"Being Crazy," In 44 Chapters.

Name: Branwell

E-Mail: COMBS-BACHMANN@WORLDNET.ATT.NET

Date Finished: December 29, 1998

Rating: NC-17, Violence, Adult Situations

Category: T, A, UST, MSR, H for an adventure with angst and
undercurrents of romance and sexual tension and humor. I have
a really tough time with this labeling, so let me know how to
improve it if I'm misleading people.

Archiving permission: Anyone may feel free to archive this.
Just keep my name with it.

Time: Set between "The End" and "The X-Files Fight the
Future"

Spoilers: Numerous through Season 5, especially "Christmas
Carol," "Emily" and "The End."

Summary: The X-files are gone and Mulder is lost without
them. Scully is trying to keep things together for both of
them. In the middle of this crisis Scully receives a plea
for help from her brother Bill. She and Mulder must carry
out an unauthorized investigation of a crime to save Bill's
family. At the same time a memoir falls into Mulder's hands
that Scully's sister Melissa believed to be an account of a
Scully family member's past life. Mulder's curiosity
overcomes his sensible resolve to avoid reading the story
of a dark, difficult life that he and Scully supposedly
once shared. He doesn't want to believe in the authenticity
of the document. Then events in the present go out of
control and drive out every other consideration.

******************************

Chapter 1, End in Fire

Limbo. The Catholic Church had removed the belief in limbo from
its creed not long ago. Nevertheless that's where they were now. They
had a temporary office with broken-armed chairs that had been rejected
from all the other offices on that floor. Scully sat at the larger of
the mismatched desks, staring at the PC screen. Mulder sat at the
other desk staring at nothing at all.

Scully knew he was still seeing the ravaged file cabinets in
their old office. Much of the information in them probably still
existed in his head. But anything that had been filed for future study
was gone. Old cases that hadn't been examined in twenty years were
forever lost. There was nothing she could say to minimize the
calamity. She knew because she'd already tried.

They had reported here for several days and sat in silence,
while the FBI supposedly conducted an internal investigation into the
arson. Mulder hadn't even bothered to make a cynical joke about foxes
guarding henhouses. Their current assignment was to review a reissue
of the FBI Policies and Procedures Manual for Purchasing and Leasing.
Scully was looking at page one for the eighth time and the meaning of
it had not yet become clear to her.

She kept thinking about the past months since her recovery from
cancer. On the whole they had been frustrating and ineffectual. She
and Mulder had survived, no small feat, but they had solved few cases.
They had made no progress in their investigation of the government's
connection to mysterious experiments in biological weaponry. Instead
they had lost ground in their understanding when theories they
believed to be disproved were resurrected. With disasters on a greater
scale than ever before going on around them, the truth was even more
elusive than it had been in the past.

Then there were their personal lives, such as they were. She
thought that the worst part of the previous months was the pain and
tension in their relationship with each other. Immediately after her
recovery she had felt close to Mulder. Close enough to acknowledge to
herself that she loved him. She had even thought he might be trying to
reach out to her emotionally. Then they had disagreed over a document
Scully's mother had found among Melissa's personal papers. Melissa had
believed that it recounted a past lifetime where Scully and Mulder had
been lovers. Mulder had swallowed the whole story unquestioningly. He
was clearly upset when she denied any feeling of connection to that
life. But he never once suggested that he had similar feelings in this
life. Since then he seemed bent on putting as much distance between
them as possible, both emotionally and literally. He feared the
closeness they had experienced, or maybe he wanted to prove he was
uninfluenced by the story.

Of course she had to admit to pushing him away when he reached
out to her and offered support. After Emily's death she felt so
fragile that all her defenses would have crumbled if she had allowed
him to get close. God only knew what she might have said or done in
her extremity.

To top off the mess they were making of their partnership,
Mulder's old flame and colleague Diana Fowley recently showed up and
tried to insinuate herself into their working life. Scully thought
Diana probably believed six impossible things before breakfast,
including the phenomena of channelling and reincarnation. Scully
couldn't resist mentally trying Diana out in the roles of some of the
less admirable characters portrayed in Melissa's manuscript. She
scolded herself for enjoying the exercise. Poor Diana lay in a coma at
that very moment.

The circumstances resulting in her injury, however, did nothing
to increase Scully's respect for the woman's acumen. She had read the
crime scene report. There was window glass in the wound Diana
received, but no corresponding hole in the drape. Diana must have
opened the curtains and looked out the window while she was guarding
the target of a previous sniper attack! Her last assignment had been
as a member of team fighting international terrorism. Scully was
surprised she had lived to return to the states. It was a wonder she
hadn't perished while opening a piece of mail labeled "Letter Bomb."

*******************************

Mulder felt as though he were watching his life on a television
set. Frequently some unseen person with the remote muted the sound. He
had no control over the action on the screen. He watched his life, and
watched Scully watch him watch his life. What was his motivation
again?

Oh, yes, Samantha's abduction, the ur-X-file. It was gone,
stolen or burned.

Scully assured him that this lost, disoriented feeling would
pass. It was shock. He would feel anger, depression, grief,
acceptance. It sounded like the stages of dying. That was why he
thought Scully was wrong. He would never come out of this emotional
stasis because if he did the feelings would kill him.

*******************************

The phone rang and Scully answered it. After a few words she
hung up and looked at him with concern.

"I have to go to Skinner's office."

Mulder automatically started to get up, but she shook her head.

"He only wants me. Kim said it's personal. You don't need to go.
Probably it's some mix-up in my personnel records. "

Mulder sat back down and continued to scrutinize the fake wood
grain on the desktop.

The time that passed before Scully reappeared at the door could
have been 5 minutes or 5 hours for all he knew. What he saw when he
looked up jolted him briefly back into real-time. Scully had traces of
tears on her face, and a grief-stricken look.

"What's happened?" he asked, with almost his usual emphasis.

Scully was still too distressed to think about the effect her
news might have on Mulder.

"Skinner told me my Mom called. Matthew, my nephew, Bill and
Tara's baby, was kidnapped out of their house last night. He's just
disappeared."

Mulder noted sluggishly that someone had muted the sound again.
He heard an annoying buzzing instead of a voice, and the picture
started to dwindle too. Then he felt his chair being rolled back and
his head being pushed down toward his knees. His first attempts to
straighten up were unsuccessful, because two small hands placed
pressure firmly on the back of his neck.

Did there always have to be an open file on a mysterious child
abduction? Was it a law of nature? One file was destroyed, so another
one had to be created?

"When did you eat last, Mulder?"

"I don't remember."

"That's not recent enough. Come on. I'm sorry I blurted that out
so suddenly."

Scully took his hand and tugged. He got up mechanically and
walked alongside her. As the blood circulated normally through his
brain again, he began to think about how inappropriate this was.
Scully had just gotten terrible family news. She was shocked and
grieved. So what followed? He cracked under the pressure on her. She
took care of him, and in the process she apologized to him for
revealing her problem in an insensitive way. He took her arm and
stopped suddenly. As he tried to form the words to express his
sympathy, and his regret at being such a weak sister, he found he had
to lean against the hallway wall for support.

"It's OK Mulder. I know this is a terrible time for you," she
assured him.

Over his inarticulate protests Scully steered him into the
cafeteria, and seated him at a table. She turned up a few minutes
later with a tray full of food. It was an eclectic spread that
included fruit and cottage cheese along with sausage, sauerkraut, and
mashed potatoes.

Instead of the nausea he expected at the sight and smell of
food, Mulder felt his body gear up for digestion. Obviously his
physical self was determined to make the most of this opportunity.

Now that she had accomplished her mission, Scully sat down and
her face resumed its expression of anxiety and sorrow. Mulder didn't
want to give her any more trouble so he ate. As he systematically
emptied the plates in front of him, Scully related the few details she
had on the crime.

"I talked to Bill and then I called the detective in San Diego
who's heading the investigation. It's only been about six hours since
Tara found Matt's crib empty. He was gone when she went in to check on
him at six A.M."

Mulder made a conscious effort to switch on his profiling
persona and was gratified at the immediate results. Questions and
answers made sense again.

"Was anything else missing?"

"Nothing at all, so far as Tara can figure out. Of course she's
a basket case."

They both knew that the scenario wasn't the best. No ransom note
was found. The kidnappers didn't take diapers or clothes for the days
to come. Why not?

"Signs of breaking and entering?"

"None, so far."

After a moment's hesitation Scully continued slowly.

"They have a security system-a pretty good one. The doors and
windows are secured so that an alarm goes off in the security firm's
office when they're opened. The system has to be disabled with a code
to prevent that. There was no alarm last night. But Bill insists he
enabled the system before they went to bed last night."

Scully paused and then went on again.

"I'm taking time off and flying out there. I'm afraid the local
police are going to blow this case, Mulder. They're putting most of
their time into questioning the family and checking their alibis. I
think they've already made up their minds that Bill and Tara are
covering up child abuse and murder."

Mulder considered offering to accompany her. The awful memories
of his last visit to San Diego on Scully's behalf played themselves
out in unwanted detail at the thought. He remembered how reluctant
Scully had been to involve him at all. She only called him because she
needed his testimony at a custody hearing. The crisis that was Emily
exposed his betrayal of Scully's trust in him by forcing him to admit
he had known all along that her stolen ova were being used to create
some kind of monstrous hybrid children. For a while he believed she
would quit the X-files to mother the little girl who resulted from one
of these experiments. Their efforts to uncover the truth were useless.
They were helpless to save the child's life, and Scully let him know
that his emotional support was unnecessary and unwelcome. Why would
she want him now?

No, he really didn't need to see the closed off expression with
averted eyes that would follow his proposal. He didn't need to hear
the chilly "Thanks, but no thanks," response.

"Give me a call if there's anything I can do to help, Scully,"
he said, keeping his own eyes on his food. "If the authorities bring
in the FBI, I'll find out who's handling it and make sure all the
angles are covered."

Scully was saddened to realize that where once Mulder would have
offered his company without a second thought, he now held back. After
four years of steadily increasing trust and friendship between them,
why did they now devote so much energy to holding each other at arm's
length? She sat in silence thinking about what San Diego would be
like. Convincing the police to expand their investigation would be an
arduous job in itself. At the same time she would have to deal with
memories of Emily and the incredible suffering and fear of her
victimized family. Defeat seemed so certain it bowed her shoulders
with its preordained weight.

As the minutes of silence passed, Mulder looked up to see if
something were wrong. Scully's apprehension and loneliness were
painfully evident in her bearing. His reason admonished him to stay
out of it. What would happen to the carefully maintained space between
them if they were living en famille in San Diego? Besides, Bill hated
him. He'd be welcomed with all the enthusiasm a taxpayer reserves for
an IRS auditor. The local police would resent the hell out of him. If
Matthew was never recovered, his presence and participation would make
it his failure. Worst of all, what if it were his expertise that
pinned the crime on Bill or Tara?

His negative resolve, constructed at great emotional expense out
of impeccable logic, melted like ice on a griddle when he looked at
Scully. She might not think she needed him, but what if she did and he
weren't there? He owed her too much to let that happen.

"Scully, you wouldn't by any chance want me . . . .Maybe when
you get there you'll want me to fly out for a day to talk to . . . .I
don't want to complicate things . . . ."

"Would you come out with me?" she interrupted eagerly. "I felt
like I shouldn't ask. It's a terrible imposition."

Mulder was taken off guard by her swift acceptance.

"You know I won't cover up anything I find," he said warningly.

She nodded silently.

"Are you flying out with your Mom tonight?"

"Yes. We've got tickets for a direct flight to San Diego. It
lands at 3 A.M., Pacific time."

"I'll follow you out tomorrow night, Scully. You call me
tomorrow morning with the relevant names-employers, employees, former
employees, security company staff, neighbors, co-workers, etc., etc."

