Queen of the mist, p.1
Queen of the Mist, page 1
QUEEN OF THE MIST
CAROLINE CAUCHI
One More Chapter
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2024
Copyright © Caroline Cauchi 2024
Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2024
Cover photographs © Jacinta Bernard / Arcangel Images (woman); Shutterstock.com (background and flowers)
Caroline Cauchi asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is fictionalised or coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008715250
Ebook Edition © October 2024 ISBN: 9780008715267
Version: 2024-07-18
Contents
News
Annie
Part I: Adrift
December 1900
Annie
Letter
Letter
Annie
Annie’s Diary
Annie
Pamphlet
Matilda
Annie’s Diary
Annie
Annie
Letter
Annie
Annie
Annie’s Diary
Annie
Annie
Annie
Annie
Annie
Annie’s Diary
Annie
Part II: Unfurling Rapids
Annie
Letter
Annie
Annie’s Diary
Matilda
Annie
Annie’s Diary
Matilda
Annie
Annie’s Diary
Annie
Part III: Barrel Dreams
Letter
Annie
Going Over the Falls - Mrs Taylor’s Notes and Requirements
Annie
Annie
Going Over the Falls - Mrs Taylor’s Plan of Action
Annie
Annie
Matilda
Annie
Telegram
Annie
Part IV: Daring Plunge
News
Annie’s Diary
Annie
News
Matilda
Matilda
Annie
Annie
Annie
Matilda
Annie
Annie
Annie
Annie
News
Part V: Beyond the Brink
News
Annie’s Diary
Annie
Matilda
Annie’s Diary
Matilda
Annie’s Diary
Annie
Part VI: Mist-veiled Triumph
Annie
News
Annie
Helped Her Into The Barrel
News
Annie
Annie
News
Annie’s Diary
News
Annie
Letter
Letter
Letter
Annie
Annie’s Diary
Annie
Part VII: Again Amidst Cascades
Annie
News
Annie
Annie
Annie
Telegram
Telegram
Telegram
News
Annie
Part VIII: Falls’ Echoes Fade
Letter
Letter
Letter
Letter
Letter
Letter
Part IX: Women Resurfaced
May 1921
Matilda
Matilda
Pamphlet
Matilda
News
Funeral Notice
Matilda
Author’s Note
Finding Annie
Acknowledgments
Thank you for reading…
You will also love…
About the Author
Also by Caroline Cauchi
Subscribe to the OMC Newsletter
About the Publisher
For my Cauchi women – Grandma Helen, Jaka, Poppy and Lauren – past, present, and soon-to-be.
CRUNCHING THE NUMBERS
THE ASTONISHING REALITY OF NIAGARA’S FURY – SEPTEMBER 10, 2023
Unquestionably, Niagara Falls is an awe-inspiring spectacle, yet its statistics are stark. They serve as a reminder that the odds of survival against its torrential backdrop have always been staggeringly slim.
Indeed, since 1850, more than 5,000 people have succumbed to its pull. Some were unfortunate accidents, some were deliberate attempts to end their lives, but, often, calculated decisions were made. Choices that resulted in more than 5000 people slipping over the lip and plummeting into its unforgiving waters.
Yet of those thousands who have taken that plunge, only sixteen individuals have escaped with their lives.
And of those sixteen, one name persists from the depths of history.
A name that beckons us to delve into the annals of human determination.
A name that holds the remarkable tale of the woman who went over Niagara Falls in a barrel.
Surely, it’s time for Annie Edson Taylor’s odds of survival to be crunched, scrutinised and for us to let her speak…
‘… it has many times been intimated that women seldom know their own minds. But Mrs Taylor did. She had made up her mind to go over the Falls of Niagara, and she was going. It was do or die with her.’
Orrin E. Dunlap
Annie
PROLOGUE
24th October 1901
The barrel creaks and groans around me, its wooden walls whispering secrets of the mighty Niagara. Each breath I take feels heavier, laden with the roar of the Falls. My heart pounds, echoing the thunderous cascade outside. Louder and louder. I clutch the leather harness, knuckles white, palms slick with perspiration.
