“Your… grandfather?” I repeated stupidly, my fingers seeking the salt and pepper shakers in a feeble attempt to stay afloat. My eyes swept over Jon’s troubled countenance. Over the studious brow, the aristocratic line of his nose, the firm jaw, and chiseled lips. I don’t know what I sought. A resemblance to the man I once bathed every day and changed out of soiled undergarments?
I could find none and thought Jon must have struck his head.
“You don’t believe me,” he said at last, his hair tumbling over his brow as it usually did when he was distressed. My befuddled brain made a note of comparison. Joseph Havelock once possessed raven curls that tumbled over his rakish brow in much the same manner. But I refused to accept what I was hearing. “It’s true! I am Colonel Havelock’s grandson.”
“The colonel has no children,” I stated dully. “Were you conceived via Immaculate Conception?”
He shrugged. “It’s… complicated.”
“I’m sure.”
“Grandfather is the black sheep of the family,” he explained, his hands fiddling with a rusted tin of paprika. “He’s been in and out of asylums for years.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
He let out an exasperated groan. “You do not understand! Grandfather has also… fathered many illegitimate children. No one wants to be associated with such a man.”
I nodded.
“Um…” He blinked at me. “Would you care for some tea?”
“I could do with a cup.”
Jon rose with stilted movements, wincing as he fetched cups and saucers from a cupboard. These he placed on the counter, pausing only to search for tea leaves and sugar. I thought of offering my help as a good houseguest should, but could not find it within me to be polite. I busied myself instead with reading the labels on his meager collection of spice tins. Mustard. Salt. Pepper. A half-empty bottle of Worcestershire sauce. A jar of marmalade. From what I could see, he was no cook.
I thought that was rather sad, thinking he should have at least white pepper and a tin of chili powder on hand. “Are these all you have?” I queried after he set my cup down. “Do you cook?”
“Er… sometimes. Not all.” He eyed me sheepishly as he pushed the cream and sugar bowl across the table. “I rarely have time to prepare a dish.”
“Then how do you eat?”
“There’s a restaurant around the corner that is more than happy to provide me with leftovers. They always make too much of chicken a la King. Believe it or not, there are some people who are not fond of mushrooms.”
“I’m one of them,” I deadpanned, placing a lump of sugar in my tea and giving it a stir. “So,” I said after a tentative sip, “is there more to your story, or should I prepare to become a fugitive?”
Jon grimaced, stirring his tea before adding a healthy amount of cream and sugar. I could feel a cavity forming as he spoke. “My father is the youngest of four children,” he said, as if the knowledge was too much to bear. “Grandfather married ten years after Anjuli’s death. It was an arranged marriage. Never happy. Always full of misery.”
He glanced up warily, punctuating his story with small sips of tea and adding more sugar as needed. “I’m afraid he was quite abusive to my grandmother. She remained in the marriage until the children were grown. After my father left for university, she left him.” He set the cup on the table, nearly dropping it on the floor. “So, when you said I did not believe Colonel Havelock was abusive, I was only trying to stave off the inevitable.”
“That’s reassuring,” I muttered, draining my cup and setting it aside to wash later. “You made me feel worthless.”
“I’m sorry.”
My hand brushed an imaginary crumb off the table. “So, your family hid him away and hoped no one would discover the new throw rug?”
“Er…” Jon blanched, then began squirming in his seat. “There was… an incident,” he muttered, folding and refolding his napkin so many times he could have used it as a flag at Arlington. “The last facility threw him out when he…” Jon hung his head. “When he assaulted a young nurse.”
“Assaulted?” I repeated faintly, feeling sick to my stomach. “Assaulted how?”
He raised his head. “He used his dinner fork.”
“Oh, dear God.”
“I know. That’s why the family set him up at Briarwood.” Jon took the cups to the sink and sat back down warily. “Because of his prior history, we could not find anyone to care for him. Mr. Anson is the steward on the main estate and the only one who volunteered for service. Mrs. Hutchins only agreed if she could work part time.” He shrugged. “Briarwood was the only property no one wanted because of its location. My father thought it was the best… thing.”
