Bitter Oath (New Atlantis)(7)
It wasn’t until later that night that Rene finally returned to his unit in the dormitory precinct, to shower and change into his New Atlantean attire of white classical tunic and sandals. As he stood watching the moon rise over the mountain from his little balcony, a glass of fine, white wine in his hand, his thoughts turned once more to Livianna Mulgrave. What would she look like by moonlight? What would it feel like to kiss those laughter-ready lips in the moonlight?
He heard a soft ping from his Tablet, and he hurried back inside. He had set it to automatically dispatch information relevant to the Mulgraves as it was unearthed. This incoming info might be anything.
Mentally called up the new data, he watched as the screen was suddenly filled with the birth and death records of the Mulgrave family. Without analysing his actions, he focused on Livianna, the fourth of eight daughters born to Sir Hector Mulgrave. Her birth date was given as 20 January 1780. There was no record of marriage. She died 28 October 1810. Cause of death – a riding accident.
The explosive pain in his gut had him doubled over and gasping. In a little over four months from the time he met her, that lovely, brilliant woman would be dead. A promising life cut short. The unfairness of it left him feeling hopeless and furious.
But he was the first one to acknowledge that life was rarely fair. He’d learned that the hard way, over his nearly eight hundred years of existence. But this last bitter pill seemed more unfair than any other. That such a bright spirit was extinguished so early was a disservice to the world.
Rene consciously forced Livianna’s image out of his mind and requested the rest of the data. The shipping manifest for the ‘Genevieve’ appeared. Hector Mulgrave had taken passage on it from Portsmouth in May of 1749. The ship docked at the St Lawrence township twelve weeks later. That was a slow voyage. He knew that the crossing could take anything between seven to twelve weeks at that time. And it was always a hardship, even for the wealthy who could afford the best quarters.
So Mulgrave arrived at the end of the summer of ’49. He must have remained in St Lawrence for the winter months, preparing his expedition. Then he probably set out after the Spring thaw to traverse the rest of the river into Lake Ontario. From there he likely followed the northern shores of the Great Lakes west.
All Rene needed to do was be there at the docks when he first came ashore in ‘49. With the right financial incentive, he should be able to talk his way onto the expedition, when it left in the spring. Of course, he would not have to make the awful Trans-Atlantic journey. Nor would he remain in St Lawrence through the winter, thanks to the wonders of time travel. And he would leave the expedition as soon as he’d located the earthworm.
He should feel elated, now that he had confirmation of the expedition that would net him his prize. But, strangely, he felt nothing but sadness.
Jane had been right, Rene suddenly realised. He did have walls. They’d been down, just minutes ago. And he knew this because he could now feel them back up in place again. The lightness of the last few days had been replaced once more by the heavy weight of a lifetime of melancholy.
Her eyes are brown, Jane. And I might have loved her, given half the chance. But now he knew her D Day, and it was not from a disappearance that might give him hope. Her death was clear cut, with no ‘get out of jail free’ card in sight. Furthering their acquaintance would only mean heart ache he didn’t need. There would be no visit to Yorkshire in July of 1810. He would never see Livianna Mulgrave again.
He threw his Tablet across the room, and watched it smash into a thousand pieces.
CHAPTER FOUR
28 June 1810, Harrogate, Yorkshire, ENGLAND
Liv perched on the window seat of the Foxmoor Manor library with her grandfather’s journals for 1749 and 1750 on the cushions around her. It was late afternoon and the sky was already darkening to the point where she would require candles to see by shortly. Heavy rainclouds had hung across the heavens all day, making it feel more like mid-winter than summer. But that was the weather in the North for you.
Her married sisters, who all now lived in the South, couldn’t understand why she preferred her life in the country. They had been desperate to escape the confines of their northern village life for the excitement and relative warmth of London. It made no sense to them that she prefer the quiet life, or found more excitement in an exotic flower than a ball attended by the Ton. She sighed heavily, and picked up the 1749 Journal again. Her eyes were tired from straining to see in the dim light, but she had been so caught up by the adventurous sea voyage, with its storms and sickness, that she had forced herself to read on. Only now that the ‘Genevieve’ had docked in St Lawrence, New France, did she feel ready to put the Journal aside for the day.
