The Crossing Read online

“Whatcha think, Doc?” Otis Greenlaw asked nervously from outside the cell.

  “I think she is quite ill but treatable.” Treatable for what? he thought. I am to save her so she can be hanged? The lawyer had felt there was very little hope that the appellate court would declare a mistrial. He had suspected when he came to the jail that she was suffering from the same syndrome he had once treated Lucy’s mother, Laurentia, for — a kind of saline anemia from being deprived of swimming.

  This, of course, had led him to his physiological studies concerning saline and nonsaline chemical exchanges. He had suspected this before even examining Lucy and had brought with him a saline injection. As he was administering the injection into the vein in her arm an idea started to form. A healthier color began to flush her cheeks. It was working, but what if he got her just well enough and then she had a sudden relapse? Could he fool the constable? He seemed not particularly intelligent. He exhibited the deference that uneducated and slightly stupid people often did in the face of doctors or lawyers. Trust and a certain gullibility. Could he convince Lucy Snow’s jailer that she had died? The crux of the problem was he had to get her healthy enough to “die,” and then with May’s help she could swim away … far, far away to the other side, where their aunt Avalonia would welcome them.

  When Nathaniel Lawrence had left the hotel after speaking with Eli Berg, he had a vague notion of getting Lucy released to a hospital and then helping her escape somehow. But here were too many people around a hospital for this to be feasible. There was only one person here, the constable, and if she “died” he would have to fetch the coroner.

  Hugh, May, and Phin were waiting for Nathaniel at a shipyard on the banks of the Georges River that led into the harbor. They dared not meet in a public area. As he approached, he saw close to a dozen ships in various stages of construction and small mountains of stacked timber. There was a full-rigged cargo ship on the ways. The ribs from its unfinished hull poked up, scratching the sky like the bones of some immense creature from primeval times. It started to snow, big flakes. For a moment it seemed as if the skeletons of the half-built ships began to move. Like ghosts looking for a body, they were ships without seas, mastless with no sails to capture the wind, and yet ever so slightly they stirred behind the gauzy scrim of the falling snow. He saw the three young people standing under the shadow of a coastal schooner hauled up on the ways for caulking.

  “How is she?” Phin asked. He was trembling, his hands shaking so badly it was almost impossible to imagine him doing the skilled work required to build boats like the beautiful vessels surrounding them.

  “Not well. But …”

  “But what?” Phin’s face was a mask of anguish.

  “I can help her” — the doctor paused — “better than a lawyer can, I think.”

  “What do you mean?” Hugh asked.

  “I met with the lawyer and Ettie’s two uncles last evening at the hotel. Eli Berg says there is very little chance the appellate court will declare a mistrial.”

  “Then she’ll hang.” Phin gasped. “It can’t happen.” He staggered back, and Hugh placed a reassuring hand on Phin’s shoulder.

  “It won’t happen,” Nathaniel Lawrence replied calmly.

  “How?” May said. Her voice was barely audible.

  “Your mother once suffered from a similar ailment. It ensues when mer try to stop swimming, but it affects each person differently. If some mer have definitely decided to give up the sea for land, the adjustment is easier. Their physiology makes certain chemical accommodations over time. But for others such an accommodation is harder.”

  “That explains Stannish Wheeler,” May said with an edge in her voice. “For him it was easy. He had great incentive to give up the sea — his painting.”

  “This is the fellow whom your sister Hannah is in love with.”

  “Yes, that’s why he does not want to give up land.”

  “I am sure that before you crossed over, you three experienced some of these symptoms, but they would not be so acute, at least not until a certain age. I must speak frankly….” He paused, and his eyes settled on Phin and Hugh as he resumed. “These girls must be completely resolved in their hearts and their minds to live on land exclusively, or you must be completely resolved to allow them to live in a manner that allows them uncomplicated access to the sea.”

  “What do you mean by ‘uncomplicated’?” Hugh asked.

  “There is a place called Barra Head on the most western edge of the Outer Hebrides, off Scotland. The people there know about the mer folk. They accept them, though the mer tend to live separately. Nevertheless, through the centuries there have been marriages between mer and human. Not many but a few. These marriages are tolerated.”

