Chapter Twelve

in which sam reflects

It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy;—it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others. —Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility

Swangale House was located just outside of the village of Whitstable. The village was in the Canterbury district of Kent, between Seasalter and Upper Harbledown, and I swear to god, those are real places. Sometimes it felt like the British named towns via games of Boggle. We were about halfway there by the time the sun set at an appallingly early four thirty, according to the clock attached to the coaching inn when we stopped for the night.

Our comfort break had given me the opportunity to have the carriage to myself long enough to wriggle into my modern clothing. Daisy had caught me at it and helped me with the stays. Mama Goodenough and Mrs. Kempel didn’t have the time to disapprove of my new look, though, because by the time they had come back Daisy was wearing my abandoned cranberry spencer, and I was wrapped in her gray wool cloak. Iris and Marigold had not nodded off again, so I’d spent the remainder of the afternoon fielding Marigold’s questions about my education and what subjects I was versed in, determining what I could teach. Iris interjected frequently with blunt to the point of rude musings about Daisy’s marriage prospects and the suitable bachelors she might set her cap for in Seasalter.

It wasn’t until we pulled into the coaching inn in Rochester that they were privy to my trousers, when I shucked the wool cloak so I could stretch, and by then it was too late. I tumbled out of the carriage, butt sore from the lack of shock absorbers, and Daisy followed, eager to be out of the presence of the rest of her family.

“You look a rough sort,” Daisy commented as we struck off for the common room to track down the landlord and bargain for our beds. “Why are your trouser hems turned up? Are your ankles not cold?”

“Promised you a brother, didn’t I?” I teased.

I turned then, and caught her staring at me. No, not staring at me, exactly, but staring at my ass .

That’s pretty awesome , I decided, smirking.

She didn’t look into my face to catch it, just back down at her reticule. But her ears had turned pink.

“A brother would have this,” Daisy said, and dropped a plain knit pouch with a coin purse mouth into my hand. It clinked.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” I confessed stupidly. “I mean, I don’t know how much—”

That inscrutable look was back, the one that made me feel a bit like she was planning to mount me on a corkboard with a hatpin.

“A sixpence upon meeting the chambermaid and the ostler,” she said as we hustled inside. “Two for the landlord, and one for the groom’s lad.”

“Which one is the sixpence? This one?” I asked, pulling out the smallest silver coin from the pouch.

“Yes. Do you honestly not know this, Samantha?”

“Currency is different where I’m from,” I told her. “And so is tipping culture, apparently, if we have to tip before we get the service.”

“You must tip to get any service at all,” Daisy corrected. “Be sure to ask for only two beds, for Mary and I are well accustomed to sharing, and the driver may sleep in the coach if there is no room above the stables for him.”

“You expect me to share with your mom?”

Daisy halted unexpectedly, expression going through a series of complicated gymnastics before landing on chagrin. “No, you are correct. Marigold and Mother shall share.”

It was only after the business was done and we were halfway through our strained dinner of beer, cold cheese and meats, fresh bread, and more boiled-to-death vegetables, that it occurred to me that Iris and Marigold sharing meant that Daisy would be in the second bed with me.

I gulped down my beer to hide my sudden blush.

Fun fact! Dad’s memory crowed, laughing at me. For the great majority of human history, bed-sharing was the norm. Beds were the most expensive piece of furniture to make and dress, so sometimes whole families co-slept.

Jesus wept.

Despite their naps, Iris and Marigold proclaimed their tiredness first and headed to bed a few hours after our arrival. Daisy, safely chaperoned by her “brother” (a fiction that I knew no one was buying, but were also, strangely, not challenging), was able to haggle for a bottle of Madeira from the landlord’s wife. We moved from the dining parlor to a quieter common room populated by sagging, mismatched furniture and sagging old men reading sagging newspapers while their sagging wives went through the motions of passionless games with sagging playing cards.

We tucked into two such chairs before the hearth, and Daisy divvied the wine. This time the cups were earthenware, and what I would call a proper pour. The wine itself was sweeter than I liked. It reminded me far too much of last night’s sherry. And the way it had tasted coming back up.

Had that only been yesterday? So much had happened, I was in danger of starting to cry if I tried to process any of it right then.

“Is it not to your preference?” Daisy asked.

“It’s fine, it’s just . . . I’m feeling homesick.” I disguised my trembling bottom lip with a healthy slug of the awful wine.

