Matthew Pearl - The Last Dickens

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.

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.

“What is this I see?” Wakefield asked after introducing himself. He was handsome and well groomed with an easy, self-confident, almost jaunty air when he spoke. He stepped closer to Osgood's case of books. “I've been in this ship's library many times, and I declare you have the better selection, sir.”

“Mr. Wakefield, pray take one to begin the journey.”

“Upon my word!”

“I am a publisher, you see. Partner of Fields, Osgood, and Company.”

“It is a trade of which I am entirely uneducated, although I could tell you every spice that makes up the strongest tea in twelve countries and whether the new season's tea is pekoe, congou, or imperial. Forgive the liberty of my question, but how can you give away the merchandise you own instead of selling it? I'd like to shake hands with the man who can succeed like that!”

“We do not own books. Only an author can own a book. It is the honorable position of the publisher to find people to buy stock in it. I like to say, Mr. Wakefield, that one good book will whet a reader's appetite enough that he shall take up ten more in the next year.”

“It is more than kind.”

“Besides, at customs in Liverpool they must look through every book carried off the ship for reprints of English books, so those could be confiscated. I say, Mr. Wakefield, that if I do not dispense with these as planned, I will be held up there for hours while they are examined.”

“I shall be a willing thief, then, if you insist, but I will pay you back ten times on our passage in friendship-and in pekoe.”

IT WAS NOT UNTIL the second morning, when the reality of being trapped at sea away from home and friends floated down upon each passenger, that Osgood questioned Rebecca Sand. Though she always tended to keep her own counsel, she had been unusually distant toward her employer since boarding. At first, Osgood had thought she only wished to ensure a professional demeanor in this new setting, surrounded by strangers, some of whom would disapprove of young women traveling for business.

“Miss Sand,” Osgood said as he met her on deck. “I hope you have escaped feeling seasick.”

“I have been so fortunate, Mr. Osgood,” she answered curtly.

Osgood knew he would need to be more direct. “I cannot help but observe a change in your demeanor since we have left Boston. Set me right if I am mistaken.”

“You are not, sir,” she replied steadily. “You are not.”

“Is this change toward me in particular?”

“It is,” she agreed.

Osgood, perceiving a steeper hill to climb in their terse catechism than he'd thought, found two deck chairs across from each other and asked if she would say more. Rebecca folded her gloves over her lap and then calmly explained what she'd heard from Midges in the office cellar.

“Midges, that ogre!” Osgood cried, his hand curling into a fist against the arm of his deck chair. He stood up and kicked an imaginary miniature Midges overboard with his boot. “How unthinking and cruel. I should have taken better care that he did not overhear my private conversations with Mr. Fields. I am very sorry about all of this.”

Osgood told her how the police officer, Carlton, and the coroner had concluded Daniel had become an opium eater. This time he did not spare any of the details. “I did not believe it,” he said. “Then they showed me marks on his arm, Miss Sand, that they say were from a ‘hypodermic’ kit to inject opium into his veins.”

Rebecca thought about all of this, staring out onto the water, then shook her head. “We shared our rooms. If Daniel was an opium eater, I would have recognized even the smallest sign, God knows that. When my husband returned from Danville after the war, he required phials of morphine or Indian hemp on hand at all times. He carried around a look of blankness, an emptiness that would not let him work or sleep or eat. He wanted nobody around him and no visitors except those he found in his solitude in our books and in dreams. He had survived the battlefields, but his soul was shattered by the evils of what his doctor called soldiers’ disease. Daniel had been bent on his own form of intemperance when we moved to Boston, and when I first heard of the accident I had to wonder whether he had renewed his habits of gin. No, I would have noticed the marks. I would have seen it in his face. There would have been no doubt, Mr. Osgood, I would have, and immediate action would have been taken.”

Osgood said sympathetically, “I couldn't fathom it either.”

“You couldn't fathom the police being right, or you couldn't fathom why Daniel would fail your trust?” Rebecca asked.

Osgood turned and met her glare. An intense bloom had risen on her soft cheeks and her eyes narrowed. Osgood, chastened, nodded in surrender. “You are right to be angry about my not telling you all this. You are angry? I wish you to speak freely of this.”

“I cannot believe you'd hide the details of the police report from me-whether or not they are correct. If I am to take care of myself like a man does and be dependent on no man, then I expect not to be treated like a helpless vessel. You deprived me of the chance to defend his name! I am grateful for my position, and my livelihood depends upon it, so I ought never demand much in my circumstances, I know. But I believe I deserve your respect.”

“You have that. I assure you,” said Osgood.

REBECCA RESIDED IN the drabbest class of cabins on the ship. No electric bells to call the stewards, no ornate chandeliers, painted panels, and domed ceilings like in the higher steerage filled with superior society. Rebecca used the time she spent in her small stateroom to read. Unlike most of the other girls she knew in Boston, she did not read for sensation but to understand her own life in a more direct way and to learn more about the publishing trade. Aboard the liner, she had brought a rather technical book on the history of sea travel.