Scully watched as Mulder sat down at the PC and started scanning
FBI databases for patterns in infant kidnappings. She couldn't be
thankful for this dreadful event, but her pressing need had certainly
brought him, at least temporarily, out of what looked like a serious
depression.

"Thanks, Mulder," she offered.

"Don't forget any repairmen they've had recently," Mulder
replied. He was already focused on a particular case file.

Mr. Congeniality he would never be, Scully admitted to herself.
She took care of her leave arrangements and started home to pack. Her
Mom would be ready to go at 10 P.M. That should leave enough time to
get to the airport and through security.

When Scully opened her briefcase in her apartment, she realized
she had forgotten to bring home the old book her mother had given her
last Sunday at dinner. It was another item from her sister's research
materials. Her interest in New Age philosophy and medicine had led her
into many unusual areas of study. Her mother told her that Melissa had
pursued her interest in family histories connected to reincarnation
with a lot of enthusiasm until 1994. Then she had bundled all the
manuscripts and books away into storage and become more concerned with
meditation and prayer.

Mrs. Scully hadn't received any mysterious calls to draw her
attention to the book this time. Scully was very thankful for that.
She didn't want anything more to do with phone calls from the dead.
Unaware of the difficulties the other document had caused between her
daughter and Mulder, Maggie Scully had offered the book as a curiosity
and companion piece to the manuscript inherited from Aunt Kate. The
provenance of the book made its connection to their family even less
likely than that of Aunt Kate's "family history."

Scully remembered leaving the book on the shelf right over the
PC where Mulder was working. The memory didn't please her. While he
would never be Mr. Congeniality, he would beat out the entire Western
world for Mr. Curiosity. If the first few pages were any indication,
the story was downbeat---a bad influence on someone who was already
depressed. She had pretty much decided not to read it herself. Not
because she was depressed. It was because these supposed accounts of
past lives embarrassed and confused her. To have Mulder read it would
be worse than reading it herself. It would just re-open the whole
issue between them, and he would be especially vulnerable right now.

Scully acknowledged the fact of her screw-up with a shrug. It
was still possible he would overlook the book in the intensity of his
concentration on Matthew's disappearance. She couldn't be concerned
about it in the light of other problems.

On the flight to San Diego Scully found no comforting words for
her mother. She finally settled for holding her hand in silence while
she considered the practical questions. Bill had recounted some of the
police investigation for her. The parents were always the first
suspects in a case like this, but they should have been eliminated as
possibilities within hours. Instead they had been questioned
repeatedly on the same points. The Susan Smith and Jon Benet Ramsey
cases had every detective determined not to overlook the suspects
closest to home in their sympathy for the families of missing
children.

Scully had advised full co-operation, since that would put the
police back on track as soon as possible. She still felt an anxiety
close to panic when she thought about the actual criminals and the
head start they were getting while the police harassed Matthew's
family.

******************************

Mulder searched the crime databases until the cleaning crew
arrived at eight o'clock. He couldn't think of anything further to do
without names, so he prepared to leave the office. As he started down
the hall, he heard a voice behind him.

"Mister, you forgot your book."

He stopped and looked blankly at the young woman hurrying after
him with a tiny old volume in her hands.

"It looks like it might be valuable. It's so old."

He looked at the title-"Memoirs of a Journalist: An Account of
the Grave New Evils that Threaten Our Modern Civilization." Still
baffled, he opened the cover and found a letter that answered his
questions.

Biblioquest
P.O. Box 32841
Boston, MA

October 25, 1985

Dear Ms. Scully:

We are pleased to be able to send you a book that meets the criteria
specified in Ms. Zenith's letter of July 31, 1985, as follows:

1. Memoirs published between 1820 and 1850.
2. Authored or edited by a member of the Fox or Spinner families.
3. Dealing with events in London, England during the period from
1810 through 1815.

We never before dealt with a request that was simultaneously so
rigorously and so loosely defined. Working with these instructions
from someone who 'channels' from the spiritual realm was quite a
challenge. Miss Emily Brewster, the specialist who directed your
search, said it was the most interesting assignment she ever tackled.
In short, she was enthusiastic.

We are working on your other requests. The search for twelfth and
thirteenth century English documents relating to the Duke of Exeter
does not hold much promise. It appears most unlikely that anything
will be available on the market. Most such items are already in
collections belonging to a university or to the Crown. If anything did
go on auction, it would almost certainly exceed the price range you
specified by an order of magnitude.

In the other matter we are still hopeful. We found no attempted
lynchings in late nineteenth century Ohio which involved people with
the names you specified. However we are expanding the search
parameters, historically, geographically, and categorically.

Please encourage Ms. Zenith to refer other clients to our business
When they require a literary search. We look forward to working with
you in the future.

Your bill is being sent under separate cover.

Very truly yours,

Miles Van Dyne
Senior Manager

Wonderful! Things hadn't been the same between him and Scully
since they both read that first document Melissa dug up. He felt an
uncertainty in their relationship that was like teetering on the brink
of a precipice so high that he couldn't see the bottom from where he
stood. He wasn't going to repeat his earlier mistake and cause himself
a lot of inner turmoil by reading this book. OK, maybe it was true,
but apparently insight didn't always improve relationships. More
insight might destroy theirs entirely.

He thanked the young woman and tucked the book into his
briefcase. If it fell out into a dumpster somewhere he wouldn't miss
it. If it didn't he'd return it to Scully, unread, at some far future
date.

At home Mulder prepared for bed, turned his television to the
Sci-Fi channel, and lay down on the couch. He would astonish Skinner
by requesting leave tomorrow. The Bureau would be glad to get him out
of the way while the debate on what to do with him raged on.

He and Scully toiled down the steep dirt path that skirted the
cliff. The heat and humidity around them left them both wet with sweat
at the slightest exertion. But something was after them and they had
to keep moving. As they picked their way down, the path got narrower
and narrower, until they were clinging to vegetation on the hillside
to keep from falling. Finally the path itself disappeared and they
were crouching, trying to make progress across the angled cliffside.
They reached a place where ancient volcanic flows from above had
streamed down. The lava had hardened into folds of rock that looked
like a stone waterfall. It plunged a hundred feet to the rocks and sea
below.

A vine Mulder was using for just a little support gave way and
his precarious balance was lost. He rolled once and started slipping
toward the edge. Scully saw and lunged forward after him, grabbing for
his belt. She caught it, but her weight and purchase on the smooth
rock were not enough to stop his slide. He yelled at her to let go
just as they both went over the side.

Mulder woke up feeling just as sweaty as he had in the dream,
but it was a cold sweat. This nightmare first occurred last autumn and
now he had it at least once a week. So far he had always waked up when
they were in free fall. He hoped the dream never progressed to the
point of impact on the rocks below.

Scully's call came an hour later, at eight o'clock A.M.

"Scully, what's going on?"

"It's looking worse and worse. Detective Wagner doesn't believe
Bill's and Tara's story. He's not seriously considering other
possibilities. Some of his people are running other leads down, but I
think they're just going through the motions. I'm afraid Tara's going
to have a breakdown if they don't find something out soon."

"How's Bill holding up?" Mulder asked curiously.

"Oh, you know us Scullys. We're as tough as old boots."

Mulder imagined all the Scullys conscientiously meeting family
toughness standards, while poor Tara felt like a madwoman for being
distraught.

"I've got the names from Bill and Tara. They should be the same
ones the police have," Scully added.

Scully began to read off the names with their connections,
addresses and phone numbers. Mulder wrote them down, repeating the
spelling of each. When she had finished she sighed unconsciously at
the prospect of going back to dealing with her brother's household.

"Thanks again for helping, Mulder."

"Hang in there, Scully. I'll get there about 11 o'clock your
time. I'm going to rent a car."

He paused for a moment and exclaimed, "It must be five in the
morning there right now!"

"That's right, Mulder. Nobody's getting much sleep here. I'll
see you tonight."

When he arrived at the FBI building he slipped into their
temporary office and renewed his searches of the official databases.
The names Scully had given him didn't raise many flags. He learned
that the guy who cut their grass was a deadbeat dad, and that their
neighbor Dirk Goldman had a bad habit of soliciting middle-aged men in
public bathrooms. Marilyn Sharkey, the 72-year-old lady who lived
across the street, owed several thousand dollars on traffic tickets
received in Reno and Las Vegas. Mulder was impressed. They had
succeeded in living squeaky-clean, no insignificant achievement in
California. But he knew these sources barely scratched the surface. It
remained to be seen what kind of dirt the real pros could dig up.

Skinner could barely conceal his surprise and relief at Mulder's
announced intention to take leave. The last time he saw the agent he
feared Mulder was falling into a clinical depression. There had been
little time to think about it, since his own daily schedule was a
pressure cooker of highly charged meetings. Many of them involved the
future of the X-files and the agent in front of him.

"Are you going back to Graceland?" he asked with a smile, as he
signed the leave slip.

"No sir, I'm going out to the West Coast."

Skinner nodded absently.

"Give this to Kim on your way out. Have a good vacation."

Preoccupied with strategy for the 3 o'clock in Director Carter's
office, he didn't make the connection with Scully's situation until
Mulder had stepped into the outer office. Skinner moved quickly after
him, but Mulder had already disappeared. The infinite potential for
trouble that Mulder's words had unveiled made Skinner flinch.

"Kim, if a call comes for me from the San Diego Police
Department, try to handle it. Put them off if you can. I'll return the
call later."

Much, much later, he thought.

Chapter 2, Virtual Dirt

When Mulder showed up at the Lone Gunmen's place Frohike and
Langly were idly searching the net for unusual sources of information.

"Are you too busy to do some research for me?" Mulder inquired.

"Have you got something interesting?" Langly asked. "We're just
looking for additions to our personal info database. We've got a table
of topics and names we run daily for hits, just in case something
turns up to our disadvantage. Did you know that someone who calls
himself Zebulon has a website where he claims that you consulted him
as an expert on extraterrestrial phenomena? He says he was able to
clear up some difficulties you had with interpreting evidence."

"Somehow it doesn't surprise me, " Mulder said, shaking his head
resignedly. "Men, I'll bring back a case of Jolt and a pizza if you'll
dig up some dirt on these names."

"What did they do to get on your bad side?" Frohike questioned.

"Seriously, Frohike. Scully's nephew was kidnapped yesterday.
He's only a baby."

"Bummer," Langly sympathized.

Byers had entered in time to hear the last exchange.

"It's the ex-spouse. It's always the ex-spouse. I helped my
sister track down her little girl. My ex-brother-in-law had taken the
kid to Florida on a one-week vacation and didn't come back. He was the
world's worst father. He just didn't want Nikki to have her little
girl."

"Did you get her back?" Mulder asked.

"I sure did. And we made that man sorry he ever tangled with
us," Byers went on with unusual malice.

Langly gave an evil, reminiscent grin. Mulder couldn't keep a
hint of disbelief from his voice.

"Did you beat him up?"

"Certainly not. But if he ever gets credit again on this planet
I'll go back to a 486. Trust me, it's almost always an ex out for
revenge," Byers said with a wise look.

"It can't be an ex-spouse this time. Bill and Tara aren't
divorced, and neither one was married before. The police have all
these names, but unfortunately they've focused on Scully's brother and
his wife as the main suspects."

Langly took the list and looked at it. He handed it to Frohike.

"Here, let's get their social security numbers. When we've got
those, their asses are ours. And make that two pizzas, one
vegetarian," he flung back over his shoulder at Mulder.

When Mulder returned he had two and a half pizzas. The smell of
the pizza parlor had reminded him that he had neglected to eat again
today. He didn't want to do something inconvenient, like faint at the
airport. Mulder sat down beside Frohike, who was collating their
results.

"How's Diana doing?" Frohike inquired casually.

"She's no better and no worse," Mulder replied soberly.

"Were you going to hook up with her again, if she hadn't gotten
shot?"

Frohike prided himself on his sensitivity, but he didn't feel it
was required here. He was curious.

"If it's any of your concern, no. She was probably a mistake,"
Mulder replied stiffly.

