May 14, 1883
On Board the English Channel Ferry
Dover
“Welcome aboard, Miss Gantry,” the Purser said, bowing slightly at the waist. He quickly refolded her ticket with a sharp crease that duplicated the one that ran the length of his trousers and blouse. “It is a reasonable day for a crossing, but we expect the trip to be a bit rough all the same. And most decidedly chilly, as usual.”
She nodded politely and allowed him to direct her into the main gallery. Her travelling companions, which included a sweet but precisely moral physicist named Henderson, headed off to the comfortable seats. She had promised not to be too far away from them. As kind as they were, they did not move at the same pace she did and it made her wonder why she had allowed herself to be so restricted. “Above reproach - Caesar’s wife …” Yes, she remembered Ashfield’s words quite clearly and had changed her old habits to include what amounted to chaperones.
As she remembered, the Channel Ferry was well maintained but hardly a first class cruising steamer. The primary level was for all sorts of travelers, goods, and conveyances. The second level, toward the bow, was for the gentle yet not wealthy. Its environment was a mixture of card players, smokers, and exotic foreigners. The enclosed stern section was reserved for the higher priced ticket holders, and appeared more or less like an average parlor. The carpet was fading a bit, but cleaned to the baseboards. The walls were not of any particular wood, but polished brightly. The room felt mature and well used, yet proudly kept at its sparkling best. The trip across the Channel was brief and the practicality of expensive décor was - well - impractical. The stern was also where outdoor seating was provided. For Lettie, it was worth the extra cost to have a bit of comfort and quiet, either going to or returning from the Continent. The stern section, however, had a distinct drawback: it was a social minefield.
Lettie swept into the stern gallery quickly. Several men looked up from their papers and, several women began intimately whispering and glancing her way. It is hardly due to my looks, she immediately thought. Her temporary impact on the room had more to do with the unknown nature of her identity and her beautiful clothing. Her fellow travelers were likely sizing her up as to breeding, social standing, and potential companionship for more than the next moment. She tried not to shiver, nor to roll her eyes. She might have to interact with any one of them. This was becoming an old habit as part of the crossing. And of course there was her promise to her father, to find persons of good character to associate with - for protection.
Her eyes fell immediately to a black haired man, in exquisitely tailored clothing, delighting in drinking his tea. He sipped deeply from the cup he held gently, eyes closed as if in meditation for the brief moment it took to fill his mouth with its pungent sweetness, and before he was interrupted by a fellow passenger. He was a foreigner, perhaps French or Spanish, she guessed. His clothing was European, his appearance quite bohemian and yet his manners appeared impeccable. The details were in his physicality. He politely made eye contact with his fellow conversant while listening with much attention, nodding now and then to acknowledge some point of interest, whether interesting or not. He clearly did not interrupt the other speaker. He held his cup and saucer lightly, and used his free hand to gesticulate each sentence. Every gesture suggested superior schooling in the art of discourse.
He must have sensed he was being watched, something likely familiar to him, as he looked up and noted her existence with a polite lowering of his eyes and tilt of his head. Lettie, blushing deeply at the idea of being caught staring, smiled and graciously returned the nod.
The stern had an outside deck that just called to her, begging her to escape the hanging fog of smoke to breathe the cold salt air - and to abort her not-so-covert observation of the foreign gentleman. She couldn’t decide if her mother would have been appalled by her interest in such a man or pleased by her dignified retreat.
A steward quickly stepped up to her and inquired her preference of tea. She requested in a whisper a hot cup of coffee instead and informed him she would take it on the deck. The steward was clearly expecting a lady to order tea, so he felt obliged to ask her again. Lettie was used to this. Her American father with his Yankee ways had addicted her to the taste of coffee, at an early age.
With her order placed, she headed quietly outside and into a place of relative peace. It was not nearly as cold as one might think thanks to the Ferry’s extensive use of water pipes under the decking, which carried the still-scalding hot steam from the engines around the body of the boat, warming the floors, and then expelling it out the back. The result was a strange but welcome mist, like that over a hot cup of tea, which never rose more than an inch off the carpets. An hour after running the boilers, the carpet would be dry and the mist gone. An awning of striped canvas covered most of the deck and trapped the warm air around the seating. Humid as it could be, the effect created a much more comfortable journey.
