The Orphan Pearl

by Erin Satie

  Or maybe she didn’t want to know. Adam had the right of it: learning about Alfie’s bad decisions made them difficult to overlook. And she suspected he needed a few people in his life who remembered what he was once, instead of what he had become.

  “As promised, I will set aside my grievance,” said Ware. “Peace, Lord Kingston.”

  “Well.” Alfie smiled thinly. “On your way, then.”

  “Of course.” Ware hesitated. “Though I had hoped to speak with Lady Lily privately? Just for a moment.”

  “Lily?”

  “I’ll hear what he has to say.” If he had news regarding the hunt for al-Yatima, she would be foolish not to listen.

  Alfie left them alone; the stairs creaked as he bounded up, returning to the celery green room with its painting of Venice.

  “More insults?” Lily asked.

  “I owed Kingston a response… but, equally, I owe you an apology.”

  “For what?” She smiled mirthlessly. “Which trespass would you like me to forgive? How about… all of them. We’ll wipe the slate clean.”

  That caught him off guard. But then, if the blue-purple smudges below his eyes and slack posture were any indication, he’d been fraying round the edges for some time. Certainly the Ware she knew would not have been so transparent, tension chasing hope across his weary features. “How far back would you go?”

  “Back to the beginning.”

  He held her gaze, level and grave. That solid strength at the core of him, the stubbornness she had seen from the beginning, reaching out to her. Always before, his steadiness had bolstered her. Now it shook her.

  “Then no. I’m not interested in your offer.”

  Lily licked her lips. “What would you suggest instead?”

  “Come with me.” He held up his hand, stalling the quick refusal on the tip of her tongue. “Give me a few hours of your time. Let me try to make up for some of the damage I’ve done.”

  She hesitated. “I won’t give you the pearl.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  She believed him. Against all reason, but with complete conviction. Of course, he had always been blunt, plainspoken, truthful, and still managed to tease out all her secrets, one by one.

  “Please,” he said, and not as a courteous flourish. Please like a man who was hungry, and cold, and ready to beg.

  She studied him. Now that it was missing, Lily could pinpoint the quality that set Ware apart from his fellows even though he looked the same, dressed the same. It was his air of perpetual alertness. The way he braced himself against the world, too well rooted to be knocked over, too wary to be caught off guard.

  “All right,” she said.

  “My carriage is waiting outside.”

  She dressed hurriedly and let him hand her into the aging vehicle. Still plush, feminine, old-fashioned. Still—not his. That was what she hadn’t guessed that night they’d visited the caves, when he’d led her into the dark where he felt so at home.

  Most people made their possessions function as extensions of their inner selves. The entryway her father filled with blood-red roses, Alfie’s room of laughing women, the singing canary in Adam’s flat.

  “You said we leave pieces of ourselves behind wherever we go,” said Lily. “Like cobwebs. And we—I suppose—find ourselves caught by those webs when we return, bound by them.” She smoothed her hand along the velvet cushion beneath her, with and then against the pile, to feel the tickle of resistance when she rubbed the wrong way. “You don’t want to see yourself reflected in the world around you, even here, where it’s private.”

  “No,” he agreed.

  Lily settled back into the cushions. “Why did you stop writing books?”

  He flicked a stray tassel and shifted in his seat, then braced himself and regarded her levelly. “When people spoke to me about them, I had no idea who they were talking to.”

  “You could have told them.”

  “Told them what?”

  “I don’t know. I read your books. I loved them. Do you not like what you see, when I look at you?”

  “When I was a young man, I was easily influenced,” he said. “And every time you look at me, I’m reminded of what that was like.”

  “Because you think I’m unjust?”

  “No. Because you make me see what you see.” He leaned forward and looked out the window. “We’ve arrived.”

  The carriage rolled to a stop. Ware stepped out, then offered her a hand. “Will you come?”

