Escape From Home (10 page)

T
he train soon reached its traveling speed of twenty-five miles an hour, the carriage settling into a continual rattling, shaking, and lurching. Such light as there was came from a single oil lantern that swung erratically from the ceiling.

There was one long high-backed bench that ran full length down the middle of the carriage. Each side of the bench was packed with people bulked out with capes and cloaks, bundles and bags, making the carriage ripe with sweaty warmth. Still, since there were no windows, merely shutters, a cold smoky draft blew over them all.

Mr. Clemspool leaned toward Laurence. “You're young to be traveling alone, aren't you, my boy?” he asked in a friendly way.

“I'm all right,” Laurence returned, wishing the man would not talk to him.

Just when Laurence thought the man would not speak again, Mr. Clemspool said, “If I may take the liberty—since we seem destined to travel together—might I inquire after your Christian name?”

“Laurence.”

“Laurence,” Mr. Clemspool repeated. “An
excellent
name for a boy.” With a sidelong glance and a low confidential tone, he whispered, “Have a surname?”

Laurence opened his mouth to reply but checked himself. “Worthy,” he said at last. Then, to make sure he had the name right, he repeated it. “Worthy.”

Mr. Clemspool nodded solemnly. “Hard to remember your own name when going fast, isn't it?”

“Yes, sir,” Laurence replied. He wanted nothing more than to sink into anonymity.

“Do you think you're going to be warm enough?”

“I think so,” Laurence answered. His dinner jacket had, in fact, dried out considerably.

“If you are cold, Master Worthy, you need only tell me. I could share my cloak. We don't want you taking ill, now do we?”

Laurence shook his head and tried to look out through the shutter slats at the dark landscape. Now and again, he saw a streak of blurry light. He hoped the man would not ask him about the welt on his face.

“And where, Master Worthy,” Mr. Clemspool pressed, “are you bound?”

Laurence considered the man and wondered at all his questions. He did have a pleasant round face. His smile was generous. His gentleman's manners inspired confidence. And he had, after all, helped him board the train at the last moment. “America,” Laurence finally answered, trying to make this destination sound as casual as possible.

“America!” Mr. Clemspool returned with pronounced surprise—eyebrows raised, mouth agape, plump fingers extended as if to catch the word itself. “Master Worthy, you don't mean to tell me you're going to travel all that way
alone
!”

“I'm … meeting others,” Laurence said, stumbling over the lie. “Friends. In Liverpool.”

“Oh, well! To be sure!” replied Mr. Clemspool, sounding relieved. “A young fellow
needs
friends. You wouldn't want to be going so far on your own. I should think not. Not a soul in Christendom would recommend it. One hears dreadful stories. To make my point precisely, Master Worthy, it's neither safe
nor
prudent.”

Laurence stared at him.

“Well now,” Mr. Clemspool said, “you're free to close your eyes. We've got something of a passage here. You'll suffer no harm from me, Master Worthy. Count on me to be your traveling friend.”

After a moment Laurence said, “Please, sir, can you tell me how long the journey will take?”

“To Liverpool? Oh, eight to ten hours, if there are no breakdowns, no sheep on the right-of-way, no rail washouts. God willing, we'll be there safe and sound by morning. So do try and get yourself some sleep.”

“Yes … sir….”

“And, Master Worthy, I beg you to remember, Mr. Matthew Clemspool—that's
my
name—is a friend to all youth. You mustn't forget that for a moment.” He flourished his fingers as if soothing troubled air.

“No, sir, I won't,” Laurence murmured, pushing aside any lingering suspicions of the man. It was far easier to blot out the world by closing his eyes.

Mr. Clemspool leaned forward. Thinking that Laurence was asleep, he allowed himself a grunt of satisfaction, drew his cloak about his shoulders somewhat tighter, then settled back against the seat bench. He was altogether pleased.

But Laurence was far from sleep. As he tried to imagine what lay ahead, his stomach churned with tension. To calm himself, he concentrated on the regular clacking of the wheels upon the rails, the swaying of the carriage, the swinging of the lantern, all of which created a symphony of droning monotony. Before long he felt drowsy. That drowsiness soon deepened itself into sleep and dreams. But in the dreams all he could see was himself flying blind through a midnight sky.

I
t was past midnight when Mr. Pickler returned to his apartment in the London district of Clerkenwell. There, in modest comfort, he lived with his wife, Mrs. Lucy Pickler, and their two children, Evelina and Thomas.

