This Precious Silver
By Laura Schiller
Based on: Star Trek: Voyager
Copyright: Paramount
/
"(…) See in this some higher plan:
You must use this precious silver
To become an honest man.
By the witness of the Martyrs,
By the Passion and the Blood,
I have raised you out of darkness,
I have saved your soul for God."
"Valjean Arrested/Valjean Forgiven", Les Miserables (Claude-Michel Schoenberg & Alain Boublil, 1980)
/
The Reverend Joseph Carpenter was not in the habit of walking in the churchyard at sunset, but something – later he would wonder if it was God – had prompted him to go out that night. It was a beautiful autumn evening, cool and clear, and the golden leaves rustled so peacefully in the wind that he thought he might as well take a few minutes before dinner. Walking was healthy, and besides, he had had a stressful day arguing with Lady Janeway, the local landowner.
When he saw the gray bundle in front of a row of tombstones, at first he thought it was a piece of clothing someone had lost … until he almost tripped over it and heard it moan.
He jumped back.
The bundle stirred, sat up, and stood on two feet. A pair of thin hands came up to push back the hood of a cloak. Blue eyes in a gaunt, white face stared at him with proud defiance.
It was, sadly, not unusual to find vagrants in the village these days. The cities lured them away with promises of a better life in the new factories, only to chew them up and spit them out, leaving them with no choice but to come back home in a state of illness, poverty, disgrace or all three. Joseph tried to help them, but there was only so much he could do.
Many of those vagrants were just as thin and ragged as this woman. None of them, though, had ever looked at him the way she did, with her head held high and her eyes fixed squarely on his face.
As if he were the intruder here.
"What – who are you?" he stammered. "What are you doing here?"
"I was trying to sleep," she said flatly. "You woke me up."
Of course she was. He blushed at the foolishness of the question, and tried to gather back as much of his dignity as he could. "I'm afraid I cannot allow you to sleep there, miss."
"This is holy ground." She jerked her unwashed head in the direction of Saint Joseph's, the village church, whose red brick walls had a golden tint in the setting sun. "Sanctuary. You've no right to send me away."
"Did I say I was going to do that?" said Joseph, offended. He often wished he could turn these troublemakers away, but neither divine vocation nor human conscience allowed it. "Certainly not. I shall bring you to my house, give you a warm meal and a place to sleep, and we'll decide the rest tomorrow."
She narrowed her eyes at him, clutched her gray cloak around her, and backed away until her legs hit one of the tombstones. "And if I don't go?"
As annoyed as he was by her difficult behavior, his heart was pierced by an unexpected stab of pity. What manner of life had this woman lived, to be so suspicious of her fellow men?
The sun was slipping behind the church spire, and the last of the day's warmth going with it. Joseph was wearing a thick wool coat, sturdy boots, a hand-knit scarf and hat, and he still shivered. He could only imagine how cold it must be for someone whose cloak and shoes were nearly falling apart.
"If you prefer to catch your death of cold, you're welcome," he said, "But if you're concerned about propriety, you should know that my sister lives with me. She would never forgive me if I allowed a fellow human creature to sleep in a graveyard. Come now," he said, trying to joke as he held out his arm to her, "You wouldn't wish to cause a family quarrel, would you?"
She did not take his arm, answer him or even look at him. But she picked up her bag off the ground and followed him as he headed for the churchyard gates, and that was answer enough.
"By the way, allow me to introduce myself." He took off his hat and bowed to her. "I'm Joseph Carpenter, the minister of this parish. May I know your name?"
"They called me Seven of Nine," she answered in the same flat voice.
A number? Only prisoners were known by numbers instead of names. He took a second look at her and what he saw dismayed him. Her gray dress and cloak, underneath the dirt, were the standard outfit that female convicts were issued when they were released on parole. Her head had been shaved, and the blond hair was growing back in thin, uneven wisps. She had a scar over her left eyebrow and another on the right side of her neck, as if she had seen more than her share of fighting. And through a hole in her sleeve, he could see the reddish outline of a number on her wrist. A brand.
He must not be afraid. Prejudice, he reminded himself sternly, was a sin, and a foolish one at that. If Christ Himself had promised forgiveness to the criminal on the cross next to Him, surely Joseph could treat this woman like a human being for one night.