  She licked her lips, then laid her palm over his and stepped down to the cobbled, narrow streets of the docklands. Built into a bend in the river, neat and tidy—almost perfectly square—and surrounded by brick warehouses. Ships wallowed in the calm waters, their masts bristling. A mangy, ribby dog slunk into a narrow alley, tail between its legs.

  Here was something she understood: a port, a place that thrust a fork into the straight, orderly path of one’s life. The air seemed to crackle, the way it did before a lightning storm—threatening to draw her in, to propel her in a new direction. Just the smell made her bolder: tar and jute and rum. The scent of change.

  Of hope, too. The blind, foolhardy conviction that whatever she found on the horizon would be better than what she’d left behind. It had never been true, not going and not coming, but at moments like this she always believed it.

  Ware guided her to a sleek schooner with a graceful tapering prow shaped like a hummingbird’s beak, the hull shining with fresh black paint.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “My ship.”

  Once again, she put her hand in his. This time, so he could steady her across the wobbly gangplank. The crew watched, but did not stand idle: a boy scrubbed the spotless deck, a carpenter in thick leather gloves sawed away nearby, a bearded sailor mended a net.

  “Yours?” she questioned.

  “Just mine.”

  She trailed her fingers across one of the six sun-warmed iron cannons secured to the deck. The name of the manufacturer stamped into the barrel caught her attention.

  “Ware? That can’t be a coincidence.”

  “No. My father manufactured arms during the war.”

  “Not in Debrett’s,” she said, remembering Alfie.

  “His father was a publican,” added Ware.

  Lily nodded. “Is this what you wanted me to see?”

  “Not yet. This way.”

  He led her down a steep, narrow ladder, through a narrow corridor, and into a private cabin. A bed took up most of the space. A built-in bookcase, each shelf fenced by a decorative grille, overlooked a small desk with a red leather chair tucked into the well beneath. Windows along far wall let in light, a heavy wooden table positioned to take advantage of it. A water pitcher of extraordinary beauty stood on the table, cut crystal and gold, a seated lioness carved into the side, teeth bared and tail curled.

  “What is this?”

  “Your cabin.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You had to flee your father’s home. But to escape his influence, you’ll have to leave the country. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “The ship is mine. The crew is mine. And they’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

  “Anywhere?”

  “In the world,” he confirmed.

  He waited at the threshold, not stepping across, while she circled the bed—that was the extent of the exploring she could do in the small space. She touched the cream-colored quilt. Not a single snag or pill marred the smooth silk. It was new, and very fine.

  She looked up, frowning. “What’s your price?”

  “No price.”

  “You’re not the first person to offer me aid,” said Lily. “There’s always a price. A condition. Help is never free.”

  “Then consider that I’ve already taken payment, and this is more in the way of settling a debt.” Ware paused. She didn’t interrupt, so he continued, “I never asked myself why you needed to keep your secret
. I assumed. But I have learned that you did not leave Hastings House by choice.

  “Ignorance is no excuse, I know.” He rushed ahead so she couldn’t interrupt. “But I was careless, and you’ve suffered for it—because I was selfish. I can’t pretend I had any higher motive; I wasn’t thinking of the greater good. I was thinking of myself.”

  Lily arched her eyebrows. “And why shouldn’t you?”

  “I—pardon?”

  “Think of yourself. I have never understood why anyone would be proud to hold fast to a promise at a great personal cost. Pure foolishness, in my opinion.”

  He eyed her curiously. “But you are angry with me.”

  Lily smiled. “Shall I tell you why, so that you can tailor your apology accordingly?”

  “No. I have my reasons; you needn’t agree with them. If I can balance the scales, it’s enough.”

  “You’ve unbalanced them,” countered Lily. “In the opposite direction. What you’re offering me right now… it’s too much.”

