“Father, you are suspicious of everyone,” said Charity, and she handed him our uncle’s letter and left the room.
I followed her out. Catching her by her apron strings, I said, “Are you really leaving?”
Charity knelt down upon the floor—she was much taller than I—put her hands on my shoulders, and looked lovingly into my face.
“Oliver, I have not regretted spending most of my life taking care of you. But I must do something for myself before I become a spinster, without any joys of my own.
“I shall say nothing against Melcombe or Weymouth,” she continued. “They are fine places. But London, I’m sure, is far more exciting.”
“But Father won’t be able—”
She cut me off. “Don’t you think I have the right to some pleasures?”
What could I say? Ashamed of my selfishness, I gave her my cheerful face and nodded.
“Then will you give me your blessing?”
Though my heart was breaking, I put my arms around her, and with a smile said, “Of course I will! Only send for me when you can.”
“Absolutely!” she returned. “Uncle Cuttlewaith has promised me all the comforts of home. For the moment you’ll need to take care of Father. I fear he can’t do for himself. Besides his drinking, gambling, and bad moods, he argues with everyone. I need to get beyond that. When I am completely settled, you have my word, you shall join me.”
“What if Father doesn’t give you permission?”
“It doesn’t matter; I’ve managed to find the money to take me there.”
“Was it truly from your household allowance?” I asked, deeply impressed.
She put a finger to my lips. “You needn’t know from where it came. Just know I am determined.”
As it happened, Charity did not have to pay from her own funds. Albeit reluctantly, Father gave permission and money. His sole caution was that if he discovered that she fell into any kind of hazard, he would immediately bring her home, by legal force if necessary.
He wrote a letter to Uncle Cuttlewaith. A letter was returned, arrangements went forward.
So it was that early one morning, Father, Charity, and I walked to the Bear Inn, the starting point for the London stagecoach.
As I carried her small bag of belongings, I was mazed how lady-like she looked in a long dark blue-and-white dress, gauze apron, stiff bodice, and kerchief over her long chestnut hair. She was, as always, ungaudy and neat, with not a hair out of place.
“Coach to London, please,” she said to Mr. Webber, the innkeeper and seller of stagecoach tickets.
To which Mr. Webber replied, “Twenty shillings in the coach. Fifteen shillings on the roof. Ten shillings in the basket.”
My sister counted out one pound in silver coins—twenty shillings. My father, frowning, added more money for food and lodging along the way. Then we helped her take an inside seat on what was called the flying coach. Once there she tucked her feet into the straw heaped on the floor, so as to keep her feet warm. We bid her a safe journey with many a “Good-bye” and “Be safe,” and my father’s final words, “Live straight and true with all the morality I have taught you.”
My sister gave me a smiling wink while I gave her a kiss and then she was gone. I thus lost not just my sister, but the one who had been a mother to me.
As Father and I walked home, I was quite downhearted. “Does it take the coach long to reach London?” I asked.
“Five days,” he said, oblivious to my grief.
“That fast!” I said, thinking how quickly she was going from me.
“It is not called a flying coach for nothing. It goes as quickly as possible by changing horses at the inns along the way.”
That is how my sister went, leaving me to take care of myself and Father. Once she was gone I was given a small allowance for food, which was to be spent for Father and myself. But, let it be said, once she left, taking her order and cleanliness with her, our household slipped into shambles.
I waited for Charity’s summons to join her in London. It did not come. I was sure she had forgotten me. Then, three months after she departed, the terrible storm struck Melcombe Regis and I found myself facing death by drowning in the parlor of our home.
CHAPTER FOUR
In Which I Let You Know if I Drowned.
Though it was a severe shock for me to plunge into the ocean right in the middle of my own home, it was a relief to realize that the cold water was not deep. Thrashing and splashing, I managed to get on my feet and stand in what amounted to twenty-four inches of seawater, up about my knees. Of course, I was dripping wet, shivering with cold, and could do naught but look about with dismay.
