Bound and Unbound

In the shadows of the snaking alleyways, the tiny hairs at the back of his neck grazed his collar like the fuzz of a peach. Was it always that cool and damp in Edinburgh? Why did he keep returning? It was silly, really. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of prostitutes in London. Wouldn’t it be easier if he chose one there? Some were beautiful, certainly more so than Renata, whose eyebrows were always a little too thick, betraying the emotions she tried to mask with a courtesan’s skill. Some were very talented- musicians and dancers that were not quite at the level of society where they were celebrated, yet fallen just far enough to accept money for love while they guarded their ardent passions within their hearts. He valued art too highly to take advantage of their desire without being able to serve as their patron. And besides, it was too close to his honest life, the life he lived with Milly.

Oh Milly. He tipped his cheek against an icy, dripping stone. How could he come home to her this way? Perhaps it would be best if he rented a room upon returning, had a good clean shower and shave. But was it enough? He decided it was. After all, how could he explain the depths of the human heart to a girl that he was grateful to have married, but not so much that it would hold him to absolute fidelity.

He continued walking down the hill, sure that he would bump into someone who knew him. He came here often enough to have a tailor, a regular tavern, a regular room. Yet more or less, Edinburgh was big enough for his anonymity to remain intact.

He wrung his hands together to keep them warm, as if pressing Renata’s scent of sweat, orange blossom, and talc into his palms would keep her safe, hidden, and present. Her hospitality, the welcoming was all so lovely. He felt like a king when he entered the room where she (or one of her many friends) had laid a feast. And it wasn’t any feast like he’d had in London. Somehow every dish had been deconstructed into a mystery, and then pieced together into a masterpiece. The fowl was sweetened and flavoured like a plump, bittersweet fruit. The puddings had aromas of a flower but the heat of something from the East. And yet he couldn’t find a single spice, a clove, a leaf to pick up and ask what this mysterious thing was because he was sure it was alchemy or hidden in some secret garden she dared not share with him. (In fact, she had a secret garden. And no, she did not share it with him.)

Once while she bathed, he tried to free the shutters from a locked casement and she hopped out of the hot water, glistening and pink. She didn’t have to scold him. He forgot what he’d been looking for.

Renata didn’t have the delicate sensibilities of his wife. She neither feigned virtue, nor fragility. Instead, she rocked along with him as if sailing the seas. Following the ebb and flow, she licked the salt from his skin, never fearing the moments where the seas crested, then stilled in tranquility.

That wasn’t what he loved about her, it was their stories. She could lie with her arm around him, stroking his hair and the scruff of his morning beard while he told her tales of travels with his grandfather before he left the East India Company. Renata seemed to take in every detail, laughing deeply at his humor. She seemed tense in his moments of danger. Yet his favorite quality was the quiet pathos in her face when he told her the secrets of his heart. How exhausting those journeys had been! And yet somehow he still longed for them.

That evening, he held both of her hands in his as he left. She stifled laughter at his gravity. She wouldn’t disintegrate into the floorboards when his heels clicked down the cobblestones, but still feigned a seriousness.

“I don’t believe I will return,” he said. “Adventure, both in geography, and also in the map of the human heart, creates fortitude within a man, preparing him to make something of his life.” She nodded trying not to meet his eyes.

“I cannot raise a son who will model me well, for the good of our company, our family, our history, if I am not the model I wish to be. Fidelity and constancy are at the core of a good man.”

“I understand, my sweet” she said, putting a hand on his cheek. She truly did care for him. At night she would cry into her silken pillow case and scribble out the words she wished she could say until her fingers were stained black. But in this moment, she knew, he was likely to follow through with his journey to “constancy.” He came to Edinburgh to visit her. And yet, all of his hope and dreams sprawled across the land between there and all of Yorkshire where he built palaces of tautology with towers billowing plumes of black.

Though she truly wished the best for him, a mischievous part of her wanted to retain a secret that she knew would be farcical on his train home. She knew his weaknesses and didn’t want to see him taken advantage of.

“William, I set you free to return to your home a better man, so I hope you don’t mind me offering you some counsel.” He stepped back. It was surprising for someone to offer counsel to him. He was quite a thoughtful and pragmatic man by all accounts.

“You are returning with a handful of officers from your company are you not?”

“Absolutely, these are the best men that I have. They go everywhere with me.”

“And its important in this industrious moment that you are respected and taken seriously, after all- you are quite young.”

“But of course!”

“Then let me tell you a tale this time.” She sat down opposite of him. “In Dublin, there are a group of girls they call the Irish 5. They have fabled deep black eyes, ebony tresses, and their gaze is strong enough to bring a man to his knees…”

He patted her hand.

