Boston, September 1889
Although the journey was swift, it had been rather uncomfortable to say the very least. Beatrice had never sailed on a ship of such a size before which, the only voyage she had previously experienced, was a humble expedition to France. It was a dreadful place that was nowhere near as romantic as one had hoped for.
Yet this was something entirely different and unexpected. The maiden voyage was on the largest British ship that was ever to have been constructed. It was a colossal vessel with an intimidatingly large black hull that swamped the majority of her view from the first moment that she had seen it. The funnels climbed into what seemed to be the clouds as the smoke billowed and the horn churned a deep, terrifying sound - louder than anything she had heard before.
At first, the excitement and awe were all she felt and as the ship pulled away from the docks and into the stretch of the Atlantic; Beatrice was beyond elated. Finally, she would be free.
After the first day or two and the novelty of fine dining on a ship and afternoon croquet had worn off, even with the welcomed company of her uncle, the movements of the ship started to wear on her.
She had been warned of the sickness but did not expect it was something she would fall victim to. Yet, as the ship lurched into its full speed, the constant vibration of the metal beast mixed with the turning and jolting from every wave it breached, sent her head spinning.
Her Uncle, Josiah, had made several comments about her paleness and quiet demeanour but thankfully he did not press the matter further. After the six days of uncomfortable travel, the skyline of tall buildings, smoke, and a dock filled with other voyagers crept into view. The relief swept over her, for not only would the dreadful nausea pass but that she had finally made it to America and had left everything behind.
'Now remember, my dear,' her uncle began as he combed the ends of his already well-groomed moustache in the reflection of the back of his cigarette case, 'this is our, brand, new, start.' He emphasised each word with a lick of excitement in his voice.
'Dare I mention it,' he said, 'but this isn't London. These Americans are rather peculiar to say the very least.' He placed his comb perfectly back into his jacket, opening the silver case and offering Beatrice a cigarette before he took one for himself. She did so gladly and allowed her uncle to light her cigarette as he proceeded to do the same.
'Well, it cannot be all that different, surely?' Beatrice inquired before taking a long drag of smoke. The taste of tobacco filled her throat and nostrils, instantly calming any quells she had, along with the brandy.
'Boston has all the equal charms of London,' Josiah commented with a slight chuckle as he waved his hand dismissively, 'smog, rats, disease and begging children who would rob you blind the moment you turn your back.
'Although they are in desperate need of culture and etiquette,' he continued, 'the Bostonians, I have found, are great lovers of the whimsical but where we are going...' Josiah sighed, straightening out his jacket that was in no need of it, 'where we will be going, is not quite as tame.'
Beatrice narrowed her blue eyes slightly, taking a large sip of her brandy. She thought of the books she would read as a child, littered with photographs of the 'Wild West'. Pictorials of bison, in their thousands as tall as horses and wider than oxen. Men with lassos and ridiculous trousers, gunslingers with toothpicks in their mouths and dual holsters on their hips. Natives, with dark and lined skin, in strangely magnificent headdresses sat poised for their photographs, yet deemed as 'strange' and 'barbaric'.
'Surely, it cannot be as true as all that,' she said, echoing her thoughts. 'The books I mean. It seems just so... so...' She struggled to think of the words as her uncle leant forward, placing his hand over hers, giving her fingers a slight squeeze.
'It's all that, and so much more, my dear.'
She could feel her eyes growing wide, as she drew in her breath. Beatrice never imagined that all those books that filled her head could have been entirely true, regardless of how much she revelled in the tales. And yet that is exactly what she thought they were, were simply tales.
However, her uncle was inclined towards elaboration for the sake of the theatre of it. She did hope that perhaps it wasn't quite as dangerous as all that. Before her thoughts could continue, the loud, deep boom of the horn ripped throughout the ship, followed by another and another.
'Well, I suppose we best finish up,' Josiah gestured at the drinks as he stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.
Finishing up her liquor, her uncle collected both of their suitcases, whilst Beatrice ruffled at her jade-coloured skirts and straightened her hat that rested on her flaxen curls.
