by Hilly Mason
Her mother sighed, looking resigned. “Oh, is this what you’re getting yourself in a tizzy about, dear? He died trying to escape the jailhouse. Someone mistook him for a burglar as he was running through Philadelphia and he was killed. This was all during Craig’s journey back to America, so there was hardly any way to tell him.”
Isla slinked deeper into her chair, feeling sorry for Jack. His brother meant a lot to him. And even though he was a terrible boy back in the day, he was still Jack’s family. How would Isla feel if it had been Sophia or Diana? She would be absolutely devastated if anything were to happen to them.
Isla wished she was able to give Jack a proper goodbye, but she understood why he wanted to return back to England, far away from the terrible memories associated with his time in America.
Am I also included in those memories? she thought.
Chapter Thirteen
More performers for the Murrays’ troupe arrived at the manor during the next few days. During that time Isla met acrobats, contortionists, and men and women who could breathe fire. She was both amazed and a bit unsure of her own abilities being around so many talented people. In her mind, swallowing swords was a lot more interesting then telling a cat to twirl around in a circle.
Yet Isla was mostly interested in Meredith Davies, who was another animal handler. She had an affinity for the birds in particular, and was able to let them fly about outside their cages, and then have them return to her. One day after practice, they ate lunch one day under the poplar trees. Perched on Meredith’s forearm was a peregrine falcon and every now and then the woman would feed the bird bits of her food.
“Do you think the animals are happy here?” Isla asked her.
The woman was frank. “I think they would be happiest in their own environment,” she said. “But they’ve been gone from their homes for so long, that if they were introduced back into it, many would not survive. They have been adapted to be more like pets.” Meredith then glanced sideways at Isla. “You won’t be telling this to Mrs. Murray, will you? Despite my digressions, I very much need this job to put food on my family’s table.”
Meredith was starting to trust her the more they got to know each other. “Of course not,” Isla told her truthfully. “I’m not too keen about the way these animals are locked up myself.”
Meredith relaxed and continued stroking the falcon’s head with her finger. “The Murrays are terrible at keeping track of how many animals they have, so I have been taking some of the birds that are doing poorly and taking them to my sister’s farm across town to care for them for a while,” the woman confided. “You wouldn’t believe how many rich folk purchase exotic animals only to ignore their existence. I can only hope that my presence here will prolong these poor creatures’ lives.”
“I’m sure it will,” Isla said, and the woman’s face flushed, probably realizing she had said more than she had meant to.
“Oh, I almost forgot. You were close to Mr. Craig, were you not?” Meredith suddenly said.
His name sent a dagger through Isla’s heart. “In a way, yes.”
Meredith reached into her rucksack and withdrew a sealed envelope. “He told me to give this to you after he left.”
Why didn’t he give this to me himself? Isla thought as she took the envelope. Of course, he hadn’t meant to say goodbye to her in person.
“Blech, there’s that haughty Gregory-what’s-his-name,” Meredith spat.
Isla blinked up at the man who was by one of the cages, feeding the monkeys. “Gregory Townshend? You don’t like him?”
“Of course not, I can smell a toad a mile way. Do you like him?”
“I don’t fancy him or anything,” Isla said defensively. “But he had been kind to me.”
Meredith snorted. “Kindness is not always genuine. That man is a swindler and the Murrays are not bright enough to sense it—no offense. But I think he’s stealing money from them, in a much more indirect way than Milton Craig did. Speaking of the Craigs…” she pointed to the letter Isla still held in both hands. “Jack seems to have taken a fancy to you if he left you with that. Surprising, since that man always kept to himself…”
“I gotta get back to the manor,” Isla said, quickly standing up. She was about to leave when she stopped and turned back around to face the older woman.
“How well do ye ken Jackson Craig?” she asked the woman.
“Well enough to know that he’s a good man,” she finally said.
“What makes you say that?”
“He is loyal to his family. Being close to my sister, I respect that. And after all that’s happened…” she trailed off, and gave a noncommittal shrug.
“Go on,” Isla pressed.
“Well, there’s some questionable things in Jack’s past. And I probably shouldn’t be the one to bring it up,” she told her. “Maybe you should ask him about it yourself, if you ever get the chance.”
I have killed someone. The memories of his words sent a chill down her spine. Was that what Meredith was alluding to? How much did the other woman know?
“Do ye ken Jack’s brother?” Isla asked the woman.
She shrugged. “Yes, I’ve met him once or twice. I’ve only worked for the Murrays for about eight months now, and for most of that time Milton Craig had been away on business in Canada. He is sharp as a tack, that Milton, which I think he took advantage of. Jack was seen as slow and took over more physical jobs like building these pens and acting as a sort of bodyguard for the Murrays. He traveled on business with his brother for a while until the Murrays decided that he would be of better use closer to their home. They seemed to want him close after what happened to Miss Claire.”
“Miss Claire?”
Meredith mouth dropped open. “You mean, the Murrays haven’t told you about her?”
Without even knowing the story, Isla clenched her jaw and she shook her head slowly.
“It was just before I arrived, maybe not even a week. The Murray’s little girl, Claire, wandered down towards the creek, as Mrs. Murray was talking to one of the servants outside.”
