‘Very pretty, my dear!’ he said. ‘Very pretty!’
She managed to control her anger so that it shouldn’t show in her face and give him even that small satisfaction. She kept perfectly still, pressed back against the wash-table.
But his gaze had dropped to the open chest.
‘What’s this, Sara? Packing? Leaving us? Shame!’
He looked at her enquiringly, and straightening from his leaning position, he stepped into the cabin. There was a touch of petulance in the way in which he banged down the lid of the chest and pushed it back under the cot. He kicked the door closed behind him.
‘Mr. Wilder,’ she said sharply, ‘kindly open the door!’
He stared at her, and then laughed.
‘Kindly open the door!’ he mocked, imitating her tones. ‘Mr. Wilder has no intention of opening the door!’
Then he stepped towards her, and his hand shot out and gripped her arm. He bent his head close to hers.
‘And what can you do about it?’
She thrust her hand against his chest. He was amused at her efforts to push him away.
‘It does no good, Sara. If you make a sound I’ll tell whoever comes that I’m here at your invitation. It wouldn’t look well, would it, if I were to say that? Not even your frozen air of innocence could stand that!’
‘If you …’ Her voice was weaker and less certain. ‘If you don’t leave …’
He ended her speech abruptly by forcing his lips upon hers, pressing her body against his own until she could no longer even move in protest. Caught tightly against him, she was made strongly aware of the masculine smells he had brought into the tiny cabin, the smell and taste of wine on his lips and tongue, the faint smell of sweat from his armpits, the smell of the dressing he used upon his hair. They clung in her nostrils, and made her afraid. He had a strength and fever of desire to go on demanding with his lips a response she wouldn’t give. He released her a little, and she felt him try to push her back on the chest. She closed her eyes and clung grimly to his shoulders so that her body couldn’t be bent back. She had only one thought as she held to him ‒ that nothing should make her give in to Wilder, because he would use her without pity or thought. He would use her as long as he wished, and then leave her.
He began to shake her violently to break her grip, but it still held. The smell of the wine seemed overpoweringly strong, and she wondered if she were going to faint. She opened her eyes and saw the beads of sweat on his forehead and upper lip. She realized that it was on her own forehead as well.
Then he slackened his grip, and dropped his arms. She remained clinging to him, staring in a stupid, dazed fashion. It seemed foolish to have fought so grimly to prevent him coming nearer, and now, when he had drawn away, to hold him still. He put his hands up to her wrists, breaking her grip on the shoulders of his tunic with a single jerk.
Still holding her wrists he stepped back, looking her up and down. His gaze moved from her face to the limp muslin dress, hanging awry and falling off her shoulders.
‘You didn’t count on me coming, did you?’ he said. ‘You were preparing for someone else … for someone else, Sara! You’re all dressed up for someone. Who is it?’
He put his face closer to hers. ‘If you don’t tell me I’ll break you! I’ll …’ He gave her a savage shake. ‘Is it Roberts? Tell me! Or Maclay? Or is it one of those convict bastards you bed with whenever you get the chance?’
He shook her again, thrusting her with each movement against the hard edge of the chest.
She whispered, her tone thin because of the pain in her wrists, ‘If you don’t go …’
‘Go …?’ He dropped her arms. ‘I don’t want to go.’ His frenzied rage seemed to have left him.
His expression softened and he put his hand upon her shoulder, one finger moving tenderly upon her flesh, stroking with exquisite gentleness the curve of the bone.
‘Why do you fight me, Sara?’
The hand slipped to her throat, the same finger lingering now in the hollow at its base.
‘I could make things so easy for you. I’d give you money so that you should buy food when you get to Sydney. I’ll get gowns for you at the Cape ‒ and silk … Sara, do you hear me? Are you listening?’
His eyes, as they searched her face, were confident and eager.
‘Sara …’ He spoke gently. ‘You like me, don’t you?’
In reply she jerked herself free from his lightly caressing hand. Her voice came in a hoarse sort of whisper in the back of her throat.
‘If it’s a whore you want, Mr. Wilder, you’ll find plenty of them below! Don’t come in here looking for one!’
His hand twitched unsteadily, as if he meant to strike her.
