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At four a.m., Marin was up and busy securing a carriage to Philadelphia. Mister Prince, having tended to the docking and securing of the Magister Maris in port during the storm, and then accompanying Marin to the horse and carriage rental, had yet to go to bed.
“And how long might ya be in Philadelphia, Captain?” Jude asked.
“Not long. I simply want to meet Mister and Missus Downing and ask them for Opaline’s hand.” He paused for a moment before saying, more to himself than to Jude, “There is so little I know about her.”
“So, you’re determined to marry the lass, then?” Jude asked.
“If she will have me.”
“A-h-h-h ...well...” Jude scoffed with a comic smile.
“One storm after another,” Marin quipped. “Speaking of storms, I should get going. I hope to be back late tomorrow night or early the day after. Mind the crew, careful with their pay before turning them loose in town, and please watch over Phillipe.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Jude said, adding quick salute as Marin pulled away into the stormy early morning.
For all the nautical miles Marin had logged while sailing the oceans of the world, he had traversed little more statute miles than the sum of his age. This journey from Perth Amboy, New Jersey to Philadelphia would be the longest voyage he had ever taken on dry land; seventy-five miles of uneven, mostly makeshift, dirt roads consisting of frozen or thick sloppy mud, and littered with ruts and stones. Some roads led nowhere, and without a guide, a person unfamiliar with the landscape could easily get lost. Several times Marin would consult his compass only to find its information useless. Unlike the ocean, Marin could not merely change course to the heading of his desire; the road dictated which direction one traveled, and sometimes the road curved back on itself, or wandered off for miles in squiggly patterns defying the logic of a compass heading.
After driving through the dark wee hours with the freezing rain whipping at the back of his carriage, Marin was entering New Brunswick, New Jersey, accompanied by the sun spilling its light into the cold and rainy morning air. He stopped at a local livery to warm, rest and feed his horse, before proceeding to a roadside tavern to warm, rest, and feed himself.
After he had eaten he was once again on the road to Philadelphia.
***
Mrs. Dansforth, obeying Marin’s request, summoned a seamstress to begin work on Phoebe’s clothing designs. The carpenter Mister Oscar had summoned had begun drawing up the blueprints for a new porch based on Phoebe’s sketches.
As Mrs. Robertson was preparing dinner, she remarked to Phoebe, “How I wish I had your talent for drawing and design, Phoebe dear.”
“I wish I could cook like you, Missus Robertson. I wish I could cook anything at all.”
“Perhaps we could give one another instructions; I will teach you to cook, you can teach me to draw,” she offered.
Phoebe’s immediate joyful reaction slowly melted, and she said, “I am afraid that I would make for a poor tutor, Ma’am.”
Mrs. Robertson tilted her head inquisitively, begging elaboration.
Phoebe continued, “I don’t know how it is that I know how to draw, and I fear I could never explain it to anyone.”
“I will hold the quill and you will guide my hand, my dear,” Mrs. Robertson said, placing a ladle into Phoebe’s hand.
***
Marin arrived in Philadelphia to the sight of the lamplighters beginning their evening rounds. He stopped to watch a young boy struggle to perform his task, as the wet wind and fading light combined forces against him. After the young man managed to successfully light one of the lamps, Marin called out to him,
“Say there, boy ...can you tell me where to find a city directory?”
“At the City Tavern, one block over,” the boy yelled back.
Marin drove to the tavern, braced himself with a shot of brandy and looked through the directory for the name of Opaline’s father: Evin Downing, Journalist - 111 Elfreth’s Alley
He asked the barkeep for directions, and after placing his horse and cart in a local livery, he hailed a hansom cab and journeyed the final length to his destination.
He sat in the carriage on the narrow street that was Elfreth’s Alley, staring at the skinny three-story dwelling marked 111, and began to feel the giddy apprehension of a school boy who had dared to venture down the very street, and right up to the house of the girl he had been secretly admiring since the fateful day she had first quickened his breath. He pictured a young Opaline coming and going through that well-weathered green door, and he wondered, which of the windows on the second or third floor was the one looking into and out of Opaline’s childhood bedroom.
He paid the driver, stepped out of the cab and up onto the small granite slab of a porch. He rapped on the door, and for a moment hoped no one would answer. When no one promptly responded, he contemplated whether he should knock again or simply leave, but the door swung open and a spry looking old gentleman, with thinning gray hair and rosy cheeks, leaned forward and squinted his eyes in an attempt to recognize his visitor.
“Mister Downing?” Marin inquired.
