The Crimson Shaw

by Elyse Lortz

  “You’re much too young for that yet.”

  “Not true. Take our last little adventure, for instance. If I had known Michael would become so . . . infatuated with me, I might have been able to stop him before he had us both wandering about in a blizzard.”

  “But had that been avoided, we wouldn’t have found Bridget. See, Lawrence, there are a great many things we could find in our pasts and wish that it had happened differently—that we could have changed it somehow—but doing so would alter the present result. Regret is one of the most useless of emotions. Guilt, when truly honorable and honest, is far better.” I nodded slowly, Keane’s sage words creeping gradually into my consciousness.

  Regret may be useless, but it had a bite more cold and deadly than an onslaught of bullets.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “The carriage is waiting, Eliza. Are you ready?”

  “Quite. Is the Professor coming?” An older woman looked at the younger, though not very attractive, woman with an air of indignation only those withered with age can rightfully supply.

  “Certainly not. He can’t behave himself in church. He makes remarks out loud all the time on the clergyman’s pronunciation.” The young woman turned to the man still seated in the elegant parlor.

  “Then I shall not see you again, Professor. Good-bye.” The old woman swept over to the man who, though much younger than herself, still held the grace of age etched into his face.

  “Good-bye, dear.”

  “Good-bye, mother. Oh, by the way, Eliza, order a ham and a Stilton cheese, will you? And buy me a pair of reindeer gloves, number eights, and a tie to match that new suit of mine, at Eale & Binman’s. You can choose the color.” There was a cheerfulness to his voice, a carelessness that seemed willfully oblivious to the young lady’s furrowed brow.

  “Buy them yourself.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve spoiled that girl, Henry. But never mind, dear: I’ll buy you the tie and gloves.”

  “Oh, don’t bother. She’ll buy them all right enough. Good-bye.”

  I felt struck, entirely dumbfounded by the unusual affair. How many times had I seen the same thing—read those very words—and yet the soft English drawl that brushed my ears was far more real than any ink slathered over a page.

  “Wonderful, Brendan.” Harrison praised as he marched forward to the edge of the stage. “Wonderful. Now, if we could just run that last scene once more we can all go home and get some rest.”

  “You want us to do it again?” The young woman whined, her voice now completely bereft of all grace and beauty provided by the English language. “Well, I am going home. You all can stay and do it without me.” She clambered down from the stage and stormed past Harrison without so much as a glance in his direction. To his credit, he seemed to hardly blink at her spoilt behavior. Instead, he turned back to those still remaining on the stage.

  “I suppose rehearsal is over then. Tomorrow is Sunday, so I will see everyone bright and early Monday morning.” I grabbed my jacket from the theatre seat beside me and stood just as Keane came striding down the carpeted aisle with his hat under his arm. Before I could speak, his hand was at my elbow, edging me onward at a thrilling pace toward the door and out into the streets of evening. Window lights poured into the street in long yellow streaks upon blackened pavement. When we had rounded the block or so between us and the car, Keane laughed triumphantly and grasped my arm with an exhilarating amount of force.

  “By God, Lawrence,” He breathed. “I haven’t felt that thrill for years; the words, the articulation, the wonder of it all. It’s marvelous. Simply marvelous.” I glanced at my companion’s face as we strode rapidly onward. His blue eyes sparkled like a thousand lights laid out low over a glassy sea. There was a pleasantness to them, a long past longing hence fulfilled in a matter of instances wound together into a moment far too precious to be rightfully described.

  “Mr. Harrison was right.” I said. “You were incredible.”

  “Pshaw. I was adequate. Nothing more.” How easily he said those words, how quick he was to brush them aside without so much as a nod to their meaning. Yet oh what pride there was in his face, and what dignity there was as the foundation for such a marvelous man as this. I would be the first to attribute him to ill temperament and, at times, utter neglect for the world at his fingertips, but he was a man different from all others. When he stood I stood. Where he walked, I walked. And, paying no heed to age or stereotypical roles, I could not help hoping that even the slightest bit of him might rub off onto me, that I might be such a fine human being as he.

