We take a seat next to each other, and I place my bag above me in a net that holds newspapers and umbrellas. I pass the time gazing at the coastline through the cloudy window. Life is dull and unexciting where we live in Deal, in the South East of England. Our only claim to fame is that a few years earlier, pirates and smugglers plied their trade along the coast, shipping tobacco, wool, and other valuables across the Channel to France. In my flights of fancy as a child, I often wondered what it would be like to lead a criminal life, and even imagined myself as the heroine of my own tale: The Adventures of Jess the Pirate Girl and her Deeds of Derring-Do! Those memories are still dear to me, as Mother often played along while I ran about the house brandishing a carpet beater as a sword, laughter filling the halls. But after Father died, even though I was but a babe, our carefree playing ceased. Our maid was dismissed, and then my governess. Mother taught me lessons for a while, but soon, even that came to an end. Often, I would find her in the parlor at night, sitting by the light of the fire, staring into its flames as if she could find something there, if only she looked hard enough.
One night, she took me into her lap and cried, very quietly, as if she were pouring the grief out of her and into me. I took it all in and buried it down deep, where neither of us would ever have to find it again.
The ride to London is long, and the wooden bench is hard and uncomfortable. We should have brought cushions, I realize. We make several stops, the first being Canterbury, which leads to Ashford, then on to Tonbridge, Redhill, Croydon, and finally London. Mother takes out a deck of cards and we play a game of écarté, but neither one of us seems to give it her all.
After some time, the coastline gives way to green pastures and small rolling hills. A few brown fields and farms dot the landscape, and plumes of chimney smoke billow from solitary homes in the distance. A flock of birds wheels in the sky, and for some reason, a chill creeps across my bones.
I wake at the sound of the guard’s booming voice. “Charing Cross station! Charing Cross is next!”
I sit up and knuckle my eyes. “I must have dozed off,” I say, stifling a yawn.
“We’re almost there,” Mother says. “Next stop.”
I look through the window. We are crossing a bridge, and to either side, beyond the water, vast expanses of land are spread out, with patches of green here and there. Even from this distance, I can see great thoroughfares, and people as small as insects moving about.
“London,” I say in amazement.
The train rumbles into a tunnel, and then there is darkness.
CHAPTER THREE
SummerHall
A circular roof of iron and glass looms above us. Late-afternoon light streams in and spills along the station floor. Long walls of brick on either side seem to go on forever.
I have never seen so many people in one place in my entire life.
They scurry to and fro, amidst black clouds of smoke belching from the hulking steel trains. Noise and activity is everywhere: the cries from newspaper boys and vendors of every sort, station attendants and passengers disembarking from the trains. It is a constant hum—?a deep, echoing drone that does not let up for one moment.
“Where to now?” I ask Mother. She looks tired. I can see it in her eyes and the sag of her shoulders.
“Outside,” she says, and I follow her through a doorway marked EXIT.
Carriages are everywhere—?lined up at the station terminal and all along the street. Some are fashionable and sleek, pulled by a team of horses, while others are led by only one horse driven by men perched on high seats. Gentlemen in top hats escort ladies in hoop skirts along the broad sidewalks. Mother straightens her shoulders and looks from left to right, as if searching.
“Mother?” I ask.
I am interrupted by the clip-clop of hooves on cobblestones. A stately coach comes to a stop before us. Two fine black horses stamp and snort. The carriage is deep red and highly polished. An open driver’s seat is positioned in the front, and in the back, a hood to protect travelers from poor weather. My mouth opens in astonishment. I look to Mother. We cannot afford a hired coach.
“It was sent by Balthazar,” she explains with a smile. “He told me to look for his crest painted upon his carriage.”
Crest? Only the truly wealthy and the gentry bear such signs. I look to the carriage again. Burnished into the gleaming red door is a white raven’s head surrounded by a wreath of golden leaves. The black-booted driver takes the reins in hand and, after doing some sort of fancy knot tying, steps out and stands at attention. He doesn’t speak, but takes off his cap and nods, then helps us into the coach.
Once inside, I am amazed by the comfort. The seats are black studded leather and highly padded. There is room for only the two of us, but each side has a large window, plus the one in the front, through which we can see our driver. This Balthazar must certainly be wealthy, I imagine, to afford such a luxury. With a flick of the coachman’s reins, we are off. Crowds of pedestrians mob the streets. There is so much to see, I can barely take it in.
We are on a street called the Strand, which winds its way along the River Thames. I am dazzled by the large buildings and the sights. “This is Charing Cross,” Mother points out, “in the city of Westminster. This will lead us to the West End, where we will meet Balthazar.”
My eyes are drawn to a large open space. A towering column soars skyward, and two fountains shimmer with water. “Trafalgar Square,” Mother says.
The name is familiar, and I recall a lesson from my governess. “Nelson’s Column,” I say proudly. “After Admiral Lord Nelson, who defeated the French at the Battle of Trafalgar.”