The Shadow of Nisi Pote

by H C Storrer

  “What!” Margaux was at once incensed, “My ’usband had more zan ten thousand pounds deposited ’ere. Zere must be something left. I demand—” The excitement proved too much. In a fit, she began to hack as the sickness in her lungs welled up to her throat.

  “I am sorry,” Mr. Openshaw tried to explain, “but your current husband has depleted that account. As I told him not more than a week ago, the bank can offer no more credit.”

  Margaux’s sunken eyes rolled back, her once curly locks straight and worn. With a great gasp she started to cough red into her hand, just as the world blackened.

  Overcome by the shock of the frail woman collapsing at his feet, Mr. Openshaw realized the extent of her condition. Finally he yelled, “Someone fetch the doctor!”

  Chapter 5

  “G et up.” Nathan shoved Jacques’ head with his boot. “Wha—?” Jacques startled awake as Nathan clamped a grimy hand to his mouth, a warning finger over his own lips. Jacques hadn’t seen Nathan in at least a week and had hoped the cur had gone for good.

  “Get dressed.” Gagging over Nathan’s foul breath, Jacques quickly pulled on his worn breeches and buttoned his coat with shaky hands. Every footfall echoed through the empty home, which was now denude of carpets and furniture. It seemed Nathan’s nerves were on edge until greeted by the muffled grind of the gravel outside.

  Hurrying to keep pace with Nathan’s long strides, Jacques finally worked up the courage to break the silence. “Where are we going?”

  “Time to earn ye keep.” Nathan remained cryptic.

  Leery of the drunkard’s fist, Jacques decided it was best to let the quiet prevail. He had just started to lose track of time when his shin chafing against the bone reminded him of how far they had come. As the road filled with homes, Jacques realized this was the first time the had ever walked so far; he had never been to town without a coach.

  “Nathan, me best customer,” a woman dressed in a torn red bodice greeted in the fog near the wharf.

  “Is I best by activity or use?” Nathan laughed.

  “Oh go on!” She giggled back.

  To Jacques, she was immediately abhorrent, her fat legs exposed midway up her thigh as the cold night air exasperated the red cuts on her knees. Her blonde hair was a mass of struggling strands, like wire atop her head. Over a ghostly white spackle, layers of rose paint had been carelessly slathered above her eyes and upon her cracking lips. “I don’t ’ave time tonight, Giselle.” Nathan braced his arm behind her. “But you stay warm.”

  Cringing away as his stepfather gave the creature a peck, Jacques came to a halt, his eyes frozen upon the neck of the woman. “That’s my mother’s!” With a yell, he charged her, his arms outstretched, curled fingers ready to claw the fine golden chain and cameo from her skin.

  Like an adder, Nathan grasped him around his middle “Get over ’ere!”

  “It was a gift!” Giselle recoiled.

  “That pendant is my mother’s!” Jacques insisted.

  “Will you shut it.” Nathan struck him hard. “There are a great many things in this world that look alike.”

  “No!” Jacques would not be deterred. “My father gave that to my mother—I was there. I used to play with it when she held me. I would know it anywhere. How does she have my mother’s property?”

  “Shut it!” Nathan shook the boy. “She ’as it ’cause I gave it to her. The world costs money. Do you get ’ungry, boy? Do you ever want a crust of bread?”

  Jacques nodded, anger and hurt building into tears at the base of his eyes.

  “I know you ’ate me, that’s fine. But let’s get this straight. I needs more than bread. When I needs it, I pays for it. Your mother ain’t going to be need’n no charm yer father gave ’er. But I needs me ’unger satisfied. Do you understand me?” Nathan shook him again. “Well?”

  Jacques lowered his eyes and nodded.

  “Good, then forget about the trinket.” Yanking him into a quiet doorway, Nathan bent down with a heavy hand on Jacques’ shoulder. Speaking in low tones, he hissed, “If you want to eat, then you ’as to ’elp earn the bread. We’s out of money. I’ve begged, borrowed, an stolen all I knows how. There, I’ve said it. You understand?”

  “What can I do about it?” Jacques felt a knot in his stomach.

  “No one pays mind to a waif of a boy—you’re like a ghost, mostly.” Nathan paused, his fingers bumping down the stubble of his face. “See that gent put’n on airs over there? Yous gonna go distract ’im while I relieve ’im of ’is pocket watch.”

