Against the Tide (3 page)

The door of the office flew open, banging against the wall with a crash. Lydia was stunned to see Big John, the man who owned the coffeehouse on the ground floor of the building where she lived. His face was flushed, and he was barely able to get enough air into his lungs.

“Lydia, you are being evicted,” he said on a ragged breath.

Lydia dropped the canister, scattering loose tea leaves across the floor. “
What?
” The word escaped from her throat in an ungainly screech.

“Workmen just arrived,” he said. “They started putting your furniture on the street outside the building. I told them they can’t evict you yet, but they started anyway.”

“They can’t do this! I have papers saying I can stay. Admiral Fontaine drew them up himself.” Panic flooded her at the thought of losing her home. It was more than mere sentimentality tying her to her modest fourth-floor apartment in a building improbably named the Laughing Dragon. That apartment was her
sanctuary,
the first home in her entire life where Lydia felt completely safe.

She needed to get home right away. “Tell the admiral what is happening,” she called to Jacob as she raced out the door, then clattered down the office staircase and into the street. She hauled
up her skirts and ran as if her life depended on it . . . which it rather did. Since the morning she left the orphanage, she had devoted every hour of her day to earning enough money to create a stable home for herself. Now that she finally had it, she would battle all the plagues of Egypt to keep it.

2

L
ydia shouldered through dense foot traffic as she ran across the Charlestown Bridge, then cut through the lawn of the Old North Church. A stitch in her side pinched harder as she ran down crooked alleys and twisty cobblestone streets toward home. It was a mile before she reached the Laughing Dragon, where her armoire was on the street alongside wadded-up piles of her bedding. Two workmen were navigating her mattress out the front door. Mrs. Brandenberg stood on the curb with a notebook, making notations as she scanned Lydia’s belongings.

“What are you doing?” Lydia managed to gasp as she skidded to a stop. She was panting so hard she could barely stand upright. “You can’t throw me out; we have an agreement.”

Mrs. Brandenberg tightened her lips. “Miss Pallas, you have not lived up to the terms of our agreement and are therefore a trespasser. You are being evicted.”

Last month the Laughing Dragon had been sold to the Brandenbergs, and they had no interest in leasing either the apartments or the coffeehouse on the ground floor. The tenants needed to
purchase their unit or leave immediately. Since Admiral Fontaine had a law degree from Harvard, she had instinctively run to him for help the moment she saw that awful notice. He scrutinized the eviction notice and found a loophole the new owners had failed to close. The admiral helped Lydia negotiate for additional time to come up with the funds to purchase her apartment, and in exchange she was to provide minor clerical services for the new owners. She still had four months to come up with an additional six hundred dollars to purchase her apartment, or else she would lose the only decent home she had ever known.

Her desk had not been brought down yet. The papers proving she had until December to buy the apartment were in the top desk drawer. “I’ve done everything outlined in the agreement. I’m going upstairs to get the contract.”

Mrs. Brandenberg’s beefy arm shot out to block her path. “Not if it requires entering the building. This is private property and you have no right to enter the premises. Mr. Brandenberg paid a visit to your bank this morning, and there is no evidence you are anywhere near securing the necessary funds to purchase this apartment.”

It was true, her odds of earning six hundred dollars in the next four months were slim. She earned thirty dollars per week at the Navy Yard, but after expenses, she could save no more than five dollars each week. She had been taking in extra translating work wherever she could find it, but it was unlikely she could earn enough money before the end of the year, and the Brandenbergs knew it.

“Now step aside, Miss Pallas,” Mrs. Brandenberg said. “It will be easier on all parties for you to leave the apartment today.”

“Easier?” Lydia asked. “I think you will
sleep
easier if you abide by the document you signed last month.” But as another workman tossed a heap of drapery beside her mattress, a wave of anguish swelled inside. She had sewn those drapes with her own two hands,
and her cherished possessions, the symbols of all she had managed to achieve in the years since leaving the Crakken Orphanage, were dumped on the dusty street like mounds of abandoned trash. Perhaps in a few months she really would be forced out of her home, but she wasn’t going to surrender yet.

