Against the Tide (16 page)

And adding to her worries was the lack of a letter from Bane. He still owed her over one hundred dollars, and Karl had promised to forward it to her once it arrived. Now that she was out of a job, she needed that money more than ever.

17

T
he tidewater climate of Virginia was still mild in December. The Professor strolled through Richmond’s historic 17th Street Market, scanning the vendors from side to side. The air was laden with the scents of tobacco, dried herbs, and apples. Although he preferred to haunt the antiquarian shops and auction houses of the great cities, the Professor could not afford to overlook the tables set up by tinkers at humble markets such as this. Just last year he had found a fine copy of Jonathan Swift’s
Gulliver’s Travels
at a tinker’s stand. It was easier to acquire his books through auction houses, but those books had already been rescued from the worst danger. The owners of those rare volumes knew their value and would never let them rot among old fishing tackle, but the ignorant people who haunted markets such as these had no appreciation for literature. They were liable to use the pages of a book for kindling or polishing shoes.

He shuddered and moved a little faster. Each week the Professor picked a new city to explore. Mondays through Thursdays, he prowled antique shops, auction houses, and markets such as these.
But come Thursday, he always took the train home to Vermont, where he could live amongst the treasures he had collected.

A stall just ahead had a table dense with old candlesticks and battered picture frames, but his eyes landed on a set of old farming manuals. Ignoring the tinker’s invitation to examine some bolts of fabric, the Professor paged through the farming manual. It was around thirty years old and of no great value. He flipped through the volume, savoring the mild, musty smell. A pity. He simply had no room in his home for a book such as this, but it was a shame to leave it here, crammed against a rusty old washtub. He had to accept there were limits to how many books he could save.

He was just about to set the farming manual down when his assistant came rushing forth.

“Professor!” Raymond shouted. Even in the cool air, he looked overheated and fanned himself with a newspaper. “I found mention of something in Boston that will be of interest to you.”

The Professor quirked a brow as Raymond opened the newspaper. “It says here that an opium ring has been scuttled in Boston. This has Banebridge’s fingerprints all over it,” Raymond said. “I think we should send men to Boston immediately. Before his trail gets cold.”

The Professor set the farmer’s manual down, carefully protecting it from coming into contact with the rusty surface of the washtub. “Get there right away. Find out everywhere he has been, everyone he has seen.” All the Professor needed was to find the right person.

And then he’d have Bane at his mercy.

Lydia dreaded returning to the Navy Yard. For the past four years she had felt so safe in the wonderful, busy shipyard, but now it was
only a source of humiliation. The worst part would be seeing pity from Karl and the others, but she could not afford to stay away. It had been two weeks since she had been fired, and there was no sign of the letter with the money Bane owed her. She had to either find that letter or find Bane.

Walking past the dry docks was painful. Today, the wonderfully familiar marshy scent of the river, the cry of the gulls, and the rasp of scrapers cleaning barnacles from the ships merely hurt. She didn’t belong here anymore. She just needed to get her money and leave the Navy Yard forever.

The moment she stepped through the office door, Karl, Jacob, and Willis all sprang forward to greet her, but sitting at her desk was a young man she had never seen before.

“Lydia!” Jacob said, clasping her hands between his. “It’s so good to see you,” he said. Karl brushed Jacob aside and gave her a fatherly hug.

“It is good to see you all again,” she said. The man standing behind her desk rose to his feet and brushed a swath of thinning black hair from his forehead. There was an awkward pause.

Karl cleared his throat. “Lydia, this is Marco Trivoni. He is the new research assistant for southern Europe.”

She wouldn’t let the hurt show. She forced a stiff smile to her face and nodded to the man. “Hello, Mr. Trivoni. I hope Jacob’s humming isn’t driving you crazy.”

The poor man looked as uncomfortable as she felt. He laughed a bit. “Not at all. His humming is better than my wife’s singing.”

“Good,” she said.

“Have you found another position yet?” Karl asked.

It was the question she dreaded, but she kept a serene expression on her face. “Not quite yet, but I still have many places to look.” Which was not precisely a lie. She was fresh out of options
for professional work, but there was plenty of menial labor she had yet to search out.

She met Karl’s eyes. “Have there been any deliveries here for me? A letter, perhaps?”

Karl shook his head. “I have been on the lookout, but nothing has arrived.”

A strangling sense of disappointment threatened to drive the breath from her body. “Perhaps . . . has Bane been in to see the admiral?”

“I have not seen him since you left,” Karl said. “Have you, Jacob?”

Both Jacob and Willis shook their heads.

“I see.” She bit her lip as the familiar sensation of anxiety wrapped around her spine. This meant she would have to speak with the admiral to ask how she might get in touch with Bane. She would rather face a firing squad than see Admiral Fontaine again, but there wasn’t any help for it. Karl told her the admiral was inspecting an armored frigate on Dry Dock Two.