"You think?" was Frohike's sarcastic answer. "You've got an
unerring instinct for finding the women that'll make love hurt, don't
you, buddy?"

Mulder ignored him. Having Mulder around always raised morale at
the Lone Gunmen's hangout. His apparent failure to appreciate his
partner made them feel like his emotional and social superiors. They
all agreed he was doomed when it came to women. Langly argued that it
was a good thing, since it left him free to concentrate on
conspiracies.

"Well, I'm afraid there's a reason the police are concentrating
on Scully's brother and his wife," Frohike observed after scanning the
results of the search. "You probably already knew about these," he
continued. "These are the results of running the names you gave me."
He riffled through the stack, muttering as he went. "Hmm, arrests for
soliciting, traffic violations, pornography purchases but nothing
younger than pseudo teenager, behind $5,000 in child support payments,
registered as possible threat to the President."

"We also ran William and Tara Scully," he said, handing over a
paper. "Did your lovely partner tell you Tara was treated for
postpartum depression in February? She's still seeing a doctor and
taking Prozac."

"Geez, do you know what size bra she wears? Don't answer that,"
Mulder added hastily. "Bill's not a nineties kind of guy. He doesn't
share much and he and Scully don't talk that often. I doubt if he told
her. If he did, she didn't tell me."

Mulder knew that a mental condition like that would be a red
flag for the detective on the case. Did Tara lose control with a fussy
baby and Bill decide to cover for her? Neither possibility fit with
his experience of the Scully family. However his acquaintance with
Tara was minimal, and interactions with Bill had been either covertly
or openly hostile on Bill's side. His doubts about participating
loomed again based on this discovery. He stood up and packed the
papers into his briefcase.

"I know I speak for Scully too when I say thanks for your help.
My flight leaves in two hours. I'll read these in detail on the plane.
We'll find Matthew."

Dead or alive, Mulder added silently. He couldn't stand
it if this investigation remained unsolved, as his sister's
disappearance had. He was a grown-up this time. He'd do whatever it
took.

Chapter 3, Uneasy Allies

Mulder was relieved that Bill and Tara no longer lived in the
same house Scully visited previously. At least her memories wouldn't
be quite so overwhelming. After Matt was born, the family had moved
out of base housing. It was a about an hour's drive from the airport
to their new home. Like many homes here it was built on a street
carved terrace-style from the side of a hill. Across the street was
the hill leading up to the next level of houses. He saw there was
still a scarcity of sleep in the Scully residence. Every window in the
two-story stucco building appeared to be lit.

Scully answered the door. Mulder noted approvingly that she wore
a jacket, which meant she was wearing her holster and gun. Then he
registered her unreserved smile of welcome and found himself smiling
back. He barely stopped himself in time from enveloping her in a hug.

"I feel better knowing you're here. Thanks for coming," Scully
told him.

"No problem. I'm really sorry this has to happen to anyone, but
your family has suffered too much. Good evening, Maggie," he said, as
Scully's mother entered the hall.

"Hello, Fox. I want to thank you for coming out here to help.
It's a lot to ask. My poor children," she faltered, her voice wavering
slightly. "Well that doesn't help, does it? I'll show you where you'll
be sleeping. You can leave your bag there."

Mulder thought Bill Scully must be making pretty good money. The
house was large, although placed on a typically small California lot.
There were four doors in the upstairs hall in addition to his assigned
bedroom.

"Dana and I are sharing this room," Mrs. Scully said, pointing
to the room across the hall from his. "That's the bathroom," she
added, indicating the next door toward the end of the hall. "Bill and
Tara's room is on the left at the end and the baby's room is across
from theirs."

Mulder saw light coming from under the door of the baby's room.

"Is someone in there?" he inquired.

"Tara," Mrs. Scully answered, looking anxiously at the door.
"She's hardly come out during the past day and a half."

He put his suitcase and briefcase in the bedroom. The lack of a
TV was a disappointment, but perhaps there was a portable one
available.

"It's 4 A.M. your time. You'd probably like to get some sleep
before you start talking to people," Mrs. Scully offered.

There was a questioning note in her voice that betrayed her hope
that Mulder would decide to start work immediately. Which was exactly
what he intended to do.

"I don't want to lose any time. Is Bill around, able to talk?"

She nodded and started down the stairs ahead of him.

Mulder knew that Bill would be the most difficult person to deal
with. He might as well get the initial sparring over with. Scully was
waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs. She had clearly
anticipated his plan of action.

"I'll take Mulder to Bill, Mom. I need to speak to him first."

Scully gestured to Mulder to follow her into the kitchen area.
Only a low counter separated it from the family room.

"There was a new development this afternoon. Bill got a call at
work from an unknown person. The caller was a man, who said, 'I'll
settle for half of what you owe me.' He hung up immediately. Bill
called security right away. It took hours to trace the call, and it
turned to be a public phone near a busy gas station. The attendant
said the phone gets a steady stream of users, and they don't even have
to get out of their cars. The history records on the phone confirmed
that. They're running checks on non-cash purchases made at the gas
station at that time, but I doubt if the kidnapper was that careless."

"Have the police put a tap on the phone lines here?"

"Yes, they did that within the first six hours."

"Are they looking more seriously into other suspects now?"

Scully frowned as she answered.

"No, that's the part that's starting to drive us crazy. Nobody
else heard what was said. Security at the installation is permitted to
record calls, but they usually don't. So the police suggested that
Bill took an opportunity to divert suspicion to a stranger when he
received a call from someone who got a wrong number. They're even
hinting that he arranged with Tara to go out and make the call."

"Wasn't your mother here with her?"

"No, Mom had gone out for about an hour to do some grocery
shopping when the call came. It's so frustrating, Mulder. The trail is
getting colder and colder."

"Why did Bill go in to work today? Didn't Tara want him to stay
home?"

Scully looked surprised at the question.

"His position has a lot of responsibilities. He had to go in to
set up a process to delegate some of his duties and make arrangements
to postpone some exercises."

'Iron Bill' Mulder thought, remembering how Scully came to work
the day after her father's funeral. Mulder worked all the time and
people called him weird. These people did the same thing and were
praised for dedication. It must be a style thing.

"He brought some work home. He's in the den with it right now."

"Scully, first, did you know that Tara was treated for
postpartum depression last winter?"

"No, I didn't. I would have told you. I know that affects how
the police view the case." Scully looked thoughtful. "That explains a
lot about Tara's condition now."

Bill sat behind a huge, well-organized wooden desk that faced
away from a large curtained window. The effect was to make anyone
entering the room feel as though they were in the presence of The
Boss. His expression was grim as he marked up various charts and
schedules. He looked up and his face underwent a change that surprised
Mulder. He smiled uncertainly and came out from behind the desk to
shake Mulder's hand.

"Mulder, I can't tell you how much I appreciate your involving
yourself in this. I know you're doing it for Dana, but . . .I know I
haven't always been as understanding of your position as I should."

"It's OK, Bill. I'm doing this for Matt. Don't worry about it."

Mulder shook the proffered hand and then turned away abruptly.
Bill looked a little taken aback, but also relieved.

"Let's work over there," Mulder suggested, pointing to a large
table that held only a ship model.

"Sure," Bill said. "Do you need anything? Pencil, paper,
coffee?"

"Not yet," Mulder replied, holding up his cassette recorder.

The three of them sat down at the table and Mulder asked Bill to
tell him the whole story from the beginning. It became obvious that
Bill had been over the story so often that he had it by rote.

"On Monday night I worked late. I didn't get home until about
8:30. I used the system code to enter the side door and reset it after
I got in the house. Matt was already in his crib asleep. Tara and I
had some salad and fish for dinner. Then she woke Matt up to feed him
before we sent to bed at 11:30. She's hoping he'll start sleeping
through the night if she does that. She gets so tired being waked up
every single night. I worry about her. We didn't wake up until my
alarm went off at 6 o'clock. We were so pleased he had slept through.
That's a memory that'll be hard to live with."

Bill had to stop and regain control of his voice.

"Tara went in to check on him while I was shaving. She screamed-
--God I'll never forget that terrified scream. I just about keeled
over. I thought he must be dead. You know, one of those crib deaths.
She kept screaming while I went rushing in. I asked Tara to search the
house while I called the police. She was pretty irrational about it,
but I had time to look too, before the police got there. There was no
sign of breaking in or out. The security system was set properly.
There was just nothing. No Matthew."

Here Bill covered his face with his hands, but it didn't look
like a rehearsed gesture. He was a man trying to hide deep pain under
a paper-thin veneer of control.

"I don't know if I can come back from this," he murmured, almost
to himself. "I've come back from some other things---but this? I don't
know."

Scully forced her thoughts away from Emily. Her own daughter had
died here in San Diego about six months ago. She had come back from
that. Most of the way, anyhow. The emotions knotted up with Emily's
death were so complex she avoided thinking about the experience. She
tried to keep it confined to the mental cellar where other memories
connected to her abduction were shut away.

Mulder started asking questions.

"Do you have a good code on your security system?"

"I work with security systems that control access to nuclear
devices. I know how to put together a good code."

"Do you change it frequently?"

At this Bill looked shamefaced.

"No, Tara says she can't remember which one is valid when I do
that. I haven't changed it in the five months since we moved here."

"Do you know of anyone who believes you have a lot of money?"

"No, we live like our neighbors, from paycheck to paycheck with
huge mortgages and credit card debt."

It was with his next question that Mulder hoped to make some
progress.

"Do you know of anyone with a serious grudge against you? Not a
squabble over a power tool or who gets the office with a window, but
someone who blames you for a serious injury? It doesn't have to be
true---they just have to believe it's true."

"The police asked me about that too, but I can't think of
anything. We get along fine with our neighbors. I've gotten promotions
over people, but they haven't come through deceit or unfairness. I
haven't had to discipline anyone over a serious matter in years.
Everything's been handled quietly through proper channels. Nobody's
career was ever ended, although sometimes there were setbacks."

"Would anyone at the base go through your records with Scully to
identify possible suspects?"

"They might, with my permission. But surely the police have done
that."

"I'm not sure they've given it their full attention. Please make
arrangements for that tomorrow."

"I'll do that," Bill agreed, making a note.

"Now I'm going to ask harder questions that you have to answer
honestly if you want me to stay and help you. Have you had any
romantic or sexual relationships outside your marriage? Women, men,
children, sheep, whatever. The point isn't to convince yourself that
you've met some technical standard of faithfulness. It's to help us
save Matt's life by dealing honestly with the possibilities."

"I know exactly what you mean," Bill answered, his face turning
red. "The answer is no. It would be wrong. To tell the truth I've
never been tempted. Tara and I love each other. I don't do anything
that could jeopardize that."

Scully's eyes stung when she heard her stolid brother's open
avowal of his feelings. She understood exactly how he felt.

On a personal level, Mulder tried to imagine not even being
tempted. He failed, but then recollected that the love Bill spoke of
included a real-life sexual relationship. That would probably tend to
take the edge off. As an investigator he noted the deep feeling for
Tara that might lead Bill to cover up her misdeeds.

"Have you run up any kind of gambling debts or borrowed money
from loan sharks?"

"Nothing like that, unless you count Chase Manhattan Visa as a
loan shark. We only owe the usual people for the usual things."

"Have you or Tara ever been counseled or treated for any mental
condition that would make the police suspicious of you?" Mulder threw
in, as casually as he could.

Bill gave him a sharp glance, while Mulder made it his business
to look preoccupied with the cassette recorder. Silently he was
rooting for Bill to tell the truth. The man seemed so genuine---Lord,
how he didn't want to have a hand in putting Scully's brother in
prison!

"You already know, don't you," Bill charged angrily.

Mulder returned Bill's angry glare with an impassive stare.

