On Starlit Seas Page 15

  ‘Even the notes of no consequence?’ Mrs Murray pushed him. ‘Those promising to visit soon or simply sending birthday wishes?’

  ‘Yes, yes, my dear.’ Murray was immoveable. ‘One never knows what may later be of interest. Papa always said . . .’

  Mrs Murray cast her eyes heavenwards. She was sure her son, John, would not take his father’s system of administration so seriously and she saw no reason why her husband should so respect his own father’s wishes.

  ‘Many of the correspondents from your father’s day are deceased,’ she pointed out. ‘What use can their letters possibly be?’

  Murray worried that in his absence his wife might rummage. He had left instructions with the household staff that should such an occurrence take place, they were to fetch him immediately and delay Mrs Murray for as long as they could.

  The wily old publisher bowed very low.

  ‘I expect Mrs Graham will come home when she’s ready, ladies. Grief takes us all differently and Mrs Graham has important work to do.’

  Georgiana’s lips let out a puff of air, as if to blow the words Murray had uttered clean away. For women such as Lady Dundas and her protégée, there was only one way to behave. Maria, who, in Murray’s view, showed absolute restraint, had edged beyond the cusp of her family’s expectations.

  ‘Heaven knows what she will get up to next.’ Lady Dundas, exasperated, took her leave by bobbing a half-curtsey and clasping Miss Graham’s arm.

  Murray fervently hoped what the girl would get up to would be some writing.

  ‘Well, London awaits.’ He bowed and stood back to let the ladies pass.

  As they disappeared into the fog, he sighed with relief. He didn’t envy Maria her position. Then, shrugging off the exchange, he continued towards St James’s Place and the comfortingly male preserve of his tailor.

  15

  On board the Bittersweet

  That evening aboard the Bittersweet, Captain Henderson and Mrs Graham removed their dining arrangements to the cabin as the northern air proved too bracing to dine on deck, even now, in spring. There had been showers on and off all day.

  ‘Invigorating enough, sir,’ Clarkson had commented.

  Come nightfall, the watch wore greatcoats.

  Henderson hovered in the doorway before he knocked.

  ‘Come in,’ she said.

  The cabin boy had set the table and brought extra lamps. The room smelled of honey and violets. As Maria rose, there was the merest whiff of orchid. She nodded. ‘I removed my papers.’

  Henderson smiled as she wrapped a shawl round her slim shoulders. He admired her lack of artifice. The grey dress had become somehow more intriguing than any amount of ostrich feathers and crimson silk. It was odd being inside. It felt more private, more contained. When he placed his chair next to hers, she jumped.

  ‘I made a promise,’ he said.

  Her eyes were always so serious when he spoke that he came to consider carefully everything he said. No one had listened to him like that since those lost London days. Sometimes Mrs Graham was like a bird that might at any moment take flight. He wanted to put her at ease. The captain had never felt such tenderness.

  ‘You have been browsing.’ He indicated the books piled to one side.

  Maria nodded. ‘With my work finished, I thought to read.’

  She now regretted neglecting to take advantage of the Bagdorfs’ library before she left Trinidad. Now even the frothy novels Thys had offered held an allure. She might even be prepared to try Miss Austen’s dreadful Pride and Prejudice – a book she had always avoided, considering it little more than gossip written for the libraries of spoilt young ladies. Mr Murray had offered her a copy on several occasions and she had declined even him. Until now.

  Henderson picked up a volume with Maria’s name tooled in gold on the spine. She blushed. ‘One of your own? May I borrow it?’

  She acquiesced.

  That night, dinner over, the captain taught Maria to play poker, a game he had picked up on a trip to New Orleans the year before. She was not, he noted, adept at bluffing. She knew that this would be another scandal, yet she indulged it. What would London think? Maria tried not to concern herself. But what, oh what, of London? It was now only days away.