“Wait,” Isla whispered, her voice shaking. “Are ye telling me I had a sister?”
Meredith nodded slowly, “I’m sorry,” she said.
Isla shook her head. “Continue,” she said briskly, although her heart was seized with a frosty anger.
“From what I heard, Jackson Craig happened to be at the estate that day with his brother. He heard Mrs. Murray’s cries and they both ran over to her to see what had happened. I guess Claire wandered off without her mother knowing and went down by the river. Jack found the poor child in the water, clinging on to a rock for dear life. He jumped in and plucked her out before the river took her. She would have survived if she hadn’t died from pneumonia a week later. I-I’m sorry, Isla.”
“I didn’t ken her but two minutes ago,” Isla said tightly. “I’m not grieving.” Yet inwardly, her heart was tearing in half. Why didn’t her parents—or Jack—tell her about this girl? Perhaps Jack thought it would be better if her parents were the ones who told her, but what was her parents’ excuse?
“Y-you’re not going to tell the Murrays that I told you this, are you?” Meredith asked nervously.
Isla shook her head. “Of course not, Meredith. We’re friends.” She gave the woman a reassuring squeeze on her arm. “But I am going to have a word with my mother about why she didn’t tell me.” She quickly thanked Meredith for their chat and left to go find her parents.
Her mother was in the parlor painting a still life of a bowl of fruit catching the afternoon sun. She stared at the older woman for a moment, trying to pinpoint their similarities. Did Isla stick her tongue out when she was in deep concentration like her mother was now doing? One thing was for certain, Isla despised painting.
Mrs. Murray finally detected another presence in the room and turned around. “Darling,” she said pleasantly. “Come, sit. I have an extra set of paints if you would like to join me.”
Isla c
ould think of about a thousand other things she would rather do than stare at a bowl of fruit for hours while trying to conceptualize shapes and colors.
“No, thank you,” she said to her mother, but she did sit down. “I actually wanted to ask ye some questions.” It was a struggle to keep her voice level. She was angry, devastated, and heartbroken.
“What is it, Isla?”
“I heard about Claire,” she began.
Mrs. Murray’s paintbrush halted mid-stroke. “Who told you?” she asked evenly, although her hand was shaking.
“It doesn’t matter,” Isla said, her throat catching on her words. “Why did ye not tell me?”
Her mother sighed and set her paintbrush down. When she turned back around there were tears glistening in her eyes. “Because I don’t like thinking about it!”
“She was my sister! Don’t you think I should at least ken about her?”
“No!” Mrs. Murray snapped. She opened her mouth, as though shocked by her outburst. “No,” she repeated, quieter this time. “The doctors had told me I was too old to conceive. She had been a miracle. She wasn’t supposed to leave my sight. I got distracted just for a minute. Claire… She was only four years old.”
Without thinking she reached out to clasp her mother’s hand. The woman seemed surprised by the gesture but she relaxed her hand and allowed the small bit of comfort.
“Someday, I want you to tell me all about her,” Isla told her. Mrs. Murray nodded in response, rubbing her eyes with her sleeves like a small girl.
A few minutes later she left her mother to her painting and her grief, and went out to a private area to read the letter Jack had left for her. She broke the seal and opened the envelope. Old paper spilled out of it, and she immediately recognized that it was from Jack’s leather journal. She looked at the date at the top. It was written just a few days before they had departed London:
She hated me then, what would make me think she wouldn’t hate me now if I told her who I really am? I thought I wasn’t going to tell her for my brother’s sake, but I think it’s really because I am still in love with her, and I would hate to hurt her again. I used to think I had a better understanding of what love really is, now that I’m older. Sometimes, though, I still feel like that twelve-year-old boy, fumbling through life.
“You idiot,” Isla whispered to the letter, tears forming in her eyes. She stuffed the letter into her bodice, as close to her heart as she could. Her parents had told her that Jack’s brother died after he had escaped from jail, but with as many secrets that she had already been exposed to, was she being told the full truth? Or was there something more to the story that they were keeping from her?
A part of her wanted to chase after Jack even though he was most likely already on a ship somewhere in the Atlantic by now. Would she want him chasing after her, if their roles had changed, or would she want him to respect her wishes to be left alone? After all, he never wished for them to be together, despite what happened on the ship.
Isla thought about this long into the day before going over to Golden’s cage to brush her fur with a horse brush she had found in the stables. Gregory had met her in the stables and had given her Golden’s key for the evening. After Golden’s fur was shimmering and smooth, she then checked the cat’s teeth and her eyes, all seemed healthy.
Afterwards, she sat in the grass as Golden stretched out in the sunshine. Would Golden be happy being in front of a crowd and jumping through loops of fire? What else could Isla do for her, though? She could hardly release the lion into the wild. Golden was too domesticated, and wouldn’t know how to hunt for herself. Her best option was to stay where she was, or find a way to take her to the Davies’ animal sanctuary without the Murrays knowing—which Isla knew wasn’t possible.