  “They are?” May asked in a dim voice as if she were lost in thought. “I wonder,” she whispered softly as she studied Hugh’s face and then Phin’s. I wonder, she thought, are there not the same stars in the sky for his telescope to find? And across the ocean, over there by the sea, Phin could build his boats. But this was not for her to say. She dared not breathe a word. And then she thought of Gar — Might there be a lighthouse for him to keep? In that moment Hugh reached out for her hand and squeezed it. It was as if he were reading her thoughts, saying, “Yes, we could have a life there under the same stars.”

  But tears began to slide down Phin’s cheeks and mix with the tiny flakes of snow that brushed his skin. “But none of this can be if Lucy is hanged.”

  Nathaniel extended his arm and gripped Phin’s shoulder. “I said she won’t die. Now, listen to my plan. I can give her some saline injections so that she will regain some strength. She is nearly comatose now. I can bring her back. Then I am going to explain to her that she must feign death.”

  “But if you bring her back, won’t the jailer know?”

  “He’s not the brightest. I am going to ask to stay with her through the rest of today and into the night. I am going to say that although she seems to be breathing better her pulse is erratic, and it concerns me as it can lead to heart failure. Then she is going to have ‘heart failure’ and ‘die.’ ”

  May gasped. “You mean — you mean it is just pretend?” In her fear and desperation, she sounded almost like a child.

  “Yes, my dear, just pretend.”

  “But how will you get her out of the jail?”

  “The jailer will have to fetch the coroner. Trust me. I’ll have her out by then. And you must be right here waiting for her.” He turned to May. “May, you will have to help her swim. It will take her a while to get her strength back.”

  “In short, you are breaking her out of jail,” Phin said.

  “Yes, no one will suspect that a half-dead girl who has escaped jail would jump into the Georges River and swim straight out to sea.”

  “It’s — it’s …” May started to speak.

  “It’s brilliant,” Hugh said with a large smile.

  “She’ll live!” Phin half cried, half gasped as he doubled over, clutching his knees for balance.

  “She is my kin,” Nathaniel whispered. “She is my kin.”

  “WELL, YOU SEE, Miss Henrietta, women can be a lot of things…. This is your century!” Mr. McCurdy’s words echoed in Ettie’s head as she walked down the corridor toward the first class elevator. She got off on A Deck, port side. She was looking for Mrs. Dyer’s stateroom, number 138 on the passenger list. She glanced up at the numbers. There was a linen closet between 136 and 138 just as there was on the starboard side, where the Hawleys’ stateroom was. A door ahead opened. She quickly jumped into the linen closet. She knew the voice. Stannish Whitman Wheeler. She opened the door a crack and peeked out. She could see the white arm of a woman, a diamond bracelet on her wrist. She watched as Wheeler pressed the woman’s hand to his cheek, then to his lips.

  “Delicious!” he said.

  Ettie felt her stomach wrench, and she fought the urge to throw up as she sank down to the floor. She had to think. She must not panic. Think … think,
Ettie, she commanded herself.

  Somehow she made her way back to her family’s stateroom and went immediately into the cabin she shared with Clarice, who, thankfully, was not there. Calmly she went to the desk, sat down, and drew out a piece of paper. She dipped the pen in the inkwell and wrote in her neat script across the top of the page — Options. She then began a short list:

  1. Tell H

  2. Confront SWW

  3.

  She began to chew on the end of the pen. She could not think of option 3. She tried to imagine herself going to Hannah and telling her the terrible truth about her fiancé. Would Hannah even believe her? Or would her blind love for Wheeler convince her to look at Ettie as an overly imaginative child?

  Then she tried to imagine herself approaching Wheeler. Would he even deign to have a conversation with her after all the ugliness with the Hawleys? Perhaps a better option was to speak to Mrs. Dyer and tell her that Stannish was pledged to another? That could be option number 3.

