Chapter Thirteen

in which sam realizes

I think I may boast myself to be, with all possible vanity, the most unlearned and uninformed female who ever dared to be an authoress. —Jane Austen, Personal Letters

We hit Whitstable in the early evening, and my sore ass rejoiced. I missed cars, trains, public transportation that moved at speeds faster than a horse, damn it. It didn’t help that the road was a muddy mire with all the snow melt. As we pulled up the final stretch of the drive, Iris assured me that Swangale House was actually quite pretty when the orchards were in bloom and the gardens flourished, and that it was a shame that I was seeing it for the first time in winter.

The winter wasn’t even remotely close to finished this time of year back in Canada. But the British Isles were surrounded by ocean, benefitted from the Gulf Stream, and didn’t yet suffer from the global climate change that had made summers hotter and winters harsher. Instead of the winter wonderland I was used to in early January, it was all just brown.

We came to a stop by the front steps of a glaringly symmetrical house. It was rectangular, three stories tall, made of beige stone, and featured an even number of stingy-looking windows on either side of the door. We dismounted, and the carriage was taken away by a stable boy directly after our trunks and hat cases had been disgorged onto the gravel. The bags didn’t stay there long, as nimble servants had seen our approach and were already waiting to whisk us inside.

The interior of the house was just as down-to-earth grandiose as the outside. The furnishings were a bit dowdy but looked comfortable. More importantly, every scuff on the floor, mark on the wallpaper, or little tear in the cushions told me that this was a home . This was a place where life happened. It wasn’t showy and sparkling like Lewis’s gilded prison.

We were met in a small dining room by an early supper and a silver tea service—for the first time, I looked forward to tea! I was frozen to the bone. It was also the first time I had arrived in a place and sat down to a meal without first being whisked off to fix my appearance, which I appreciated. Even though I wouldn’t have said no to a bath and power nap.

Marigold took it upon herself to pour the tea with an imperious air, as if she was the mistress of Swangale.

Maybe that’s what she was angling for, based on the way she looked at our host when he joined us a few moments later. Sir Charles Gale was a man comfortable in his skin, and approaching silver fox territory. He was introduced to me as the Honorable, and Daisy whispered to me that this meant he was the youngest son of a baron, unlikely to inherit unless a dozen other members of his family kicked it first. Apparently he did very tidily for himself by being a hands-on gentleman landlord, loyal and good to his tenants, and parsimonious with his late wife’s dowry.

A fine catch for any widow, I assumed. I could see the appeal. But it would mean Marigold would become her own brother’s mother-in-law and . . . yeah, no.

Sir Gale greeted the Goodenough ladies warmly, asked after Fenton’s absence, and was mollified by the excuse that he had some last-minute business in town and was only a day or so behind us, then inquired how a third sister had suddenly sprouted.

The look he tossed me when Iris recounted the horrors I had suffered, in such great melodramatic detail it was as if she was the one who had been rescued from the ocean, was a calculating one. He didn’t seem to fear for his daughter’s prospects, but he was curious about this strange woman who had traveled openly with Eliza’s fiancé.

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” I said. “It’s one more person pushing in where you didn’t expect.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “It will be grand to have a friend of Finch’s at the wedding.”

“Oh yes, a friend!” I agreed, quickly. I made a point of exclaiming over how cheering it had been to be in the presence of a young man so in love, how I admired that he was so devoted to his partner, and how much I loved happily ever afters.

If the words choked coming out, no one knew but me.

Sir Gale looked appeased (it was a good show; I nearly believed it myself), and the topic turned to matters of wedding preparations, how ghastly the funeral had been, and the state of inns and roads. Iris held court on each topic, speaking with an authority that was as hollow as it was hilarious. Marigold did her best to get a word in edgewise, always one in praise of herself, while Daisy sat simply at her meal and took it all in.

I now recognized that her inscrutable, fascinated expression, thanks to Marigold’s accusation, meant that Daisy was “recording” everything being said. I occupied myself with discreetly watching her reactions to the conversation, rather than trying to participate in it myself.

And, of course, I tried not to think too much about Eliza Gale. Did Fenton think she was the most beautiful woman in the world? Had my time with him changed his opinion? I couldn’t decide if that was a good or bad thing, and so I chose not to make my mind up at all.

At least I didn’t have to brace for Eliza’s entrance. She had walked to town with her lady’s maid, gone to Gale’s sister’s house for dinner as they hadn’t been sure if the Goodenoughs would arrive today or later in the week. There was no fear of her being home before everyone was settled.

