Escape Velocity: The Anthology (22 page)

      
George pushed his face within an inch of mine and screamed, “I will not have my son mollycoddled like a baby!”

      
I replied, “But he is twelve months old. It is natural that he should cry when he falls.”

       “
Then he must learn, I tell you!” shouted George with his face growing ever redder. I thought he would have apoplexy.

       “
George, release him! Give me the key.”

      
He made to go, and I stood in front of him. “The key, George. I beg you.” Perhaps you will think it rash, and indeed I was terrified, but I was desperate to rescue my child.

      
He pushed me violently, and I fell over the alphabet blocks. I managed not to scream, so the neighbours will have no cause for gossip this time.

       “
You brought it on yourself,” said George, and quit the house.

      
He was drunk, of course, and it was not yet ten in the morning. At least on this occasion the bruises do not show, being entirely on my back.

      
Lucy helped me to my feet, with many a “Poor Madam!” and “Lord have mercy!” and we surveyed the wardrobe. To my inexpressible relief, poor Julian started to whimper within.

      
At length I said, “The hinges are inside. I believe we must send for a locksmith, Lucy. Julian may need the apothecary for his hurts.”

      
Lucy bit her lip & shuffled her feet. “Please, Ma'am. I think I might open it,” and she did so, using my fine crochet hook. You may imagine my severe disquiet over a maid who can pick locks, but at the same time, I am very grateful to her.

      
Julian was severely concussed & his collar bone was broken. The apothecary bound his arm while the collar bone heals. He suspects that the skull may have a small fracture, and recommends that he stay abed for at least a week. You know my son. Do you believe I can keep him confined for a week?

      
George will doubtless be most repentant when he comes home. He blames the drink, but will not stop drinking. Oh, it is a bitter thing to be owned as a slave is owned!

      
I have walked around the room to calm myself a little. It is true that my lot is far better than a slave. Whatever else I may have to bear, I am well fed & clothed, and nobody requires sixteen hours of hard labour from me each day, merely a vast amount of fawning & cringing. I still wish most fervently that George had no part in such a cruel trade, but George sees no difference between carrying slaves to America in his ships and carrying bolts of cloth home.

      
Well, I have a little lighter news also. Do you remember Mary Dunn at school? She is Mary Bassom now, having married a farmer, and lives in Yorkshire. You probably remember her as I do, a good-hearted girl, but solemn & unimaginative. We have corresponded since we left Miss Bainbridge's Academy, although I do not open my heart to her as I do to you.

      
In her last letter, she assures me that she has recently had visits from faeries! Can you credit it? I confess, I know not what to think, unless she has left her wits. Her letter seemed rational and collected enough.

      
At any event, she says her fey guests do not speak English, but German, and are clearly anxious to communicate something. Since I was so very clever at foreign languages, she says, would I do her the kindness of visiting? Though I cannot conceive that faeries (if faeries they be!) would speak German, I should cheerfully live in Newgate jail to escape George for a while. (My Dear, that is not a hint. I am perfectly aware that your employers consider it unthinkable for a governess to have visitors, and my thoughts are with you, always.

      
Alas, I should find your company very much more congenial than Mary's. Doubtless I shall hear a good more than I care for about what the baker's wife's second cousin said to the haberdashery assistant's sister on Thursday. Or was it Wednesday?)

      
I shall use all my charm to persuade George to permit this visit, as soon as possible, even though Julian is scarcely fit to travel. At some wayside inn he would be safe from violence, if not from bedbugs.

Your loving sister,
Sophie.

The Nag's Head Inn,
Nether Grassmeade,
Lincolnshire, England.
8th July, evening.

My Dearest Joanne,

My circumstances are greatly altered and Julian & I left for Windscour farm this morning. I have explained to everyone that George is travelling on business and I do not expect his return in the near future. Would that I could write more! But all explanations must wait.

      
As we entered the coach, a gentlewoman of middle years approached and called me by name. I thought her familiar, but could not place her at all. At all events, she looked deep into my eyes and said, “All will turn out for the best, my dear. But you will need all your courage.” Would that I could believe her! And yet I cannot forget her either.

Your loving sister,
Sophie.

Windscour Farm
Otley W. Yorkshire, England.
14th July, 1849

My Dear Joanne,

The journey was less dreadful than I expected. We brought our own sheets, and travelled but twenty miles each day. I had expected Julian to be a sore trial, confined for so many hours each day to the jolting coach, but he was enchanted with the changing view, and when he tired of that, Lucy & I sang to him and he would sleep. At each inn they immediately ascribed his hurts to an upset of the coach, and couldn't do enough for him. Poor Frank came in for a good deal of scolding from innkeepers' wives for his supposed reckless driving. He nobly forbore from telling otherwise.

      
On arrival, we bathed, of course, and after some bread & milk, I left Julian sleeping under Lucy's watchful eye, while I went to take tea with Mary. She was most concerned about Julian, and recommended that I find a new coachman. In justice to Frank, I had to tell her that Julian came by his wounds before our journey began. Then she was horrified that I subjected the child to a journey in such a condition, whereupon the whole story of my marriage came out. Mary & Mr. Bassom were loud in their sympathy, and warm in their offer of a refuge here as long as possible. In short, until George positively insists on my return. Mr. Bassom opined that the law is unjust to women, that it is unreasonable that George may do anything to Julian & I short of murder. “A woman is not a pair of boots, and should not be treated thus!” he said. Naturally, I was most moved by their kindness, and I repent my last letter's attempt at wit at Mary's expense.