When he arrived, he found his wife—in nightcap and bed robe—waiting up for him. A round, careful woman, she always took the keenest interest in her husband's cases. Mr. Pickler, who drew considerable satisfaction from his wife's admiration, was pleased to provide her with the details, particularly those that involved members of the aristocracy.

“The enigma, my dear,” he concluded after he had told her all that he knew while eating the supper she had kept warm, “is why a boy surrounded by such wealth and comfort should
want
to leave home.”

“If anyone can find the reason, Mr. Pickler, you can,” his wife said as she hovered about, making sure he ate well.

“But you see, my dear, Lord Kirkle informed me in private that the boy was piqued merely because he had been denied his tea. Now I ask you, does one run away from that kind of home because of such trivial punishment?”

“Mr. Pickler,” whispered his wife, “am I hearing you suggest that something else might have happened?”

“My dear, the thing is, when I finally did see Sir Laurence at the station, he was not dressed at all in the way Lord Kirkle described. Though I had only the briefest of glimpses, I'm quite sure he'd been … well, disguised as a street urchin of the most contemptible lowness. A hideous welt had been painted on his face. What's more, he boarded a third-class carriage.”

“How extraordinary,” a shocked Mrs. Pickler cried.

Mr. Pickler put down his fork and knife. “Mrs. Pickler, you must not repeat a word of what I'm about to say.”

“Merciful heavens, Mr. Pickler! You know I never would!”

“You see, though it all happened so quickly that I cannot be certain, it seemed to me that the boy was dragged forcibly onto that train.”

“Dragged!” Mrs. Pickler cried. “But who would do such a dreadful thing?”

“My dear, the children are sleeping,” Mr. Pickler cautioned. His voice sank to a whisper as he went on. “Moreover, when I attempted to board the train after the boy, it was as if I was pushed off.”

“Pushed off!”

“By a gentleman with an eye patch.”

“Mr. Pickler, it's a conspiracy!”

“My dear, please! I'm not certain. I can only say that if
—if—
Sir Laurence
was
abducted, the case is considerably altered.”

“Do you think,” his wife asked tremulously, “that the boy is being taken to America against his will?”

“I do not know,” Mr. Pickler replied. “Nonetheless, my dear, I must travel to Liverpool by the earliest morning train to make sure it does not happen.

“My dear, Lord Kirkle is a man of enormous influence. If I am successful in restoring Sir Laurence to his proper home—”

“You will, Mr. Pickler, you will.”

“The rewards could be enormous. A fine thing for us all. However, if I fail to bring Sir Laurence back, my reputation—and chances for further employment—will suffer indeed. Having taken on the job, I have little choice but to be successful. It is best to proceed cautiously and tell Lord Kirkle nothing of these speculations of mine.”

“I quite agree with you, Mr. Pickler,” his wife said.

While his wife went to pack his traveling bag, Mr. Pickler, candlestick in hand, wandered into the nursery. Both his children lay asleep in their cots. Their father gazed at them fondly. So like angels. How could anyone abduct or harm a child? It was unthinkable! Indeed, the mere thought that Sir Laurence might have been badly treated so enraged the man, it made him even more determined than ever to save the boy.

At five-fifteen, after a fitful sleep, Mr. Pickler rose up, whispered a loving farewell to his wife—who insisted upon getting up with him—kissed Thomas and Evelina on their foreheads, and within the hour was on the early train to Liverpool.

T
he journey from Kilonny had taken two days. On the
Queen of the West
, a low, mournful clanging of a buoy bell woke Maura O'Connell from her standing sleep by the bulwark. Bleary-eyed, she gazed about. The Irish Sea was calm but rolling. The air was a misty white. The great side wheels of the ship churned. Black smoke still flowed from the central stack. On deck the passengers huddled together, numb, wet, and cold. Many hunched beneath tarpaulins.

At Maura's feet Patrick lay fast asleep. Reaching down, she touched his brow and found it cool. Alarmed, she put a hand over his mouth. When she felt his breath warm, she whispered a prayer of thanks.

Gradually the mist began to lift. In the distance Maura saw a low strip of land. England. Ireland's Protestant master. It was everything she had learned to fear and hate. Tension knotted her belly. Unknown dangers, she knew, lay before them. She would have to protect them both until they boarded the packet ship to America. “Please, Jesus …,” she prayed, “make me strong.”

