As everyone assembled for the short procession to the Anglican Chapel, Brandon caught Lady Chatsfield looking him up and down. When he returned her gaze, she didn’t avert her eyes as he had expected, but instead stared back at him. Then she pulled a veil over her face. Now a second veiled woman joined the procession, and Brandon saw Mr. Spencer shaking his head in bewilderment.
They made their way through the spacious park-like cemetery, past some of the grandest gravestones Brandon had ever seen. Among them were obelisks, as well as a mausoleum that looked like an enormous drinking fountain. Most eye-catching of all was an elaborate grave marker with Greek columns, angels… and were those Egyptian sphinxes at the base? Good grief.
The second veiled woman saw Brandon’s astonishment, and whispered to him, “That was built for Andrew Ducrow. He owned a circus. A bit over the top isn’t it? It cost him three thousand pounds.”
“You!” Brandon yelped in surprise. Mr. Spencer, walking behind, cringed at his outburst, and Mr. Perkins glowered.
The Professor didn’t spot the outrage she had provoked. She ploughed on, whispering to Brandon, “Yes, this is the fashionable place to be buried, ever since the Duke of Sussex chose to be interred here seven years ago. Now anyone who is anyone wants to be buried at Kensal Green. Much nicer than having your remains crammed into one of London’s overcrowded burial grounds, which are, honestly, revolting.” She added, mysteriously, “Of course, Mrs. Wentworth is being buried in the catacombs.”
As the funeral party processed up the steps of the Anglican Chapel, the Professor fell back to walk alongside Lady Chatsfield, who asked her, “Do I know you?”
“Not yet,” said the Professor. Before Lady Chatsfield could ask more questions, they entered the hushed, dark chapel. The Professor took a pew in the back while Lady Chatsfield continued down the aisle to the front row. As they reached the chapel porch, Mr. Spencer and Brandon detoured sharply left, and down a narrow spiral stairway into the catacombs.
The basement catacombs were gloomy, dank, and smelly. Narrow coffins were untidily stacked at odd angles on shelves along both sides of the narrow brick passageways. Some coffins lay in tiny open rooms, guarded behind metal bars, as though zombies or vampires might otherwise escape from them. Cobwebs and dust shrouded everything, and the only light that pierced the eerie gloom filtered through air shafts at the ends of each passageway. Brandon almost tripped on the uneven floor. “This is creeping me out,” he said to Mr. Spencer. “It stinks. And what the heck is that?” He pointed to a puddle of black tar oozing from one of the coffins.
“You don’t want to know…” Mr. Spencer muttered ominously. And then he said suspiciously, “I thought you said you have been here before?”
“Yeah, course, sure,” said Brandon, sounding as dishonest as he felt.
They paused in front of a peculiar cast-iron contraption. It was a thick metal pole stretching to the ceiling, loaded with massive gears, and anchored by a large metal turning wheel. “Right then,” said Mr. Spencer. “This is the device, is it?”
“Sure,” Brandon said uncertainly. He didn’t have a clue.
Mr. Spencer nodded glumly. “I told Mr. Perkins that he need not assist us, because you’re familiar with the hydraulic lift engine. I hope you know what you’re doing, lad.”
So do I, Brandon thought, mentally crossing his fingers.
Now a knock echoed from the ceiling, as someone rapped on the chapel floor above. “That’s our signal,” said Mr. Spencer. “On you go.”
“What?” Brandon felt the first stirrings of utter panic.
Mr. Spencer stared at him in disbelief. “Lower the coffin, boy! Hurry!”
Brandon shook his head in bewilderment, then grabbed the turning wheel, and pushed on it. Nothing. He tried pulling. Nothing. He pulled harder. Then pushed harder. Still… Nothing. There was another, more urgent knock from the chapel above.
“Here, let me,” cried a frantic Mr. Spencer, who now tried to turn the wheel. He couldn’t shift it either. He let out a long string of curses, many of them directed at Brandon.
Within seconds, footsteps raced down the stairs, and Mr. Perkins appeared with his men, all of them carrying their top hats. “What the devil has happened?” Mr. Perkins raged as he raced toward Brandon and Mr. Spencer. He rapidly glanced over the machine, shoved Brandon out of the way, and reached behind him to pull a lever.