“Yes?” the man responded.
“I am Marin Carpenter, a friend of Opaline’s.”
“Is anything wrong?” Mister Downing urgently asked.
“No...well, that is... she recently received word that Missus Downing is ...not in the best of...”
“Dying,” Mister Downing clarified.
Marin acknowledged the concise summary with a cautious nod, and said, “Opaline is currently on her way to Philadelphia to be at her mother’s side; she should be arriving within a day or two. I should add, she does not know that I have come in advance of her.”
Mister Downing stood in the open doorway not quite sure what to think of his visitor. “And you have come to ...what ...simply advise us of her arrival?”
“Well ...no, not only that. You see ...well ...I am in love with Opaline, and I wanted to meet her parents so that I might ask for your permission to take her hand in marriage.”
Mister Downing took a small step back and pulled the door a little closer to his side. “Is Opaline aware of your intensions?” he quizzed, with a doubtful downturn of his voice.
“Oh yes,” Marin assured him, adding, “she has yet to accept, but...” and the reticent look in her father’s eye gave Marin reason to pause. He took a deep breath and meekly avowed, “I am making such a mess of this...”
Evin stood wax figure still as Marin stared into the gentleman’s face. Finally, Mister Downing said, without a hint of harshness, “It sounds as if you should first gain Opaline’s permission. I can assure you, if she wishes to marry you, permission from Emma and I will be a moot point.”
“None the less, I am requesting your permission, sir.”
“Well I am not going to discuss this in the cold and damp,” he replied, opening the door to Marin.
Marin stepped into the warmth of the modest house that Opaline once called home. A fire bellowed in the fireplace providing the sole source of light and heat throughout the small front room. With shutters drawn closed, and a ceiling but an arm’s length above Marin’s head, one might think the room claustrophobic, but it was really quite cozy, and for a moment, Marin closed his eyes and basked in the dry warmth flowing over him.
“What is your pleasure, Mister Carpenter, tea or brandy?”
“I will have whatever you are having, Mister Downing.”
“Evin,” Mister Downing offered.
“Marin,” Mister Carpenter returned.
“I am having brandy, Armagnac, that is. I find it much more settling this time of evening, and I would assume, therefore, it would also pair well with our pending conversation.”
Evin walked into a small hallway, and Marin could hear the smallest fragment of a comment followed by the closing of a door. When Evin returned, he held a pair of tulip glasses in one hand and a decanter of Armagnac in the other. He placed the items on a tripod tea table sitting between two wingback chairs in front of the fireplace, and proceeded to fill the two glasses nearly to the brim.
“Please, remove that damp coat and warm yourself before the fire, and let me ask you about our dear Opaline,” Evin said, taking his seat to the right.
“I was hoping to ask you about her as well,” Marin said, removing his coat and easing his cold aching body into the other chair.
“Emma and I last heard from her this summer past. She had been engaged to a Doctor Berry, and wrote us a short note to say that the wedding was off.”
“Well, I will let Opaline fill you in on those details, but shortly after that event, my brother hired her to care for our gravely ill mother, who has only recently passed. I met Opaline a little over two weeks ago when I came home from a voyage. I am the Captain and owner of a ship called, The Magister Maris.”
“I see,” Evin said, swirling the brandy round and round in the tulip glass while sniffing the aroma of the liquor before bringing it to his lips and tasting the warm liquid. Marin noticed that Evin appeared to hold the liquid in his mouth for a moment or two before swallowing it, and then he held the glass up and out toward the light of the fire and swirled the glass round and round again.
“Have you tasted your Armagnac, Marin?” he asked, making it a point to add, “I am not one to indulge in luxuries, Mister Carpenter, and I assure you I choose carefully the occasions on which to bring out this precious and rare French nectar; but life is brief and death endures, and I find it is in the rarest of moments, and the briefest of pleasures, that one finds life’s raison de être.”
Having observed how Evin sampled his brandy, Marin lifted the glass to his lips, but before it had reached his mouth, a soft aroma of leather and wood with a tinge of vanilla filled his nostrils. He paused a moment to better explore this unique fragrance. As the Armagnac caressed his lips, he could feel the elixir instantly warm the sensitive pink flesh. As the liquid spread across his tongue, a fanfare of flavors emerged: a hint of orange, now cocoa; a wave of toffee and a reminder of cinnamon, followed by a parade of unidentifiable exotic spices, all intricately weaving a gustatory melody, not as a chordal blend, but as a distinct arpeggio of notes. Marin leaned back in his chair and savored the moment.
