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

by Laing, Annette

  Now, Alex felt very alone, and very anxious. The closest he had ever come to an ocean voyage was a ride on a small boat across the San Francisco Bay. That hardly counted. How would he manage for several weeks on the Atlantic Ocean? And it worried him that he was leaving America. Didn’t that put him farther away from home? Worse, he was expecting Mr. MacGregor as a travel companion.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said a voice beside him. “But it’s all right. You’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing. I should know, because I’m an historian.”

  The Professor, holding a small bag, looked ready to board the steamer. “I’m going with you,” she explained. “I’m rather curious about it, actually. I’ve never been on an early steamship before. Would you like some seasickness pills?”

  “Yes, please!” Alex held out his hand, and she deposited two modern white tablets into his palm. He put them in his pocket.

  “I’m Miss Davies, by the way,” she said. “At least for the duration of this voyage.”

  Just then, Alex saw Mr. Thornhill striding toward them and, trailing uncertainly behind him, Jupe, who did not look happy.

  Mr. Thornhill tipped his hat to the Professor, who nodded demurely, like a proper Victorian lady. Then, quietly and firmly, he said, “Jupe, get on board.”

  Jupe did as he was told, and reluctantly walked up the gangplank.

  Alex was astonished. “But Mr. Thornhill, Jupe isn’t…” At once, both Mr. Thornhill and the Professor shushed him. A startled Mr. Thornhill looked at the Professor in confusion. She ignored the look, and, without another word, lifted her skirts, and followed after Jupe.

  “In time, I will tell you what is taking place,” Mr. Thornhill whispered to Alex. “For now, say nothing.”

  Alex soon found the Professor standing on deck at the railing. “This is a modern, up-to-date ship in 1851,” she told him. “Don’t worry: Steam ships have been crossing the Atlantic since the SS Savannah left here for England in 1813. The ships almost never sink.”

  “Almost?” Alex was wide-eyed.

  “Almost,” repeated the Professor firmly. “Nothing is perfect. If it were, we would have invented uncrashable planes. And do you remember the only ship that was ever described as unsinkable?”

  “You mean the Titanic?”

  “Exactly.”

  Alex shuddered. Suddenly, he remembered the calculator, and began to rummage around in his pockets. “Look, do you want your calculator now? I don’t need it anymore. The only problem is that Mr. Thornhill kind of… broke it.”

  The Professor looked intrigued. “How did he manage that?”

  Alex told her, and as he finished the story, she looked strangely pleased. “Well,” she said with a smile, “that’s all right then. No, Alex, you keep the calculator for now, please. I don’t think I’m supposed to have it just yet….” There was a great groan as the massive steam engines fired up. “Gosh, it looks like we’re almost ready to get going. I think I had better hurry.”

  That was the last time Alex saw her on the voyage. A couple of hours after they set sail, the ship began to pitch back and forth, up and down. It was then that Alex realized he had lost his seasickness pills. He searched the ship for “Miss Davies,” but he could find her nowhere. When he asked an officer for help, he was told that no such person was listed as a passenger.

  By the end of the first day, Alex felt very confident that he was going to survive the voyage without getting sick. He spent his time walking on deck, and reading in the gentlemen’s lounge. He felt sorry for Jupe, who was stuck on the third-class deck, clutching his stomach and groaning. Alex visited him, but it was really nasty: Passengers in third-class bunked in a large dormitory, and lots of people were throwing up. The smell was atrocious, and Alex didn’t linger. He couldn’t help feeling a bit smug when he saw what bad shape his friend was in: Obviously, he thought, Jupe lacked his own superior seamanship.

  On the second day, the storm struck. The ship was tossed about on the Atlantic, violently pitching and rolling, and sending anything that wasn’t nailed down hurtling and crashing around the decks. Alex did not feel well. Not at all. He retreated to his cabin, where he clutched a bucket to his chest, and wished for death. And that was pretty much how he stayed for the next two days.

