The Price of Pleasure

My heartfelt thanks go out to three wonderful friends and authors. To Beth Kendrick, another newly published writer: Thank you for stumbling along the road to publication with me and for letting me know I'm not the only clueless one out there! To Caroline Carson: Many, many thanks for your midnight line edit. You'll sell your book by the time this one comes out, so I'll be able to return the favor in kind. And to Sally Fairchild: Thank you so much for all your help. Because of you, I stumble a lot less.

A journal by Victoria Anne Dearbourne, 1850

January 17

T
oday is the third day of our time here. Mother, Miss Scott, and I survived the wreck of the
Serendipity
and drifted in a leaky lifeboat to a deserted isle somewhere in south Oceania. Becalmed for weeks, we'd been unable to escape the approaching typhoon season. Mother said it was as though we'd been held in place for the storm.

When the timbers began to break, the sailors scurried—like rats, all of them—to abandon the ship and every one of us. One crashed into Mother—he didn't even hesitate when she fell into the lifeboat from the height of the deck. Her back was separated and her arm was shattered as well. But she is strong, and I am convinced if we find help, she will recover.

We have not yet found Father. I looked up through the rain and foam and spied him atop the deck, a child in his arms. With the next crack of lightning, the deck was gone. Is it wrong for me to wish he'd left the children screaming down below and escaped? The vile crew did. It doesn't matter what I wish—he never would have left them.

It was this morning that we received a windfall of supplies from the sea. Mother whispered to me that it is the hand of Fate that brought us these gifts, though Miss Scott says it's only a repeating current—the same that brought us here (Mother has said that though Camellia Scott is only in her twenties, she is very wise, and so I don't know which version I wish to accept).

Miss Scott and I hauled ashore several trunks, a cask of much needed water, a paddle, and other various goods. Among the trunks, we found the captain's footlocker, and inside was an empty log and a bottle of ink. Miss Scott bade me record our time here.

She probably believes if I am occupied so, I won't be able to see the misery that has befallen us. But I have, and even as I cared for Mother and wrote, I still saw the two bodies that floated in with our bounty. The sea had done awful, awful things to them.

I know Miss Scott dragged them to the edge of the jungle and buried them, because I see the tracks in the sand and her palms blistered from the paddle handle. Miss Scott has only been with us for a short time, and I know she wants to spare us any harshness. But I hope she would tell me if one of the deceased was Father.

January 18

Last night was the first night Mother cried. She tried to be strong, but the pain was too great. Rain began to drizzle and the wind gusted. Miss Scott found flints in the lifeboat and tried time after time to light a fire. It was hopeless, but I think it took her mind from the situation. By the time she'd given up and fallen asleep where she knelt, her hands were sliced and ragged.

Mother told me I must help Miss Scott because “she is so very young for such an important charge.”

January 19

I see how much I've written and worry that one log will not be enough, but Miss Scott predicted we will be rescued well before I run out of paper.

Later in the day, she found a map in one of the trunks and tried to determine our location, sending me to look for firewood on the beach despite the fact that we have no fire. When I returned, both she and Mother seemed resigned to staying here for some time. We must be far away from civilization. Though Miss Scott and I beg her, Mother has stopped taking her share of what little water we have left.

January 20

Last night I dreamt of Father, of him laughing with Mother and me, of him patiently teaching me to fish or tie knots. Father's laugh is wonderful, hearty because of his barrel chest, and he's quick to it. He loves Mother so much he looks to burst with it. With each new land we explored, the two would search for creatures, some little beastie never seen before. He always marveled when Mother sketched its exact image, though she'd done it again and again for the articles they published. Then he'd set down her drawing and twirl her around, grab me up under his arm, and proclaim that the three of us were the best team in this hemisphere, at least. And then Miss Scott joined us too, to teach me deportment and sums, and to become Mother's boon companion. Everything had seemed so perfect.

Luckily, I rose before Mother and Miss Scott because I woke up crying miserably. I dried my eyes, but all throughout the day when I thought of him, I felt just on the verge of tears, my lip trembling and face turning hot, just like the babies I played with on the ship.

Both Miss Scott and Mother tell me each day to be brave, but today they seemed even more insistent. Yet in the afternoon, Mother woke to find me with my head in my hands crying like a little child though I am thirteen!

I told her I didn't know if I was strong enough to do everything that needed to be done on the island. I know we need to build a shelter. I try to remember everything I've learned from our travels, but she and Papa always did the hardest things while I played with whatever children we came upon.

Mother told me that I am indeed strong enough to survive here. She said, “Remember, Tori, diamonds are born of pressure.”

January 21

The deep cuts on Miss Scott's hands are not healing and are so swollen she can't close her fingers. I know how dangerous this is in this climate. I did not know I could worry even more than I had been. There's still no sign of Father, but I have to believe he survived and is even now standing on the bow of some grand ship (bigger than that hateful
Serendipity
) searching for us.

January 22

I am always dreaming about food and water now that we have so little of both. It drives me to think of ways to get them. Miss Scott wants to go inland to search for a spring or some fruit but fears leaving us alone on the beach or taking me with her into that dark jungle. The sounds at night tell us it's packed with creatures that we mightn't want to see.

This afternoon, Mother made me sit beside her. In a solemn voice, she told me that Father might not have lived. Hearing her say that was like a hit to my chest. It wasn't real until she voiced it. When my tears finally died down, she looked me in the eyes and told me that no matter what, my grandfather would find us. She swore that he wouldn't stop searching until he brought us home. But I know that he's too old to journey so far. Mother vowed he will send someone in his stead.

January 22, Afternoon

We have decided that I will go with Miss Scott. The hungrier I get, the less the jungle frightens me. But I have a sense I can't shake—a heavy feeling that something is happening. I know it, and the back of my neck feels like it's covered in ants. Something's about to go wrong.

I almost laugh at the words above. About to go wrong. How much more wrong could our circumstances be?

I glanced over at Mother and saw her urgently whispering to Miss Scott. My mother, who's always been so sensitive to others' feelings, was unaware she was squeezing Miss Scott's ruined hands. Miss Scott winced as she listened, but said nothing.

Am I to lose my father and my mother as well?

Sometimes I feel as if all my fears and sadness are held in check with something as thin as lace. And sometimes I'm tempted to rip the threads open, to tear at my hair and scream so long and loud that I become frightful. That the things I fear will fear me instead.

We leave for the jungle at daybreak.