“I’ll show you up. The travel must have wearied you, and I understand if you are longing for your beds. However, if you want for anything, do not hesitate to ring. Just this way, you remember, Mrs. Kempel? Finch will be put up in his usual room of course,” Gale said as he accompanied us upstairs and down the hall. “Though I’m afraid this unexpected presence of a fourth flower in the bouquet puts rather a crimp on the usual arrangements for you ladies.”

Marigold simpered at the compliment. Daisy and I exchanged a look .

“Daisy and I are very used to sharing,” Marigold said before either of us could make an offer. “It will not be a hardship, we assure you.”

“I, uh, I guess it’s you and me, roomie,” I said to Iris, who looked as enthused about it as I felt.

“Nonsense,” Daisy cut in. “Mary is eternally irritated by my staying up late to read. Why put yourself out, sister, when Miss Franklin has already professed to not mind?”

Marigold’s smile flaked away like cheap paint.

“Oh, do share with me, Marigold,” Iris said, clinging to her eldest daughter’s arm. “Let the young ladies stay up to gossip. Us widows may retire at a sensible hour.”

Railroaded into accepting the arrangement out of politeness, Marigold nonetheless shot a glare loaded with a whole armory at me over her shoulder, while Iris chivvied her to their room.

Daisy and I were left to stifle our giggles in the second guest room. Her luggage—my cloth bundle had been packed in her trunk—was already stacked neatly by the wardrobe, the contents refreshed and hung inside it. Clearly the staff figured we’d be sharing too.

Awkward.

The toilette stand had been stocked with an ewer of warm water and a basin, fresh perfume and tooth chalk, hair serums, and a changing screen to hide behind. Daisy had packed a quilted dressing gown among her things, and rang the maids to borrow a second one, along with a nightdress, from the household. I ducked behind the screen and took the first turn, and half the water, to wipe away the road grime. I was nearly dry by the time the servant returned, and we swapped places so I could dress and she could clean up. While she did that, I emptied the pockets and lapels of my jacket, and bundled together our dirty laundry. I was sure my jeans wouldn’t be too unfamiliar to the laundress, based on what I’d seen other laborers wearing in London. But I bet they would gossip downstairs about why I had them at all.

“Let me dress your hair,” Daisy said, when we were both seated on the end of the bed in our clouds of lace and cotton.

“Nuh-uh,” I said. “You’ve seen frizzilla. But you can show me how to do yours.”

It was a selfish request.

Her hair was long, golden, and glossy.

And I was weak.

I used to do this for Dahlia. I relished the silky slip and zing of the brush, the soft cloud of strawberry-matcha scented hair products, the quiet intimacy of her trust.

As Daisy fetched her hair care items from her trunk, I contemplated the fact that this was the first I had thought of Dahl in days. And it hadn’t stung. It was, instead, a comfort to remember that we’d been good together once.

But that was lost now behind a haze of bereavement and acceptance, like my brain had dropped a gauzy curtain between memories of my past life and this one. I could see them, vaguely, but they couldn’t affect me anymore. Couldn’t pain me.

Hell of a coping mechanism , I thought.

I accepted a soft-bristled brush, a fine-toothed comb, a bundle of paper slips, and a little stoppered bottle labeled rosemary tea from Daisy.

This is the first time I’ve seen her handwriting , I realized, inspecting the little bottle. It’s so fine and even. It looks like a computer font .

Around talking me through the process of putting her damp hair up into what she laughingly called “paper shackles,” Daisy gleefully filled me in on the gossip surrounding Swangale House. Her incredible memory meant she could recount entire conversations verbatim, and she did so in charming funny voices. Apparently the Gales were upright and long-standing members of the community, and Finch and Eliza had met at a ball held by Eliza’s uncle in Chatham. The Salacia had been docked at the navy yard for restocking, and as the late and genteel Mr. Kempel had been in Rochester to oversee his company’s accounts for said restocking—he’d been a merchant supplier to the king’s ships—he’d invited his brother-in-law along to the party. Apparently, all it had taken was a single turn on the dance floor, and Eliza Gale had been smitten.

Remembering the joyful abandon with which Fenton had danced in Gibraltar, I could easily believe it.

Daisy’s hair clumsily wrapped, she settled it under a sleep cap and took her turn with mine. She combed detangling oil through my moisture-starved locks, and finished it in a stubby braid. This was the longest my hair had been since ninth grade, when I’d cut it into a choppy pixie cut because my then-celebrity crush had done the same.

Then Daisy pulled the shutters tight, closed the curtains, and set a finely wrought metal screen before the fire to keep any popping sparks from leaping onto the carpets while we slept. We settled into the bed, back-to-back. As I lay there, willing the giddy swirling in my stomach not to flare up at the gentle warmth of her body heat, I wondered how I was supposed to handle more of these sweet, domestic evenings without expiring of a lust-induced heart attack.

