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Marrin's Masquerade!
Chapter 1: Crossing the Atlantic
“He had discovered a great law of human action… that in order to make a man covet a thing, it is only necessary to make the thing difficult to attain.” Mark Twain, Tom Sawyer
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Somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean, Spring 1894
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Marrin had spent the morning wandering the dim corridors of steerage, pretending to search for fresh air while quietly seeking any unguarded exit. Most doors were bolted or watched, but near the laundry room, she found a narrow crew passageway that smelled of coal dust and seawater. Heart pounding, she slipped into the shadowed alcove and discovered a steep iron maintenance ladder leading upward. With all the stealth she could muster—a challenging feat for someone with the grace and poise of a gangly, uncoordinated ostrich—she kicked aside her drab, cumbersome petticoat and began to climb, inching one foot above the other on the cold, greasy rungs. Nearing the top, she risked a peek over the smooth wooden deck as a soft, salt-mist breeze caressed her face.
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A gull cried overhead, and footsteps clacked nearby. She ducked, holding her breath, waiting before daring to poke her head up again. But then… Her fingers slipped on the top rung. Hanging and swinging by one arm for a heartbeat, she managed to grab hold again and steady herself, panting as she closed her eyes and hugged the bars, waiting for her breath to calm. Slowly, shakily, she glanced at the dark, empty space below—and instantly regretted it. She swallowed hard and forced herself to look back up. Looking down was a very bad idea. She hefted her skirt over one shoulder and pulled herself up onto the wooden surface with an inelegant grunt. She landed in an awkward sprawl.
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Wobbling to her feet, Marrin found herself tucked into a small corner of the promenade deck, safely hidden behind a low wall. She exhaled in relief, shook out her short, faded skirt, and lifted her chin, willing herself to look like she belonged as she stepped into view.
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A steward appeared with an armful of towels, his narrowed gaze catching on her. Before he could speak, she ducked back behind the wall and down the ladder, peeking out just long enough to see him glance around, shake his head, and move on.
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She carefully, cautiously climbed out again, looked in all directions for any sign of stewards or other ship crew, and stepped boldly, yet shakily across the deck to the rail, where she stood straight and tall, stiff but resolute, drinking in the briny air and blinking at the sunlight dancing across endless rolling waves of silver.
Marrin tucked chaotic, wind-tossed curls behind her ears; then she tightened her fingers on the railing as the ship listed to one side. She raised her face to clouds that billowed and swept across a milk-blue sky, teased and pushed by impish zephyrs. Closing her eyes, she felt the peek-a-boo sunlight that warmed her skin. Alone and utterly on her own for the long crossing of the Atlantic, she drank in the brief refreshment of the moment. Steerage passengers weren’t allowed on this deck, but she desperately needed the air to think. And maybe to pray to a God she didn’t really trust.
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As her eyelids flicked open, the sea lay like an eternity around her. But she didn’t have the luxury or safety of forever. America loomed in her future like a gathering hurricane.
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“You’ll work for four years in Virginia. Your indenture will help cover our debts, save our house, and save your sister.” Her uncle’s words clawed at her brain like a caged wild animal. “You will be obedient to your new masters. You owe it to us.”
He’d shoved the ticket into her hand on the platform at Le Havre, his fingers taut, his tone merciless, unfeeling. No goodbye.
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Her jaw clenched at the memory of him yanking her chin, of the way he spat obedient.
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She had been obedient. She had boarded the ship, but she had no intention of selling herself into slavery in some far-off land. She would escape her indenture and find work so she could return to save her sister from their cruel aunt and uncle.
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Poor little Robinette. Her younger sister’s round cheeks, wide and worried, had stared out from a window of their aunt and uncle’s mansion as Marrin was stuffed into a carriage before being whisked to the port.
Would they sell her sister, too?
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Their parents had died when Marrin was twelve and Robinette only seven, leaving the sisters at the mercy of their aunt and uncle, well, leaving her at their mercy, anyway. They had loved Robinette, coddled her, treated her like a daughter, while Marrin had been little more than a servant.