And then she saw him coming. Pedestrians moved to the side of the street and children stopped to stare as a fine black stallion moved toward them at a brisk trot. Admiral Eric Fontaine, dressed in full military uniform with epaulets and a high starched collar, was riding to her rescue. With those fierce eyes and his crisp military bearing, the admiral was the sort of commander who could glare down legions of invading Persians at the pass of Thermopylae. He was a bit too rugged to be considered classically handsome, with dark hair and a weather-beaten face so deeply tanned it made his pale gray eyes gleam like chips of ice.

Lydia watched as Mrs. Brandenberg’s confidence shriveled like autumn leaves in a gale-force wind. The supercilious look fled, replaced by fawning deference as the admiral drew near.

“Mrs. Brandenberg, perhaps there was a misunderstanding as to the terms of the agreement I drew up for Miss Pallas,” the admiral said as he swung down from his horse. His tone was faultlessly polite, but there was iron beneath the words.

Mrs. Brandenberg smoothed a lock of hair that had slipped from its moorings and cleared her throat. She gave a fawning little curtsey. “Good morning, Admiral. Commandant. Sir.”

As Commandant of the Boston Navy Yard, civilians were often unsure exactly what to call Admiral Fontaine, but he preferred to be known by his rank. With over two thousand sailors and civilians employed at the Navy Yard, the fact that Lydia was even personally acquainted with Admiral Fontaine was unusual, but the office of foreign translators had been his idea, and with office space in the
Navy Yard scarce, they had been tucked into the reception room immediately outside his office.

The expression on her employer’s face did not waver as he surveyed the sorry heap of her belongings piled in the street. “It would be a shame if you suffered the consequences of an unlawful eviction. Miss Pallas has full legal right to maintain her current place of residence for . . .”

The admiral struggled to remember the details of the contract he had worked out for her, so Lydia stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “For another four months,” she supplied.

“Four months,” the admiral said. “And at the end of four months, she is entitled to . . .”

“Another two weeks to clear the premises,” Lydia whispered.

Admiral Fontaine nodded. “She is allowed another two weeks to clear out. She must be served official notice as well, so don’t neglect that, or we can reopen the case. Are we clear on that, Mrs. Brandenberg?”

Mrs. Brandenberg struggled to maintain a serene expression on her face. “Of course!” she said brightly. “You and I are in agreement as to the dates of the contract.
Complete agreement!
The problem is Miss Pallas’s lack of cooperation with the rest of the agreement. In exchange for additional time to purchase her unit, she was to provide clerical services to Mr. Brandenberg. She has not done so, and we are
forced
to take this action.”

The admiral’s gaze swiveled to Lydia. “Miss Pallas? Is this true?”

Lydia worked hard to keep the anger from her voice. “I have done every bit of clerical work requested of me. I have also walked their dog, gone to the market, baby-sat the children, and ironed Mr. Brandenberg’s shirts. Last night I declined Mrs. Brandenberg’s invitation to bathe her children. I believe this might be the cause of the trouble.”

The admiral said nothing, just turned his piercing gray eyes to Mrs. Brandenberg for her response. When it did not immediately come, he arrived at his own conclusion. “Your husband agreed to provide an extension on Miss Pallas’s lease because his original eviction was illegal and he knew it. The agreement was for Miss Pallas to provide
minor
clerical services. You cannot break the contract by making unreasonable demands of Miss Pallas. Is that clear?” Up until then, the admiral’s voice had been calm and methodical. When Mrs. Brandenberg failed to answer, his voice lashed out like a whip.
“Is that clear, ma’am?”

Mrs. Brandenberg nearly jumped from her skin. “Yes, of course!”

