“Wales is very fine.” I smiled. “Do you know Cardiff? I feel sure we have a common friend in Miss Groves.”
“Miss Groves of Cardiff near Charles Street?” he asked incredulously.
“The very same,” I said, laughing. I could not help but notice the lines that had been formed on his face from his frequent laughter, and the stunning blue of his eyes. “She is a friend of mine. We made some very smart mud pies together as children.”
He couldn’t help but smile. “It is an arduous task that must be accomplished by someone of intellect,” he speculated. “Did you have a special technique?” Several of the senior officers glanced at him in disapproval.
“Yes! You see, the best mud cake is made with a very particularly handled twig. Without a proper twig, I should be completely lost.” I waved my hands dramatically. The children were beginning to giggle.
“And what if no twig can be found?” he inquired seriously. “What then?”
“Then I should have to console myself with the use of some sturdy weeds.” I postulated solemnly.
The children could not contain themselves any longer and burst into laughter at such silly dinner conversation.
Seeing an end to our philosophies on mud, he began a fresh subject. “And what brings you on a ship like this, Miss Anna? I hope you have family waiting at our berth.”
I was about to answer when that sharp voice rudely interrupted.
“No,” the captain said bluntly. “Miss Kensington has no family outside of London. She journeys with us for a prime youth adventure.” The captain looked to me as if he had just stated a well-known fact or the state of the weather.
“You see,” he continued as he leaned closer to Lieutenant Warley, “she is running from an undesirable match.” Lieutenant Warley looked down, suddenly uncomfortable.
He then turned to me. “What was it that you disliked about him?” the Captain asked. “Was there not enough wealth? Was he unpopular? Or was he simply not handsome enough?”
All conversation had stopped. I could feel everyone staring either at the captain or at me. The sea men’s eyebrows were all raised in sudden surprise. Even Mary looked on in expectation. The children sensed real tension and had stopped their soft squabbles. As for me, I stared at him with intensity at his bold accusations. Is that what people thought of me? That I was running from a man? I had never experienced before such a noble and presumptuous speech against my character. I was unwilling to simply let it pass submissively.
“I run from no man,” I said, turning to look him straight in the face. “Even if a man has no wealth, good looks, or respectable personality, I will still sit next to him at the supper table.”
The men’s eyebrows rose even further and a proud smile broke out on Mary’s face. The captain broke eye contact with me first and turned to his guests with a mock grin.
“Well then! Let us toast to those of us humble enough to sit in the presence of such company.” He rose his glass to toast and a few men raised their glasses with a mumble. The captain drank from his glass, gave me one last long glare, and took his leave from the table.
All was silent as I reflected on the unreasonable hate, masked by fake cordiality, that burned in his eyes. It was sickeningly familiar.
Supper dismissed informally and I was drawn to the deck by the sight of a bright moon reflecting off the water. I tugged my shawl around me as I gazed at the scenery. The moon was so big I could see gray spots on her surface. My mind wandered.
When I had reached Mother, she did not dive for the raging fire crawling up my back. She held me back. She hit my face. Over and over she slapped me as the flames tore at my tender arm. I whimpered quietly. Father finally reached us and threw Mother back while he used the unburnt folds of my dress to extinguish the remaining flames that held me in a powerful grasp.
Father embraced me and held me tight. I could see Mother over his shoulder, seething with rage. Her breath came in short, heavy gasps.
“What an inconsiderate, stupid child I have! I buy a new dress and you destroy it within minutes! You careless, idiotic creature!”
Tears started to come down my cheeks. My arm hurt so badly, but that was not why I wept.
“I’m sorry, Mother. I am so sorry,” I sobbed. Father finally released me and examined my arm, then picked me up and escorted me past Mother and upstairs. Mother screamed in fury that I was meant to go to church with her in that dress and that we would be late. Mother screamed until her voice was gone. Father nursed my arm and pretended the house was silent. With my arm bandaged, tears dried, and a new plain dress on, we spent the afternoon cracking nuts together in his room.