"Tara suffered from postpartum depression after Matt was born.
It's a chemical imbalance in the brain, probably brought on by the
changes in hormone levels that happen during pregnancy and birth. At
least that's what the doctors tell me." Bill rubbed his eyes tiredly.
"Sometimes I wonder, though, if what Dana put us through around the
time Matt was born had something to do with it. That was enough to
depress anybody."

Mulder didn't dare look at Scully's face. He didn't want to
witness her struggle to conceal her sorrow at the memory and her hurt
at the implied accusation. She had gone very still at her brother's
words. Granted, Bill was under an enormous amount of pressure. Still,
didn't he realize how cruel it was to suggest Scully was somehow to
blame because they became witnesses of Emily's tragedy? And Scully
could never have any other children. Mulder had an impulse to take one
of her hands in his, but he restrained himself.

Scully was the doctor, but the next words were clearly up to
him.

"Did Tara ever show signs of neglecting or harming Matt while
she was depressed?" Mulder inquired.

He gave Bill credit for giving the question careful thought.

"She wanted to sleep all the time when she was going through the
worst of it. I had a couple of baby nurses in for about a month. After
that the Prozac started helping and she did all right. She never got
angry at Matt, or did anything to endanger him."

"You should have given us the names of the nurses on that list.
We can't help if we don't know everything that might be related."

"I guess whoever did this took our right to privacy too," Bill
said with resignation. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make things
difficult."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, Bill. It happens to a lot of
women and they recover completely," Scully comforted. Her voice was
shaky to begin with, but gained firmness as she went on.

Mulder had always known Scully was tough. Now he had the
opportunity to see how some of her armor had been acquired. It wasn't
a pretty sight, but he was honest enough to admit that the process had
created the perfect partner for him. Scully rarely challenged him with
an emotional response. She had slipped a few times.

He'd never forget one of those occasions, no matter how much he
wanted to. It was at the end of the case involving murders attributed
to the mentally handicapped Harold Spuller. Scully confessed that she
had been too frightened about the implications for her own mortality
to tell him about seeing a ghostly image of one the victims. He had
berated her, implying that she was acting against him by withholding
information. That memory was a real treat to contemplate while she lay
dying in the hospital later that year.

How much right had he to be critical of Bill Scully for his
insensitivity? He had done plenty to plug up any chinks left in
Scully's armor when he met her. When she turned away from him at the
time of Emily's death he should have rejoiced that she had learned to
leave him out of her emotional life. To his surprise he'd felt lost
and hurt. He realized that he missed the difficult and perilous work
of communicating with Scully on a deeper level. But it was for the
best, wasn't it?

"We need to talk to Tara," he informed Bill.

"She's not doing too well at the moment," Bill stated flatly.
"She stays in Matt's room and cries continually. She keeps playing the
music she used to get him to go back to sleep at night. He's so fussy
at night for a six-month-old. This past month Tara was just getting
back to her normal self."

Bill's eyes had a far off look that seemed to be fixed on a
happier time.

"Never mind me," he sighed. "I know you have to talk to her. If
you don't, and you don't find Matt, she'll never be normal again
anyway. Good night, and thanks again to both of you."

Chapter 4, Lullabies

Outside the den Scully turned to Mulder.

"I think I'll go sit with Mom for a while. I already tried
talking to Tara but . . . .Maybe Bill is right. Maybe what happened
with Emily was a factor in her depression and I remind her of it. You
might do better by yourself."

Mulder could hear the sadness in her voice, although her face
was carefully controlled. Once again he felt like reaching out, and
again told himself to leave well enough alone. Scully could always
rely on her mother for support.

"Sure. I'll see what I can do."

He ascended the stairs and knocked at the door of Matt's room.
There was no answer, although he could hear lively music playing.
Perhaps she had fallen asleep. He inched the door open and saw that
Tara sat with her eyes closed in a large rocking chair. She held a
stuffed bear over her shoulder as though she were rocking a baby.
Mulder braced himself for an unpredictable interview, and hoped he
wouldn't be dealing with a woman who'd gone over the edge.

"Tara," he spoke softly.

She opened her eyes slowly.

"Fox Mulder," she identified him. "Have you found him for me?"

Her face changed from apathetic to eager, and animation entered
her voice. He had seen the same look on the faces of people crowding
around the podium in a faith healer's tent.

Mulder was expecting the changes in appearance consistent with
depression, but was still surprised at how different she looked.
Tara's long blond tresses were gone. The new short cut had been
neglected, so it looked lifeless and stringy. Her movements were
sluggish. She had gained weight and her face was puffy.

"No, I just got here. I need to ask you some questions to help
me find Matt."

He looked around the room scattered with Matt's baby things and
filled with lilting music.

"Maybe we should go to another room where you can concentrate
better," he suggested.

"Oh no, I'm waiting here. I want to be right here when they
bring Mattie home."

"OK, we can work here. Are you sure you're up to answering
questions? Bill said it was all right, but I can wait . . . ."

"I'm fine," she interrupted. "As Bill would say, if you ripped
his heart out and stomped it flat. I'm fine. As fine as anyone can be
walking around with that handicap."

Her belligerence faded quickly to lethargy. Then she roused
herself a little to continue talking.

"Bill told me about the things that have happened to his family.
He told me about your sister too. Have you been fine since she went
missing?"

"No, I never have. I've always thought my sister's disappearance
ruined my whole life. I'm never going to get past it, because of the
way it twisted my family and me. That's one reason why I want to find
Matt for you. I don't want to see your family destroyed without having
a chance."

After a pause Mulder went on.

"That's probably more truth than you need to hear right now. But
people want you to do your grieving and recovery on schedule these
days. Tell them to take a flying leap."

Then Tara volunteered the information Mulder was hesitant to
pursue with someone so delicately balanced on the edge of collapse.

"I was just beginning to feel like a good mother during the past
two months. I had to take hormone shots to get pregnant. You have no
idea how hard it is to manage fertility treatments when one of you is
on active duty in the military. And what those shots do to your moods!
We were so happy while I was expecting. Then poor Dana came out here
at Christmas. I felt sorry for her and Emily but what happened made me
scared. I kept imagining how I'd feel if our baby got sick and died
like that. When Matt was born healthy Bill said we'd beaten the curse.
Everything was the way it should be.

"So why was it harder and harder to get out of bed to take care
of our baby? I was so anxious about doing everything right. If I did
the wrong thing Mattie might die. While I was sleeping I didn't have
to worry about it. Finally Bill came home one evening and I hadn't
gotten up all day, except to feed Matt and change his diaper. Bill
took me to the doctor the next day. We didn't wait for an appointment
at the base hospital. It takes too long, and Bill didn't really want a
record in his file. We went to Dr. Lenninger. He told Bill to hire a
baby nurse and started me on Prozac. I went to a counselor once a
week. Those next few weeks were the worst. Bill kept expecting me to
get better, but it doesn't work right away. A few of those days, I
swear I thought hard about getting in the car and heading for the
highway. What if I didn't quite miss the overpass going 75 miles per
hour? No more pain, that's what."

This reasoning came uncomfortably close to some of Mulder's own
occasional musings.

"But you didn't do it. You came through and started feeling
better," he suggested.

"Yes, really slowly things started to get easier. Melanie said
to kick back and take it one day at a time."

Tara stopped and looked at Mulder as though she had just
remembered his presence.

He had perked up at the mention of a new name.

"Who's Melanie?" he encouraged her.

"A friend who came over a few days when we couldn't get a
nurse."

"You like her?"

"Yes. She took care of Matt but she talked to me too."

Mulder sensed for the first time that something was being held
back. Now was the time to back off and win her confidence.

At that moment his concentration was destroyed by the song
issuing from the CD player. It was tune for the fiddle that shouldn't
have stood out so sharply from among the other traditional Scottish
songs. He was bewildered by a welter of emotions that boiled up inside
him from no traceable cause---elation, despair, soul-destroying guilt,
love, the bitterest hatred imaginable, and a longing so painful that
he thought he was going to have to leave the room. The melody ended
abruptly. He became aware that he had been sitting mute for two
minutes. Tara sat rocking with her eyes closed, apparently not
noticing his sudden silence. He felt as though he had been taken
someplace else entirely and then unceremoniously dropped back here.

"That was an interesting song," he commented.

Tara didn't respond.

"Tara, did you ever give your doctor the code to your security
system here?"

"Why on earth would he need that?"

"How about the nurses who took care of Matt?"

"No, they came and went when Bill did. They didn't need it."

"Is Melanie a neighbor of yours?"

"No, she lives in a another suburb."

"How did she end up helping you out?"

"She's the sister of an officer who was under Bill's command.
When Matt was born he told Bill she was crazy about babies and would
love to baby sit. She works as an aerobics instructor every other day,
but on off days she could help."

"Do the police have her name?"

"I suppose so. Bill gave them everyone's name."

"Did Melanie need your security code?"

"No." Tara answered so quickly that her answer overlapped the
question.

"Something about Melanie bothers you, doesn't it Tara?"

"No. She's so easy to be around. Sometimes easier than . . .
people I'm closer to."

"Is it hard to live up to the Scully family expectations
sometimes?" Mulder asked with an understanding smile.

"She wasn't always watching me, comparing what I did to what I
used to do. I could just relax. The trouble is . . . ."

Mulder restricted himself to a mildly interested look and hoped
that Tara needed to talk.

"I don't remember everything about her visits. Look you can't
tell Bill. You can't tell anybody. She brought this dynamite weed a
couple times. I hadn't smoked since college. They'd take away Bill's
security clearance if they found out. But I was so miserable."

"So you smoked some to relax."

"We went outside where the bushes screen off the yard from the
sidewalk. Afterwards we'd go in and pig out on Oreos and Ben and
Jerry's ice cream. Melanie brought the food. Bill doesn't like to have
junk food in the house."

"No harm done though," Mulder observed.

"No harm, but the thing is I'd never smoked anything that strong
before. I was so wasted a few times I don't remember everything that
happened."

"So, when was the last time Melanie came over?"

"It was the middle of March. After that we didn't need anyone
anymore. Bill and I started smiling at each other again. Until Tuesday
morning."

"Bill says you both got up as usual."

"I went in to get Mattie and tell him what a good boy he was to
sleep all night," Tara said in a crooning voice. "But he wasn't
there," she finished in a wail that brought back the memory of his
mother's uncomprehending cry after Samantha's disappearance.

"Fox, do you think aliens took Mattie?" Tara choked out between
sobs. "I know Bill doesn't believe that's possible, but . . . .Please
tell me what you think."

Mulder was thankful that he could mitigate that fear.

"I haven't come across anything that suggests that, Tara. I
think this is human evil, and I promise you I'll do my best to solve
it. I'm going to leave now and do some thinking. Don't you want to lie
down and sleep so you'll be able to take of Mattie when we find him?"

"Don't you understand? I've slept enough. I just want one more
chance to be a good mother."

Sometimes Scully just led him to a plate of food or a handy
couch when he wasn't being sensible. He didn't know Tara well enough.
Someone else would have to do that for her. He slipped out of the room
quickly. Another song was beginning and he was feeling the same onset
of emotional turmoil that he had before. This time the sensation was a
heart-rending sadness. He didn't like the agitation or the sensation
of being displaced from the here and now.

He found Scully and her mother in the kitchen starting a pot of
hot cereal and cutting up fresh fruit.

"Any chance of bacon and eggs?" he asked.

Maggie Scully looked distressed.

"They never buy fatty foods. I'll run out and get some in a few
minutes."

"Whoa. I was just kidding. I'll have what everybody is having,"
Mulder was quick to protest.

Maggie went from looking harassed to blank. She handed him a
bowl and spoon and hurried over to start cleaning and chopping
vegetables for some other meal.

Scully and Mulder went into the dining room with their cereal to
talk privately.

"You were right about Tara associating you with her problems,
Scully. She's very confused. I learned some things that are new to me,
but they'll have to be handled carefully. I don't think she's told
anyone else."

Mulder related the story told by Tara about Melanie and the pot
smoking.

"Bill would kill her if he found out," Scully said worriedly at
the end of it.

