Anna 1.
Rain runs down from stormy skies, pooling in the nooks of towers and pummelling the open street. It falls into gutters and gathers in the vast vats prepared for it in the farms out of town. And it drenches the petticoats of Verity as she scrambles away from the downpour. I, instead of following her, go with father to put away the carriage – you wouldn’t know what this kind of storm does to the paintwork. We spend more time tending to the carriage in its outhouse than we do driving it, and she is a beautiful carriage; even streaked with dirty rainwater her deep, rich, red-wood panelling is as eye-catching as ever. The horses are stomping along the road like little lords in their fief or fair ladies tossing their hair – as foul tempered as they ever are when it’s just me and father. He sits on top of the carriage, ignoring the rain.
There is an ideal coach driver, an ideal that one always knows - precisely because one never knows it. That would be the first ideal: not to be known or noted. A driver must always be ramrod straight, comport themselves with utter dignity and be so steady as to become an anchor about which another life can be moored, (the second). And the third as my father has always said, is the grey drivers coat, as much a symbol as the high hats of the watch or the crown of the baroness. My father’s coat, three quarter length, shrugs off the downpour as easily as the eyes of the passers-by – and yet is as captivating to me as an elaborate courtly dress. Its surface is spotless and regularly oiled, the sleeves are long and fitted with the cuffs turned back – its high collar protects the neck and obscures the face, while the front is smartly done up with buttons in the fashion of time immemorial.
I take my inheritance very seriously; many would scoff at the idea of following the trade and way of drivers - but it is the subtlest and most honourable calling, second only, of course, to that of true nobility. Certainly it tops the selling of another’s labours as merchant or even working to produce, and living off the land as a farmer. A driver must protect and support the charge, and all without being noticed or recognised. A driver is the rock, a steady protective influence on that life from birth to death. Nobody will know the charge better, and nobody will be further from a friend. My charge is Verity – the future baroness of Cork – and when she comes of age, I will don the coat and I will not take it off until our time together ends.
Verity is asking for me again. And this is my one problem. I of course head directly to the room of my future charge – in many ways I have already taken on my role. But before I can knock politely on the door (as one should) the door is rudely thrown open. Verity is a strange girl – here in the privacy on my head such things are utterable; never has there been a girl looking so fragile and so full of life. Her face is porcelain – white as her dress with eggshell cheekbones and limpid eyes. Petticoats and lace dwarf her tiny frame – nearly swallowed themselves by her overcoat; she is like a pile of bones hidden in a snowdrift. And yet she has seemingly limitless energy – there is no rosy glow in her cheeks and no lights show through the eyes but there is nevertheless a fire stoking that boundless vitality that drives her to bound from her bed and fling open the door to stare at me expectantly. “Anna!” She. is. exhausting.
“Yes Miss?” I reply.
After leading me through the door against my will, she sits me down firmly at the desk and begins to bustle around behind me – looking for something, I think. She keeps up a constant patter, and, though you might think she should have nothing to say to me – elevated socially as she is – she, unfortunately, does not share your opinion. An endless barrage of questions and tales assails me. “And you will have heard about the unrest in the distilleries of course? – well I was talking to a friend of my mother and… “, “did you ever hear of ‘shutters’ – an ingenious game from the east I had brought over…”, “never have I seen such an impressive mind Anna – oh you simply must accompany me next time I visit!”. I’m ashamed to admit that when Miss goes on so, my eyes glaze over and I cease to fully process the twists and turns of conversation.
A pile of books slams down, nearly flattening my hands before producing a cloud of dust that almost makes me sneeze. I’m proud to say that I maintained my composure and merely politely asked what I should make of the tower of decrepit leather and peeling spines sitting in front of me. “these” proclaims Verity, “are from the private library of Dame Summerfield.” She picks up a broad volume – spreading it out on the table with a flourish – “and this is an atlas – of the east.”
The rain continues to pound outside – myself and Verity continue to pour over the tattered atlas. No child in Cork doesn’t dream of going east. The glamour of ever-shining sun, the Dawn queen and the summer court are the dreams of rain-soaked teens, the sodden little kids think of vineyards stretching as far as the eyes can see, and trees rising to touch the heavens. Adults remember their place. I myself couldn’t hate the idea more – there’s a reason our main export to the east is water (or our bright young minds, depending on who you ask). In my mind the east is a barren, desiccated hellscape full of hollow promise and tawdry wealth. Verity (of course) is fascinated with the place, but I have no doubt she will grow into her more worthy family heritage here in cork.