“I do not believe I have ever tasted anything quite like it,” Marin said at last. “I have had brandy, plenty of brandy, but what is it about this particular brandy that gives it such a distinct quality?”
“Time,” Evin replied. “All things of a complex nature require time to marry into a singular and satisfying blend.”
***
Mister Prince entered Captain Carpenter’s quarters to check on Phillipe. The embryonic sailor was still lying in Marin’s bunk, and while he was feeling a little better, he was still quite woozy.
“Perhaps if you went ashore for a spell, you might feel a tad better,” Mister Prince advised.
“But then I would have to go through this all over again,” Phillipe responded. “I think I will ride it out until I am able to earn my, what do you call them, ‘water legs’?”
“Sea legs,” Jude corrected. “Suit yourself, laddie. Me and the boys are goin’ ashore. Mister Murel is staying topside. I’ll have him check in on ya.”
About an hour later Mister Murel came into the cabin, bringing Phillipe a hot mixture of ginger, nutmeg, and absinthe, mixed in a hot, sweet sassafras tea.
“What is this?” Phillipe asked.
“It is a special mixture I have prepared for you. It should help relieve your misery.”
Phillipe lifted the tin cup up to his nose and whiffed the steaming concoction. The skin on either side of his nose pushed up and gathered the skin around his eyes into a wad. Staring into the cup through squinted eyes he asked, “What is in it?”
“What matters what is in it? If you don’t like it, don’t drink it.”
“I do not drink alcohol,” Phillipe said, sniffing it again. “Is this a sorcerer’s potion?”
“What?” Dorian reacted.
“Marin mentioned that he thought you were somewhat of a mystical character.”
“Oh, did he?”
“Yes, although he did not elaborate.”
“I see,” Mister Murel said, clearly not amused.
Phillipe took a sip of the concoction, and finding it agreeable, took another. “Well ...are you?” he asked.
“Am I...?”
“A mystic,” Phillipe said.
Dorian gave Phillipe a long stare before answering. “I understand you to be a religious man.”
“Yes,” Phillipe answered, “first and foremost.”
“Christian?”
“Of course,” Phillipe replied, after swallowing another somewhat larger sample of the hot liquid.
“So, you put your faith in the mystics,” Murel said.
“Not all mystics,” Phillipe answered. “The Devil too has his mystics.”
“And how would you distinguish between them?”
“By the fruits of their labor shall ye know them,” Phillipe said, and taking another gulp of the elixir, he added, “This tonic is rather good.”
“I am pleased you like it,” Murel said, smiling.
“I only hope it stays down. Nothing else has.”
“You might want to drink it a little more slowly,” Dorian advised.
Phillipe took another rather large drink, and said, “But it feels so soothing. So, tell me, are you a believer?”
“Everyone believes something,” Dorian replied.
“And you? What is it you believe?” Phillipe asked.
“I believe all things are of one nature, and if we are to understand the whole, we need first understand ourselves.”
“And how does one go about knowing oneself?”
“By first understanding, there is nothing that is not you.”
“You are talking nonsense,” Phillipe scoffed. “You are speaking as if you were a God.”
Mister Mural held a steady stare on Phillipe, and said, “And Jesus answered him saying, ‘Is it not written in your law, I said, Ye are Gods?’”
Phillipe began to feel an unexplained lightness of being. He looked into his drink and asked again, “What is in this potion?”
“Nothing that will hurt you,” Dorian answered.
“I am beginning to feel a little strange, almost as if I am outside myself, gazing in.”
“Embrace it,” Mister Murel advised him.
“Please stay with me,” Phillipe urged.
***
During the better part of the tedious sixty-mile jaunt from Bridgeport to New York, Opaline was preoccupied with thoughts of Marin. She held her open diary in her lap attempting to jot down a few of her thoughts, hoping her heart would guide her hand and help still the stirrings of an unsettled mind. But between the jarring and swaying of the coach, never-minding Jonathan’s constant interruptions, the task proved impossible. She thumbed back through her diary to another time, and came across a poem in someone else’s hand:
To O:
No one knows what whisper this
that crossed my lips
falling short of someone’s ear.
Did thou turn away too soon?
Or was plea ruin’d
by a shared and secret fear?
No words can serve times like these,
But know this please-
Our hearts carry a single song.
Now go, please go, I beg thee,
With caged heart, flee.
And should perchance, from time to time,
That air we sang, soar ‘cross your mind,
Sing, my Opaline...pray thee, sing along.
-from J.