Despite the mungy light, I saw that our two front windows had been blown in and the entire room water-soaked. Chairs were overturned. My father’s much-prized standing clock had tumbled, its lead pendulum flung out like a broken heart. The fireplace was drenched, its brick hearth muddy. Dishes and pots were scattered and shattered. The paint on the walls had begun to lift like damp bark from an old tree. Even as I stood there, Father’s white porcelain teacup floated by.
As I tried to make sense of the chaos, the storm began to abate. Dark skies eased. A streak of sunlight began to illuminate the house. It had been a ferocious but quick tempest.
Then I realized there was a tiny light coming from the stub of a burning candle in a smoky glass lantern on the mantel over our hearth. The glass must have kept the flame from blowing out.
Seeing it reassured me, for surely where there was a burning candle, there would be a person nearby, which is to say, my father.
When I took up the lantern I noticed a piece of paper lying beneath it, as if the lamp with its lit candle was there to call attention to it. Alas, though the paper was covered by writing, many of the letters were smudged by water. Too impatient and agitated to decipher the spoiled words, I left the paper where I found it, and with the lantern continued to search for Father.
I splashed through water to his room at the back of the house and held up the lantern. The room was deserted, although Father’s high, heavy desk remained where it was normally placed. The stool upon which he usually sat had been toppled. His high bed, built against the far wall, was empty, its bedclothes rumpled. Everything was thoroughly waterlogged. Even his beloved legal volumes, on their tall shelves, were wet. As for the floor, it was awash with floating papers, the ink floating off the pages like blue-black clouds.
Midst the flotsam of papers and writing quills, a few small, leather-bound books bobbed about. Also, my father’s chamber pot. An upright bottle of ink floated by like a little black tub. The bowl of sand used to blot his writing had no doubt sunk.
Then I noticed that Father’s wig was not hanging on its accustomed wall peg. He wore that wig whenever he left the house. To be sure, it was not usually freshly powdered or perfumed, but a gentleman to go abroad without his wig—he would say—was not done. Unless it was afloat somewhere about the house—and I had yet to see it—its absence suggested he had taken it with him.
I stepped out through the narrow rear door, into the fenced-in yard that contained our privy.
He was not there.
It occurred to me that he could have retreated upstairs to the safety of my sister’s room where I had not investigated. In haste, lantern in hand, I climbed back to the second floor only to learn he was not there either. Even as I began to realize I was quite alone in the house—and perhaps in the world—the lantern candlelight faded away.
I am sure you will be sympathetic when I say that I—a twelve-year-old boy—was not at all sure what to do. I did recall my father’s oft given advice about masking your heart with false smiles. But to think of such advice at such a moment brought tears, not smiles.
As it happened, I was standing in my sister’s room where she had affixed a small looking glass to the wall. Trying to act upon Father’s advice, I stood before it and manufactured a cheerful smile. It was not powerful, but it was a smile and my smile i
s truly winsome. I should acknowledge I was rather braced and energized by following his advice. It was a lesson I intended to follow.
I made my way back down the steps, making sure I did not slip. Once below, I stepped again into the first-floor water, which had begun to ebb. As soon as I opened the front door, the remaining water began to sluice from the house. I went out, too.
Though the wind still bore some bluster, the rain was slight while the sky held only scudding gray clouds and some rosy light in the east.
Our forecourt was muddy, with puddles everywhere, making it hard to see the cobblestones. A heap of bricks lay there, too. I stared at it for a few moments before realizing it was the remnants of our fallen chimney.
I glanced up toward the top of neighboring houses, built close to one another. They were mostly wooden, but some were made of the local portland stone. Any number of chimneys had been blown down and thatched roofs had been shredded. Roof tiles on some of the finer stone houses had ripped away and were scattered on the street. Here and there, even the lead sheeting used to waterproof roofs had rolled up, scroll-like. One building had no roof at all.
