Infinite Loss (Infinite Series, Book 3)

by L. E. Waters

  I’m shocked he noticed the scotch level. I had so carefully refilled it with water. “There is nothing I should hate more than working at a counting house.”

  “Ye’ve never worked at a counting house, how would ye even know? Ye give up before ye even start. Just eating the bread of idleness is whit ye’re doing.”

  “You have misled me greatly then, for it’s you who has raised me with the importance of education, hard work, and persistence, and now you force me to quit!” Red blurs my sight.

  “Though it’s true I taught ye to aspire, even to eminence in public life, but I never expected that Don Quixote, Gil Blas and such works were calculated to promote the end.”

  His chuckle angers me even more.

  I scoff loudly. “I am pursuing a literary career!”

  Fanny edges closer.

  “A literary career is about as profitable and respectable as acting.” He lets the last word bite before he continues, “Ye are too proud to take a job, too lazy to care for yerself, too weak to abstain from losing at cards…” He pulls items out of his desk drawer. All the objects from my hiding spot. All the things from Ma, the books from Jane, my poetry journal.

  “What are you doing with those?” I lunge for them.

  He sweeps the pile into his arms. “Ye should have no use for such items. Cuddling these things like a baby’s old blanket. Hiding them away like a little chipmunk. They need to be taken away for ye to become a man…a man like me.”

  He takes Ma’s portrait and saunters over to the fire—the fire I’ve never seen lit before. Fanny screams and faints into Thankful’s ready arms. Fury burns up from my center and impedes my sight as I lash out at him, punching him under the jaw, causing him to reel into his barren shelves. I rescue the painting before any fire’s tongue touches it, not caring if his arm falls back into the flames. As he flounders on floor, I gather up my cherished pile and walk to the door of his study.

  Full of hatred and bile, and with too much high-pitched emotion, I say the words I never thought I’d say, “I have heard you say—when you little thought I was listening and therefore must have said it in earnest—that you had no affection for me.”

  Allan reclaims his height and laughs.

  Knowing if I stay even half a second more I will attempt to quiet that grating laugh forever, I give an apologetic look to the revived Fanny, who is still within Thankful’s plump embrace, and turn toward the front door, going anywhere but this place I never called home.

  “Where are you going?” Fanny cries behind me.

  Without turning around, I yell out, “To go north and save to complete my education.”

  With a speed I have never seen her reach before, Fanny catches up to me and tucks a large coil of bills into my pocket. Her apologetic eyes say everything.

  “There ye go, babying him again, Fanny. A’ve no doubt it’s why he’s so soft. We would’ve been better off taking the other boy. But then, of course Edgar’s family wanted Henry.”

  Fanny turns on him. “Stop him this instant, John. This is killing me!”

  He takes a deep breath, attempting to smite the hatred within him. And only for Fanny does he say, “Edgar, come back into my office, and we shall discuss the counting clerk job civilly.”

  I yank the front door open.

  He barks, “Where are ye going?”

  “Some place in this wide world, where I will be treated—not as you have treated me.” I slam the heavy door shut behind me.

  Chapter 15

  I get as far as the bottom of the road when my rage clears and I finally ask myself where I am going. Could I go to Rosalie’s? No, she wasn’t that kind of family. If Henry were here, I know he’d take me in. Can I get a coach to take me back to school? Not at this hour. It will take a day just to line one up, and how would I sustain myself there without Mr. Allan’s support? The loose pile in my hand is cumbersome to walk with. I wish I’d had the wherewithal to fetch my trunk or at least a bag. I wasn’t going to pitch them to the side so I must keep walking.

  Jane. If she had still been here, I surely would have had a home. Oh, why did she have to leave me?

  Bitter tears, a mixture of self-pity and rage, escape my eyes with a burn. Fanny’s wad of money bulges my waistcoat pocket. I’ll have to use part of it to pay for a tavern in the city. Hopefully, it will be enough to sustain me until Mr. Allan feels guilty.