"I did not ask what 'they' called you, my dear," he said. "I asked for your name."
Seven of Nine frowned and stayed silent for an awfully long time. Either she did not trust him and was inventing an alias, or she honestly did not remember the name with which she had been born.
"Anne," she finally said. "Anne Johnson."
"Well, Miss Johnson," he said, as the candlelit windows of the manse came into view. "Welcome to my home."
/
Seven of Nine stared up at the whitewashed ceiling of the manse, unable to sleep.
She was not accustomed to a featherbed. When she was eight years old, she had been arrested for stealing food for her sick mother, and since then, she had slept on dirty straw in a cell with eight other inmates. After her release – which had taken twenty years, due to several failed escape attempts – when the brand on her wrist had prevented her from finding any respectable work, she had slept under bridges, in alleyways, up trees, in cornfields or, as tonight, in graveyards. She had learned to steal – ironically enough, her prison sentence had made her a much better thief –to fight, and to run. Somehow she had survived.
It was Joseph Carpenter's impossible kindness she wasn't sure she could survive.
What was he after? Everyone was after something, in her experience. Nobody did anything for free. What did he expect in return for carrot soup, fresh bread, a hot bath with soap, and a night sleeping under a featherbed? And he had looked so pleased, too, while watching her eat, even if he had been shocked to see her tear into the bread before he started saying grace. The blonde woman he'd introduced as his sister had smiled at Seven while handing over a stack of clean clothes and towels, and wished her pleasant dreams.
We'll decide the rest tomorrow, he had said. What was "the rest"?
The easiest explanation would have been that he wanted to bed her. He wouldn't be the first one. She'd break a few of his bones if he tried that, but he hadn't so much as touched her. Yet.
She wanted to stay here. She longed to stay here with a passion that surprised her, and not only for the food and hot water. She hadn't known she could still feel anything this strongly. But she wanted Miss Haley's smile to be sincere, wanted the Reverend's hazel eyes to be as kind as they looked, wanted them to be a gentleman and a lady in actions as well as words.
If only she could be certain …
But she wasn't. And if there was one strategy that had kept her alive since her release from prison, it was this: when in doubt, grab what's valuable and run.
The two silver candlesticks on the nightstand gleamed in the sliver of moonlight that came in through the curtains. They looked expensive. She could afford food and lodging for weeks if she sold them in the right place.
She clenched her teeth and threw back her blanket. With any luck, she'd be in the next town by the time the household woke up.
/
"Joe, wake up!" exclaimed Haley, knocking on her brother's door at dawn. He had never heard his sister sound so frightened. "Please wake up. The police are here?"
"What?!" He jumped out of bed, threw on a bathrobe and flung open the door.
"They're demanding to see you." She tugged on his arm, leading him downstairs. "They brought – oh, do hurry!"
Two uniformed police officers stood in the parlour, their polished helmets, long swords, and the rows of buttons on their uniforms making them look absurdly like the tin soldiers Joseph had played with as a boy. Except that these were full-sized and looked anything but friendly. Held in a pincer grip between them was Anne Johnson, alias Seven of Nine, wearing handcuffs and staring sullenly at the floor.
Joseph's heart sank into his bedroom slippers.
"Mr. Carpenter?" asked one of the men.
"Yes, that's me." He pulled the knot on his bathrobe a little tighter, wishing he had his clerical robes on. "What seems to be the problem, officers?"
"We're here to return your property, sir." With his free hand, one of the officers dropped a bag on the floor, the same one Miss Johnson had been carrying the night before. Two silver candlesticks rolled out. Joseph's candlesticks.
"She had the nerve to say you gave her these. To steal from a man of God and then to lie about it – I never heard the like!" The young man shook Miss Johnson's arm to show his contempt. Usually, Joseph would have been pleased to see so much respect for the Church, but not today. Not like this.
Haley drew in a quiet breath beside him; even without seeing her face, he could tell that his sister's feelings were hurt by their guest's ingratitude. Miss Johnson was the only person in the room Joseph could not read.
He stepped closer and, very slowly, reached out to tilt up her chin. If he could only see her eyes, perhaps he would know what to do.
He looked into them for only a second before she jerked away from his touch, but one second was enough. He did not see the fear, or anger, or even resignation he would have expected. He did not see the reactions of an animal caught in a trap, which the officers seemed to consider her.
