I was escorted back to the same front parlour.
It looked as if nothing had changed but my hairstyle and dress. Mr. Lewis was seated as before in his plush chair, his absurd matchstick legs poking out from under his bloated waistcoat, a sherry clutched in his hand. His face was composed, not at all the huffing red mask it was earlier.
Mr. Lewis heaved to his feet, waved off the maid, and made a sardonic leg as I walked in. I did not curtsey back. He frowned, and walked over, hand out to touch but I ducked under it and turned to keep him in my sights, my face still closed and posture rigid. He frowned again, but only said, "You look much more acceptable."
His eyes slid down to my gloved hands; inappropriate for indoors, the maid had said, but I insisted. They were all I had left of that Captain Goodenough I once was so fond of. That Captain Goodenough I had been so sure had been fond of me in return.
Sherry was offered in a cut crystal glass by some roving attendant I hadn't spotted upon entering the room, and probably wasn't meant to spot. I hesitated, but Mr. Lewis glared so I took the glass.
If I was going to get through this evening, smiling pleasantly and hating Mr. Lewis in my mind and despising the traitorous, absent Captain Goodenough in my heart while refusing to acknowledge that the same organ was also aching fiercely for him, and trying to figure out how to get out of here, out of this house and out of this time, and mostly out of this danger, then a little alcohol would not be amiss. My thoughts and feelings were already so muddled, there was no way that the booze could make it worse. It might even make it better, give me that strange desperate clarity that only the deeply drunk sometimes achieve.
If nothing, it would at least keep me warm if I lost my senses and bolted tonight.
At least it would keep me numb. God, I was sick to death of numb.
* * *
There was wine, and sherry, and some sort of light supper involving cold meats and warm potatoes and another vegetable that was over-cooked. If I was going to have to live in Georgian England for the rest of my life, I was teaching the house cook how to make a stir fry, or vegetables in parchment, or grilled, dammit. There were much better ways to serve vegetables than boiled to death.
Over dinner, I was talked over and about more than talked to, and I made myself stay silent and poke morosely at the tidbits on my plate. I was certainly not hungry. I vaguely recalled the goblet near my elbow never emptying.
Mr. Fletcher arrived at the door with a bill of lading for Mr. Lewis - "In the usual warehouse, sir" - but more importantly, also with my brown coat, my tee shirt and blue jeans and my Converses. A small handkerchief was passed to me, filled with my ID cards and cellular telephone, and I placed them on my lap. The rest was taken away, to where I didn't know, but propriety in front of a virtual stranger meant that Mr. Lewis couldn't order the handkerchief package away as well.
Thank god for Mr. Fletcher, then.
I kept a firm hand on the handkerchief knot after the boy left. The supper was cleared away, and while Mr. Lewis was describing some sort of grand plan for a country estate or other - something about not being able to cut down specific trees, the law, the desire for a lawn, I didn't really give a fuck, I was directed to the room's rigid sofa. It was nothing like the big squashy chesterfield I had grown up sinking into and jumping on. This sofa was was dainty, and forced you to sit upright, corset or no. And I drank more sherry. I was getting drunk, and steadily more morose. I didn't care.
If I couldn't be happy then at least I could be unfeeling. Sick to death of numb I might have been, but it was better than stewing in that awful, furious rage that thoughts of the Captain's betrayal brought on.
Sometime after my fifth, or sixth, glass, Mr. Lewis excused himself to the loo and I snatched at the opportunity. I stood up, handkerchief package clutched hard in my hand, and rushed towards the hallway and the doors to the outside world.
Captain Goodenough, standing on the stoop, taco-hat in hand and staring up at the stars, shocked me into stopping before I managed to make it out the front door.
"Francis!" I blurted. "Thank god! I knew you couldn't just abandon--"
But he didn't take my hand and drag me down the steps, out onto the street, up into a carriage like I thought he would. Like I thought he should.
He turned to face me, stunned and startled. He ran a scooping look up and down my new dress, gaze lingering on my breasts, then looked away again quickly. His lips thinned and went white. Shame? Maybe.
Fucking good. I sure as hell hoped the little shit was squirming inside. I hoped he could still smell me on his goddamned fingers and I hoped to hell it was eating him up.
As if he'd heard my thoughts, his eyes bounced up again, involuntarily. He looked at the dress and I wondered what he saw. A dead woman's clothes? Something else demarcating me as another man's property now? Or was it just the swell of my cleavage, the amazing roundness the corset gave the top of my breasts?