A
h, Master Worthy! Awake, are you?”

The early light was dim and gray, the air fetid with a cloying clamminess that hinted of the sea. A jolt of the railway carriage reminded Laurence that he was on the train to Liverpool. Remembering now that Worthy was
his
name, he shifted about on the cramped seat. It was Mr. Clemspool who had spoken. A napkin was spread across the gentleman's lap, pieces of apple arrayed upon it like the open petals of a flower.

Trying not to stare at the food, Laurence stretched his stiff arms, legs, and back as best he could.

“And did you sleep well?” Mr. Clemspool inquired while using a penknife to spear one of the apple pieces. Just before he bit into it, he glanced sideways.

Laurence was staring at him, his mouth open. “Not hungry, are you?” Mr. Clemspool asked.

“Yes, I am,” Laurence whispered, feeling ashamed.

“Master Worthy,” Mr. Clemspool cried, “why didn't you say so? Here you are.” He held out the slice of speared apple. Laurence grasped it eagerly.

The man laughed at how quickly the boy swallowed it down. “Master Worthy, you
are
hungry. Here, help yourself.” He offered the rest of the fruit. “As I've told you, I like young people, enjoy helping them, want them to trust me. You might say it's my calling.”

“Yes, sir,” Laurence mumbled.

“That welt on your face, Master Worthy. Does it bring much discomfort?”

Laurence put his hand to his right cheek. It was still sore, the blood a tight scab by this time. “No, sir,” he said.

“I'm gratified to hear it. Now then,” Mr. Clemspool pressed, “you informed me you are going to America. With friends, I think you said. So surely, Master Worthy, these friends of yours will know about getting tickets for the right kind of vessel, finding temporary lodging, arranging the proper medical exam, provisioning you for the long, hard voyage, choosing a proper berth—not any bed will do, you know—as well as securing suitable recreational and devotional readings to soothe the weary hours. All these details, my young friend, that—to make my point precisely—an experienced traveler knows about and attends to.”

Laurence gazed at the man in bewilderment.

Mr. Clemspool smiled sweetly. “Of course,
you
knew all that, Master Worthy, didn't you?”

Laurence shook his head.

Mr. Clemspool wagged a finger. “Young man,” he admonished, “that is unwise. Of course—and this is precisely my point—what every traveler
needs
is advice from time to time.”

Laurence swallowed hard.

“So surely, Master Worthy,” Mr. Clemspool continued in his most avuncular manner, “those people—the friends you alluded to—will meet you at the train and take you”—he fluttered his fingers—“as it were, under their wings.”

Laurence peeked out at the passing countryside. The view flashing by made him dizzy. He closed his eyes. Everything that had happened unfurled in his mind: his dispute with his brother, Albert; the argument with his father. He remembered the caning, taking the money, running away from Belgrave Square, the one-eyed man, the pursuit by the police, and finally, the race to the train.

The day before seemed to belong to another time, another world. Gone now. What remained were feelings of rage and humiliation so thick they all but choked him. It was all so unfair! Tears trickled down his cheeks. He pawed them away. With effort, he turned back to Mr. Clemspool.

“I am not,” he struggled to say, “certain my friends … will be … there.”

“What!” Mr. Clemspool cried, apparently stunned by this news.

Laurence shook his head.

“I am shocked!” Mr. Clemspool exclaimed so loudly that four passengers turned to look at him and moved away a tad. “Absolutely shocked! Well then, I must hasten to assure you there will be at least
one
friend there for you!”

“What do you mean?” Laurence asked.

“Why, Master Worthy, to make my point precisely,
I
shall be your friend!”

By way of sealing the contract, he offered his large hand to the boy. Though not certain it was correct for him to shake a stranger's hand, Laurence extended his own small one. Mr. Clemspool shook it like a pump handle.

“Thank you, sir,” the boy said, and meant it with all his heart.

“Master Worthy, you are not to mention it again. Instead, you must look to me for answers to all your worries. In fact, you must consider me, Matthew Clemspool, Esquire, your particular protector.”

“Oh, yes, sir, I shall.”

Mr. Clemspool positively glowed at the avowal. “I beg you to indulge yourself in more sweet repose. I will provide all the help you need to reach America in perfect comfort and safety.”

Laurence, mumbling something that sounded vaguely like “Thank you,” shut his eyes, gave himself over to the swaying of the carriage, and was soon asleep again.