“For whom?”
“For everyone, I suppose.”
I glared at him. “And whose idea was it to advertise for a fool?”
“I’m afraid that was my idea,” he explained with a rueful grin. “Grandfather gets lonely up there all by himself. Mr. Anson refuses to remain in the house with him. So, when Mrs. Hutchins leaves, he has no companion. Mr. Anson looks in on him every two hours and that’s it.”
“That’s… sad, actually.” I don’t know what I was supposed to feel. Guilt? Remorse for leaving the old man to fend for himself? For now, all I could muster was reluctant chagrin. “I find it hard to believe your family would just—”
Jon shook his head. “I visit when I can. Always on the weekends, if I’m able. It’s not easy to get away, Miss Gibson.”
“Ah, back to last names.”
“For the time being.” He eyed me curiously. “I never expected anyone to answer the advertisement.”
“I was desperate.”
“I can see.”
“My story is just as long as yours.”
“Perhaps we ought to compare notes.”
“Later, Mr. Powell.” I inquired about the bruises. “Late night celebrations?”
“Hardly,” he responded dryly. “A couple of overzealous police officers took it upon themselves to beat a crowd of onlookers with their sticks. I tried to stop them.”
“Ouch.”
“And Mr. Anderson is sniffing his way through the city.” He rose to fill the basin with hot, soapy water. In went the cups and spoons. “I have a plan for our escape if you wish to hear it.”
“Our escape?”
“I’m afraid it’s my fault we’re in this predicament. You never would have felt the need to rid yourself of the sari had I been more… helpful.”
“That’s the understatement of the century.”
“And it’s my fault the sari remained unguarded. It was up there all that time. I could have taken the trouble to secure the item. You’ve had to bear the burden by yourself.”
“Along with your grandfather.”
He agreed. “Grandfather can usually handle Anjuli on his own. When you arrived, I’m afraid she sought you out. I suppose, in a way, she was lonely.”
“That makes two of us.”
His eyes dimmed. “Grandfather noticed right away. Once the sari was gone, so was Anjuli’s presence. He was frantic the next time I saw him. Told me what he thought happened and told me to follow you. He was afraid Anjuli would harm you in some way.”
“She has been most… insistent,” I confessed, reaching to finger a pierced lobe. “I thought the butter chicken was a little much.”
“It was one of her favorite dishes.”
“I was afraid I’d go the way of your grandfather,” I quipped, wishing I could laugh. I felt anxious. Almost as if I knew something was going to happen, and I was powerless to stop it. “Is it always this cold first thing in the morning?” I asked, my scalp prickling. The chill crept along my spine, then settled in my feet. I could no longer feel my toes. “It’s fr-freezing!”
“Is it?” Jon leaned forward, his eyes narrowing before widening considerably. “Your lips are blue!”
I wrapped both arms around myself. “A-are th-they?” Soon, my teeth chattered so violently I could no longer speak. Jon quickly brought over a quilt, which he draped over my shoulders. He also prepared another cup of tea.
“Does this happen often?”
“Only if… s-something is g-g-going to h-happen.”
“Lord help us.”
I thought the good Lord had more pressing things to worry about at the moment.
Like 1,389 dead people in Moscow.
* * *
Jon said we should confine our activities to his flat until passage could be arranged to London. “Mr. Gadot is working on securing us third-class accommodations,” he said, while stirring a pot of canned soup. He’d slipped out the day before for a bag of groceries. I had fallen ill with some sort of stomach ailment and was useless as a human being. “How’s the vomiting?” he asked, dipping a piece of bread into the pot. “Anything since lunch?”
“You mean anything since I discarded lunch,” I grumbled, shifting restlessly on the mattress. I had taken his bed, and he’d been forced to string two chairs together. Not an easy feat, considering his strapping frame. “And why are we absconding to London?”