“You never took off the brake!” he said accusingly to Mr. Spencer, who looked absolutely mortified, and began to stammer apologies as he nervously fumbled with his hat. But Mr. Perkins had already started the wheel and turned over the job to the largest of his men, who pulled it as fast as he could. Looking at the top of the metal pole, Brandon watched the coffin begin to descend toward them. Apart from the creaking and grinding of the mechanism, everything was silent as the coffin lowered, until finally, the trap doors in the chapel above closed overhead.
Mr. Perkins was seething, and he rounded on Mr. Spencer. “You, sir, gave me your word that you were capable of operating this machinery. As a professional undertaker, I should have known better than to trust the word of a provincial carpenter with aspirations to grandeur. Kindly leave the premises, Mr. Spencer. My men and I will take charge. Good day to you.” By this time, his assistants had lifted the coffin, and were carrying it to its place in the catacombs.
Stunned, Mr. Spencer and Brandon watched them all disappear around a corner. Uh-oh, Brandon thought, as Mr. Spencer glowered at him. Smoke was practically pouring from his boss’s ears.
“You are dismissed,” the undertaker finally managed to say. “Get out of my sight…”
“But…”
“NOW!”
Brandon ran for his life.
He emerged blinking into the sunlight, just as the funeral service drew to a close, and he leaned against a tree to catch his breath. The Professor was the first mourner to leave the chapel, and she looked enquiringly at him as she approached.
“I got canned!” he gasped, stepping forward to meet her. “I totally screwed up, and Mr. Spencer fired me! I’m such a loser. I can’t believe I told him I could work that contraption. What am I going to do now?”
But before the Professor could answer, Lady Chatsfield interrupted. She had heard the conversation, and she called over to Brandon, “You there. Did you say that you have been released from employment?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Brandon in surprise.
“Then follow me,” she commanded. With that, she turned and walked off in the direction of her carriage, where her maid and coachman were waiting. Brandon looked back questioningly to the Professor, who shrugged her shoulders as though to say “Why not?”
The Professor followed Brandon at a distance, watching with a contented smile as he and Lady Chatsfield held a discussion, at the end of which Brandon rushed back to the Professor. “You won’t believe this, but I got a new job already! It’s totally unreal. And you will never guess where it is.”
The Professor was not surprised. “Try me. I would guess that Lady Chatsfield is interested in hiring you, and she’s prepared to overlook the fact that you just got fired, especially because you so charmingly explained that it was based on a misunderstanding. And she lives in Balesworth Hall.”
Brandon’s face fell. “How did you know all that?”
The Professor simply smiled back. “Well done, Brandon. Now, off you go with your new mistress, and get settled in. The others should be joining you shortly, with a bit of luck.”
This got Brandon’s attention. “The others?” he squeaked. “You mean Hannah and Alex?”
Again, she smiled, but said nothing. She lowered her veil over her face, and walked briskly in the opposite direction. Brandon contemplated following her, before deciding that it would probably be best not to miss his ride to Balesworth in Lady Chatsfield’s coach.
As he climbed aboard, the maid moved aside to let him sit down. “Hello,” she said. “What’s your name? I’m Flora.” Brandon had the oddest feelin
g that they had met before.
****
Mr. Thornhill hung his hat on the hat stand, then tugged a sheaf of papers from his coat pocket, and flourished them in the air. “Alexander, I have made the arrangements. Here are three tickets for London via transatlantic steamboat, arriving in late April.”
“So is Mr. Baird coming with us?” Alex asked.
Mr. Thornhill shook his head. “As I told you, Baird’s staying here to mind the business. The third ticket is for an acquaintance.”
Alex’s heart sank. Surely he wouldn’t have to share the entire journey with the awful Mr. MacGregor? He dropped lots of hints, but Mr. Thornhill refused to tell him who the third passenger was.
The cook was still in jail, and so Alex and Mr. Thornhill dined once again in a local tavern. Shortly after their return, they were sitting by the parlor fireplace when the Irish maid announced the arrival of Mr. MacGregor. Alex’s alarm only increased when Mr. MacGregor’s first words were, “I think it would be best for us to speak alone, Thornhill.”
