The Taker-Taker 1 Read online

  Some of the drivers liked to try to frighten one another by telling tales around the campfire, stories of ghosts seen in graveyards or demons encountered in the woods while driving a route. I tried to avoid them at such times but often there was nothing for it, as we’d have only one fire burning and all the men were hungry for entertainment. Judging from the drivers’ frightening stories, I suppose they were either very brave or terrible liars, because despite their tales of wandering ghosts and banshees and such, they were still willing to drive a wagon through lonely stretches of wilderness.

  Most of the stories were about ghosts, and as I listened, it struck me that all the ghosts seemed to have one trait in common: they haunted the living because they had unfinished business on this earth. Whether they were murdered or died by their own hands, the ghosts refused to move on to the afterlife because they felt they belonged in this world rather than the next. Whether to exact vengeance on the person responsible for their death or because they couldn’t bear to leave a loved one, the ghost remained close to the people from its last days. Naturally I thought of Sophia. If anyone had a right to come back as a ghost, it was she. Would Sophia be angered when she came back and found that the person most responsible for her suicide had left town? Or would she follow me? Perhaps she had cursed me from the grave and was responsible for my current unhappy situation. Listening to the drivers’ stories only reinforced my belief that I was damned for my wickedness.

  And so I was cheered and relieved when we started to come across small settlements with more frequency: it meant we were approaching the more populated southern part of the territory and I would not be at the mercy of the wagon drivers much longer. Indeed, within a few days of finding the Kennebec River, we arrived in Camden, a big town on the seacoast. It was the first time I would see the ocean.

  The wagon dropped me and Titus off at the harbor, as that was the agreement with my father, and I ran out on the longest pier and stood staring at the green water for a long time. What a singular smell, the smell of the ocean, salty and dirty and coarse. The wind was very cold and very strong, so strong that it was almost impossible to catch my breath. It buffeted my face and tangled my hair, as though it were challenging me. Then, too, I was taken with the vastness of the ocean. I’d known water, yes, but only the Allagash River. Wide as it was, you could see the riverbank on the far side and the trees beyond that. In contrast, with its never-ending horizon the flat expanse of ocean looked like the very end of the world.

  “You know, the first explorers to travel to America believed they might fall off the edge of the world,” Titus said, reminding me that he was at my elbow.

  I found the raking green tide frightening but mesmerizing as well, and I couldn’t tear myself away until I was nearly frozen to the bone.

  The tutor escorted me to the harbormaster’s office, where we found an old man with frightening leathery skin. He pointed the way to the small ship that would take me down to Boston, but cautioned me that it wasn’t sailing until near midnight, when the tide would be going out. I wouldn’t be welcome onboard until shortly before it would make sail. He suggested I spend the time in a public house, get something to eat and perhaps convince the innkeeper to let me pass the hours napping on a spare bed. He even gave me directions to a tavern close to the harbor, taking pity on me, I suspect, because I could barely make myself understood, tongue-tied from nerves and so obviously unsophisticated. If Camden were this big and intimidating, how in the world would I find my way in Boston?

  “Miss McIlvrae, I must protest. You cannot stay unescorted in a public house, nor can you walk the streets of Camden by yourself at midnight to find your ship,” Titus said. “But I am expected at my cousin’s house and can scarcely remain with you the rest of the day.”

  “What other choice do I have?” I asked. “If it would ease your conscience, walk me to the public house and see for yourself if it is respectable, and then do as your mind dictates. That way, you won’t feel as though you’ve betrayed your assurances to my father.”

  The only public house I knew was Daughtery’s tiny homespun place in St. Andrew, and this public house in Camden dwarfed Daughtery’s, with two barmaids and long tables with benches, and hot food for purchase. The beer was considerably tastier, too, and I realized with a pang that the people back home were deprived of so many things. The unfairness of it struck me, although I didn’t feel privileged for being introduced to it now. Mostly, I felt homesick and sorry for myself, but I hid this from Titus who, anxious to be on his way, agreed that it didn’t seem to be a place of ill repute and left me to the innkeeper’s care.

  After I’d eaten and had my fill of gawking at strangers who came into the pub, I accepted the invitation of the innkeeper to nap on a cot in the storage room until my ship was ready for boarding. Apparently it was common for passengers to pass the time at this particular inn and the innkeeper was used to providing this service. He promised to wake me after the sun set, in plenty of time for me to get to the harbor.

  I lay on the cot in the windowless storage room and took stock of my situation. It was then—curled up in the dark, arms hugged tight around my chest—that I became aware of how alone I was. I had grown up in a place where I was known to all and there was no question of where I belonged or who would take care of me. No one here or in Boston knew me or cared to know me. Heavy tears rolled down my face in self-pity; I didn’t imagine, at the time, that my father could have come up with a more brutal punishment.

  I awoke in darkness to the rapping of the innkeeper’s knuckles on the door. “It’s time you got up,” he called from the other side of the door, “or you’ll be missing your ship.” I paid with a few coins I pried out of the lining of my cloak, took his offer of an escort as far as the harbormaster’s office, and retraced my steps down the waterfront to the pier.

