The Shadow and the Star (6 page)

A train came roaring past on the line into London Bridge Station, the same rumble that woke her every morning at five, as regular as an alarm. Here the smell of vinegar overwhelmed the neighborhood, but she supposed there might have been worse odors in an area of industry—she had had whiffs of the tanneries now and again when the wind was in the east, and subtle, sickening waves of chloroform drifted sometimes from the hospital. Gutter children shouted at her halfheartedly as she passed, but she ignored them, and they left off to scratch at their bare toes and stare.

In her own street, the children were better kept. Indeed, the dictatorial couple in the house next door operated an orphanage of sorts, and took in a few children from the workhouse sometimes, and kept them ferociously neat and pretty and well-behaved, never allowed them out-of-doors into the dirt, and tried to find sponsors and make arrangements for them. One beautiful little boy had been taken up by a benevolent gentleman and adopted away last month, just like Oliver Twist in Mr. Dickens' story.

Until that had happened, Leda had actually fancied that perhaps really it was a house like that one in the book, where the children trained as pickpockets. She'd considered mentioning her suspicions to the police, but had been a little afraid that they would laugh at her. Or worse, that her landlady would not appreciate the civic nature of her interest. Miss Myrtle would never have quailed at such a reservation, of course, but Leda had found that what seemed principled and self-evident in South Street was not always so clearly appropriate in Crucifix Lane or Oatmeal Yard or the Maze.

When she passed the wrought-iron door of the police station at the corner, she stopped to bid the night-inspector a good evening. But it was before her usual time, so Inspector Ruby had not come in yet. She left her compliments with a young policeman who touched his helmet very respectfully with his big hand and promised to convey them.

She turned down a street only an alley's width, with plastered houses as ancient as Queen Elizabeth overhanging the muddy pavement. She closed her mind to it and occupied herself with thoughts of a sleek brand-new typing machine, managing to penetrate as far as the foot of the lodging-house stairs before Mrs. Dawkins shambled out of her tiny parlor. The landlady stood in a thread of anemic light that fell across the banister and the first three stairs, the only illumination in the murky depths of the hall.

"Now then, what's this?" She propped a meaty elbow against the parlor door frame and looked at Leda with eyes pallid blue and protuberant, the slow, mechanical blink of a baby-doll. "Come in early, miss?" She bobbed her curly head as she spoke, her cheeks shaking. Mrs. Dawkins was always deferential toward Leda, but she had a way of looking out one side of her eyes when she cast them down that was most unpleasant.

"Yes," Leda said. "A bit early." She started up the stairs.

"Have ye left your basket?" Mrs. Dawkins asked. "Your basket w' the pretty dresses? Can Jem Smollett help you carry it up, miss?"

Leda stopped and turned. "I'm sure he could, if I had brought it. But I have not. Good evening."

"No basket!" The landlady's voice had a sharp warble. "They'll not have turned you off, then, eh?"

Leda put her foot on the next step and turned onto the landing. "Of course not, Mrs. Dawkins. Some of us have been given an afternoon to rest, before the greatest rush is anticipated. Good evening to you," she repeated, and hurried on up the stairs with the landlady's quavering mumble following her.

That would not do at all. Mrs. Dawkins knew her boarders—no doubt any small change in habit was cause for suspicion of a change in circumstances. Leda lifted her skirt and bit her lip, turning the last landing onto the narrowest set of stairs. At the top, she unlocked her own door and slipped inside, closing it behind her.

The little whitewashed garret seemed almost homey when she thought of what might become of her if Mrs. Dawkins put her out. Without employment, the only shelter she could obtain would be at one of those horrid boardinghouses, where the inmates were packed together in common rooms and her small savings would vanish at fourpence a night with a bed, and threepence without.

She had a desperate thought of laying her circumstances before the South Street ladies, but Miss Myrtle would never have sunk so low as to beg for assistance, by word or by deed. To make a civil morning call and mention that she now found it convenient to seek a more suitable position—that was acceptable. To admit that she was close to living in the street—no, she could not. She would not.

She opened the leaded-glass casement to let some of the stuffy closeness leave the room. The odor of vinegar lay heavy in the neighborhood, mingling with the humid scents rising off the canal. It wasn't even dark, but she changed into her nightclothes and lay down, ignoring the complaint that was beginning to grow in her middle. One cucumber sandwich did not stick long to the ribs, but she was tired and feeling exceptionally impoverished, and a creeping sense of panic at what she had done. Sleep seemed so blissfully mindless.

As she closed her eyes, she thought of Lady Catherine and her mother, and how they should always wear jewel-tones to compliment their coloring. Drifting amid vague and whirling fancies of silk and foreign voices, she started awake with the room gone to darkness around her. It confused her a moment, for she felt she'd hardly slept a minute, instead of hours passing.