‘You blasted little fool!’ he snapped. ‘You talk as if you were an innocent in arms. Fool … Fool! Don’t think anyone is deceived by that … We all know your kind. But you won’t stand out against it long after you land in Port Jackson. You’ll see how quickly you change … it’ll be a choice between your virtue and starvation then.’
His angry voice dropped to a lower level. He breathed deeply, dabbing impatiently with his hand at the sweat on his forehead.
‘I’ll tell you, Sara, in case you’ve forgotten, what’s going to happen when you arrive in Sydney. You’ll be looked over by the military, and, because you’ve got a beautiful face, and a beautiful body, one of the officers will want to make you his mistress. And you won’t refuse. You won’t flaunt your virtue, either. You’ll be much too afraid of hunger. It’s a business, my dear ‒ you’ll trade your beauty for bread and salt pork.’
She was looking at him with her eyes half-closed. ‘How wrong you are about that, Mr. Wilder!’ she snapped. ‘I’m not up for market. My position in the colony will be as Mrs. Ryder’s personal maid.’
‘Personal maid, eh?’ he scoffed. ‘And what makes you think that?’
‘Because she told me so herself!’ she blazed back.
‘Did she, indeed? How she trusts you!’
‘She hasn’t any reason not to trust me ‒ and, what’s more, she isn’t going to get one.’ Her breath was so fast it hurt her to speak. Finally she flung at him, ‘Now, get out!’
The thin, unpleasant smile was back on his face.
‘Get out? Get out, you say? Why should I?’
And, still smiling, he made a sudden lunge towards her, and caught her to him. To Sara, struggling to avoid them, his lips seemed to be everywhere, pressing into her hair and eyelids and mouth, excitedly seeking a response. Then she felt them against her throat, and on her shoulder where the gown had fallen away. His groping hands were upon her also, and she heard the sharp little sound as the wilted muslin tore. After that her restraint left her. Her anger was a hot darkness before her eyes; it exploded the frightened suggestions of caution; it mattered no longer whether the man who fumbled with such eager hands and lips was the captain or the lowest member of his crew. All she knew was that she must be rid of those hands.
She gave a quick twist, at the same time raising her right hand to his face. She dug her nails into the sweating skin, and drew them sharply downwards. For a short space of time they both hesitated. Sara stared in awe at the three long scratches she had made on his cheek. The middle one, deeper than the others, had already begun to bleed.
Slowly his hand went up to touch his cheek. His fingers encountered the wetness there, and he turned them over to examine them. He cursed as he saw the blood smeared across them.
‘You strumpet! Where did you learn your tricks ‒ in a whore-house? I’ve a mind to break every bone in your body for that!’
He hit her twice. The second blow flung her on to the chest. She struck her head against the bulkhead and slipped down, only half-conscious.
Before her misted eyes Wilder’s figure seemed to sway threateningly. He bent over her.
‘I’ll want nothing more of you ‒ bitch! Stay here! It becomes you well ‒ your chaste little room!’
He swung
back on his heel and left her. The door slammed behind him with a thunderous noise which echoed in the narrow passage-way.
Chapter Four
The dead hours of the middle watch had dulled Andrew with fatigue. He had thankfully handed over to Roberts, and now, shortly after eight bells sounded, he began to make his way below. The night was fine and dark. There was a faint breeze, and the Georgette kept steadily to her course in a calm sea. The silence was deep as the ship slept.
The two stern lanterns cast a faint light over the poop deck and touched the helmsmen as they dragged together at the wheel. Looking away from them, as he descended the companion ladder, Andrew saw the glow of a cigar in the darkness, and made out the form of a man leaning against the bulwark. He paused, then went forward.
‘Brooks? ‒ Is that you?’
‘Yes. Came up to get a breath of fresh air.’ Andrew could not see his face, but his tone was weary and grim. ‘It’s a hell down there,’ he said. ‘There was a confinement ‒ a convict woman. I’ve been with her all the night.’
‘Is she all right?’ Andrew asked. He was sympathetically aware of the surgeon’s ordeal among that troublesome mob of women.
‘The mother is all right ‒ the child is dead. It was born dead.’ Brooks turned back to the bulwark. He puffed at the cigar. ‘Just as well it didn’t live. These babies born on transports rarely last the voyage. They’re sick and starved. This one’s mother has no idea who the father is.’