As I stood wet and shivering at the sight of the damaged, broken houses, Mr. Tickmorton, our next-door neighbor, emerged from his house. He was dressed in his linen nightshirt and nightcap, his feet bare.
An elderly man, he lived alone. Rather stooped and shriveled, he was bald and toothless, which made him look like an aged baby. Much of his conversation was a mumble, but to compensate he spoke loudly.
“Mr. Tickmorton, sir,” I called. “Have you seen my father?”
The old man turned slowly, revealing a face that showed confusion and dismay, perhaps a mirror image of my own. Despite the fact that I was someone he saw every day, he gazed upon me as if he had no idea who I was. Worse, without saying a word, he stumbled back into his own house.
Clearly, Mr. Tickmorton was in such a state of storm-shock that I could expect little help from him. It made me wonder if the whole town would be the same.
CHAPTER FIVE
In Which I Search for My Father and Make a Huge Discovery.
I walked down St. Mary’s Street where cobblestones were littered with debris: pieces of wood, bricks, wet books, branches, and broken window frames. Even a bed. People were flinging ruined objects out of doors and windows. Others were piling broken and sodden furnishings by their front doors. Overheard conversations were entirely devoted to the fast-moving storm and its devastation.
I greeted people with my best smile and inquired as to their health. I cannot say I was given equal comfort, but rather received scowls and mutterings, as if my cheerful face offended them. Nonetheless, I managed to ask some people if they had seen my father.
“Mr. Pitts? Has he wandered off again? Asleep on some back street. Some inn?”
“I don’t know what happened to him,” I said. “He’s vanished.”
One man, upon overhearing this remark, muttered, “A good riddance.”
I made no reply to such unkindness.
Struggling to keep the smile on my face, I hurried on, hoping I might see friends. None appeared.
I soon reached the customs house, a three-story brick building, with an elegant stone entrance. Standing by the river Wey and the docks, it was not far from the new bridge to Weymouth.
The river tide was unusually low, exposing the sandy bottom. The docks, where ships were usually tied, were quite deserted. Only when I looked toward the Back Bay—situated behind town—did I see some boats, presumably there for safety. That suggested there had been advance warning about the oncoming storm. Seaside people have ways of predicting weather. Though I had not heard those warnings, I wondered if Father had. Perhaps he took refuge somewhere.
The customs house doors being locked, it was obvious my father was not there. I continued to wander about town, asking anyone and everyone if they had seen my father. No one had. Worse, no one seemed to care. I knew he had been disliked; now I learned how deep that hostility was.
I inquired at the Crown and Scepter, the tavern my father frequented during the day. No one had seen him.
I went on to the Golden Lion Inn, the establishment where my father played nightly games of backgammon. The only one about the inn was the cook, a Mrs. Grady.
Mrs. Grady was a short squab of a woman, who had always been kind to me and my sister when we guided Father home, at such times that he was unable to navigate the passage on his own.
She immediately asked me about the damage to our house.
“The first floor was flooded with water,” I told her.
“Is it livable?”
“I don’t know. Please, madam, have you any idea where my father might be?”
“He was here last night, early eve. As usual, he won a lot of money at his game with Mr. Bartholomew. The customs master lost so much he stomped away in a frothing anger.
“Soon after, I noticed that a letter . . . no, two letters . . . were delivered to your father. Your father read them. At least one of them seemed to upset him because he left in haste. Was it due to the letters or the storm? I can’t say.”
She patted my shoulder, and I returned her kindness with a smile.
“Yes, be cheerful. There are some, I’ve heard, that drowned in the suddenly rising waters.”
“I haven’t found Father’s body,” I said, as if that was a hopeful statement. All the same, I had to wonder what those two letters had been, if they had something to do with his disappearance.
“Have you had your breakfast?” Mrs. Grady was kind enough to ask.
I shook my head.
