The Doldrums: The Sailor and the Virgin Ch. 10
The quest for the selkie maiden
Author's note: Several months ago, I left off this story after chapter 9. Thanks to encouraging reader feedback, the muse returned. The story is finished.
Sunday
The lass was gone.
Liam moved swiftly about the cabin, endeavoring to think rationally while he pulled items out of drawers and lockers and tossed them onto the berth. What to do first? Then, by Christ, what to do after that? Where had they taken Anya?
The first item was the Colt revolver that he kept stored in a desk drawer -- it had been Franklin Webster's, and Liam had never had occasion to use it. Popping the cylinder open, he found three bullets in chamber — and no more to be found in the drawer. Aye, more bullets, ta be sure. He needed to hurry; 'twas Sunday afternoon, and shops would soon be closing.
He glimpsed his reflection in the looking glass, almost not recognizing the wild-eyed lad staring back at him. His hair was disheveled, his jaw covered with several days of stubble, and his clothes wrinkled and stained. Jesus, anyone would mark him as an anarchist out to assassinate the prime minister. And perhaps he be at that, he thought grimly: his lass was in the clutches of a powerful man of villainous repute; he would do whatever was necessary to get her back, so he would. He stripped and set about tidying himself up, shaving, combing his hair, and pulling on his best clothes. His work boots were his only pair, and would have to do.
He picked up the ulster, laying where Anya had left it last night... was that only last night? When he put it on, his heart was all at once assailed by the faint scent of her upon the collar...he bent his head and pressed his nose to the wool cloth...'twas something sweet, indefinable... like a rare fruit. He inhaled deeply, feeling his heart race. Into various pockets went the revolver, his jackknife, the pouch of gold coins, his watch, his small, worn leather journal, and finally, tucked carefully into the inner pocket over his heart, Anya's precious nightgown. Locking the companionway doors, he jumped to the dock and strode down the pier.
He had made port in Toronto upon many previous excursions, and was well familiar with the waterfront, but he went past the shops in the area, lest he be recognized from previous visits as a common sailor. Heading north into the city, he walked quickly through various neighborhoods till he found himself in a more affluent commercial area. Every elegant carriage that passed him caught his eye, but none be the one that had taken his Anya away. At length he found a general store still open, and went inside.
Nigh all the goods were upon shelves behind the counters. He stood by while the proprietor finished waiting on a woman with a pram, then approached the counter.
"How can I assist you, sir?" the man asked. He was a pleasant-looking older fellow with spectacles and a greying beard.
"I need a few items, sir." Liam did his best to mimic a flat Yankee accent, some instinct telling him to disguise his brogue. "Ah...some tooth powder...soap...willow bark tincture." As the man reached for items upon the shelves, Liam pretended to make specific selections, nodding as the man placed them upon the counter. "And have you a map of the city?"
"Yes indeed." The man reached under the counter and placed a folded map next to the other items. "Are you a visitor to Toronto, young man?"
"Aye...ah...yes. Yes. From Buffalo." Liam cleared his throat. "Do you have cartridges for revolvers?"
"Yes sir. What caliber?" the man asked as he crossed to a counter on the opposite side of the store, and unlocked a cabinet behind it.
"45."
"They come in boxes of twenty. How many do you want?"
"One...no, better make it two."
As the man rang up the items, Liam spoke up. "Are you well acquainted with Toronto?"
"Been here all my life."
"Do you know of a military academy near here? My little brother is dreaming of a career upon the field of glory." Liam smiled wryly. "I've heard tell of a such a school here."
The man paused, tapping his finger upon his chin. "You must mean Brock Hall. That's the only one I know of. But it's quite the regal establishment." He looked at Liam, not unkindly. "I'm fairly certain only the wealthy can afford the tuition."
"Well -- our uncle is the one bearing the cost of his education. I suppose he'll have to assess that. Where is this place...Brock Hall?"
"It's in Markham, about 18 miles due north...here, let me show you." He unfolded the map and pointed. "It's not on the map, but just take this highway north."
"That seems right simple. I'll have look at it. Thank you kindly, sir. You've been most helpful." As he paid and took the parcel, another thought came to him. "Do you have a city directory? I'd like to call upon some old acquaintances."
The man produced a book from under the counter. Liam quickly found the residential listings. Anya had said she would be staying with her aunt...if that be true...he'd have to take it as true. Bourget, Bourget...remembering the spelling from the telegram. There were three listed...but 'twas clearly
Charles J., Banker, and wife Elizabeth.
He scribbled the address in his book. Below it he added: Brock Hall, Markham. Just as he was about to leave, he had one more thought, and flipped further ahead in the directory.
Strachan, Douglas E., Honourable.
Honourable!
Like hell!
Address noted.
*****
Liam had never seen the like of it before.
Upon leaving the general store, he had made his way further north and west to scout the Bourget address. As the sun set, he observed the character of the neighborhoods changing from the bustling downtown with tall buildings to quiet, broad streets with elegant, free standing houses. On Roxborough Drive itself, the houses were mansions proper, stone and brick with turrets and carved gingerbread adornments.
He walked slowly along the drive in the twilight, his boots crunching the fallen leaves, his eyes registering every detail: the width of the street, the spreading oak and maple trees, the scant traffic of fine carriages, occasional men in suits and top coats carrying walking sticks, a servant exercising a Saint Bernard dog, a nanny pushing a pram...then suddenly a uniformed peeler swinging a nightstick. His eyes were upon Liam as he passed; Liam nodded at him, his heart pounding as he strove to look an upright citizen who belonged in the neighborhood. 'Twas not till he put two blocks between him and the peeler that he breathed normally again.
Eventually he saw the address numbers drop into the 100's, and knew he be near the house. He carefully noted the neighboring houses, their fences and surrounding gardens. Then he was there: number 163. 'Twas across the street from him. He knelt and pretended to tie his boots as he covertly surveyed the property. An enormous stone mansion, it be, with an extensive garden -- nigh an acre round it, filled with towering oak and spruce trees. A wrought iron fence some ten feet tall surrounded it, with an intricately scrolled gate across the drive that stretched from the street to a pillared front portico. Inside the gate, he spied two gardeners raking leaves from the driveway.
The thought that Anya might be near set his heart racing anew. He tilted his head to smell her scent upon the coat collar...
Anya, love
...then stood and continued walking. He studied the house as he went past: three stories, the height of the third floor windows shorter than the lower levels. Lights were on in several windows. He supposed the ground floor contained the grand public rooms, the second floor the family bedchambers, the third floor...perhaps servants' quarters? He knew little of wealthy households.
He passed the neighboring property, and turned at the corner to go round the block. He identified the rear of the Bourget house. There was another drive and another gate, simpler in design. The drive led to the stables. Next to it were a greenhouse and a small cottage. No sign of activity.
His body and mind were agitated with confused desires. His eyes squeezed shut at the poignant scent of her, and inside the coat pocket his hand gripped the revolver. He forced himself to keep walking so as not to draw notice. He needed a plan; aye, a plan.
