The Arctic Fury Page 3

  She has spoken with Clevenger on exactly two occasions. Neither filled her with optimism. But she tries to reassure herself: Clevenger is a trained attorney, not a dilettante. The entire purpose of his profession is to protect and defend people like her, and as long as this trial lasts, her specifically. And while she does not feel entirely comfortable in his hands, there are no other hands on offer in which to place herself.

  She keeps her body still, turning only her face in his direction to watch him while he rustles, clears his throat, and stands. The assembled courtroom listens with sober attention.

  Clevenger addresses the jury, the bystanders, the survivors. In his reedy voice, he says, “My client—Miss Reeve—is innocent.”

  A long, long pause follows those six words. In Virginia’s mind, the pause stretches to fill hours and days of fretful possibilities, of worry and rot, of glaciers and icebergs crashing upon distant shores, of the sun soaring overhead to blot out the blue of the sky until the oceans drain, until the flesh of every person in the courtroom melts away to leave nothing but bone. In her mind, it takes that long. And her counsel isn’t even the one to break it.

  Long after the silence becomes uncomfortable, the judge says, “And, Counsel?”

  Clevenger says, “We will prove it.”

  Virginia pleads with her eyes for him to say something else, anything else. For him to advance what she’s told him about Lady Franklin, about Brooks, about Captain Malcolm. Is Captain Malcolm here? she wonders. She will not let herself turn to look. She remembers the five survivors to her right, reaches out for their strength, lets herself rest on it while she waits for her counsel to make her case. Any case.

  Clevenger says to the assembly, with a firm and completely groundless pride, “That is all.”

  It takes everything Virginia has not to put her head in her hands and weep.

  Chapter Four

  Virginia

  American House, Boston

  April 1853

  After their long talk at the Tremont House, Virginia and the Englishwoman had concluded their conversation with a firm, definite handshake. Virginia had heard enough of the particulars to say yes, she would undertake the expedition for the agreed compensation, and yes, she would await Lady Franklin’s designee at her hotel to make all the necessary arrangements.

  But it had been three days, days that had suddenly and irrevocably slipped through her fingers. With nothing to do but wait for Lady Franklin’s envoy, she could feel her patience dissolving like sugar in tea. On the trail with Ames, she had always been in motion; stops at forts lasted no longer than absolutely necessary, and with California-bound parties coming through so frequently, they rarely waited more than two or three days for a hire. A room this size in Fort Bridger, she thought to herself with a grim smile, would have slept two dozen. Thinking on inequities like this made her want to scream; best, then, not to think on them.

  Though it was not as extravagant as Tremont House, Virginia’s hotel was by far the most comfortable place she’d ever stayed, and certainly the most private. In the American House, she had two rooms behind a locked door entirely to herself. The indulgence! Virginia imagined Lady Franklin looking down her nose at the relatively stark bedroom and sitting room, not an inch of gold leaf to be seen anywhere. But one’s upbringing helped determine one’s definition of luxury, and for Virginia, nothing was more luxurious than space.

  Virginia’s semipermanent lodgings had included two farmhouses, three wagons, and one cabin she barely let herself remember, but in none of these had she ever had one entire room to herself, let alone two. She stood stock-still among all the damask and the chintz, the silk and the mahogany, and drank in the excess. She would have strewn her belongings around if she’d had more belongings. But the lack would soon become an advantage. Certainly, she would not be able to take much with her on the proposed expedition. In some ways, she was perfectly suited for this undertaking, but it would still be unlike anything she’d ever done before.

  She was already humming with excitement. The Arctic! The cold was no friend to her, and yet there was a thrill to this adventure that she could not, would not, shake. To seek this lost man and his company and find them when no one else could. The impossibility of it was exactly the allure. The potential reward was enormous, yet the reward was not the only thing that drew her. Going north felt like fate. It felt, in so many ways, like escape.

  But before she could begin, Lady Franklin’s envoy needed to appear at the American House, and every day, he did not. Even though her surroundings were lush, as each day slipped by, she began to feel more and more trapped. Her logical mind understood exactly why. But in those becalmed, constricting times, her logical mind was not the part of her that writhed and bucked in panic, blind with fear.

  So she pushed down the fear and gathered her energy for readiness. The only thing worse than the wait, she knew, would be to miss the envoy when he came.

  For three days, she did not leave the hotel, not even for a moment. She took every meal in a room called “the ladies’ ordinary,” a new innovation of which the hotel staff seemed quite proud. She was unsure how much it differed from a fine restaurant, as she’d never been in one, but in her opinion, the ordinary offered more than enough comfort. Elegant globe lights above the tables cast soft, flattering shadows at night; during the breakfast and noon meal hours, enough daylight streamed in through the windows to tint the tablecloths and china warm gold. For a moment, she thought she might amuse herself by counting up how many meals in her life she’d eaten without even plate or utensils, let alone a table and chair, but then she shoved the thought away. She should focus on where she was and where she’d be going, not where she’d been. God had seen fit to give her a fresh start more than once. It would not honor Him to linger on what she’d needed a fresh start from.