For a moment, she saw herself in a window’s reflection. She was too round and someone, such as that foreign fellow, would not find her attractive; surely not.
“Oh, stop it,” she heard herself say to the reflection. “I shall not think on such things today.”
Besides, the prospect of indulging in the science of Volcanology had erased many of the lines around her eyes, as well as the dark patches underneath that were genuinely unattractive. It had brought back the sparkle in her eyes, which she knew would be ageless even if she weren’t. The rest of her reflection was at least satisfying. As was the highest fashion of the day, she wore a tailored, seafoam green wool suit, fitted in the waist but looser in the chest and shoulder. The color was perfect for her, giving focus to the depth of her hair color, a brightness to her green eyes, and a paler cast to her skin which was so very fashionable. The skirts were straight and plain in the front, but beautifully and artfully bunched up into a bustle in the back. Underneath the wool, and revealed by a purposefully missing off-center panel, was a lovely silk underskirt. Tabs made from black velvet stretched across the gap in four places, buttoning on the other side. None of this actually touched the ground, but grazed the top of her highly polished black boots, a requisite when walking in muddy streets or on soggy carpets. Under all that she wore a linen chemisette, a ruffled traveling bustle sans wires, a pair of petticoats, and soft wool stockings. Perched on her upswept hair was a medium crowned, black hat with a rosette of ribbon and a wide brim to shade her eyes. Silk ties knotted and bowed at the back of her head held it in place and two precisely thrust hatpins nailed it down against the Channel wind. If necessary, she had a long knitted scarf to tie around her hat and head, in case of substantial wind. She would not go back inside, even in those conditions, as she valued the quiet above comfort.
Lettie set down her valise, draped herself neatly into a deck chair, and covered her skirts with a heavy blanket provided on each chair. Across from her was the table that she and Christopher had used the previous year. Professor Pierce had been sitting one table away. For a moment she began to recognize how much she was looking forward to seeing him again. She had, of course, shared her itinerary with her father, Sir Richard and Christopher Moore. Sir Richard promised to inform his son of her plans so that they could coordinate the delivery of the trolley.
The lined, soft kid gloves were preemptively donned. She would read as it always made the trip much more tolerable. She had the latest book by a notorious author which promised to break all the rules. Rumor had it that the author, a scandalized woman, had written in love scenes - “realistic love scenes,” not just a kiss and then suddenly someone was putting on his boots to leave. No, the author had placed intimate details into the pages. To get her copy, Lettie had had to send Christopher and William to obtain it from the book seller in Cheapside. She couldn’t possibly have walked into that shop. What if she had been seen? Poor Christopher, he indulged her too much.
And she had a tour book. Not nearly so exciting as a romance.
Unable to decide between the two choices of reading material awaiting her perusal, she blindly reached into her valise and pulled out the first book her hand fell upon, a book on travel through the French Alps, along with the pair of narrow reading glasses. The loss of clear, crisp eyesight was probably the most galling aspect of aging. For a woman who read and wrote hour after hour, the need for reading glasses was aggravating and problematic. Until she started the habit of consistently placing them in her pocket or in her valise, it was a constant struggle to know where she’d left them.
A string of dirigibles was floating toward the French coast. Mr. Reuters’s Heavy Haulers – they were as common as clouds in the sky. Poor weather slowed the mail from the Continent generally, so any day that offered potential or relative calmness was a profitable boon. The leading balloon soon fired up the pressurized, gas fueled flames that could be seen for miles and the entire group followed its ascent to higher, faster moving winds.
The ship’s horn blasted and Lettie tried not to jump in surprise. Perhaps it was the slight ringing in her ears that caused her not to hear him at first. Lord of Mercy, she thought. She couldn’t afford to be that easily surprised.
“Excuse me?”
Lettie looked up to see a dazzling gold watch chain with a strange fob dangling from it. Even with her reading glasses, she couldn’t quite make out what it was. Removing her glasses, her eyes took a second to refocus and to allow her a better view of the gentleman who had removed his hat and was waiting for her permission to continue speaking.