The poem only served to vex her all the more.
***
A weak plea, containing only Evin’s name, came from another room, stirring Mister Downing from his chair.
“I must go and see what Emma needs,” he said, leaving Marin by the fire.
Marin thought about Mister Downing’s not so subtle reference to time as being the ingredient that marries, ‘things of a complex nature into a singular and satisfying blend’. He was well aware of the fact that he and Opaline had only been acquainted with one another for a couple of weeks, but he was no mere schoolboy meddling with youthful urges and confusing them with lifelong desires. He loved Opaline, of that he was certain. He also strongly suspected that she loved him, while at the same time being aware of the mystery that gathered like darkened clouds around her.
“Mister Carpenter,” Evin called out from the other room. “Could you come here for a moment?”
Marin left his thoughts by the fire and went to answer Mister Downing’s call. As he entered the room, Mrs. Downing was sitting up in bed with layers of quilts lapped over her from the waist down. She had a burgundy shawl snuggled around her shoulders, and a white muslin and lace night bonnet covering her head. She turned her pale, kindly face toward Marin, and smiled as he entered the room.
“This beautiful lady is my wife, Missus Emma Downing. Emma, this gentleman is Captain Marin Carpenter ...he is love with our Opaline.”
Mrs. Downing reached out her trembling hand to Marin, and took the effort to unfold her fingers in starts and stops. Marin accepted the fragile offering, sandwiching the cold delicate flesh and bone between his two warm and strong hands.
Muttering but a few words at a time, punctuated with labored breath, she said, “Mister Downing tells me...our Opaline...is on her way...home.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Why then...are you not...accompanying her?”
Marin had to pause; the question was simple enough, the answer was not. He glanced at Mister Downing as if for support.
Evin said to his wife, “Deary, some things are more difficult than can be addressed in single question.”
“Yes,” she said with a long breath. “Love...can be difficult.” And she closed her eyes, but not her thoughts, asking, “Will you be staying...until our Opaline...arrives?”
“No Ma’am. I need to be getting back to my ship and crew. But I felt it important that I meet you and Mister Downing. I have come to request your daughter’s hand.”
A complex web of a smile wove itself across Mrs. Downing’s face, relieving some wrinkles, and forming others.
It was not an easy smile to interpret, but Marin took what he needed from it, and said, “I will bid you farewell before I leave.” Marin felt her fingers grip the side of his hand, and he responded by giving a tender squeeze in return.
“Come, let us continue our conversation, Mister Carpenter. You rest my dear,” he said to his wife, and placed a soft kiss upon her forehead.
Marin and Evin returned to the fireside, and Mister Downing revisited his wife’s question. Why was Marin not accompanying Opaline on her trip home, and why must he leave before she arrives?
“Well sir,” Marin began, and proceeded to do his best to explain the situation. His delivery slowed, and sentences broke into fragments, as he came to the part where he had to choose between sailing to Passamaquoddy, or accompanying her to Philadelphia. As he spoke of her leaving with Jonathan, he drifted to a pause...
Mister Downing adopted the pause, before gently offering, “So then, you chose a voyage, wherein: you risk losing your ship, losing your fiancée, and perhaps losing your life — so that you would not lose your ship? Is that a fair assessment?”
Marin unwittingly gave a gradual nod, while saying, “That was your daughter’s assessment, yes.”
“No sir, it is not. That is my assessment. My daughter’s assessment seems to be based upon priorities – yours. From what you have told me, it appears she feels that your anguish over losing the Magister Maris is not so much a concern over losing your ship, as it is your reluctance to sacrifice one love to gain another. Perhaps she fears you are already married to the sea, and that even if she were to become your legal wife, in truth, she would remain but a mistress.”
Marin leaned back in his chair and stared down into his empty glass. He twirled it a few times between his fingers before extending it out to Mister Downing.
“Might I have another spot of brandy? Company for thought.” he asked.
Evin poured a small amount of Armagnac into Marin’s glass, and then replenished his own. He left his chair and tended to the fire, while Marin sat tending to his thoughts.
When Evin returned to his chair, Marin said, “I recall her saying, she does not intend to spend her life staring out to sea. Sad to say, that was my mother’s life.” He paused a moment and added, “I do not want that for Opaline.”
“...and...?” Mister Downing posited.
“And so, this must be my last voyage, and Opaline my final destination. The Magister Maris and I will be sailing home for the first, and last, time. She has been a good ship, but it is time to send her to the breakers.”
“You would do that?”
“I will do that.”