  So she focused on the surroundings of the ordinary, its lush fabrics, its gleaming silver. Water beaded on the outside of her glass, and she resisted the urge to swipe it away with a fingertip.

  Looking around to find herself surrounded by women was a new, odd feeling for Virginia. She knew the reverse quite well—at any given fort, she was likely to be the only woman for miles—but here, she felt more out of place. She reminded herself that anyone looking at her would see her sober dress and calm expression. Not the fire that burned inside. Not the lingering ghosts of her past. All that, as indelible as it was, was blessedly invisible.

  The woman who tended to her table at meals was a dark-eyed, quick-witted woman, likely not much past her twentieth year. She introduced herself as Miss Thisbe. In Virginia’s limited experience with those formally employed to serve others, there were two main types: those glad to serve and those who resented being in service. Thisbe seemed another type entirely. She seemed almost amused by her own role in service, lighthearted at every turn. She took Virginia’s order with a wink and set her plate down with a grin, as if the fact that Virginia could ask her for things was a private joke between the two of them.

  Virginia sometimes lingered over her meals to prolong her conversations with Thisbe, a behavior she also found new in herself. She did not think of herself as someone who wanted or needed company. But then again, she’d so rarely had the choice of whether to be in company, perhaps she’d never been away from others long enough to miss them.

  After her fourth supper at the ladies’ ordinary, as she returned to her room, she found a strange man lingering in the hallway near her door. Even looking directly at him, she wasn’t sure how she’d describe him to someone seeking him in a crowd. He was not particularly tall or short, thin or fat, dark-haired or light-haired. He was not particularly anything.

  “Mr. Brooks?” she asked.

  “Brooks,” he said in an accent that differed from Lady Franklin’s. She could tell it was neither American nor Canadian, but beyond that, she could not pin it down.

  “Brooks? Is that your fir
st or last name?”

  “Brooks will do, Miss Reeve.” His voice was matter-of-fact.

  She looked more closely at him, observing. Like the rest of him, his face was undistinguished in a way that she suspected made him very good at doing someone else’s bidding.

  “Will you come in?” she asked. “It isn’t proper, but then, we’re not on proper business, are we?”

  “It’s all fully proper, Miss Reeve,” he said, the strange accent bending his words, his jaw tight.

  “But…unusual.”

  “We can discuss whether it is usual in the privacy of your room, please.” He nodded toward the empty room behind her, and she opened the door to let him in.

  As he entered, she searched his face and body for some characteristic that might help her define him. Was he an envoy or an enforcer? His shoulders were broad under the smooth fabric of his coat. There was a tense strength to his movements, even when all he did was shut the door. Virginia was uncomfortable enough in his presence to hope she needn’t find out any more about what he could do with his strength if he chose.

  Brooks began, “I’ve come to tell you about the arrangements that have been made and help you make those that remain.”

  “Lady Franklin sent you?”

  “My employer prefers that no names be used.”

  “Even here in private?”

  “Even so.” Though his accent differed, his cadences seemed to mimic Lady Franklin’s, businesslike and formal. “From this moment, all dealings will be in my hands. My employer will have no further contact with you. Nor will the financing of your expedition be made public. If asked any questions about this expedition, unless and until you come back successful, my employer will deny all knowledge of it and you. Is that clear?”

  Virginia felt a tickle of disappointment to hear she wouldn’t be seeing Lady Franklin again before they left, but it wouldn’t do to let it show. For his benefit, she gave an indifferent shrug. “As long as she pays when we do come back successful.”

  “I pray you do attain that success, miss.”

  She did not ask him to whom he prayed. Instead, she said, “Get on with it, then.”

  His voice was dry as he responded, “She did say that you were quite…straightforward.”

  “Are women not straightforward where you come from?”

  She saw by the ghost of his smile that he understood her gambit.

  With a condescending air, he said, “My understanding is that women of good breeding, regardless of what country they come from, know how to conduct themselves in society. Now, you were the one who wanted to, you said, ‘get on with it,’ am I correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “So let’s.”

  They both gestured to the empty chairs at the same time, and then both sat down, eyeing each other, wary as dogs.

  Brooks drew a map from a hidden pocket and unrolled it on the table between them. He traced the route with a blunt fingertip as he went, hundreds of impossible miles streaming by in barely a sentence. “Train to Buffalo, canoes to Sault Ste. Marie, transport overland to Moose Factory, and a topsail schooner up the west side of Hudson Bay to Repulse Bay, arriving in late July. From there, you’ll make the overland trek to the search area. That’s King William’s Land, specifically, Victory Point. That leaves you four months to trek in, search, and trek out before winter.”

  “Easy as falling off a log,” said Virginia breezily.

  “Indeed.” He rolled up the map in silence and tucked it back from whence it came.

  Virginia wished he would’ve left the map out to examine further; she wanted a closer look. All this was so new. But in the glimpse she’d been given, she hadn’t missed the top left corner where the lines changed from reassuring solidity to ambiguous, tentative dots. They were headed straight for the vague, smudged unknown.