  Once I acquire the smallest and cheapest room in the tavern, I write to Mr. Allan for my trunk to be brought, with my clothes, books, and any extra money he takes pity to aid me. The only reply I receive:

  Sir,

  You have declared your independence.

  I try again, swallowing my pride for self-preservation, hoping Fanny can talk Mr. Allan into calling me home.

  Sir,

  It is in the greatest necessity that you immediately send assistance. I tremble for the consequence if you should fail.

  The tavern fills with strange and unfriendly faces, family-less salesmen traveling town to town. I eat at a table with these quiet men. As they read their papers, I reread Bryon. The money Fanny has given me is running out, and I’m forced to wash the only clothes I have in the hallway sink. A day later, I receive another moneyless note:

  Edgar,

  After such a black list of charges, you tremble for the consequence unless I send you a supply of money. Well the world will reply to them.

  Hopeless, and only six more days of tavern money in my pocket, I try another approach.

  Dear Sir,

  Be so good as to send me my trunk with my clothes. I am in the greatest necessity, not having tasted food since yesterday morning. I have nowhere to sleep at night, but roam about the streets—I am nearly exhausted—I beseech you.

  The same day I receive the trunk, finally, with all my belongings. Inside, on the top of my clothes, sits the very same letter I wrote with “Pretty Letter” written on the back, and that was all.

  With only a small amount of cash left, I have to decide where I should go. I pick up the watercolor painting of the harbor and, almost like she whispers it in my ear, just when I need it most, I read again what my mother wrote.

  Ever love Boston, the place of your birth, and where your mother found her best, and most sympathetic friends.

  I use all I have left to go to Boston. I find an inexpensive boarding house and promise the items in my trunk to hold a room. After inquiring about the nearest newspaper, I immediately begin my first employment. Though tired of working in the hot newspaper office, with the poisonous cloud of ink vapor in the air, I earn just enough to pay for board and two meals a day. I even work up enough nerve to show the editor my collection, Tamerlane and other Poems. The moment I open the thin little pamphlet to see my words printed, self-doubt relinquishes a defeated tear. It doesn’t credit my name, only divulges “a Bostonian” at the bottom—one step better than anonymous—but my words are being read just the same. I write to Fanny with the enclosed pamphlet right away. She sends back a proud letter of praise that carries her scent of lilacs.

  Even so, with living hand-to-mouth and after receiving letters of adventure from Henry and his salty naval companions, I decide it’s time I join the Army. I pack up my trunk yet again and enlist under my favorite alias, Edgar A. Perry since I’m underage. They take the false name readily and barely look twice at my declared age. By the looks of the thin, pimply boys around me, I’d say boys two years younger than I have slipped in as well. The army is wonderful for clearing the head with constant activity and discipline. Discipline that is far kinder than any I received from Mr. Allan. I thrive for the next two years, as our battery goes to South Carolina and then to Virginia, and send home my progress report of climbing to Sergeant Major of the Regiment of Artillery—the highest non-commissioned rank in the army. I hope Fanny would rub my accomplishments in, with a bit of salt, to Mr. Allan.

  Just when I think I’m doing well for myself, and every bad feeling has loosened and lifted, I receive a letter, not from
Fanny, but from Mr. Allan and dread sinks deep and finds its home again.

  Edgar,

  Frances has been quite ill for some time now. She is lingering and in great pain. After all the care I can provide her, there is no improvement. She has requested to see you once more.

  John Allan

  Had this declaration come from Fanny herself, I would be suspect to its urgency, but for Mr. Allan to send for me in this way I know it’s serious. Once I notify my commanders I have to take leave, I pack up my trunk and rush home.

  A crisp pine-fragranced breeze blows across the untamed lake to where I stand on top of the blackest rocks. A lone raven circles above the lake, its caws echoing as though there are many more. The last of shade of twilight has vanished, leaving only the cold stars for light. A haunting melody drifts in, hummed from invisible lips: Pachelbel’s Canon in D. Chills shake my body with an overwhelming mixture of joy and sadness, sending tears burning from the corners of my eyes. Tombstones emerge, like snakes to a charmer, from deep in the center of the dim lake. They spread to the very shore I’m clinging to, like a poisonous wave. The last majestic tomb surfaces, an enormous winged angel praying to the moonless sky, with a deeply etched, all too familiar name: Francis Allan.

