly needs.”

  “I think it’s disgusting. Has she no sense of propriety?”

  “Perhaps…” said Caroline softly, turning her back to Brooks so that he could unhook her elaborate ball gown, “perhaps she did. But, my dearest, they must have children, and he is not—or cannot—”

  “Caroline, you do shock me.”

  “It’s life, darling, why be shocked so? Are you shocked by the rain, or thunderstorms, or the nakedness of a flower? In a way, she is behaving very sensibly. This is a different world from ours, Brooks, and they hardly think about such things so long as they are carried on with some discretion. The way Clarence is—his fondness for boys—this is far from uncommon here. And yet the babies appear, and the titles are passed on, and everyone is happy. Or appears to be happy, which is perhaps the same thing.”

  “Not for me, it isn’t, and I truly hope not for you! How can they live with themselves?”

  Caroline turned to him, her dark eyes flashing in the soft candlelight.

  “That, dear husband, is a question you must ask them, isn’t it? How do any of us live with ourselves? How do I live with the fact that I married a Yankee and many of my own kin feel I am a traitress?”

  “I didn’t mean that. You know what I mean. I mean the inner morality of anyone’s life. To be hypocritical on such a grand and public scale—that is what astounds me. And shocks me.”

  She walked the few paces that had separated them, barefoot on the fine old carpet, and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him. “Moral perfection,” she whispered in the flickering light, “must be a heavy, heavy burden, my darling.”

  He looked at her then, startled, and kept his arms wound tight around her for fear that this lovely creature might turn to smoke as he held her, and vanish forever up the cold white marble chimneys of Westover House.

  Sophie’s was not a beautiful face, but in the long course of her fever, Lily Malone came to love it dearly. Now, in the steamy morning of their third week in the harbor of Valparaiso for repairs, Sophie bent over her patient and smiled.

  “There’s such good news, my dear: we sail on the morning tide! We’ll be home in five or six weeks.”

  The mere fact of it made Lily feel better. The trap was sprung now, and now they’d be on their way. A month and more she had been struck with fever, going on to five weeks. Well, at least it hadn’t killed her. Not yet. People died of the fever all the time; Sophie said that. Two of the seamen had it, and one of them was not expected to live. And now that her patient was truly feeling stronger, Sophie confided in her that there had been moments when they’d despaired of Lily’s life too.

  “You’re far stronger than you look, child, to have been so sick, and with child, too, it’s enough to kill a horse.”

  “You haven’t…”

  “No, dear, of course not. I’ve told no one, nor shall I. Your business is your business, Lily.”

  “There is no way that I can thank you. You’ve done so much, Sophie, dear. I do believe I would have died but for you.”

  “Fiddlesticks! It gave me something to do. Might well have kept me from murdering dear Dorothea, Lily, so you’ve saved me from a sure trip to hell’s hot gates, not that I won’t be going that way in any event.”

  Lily laughed then, for the first time in weeks. And it was only then that she truly believed in the fact of her recovery. They spoke for a while, then Sophie left her.

  Lily was alone, and dozing, when the magical cry came floating in at her open porthole: “Anchor…aweigh!”

  And the answer: “Anchor…aweigh!”

  Freedom! It was a wonderful thing, release, escape! Lily knew she was getting better. The Eurydice was sailing. No storm would dare touch them. San Francisco was waiting, and its streets were paved with gold and its rivers ran bright with hope.

  Lily slept then, and went off to sleep smiling.

  The Eurydice cut through the blue Pacific like a knife. The long weeks of repair now justified themselves as the clipper put out every sail and fairly flew up the South American coast, the wind holding steady, the skies clear, the mood optimistic. They had been through the crucible now, and nothing dared harm them.

  Lily sat up in her bed and began to recover her appetite.

  On the second week after they left Valparaiso, she dressed herself with great care, and with Sophie at her elbow as a human crutch, made her way up to the deck.

  It was like being born all over again.

  Lily looked at the sky as though it had been made fresh that morning, especially for her. She walked to the rail, and held it firmly, both for physical support and moral affirmation: It was real! It was real, then so was she. This wasn’t another one of the fever dreams. This was mahogany, round and warm and solid. Hope, quick and irrepressible, came flowing through her. Maybe, just maybe, everything would be all right!

  Lily’s fever came and went, but it never went away entirely. Once, jus
t after the ship passed the Mexican border, she fainted again. Sophie nursed her dutifully, and one afternoon invited Lily to stay with her in San Francisco until the baby was born. Weak with fever and gratitude, for truly she realized it might be impossible for her to fend on her own, Lily accepted.