  Late, when the captain retired to his cabin, he opened her Journal of a Residence in India. The book disarmed him. On its pages, Captain Dundas, Maria’s father, sprang to life about his business as Maria explored shrines, temples and palaces. She had literary talent – he could taste the turmeric on the air and feel the violent release of the monsoon as the streets of Bombay turned to mud. He was filled suddenly with awe at her abilities. She had missed nothing, from the sizzle of a morning chapatti to the indulgence of a cow wandering freely, knocking over market stalls and sending sari-bound women scuttling to the chink of their cheap jewellery as they hurried out of the way.

  He lingered over the passages where her father appeared, accompanying her on an elephant ride during which the animal almost ran amok, and introducing his daughter to his officers, one of whom she was later to marry. In the passages that contained Captain Dundas, Maria seemed eager, finally spending time with her father after years of study in England, for which she did not fully express her distaste. Henderson saw now that behind the steady eyes of the grown woman there was a girl keen to please the man who had been missing for much of her young life. She was kept away from everything she loved, he understood at last. Just like me.

  Henderson leaned his head against the cabin’s wooden wall as he put down the book. Outside, the slow sunrise was dawning. The cabin boy knocked and delivered a morning tot of rum. ‘Sir.’

  The captain rubbed his eyes and knocked back the spirit. He ran his hand across the roughness of his chin. Later he would shave.

  ‘Not far now, sir.’ The cabin boy was excited.

  The men had told him about England and Mrs Graham had taught him his letters. Reading was an effort, but each day it became easier and the child felt invincible in anticipation of a new world.

  ‘Three days or so.’ Henderson’s eyes fell to his chart as he waved the boy away.

  Three days, he thought, and she’d be gone. The captain hardened his resolve. He must ask her soon, though it might break the spell. He must pluck up his courage. He would do it tonight.

  *

  Up early, washed and dressed, Maria raised aloft her dark waxed parasol to protect her skin from the fine rain that spread like filigree over the deck. The air already felt like England. The crew no longer worked topless and had assembled a jumble of cotton shirts and loosely knitted vests as the ship sailed northwards. Today, four of the men were fishing over the side. Two were tending lines and two more were trawling. Their attention was focussed on the choppy water. The men ate only ship’s biscuits when the fishing failed.

  ‘Grey,’ one commented, gesturing in the direction of the sky. An overcast vista boded well for a decent catch.

  Maria loitered out of their line of sight and took a seat on a barrel. With London so close, she found she had mixed feelings. She told herself that she was looking forward to it, and tried not to think too clearly about leaving the Bittersweet or, more specifically, Captain Henderson. The voyage had provided respite from the judgements of England’s capital city and the expectations of Rio. Onboard this strange-looking vessel, Maria could be herself.

  Carefree, she decided to tarry and eavesdrop. There was little other occupation and she anticipated it might be fun. She shifted inside her bodice, lengthening her spine as she settled. At the other end of the deck Clarkson stood at the wheel, while around his feet two sailors scrubbed the boards. For a long time, the party of fishermen behind her were silent. One knocked out his pipe and lit it. The sound of puffing ensued. Maria smiled. The cool air was refreshing and the smell of kindling shag was pleasant. Soon she would go inside and read. The cabin boy passed with a bucket of slops and nodded a greeting. Then there was a whoop and what sounded like a scuffle as the nets w
ere hauled up and the catch landed on deck. A slosh of water cascaded across the boards. Maria lifted her feet.

  ‘That’s a fine ’un,’ a voice declared as he put an end to the fish’s flapping with a cosh.

  ‘Big Al’ll be delighted. There’s more there than the captain and his lady can eat,’ a second voice said.

  Yet another man chimed in. ‘You think they really eat in there? God knows what they’re up to.’

  Maria started. Her blood ran cold, as if of a sudden she had woken up. She cast her gaze up at Clarkson, but he was too far off and hadn’t heard. God knows what they’re up to. She felt a rush of fury. How dare these men presume? The chorus of lewd laughter horrified her, as, out of sight, the sailor’s voice continued lascivious, rich with innuendo.

  ‘Night after night. That Mrs Graham’s a fine-looking little hen.’

  Maria squinted around the side of the barrel to see a man whose fingertips had been slashed making a bawdy gesture, his voice a stern whisper.