  Chapter 16

  Something is very wrong. Again, reminiscent of Jane’s last day, the drive is overflowing with carriages and the house is full of women all in black—mourners. I’m too late. I walk in among whispers of “poor dear,” “charitable soul,” “long suffering,” and “the dreaded consumption.”

  A presence is missing immediately from the house. I never noticed the small touch of love she added despite all her sickness and complaints. When I walk into the house, her absence looms heavy. No safety, no kind touch, no smiles over strawberry ice cream. You do not miss the weak candle until all the lights are out. As terrible and lonely as my childhood has been, it would have been far worse without her small attempts to make me comfortable.

  Mr. Allan approaches me right away, bringing a somber air with him.

  “Edgar, A’m afraid ye’ve missed her passing. We buried her this morning.”

  I want to ask why he sent for me so late, but I’m sure he would turn it around to me having run off. How could she crumble so quickly? It’s only a month ago that she wrote me.

  “Did she ask for me?”

  “She was verry distraught at not seeing ye. She did all she could to cling on for ye.”

  The taste of guilt is bitter and so easily heaped upon me. “I had to get permission for leave, but I came immediately.”

  His steel eyes flash at the mention of the Army, and I stand a little taller. He softens. “She told me to give ye her love and that she wull one day reunite with ye in paradise.”

  He lays a stiff arm behind my back, which leaves a chill, and brings me into his office. He motions for me to sit down for the first time in the leather chair across his desk, used for his guests. I sit down slowly.

  “Ye’re faring well in Army I hear.”

  Was there a hint of disappointment there?

  “My officers are pleased with my performance and see great promise in me, sir. I earn ten dollars a month.” He gives me a respectful nod, and I take this usual opportunity to discuss something I never thought I’d broach. “I have risen as high as I can in the army. I would have to go to a school such as West Point to become an officer.”

  He instinctively pats the pocket where his wallet rests. “West Point is extremely difficult to enter.”

  “My lieutenant believes I stand a chance and he will recommend me whole-heartedly. But I would need to pay for a replacement to fill my place in the Army.”

  “How much would a thing like that cost?”

  “Twelve dollars.”

  “A braw penny.” He gives little grunts, not of discouragement but of consideration. It must be the guilt leftover from Fanny’s passing that makes him say, “Ye have my full support.”

  I can’t hide the shock on my face, but decide I should get out of there before he should change his mind.

  “Edgar!” He calls out and I slink back, expecting him to add a price onto his unusual kindness. “Ye’ve my permission to go to town to buy some proper mourning clothes and whitever else ye might need.”

  I hurry into town to send a letter of Mr. Allan’s sponsorship to my lieutenant, and then make my way to Fanny. I return once again to Shockoe Hill Cemetery and pass Jane’s grave, now blanketed in grass with no sign of what it covers.

  Long forgotten.

  I see the familiar dirt mound, new and noticeable, and I wonder if Fanny will be happier now, without the threat of death hovering over her. Maybe she has been sick all this time? All this time, I thought she was only imagining sufferings. All this time I thought she was insufficient, when maybe all along I was the one who was lacking. Her worried face flashes, calling to me in the hallway that night, pleading me not to go. How could I have put her through all of that? I should never have left. I have put her here.

  ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

  It’s a long journey back to the Army and even more tedious to settle back into the Army’s drills, which I hadn’t realized I’d grown so accustomed to. I seek a replacement immediately, but when Mr. Allan’s letter arrives with surprisingly ample funds and a line of caution, “be prudent and careful,” the lure of all that money gets the best of me. Upon spending the night at a hotel, the noisy billiard hall below draws me and stays me with smooth liquor and cards. I win a large pot, but that is all I remember before waking up outside the hotel with my pockets turned out and empty. Without being able to pay for my room or journey home, I’m forced to tell Mr. Allan of my burglary—of course, leaving out any details of the preceding events.

