A Trip to North Yorkshire

Arrival in England

    For the next three weeks, Rose and I fall into the monotonous pattern of life on the ship; a small breakfast, sitting around, perhaps a walk; supper. The small excitement that the expansive open skies and hungry waves held at first has dissapated, leaving us with a dull routine. After a few weeks, though, Rose falls ill, retching over the side of the ship and moaning excessively in bed. I've noticed the ship boy insidiously bringing her candies from the kitchen, having taken fancy to my sister.

     We've seen the servant girl who caused our dispute the first night a few times; I asked her what her name was, and she acted as though mute. A few days later I asked again, and she relented, providing me with a meek "Camille".

    William hasn't shown up at all; I suppose he's taken ill as well. Seasickness is all it could be, though Rose claims it's flu. I humored her and pretended to believe it; after all, she is my younger sister. She deserves a little pity.

     It would be an understatement to say that, upon our arrival, we were celebratory. It started with the shadow-faced shipmaster letting out a rare shout; following, all the guests flocked to the deck, craning necks and jostling eachother to squint into the distance. From the back, Rose and I caught a glimpse of a mist-streaked shape seemingly swallowed with blackened waves. The dock. My stomach flipped upon seeing it; I was harshly reminded of what was to come. Nevertheless, I was relieved to see land - my legs felt like rubber - and I turned to Rose to celebrate, who promptly vomited all over my feet.

     The raw scraping sound as the boat heaves  into the dock is startling, and once again my heart pumps loudly in my chest. England. The area we're in now seems very industrial, with closely crammed stone buildings solemnly looming above through the stringy fog. It doesn't seem much different than New York's ports, and for some inexplicable reason, I am disappointed. Perhaps I, like Rose, was expecting change, adventure. This makes me ashamed. I feel like I've fallen into a trap, fallen for the bait that Mother and Father set.

     My knees wobble as I step onto the dock, and I grab at Rose's arm for support. She smiles and peers around at the city, seemingly recovered as she rattles of copious exclamatory phrases, such as, "How grand!"

    Thanking the crisply dressed captain, and gathering our monstrous trunks, Rose and I head towards the grimy cobblestone street, taking in the rancid smells of sewage, families bustling from one shop to another, and a beggar slumped morosely by the side of a large bank building. Before our departure, Mother and Father had given us clear-cut details on where to go; they'd previously arranged for the Clarke's chauffeur to fetch us right off the dock, and take us on a journey to their estate in North Yorkshire. Craning my neck for a carriage, I suddenly realize Rose is not by my side.

     A brief moment of panic wracks my body before I realize that she is lounged against the side of a lustrous black carriage, with an aging - but regal - muscular gray horse hitched to the front. Our carriage! I hustle over as quickly as I can with such luggage. I find Rose beaming at the young chauffeur, a youthful-looking gentleman with a thick Irish accent barely comprehensible to American ears. 

     I introduce myself, and he dutifully loads our trunks into the carriage's rear, commenting conversationally on the weather. Responding with a cordial, "Yes, it's quite dreary out," I slide into the buggy, which has a well-kempt, sleek interior characteristic of wealthier families. Rose energetically bounces in beside me, squeezing my arm. The chauffeur, whose name Rose tells me is "James", puzzlingly leaves the carriage door open and does not enter. 

     We wait for a few more minutes, just to be polite, and then, almost impudently, I interject, "Mr. James, are we going to leave yet? I do believe we're ready." 

     James gives us a nod. "We're waiting for Mr. Clarke, m'lady."

     Now I am in an utter quandary. "Mr. Clarke is at his estate, I don't think he should be here."

     This is returned with a fast, "He'll be riding with us."

     I'm certain Father said he would be at home! I turn to Rose and mention, "Shouldn't he . . ."

     I'm interrupted by the shrill creaking of the carriage door opening. A gust of smoke-filled air seeps into the cabin, followed by a tall man dressed in dark clothes with a tall dark hat angled over his eyes. He seats himself next to me, and as the door closes behind him and the carriage begins to move, I feel nervous. This could easily be the middle-aged Mr. Clarke, my future host who I will be living with for the next several months. I am about to delicately introduce myself when he clears his throat, lifts his top hat, and smiles. "Oh! I didn't realize . . . "

     It's none other than William, the kind young man from the boat. Rose squeezes my hand, and I cast her an annoyed glance. "Mr. Clarke?" I ask incredulously. "I wouldn't have guessed!"

     "Son of," he corrects me, and I smile back. Immediately the three of us launch into a conversation about the boat ride, boat travel, and New York. Apparently, William Clarke was staying in New York to visit a childhood friend. We introduce ourselves properly, and our small trio seems quite compatible. Two comfortingly familiar faces in an alien land.

     Something is irking me, though. It's William. I fear that, by developing a friendship with one of the Clarkes, I will be doing what Mother and Father hoped for - for me to be comfortable, happy here. I don't want to fall into what they planned for. I must force myself to dislike my stay in England - to oppose my traitor parents. 

     Oh, my head hurts. Can't I allow myself a bit of joy?