He saw remorse.
Forgive me, those eyes said, more clearly than if she had spoken.
Yesterday she had still been able to hold up her head. Cold, hunger, homelessness and long years of imprisonment had not been enough to break her strength of will, but this single theft had done it.
Joseph made his decision then and there.
/
He was more correct in his assessment than he knew. Seven of Nine was remorseful, more so than she had ever been in her life.
The moment she saw the Carpenters' bewildered faces, she knew they hadn't expected to see her dragged back by the police like this. They hadn't expected her to steal from them. This meant that the Reverend had invited her into his home in good faith after all.
He had trusted her. No human being had trusted her in eighteen years.
She had broken that trust.
She had proved the prison guards right when they said the likes of her were scum and deserved no pity. She would be thrown right back into that cell now, and she had no one but herself to blame.
That was why she couldn't believe her eyes and ears when Mr. Carpenter smiled, stepped back, and held out his arms in a peacemaking gesture to everyone in the room.
"Gentlemen," he said, "As much as I appreciate your dedication to justice, I must inform you that this has all been a misunderstanding. I did give the candlesticks to Miss Johnson here, you see."
He stooped down, picked up the objects in question, set them up on a nearby table and the old knapsack along with them.
"You did?" The voice of the policeman on her left cracked with disbelief.
"With all due respect, Reverend," said the one on the right, "That seems most irregular."
"Why should it?" Mr. Carpenter retorted. "She's my new housekeeper. I sent her into town to sell them for me. Tell them, Haley."
He nudged his sister, who was still standing next to him and watching the proceedings with anxious eyes. There was a long, tense silence while everybody waited for her reply.
"Why … yes," Miss Haley stammered, glancing at her brother, then at Seven. "Yes, he did," she added, her soft voice growing stronger as she spoke. "I engaged her yesterday. I … Those candlesticks are so ornate, you see. They are not in keeping with a Protestant minister's household. That is why we wished to sell them."
With her pale oval face surrounded by a frilly cap, her white apron, and the way she stood with her hands clasped in front of her, she gave a perfect impression of a prim and proper spinster whose honesty was beyond question.
Seven stared at the floor, feeling the critical eyes of the two men appraising her. She knew she did not look like a respectable servant, but at least the clean dress and cap Miss Haley had given her disguised the branded wrist and missing hair.
"She resisted arrest, though." The policeman on her left yanked up her cuffed hands as evidence, showing her fingernails, still bloody from having scratched his face. "She's a wildcat, she is. Ought to be locked up for that alone."
Mr. Carpenter's eyes flashed. It was the first time in eighteen years someone had been angry for her rather than at her.
"My good man, wouldn't you resist arrest if you were a young woman snatched up by armed men and accused of a crime you didn't commit? I will vouch for the character of anyone I employ, and so will my sister – won't you, Haley?" She nodded. "I give you my word that nothing of this sort will ever happen again."
Though he appeared to be addressing the officers, he looked at Seven, and she had the strangest feeling that he was speaking to her alone. That he was promising to protect her.
How was that possible?
"Oh, very well," said the man without the scratches. "She is free to go."
A rough movement and a sharp click – her handcuffs being released – made her lose her balance. She stumbled forward, pushed to her limits by the anxiety of the past few minutes, on top of the fugitive existence she had been leading for weeks. But before she could collapse on the floor, Mr. Carpenter caught her with his hands under her elbows and held her up.
His hands were warm and steady. It was the first human touch in eighteen years that she did not fear.
"You are still tired from your journey, Miss Johnson," he said. "Why don't you go back up to your room and rest a while?"
Being called Miss Johnson was still strange. Even long ago when she had still been called by name, it had always been Anne. But every time he said it, she felt a little more real, as if the honorific was a tether anchoring her to normal, everyday life.
"I will … " What would a housekeeper call him? "Sir."
She left the room and headed upstairs, leaning on the rail. Behind her, she could overhear Mr. Carpenter ushering the officers into the kitchen ("Brandy, gentlemen? By the way, you really ought to get those cuts seen to. Haley, where do we keep the iodine?") and, despite herself, she cracked a stiff, rusty smile even as tears came into her eyes.
He really was as good as he seemed … but that only made repaying him more impossible than ever.
