Darkness
Chapter 8

Rosy

I’m very careful not to do anything that would hurt his back. I know it’s still tender despite what he says about being fine. Those red lines can’t feel good. And I have no intention of making him hold onto the bars of the headboard while I tease him, because I think that might remind him of being bound to the post. So tonight I make sure to guide him through a series of positions that keep his back away from contact with anything else. All things he loves, all things we both enjoy.

It is wonderful, just like always, perhaps a little sweeter and gentler than normal. It is very nice.

Afterwards, we catch our breath snuggled up together, lying on our sides, facing each other. His arms are wrapped around me, and it feels wonderful, and calm, and sweet.

“Will you let me talk now?” he whispers, and I hear the amusement in his tone.

“Oh, so sorry for interrupting you before,” I say, giggling.

“I’m not!” he says.

“All right, what were you trying to say?” I ask.

“Only that you are a total genius, the way that you told Jake the absolute truth about everything, and made it sound normal and nice, and made him feel so much better. And somehow didn’t reveal any of our secrets.”

It makes me feel wonderful to realize that he referred to them as “our” secrets. I am so glad to be sharing them with him. He squeezes me a little tighter.

“Telling him that your old friend told you about guardian angels was particularly perfect,” he says. “It made the truth more innocuous, and plausible, than if you had tried to explain the whole thing we were talking about earlier. I’m glad you thought to do it that way.”

“Well,” I say, “I was thinking about Harriet earlier.”

“Harriet?”

“My friend at the old brothel who told me that she believed in guardian angels.”

“Ah,” he says, rubbing his hand over me, smoothing across my arm, my waist, my hip, then back up again.

“I was wondering what she would say if she found out everything I have learned about them. How they’re real and all.”

Then suddenly it strikes me. Harriet is a nice name, and I will always think about guardian angels whenever I think of her, and I wonder if it would be all right to use that name for my Guardian.

Gregor’s hand stills for a moment, then he says, “Wolk says that you’ve thought of a name? He says that your Guardian already approves, and is flooded with happiness to think of it. What is it?”

I smile, still getting used to the idea that there are always two Guardians participating in my conversations with my husband. “Harriet,” I say. “If it’s all right with her, I think I’d like to call my Guardian Harriet.”

He leans down to kiss me gently, then says, “She would love that.”

March 23, 1812

New Orleans

Nicholas

The offices of Talcott and Bowers first thing Monday morning usually provide a more peaceful setting than I find myself in today. When I arrive, David and George are trying to talk to a sea captain who is in high dudgeon. David lifts his eyebrows at me to indicate that I’ll need to wait for a bit, so I stay out of the way, settling into a seat in the waiting area.

I can’t help but overhear the conversation, though. “I’ve asked everywhere else,” the captain complains, “but nobody else can help me. And I can’t do it myself since half my crew was stolen!”

What is this now? I start eavesdropping more actively.

“Listen,” George tries to soothe the man, “we’ll be happy to help you, but we can’t do it today. We’re too busy outfitting the steamboat for its departure tomorrow for Natchez. Our entire crew is engaged with that. But after they leave tomorrow, we can be available to help with your sugar cargo. Probably around noon, will that work?”

The captain crosses his arms and growls under his breath about having to wait another day, but apparently he has no choice. “What will you charge?” he glowers.

“We can take the cargo on commission,” David says, “and have our payment from that.” This leads to a flurry of negotiations, and finally after another half hour or so the captain stomps out, no happier than before, but apparently resigned to having his cargo handled in this way.

George takes a deep breath, then turns to me and says, “Sorry about that, Nick.”

“What was that about?” I ask. After witnessing the drama, I am curious to know the details. “What on earth did he mean that half his crew was stolen? Did he mean they fell ill, perhaps?”

“No,” David says, “much worse than that. They were impressed by the British Navy.”

Ohhhh. I’ve heard rumors about this for years. It seems that more and more, England is simply abducting sailors off of American ships, claiming that they are British citizens regardless of their claims of living in our new country, and basically enslaving them, forcing them to join the crew on ships in their growing fleet. It’s been generating more outrage, to the point that Congress in Washington has begun seriously debating whether to declare war over this and other complaints.

“Gad,” I say, glad that my boat only plies the river, and does not venture into the Atlantic. “Where were they coming from?”

“They apparently have a full cargo load of sugar from Jamaica that they were planning to take up to New York, but they were stopped by a British Man-of-War before they got very far. They were boarded and something like half of the crew were forced onto the other ship. This poor captain came limping into New Orleans yesterday, having diverted here since his remaining crew was too small to consider the longer voyage up the coast. So he has to try to unload his cargo and get whatever he can for it. I suppose he’ll face no end of repercussions from his New York buyers who won’t get what they’re expecting. We’ll just sell it out of our warehouse here.”

“Ugh,” I say. “I’d thoroughly loathe the British if they hadn’t produced the most magnificent human ever born.”