  “It’s not enough,” he countered. “You know what I’ve done. Not just the wager. I agreed to pursue you, to wheedle information out of you, by whatever means necessary. I tried to kill Kingston, because a man I care about deeply—a mentor—asked me to. I knew that I had been given dishonorable, soul-staining work, but I didn’t ask questions. I hardly protested at all.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I was racing after a carrot on a string. Thinking of the prize at the end,” he answered. “It wasn’t until recently that I asked myself what would happen if I succeeded. Would my friend really open his arms to me, after I commit murder on his behalf? Would the government reward me for taking advantage of a well-bred lady?”

  “You would know better than I.”

  “But I don’t know. And I never will. What was it that you said in the theater? That I had not offered you a compliment? Neither had they, and it took me a long time to see it. Following through to the finish will do nothing but make me a lesser person. And if they won’t value me better—I must be the one to do it.”

  “I think I see,” said Lily.

  Ware nodded. “It has cost me in the past. I’m sure it will cost me in the future. But I must do what I think is right. I can’t undo the harm I’ve done—this is the nearest solution I could both imagine and carry out. If you don’t want me to know your destination, you don’t have to tell me. I’ll introduce you to the captain; you can give instructions directly to him, and he’ll report only to you.”

  Lily looked out the window. A swan floated serenely among the ships, long neck curled, wings flared like crests. “Tell him I’d like to leave as soon as he can make ready to set sail.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Alfie’s features settled into an expression of mild contempt as he listened to her news. He manifested signs of boredom before she finished, so she cut short her explanation. And then, without a word, he left her alone. She sat in the celery-green drawing room, stunned, but after ten minutes he hadn’t returned.

  She retreated to her bedroom, but she had no idea what to do with herself there. She had very few things to pack, but no luggage to put them in. She’d have to arrange something in the morning.

  “You know,” said Alfie, startling her. “There’s another way to solve your problem.”

  Lily jumped, lost her footing, and almost fell over as she tried to turn. Alfie stood in her doorway, leaning against the post. His usual languid pose, but for the rapid ticking of one finger against the aubergine sleeve of his coat.

  “There is?” Lily said. “I’d love to hear it.”

  “Marry me.”

  She laughed, but he didn’t join her.

  “You’d have my name,” he said, without the slightest trace of humor. “You wouldn’t need your father’s anymore. You could stay in England. Live as you please.”

  “Alfie, I’m not going to marry you.”

  “Would it be so bad?” A strained smile twisted his lips, but didn’t last. “Worse than wandering the earth, penniless and aimless?”

  She licked her lips. Time to be careful. She could not even pretend to herself that her answer hadn’t hurt him. “What happened between us—that’s water under the bridge. I don’t pardon you, because there’s no need for a pardon. But if you want me to see you as a suitor, then I will have to judge you for the sort of man you have become. My verdict would not be a kind one.”

  He nodded, once. Stared intently at a point a few inches to the side of her face. “And if I changed?”

  “What does that mean? You would—what? Become whatever I asked of you? Like a new set of clothes, made to order?” Lily spread her hands. “And what would I be, then? Dr. Frankenstein, making a monster. It would be a tragedy, or it would be a lie.”

  “I would be faithful.” He swallowed, throat working. “If that’s what worries you.”

  “You have a friend in me, Alfie. For as long as I live,” said Lily. “But I’m getting on that boat tomorrow.”

  He laughed, unkindly, and stood straight. “Ten years gone. Two months home. That’s not friendship. It’s hardly a passing acquaintance.”

  “I cannot stay.” Her voice climbed. “Don’t you understand? It’s too dangerous.”

  Alfie flicked a spot of lint from his spotless lapel. “Do what you want. What makes you happy, what hurts the least. For obvious reasons, I’d be the last to complain.”

  He left—not just the room but the house, and she knew he wouldn’t be back until the early hours of the morning. That he’d be asleep when Ware’s carriage arrived, that she wouldn’t have the chance to say good-bye.