  “You’re sure,” said Lily in a faint voice, “that there is room enough, that I won’t be a burden?”

  “There is room aplenty, Lily, and it will give an old woman pleasure to have you for so long as you care to stay.”

  “You are a true friend, Sophie.”

  Lily drifted off to sleep now, happy that the end of the journey would not mean the end of her friendship with Sophie Delage. Somehow Lily felt tired almost all the time now, even though she spent the greater part of her days in bed. She measured out her energy with a miser’s spoon now, saving herself for the ordeal of giving birth, and for settling herself in this wild new country called California.

  The Eurydice cleaved its quick proud way up the coastline, past the ever-higher coastal mountains, past schools of immense blue whales, through gray clouds of gulls and sleek encampments of brown seals on rocks as smooth and as brown as the seals themselves. They were sighting other ships regularly now, drawn to the magnet that was San Francisco, the greatest gold port of the world.

  It was early morning when the ship sailed through the Golden Gate, a warm Thursday in September. They were all on deck for the big event. The coastline had been getting more dramatic every day: great hills that obviously wanted to become mountains, rising steep and proud from the white fringe of surf, purple at dawn, green at noon, and touched with gold fire when the last rays came reaching out over the water all the way from China. Now the Eurydice was sailing right into the hills, through the narrow cut they called the Golden Gate. This should be a glorious moment for me, I should be singing, cheering, but all I feel is tired. Lily sat on a bulkhead and watched the hills roll by. The great harbor was thronged. There were scores of clippers, some even bigger than the Eurydice, and fat cargo carriers, a few steam-powered ships huffing and puffing and belching black smoke. There were rowboats and small sailboats and barges, and all the water traffic was coming or going from a thicket of masts and a sprawl of low buildings in the distance.

  San Francisco!

  Lily looked at her future home and soon felt faint again. It was a raw place, surely, she’d expected that. The buildings had no consistency of size or style: some were quite grand, brick or limestone or granite; others were nothing more than shacks. There were great sandy gashes in the hills that looked like wounds slowly healing. As they sailed ever closer, Lily could see beached hulks of ships rotting on the shore. Sophie had told her how, in the first days of the gold rush, entire crews would jump ship and head for the mines, that at one point there had been hundreds of such hulks waiting to be cut up for lumber or simply disintegrating where they berthed.

  The packing and organizing for arrival had been too much; Sophie had warned her to take it slowly, that she was overdoing, and now, too late, Lily felt the truth of it in her heavy eyelids, in her aching limbs. She wanted to share the excitement and could not. She wanted to feel release and did not. All Lily Malone felt as the clipper sailed into San Francisco harbor was a deep desire to sleep, and sleep, and maybe never wake up. She’d just go below and take a little nap. Then she’d feel better. Lily rose from the bulkhead slowly and made her way back to the stairway.

  She stood at the open door for a moment to get some strength back. There was a loud command shouted at a sailor, and an equally loud answer. Lily couldn’t quite make out the words. Then, as she stood there, the Eurydice swerved sharply to the left.

  It was just enough to throw Lily off balance. She gasped, blinked, reached for the rope stair railing, and missed it. Then she fell headlong down the fourteen steep wooden stairs.

  It was a burning pain, and it tore through the darkness in Lily’s mind with the intensity of a razor cut. All she knew, her entire world, was darkness and pain, pain and darkness. The pain had a pattern. It came, then it went. Came and went. There was no getting used to the pain; it was too sharp, a bitter pain, every time a cruel surprise. When it went, she lay trembling, gathering what small strength she had left for its next onslaught. When it came, the pain took over everything; every corner of Lily’s heart and brain and body seemed filled with it, to the exclusion of hope or fear or even praying. On and off it went, the pain, on and off, on and off. She was beyond screaming. From time to time a voice could be heard, several voices, whispering, far away, on the far side of pain.

  “Has the bleeding stopped?”

  A friendly voice, Sophie’s voice, friendly. Frightened.

  “I’m afraid not. It’s bad, Mrs. Delage, very bad.”

  A man’s voice. Whose? Not the captain. Very bad, says he. That is understating matters, my good man. The pain came again, urgent, hot, sharp. Lily twisted on the bed. The pain got sharper. Then she lost consciousness altogether.

  It was dark still.

