A Different Day, A Different Destiny (The Snipesville Chronicles)

by Laing, Annette

  “So how old is the stone tower?” Brandon asked.

  “Not very. That isn’t even the original stone tower. In fact, most of what we see only dates back a few years. Queen Victoria’s uncle did a bunch of remodeling, and remade the place to look more romantic and imposing, like people expect castles to be. But it’s hardly an authentic representation of how the place looked in the Middle Ages.”

  Brandon felt cheated. “Man, I thought I was seeing it exactly like it looked in the Middle Ages.”

  “One thing I have learned from history,” said the Professor, “is that very little if anything is as it first appears… So, how’s life with the Spencers?”

  Brandon was taken aback. How did the Professor know about his new job? “Er, pretty good, I guess, although Mr. and Mrs. Spencer have a kind of funny way of talking. It’s like they’re reading from a script or something.”

  “In a way they are,” said the Professor, “They want to make sure that they fit in with the right people. Things are changing so fast in England in 1851, people are desperately trying to show that they’re educated…Even if they’re not. That’s why Mr. Spencer talks like he ate a thesaurus. He’s hoping to cash in on Victorian England’s obsession with funerals. And, along the way, people like him invent the modern funeral industry of which your family’s a part.”

  “I never thought of it as an industry,” Brandon objected. “More as a community service.”

  The Professor smiled. “Oh, I think you’ve already figured out that Mr. Spencer sees it as more than that. It’s his ticket to wealth and respectability, to a place in the new order of things. He gets to rub shoulders with important people, you see, by burying their dead in style. And everyone needs his services, don’t they?”

  “Maybe even the Queen herself,” laughed Brandon.

  “No. Her Majesty already has her own undertaker to make funeral arrangements, as she will need to do in about ten years.”

  Brandon was startled. “Why?”

  The Professor shook her head. “Oh dear, no, that would be telling. Look it up later. Impressive place the Castle, isn’t it?”

  As they approached a grand stone archway next to the Round Tower, they happened on a gentleman who was carefully carving his name into the stone wall.

  “Hey,” an outraged Brandon whispered to the Professor. “Aren’t you going to tell that guy to stop doing graffiti?”

  “Why would I do that?” she replied blandly. “Nobody else has a problem with it. Of course, I wouldn’t recommend doing the same in the twenty-first century. You’d get arrested.”

  The Professor paused as they reached a large courtyard. “This is where the Royal Family lives. Give me the basket, because I have to go pop into the kitchens with my eggs. Here, take a couple for Mr. Spencer.”

  Brandon carefully lifted two eggs from the basket. “Don’t you have any advice for me? Or news about Hannah and Alex?”

  She said casually, “Oh, Alex and Hannah are fine, I think. I suggest, Brandon, that from here on, you just let life happen, and do what you’re inclined to do. Honestly, I shouldn’t really be annoyed that you left Hitherton, because, apparently, that was what you should have done. Now, your job is just to go with the flow.”

  Brandon was dismayed. “But that’s what you said when I was in 1915! I feel like I’m being totally useless.”

  The Professor patted his shoulder. “Rubbish. You’re not useless. You helped produce coal, didn’t you? Coal is what powers this brave new world of industrial Britain. You helped the coal on its way to London on the canal barge, and so perhaps now, knowing just some of the work that goes into making modern life, you won’t take it for granted, and you’ll encourage others to think about it too…”

  But Brandon was fed up with her lecturing. “Honestly, I just want to go home to Snipesville.”

  She looked at him skeptically. “What, back to a future at the funeral home?”

  “Why not?” Brandon said heatedly. “That’s all I’m doing here, working in a funeral home, just getting by until you let me go.”

  She looked at him sympathetically. “Sometimes, just like this castle, things aren’t exactly as they appear. Good luck on the journey, Brandon.”

  Then she knocked on a door, to be admitted by a male servant in a smart uniform. Brandon was still staring at the closed door when a balding man with dark hair and moustache collided with him. He was almost knocked off his feet, and the rolled documents that the man was carrying fell to the ground.

  “Look where you are going, young man,” the man said sternly. He had a German accent.