"Under the circumstances we'd better be careful about using that
kind of language," Mulder reminded her. "Today I'm going to try to
talk with the detective---his name is Wagner, right? I'll decide how
much to share after I meet him. Will you be going out to the base
personnel office?"

"If Bill's commanding officer gives the OK."

"You better use any clout your father's name has here. The Navy
won't be thrilled to have civilians inspecting their files."

"I know. I'm also going to call Commander Johansen first thing.
We've got some credibility there."

Scully stood up.

"I'm going to get a couple hours sleep and then start the phone
calls. I'll meet you back here later on."

At 9 A.M. Mulder was sitting in the most uncomfortable
fiberglass chair ever built. Detective Wagner had told him he would
fit him in whenever there was a break in his schedule. An hour later
it was clear that only a statistician using chaos theory could predict
such an event. Mulder had already scanned "Gun World" and the "True
Blue Law Enforcement Officer Supply Catalog." He rooted around in his
briefcase twice and only came up with one resource to allay boredom---
the scorned "Memoirs of a Journalist." All right, he told himself,
I'll read it like fiction, and if it gets horrible, which it probably
will, I'll stop.

Chapter 5, An Unpublishable Memoir

"Memoirs of a Journalist: An Account of the Grave New Evils that
Threaten Our Modern Civilization."

Privately published, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 1855

This book is our memorial to our mother, Sara Fox Spinner. She
worked her whole life to accomplish its publication, but failed to
overcome the reluctance of the publishing world to become associated
with the hard truths of life.

As we promised her before her death six months ago, we are
printing the manuscript ourselves. Unfortunately we believe the effort
is a futile gesture in these sentimental and corrupt times.
Nevertheless, maybe one soul will be inspired by the story of these
brave people to some act of courage or selflessness that will justify
its existence. Maybe one exceptional person will be enlightened in the
pursuit of truth.

Morgan Spinner, Horace Spinner and Amelia Spinner Biddle

Foreward, Philadelphia, September 9, 1815

My dear brother Morgan died six months ago on Feb. 14, 1815. How
much sorrow those words encompass only I can know. People tell me that
time softens all grief. Thus far, I do not believe them. He was the
person dearest to me on earth, and I will never have another such
companion. I can only hope to find some consolation in dedicating
myself to his last request.

For months he devoted himself to a mission that he believed was
worth dying for. It killed him. After he collapsed on Christmas Eve he
asked me to do something for him. What you, gentle reader, are about
to peruse is a collection of writings that Morgan asked me to edit and
publish. It is a story told by three people, and I am one of them. The
other two are dead now.

Morgan wanted our story told to warn others of the new criminal
element springing up in our modern world. Influential secret groups
already exist that transcend national boundaries. They value nothing
but power for their own ends. To them war is a profitable condition
that creates markets and distracts people from legitimate concerns
about their liberty. We must be vigilant to seek them out and expose
them.

There is another cause, dear to my own heart, which these
writings may also serve to advance. I am proud to identify myself as a
bluestocking, and an ardent supporter of equal rights for women. The
story of our sweet friend Amelia is an example of the tragedy that
follows from our benighted society's outrageous treatment of women.
Women are not just encouraged, they are forced, to rely on the support
of a father, brother or husband. If this support fails they are
abandoned to become the prey of the lowest types of men. Once fallen,
no woman is permitted to retrace her steps to the upright path from
which she strayed. These monstrous injustices must and will be
rectified. I work toward this goal in the schoolroom daily, and dearly
wish this book might play some small part in changing the beliefs of
the uninformed.

I warned Morgan that we risked the refusal of publishers by
including the unvarnished truthful details. He said, with considerable
emotion, that softening the narrative would be an insult to Amelia,
who had to live those details. I promised to conceal nothing, and to
strive constantly to bring this manuscript to the attention of the
public.

Morgan was a journalist, so he was in the habit of keeping a
written record of important events in his life. He encouraged Amelia
to start a similar diary. When he realized he would not live to tell
their story himself, he requested my assistance. At his behest I
combined their accounts with portions of my own journal from this
period. I cut what was irrelevant, repetitious or tedious from all
accounts, and added explanations and transitions where they were
needed. The headings indicate the source of the text, and the date of
the events that entry contains. I had to approximate many dates since
multiple days were often covered within one entry, and the entry was
usually written some time after the events took place.

Let the reader be warned; Morgan was a passionate man, whose
profession is notorious for its irreverence and cynicism. He shared
these traits. Amelia received a blameless upbringing, but her later
life contained many incidents which can scarcely be mentioned without
offending the sensibilities of the gently bred. I beg the reader's
pardon before the fact. However, if the things set down here
discomfort you, please remember it is the life of our urban age itself
which sickens your soul.

Sara Fox

Chapter 6, A Past Life Resurrected

Morgan's Journal, Feb. 3, 1814

February 3rd was the third day of the Frost Fair. At dusk many
people still remained on the frozen expanse of the Thames, giddy with
the excitement of standing where boats usually floated. My sister and
I had been here for several hours. Sally was enjoying it so much I
made up my mind to bear with the cold and stay until all the tented
stalls had closed up for the night. Perhaps I could write something
about it for "The Times." Our excuse for treating ourselves to the
fair was the celebration of my rise in salary as a reporter for the
newspaper. The new steam powered presses would increase circulation
enough to justify higher pay and more reporters.

Despite her total lack of belief in astrology, palmistry, the
tarot or any other form of fortunetelling, Sally insisted on entering
the gypsies' tent and hearing her future prophesied. I stayed outside
and listened to the hardy Scottish fiddlers playing for copper and
silver. The lanterns hung amongst the tents were beginning to swing as
the wind picked up. Their movement threw wildly dancing shadows over
the ice, giving the remaining huddled crowds a mysterious,
otherworldly look.

"Play us 'Tonight My Sleep Will be Restless,'" a man requested,
dropping coins into the fiddle case carefully placed on a shawl in
front of the players. His accent identified him as a Scotsman himself.

They began a tune that was calculated to make anyone's sleep
restless, with its sad, seeking melody. My breath was beginning to
freeze on my scarf. I had pulled it up almost to my eyes, at Sally's
insistence. Sometimes her solicitude was overpowering, but I tried to
be patient, since we had no other family than each other. She worried
that I was too skinny, and had too many chest complaints.

A small, thin woman wearing only a shawl over her dress was
moving through the crowd hesitantly. I watched her because I thought
she might be a pickpocket, but realized that her hands were probably
too cold and numb to work that trick. She could be a prostitute. That
approach would only be an excuse for begging under these
circumstances. There was no place for her to go with a prospective
cull. The entertainers, or market men and women would take her in
custody if they saw her trying her game. They coveted a respectable
reputation for the fair, so families would attend.

Her face was hidden in the shadow of the bonnet she wore, but I
could tell she was looking at me. Another man in the crowd requested a
highland reel from the fiddlers. They obliged, preceding the song with
a warning to the crowd that they were too cold to play much longer
tonight.

"Do you have any copper to spare tonight, sir?" she asked, in a
voice that had the whine characteristic of many of her kind.

I nodded my head while digging a few coins out of my pocket for
her. At that moment Sally came bouncing around me, her brown curls
flying about with her movement.

"Morgan, would you have guessed? I'm going to marry an
American!" she laughed.

I saw the woman jump, and then begin to retreat hastily. Before
she could turn away completely a gust of wind caused a nearby lantern
to illuminate her face. I was stunned into immobility for a few
seconds. Then I started after her, calling her name.

"Amelia, wait a minute. I want to talk to you. Amy, wait."

She moved over the snowy cinder path more quickly than I would
have thought possible for someone in ordinary shoes. But my boots gave
me a telling advantage, so I began to catch her up. She reached the
embankment stairs ahead of me by only a dozen paces. Then she slipped
on the glazed stone steps and fell backwards, hitting her head on the
ice. She didn't move. I hadn't meant to frighten her.

Sally was close behind me. She told me later that she hadn't
recognized Amy until I called her name. When I picked her up from the
ice, Sally was already taking off her coat to cover the unconscious
woman.

"Sally, it's Amelia Sullivan. Do you remember her from
Chitterton? She made daisy chains for you," I said foolishly.

"Yes, I remember now. What are you going to do with her?"

That question had no simple answer. Sally chafed her wrists and
held drops of sal volatile on a handkerchief under her nose with no
result. Some people were approaching from the nearby tents to find out
what the problem was.

"Was she making immoral propositions or stealing from you? Shall
I have her taken up by the watch?" one burly merchant questioned.

"No, we know her. She fell and hurt herself," I informed him.

He looked doubtful, but made an offer.

"Do you want a hackney to carry her home? I can send a boy."

"Yes, please."

When he disappeared behind the pie tent, Sally asked her
question again.

"I guess I'll have to take her to a hospital," I replied
reluctantly. "You can't take her back to the Square, and Mrs. Mobley
wouldn't let her stay in my rooms."

"I think you're right. You know what she is now, don't you?"
Sally inquired straightforwardly.

"No, I'm not sure of what she is," I answered shortly.

Usually I appreciated Sally's candor, but I didn't want to think
about the meaning of what had happened. Sally said no more. Her
shivering worried me, but I couldn't bring myself to put Amy down on
the ice to give Sally my coat. I was relieved to hear the driver's
call from the top of the stairs. After I carried Amy up the stairs and
deposited her in the cab I insisted that Sally wrap herself up
immediately.

There was no difficulty at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. They were
there to minister to this kind of patient. As in all of the hospitals,
they don't change sheets between patients and mortality is far higher
than among those nursed at home, but at least it was shelter. The nun
in charge of the ward checked Amy for a skull fracture and found none.
She directed her assistants to make her comfortable in a bed.

"She'll probably be all right after sleeping and eating. She's
been on the streets, hasn't she?" the nun asked.

"We think so," Sally answered for me.

I was going through the bag she carried for something that would
tell me where she lived. There was a handbill for the Cyder Cellar
tavern, but nothing else to associate her with a particular place in
London. Sally had to get back to Hughes Square soon. Lady Shelton
thought of her as a friend as well as a governess, but it wouldn't be
appropriate for her to be out too late.

With great misgiving I decided to write a letter and leave it
for Amy. In it I asked her to contact me for old time's sake, and left
my lodging house address and the address of "The Times." I couldn't
decide what to do about money. Even at fifteen she had a strongly
developed sense of pride. I was also wary because she had run away
when she saw me, instead of trying to use our connection to her
advantage. I contented myself with writing that I would pay the
postage on any letter.

For a moment bitterness at the memory of past unanswered letters
tempted me to tear up this one and dismiss the whole incident from my
mind. I told myself to be sensible. It was pointless to dwell on
feelings as dead as the flowers that bloomed during that long ago
summer. Charity required that I assist her as dispassionately as any
old acquaintance.

Sally watched quietly as I wrote the letter. I knew she was
worried about this encounter, but she waited until we were in the
hackney going back to Hughes Square to question me.

"Do you think she'll contact you?"

"I don't have any idea," I said, feeling tired down to my bones.
At the same time I knew the disturbing events of the evening would
make it difficult to sleep. "How well do you remember her, Sally?"

"Probably I remember more than you wish I did. You were in love
with her, weren't you Morgan?"

"I was seventeen. It was puppy love. Of course we considered
ourselves engaged. We used to read Shakespeare's "Romeo and Juliet" to
each other in the meadow west of Edward's cow pasture. Neither of us
realized that all Lady Capulet needed to do was wave the prospect of
ten thousand pounds a year under Juliet's nose to bring about a happy
ending for everyone."

"It doesn't look as though it brought Amy to a happy ending,"
Sally observed.

"She must have been too weak to hold out for the wedding and an
assured income. Just a latter day Manon Lescaut. I should have known
from the freedoms she allowed me that London would bring her to this
pass."