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Her thumb rubbed absently over the callouses in her palm. A lump rose in her throat, but she forced it down. There was no time for self-pity. What really frightened her was the thought of Robinette changing—becoming a pampered, spoiled girl who might one day look down on her—and others.
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Her uncle had said someone would be waiting at Customs in New York Harbor with Marrin’s name on a sign.
They would have to wait. She wouldn’t be there.
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She had no money and no fine clothes. However, she did have two things of value. She had taught herself to read, albeit in French, and she could act. Years of playing the submissive servant had been the perfect rehearsal. She’d studied the wealthy coming and going from her aunt and uncle’s house—the haughty tip of their heads, the calm command in their voices, the way they carried themselves. Now she’d take on a new role. If she looked like she belonged in this part of the ship, like a first-class passenger, maybe—just maybe—she could blend with the nobler set, walk off this ship, vanish into the city, and find work and shelter in New York.
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Eventually, she’d find her way back to Amiens, France. Back to Robinette—her only true family. She’d visit in secret, kidnap her, and do whatever she could to care for her.
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The ship rocked again, pitching her sideways. She grabbed the rail and pulled herself upright. She was clumsy enough on dry land; on the rolling, dipping open sea, she was a disaster waiting to happen.
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Turning her back to the sea, she leaned on the rail, eyes scanning the deck with casual ease, searching for an opportunity. Searching for a plan.
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Over the next few days, she scrubbed her face and kept her hands meticulously clean. She straightened her posture, followed what little etiquette she knew, and twisted her thick, curly brunette hair into a neat bun—though it continually escaped by mid-morning, no matter how hard she tried to keep it under control.
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Lovers strolled arm in arm. Mothers and daughters with parasols tread primly on promenades. Men strolled casually, smoking cigars and discussing business ventures. Neatly dressed children ran and played, closely guarded by governesses. The wealthy seemed to drift through life with a confidence and privilege she could only imagine.
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Lucky for her, she had imagination to spare. And she had invested years picturing herself as one of them. Her parents hadn’t been rich, but they hadn’t been poor either. And her mother always had a sort of natural, wealthy air about her. Marrin, her beloved mother. Her namesake.
Lifting her chin, Marrin brushed a tear from her cheek, dropped her shoulders, and peered down her nose. She feigned boredom and cast a casual glance at a man and woman sitting on a nearby bench. The couple was clearly enthralled in a private, romantic tête-à-tête.
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Eventually, the couple stood and walked away, disappearing behind an upended lifeboat. Left behind, draped over the bench, was the woman’s lightweight linen summer coat of pale, creamy yellow—the loose-weave fabric flapping in the breeze.
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Marrin’s heart thumped faster. She strolled to the bench and seated herself primly in front of the coat, nonchalantly leaning her body against it. Shoulders back, head up, ugly boots tucked beneath the skirt that did little to conceal them.
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Turning calmly, she deftly pulled the coat from behind her and spread it across her lap. She fingered the fine linen and lifted it to her cheek, inhaling its soft, lavender fragrance. Her hands traced the cool, smooth threads, the rows of fabric-covered buttons, the exquisite decorative cording on the sleeves. A label sewn inside read that it had been made in Paris.
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The lovely pale color contrasted sharply with her navy wool skirt, yet it nicely complemented her pale blue blouse.
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As another brisk breeze swept across the deck, she stood, adroitly donned the coat, and buttoned it so that it nearly covered her dark wool skirt. It was a perfect fit. Wrapped in that simple, delicate butteriness, she truly felt like a first-class passenger.
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Except for her cloggy boots. If anyone asked, she’d say they were her walking shoes—but she prayed no one would notice.
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Lips twitching with a mixture of guilt and excitement, she ventured further along the deck, relaxing her countenance into one of genteel ennui. If the owner caught her wearing it, she’d wrinkle her nose with contempt and say she’d bought it in Paris over a year ago.
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Two waiters stepped through a door onto the steamer’s deck, carrying silver trays of hors d’oeuvres and glasses of water. They approached Marrin without the slightest hint of suspicion and asked if she’d care for a refreshment.
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This was new.
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Quelling her astonishment, she politely accepted a small paper napkin upon which lay a cracker topped with pâté and cheese. She took a glass of water and stood beside a tall, round café table to enjoy the refreshment.
