The Shadow of Nisi Pote

by H C Storrer

  At this, he discovered that the most profound feelings of love have their limits.

  He detested the common pronunciation of his name. It was as if it soiled the French heritage his mother had endeared him to. Frustrated with the children taunting him from their hiding places, Jacques abandoned the games and snatched up a plate of food. Crawling under a half empty table to nurse his pride with a lemon tart, he found himself drawn into a conversation of an odd pair of voices.

  “Are you the groom’s relation, then?” The squat legs of a heavyset man spoke through a mouthful of food. Jacques recognized the voice of Mr. Adelson straight away.

  His counterpart’s legs shifted uncomfortably in his well-worn burgundy suit. “Why yes, Gov. Me’s an Nafin go way back. I saved ’is life once.”

  “Well, jolly good. Saved his life, on a whaler?” Mr. Adelson blurted, eager for more information about Nathan.

  “Whaler?” The stranger twisted in his chair, then continued with a smile in his voice. “Why yes, a whaler. That’s right, we was mates on a whaling crew.”

  “Well, I would say it is a bit better that Maggie has found such a fine young gentleman. After the death of Edwin—well the town took it hard. He was the most prosperous merchant this side of Cornwall. The bloke shipped loads and loads of tin and textiles, contacts all over the continent.” Adelson’s words spit through a second bite, “It was beginning to look like hard times had come to the village if his business was not to be salvaged. That was when your friend Nathan arrived. First mate, ship’s clerk, cartographer... I mean the list of credentials is immeasurable.” The fat man gulped down a glass of wine. “Well let’s just say he’s a right heavenly angel.”

  “Well she’s not so bad ’er self.” The odd man sounded oily. “Does she come by a fortune as well? Dowry o’ a great family?”

  “Oh, no, no. Disowned, disavowed by her parents the moment she ran off with our young Edwin,” Mr. Adelson clucked. “No, I suppose her family is wealthy, although I’m not sure that anyone really knows.”

  “Shame that. Filthy frogs.” The stranger observed.

  Rolling his eyes, Jacques decided it was time he moved on. He had become accustomed to the droll of so many against his mother’s nationality that the words quickly became tiresome. Slipping from underneath the table, he looked back at the odd man speaking with the portly Mr. Adelson. The stranger was a mixture of fragmented features, his thin silver hair hanging limp in greasy strands. Jacques swallowed with unease as the man’s crooked face split into a lopsided grin, a thick scar running from his eyebrow to his chin, keeping his right cheek immobile.

  “Oh, yes, yes, very much a shame—” Mr. Adelson paused at the sight of the young boy. “Although, she has us, and now Nathan.”

  “Aye, good ‘ol Nafan. Angel of Penzance.” The stranger smiled for an audience and raised his goblet.

  “Jack!” The familiar light voice caused the hair on Jacques’ neck to stand on end. “There you are.”

  His hatred for the nickname had not abated, but after a quick assessment he was willing to forgive this one person. Reluctantly Jacques finally pulled his eyes from the stranger and turned to face the girl. “Oh, Anna, well—”

  “I brought you this, but it looks like you’ve already eaten.” Anna lifted a small apple in one hand and a roll in the other.

  Jack couldn’t help but stare, his words lost in the girl’s fine beauty. It was like gazing into the sun—he was sure he was going to go blind, but every few seconds he had to take a peek. “Thank you.” He reached out with a quick hand and took the golden fruit.

  “Well I couldn’t let you starve. After all—”

  “My name is Jacques,” interrupting her, he nervously ducked his head. Rude or not, Jacques desperately wanted her to call him by his given name.

  “Oh.” Anna’s smile faltered. “I s’pose it’ll be Master Jacques soon enough.”

  Jacques looked up, surprised.

  “Me aunt secured me a place in the ’ouse,” she pressed.

  Jacques fingers curled into the apple. He was young, and these feelings may have been exciting and new, but even Jacques understood the rules. Maids and servants were like drapery and silver: seen and used, but mostly ignored. “Isn’t it excitin’?” She laughed.

  “No. No it is not.” Jacques shuffled a few steps back. Unable to hide his disappointment, he gave a curt nod, turned, and stormed away. If she was to be a maid, they couldn’t be friends. In fact, he wasn’t even sure if they could talk anymore.