No, his gaze wasn't lustful, or smug, or even covetous. It was... sad.
And then, when I tried to step around him, it got angry. He grabbed my shoulder, shocking me with the speed and lack of gallantry in the motion, and pushed me back up onto the threshold, and inside. He kicked the door shut behind us, crowding me against the wall beside it.
"Miss Franklin," he snarled. "Are you mad? You'll freeze to death before dawn ever arrives."
"I won't stay here!" I hissed back. "Not with him."
"There is nothing wrong with Mr. Lewis; he is wealthy and a gentleman. What more could you want?"
"You!" I cried, before I even realized what I was saying. I slapped my gloved hand over my mouth. He looked down at his feet, shame painting his cheeks. "Please, Captain... Francis." His eyes jumped up to mine but I pushed on, clinging to one lapel of his jacket. I clutched my handkerchief of mementos to my stomach with my bad hand. "Please, you can't leave me here. Even you know it. That's why you came back, isn't it?"
"I came back because... because I'm a fool and I owed you an apology. Though I made no promises to you, Miss Franklin, I have played you ill and I--"
"Damn right you did!" I snapped. "What was all that on the ship if you didn't--"
"That is why I have come to apologize!" He hissed, interrupting me. I snapped my mouth shut, startled enough that my teeth clicked. "I should not have lead you on, and we certainly should not have taken the liberties with one another that we did! I will not, I will not marry Miss Gale with this act blotting my conscience."
"Oh, so I'm a blot, now, am I!"
"I did not say--"
I shoved him hard, with both hands, and he stumbled back a step, rocking on his heels, startled.
"You asshole," I spat. "I wish you'd just left me to drown!"
"Jessie, no," he gasped, and surged forward again, lips hard and hot against mine, and I pushed him back a second time.
"Don't you fucking dare--"
"You cannot ask me to regret saving you." He said, writing his hands, scrunching up his fugly taco hat. "You cannot, not after what we shared."
"It can't have meant all that much to you if you're still willing to leave me with Mr. Misogynist here!"
"But I must," he whines. "I would see you cared for--"
"This is the opposite of cared for! You have to see that! You can't--"
"I must."
I grasped for my last straw. "You love me. I can see it."
Francis staggered, face widening in shock, as if I'd slapped him square in the cheek. I should have. I was sorely tempted to.
"I am ... I am engaged to Miss Gale," he whispered, and it rose at the end, like a question, maybe. Like he wasn't sure if he was, or what it meant.
"I don't care." But that wasn't true. For a single vicious second I wanted to be better than her. I wanted to be the better fuck, the better conversationalist and listener. I wanted to be younger and prettier and I wanted all of the Captain's passion and attention. But I couldn't do it; I couldn't be that horrible, bitchy Other Woman.
I bet Francis hadn't even slept with her yet. I bet she was still a virgin. Jesus, what if Francis had been a virgin, too?
No, no, he'd been a bit too good at the kissing thing, a bit too knowledgeable with what to do with his hips. He'd probably had whores or courtesans in distant, exotic ports. Or fellow sailors during his time at sea between them.
The thought of Francis with some harem girl provided for him made my gut twist. I filled with jealous and guilt and a strange mix of possessiveness and helplessness.
Had I ruined things for his future marriage? Was I going to destroy the happiness of a woman who didn't deserve it?
She was his fiancée, not me. I wasn't going to claim that I loved him more. Or loved him at all, really; our connection was tenuous at best, born from isolation and trauma. His pity and my desperation to not be alone in this weird place, a stranger in a strange land.
He was my safety net, the only thing I could cling to. If I couldn't have him then at least I could try to convince him to do better by me. To help me start fresh in a safe place. "Fine, then marry her, but don't leave me here."
"And take you where, for god's sake? To my mother! To Miss Gale's? I cannot be seen with you!" he seethed, and snapped a pointed finger at me, hat balled up in his other fist.The big brown doe eyes that I had once thought so gentle positively burned. "I have done my duty to you, Miss Franklin! I have paid for you out of pocket, killed my own men for your protection, and was disgraced at a national funeral in order to chase you out into the snow and protect your welfare. I have found a gentleman to take you with no prior references, no dowry, and no proof of your identity. You will not do me the dishonor of rejecting him!"