"Don't be too quick to judge her. London is very hard on women
if their families don't protect them. I know from my visits to the
workhouses that a great many girls are on the streets from stark
necessity, not viciousness. You said you considered yourselves
engaged. What I remember best about her was how much she loved you. It
shone out of her eyes, Morgan."

"She never answered a single letter I sent to her. Those big
bright eyes deceived you, Sally. She's made her choices and ruined her
life."

And my life, I added silently to myself.

"Yet you intend to help her. That is remarkably unselfish of
you, my dear," Sally remarked in her most skeptical tones.

"It's the least a good Christian can do," I retorted, knowing
she would understand the joke.

"I see," she said ironically. "You mean the Christian revenge of
heaping coals of fire by endlessly doing him good turns when your
enemy's down on his luck."

"Yes, that's the one."

"I don't believe you know your own mind. Good night Morgan."

I went back to my rooms and spent a miserable night trying, and
failing, to sleep. The next day I had to see Mr. Griffith early in the
morning. I tried once again to persuade him that there was an
important corruption story connected to the death of the Honorable
John Eastman. Once more he sent me off to cover the hangings at
Newgate.

On the way I stopped at St. Bartholomew's Hospital to see if I
could talk to Amy. I was saddened but not shocked to find she was
gone. The nun now on duty said she had given the letter to Amy when
she woke. She had appeared upset and demanded to leave the hospital
immediately. No address or note had been left for me.

There was no reason for me to feel obliged to do more, yet I
felt compelled to search further. I made up my mind to look for her
that afternoon in the dubious neighborhood of the Cyder Cellar.

Chapter 7, A Business Relationship

Amy's Journal, Feb. 4, 1814

When I woke up in St. Bartholomew's Hospital I couldn't remember
how I arrived there. After a few words with a gossipy skivvy, I began
to recollect the Frost Fair and the awful coincidence that led to my
meeting with Morgan and Sally. I had gone there in hopes of finding a
good-natured crowd with some money to spend freely and a few coppers
to spare. When the nun gave me Morgan's letter I knew I had to leave
the hospital immediately. Unless he had changed a great deal he would
be back here. Morgan could be relentless in the pursuit of an
objective. But even he couldn't search me out from among all the
streets and squares in London.

In spite of a headache that threatened to blind me with pain, I
struggled into my clothes and slowly made my way through icy winds to
my room off Maiden Lane. It was warm enough to sleep there until late
afternoon when I awoke, hungry and thirsty.

I knew what would make me feel better. A big noggin of blue
ruin, or thirty-six drops of laudanum, would take me away from worries
about old feelings and present poverty. It was easy to resist since I
had no money at all. I promised myself that even when I acquired some
money I would continue to resist, as I had for the past few years.
When I stopped working as a streetwalker I found the strength to drop
those fatal habits. There is no shorter road to the lunatic asylum
than their indulgence.

Now I earned money by running errands or sewing for younger,
more attractive whores. This life ages a woman far beyond her true
years. Nobody wants most of us after we're twenty. Sometimes I was
paid to do the work of the midwife or physician for one of the girls.
More often I did it for nothing. A sick prostitute can't earn money to
pay for medicine or nursing.

The bitter cold made it difficult for all of us. My usual girls
weren't able to earn money to pay me for fetching them pies or ale, or
washing their gowns. They didn't have as many appointments, and so
didn't require delivery of messages and fetching and carrying. That
was why I was reduced to begging at the Fair the night before. I was
very much afraid I would end by getting caught as a thief if the
weather didn't break soon.

Today I'd try the streets as a beggar once again, because there
was no choice. Soon the cold would force me back to my room still
hungry and thirsty if I were unsuccessful. Even if I'd had a coat or
boots before, I'd have sold them by now for food

I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw Morgan walking along
looking into the faces of the girls on the street. I told myself he
was here looking for a girl for immoral reasons, but I knew he was
looking for me. This time the shame would kill me.

I tried to duck my face below my bonnet brim and boldly hurry
past him. With that uncanny perception he always had he picked me out
and grasped my hand as I went by.

"Amelia," he said quietly, as though naming me for the first
time. And it almost felt as though he were, since I hadn't been called
anything but Scarlet, or worse, for years. So I had to brazen it out--
-disgust him so much that he couldn't feel sorry for me and he'd leave
me in peace, alone on my way to perdition.

"Are you looking for company tonight, sir? No lady sister to
purse up her mouth and say 'Tsk, Tsk," I whined, leering at him
broadly.

He winced painfully when I spoke that way, but he continued
holding my hand.

"Please Amelia. I need to talk to you."

"I can get you someone younger and plumper than me," I grinned
at him. "For a small fee."

"Please. Don't do that," he said helplessly.

He didn't know how to react. I wasn't going to let him play lord
of the manor to my penitent fallen woman. It was best that I voice his
true feelings for him, to make things simple.

"You don't want to think about what I am. It makes you sick. You
want to be angry but you feel so sorry for me you don't know what to
say. I don't need your pity. I'm content as I am. This life suits me."

I pulled my hand away and put on an air of indifference.

The pained look on his face disappeared. The hard look that
replaced it was one I had never imagined him wearing.

"I'm a writer now, just as we planned together a long time ago.
That's how I earn my money. You could do some work for me, if you're
interested. Don't worry. I'll pay you for your time."

I hadn't counted on how much it would hurt to see that cold
appraisal in his eyes. But now we were getting somewhere and I knew
why he really came looking for me. Like everyone else, he wanted
something.

"What kind of help do you need?" I asked suspiciously.

"Come with me to some place where it's warm and we can get a
drink. I'm freezing," he answered.

He did look paler than a few minutes earlier, but at least he
had a greatcoat. Despite my best efforts I couldn't stop shaking in my
shawl and bonnet.

"If you want something other than gin we'll have to walk a few
streets west," I told him.

Instead he hailed a hackney cab and told the driver to take us
to Button's coffeehouse. A ride was a luxury I hadn't been able to
afford in years. It was wonderful being out of the cold wind on
upholstered seats. When I opened my eyes at the end of the ride Morgan
was watching me expressionlessly. I had forgotten to stay aloof and
unimpressed, but luckily he didn't seem to realize how much I enjoyed
the journey.

The rich delicious scent of the ground coffee beans reminded me
of the last time I had been in a coffeehouse. Papa had taken me with
him when he went to meet some people, and do some business at Lloyd's.
I paged through newspapers and drank a sugary mix of half coffee, half
milk while he had heated conversations with his so-called friends. Now
I knew they were probably creditors. One man, a Mr. Todd, came over to
me and asked how I did, and complimented me on my round, pink cheeks.
He petted them excessively. No one would be tempted to touch my gaunt
white face now.

It was so warm in there I hoped I would be able to stay awake.
When Morgan asked what I wanted my pride wouldn't let me ask for
anything but black coffee. My stomach begged for more, but I reminded
myself that I was earning money. Later I could get bread and herring
at the shop two doors down from the house where I lived. Morgan still
had the huge appetite I remembered from his youth. He ordered enough
pastries, pudding, cheese and soup for three men.

"What do you want me to do for you?" I asked.

Morgan was staring down into his coffee, lost in thought.

"What? Oh, yes. I want you to gather information for me from
people who have contacts with the criminal classes. I have a theory
about some criminal activities in London. My newspaper might publish
it if I can find evidence."

He looked up at me, now caught up in his ideas. His eager
absorption took me back to evening walks when we solved the problems
of the world as simply as only two well-read and inexperienced
children could. Where had those children gone? He hadn't changed as
much as I had.

"I've learned about some incidents that seem to be random, but I
think there's a pattern. I'll tell you what kind of information I
could use. If you couldn't find out for yourself, I believe you could
find a person who knew. You have the right kind of acquaintances."

Morgan looked down again after the last words.

"You won't expect me to inform on friends, will you?"

"Not unless you count a criminal mastermind among your friends.
The people I'm interested in probably don't do anything illegal
themselves. They use other people as their instruments."

"Oh, like Jack Quickill."

"That's a new name to me," he said, with a surprised look.

"It's not his real name. Nobody knows that. He owned the place
where. . .I worked there for while, years ago. They call it the
Panasay. I think that's French."

Morgan knew better than to ask about my work, but I could see he
was full of curiosity about Jack. His enthusiastic expression gave him
the look of the boy I knew years ago. I found myself resisting the
urge to lean over and pat his hand fondly. I used to do that out of
sheer pleasure at watching him take fanciful flight with some new
idea.

"What did people know about Jack?" he inquired.

"Nothing for certain. Rumor claimed he started as a highwayman.
That's where the nickname was supposed to come from. He never
hesitated to shoot to ensure his escape. Joanie said she once saw him
shoot a rat running through the alley. He hit it square, using a
pistol and shooting from a second story window."

Morgan whistled appreciatively.

"I wouldn't want to find his second waiting on me."

"Don't worry. He wouldn't take a chance in a duel. He'd lay an
ambush along a street where you were in the habit of walking. Odds are
he'd send his bullyboys to beat you to death with their walking
sticks. It happened to one of the girls. She stole five pounds and he
made an example of her."

"How did he get away with open murder?"

"The watch attributed it to an attack by unknown ruffians. They
were probably bribed. Jack let it be known to us why and how it
happened."

"That's the kind of information I want from you, Amy. I'll tell
you something about why I'm working on this story."

"But your food is here," I said anxiously. "It's going to get
cold."

How could anyone be indifferent to all that expensive food?

"I'm not as hungry as I thought I was. All I can eat is this
soup. If you want anything you might as well have it as send it away.
I'll tell you what I know while you decide."

I couldn't bear to see it all go back to the kitchen untouched.
It was difficult to eat daintily and slowly, proving that I didn't
need anyone's charity. It was lucky that Morgan's explanation made it
unnecessary for me to talk.

"Two events that affected me personally made me curious about
the London underworld. One was the disappearance of David Bloom a year
ago. He was last seen working late in his shipping company's warehouse
on the Surrey dockside. The other was the discovery of the body of a
Member of Parliament named John Eastman floating in the water at the
same place.

"When I first came to London I wrote about the building of the
Surrey Docks. I met David Bloom and his father, Stephen. Afterwards
David and I would meet sometimes at Drury Lane or Covent Garden and
then go to a club after the performance. The Bloom's company, the
Tulip House, exported tools and imported wool and cotton. They'd been
evading the French blockade of English goods by trading at Dutch ports
with counterfeit 'neutrality' licenses. When Napoleon took control of
the Netherlands in 1810 they planned to end their wool trade with the
Continent and expand their trade with the American colonies. I thought
they had. Last year we met to see "Hamlet" and that night David got
drunk. He hadn't done that before. I could see that something was
worrying him, and I encouraged him to confide in me.

"Over the course of the evening I found out he had been
blackmailed for the last three years to allow the firm's ships to be
used for smuggling. He was required to look the other way while
unknown cargoes were added to the farm implements and tools that they
exported legitimately. The crews were given papers that allowed them
to enter Marseilles or Naples under the Turkish flag. The profits had
been spectacular, but he told me that he was getting more and more
worried about what was going on. A sailor who returned from one of
these trips had come to him with a troubled mind. One of the boxes of
goods had been damaged and he thought it contained ammunition. He
wanted to know if they were sending guns to the enemy his brother was
fighting to defeat. David sent him away with assurances that he was
mistaken. The next day the sailor was garroted and beaten to death
outside a stew in Bethnal Green. David told me he'd resolved to
investigate and find out what the secret shipments were. I offered to
help him, but he wouldn't hear of it. Then there was a nine-day's
wonder the next month when he disappeared.

"I wrote several stories about it, and questioned a great many
people, but nothing was ever heard of him again. There were
irregularities in the company's books, so eventually everyone assumed
he had run away with stolen money. It made no sense at all, since the
company was prosperous and he was an only child favored by his father.
When I told my editors about the blackmail they told me not to be so
gullible. The man had been setting the stage for his disappearance. I
had the story published anonymously by a small printing press.