      
Once I had recovered some calm, we talked of the faeries. Mary tells me her visitors are shy, and invariably appear a little before dawn by the druid stone. I distrusted their choice of place but Mary assured me that they are nothing demoniac in appearance or action. She says I am not to picture tiny ladies with butterfly wings, nor little men with beards & green clothes, but strange creatures almost our own height.      Accordingly, I shall retire to bed early, and meet them in the morning, to find out what manner of folk they may be.

Your loving sister,
Sophie

Windscour farm
Otley
15th July, 1849

My Dear Joanne,

We arose early, and we walked up to the druid stone in the pearly light before dawn. The wind was sharp, and I was glad of my shawl, but the heather was abloom, smelling of mead, and curlews were calling. Their song always raises a longing in me to fly away.

      
Alas, I have sufficient reason to flee: would that I had a nest to fly to! But you will be agog to hear about the faeries.

      
Their mode of transportation was most curious. At first I mistook it for one of those curious lens-shaped clouds which form downwind of certain hills, and I only realized my mistake as it flew closer and landed.

      
As God is my witness, Joanne, it flew. It was perhaps a score of feet across, completely smooth, and most startling of all, completely silent. I was somewhat nervous, as you may well imagine, but I reminded myself that I had faced George in many a rage, and I could face this, and besides, Mary had met her visitors on a dozen occasions, and suffered no hurt.

      
There came a faint hum, no louder than a spinning wheel, and a door appeared in the side of the faery coach, almost as though an invisible hand drew a pencil line. The door opened, and a ramp extended, and two faeries strolled out.

      
I had imagined many strange things as I tossed in my bed the previous night, yet these faeries were stranger. Do you remember our stillborn brother, William, who arrived four months too early? A foolish question. I am sure you cannot forget; no more can I. These faeries reminded me forcibly of the poor mite, although while William was no bigger than my hand, these were perhaps four feet tall, and very much alive. I mean they had the same pale skin, and overlarge head, and feeble-looking limbs, and delicate features. Oh but their eyes were different! I have never seen such beautiful eyes, preternaturally large, silver, and multifaceted like a fly's.

      
They wore curious clothes, all of a piece, and yet divided at the legs; I believe they would allow great comfort & freedom of movement. They approached us, and bowed, hands folded, as Chinamen do. The taller said, “Ik wood stonden in yore grace.”

      
I blinked & curtsied to cover my confusion.

      
Mary said, “Do you understand them? Is it not German?”

      
I replied, “I think it may be Dutch, for it is not German, though it sounds somewhat alike. I shall try to speak with them in German.” Whereupon I directed myself to the visitors saying, “Wilkommen meinen herren. Sprechen Sie Deutch?”

      
The faeries looked at each other, and the smaller one said, “We knowen not thys spekyng.”

      
I turned to Mary. “Of all things most strange! I do believe they are talking Middle English!” In truth they were. As you know, I am a poor scholar, but we contrived a halting conversation. I said, “Ik clepe Sophie,” and they told me they were Zondliss (the larger) and Mica.

      
They said they were not faeries, but men, “even as yourselne,” from the far distant future, and they were journeying in time! They were most astonished to hear this was the year of our Lord 1849, for they had believed themselves in 1343 and were in great fear of being burned as witches. It took no little time to enlighten them, and I suspect there may have been some confusion with the Mohammedan system of counting years.

      
They claim to come from over a million years in the future. I could scarcely credit it, but as Mary observed, “Consider how slowly the careful breeding of cattle does change their form. If these are indeed men, it would take many, many centuries for them to change so.”

       “
True,” I said. “And it seems unlikely that men will fly within a thousand years, much less travel in time.”

      
We were interrupted by the larger traveller bowing again. “Please your Ladyshyp, wir be enfamyned.” Seeing my lack of comprehension he continued, “Wir be soure dystressed & deyen for lak of vitaille.”

       “
Oh Mary,” I cried, “they are starving!” Mary hastened home and returned with bread & cheese & milk, but they will need far greater provision for a journey, especially should they lose their way again.

      
In short we are to meet them again on the morrow, bearing food for them. They must indeed have been sore afraid not to ask for succour here, there, & yonder.

      
Oh Joanne, shall I ask them for passage? My case is desperate, and we could not be followed, but how should I live in the future? And how should Julian? Besides, they are lost by five hundred years and their navigation is clearly not to be trusted.

Your loving sister,
Sophie.

Windscour farm
Otley
16th July, 1849, pre-dawn

My Dear Joanne,

I have lain awake most of the night, but I am finally decided. My situation is more desperate than even you know. I am no longer fleeing George, but rather justice, or at least the law of England.

      
Dearest Joanne, prepare yourself for a shock. George has been dead for nine days.

      
The day he fractured Julian's skull he returned home after my letter was posted, & announced he must travel for business, ordering Lucy to pack all Julian's clothes & his own, but none of mine. He drank a vast deal of port over dinner, slurring his words before we had finished the fish course, and I was alarmed for the consequences for myself. In spite of this, when we retired for the night, I sought an explanation. George said he was “blue-devilled with my fawning on the child,” and the only way I would give him my “proper attention” was by sending our child away. He had found someone who would foster him cheaply, & would leave Julian there on the first stage of his journey.

      
You may imagine my emotions. My heart's Darling hidden away as though he were born out of wedlock! Do you know how many children so fostered do not survive to their fifth birthday? So many foster parents take the money and spend it on gin rather than food for their charges. I begged. I wept. Nothing availed. He knocked me to the floor. And then I screamed as George forcibly asserted his marital rights over my body. I was still weeping when he fell into a drunken slumber. I still do not clearly recall what followed. I lost my wits entirely, or perhaps I finally found them. At all events, I untied George's cravat and retied it in a noose which I then tightened around his neck, with fatal result. He never even awoke.