“May I help you,” she asked?
“Did I overhear the Purser correctly, you are a Miss Gantry?”
Lettie’s eyes narrowed a bit in suspicion. “Yes.”
“Would that be Miss Gantry, the Geologist?”
A feeling of warmth flooded onto her cheeks. “Volcanologist, technically speaking, but yes I am. And you are, sir?”
Tucking his wool top hat under his arm in a very precise and practiced way, he removed a card from his waistcoat pocket and offered it to her. His coat flapped in the breeze and he chose to ignore it. While accepting the card, Lettie decided he was the strangest man she’d ever seen, which was perhaps not fair to him as it wasn’t his look so much as the uneasy feeling he gave her. Aged too soon. Eyes narrowed from years of unsatisfied inspection. Yet, a smile that glazed over the cracked pottery of an angry facade. She more rationally observed he had to be about six feet tall; even taller when he placed the hat on his head. The man was faultlessly dressed in coat, waistcoat and trousers of fine deep burgundy wool so dark as to be nearly black, all cut to excessively fashionable perfection. An edifice of the latest style not yet announced by the magazines. A customer to be cherished by his tailor. His tie was of a patterned and elegant gold silk, his shirt sported a spotless celluloid collar and un-worn cuffs, and his Dogskin-Brown cloth gloves fit his long fingers exactly. That he wore a pair of glasses intended for constant use was apparent by the red marks on either side of his nose, but vanity had caused him to hide those spectacles and to squint at her instead. He trimmed his whiskers to the latest style, which was substantial in the cheek and cut precisely to the shape of the jaw with the intention of displaying an ultimately unworthy chin. By its thickness she could imagine him sporting any number of fashionable beards and considered that her first impression of him said that he would not hesitate to adjust his facial treatment to be up to date regardless of the result. A moustache of inconsequential size was curled tightly and meticulously on either side of his mouth, yet coated with that despised colored wax so many men felt was necessary to hide gray hairs without admitting to the use of dyes. Everything about him spoke of a well-enough gentleman of leisure, with one exception: his hair. His fading, light ginger hair was excessively long, drowned in pomade and worn slicked back over his broad forehead, yet allowed to twist at the nape into greasy corkscrews. It was not his natural color, which was to say he had made a deliberate effort to alter himself. He was likely a Dandy or one of those middle-aged men who couldn’t bring themselves to wrestle with time and age. The cemented-into-precise-form style for hair was en vogue amongst the younger gentlemen and in many ways appeared almost pathetic on a man of his years.
Her first inclination was to offer him the small pair of scissors in her valise and advice on who had the best skills to return him to his natural state. She did not like Dandies as they tended to be selfish, difficult, and slavish to fashion dictates that made little to no sense at all. In this particular fellow’s case, he appeared not to have a coat, but then such an item of clothing would have hidden the fine figure his tailored attire showed off. It was cold and anyone with some bit of sense would be bundled up. Tact prevailed and she quietly accepted the card with a gracious nod. ‘Mr. P. Wickham, Burlington Gardens, Kensington.’
“I hope you will allow me to introduce myself, seeing as there is no one to do it for me.” He was very practiced and dramatic in his speech, lilting where no natural lilt was present in his pronunciation, which was the mark of the Dandy.
His demeanor was certainly assured and very pretentious. It was nearly amusing were it not for the fact that he made her feel as if he wanted something very specific from her.
“May I,” he continued.
She replied, “Of course, as there isn’t another to do so.” Now Lettie was curious.
“Philip Wickham,” he announced with flair, as though she ought to know it. He seemed slightly amused when she offered him her hand to shake. How very liberal of her. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Gantry.”
“And I you, Mr. Wickham.” She neatly folded her hands back in her lap, covering the title of her book. Her second inclination was not to give this stranger any indication of her plans, as he seemed to know too much already. “May I ask how you recognize my name, sir?”
“Of course. I did not mean to cause you any distress, though it is unlikely that a woman who climbs erupting volcanoes is easily distressed at all.”
“Ah, the dispatches published in the newspapers?”