  “Sorry, sir,” said Brandon, scrambling to retrieve the rolls of paper, even as he wondered vaguely how the accident could have been his fault when he was standing still, and why the man wasn’t helping him pick up his own stuff. As Brandon lifted one of the rolls, it uncurled slightly, and he noticed that it was titled The Great Exhibition. That sounded very familiar: Everywhere he had been, Brandon had heard a buzz about this event, whatever it was.

  The documents had got a little wet, and Brandon apologized again as he prepared to hand them over. “Sorry, sir,” he said.

  The man irritably corrected him. “Sorry, Your Royal Highness.”

  Brandon was mystified, and repeated the phrase as a question. “Sorry, Your Royal Highness?”

  The man glared at him. “You do not know who I am?”

  Just then, a thought, both dreadful and wonderful, occurred to Brandon. “You’re…You’re not King Albert, are you, sir?”

  The man was even more offended. “Prince Albert, foolish boy,” he said, “I am Prince Albert, the Prince Consort.”

  “I’m sorry,” stammered Brandon, handing the papers to the prince. “I thought you were Queen Victoria’s husband, but I guess she must be your momma.”

  Prince Albert muttered “stupid boy” under his breath, and swept into the building. Brandon knew he had stuck his foot in his mouth, but how?

  And then he heard laughter. The Professor had returned. “Way to go, Brandon. You just insulted Queen Victoria’s husband, and you managed to knock down a bunch of papers about his pet project. Well, at least now I know why some of the documents were in a dreadful state in the archive…”

  Brandon was indignant. “Hey, he bumped into me. Anyway, why’s he called Prince, not King?”

  “Here’s a book,” said the Professor by way of an answer, reaching into her basket and pulling out a slim volume. “Go read it.”

  Brandon inspected the book cover which announced The History of Hertfordshire, by Nathanael Salmon. Even before he opened it, Brandon guessed that the cover bore no relationship to the contents. Sure enough, it contained a very modern history of Victorian Britain written for kids, complete with cartoon illustrations. He tucked the book inside his jacket, and opened his mouth to thank the Professor. But she was already gone.

  ****

  Alex grew to enjoy Mr. Thornhill’s company, and wondered why he had ever doubted him. Mr. Thornhill had a great sense of humor, and his house was amazing. Alex had felt guilty at first about being waited on by so many slaves, but when he went to the kitchen to fetch himself a drink, the cook scolded him for not ringing for a servant. After that, he had begun to enjoy letting other people take care of him. What’s more, the house slaves were friendly, and he convinced himself that their lives weren’t so bad after all.

  He liked working in the office, too. The more he understood about legal work, the more interest he took in it, especially when he got to meet the clients. Most importantly, Mr. Baird and Mr. Thornhill were kindly to him, and there was a constant stream of visitors to enliven their days. In the evenings, Alex sometimes had dinner and played cards with Mr. Thornhill, who even taught him to play poker.

  Jupe, meanwhile, had made friends among the slaves in Mr. Thornhill’s household. He was growing accustomed to life in the city, and, late one Sunday night, he confided to Alex that the sophisticated city-dwelling free people and slaves at his new churc
h had gently teased him for his “country” speech and ways, and made him feel welcome. They also had good advice for him, as he explained. “You know, Alex, some Savannah slaves are hired out by their masters to make money for them. They work as craftsmen, and they get a lot of freedom from their masters. It ain’t easy for them, Lord knows, but it’s better than being on a plantation. Maybe I could do that for you one day.”

  Encouraged by Jupe’s optimism, Alex explained his new take on the slaves in Mr. Thornhill’s household. “You know, I always thought slaves were all miserable and sad. But Mr. Thornhill’s slaves are really happy! And I haven’t seen him whip anyone. I thought slaves were whipped all the time. Maybe slavery’s not that bad.”

  In the long silence in the darkness, it slowly dawned on Alex that he had stuck his foot in his mouth. Majorly.

  Jupe lay in the dark, weighing whether or not it was a good idea to argue with Alex, and finally he decided to go for it. “Alex, it ain’t what it looks like. I promise. Slaves have to smile and laugh with white folks, or white folks make their lives miserable…”

  “But I wouldn’t do that,” Alex protested.