They both laugh at me. “Your wife can scarcely be considered British any more,” David says. “She barely even has an accent.”

I shrug. It’s true that Lydia’s lived in this country since she was nine years old. “Fine. That being the case, down with England, I say! To war!”

I’m joking, but they don’t laugh. “War is probably coming, but we’re not looking forward to it,” George says. “The embargoes will really hurt our trade. Who knows what sorts of damage to the Port of New Orleans it will cause?”

“Well, hopefully it won’t interfere with the steamboat, just chugging away up and down to Natchez,” I say, wanting to change the subject. “How’re the provisions shaping up?”

They are happy to turn to the new topic, and soon they are showing me the lists of everything that is being supplied to The New Orleans for tomorrow’s journey. Their crew is busily loading both the cargo being shipped, and the food and supplies for the passengers, to be ready for tomorrow’s morning departure.

I won’t be here in New Orleans for very much longer to coordinate with their firm as they handle the sales and supplies, and I am starting to feel quite confident in their ability to continue doing so even after I have left for New York. I’m very glad to have made this connection through Lydia’s brother Henry.

Lydia

“I’m so happy that you can stay for lunch, Abigail,” I tell my dear friend as we wait for my other guests, the Florian sisters, to arrive. “I want to spend all the time with you that I can before we leave.”

“You’re not leaving before we get back, are you?” she says.

“No, but probably pretty soon after that. We haven’t booked our passage yet, but we expect to be gone by about mid-April.”

She looks at me sadly. We’ve been through so much together, and I long since started seeing her as my friend, not just as my maid. Which position she ended at the conclusion of our journey from Pittsburgh, when she married our ship’s engineer Baker in Natchez. Now she’ll continue going back and forth to Natchez with him since he’s now the Captain of The New Orleans. And Nick and I will be taking our children back to New York.

“I’ll miss you,” I tell her. “I already miss Tiger. I’m half tempted to stow away with you tomorrow so that I can go visit him.”

She smiles and shakes her head. “Don’t confuse the poor dog,” she advises. “He’s settled in with Gregor and perfectly happy, I’m sure.”

I sigh. “Yes, I know. Doesn’t mean I don’t miss that big furball.”

“I’ll give him a hug from you when I see him,” she assures me.

“Who? Gregor or Tiger?” I ask with a grin, and we are laughing when Laura and Elizabeth arrive for lunch.

Laura

Our group of ladies always has the most wonderful time together. It was such a fortuitous circumstance that led us to each other. Elizabeth’s fiancé and his partner have ended up earning the contract to service the Roosevelt’s steamboat, and this has thrown us all into each other’s company a great deal of the time.

Sometimes, though, my sister and I feel somewhat out of place here. Although I don’t know who feels it more, Elizabeth or I. Lydia and I are of the same mind in so many ways, and Abigail is just as adventurous as Lydia is, and as I would like to be. So with the three of us, Elizabeth sometimes feels a bit young and ignorant.

However, I am the odd one out when it comes to relationships. Lydia and Abigail each glow with happiness caused by their good luck with husbands, and Elizabeth is just as pleased to know that her David will be marrying her before the end of the year. With the three of them, I feel something of an old maid.

I cannot imagine finding such a fine husband, though. I am more interested in reading, books and newspapers, staying current on events around us. And of course helping my mother with my younger sisters since our father died last year, yellow fever finally accomplishing what the guillotines of the French revolution failed to do. When would I have time to husband hunt? Besides, where would I even start to look? The only eligible man that I regularly come into contact with is David’s partner George. Despite the attentions that he pays me, I believe it would be unforgivably trite to think of the friend of my future brother-in-law as marriage material.

No, I will certainly die an old maid. No matter, I still have my younger sisters, and will no doubt soon be an aunt, assuming that Elizabeth’s plans unfold as she desires.

I suddenly feel her thwacking me with her fan. I was obviously daydreaming and not attending to the conversation. “Laura! Pay attention!” she chides me, “we need to talk about the fabric for my wedding gown!”

Lydia and I glance at each other and try not to laugh. Elizabeth rolls her eyes. Abigail, always the good sport, says, “Well, Elizabeth, what are the shops here in town where the fabric can be ordered? Lydia might be moving away in a couple of weeks, but I’ll be in town to help you. Intermittently, anyway.”

More laughter. Abigail’s situation is so unusual, living on the steamboat which is constantly moving back and forth between here and Natchez.

“Oh, you’re no help,” Elizabeth grins to her. “You’re leaving tomorrow!”

Lydia breaks in. “I’ll help you, Elizabeth, let’s plan to go fabric shopping tomorrow afternoon, after the boat leaves. All right, Laura?”

Elizabeth eyes Lydia’s trousers suspiciously, and we all break into another storm of laughter. “I’ll wear a dress for the occasion!” Lydia promises.

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