“I read about your ascent of Mt. Tarumae in the Telegraph. It would seem that the editor was more than a bit shocked.” Wickham mocked, smiling slightly.
Lettie sighed. “That was nothing compared to the shock I instigated in many other quarters. My aunt ceased to speak to me for two weeks; a former acquaintance wrote a five-page letter to scold me by saying that had I married him, such an outlandish thing would never have happened; and New College nearly locked its doors to me. So, as you can see, Mr. Wickham, such publicity is neither desirable nor advantageous. My dispatches are mere attempts to correct erroneous science often printed in the papers. Please allow me to assure you I did not seek the attention.”
“I would not think otherwise. I have received some … unwelcome attention myself while attempting to do right. Promised myself never to do that again.”
“Was it worth it,” she asked, looking up at him. He shifted his weight, compensating for the Ferry’s motion away from the pier and turn of the bow toward Calais. “Was the cause, for all that attention and all that came with it, worth it?” she repeated.
“Was yours?” His voice was suddenly serious, until a smile returned to his face.
The Ferry’s horn sounded again, and with a rush of noise, the steam engines pushed the ship away from the White Cliffs. “Please do sit down, Mr. Wickham. I am only the slightest bit accustomed to crossing the Channel, but I do know that clear, sunny skies are no guarantee of a smooth sailing.”
“Oh, I think I can …”
“And I’m craning my neck to see you.”
Wickham tried not to grin, but it came out on both sides of his mouth, and turned the waxed ends of his moustache even tighter. He nodded politely, set his hat down on the small table between them - after all, wearing a hat in Channel wind was simply foolish… and folded his long frame into one of the deck chairs, forgoing the blanket. And his hair was going nowhere.
“Much better,” she said, adjusting herself to see him.
“Tell me, Miss Gantry, what adventure are you off to now?”
“Nothing exciting I daresay, just a visit to a colleague.” She would say no more than that regarding her destination. “He is allowing me access to a particularly fine mineral collection from various Italian volcanoes. It is my passion, you see.”
“What in Heaven’s Name causes a young Welshwoman to forego all social norms to climb mountains that are like as not to kill you? I promise I’m not offering any criticism at all, rather wishing to understand something I confess to admire.”
That was curious, how did he know she was Welsh? “How very kind of you, Mr. Wickham. But I assure you I’ve not done anything worthy of admiration just yet. I hope to, but nothing at the moment. Why, you ask? My reasons may seem a bit droll, but they are what they are. As a child, my father took me to the Dutch East Indies. While we were there, I - I witnessed an eruption and its aftereffects on life.”
Wickham waived over the Steward, who was looking to deliver coffee to Lettie. “And of course, you decided you would dedicate your life to learning about what happened.”
“And, perhaps, to prevent it through logical predictive methods. Quite boring, isn’t it,” she asked, raising the cup of hot coffee to her lips and looking out over the rim.
The Steward poured another cup for Wickham and left them to their discussions. “Not dull a bit. It’s the very thing that drives us all – curiosity. I am always keen to learn more.”
“It seems to be working for you, Mr. Wickham. And what of your travels currently?”
“Nothing in particular. Meeting a friend or two.” He waved vaguely toward the distance, indicating the rendezvous was off somewhere. Lettie began to ask another question but Wickham changed direction. “Do you play Whist?”
“Not that well, but I can survive a hand or two.”
“Good enough.” He reached into his pocket, withdrew a simple gold watch, marked the time, and put it away. “Plenty of time for a game or two.” There was a bit of a twinkle in his dark hazel eyes. “I insist.”
Wickham very kindly assisted her out of the chair she preferred and offered to take her valise inside, presumably with her right behind it. Lettie felt trapped. She couldn’t say “no” to his offer of a round of cards without being rude. But there was one thing she would say “no” to and that was his taking her valise. It had been around the world with her, and rather showed it by the scratches and faded spots on the leather. No one was taking that for her, she could see to it just fine.
Well, a hand or two of Whist wouldn’t hurt. Pick your battles, she thought, giving in to his request. And it was warmer inside the ship. All the way into the salon, Wickham kept prodding her for information. For a moment she thought she was back before the examining board at Dharmstadt School of Mining.