“Then why risk the trip to Passamaquotty?”
“Justice. I cannot abide the thought of losing my ship without fighting for her. If I choose to send her to the bottom, it will not be to spite the Navy, it will because I feel it is time. I could never sell or surrender her, but I would sacrifice her for Opaline. As for the sea, I feel as if it has lost its mystery, at least in comparison to Opaline. She is mystery enough to last me a lifetime.”
“Women are to men, as men are to women. That is perhaps the allure.”
“Yes, I suppose so, but the mystery I speak of runs much deeper than what we men commonly refer to as, ‘feminine mystique’. Would you agree, hers is a shadowed mystery?”
“I will not say anything about Opaline that she could better reveal herself ...should she choose to do so.”
“Nor would I ask you to. But your being one who has known her since she was a child, I thought perhaps—”
“Let me say this ...Opaline was a quiet and observing child throughout early childhood, giving one the impression she was drawing her own conclusions about things, caring little for the spoken word of others. She had few friends, and was inordinately fond of animals. She was particularly fascinated with birds, birds of all sorts. We once presented her with a beautiful songbird and she was quick to set it free, advising us that it does not sing nor wear its plumage for our enjoyment, but rather, has purpose of its own. She once witnessed a young bird emerging from the egg, and refused to eat eggs thereafter. This, by extension, gave way to her being a vegetarian which lasted right up until...” and here he faltered, and a sadness crossed his face, but then he cleared his throat, and the wisp of a smile curled his lips as he recalled, “When she was first learning to write, she went through a period where she would only communicate with us by the exchanging of notes; some were quite cryptic. She also loved to hide from us, and she had a wide assortment of hiding places, most of which Emma and I never discovered.” He paused a moment to return to the present, adding wistfully, “When Opaline does not wish to be found ...there is no finding our Opaline.”
Marin’s breathing came to a pause. There was no mistaking the reach and consequence of Evin’s sentiment.
“I know that she ran away at an early age...” Marin said, broaching the subject, only to be cut off again by Evin.
“We are all cast in our separate molds, and have little
say in the shape of so many things. We each spend the most of childhood being told who we are, and should we happen to believe that narrative, our story is all but written. But should there come a time when we find ourselves out of sorts with our own mythology, we suddenly feel ourselves adrift. I think that time came for Opaline when she turned thirteen.” He went quiet for a moment, and then he asked Marin, “What is that term you sailors use for finding your position after having lost your bearings?”
“Dead reckoning,” Marin replied.
“Can you explain the concept to me?” he asked, swirling his Armagnac round and round in his glass.
“Certainly,” Marin said, pulling his compass from his
pocket. “You first start with your last known position.” He paused to flip open the lid of the compass and held it out to Mister Downing as far as the fob would allow. Evin strained to lean over the table to glance at the face of the compass, and so Marin unleashed the compass and handed it to him. “Using the compass,” Marin continued, “you attempt to fix your present position by charting your direction, speed, and time spent adrift.”
“And that will tell you where you are?” Mister Downing asked, leading with a smile.
“Not always,” Marin granted, returning the smile, “but it is a pretty good indicator of where you are not.”
“Quite so,” Evin confirmed. “And so, if we are to write, each our own story, we must first find out who we are not.”
Knowing full well that Mister Downing was not going to reveal any specifics, Marin stumbled into a change of subject.
“How did she come by the name, Opaline?” he asked.
“Her eyes,” Evin answered without hesitation, while still somewhat transfixed by the compass. “From the day she was born, her eyes have been a-light with the most opalescent combination of blue and green luminescence. It was as if she, was telling us, her name.”
Mister Downing left the conversation for a moment to read aloud the inscription engraved on the inside of the lid.
He turned back to Marin and asked, “And how is it that you came to own this compass?
“My father gave it to me when I was quite young.”
“And have these words served you well?”
Marin had to think for a moment, but a moment could never do the question justice, so he said the first thing that found its way to his tongue. “Many things can act upon and influence the pointing of any compass, and even its best telling of north is only, in truth, northward.”
“I would imagine that to be true of any advice as concerns direction of any sort,” Evin offered.
Marin held any immediate response he may have had in favor of simply reflecting on Mister Downing’s words. Evin laid the compass on the table and stood up to stoke the fire. Returning to his seat he regained Marin’s attention by asking, “So as a man who has sailed the world, what is your favorite destination?”