  She couldn’t blame him. He had one night to give her a taste of her own medicine, to leave when she might have asked him to stay, and he’d left.

  It didn’t feel good.

  The first time she had run away, she had felt angry, self-righteous, and very proud of herself. When she imagined her father—or Alfie, or even Adam—weeping at the news of her disappearance, she’d felt nothing but pleasure. She had told herself I hope they’re sorry so often that just remembering the phrase could make her burn with shame.

  This time, she didn’t want to hurt anyone. Knowing that they would suffer just the same only made her itch to be gone sooner and faster.

  In the morning, she had Ware’s driver take her first to a pawnshop in Soho. She bought two sets of extra clothes, sturdy and plain and not too bad a fit, a corset that fastened at the front, and a sewing kit—in case she had time to adjust the fit at sea—along with a small studded leather trunk in which to store her few possessions.

  Al-Yatima she carried in her pocket, beneath her dress.

  She’d been a duke’s daughter again, for a little while. It was a fine life, in many ways. But she had remembered what it was like to feel like a child, too, helpless, always locked in battles that she couldn’t win, and she didn’t like it any more as an adult than she had as a teenager.

  What she’d be next, she couldn’t say. Something new. Easy come, easy go.

  At the last minute, she directed the driver to pass by Adam’s theater. It stood dark, doors locked and barred, the windows pasted over with cancellation notices. Right at that moment, in that charming flat round the back, her brother and his wife might be supervising their remove to the country.

  When she reached Ware’s schooner, the captain greeted her. He combined in his person the weathered skin of a man well into his middle-age and the springy athleticism of a youth. A lifetime spent outdoors had left him with a permanent squint, but his eyes seemed keen enough for all that.

  He asked if she’d chosen a destination. She told him Italy. He explained that the Thames was subject to tides and she’d arrived too late for them to sail that day; they would lift anchor early the next morning. A cabin boy carried her worn trunk to her berth, and she followed him down. Said thank you, shut herself in alone, took off her hat and gloves. She poured herself a glass of water from the gorgeous crystal pitcher and sat down on the be
d.

  The boat heaved a little, even at the docks, the motion soothing and rhythmic. Noises filtered in from outside, but mostly from above: the clomp of boots, men’s voices, flaps and thumps whose origin she couldn’t guess.

  The built-in bookshelf contained classics, mostly. A few modern novels as well. Cunning storage compartments built into the room’s walls and furniture were stocked with useful items: rope and candles, oil and rags. A drawer built into the bed opened to reveal a pair of pistols and a supply of ammunition.

  A knock at the door interrupted her exploration. When she answered, the cabin boy had come back with a tray of food: a meat pie and cheap wine, doubtless from one of the inns and pubs that crowded the docks.

  She ate, wet her lips, and lay down on the bed. Memories crowded her thoughts, even though she tried to clear her mind. She thought of Adam, telling her she owed him more and better. Of Alfie, refusing to pretend that a friendship reforged over a period of a week would endure through years of absence.

  She was a coward.

  But what other choice did she have? If she remained in England, her father would find a way to take the pearl from her.

  It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? It was a thing, a possession.

  But then he’d take something else, and something else after that. Alfie had said it, and he’d been right.

  She curled up on the bed, squeezing her eyes shut. If she just lay here and let the hours pass, the ship would raise anchor. It would sail down the river and out to the open sea, and then it would be too late to do anything to correct her many failures.

  If she could hold out for that long. Twelve hours, maybe fifteen.

  Sometime around midnight, she climbed up to the quarterdeck and found the captain.

  “Instead of leaving tomorrow, could we leave the day after tomorrow?”

  “Of course, m’lady.”

  “Good. Thank you.”

  §

  She opened her eyes to a blushing dawn, shards of rainbow vibrating overhead, the ship gently rocking beneath her. It was like waking inside a seashell. Tucked inside the nacreous cabin, protected by its curving hull, the world outside a dim echo.