  “But Mr. McGuire is kind to my mother and me.” Quickly, Nathan wrapped his paw about the boy’s mouth. Jacques continued to mumble past his soiled fingers, “I don’t want to steal his watch.”

  “Well it’s a good thing it’ll be me an not you, init!” Nathan barked. “Now go out there and ask that gent for some tuppence and take care that ’ee don’t look around.”

  Shoved midway to the road, Jacques timidly stepped into the path of Mr. McGuire and held out his hand, “Sir—”

  “Jacques m’boy,” he replied, shocked at seeing the child. “What on earth are you doing out at this hour?”

  Jacques hesitated only a moment, “Sir, it’s my mum. She’s terribly sick and we have barely enough for bread. She needs medicine.” He trailed off, looking down in shame. It was the truth but the humiliation at having to beg cut him to his once prideful core. His eyes bent, he watched as dirt-crusted nails creeped around Mr. McGuire’s waist and slowly slipped his shiny gold watch and chain from his vest.

  “Yes, I heard your mother was taken ill, consumption is a terrible thing. I don’t have much on me, mind you, but what I have is yours.” Just as Nathan’s hands made their retreat, the man pulled a half crown from his waistcoat, handing it to the child. “Do see that your mother is taken care of.” Jacques held his head in shame and watched as Mr. McGuire continued on his way.

  When the man was just a shadow, Jacques darted to the alley, crowing, “We can get medicine for my mum!” Like a viper, Nathan snatched the coin from his fingers and shoved him from his path.

  “Hey!” Jacques protested.

  Nathan pushed him further back. “I ‘as needs.”

  Catching himself against a muddy wagon wheel, Jacques turned to glare at the painted woman who wore his mother’s pendant. “What about the medicine?”

  “Don’t ye be worry’n, pup,” Nathan quipped. “She’ll give me all the medicine I needs.” With a grin, Giselle took his hand and led him into the hovel she called home.

  Turning away, Jacques choked on the sadness that streamed down his face with nothing to do but wallow in the humid morning dew. Every second of guilt for what he had done to Mr. McGuire replayed in his head and ticked at his conscience like the man’s now missing watch. Convicted by his dishonor, Jacques let the shivers and hunger flail away at his gut until Nathan returned with the first glowing rays of daybreak.

  ***

  Jacques felt dirty. As failing health imprisoned Marguax to her bed, there was hardly a soul to pay him a second glance after Nathan had let both the cook and Anna go. Jacques had often thought Anna an angel, but her willingness and conviction to stay on without pay to care for his mother confirmed her sainthood in his eyes. She did her best to care for him as well but, overcome with duties fit for an army of nurses twice her age, he knew it was becoming impossible for her to keep up.

  But for the boy who once had a future of means, it was more than just his matted hair or dirty face; Jacques could feel the guilt of begging, of thieving, quickly tarnishing his insides to match his appearance. Gone was the boy who had walked the streets with an air of indifference. After spending the preceding weeks fulfilling Nathan’s mandate, he could no longer even meet the gaze of the citizens of Penzance. He had accosted each and every one of them, seeking money to ‘help’ his ailing mother.

  Knowing the money was going towards whatever scheme Nathan was planning next was bad enough, but Jacques had found, deep down inside,
that there was a part of him that actually enjoyed the game of it. He felt low enough as the beggar but being good at it made his shame feel like a sharp hook was in his gut. On top of everything, his mother’s condition had turned dire. Her breathing had become labored and coughing up blood became a regular occurrence.

  “I don’t think she will make another sunrise,” Anna’s delicate voice quivered.

  “Hmm,” Nathan grumbled, indifferent.

  Jacques had been awake for some time staring into the black nothing around him. With his thin blanket secured to his nose, he had nothing to do but listen to the hushed conversation. It had been hard to sleep in the empty home; he hadn’t a bed to lie in, and only a pile of dust remained where his wardrobe had once stood. Not that it mattered—his stepfather had sold almost every stitch of his clothing.

  “I can’t ’elp ’er. It is in God’s hands now,” Anna pressed.

