London - Spring of 1872
The excitement of James Percival echoed through his steps down the hall in search of his cousin. His right hand clutched the open letter, afraid this jovial news would disappear as a leaf in the wind, despite waltzing indoors in their house near Hyde Park. The breeze flowed freely but weakly through the open windows with the sound of carriages and horses, a reflection of how his cousin spent her days inside while still attuned to nature
Before he opened the door to the library, he imagined her reposed on the daybed - not as if he had magical foresight but it was an imprint of imagery since she solemnly remained there often these days.
In this profound exhilaration, James overlooked the noise of the door as he closed it behind him. His cousin stirred where she lounged, although her eyes did not open. Her black hair was braided across her neck and chest, and her light blue tea gown draped towards the carpet covered in books. Yet her hand held no volume in sight, just her hands almost pressing to her abdomen.
“Is it that time of the day so soon, James?”
“Heavens no, dear cousin,” James laughed as he approached her, his shoes knocking a few stacks of books as he reached the chair opposite her. She remained undisturbed in her repose, the sunlight from the windows gleaming on her skin. The noise from outside could not be found here and he realized the only disturbance in this peaceful chamber was himself. “Father received news from America?”
This piqued her interest, one brown eye-opening as confusion washed over her complexion. Yet she did not move nor sit upright as a lady should, but James would speak not of it. His mother held that occupation sternly and without understanding of her condition.
“What does your father want with America?”
“Darling cousin Kote, you are one to retort with your French pedigree,” James jested, only to realize the sensitivity of the topic. For a while he’d known his cousin Kote her whole life, it was difficult for her to fathom at times she never met her parents. Yet he was pleased when this didn’t seem to affect her- Kote recognized that her cousin had a terrible habit of speaking the first thing on his mind.
“My sincerest apologies, I did not realize I had a choice in the matter,” she smiled, her head inert on the pillow as she attempted to stretch her rigid muscles without pain. “What news from America?”
“It appears the Daniels Company organized a temporary patent with the Crown and they agreed to our navigational contract.” His face beamed with confidence and light, which was not unusual for her to see as he was in a state of perpetual glee. The world catered to him and his life was that of a proper gentleman; safe to say a few side dalliances also encouraged this conviction of his way of life. “The profits will be shared between companies and one of Daniels’ sons was quite stricken with you.”
James’ desired reaction pinnacled at last, as he had never seen his cousin rush to sit up as violently as now. She winced in pain, her left hand clutching her abdomen once more, but she sat upright as if her hearing was correct. James warned her continuously if she pressed her hands there that London would assume she was with child and tarnish their sense of reputation, but here they were alone so he held back his reprimand. James knew she was not with child as she was not only a sensible lady, she never left the house. He also knew for a fact if she was here reposed in pain that it was her monthly, the time when her phantom pains remarkably increased
“I do not recall meeting any Americans recently,” she paused, biting her lip. “It has been some time since my last social call.” She peered at the letter’s envelope and it appeared to have foreign influence of stamps and markings.
“Ah,” James smiled, crossing his legs and leaning back, “Father recalled that year we had your portrait done for foreign suitors. Your name and picture were sent abroad with the contract, and I believe the youngest son accepted.”
Kote swallowed harshly at the method her cousin described her as if she was marketable. She acknowledged her circumstance as a woman of means that should be promoted into high society- let alone remove her from their hands after twenty-five years- but there were hindrances in a relationship such as this.
Let alone the portrait chosen was her in her most common state: reposed on a couch with books. In pain, always in pain.
She had to admit that dressed in white in contrast with her dark hair, the portrait was favorable. The artist painted a wonderful masterpiece to be replicated and sent to eligible men- mainly as business deals for her uncle. Kote could not begrudge him for trying, as her aunt’s typical methods of seasonal balls and social gatherings did not increase her marriage opportunities. It wasn’t beauty that hindered Kote, but rather the continual pain she experienced habitually that no doctor could discern a cause. Ghosts or phantom pains, perhaps derived from stress or her vibrant imagination- a diagnosis that filled her with dejection and anger.
Kote was designated as sensitive or soft. Unable to fathom correctly the ordinary pains of a woman, let alone perhaps in constant need of rest- the doctors considered her perhaps the pain of the body belonged more to her mind.
Her aunt saw her as an indolent bluestocking, and Kote wasn’t sure which description was poorer. She wished every night her illness was some sort of unmotivation, that she would awake with the desire to ride again or gossip at the local social gatherings . Her heart ached for her horses, the wind in her hair, the adrenaline of racing against time. The pain never stopped, only ceased intensity at times, and not a soul in this manor understood. Kote was utterly alone.