  “No, I don’t believe you would. But most white folks, they don’t hesitate. And so black folks, well, we smile and laugh with you… even when we got nothing to smile about. That’s because if we don’t, you might get mad at us.”

  Alex thought about this. “Huh. I hadn’t thought about that before… What’s everybody afraid of anyway? I mean, like I said, I haven’t seen anybody get whipped.”

  Alex couldn’t see it, but Jupe was shaking his head slowly. “You most likely won’t see it, neither,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t happen every day. It doesn’t have to: When a slave gets whipped, it’s like a warning to the rest of us. Anyhow, you think a fine gentleman like Mr. Thornhill’s gonna get blood on his nice clothes? No, sir. But his slaves get whipped just the same…”

  Jupe was about to explain further when he suddenly recalled that he had something important to tell Alex. “Say, Cook told me something about Massa Thornhill,” he whispered. “His wife died in England, and he brought his boys to Savannah, and they died from fever when they were just young men.”

  Alex was taken aback. “Wow, I didn’t know that. How old were his sons?”

  Jupe shrugged. “I don’t rightly know, but one was about the same age as me, Cook says. The other one was all grown up. He was supposed to go to college in the north, then one day, take over from Massa Thornhill. But both of them died. Cook said how Massa Thornhill has a new wife and family on his plantation south of Savannah, but she doesn’t know nothing about that, on account of she’s not supposed to go meddling in his affairs. She did say he doesn’t go down there to visit them too often anyway. He’s too busy.”

  Alex wasn’t sure he had understood Jupe’s story. If Mr. Thornhill had remarried and had more children, then why didn’t he bring his family to Savannah? Perhaps it was because the city was such an unhealthy place. Mr. Baird had told Alex about the city’s fearful epidemics, including the terrible Yellow Fever outbreak of 1820, which had killed Mr. Baird’s wife and a thousand other people. No wonder Mr. Thornhill wanted to keep his family far away. All the same, Alex thought, it was strange that in all of their conversations at the card table, he had never once mentioned either of his families.

  A sharp rap on the door awoke Alex and Jupe early the next morning. “Begging your pardon, sir,” Ezekiel the butler called through the door. “The master asked me to wake you early, and present yourself for breakfast at the earliest opportunity.” Alex wondered what the occasion was, as he and Jupe struggled into their clothes.

  A bleary-eyed Alex found Mr. Thornhill already at the dining table, wolfing down ham and eggs. A small brown paper package was at Alex’s place. Alex carefully removed the string and unwrapped it, as Jupe, who was serving, craned his neck to see what was inside.

  It was a colorfully-decorated wooden box with holes drilled in the front. The boys looked quizzically at Mr. Thornhill, who was pressing a finger against his lips, watching Alex’s reaction with amusement. “See this,” he said, and he pushed his finger into one of the holes. A light went on in the largest hole, and now Alex recognized the object. It was the Professor’s calculator.

  “What did you do to it?” he said, aghast.

  “Oh, don’t take on so,” tutted Mr.Thornhill, prodding at the calculator buttons through the wooden cover. “The mechanic to whom I took it for examination opened it, and then was unable to replace the cover… and, by the by, he said he could make neither head nor tail of this machine… So I had him convey it to a carpenter who made a cover to my instructions. I think it looks much more pleasing in its new attire, and it will be perfect for the Great Exhibition, where I intend to show it as a curiosity. It is too late to enter it for the catalog, of course, but it will serve as a good conversation piece to draw the attention of men of business.”

  Alex looked blank. What was Mr. Thornhill talking about?

  “Didn’t I mention?” Mr. Thornhill said. “I am sailing to London for The Great Exhibition of the Industry of All Nations. It promises to be quite an event. Apparently, an enormous glass and iron edifice is under construction to house it, and it will be dismantled as soon as the Exhibition ends. Baird will remain here to manage my business, but I’m taking you with me, Day.” Mr. Thornhill reached into his coat pocket, and tossed something to Alex. “Here, take the original cover. Have it as a keepsake until I return the calculating engine to you.”