I do not want to seem to disrespect miss – but I wish for the dignity of structured interaction; there is simply no rulebook for such informal parlance with a charge. The Baroness and father never speak a word – are as distant and present to each other as celestial bodies. Verity and I seem to be in a sort of terminal orbit.
My actual job consists of assisting my father with the horses – and occasionally being entrusted with responsibility for driving Verity to her piano lessons or some such thing. As a result, I have an accurate mental picture of Cork and its inhabitants: The ancient drunken creature haunting the corner of Tally avenue and the juggling kids of Fleet Street are as much the character of the city as cobbled alleys and high-capped sharpened buildings. It nearly never stops raining in Cork – I have heard that the sun is never out of sight in the east and the tundra to the west is never visited by either cloud or moon, but I believe we here have the best deal of it. In the memoirs of eastern tourists, Cork is described as gloomy, but it is also full of life. We have long learned not to fear the rain as our visitors do, and if you were to walk down the average street you would see many conversing in the open protected by just a parasol, or cheerfully dripping from head to toe.
Frequently I must drive the streets of the city at given night – then there are teams out on the streets changing the lamp gas and the occasional tardy fellow scampering between inns. On this occasion I’m waiting for Verity to conclude her visit – to a wealthy duchess from the far side of the city. I wait in the coach, sitting outside on the driver’s seat of course, and soaking wet.
Some drivers take this waiting time to smoke, a deplorable habit in my view, undermining one’s dignity and reminding the charge rather forcibly of your presence when they spend the drive home inhaling fumes. Since we are given so little of it, I prefer to use my time to read discreetly under the cover of a book-sized canvas. To the common passer-by or the duchess, I would appear to sit erect, bearing the rain stoically while attentively considering my horses and reins. The books I chose are varied but mostly factual. If there is any more honourable calling than nobility and driving, then it must be science and mathematics – the true study of the universe. At the moment I read a simply interminable work on the properties of weird stones – stones that have the power to move an object without touching it (according to the writer in any case). A fascinating subject I’m sure, but the author clearly has about as much insight as the reader, making it read more like a plea for intellectual help than a thesis.
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To look around you would think I had been so engrossed in my morbid curiosity that I’d forgot my duty and loitered far past the time when I should have collected young miss. Here in Cork where the sun never shines, a system of glasses holds sway over time, five turns to our day. Yes, the glass has ran out – I will politely suggest to the servants of the house that miss is expected back before given night, though it must already be long past that point, and one must wonder what is keeping them.
Trellis house is a grand building with a small drive and vast windows to the upper floors, there is a small alcove where a visitor can wait outside of the lashing rain. A small bell waits there, but in a household as wealthy as this, a servant will watch the door constantly to assure direct service. I do respect the butler of house Trellis, a steady man a season or two older than I, he certainly comes from a respectable line and our parents were also friends. His role in Trellis is similar to that of the driver in the house of Cork and his charge is lady Veronica - of similar age to Verity. I may speak plainly to him so thankfully he opens the door himself. “Lady Anna” he says with a little bow. My order is slightly above his, as driver to the heir of Cork. “Malcom” I reply, “Her Grace has made it clear that the young miss is not to stay for the night and requests I escort her home.” “Of course, milady, do come into the dry.” Its customary to offer this to any guest at the door – and just as customary to decline it. “I trust the matter to your capable hands. I shall wait miss in the carriage – safe at night” He tips his hat to me, and I turn to tip my hat in return – a professional respect.
This would have been the pattern of the rest of my life – and then verity ran away.
Verity 1.
I planned it all of course. Despite what people have said I have never been impulsive.
It started with the discovery of the spare key to the servant’s quarters in Trellis house – and recruiting Veronica. My piano lesson finished early, and I was able to pay off a coach driver before getting back to Anna. Veronica might not be as clever as I, but with my direction she was able to get her parents to invite me over on a day where Anna drives. Then it was simply a matter of waiting for Anna to be distracted (I happen to know that she often reads while waiting) and sneaking out of the servant’s door to catch a coach. I do wish Anna could, or would, come with us – but she is simply not cut out for this sort of thing. I had been feeling out her willingness but gave up after not even seeing a hint of a desire to get out of this boring wet hole. Strange as it might seem she even told me once that I should be proud to “be the heir to such a great and ancient city” – as if Cork were somewhere to relish spending a lifetime!
In my books runaways often run without a clear plan – and in real life they return sheepishly to their parents. Since I am not a fool, and I wish to enjoy my escape in a sensible fashion, I plan to stay for a while in a farmer’s house. I discovered this gem in the Summerfield family archives – not only is it empty and awaiting new tenants, but the key was on a hook in the records department – what incompetence! Then, after the plan has been executed, I will have adequate time in which to ponder my next move and to buy food, supplies and passage to the East.