  Nathan acted neither surprised nor concerned at Anna’s warning. Without much thought, he tossed a few clinking coins at the maid. “Have ’er buried before she stinks up the place. I ain’t payin’ for no marker.” Jacques anger simmered as he listened to the angel of death tromp downstairs and kick at the empty bottles of spirits littering the floor. The grand liquor cabinet was the last to go, but Nathan’s true love had finally been sold with everything else. A moment later, the door slammed, the empty home echoing with vibrations from the violence of the blow.

  Unaware of how long he had been staring at the ceiling, Jacques startled when his door sucked open with a creek, a weak flicker of candlelight penetrating the gloom that surrounded him. “Are you awake, young master?” Anna’s delicate features became visible as she held her candle aloft.

  Jacques nodded and turned away, positive that someone as good as she could see past his unkempt appearance and into the tarnished filth of his soul.

  “Your mum, she’s asking to see you.” Anna’s voice was grave.

  Jacques knew what it meant, but he didn’t know how to feel with anger and sadness at war in his heart. When Papa had died it was like the world had stopped spinning. Now it was as if the devil himself was there, mocking his pain. The day he had learned of Edwin’s death had been the worst day of his life, and now it would seem he was doomed to repeat it.

  Jacques lifted himself up from the floor and followed Anna into the room. His mother had become almost unrecognizable. Her skeletal face was pale but for the dark rings surrounding her now foggy green eyes. What was left of her colorless hair was damp and plastered to her forehead and face. Jacques resisted the urge to flee, instead walking forward awkwardly as if his legs were made of sticks.

  With great effort, Margaux raised her hand. “Venez, come.”

  Swallowing hard, he stepped to the side of her bed and took her waxy-cold fingers. Jacques gathered his courage and pushed the edges of his lips towards his ears. He could feel his mother’s warm love as she smiled back. It was as if an angel itself had suddenly entered the room and the sun had somehow broke through the black of night—in an instant it was gone as she began to wheeze. Through the fit, she mouthed a few words that Jacques was unable to hear. He leaned closer and put his ear to her mouth. “Je...je t’aime. He will… k-kill… you too.” A spasm began to shake her shoulders, the light faded from her eyes. With a final effort, she lifted her head from her bed, gripping his arm firmly. “Vous êtes, mon ange vengeur!” Her head falling back to her pillow, Marguax’s eyes fixed upon nothing as blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. The woman didn’t move again. Jacques stumbled back, tears he hadn’t known were there dripping from his jaw.

  “M’dam. M’dam,” Anna called, not knowing what else to do.

  Like a whip over his ears the finality of the girl’s words cracked the pain in his chest wide open; turning, Jacques fled the room.

  Chapter 6

  W andering aimlessly through the house, Jacques found nothing that would bring him comfort. It was as empty as he felt. Without realizing it, he stood for a long time, staring at a dark spot upon the wall of the entry where his father’s portrait had hung; Nathan had even sold the nail and wire. To his left, the empty study could have passed as a killing floor for its vapid expanse. Nathan had sold everything not nailed down and had even burned the butcher blocks from the kitchen to save on coal. With his dead mother lying in the only bed left, the house was like a crypt for its cold emptiness.

  Jacques retreated to his room and began to pace, the hollow void in his chest filling quickly with hatred for Nathan. The man was supposed to have been the savior of his family; instead, he was the poison that had finished it off. He continued marching, kicking his blanket out of his way in disgust. His temper slowly began to cool as grief once again made an appearance, and tears rolled down his cheeks, his mother’s final words echoing in his mind.

  Wiping the moisture from his face, he began to focus. “Oui, Maman. Vengeance will be mine.”

  ***

  “That was a good funeral.” Ms. Puddlemire dabbed the corner of her tearless eye with a frilly kerchief. “Well, as good as a funeral could be, I would suppose. I just wish the poor woman would have had more good sense than beauty. Perhaps then she could ’ave avoided marrying that rogue, bringing this trouble upon us all!”

  Anna gripped Jacques by his arm, feeling the anger and tension whistling like a tea kettle from his nostrils. “Don’t, Master Jacques. She ’elped pay for the plot. It would be poor wages for ’er kindness, even in your grief.”

  Any chagrin he felt for helping Nathan rob these people was quickly burning up in his hatred for their abandonment of his family. They all had learned what Nathan was like. Someone could have stepped in and helped.