A smile crossed Marin’s lips and he released a single chuckle. “It is not so much a destination as a point of sail. There is place where the two great oceans, the Atlantic and Pacific, meet. The whirling winds are in a constant fury, and the two waters are in conflict as to the direction of current, even as the persistent rains offer a constant supply of water to the turmoil. A huge granite cape, referred to as ‘Cape Horn’, peaks a quarter of a mile up out of the turbulence, marking the spot where many a sailor has met his doom, each knowing the danger that was waiting there. It is here, in these most uncertain of waters, that I feel most alive. It is this crossing of the threshold that is the measure of a sailor’s reach.”
“Yes,” Evin replied. “I would imagine there are any number of, ‘crossings of the threshold’, that are the measure of any man’s reach.”
Marin reflected a moment before releasing an affirming smile.
The two men ventured deep into the evening listening and learning about each other lives. As the fire died down, both men wound down as well.
“It is getting late, and you would spend the night of course,” Evin said, before rising from his chair.
“If you would allow,” Marin replied.
“I insist. You can sleep in Opaline’s old room,” and he lit a candle and led Marin up the stairs to a small room on the second floor. Upon entering, he lit a small oil lamp that sat on a desk by the bed.
“Sleep well, and I will see you in the morning,” Evin said, closing the door behind him.
Marin looked around the room. It appeared, but for the occasional dusting, to have been left, ‘as is’, for quite some time. He sat down on the small feather bed and removed his boots and vest. He picked up the oil lamp and walked over to a small bookshelf containing a row of books and various knick-knacks. His eyes lit upon a small collection of poetry titled: Anonymous (‘The Amorous Lady’), and he noticed part of a thin gold necklace peeking out between the pages, as if to mark a particular page. He opened the volume to that very page and saw a poem titled: A Letter To My Love. – All alone, Past 12, in the Dumps. At the top of the page, hand written in delicate script, was the inscription: O. – We lie between the lines – J.
He had seen that ‘J’ before. It was the same penmanship that had marked the top left corner of the lace bound envelops he had come across in his old room when he had returned home. At the end of the gold necklace was a small, round golden pendant with an ‘O’ engraved on one side, and a ‘J’ on the other. He placed the book back on the shelf and lay down in Opaline’s bed. Outside, the whirling wind whistled and moaned, and the persistent percussive sounds of an ice storm thrashed against the window. He could not help but divide his wondering between the poem and what was in the unfolding between Opaline and Jonathan during their long journey together.
***
“Did you know Doctor Graham frequently asks if I have heard from you?” Jonathan asked Opaline, over dinner at a fashionable hotel dining room in New York City.
“I think of him often,” she replied.
“Yes. You mentioned, that while his interest in you was purely platonic, yours was...” and here Jonathan chose his words carefully, “...of a more desirous nature. That struck me as odd; his being several years your senior.”
Opaline lifted a spoonful of soup to her lips and audibly slurped the hot liquid into her mouth.
Jonathan gave her a quizzical look, and continued, “I noticed that Mister, that is, Captain Carpenter, is an older man, of say, forty-five or so?”
Opaline slurped another spoonful of soup, this time more measured, and much louder. An elderly couple at a table off to the side, craned their heads round and glared at them.
Jonathan leaned in and quietly inquired of Opaline, “Opaline, what are you doing?”
“I am eating my soup,” she announced, followed by a prolonged sucking sound, as she ssqueezed the contents of her soup spoon through the narrow passage of her tightly drawn lips.
“Must you share the experience with everyone?” he snapped.
Opaline laid her spoon upon the table, folded her hands, and concentrated an indignant stare at Jonathan. Humiliated by the unwanted attention from the couple lookin on from the adjacent table, he remarked with a mixture of whisper and soft-spoken words. “I was merely commenting on the fact that you seem to be attracted to older men.”
Opaline replied in an open and airy conversational voice, “I do not believe my sexual preferences to be an appropriate topic of dinner conversation out among the eves-dropping public.”
Jonathan perched upright, self-consciously shifting his look to the left and right. The couple had turned to one another and were exchanging looks of embarrassing discomfort.
“I love whomever I please, if I please, when I please, Jonathan,” she stated, without audible reserve.
“Let us return to our dinner,” Jonathan uttered, as if he were speaking to an ornery child.
“You return to your dinner, Jonathan,” she shot back, and pushing her chair away from the table, she stood up and addressed the wary couple at the adjoining table. “I apologize if I have contributed in any way to the disruption of your evening. Forgive me.”
She briskly left the restaurant, went to the front desk of the hotel, and secured a carriage to take her the remainder of the way to Philadelphia.