Fourteen. In with the Tide
Fourteen
In with the Tide
NINE O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING
Portsmouth Dockyard, June 25, 1865
Louisa Alcott tightly hugged both Stevenson sisters at the top of the gangplank. There were many tears and promises to write, and eventually Sara-Beth Gleason joined in, one of the last passengers on ship to depart. She was also first in the foursome to pull away, drawing from her reticule a smaller cloth bag and handing it to Louisa.
“Full of paper money,” Sara-Beth proudly boasted, “as much of my winnings as you might accept. You earlier refused our charity, as you call it—now you can see London and Paris in style.”
Louisa teared up again while a different foursome paced the dock below. These men gave each other knowing looks at the sentimental display above, all the while inwardly writhing with emotion: Thomas Nash over what to do and where to go next, Haslett Nelson having failed to shake off Sara-Beth, Nicholas Nelson wanting to reach Admiral Austen as quickly as possible, and Denham Scott eager to be alone with his bride.
He secured the first hackney cab in line at the shore end of the dock and waved for the Stevenson sisters to join him. Inside the cab, Denham sat across from the sisters and happily grinned; Charlotte narrowed her eyes at her new brother-in-law with open suspicion; Henrietta shyly smiled, the crumpled posy of white bachelor’s buttons back in her hands. She had returned to the sisters’ cabin after the midnight ceremony as promised, and admittedly nervous of the wedding night to come. The rewards of marriage would have to wait until husband and wife were ensconced in their new home together. For now, the sisters were to stay at the Fountain Hotel in Portsmouth while Denham traveled the one hundred miles to his newspaper’s London office.
Denham was first to break the tense silence in the carriage. “The purser says you took in a record amount last night. I should pitch my editor on the story.” He scribbled something in his notepad. “Louisa was mesmerizing. Even Nash appeared affected onstage—for once.”
While Henrietta gave Denham a look of warning, Charlotte turned away in silent resentment and disgust. It was difficult to be around such a happy couple, and these last words of the groom did not help. No one in last night’s audience could have mistaken Nash’s attraction to Louisa, which seemed to ignite and flame onstage before everyone’s eyes and left Charlotte alone to wonder: If this was due to the sheer alchemy of performance, why had Nash displayed no such passion for her in their few rehearsals together? Haz had thoroughly embraced the role of Darnay opposite Charlotte as Lucie—Lu had made a most attentive and solicitous Miss Pross—but Nash had stood onstage and given Charlotte nothing. Less than nothing, come to think of it, since the stage was supposed to offer the kind of high drama one never witnessed in real life. All attraction and desire condensed into one brief encounter— that was the romance that audiences thrilled to. And that was the opposite of what Nash had given her, and exactly what he had given Lu instead.
Charlotte could never begrudge Louisa herself such a moment. The Stevensons and Miss Gleason were the picture of feminine beauty, and the entire universe reflected this back at them from the moment they entered a room. Theirs was a world grounded in one’s desirability in marriage, and Lu perilously stood outside that world on high seas herself. Last night she had been permitted entry just long enough to experience what other women—prettier women—took for granted. Charlotte couldn’t help but wonder how differently things might have turned out, if she hadn’t fallen from the stage. At least there was still the matter of Richard Fawcett Robinson and the enameled white trade card safely stored in her reticule. If Henrietta was bent on deserting her…
“Charlie,” Henrietta finally pleaded, “can you ever forgive us?”
Charlotte shook herself out of her reverie. “I suppose you’ll tell me it couldn’t be helped.”
“I know I couldn’t.” Denham smiled at his glowing bride before turning back to her. “Charlotte, you have my word, I will do everything in my power to give your sister all that she deserves.”
“You always did want a brother. Please, my darling.” Henrietta affectionately squeezed Charlotte’s hand next to hers. “Please understand. I could not be happy otherwise.”
But Charlotte knew this was not true. Henrietta had entered a state of happiness that did not require her sister’s presence, let alone her understanding, and that was becoming hardest to accept of all.
