“Mam. Sir,” I say genially, tipping my hat, weaving my way past townsfolk, my eyes fixated on the poster. With a sideways glance, I snatch it from the window, fold it and stuff it into my waistcoat pocket.
Hurrying back to the team, my breath is coming hard and fast as I slide into the driver’s bench.
As each fold opens, dread seeps thicker and thicker into my mouth.
Have you seen this woman?
Missing. Miss Katherine Manners, Cellist and Musical Prodigy.
Miss Manners was last seen performing in the state of South Carolina.
Reward via Lord Lawrence Manners for her safe return to her loving family.
Contact local authorities with any information.
Unmistakable doe-brown eyes stare back.
Allegra’s eyes, from beneath an elaborate hairstyle of upswept strawberry-blonde locks.
Her fingers tightly clutch the neck of a cello, a sad smile on her wide, full lips.
I dab my forehead as the light sheen of sweat breaks out.
I scan the whole street, fervently searching for more pamphlets.
* * *
Allegra
“Alright Tom. You practice now. I shall see you later so that you may assist me.”
The boy’s wide smile is infectious.
“Of course. Thank you so much, mam.”
He steps out of my cottage and onto the thoroughfare, heading back towards the hustle and bustle of Charleston’s Fancy.
The nod and tip of his hat is so utterly adult. The orphan boy has stolen my heart completely.
He turns to go, and I bite the inside of my lip. Did his limp seem less pronounced today?
That was impossible. Club feet did not mend. The cry of a gull shifts my attention to the sea.
Tom, too, is a slave to the park. Silas recently began ‘taking in strays’ as he called them. Seeming to altruistically adopt orphans, providing them room and board—but I have seen how he works them. I swallow the disgust thickening my throat.
The morning is clear and bright; the white clouds a fluffy contrast against the baby-blue sky. The breeze puffs in off the bay like hot, salty breath, tickling my hair across my cheek. In the distance I see the red striped poof that is the aerial balloon. I have never dared to alight in one. I am frightened of heights, but the playful bob and weave of it in the breeze, make me wish I was not.
I stroll out into the thoroughfare, breathing deep, filling my lungs with the air’s salty tang. It is early; only men readying the amusements are about. Sarah was up and gone before the sun arose. Silas keeps her bustling each day until the very hour she collapses into bed each night.
My eyes stray across the bay…to the rock-mass beyond.
White gulls swarm the rocks, dipping and diving to the water’s surface and soaring back up as they fish.
I have strategically avoided the isle for a week; steadfastly refusing to admit why.
For instance, ignorance is bliss?
After seeing such tremendous strength, how he discarded a tree-trunk as if flicking a matchstick—my nights have been plagued with dreams of him performing endless feats of strength. They culminated last night in him dressed in a strong-man’s uniform from the carnival.
I smile and cover my lips. It is not a matter for jest, I know. It should vex me more than it does. If I was any other girl, I would’ve told every person I know.
I couldn’t even bring myself to tell Sarah, for fear it might somehow convict him.
It was madness. Completely out of my character—but for once, I truly didn’t care. My heart seemed to beat in my chest for him.
For the moments he regarded me.
When I held his attention, I felt alive. Like all things were possible.
It felt…like when I play my music. I swallow with the realization.
Nothing or no-one has ever come close to matching that feeling. The soaring-wonder that fills my soul.
The icy enclosure that keeps my heart in a perpetual winter and hibernation is thawing. I feel the hot stirrings of life within and a renewed beat of hope surging through my veins.
My whole life has been self-denial. Hiding my thoughts, my true feelings.
He does not demand that, nay he discourages it.
I know how rare and precious love to be. And I, like a miser, must have it.
“Lost in thought, are we?”
I looked up, realizing in horror I’ve arrived back at the Shoot-the-Chute. The scene of the crime.
The park staff has been buzzing about its opening for weeks. The talk was that Brighton had designed it after riding the first-ever chute in Watchtower Park, Illinois.
I step back, admiring his handiwork close up. The towering wooden ramp, built into a hillside, now housed a large boat, precariously positioned at the top.
“Like what you see?”
Brighton is on the steps, his grin so wide and contagious, I cannot help but return it. I blush at his double entendre. It is the other Brighton. The carefree one.
I nod. “Yes. It’s amazing.”
He rolls his eyes as if this hulking contraption were a mere house of cards, built solely for his amusement. “It’s nothing, a distraction from life. It is, however, ready.”
His eyes sparkle like a child’s. My breath catches and holds, but my brow furrows with confusion. I wonder how long this altogether different Brighton shall stay?
“It is ready?”
“Come take a ride.” He thrusts out his hand. “Or should I say, a plunge?”
“I.” My eyes shoot up, and I lick my lips, taking in the height, the greased wooden track. I envision the boat barnstorming the slide and shake my head. “I don’t know.”
He steps down and gently extricates my hand from where it is adhered to my side.
“Ouch!” I quickly withdraw my hand from his.
His eyebrows knit. “Whatever is the matter?”
I shake my hand vigorously. I don’t wish to admit my weakness, but his direct stare searches my body for injuries and I flush.