Over the years, she had read all her grandfather’s Journals. But it had been nearly ten years since she had read these particular editions. They were colourful accounts, sometimes more risqué than a young lady should be exposed to. But her grandfather had considered her sterner stuff than the average miss of her generation. Being exposed to the real world, even second hand, was a useful addition to any young person’s education, he had told her.
So she knew about the whores that had serviced the gentlemen and officers on the voyage. She was aware of the diseases such women carried, and the severe measures taken to cure them. Liv also knew that the mistress of the Commandant of the French Garrison at St Lawrence was aboard the ship, having been sent for in preference to the man’s wife and children. The woman was a courtesan, and had entertained the gentlemen with stories of the French Court until they were splitting their britches with laughter.
She knew what a hangover felt like, especially on top of rough-weather sea-sickness. And she knew how her grandfather’s eye had been drawn to one of the steerage passengers, even though he had a wife and two children at home waiting for him. Men, she had learned from an early age, were decidedly different in their needs and sensibilities to women, and they required more leeway because of it.
Liv’s eyes skipped to the entry on their arrival in port, even though she had already determined to do no more reading that day. Her eyes snagged on the description of a young nobleman on the dock, who seemed at a loss, until Mulgrave took him under his wing. The youth was handsome, and dark skinned enough to be an Indian. But his height, manners and attire denied that first impression. He said his name was Rene Deveraux, and he had made his way north from Boston in search of adventure. He was fascinated by the wildlife of the wilderness, and was hoping to join an expedition into the interior.
Liv frowned as she reread the entry. The description so closely matched the young man she had met a few weeks ago at the British Museum as to be his brother. But the Journal was sixty years old. It would have to have been Rene L’Angley’s grandfather, or other ancestor. Mayhap L’Angley’s interest in Natural History was due to that ancestor, who had made the acquaintance of her grandfather so long ago. How odd a coincidence was that?
Despite her best intentions, she went to the side table where candelabra sat. She lit all four new candles and took the stand back to the reading desk. It was here, after dinner was announced, that her youngest sister, Portia, found her bent over the Journal.
‘You will ruin your eyes, Livy, if you keep reading all the time. Didn’t you promise me that you would stop as soon as the daylight was gone?’ Portia scolded as she came in to rest her hands on her sister’s rounded shoulders.
‘I know I did, and I had every intention of finishing up some hours ago. But then I discovered a most strange anomaly that has me quick flummoxed.’
‘You, flummoxed. Are my ears deceiving me? My brilliant sister is never flummoxed!’ The cheeky grin Portia threw Liv’s way was said to be remarkably like her own. If that was true, then it explained how easily she had gained her way over the years. No one looking at Portia, in that moment, could feel anything but amused affection for her. Her lightness was contagious.
‘Possibly intrigued might be a better word, then. Do you remember me telling you that I met a young, French gentleman called Rene L’Angley when I was in London?’
‘Oh yes, I most certainly remember you mentioning him, once or twice. Or was that thrice?’
Liv ignored the dig and went on. ‘Well that young man showed much interest in a drawing grandfather did of a giant earthworm, on his 1750 expedition. So much interest, that he wanted to come all the way to Yorkshire to read grandfather’s Journal, to establish the precise location of the find, so he could seek it out for himself when he went home.’
‘Yes, Livy, you did tell me all this… more than once.’ Portia leaned against the reading desk, and frowned at her suspiciously.
‘Well, this is the intriguing part. In the Journals grandfather mentions a young man called Rene, who met him at the dock when his ship first arrived in St Lawrence. He was ‘adventuring’, so the youth said, and had come up from Boston, and planned to travel along the St Lawrence to the Great Lakes, and then further west to the prairies. Father invited the youth to join him in the spring, and they made arrangements. Then the young gentleman left the township, and didn’t reappear until the following spring.’