“My dear, we have every kind of woman in London, I’m sure we will have no trouble keeping our wits about us.” She straightened her spine.

“It isn’t their beauty that makes them so enchanting. It’s their voices…” she stroked the soft flesh under his wrist. “Alone the sound is pleasant, almost lilting… like a lullaby. But together, they are a haunting choir that seems to make purses fall into their hands. The deeds and documents to land, homes, companies disappear. Trade secrets whispered into the wind. Before you know it you are at the depth of their mercy as the forgeries, impersonations, and theatrics sweep outwards,”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing! I admit the rails have encouraged the spirit of a highwayman across Britain, but our safety is guaranteed, my love.”

“Well,” she waved her hand lightly. “I suppose they feel they are extracting their price from those they have loved, followed, and believed in, the same as any rogue bandit.” He smiled playfully as he rose.

“What do you suppose I should do to protect myself from these sirens?” He asked.

“The documents, the money, the letters that you carry in your valises, on your person… they must be secure to your body. Tie them to you.”

“That’s hardly reasonable. Imagine the men of my company, tailored to perfection sitting with the other gentleman we ride alongside, bulges of rope, ribbon, or twine crumpling against us like flotsam.”

“That’s true. It would cause an unfortunate silhouette, but I had something else in mind.” She opened her trunk and pulled out a corset.

“I am no dandy…. And besides! That’s a woman’s corset!”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have one for men, but I have several for ladies.”

He sighed. He didn’t always trust her, but he knew she was almost always prescient.

There he was, a man on his way to betterment, leaving the folly of youth behind, nearly to the train platform, wearing a ladies girdle.

But that was yesterday, the last moment he remembered. It was somewhere before the clammy sheets cocooned him and he felt a racing speed from underneath the floorboards. He moved his head from side to side. This wasn’t his house. The landscape was passing by the window, brushstrokes of green fields and grey skies. A train. He was on a train! He looked at crumpled papers on his nightstand. There were small missives, a biscuit wrapper, and no tickets. Was he kidnapped? Held at ransom by a competitor? He needed some tea.

He attempted to stand, swinging his feet over the bed, his limbs so heavy his feet landed with a thud. His head swooned, and he lay back down again, counting forward to 20 and then backwards, a practice he used to focus.

Yet he couldn’t seem to focus. Something was irritating him, it was as if me couldn’t breathe. He itched his ribs and found a girdle tied to his waist. He flipped over and groaned into his pillow. This was so unlike him! What had happened? Of course he’d had his dalliances, his occasional late night in a gambling parlor, another woman besides his wife, or Renata… but this was incomprehensible. He ran his fingers up and down the laces and remembered the lithe fingers trying to lace it up for him.

“Renata. I was with Renata,” he said to himself.

“William… quick!” The compartment door flew open and his friend Lawrence appeared with hair arranged like a pile of hay.

“What?” He attempted to rise again, hiding the undergarment beneath his shirt. It crinkled a little. His documents, contracts, trade information were hidden and moist against him. He remembered the feel of Renata’s fingertips tucking them in. Yes. She was protecting him from something, protecting him from himself. “What is it?”

“The women! They took everything! The deed to our new mill in Saltaire. The papers detailing our sale in Leicester. It’s terrible.”

“Its paper,” he said rubbing his temple.

“It’s information… loads of it!” He cried. William rose and stumbled towards the tea chest.

“Alright, alright, steady yourself… we will figure this out together. We’ll find a constable at the next stop.” He put a hand reassuringly on Lawrence’s shoulder. Yes, he was sturdy now. He was the lion rising above his pride.

“That’s nothing, man! They decoupled the train after they stole everything, we’re a runaway train!”

It was a thunderclap. He put his hands on the window to see the landscape racing by. He remembered the blur of events; Renata’s voice warning him about a band of beautiful women, all harlots, thieves, and vigilantes. He had thought perhaps she might just be jealous (though willing to heed her advice.) There was a blur of feathers, velvets, and Celtic jewelry in the lounge car where they entertained the company in their parlor. Their mouths were blossoming and cherubic, like a choir of angels, but he heard hardly a sound. Renata had warmed a tin of wax to cover his eardrums throughout their singing.

It was his friends who became a tangle of limbs and unbuttoned shirts, gazing up as if beneath a great soprano. He couldn’t seem a silly man and repeat the advice he’d been given, he merely told them that the rushing speed of the train might hinder their eardrums and the wax would create a space to protect them. They concurred that this was nonsense, and went about their way, retreating to the gentlemen’s parlor, eager to return to London.