"Six months later I met John Eastman, a Whig Member of
Parliament, while I was covering parliamentary debates. Somehow he
traced the anonymous blackmail story to me, and he came to me for
information on criminal conspiracies. After several meetings, he
admitted he was being blackmailed to control his voting and activity.
He had more influence than expected for a young new member. His
speeches and ability to rally support for a position showed promise.
Before the blackmail began he was using his powers of persuasion to
sway the Whig vote to a more warlike stance against Napoleon. He also
encouraged British participation in alliances against Napoleon.

Recently he became silent and passive, always voting with the
Whig majority. Like David he wouldn't hear of the London authorities
being informed. However he intended to do his own investigation. We
tried to trace a few of the individuals who threatened him. But he
went off on his own and started openly using people he didn't know
very well to spy on people he suspected. At the inquest the
authorities said he was drunk, fell and hit his head, and then got up
and wandered until he stumbled into the water and drowned. I saw the
body at the morgue, and there was too much to damage to his head to
attribute to a simple fall. Besides that, there was no explanation for
his presence at the docks. Ever since then I've been spending what
time I could on these cases, and trying to persuade "The Times"
editors that one important story connects them.

"I need reliable people with the right contacts. This is where
you could help me Amy."

I nodded, since my mouth was full. Morgan hadn't changed much at
all. If I helped him with this it would be something to look forward
to each day. And regular money. Of course there was nothing but
business between us now.

After I finished what I could of the food, Morgan extravagantly
ordered another hackney for the trip back. I instructed him to leave
me on Maiden Lane where he found me so I could try for another
customer tonight. Telling him that I was still streetwalking would
show him that I had nothing to hide in my past or present life. In any
case, I didn't want him to see the miserable room I lived in now. In
reality I was going back there to sleep. With two shillings for the
next week and a full belly, I decided I could skip begging that night.

Chapter 8, An Objective Viewpoint

Sally's Journal, Feb. 20, 1814

For several days Morgan offered me no information about Amy.
When I asked if he had found her he answered "Yes" and looked grim. It
seemed cruel to press him for details, when he clearly didn't want to
talk about it. Yet I could see that it was preying on his mind,
disturbing his sleep, and taking away his appetite. Something had to
be done. I finally resolved to brave his forbidding manner and made a
suggestion.

"Yesterday I was going through some clothes I wore when I was
living at Reverend Chilbert's. They're too small for me now. Could I
give them to Amy?"

"You can't give Amy anything," he said sarcastically. "She won't
accept anything except payment for value received. Do you want to hire
her for a Game of Flats?"

I simply raised my eyebrows at these words. That kind of talk to
his sister was vulgar even by his standards. He must be suffering
terribly to use such extreme language to deflect my concern. I
resolved to show him that rough words wouldn't discourage me.

"No, but I take it you speak from experience. Do you buy the
usual, or do you require a specialty? The English, French or Greek
perversion?"

That made him look at me and think.

"I beg your pardon, Sally. I shouldn't have spoken to you that
way."

"I don't mind how you speak as long as you do, Morgan. Tell me
what's troubling you. Have you been able to do anything for Amy? I
know you haven't been using her as a prostitute."

He looked at me defiantly before he replied.

"I've hired her to get information for me about those incidents
at the Surrey Docks. She wouldn't let me near her except on a basis of
business. What could I do?"

"You could have walked away and not looked back. Some kind of
feeling still ties you to her."

"I think it's called hate. When I look at her all I see is
waste, of her life and our. . . ."

He stopped abruptly, knowing it was too late to prevent me from
understanding his sentiment.

"You were going to say love, weren't you," I said gently.

"How can I hate someone so pitiable? How can I love someone so
false and shallow?" he stormed, clearly at himself rather than at me.

I let him talk as wildly as he chose.

"I never spoke of her, but there wasn't a week in the past ten
years that I didn't dream of finding her. In the dreams we would be in
strange places, wearing strange clothes, but always I'd recognize her
and always she'd love me still. I didn't want you to know I was such a
fool."

"You're not a fool. Just because you were young doesn't mean
your feelings weren't real. You know I'm no wild-eyed Romantic.
Nevertheless, I do believe in love that can bind a man and woman for a
lifetime. There are very good reasons why you can't enjoy that love
again with Amy, but it isn't any use to deny it existed and may still
exist in some ruined form. I'm sorry Morgan."

He wasn't finished with his angry words.

"She's not shamed by her fallen condition, she glories in it!
She parades her activities in front of me as though for my admiration-
--or torment! There's no evidence that she remembers what we once
felt. No sense that she cares for what I might suffer."

"What would you expect her to do? What could possibly be the
prescribed behavior for such a situation? Should she grovel at your
feet? Offer you low prices on her merchandise? Try to hide her history
and pretend that she's spent all her evenings at Chapel singing Psalms
and reading tracts? That wasn't the proud girl I knew in Chitterton."

"I always suspected her parents were fools. There must have been
unconscionable neglect on their part to result in this. When they
failed her, she should have turned to me. I should have been there,"
Morgan continued, in a voice that became less angry and more
despairing with each sentence.

That last statement was at the heart of his troubles. He had
stopped writing letters after waiting six months without receiving
even one in answer to all of his. From that time on he was changed.
His one-time simple pleasure in the world was lost, replaced by a
darker, more cynical humor. Yet he blamed himself now for not saving
Amy from a life of vice.

"It wasn't your fault."

"Wasn't it? Tomorrow I'm going to ask her to tell me her story.
Maybe I can determine how to portion out the blame. Perhaps I'm as
innocent as a new-born baby," he said, with little hope in his voice.

I wasn't surprised that he wanted to know, but I dreaded what he
might learn for the pain it would cause him.

"You might be better not knowing the details. I've sat with sick
girls and heard stories that make you want to renounce your kinship
with the human species. In all seriousness, Morgan, however bad you
imagine her story will be, the real one will be worse."

"I have to know, Sally."

As usual, Morgan was going to do exactly what he pleased, with
no regard for advice from others. It was this healthy disrespect for
outside opinion that made him such a good reporter and wonderful
companion. It was also what frequently made trouble for him.

Chapter 9, A Woman's History

Amy's Journal, Feb. 21, 1814

The first week I worked for him Morgan asked me to go each
afternoon and talk to the servants outside the house of Henry Trent.
He was another Whig MP whose position on Bonaparte had shown signs of
shifting recently toward more tolerance. I had a description of an
unidentified man who was often seen visiting Eastman's rooms before
votes were taken. This week Parliament was to discuss the terms of
England's latest alliance against the Emperor, and the expected peace
terms when he surrendered in Paris. Morgan thought Trent might receive
a visit. None of the household servants saw a mysterious visitor that
week. The last day of the week, when Mr. Trent left for Westminster, I
walked to Morgan's rooms off Fleet Street. There was no intelligence,
so there would be no money today. In other ways fortune had been
kinder. My girls had been busier this past week, and so had more work
for me.

In spite of the continued cold, the streets were alive as usual
with noise and movement. The hawkers, cluttering the streets with
their carts, filled the air with promises of the best pies, buns,
vegetables, fish or cream to be had. The carters and rakes competed to
endanger the greatest number of people on foot with their reckless
speed and disdain for anyone else's right of way. Small boys in front
of the shops urged passers-by to enter and spend their shillings.
There were young and not very young women who were obviously trying to
sell themselves. It hadn't been more than four years since I had been
doing the same, but I no longer remembered how I had been able to bear
doing it.

When I arrived the drapes were drawn in Morgan's room. Since the
usual murky haze already dimmed the day outside, the room was left in
gloomy darkness. He asked me if I had any information to give him.

"No, I talked to some street hawkers in the square and to the
scullery maid and footmen, but they hadn't noticed anything unusual."

He reached into his pocket and started to count out some coins.

"I said I didn't have anything," I reminded him.

"I pay you for your time, not the results. I don't want you to
lose interest in asking questions," he said. "You may be able to help
me today anyway. I want you to tell me your own story. If it has
nothing to do with my conspiracy I may be able to use the background
information in some essay or article."

At first I couldn't speak. The unexpected bounty of pay almost
overcame my power to stay careless. At the same time I wondered if I
should refuse it to maintain my pride. Morgan's own dispassionate
preoccupation with his papers reassured me. He was thinking only about
his own interests, not charity.

I thought it still might be too difficult to chronicle my
miserable history for Morgan, though we no longer had tender
sentiments for each other. Much as I hated to admit it, I cared what
he thought of me. I recoiled at the thought of telling him how I chose
wrong over right in the past. I betrayed what we once promised each
other through my blind trust in the wrong person. I became the outcast
I was now through my blundering decisions. But I didn't want to
acknowledge my sins to him. He tried again to persuade me.

"Please tell me the truth. We may be able to inform people about
things that need to be changed in London. Mrs. Mobley agreed to send
Marianne up with the tea. Let's sit at the table so I can write down
notes."

At that moment Marianne knocked at the door with a tray. There
were sandwiches, scones and cream along with the tea. Morgan certainly
liked to have a lot of food at hand. I decided that I could tell my
story impersonally, and thereby earn my money. What did it matter what
he thought? He already knew the worst.

"I remember when your parents took you to London. It was ten
years ago last autumn," he prompted.

I remembered too. I noticed as the coach left our little
Somerset town that the trees had begun to turn. Morgan and I had said
our tearful good-byes the evening before. We had agreed that he would
wait for a final wave of farewell at the huge oak where the main
street through town joined the road to London. He stood there as
promised, his hazel eyes squeezed half shut against the morning sun,
his thick brown hair standing up like a brush. I waved my handkerchief
until he was out of sight. Then I sank back against the thinly
cushioned seat and tried not to cry.

He was only seventeen to my fifteen, but we were secretly
betrothed. Mama and Papa hoped to distract me from Morgan with London
and the social seasons. Since Papa had made unexpectedly large profits
on his investments in shipping, they hoped for a better marriage
prospect than the orphan son of a small farmer.

Morgan and I had other plans. He and his sister Sarah were
living in Chitterton with a distant cousin, earning their keep by
helping him with work on his small farm. When he could, Morgan read
and wrote with a purpose. He dreamed of moving to London where he
would make his mark as a writer. We would marry when he began earning
enough money to support a household. I would do something momentous
with my life, but we didn't know what yet.

There was one dream so fanciful I didn't have the courage to
speak of it to anyone. Just after we moved to Chitterton in 1802, Papa
wounded himself seriously while he was cleaning a bird gun. Mama was
prostrate with distress, so I took over the sick room. The local
physician told me I was a remarkable nurse, and that it was a shame
women like me couldn't study the art of medicine. Privately I wondered
if I couldn't be one of the first to do so. It was too fantastic an
idea to propose seriously, but I thought about it sometimes.

Morgan's sister Sara, called Sally, then ten years old, was to
come live with us when we married. While we were forced to live apart
we would write faithfully. Of course we would remain true to each
other until death. Could we ever have been so romantic, so ignorant of
the world? It seemed as though a hundred years had passed since those
hopeful days.

"Papa rented a grand house on a fashionable square. It was
Manchester Square," I elaborated.

"I know. I went there when I came to London seven years ago,"
Morgan interjected unexpectedly. "I was curious about what had
happened to you and your family. Since you had never written to give
me any news. No one I spoke to knew much except that your father had
died and you and your mother had gone away in a fancy carriage."

"I never received any letters from you. But I did write to you."

"I doubt that the London mail failed to deliver some twenty
letters over a period of six months. And yours as well," he said with
a frown.

"You sent twenty-three letters. You're right. I didn't know what
happened until long after the fact. It wasn't the mail service that
prevented our correspondence," I agreed.

"After we moved in Mama started to plan dances and dinners, and
we began to receive invitations. We weren't part of the higher levels
of society. I was frightened enough by the large gatherings when we
went to respectable assembly rooms and dinner parties. There were
plenty of merchants with marriageable sons planning to match their
inheritances with a handsome dowry."