"I sure as fucking hell will!" I snarled. "He's a qualified domestic abuser and I sure as shit am not going to die the same way his last wife did! And I think I've done pretty fucking adequately to repay you all your 'kindness', considering the era and your marital status." I had the satisfaction of watching him turn purple-red. But there wasn't enough hurt there, so I decided to twist the knife further: "Emphasis on the fucking."
His eyes shuttered and his face became unreadable. He lifted his hand to strike me with the back of it. I was torn between livid anger at his presumption that I would just allow him to hit me and the vicious hurt that he really did mean the unparalleled insult of physically hurting me. Before I could get my good hand up, his sense seemed to win through, and he dropped his own hand to his side in a shaking, white-knuckled fist.
"You are infuriating," he hissed.
I leaned forward and kissed him, desperate and open mouthed and for a brief moment, he crashed back against me, just as desperate, just as hard. Then he yanked his head back, grabbed me by the shoulder and marched me back into the parlor.
Mr. Lewis was already seated at the table, smirking smugly, laying out a game of solitaire. Francis shoved me back down into the chair opposite Mr. Lewis, then turned to leave. I didn't look up, but I did manage to catch his wrist as he passed. "Don't," I said softly.
If he made any reply, I didn't hear it. He merely pulled my fingers away, resolutely, and vanished. Maybe I imagined that his own fingers were shaking; maybe I was just hoping.
The door to the parlor closed, a soft snick, not at all the loud slam that I had been expecting. I flinched all the same.
"Now, now, my dear," Mr. Lewis breathed into my ear. I didn't jump, but I felt my shoulder rise without my say-so, and I shied away. "Let us see what you hoard so determinately." He reached for the handkerchief still clutched in my lap, and curled my leg up to stop him.
"Take the coat," I said. "Sell the jeans and the shoes, I don't care. But not this."
"But it is your very resolve to keep it from me that tells me that whatever you hide is worth selling."
"They're just ... just cards. The last thing I have from... from my family. They were ruined in the water. But they're mine." I said nothing about the cell phone.
I kept the fingers of my good hand clenched in the knot, my eyes on my lap. I was too drunk now on both sherry and fury to snatch it out of his grip if Mr. Lewis decided to take it from me, but I could at least hang on. Would he shake me like a rat in a terrier's mouth? He probably could, if he chose.
Mr. Lewis made a disgusted sound. "You know better than to lie to me," he hissed, and his breath was revoltingly moist against my neck.
I nodded.
"Good. Keep your letters then, if they will make you agreeable. But remember that this is a favor I am granting you and I will expect a favor in return."
I swallowed hard. "What ... sort of favor?"
His lips came down on the bare spot between my neck and shoulder and I heaved, tasted sour bile in the back of my throat and swallowed quickly.
His lips moved up my neck, leaving a slime trail over my skin. I shied away again but his hand dropped heavily onto my other shoulder, gripping tight against my neck to keep me in place.
When he reached my ear he said, "I want you to do for me what you did for Frank."
"N-no!"
But Mr. Lewis was more muscle than fat, and his arms were stronger than they looked. I was pushed roughly off my chair, slammed down to my knees. The package still dangled from my good hand and the other one had fallen onto Mr. Lewis's thigh to keep my balance. He shifted, grinning, so that his legs were on either sides of my shoulders.
"Do it," Mr. Lewis said. "You will be my wife and you will perform your duties. Do it, with your mouth."
Drunk and terrified and still fighting off the urge to be sick, I shook my head, clamped my lips shut. Nausea roiled up, but I managed to fight it off. If he succeeded in making me... making me do this, though... I knew I was going to puke. Puke all over his... his... and then I knew there would be a beating.
I screamed, tried to pull back, but he still had one fat hand around the back to my neck and the other one got into my mouth when I opened it to cry out, two fingers digging against the root of my tongue, the backs of my bottom teeth.
"No one will come," Mr. Lewis hissed right into my face. I closed my eyes and choked on a sob. "Bite me and I'll knock out all of your teeth. Now. Do it."
I couldn't. I couldn't make my hands move, couldn't lean forward, couldn't do anything but kneel on sore legs and shake, and sob, and dry-heave.
Mr. Lewis made another snorting sound or derision and shoved me backwards, so hard that I tumbled right down onto my back under the table. I still held the package tightly, though. So I was winning, at least.
"Disgusting," he said. "You're drunk."
I rolled over onto my side and wrapped my arms and legs around the handkerchief.
"Go to bed," he snapped. "We'll do this correctly tomorrow."
*
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