I reluctantly extend my hand. “My. My index finger. I have been playing so much, what with my music lessons, and the new symphonies. I believe I may have injured it.”
He reaches down and snatches my hand without permission, his gaze ticking back and forth over my digits and palm. My first finger, which undoubtedly endures the most abuse when I play, is noticeably swollen.
He nods. “Aye. I have something for that, but don’t have it on my person.”
He releases my hand and my heart hammers hard against my ribs.
“In the meantime, come take a ride. It will get your mind off it.” His voice is so playful; I feel the quiver of a smile breaking through…until I glance upward.
I stare up; taking in the full, dizzying height of the structure and my heart takes flight in my chest as my feet ache to do the same.
As if hearing its protestations, he says, “Don’t be daft, girl. You will love it. I promise.”
He pulls me up the stairs, shuffling me in front of him—trapping me with his arms. I’m quite sure so I could not flee.
In my mind, I hear the snap and splitting of the tree as it struck his shoulders.
Indeed, if Brighton wished to detain me, there would be naught I could do to stop him.
My boot falls echo on the steps and we rise higher and higher; my heart seeming to mimic our ascent in its journey toward my mouth.
A group of Charleston’s Fancy employees, both men and women, wait at the top, chattering and tittering with excitement.
I chance a glance over the side and my stomach flips. “Are you quite certain this is safe?”
He pulls me close, too close for convention, and leans forward to whisper in my ear. The tingle on my chest ignites like his many fireworks.
His scent consumes me, and my eyelids drift half-shut.
His stubble grazes my cheek. “I would never put you at risk. You are safe with me. No matter the place.”
If I only tu
rn my head, I may taste his lips.
He pulls back with a wistful half-smile but his eyes are deadly serious.
“Oy, Brighton. Quit mucking about. We haven’t all day—we aren’t the bloody patrons ye know.”
A curvy blond adds, “Yes, do hurry Brighton. Silas will roll our heads down this track instead of your lovely little boat.”
Brighton turns with a wicked grin and hauls me up the steps, into the crowd.
One by one we clamber into the wide boat.
Brighton and I slide…into the front row.
I peek over the edge and panic surges, closing my throat. Vertigo tilts my vision and I jam my eyes shut.
It was a very long way down. I’d only ever been so high on the Ferris wheel at the Great Exposition.
Brighton slides closer. I try to focus on the feel of his thigh against mine, ignoring the river of fear flooding my mouth. He feels abnormally warm, as if a fever courses through his veins.
He reaches across me, pulling a leather strap across my lap, his lap, and the two others seated beside us. It secures by a metal hitch into the opposite wall of the boat.
“Oh, my word,” the fair-haired girls squeaks behind me.
I blink, surprised to see Tom, my student, next to Brighton, tugging on the strap. “Can I do it again, after this first one?”
Brighton laughs out loud. “We’ll see, lad.”
Excited murmurs escalate into shouts.
A crowd gathers at the bottom of the shoot. I search through it till I spy Sarah and Jonesy’s upturned faces. Their expressions match the cloying clench of fear in my chest. Sarah reaches out to clutch Jonesy’s forearm and his hand drapes over hers.
Brighton whispers silkily, “Steady, love. All is well.”
Then he turns, with a boisterous bark, “Alright James, let ’er fly, just as we practiced.”
James stares down at the crowd and on seeing Silas, clears his throat.
Silas paces at the bottom like an expectant father. My hair on my nape rises like hackles. Money. I know he pictures the chute as a towering stack of potential coin in lieu of wood and stairs and sweat.
He stares at the shoot, his hands rubbing together so furiously, I fear they might smoke and alight. His infamous cane is cast to the ground, forgotten for the moment.
Leave it to that man to cheapen such an experience.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you are about to witness the maiden voyage of the Runaway, Charleston’s first Shoot-the-Chute amusement. It was conceived by our fair owner, Silas, and brought to life by Mr. LeFroy. Without further ado.”
James tips his hat and motions to the men to slide the boat forward.
The nose tips and I smell the grease-lined track.
“Oh-my-word-oh-my-word—”
Brighton’s voice in my ear, “Relax, love.” His arm presses reassuringly behind my back, securing me tight against his side. “Don’t resist.”
My mind reels and I bite back the response, You? Or the ride?
The boat rocks and teeters and plummets. Sliding and growling as the bottom hums against the track.
We are free-falling.
My stomach leaps to my throat and crashes back to my guts in a single exhale. My hair streams from my face and my lips crack into a broad smile.
“That’s it,” Brighton croons.
For a glorious, brief moment I forget. Forget my father, forget the soldier, forget to fear.
Vibration hums the seat beneath my bottom as the boat pelts forward down the track.
Cheers erupt behind us from the platform then spread through the waiting crowd below like a wave of jubilation.
The boat’s nose connects with a jolt and a splash and a deluge sweeps over the front, dowsing us through.
I am laughing.
Harder than I can ever remember.
Happiness surges through me, watering my eyes.
“That, is what freedom feels like.” Brighton smiles and his eyes are full of meaning. Did he mean my freedom? The northern aggression?
“Brighton! Brighton! Look here!”
His eyes leave mine, but the smile remains.