She was at least content with her uncle, who disregarded any conversation of the feminine body or mind, and acknowledged her simply as his niece. Yet, her uncle announced to her the ability to be applied as leverage- for a while Kote believed in the mind of a woman, her skills in language and business were favorable in these contractual arrangements with other businesses.
Although this was the first one that seemed hopeful.
“Oh,” she sighed, feeling her hands become warm and humid. She glanced down at them, unable to meet her cousin’s gaze. “Is he aware?”
“Aware of...?” he asked inquisitively, which angered her marginally. Her life revolved around being ill and she constantly had to forgive their incessant lapses in memory. “You are lucky I did not place a wager on your excitement, as I expected a bit more elatedness, dear cousin. This is wonderful news, chin up!”
“That I am ill- that my fortitude for bearing children is called to question,” she replied sternly. James clicked his tongue, shaking his head as he leaped off the couch and sat beside her on the bed. While James felt companionship with the only playmate in his house who enjoyed the outdoors and horses, the intimacy and heart of her being deterred James from full familial love. The words of his mother and father- of her leech of sustenance and wealth- created tension, and now here was her opportunity for progress and yet her cynicsm and doubt befuddled him.
“I am sure my father would not resort to placing you in a terrible circumstance,” James started, but Kote turned gracelessly to face him.
“Has your father met the man in person?”
“Yes, he met Daniels in New York last year,” James nodded.
“The man I am to marry... or his father?”
“Of course his father. It was business, my dear,” he sighed, shoulders tensing as he adjusted to also meet her gaze. “You are too clever for your own good.”
Kote leaned further towards the table in front of them, pouring herself from tea. James watched as her right hand trembled to pour the kettle over the cup, not from fear but the pain that seared through her blood and bones. No steam rose from her tea yet James sensed the liquid was not yet cold.
“I must be if that’s the only component of myself to offer,” she murmured, sipping her tea.
James didn’t have the heart or energy to appeal to his cousin, and she understood that perhaps her despondency bogged the room to where it was difficult to breathe. There laid an underlying current that her illness afflicted those around her and yet not one pondered to comprehend it was worse beyond their imagination or their current coexistence with her condition. How hard it must be on them to fathom, and yet they wear it as a badge of their tribulations how much they suffer with me.
With each silent sip of tea, she felt the pain decrease - which held no scientific correlation to her knowledge; however, she knew it would not last long. Her mind contemplated on this profound announcement and Kote understood her deficiency of choice in the matter. If her fate was tied to the security of such a grand business negotiation, to decline was at the cost of what little affection remained with her family. Kote was not terrified of declaring intentions to marry this stranger- she was terrified of what arrived after. A love marriage was never considered in her mind, therefore now it only mattered whether he was an understanding gentleman or a complete scoundrel. She feared but more than presumed the latter, as business dealings with her uncle’s navigational company never comprised of men with a heart.
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Kote eyed her cousin as he sat blissfully ignorant of her inner turmoil. That is how James always existed- a state of utter oblivion to those around him. It was not to declare she held no love for him, or perhaps he held not for her, but rather he was not a man of the heart and dared not to explore emotional depths with not even himself. He cared not for the will of others unless it affected him directly, and many times Kote found herself in desperate coveting to behave as such. She imagined a world that revolved around her without the thoughts nor emotions of others, to be unaffected. How it pains to have a heart.
James held great potential but had a talent for settling for mediocrity. With an atrophied body and wasted sex, she despised her cousin discreetly for his inability to apply his skills and talents to the world. Instead, he appeared jovial to remain ordinary and inherit his father’s business, without a thought or image for himself. His face was beautiful and freckled, his rust-tinged hair curling at the ends behind his ears and at the nape of his neck. Kote also admired his charisma and as children he often performed many classics and plays to cheer her up. It wasn’t until later that James admired more an audience and applause rather than her presence, but Kote admired his talents nonetheless.
In the end, James was the only person who understood her more than anyone, even if it was only a little.
“When do they arrive?” she pressed, the question emptying them of their imaginations. James glanced as if he had been awoken from a dream, glancing at her once more as if her presence was forgotten. Kote dismissed the inner thought that whispered this was typical of everyone.
“From when this letter was posted, I suppose they are already on their passage to London, but the captains have no word as of now. They are Americans after all-they will arrive when they desire to.”
“Are they so terrible, Americans?”
“Well they aren’t British, darling,” he grinned, fixing the cravat across his neck. Kote respired heavily, for if James believed himself the pinnacle of male companionship for women above any American, she was fated to certain condemnation with her future husband.