The next day the troupe headed into Philadelphia with a few animals from the Murray’s menagerie for an impromptu street performance. Meredith was in charge of handling the tropical birds, which were now nestled against her in one of the carriages, and Isla sat in a wagon that pulled Golden’s crate from behind. She sat next to the sword-swallower, Harry, a man from London came from a long line of street performers. He was touring America when he came across the Murray’s advertisements in Philadelphia calling for human wonders and decided to join the troupe.
“How long have you been performing?” Harry asked as they bounced along the road towards the city. Isla kept glancing behind her to make sure the cage was still attached whenever the wheels hit a big divot in the road.
“Och,” Isla answered. “About five or so years. But I was a pugilist in London during those years. Not a lion tamer.” The phrase still seemed odd to say. She didn’t tame Golden to do anything.
“Incredible,” the man responded. “I’ve never seen a female pugilist. I must’ve missed you while I was in London last. Why, then, are you not fighting?”
“Well, the Murrays decided people would be more interested in what I can do with Golden,” again, she glanced behind her at the cat. Golden seemed slightly perturbed by the rattling of her cage. Calm, she said quietly to the cat. Golden made eye contact with her and settled down.
“It is very impressive,” Harry commented. “I’ve watched you practice with her from time to time. Do you miss fighting, though?”
She thought about it for a moment. Did she miss getting hit in the face every weekend and constantly sporting black and blue eyes? She supposed it served her for a time, but now she was beginning to realize that she didn’t need to win fights to prove that she was strong. She had a brief memory of standing over Mark on the packet ship with her boot pressed against his neck, her anger coursing through her veins—anger at him, and anger and grief for all that had happened in her life. Yes, the man was a wee maggot, but the thought of being so close to killing someone made her feel sick to her stomach. She had seen how Jack reacted whenever he mentioned that he killed before. It made him ill as well.
“No,” she told him. “I don’t miss it.”
The troupe’s first performance was at an outdoor venue on the streets of Philadelphia. A crowd of about fifty people circle around them during their show. People were impressed by the exotic birds, mystified by the sword-swallowing man, and absolutely afraid of Isla.
It wasn’t the type of fear that would get people running. But she could still smell it in their sweat as they stared, wide eyed as Golden stood on her hind legs, waving her big paws at her handler. Golden then rested her paws on Isla’s shoulders as they began their waltz. As the crowd clapped and whistled, Isla could sense the sudden tenseness in Golden’s body.
You’re happy, right? she asked the lion as they continued their quasi-dance. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to feel Golden’s response as she would with the fairies in Scotland whenever she put her hand on one of the ancient standing stones that overlooked Ciarach. No words came to her, but a steady and strong warmth covered her entire body, comforting her. Her eyes flashed opened and she was staring into the feline amber orbs of Golden’s own eyes, witnessing the raw power the lion held.
Was this how I imagined myself being, a street performer? she thought. The thing of it was, she didn’t know what she wanted. She admitted that she was disappointed by her parents, who weren’t the loving family she had left back in Britain. But she couldn’t admit defeat now. She had to prove to herself and to whoever was watching that she had her life under control, and that her decision to go to America had not been in vain.
After the song was over she and the lion bowed to each other, which wasn’t a trick she ever taught Golden, but something that seemed to happen on its own. The crowd broke into louder applause that Isla suspected was from sheer relief that nobody had been mauled.
After the show, Isla was inside Golden’s cage, brushing the cat’s tawny fur. She heard footsteps approach and looked up to see Gregory watching her quietly from the outside.
Isla put the brush down and hopped out of the cage. “How did I do?” she asked him eagerly.
&nb
sp; Gregory clapped her on the shoulder, a very strange and familiar thing for someone she hardly knew, but she shrugged it off. Men tended to treat her with familiarity because of her lifestyle choices. On one hand she liked being treated as an equal to them. On the other hand she also liked being treated with a bit of respect.
“The city is going to be talking about it for days!” he exclaimed, giving Golden an appreciative look.
Isla beamed up at him. “Ye think so?” she asked, bristling with pride.
“I know so.” He smiled and nodded at Harry as the other man walked by with a tankard of beer the local patrons had served him as a tip.
“I have some ideas to really make the crowd go wild,” Gregory continued, as he and Isla walked over to where the beer was being handed out to the troupe. “If we really want the crowd to return night after night, we need to make everything much more spectacular.”
“What do ye mean?” Isla asked “Isn’t Golden spectacular enough?”
Gregory reached out to twirl Isla’s red hair between his fingers. His sensuous mouth curved upward into a smile. Isla shivered and then grounded herself, remembering that she could give this man a clean uppercut to his jaw if he took advantage of her. Yet, strangely, her body ached for the intimate touch. She bit the inside of her lip and steeled herself.
“I was thinking of adding fire to the show.”
“Fire?” she repeated hoarsely once she realized what he had said.
“Do you think Golden would be able to jump through a ring of fire?”
“I-I dunno…”
“Of course, you would practice first using regular rings,” Gregory went on, either oblivious to her hesitation or blatantly ignoring it. “The crowd will love the spectacle, just as they will love you!”
She imagined the audience’s reaction to such a show and found herself bubbling with excitement. Gregory must ken that I love showing off, she thought sardonically.