“Of course,” she conceded. And then, as if testing the ice on a newly frozen pond, she asked: “Will you tell me about your home?”

“What’s to tell?” I asked with a shrug. “I live in a coral condo complex with in-shell cleaning service and a parking spot for my seahorse.”

She grinned slyly. “Fine then, keep your secrets.”

We drank some more. The fire crackled. The newspapers whispered and the cards shuffled.

“It is nice to have some silence,” Daisy hummed at length, interrupting said quiet. “The carriage ride is proving to be quite the trial by fire. I do apologize for my mother—”

“No need. I get it.”

Daisy leaned back in her chair, reassured, her prim posture melting somewhat in the cozy warmth of companionship. But her expression grew more and more hound doggy until finally I asked: “What is it, sourpuss?”

She blinked, jerking her head up from her contemplation.

“Sour? I beg pardon?”

“You look like someone just told you Father Christmas isn’t real.”

Her jaw dropped. “Father Christmas does not truly exist?” she gasped. For all of three seconds, she actually had me. Then I cracked a grin, and so did she. It was still sad looking, but it was there, at least.

“C’mon,” I said. “Something’s churning in your head. I can see you thinking.”

Daisy scoffed playfully. “You cannot.”

“I can. Besides, isn’t this the part of those novels you like so much where the womenfolk, finally alone together, confess their terrible secrets?”

Daisy turned that thoughtful, probing look on me again. “Dialogue written in a novel hardly mirrors true spontaneous conversation.”

“Oh, yeah.” I quashed the stupid affection for her polysyllabic speech patterns. “Totally.” I shifted in my seat and refused to let myself get awkward, even as the air between us thickened.

She gave that little amused headshake at my turn of phrase, then grew serious. “I must confess, I was thinking of your flight, and the determination it must have taken. I admire your ability to simply make a decision and see it through, as well as your ambition to do what you set your heart to, with no reservation. I envy that.”

“I dunno.” I picked at my cuticles nervously. “Leaping before I look can backfire.” I pointed to my hidden scar.

Daisy dimpled. “To be frank, it also concerns and confuses me greatly that you seem to have no understanding of, nor regard for, propriety and etiquette. You set your mind on an action and then you complete it, consequences be damned.”

“Time and tide wait for no man.” I saluted her with my cup. “And neither does Samantha Franklin.”

“What does Samantha Franklin wait for, then?” Daisy asked, intrigued.

There was no way she could have meant it like that . Still, raised as I was in the queer bars of Toronto, I nearly pitched out a soft opener. I only kept it behind my teeth by taking another gulp of the fortified wine. Eugh.

“I want to save the world,” I said at length, when I was sure the urge to flirt had passed. “Or leave it better than I found it, at any rate.”

Daisy’s eyebrows climbed. “That is a lofty aspiration.” Her slim fingers stroked up and down her cup thoughtfully.

Christ , I wanted to take her hand, to encourage her restless touches to stroke up and down my thigh instead. My fondness and admiration for Daisy had grown with every new topic of conversation we’d shared today, with how she took my eccentricities in stride and found them fascinating instead of mortifying, with every searching gaze she turned my way when she thought I couldn’t see.

It was torture.

My love language was Physical Affection. Dahl had made me do an online quiz. (Hers was Quality Time, but we had to be totally chaste when we weren’t alone, so no wonder we were at such odds). It was killing me that nobody touched each other in this stupid era unless they were a servant or a spouse. I was starved for contact, clingy bastard that I was.

And we were going to share a bed.

I gulped more wine.

Daisy would be warm, and soft, and pliant with sleep. Actual sex was the furthest thing from my mind after the last twenty-four hours, but cuddling , just tender, platonic hugging, I missed that so much , and she was going to be right there and—

I wonder what Daisy’s love language is?

“But how one is to improve the world, that is the question,” Daisy murmured, diverting my attention from my mounting panic.

“I suppose it’s a matter of what you want to change, and what’s in your power to affect,” I offered, welcoming the distraction. “My education focused on the social history of rights movements. That’s what I want to do—improve people’s lot in life, ensure that the downtrodden, or ignored, or colonized, or discriminated-against are lifted up, given their own self-determination.”

“Ah,” Daisy said, warming to the topic. “Like a missionary brings enlightenment to the savage peoples of the new world?”