Silence fell between them. Andrew stared out to sea, but was aware of nothing, neither his tiredness nor the blackness of the night. Presently he said, ‘The man who was flogged yesterday ‒ how is he?’
‘Bad. But he’ll get over it, I dare say. He’s strong.’
The scene of the previous day’s flogging had remained with Andrew. The convicts seemed to possess a fiendish talent for putting themselves in the way of trouble. God in heaven, wasn’t their lot bad enough? he wondered. Yesterday’s punishment was the result of a brutish attack by a Welshman on an undersized Bristol footpad. The weapon used was a single blade of a rusted pair of scissors. The set-to had been provoked by nothing more than an argument over the number of guns the Georgette carried. It didn’t take much, he thought, to stir up a spark in the minds of men who had had no occupation for months. The Welshman was flogged before the mast in view of the assembled crew. The cat o’ nine tails flew until his back was too bloody a mess to continue; then it fell across the calves of his legs. The little footpad lay below, too weak from loss of blood from the scissor wounds to take his part of the punishment.
‘And the other one …?’ Andrew asked. ‘Will he live?’
‘Yes, he’ll live. He’s responding well. In any case, they’ll both spend the rest of the voyage in irons.’
Andrew said slowly, frowning, ‘I can’t get used to seeing them flogged. God knows, there was enough of it in the Navy to harden me. But this is different ‒ and when it’s one of the women, it makes me sick. I pity the convicts when they’re being punished in a way I’d never pity one of the hands. What else can these miserable wretches do but cause trouble?’
‘You’ve quite a feeling for the convicts these days, Maclay,’ Brooks murmured.
Andrew turned to him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Perhaps it’s not my affair. But I should hate to see you run yourself into trouble.’
Andrew stiffened. ‘Yes …?’
‘The girl, I mean. Sara Dane.’ Brooks said this quietly, as if he was feeling his way with care. ‘Good God, man, you must know how gossip spreads around on a ship! You spend a great deal of your time with her. You can’t blame …’
‘I love her!’ Andrew returned sharply.
‘You love her …!’ Brooks was taken aback. ‘You know nothing about her ‒ or almost nothing. How much do you know?’
Andrew lifted his shoulders helplessly. ‘What do any of us know about her except that she’s beautiful, and that she has charm and spirit!’
‘Beauty, yes,’ Brooks replied, considering. ‘She has that all right. Oh, and charm and spirit, too! But, God in heaven, Maclay, you don’t love a convict for having a beautiful face!’
‘But that’s just it, I do love her!’ Andrew said quickly. ‘She obsesses me, I tell you! I can’t get her out of my mind! The thought of her torments me!’
Brooks had turned to Andrew. ‘You can’t be serious, surely?’
‘Damn you, of course I’m serious!’
‘Have you told her this?’
For a moment Andrew didn’t reply. Then he said, ‘That’s the curse of it ‒ I haven’t.’ He went on gloomily. ‘You know what she’s like ‒ I never get a chance to tell her. She’s just the same with all of us ‒ Wilder, Roberts ‒ yourself, Brooks. She’s got a smile and a laugh for each of us ‒ and that’s as far as it goes.’
‘Oh, I’ll not deny she knows what she’s about. The captain can’t have any reason to complain of her behaviour! She’s a shrewd enough wench, I’ll give you that!’
‘Yes … yes.’ Andrew was impatient. ‘But what am I to do? I love her!’
‘This is a damned awkward business, Maclay,’ Brooks said, at the end of a long pause between them. ‘I hardly know what to say. The captain won’t turn a blind eye to consorting …’
‘Consorting! I don’t want to consort with her! I want to marry her!’
‘Don’t be such a blasted fool, man! How can you marry her ‒ it’s not as simple as that. Have you forgotten you’ll be parted when we reach Port Jackson?’
Andrew said calmly, ‘I have plans …’
‘Plans! Damn good plans you’ll need to get you over a situation like this. She’s a convict! You know nothing about her ‒ where she comes from, even what crime she was transported for.’
‘True,’ Andrew said. ‘But I’ll find out.’
‘Then you’ll have to ask her herself. None of the convict-papers will tell you.’