/
He found her in the room she had stolen from the night before, sitting on the bed with her knees drawn up, staring at the clumsily carved wooden crucifix on the wall. The spare room had always been a place where he put things he didn't know what to do with, from flashy candlesticks to unrealistic artwork. But when he saw her there, one more mismatched object in her borrowed blue dress, he caught himself wishing he could give a place that was fit for her. If she stayed, they could refurbish it, perhaps, with a mirror and a dressing-table. Haley would know how a young woman's bedroom ought to look.
If she stayed.
"They are gone now," he said, hovering by the open door with her old knapsack in his hands. "The coast is clear."
"Is it?" She looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes, as if she had been weeping. He had taken the time to exchange his bathrobe for his day clothes, but that piercing stare of hers still made him feel half dressed. "And what now?"
"Now we shall have breakfast, if you like," he said. "Haley is making porridge."
"No. I mean what now? I owe you my life, Mr. Carpenter. What do you expect in return? I'm not worth this."
He had never in his life met anyone so direct. It made him nervous. He had hardly finished ordering his own thoughts about her, let alone speaking them out loud. How could he make her understand what he barely understood himself?
He thought about her theft, and the way she spoke about owing him. She was a clever woman; she obviously knew how to spot something expensive. If her mind worked that way, in terms of numbers and values and survival, was that perhaps a way he could reach her?
"Well … " He perched on the far edge of the bed. "How can I explain?" He drew out the candlesticks and turned them this way and that, letting the sunlight from the window catch the silver. "I suppose you wondered what these were doing in a house like mine, when they ought to decorate a nobleman's dining hall."
"I didn't wonder," she said, with dismissive roll of her eyes, as if the concept of using one's imagination were alien to her. There probably hadn't been much time for that in prison. "I knew. Only real silver goes dark like that."
"They were a gift," said Joseph. "To my late father, from Lord Janeway. My father was the physician who delivered my lord's firstborn child. It was a difficult birth, and neither Lady Gretchen nor the infant would have survived if not for my father's skill." He checked himself; boasting was one of his besetting sins, even when it was on someone else's behalf. "My father protested that his regular fee would have been enough, and such an expensive gift was too much for merely doing his duty. His Lordship, however, insisted. 'You have saved both the lights of my life,' he said. 'It is I who can never repay you. Do not think of these as a return, but an investment in your future.' And so my father did. Every time he lit candles to perform an operation, the memory of the lives he had saved gave him confidence and courage."
Miss Johnson curled up into a tighter ball on the bed. "I'm sorry I stole them," she murmured, so quietly that Joseph almost did not hear. "I didn't know … I was trying to stay alive."
Confound his tactlessness. He'd only made her feel worse.
"No, no, that's not what I meant … All I ask, Miss Johnson, is that you look to the future as my father did. Your life is a gift, like these." He held the candlesticks out to her. "Do not think of how to return it, but how to make it useful and beautiful for others."
She took them, placed them in their old spot on the nightstand, and sat so silent and motionless for such a long time that Joseph began to feel awkward.
"Excuse me," he said, to break the silence. "I tend to preach even outside the pulpit. An occupational hazard, I'm afraid."
She met his eyes once more, and for the first time, he thought he saw a spark of hope or even humor.
"I've heard worse," she said. "I don't know about beautiful, but I can be useful. I worked most everywhere in prison – kitchens, latrines, sewing … I was trouble, you see. They didn't know where to put me." She added this in a warning tone, as if to make sure he knew what he was getting into.
"I've been known to cause a bit of trouble myself," he said, with a conspiratorial wink. "I've even lied to the police."
Her mouth quirked up into an unpracticed, but genuine smile. She was beautiful, he realized, despite all the traces of suffering on her face and body. It was her strength, her resilience, that made her beautiful. He could only imagine the vision she would be if she were well and happy.
When, he corrected, not if. She had already won her first battle just now; the rest would come in time.
"Speaking of trouble," he said, "Hadn't we better come down to breakfast before Haley's porridge grows cold?"
Miss Johnson scrambled up from her bed with the alarmed look of someone who had missed too many meals. She was out the door in an instant, and Joseph followed her.
Dear God, he prayed, with a final glance up at the crucifix, May she never starve again, for food or anything else.