The Explorer's Apprentice

32:And so...the Dangerous Revolution Begins....

“Oh, yes.”

“Quite good.”

“Is that cinnamon? Perhaps nutmeg.”

She shouldn’t care for anyone’s opinion, she knows, and she usually didn’t. But her cooking is…different. She wants everyone to like it, despite age, or ethnicity, or social class. “Here, Arabelle, try one!”

“What?” Eleanor is surprised by the snippiness in the girl’s voice. Belle turns on Eleanor with a gaze of ice—suddenly softening when Belle realizes who it is, in fact, that called her. “Oh. Oh, I’m sorry, yes of course.”

Eleanor tries to crane her neck to see around Belle’s chair. “Are you all right? What were you looking at?”

“Nobody…”

Mrs. Randolph reaches across the table to help herself to another cookie. And another. “I’m quite impressed,” she says, her mouth full. “Where did you learn to bake?”

Eleanor contentedly fits the lid back on to the empty tin. “I want to be—” she stops herself. “I  used to want to be a baker.”

Mrs. Edgar sputters on her tea. “You don’t say? And what exactly will your husband be doing, now?” Her voice drips with irony. Eleanor’s face is a blank slate, a mirror image of Molly. It throws them off, those bullies, if they can’t tell how their words affect you. “Laundry and dishes I suppose, while you run the business?”

“Come now Lorraine, she’s just a child!” Mrs. Randolph exclaims.

Mrs. Bukater takes Mrs. Edgar’s side. “She’s 16! She needs to start thinking about her future!”

“Like hell she does!” Molly jumps in, eager to defend her niece. “Half the women on this boat would eat their left elbow to be in her position!”

Mrs. Edgar’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “How so?”

Just when my night was starting to look up...Eleanor thinks regretfully. 32 moreminutes… She doesn’t want to think about her dreadful future. She wants to leave. She wants to think about anything else.

“You’re lookin’ at the future heiress to the Brown oil industry!” Molly continues proudly,unabashedly, unaware of Eleanor’s growing discomfort. “How’s that for business?”

“But…” Mrs.Edgar pouts. She won’t let it go. She refuses to be wrong. “Your Lawrence was the firstborn Brown boy, is he not? When Mr. Brown passes, shouldn’t he automatically—”

30… Eleanor chants in her head. She turns to Arabelle, looking for some idle conversation, but the girl seems completely distracted. Half an hour… Just half an hour…

 “Technically only by marriage, Lorraine,” Molly replies icily. “And don’t go assumin’ just because he’s sick that my brother-in-law don’t still have some fight left in him. He’s gonna change the will, yes he is, and that’ll name his daughter the sole heir of the industry.”

“But that means—”starts Mrs. Bukater in horror. Eleanor hates when they talk this way, as if she isn’t even here. In fact, she could probably stand up and walk away, and they wouldn’t notice… “She has to get married! Marriage has to be just about the most important event in a woman’s life! If he goes through with this, when Eleanor gets married, it won’t belong to the Browns anymore.”

Molly draws herself up proudly. “Our Ellie doesn’t need any man holding her down! She gets this estate, and she won’t have to get married.”

Eleanor turns away so her aunt can’t see how much that statement hurts her.

It’s true of course. All of it is true. No, she wouldn’t have to get married. She couldn’t get married. If she got married, all her property would pass to her husband,and all her poppa’s lifelong work would be for nothing. Ruined. The Brown industry would cease to exist. She has to stop being selfish. She has to put family first.

Because it is Eleanor’s fault her momma died. No one will dare say this aloud, but they all think it, she knows. Perhaps, in some abstract way, it’s her fault her poppa got so sick. Worrying about his wild daughter when he should be resting, the doctors probably mutter. It’s her fault everyone she cares about is leaving her. Why shouldn’t she be alone? She deserves it.

Besides, Eleanor tries to console herself as tears prick her eyes. I can’t get married if no one wants to marry me. None of them could stand to be around me, any of those suitors. They wanted a girl who sews and cleans, not one that roasts turkeys and plays poker and laughs too loud and wears boots if she can help it. I’ll never be that girl, and I don’t want to be.

But still… says a tiny, sad part of her.It would be nice to get married.

The great-grandfather  clock booms the hour. She allows its deep bellowing to drown out the voices of those around her. Eleanor taps the top of her cookie tin over again, her attention focused strictly on the second hand. By sheer willpower, she’s sure, she can make the clock move faster. 25 more minutes… only 25 more minutes…

“I think it’s improper!” Mrs. Bukater is still arguing. “Children these days. No respect for their elders.”

I don’t have to be here, another part of Eleanor realizes. They really wouldn’t notice if I were to walk out, would they?

“Nonsense, a little rebellion is healthy. Things’ll smooth out once they settle down.”

She remembers something, something from her first day on the ship. Something important. It’s tight and snug and dark. It’s the inside of a lifeboat, and she’s huddled next to a boy with brilliant green eyes—every shade you could possibly imagine, and then some. How could she have forgotten? It wasn’t that long ago, but it seems like years since she’s seen him.

Fabrizio. Yes,that’s his name. That’s what he’d said, as he held something out to her. A paper butterfly. She can still hear his voice, low and smooth and bubbly. ‘Multo buona.’

And what was it he’d asked? Something about a party, wasn’t it? He’d asked her to go to a party with him, to dance with him. Just thinking about this gives Eleanor butterflies in the pit of her stomach, but she doesn’t know quite why.

Suddenly all her worries seem small. What had she been upset about? Her future? Marriage? Those are nothing. What really matters, in the end, is living for the moment, isn’t it?

I hope I haven’t offended him in some way… she thinks. I hope he’s still there when I arrive…

Rule Number Four. Never leave without permission.