  ‘And who can blame the captain? She was a married woman and comely. She must’ve been missing the hot and the hand of a real man to scratch her itch.’

  The men laughed uproariously again as they worked the nets.

  Maria recoiled in horror. She felt quite nauseous. How could she have been stupid enough to believe the Bittersweet was different from everywhere else? Henderson’s easy manner had lulled her, she realised. She had indulged herself foolishly and let down her guard. She had opened herself to derision. Her fingers were quivering with humiliation. The shame of it! Had she been asleep all this time? They thought her nothing but a floozy. A tawdry whore! She fumbled to her feet and, almost crouching so Clarkson would not see her face, she stole to her cabin, her eyes awash with tears. The whole ship had been laughing at her. They were laughing now.

  Inside, pacing in panic, she tried to block out the echo of the sailor’s jeers by reciting poetry – Byron’s Childe Harold (which Murray had sent to her the year before), Keats’s ‘Ode to Autumn’ and stanzas about Greece by Miss Elizabeth Barrett, memorised from a periodical. Maria did not aspire to the modern ideals of the Romantics. She was a pragmatist, but now the words poured out – an accustomed escape. It was no use – she couldn’t stop thinking about the man’s ribald fingers flashing together. She couldn’t stop pacing unless it was to fall to her knees. She eyed the cabin door with suspicion. How dare they, she thought. And the rest of the day she didn’t step across the threshold. She doubted she might ever do so again.

  As night fell, Maria’s shame did not diminish. On this tiny ship on the wide ocean there had been little that she could not discuss with Captain Henderson, from the cultivation of cacao to the frequently horrifying stories of some of the crew – where they had come from and what they had done. Thatcher had lost the family alehouse in Bridlington to gambling debts before he came to sea, and Clarkson’s wife had sold him to the press gang when he was only twenty, for she was, he told the captain, a right besom who had taken a dislike to him after four years of marriage.

  Tonight, though, as the captain arrived and they took their seats, Maria found she could not mention what she had heard on deck. It was too fresh a bruise. It ached as she sat in her grey dress beside him. The candlelight passed its honeyed glow across her countenance. Inside, she squirmed with discomfort. Oblivious, Henderson was in a good mood. He poured the wine and grinned as he talked about mapping their course. His charts, it seemed, were accurate and they were making good way. He had enjoyed her book.

  As they moved on to discuss botany – the differences between those hardy specimens that could withstand the sea air and the hundreds lost in transit each year, the despair of England’s horticulturalists – Maria could only think of the men beyond the door. The crew presuming that James was tupping her like some thrupenny whore.

  ‘Might you join the Society?’ she questioned, distracted, trying not to show her shame. If she sent him away, she’d have to give an explanation, and that was something she certainly could not bear.

  Henderson gave a non-committal shrug. The Royal Horticultural Society was the province of gentlemen. A fellow needed a proposer and a seconder. He’d have to be a publisher of pamphlets at least.

  ‘You can apply to speak,’ she suggested. ‘They would be most interested in your botanical knowledge. “The Taming of the Cacao Bean” – I can hear it now. Few will know the exact differences between wild and plantation-farmed. London welcomes new minds.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Maria searched the cabin boy’s face as he brought a dish ready to serve. The boy put a tankard of white wine between them and made a curious little bow. A low curl of mortification unfolded in her belly as he retreated and closed the cabin door. Did the child think so little of her too? Had he heard the men talking? Henderson sat back. The candlelight flickered so there was a moment of darkness – a mere blink. Maria fingered her cutlery. Her heart was pounding and she found herself trying not to look at the bed. Perhaps she should call the boy back. It might feel safer. Henderson put his hand on her arm.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  She pulled back, nodding. He had not come so close since the day he kissed her. She could smell the soap on his skin – a hint of nutmeg and blackberry that sneaked in below the familiar musk of pipe tobacco. Her fingers fluttered. These moments left her wary of her own behaviour and yet she sought them out. The shame.

  ‘Mrs Graham,’ the captain said, ‘it seems to me that when this voyage is over I shall miss having dinner with you. These weeks have been a golden time.’