  But should she do it? What was to be gained? Did she really want Hannah to marry Stannish? No, but she couldn’t stand to see her hurt by him anymore. And if she did marry him and discovered that he was unfaithful, then what would she do? Once again Ettie felt torn in so many different directions. Maybe if she told Mrs. Dyer, it would somehow force Stannish’s hand and maybe he would actually stop seeing Hannah. It would certainly force something. She would have to screw up her courage, but she would do it. She picked up the pen, wiped cleaned the nib, and set the pen back in its holder. She would talk to Mrs. Dyer. The woman was often in the café at teatime. She would send her a note via Gaston, the steward who served their stateroom. She picked up the pen again and wrote a note.

  Dear Mrs. Dyer,

  I have an urgent matter that I must discuss with you. I pray that you will agree to meet with me. I feel it would be most discreet if I might visit you in your stateroom. This is a matter of some delicacy. I would prefer to remain anonymous until we meet.

  She stopped writing. Would Mrs. Dyer find it threatening if she refused to reveal her identity? Perhaps she should be a bit clearer about who she was yet remain nameless. She put pen to paper again. I assure you that you have nothing to fear from me. I am not a lawyer, not a detective, not a man for that matter…. She paused again. Dare she say it? The pen seemed to scratch louder as she wrote. I am a child. But, she thought, I shall soon be a woman of the twentieth century. So there!

  Fifteen minutes later Gaston returned with a reply. He handed her the note written on scented paper. She sniffed it. A bit over the top. Boston ladies did not use scented stationery. She opened the paper. There were only three words. I am intrigued. She looked up at Gaston. “Am I to come now?” He nodded.

  “Yes, miss, now.”

  “Please, Gaston, say nothing to anyone in my family.”

  “Miss Henrietta, have I said anything about how you slip around with your toothbrush into steerage?”

  “No, of course you haven’t,” Ettie replied, and gave him the sweetest smile. He almost blushed. No one ever smiled at him. The rich children, except for this girl, were all alike. They were just dwarf versions of their parents. Their sense of entitlement dripped off them like fat from a roasting duck — or duckling. But not Henrietta. Antonio had told him about Henrietta Hawley.

  “But my dear,” Mrs. Dyer said, leaning forward from the sumptuous red velvet chair. “I am afraid that I have disappointed you. If you expected me to cry and tear my hair out, I am sorry.” She shook her head almost sadly and made a tsking sound. “But I am not that kind of woman….” She began to fondle an immense diamond that hung around her neck, which seemed to direct the eyes to her full bosom. But Ettie’s eyes were fixed on her face. She was older than she had imagined. Beautiful, but there were lines, and her large blue eyes had at the moment a rather soft mistiness to them. The mist, however, barely disguised a hard glint that lurked beneath the surface. Ettie was not disappointed, but she was shocked. “This girl, what’s her name again? Helen something?”

  “It’s Hannah,” Ettie said grimly.

  “Right. Well, I certainly know all about this Hannah. Stannish knows better than to try to keep secrets from me.”

  “And it doesn’t disturb you? That he has two lovers?”

  “Why should it?”

  “But they’re engaged.”

  “That’s never disturbed me in the past. It shan’t now.”

  Ettie stared at her in mute horror. She fancied herself to be much less naïve than other well-bred girls her own age, but even she couldn’t hide her shock at Mrs. Dyer’s words.

  “Look, dear,” she said with a smile, clearly amused by Ettie’s reaction. “Stannish and I have a nice arrangement. I have an apartment in London and a manor house just outside. I help him find clients. I am one of his clients. His portrait of me has been accepted into the Paris Salon. That is the most distinguished art exhibit on the Continent. I helped arrange that. It will translate into numerous commissions, and he will be able to demand a higher fee. He will be on the same level as John Singer Sargent, yet he is nearly half his age. That is truly worth something. And after the salon he can go down to Cornwall when he likes and play house with his little wife. Or go to my country house with little wifey when he finishes the portrait of the baroness” — Ettie winced as she said the word wifey — “and visit me in London when he pleases. I am very accommodating. I share.”

  Ettie stood up. She was horrified. The teacup she was holding trembled on its saucer. “But Hannah does not know about this arrangement. Does that seem fair to you?”

