Writer's Corner - This is Maplecroft Part One

Prologue: Katarina

So here is America! So . . . crisp. In culinary terms, I’d eaten my geographical meal backwards: the Scandinavia of my childhood was a cold lemon sherbet; Europe, an aged and bloody Filet Mignon. But America was a crisp, snappy, palate-clearing green salad. It even resembled one as we entered the harbor of New Bedford, Massachusetts, the lush green treetops surrounding cherry tomato boat flags, shop signs, sailor caps and buoys. Massachusetts. One could almost taste it.

New England, New Bedford, New Jersey, New York. All new. All waiting. I prepared to disembark at New Bedford as Mother wished. She worried so about my traveling alone on the fast but less than accommodating clipper I’d boarded several days ago. A woman alone, over the ocean to another country! As independent as Mother and I both were, I knew that she was fretting away for me and my safety. The first thing I would have to do was wire her that I’d arrived without incident. In an attempt to cut the odds of this, after boarding I cut my hair and donned the trousers and cap of a friend from home. To all intents and purposes, I was now a young man seeking his fortune in America. Even my hands, usually the most gender-telling, were no give-away. Years of rowing around the island of Lidingo, where I’d grown up with my mother and her aunt, had made my hands calloused and raw and muscular. My wrists however, I had to conceal.

I’d been nervous and self conscious at first when I put on the trousers and cap, but an incredible freedom soon extended itself to me in this guise. I still laid low during the day and drew as little attention to myself as possible. It was not difficult. I was particularly careful not to strike up any extended conversations, and took my meals alone in the cabin. The last thing I wanted was a drunken brawl which I’d be sure to see the worst of.

At Customs I slipped into a privy and put my dress and hat back on until my passport had been stamped. Then I reversed the process, as from New Bedford I would have to travel to a nearby town on the trolley. Mother had a friend there whom she insisted I call upon before continuing my journey to New York. This I considered an inconvenience at first, but I now looked forward to a hot bath and some good food. I got the impression that this “friend” of Mother’s was another of her innumerable conquests.

I knew I would have to change back into feminine garb before showing up on this woman’s doorstep, but the loose comfortable clothing I’d been wearing, along with the strange sense of freedom it afforded had become rather intoxicating to me. I found the proper trolley car and boarded it, still dressed as a sailor.

Shouldering my duffel bag, I jumped off of the trolley when we’d reached the end of the line, but I still hadn’t refreshed my land legs, and I stumbled to the ground ignominiously. Jesus! I looked about me, embarrassed, but no one seemed to care. Had I been in a dress and shawl, a crowd would have undoubtedly formed and I would have been helped to my feet, as well as silently condemned for my ungraciousness. But no one gave a drunken sailor boy on his arse a second glance.

There were innumerable pubs and shops and restaurants abounding here, and parched with thirst, I was impelled to try my luck at bar. It was such an unusual feeling! “Lucky Seven’s” was open, just across the street and I ventured into the cool dark barroom with a dollar in my hand.

A dollar bought more than one beer at Lucky’s. It bought twenty-so I set the whole bar up over and over, regaling the middle-aged patrons with a phony biography and tall tales of a seagoing life in Sweden. It was dark and comfortable, and as long as I kept the beers coming, I was everybody’s friend. By the time I stumbled out, smiling like an idiot, I had forgotten the address of my awaiting hostess.

I pulled the paper from my pocket and asked a hack driver where French Street might be. He offered to drive me, but I wanted to walk off some of the beer. There was nowhere I could clandestinely change my clothes here in broad daylight, what would Mother’s friend think if I showed up at her house drunk? It was already going to be enough explaining my appearance.

French Street was “On the Hill” as the driver advised me, and with some difficulty I finally found it. The homes were richly adorned, this was definitely the affluent neighborhood Mother said it would be.

Her friend had inherited a fortune, and when I finally found her house, this was obvious. It was a mansion! Still a little drunk and unused to such affluence, I crossed the street to the house absently. Whatever would this rich woman think of me, dressed as I was and probably reeking of beer? I was tempted to return to town and to the friendly faces at Lucky’s.

The house brooded down at me from its three stories, with odd turrets and gables and a fashionable glassed-in front porch.What struck me most was that it seemed to be at a cat-cornered angle from the sidewalk. How strange these American streets were laid out.

There were ten or so steps leading up to the glassed-in porch and something, a word, was etched into the top concrete riser. “Maple…”

My reading was abruptly curtailed as the sound of hoofbeats now distracted me. Just off to my right, out of nowhere, a hack suddenly appeared, bearing down on me with a great velocity. Where the hell had he come from?