‘Can’t back out now,’ I whisper.
Memories flood my mind: Tilda and Nora, the quiet moments at home with Mrs Lapointe. I picture Samuel, my dear husband, and David, our baby boy; his tiny face is forever etched in my heart.
‘Can you hear me?’ I call out, hoping their spirits linger close.
The barrel tilts and bobs a wild dance with the river. Every jolt and shudder’s a test, a challenge from nature itself. The dark confines of this wooden cocoon press in on me. Every sorrow, every fear, is amplified. That weight pushes down on me.
The barrel pitches violently. Throwing me against its sides. My head strikes the wood. Dizzying pain shoots through my skull. The roar of the Falls deafens. A primal scream from the depths of the earth. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable.
A sudden drop. My breath catches. The world spins. I’m weightless. Suspended in a terrifying freefall.
‘Help.’
The word is swallowed by the thunderous water. Impact. The jolt is brutal. Bones rattling. Teeth clenching. Water floods in, filling the barrel, threatening to drag me down into oblivion.
I struggle to breathe, to hold on, but the darkness presses closer, consuming.
How in God’s name did I end up here?
Part I: Adrift
DECEMBER 1900
Annie
31st December 1900
‘What I’d give to be in my parlour with a cup of warm milk and comfortable footwear…’ I say, shifting awkwardly.
Instead, I’m stuck in these torture devices for women with feet as dainty as their sensibilities, which clearly isn’t me. With a slight pivot on the heel, I tap the sole lightly against the ground, hoping to alleviate some of the discomfort. It doesn’t. They’re Mrs Lapointe’s dead husband’s sister’s shoes, and they’re a size too small.
Whispers of a grand salon gathering hosted by Mrs Winthrop – a prominent figure known for her love of literature and the arts – had spread like wildfire through Bay City. The invite list boasted esteemed members of the community, and anyone with a spark of talent deemed worthy of recognition. The woman had a knack for finding artists, writers, and anyone who could hold a quill without poking their eye out. Naturally, she invited everyone except those she actually liked. My friend and boarding house owner, Mrs Lapointe, was always on the lookout for such opportunities. I’ve no idea how she secured an invitation for us, but she did. I was informed that it was an occasion I couldn’t miss.
That’s why I find myself standing in Mrs Winthrop’s grand estate. My feet have been planted firmly on this spot for ten minutes already; I must resemble one of her weathered, stone statues. The imposing mansion looms and a muddle of annoyance and nerves stream through me. Its windows are aglow with warmth and invitation, but still I’m overly keen to flee back to the boarding house for a butter tart.
Letting out an exasperated sigh, I smooth the fabric of my dress nervously. I hate feeling out of place. I’m no stranger to opulence, but this world isn’t mine. I’m literally in someone else’s clothing.
‘Are you knocking, or should I?’ he says, stepping next to me. His tall frame’s imposing against the wooden door. He gestures to it.
‘I’d rather not,’ I say.
‘Let me.’ He stretches his right arm across me, his fingers slightly curled and ready to rap against the door. With the move, his arm inadvertently rebounds off my bosom.
‘Sir, this is neither the time nor the place,’ I say, and I see horror leap across his face.
‘I didn’t … I wasn’t,’ he stutters, palms held up in surrender.
With a raised eyebrow and a smirk, I challenge him to question my authority or opinion. I see his fear. I’m wild and old; he enjoys his women young and tamed. The turn of the century may have brought us electric lights, but it hasn’t yet cured the fear of a woman with opinions. He takes a step or two backwards.
My knuckles knock lightly on the door, and it creaks open within seconds.
‘Welcome, Madam,’ the butler intones with practised formality. ‘If I could ask your name…’ His voice is both crisp and professional. No-nonsense. I like him.
‘Annie,’ I say. ‘Annie Edson Taylor.’
‘Please, come in, Mrs Taylor.’ He smiles and I step forward. ‘Through there,’ he says, pointing across the hallway before turning his attention back to the man who touched my bosom.