  Evening had fallen quickly, along with the temperature, and a fog started to roll in from the ocean. There were few people on the street and the ones who were about hurried home to get out of the chill and the fog. The overall effect was eerie, as though I was walking through a town of the dead. The innkeeper was friendly enough despite the late hour and we followed the sound of the lapping ocean to the harbor.

  Through the fog I saw the ship that would take me to Boston. Its deck was dotted with lanterns, illuminating the preparations being made to set sail: seamen clambered on the masts, unfurling some of the sails; casks were rolled up a gangplank for storage in the hold, the ship buoying gently under its shifting weight.

  I know now that it was a common cargo ship, but at the time it was as exotic as a full-masted British ship-of-the-line, or an Araby baghlah, the first real seagoing vessel I’d ever seen up close. Fear and excitement rose up in my throat—they would be my ever-constant companions now, fear of the unknown and an irrepressible willingness for adventure—as I strode up the gangplank to the ship, another step further away from all I knew and loved, and another step closer to my mysterious new life.

  FIFTEEN

  Several days later, the ship closed in on Boston’s harbor. By afternoon we had docked, but I waited until dusk to creep out on the ship’s deck. It was quiet now: the other passengers had disembarked as soon as the ship was made fast in its berth and most of the cargo, it appeared, had been unloaded. The crew members, at least those faces I remembered, were nowhere to be seen, probably out rediscovering the benefits of being on land by visiting one of the taverns that faced the harbor. To judge by the number of such establishments on the street, taverns were an integral part of the business of shipping, more important than timber or sailcloth.

  We had docked far ahead of schedule owing to good winds, but it was only a matter of time before the convent was notified and dispatched someone to fetch me. As a matter of fact, the captain had eyed me curiously once or twice as I lingered belowdecks, wondering why I hadn’t left already, and even offered to find transportation to take me to my destination if I was unsure of the way.

  I didn’t want
to go to the convent. In my mind, I’d built it up to be something between a workhouse and a prison. It was to be my punishment, a place designed to “correct” me by any means possible, to cure me of being in love with Jonathan. They would take my baby away from me, my last and only connection to my beloved. How could I allow such a thing?

  On the other hand, I was terrified of striking out on my own. The uncertainties I’d faced in Camden were a hundred times worse in Boston, which seemed like a vast, teeming city. How would I find my way about? To whom would I turn for help, a place to stay, particularly in my condition? I suddenly felt every inch the unschooled country girl from the wilderness, completely out of her depth.

  Cowardice and indecision had kept me from fleeing the ship immediately, but in the end, it was the thought of losing my child that made me decide to leave. I would rather sleep in a filthy alley and earn my keep scrubbing floors than let someone take this baby away from me. Thoroughly worked into a frenzy, I took to the streets of Boston with only my little satchel, abandoning the trunk to the harbormaster’s office. Hopefully I would find it later when I had secured a residence. That is, if the convent didn’t confiscate it on my behalf when they found out I was missing.

  Even though I’d waited till dusk to sneak off the ship, I was surprised and frightened by the amount of activity still going on. People spilled out of public houses and into the streets, they packed the sidewalks, or rattled by in carriages. Wagons loaded with barrels and boxes as big as coffins rolled through the busy streets. I trudged up one street and down another, sidestepping other pedestrians, ducking wagons, unable to absorb the layout of the roads in any meaningful way, unable to tell after fifteen minutes of walking which way the harbor lay. I began to think Boston a cheerless and harsh place: hundreds of people had streamed past me that night but not one took notice of my fear-struck expression, the lost look in my eye, my aimless wandering. No one asked if I needed help.

  Dusk gave way to darkness. Streetlamps were lit. Traffic began to thin as people hurried home for the evening, while shopkeepers drew curtains and locked doors. Panic bloomed in my chest again: where would I sleep that night? And the next night, and the night after that, for that matter? No, I told myself, I mustn’t think too far ahead or else I’d fall into despair. Getting through that first night was worry enough. I needed a good plan or I would start to wish I’d surrendered to the convent.

  The answer was a public house or an inn. The cheapest possible, I thought, fingering the few coins I had left. The neighborhood I had stumbled into seemed residential and I struggled to recall where I had last passed a public establishment. Had it been closer to the docks? Probably, yet I hesitated to backtrack, thinking that would only confirm that I didn’t know what I was doing and that I’d put myself in the worst possible situation. I was unsure of which direction I’d come from, anyway. Psychologically, it was best to keep moving into new territory.

  So frazzled was I that I stood in the middle of the road pondering my next move, oblivious to the traffic that in a busier part of the city would have run me over. In my preoccupation it took me a minute to realize a carriage had pulled beside me and that I was being hailed.

  “Miss! Hello, miss,” a voice called from inside the coach. And a handsome coach it was, finer by degrees than any coarse country wagon I’d ever seen. The dark wood glistened with oil and all its appointments were extremely delicate and well crafted. It was drawn by a pair of heavy bays, groomed as ornately as circus horses but fitted with black harnesses like a funeral trap.