  “Oh, you know what they say: ‘All is fair in love and war.’ ”

  Ettie shut her eyes tight for several seconds. “But Mrs. Dyer, you don’t even love him.” This seemed to take Mrs. Dyer back a bit. The hard glitter broke through the mist.

  “But that is not the point. He loves me.”

  “He loves your money, madam.”

  Ettie set down the teacup and left the stateroom. Just as she was turning the knob on the door Mrs. Dyer came up to her and touched her hand gently.

  “What is it?” Ettie said.

  “You’ll learn, Henrietta. You’ll learn.”

  “What shall I learn, Mrs. Dyer?”

  “What it means to be a woman in this new century, this twentieth century.”

  “A money-grubbing hussy? Is that what it means?” Ettie walked out.

  Ettie was reeling with anger as she walked down the passageway from Mrs. Dyer’s stateroom. She could not believe she had said that word — hussy. It seemed to scald her mouth, but she had said it and she was glad. She would say it a thousand times over. She felt her cheeks flaming, not in embarassment but rage. This was not what the new century meant. Not at all!

  “Miss Henrietta, is something wrong?” Gaston was just rounding the corner at the end of the corridor.

  “No … no …” — Ettie paused — “Well, yes, actually, Gaston. Something is terribly wrong.”

  “Oh, Miss Henrietta.” He seemed flustered to see her this way. He looked about. “Come with me.”

  She followed him into a small room where tablecloths hung on racks. She began to spill out the story to him.

  “So you see Hannah is really my best friend, and she is expecting to marry Stannish Whitman Wheeler, and — and —”

  “He is cheating on her with this rich lady.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you don’t feel you could tell her?”

  “No. I don’t think she would believe me. I almost don’t believe it myself. Well, no, that is not quite right I don’t believe this — this attitude Mrs. Dyer has. She just doesn’t care. But Hannah would care.” It was hard for Ettie to imagine being as — as — she fumbled looking for a word — soulless! Yes, as soulless as Mrs. Dyer or Stannish. And to think in that stupid fairy tale of “The Little Mermaid” it was the humans who had souls and not the merfolk. The mer were excluded from heaven, destined to have their bones rot in the sea. But the
humans just floated right up, straight to heaven. What had that stupid mermaid granny said in the story?

  “We lack an immortal soul, and shall never have another life … human beings have a soul that lives on forever, even after their bodies have turned to dust. It rises up through the pure air until it reaches the shining stars.”

  Hogwash! Ettie thought. If anyone does not deserve another life, it is Mrs. Dyer!

  “Perhaps Hannah has to find out for herself.”

  “But how can she? Hannah is in steerage for one thing, and even if she could, how could we prove anything to her?”

  “Miss Henrietta, as you of all people should know, passing from first class to steerage and back again is no problem if you have a toothbrush.”

  “Yes.” She ducked her head slightly. “But how do I prove it to Hannah?”

  “Look, everyone — or at least all the maids and the cabin stewards on this side of the ship — knows about the love affair between the famous painter and the rich American divorcée.”

  “But Hannah doesn’t know about it.”

  “Because she doesn’t see him coming and going from her stateroom. Nor does she see them wrapped in each other’s arms sometimes, even dancing on Mrs. Dyer’s private balcony.”

  “And you’ve seen them doing this, Gaston?”

  “Not I, but the maids have.”

  “How did they see them dancing?”

  “Stella is Mrs. Dyer’s personal maid, her lady’s maid. She is asked each night to make up her mistress’s stateroom. Mr. Wheeler and Mrs. Dyer often have a brandy and a smoke on the private promenade deck before Mrs. Dyer retires. The portholes afford a view for Stella when they are on the private deck and —”

  “And if I could arrange to have Hannah come up at the right time she would see what you are describing?”

  “Exactly!” Gaston nodded.

  But would it be too cruel? Ettie thought. Time was running out. There were three, possibly four, more days before they landed in Southampton. She could not abide the thought of Hannah arriving on the other side of the Atlantic in complete ignorance of her fiancé’s betrayal. She could not abide the thought of her entering a false marriage and in so doing giving up a part of her own identity that was so essential to whom she truly was.