  On the fifth day, sitting in the gentlemen’s lounge, Alex allowed himself to think he might, possibly, survive the journey. If only he could have the lounge to himself, without the tobacco-chewing American men, who spat long streams of revolting black liquid into spittoons, and the cigar-smoking British men, who filled the lounge with a vile-smelling fog. He was feeling up to some company, but Mr. Thornhill, as usual, was playing cards with a group of other gentlemen. He wondered how Jupe was doing. Finally, he decided to brave the third-class cabin to find out.

  Things had calmed down in third class, but it still smelled dreadful, despite the sailors’ best efforts with mops and vinegar. However, Jupe was definitely feeling better, so Alex invited him to come walk with him on the deck.

  The ocean roared loudly as the ship plowed along, and the boys silently watched the waves wash by, as the mighty paddle wheels churned. Then they ran to the ship’s stern, and Jupe pointed to the seagulls that were flying in their wake. “You think those birds followed us from Savannah?”

  “Maybe,” said Alex.

  There was a pause. Then Jupe said, “Wonder if I’ll ever see Mama and Daddy again?”

  Alex didn’t know what to say, and there was a brief silence. Then he changed the subject, asking Jupe the question he had been dying to ask ever since they had boarded: “Why did Mr. Thornhill bring you along? I mean, I’m glad he did, but he won’t tell me why. And why is it all so secret?”

  Jupe looked at him coyly. “You really don’t know?”

  “No.” Alex shook his head.

  “You promise to say nothing about it to nobody?”

  Alex nodded.

  “He set me free,” Jupe said.

  Alex gawped. “Wow!”

  Jupe smiled. “He explained it to me. He say that when we arrive in England, I’m free, and I stay free until I die, unless I go back to Georgia. He even found me a job.”

  Alex was amazed by this revelation. Mr. Thornhill had never shown the slightest interest in freeing any slaves, much less Jupe. He suddenly felt a warm rush of gratitude and affection for his boss, tempered only by the uncomfortable realization that he really didn’t know him that well. Why had Mr. Thornhill freed Jupe? He hadn’t said, and Alex knew that it would not be a good idea to ask him. Jupe, if he knew the answer, wasn’t saying.

  Jupe had his own worries: He couldn’t imagine what England was like, but he knew from Mr. Thornhill that the ocean between Savannah and London was vast beyond imagination. He knew very little about his future, except that he had paid work waiting for him. What that work was, however, remained a mystery.

  ****

  On the Great North Road out of London, the traffic was very heavy or, at least, that’s what the coachdriver told Brandon. Brandon thought the horse-drawn traffic was nothing compared to the crush of automobiles, trucks, and buses that ran through modern England. However, the trip from London to the northern part of the neighboring county of Hertfordshire was a much longer journey in 1851 than it would be in the twenty-first century. Brandon sat with the driver and watched the fields roll by, thinking to himself that he was in the nineteenth century equivalent of a car. He wondered if “car” was short for “carriage.” In the late evening, after a long ride, the carriage turned off the Great North Road. It bumped along a rutted track through woods and fields. Brandon wondered where Balesworth had gone, but the driver told him that Balesworth Hall was several miles south-west of the town.

  When Brandon finally caught sight of his new home, he was impressed. It was the largest house he had ever seen, apart from Windsor Castle. A grand but simple rectangle, it was surrounded by a huge park of vast lawns and long avenues of trees. The house and the park were reserved for the
exclusive use of Lady Chatsfield and her family.

  A butler rushed out to greet the carriage as it trundled up the mile-long driveway. After he helped out Lady Chatsfield, she swept into the house with Flora the maid trotting behind her. Brandon found himself standing awkwardly next to the carriage, wondering just what he was supposed to do next.

  The butler, a small thin man with thick black hair, beckoned impatiently to him. Brandon thought he was being invited to follow Lady Chatsfield into the house, but when he moved toward the grand doorway, the butler stopped him with a hand to his chest.

  “You are Brandon, yes? I am Mr. Veeriswamy, the butler.” He had a slight Indian accent. “Lady Chatsfield informs me that you have no training as a footman, but I shall see what can be done with you.” He looked over Brandon’s shoulder and called to the carriage driver, “Roberts!”

  “Yes, Mr. Veeriswamy?” replied Roberts.