~

I was accidentally woken up by a maid trying to sneak a fresh tea tray and our clean and pressed clothes into the room.

This maid was robust and apple cheeked, nothing like cowed and miserable Susan. She chattered about how fine the day was and how late the dashing captain had arrived last night while opening the windows, putting my modern clothes in Daisy’s trunk, and laying out my Georgian underthings.

I also woke, once again, to no Daisy. As far as I remembered, I’d had no nightmares to drive her out of bed.

I’d never had a partner complain about snoring or talking in my sleep, or anything else that might drive someone from the room in the middle of the night. Which could only mean one thing.

Daisy was one of those disgusting morning people.

For my part, I decided one day without yoga wouldn’t kill me, and rose to clean my teeth with the foul concoction on the vanity. I mourned my electric toothbrush and minty paste.

The maid hadn’t made up a cup of tea for me, and I found the tray bedecked with lemon as well as the other usual accouterments. I decided to try something different, and found the tea far more palatable garnished with lemon than contaminated with milk.

The maid kept on about her sister’s new position in the Smithson’s house as a governess to their little boy, and the baker’s new baby, and the pianoforte that the reverend’s wife had just purchased and let the village girls play for their lessons, if they hadn’t one of their own. Honestly, it was kind of nice, letting the mundane joys of people who were healthy and happy wash over me.

“Do you play the pianoforte, miss?” the maid asked. “Or the harp? I’m told accomplished ladies play something.”

“I’m not accomplished,” I conceded, enjoying my tea from the vanity, where I was out of her way as she went through the laborious process of stripping back the bedding to air the thin mattresses. “Captain Goodenough’s already established that I’m a piss-poor dancer, and I couldn’t fuddle out a note on the piano to save my life. I can sing a bit, though. Got a little French, though that’s mostly just the back of shampoo bottles. My only specialty is ethnosociology and narrative inquiry.”

The maid mulled that admission over, then apparently dismissed it for the gibberish it must have sounded like. “I’m sure your husband will be delighted with whatever you excel in.”

Instead of telling her that I had kept my own apartment in downtown Toronto, that I had a job, friends, and a habitual queer bar, and was in no big hurry to find a husband of any sort, I just drank my tea.

See? I was learning when to keep my yap buttoned.

The maid helped me back into the lavender dress, as the black one was too heavy to wear around the house. She offered to help with my hair, too, but I just let it out of the stubby braid, patted down the flyaways, and called the sow’s ear a silk purse.

Breakfast had been laid out, I was told, so I was given a convulted set of directions, then left to find my way downstairs alone.

With the interior doors closed, it was still quite dark in the house. I had no candle to guide me, and there were no electric lights. I walked slowly, wondering how Daisy had made her way in the pitch dark. She was probably already in the breakfast room. It occurred to me, halfway down the stairs, that Eliza Gale might be too.

I was way over Fenton, I told myself. There was no reason to be jealous or spiteful or anything else toward Eliza. I could smile and breeze through this visit and never drop a hint that I’d already had what was going to be hers.

I was arrested on the bottom stair by a soft murmuring laugh coming from a room off the foyer. The door was slightly ajar, so I didn’t feel too bad for spying when Fenton’s familiar voice rumbled through it.

A peek told me that the room was probably a parlor, where the ladies usually did things like knit, or paint, or read, or take tea and talk about boys. There were no lights here, either, save for a low fire in the hearth on the far wall. It threw the furniture, and the two inhabitants of the sofa, into cozy-warm relief.

Their backs were to the door. Fenton’s temple rested on the side of a young woman’s neck, a posture so intimate, so tender, that something inside me shivered. Certainly they were seated far too close for what was proper. But then, I’d already been proven mistaken when it came to thinking I knew the mores of this place.

Was it me who taught Fenton to forget propriety, or had he always been like this? He’d always made a point of keeping a gap between our bodies.

But his temple was on her shoulder and he was looking up at her adoringly, and she brushed a gentle hand across his cheek. He captured it and kissed her fingers and . . .

He loved Eliza. He loved her. And she loved him back. It was plain as spots on a ladybug.

Witnessing it hurt more than I thought it would, which in turn surprised me with a slap of self-anger. The truth was, I didn’t want Fenton particularly, but what he had . I wanted the affection I saw between them. I wanted to pull that away like sticky toffee, and wrap it around my own shoulders.

They were so privileged , so lucky that the people around them approved and supported their relationship, and they didn’t even know it. Or that I had tried to ruin it. I had been so pathetically desperate for affection that I had been willing to steal it from someone whose father had opened his home to me.

I backed away quietly. It was the least of what I owed Eliza.