Alex had learned from Jupe that if he put his head into the fireplace in their bedroom, he could hear conversations in the drawing room. After discreetly leaving the parlor, he frantically raced upstairs, and stuck his head over the cold grate, just in time to hear Mr. MacGregor say, “I will tell you plainly, Thornhill: I have just had a very interesting meeting with James Gordon, who brought me slaves for auction. Gordon is a planter near Charleston, but he also holds a small plantation out in Snipes County that he inherited some few years ago. He is frequently absent from his Georgia estate. When he returned there recently, his slave driver claimed that one of the slaves, his own son, had drowned in the river. But the description he gave me of the boy fits Day’s manservant perfectly, and I have offered to arrest him. Gordon plans to sell up in Georgia, so, as you may imagine, he’s very grateful for my assistance.”
There was a long silence.
“Well, how very interesting,” said Mr. Thornhill slowly. “James Gordon, you say? And this plantation, would it be Kintyre?”
“It certainly would,” Mr. MacGregor said in surprise. Alex could just imagine his cruel smile.
“I hate to disappoint you, old man, but the slave boy, runaway or no, doesn’t belong to Gordon. Would you care for a whisky?”
There was a pause, and when Mr. MacGregor spoke, he sounded disappointed. “Why, sure I would, but how do you reckon that?”
Mr. Thornhill explained. “Young Jupiter belongs to Kintyre Plantation, and Kintyre Plantation, as it happens, now belongs to me. I won it from Gordon in a poker game, fair and square. Mind you, I am hardly surprised that the wretch would attempt to cheat me by stealing the boy. He didn’t even allow me to sleep in the house after our card game. He just took off in a huff along with his house slaves and locked the door behind him, so I was forced to shift for myself in a ghastly inn in Snipesville. I should have told you all about this episode, MacGregor, but it quite slipped my mind. I am now the master of Kintyre, and all of its field hands. Here… Here’s the deed, countersigned by Gordon…. Go on, look it over.”
Alex held his breath, but there was only silence. He ducked out of the fireplace and left the bedroom to sit on the upstairs landing, waiting until he heard Mr. MacGregor leave by the front door. After a respectable interval, he returned to the drawing room. Mr. Thornhill was sitting by the fireplace, staring into the embers. “Mr. Thornhill? What will become of Jupe?”
Mr. Thornhill gave him a sharp look. “Good God, boy, haven’t you caused enough trouble? Jupe is my property, and I will dispose of him as I see fit.”
Alex didn’t want to anger Mr. Thornhill, but he knew he couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t press his point. “Sir, I didn’t want Jupe to come with me, and I understand what you told me about not speaking on slavery… But please tell me you won’t sell him.”
Mr. Thornhill saw Alex’s distress, and softened slightly. He sighed. “No, I will not sell him. I have other plans for Jupe.”
Alex saw this as an opportunity to try to push further. “You’re a nice guy. How come you got yourself mixed up in buying and selling slaves? I mean, you have a nice house here, with everything you need. You have to be one of the richest men in Savannah. Why do you need any more? Why don’t you free the Kintyre slaves?”
Shocked at what he saw as Alex’s outburst, Mr. Thornhill rose to his feet, and advanced on him, raising his hand as though to hit him. “You insolent little…” But then he suddenly regained control. He dropped his hand, and said coldly, “Alexander Day, I will not debate a mere boy over matters that are not his concern. Go to your room.”
Alex left the parlor with very mixed feelings. He was disgusted with Mr. Thornhill, with Mr. MacGregor, with all these men who got rich off the work and misery of people like Jupe and his family. But he felt very bad about offending Mr. Thornhill, and he wanted to apologize to him. It was all so confusing.
Chapter 10: Hard Times
The morning after Mina’s “creeling” to celebrate her coming marriage, Hannah caught herself humming as she walked to the mill. She could not get the songs she had learned out of her head. And the songs were so desperately uncool. She vowed to herself that she would not bring them back with her to the twenty-first century. Meanwhile, she kept on humming happily. So happily, in fact, that she almost arrived late for work. She had to run to get inside before the factory gates slammed shut, or she would have been forced to take an unpaid day off work.