The entire trip followed along similar lines: he would ask questions about her current travels, specifically where was she going and how was she getting there and she would answer vaguely, unwilling to state anything specifically. Charming and entertaining as he was, he was still a stranger and she needn’t provide him with private details about her schedule. She would ask about his current travels and he would evade the question with another round of Whist. She was enjoying neither game.
Two gentlemen had joined them to make it the required foursome; to her surprise and pleasure one of them was the foreign man she’d watched earlier - the Franco-Iberian gentleman, by his own admission, with his elegant taste in clothing.
Monsieur Armand Guy d’Saint-Amand, the foreigner she decided henceforth to think of as “the Frenchman”, was softly spoken, but had a face full of experience and diplomacy, and expressive, small, peridot-green eyes. She now had a closer look at the Frenchman. At a distance she’d failed to see the unusual, likely provocative, personal style he cultivated. Like Wickham, the Frenchman was tall. His hands were quite elegant and he spoke with such clarity and knowledge that she was reluctantly compelled to doubt her own intelligence by comparison. It was surely not his intention: that would be rude and impossible for him, she presumed.
The other fellow was a genial yet eccentric man in the most delightful way. He was a lively and chatty academic whose very energy seemed to fill the room. He had a German sounding name, Flock – something. Flockmocker; that was it. Phineas J. Flockmocker III. Sparkling white whiskers bounced every time he laughed, which was pleasantly often. He seemed to be completely at his ease, unaffected by pretense or any fashionable requirements. Flockmocker was a Professor, an honorable title; one she coveted. He had a working man’s hands, which immediately reminded her of Pierce. He was an outstanding whist player, who now and again exchanged knowing glances with Wickham. There was more to the pair of them then they were willing to comment on. She was quite glad that not a penny was involved with their card game, as she was certain she’d be poor before the trip was over.
Wickham clearly lorded over the table, as well has having some sort of established relationship with the two men, which she wondered about. She could see it in his body; the way he spoke to them with his chin raised, forcing his comments down his nose. He also used sharp looks, as one might expect a commander to do in the field. But the other two gentlemen seemed to give little credence to Wickham’s aspirations of control, and were perhaps willing to go along with the farce if only for the amusement.
Surely Wickham must have seen that his behavior was cause for ridicule, not respect? Why would any intelligent man continue to act in such a way, Lettie wondered. An odd thought occurred to her; was he play acting? Did he want to be purposely underestimated?
The Frenchman was considerably nonplused by Wickham’s behavior and Lettie concluded that it was because he knew Wickham was conducting a failing imitation of him. Where Wickham was well dressed, the Frenchman was equally dressed and more comfortable in his clothing. Wickham spoke little and when he did it was a continuation of his apparent arrogance, while the Frenchman’s words were elegant, refined, and intelligent with a ring of complete satisfaction to them. Wickham’s waxed moustache was a duplicate of the Frenchman’s, except that he had not developed a proficiency in the use of wax, or the choice of curl versus straightness. The Frenchman was the master in this arena. His black hair was an excellent contrast to the olive tone in his skin, no doubt a result of his Iberian origins. He too used pomade to control his hair, but in the right quantity. It appeared that he had quite a bit of hair but hid it under his collar, possibly in a long tail, which she certainly couldn’t stare at. Very curious. Handsome and provocative.
Wickham was his pale imitator.
Wickham changed the subject of the conversation, forcing the Frenchman’s adventure to be related at another time.
If Lettie had been one of those heroines from her romances, she would have easily imagined being in love with the Frenchman. It was stuff and nonsense, as she didn’t believe in ‘love.’ Not anymore. It was something that gave fiction an added dimension, nothing more. She suddenly felt herself flush through her cheeks and felt a pang of pity for the inadequate Wickham.
Three hours and a moderately rough sailing went by curiously but quickly. Wickham was a dedicated player, rather intense, and unmoved by either a win or a loss. Paired up with the professor, he tended to win. The gracious Frenchman was closer to Lettie’s skill level, which was to say very moderate. They shared a smile or two as hand after hand fell to Wickham and the Professor.