  Chapter 2

  N athan sat deep behind Edwin’s former desk, his chin on his chest while his fingers picked nervously at the exposed grain of the wooden arms. He hadn’t been home more than a few days from his month-long absence with Mrs. Nathan Margaux Hodges, yet he already loathed the tedious work.

  It was as if luck had smiled down upon him when he was introduced to the beautiful Margaux. She was the best kind of widow: filthy rich. Once the shine of the honeymoon had worn off, the dull drudgery of reality came calling. The late husband had left a handsome trust for his wife and son, a trust that Nathan could live on comfortably. The business, on the contrary, teetered as if it had been erected on stilts. Every penny in the coffers had been gambled on Edwin’s tin-for-wine venture. When the tidal wave crushed the Mary May, it had pulverized every other aspect of Peters Shipping along with it.

  Edwin’s office in town had been untouched since the day he had left for Portugal, a little more than two years before. The crooked oil painting of a vessel anchored in a placid harbor on the opposite wall was coated in a fine layer of dust. Below that sat a spindly legged table, cobwebs evenly distributed over three upturned glasses and a cut-crystal decanter. The entire feel of the office was as foreboding as the black-oiled oak that paneled the walls. Equal to the rest of the fixtures, the feature most prominent was the sharp-nosed, gaunt-faced bank official, Mr. Openshaw.

  “I have not had the peculiari’y of sittin’ at this desk for more than a week and already an intrinsic visitor requests to have a debt collected that I am not inclined to owe.” Nathan feigned indignation, trying to use words he didn’t quite understand. He was drowning in deep water.

  Mr. Openshaw’s long face barely moved as he spoke with no emotion. “You are correct, Sir. You personally owe no debt; however the previous tenant of Peters Shipping commissioned a vessel on funds loaned to him by our institution. Granted, there is nothing that can be done to retrieve that vessel, and we understand that Peters Shipping is in no way at fault for its loss. This has no bearing on the fact that Peters Shipping does owe the debt. Now, as its agent, you are obligated—”

  “How much did the previous purveyor owe?” Nathan leaned forward.

  “There is an outstanding balance of three thousand pounds and a sixpence,” Mr. Openshaw replied.

  “I ain’t got no three thousand pounds!” Nathan stood, banging his hand on the desk. Mr. Openshaw sat back with wide eyes. Straightening, Nathan pulled at his waistcoat, recovering his thin veneer of composure. “Sir, Peters Shipping hasn’t even the means to send cargo. How could we repay such a debt?”

  “Well, there is a sloop still on your company’s books,” Mr. Openshaw quipped.

  Nathan stomped to the window and pointed. “And there it sits!” Pausing, he chewed the side of his cheek, trying to control his temper. “As you can see, without sail or rigging. The sloop needs to be re-caulked along with a dozen other repairs. You ask fer three thousand and a sixpence, when what I ‘as is a rotting skeleton of a ship an’ no crew. How can I pay a farthing when every penny I scrapes together will go into repairing our very modest means?”

  “There is the estate,” Mr. Openshaw offered. “The bank doesn’t expect payment in full immediately. We are willing to evaluate new terms.”

  “Blood from a turnip,” Nathan mumbled.

  “What was that?” Mr. Openshaw asked.

  “I say’s—” Nathan could feel the despair bringing the creature he wanted to hide up
to the surface. “It is impossible to squeeze blood from a turnip, Sir. Peters Shipping is a turnip. If this company ’as any chance of making it, I would need to procure a loan from your institution. Yet there you sit, telling me that I owe more money than the king. How is it that I am to pay back a loan without having two shillings to rub together?”

  “Well,” Mr. Openshaw stood and straightened his coat, the room pulsing with contention, “I shall leave you to discover where your business stands. The bank will be more than accommodating, I assure you. With a little hard work and good British ethic, I believe you can make Peters Shipping a successful venture once again.”

  Feeling his composure slipping once more, Nathan kept his mouth sealed with a tight, forced smile and nodded as Mr. Openshaw stepped to the door. “Blood from a turnip,” the words gushed from his lips as he exhaled and turned to the window overlooking the harbor.

