The Mesmerist(3)
After breakfast, Mother and I step out into the late-October morning. It is only a short walk to the station, and from there we will board the South Eastern Railway to London. My few belongings are packed in a lady’s portmanteau, so it is not a bother to carry. The day is bright, and from where I stand, the English Channel unwinds like a long blue ribbon. A few herring gulls drift lazily on gusts of air, their wings spread wide, every now and then diving for a flash of silver. When I was a child, much to Mother’s dismay, I spent hours at the docks watching the gulls, and making up imaginary stories filled with exotic animals and strange sea creatures. Only after hearing her call my name from afar would the spell be broken, and she would pull me away with a scolding. “There are dangerous men down there, Jessamine,” she would say. “It is no place for a young lady.”
I didn’t find it dangerous. I found it thrilling—?watching the ships come into port, the rough-looking men with their scruffy beards and strange voices. Often, I would play with an Indian girl named Deepa. She was lovely, with beautiful brown skin that did not burn in the sun, and long, dark eyelashes. Her father was an Englishman who traveled with the East India Company and one day brought home a wife. Unfortunately, because of Deepa’s skin color, more times than once she would be set upon by some of the local boys, who called her dreadful names and chased her all the way home. I felt badly for her, but did not stand up to the ruffians. What was I to do? I was too small to have made any difference.
On one gray morning she met me at the dock with tears brimming in her eyes. She said that she and her mother would soon be taking the train to London to escape from her father, who had become besotted with drink. That was the last I saw of her, but to this day I think of her often.
Mother purchases tickets at the stationmaster’s booth, and we wait on the wooden platform for the signal bell. It is a little cooler now, and I pull my cloak around my shoulders. A young boy strolls the platform, selling the latest newspapers from London, while uniformed porters stand waiting with passengers’ bags and heavy trunks. After a moment I hear the whistle of the train, and a rush of air stirs the fabric of my dress. The sound of screeching wheels rings in my ears. The train comes to a grinding stop, and plumes of black smoke billow in the air. Mother and I head for the second-class coach. First class is beyond our means, and third, albeit cheaper, is recommended only for the poorest of the poor. It is not much more than an open box, with no protection from the elements. Thankfully, we have yet to fall that far.
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.