  Even if he should deny it.

  Keane’s steps slowed as we neared the car. We had refused a chauffeur, for reasons I believed to be more than obvious. A third constant variable meant another set of ears to hear even the most private of conversations and a mouth to carry them to the general public. Fortunately, Keane—man of many talents that he was—was able to skillfully drive in America, just as he was in Europe. I slipped into the passenger seat beside him.

  “I still think you were magnificent.” Keane grunted, though he could not hide the slight tug to the tip of his ear.

  Old habits are difficult to break.

  As we rounded the bend separating the seaside from the city itself, my companion began to hum merrily and drum his long, slender fingers against the steering wheel. Though I had often considered myself knowledgeable in the realms of classical music, his deep, melodic song drifted in and out between Vivaldi and Beethoven as natural as the summer breeze. Notes leapt from pitch to pitch with nary a falter. Key changes were bested by a quick adjective of the voice. It might have been considered childish, the constant singing that broke between each song with a gentle ease, but there was nothing false or foolish about him, just as his intelligence could not be measured in one area alone.

  True intelligence never can.

  MR. HARRISON’S HOUSE by the sea was stationed above the whispering waters with a presence so modern and overbearing, one could not fully escape from it’s grasp. The plain, almost dull, white of the exterior meant nothing in comparison to the bright colors decorating each and every room. There were, of course, the less mind-shattering greens, beiges, and blues one could always expect, but the pinks, yellows, and other eccentric fabrics created something far different from which I had ever laid my eyes. And yet, sleep came without a qualm.

  The next morning when I drifted slowly from the depth and warmth of the night to the cool of the morning, I found my mind whirling with thoughts and ideas so abominable that all I could do was hope a swift walk along the shore would banish them to the fire from whence they came. I got up immediately and began shuffling through the new suitcase filled with clothes that stank of starch and were as stiff as some ancient woman. There was a bathing suit (which I sincerely prayed I would never wear), a few pairs of rather eccentric pants, a few shirts, and—

  And then I saw it, the lethal weapon that would doom me to a hell I wished not to walk.

  The thing far more despicable than the devil himself.

  The thing I hated more than sin.

  A dress.

  Damn.

  The color was not the problem, for I had always been rather fond of such a light blue (though perhaps not the exact shade). It was the idea of the thing—the principle—that burned my soul. The skirt was long and folded into vertical creases, while the upper portion was specifically made to emphasize those imphamous curves and caves of a woman’s figure. Illogical though the perfectionist’s illusion may be, it still existed to expect nothing less from the garment. It was the epitome of a grounded womanhood, built upon a femininity completely incapable of defending itself against anything more threatening than a slight fashion fopa or—heaven forbid—a farce while out to coffee. Complete femininity damned even the most capable of women to complete helplessness. The opening of a door was left to a male escort. The men drove the cars. The men worked in office buildings or shops. The men played politicians, pushing and prodding fo
rein nations with little more effort than chess pieces on a wooden board. The men ruled the world.

  Or so we women had been taught at the dusk of childhood innocence.

  But then there had been the wars, both the first and second, to prove to the world the strengths of a woman; that the world would not revolve on its axis without our constant assistance. While the men slaughtered themselves on the battlefield, we had changed their bandages, clothed their aching flesh, and fed that pit in their stomach until the curtly thanked us and slogged back into the hail of bullets.

  And yet, there was a dress.

  Clearly it had not been I who had chosen such a truso, and Keane would most certainly never dare do such a thing. It had been left entirely to another.

  Much to my eternal regret.