"It must have been impressive to a young girl from Chitterton,"
he commented.

"London seemed as wonderful as you and I ever imagined it. The
problem was money. I didn't know what was happening at the time. Now I
know that Papa was going to Newmarket and Doncaster as often as he
could to put money on horse races."

I heard Morgan suck his breath in sharply. He probably knew what
was coming next in my story.

"Of course he lost, and bet more to recover his losses, and then
borrowed money to bet some more. He juggled his accounts and concealed
everything for almost a year. All that year he scolded me for failing
to catch a rich husband. I was driving him wild with my refusal to
consider to marriage. At first I told him my heart belonged to
another. Later I told him I would never marry because my heart was
broken. He told me that my heart had nothing to do with it. Finally
the argument became idle as our household finances grew more troubled.
No eligible men presented themselves to be considered for the honor of
my hand.

"During the last few months in the Manchester Square house we
had angry duns turning up at the doors demanding money, Our servants
gradually left since they weren't being paid. Finally the bailiffs
turned up to take Papa to a spunging house. I think Mama believed
recovery was possible until that happened. When she had to sell her
wedding ring to raise the hundred pounds he needed to get out, she
understood. Papa came home and they had a talk behind closed doors.
After that Mama gave up. She sat around in curl papers and her
dressing gown all day, waiting until they came to take us to prison
for debt."

"You went to prison!" Morgan exclaimed.

"No. Before they evicted us from the house on Manchester Square
something happened."

This part was going to be difficult. I could never have
predicted the events that took place in my life after this time. They
made me a different person, and much of it was by my own choice. At
first.

"One morning Papa didn't come downstairs to eat the cereal and
bread that I had to fix for us now. I went upstairs to fetch him. He
was. . .his body was hanging from a hook on the back of his bedroom
door by his braces around his neck. I'd never seen anything like it. I
knew it had to be him, but his face was black and swelled, and his
tongue stuck out all purple. . . . There was a terrible smell, like a
privy. I'll always blame myself for the way I screamed."

Morgan jerked in his chair, raising his arms a little, as though
reaching for something. Maybe he felt sick. Why had I told him those
details? I had never told them to anyone else. Suddenly I understood
that in all this time there hadn't been anyone else I thought would
care or understand what those details meant to me. But he wouldn't
care anymore either. It was a very old habit reasserting itself.

"If I hadn't screamed and brought my mother rushing upstairs I
could have told her the facts slowly and carefully. But she came in
the bedroom and saw Papa before I could gather my wits and stop her.
She fainted, not into an ordinary faint. It was something worse. When
she woke up she didn't really wake up. She just sat staring off into
nothing. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I didn't find that out until
afterwards.

"The one footman who stayed with us went and got help. Gossip
flew through the square. Within hours there was a mob at our house.
The landlord came to evict us and dozens of creditors came to take
what they could to pay on our debts.

"There was no one Papa hadn't borrowed from. I didn't know who
to turn to. Mama didn't even seem to recognize me. She certainly had
no advice to give. I ransacked the house looking for something to sell
so I could pay for a place for us to stay. It was then I found your
letters. Papa had hidden them in his room. All of the thirty letters I
had written to you were tied up with them. I sat there and read them
where I found them. It took hours. He hadn't posted any of the letters
I had entrusted to him for mailing, and he hadn't given me your
letters. I can only suppose he kept them to use against me if I
continued to refuse to marry. He could prove to me that you had ended
it between us, but he would have to admit what he had done. Maybe he
knew it wouldn't have worked."

Morgan made an indecipherable sound that caught my attention. It
was too dark in the room to read his expression. I hastened to
reassure him that he shouldn't feel guilty about the content of the
letters. Morgan always tended to blame himself for things that
couldn't be helped.

"You have nothing to regret about the letters you sent. You were
very patient, slow to get angry, never malicious or cruel, even in the
last few. You broke off our connection with kindness. I could tell how
you suffered under my apparent indifference. It was good of you to
attribute my behavior to my youth. My later letters to you were less
understanding than yours. Of course you never read them, so I don't
owe you an apology."

Reading those letters had brought me as close to despair as I
was ever to be. At that moment I wanted nothing more than to follow
Papa into eternal forgetfulness. Before I found the letters I had
imagined, rather incoherently, that Morgan might somehow help me in my
distress. After reading them I knew I was alone. My heart was freshly
wounded with the knowledge I had caused Morgan so much pain. He would
hate me now. If my mother hadn't been depending on me I would have
given up. But I had to find a way for us.

"Then Mr. Todd showed up. He told me father had sent him a note
the evening before, asking him to take us in, but not telling him why.
The creditors wouldn't let us take anything with us, so I coaxed my
Mama downstairs and into his carriage and we left in the clothes we
stood up in. I remember noticing that the trees were starting to look
bare in the park across from our square. It was a little over a year
since I had waved good-bye to you outside Chitterton.

"Mr. Todd surprised me when he didn't take us to his home.
Instead we went to a little house off Holborne Road that had cloths
thrown over the furniture as though it had been shut up recently.

"'I'll get you a servant directly,' he assured me. He gave me
money to go to the market, and the names of some stores where I'd be
permitted to buy on his credit. I couldn't find the words to thank him
enough, and told him so.

"He looked at me as though he were trying to figure out if I
were telling the truth. Why wouldn't I be grateful, I wondered?

"Over the next week I found someone to help take care of Mama,
and bought us some clothes, nothing extravagant. Our neighbors all
seemed to be young women with the latest fashions in gowns. For all
their smart dress they were friendly, and helpful with finding
reasonable merchants."

Morgan changed position again, this time lowering his head into
his hands. I was certainly doing a lot of talking. He must be tired of
sitting and listening.

"Do you want me to stop while you have some tea and something to
eat?" I asked him.

"What? No, no, I'm not hungry." Then, as if recollecting
something, he added, "Please go ahead and eat, Amy. I had a big
dinner, fried eggs and ham."

"Then you shouldn't have ordered so much for tea. It's
wasteful."

I wouldn't have wasted any of this good food.

"Don't let it go to waste. Eat it, or take it with you," he said
in a low voice.

I was already eating quickly, glad of another mealtime windfall.
I wasn't anxious to continue my story from this point. I thought maybe
he would lose interest if I prolonged the interruption. But he waited
patiently. I continued after finishing the sandwiches.

"You probably see what was happening, but I didn't. I was
innocent, or a dunce, if you prefer. Mr. Todd came by every night for
the next two weeks and stayed for a couple of hours. He seemed to be
getting annoyed with me. My efforts to express my gratitude and show
him how well I could manage the money he allowed me didn't improve his
temper.

"Then one evening he brought a package for me. He told the maid
to take Mama into her bedroom and stay there with her for the rest of
the night.

"'Open it up,' he told me in a commanding tone of voice.

"I opened it and found a vulgar-looking gown that was very
skimpy in material. I tried to look pleased and to thank him for the
present. I was puzzled.

"'Go in your room and try it on. Show me how it looks.'

"When I hesitated, he got angry.

"'You're always telling me how thankful you are, but with all
I've done for you, you won't do this one thing for me.'

"I had to admit that I often expressed my wish that I could
repay him. I went to the bedroom and put the gown on. It exposed
almost all of my breasts, and I couldn't imagine how he expected a
respectable girl to wear it out of the bedroom. Certainly not out of
the house. Maybe beneath my reasoned thoughts I was beginning to
understand. I must have taken too long trying to make up my mind to
return to the parlor, because he banged the door to the bedroom open
impatiently. I couldn't believe he would behave so rudely. The anger
left his face and he kept staring at me intently.

"He shut the bedroom door behind him and came over close to me.
The respectful manner he had before was gone. He reached out and ran
his hands over my breasts, waist, hips and. . .everything. I tried to
push him away, but he was big and strong enough to shove me down on
the bed. He grabbed my wrists and held them while he used his other
hand to push the gown up to my waist.

"I struggled, but I still didn't scream. Things were starting to
become clear to me. His next words made everything quite certain.

"'Your father had to know I don't dispense charity. You please
me enough to put up with your mother. I hadn't bargained on her
turning into a lunatic, but I'll still make the deal. You can leave
this house if you don't want to do me any favors. I suggest you have
someplace in mind to go. If you have to go to the workhouse, they'll
send your mother to Bedlam. What do you want to do?'

"I think he enjoyed watching my face while I tried to understand
everything. At the same time he pushed his fingers inside me roughly.
It hurt. I knew what would follow would hurt even more. I couldn't
help tears, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of sobbing. I
never cried again after that.

"'Well? Do you intend to co-operate?' he asked again.

"You see, he gave me two chances to refuse.

"I knew it was wrong, but there was nothing I could think of
that would save Mama but sin. I might be able to survive on the
streets, or get a job as a maidservant, but there would be no way to
provide lodgings for my mad mother. During our first weeks in London
we visited Bedlam. It was better to be damned than condemn my mother
to that. I told him yes and closed my eyes.

"He bit my breasts, and unbuttoned his pants. He as violent as
he could be out of frustration over the days of denial. The act itself
felt like someone was tearing me apart.

"That was how I started living an immoral life. Ministers say
that the first wrong step is hardest, with each step following getting
easier. I found that was true. Each step closed off avenues of escape
and led to the next, with fewer choices. Soon there were no good
choices to make anymore. I could only choose from immoral actions. I
decided the course of my life that night. I learned to live with it.

"My one regret is that I didn't have a lover before Mr. Todd.
Before he killed those feelings in me. That summer before I went to
London I wish I had taken you for my lover. I didn't need to save
myself for Mr. Todd. He didn't care."

Morgan started to say something, but a fit of coughing came over
him, and he had to drink tea before he could finish his question.

"Where is Mr. Todd now?"

That was a strange question.

"I think he died a few years later. Why?"

"I wondered if he was still repeating that pattern of living.
Taking advantage of inexperienced women."

I shook my head.

"Mama and I lived there for another six months. At first he came
every night, but after a few weeks he settled into a schedule of three
times a week. I started saving as much household money as possible. If
I saved enough to leave London, or even buy a share of a milliner's
shop, I could still turn away from this life.

"As you see things didn't turn out that way. One scheduled night
Mr. Todd didn't visit. I was happy to skip activities I found nasty
and painful. When he didn't come for a week I started to worry. Was he
tired of me? Would we have to leave again? Where would we go?

"In my fear I turned to our neighbor, Clara Dunstan, with my
question. She was an experienced ladybird and often gave me practical
advice.

"'Well, dear, you've got to prepare yourself by finding out the
worst. Do you know where he lives? You've got to send around and get
the facts. Then you can make your plans.'

"I did know. Once I read his address upside down from a ledger
while a clerk recorded my purchases to his account. Clara advised me
to send our servant Isabel to gossip with the footman or upstairs
maid. I took her advice, but Isabel's report left me less certain than
ever about my situation.

"'He's had an attack of apoplexy, Ma'am,' she told me. 'His wife
despairs of his life. He can't move his left side of his body at all.
They don't know what will happen. Mrs. Hunt, the housekeeper, told me
she's seen dozens of men recover from such and live to father more
children. Begging your pardon, Ma'am.'

"I couldn't decide what to do, so I stayed and waited, hoping
that the money would start coming again. Finally, a month later, I got
a letter from his wife. She wrote to me that Mr. Todd, fearing that he
would die and go to hell, had confessed everything to her. He planned
to reform himself. On his behalf she was ordering me to leave the
house in Holborne Road or I would be evicted.

"I turned once again to Clara. Her patron knew of a place in
Cheapside where they let rooms. I still had enough money to rent a
carriage and move our things to a room there. It was a decent place.
The rooms had only one or two people living in each one.

"Clara's friend sent some friends to see me. The girl in the
next room let Mama visit her while I had visitors, and I let her
little girl stay with me when she had to entertain. I made a little
money from those men. But I didn't become popular. I had no arts, you
see. Mr. Todd preferred young and reluctant women to courtesans.
Desire was dead i