  I receive a letter quickly with twenty-five dollars but no note. I know enough to get on a carryall for Richmond before another night of cards can tempt me. My application arrives a week after I’m home, and Mr. Allan has yet to change his mind. I avoid him at all cost, for fear an altercation will brew and ruin my opportunity. I sit with the papers on the small table in my bedroom, staring at the same question about my family background. I contrive a dramatic retelling of how both my parents died in the terrible Richmond theater fire of 1809 and how John and Francis Allan adopted me as son and heir shortly after. A little fabrication is necessary to gain membership into such a prestigious group of silver-spooned men.

  A thick letter from West Point arrives a month later, and I stare at it for almost an hour before steeling myself to view its contents. A lightning flash of joy strikes me out of my chair when I read the word: accepted.

  I charge down the stairs screaming for Pa, and he answers for fear of something horribly wrong.

  “I’m going to West Point!”

  His worry melts into happy disbelief. “Are ye sure?”

  He takes the letter from my hand, searching for the misunderstanding and, upon finding none, he releases an awkward, “Congratulations.”

  Then it hits him fully and he slaps me on the back. “This calls for a celebration! Verry momentous.”

  We grab our finest jackets and take his carriage into town for supper at Richmond’s finest hotel. He orders strong drink for us both, and once it’s taken hold, he stands and calls out to the whole room of diners, “A toast to my son, Edgar, who’ll be attending West Point in a few weeks.”

  It must be pride in his face, for I’ve only seen it once before when I swam the six miles. All I ever want to do is to keep that look upon his face. Why does it only come with such impossible feats? One gentleman sends us over a bottle of champagne and we invite him to the table to drink with us. Maybe everything has turned for the better.

  While readying to leave for West Point, I visit Fanny one more time. I wait until dusk falls on Fanny and Jane to walk home. Seeing them there again, whispering to me of mortality and buried dreams, brings demons home with me from the cemetery. Demons that feast upon guilt and thirst for self-pity. Am I making the rig
ht choices for myself? Shouldn’t I be writing? How am I going to fare with the most impressive, wealthiest men in the country? Men who have parents, men who are heirs. Self-doubt hangs on me like wet clothes. I walk into Fanny’s bedroom and pull open her drawers to release her fragrance of orris root. The ghost of her spins around my head and makes me dizzy and grievous with all that time steals from you. This smell will disappear with every opening, now that the contents are thrown away. All that we are and leave behind will fade.

  I sit in the parlor with my back turned to liquor tray, but I sense the amber spirits waiting for someone to claim them. I’m on my fifth glass when Mr. Allan comes in from calling on an all-too-friendly, eligible woman he met at the funeral. There are always eligible women in attendance at a wealthy widower’s wife’s burial. I’ve never seen Mr. Allan smile so wide. His face unrecognizable with the strange new creases, obscuring all his deep frown lines. The house seems to dim with Fanny’s passing, as he begins to bloom.

  He takes a glance at me with his scotch, surmising how much I’ve already consumed, and blows his cheeks out to calm his usual leap to rage. Instead, he straightens his tight coat and sits in the stiff-backed chair beside mine.

  “Ye’re a soldier now. Ye’re at liberty to enjoy a glass or two.”

  I nod, surprised at the jovial inflection on the usual grating tone. Mr. Allan was kind to me for the last two weeks, but every moment I wait, like a mouse being toyed with by the cat, for the bite that ends the game. He takes a large waft of air in the room, sensing, like a snake, the self-doubt in the air.

  He sees Bryon’s book on my lap and the familiar smirk fights to reclaim his face. “Ye could still stay home. Save me a bonnie penny and save yerself the trouble. Accept a position in my business. A’m sure it pays double whit ye could make as an officer.”

  “Without a college degree, West Point is my only ticket to becoming an officer and still pursue a literary career.” The scotch loosens my tongue. “I don’t have the luxury of funding and support that great writers possess. I must carve my own way.”