“Excellent. Have your men return Miss Pallas’s furnishings to their proper place. I’m sure I do not need to state the legal remedies she will be entitled to should any damage to her belongings occur between here and her apartment, do I.”

It was a statement, not a question.

“No, sir.” After a brief, heated glare at Lydia, Mrs. Brandenberg ordered the workers to carry Lydia’s belongings back up to her fourth-floor apartment.

Admiral Fontaine was already mounting his horse when Lydia walked up to thank him. This was the second time he had come through for her. When she had first seen that awful legal notice tacked to her front door, she had panicked and instinctively rushed to him to interpret it for her. Not only had he explained the mass of legal intricacies, he had offered to represent her for free in negotiating additional time to purchase her apartment. How many employers would have performed such an act of sheer human decency? Lydia shaded her eyes as she looked up at him.

“I hope it is not becoming tedious, saving me at the last moment like this,” she said. “You must be getting awfully tired of riding to my rescue.”

“Indeed. Next time I shall shriek and flee in the opposite direction.”

Lydia bit her lip, never quite certain when he was joking. Lydia was about to respond, but her gaze was snagged when a workman hoisted her bedside table over one shoulder while scooping up a pile of her bedding under a thick arm. She tried not to wince, but it was painful to see her belongings treated so carelessly.

“Take a few hours to put things to right,” Admiral Fontaine said. One corner of his mouth tilted in an almost infinitesimal smile. “I know your quirks will render you completely useless in discerning the finer points of naval armaments until your belongings have been restored to meticulous order. Good day, Miss Pallas.” With a flick of his heels, the horse sprang into a trot as he turned the stallion back toward the Navy Yard.

Lydia noticed that every female eye on the street was trained on the admiral. There was no doubt he was the most eligible bachelor in all of Boston. Or all of New England, for that matter. Maybe even the United States, if one wanted to be very precise. The admiral was attractive, but he was also the most formal, rigidly proper man in all of Boston. Karl once said the navy must have used so much starch in his uniforms that it seeped into the admiral’s skin. And even though everyone in the office teased her about her hopeless case of hero-worship, Lydia never truly had any designs on the admiral. Frankly, she was too in awe to ever feel comfortable around him.

Nevertheless, she was grateful for the time he had given her to restore her possessions to their proper place, for the admiral had read her correctly. Order was important to Lydia, and she drew a steadying breath before opening the door of her apartment. She cringed at the sight of her clothing piled in an ungainly heap on the sofa, but at least her furniture was back where it belonged.

She clutched a volume about the travels of Lewis and Clark to her chest before setting it back on her bookshelf. In her two years working at the canneries, books had been her only luxury. The noise and stench and monotony of packing salted mackerel was bearable only because at the end of the day she could escape into the wilds of the Dakota Territories with intrepid explorers. Or gaze at her book of great architecture of the world, with countless etchings of castles, cathedrals, and mighty fortresses. These books had been her salvation during those bleak years, and she handled them gently as she set them back in their proper place.

On her windowsill she arranged her bottles. Two bottles of perfume in squat little flacons in the center, then the jar of skin cream for cold New England winters. And then a dark blue bottle of her headache medicine. She uncapped the bottle and took a sip of the syrupy liquid, hoping it would ease the pounding headache caused by the prospect of losing her home.

She clutched the bottle in her hand as she looked out the window to the street below. The three flights of stairs she walked up each day were no bother, for where else would she have such a spectacular view of the harbor? She loved every weather-beaten flowerbox lining the tidy shops, the lobster boats bobbing in the harbor, and the sound of herring gulls on the morning air. From this window she could see the ships sailing in and out of the harbor. They came from Antwerp, Rotterdam, Cuba, and Quebec. Some came from the sparkling waters of the Adriatic, which Lydia once called home. It had been years since she had longed for the warm waters of the Mediterranean islands. Boston was her home now. She had no sense of wanderlust nor any desire to venture outside of this neighborhood. This was her
home
and she would do whatever was necessary to preserve it.