  “Show Brandon to the servants’ entrance at once, if you please. Brandon, wait for me in the servants’ hall, and I shall talk with you as soon as I have attended to Her Ladyship.”

  As he relaxed in the butler’s sitting room, Brandon smiled to himself. He remembered meeting Mr. Veeriswamy’s blond descendant, the ticket inspector, on the train to Balesworth. The 1851 Mr. Veeriswamy turned out to be as chatty as his great-great-great-great-grandson. Brandon asked him about the history of the house, and Mr. Veeriswamy, pleasantly surprised by his interest, told him the astounding news that only a few years earlier, it had been four times the size. He drew a sketch to illustrate. “It was a square building arranged around a courtyard, you see. Three wings of the house were torn down, and the fourth changed most drastically. But it had to be done. The house was simply too large for old Lord Chatsfield.”

  “So there’s a new Lord Chatsfield ?” asked Brandon. Mr. Veeriswamy looked uncomfortable, and an awkward silence fell between them.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Brandon. “Is he dead? Are they divorced?”

  Mr. Veeriswamy looked shocked. “No, no, no, no. The family’s affairs are hardly the business of our new junior footman. You are clearly intelligent and well-educated, but you must know your place, Brandon. Now, as to terms… You will receive twelve pounds each year, your board, and supplies of tea and sugar. You must purchase your own candles and soap, since it is not our custom in this house to provide those. I will of course also deduct from your wages the cost of your uniform. Come with me, and we shall begin your training in the kitchen. Have you polished silver before?”

  Brandon had never polished silver before, but by the following morning, he was becoming an expert. His right arm ached, the nauseating ammonia smell of the polish lingered in his nostrils, and the skin on his hands felt tight and dry. The red polish wouldn’t budge from under his fingernails. He had blistered his right thumb and forefinger, and pronged his hand on a fork hard enough to draw blood. And he was only halfway done. He sighed heavily as he saw the mountain of knives, forks, spoons and serving plates he still had to do.

  When Brandon asked Mr. Veeriswamy if he could take a break, the butler told him bluntly that he must go on with the job, and assured him that his hands would become tougher over time. Great, thought Brandon, but how much would he suffer meanwhile?

  He was just starting on a large tablespoon when he heard a sharp rap on the kitchen door. A small boy peered through the window, cupping his hands around his face so he could see inside. Brandon wiped his hands on his apron, and was just rising to open the door, when Mrs. Watson, the cook, got there first.

  Speaking to Mrs. Watson, the boy pointed to Brandon. “Who’s this?”

  “That’s the new footman,” Mrs. Watson said.

  Brandon was irked that the boy had not spoken directly to him. “My name’s Brandon,” he said curtly.

  He was about to ask the boy for his name, when the boy asked, “Are you related to Mr. Veeriswamy?”

  Brandon looked at him warily. “No. Why do you think that?”

  “Because you’re both brown,” said the boy. Brandon shook his head. He was really tired of Brits in the past who went on and on about his skin color, and he wasn’t all that interested in talking to this kid anyway. He didn’t bother to ask the boy’s name, but the boy sat waiting for him to ask, and finally said, “I’m Henry. Mrs. Watson’s my mother.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Brandon noncommittally, without looking at Henry. But he was thinking how strange it was that the boy sounded much posher than his mother, who spoke with a Hertfordshire accent. And that name… Henry Watson. Why did that name seem familiar? He tried to remember, but it wouldn’t come to him. So he gave up, and carried on polishing silver.

  Henry was undeterred. “Can you read?” he asked suddenly.

  “Well, yeah,” said Brandon huffily.

  Henry grinned. “You should see the library here. It’s extraordinary.”

  “I’ve been to a library tons of times,” said Brandon grudgingly. “And anyway, I’ve already been to the one in Balesworth.” He didn’t mention that his public library visits had taken place in 1915.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Henry, puzzled. “I had no idea anyone else in Balesworth kept a library. I’m talking about Lady Chatsfield’s library, here, in Balesworth Hall. Her Ladyship said I can use it.”