Mother spent the day in church.
“Never apologize to her,” Father said when we were together, through gritted teeth and clenched jaw.
I stared at him in surprise, while his eyes were downcast.
He brought his gaze to mine.
“Never,” he repeated.
“Miss Anna?” I heard behind me. I turned slightly to see my visitor. Lieutenant Warley stood with perfect posture and spotless uniform.
“I hope you’ll forgive me for addressing you with your given name,” he said clumsily, “Missus Livingstone said it is what you prefer.”
“It is,” I responded.
He quickly nodded. His smile flashed for a moment and then faltered. “I feel I must apologize for instigating an argument,” he said, “I should not have inquired so boldly as to your situation.”
“No, sir, please,” I begged. “I feel sure it must be burning in everyone’s curiosity. I am glad you felt comfortable enough to ask me.”
“Still, I am to blame, in part, for distressing you,” he insisted. As unfounded as his guilt was, I knew there would be no convincing him to the contrary.
“Very well, I shall blame you entirely if you wish,” I suggested with a smile.
He returned my smile in kind. “I will gladly take all the blame.” He joined me on the ledge of the ship. A soft breeze blew the hair from his eyes.
“It is not that I wish to remain a mystery,” I tried to explain. He turned to face me. “And the captain was right. I am running, but only in faith, not in fear, nor solely for adventure’s sake.”
I had spoken to the sea as he watched me. Finishing my vague explanation, I looked to him. His gaze was so direct. I was suddenly uncomfortable, but a part of my rebellious mind spoke loudly. I need not be uncomfortable in a man’s presence. Lieutenant Warley is obviously a good man, and thoroughly respectable. If I am to live this way, I shall have to make my own decisions on what is proper and what is not.
Conversation with Lieutenant Warley came effortlessly. We spoke of his upbringing in Wales and how his mother and father had met. She came from a wealthy family, her father a duke. She had met her future husband at a ball, where he was dressed in his bright red soldier’s uniform. Their eyes met across a busy ballroom floor and they could barely be separated when the time came for company to be dismissed. He traveled all over Europe with the militia, while they wrote letters in secret. Three years from their meeting, he approached her father to ask for her hand in marriage. The duke vehemently refused, and his father and mother promptly removed to Gretna Green for their elopement, unashamed at being in love. He seemed slightly embarrassed at sharing the story with me, but I found it delightful.
“And how did they live?” I asked, “I assume your grandfather, the duke, cut her off.”
“Yes, he did,” he answered, “they had a small income from my father’s work in the militia. And Mother sold the jewelry and fineries she had on her person at the time. They made a small living, and she learned how to become a gardener, chef, and mother.”
“I should love to meet her,” I said.
“I would love that as well,” he agreed quickly. I looked away for a moment. Had I unwittingly declared myself to him? I had only meant I should like to meet her because of her story! She had thrown away worldly ties just as I wished to throw away mine. She
embodied hope. I certainly did not wish to meet her so that I could wed her son. But I supposed there was nothing to do about it now. The only danger was in him thinking I had any intention of returning to Europe.
“How long will we be at sea?” I asked.
“Ah yes,” he replied, remembering something. “Missus Livingstone told me you have no desire to know our heading. I will not tell you where we travel, though you may likely guess, but it will take us three months to arrive there. I hear Captain Dunna has made it in two!”
“So you have not been employed by him long?” I inquired.
“No, my only other voyage with him was to India,” he replied. “But the captain is known for his unworldly speeds, and I am happy to serve him.”
“Just as he seems glad to be served,” I contested sarcastically.
He turned to me and asked, “Would you pardon me if I asked if you knew him before now?”
“Yes, certainly.” I paused, remembering when I knew him as Mr. Ashmore. Articulating the resentment I felt for him was possibly too much for one conversation. I chose a stale answer. “I only knew him in passing.”