I winced. “More like directly opposing the missionaries imposing their own foreign norms on violently suppressed strangers, then doing what I can as the descendant of settlers myself to help those indigenous people regain their ancestral homes and lands and advocate for their right to speak their own languages and worship in their own way?”

Daisy stared at me as if I’d grown another head. “Are you opposed to the Church of England?”

“I’m opposed to any institution from any nation that strips innocent people of their cultures, families, or way of life.” I leaned forward and lowered my voice. Daisy leaned in, too, close enough that a stray curl tickled my forehead. “How would you feel if suddenly an army from China invaded, burned all the churches and Bibles, demanded you speak Mandarin and beat you if you didn’t, stole all the farmland, and force marched everyone who looks like you to camps and far-flung colonies where there’s nothing to eat and no arable land to cultivate?”

“But that is not what a missionary does,” Daisy protested.

“They’re the first wave, though,” I explained, getting into the rhythm of my lecture. Dahl always said I talked in essays when someone was foolish enough to let me ramble about my passions. “It starts with kindly benefactors and it ends with federally mandated genocide. Did you know that historically, being queer was celebrated in more cultures than it was reviled in, and it’s only through colonization that homophobia has spread—oh.” I stopped myself abruptly.

Daisy was staring again, but this time her moonstone eyes were trained solidly on my mouth. I licked my lips, partially because I needed to wet them after my monologue and partially to see how she’d react. She straightened as if she’d been electrocuted, rearing back and blinking. A dark, mottled flush spread up her face from her neck.

“My apologies, I got distracted by your . . . your zeal ,” Daisy said, scrambling for the wine bottle and refilling our cups to cover her discomposure.

The needle on my BiFi shivered in the red zone.

“You are going to vex Marigold with your lessons,” Daisy said, after a healthy gulp of vino. “Your opinions are certainly not in line with what is preached from the pulpit.”

I took a more moderate sip of my drink. Yup. Still awful. “I don’t know. ‘Love thy neighbor’ and ‘do unto others’ seem pretty clear to me.”

Daisy’s dimples pulled down into a moue of thoughtful disappointment. “Then perhaps what I mean is that it is not what is preached from the Parliament.”

“There you are,” I agreed.

Daisy grew thoughtful again, and I left her to her musings.

Eventually, when the wine bottle was empty and the fire was low, the day caught up with me. I must have nodded off in my chair, because the next thing I knew Daisy was shaking me awake. She helped me stumble up the stairs to our room. I flopped out of my jeans and jacket, peeling them into an inside-out ball and tangling myself up in my sleep-muzzled haze while I tried to get my bra off without first taking off my button-down. Daisy was far more elegant in disrobing, laying out her clothing neatly on the back of the room’s sole chair.

The bed was barely wider than a twin. I crawled up from the foot and dropped onto the mattress in just my shirt and undies. Daisy knelt primly by the head in her nightgown and folded her hands in prayer.

From anyone else, I would have assumed she was doing it to make a point. But nothing about Daisy’s vibe gave me the impression she was doing this to be bitchy. She believed in this stuff. As much as Dahlia had been serious about her devotion to Islam. As much as I was devoted to my own pantheon of revolutionary feminists.

Though, after everything that had happened, maybe I should be considering converting to the C of E myself. If divine intervention hadn’t put Fenton’s ship directly under my plane, then what was it?

Daisy finished her supplication and quietly climbed under the covers with her back to me. Out of courtesy, I faced the wall.

Please, I prayed, figuring it couldn’t hurt . Please, don’t let Lewis hurt anyone else. Um. Amen. Oh. And if you, you know, have any more good will left after that, think you could see fit to make sure I don’t octopus all over Daisy in the middle of night?

~

I had no idea if my prayer had worked, because by the time a nightmare jerked me back into the waking world, Daisy had already risen and left the room. It can’t have been too terribly late, as the sky was just beginning to lighten. I hoped it hadn’t been my fault she was awake.

My brain felt like it was wrapped in barbed wire. I was strained and disoriented, panting, swallowing against nothing, tangled in the sheets and clutching at my throat. The nightmare dissipated into the ether even as I tried to grasp it, to remember what had frightened me so much.

