1865

Alice and Leo

Deep inside beyond the heart is a place where truth can’t be denied.

Alice knew it as she hunched over the heavy weight in her chest, her hand on her belly as if protecting the life within. Hollow, her breath short, she swivelled to stare left and then right along the busy wharf, over the top hats, the caps and the bonnets. There were many onlookers here at the Victorian port where the Shenandoah had been berthed for so many eventful weeks. Some were in finery, some in rags, some so wrapped up in their own affections—they all streamed by with their inane chatter and their ridiculous fawning over the dark and gleaming American ship. The awe was too much for Alice and certainly misplaced.

This afternoon she was to have been married to a man who had gleaming chestnut hair, a sunny smile and a twinkle in his eye, and yet now she stood alone watching and waiting. No, no—he said he’d come back. He will come back. He will.

But Alice knew the truth. That he wouldn’t. That he’d gone. At first, grappling reality, she slapped her hands over her ears to shut out the noise so she—sensible Alice Truehart—could gather her galloping thoughts. Not a sign of him. Not on the ship, not on the wharf, not in any of the row boats that pitched and swayed on the busy waves in the American clipper’s wake.

Leo had gone.

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