“Well now, you just sit down by my fire, get warm, dry yourself, and I’ll bring some food.”
I thanked the woman and sat, glad for the drying warmth inside and out. Even when I had eaten all she offered—hot milk, blue cheese, and bread—I remained thinking about those letters my father had received.
Mistress Grady came back to me and said, “I know your ‘little mother’ has gone to London. Can you tell her what’s happened?”
“Please, madam, I’m afraid I don’t know where she is.”
Her eyes filled with concern. “Have you some money?”
“Not really,” I admitted.
“Then, Master Oliver, I fear you’ve become a homeless, moneyless child. You’ll need to report to the town magistrates. Your father being a lawyer, I’m sure you understand something of the law.”
My father’s phrase, the law is king, went through my head.
“Besides,” she continued, “they might have some news about your father. Or help you find him. How old are you?”
“Twelve.”
“Are you? You look younger.”
“Ask Mr. Buffin at the Free School; he’ll tell you.”
Paying no mind to what I said, Mrs. Grady said, “If you are under eleven you will be delivered to the children’s poorhouse.”
“The poorhouse?” I cried.
I had heard many awful stories about those who were sent to the poorhouse. Friends reported that when they misbehaved they were threatened with the place. If my sister and I complained about my father’s long hours of work or neglect, he would retort, “I am trying to keep you out of the children’s poorhouse. It is no better than Newgate Prison.”
So you may be certain it was the last place I wished to go.
“Why, sure,” said Mrs. Grady, no doubt seeing consternation on my face, “if your father has perished, your mother already passed, and your sister gone to London you don’t know where, you’ll be considered an orphan. And if you are an orphan, you’ll be grateful for the poorhouse, which will take care of you with kindness.”
Alarmed by such a prospect, I immediately got up, thanked the woman for breakfast, gave a smile, and hurriedly left the Golden Lion Inn.
Melcombe had one other inn, the Bear, the place from which the stagecoach left for London, the one Charity had taken. It was on the edge of town, and thereby not a place my father frequented with
any regularity. Wanting to check everywhere, I looked there, too.
I asked for Mr. Webber, the Bear’s innkeeper, only to be informed—by his stable-boy—that Mr. Webber had gone into town to deal with damaged property. “Have you seen Mr. Pitts, my father?” I asked.
“Lawyer Pitts?” was the reply. “He took the early morning stage to London right before the storm. All in a hurry, he was. As was the stage driver. Suppose he got word of the coming weather. Hope Mr. Pitts reached London safely.” He grinned. “Lots of reports coming in about highwaymen robbing and killing. But don’t worry,” he added, clearly enjoying that he had upset me. “The driver keeps a blunderbuss or a brace of pistols with him.”
CHAPTER SIX
In Which I Learn Some More Significant Things.
I was much shaken: In the early morning, just before the storm, my father had gone to London. In an instant, my head was full of questions.
Why had he not told me he was going?
Why didn’t he take me with him?
When would he be coming back?
His actions were unlike anything he had ever done before. I had no memory of his ever going to London. Nonetheless I refused to believe my father had abandoned me. I kept telling myself he must have had important reasons.
I had some clues: Just before going, he had received two letters, one of which—according to Mrs. Grady—upset him. Furthermore, the stable-boy had said he was in a hurry. Did Father leave abruptly so as to avoid the storm?
You may be equally sure that I, learning about his departure, spent considerable time wondering when he would return. He had told me that it would take Charity five days to get to London. Presumably it would take another five days to come back. Assuming he went there on business, which would take some time to conclude, if I calculated properly he could well be gone for fifteen days!
Though not knowing when he would return or even where he went, I told myself I must stay in the house—though wet, distressed, and cold—until he returned.
And yet with the chimney down, what would I do for warmth? It was the month of November. True cold was drawing near. There would be frosts soon. I was not sure I had any food. The next question was of crucial importance as it was logical: Was there any money in the house?