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When she finished her snack, she walked on, rounding another bend where she encountered the windward side of the ship. She was about to turn and escape the sharp blasts that whipped her hair wildly when she heard a girl shouting in French.
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“I can’t go. I simply cannot!”
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Marrin stopped and watched a girl standing alone, speaking to no one but herself. Her arms were crossed defiantly, and her stylish navy-and-white-striped traveling dress flapped madly in the wind. In a dramatic flurry, the sophisticate ran to the side of the ship and folded herself over the deck’s railing.
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“I will not go!” she shouted again, gripping the rail with both hands and stepping onto the bottom rung, leaning precariously over the side.
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Impulsively, Marrin ran to her. “Are you well, mademoiselle?” she asked gently, standing cautiously behind her.
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The histrionic young lady fell back heavily against Marrin, nearly toppling them both. Marrin propped her up and half-dragged her to a nearby bench, where she patted the girl’s cheeks and stroked her shoulders.
“I’ll be all right,” the girl replied, scowling as she pushed Marrin away and glared into her face for the first time.
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An eerie shudder passed through Marrin, and she sucked in her breath, staring into the girl’s eyes that blinked in a pallid face. Brown hair, fair skin, slim build. She saw herself. It was like looking into a mirror.
Chapter 2: The Doppelgänger
“There comes a time in every rightly-constructed boy’s life when he has a raging desire to go somewhere and dig for hidden treasure.” Mark Twain, Tom Sawyer​
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This strange girl’s eyes were blue instead of brown, and her hair was smooth and straight, whereas Marrin’s was a mess of thick curls. Aside from these small details, however, the two young ladies were remarkably similar.
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“Who are you?” the girl asked sharply.
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“Marrin Fournier, mademoiselle,” Marrin whispered shakily with a little bow of the head. “But I prefer to be called Marrin.”
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“Marrin.” The corners of the girl’s mouth tugged downward. “Why are you bowing your head to me like a common maid?”
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“Sorry,” she stammered. She had to stop doing and saying things that would give her away.
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“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” the lookalike girl demanded, sitting up, apparently fully recovered from whatever had ailed her.
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“No.” Marrin twisted her long, thick hair into a ball behind her neck to keep it from blowing into her face. Did the girl not notice their resemblance? But Carina was studying her now—really studying her—eyes narrowing with a flicker of confusion, as if comparing Marrin’s features to her own and not quite knowing what to make of it.
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“Where are you from, Marrin?”
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“Amiens, France.”
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“Where are you going?”
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“America.”
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“I figured America. Where in America?”
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“Virginia.”
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“How old are you? Eighteen?”
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“Nearly,” Marrin answered. “Who are you?” It was Marrin’s turn to ask questions.
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“Carina Lejeune of Antwerp,” she replied with more than a hint of arrogance.
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Marrin resisted the urge to bow her head again in deference to the girl’s aristocratic manner.
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“And where are you going, Mademoiselle Lejeune?”
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“Your coat is positively scrumptious. But what kind of shoes are those?” Carina demanded, pointing to her feet and ignoring the inquiry.
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Marrin flushed, turned her toes inward, and lifted her chin defiantly. “They’re my traveling shoes. And you didn’t answer my question.”
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“Nice traveling shoes,” Carina snorted. “They look more like farm boots. And why are you out in the sun without a parasol?”
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“It’s too windy. And…And you’re here without a parasol,” Marrin retorted.
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“That’s because I was thinking of throwing myself overboard.”
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Marrin’s breath caught. “Would you really have done it?”
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Carina tossed her head and gave a short laugh. “No, of course not. I was only thinking of what Francine—my governess—would do if she found me on the railing… if the near-blind incompetent woman could even see me. I hoped she’d notice my desperation and take me back to Belgium.”
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Marrin studied her, uncertain whether Carina was joking or simply spoiled.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” Marrin said firmly.
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“What question?” Carina circled her, conducting an examination from every angle.
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“Where are you going?”
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“Tell me your story first, and then I’ll tell you where I’m going.” Carina wrinkled her nose at Marrin’s boots.