  “I say, don’t you speak English?” A man appeared at the window of the coach, wearing an extraordinarily fancy three-cornered hat, edged with burgundy plumes. He was pale and blond with a long, aristocratic face, but had a withering, pinched set to his mouth, as though he was eternally displeased. I looked up at him, surprised that such a fine stranger was addressing me.

  “Oh, let me try,” a woman said from within the coach. The man in the hat withdrew from the window and a woman took his place. If the first man was pale, she was far paler, her skin the color of snow. She wore a very dark dress of maroon moiré taffeta, which was perhaps what gave her skin its bloodless quality. She was lovely but frightening, with pointed teeth concealed behind lips stretched in a tight, insincere smile. Her eyes were of a blue so pale that they appeared lavender. And what I could see of her hair—she, too, sported an ornate hat, riding high on her head at a daring angle—was the color of buttercups, but heavily dressed and worn close to the skull.

  “Don’t be frightened,” she said before I even realized that I was, a little. I stood back as she opened the carriage door and descended to the street, rustling as she moved owing to the stiffness of the fabric and the fullness of her skirt. Her dress was the fanciest garment I’d ever seen, adorned with miniature ruffles and bows, drawn tightly around her tiny wasp’s waist. She wore black gloves and reached a hand toward me slowly, as though she was afraid of scaring away a timid dog. The hatted man was joined by a second man who took her place in the carriage window.

  “Are you all right? My friends and I couldn’t help but notice as we passed that you seem at a loss.” Her smile warmed by a degree.

  “I—well, that is …,” I hemmed, embarrassed that someone had found me out, while at the same time desperate for any assistance and a touch of human kindness.

  “Are you newly arrived in Boston?” the second man in the carriage asked from his perch. He seemed infinitely nicer than the first, with dark features and exquisitely kind eyes and a gentleness that invited trust.

  I nodded.

  “And do you have a place to stay? Forgive me for presuming, but you have the air of an orphan about you. Homeless, friendless?” The woman stroked my arm while he asked this.

  “Thank you for your concern. Perhaps you could point me in the direction of the nearest public house,” I began, shifting the weight of the satchel in my hand.

  By then, the tall, haughty man had descended from the carriage, too, and snatched my bag away from me. “We’ll do better than that. We’ll give you a place to stay. Tonight.”

  The woman took my arm and steered me toward the coach. “We’re going to a party. You like parties, don’t you?”

  “I—don’t know,” I stammered, my senses tingling in warning. How could three people of means just come from out of nowhere to rescue me? It seemed natural—prudent, even—to be skeptical.

  “Don’t speak nonsense. How can you not know if you like to go to parties? Everyone likes parties. There will be food and plenty of drink, and fun. And at the end of it, there will be a warm bed for you.” The haughty man heaved my satchel into the coach. “Besides, do you have a better offer? Would you rather sleep on the street? I think not.”

  He was right and, intuition aside, I had no choice except to obey. I even convinced myself that this chance meeting was a matter of good fortune. My needs had been answered, at least for the time being. They were expensively dressed and it stood to reason, well off; they could hardly be planning to rob me. Nor did they look like murderers. Why they were so eager to take a stranger to a party with them was a complete mystery, however, but it seemed risky to question my good fortune too strenuously.

  We rode along in tense silence for a few minutes. I sat between the woman and the convivial dark-haired man and tried not to notice as the blond man picked me over with his eyes. When I couldn’t contain my curiosity any longer I asked, “Excuse me, but why is it, exactly, that you require my attendance at this party? Won’t the host be annoyed to receive an unexpected guest?”

  The woman and the haughty man snorted, as though I’d told a joke. “Oh, don’t worry about that. The host is our friend, you see, and we happen to know for a fact that he enjoys entertaining pretty young women,” the blond man said with another snort. The woman rapped her fan across the back of his hand.

  “Don’t mind these two,” the dark-haired man said. “They are making merry at your expense. You have my word that you will be ent
irely welcome. As you said, you need a place to stay the night and, I suspect, to put your troubles aside for one evening. Perhaps you’ll find something else you need there as well,” he said, and he had such a gentle way about him that I softened. There were many things I needed, but most of all I wanted to trust him. Trust that he knew what would be best for me when I myself didn’t know.

  We rattled up and down streets in the dark trap. I kept watch out the window and tried to memorize the route, like a child in a fairy tale who might need to find her way home. It was a waste of time; I couldn’t hope to retrace my journey, not in the state I was in. Eventually, the carriage pulled up in front of a mansion of brick and stone, lit up for a party, so grand it took the breath from me. But apparently the party hadn’t started; there was no activity to be seen, no men and women in evening dress, no other carriages pulling up to the curb.

  Footmen opened the doors to the mansion and the woman led the way as though she was the mistress of the house, pulling her gloves off finger by finger. “Where is he?” she snapped at a liveried butler.

  His eyes briefly rolled skyward. “Upstairs, ma’am.”

  As we climbed the stairs, I felt more and more self-conscious. Here I was, dressed in a shabby, homemade frock. I reeked of the ship and of seawater and my hair was tangled and tossed with salt spray. I looked down at my feet to see my simple, rustic shoes crusted with mud from the streets, the toes curling up from hard use.