  He had assumed that when he became admiral of this enterprise he would live life with his feet crossed, hands behind his head in constant rest as the money rolled in. Instead, he felt like the cabin boy again. “The estate? Bah! ’Ee’d have me waste me fortune on Edwin’s sins, just to fill his coffers. Well I ain’t gonna rob Pe’er to pay Paul,” Nathan mused aloud, rummaging through the desk hoping it held a solution to this problem. Unsatisfied, he grabbed his cloak and headed to the alehouse; his thoughts were always clearer with a tonic in hand.

  ***

  “...sober counsel then farewell—” Nathan bleated a sea shanty while stumbling from the carriage before Shellstone.

  “...let the winds… carry all me sorrows—” one of the townsfolk chimed in.

  “No, no, no,” Mr. Adelson corrected, standing in the door of the coach. Then in his best singing voice, “...let the winds, that murmur, shweep all me sorrows to the deeeep!” With that, Mr. Adelson lost his balance and rolled back into his comrades who continued on in raucous laughter. Lifting his head, he yelled through the damp night air, “Ho, there! Nathan, we will invest the town’s money! Do not worry about the bank. Peters Shipping yet lives!”

  Nathan replied with open palms, trying to push the reverberating words down around him. Being drunk was a lifestyle—a lifestyle Nathan took to like a fish to swimming. His worries always became less bothersome the more freely the liquor flowed. It was only now, staring at the caramel swirls of the walnut front door, that he imagined how Margaux was going to react.

  “Don’t you worry! The town won’t let you down,” Mr. Adelson yelled again as the whip cracked over the team, the carriage bouncing with laughter down the lane.

  “Drunk! You are drunk!” Margaux yanked open the door, candelabra in hand. “Do you know what time it is? I was ’orried… comment dites-vous… sick! I was ’orried sick!”

  “Bah,” Nathan grumbled as he worked his coat from his sweating body.

  “Where ’ave you been? It is almost one in the morning,” Margaux pressed.

  “Will you shut it!” Nathan finally exploded. “I’s been out with me mates, trying to find a way to save the company you’s worthless former ’usband bankrupt.”

  “’Ow dare you.” Margaux caught Nathan by surprise, slapping him in the cheek.

  Like a viper he struck back, his fist closed, punching her in the jaw. The dainty Margaux sprawled back into the marble floor from the blow, blood trickling from her broken lip. Nathan stumbled, and then bent down to lift her up. “I’m shorry,” he belched. “Are you ok?”

  Margaux recoiled as her senses returned, her eyes filling with fear. She nodded, holding her face, the jaw still numb from the shock.

  “I didn’ mean it,” Nathan tried to explain. “It was me reflexes.”

  “Never!” The word broke in her throat before she scrambled up the stairs. Unseen, Jacques’ blue eyes were wide in the dark of his cracked bedroom door.

  Chapter 3

  D espite his hangover, Nathan ordered a coach just after sunrise; fleeing the scene before he could be confronted by the bruised Marguax. There wasn’t much of a conscience left in him. The little devil in his ear had no counterpart, especially when he was drunk. He had never felt shame for his actions and he wasn’t about to start. Women were like ships, mostly—a bit of caulk and a fresh coat of paint and Margaux would sail right. After all it was her insults that had forced his hand. The thought of the fault being his was absurd. No, he was sure if he just gave the old lady enough time, he could patch her up and make her ship shape. It was under this plan that Nathan spent days at the shipping firm cooling down. He tried his best to wrap his mind around the companies problems. It was this time away, nervous and nursing his pride that the intent to make good on his promise to Adelson was its most fervent. There was even the thought that if he had to, he would steal a vessel to do it. It was when this mania had run its course that he quickly crafted a plan to let him back through the doors of Shellstone.

  “Maggie?” Nathan crossed the threshold. Taking a few more steps inside the house, he spied one way and then the next until his eyes rested upon Marguax, who was perched on the edge of a green embroidered lounge chair in her sitting room, tears streaming down her cheeks. Sheepishly he ambled in. Bending awkwardly at one joint and then another, he creaked over the waxed floorboards and ended up on both knees in front of her. “I am a fool. If I could find an excuse grand enough to dismiss my appalling behavior, I would give it, but the truth is I can’t. I fell into an old ‘abit. The only thing I can do now is plead for your forgiveness, love, and vow that it will never ‘appen again.” With that, he pulled out a small box and laid it on her knee; the top was adorned with pink ribbon tied in a lover’s knot. It was the most romantic thing he could think of.