The dark of the deep ocean rose up behind my eyes, the flash of a knife coming at my face, the phantom squeeze of hateful hands on the back of my neck—I gasped against a burble of something stuck in my throat; a cry, a scream, a sob, I didn’t know, it was all the things, and I—

Delayed reaction, I thought. Shock.

I sat there, unable to get my breathing under control, eyes watering, chin on knees, hands wrapped around my ankles, telling myself: it’s over, it’s over, you’re safe, you’re on dry land, Fenton killed the man with the knife, Lewis doesn’t know where you are, you’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe.

Collapsing like a loose-limbed doll, I rolled into the empty space beside me—sheets still warm with body heat but devoid of the person I wanted to comfort me—and stuck my nose in Daisy’s abandoned pillow. I inhaled. Violet hair tonic, harsh soap, feather stuffing, a molecule of last night’s sweet wine.

Pathetic.

I could feel the post-traumatic depression gouging its talons into the flesh of my back. I rolled over to stifle it, pillow clamped against my chest, trying to push the foul mood away. I was going to shake apart. Every nerve was electrified, my skin crawling, even my hair aching. I wanted to scream, punch, fight, scream, kick, scream —

Pranayama, breathe , I told myself. Inhale, two, three, four, five, six, hold, that’s it, hold, exhale in a hum, come on, Sammie. Just focus on your breath, there’s nothing else, there’s nothing—breathe.

It wasn’t enough.

I slid onto the dusty rug and knelt into Balasana, forehead down, hands stretched out, knees spread wide to push my pelvis as close to the floor as possible. But the itch in my bones wouldn’t let me be still, and I pressed up into Bhujangasana, cobra pose, legs straight out behind me, back bent in a deep arch, shaking with exhaustion and pain as I forced my scarred arm to hold my weight. I stretched my chin up, tilted my head back, and was startled by the tickle of tears sliding into the hair beside my ears.

Of course I was crying.

I was so tired.

I didn’t want to hurt any longer, didn’t want to be scared, or confused, or out of place, or condescended to, or—I pushed up, into Downward Dog, sobbing as my underarm throbbed, then tipped over, my hip hitting the ground hard, as I caught sight of Daisy from between my legs.

“Shit!” I said. “How long have you been standing there?”

Daisy, frozen on the threshold of the door with two cups of tea in her hands, needed a second to catch up. She blinked, pupils dilating, and only seemed to realize she was holding hot beverages when she moved to help me up. She dithered instead, looking around for somewhere to put the tea, but there was no table in our narrow room.

“Hold on.” I minced upright and collapsed on the edge of the bed. “I’m a wreck, sorry, I’m not fit for polite company, I should put on some—”

“Nonsense,” Daisy said. “We are none of us at our most attractive in the morning. And you passed a most distressing night, which of course would excuse all manner of sartorial sins.”

Daisy passed me one of the teas, making sure I had a good grip on the saucer before letting go. Then she sat beside me and inhaled her own tea, eyes darting around the room before being drawn, as if magnetized, to my naked thighs. Then her gaze shot away again.

No.

No .

Yes?

“Good morning,” I finally said, to cut through the weirdness. “Thanks for the tea.”

It was milky. I hated it.

I drank it because Daisy had fetched it for me.

“Good morning,” Daisy parroted back, out of knee-jerk politeness. “That was, ah, certainly . . . what was that? A form of gymnastics?”

“Kinda? It’s sort of stretching and strength training mixed with meditation, uh, mindful breathing. It’s from India.”

Daisy dimpled, relieved to understand that at least. “Ah, like the best muslins and coffee, you undertake only the finest form of physical activity imported from the farthest corners of our trade routes.”

A soft flush of attraction filled my stomach, warmer by far than the tea, and I wondered at how just the sound of Daisy’s voice could drive all the panic out of my pores. What magic did she possess, that just sitting beside her made the terrible evils of the world seem surmountable? By what power was she able to banish my waking nightmares with a single smile?

“My friend, I have a question about a word you used last night. I wrote it down.” She swigged her tea and set her empty cup on the bed. She retrieved a little book from her reticule, which hung from the chair. “What is homophobia ?”

Oh, hon, I thought. If my BiFi was right, this was going to break her heart.

“From the Latin, I assume?” Daisy pressed, when I didn’t answer right away. “A fear of sameness?”

“Where I come from,” I began, fidgeting with the handle of the cup, “things are . . . different. The etiquette. The rules. The clothes.”