“And I know you have a story.”
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Marrin hesitated, fingering the gold locket about her neck before plunging forward. She opened the tri-fold locket. “My parents are dead, and I’m being sent to Virginia to live with complete strangers.” She pointed to the photographs and described her parents and sister, Robinette.
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Carina grabbed and squeezed Marrin’s hands. “Oh, my dear!” she exclaimed, her face too close as her eyes blinked what appeared to be sudden and genuine concern. “I’m sorry for your loss. And I can sympathize with being sent away to a foreign land to live with complete strangers.”
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“Thank you,” Marrin muttered, startled at Carina’s show of compassion. “They actually died years ago, but…”
“I might as well be an orphan,” Carina interrupted. “I’ve been at boarding school most of my life and barely know my parents. Now they’re sending me to some ridiculously tiny town in California to live with a farmer uncle who doesn’t even know me. Sent off to live with strangers, just like you.”
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“Why would they send you away?” Marrin wanted to know. Her own aunt and uncle, back in France, made her wary of trusting anyone.
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Carina pouted. “I got into the slightest bit of trouble at school, and they want me to ‘learn a lesson’ by living on a farm in the Wild West.” She spat the word farm like it was bitter on her tongue. She folded her arms.
“Can you imagine living on a farm like a peasant? I refuse to go. I’ve been formulating a plan. I have a fiancé back home in Brussels.” She sighed, clasping her hands to her breast. “Well, almost fiancé. More of a serious suitor. His name is Anton. He’s so handsome and wonderful. Anyhow, I’ll pretend to lose my identification papers so Francine will have to take me back to Belgium, where I’ll run away with Anton.”
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“How long are you supposed to stay with this uncle of yours in California?” Marrin asked, ignoring Carina’s starry-eyed romanticism.
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Carina pouted. “Knowing my parents, they’ll forget about me and leave me there forever.”
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Marrin could understand that. Aside from facing indentured servitude, rather than living on a farm, she was in a similar situation. “Do you have other family?”
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“Besides this uncle in California?” Carina asked. “Yes, a mean, selfish older brother I care nothing for. His name is Alard. He moved to America several years ago. He lives somewhere on the East Coast, last I heard.”
She huffed. “Your turn. Tell me about yourself.”
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Marrin took a breath. “My aunt and uncle are sending me away to be an indentured servant in Virginia,” she said miserably.
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“No!” Carina gasped.
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Marrin nodded. “They sold me as a slave to pay off their debts. I have to work for an American family for four years.”
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“Quelle horreur!” Carina exclaimed, her eyes wide with sympathy. “I guess that explains your shoes.” Marrin nodded. Carina put a consoling arm around her shoulders and squeezed.
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“You cannot debase yourself and become…” Carina wrinkled her nose and flourished a hand toward the stairwell leading to the lower decks. “…one of the steerage. But you must admit, your story is tragically romantic.” She gave Marrin another squeeze.
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“Hm,” said Marrin. She pulled herself from Carina’s embrace and stuffed her hands into the pockets of the linen summer coat. Her fingers touched something curious.
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Was she convincing Carina that she was from a wealthier class? “My story is tragic, yes,” Marrin said.
“Romantic, no.” A gust of wind loosed a curly lock, tossing it into her eyes as she looked out to sea.
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“Carina Maria Lejeune!” The name cracked like a whip from the lips of Carina’s governess.
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Carina kept her back turned to Francine and looked at Marrin, sticking out her tongue and crossing her eyes.
Marrin pursed her lips and suppressed a giggle.
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“Don’t you ever leave my side again, young lady,” Francine scolded, glaring at… Marrin! Francine’s pince-nez sat crookedly on her nose, and she squinted as though everything were a blur.
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Marrin’s breath caught, and she placed a questioning hand on her chest.
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“Don’t you play innocent with me, Miss Lejeune.” Carina still had her back to the governess, brows furrowing as her brain registered Francine’s error. “And what on earth are you wearing?” She squinted and bent at the waist. “Where did you get those ugly boots?”
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The lookalike whispered in an exaggerated accent, “Now’s our chance! Go with Francine. Try being me for a while—see what happens. She’s so clueless, she won’t notice the difference between you and me.”