Lydia thanked Karl and was about to leave the office when Willis stopped her. He pressed a blueberry scone into her hand. “Take this,” he said. “The Stolinski Bakery really is the finest in Boston.” She remembered the scone he gave her on that awful day she had been terminated. She had eaten it later that evening rather than show her face in public at the Laughing Dragon coffeehouse, but she had been so numb she could not remember a thing about it now.

“I stop by for fresh scones every morning,” Willis said, looking at her intently, as though he expected some sort of response.

She inhaled the aroma. “I can see why you do. Thank you again.” She turned to leave, but Willis stopped her.

He leaned his head down to whisper in a low voice. “There is a
sign in their window that says they are looking for help. I thought perhaps you might find it useful to know.”

Lydia froze. She was not too proud to work in a bakery, but it hurt to know her friends saw straight through her façade of well-being. She met his eyes for the briefest of moments, not quite confident she could disguise the naked pain. “Thank you, Willis,” she murmured.

The admiral was easy to spot on the deck of the frigate as it lay in the dry dock like a wounded patient. Lydia drew the edges of her cloak tighter around her throat in a vain attempt to keep the December wind from cutting through to her skin. For weeks she had been dreading the unlikely prospect of ever seeing Admiral Fontaine again. Her anxiety twisted even tighter as the inspection concluded and he began walking down the pier toward her. He was preoccupied with something that kept his face closed and shuttered as he strode toward her. Just as he was about to stride past her, she stepped into his path.

“Admiral Fontaine.”

He glanced up and his eyes widened in surprise. He gave the faintest dip of his head and cleared his throat. “Miss Pallas. Is there something I can do for you?”

The mild censure in his voice made it apparent her visit was not welcome. A busy wharf was not an ideal location to have such an important conversation, but Lydia doubted the admiral would have accepted a formal appointment with her.

“I apologize for interrupting your day,” she began, “but I was hoping you might know how to get in contact with Bane. It is important I speak with him.”

The admiral’s dark brows lowered in disapproval. “I think the more you curtail your association with Banebridge, the better off you will be. That man has brought you nothing but trouble.”

It was true that her life had not turned upside down until Bane had entered it. “Be that as it may,” she said, “I have unfinished business with Mr. Banebridge. He has not paid me for some work I did for him, and I am in need of those funds.”

If possible, the look on the admiral’s face grew even colder. “Would that payment be in regard to overnight employment at the Custom House?”

“Yes.”

“Then I am sorry, Miss Pallas. I am not able to assist you in collecting compensation for anything related to an underhanded and immoral activity.” He made a move to step around her, but Lydia intercepted him and stopped him in his tracks. Something he said struck her amiss, but it took her a moment to process his comment.

“I can’t dispute that it was underhanded,” she said, “but I don’t think it was immoral.” And suddenly that distinction had become quite important to her. “Our motives were good. I am sorry that I lost my job over this, but I think that the country might be a safer place because of it.”

Lydia did not know why, but the admiral was scanning her face as if he was seeking the answer to something. The scrutiny caused her to shift in discomfort, but she refused to break eye contact. Finally, he gave up and gestured to one of the vacant iron benches that faced out toward the dry dock. “Please have a seat,” he said. “I find myself curious to learn why an entirely sensible lady such as yourself got swept up in this sort of transgression. Banebridge can be relentless when he is pursuing his own particular cause, but I want to know why you went along with him.”

She should have thought that was perfectly apparent. “Because there was someone taking bribes in the Custom House.”

“What were you saying about making this country a safer place? What did you mean by that?” he probed.

Banishing opium from this country was Bane’s mission in life, not hers. But it was not until he told her about the ingredients in Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup that Lydia began to grasp the extent of the problem. In the past two weeks she had relied more heavily than ever on her little blue bottle. Although she certainly did not suffer from an addiction—such a thought was absurd—she could understand the attraction opium had for unsuspecting users.

“Bane told me that opium is slipped into medicine given to teething babies,” she said. “The staff at the orphanage where I grew up dispensed that medicine routinely to soothe any number of ailments. They gave it to children who didn’t want to take their afternoon nap or were disruptive in the classroom. I don’t know if they realized what was in that little bottle of medicine, but I wish I had never been given a drop of it,” she said, her voice vibrating with intensity.

She looked the admiral directly in the eyes. “I was never a sickly or troublesome child, and the fact that I was spoon-fed opium by people who were supposed to be caring for me is appalling. So I am
glad
there are men like Alexander Banebridge who are fighting to stop drugging children into docility.”

She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw an infinitesimal softening in the admiral’s demeanor. “Do you know of Banebridge’s early involvement in the opium trade?” he asked.

“Yes. He told me all of it.”

“Then perhaps you can understand why he feels compelled to stamp out the trade,” he said. “Banebridge is driven by a need to slay the dragons he set forth in the world. He will stoop to any depths in pursuit of that quest. Even if it means risking the life or well-being of an innocent young lady such as yourself.”