It’s a cosy little place, with a charming porch and colourful overgrown garden. The walls are well insulated and the roof intact with the proper caulked seals – really the ideal hideout - and only spoiled by my tedious travelling companion. She lies in a lump on the bedsit, snivelling. Pathetic really – I had hoped that I had chosen an individual to share my escape in possession of at least a little spine, but not even a day away from home and Veronica already wishes for her parents. I turn away and go to sit on the porch where I can watch the rain pound into the pond and drown out my friend’s sobbing. Great rivers of water are channelled from the roof to fall in sheets in front of me and I spend a while mesmerised by them. It’s a great distraction from the fact that I really have no idea what to do now. I take an inventory of supply: two changes of clothes from Veronica’s wardrobe, thirty golden suns and one meal’s worth of food are all we have to work with, but the suns should do for a carriage and food enough to last us to Dawn.
I have always dreamed of traveling to Dawn, the land of the Red Queen and her court of flowers – a world where the sun never sets, and the rain never falls. The great monoliths of sandstone, bazaars, and bright coloured cloth glow in sharp contrast to the sodden landscape before me. Even as a provincial heir I can expect a warm welcome there and being almost at my coming of age (there is no formal calendar in Cork so I may as well be an adult) I might even be able to represent cork in an official capacity – maybe I shall even appear at court!
First though I will have to deal with Veronica – I can’t have her escaping and telling her parents. Leaving the more tranquil garden behind I turn inward to the homely cottage and sounds of sobbing.
She sits up in bed wiping an undignified ruddy face, I force myself to calm her down and not slap her into obedience – “here Veronica! I have sent for Malcom and your parents; you only have to wait until the flooding at the plane clears up.” “Really?” she asks, snivelling. “Yes really” I reply, “there’s nothing to worry over – we made a mistake that’s all.” I stroke her hair hoping she’ll go to sleep before embarrassing us both further. There isn’t any flooding at the plane, and I’ll be long gone before someone finds her. “Will you tell me a story?” Sun save me from idiots – how old does she think she is? At least she has had her doubts now, before we would have started traveling east – this poor creature belongs in a nice comforting bed not the dusty great road! It goes through my mind that even if Anna was less than enthusiastic, I would certainly never have this problem with her.
So, I tell her story and when she’s asleep I make all the preparations to leave as soon as possible. Bread, groceries, and travel advice from the general store in Littlebrook, the nearest village. Then down to inn suggested – the Queens arms – surely in the east they will have taverns that aren’t called the Queens arms, I know of three such establishments in Cork alone! Here I meet Julio – the eastern caravan master the lady at the store recommended.
He sits, leathery and wrinkled in a rough circle of unsavoury characters. Surely not someone mother would interact with and not someone I can boss around like back in Cork. Of course, I could simply commandeer his services, but I can’t be too obvious about my station - and in any case, I have the money. So, I go straight up to his table, through the rabble on the tables and lying on the floor. I draw enough stares that I have his attention by the time I arrive and dump a small sack of suns in front of him. He begins to laugh. “Julio!” I say abruptly and for some reason this brings him up short for a second - names are useful. “When does your caravan leave for the east?” Caught off guard and realising it, he takes a second to smile patronisingly “why in twelve turns of the glass little lass, and what- “excellent” I interrupt – “then expect me and the rest of the money to be waiting for you”. He sneers slightly, “you’d have to sleep in the haycart – I don’t think I have any… suitable accommodation, for a little lady like yourself.” He’s put on a mocking high-society manner, ironically making it a little easier to understand his provincial drawl. “That would be acceptable to me” I say, mentally reducing his fee, “we have a deal?” “Guess so” he replies, counting out his five suns “buy yer own food.”
And with that sorted nicely, I turn around and walk out.
I leave a slightly stunned silence in my wake, which I have to admit satisfies me greatly. A glance back through the door shows a returning life and drunken revelry, Julio holds the suns and eyes me with curiosity. He looks as if he might call out or pursue me, but with a shrug and a pocketing of money he turns back to his game. At least mother taught me how to handle business properly, I think. Unfortunately, that slightly unsubtle deal won’t leave many without the memory of the little white clad girl who charged into their inn demanding passage to the east. But had I allowed any time for negotiation, or even thinking, there might have been some sticky and difficult questions.
I breathe a sigh of relief, my back to the wall: that was the part that worried me most. Now I need only lay low for twelve turns in the farmhouse, and I shall be away from this rain-soaked backwater.
I flip up a parasol and stride back up the hill.