Fateful

Chapter 2

April 10, 1912

It's a fine spring morning at the seaside-the sort of thing I've dreamed of my whole life. Novels describe the scene by saying that the air is fresh and the blue water dappled with sunlight. I've pictured it a thousand times, up in my dark attic. This morning, the very first thing I thought was, At last I will see the ocean.
But the ocean isn't blue, not this close to land; it's the same silt-brown colour as the millpond, except with an eerie greenish cast to the waves. The harbour is no peaceful oasis for a young girl to stroll; instead it's more packed with people then the streets were last night-poor people, rich ones, fine lace up against course weave, and the smell of sweat thicker in the then that of seawater. People shout at one another, some happy, others impatient or angry, but the fevered energy of the throng makes it hard to tell which. Crammed in the water are as many ships as could be fit, including our liner-the largest of them all. The ship is the only thing I can see here that's actually beautiful. Stark black and white, with vibrant red smokestacks reaching into the sky. It's so enormous, so graceful, so perfect in its way that it's hard to think of it as anything built by human hands. It looks more like a mountain range. At least, more like the way novels describe mountain ranges. I've never been to one of those either.
"Enough dawdling, Tess," says Lady Regina, who, as she is fond of reminding everyone, is the wife of my employer, the Viscount Lisle. "Or do you want to be left behind on the dock?"
"No, ma'am." Caught daydreaming again. I'm lucky Lady Regina doesn't light into me about it like she usually does. Probably she had spied one of her society friends in this crowd and doesn't want to be seen dressing down a servant in public.
"Mother, you forget." Irene-the elder daughter of the family, precisely my age, with a face as wholesome as it is plain-gives me an uncertain smile. "You ought to call her 'Davies,' now that she's my ladies maid. It's more respectful."
"I'll give Tess respect when she's earned it." Lady Regina looks down her long nose at me, as I hurry to catch up. I readjust my grip as I go; none of the hatboxes are that heavy on their own, but it's a bit much to handle four at once. Fashion has made hats large this year.
"Is that Persian Lewis?" Says Logan, the lone son and heir of the Lisle family. He's long and lean, nearly bony, with sharp shoulders and elbows. He peers through the people around us and smiles so that his thin moustache curls. "Seeing his aunt off I suppose. Polishing her trunks and begging for postcards. The way he licks her boots and fawns for her! It's vile."
"He won't inherit his fortune from his parents, so he must be attentive to the family he has." Irene glances up at her brother; her lace gloved hands knotted together at her waist. She is always so shy, even when she's trying to defend another. "He hasn't had your advantages."
"Still, one must have some pride," Logan insists, oblivious as ever to the fact that he's following his mother like an obedient lapdog.
Next to me, Ash mutters, "noodle."
This one word makes me bite my lip to hold in the laugh. It's a nickname Ash gave Logan below stairs, and it's stuck: Logan is just that skinny, that pale and that limp. He was almost handsome during his university years; I used to have a bit of a crush, before I was old enough to know better. But the bloom of youth is fading for him much faster than it does for most.
"You're lucky to have a position at all, disrespectful as you are." Mrs Quinn, even grumpier than usual, glares at both of us as she shepherds her charge along-little bèau, Lady Regina's change-of-life baby. Only four years old, Bèau is wearing a straw hat bedecked with ribbons that cost more money than I make in a year. "Both of you, look lively. It's an honour to be brought on a journey such as this, and like as not the most excitement you'll ever have in your lives. So attempt to do your work properly!"
This won't be the most excitement I'll ever have, I swear to myself. First of all, last night-whatever happened with the wolf and the handsome young man-well, I don't know what else you'd call it, but it was exciting.
More than that, though, I have plans for my future. Plans more thrilling than any life Quinn's ever dreamed of.
But I mustn't smile. I imagine the old oil paintings that hang on the walls of Moorcliffe, those moldy ancestors in the fashions of another century, imprisoned by frames dripping with gilt.
My face needs to be as serene as theirs. As unreadable. The Lisle family and Mrs Quinn must not suspect.
Ash and I do what Mrs Quinn says and hurry along in the families wake, as much a part of their display of wealth and power as the clothes that they wear. He's Logans valet, a job I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, much less dear friendly Ash. He has a long, thin face, blonde hair, and ears like the handles on a milk jug, and yet he's charming despite his plain face. Thanks to the isolation of life at Moorcliffe, Ash is one of the few young men I know- one of the only ones I've ever known. But we've never had eyes for each other. Honestly after so many years in service together, he feels more like a brother.
I've known Mrs Quinn as long as I've known Ash, so perhaps I ought to say that she feels more like a mother to me. She doesn't feel like anybody's mother though. It's impossible to imagine anyone as dry and joyless as Mrs Quinn having given birth to anything, much less doing what you have to do to get with child in the first place. (We call her Mrs, but it's an honorary title; you don't have to have a husband to be a Mrs, just really old, so Mrs Quinn counts.) Shes the ladies' maid for Lady Regina, and essentially has the role of housekeeper at Moorcliffe. Nobody among the servants outranks her except the butler, who's too senile to matter much.
Most of the time, Mrs Quinn terrifies me. She has total control over my life-how much food I get, how many hours I get to sleep, whether I stay in the house to work of get cast out to starve.
But not anymore, I think, and it's all I can do not to smile into her shrivelled, smug face.
One week from now, everything will be different.