The Last Dickens

“A bookkeeper!” Fields said, puffing out his chest as though to protect any innocent parties from the idea. “How shall it look to all the world for our respectable Osgood here to be crossing the sea with a perfectly unmarried or, for that matter, married young woman?”

“It shall look perfectly modern,” Annie replied airily.

“What about Miss Sand?” Osgood heard himself saying.

“Miss Sand?” Fields repeated slowly, stopping to see if there was anything unspoken in Osgood's expression. He found nothing, so he continued. “She is rather an enigma. Is she not unmarried as well?”

“It's a fine idea,” said Annie, the words bestowing a queenly benediction on the junior partner.

“Why, how is it any different?” asked Fields, though merely for sport, as an argument with Annie was already lost when she had made up her mind.

“If I understand correctly, my dear,” said Annie, “the terms of Miss Sand's divorce set out that she can have no romantic relationship. She is neither married nor unmarried. Why, to take her has as chaste an appearance to the world as to take Mr. Midges.”

“She makes a mite more handsome travel companion than Midges, certainly,” concluded Fields with an ambivalent agreement. “Very well, I shall have my girl see about securing Miss Sand's passage in the third steerage straightaway.”

Osgood smiled and thanked Annie for the suggestion. He was more pleased with the surprise decision than he would have expected. For one thing, he wouldn't be all alone in the undertaking. He would have someone along who was both pleasant company and supremely competent. And if Osgood needed an escape from Daniel's death, certainly Rebecca of all people needed it more.

“HOW DOES IT SOUND?” Osgood asked Rebecca after explaining the idea when he had returned to the office and found her hauling a bundle of contracts to Mr. Clark in the financial department.

“I'm honored you would entrust me with this responsibility. I'll see to the rest of the preparations tonight,” she said.

It was hours later, and already several hours since Osgood had gone home for the night, before Rebecca found herself smiling at the amazing chance to travel, to contribute, and to preserve her future in Boston by helping Osgood's quest. She knew she could make a difference, even if it were just a small one. The publishing offices were almost completely empty, but Rebecca still remained in the office, energetically gathering stacks of papers and documents for their trip. She hurried down into the cellar, where rows of metal bins were arranged with periodicals and records, the different lanes of bins having been named for authors, like Holmes Hole. She was so excited, she began a little dance through Longfellow Avenue.

“Hope you haven't any swarrys you're missing being here tonight, Miss Sand.”

“Oh!” Rebecca jumped. “Why, Mr. Midges. I'm sorry. I didn't know anyone was down here so late.”

Midges, sweating profusely, was sitting on the floor attacking a ledger. His head uncovered, his thinning hair stuck straight up as though he had seen a ghost. “Late! Not for me, why, this firm would crumble into ruins if I weren't here half my life. I wish I weren't here in some nasty cellar, love. But these subscriber lists must be just so, and they've been a mess since we've been short a clerk.”

At the thoughtless reference to Daniel's death, Rebecca looked away. “Good evening, Mr. Midges.”

“Wait! Don't!” Midges stammered awkwardly, then piped out his arbitrary whistle to put her at ease. “I'm deeply sorry about what happened to your poor brother, upon my word. It's thunderously sad. I had a baby brother die right in my lap when I was four. Just stopped breathing, and I never stop thinking of that moment.”

“I'm sorry about your brother, Mr. Midges-and I appreciate your saying so. Now I must finish my work for Mr. Osgood.”

“Yes, yes, you are very industrious,” Midges mumbled with meek embarrassment, as though rejected the last dance at the soiree in favor of Osgood. “If I may say one more thing. I am especially sorry, being a man who respects a moral character, to hear of the terrible way Danny died. I had always thought highly of him.”

A fearful look crept over Rebecca's face, making it clear she didn't understand.

Midges went on, a spasm of pleasure in his words, “Why, I heard Mr. Osgood speaking about the opium with Mr. Fields as they sat together in the dining room. Well, it's downright sad, I say! He seemed such a forthright boy. Now, if I had a sister, love, and she were pretty and sensible as you, for instance…”

Rebecca lifted the bottom of her skirts and hurried up the stairs, away from Midges, as quickly as possible.

“Good evening, Miss Sand!” Midges called out after her with a heartbroken, confused stare. “Plucky, manlike creature!” he marveled to himself.

REBECCA WENT UPSTAIRS, her hands clenched in fists on her desk. She felt a great weight resting on her chest, and a tear fell down her red cheek. These were not tears of sadness; these were tears of anger, frustration, rage. These tears were difficult: they didn't want to come out and they didn't want to stay in. Hardly conscious of what she was doing, she found the handkerchief Osgood had given her when telling her the news, and looked at the pretty design of the JRO monogram. In his personal letters, he'd sign an informal “James” but would add “(R. Osgood).” The rest of the world would see him genial and prepared for anything, but she had appreciated the fact that she saw him in his moments of consternation-he would always sit with one or sometimes both hands on the back of his neck, as if to support the weight of the thoughts in his head. In the evenings when back home, she would sometimes think of him as James instead of Mr. Osgood. That he would say such things about her brother was devastating-and within earshot of everyone! She'd been a fool to believe him their advocate.

She waited for a horsecar that would take her close to Oxford Street, which would be a fast passage, but in the swirl of her emotions Rebecca could not stand the crowd of other homebound workers. The walk home seemed to be both instantaneous and cruelly tedious.

Back in her room at the second-class boardinghouse, the stillness and quiet after the hurry of her journey home felt suffocating. Were these blank walls all that was left of her life? No family, no Daniel, no husband, and now not even the trust she had always imagined she had earned specially from Mr. Osgood, a man she had admired more than anyone in Boston for giving her an honest and respectful vocation. The anger had burned up her tears and she was left with panic. Without knowing why, the orderliness of her tiny quarters newly befuddled her, and she pulled out her chest from under her bed and began to reorganize her belongings.

It crossed her mind not to go to the piers in the morning and, furthermore, not to ever return to the firm or Boston. If she chose, she would never see Mr. Osgood again. But this room, old Mrs. Lepsin and her family of sorrowful boarders, this could not be what remained of Rebecca Sand; this could not be what remained of her Boston; this minuscule life must have existed in some other universe. She needed the voyage held out to her. And she knew the one thing she needed right now, more than anything, was an explanation from Osgood's own lips.

Chapter 9

A BOARD THE OCEAN LINER TO ENGLAND, OSGOOD HANDED OUT books liberally in the grand saloon, instantly counting a dozen gentlemen and half that number of ladies whose names and tastes he knew by way of this introduction. This transatlantic ship, the Samaria, was an ideal place for Osgood's natural sociability. Away from normal occupations in the world, the passengers-at least in fine weather-were inclined to be polite, courteous, and open. Nothing could brighten up a publisher and an oldest sibling like James R. Osgood more than helping a shipful of people be happy. He was not the type of man to crack jokes, but he was usually the first to laugh at them. When he did tell jokes, he would remind himself not to later- for too often there would be someone to take what he meant in jest very soberly.

The men of commerce in the first steerage, with an eye toward a bargain despite their long purses, lined up to receive Osgood's gifts. The young publisher's most sociable traveling companion was an English tea merchant, Mr. Marcus Wakefield. Like Osgood, he was young given his significant achievements as a businessman-though the lines in Wakefield's face suggested one hardened beyond his years.