  I at last emerged into the morning sun with what I believed to be a reasonable compromise of color between a pair of brightly plaid trousers and white shirt. So armed, I trudged gradually down toward the ocean and began walking along the seashore. The sand glittered gold as waves of silver lapped upon their grainy treasure. Even in America I could not withhold that sense of glory in the presence of such sheer majesty. There was always such power in the waves as they whispered their forbidden tales of ships lost at sea, or the approach of those still yet to come. It was as if they had captured the whole of time within their watery hands and allowed only the briefest moments to drip through their fingers before they carried all the pains of one’s past out to the sea. There was darkness in it too, an anger not even the purest of hearts could fully quell. It was there in the deafening roar as it threw itself desperately against the rocks. She flew with a hopeless cry as one who wished for the end without consideration for how it occurred. She held the lost spirits of a thousand sailors whose ship had not fulfilled the promise of safe passage, or those despite widows and lost loves who flung themselves onto her surface with pockets of rocks and other heavy objects. Final glory was all she wanted as she grabbed at my ankles with her wickedly cool fingers.

  The end. The end. The end.

  And yet, as I caught a glimpse of a wooden arm cutting along the heart of her, I knew but one thing.

  It was just the beginning.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Summer 1916—H.M.S. Greylag

  THE SHIP ROCKED VIOLENTLY, thrashing its crew about like the entirety of the world might soon collapse about their shoulders. Men became monsters, armed in their coats against the rolling of the sea. Their unruly hair was plastered to their dripping faces. The first shadows of a beard became wiry stripes of paint. To the world they were blind, though their hearts be open with a longing no one need say. Those who wanted a hot fire wanted a meal. Those who wanted a meal wanted a girl. Those who wanted a girl wanted all three. But there were none of these here. There was nothing but a bleary-eyed darkness that had settled upon them and clawed at their throats. There was no sound save the horrid screeches of death challenged by a captain’s call. There was nothing to them but what was, even if that was very little. It had been said—by some strange old salt—that what would not break their spirits would most surely kill them.

  Though Seaman Brendan Keane suspected half were already dead.

  He knew not the time, nor the day, nor anything that could save them from a fate far worse than even the fires of Hell.

  “Keep her steady, men!” The captain shouted, a mere whisper against the storm. Steady indeed. There was not a finer ship in all of His Majesty's service. The HMS Greylag was as fit as they came, strong and sleek as she was nice on the eyes. To Brendan she was more beautiful than half the women he had known, and he had known plenty to be sure. The young seaman grinned at the thought.

  He had spent some of the better moments of his young life with a lovely lass on his arm as he paraded up and down the streets in his old number one. Even in those brief moments they were in port he could always muster up a girl to take on the town, and more often or not she proved to be the fairer of the fair sex. Hair thick and long as it flowed down her back or was wound upward in wondrous braids and curls. Those dresses that had made it their purpose to accentuate every curve of her figure. Oh, he didn’t give so much as a fig to fashion. So long as the styles were suitable for the wearer, he was satisfied.

  A monstrous wave hurled itself over the rail and smashed violently over the crews before rapidly retreating back into the dark and dreaded waters. Brendan shifted his weight against the winds and continued to carry on toward the hatch. The storm followed his lead and allowed its growl to swell into the frantic screams of a thousand hysterical women.

  Women.

  Of course, Brendan had no complaint toward the facade of the fairer sex. He was not a cad, but a man with the same heart and soul as most other men. Even when he was a boy he could get girls alright, but he had never known what to do or say in her company. Women, he thought solemnly, were not like men. Men were straight out, say what you like sort of chaps. It was simpler that way. Women; however, often listened to every uttered line with uncanny scrutiny. One slip of the tongue and—

  A sharp shout cut through the air like fire as another watery hand slapped the deck and grabbed at his feet. Where their fingers pulled, he fought bravely forward until he was very near to the hatch. Below would be a lovely warmth, dry from the squall’s damning hand. It was like a wife; safe and sure against the obstacles.

  A wife.