The surgeon had finished his cigar by this time. He threw the glowing end down into the water.
‘I’m deadly serious about this, Brooks,’ Andrew said, ‘I mean to ask her about herself. I’ll find out as much as there is to know ‒ and you’ll see then whether or not I’m in love with her!’
Brooks sighed deeply. ‘Well … I hope you’re not … disillusioned. That’s about all I can say.’ He added, ‘We’d both better get below now. I’m dead for want of sleep.’
Andrew followed the other to the companion-ladder, and as he walked he glanced back at the stern lights standing out against the blackness of the sky. The Georgette rode in deep and pervading peace, as if she were an untroubled ship.
Andrew came face to face with Sara the following evening as she descended the companion-ladder from the quarter-deck. He ran up a few steps to halt her progress. She was surprised by his direct approach and gazed down on him enquiringly.
‘I want to talk to you,’ he said.
She said nothing, but glanced about the deck below her. The passage-way from which Andrew had come led directly to the officers’ quarters. Even as they stood facing each other two of the hands passed, and shot quick, curious glances at them.
‘Come with me,’ Andrew said. He moved past her on the ladder, jerking his head to indicate that she should follow.
Sara faced him squarely when he drew her into the shadow of the lifeboat on the quarter-deck and demanded to know why she was here on the Georgette. He asked her outright the reason for her conviction.
She had been expecting this, and shrugged her shoulders, answering with the suggestion of a laugh.
‘Oh, I ran away from a rectory ‒ and had the misfortune to forget to return to my employer’s three guineas, which they claimed did not belong to me.’
He let out an exasperated gasp, took her shoulders and shook her sharply.
‘Don’t play with me, madam! That’s not the whole story!’
‘Then you shall have it ‒ the whole of it!’ she flung back at him. ‘And if you don’t like it, rememb
er that I didn’t force it on you.’
While his hand still rested upon her shoulders, but more gently now, she told him what he had asked, going back to her life in London, in Rye, and at Bramfield. She left nothing out, not her mother’s doubtful past, or Sebastian’s family. He heard about Sir Geoffrey Watson and Lady Linton. The one thing she could not tell him, and never meant to tell him, was her love for Richard Barwell.
‘When the time came to go to Lady Linton,’ she said, ‘I decided I’d had enough of living with a family in which I’d never be anything but the daughter of a drunkard and a petty borrower.’ She added a trifle ruefully: ‘It was the only mistake I ever made ‒ to take Sir Geoffrey’s money with me. There was no defence for me after that.’
As she finished he suddenly squeezed both her shoulders tightly in his hands, and let out a shout of laughter which carried clearly across the deck.
‘You little fool, Sara! Oh, you little fool!’ He laughed again. ‘To think you let yourself be sent to Botany Bay for the price of a gown or two! And to think I’ve wasted sleep over you because you called yourself a thief. A thief ‒ of all things! You’re a borrower, Sara, like your father.’
He had stopped laughing, but he still grinned broadly. ‘This is the best news I’ve had in all my life.’
Without warning he bent and kissed her fully on the lips.
‘Remember that until the next time, Sara.’
Then he turned and strode across the deck towards the companion-ladder; she listened to the noisy clatter he made as he descended it. He whistled softly as he went.
She stayed where she was, within the shadow of the lifeboat. Below there were many tasks waiting for her attention, but for once, she told herself, they could wait. She closed her eyes for a second, and saw again Andrew Maclay’s face, gay and yet serious, as excited as a boy’s. But there was bitterness in the knowledge also. What was the use of Andrew Maclay being in love with her ‒ no more could come of it than just such another offer as Wilder’s. Though Andrew’s would be couched in terms of love and affection, and the inducement to yield would be all the stronger. Restlessly she turned her head, looking out towards the dark horizon. Where could such a relationship end, except in a farewell when they reached Port Jackson? ‒ the price she would pay was the loss of Julia Ryder’s confidence. The thought tormented her. Here at hand was a man who might make her forget Richard Barwell, forget the foolishness two children had committed. Andrew had the authority about him that could easily command her love, and the tenderness to win and hold it. Before his reality, the image of Richard would fade. She acknowledged, despairingly, that it would be an easy matter now to fall in love.
Sara Dane Page 10