Sara-Beth Gleason had boarded the SS China in Boston with a reticule full of English money drawn from her father’s banker, only to disembark with even more. This was despite many incidental expenses during the voyage and the generosity toward Louisa. Nicholas Nelson gallantly hailed Miss Gleason the stateliest carriage in line—a Clarence—and turned to her for the direction.
“The George Hotel until further notice,” she answered, naming the most prestigious hotel in Portsmouth and clearly in no hurry to get to London. “And where are you boys off to?”
“We have business here to attend to, as you may recall,” said Nick as Haz moped about on the pavement behind them. “I must say, you were very kind to share your winnings just now with Miss Alcott.”
“Easy enough to do when one is ahead.”
Haz shot her a look but still said nothing.
“May I ask,” continued Nick, “if the ladies knew of the engagement between Miss Stevenson and Scott?”
“I bet she did,” Haz finally called over with a nod at Sara-Beth, who charmingly wrinkled her nose back at him.
“You’ll be happy to know, I was as surprised as anyone. Even Charlotte had no idea. Louisa was suspicious, of course, but says she never trusts a newspaperman.”
“How difficult for Charlotte, losing her sister to so great a distance,” Nick said feelingly.
“There is also the injury to her ankle,” added Haz. “Such missed opportunity.”
Sara-Beth shook her head at both men in mock pity. “Oh yes, so much missed opportunity indeed.”
“I hope Scott’s deserving of her.” Nick sounded so plaintive that Sara-Beth fully turned her attention on him.
“If he isn’t, Henrietta will surely make him so. You know, Nick, you quite remind me of Harry. In Italy, they call it simpatico . It’s a pity you didn’t move faster there.” She held out her hand for him to help her into the carriage, followed by her maid and the woman who had collected all of Sara-Beth’s winnings.
It must be easy to gamble when one has so much, Nick thought to himself as he closed the carriage door behind the three women. Sara-Beth always landed on her feet, no matter what impulse she followed. He and Haz had acted on an impulse of their own in coming to England, knowing so little about Admiral Austen, even though Nick found making decisions difficult and Haz was usually too indolent to care. And Henrietta Stevenson had cast aside her entire life in America to follow her heart. What was going to transpire next? It was like the steam that propelled the China forward: nothing could happen without the coal below first being lit. One had to take chances in life for good luck to happen as well as the bad.
Nash helped the elderly employer of Louisa Alcott into one side of the London-bound carriage, then came around to assist Lu into the other. He kept his gloved hands on the edge of the passenger door in hesitation, the make-believe moment between them onstage having seeped into real life in some odd, undefinable way. Finally, Lu extended her hand through the open window.
“We’re in England now and due for a good ol’ handshake. None of these fussy continental ways.”
“You’ll have your day with Dickens yet,” he reminded her as they warmly shook hands.
“I can’t wait. A Day with Dickens —and that’s exactly what I’ll call it, when I write it.”
“You will have a lot to write about, I’m sure. Our motley crew on board, all at cross-purposes with each other.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. Mr. and Mrs. Scott were obviously of one mind.”
Nash bowed his head. “Don’t remind me. Whatever will I tell her father?”
“Not all of it, I am sure.” He looked up to catch her smiling knowingly at him. “I haven’t properly thanked you for stepping in like that. You made an excellent Sydney Carton, when it mattered most.”
“I’m not so sure either is a compliment in the end.” He grinned back. “Where do you head after England?”
“We’re to follow the Rhine from Germany to the Swiss Alps, then on to Rome.”
“Will I not see you again—in London, perhaps?” She shook her head. He didn’t understand why—he had assumed she of all people would strive to stay in touch. “But we are friends, no?”
“Yes, we are. Good friends. So, be a friend, Nash, and don’t be polite. Not with me.”
They were still holding hands. She firmly shook his one more time, then released it to sit back in the dark recess of the carriage. Her face fell as she did, which saddened him in turn. But when the carriage pulled forward, third in line behind the Stevenson and Gleason parties, she began to wave at him out the window. She waved as boisterously as a boy, as hopefully as a girl.
Waved—Nash somehow knew—long after she could see him at all.