The madness of the scene was like a fevered dream, especially with his waxed eardrums. Still, it was so present and pungent, especially the cigar smoke that still hung on his shirt from a broader woman with a hint of a moustache above her upper lip. He waved it away as if swatting a midge, but it was incessant, almost intentional, and quite rude until she offered him her handkerchief to clear his respiration. What an awful handkerchief it was. He expected a cheap perfume, or perhaps something musty, but this one smelled terrible- like mothballs or a foul tonic.

“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath.

“What’s that?” Lawrence paced back and forth.

William couldn’t believe it. He lived in London, a city full of charlatans, beggars, tricks of all kinds. In a small train car he had been knocked out by a not-so-cleverly doused handkerchief, and then laughed at as they carried him to his compartment before creating suspicion.

It served them right to find nothing but personal items in his compartment. He remembered giggling before the slam of a door, and someone whispered “a chubby, old, steel-caged man.” He wasn’t old was he? And chubby! The indignity. He could box any of his mates should he wish too.

“Sir, I know you are not well, but I have to insist, it’s only a matter of time before we meet a split in the railway, the end of the rail, or an incoming train… either way, I suggest we act more hastily than not.” Lawrence said. He chewed the edge of his shirt collar for a moment and then immediately felt like the little boy who used to do that from his seat at school.

“Yes! Action!” Boomed William. “Rouse everyone!… Errrr as much as they can be roused. Adventure awaits. Tomorrow’s papers will not speak of our disaster, but our courage in returning safely to those who trust us. Ring a bell! Cry out at the top of your lungs! But for God’s sake man, make sure all hands are on deck this instant!” Lawrence scurried off and in a wave of dizziness William fell back on the bed. Bloody girdle. No wonder these females had fainting couches. He dramatically tore open the girdle, stuffed his papers in his now safe valise, and charged out into the corridor, a man prepared to lead them back home.

There were only five of them in the car. Mr. Thompson was trying to stand upright at his seat while Mr. Lindley clattered a cup of tea against its saucer. William still chewed his shirt collar, and a young man that reminded him of himself not-so-long ago, Mr. Randall, stood in solitary silence. Randall was not accustomed to the life of industry. He glanced down in sympathy when he passed the open doors of a factory and saw the darkness inside. He was quietly respectful of the less-honorable women who haunted their evening activities. There was a chivalry about him, not yet stamped out by day after day of converting humans to sheep, and sheep to the haggard humans bringing their bodies to work with their souls barely dragging behind them. What would become of Mr. Randall he wondered? Was he still like Mr. Randall?

“Right? Does anyone know where we are?” He boomed.

“South of Edinburgh,” Mr. Lindley answered. William looked him in the eye and held it uncomfortably. No one spoke a word.

“Yes well, does anyone know where South of Edinburgh?”

“I believe I recognized Berwick-upon-Tweed and Lindisfarne on our left not so long ago, we should be coming upon York soon,” Randall answered.

“Excellent! Thank you Randall!” He clapped a hand on his back and suddenly felt the energy coursing through him the way it hand alongside his grandfather in the Atlantic.

“Every car has a brake… perhaps we can slow it down enough to make a full-stop…” he pondered aloud.

“It’s possible,” Lindley said,”but there is a junction after Selby, before York.” He looked around to see how his audience was responding. “IF we make it without encountering another train, without derailing at the interchange… who knows how long we might continue?”

“It’s a gamble.” He paced the floor.

“Randall lean out the platform and see if you can see the York Minster.”

Randall walked sturdily down the platform, disappearing to the side while they held their breath. A whoosh of fresh air and chaotic sound rushed inside as he opened the door.

“No Sir, no sign of it.”

“Between Berwick and York… Berwick and York…” He muttered to himself. What was there? Harrogate? No. Doncaster? Not much help. The Selby junction.

“The Selby junction… it’s the Selby bridge!”

They asked in burst into a jumble of inarticulate questions.

“The Selby junction is just after the Selby bridge. We will attempt to stop the train with the brake… if we aren’t successful, at least we will slow it down before the junction… or worse, another train. ‘‘Two of us wait on one platforms end, three on the other, and when we get to the bridge? We jump!”

“Are you mad?” Mr. Thompson cried in a high-pitched voice. “Did you not see the aqueducts that we just crossed? No man could survive that!”

“Of course not Thompson! Those are aqueducts you are speaking of. The Selby bridge is nothing. It crosses the River Ouse. Filthy…. But a perfect place for some brave men to test fate for the good of their family, and the good of their company!” Three of them looked at him like sheep to their master. Randall was far more of a shepherd.

