1885 Crossings

By A. E. Wasserman

Anna’s hand holding the letter trembled as her vision rocked, going in and out of focus. She felt as though she was falling backward and at the same time rolling forward, expecting to land face first on the floor. She put her hand on the table to brace herself. She no longer heard the song birds in the buckeye tree outside the window, or the hoof beats on the cobblestones passing the front door, or any sound at all.

The world around her ceased to exist—only the paper with Henry’s written words: his own account of what happened during the past year.

The entire time, she’d known he wasn’t telling her everything—but this—she could never have imagined any of it. The hard fact was, Henry will never escape the truth.

1885 Crossings gives us another opportunity to return to the world of Henry, Anna, and Langsford. A.E. Wasserman’s writing is beautifully done—tense and uncomfortable. The ending gave me a chill.

- Chuck Sambuchino, Bestselling Author

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Oct 5, 2017
• ISBN: 9781480849884

A. E. Wasserman

A.E. Wasserman wrote her first novella at age 14 and never stopped writing. She graduated from The Ohio State University and lived in London and San Francisco before settling in Southern California, where she lives with her family and her muse, a Border Collie named Topper. She recently received top honors from Writer’s Digest for her work. Visit the author’s web site at www.aewasserman.com

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Copyright © 2017 A. E. Wasserman.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Cover Art

A VIEW OF FLEET STREET WITH THE CHURCH OF ST. DUNSTAN’S

AND THE ROYAL COURTS OF JUSTICE

Artist: Herbert Menzies Marshall

London 1893

watercolor and gouache

Archway Publishing

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.archwaypublishing.com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-4989-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-4990-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-4988-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017948764

Archway Publishing rev. date: 08/07/2017

CONTENTS

Prologue August 1885

Chapter 1 London, June 1884

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6 London, December 1884

Chapter 7

Chapter 8 London, Winter 1885

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13 Liverpool, April 1885

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23 Castle Garden New York State Immigration Station, May 1885

Chapter 24 Cincinnati, Ohio, June 1885

Chapter 25 Cincinnati, August 1885

Chapter 26 On Board the Britannic, The Last Morning

Chapter 27

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Dedicated with love to Violette Riley and Tiffany Lorraine,

my generational bookends

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,

Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,

Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

—The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyam

Translated into English in 1859 by Edward Fitzgerald

PROLOGUE

August 1885

Anna had no inkling how a series of events, one flowing into another over a period of months, could have led to that day. She had been young, in love, and eager to step into the current of life. She was not naïve, for she had almost landed in an orphanage at age ten, and knew things could go awry. Fortunately, a loving family had taken her, so her education and her full stomach continued. Certainly following the normal path of new adulthood at age seventeen was without peril compared to her childhood. She had been pleased to dream of life with Henry, and ultimately after some sudden twists and turns, they had settled into a normal routine. Now her days were colored with the blended love and worry of motherhood.

She leaned back in the rocking chair as she nursed her infant daughter and looked around the room with a tired satisfaction. It was cramped, of course. That was to be expected as they could not afford much of a flat. The small bed was tucked into the corner; the cradle sat at the foot. Every mew of the baby woke her up, as Mother Nature intended. She’d hop out of bed quickly, wanting to get to her daughter before her husband, Henry, was awakened by the cries. They had switched sides of the bed to allow her ease of rising; he now slept against the wall. It was a dark room, with only one narrow window of four panes open to the morning sun. She sat in the rocker beside the bed, facing the daylight, across from shelves piled high with books and Henry’s papers. To her right was the wardrobe that held their few clothes.

Switching the baby to her other breast, she decided the room wasn’t cramped—it was cozy. All three rooms—the bedroom, parlor and tiny kitchen—met their needs. She felt content there, content in her routine of caring for the baby; content tending to their home. It was a small world, but one she was in charge of.

So when she finished nursing her infant daughter, the young mother leaned down to tuck the sleeping baby in the cradle for a nap—another routine event in another normal day.

As she turned to tidy the few belongings in the bedroom, her elbow knocked some books off a shelf, along with Henry’s leather portfolio. All crashed to the floor with a bang, startling the infant. Picking up the screaming baby, Anna held her in one arm while she attempted to gather everything with the other, but the contents of the upside-down portfolio spilled out, important papers sliding across the wood planked floor. Giving up the retrieval efforts, she bounced up and down, as all mothers tend to do, in order to calm the crying two-month-old, walking a few paces back and forth within the small room, soothing the infant until her eyes again closed. Laying the babe back down in the cradle, Anna bent to collect the mess of papers from the floor. She spotted an envelope. Not addressed to anyone, it simply stated, To be read by a priest upon my death, written in Henry’s hand.