  ‘Yes,’ Maria mumbled.

  ‘I have something to ask. I have wanted to ask for some weeks now, almost since I first saw you.’

  Maria panicked. Here it came. Here. Her heart beat so fiercely she could scarcely believe it was not visible. Her mind raced. Had it all been leading to this? Had he apologised for kissing her only to propose something worse? How would she resist him when her own body rebelled against her better judgement? London would scorn her. London would know. And the men. With the sound of lewd laughter ringing in her ears, she jerked back her chair and pulled her wrap around her shoulders like armour. The rights of marriage were reserved for marriage. That was true blue, but if he asked her, is that what she would reply?

  ‘I can’t. Please,’ she implored. ‘It’s not possible, James, however much I might wish it.’

  The captain took his time. ‘Everything is possible,’ he said steadily. ‘We are free people, both you and I, but I have no wish to upset you.’

  ‘I’m not upset.’ Her voice avowed otherwise.

  ‘I thought we were friends.’

  ‘Yes. Friends.’

  ‘So marriage is impossible?’

  Maria started. She had not expected that. ‘Marriage,’ she said, ‘would be out of the question as well.’

  ‘As well as what?’

  Her eyes fell to the bed.

  He laughed, his voice booming. ‘Did you think . . . Oh, Maria.’ He reached for her hand but caught it only fleetingly. ‘But you are a lady, remember?’

  A line of fire coursed through her blood. She had to drag her gaze away. They had all been right about her, it seemed. Her school. Her aunt. The gentlemen who scorned her work. The officers who tried to take charge of her lodgings. The men on deck.

  Henderson continued. ‘My dear, are you simply afraid of that? It is bound to be the easy thing between us. It will be different to what has gone before.’

  Maria drew herself up. She felt appalled that he had laughed. Was she nothing but a joke on the Bittersweet? Her cheeks burned. ‘I was married for over ten years to Captain Graham,’ she managed.

  ‘And still it scares you?’

  It was as if he could see through her. She could traverse the Amazon, ride a camel, hike the Chilean highlands and calculate the force of an earthquake, but she was afraid of this, this tawdry and mundane thing that most women took in their stride. A tear strayed down her cheek. She brushed it away angr
ily. How had she avoided it for years with Thomas and yet suddenly she felt compelled towards this man – a person totally unsuitable? A person she had met on the dockside – someone completely unconnected to her life. A smuggler. A kidnapper. A liar. They had not one single acquaintance in common. He was without a home or a family. And yet he was fascinating. The most interesting man she’d ever met. He meant far more to her than the polite acquaintance she was pretending. She had been punished all her life for taking risks she could justify, but this, she knew, would put her beyond the pale. The infamy! How could she have let herself get into this position?

  ‘I will not marry you, Captain Henderson.’ It was with a great effort that she kept her voice low.

  ‘Is it my station?’ he replied. ‘I’m set to change, Maria. I’ll find a respectable profession. Not only for your sake but for mine too. I’ve been considering it.’

  Maria didn’t trust herself to speak. She knew these vague promises meant nothing in London. In matters of propriety, the real world only took into account what was here, not what might come. It was difficult enough to defend her right to travel independently, to write what she pleased, to have her opinions valued on a par even with more poorly educated men. She had fought hard for these privileges. How could he even ask her? If she married James Henderson, she’d lose all respect and, with it, everything she’d worked for since she first set ink to paper and posted a tentative manuscript to Murray. Her mind raced. The bed was bad enough. The thought of losing control was horrifying, but if the Bittersweet’s crew considered her nothing more than a smutty joke, nothing was surer than that London would think worse. She imagined the gossip – leaving with one husband and arriving home with a lesser man. The city would squeal with delight and never take her seriously again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly, desperate, her hand held out as if to hold him off. ‘You must leave.’

  Henderson took in the words. He did not object, only got up slowly, his eyes raw. ‘Please forget I distressed you with the idea,’ he said as he bowed, then crossed the threshold and firmly closed the door.