“What say you Mr. Randall?” He asked raising a slight eyebrow. He felt at once almost paternal, but also as youthful a comrade as he could be.

“I say it’s a plan.”

“Right! Let fortune favor the brave, and if not, they will know that no band of sorceresses could ever take our honor down!” He stormed towards the brake, hoping that the others were confidently behind him.

The wind whooshed by them as they leaned over the railings to signal each other. They had never seen each other in such spectacular disarray, clinging to both machinery and the elements. They had debated briefly whether it might be better to tie themselves to ropes, or together, in the event it was a higher bridge than they remembered. William quickly calculated the myriad of catastrophes that could lead to and decided that it was every man for himself. Sink or swim, they would elegantly dive and make their way to the toll master to tell their tale.

“I can’t swim, sir,” said Thompson.

“Good God man, haven’t you been to a lido?” He snapped.

“Well, I have… but I was too busy taking the waters and enjoying the sun.”

“Never mind!”

“I will be sure you make it so shore,” Randall said calmly.

“Fine, fine, but for God’s sake don’t thrash about or you’ll drown us all,” said William. His brow sweated between the furrows and he reached for a handkerchief. It was the witch’s loathsome companion in thievery. He shuddered at its smell and cast it upon the floor.

“We’re almost there sir” Lawrence yelled into the compartment through an open window.

“At your stations boys!” He called. They separated amongst the corridor. The word felt silly in his mouth. Why had he said boys? They were men. So stupid. No, this was stupid! Why was he worried about vocabulary when they were thrust between heroism and ignominy?

Clack, clack clackity clack. Clackity clack, clack clack, clack clack. The rhythm repeated itself as the bridge came into view. It appeared to be less than a ten-feet drop. No train in site down the line. Things looked to be in their favour.

Clack, clack, clackity clack. Clackity clack, clack clack, clack clack. The rhythm became the timekeeper. Their real foe was time. Jumping off too soon or too late (or not at all) were equally disastrous. Indeed, the bridge was probably a handful of seconds long and hesitation was impossible.

Clack, clack, clackity clack. Clackity clack, clack clack, clack clack. There were tens of seconds left.

“Ready!!!!!” He yelled into the wind. “Steady!!!!” They held their breath, some took their suit coats off, another crossed himself….. “Go!!!!”

In a moment that would be forever in slow-motion for his memory, they leapt off what they imagined was elegantly, and tumbled into the River Ouse in near synchronization.

Thompson attempted not to flail like a baby bird while Randall grabbed him around the waist and glided towards shore. Lawrence treaded water gleefully, laughing at their sense of real adventure and survival. William looked up at the sun. The previous 72 hours tumbled through his head. Milly, the bandits, Renata, the cigar smoke, the sweat, the saliva, the laughter, talcum powder and rose, salt and orange blossom, whooshing winds, stifling heat, cold damp stone. He hadn’t felt this alive in years. Yes, this was adventure! Now, it was time to go home, truly go home. It was time to go home to Milly, and the little boy he had scarcely spent time with enough to know him.

“Well, what do we do now sir,” asked Lawrence, still panting. William was lost between his memory and gaze upon the sun.

“We find the rail master at the bridge to send a telegraph and plan our return… perhaps its best not to mention the robbery. Surely the conductor on the other cars will give notice upon his arrival and perhaps we can be left out of it,” Randall said. He knew it was unlikely, but it was the next step forward.

The men began climbing the banks towards the shack higher above and Randall paused before William.

“And you sir, what will you do next?”

“I’ll go home, Mr. Randall, I’ll go home.” He smiled a peaceful, awakened smile, a kind of youth twinkling in his eyes and a wave of warm love for his family coursing through his heart. “And you? You are welcome to take the day to recover on Monday if you like.”

Randall looked around at the fields of light emerald reaching out in a roll of mounds. Not far beyond them the moors were beckoning, beyond that the Peak District, beyond that the Lochs, beyond that, the sea.

“I beg your pardon sir, but I don’t think I will be coming to work on Monday,” he said thoughtfully.

“Fine, Wednesday then.” He squeezed some of the water out of his sleeves.

“No, I think I have somewhere else to be. I’m resigning from my position here. I think there is something else I’m meant to do.” With that, Randall turned, said nothing more, and walked to the opposite bank. As he reached it, he put his hands down into the muddy earth and looked at the pattern it left on the lines on his palms. He smiled and continued walking forward. Forward to the nearest path. Forward to the nearest bath. But regardless, it was forward.

William didn’t even consider calling out a protestation, nor a question. He smiled and nodded to himself. His heart skipped a beat. Right! Now, on to home.