“That much is quite obvious,” Daisy says.

“Things that are frowned on here, things that are illegal here, are not there.” I set down my own cup and saucer and screwed up my courage. “Daisy, do you know what a molly house is?”

Daisy gasped.

“You know that a molly is a man who performs a particular act . Here, that act is illegal. Where I’m from it was the man , not the act, that was considered wrong. His homosexuality—his same love—was the issue. Until it wasn’t.”

“Homo-phobia,” Daisy said slowly, with dawning understanding. “A fear of those who love samely. If I am understanding what you said last evening correctly, you seek to make the world better by punishing those who hate any unfortunate person who is born . . . molly.”

“Less ‘punishing,’ more ‘helping them realize that the hatred is pointless,’ with a side helping of ‘celebrating the incredible diversity of human nature.’ Also, being queer, molly, other , being that , it’s not . . . Daisy, it’s not unfortunate .”

Daisy’s hands, which had been fidgeting with her little notebook, went still.

“It’s not shameful ,” I pressed, allowing myself to scooch closer, to take her hands between mine. “Sometimes it can be beautiful.”

Daisy let out a shivering sigh, laden with a sort of hopeful anticipation that blindsided me.

Something was happening.

Something was about to happen.

“Samantha, I begin to think perhaps I—” She stopped and made that fluttering tremor of sound again.

My insides quivered deliciously. Maybe , just maybe Daisy understood what else I had been saying, what I really meant—

“Sister!” Marigold called from the hall, coming around the doorframe without knocking.

Daisy had left it open , and here I was, staring at her sweet mouth, rosy with the heat of the tea, where anyone could walk in on us. You’d think two years of having to look over my shoulder every time I wanted to PDA with Dahl would have taught me better instincts.

Idiot .

Homophobia, though the word didn’t exist in this time, still existed in and of itself.

“I’ve brought you the lavender half-mourning dress from our trunk as you requested,” Marigold barged on. “But I do not understand why—”

Daisy and I sprang apart, and she was immediately on her feet to hide her tiny book in her skirts. I think she was more worried about Marigold scolding her for that than for the way we had been leaning toward one another. But then, would Marigold even understand it as something sexual? Something forbidden?

Did Daisy?

“Why are neither of you dressed?” Marigold gawped. “If we had shared the room as we always do you would not be dawdling so! We will be late for supper at Swangale House if you don’t make haste.”

“I thank you for the dress, Marigold,” Daisy said swiftly, plucking the gown from Marigold’s arms, ignoring her frustration. “It is very kind of you to lend it to Miss Franklin.”

“Miss Franklin!” Marigold said, and I don’t know which nerve of Marigold’s it was, only that Daisy’s blasé announcement struck one of them. “You never said —”

“Do you not think Miss Franklin ought to arrive at Swangale in something less dour than full mourning? I do not think it proper she wear all black. She was not married to Lord Nelson.”

“No, of course not,” Marigold agreed, through gritted teeth. “Only have a care of it. It was remade from my late mother-in-law’s own mourning attire. I am fond of it.”

Daisy laughed. “You are a terrible fibber, Mary. You strongly disliked that the only dresses you had to make over for your own half-mourning gowns were those of that ‘wretched old witch.’ Those are the words that fell directly from your lips.”

Marigold seemed more hurt by Daisy’s laughing at her in front of me than the sharp reminder of her dislike of her late husband’s mother. “I do sometimes greatly dislike that little trick of yours, sister, where you manage to recall everything one has ever said. Have a care how you speak, Miss Franklin, for she will carve every word you utter into the immortal edifice of her memory, kind or no.”

Before Daisy could apologize, Marigold fled the room, slamming the door behind her.

“Dash it,” Daisy huffed. “That was unkind of me, I should—”

“After,” I pressed, standing to rummage through my apron-bundle for my chemise, stockings, gloves, and stays. “We should get downstairs. I appreciate you thinking of this, by the way. I don’t think the fancy-pantsy Gales would appreciate it if I showed up in jeans.”

“I do not believe Sir Gale would give two figs,” Daisy said, setting the lavender dress aside to help wrestle me into my underthings. “However, I do believe Marigold, who will not say so, sees this marriage as her ticket back into the circles she used to travel with Mr. Kempel. It is she, therefore, who would skin you alive.”