Ten short steps and I push my body against the mahogany door. It’s heavy on my shoulder. A blast of laughter and chatter gushes as it edges open.
‘Thank you,’ someone says. ‘Looks like I need to lay off pie if I’m going to squeeze through here!’ A burly man, with a jovial demeanour; his presence fills the space with warmth as he wriggles past me and through the gap.
‘Allow me,’ a different guest says. A hint of grey streaks his dark hair. His pushing on the door appears effortless and the room opens before us.
The noise and vibrant atmosphere overwhelm instantly. Too many people, too much to see. I don’t know where to look first. The room’s a kaleidoscope of laughter, swirling gowns, and the kind of joy that feels almost tangible; like you could reach out and pocket a piece for later. Smoothing my eyebrow with the tip of my finger, I step into the ballroom. The room’s abuzz with activity. I scan the crowds for a familiar face but see none. Mrs Lapointe was feeling a little under the weather, said she’d meet me here; I’ll kill her if she doesn’t arrive soon. I pat the skirts of my dress, keen to appear busy and to detract from how alone I suddenly feel. Indeed, this dress – Mrs Lapointe once wore it for an end-of-season ball – is tight and uncomfortable in its corset; a nagging reminder of the ageing I attempt to hide.
I risk a peek around, jumping my stare from person to person. My aim is to avoid eye contact at all costs. Women are adorned in jewels that glitter and materials that flow. Scarlet and emerald gowns shimmer. The men sport tailored suits in shades of navy or burgundy. Mrs Lapointe was right in her choice of dress for me; red and bejewelled. I’d told her I’d hate every minute of wearing it, yet here I am, blending in. The light from the chandeliers above reflects off the polished marble floor. A flicker of worry that I’ll slip, but I push that thought away. Instead, I consider what it’d feel like to bend and stroke my fingers across its surface. This setting is beautiful, these people are beautiful, and maybe, tonight, I’m one of those people, too. I’m invisible because I’m merging and not because I’m ancient or lacking good looks. I shake my head to dislodge those thoughts; I find this relentless need for youth and femininity jarring.
I make my way to the refreshment table. One of the impeccably dressed servers points to bottles and says words I can’t quite hear over the hustle and bustle and chatter.
‘Dr-ink.’ The server articulates the word as if I’m deaf. He gestures in front of him. ‘Champagne, wine…’ He pauses and then points to a bowl. His mouth twists as if he’s having to force words through a pipe.
I shrug. ‘What’s in there?’ My curiosity is piqued.
‘Punch.’ His tone almost apologetic. I open my mouth to speak—
‘Been saying for years that something needs to be done about the alcohol problem.’ I turn to two men behind me, their voices carrying over the ambient noise of the party.
‘Absolutely,’ the second man chimes in. Solidly built with salt-and-pepper hair; his voice has authority. ‘It’s high time we put an end to the excessive drinking that’s plaguing our society.’ Their words linger in the air, mingling with the clinking of glasses and the murmur of conversation.
I move to the glass bowl of punch, picking up a cup and turning to smile at the server. ‘Punch, please. Do fill my glass to the brim.’ I hear a tut behind me. I straighten up and pull my shoulders back, turning to face the men. They’ve already walked away, indicating in my direction.
‘Can I offer you something to eat?’ the server asks. He points at the grand array of serving plates. They’re all perfectly positioned on a table that’s adorned with ornate porcelain plates and silver utensils. This is luxury.
I shake my head, but he isn’t looking at me.
‘There’s an assortment of small appetisers and hors d’oeuvres on offer. Perhaps crackers with cheese and slices of cured meat.’ His speech is polished. He smiles. He’s proud of his delivery. He pauses to walk to a plate and point, before moving to another. ‘As well as larger dishes. Roast beef, salmon.’ He looks at me then. There’s not a hint of affection or concern. He cares neither if I eat five full platters nor starve myself to death.
‘Thank you, but I’m really not—’
‘Perhaps a little something from the selection of sweet treats. Cakes, pastries…’
