Page 58 of The Two Deaths of Lilian Carmichael
As we make our way to the pier, Kate is animated, invigorated by her London ambitions.
“Just think, Lil, I’ll perform on the same boards Shakespeare once trod upon!” she exclaims. She insists we buy ices and sit on the pier to watch the ships come into port. I keep my face well hidden within my poke bonnet, and no one spares us a look, even when the quay fills with waiting passengers. We’re any normal couple. A man and his wife preparing to go on holiday.
A cheerful toot comes from the harbor. “There she is, sweetling,” Kate says giddily. She stands, pulling me up with her as the double-wheel steamer chugs into port, her masts high. The flag of Great Britain and Ireland flies proudly from her rigging.
Kate is beaming. Beautiful. This is her dream. What she’s always wanted.
My heartbeat thunders in my ears. The air is suddenly too thin, my corset too tight. Kate pulls me close, chattering on about the ship and how handsome it is. My head begins to spin.
“I should visit the privy before we go,” I say, pulling free of her arms. “I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll come with you,” she says.
“Really, I’ll only be a moment, my love. Stay here and hold our place in line.”
I push through the crowd, my heart a wild drum behind my ribs. When I get to the boardwalk, I turn and look behind me, where Kate stands on the pier, a tall figure in a tailored suit, her face tilted toward the sun.
Epilogue
Thirty years later
I broke both of our hearts that day. I couldn’t destroy Kate’s dreams, nor demand she stay with me. But I could no longer sacrifice my purpose, or betray my conscience, for the sake of her happiness. I am my father’s daughter. I always have been.
After I left Kate at the dock, I hid until her ship departed, then booked a ticket for New Orleans. On the steamer that took me south along the coast, I stole from every finely dressed man or woman I could. Then I took another riverboat and went north to Baton Rouge, where I stole some more. I stole from the rich all along the Mississippi, until I got to Saint Louis, where I found a wealthy widow, just like Kate had, and asked for a job at her boardinghouse. She died two years later. And that’s when my real work began.
I don’t know how many souls I hid in the basement of that boardinghouse over the years. How many I helped ferry across the river to Illinois. To freedom. It doesn’t matter. I saw the work that needed to be done, and I did it without fanfare, just like every other agent on the Underground Railroad. I hid the enslaved belowstairs, and on the upper two stories, I boarded only women. Those in desperate situations. Unwed mothers. Ill-used wives. Women like me and Kate. As Mary Jones, the former governess from Charleston, I taught those who wishedto learn: reading, writing, and basic arithmetic. Gave them the skills they’d need to survive.
I took a few lovers over the years. The body has its needs, after all. All of them looked like Kate. Rangy and confident, with dark hair and blue eyes. Though I shared my body, I never again trusted another with my heart. As for my mother, I sent her letters by way of Aunt Tillie, with no return address. Sometimes I sent her money, when I could afford to. Forgiveness is a complicated thing. There will always be a part of me that will remain angry. Bitter. But despite all her shortcomings, I know my mother loved me, in her broken and flawed way. I learned of her death at the end of 1860, mere months before Fort Sumter fell. I had no regrets after her passing. Only peace.
During the long, bloody years that followed, as war ravaged the country and tested my fortitude, I considered how much easier my life might have been if I’d boarded that ship bound for London. I often thought of Kate and followed her successes in the papers. Her roles at Covent Garden: Cherubino. Orlando. Count Orlafsky. But even though I longed for easier times, the war showed me how resilient I was. How brave I could be. I thought of our family motto often:Tout Jour Prest. Always ready. When the war ended and slavery was abolished, I left the boardinghouse to one of the young women in my employ and booked a ticket to London to see Kate’s final performance as Orpheus. It was time to begin again, once more.
I’d love to tell you that Kate and I reunited, that we fell into one another again like waves fall upon the shore. We didn’t. I only watched her on that stage—beautiful, majestic as ever, her mane of dark hair now silver. I worshipped her from the front row, her every word a ravishment. Her eyes met mine, once, and held them for a moment, a look of incredulity washing over her features. After the curtain fell, I waited outside the theater, hope in my heart. It was snowing, fluffy, fat flakes the size of dimes falling onto my shoulders. As I was about to give up and walk to my hotel, I saw her exit the rear doors, but she wasn’t alone.
She had a young woman on her arm. Pretty, petite, with a heart-shaped face and rapturous eyes that gazed up at my first love—my only love—with complete adoration. Hidden as I was inside my cloak, they strode past me with nary a glance. I heard Kate’s laughter as they walked away. That young woman might have been me, in another life, had I not made my fateful choice that summer day long ago. But some things are best left to memory. Kate’s love was of a kind I dared not keep.
The next day, I boarded a train bound for Scotland. It was easy enough to find Papa’s family. To this day, there’s still a pub on the high street with our name, owned for generations by my Carmichael kin. When I arrived, I went inside and greeted the barkeep—and learned he was my second cousin twice removed. Before long, the whole of the Lanarkshire Carmichaels and Douglases welcomed me into their fold, with eager questions about America, our terrible war between the states, and Papa. I regaled them with stories, embellishing things along the way, as copper-haired children played at my feet and doddering aunties served me cups of mead and cider. Finally, I’d found home. Finally, I’d found somewhere I belonged.
With my savings, I bought a stone cottage tucked into a green hillside, then a cow, and a dog that reminded me very much of Walter. And I began to write down this tale, so that you might know that my two deaths weren’t the end. They were only the beginning ... of everything.
