Time & Tide - Original Wattpad Version

Chapter Thirteen: In Which Jessie Reflects

So I said I was personally never going back, but Francis himself had unfinished business in London and couldn't stay. Riding out to the countryside surrounding the city to chase down the man he thought was a loyal friend hadn't quite been in his plans, and he'd left all of this luggage and affairs behind - something about the warehouse and finishing some business dealings once and for all, which sounded a bit more ominous than I think he meant for it to. Or maybe it was supposed to be - the last time he left to try to take care of this business, I'd ended up hiding in a snowbank and nearly freezing to death.

"Right, sure," I said drowsily, a few hours and a nice tea with lovely fluffy scones and cream and jam. Full and warm, finally, I was close to dozing under an ungodly number of wonderful blankets right beside the fireplace."Fantastic idea. Abandon me again. 'Cause that worked so well before. Third time's a charm, and all that."

"I'm certain the reverend and his wife will not try to blackmail you into marrying anyone else under duress while I'm away," he teased scathingly. But he sounded terribly guilty about it as well.

We were trying for friendship, and mostly, we were succeeding. There was something about the intimacies we'd had translating into a less formal interaction between us that I liked, anyhow, and was trying to encourage.

"Uh-huh. I'll hold you to that."

"It is just a week, Jessie. I really must extricate myself from this business, and you're too ill to travel right now. I don't expect my business to last more than another day, then I'll make sure the Lyre is moved to Bristol for repairs, and then we'll be on our way."

"Where to?"

"Godersham. Then Bath," he said, like it should mean something to me. I was too sleepy to know if it did or didn't. I was almost too sleepy to feel the press of dry, cool lips on my forehead before the sound of the door closing signalled Francis' departure.

Almost.

Then the door snicked shut and I was alone in the parlor. I bobbed in and out of sleep, wondering if it was my fate, for the rest of my days, to be passed off from one person to another, never finding true friends, never being safe and self-sufficient, never known to anyone.

The rest of the day was spent in bed, contemplating Margaret Goodenough and feeling desperate for a shower to wipe of the stink of my fear and hypothermia sweat, and jumping when someone came in to offer tea or clear away dishes, or offer books. Mr. Lewis never made a return appearance, but it didn't keep my gut from clenching every time I heard a knock or a bell. The Reverend received many visitors, it seemed. None of which, thank God, were ever shown into the same parlor I was occupying when they arrived for their Spiritual Guidance.

Margaret Goodenough. Shit.

I was a fucking idiot. How many Goodenoughs did I really think there were in Georgian England, right? Apparently enough to make my Captain - no, not my Captain, Miss Gale's Captain - her brother.

Margaret Effing Goodenough. Contemporary of Ann Radcliffe, Fanny Burney and Jane Austen.

I might not know a lot about important historical novels and the British literary canon and all that, but as a good bi woman I sure as fuck knew who Margaret Goodenough was. Like drag queens had adopted Cher and Madonna for their own, and gay men had become Friends of Dorothy, Margaret Goodenough was the Patron Saintess of Lesbians. Her The Welshman's Daughters was the first lesbian kiss recorded in British publishing. Even though her characters Jane and Mary had only been "very firm, very bosom companions" in the book, they had kissed one another on the pretense of practicing for their respective fiancés, returned home from war with Napoleon and France.