Anna frowned, wondering if it were a will. Curiosity got the better of her, and she tiptoed into the kitchen to sit at the table before removing the letter. She knew she shouldn’t be reading it, but she wanted to know what a will would say, never having seen one. Strange—they owned nothing. Why would he need a will? And why a priest? After all, Henry had been excommunicated well over a year ago when he’d left Germany, refusing to become a priest as his father had ordered, preferring marriage. Preferring to have a family. Preferring a normal life.

She unfolded the paper and discovered that it wasn’t a will but a letter dated June 1885—two months earlier, just before the baby was born. As she read, a sick feeling welled up within her as her life changed, word by word.

Her hand holding the letter trembled as her vision rocked, going in and out of focus. She felt as though she was falling backward and at the same time rolling forward, expecting to land face first on the floor. She braced herself, her free hand gripping the table. She no longer heard the songbirds in the buckeye tree outside the window, nor the hoof beats on the cobblestones passing the front door, nor any sound at all.

The world around her ceased to exist—only the paper with Henry’s written words: his own account of what had happened during the past year.

The entire time, she’d known he wasn’t telling her everything—but this—she could never have imagined any of it.

Chapter 1

London, June 1884

Henry was sitting in one of the library’s two wingback chairs adjacent to his host, former school chum Lord Langsford. Two days before, Henry had been released from Scotland Yard, the charges against him dropped. After the recent events that had led both of them into the realm of spies and would-be assassins, the usual banter between the two had yet to return; both were relieved, but unsure of what to do next.

Henry watched Langsford tug the corner of his stylish moustache. His friend was wealthy and well educated, another handsome young gentleman, with a lean build and a neat beard. Henry, three years his junior and a couple of inches taller, preferred to remain clean shaven. They were as different as chalk and cheese, yet their friendship had been well forged from school days on.

Without the casual repartee they typically enjoyed, their comfortable camaraderie now unsettled by worries, they sat in quiet, each staring into the small flame flickering within the embers of the fading morning fire that rainy day. The large library was a favorite room in Langford’s mansion, No. 12 Grosvenor Square. The tall shelves of leather-bound books that surrounded them offered both privacy and serenity. The parquet floor was interspersed with hand-woven Oriental rugs, and at the far end of the long room, tall multipaned windows overlooked Grosvenor Square, encouraging daylight to enter. Henry recalled sitting in the velvet horsehair settee near them the very first time he was in this library. Nervous and uncertain today, he got up and walked over to one of the windows, looking out at the light drizzle. I like this room, he commented, reluctant to broach the topic he knew he must, a topic both of them had avoided for two days. We have hatched some fine plans here.

That we have, his host replied, watching his dog, Tweed, pad over to Henry for an ear rub.

I think he likes me, Henry said, petting the black-and-white head.

He does. He isn’t fond of everyone—a rather discriminating fellow, he is. Border Collies are often like that.

Then I’m honored.

You should be. Langsford smiled. He senses you are bothered. The older man was offering an opening.

He does?

Another thing Border Collies are good at, besides herding sheep. Langsford lit his French Bruyère pipe while Henry continued to pet the dog, then offered, The Queen has one, you know.

No, I didn’t.

She does—named Nobel. I’ve seen him. Fine dog.

After a short silence, Henry turned to face Langsford. His host was expecting this discussion. "Tweed is right—I am bothered. And worried. He walked back to the fireplace to address the dwindling flames, not looking at his friend. I have nothing. No home. No money. No way to earn any. I am simply . . ." He let his words trail away as the dire situation became his acute reality.

A month before, he’d made an impulsive decision, disobeying his father, an aristocrat who had life planned out for him as a priest in Germany. He’d shocked everyone, including himself, when he’d rebelled and fled the family estate to come to London for a new life. He knew leaving meant giving up his inheritance and all the privileges that accompanied life as a noble gentleman, but it was a price he was willing to pay. He had fallen in love with an English girl, a commoner, named Anna. He had planned to build a future with her, but now he was broke, disinherited, with no means of support.

I have never worked for a living. I don’t believe I can. Fear surrounded his words. I am nothing, merely a pauper headed to the workhouse as indigent.

Langsford, between puffs on his pipe, answered. You can find a proper position, of that I’m sure.

There is no ‘proper position’ for someone like myself, Henry scoffed. I’m a commoner now. No title. I’ve nothing—

Well, there you are wrong, his friend interrupted. You’ve been raised and educated to a certain standard, and you should be particular. It must be the right fit.

Henry absorbed Langsford’s words, drawing some encouragement. True. I am educated—my father saw to that. He hesitated as he mentioned his father, with whom he had