“You know why,” he grunted, replacing the lid and turning to face me. He looked tired and hadn’t shaved in three days. I thought he might be going for the disgruntled caveman look. “Mr. Anderson will not let this matter rest until he has obtained the sari. He’ll arrest you for theft if he finds out what happened.”
“Heaven forbid.”
“My thoughts exactly. That’s why we’ll travel as married domestics. Say we’ve acquired jobs at an estate in Scotland. No one will touch us with a ten-foot pole.”
“And we’ll travel… together?”
“I’m afraid propriety must take a back seat, Miss Gibson. I will ask forgiveness later.”
“That’s all right. I suppose we’re past the point of no return.”
He nodded. “We’ll need suitable clothing, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Bear with me, Miss Gibson.”
“And when do we expect to leave?”
“Mr. Gadot is to leave a message at the post office. He will also leave a bundle containing tickets and clothing. We’re on our own after that.”
“Lovely.”
Jon mustered a brave grin. “I don’t like this any more than you. But no one will be looking for third-class passengers. Mr. Anderson knows about my family. He will assume we’ll be traveling first-class.”
My fingers poked at the well-worn blanket, finding a hole, and wiggling my finger through it. “You need a new blanket.”
“That is beside the point. Once we’re onboard the ship, we stay to ourselves. You have a speech impediment, and I am a war veteran.”
“What’s life like for those in steerage?”
“We’ll cook our own meals,” he informed me dryly, turning to stir the soup before lowering the heat. “Mr. Gadot will procure us a cabin, so we’ll have a modicum of privacy. But we must behave as though we are used to labor. We’ll wash our own clothes and keep a routine. We must not raise undue suspicion.”
I agreed.
“And once we’re in London?”
“Let us make it to the ship first, Miss Gibson.”
“And what does Mr. Gadot have to say about all this?”
Jon turned the stove off and went about slicing and toasting a loaf of soda bread. “Isaac is a good man. He wants to help. Believe it or not, he is quite fond of you.”
“Is he?”
“Oh, yes. When I looked him up after the police scuffle, he was beside himself. Said he’d never forgive me if I let anything happen to you.”
I was touched. “I didn’t know.”
“Well, he always thought he’d be married with children at this stage in his life. He focused on work and by the time he wanted to start a family, the ship had sailed.”
“But, like you said, he’s a good man,” I said. “Don’t tell me no one wanted to marry him.”
“That’s something you’ll have to ask him. At any rate, he gave up after the matchmaker introduced him to a pair of obese twins.”
“Oh, dear.”
Jon helped me to the table. “Do you feel like eating? You really should try to eat something.”
“I can manage a few spoonfuls. I think.”
Bowls emerged, and the table was set. He sat down across from me and shared a glass bottle of ice-cold soda. “Makes me think of that night on the train platform,” he said, handing me the glass.
I sipped gratefully. The soup was a bit salty but knew I had to eat. Buttered slices of toasted soda bread rounded out a meal worthy of fugitives on the run. “So, we’re in hiding?”
“I’m afraid so. Just until I can get you back to Briarwood.” Jon helped himself to another slice of toast. “I don’t know what I’m going to tell Grandfather. He gets upset if I leave the window open after his bath.”
“I know.”
“I suppose I shall have to tell him the truth. It was bound to happen someday.”
“You think so?”
He didn’t answer. We both finished eating in silence, and I went back to bed. Later, he read to me from the newspaper. “What news of Mr. Perez?”
“I haven’t been able to locate him. It seems the entire family has disappeared.”
“What about the neighbors? They had to have heard something.”
Jon agreed. “I thought about asking, but that would draw unwanted attention. Let us assume an incident occurred in which they sought out the services of a Rabbi or spiritualist.”
“Poor man,” I lamented. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
“How could you have known? You thought it was safe in the trunk.” He turned the page. “I’m thinking someone let their curiosity get the best of them. You said he kept asking about the thing.”