  “Nine of the women have been chosen for the expedition,” Brooks went on, changing focus. “Our employer felt that you might like to choose the other three. You have a week to do so.”

  Her head spun with the new information. There was too much to take in, and yet she had to be strategic in her questions. “Three that I choose. In a week. And I absolutely must take the nine—well, eight, besides myself—that she asks me to?”

  “That you are asked to take, yes,” he repeated, a stone wall. “The expedition in total will be twelve. No more, no less.”

  “So that’s another condition she’s set, then.”

  “Another condition, yes,” he said, and she heard his annoyance, but only because she was listening closely. He was good, this one. Fully in control of himself. It was a rare quality and one she admired. She reminded herself to look for it in the recruits she had just been informed she needed to find. In seven days. In a place she’d never been, with no friends or family, no connections.

  But that, she would sort out herself. At the moment, she had to stay focused on Brooks and what he could tell her.

  Virginia asked, “And what about the rest of our transport? The canoes, the ship?”

  “All in good time.” He seemed offended.

  “When is there a better time than now?” She was particularly curious about the ship that would carry them northward. The ships of the lost Franklin expedition had been Royal Navy ships once upon a time: armored, solid, ready. But the Royal Navy’s half-hearted attempts to find Franklin had brought back no news, and Lady Franklin had taken matters into her own determined hands. Would she enlist an American ship? Canadian? What could she get hold of, given her funds and desperation?

  He shook his head. “I’ll leave you a file with the logistical information. You can read, can’t you?”

  With absolutely no hint of her aggravation, she said, “Yes. I can read.”

  “Good. But first things first. Our employer would like you to familiarize yourself with the other members of the expedition. To meet those who are here in Boston. To understand their strengths before you assemble the remainder of the team.”

  “How many are here?”

  “Three,” he answered.

  “Only one thing, then.”

  “Yes?”

  A hint of a smile crept into her voice when she said, “You’ll have to tell me who they are.”

  “Althea Porter. Ebba Green. Caprice Collins.” He consulted no list or paper; the names rolled off his tongue.

  “And they are already familiar with the terms of the expedition? They’ve been invited and confirmed?”

  “Yes.”

  “And told how much they will receive in payment?”

  “They are less preoccupied with payment than you are, Miss Reeve.”

  She squirmed but fought to hide her reaction, balling her hand into a fist. The three he mentioned must be well-off. Only wealthy people thought so little of money.

  “Tell me more. I understand you’ve given me their names, but who are they?”

  “You’re impatient,” he said. “I hope you’ll be more patient as you prepare to take your life—and the lives of eleven other women—in your hands.”

  “I hope you’ll be more forthcoming with information that will enable me to protect the lives of those women.” She let some of her anger show in her voice; she wanted him to know she was no doormat. “That is my top priority. Followed by ensuring we return successful from our voyage, with full knowledge of the fate of John Franklin or, God willing, John Franklin himself.”

  He inclined his head just a fraction. “Indeed, miss.”

  “So who are they? These three?”

  “Althea Porter and Ebba Green are the wives of two of Franklin’s officers, James Porter and Daniel Green, two of his best lieutenants.”

  “They must be sick with worry.”

  “They are Royal Navy wives,” he said coldly. “They were prepared.”

  Though she was sure he was correct about
the preparation, Virginia doubted any woman could truly be trained not to grieve the disappearance and probable death of the man she loved.

  “And these ladies are good adventurers?” she asked. “Strong?”

  “You will have to ask them directly. I will give you the address of their hotel.”

  She should have known. “Well then, I’ll dash off a note and set an appointment to meet them. As soon as possible.”

  He nodded.

  “And Miss Collins—it is Miss Collins, yes, not Mrs.?”

  “Miss.”

  “Shall I write her as well?”

  “No, that won’t be needed,” he said. “You’re expected at her house in Beacon Hill in”—he pulled out a pocket watch, spit-shined gold, incongruous and gleaming—“just under half an hour.”

  The surprise must have shown on her face. He smiled, a smile without kindness, only superiority, a smug pleasure in seeing someone else’s discomfort.

  “Better hurry, Miss Reeve.”

  Chapter Five

  Virginia

  Massachusetts Superior Court, Boston

  October 1854

  “Call your first witness,” says Judge Miller, and despite herself, Virginia feels her curiosity rise. Who will it be? Who will be the first to sell her out, to make her a villain? To name her a murderer?

  Of course she has been called a murderer, or more properly a murderess, in the papers. One does not stand trial for murder in Boston without attracting notice.

  She had never read a Boston newspaper before she was arrested and locked away in the Charles Street Jail. She had never been much of a reader. Since her arraignment, when it became clear she would stand trial, she has been squirreled away in a private cell, where she sees no one but her two regular guards. One is named Benson, the other Keeler. Both regularly read the newspapers aloud to her, but as they have chosen different newspapers, the effect is wholly different. Benson reads the Beacon as reassurance; Keeler reads the Clarion as punishment.