“Easy as falling off a log,” said Virginia breezily.
“Indeed.” He rolled up the map in silence and tucked it back from whence it came.
Virginia wished he would’ve left the map out to examine further; she wanted a closer look. All this was so new. But in the glimpse she’d been given, she hadn’t missed the top left corner where the lines changed from reassuring solidity to ambiguous, tentative dots. They were headed straight for the vague, smudged unknown.
“Nine of the women have been chosen for the expedition,” Brooks went on, changing focus. “Our employer felt that you might like to choose the other three. You have a week to do so.”
Her head spun with the new information. There was too much to take in, and yet she had to be strategic in her questions. “Three that I choose. In a week. And I absolutely must take the nine—well, eight, besides myself—that she asks me to?”
“That you are asked to take, yes,” he repeated, a stone wall. “The expedition in total will be twelve. No more, no less.”
“So that’s another condition she’s set, then.”
“Another condition, yes,” he said, and she heard his annoyance, but only because she was listening closely. He was good, this one. Fully in control of himself. It was a rare quality and one she admired. She reminded herself to look for it in the recruits she had just been informed she needed to find. In seven days. In a place she’d never been, with no friends or family, no connections.
But that, she would sort out herself. At the moment, she had to stay focused on Brooks and what he could tell her.
Virginia asked, “And what about the rest of our transport? The canoes, the ship?”
“All in good time.” He seemed offended.
“When is there a better time than now?” She was particularly curious about the ship that would carry them northward. The ships of the lost Franklin expedition had been Royal Navy ships once upon a time: armored, solid, ready. But the Royal Navy’s half-hearted attempts to find Franklin had brought back no news, and Lady Franklin had taken matters into her own determined hands. Would she enlist an American ship? Canadian? What could she get hold of, given her funds and desperation?
He shook his head. “I’ll leave you a file with the logistical information. You can read, can’t you?”
With absolutely no hint of her aggravation, she said, “Yes. I can read.”
“Good. But first things first. Our employer would like you to familiarize yourself with the other members of the expedition. To meet those who are here in Boston. To understand their strengths before you assemble the remainder of the team.”
“How many are here?”
“Three,” he answered.
“Only one thing, then.”
“Yes?”
A hint of a smile crept into her voice when she said, “You’ll have to tell me who they are.”
“Althea Porter. Ebba Green. Caprice Collins.” He consulted no list or paper; the names rolled off his tongue.
“And they are already familiar with the terms of the expedition? They’ve been invited and confirmed?”
“Yes.”
“And told how much they will receive in payment?”
“They are less preoccupied with payment than you are, Miss Reeve.”
She squirmed but fought to hide her reaction, balling her hand into a fist. The three he mentioned must be well-off. Only wealthy people thought so little of money.
“Tell me more. I understand you’ve given me their names, but who are they?”
“You’re impatient,” he said. “I hope you’ll be more patient as you prepare to take your life—and the lives of eleven other women—in your hands.”
“I hope you’ll be more forthcoming with information that will enable me to protect the lives of those women.” She let some of her anger show in her voice; she wanted him to know she was no doormat. “That is my top priority. Followed by ensuring we return successful from our voyage, with full knowledge of the fate of John Franklin or, God willing, John Franklin himself.”
He inclined his head just a fraction. “Indeed, miss.”
“So who are they? These three?”
“Althea Porter and Ebba Green are the wives of two of Franklin’s officers, James Porter and Daniel Green, two of his best lieutenants.”
“They must be sick with worry.”
“They are Royal Navy wives,” he said coldly. “They were prepared.”
Though she was sure he was correct about the preparation, Virginia doubted any woman could truly be trained not to grieve the disappearance and probable death of the man she loved.
“And these ladies are good adventurers?” she asked. “Strong?”
“You will have to ask them directly. I will give you the address of their hotel.”
She should have known. “Well then, I’ll dash off a note and set an appointment to meet them. As soon as possible.”
He nodded.
“And Miss Collins—it is Miss Collins, yes, not Mrs.?”
“Miss.”
“Shall I write her as well?”
“No, that won’t be needed,” he said. “You’re expected at her house in Beacon Hill in”—he pulled out a pocket watch, spit-shined gold, incongruous and gleaming—“just under half an hour.”
The surprise must have shown on her face. He smiled, a smile without kindness, only superiority, a smug pleasure in seeing someone else’s discomfort.
“Better hurry, Miss Reeve.”
Chapter Five
Virginia
Massachusetts Superior Court, Boston
October 1854
“Call your first witness,” says Judge Miller, and despite herself, Virginia feels her curiosity rise. Who will it be? Who will be the first to sell her out, to make her a villain? To name her a murderer?
Of course she has been called a murderer, or more properly a murderess, in the papers. One does not stand trial for murder in Boston without attracting notice.
She had never read a Boston newspaper before she was arrested and locked away in the Charles Street Jail. She had never been much of a reader. Since her arraignment, when it became clear she would stand trial, she has been squirreled away in a private cell, where she sees no one but her two regular guards. One is named Benson, the other Keeler. Both regularly read the newspapers aloud to her, but as they have chosen different newspapers, the effect is wholly different. Benson reads the Beacon as reassurance; Keeler reads the Clarion as punishment.