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Atlantic Ocean- Late Spring of 1872
The winds bellowed over the ocean as the waves thrashed into the boat, and yet Froce Daniels stood strongly with the railing. Grey horizons filled his view, a terrible acceptance of his forlorn fate in England to be surrounded by rain and clouds. The air was cold and harsh but the upper deck was empty and serene. It felt reassuring to hear the howls of wind instead of his drunken brothers or father, let alone the other aristocratic passengers. Froce always felt alone, but to do so in solitude was the only consolation he had.
“Mister, you must be brave with this storm to come! I recommend you head inside!”
Irritation flooded him until he turned to the speaker. A sailor of great height, dark skin, and a confident smile approached from his right. At least his intruder of thoughts had character and a vibrant presence compared to those below, and Froce could not deny that the man was concerned out of his occupation for voyagers to be safe.
“I am quite content, thank you,” he reassured. “Not much of a storm yet.”
“Suppose not,” the sailor shrugged. His blue oilskin coat and cap harmonized with the dark waters below. Froce saw the man’s eyes widen faintly, his gaze catching a deep mystery. “That your gal at home?”
The past contemplation paused Froce from his initial intentions on deck, as he had ceased remembering the portrait in his hands. It was the size of a large postcard yet of strong material and a glossy finish over the portrait of his intended. His index and middle fingers held the portrait tightly as he braced his stature on the railing.
The woman was beautiful- pale skin that looked velvety and smooth. There was an ache in her eyes that he noticed, brown and determined as they gazed at the supposed painter. Her body was composed against a day bed, dress strewn across all in white. If it wasn’t for her eyes, Froce would assume she was content and happily placed there with books in her atmosphere. Something felt off....whether it was this exchange or the idea that marriage was marketed in a business deal- or it was the idea that he had his own secretive baggage buried deep down.
“Soon to be...” Froce nodded, throwing those negative thoughts from his mind. The sailor laughed, boisterous energy louder than the waves below. It almost shocked Froce to hear such glee.
“Soon to be- Americans are amusing!” The sailor approached closer, mimicking the stature of his ship’s passenger. Their elbows pointed at each other and Froce adjusted his wrist to show his companion the portrait in a better light. “My, she sure is pretty! Not as pretty as my old girl, but still! An aristocrat?”
“A Lady,” he shrugged, but agreed in her beauty and coutenance. “Her signature was difficult to read. The titles of this coast are unfamiliar to me. I have met a viscount and a duchess below and I am quite terrified to contemplate the differences.”
“Bah, they all have money, I do not suppose it matters,” the sailor grinned once more. “Duse.”
“Froce,” he replied, his left hand reaching under his arm to meet the sailor’s hand. He appeared hesitant at first before a jovial shake. “Pleasure to share an uncommon name.”
There was a strange camaraderie on the deck of storms of The Lark between the two men and a disengagement of their differences. Both assumed the role of passengers of life, awaiting their new destination in England. Froce was also pleased to not be questioned on the origins of his name, and he granted Duse the same courtesy. Duse held a contagious smile that caught Froce off-guard but was not unwelcome. They stood in silence for some time, admiring the dark clouds and thrashing waves.
“O’er the sea is where my heart lays, no storm shall dim the smallest of rays-
the sun will gleam forever and on
no matter where I rest my feet upon.”
Froce wondered if Duse’s smile could widen any further and to his surprise it did. The aura of glee that emanated from this man stalled him with a strange curiosity that a man could ever hold the weight of light in his heart. Froce envied him secretly.
“A song or poem?” Froce asked, attempting to light a cigarette to no avail from the wind.
“A poem, mister! It came to me without a second thought.”
“On the dot?” Froce inquired, and Duse replied with a fervent nod, although Duse was confused on the American verbiage but assumed it’s general meaning.
“This is my last voyage. I’ve worked here since I was a lad- not on this boat,” Duse clarified, “ but the seas are my home. I was granted a seat at the University College London to study literature and poetry.” This explained his earnest personality, Froce thought, and there was a sense of admiral pride as the winds grew stronger. “You ever been to university, Mister?”
“Froce is just fine,” he clarified, “and no- I was privately tutored.” The two examined each other, perhaps that camaraderie slipping for a moment as while the two were from separate worlds, their opportunities were staunchly distinctive. “My father wished me to enter the family business without other distractions.”
Duse nodded although he again veiled complete understanding of this voyager’s explanation. Froce couldn’t be more aware of this alteration of class and status on this voyage, for while he was a man with the privilege of his white skin and family money, he held no title. The several members of high society on this journey made the distinction clear, and yet Froce stood with another man of the working class, let alone a man of darker countenance, and he felt strangely reassured. Whether it was the poetry or the presence of his new acquaintance, Froce felt with Duse’s confidence that anything in this new world was possible- as false as he knew reality to be. Duse was not deterred by their differences at all, and in all the voyages over his lifetime, this voyager was by far the friendliest. English were the worst, Americans coming close second; but something about this moment Duse understood that this man had a challenging destination. Perhaps a distraction would do.