  Brandon looked at him with new interest. “She has her own library? That’s cool. Can you show it to me? I need something to read.”

  Now Henry looked very pleased with himself. “No, you’re not allowed. I got permission especially. Just me.”

  Brandon was already fed up with this kid. He returned his attention to the silver spoon. “Look, I’m kind of busy right now, okay?”

  “All right,” said Henry, sliding off his chair. He said it, Brandon thought, like Hannah said “Whatever.” He went running up the servants’ staircase.

  As soon as Henry left, Brandon remembered. Henry Watson… Of course! The writer! Verity and Eric had mentioned him. But why? Was it important? He furrowed his brow, but nothing would come to him. That conversation seemed so long ago. Perhaps if he talked to Henry, he would find out. On impulse, he threw down his polishing cloth, tore off his apron, and followed the sound of the boy’s footsteps.

  Brandon caught up with Henry in the massive library, where he was already plucking a book from a shelf, while balancing precariously on a tall ladder. When Brandon entered, Henry hissed at him, “What are you doing? I told you, you’re not allowed in here.”

  “Oh, drop the attitude,” Brandon said, scowling. “I just have some questions for you.”

  Henry climbed down. “Don’t blame me if you are caught in here and lose your position. I won’t defend you.”

  Brandon wanted to punch him. Instead, he said, “So, tell me about yourself.”

  Henry preened. He liked talking about himself. “I am Mrs. Watson’s son, as I told you, but Her Ladyship has taken a particular interest in my education, and she intends to obtain a place for me at the East India College when I am older, and then I shall be an officer in the East India Company. Lady Chatsfield’s father was an officer with the East India Company, you see, and he brought Mr. Veeriswamy back to England with him.”

  Brandon had no idea what Henry was talking about. He was more interested in figuring out what he was supposed to remember about this obnoxious boy. But Henry had moved on to talk about his favorite subject, apart from himself: The Chatsfield family. Brandon wasn’t especially interested in family history, and at first he tuned Henry out. As he chattered on, Henry settled himself in a comfortable chair, and began to swing his legs as he talked. “You know, Lady Chatsfield only took possession of Balesworth Hall this year.”

  Now he had Brandon’s attention. Henry eagerly seized on his interest, and explained, “She arrived with only her daughter Sarah, and Mr. Veeriswamy. And then she dismissed most of the servants who were already here. Luckily, Mother was kept on, because she’s the best cook in Hertfordshire.” He added, in a conspiratorial whispe
r, “The rumor is that they had to sack so many servants because the estate isn’t paying very well. Lady Chatsfield doesn’t know how to manage it.”

  Brandon was puzzled. “What do you mean by ‘the estate’? Like the land and the farming and stuff?”

  Henry nodded.

  Brandon asked carefully, “So where’s Lord Chatsfield in all of this?”

  Henry was not as discreet as Mr. Veeriswamy. “Oh, he’s not here. He never expected to be Viscount Lord Chatsfield, you see, because his elder brother inherited the title and the estate. That’s called primogeniture, which I wouldn’t expect you to understand. I read about it in a law book. It means that the oldest son inherits everything, and the younger sons have to find their own careers. But old Lord Chatsfield’s eldest son died without leaving children, and then the middle brother died without children too, so Lady Chatsfield’s husband, the youngest brother, is now the heir.”

  Brandon found this confusing. But now Henry told him something that made his ears perk up. “I don’t think anyone approves of the new Lord Chatsfield, not even his own wife. He left her years and years ago to go abroad and he took two of their children with him. Mr. Veeriswamy told my mother that both of their sons have since died, and that Lady Chatsfield has been unable to contact her husband to tell him that he is the new Viscount.”

  At that moment, the huge door to the library creaked open, and in walked a young girl in a blue dress. She was shocked to see Brandon, and she immediately turned to Henry for an explanation. “Henry, who is this?”

  Brandon decided to answer on his own behalf. “I’m Brandon. I work here. Who are you?”

  She looked at him coldly, and somehow she seemed very familiar, except that she had the most exotic look, as though she were a gypsy. Once again, he found himself struggling to remember something…