“He did.”
“I guess that story about cursed Hungarian jewels was too much for someone’s avaricious nature to resist.”
“Probably,” I sighed. “It was the only thing I could come up with.”
“Quite understandable.”
I lay back, contemplating the whitewashed ceiling. “I never should have answered that advertisement.”
“Why did you?”
“I was tired, if you must know. Tired of counting pennies and watching what I spent on food. I was tired of bending over commercial laundry tubs.”
“Is that what you did?”
“Yes. It was the only job I could find within walking distance of my flat. Sometimes, I’d go to the coffeeshop and pilfer scraps from people’s plates.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” I sighed. “Some people only nibble their Danishes. Tear off a corner and it’s fine.”
“And your aunt refused to help you?”
“She kindly informed me I was old enough to care for myself.”
“That dragon ought to be slayed.”
I laughed. “My uncle has tried for years. That’s why he spends all his time in his office.”
“Poor man.”
“I used to think so. Now, I think he may lie with the dogs.”
Jon’s shoulders shook at this. I smiled with a levity I did not feel and soon fell asleep. I woke the next morning to find him gone. He returned later that afternoon with the bundle in hand. Mr. Gadot had obtained clothing, third-class tickets, and enough money to see us to London. I peered up questioningly when Jon shook out a thin woolen gown. “It’s too long.”
“We’ll make it fit.”
He held up a faded jacket and its matching trousers. “These will be too large, but that’s the look we want.” He tucked them away. “We’ll wear our own shoes. I have a pair that’s just about ready for the rubbish heap.”
“Won’t it seem strange we’re sailing to and not from?”
“Not really. Work is difficult to find. And not everyone wants to homestead.”
“That’s true.”
I still had my doubts.
We were scheduled to depart on Friday. Waiting was excruciating, as we tried to keep quiet and avoid Jon’s neighbors. I lived in constant fear Mr. Anderson would show up with a police wagon. Jon said he left enough crumbs to steer the intrepid Pinkerton elsewhere. “And how long will that last?” I wondered the night before we were to leave.
“I don’t know. But that story I fed him about a cousin in Dallas seemed to do the trick.”
“I have no cousins in Dallas.”
“Lost cousin. Mr. Anderson is a grasping little guttersnipe. He’d gladly leap from the Grand Canyon if I gave him enough rope.”
“I’m sure.”
We had a quiet dinner of tinned sardines and crackers before turning in. I fell asleep dreading the voyage, thinking about how much I hated the water. Then Jon was shaking me awake. “Anne! Wake up!”
“Wh-what is it?” I snorted. “Are the police here?”
“Anne! Wake up!”
“All right! I’m up! What is it?”
“Come with me.”
He dragged me painfully from the bed and into the kitchen. “What do you see?”
“See?” I repeated, still half-asleep. “What is there to see?”
“There,” he said, pointing to an object folded neatly on the table. “Now, do you see?”
My eyes struggled to focus. It was still too dark, the sun an hour from emerging from her watery berth on the horizon. I took a tentative step forward, my mind balking at what I was looking at. The color flashed in my mind; the shade reminiscent of the blood Anjuli had once spilled before her untimely death. “It can’t be,” I breathed, reaching out to finger the hem. “How can it be?”
Jon was trying to make sense of it all, spewing nonsense about the teleportation of objects that he’d heard from a man who dabbled in paranormal phenomena. “You saw it go in,” he kept saying. “Didn’t you?”
“I heard… it.”
“Heard it is one thing. Seeing it is quite another.” He avoided touching the sari and merely eyed it as though it were a holy relic. “I’ll find a sheet,” he said at last, taking charge. “And whatever you do, don’t touch it.”
“No,” I murmured, fascinated by the intricate beading. I wondered idly how many beads it had taken to create such a masterpiece. The chill was no longer with me and, as I watched Jon don a pair of leather gloves to handle the sari, I swore I could hear Anjuli…
Softly laughing.