  “It was daft vanity—”

  “Thank you for those kind words,” Anna loudly blurted out, interrupting Ms. Puddlmire’s clucking. It was obvious the gossip couldn’t help but continue on. “We are gra’ful for all this generosity.”

  Her warm hand soothing upon his arm, Jacques relaxed as his grief claimed him once again. Whether it was pity or kindness, he simply didn’t care.

  “Have you heard what will become of the estate?” Dr. Collinsworth spoke to one of the notable town lawyers only a few feet away.

  Anna couldn’t help herself, and said, “What estate? It’s an empty shell o’ a home.”

  “That would explain Nathan trying to raise funds for the burial.” The lawyer’s smile was patronizing.

  Anna rolled her eyes, her reply quiet, mostly for her own benefit, “Pah, Nathan would ’ave sold this plot for a spot of rum. He didn’t even ’ave the court’sy to show ’is face ’ere. He’s probably trying to find the bottom of a bottle with the funds ’ee did raise.” Confident that Jacques was under control, she released her grip upon him. “Don’t you worry, I won’t be lettin’ you starve. Did you ’ave some porridge this morning?”

  Jacques lied with a half nod. It didn’t matter—he hadn’t the stomach for a meal.

  “Well I will come by this evenin’ wif a crust of bread.” Anna moved to wipe a smudge from Jacques face, but he turned away, unwilling to infect her with his misery. Her life having begun in toil, she seemed so much older than she truly was, a maturity grown through adversity. With a smile, she patted his shoulder, turned hesitantly, and then made her way with the somber gaggle down the hill. He watched her until she had disappeared past the stone wall and into the trees that lined the lane. With his mind wandering aimlessly, Jacques’ eyes fixated upon the nothing of the cemetery gate, its wrought iron twisted and hanging open in the gap of the stone wall.

  When he truly felt alone, Jacques slunk to the mound of his mother’s grave exhausted. His head down at his knees as he crumpled clods of soil through his fingers in contemplation. The air smelled wet, like rain was coming, the sky overcast and dull. There were no more tears to be had, and when he put eyes on Nathan stumbling up the lane, his only emotion was disgust. Teetering, Nathan skittered in the gravel, bent low, and saluted a grave, his mumbling sea shanty inst
antly at full drunken pitch. “Well haul away… Joe.”

  Picking himself up from the dirt as Nathan approached, Jacques remained on guard at his mother’s plot. Shoving the boy from his path, Nathan swept off his hat and bowed to Margaux’s grave, his blond hair dropping about his face. “An ’ere’s to the woman that tried to ruin me… ruin me!” He kicked at the soil. Nearly falling, he gathered his feet and victoriously waved a strip of paper clutched in his hand. Hacking phlegm from the depth of his throat, he spat upon the grave. “You tried, but I found it! You can’st ’ave hid it from o’l Nafan. You tried, but I’s won.”

  “WHAT!” Outraged, Jacques charged, catching Nathan unawares and shoving him into the grass.

  “Geroff me, ya whelp!” Nathan barked, stumbling back. Regaining his footing, he leered down at Jacques. “Why, ain’t you an angry pup.”

  Jacques snapped. “I’m no pup!” Again, he charged, kicking Nathan in the groin as hard as he could.

  The drunkard collapsed instantly with a wail. “I’ll kills you! You ain’t nuffin to me!”

  Knowing the threat wasn’t idle, Jacques bolted. He hadn’t made three steps when he was caught by the collar and thrown to the ground, a muddy boot jammed at his throat.

  “Ho there!” Jacques, recognizing Mr. Adelson’s voice, was relieved when Nathan released him.

  “Whatchu ‘bout then, Adelson. Our business was over monfs ago,” Nathan growled. “Whatcha bringn’ these vultures ’round ’ear for. Me wife ’asn’t even been in the ground a day and yer ready to be pic’in from the skel’ton.”

  Jacques slowly stood and watched as three men approached: Mr. Adelson, Mr. Openshaw, and a third he didn’t recognize.

  “I am afraid this could not wait,” Mr. Openshaw began. “It has come to my attention that on his final journey, Edwin Peters made a stop in London. There in the East End he set up an additional trust in the name of Jacques Peters.”