“He seems a good man to me,” he reflected. “Strict to a point, but good.”
I had not the heart to quash his optimism. “Perhaps.”
The night finally grew too brisk to continue conversation. I moved toward my cabin, but was halted by several of the sailors scrubbing the deck on their hands and knees. I was on the verge of asking to pass, but my thoughts were interrupted.
“Aye, men! Move out of the way! Lady coming through!” Warley shouted.
The men shuffled out of the way, and I hurried through the space with my head down and my cheeks flaming hot. Did he think I was not capable of finding a way? Is that how he perceived me? Incapable, delicate, weak? Or did he simply want to exert his own authority? He certainly did not help my relationship with the men, painting me as a feeble female. I reached my cabin, irked from the experience.
As I began to get ready for another night of dreaded sleep, I decided I had finally reached my limit. I simply could not bear the insatiable itching any longer. I bolted my door as firmly as the little latch was able and tore the wig from my head at long last. My father’s plan had been to pass me off as a boy on a long voyage, but that plan had turned cold and Mother bought me a fine piece of hair to cover my shorn scalp.
I gently placed the long piece of hair on my cot and ran my fingernails through the short stubble with satisfaction. It was all I could manage, in the last forty-eight hours, to not tear the loathsome creature off my head. After two weeks of having to wear it, I was still not comfortable with the pins and products it took to make it look natural against my face. Why I wore it, I did not know. It was a representation of everything I disliked in the world. I suppose I simply did not wish to answer the questions my hairless head would raise.
While still scratching my aching scalp, I laid in my cot. As my fingers massaged, I tried to tell myself that I did not need to dream. Whether the dreams were good or bad, I had no more need of them. I was a new person. I was finally the maker of my own destiny. Thus arguing with myself, I finally dozed off.
“Leaving?” I asked hesitantly. “On holiday?”
“A very long holiday,” my father said, smiling widely.
“Leaving Mother’s house?” I looked around the library in which we were seated.
He lifted my chin with a single, broad finger, and then reached up to tap my nose.
“I have become aware of a new and exciting situation. Are you prepared to know where we will be making our new home?” he asked eagerly. He reminded me of a schoolboy.
I had to giggle at his eagerness. “All right. Where are we going, Papa?” I asked, not quite believing. “Australia? India? Scotland?”
In a hushed tone, he said, “America.”
I sat up in my small bed, my face streaked with tears, and looked out my tiny window. The moon was so bright it lit up my cabin. There was enough light that I could find my worn handkerchief in my belongings. I knew there was no chance of peaceful sleep now.
I stood to dress myself for the day and found myself speculating. Who was the person who had decided that women should wear all these layers? Undoubtedly it had been a man. I did not want to spend hours dressing in my cabin. I wanted to spend them breathing in the pure air of my new existence. I had no desire to impress anyone aboard, save Mary. And I knew that making myself into a hard laborer would impress her most.
Having thus decided, I dressed myself in a simple cap sleeve dress, with minimal undergarments. I was sorely tempted to leave behind my wig. Nothing would have made me more happy than to throw it into the teeming deep. But I did not want to answer all questions all at once. Maybe, in time, I could discard it and say I had cut my hair because of the heat. For the time being, I sat in front of a small mirror to place the horrid thing atop my head.
Sullen, and already itching, I emerged from my cabin and up to the deck. The scene of the setting moon on the ocean was as fine and grand as I had been hoping. The ocean was incredibly still. No waves broke against the sides of the ship as the air strolled, brisk and soothing. I walked alone alongside the entire length of the Madras. Suddenly, I realized I was not alone. The captain was standing with his back to me at the helm. I turned to walk away, but just then, he spoke.
“You need not leave for my sake, Miss Kensington. I am only supervising the crew.” He gestured above with a single hand.
At least six men were working far above the ship in the sails without making a single sound. They jumped so effortlessly between beams and ropes, I would never have known they were present. I was momentarily embarrassed by my lack of common sense. Did I suppose the ship simply glided along without effort to the correct destination?