In her happiness that morning, Hannah forgot about Tam the Deil. From the moment she arrived in the spinning shed, Tam watched her so constantly that she became more and more nervous and unsure of herself. Finally, she tripped as she ran toward some broken threads, and found herself sprawled on the floor.
“Oh, in the name of…” yelled Tam, rushing to her. He picked her up by the arm and shook her. “You’re no much use to anybody, are you? You’re that clumsy. You’ve nothing to say for yourself, eh?”
Hannah flushed red and began to stammer excuses at him. “Th... That’s mean. I just tripped, that’s all. I mean, I have issues and stuff, but I’m doing my best. Why are you picking on m… me?”
He shoved her away, muttering, “Useless, pathetic,” and wiped his hands on his waistcoat as though touching Hannah had made them dirty.
Maggie said to Hannah, “Pay him no heed,” but a couple of the younger girls laughed behind their hands. Hannah dropped her head. She was excruciatingly embarrassed.
As she worked at the spinning frame, she wept uncontrollably, but she continued to try to work, afraid to lose her job. Time passed in a daze, and her stomach was tied in knots.
But Hannah was not alone. Every time Maggie passed her, she asked how she was doing, or made some sympathetic remark. She suggested ideas for revenge on Tam. “I have another notion for what we could do,” Maggie yelled over the noise. “We could tie him to a spindle, and watch him go round and round all day!” Hannah laughed, and felt much better.
Hannah was just gathering threads and giggling to herself over Maggie’s latest joke, when something smashed into her head. Reeling, she dropped to her hands and knees, then collapsed completely, stunned and nauseous. She cried out, but nobody rushed to her aid as she lay on the floor, Hannah tried to gather her wits as her head pounded.
“Get up, you lazy damn wench,” cried a voice that was familiar and yet slurred. “On your feet, I tell you, or I’ll damn you to hell.”
She opened her eyes to find Tam standing unsteadily over her. He was holding a heavy stick. Even as she lay in crippling pain, it dawned on Hannah that Tam had hit her with the stick, and that he was drunk. In horror, she looked at his scowling face, and at the shocked faces of the girls and women behind him.
“Get up, you worthless besom, and do your work,” Tam growled. “Or I’ll see to it that you’re cast out, and you never work in a Dundee mill again. You’re the laziest, most insolent girl in the mill. You’re worthless. Even the other lassies canna stand you.”
As a parting shot, Tam growled, “You disgust me.” He spat on the ground, before staggering away, shouting “On with your work!” at the mill girls, who hastily returned their attention to the spinning frames.
Hannah’s head was pounding, and she was afraid she might throw up. The moment Tam left, Maggie rushed over to her and sat her up, while another girl brought her a cup of water. Within minutes, Mina arrived, brought by one of the spinners who had run to the weaving shed to fetch her. Mina kneeled down, wiped Hannah’s face with a damp rag, and said quietly, “You’re better than him, lass. He’s a wee nyaff.”
Just then, the factory whistle sounded for the noon dinner, and the machines ground to a halt. The spinners gathered round as Mina and Maggie helped Hannah stagger to her feet.
“I’ll fix Tam the Deil,” Mina said ominously, her arm around Hannah’s shoulders.
An older woman, standing with her arms crossed, said to her warningly, “Mind you dinna lose your job, Mina Gordon.”
But Mina would have none of it. “I‘m getting married this week, and then Jack and me are sailing to New York. Tam used to treat me terrible cruel, like all the lassies he took a dislike to. It would be a pleasure to gie him a piece of my mind. He’s skulking around here somewhere, I’m certain. Well, I’ll be back this afternoon, you mark my words. Now, Hannah, you look awfy. Let’s get you home.”
Hours later, Hannah awoke as she heard the door open. She was in bed, buried under several blankets. Her head was pounding. She screwed up her closed eyes in pain, and started to moan softly to herself, through her closed mouth.
Betty, Mem, Janet, and Mary were all laughing about something as they walked in, but Jessie shushed them all. Hannah felt Jessie’s hand touch her forehead. “You’re awake then, lassie?
A Different Day, A Different Destiny (The Snipesville Chronicles) Page 21