After a few false starts in the mazelike gloom, found the breakfast room, which apparently was completely different from the dining room because it looked out on the gardens with the best southern light. The maid had been serious when she had explained that the point of the room was the view, for the shutters and curtains were flung wide open, showcasing the fresh snow that had fallen overnight, while the rest of the room remained unilluminated. Dark shadows clung to the corners, partially obscuring furniture.

The long oval table centered on the picture window was pristinely laid with a fine white cloth and serviceable pots of butter, salt cellars, and other accouterments whose purpose I would have to investigate. The sideboard was already filled with apples and fruit spreads, cheese and boiled eggs, cold toast, sausages, and some kind of icky fish. Otherwise the room was empty and silent. On the off chance that Daisy had gone back upstairs, I decided to hunker down next to the source of caffeine.

Wrung out by my emotional revelation, I plopped gracelessly into the first chair I literally stumbled against once I’d fixed my cup and plate.

A feminine grumble came from the heap of shadows in the corner, and one of them detached itself. Sunlight sparked off golden hair peeking out from under a rumpled cap, and moonstone-gray eyes narrowed peevishly at me. There was ink smudged up the side of her hand and a glower on her face.

“Daisy!” I said. “I didn’t see you. You really will ruin your eyes if you write letters in the dark.”

“I had thought you would be later coming down,” Daisy said. “Did your gymnastics not appeal today?”

“I’ll do them later,” I said. “The maid woke me, and I thought I’d come looking for you, when I realized you weren’t—oh. Oh , I’m a dummy. You wanted time alone for your—” I pointed at the little table I could now make out before her.

“It is of no concern now,” Daisy said, rising to collect her own breakfast. “My concentration is broken and I shan’t be able to recapture it.”

“What are you working on?” I asked.

A page was propped up on a sloped, wedge-shaped case on the tabletop. I slid around her to peer at the paper while she was occupied, wondering if it was a letter, and if so, whom for.

I took a bite of the apple in my hand as I read:

Jane Tremble had met Death once.

Maybe it was twice. She didn’t get a good look at the man at the end of the pier before he grabbed her by the scruff of her dress and held her back from the edge of the water. It could have been Death, then.

If it was, then Death had saved her life.

But the first time, the person who’d slid close to her father, tucking in beside him on that festering bunk with the tender intimacy of a lover, Jane remembered him. As her father’s straining breath rattled through the belly of the ship taking them to the Old World, Death had kissed her father’s poxy mouth.

For all that she had been six years old at the time, she had seen that face clearly.

She had known Death for what he was.

The funeral had happened at sea, if such a thing could be called a funeral. Jane Tremble recalled that the water had been gray. The sky had also been gray. They had blended together in a single, mist-washed hue, horizonless and damp as misery. Death had been gray too; hair like smoke, clothes like crumbling ash, flesh as gray as her father’s lips.

There had been no casket, only her father’s body wrapped in stained sailcloth, tied in frayed rope no longer fit for the rigging. His face had been visible, sheened with sickly sweat, red with fever, and spotted over with the hard lesions that had made their way out of his mouth and over his cheeks, down under his matted beard to spread across his chest to clutch for his heart.

It was only in the years that followed, as she dissected her last memory of him, that Jane had understood that when they had sent him overboard, her father had still been alive.

The apple dropped to the carpet, rolling out of fingers numbed by shock.

And recognition.

“This is . . .” I said, unable to finish the sentence as every hair I possessed prickled upright. Instead, I pointed at the page, terrified of what my voice might do.

Daisy lunged to the table, shuffled the pages back into the box, set aside the open inkpot, and snicked the rest closed into a neat, rectangular carrying case.

“You should not have looked ,” she snapped. “I will not have you judge it, Samantha Franklin, especially when it is not complete, and—”

“It’s really good,” I said quietly.

But it was more than really good.

I had the opening narration of Dahl’s comfort-watch show practically memorized. And this was it. Word for word.

I’m a fucking idiot , I realized.

“Is it truly?” Daisy asked, pausing in her frantic packing to stare at me, hope sparking in her gaze. It felt like it weighed a million pounds, crushing the air out of my lungs. “You must tell me at once if you are simply sparing my pride—”

“It’s not, you don’t have to worry, I’m not . . . this book is going to be a masterpiece, it’s going to change the goddamn world, I know that, only I just realized, silly me, you never answered me when I asked what your—” I took a breath. “Finch is Fenton, Marigold is Mary, and you, you’re Daisy , but your real name is—” I couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t make myself say it.

“It’s from the French,” Daisy said, as if I should already know. As if it was obvious.

It was.

“A daisy. La marguerite,” I translated. “You’re Margaret .”