A cheer erupts, “Hooray for the Runaway!”
Silas beams as he leads the cry again, his walking stick poking at the sky.
And the revelation strikes; the name of the boat.
He named it after me…he knows.
I swallow, trying to master my breathing as they steer the boat back toward the launch.
Chapter Eight
I make my way across the grass to the gazebo, still wringing the water out of my dress. It seems the smile is now a permanent fixture of my face. I keep trying to remove it, but my muscles seem set in joy.
I slide to my orchestra seat, barely noticing anything or anyone, still stuck in the rapture of my imagination; where the feel of Brighton’s arm and his murmurs in my ear repeat, over and over like a velvety chorus.
Jonesy takes his place beside me, his dark complexion looking somehow sallow today. I fear for his health, but before I might enquire, Plimpton taps for attention, and several musicians make their way up to his podium.
He hands out the sheet music and bestows on me a wide smile and I beam back.
He does not hand me a copy. I’ve seen it once, that is sufficient.
All my mind needs. My father called it, ‘photographic’.
I call it natural as breathing.
The music dances across my mind—a musical vision, accompanied by every note, chord and major and minor.
What a glorious day. A ride with Brighton, and now new music.
I grin like a fool at Jonesy and his face becomes even more grave. My lips finally falter.
“Well, what is it? Out with it. I see you are determined to ruin my day.”
“I…found the document for the Morse Code.”
I’d given Jones my notes on the blinking lights from the island. Despite my best attempts I could not remember all of the code. My instructor would be so disappointed.
Gooseflesh erupts, tingling from my scalp to my bottom. I swallow. “Go on.”
Other musicians brush past me, momentarily blocking Jonesy’s pinched face. I lean backward to permit them passage. It is as if time elongates; my heart beating harder with every stretched, waiting moment.
I still see, the patterned twinkling, repeating over and again, like a musical ostinato—a repeated phrase throughout a song.
Mercifully, after the sounds of chairs shifting and petticoats settling I am finally permitted to stare into Jonesy’s dark, serious face once again.
His lips quiver in a way I’ve never seen. Percival Jones, though small in stature, has the largest, most courageous heart I’ve ever seen. A warrior’s heart.
His distress is contagious and my throat thickens with fear.
“The light’s pattern spelled, stay away.” He shakes his head. “Repeated stay away.”
My hands fly to cover my mouth, but were too late to stop my sharp intake of breath.
He jams the tiny book into my shaking hands. “What is this?”
“Morse Code. You best hold onto that. For translation.”
Jonesy swallows, and plunges on, “I saw you with him today. I see how you look at him, Allegra. He is…my friend, my very good friend, tis true. But even I do not understand how this is possible.”
I press my lips so tight they hurt. The cats, the lightning, the rods, his inhuman strength…the crooked man.
I think of the sparkle in his eyes as he playfully hauled me up the steps of the shoot. Could that have been mere hours ago? It now seems a lifetime.
“I refuse to believe he is evil.”
Jonesy grips my forearm, squeezing it hard, demanding my gaze.
“I did not say he was evil. But he has…” Jones eyes are wild, looking everywhere but into mine. “He has many serious problems. And you have your own.”
A rebellious flush spreads across my chest. “I care not. I—”
Jones cuts across me. �
��The last line said, stay away, Allegra.”
* * *
Brighton
“Tom, do come here.”
The small boy hurries from the kitchen, drying his hands on the front of his trousers. “Aye, sir.”
His club foot slows his progress, but he arrives at my side as quickly as he is able. “Are you certain you wish to try again? You truly understand the risks, my boy?”
He nods fervently. I feel the heat rise from my collar and I pace before him. He may be only twelve, but his nomadic, orphan-existence has hardened and matured his mindset. Indeed, staring into his eyes is nothing like staring into Lucy’s.
Lucy. I blink as guilt flits about my head, trying to form a chip on my already laden shoulder. Best not think on her.
“I understand Mr. LeFroy. But be honest. How am I to get work like this?” His hand sweeps to his foot. “Mr. Silas pays me, but it’s just enough to survive sir. And he will never increase it. He will keep me tied to him till I’m as old as Bartholomew.”
I knew it to be true. Every blasted word of it. More guilt. I should take Tom away. I’d offered, and he’d stoutly refused, stating he was separated from his younger sister when his parents had passed from smallpox. He was certain she was nearby and refused to leave without her.
I swallow the lump threatening in my throat. The boy has more courage than most men I know.
I sigh. “This is completely, utterly against my better judgment, but seeing as how you stole the first batch—”
“I’m sorry, sir. But I saws what it did to ’em rabbits sir, so I just had to try—”
“Enough.” I slip the bottle into his calloused palm. “Two drops, not a tad more. I’ll not do it. You will have to do it yourself.”
My stomach turns at the hopeful smile on his face. “Yes, sir.”
“Do not forget my warning. What it is capable of, if abused.”
He plucks it from the table and begins to shuffle into the next room. “I won’t sir. I’ll do just as you instruct.”
“Remember two drops. Heed my words, boy. I’m going out, Tom. I’ll return directly.”
The Violet Hour Page 7