After some incessant queueing and bothersome trivial small talk whilst waiting to leave the ship, both Beatrice and her uncle stepped onto the docks of Boston and the past six days, the majority of which was spent with a churning stomach were now finally over.
Josiah had not been wrong; the smog and stench were all around as horses neighed with impetuosity and market callers and peddlers yelled in all manner of tongues. It was utterly bustling and teeming with life and while Josiah kindly offered his arm, Beatrice was utterly astounded by both the calamity and sheer overwhelming zaniness of the port.
Her uncle hollered down a stagecoach with more exuberance than usual, and one gentleman granted them passage in his cart. A Chinaman, with a long black braid the same colour as ink upon an alabaster suit, dirtied around the trims by no doubt the pillows of smoke from ships and factories alike, strapped their baggage onto the back of the coach whilst Josiah ushered her into the back.
'God damn charlatans. Honestly!' her uncle huffed as he slicked back his already slick hair. 'Seven dollars for the other side of the city, can you believe it!'
She knew better than to attempt to answer Josiah when he was in such a fluster. His already eccentric demeanour was merely heightened by aggravation and if she was being quite honest with herself, it always amused her. He seemed to turn into a caricature of everything she imagined an outsider would think to perceive of an Englishman.
As they settled down into the bumpy ride, the cart's wheels hitting the cobblestones rather haphazardly, she could hear the driver yelling in the vernacular of his home, all in tune with the clack of the horse's bridles.
After some moments had passed and Josiah had settled down somewhat from the local extortion, they seemed to have moved very little. Not that this troubled Beatrice one bit. She pulled back the curtain from the window, observing all that Boston had to offer.
Groups of children ran around with buckets filled with some sort of shellfish, laughing carelessly as their hounds barked and licked at their ankles, eager for a kind-hearted treat. Women with walking sticks and handkerchiefs clasped tightly to their noses moseyed as their coloured servants followed, overloaded with baggage like disregarded mules. A young man called into the distance 'get today's gazette! Only ten cents! Sir, yes you! Only ten cents for you today!'
An elderly man with a missing arm, hobbled, his shaggy ashen beard swaying with his awkward gait. There were so many new faces, so many new voices, accents, and even languages. Although London was metropolitan in its own right, it was not often she heard a native tongue from some distant land. It was no wonder why, for the empire was far-reaching and still powerful in its own right, capitalising on the woes of whomever it decided to embark upon.
America however, from what she had seen so far, was much rawer. A land where all the stranglers of the world had come together, to find their freedom, to find a home. Away from any constraints of culture and politics, every man was equal and this she saw in a heartbeat.
Regardless of obvious stature from the dirtied railwaymen to the Indian sailors and the upper-class Bostonians, her heart twinged with empathy. She too was now one of them. Someone to escape the awful future that was no doubt held for her back home - if she dared to call it that.
'All the papers have been prepared,' Josiah began, interrupting her thoughts. Tearing herself away from the curiosities of this new land, she turned to him with a soft sigh. He pulled several pieces of paper from the inside of his jacket, peeling them from their folded quarters.
'From now on, even in private, you are Miss Amelia Edwards. Naturally, I shall retain my own name, for well...' He trailed off, waving his hand as usual in a half-wave. 'If we have for any reason to have been followed, it should help eliminate any possibility of us being followed further.'
He handed her the document, a forged travel paper, and several other pieces of rather official-looking stamped materials.
All the hopefulness that she had felt, almost dissolved immediately. Her hands gripped the paper, although delicately, she could feel her heart quicken.
'Is this all that necessary, Uncle?' She enquired as she glanced over her new name, her new life.
'Perhaps not, yet I do not fail to have issues with over-caution, given all that we have left behind.' Again, no matter how well-trod his words could be taken, his jovial candour always carried through. This however did not sway Beatrice's concerns as if everything she had tried to escape rushed plainly back into view.
'Do you...' She stuttered, in a mild attempt to compose herself, 'is it possible they know where we are?' She almost chided herself for her lack of decorum, for doubting both herself and her dear Uncle, for everything he had done for her and how far they had come.
Josiah chuckled.