  Brendan Keane was many things, but a scoundrel was not one of them. He’d loved and been loved. Was he a heartbreaker? He didn’t think so. Oh, he may have dented them a bit now and then, but that happened in life. There had been some women who had kicked his heart around a bit, but, in the end, he was the same man. Most men he knew were never too horribly changed by the fickle finger of fate. Sure, there were those unlucky few who dropped a woman and picked up the bottle, but he would never be one of those. He would never forgive himself to step toward such a slippery slope to destruction; to be tied down forever to ragged coats and empty pockets. Such was the end of a man, and the birth of a thousand devils. Brendan fancied himself a free spirit, though that was a bloody hard thing to be when tied to a ship at sea.

  Another wave crashed down upon him. The icy hands of death brushed his neck and ran down the open collar of his shirt. Every unruly hair on his head snaked against his scalp, the blond fangs biting his flesh with sickening ice. A sudden scream slapped him hard across the face as a dark figure was swept backward towards the rail and toppled limply over the edge. Without a second thought, Brendan dashed along the deck, fighting the wind and led rain. His boots slipped mercilessly over the lurching ground until at last he was at the icy rail. The metal bit into the calloused flesh on his palms as his body was brutally thrown forward by another shock of the ship. In an instant he had climbed upon the only barrier between himself and intimate death.

  And then promptly hurled himself off of it.

  Down he fell, deeper, deeper, until his body was submerged in black. Great nets of poisoned foam fell upon him in sheets as his trained arms pulled him through the shifting waters. Great boisterous calls echoed somewhere above him, but Brendan could see nothing but the final glimpse of a man’s fingertips sinking further into the murk.

  Further. Further.

  Lower. Lower.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  When Keane again resurfaced from the water, he was dragging a sailing ship behind him. It was not an enormous vessel like one would imagine in some great pirate film, nor was it a rickety old thing that could do nothing more than a lonely cork from a wine bottle. It was ship shape from stem to stern and the port and starboard side respectively. A stripe of clean, white paint shot along the sides, just as the sails cut through the morning sky. Everything about her was magnificent and dignified to be sure, but, when I said as much to the tall figure approaching on the sand, I received only a hearty chuckle.

  “She’s not the Saint Gobniat, but she’ll do nicely, I think.” And indeed she would, though Keane was quite right. This ship was
most certainly not the same one he had left behind in England. I glanced at the painted letters upon her hull. Mae West. Of course an American would name their ship after a film star. I had seen a few of her films myself and, though they were admittedly enjoyable, the vessel’s title was not quite so poetic as Keane’s selection. The Saint Gobniat; the female patron saint of County Cork, where he had been born and raised until the war.

  The first war, I corrected silently.

  There had been two now; two fatal cracks to shake the world until it trembled at the knees. If the millions of deaths and an insane dictator were not sufficient evidence to the demoralisation of this hell in which we lived, the Americans had developed an entirely new form of warfare that could kill hundreds of thousands of people within a handful of seconds. Those who survived the blast were then racked with diseases that weakened their bones and induced vomiting no human could quell. Blackened corpses lined foreign streets, limbs twisted and bent like the victims of Pompeii. In thought, there was only one difference.

  One was made by men.

  Keane strode up onto the shore and began drying his face with a towel I had not noticed lying limp on the beach. His sopping trousers clung to his legs, dripping little rivers of water onto his bare feet. His hair was slicked back against his skull with enough laxity to retain some semblance of style. He was not—nor, I thought, had he ever been—a man to whom his wealth meant much more than a lack of poverty. However, in the years I had known him he had most always been cat-like in the upkeep of his appearance. His tweed suits were just as common to him as my jacket was to me. They were not so much what we wore, but who we were. It was a reflection of our lives, our ambitions, our hopes, our dreams, our past, and our future. They were a story woven tightly by the threads of our beginnings, a knot tied firmly at every day to prevent the fabric of our being from unraveling at the slightest slip of change.