Suddenly I was looking at the sky and my feet weren’t touching the ground. Something tore through my left thigh, I heard rather than felt my collarbone snap as I landed on it, and then all the lights went out.

There were voices, but I don’t remember seeing anything at first. “He’s dead” “No he’s breathing, get the doctor!” “Hurry!” “My Jesus, look at his leg.”

I remember wondering who they were talking about-the driver of the carriage? Somebody slapped my face and called, “Hey boy! Are you allright? Wake up son!” “Has anyone gone for the doctor?!”

When I opened my eyes, a man wearing side whiskers was peering into my face. Several others began to come near, the consternation in their faces as they looked at me was not comforting.

“They think I’m a guy” I realized. And then several of them tried to hoist me out of the street and a shock of pain went through me from my left thigh and my shoulder. Pain like I’d never felt, something was definitely wrong. I think I screamed, and the lights went out again.

When next I opened my eyes I was indoors. It was cool and dark, somebody’s kitchen I thought. It felt like I was lying on the table. My leg was throbbing and sickeningly warm and wet, and my shoulder hurt so bad that I longed to pass out again.

I heard people, their voices hushed and serious. There was an aroma of bread and coffee from somewhere. I could see a stove in the corner-black wrought iron with decorated porcelain inlaid, but moving my neck a certain way was impossible.

Soon, a white bearded man with a black case came. He began to remove my clothes with a physicians touch-compassionate but knowing. He spoke to me, questioned me gently and with a practiced mild joviality to put patients at ease. But I was near to shock, and could not answer. He felt for any internal displacement or injury,and ordered the others about, or told them to get out of his way.

As he worked he glanced up for a moment to greet someone who’d just come into the kitchen. I could sense that it was a woman hovering in the doorway, unwilling to come any closer and that she was of a higher station in life than the rest of us. The doctor was much more civil with her; mannered and polite. This must be the mistress of the house. I thought he said, “Good morning Miss Gordon. I’m afraid we’ll need some stitches here. Have you seen him before?”

A soft voice replied, “No, I’ve not. Looks like he’s setting out for sea though.”

“Probably right. Get me some gardening sheers Patrick-these sailors clothes are coming straight off.”

I heard a swish of skirts and sensed that the lady had departed at the thought of a naked sailor in her kitchen. The denim was cut away from me unceremoniously.

When they discovered that I was not a young man, a stunned silence descended upon the room.

“It’s a girl! Dressed up like a sailor!” the doctor finally pronounced.

“A girl? Are you sure?”

“I think I can recognize the difference.”

“Look at that, you’re right!”

“Of course I’m right, you idiot. Now get out of here while I stitch her up. Where’s Alice? I’ll need a nurse here.”

It was to get worse before it got better. He cleaned the leg wound staunched the blood, then set my collarbone neatly, I don’t recall much. Only a blond young woman with an Irish accent holding me fast (she was remarkably strong) as the doctor worked. My leg was held out straight and swabbed clean, the antiseptic stinging. Air entered the wound, I could feel cool air where it was not supposed to be and this caused me to pass out more than once. At some point the doctor made me drink something and the pain began to slip. Everything became muted and dreamy, and I heard singing in my ears. It was impossible to determine time, and I had no idea where I was. Someone was supposed to meet me I thought, but I couldn’t remember whom.

As the doctor was stitching my cut leg, the lady of the house returned and spoke to him.

“Is he going to be allright? Shall I have Charles bring him to the hospital?”

She lingered in the doorway, still keeping a safe distance.

“Oh you haven’t heard! We’ve got a ‘she’ here believe it or not. This little sailor is a young woman.”

Their voices seemed to be from miles away.

She approached the table now, I could hear footsteps and her skirts.

“A woman?”

“Yes, done up like a sailor. She must be running away from home, poor thing” the Irish nurse/maid noted.

A round curious face loomed into my vision—almost transparently clear blue eyes, wavy auburn hair parted in the middle and tied back neatly. The lady of the house. Where had I seen this face before? It seemed that I’d seen her in a photograph or perhaps on the stage somewhere. Was she an actress?

“Haven’t we met?” I asked blearily.

She smiled, and her face softened fairly. I smiled back. To my astonishment she said my name.

“You must be Katarina”

The doctor looked up. “Do you know her then?”