'Everything is a possibility my sweet child, but we should cover all possibilities.' His smile softened as he leaned closer to her, placing a familiar hand on her elbow.
'With what those wretched parents of yours did...' he shook his head, almost in disbelief to everything that still pained her so, 'things will change for the better, I promise you. I understand things have been... tiring.'
With his last words, he reached for his cigarette case as the stagecoach seems to have picked up somewhat more pace than previously. As always, Josiah kindly offered her a cigarette and lit it for her as the coach filled with dense silver smoke.
Beatrice could see the strain the past few months, if not years, had changed his face. He was an unusual looking man and yet at the same time, completely forgettable. Although distinct in features, she had seen his adaptability in far too many situations to undermine his ability to blend wherever necessary.
In truth, he was not her uncle by blood nor marriage, yet she could not think of him as anything but. He had always been in her life, since she was a small child, playing with dolls and running around with silken bows in her hair.
Regardless of whether he would be absent for months on end, every time she would see him next, he would shower her with both gifts and stories alike. Books, tales of French artists, new shoes, and delightfully outrageous tales of American natives.
He was always a welcomed sight and whenever Josiah was around, regardless of how she aged, it was the very few briefing moments in her life that her mother and father did not mistreat her, at least, not so brazenly.
Drawing a deep, long draw of her cigarette, she attempted to quell her emotions from becoming too apparent. She knew she could rely on her uncle for anything in the world, yet now was a time for composure.
Amelia Edwards.
She said the name over and over again, looking at the cursive over and over again. This was to be her life and this was to be something new. Something better.
'I hope this is enough Uncle, I really do,' she muttered, almost breathlessly.
To that, he did laugh, not casually, not out of politeness but with true titillation. Once he had finished, he popped the window of the coach onto its hinge, allowing some of the smoke to disperse from the cab.
'Oh, my dear, I know you think that I'm some doddering old fool. A careless thespian in need of frivolities.' He almost leapt from his seat, in tune with whatever daft performance he held in his mind's eye.
'Boston is not the last stop. I know I have been rather,' he raised his hands to the side of his head, wiggling his fingers in unison, '... mysterious.'
Tittering once again, Beatrice who was equally amused, could not help but allow the smile to creep to the edge of her lips, even though her eyes may have rolled at the same time.
'Where we are going,' her uncle stared into the distance, a distance that was only four feet in front of them, with a raised finger, 'is the very heart of America. Far away from that disgraceful family of yours!'
Leaning back into the coach's seat, she could see the glistening of wonder in his eyes, the hopefulness she too wished to embrace.
Before she could continue, the horses screeched to a stop as the coach rocked slightly to the newfound halt.
'Now I shall prepare you, as much as one needs to be prepared,' he smirked whilst cocking an eyebrow, jolting his head side to side like some cockatiel bird. 'Mrs. Worthingworth is a rather outspoken character, even compared to the likes of us. She is forthright, irritating, and could convince a mule to do her bidding.'
Beatrice tried to sneak a peek out of her uncle's window, yet all she saw was brick with vague limestone mortified windows, a sight she was not unfamiliar with.
'Mrs. Worthingworth?' She questioned, as though it was some vile prank. Honestly, what sort of a name was that?
Josiah meanwhile was equally amused, clearly understanding her intonations.
'I know, I know. Yet well, what more can I say?' He gestured once again clicking the brass handle to the carriage door. 'This my dear,' he began and he climbed out and bowed with a fanciful hand towards her, 'This... is America!'
They chuckled together as they have always done whilst Beatrice gathered her skirts and took her uncle's hand, aiding her out of the coach.
The Chinaman was disgruntled as he had been previously, shouting at the horses for one reason or another as he stomped his way to release their baggage. All the while, Beatrice gracefully stepped her way out of the previous constraints with the support of Josiah and sucked in her breath in much-needed relief.
America. A united state of everything she so desperately had hoped for, something she had dreamed of and yet what felt not even that long ago, something utterly unattainable.
Finally, alongside the dearest and the most wonderful person she had known were free from the oppression and brutality of everything they had left behind in the dead of night. This was to be something better, something which they both greatly deserved.