“Ah, I see.” I looked from the crew back to the captain whose back was still turned. From this angle, I could truly observe him. He was as tall as I remembered, perhaps in his early forties now, and had unkempt black hair that once endeared him to me. Parts of his hair were graying around the temple and at the nape of his neck. I could see why young men like Lieutenant Warley could admire him. If he held a firm stance, demanded control, and made hasty voyages across a troubled ocean, I suppose any aspiring young man could not help but be impressed.
“Miss Livingstone tells me you have no desire to know our destination,” he said suddenly.
“That is true,” I responded curtly, looking away. There was a long pause. I assumed he was waiting for me to elaborate, which I had no intention of doing.
He decided to elaborate for me. “It must seem romantic to so young a person to simply board a ship and see where the wind takes her.”
He certainly was skilled in false information.
“Certainly it must be, but that is not why I came,” I countered simply, through clenched teeth. “Age is no guarantee for whimsy.”
He finally turned to me. Somehow his brows came closer together than at supper. I continued in irritation. “It must be difficult, for you, Ashmore, to have women aboard the ship. Especially aboard the deck and not locked away beneath, where they cannot be heard or seen,” I sneered. “James told me you rarely allow the creatures aboard the Madras. I suppose courtesy is something men could do without, whenever given the opportunity.”
“So women are the standard for proper behavior, then? Is it your experience, Miss Kensington, that all women are mild mannered in every provoking situation?”
I stared with wide eyes. Silence grew black and thick between us. My heart panicked. How much did he know?
“I suppose not,” I said finally, crossing my arms.
He noted my gestures with a blank expression.
“In truth, I do not know if there are many who are consistently calm,” he said quietly.
I could not help but stare. He was speaking and his eyes were not burning anger into me. He spoke in hushed tones, which baffled me. I felt as if all my tender nerves were suddenly on display for him to see,
and I did not know how he had access to them so easily.
“I knew only one,” I responded.
“A woman, I presume,” he guessed mockingly.
I stared at him warily and said nothing. This was too tender a subject.
He continued. “I suppose you think men of your acquaintance to be sordid, stupid figures who are only good for fetching cups of punch or calling forth fine carriages.”
“I know only one,” I repeated with a grin. He grunted in response. I departed. I would return to my cabin until the sun reappeared.
Chapter 3
When the sun had risen, I emerged from my cabin at the precise moment Mary and her children were emerging from theirs. Mary directed us all to a small mess hall where we would be eating the same meal as the crew. This was from special direction from the captain. He did not like the idea of passengers eating separately from the men who were responsible for their safety. I was not worried. I had survived on all kinds of food in the dark corners of my childhood home.
The mess hall was compact, with tight rows of chairs, stools, and short tables. The ceiling was particularly low, and Mary and I had to hunch over while holding our dented tin trays. We were presented with dense biscuits, salted pork, and dark tea, a stark contrast with last night’s fine supper.
“Our dinner last night was a celebratory one,” Mary explained. “This will be our fare for the majority of the voyage.” She paused. “We shall see how your stomach tolerates it.”
I had to smile at her kindness. She thought I was used to nothing but fine foods. I did not mind the biscuit. The children and I dipped them in our tea and chatted away amiably. Mary scrutinized me, waiting for me to excuse myself in disgust, or to refuse to eat further. I could not tell her I had seen worse than this. I kept my eyes down and thanked God I was on the sea.
I spent most of my day aboard the Madras helping Mary in any way I was able. The nature of the voyage bade us stay in the cabins below deck most of the time. The crew had much work to do and the deck was not used as a social setting. Although I still made my way up in the early mornings and late nights, I did not know if the sailors and captain were happy about it. I wondered if my monetary contribution had something to do with their generosity. Mary said she had voyaged several times before and had never been allowed on deck as much as this.
In Spite of Lions Page 3