Of particular interest and entertainment, Professor Flockmocker provided the majority of the conversation by continually commenting on his inventions. Not a single one had any practical use, though that hardly dismissed it from being worthy of creation. It was his enthusiasm for the very nature of invention itself, as though it didn’t matter what he designed so long as he could design it. He had more interest in the process and industry of each item than he did in what might become of it once it was completed and patented. He reminded her of what Pierce might yet become.
As the Ferry docked, Flockmocker bid everyone a pleasant journey, nodded to Wickham specifically and headed officiously into the crowd to depart, clearly searching for someone. Monsieur d’Saint-Amand was much more confined by the rules of society.
“Madame. Sir. It has been a pleasure,” he said with his accented English. He bowed ever so gracefully, shook hands with Wickham, and then accepted Lettie’s hand for a moment. “I wish you the greatest success with your work, Madame. I shall maintain high hopes that it is you who will provide the world with a bit more safety.”
Lettie blushed deeply. “Que vous réalisiez votre souhait d'un retour sans histoires.” It was a saying her Grandmother used to good effect and there was no reason for her not to use it here. She hoped that the rest of his journey home would be as uneventful as he wished it to be.
“Je vous remercie, chère madame.”
As both Lettie and Frenchman took their leave, Wickham reached out and held her by the elbow. She was about to ask him what he meant by such an impertinence, when he stepped much too close to her for comfort. “Miss Gantry. Before you leave …” He hesitated, only long enough to calculate his next comment. “Believe me when I say this is neither a criticism of you nor an expectation that you will fail in your endeavor. In fact, it is very much because I believe you will not fail.”
“Fail at what?”
“Do not go to Java. And do not seek … inappropriate assistance in obtaining your goal. Stay on this ferry and go back to England. Or, if you must, stay in Paris and go no farther. Stay and buy dresses, or whatever it is you do.”
Lettie stepped back, pulling her arm away from him. She had been cautiously vague in her answers. She had given away no indication that she was going to the East Indies. “I beg your pardon.” It came out of her mouth too sternly, but she felt her temper rising.
“You must not go to Java, and certainly not in disreputable company. I will not tell you why, but I must insist. I will make arrangements for you in Paris. It is the least I can do since you will not be going to Java. But you will not be going …”
“Mr. Wickham. We have only just met so I hardly think it appropriate for you to give me such advice. Further, I must tell you that I am alarmed at the amount of knowledge you have regarding myself and seem to feel that you can freely bandy it about.”
His hand reached out to her with such speed she had no time to react. He gripped her upper arm resolutely and painfully. “Yes, I know quite a bit about you, and again, I cannot tell you how it is possible. I can only tell you that if you go to Java …”
“Yes?”
“I cannot be responsible for you if you go all the way to the Indies. Should you go there without assistance and protection, disaster will be the most noted and probably the only outcome of your work. I’m certain that is not a bit of the publicity you wish.”
Lettie’s face burned red. Her voice dropped to a frighteningly low level. Her eyes never left his, and she drew herself up with her shoulders back. “Remove your hand from me immediately, you are hurting me.”
Wickham was a little surprised and let go immediately.
“Either tell me what you know or get out of my way.”
“Miss Gantry, you cannot understand.” He reached out to take her by the arm again. “I insist you do not go to the East Indies. Shop in Paris: find some new hat or such …”
“Good day, Mr. Wickham!” She twirled around, avoiding his grasp. The silk of her skirt swished back and forth as she all but ran from the room, clutching her valise. At the doorway, she stopped. It was inexcusable of him. Who did he think he was? Did he think he was Robur, with that arrogant behavior? Did he imagine she would wreck her reputation by aligning with such a man such as Robur? Or with him - with Wickham? She was not so easily tempted. Her arm hurt where he’d held her, bruised no doubt and the throbbing fueled her anger.
She turned around to take him to task with all the energy her temper was providing. To Hades with social propriety; the man deserved all that she was willing to throw at him. He’d been playing her like a hand of Whist. The questions. The knowledge. How dare he?
Wickham was not there.
No one was in the room. The deck was deserted. He wasn’t there, as though he never had been.
Lettie’s knees felt weak and her heart was pounding.