But she did not reply. She reached down and touched my face, her hand cool and lightly scented with English lavender. And not the cheap scent you would find at Woolworth's, it was soft delicate and expensive. I was instantly calmed and felt that wherever I was, this person would not allow any harm to come to me. I turned toward the lavender and closed my eyes. I think I might have kissed her hand.

“Does she need to go to the hospital?”

“Why wherever else would we take her?”

“You don’t have to take her anywhere. We’ll look after her here”

I woke up in a great soft bed, my leg stitched, my arm taped to my belly and and I was woozy from drugs. The strange sling prevented me from moving my head a certain way but I could look up. The ceiling was linen here (a remarkable extravagance!) and the wallpaper was chocolate colored with a pattern of pink roses. A stunning fireplace dominated the impressive room, with a deep mahogany mantle that had something, words, carved into it. I could only make out what seemed to read “hame” and “countrie” Certainly some form of old Celtic English.

What was this place?

It was dark, low muted lighting glowed nearby. I seemed to be in a library of some sort; as I looked about there were leather bound volumes lining the walls. It smelled pleasantly of books and cologne, a woman’s room.

I realized that I had been placed in a chaise lounge, not a bed, and that there was a table near me. A lamp and an iced crystal decanter rested upon this table. Everything was so ornate!

Thirst tormented me. I tried to move toward the decanter but pain, like an iron wall stopped any and all attempts. I involuntarily cried out, and soon realized that I was not alone. There was movement from behind me, footsteps on carpet and the swish of skirts. An aroma of lavender again presaged the arrival of the lady of the house.

She wore blue: the voluminous skirts, a full light blouse with long sleeves that extended fashionably to her wrists, and a fitted handsome waist. Her face was again oddly familiar; strange light blue eyes and coppery hair pulled back neatly. She was about 5’5” seemed to be somewhere in her thirties or so and she watched me with consternation for a moment, as if afraid to come too near.

But she poured a glass of water from the decanter and held it to my lips. I drank this down uncontrollably, dribbling all over myself. A linen handkerchief appeared, and she kindly wiped my mouth.

“Not so fast, you’ll be sick.” Her voice was very soft and, combined with her gentle touch, made my throat constrict with a compulsive thrill of pleasure.

I started to reply but my thirst was still overpowering. I looked desperately at the decanter and she acquiesced, filling the glass halfway this time.

“Go slow now” she advised again.

But I gulped it all again, and she was obliged to use the handkerchief once more. Then she reached down to the floor and brought forth a large blue and white enamel bowl. Before I could ask it’s purpose, I knew. The cold water I’d just ingested too quickly came right back up on me and, to my mortification, I vomited into the bowl she held out.

Pain wracked my collarbone as I shook with the effort of throwing up; I was terrified of disconnecting the surely broken bone.

When I finished, shaking and sweating, I eased myself back onto the pillow and threw the sheet up over my face. I was so ashamed.

She replaced the bowl and pulled up a chair. She waited. When I uncovered my face she was observing me; amused. I realized that I was naked beneath the sheet.

“I’m very sorry” was all I could say.

“It’s the morphine and caffeine bromide; I’ve had the experience myself unfortunately.”

“My God, that’s strong medicine.”

She smiled, and again it softened her features, two distinctive dimples now appearing in each round cheek. This only made me more aware of my nakedness, and I pulled the sheet higher. She blushed a little in response, lowering her eyes demurely and I realized that despite my condition, we were flirting.

It struck me that this was my mother’s friend, who’d been expecting me.

“You’ll be needing some strong medicine for awhile. You’ve got two dozen stitches and you broke your collarbone” she informed me.

“I guessed as much. I’m very sorry to trouble you.”

“Its alright, don’t apologize.”

“I should wire home and let Mother know what’s happened. That I’m going to be…delayed”

“It's done.”

“What did she say?”

“She says that at least she knows where you are now.”

“I can’t trouble you with all this…” The enormity of the inconvenience I had become to this kindly stranger was beginning to dawn on me.

“I should be home.”

“Are you sure you didn’t hit your head? You can’t travel with a broken bone. Never mind that nonsense and rest. It was an accident, nobody's fault.”

“But it will need to heal…”

“However long it takes, it takes. This is Maplecroft and you are my guest.”

The subject was closed.

She stood to leave. “Would you care for some soup? Do you think you could manage?”

Despite my recent regurgitation, I was suddenly hungry.

“Yes, I’ll try thank you.… ..Miss …” I struggled for her name, it was just beyond the reaches of my drug-addled brain.

“Borden” she supplied for me and rose to leave. Smiling back from the door she added, “You may call me Lizzie”

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