Her heart was pounding again, filling her ears in the dead silence. Far away, the thin whistle of a train rode on the night, disembodied from itself.

Her eyes slid shut, impossible to keep open. Lady Catherine seemed to be smiling somewhere, that frank, pretty smile, laying her hand on Leda's arm. Miss Myrtle urged her to wake up. There was someone in her room. She must wake up.
Wake up; wake up; wake up—
but she could not open her eyes. She was so tired; she would sleep in the street. It didn't matter. Silver scissors glittered in the gutter. She reached down to pick them up… and a man's hand intercepted. He was here, really here, right in her own room. She must wake up… she must… she must…

In the dream he caught her wrist and pulled her near, held her close against his chest. She wasn't afraid. She couldn't see him; she simply could not open her heavy eyes. But she felt so safe, cradled in his hold. So safe and comfortable… so safe…

Hawaii, 1871

It was a big house, but he was becoming accustomed to
big houses. He loved them, the airy, empty rooms with their woven
lauhala
mats beneath his bare feet, the white pillars and broad porches called
lanai
, the way voices echoed back from the tall ceilings and the sound of the ocean was always in his ears.

He wore shoes today, going as he was on a visit with Lady Tess, and a white sailor's suit with navy-blue and red braids. It was so clean that he was reluctant to move. He did not want to spoil it. He had lots of clothes, but he preferred that they stay untouched and perfect in the wardrobe or chest. It was nice to look inside and see them neatly folded, so pure and crisp.

He sat in a chair with his eyes or. the beautiful crisscrossed weave of the floor mats while Lady Tess talked with the grand Hawaiian lady Mrs. Dominis. Their conversation drifted past him, adult talk, of no particular interest. Lady Tess had asked him if he wouldn't rather stay home and play, but he hadn't. He wanted to be with her. That was what he always wanted. The very best was when she swept him up in her arms and hugged him, but he also liked it if she held his hand, or if he could just keep a fold of her dress in his fist.

Today, she'd brought Master Robert and little Kai, too. The Hawaiian lady enjoyed seeing them, Samuel could tell. He wondered if Mrs. Dominis had another name, in her own language, instead of the name the foreigners called her—the one she'd gotten from her bearded Italian husband. When he'd asked Lady Tess, she'd said Mrs. Dominis' Christian name was Lydia. That was all right, but he would rather have heard her true one. All the Hawaiians had strange and lovely names. She was a gentle lady too, with a low, rich voice and the golden-brown skin of the islanders. When she bent down to gather Robert and Kai close into her large embrace, they both seemed very pink and small.

Samuel himself had held back behind Lady Tess when Mrs. Dominis had wished to hug him. He didn't know why, because he was quite certain he would have liked it. But Robert and Kai were Lady Tess's real children. Samuel didn't have a proper last name. He felt a sham in his fine clothes.

Little Kai snuggled in Mrs. Dominis' lap and laid her cheek against the broad expanse of the Hawaiian woman's bosom. Robert fussed at being left out until she gave him a kukui-nut
lei
. The four-year-old sat down at her feet and applied himself to unraveling the knots between the black, polished nuts.

"Have you been fishing, Samuel?" Mrs. Dominis asked.

He nodded. The American and English ladies never spoke to the children in the drawing room, but the Hawaiians always wanted to know what he'd been doing, as interested as if they were children themselves. He said, "I caught a
mano
, ma'am."

"A shark! A big one?"

He rocked from side to side in his chair. "Pretty big, ma'am."

"As long as my arm?"

He looked up as she held out her fingers. Her arm was plump and soft, not as slender as Lady Tess's. "A little longer."

"Did you kill it and eat it?"

"Yes, ma'am. I hit it with a paddle. Kuke-wahine helped me to cut it up."

"We had it sauced for dinner last night," Lady Tess said.

"Good." Mrs. Dominis smiled at Samuel. "To kill and eat it will make you brave."

He looked at her with interest. "It will?'"

"Certainly.
Mano kane
. A shark-man, afraid of nothing in the sea."

Samuel sat up a little, struck with the idea. He considered it, imagined himself as a shark, gliding in the dark depths of the ocean. Fearless. Biting anything that threatened him, with terrible sharp teeth.

"I'll sing you a song about sharks," Mrs. Dominis said, and began to chant in her own rich language. It wasn't even like a song, really; it didn't have a tune, but she tapped her fingers in her lap in rhythm. He listened to the flow of syllables, fascinated.

When she was finished, Lady Tess asked her to sing something else. Mrs. Dominis stood up, still holding Kai, and sat down at the piano. For the rest of their visit she played regular English songs, with Lady Tess and young Robert singing along, and Kai clapping her baby hands out of time.

Samuel sat still in his chair. He did not join them. Beneath all the more melodic tunes, he listened in his mind to the deep and rhythmical song of the shark.