Then Carina darted away, slipping behind a group of promenading ladies just as Francine straightened.
“You must get rid of those boots immediately,” Francine scolded. “They look as though they came from a rummage bin.”
Marrin froze, stunned. Carina had acted with the reckless confidence of someone who had always gotten her way. And now Marrin was alone—with Carina’s governess—expected to play a role she’d never rehearsed. She didn’t know what to do or how to behave.
“You are in a great deal of trouble, young lady,” Francine said sharply, seizing her arm and pulling her through a door into the ship’s interior.
Marrin’s feet immediately turned to lead, and she was unable to take another step. They had entered a palatial lounge with a high ceiling and walls decorated with bronze sconces and grand mirrors. Ornate windows of colorful stained glass were interspersed with tall, wide bay windows that looked out onto the sea.
Francine put her lips to Marrin’s ear. “Don’t you dare make me look a fool in front of all these people, Carina. Move your cloddy peasant feet and come along this instant.”
Marrin awakened from her stupor and managed to stumble behind Francine as they proceeded past groups of handsomely dressed men and women seated on plush green velvet sofas and armchairs. She stumbled inelegantly as the floor moved and pitched beneath her worn boots. Out of the corner of an eye, she glimpsed a disapproving, spectacled squint peering at her over the top of a newspaper. She stared down self-consciously; then raised her head again to take in the opulence of the room. She didn’t want to miss this.
Her aunt and uncle’s villa in Amiens was quite lovely, but never had she seen anything as lavish as this. It was as though she’d stepped into the Versailles Palace itself.
Francine jerked Marrin up a beautifully carpeted staircase and down a narrow corridor before stopping at a door. She released Marrin long enough to pull a key from her skirt pocket.
“We have an hour to get you bathed and dressed for luncheon,” said Francine, opening the door and waving Marrin inside.
Carina’s cabin. It was a small, yet beautiful suite with soft carpet and carved wood paneling painted white. Two narrow beds stood side by side. She assumed one was Carina’s and the other was where Francine slept. A small, round table and two chairs sat in one corner, and a long, narrow steel tub stood in another beside a wash basin and a short stool stacked with plush towels.
“Comb out your disastrous hair while I go order hot water to be brought up for your bath,” Francine called over her shoulder as she departed. “And don’t you dare go anywhere.”
Marrin wasn’t about to leave. If pretending to be Carina for an hour or two meant a hot bath, clean clothes, and a delicious meal, she was more than ready for this game.
As she soaked blissfully in the warm water, staring up at a crystal ceiling sconce amidst a smattering of filigree whorls, her mind raced with impossible possibilities. The resemblance between her and Carina was uncanny. It made her wonder….
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Wearing a dainty pair of white leather boots and a lovely afternoon gown—one of pale mint fabric with enormous gigot sleeves that looked like two hot air balloons about to carry her away, Marrin sat slurping from a bowl of potato soup as Carina’s governess prattled on. Only occasionally did Francine stop to reprimand Marrin’s poor manners or condemn her for gawking like this was her first time on a luxury steamer.
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“And what has happened to that frightful hair of yours?” Francine asked between quiet, refined spoonfuls of soup. “This ocean air seems to have curled it into an obscenity.”
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A waiter replaced the soup bowls with plates of poached cod Hollandaise fringed with steamed potatoes and carrots. Marrin took the moment to glance about the dining room in search of Carina. Where had she gone? What was she eating for luncheon? Would she grow hungry and suddenly appear to ruin Marrin’s revelry in first-class nobility?
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But Carina never appeared, leaving Marrin to the joy of a wonderful night’s sleep, aside from the governess’s intermittent nocturnal snorts and lip smacks. They were far more bearable than the loud, obnoxious snores of bunked passengers and the intermittent crying of babies in the crowded dormitory below deck.
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And as she lay on the gently rocking ship, she stared up at the moonlight glistening through the porthole onto the crystal sconce above the bed. What if she could trade lives with Carina? What if she could escape her indenture in Virginia and start anew with Carina’s uncle on his farm in California? What if…?
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