  Alex tucked the calculator cover into his pocket, and wondered what the Professor would say when she found out. But she could hardly be mad at him under the circumstances. And why, he wondered, did he care what she thought? He hadn’t asked for the responsibility, or, indeed, to be transported to 1851. He briefly considered tossing the cover away. But then he decided it would do no harm to keep it.

  Meanwhile, Mr. Thornhill was happily playing with the calculator. “This really is the most extraordinary thing,” he said. “It might come in useful this afternoon. You may be wondering why I had Ezekiel awaken you so early this morning. We are going to take a look at the estate I have acquired, and we shall take inventory of its contents. It’s some fifty miles from here, so Tom will convey us to the railway station, and we will take the train. It will be a long day, so Cook has prepared food for the journey. We will bring Jupe along to serve us our meals.”

  They left Savannah at 8 a.m., and the journey took all morning and beyond. It was 2 p.m. by the time the train drew up to its eighth stop, and it was here that Mr. Thornhill suddenly stood up and announced that they were disembarking. Alex and Jupe grew nervous when they saw where were getting off: They were in Millen. It was too close to Kintyre Plantation for comfort. They were positively alarmed when they walked out of the station and saw Jupiter waiting for them. As he greeted Mr. Thornhill and loaded up the bags in the wagon, Jupiter avoided looking at the boys, and they, in turn, avoided looking at him. Then Jupe climbed up onto the carriage to sit behind his father, who flinched slightly. Since there were no seats in the wagon, Mr. Thornhill sat in front, next to Jupiter.

  “Massa Thornhill,” Jupiter said. “Everyone at Kintyre is asking me what your plans are, and I say I don’t know. What can I tell them?”

  Mr. Thornhill said impatiently, “I have no idea, Jupiter. They must wait until I have decided whether Kintyre can be made profitable.”

  Jupiter protested, “But it is a profitable plantation, sir, yes, it sure is…” “Perhaps, but that is for me to decide. I cannot make any decisions until I’ve looked over the estate and accounts. As soon as we arrive, assemble the slaves in front of the house.”

  It took the carriage another three hours to reach Kintyre Plantation. Halfway, they stopped briefly for a picnic by the roadside. Jupiter and Jupe pretended not to know each other as they ate biscuits and ham some distance away from Mr. Thornhill and Alex, for whom Jupe had set out a lavish cold meal of ham, biscuits, cheeses, fruit, and cake.<
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  On his first visit to Kintyre, Alex had not seen the house, and he was shocked that it was a very plain two-story farmhouse. He had imagined that a plantation would have a mansion with tall classical columns, and be painted all in white, kind of like the White House. But this house was small, and it was painted a robin’s egg blue.

  “Aren’t you surprised it’s so teeny-tiny?” he blurted out to Mr.Thornhill as they walked up the steps to the porch.

  “Not in the least,” said Thornhill. “In Virginia, perhaps, or even Charleston, I might have expected more, but not in Georgia, and especially not in Snipes County. This land is poor, Day. The soil is mostly good for pine trees. Nobody makes a handsome profit here. It barely makes enough to support a man who owns slaves.”

  Thornhill pushed open the door, and Alex followed him. Jupe remained outside.

  The front parlor and dining room were furnished, to Alex’s surprise. “Why did the last owner leave his furniture? I didn’t think that was part of the deal.”

  Mr. Thornhill raised an eyebrow. “It wasn’t. House, land, and field hands,” said Mr. Thornhill, looking down at the dining table and running a finger across it. “That was all I won. But the former owner has another house in South Carolina, and I understand it’s much larger than this. I suppose he didn’t need the furniture, and didn’t have time to sell it before I took possession, so it is mine now… Except that I’m not sure that I want it. Come along, and let us see if he left his account books. He told me that he would.”

  “So you won the plantation in an auction?” Alex asked, as Mr. Thornhill rummaged through the drawers of the tall desk they found in a back room.

  “Hmm? An auction?” Mr. Thornhill was now leafing through a leatherbound book. “No, no,” he said distractedly. “I won it in a poker game, sitting at that very table in the dining room. I rather think young Gordon had had a few too many whiskies, but he should have known better than to wager such an enormous prize on a game of cards.”