  “You ‘urt me. Not only here.” She pointed to the purple bruise on her cheek. Brushing aside her white and blue cameo necklace, she placed her left hand over her heart. “But ‘ere too.”

  “I know, my love, I will do whatever it takes to fix it,” he crooned, placing his hand on hers.

  Margaux flinched at his touch. “It will take some time, I zink,” she confirmed, staring into his repentant eyes. “Please come ’ome, you should not be sleeping in an office.”

  Nathan smiled and kissed her hand in an embrace. For him, he was satisfied that the patching was done. To his wife, it was not so easy to forget. Margaux was as kind and cordial as ever on the outside, returning to the role of a doting wife. However, it was not lost on Nathan that there were quirks that had not been there before. The tiny affronts may have been innocent on their own, but taken as a whole he was put on edge by her ‘insults’. Every time he came near, she would subtly shy away with some excuse, and his resentment began to build with each rebuff. As time passed he realized that Margaux had never actually apologized for her part, the demon on his shoulder, which still expected her to ask forgiveness, prodded him at the slightest perceived injustice. As his illogical anger simmered, he found himself refilling his small flask several times a day.

  ***

  It was a cool autumn afternoon. Nathan commiserated with one of the cut-crystal glasses in hand, watching as the scotch swirled lazily at the bottom. The nearly full decanter sparkled in the late sun, its permanent home now at the edge of Nathan’s desk. His numbed senses tingled with the rush of wind that accompanied the unannounced swinging of his great hardwood door. In the shadows of the hallway, a tall, slender man with his tattered hat cocked to one side stood silently. It was when the figure stepped into the shaft of window light that Nathan’s heart sank.

  “ ’Ello, Nafan.” The man ambled in with his gappy grin set askew by the deep scar running down his face.

  “William,” Nathan exhaled, defeated. “I thought I saw you at the wedding?”

  “That you did.” William dropped himself into the vacant leather seat. He wasted no time in helping himself to the decanter like a nursery bottle, as he discarded the crystal stopper, sending it skipping over the desk. After taking a long swig, William continued, “Fancy me, ’earin how ol’ Nafan found ’imself a
nice French tart. All rich an taken care for. Is that why you’s gone and put on airs? Oh look at me, I’s Nafan Hodge’s, I’s the bestest mate a mate ever ’ad. Bwahahaa—” Stopping his laugh with a chuckle, he drank down another swig. “I’s be finkin me ol’ shipmate was want’n ’is new bride to meet William. Best mate a ‘whaler’ could ’ave.”

  “What do you want?” Nathan asked.

  “Want? Why you’s a ’ard one. It ain’t what Will be want’n. It’s what me ol’ mate Nafan don’t be want’n.” William took another drink of the whisky and continued, “Nafan Hodges is it? Whale man, and jolly good upstanding gent. We bo’ff know it ain’t pleasant to go speak’n of the dead, but supposin ol’ Nafan Hodges ’as a run in wiff a certain constable who know’s ’im best as Nafan Rogers?”

  “I will give you one hundred pounds to leave,” Nathan offered immediately.

  William clucked his tongue and leaned forward, immediately serious. “We bo’ff know yous got more money than that.”

  “The business be bankrupt,” Nathan scoffed. “There’s nothing for it. You can take the ’undred pounds, or you can leave with that bit o’ Scotch. There ain’t much left.”

  “You insult me.” William chuckled, wiping his hands clean to tidy himself. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say yous is losing yer edge. Nafan Roder’s—Hodges, or any o’ver name you goes by—wouldn’t spend anofer night wi’ff his French tart if there was no money in it. You’s got the money, Nafan, Will knows you best. As I sees it, we is partners, fifty-fifty. That big ol’ ’ouse is worf five fousand pounds if it is worf half a crown. Wi’ff the French pastry’s pension… well… I’s be willing to take free fousand pounds. Yes, William is obliged to ’is ’alf. Free fousand, Nafan, Angel of Penzance.”