  Lily’s eyes were closed, and it seemed that to open them would be the hardest job in the world, that it would take far more strength than she could muster. She lay absolutely still. This wasn’t her cabin. She could feel a difference—what? The bed was wider, to begin with, and the sheets much softer, very fine sheets they were, almost like silk. Maybe she was in Sophie’s cabin. That would be like Sophie, kindness itself was Sophie. Lily lay in the quiet and the darkness, and it slowly dawned on her that the pain was gone. Oh, and sure, she felt sore and wretched, and her head ached. But these things were nothing compared to that other, dreadful stabbing, jolting pain.

  Her ears began to pick up sounds. Somewhere, far away, there was music, piano music, faintly tinkling a popular tune. Doors opened and closed, not slammed, but unmistakably doors. Music and doors. This was not the Eurydice! A door opened. Footsteps entered the room, and a dim light. A light touch as someone’s hand smoothed the blanket. Lily’s eyes fluttered open.

  There was Sophie! But this was a different Sophie from the Sophie on shipboard. This was Sophie Delage dressed for the opera or some fancy ball. Sophie resplendent in yellow satin and diamonds, Sophie carrying a golden reticule and a small ivory fan! Lily tried to smile, and almost made it.

  “Lily! Thank all the gods! We despaired of you, child, indeed we did.”

  “Sophie. What happened?”

  “You fell, my dear, you took the most terrible fall down the stairs on the Eurydice, just as we were mooring. And lucky it was, we were close to home, and doctors. But you’re safe now, Lily. You’re with Sophie now, and you have a fine little girl.”

  Lily blinked back her disbelief. Truly I must be dreaming. Slowly, fearfully her hand slid down the blanket, touched the place where the bulge of her pregnancy had been. Nothing! So it was true, then. She tried to find words great enough to hold all her wonder, and could not.

  “A girl.” The words seemed to stick on her tongue, and she repeated them: “A girl.”

  “Oh, she’s a lovely little thing, Lily, quite perfect and lively and screaming for your milk. One of the maids is looking after her, a sweet little Mexican girl, and we’ll send for her presently. But first, first we must get some nourishment into you, for you’ve hardly eaten a thing, and the doctor was very concerned. Could you take a bit of broth?”

  “I’ll try.” One of the maids. Sophie was rich, then. Lily accepted this as just one more wonder on this day of wonderments. A little girl! Why did I always think it would be a boy? Sophie kissed her and left, and quickly returned, bearing a silver tray, and on the tray a bowl of clear steaming broth, and buttered bread, and good hot tea.

  Lily sipped at the tea but found she had no stomach for the broth.

  Someone knocked and was bidden to enter. A small dark girl stood shyly in the doorway, framed by the light of the hall, carrying the baby. The maid was young, probably not more than thirteen or fourteen, Lily thought. Shyly, smiling, she came close to the bed.

  “Lily, thi
s is Dolores. Dolores, Mrs. Malone.”

  “How do you do, Dolores?”

  “Buenos días, señora.”

  “She speaks,” said Sophie quietly, “very little English.”

  Lily looked down at her baby. The child was fast asleep, pale, its face a little puckered, a light red fuzz of hair just beginning to cover its little round head. The baby’s face looked like the face of a little old woman. The child frowned in its sleep, moved its head, then smiled. Lily could hear the angels singing. The baby had smiled for her!

  She reached out for the infant, and Dolores handed it to her. Gently, tentatively at first, Lily drew her daughter to her. Still, the child slept on.

  “When was she born?”

  “Five days ago, my dear. You were completely unconscious.”

  “She is lovely. You saved my life, Sophie, and the baby’s too.”

  “Nonsense! Good luck and good doctors did it, and if you ask me, it was more luck than doctoring. But now I must be off, my dear. Duty calls, as it were. We’ll have a nice talk in the morning, Lily. In the meantime, I want you to eat as much as you can, and get some rest. The child is fine with Dolores—for the moment.”

  “Good night, Sophie. And thank you.”

  Lily held the baby for a while longer, then sent Dolores away. She’d have plenty of time with the child—her child! How fine that sounded, how good it made her feel. Her child. Her baby. And how much better the child’s life was going to be than hers had been.

  Lily’s brain swarmed with plans. Oh, she’d get well fast now, she’d get herself to the Wallingford Emporium, get that job, a little house, or a flat, whichever was easier, a maid for the baby, maybe this same Mexican girl if Sophie could be persuaded to part with her, but anyway someone. The things her baby would learn! The school learning she’d have, and the books and pictures! And a good church education too, never forget that.