“What sort of business you and your father run?” Duse attempted to also light a cigarette himself and failed with the wind, the two scoffing in mirth at their fruitless efforts. Froce’s lips drew a thin lin at this question.
“Manufacturing,” he responded, this time needing a different disruption from such a question as he reached for the flask hidden in his inner pocket. He took a quick sip and then offered it to Duse, who quickly declined.
“None on the job, mist-Froce,” Duse chuckled, smoothing out his sailing uniform. “What sort of manufacturing?”
“Nothing exciting to my dismay,” Froce lied, aware that his body and actions gave it away to Duse, who was intelligent and keen-eyed. “Machines.”
Duse was not blind to the vagueness of his friend, nodding and dismissing the secret as if he had not heard it. His grey eyes sought the distant land shadowed by clouds and rain. Fear set in within both of them at this transformative journey to set off on a new course, one they both felt unprepared for. Duse envied the evident composure of a man, and while he was sure the man felt lucky for such a beautiful women, Duse understood well that not all beauty was worth the strife. This man also appeared apprehensive about his business, as if a great evil lurked between the lines. An inescapable fate. Here Duse was running almost eagerly to university with a grief of his departing seas- and it seemed this American wanted to run anywhere else.
“You take care now, will you?” Duse asked Froce, returning his gaze over to the well-dressed voyager. The attire was common for passengers from America but Duse admired the way it looked distinguished and natural on Froce. He espied the brown overcoat and pants nicely trimmed with small embroideries he could not make out. Despite the inner turmoil this American faced, Duse could acknowledge he was well dressed tackling it head-on. “My break is ending shortly and the storm will only get worse the closer we head to the coast. You should head inside now, lest you get soaked to the bone!”
Froce nodded, no longer leaning against the railing as the two strode their way to the metal door leading to the rest of the hulls. The wind was now interfering with their steps and Duse held firmly to the sailor cap on his head. Froce tucked his hands in his jacket, feeling the cool mist and rain start to wet his neck.
“You too, my friend,” Froce responded, watching Duse remove his hat before opening the metal door. He could see the final view of the ocean, the two stopping to glance before their final goodbyes- whether to each other or their old life. “I wish you the best at university. Say, you any good with sonnets or those romantic poems? I’m not sure my American words will charm her at all.”
With a flash of that infamous smile, Duse turned to look at Froce with a rejuvenated energy that Froce couldn’t help but smile in return, as graceless as it felt. Froce never had friends, at least any that did not correlate with his Father’s buseinss, so often he was unable to discern if they wanted his money or wanted to understand him. Then again, his Father spoke often how soft he was, how vulnerable Froce wanted to be... and yet Duse embodied that energy with ease.
“There’s a teahouse outside the University,” he exclaimed, attempting to shout over the screaming wind. “I won’t use the same sonnets I wrote to my lady at home- but a cup of tea and you have a deal, mister!” Froce shook his hand once more, unsure of how the deal struck as equal, but satisfied with the opportunity to have at least one known person in all of England. He expected Duse to follow but he gave a small salute, closing the metal door with ease despite the storm.
In a mere instance, Froce could hear the vibrance of high society as he descended the stairs to be accosted with the aroma of smoke and alcohol and his jovial outlook on the future vanished. He met his Father’s gaze from the corner, a cold countenance and attitude that turned to utter disregard.
Froce sighed, stepping aside from the stairs as a sailor ascended to assist with the impending docking. Froce realized with a swift movement of his fingers that the familiarity of the paper he had discovered survived the strong winds. The creases from folding the image into his pockets bent as he examined the portrait once more, observing the softness of her face and the shadows of her black hair. She appeared far too temperate and elegant for the likes of him, for while he never had much confidence before, the eyes of his father and brother now intimidated him to put his fantasies of her away.
This deal and marriage rested on his shoulders, the heavy weight seeping down to his stomach as he entered the room of money and delight. How he wished to return the chaos above, to not be alone in his anger or apprehension for this future. Duse’s excitement for his own journey washed over Froce with a reassurance that his own would result favorably, yet now that he returned to his element, he felt void and anxious.
That was the problem with light- Froce spent his whole life in the dark that when he felt its warmth it was stripped away violently, designing a harsher version of himself. Freedom wasn’t an option, and as beautiful as his fiance appeared to be, he would not find it in her.
But if he did- oh but if he did! Froce feared the result would be far worse than his imagination could fathom.