Moon Rising

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  The checks on course and heading were just audible above the wind. I saw a faint, winking light to port, a light which turned out to be another steamer heading east. That was all, yet there was something compulsive about looking for other signs of life in the darkness, especially on a night like this. Like searching the heavens for shooting stars, or staring into the fire, late at night, when other, more sensible people were in bed.

  When one of the lookouts went below to brew up, I was surprised to notice the time – it was after ten o’clock and I’d been absorbed for two hours. Sipping cautiously at a half-mug of hot, sweet cocoa I smiled suddenly, remembering another time, years ago. As Jonathan paused by my side, I found myself describing my first sea voyage with Henry aboard a Whitby collier to St Petersburg and Tallinn. I even mentioned the Merlin.

  ‘I remember,’ he said quietly, ‘how important that was to you.’

  In the darkness, for a moment, his eyes lingered on mine. Then with a frown he moved away, and I thought it was probably time for me to check on my patients before retiring for the night. But as I turned to go, Jonathan insisted on coming down with me to see how the others were faring. After we’d checked each one, he said he hoped that I would be able to see to the ladies while the weather was bad; but if Dr Graeme started vomiting, he’d get one of the stewards to attend to him.

  ‘Really, if I’m looking after Alice and Miss Fenton, I don’t mind...’

  ‘Perhaps not, but I’m sure he’ll be less embarrassed by the presence of a steward.’

  Grinning as an unexpected swing forced us both back against the wooden bulkhead, he urged me to take care while moving around. But it was an extraordinary feeling, like being on a fairground cake-walk in possession of a body that was alternately heavy as clay and light as air, a crazy, delirious sensation that I couldn’t help enjoying even while it scared me half to death. We were standing in the narrow alleyway between the cabins, and as I turned to my door another violent lurch nearly threw me off my feet.

  Jonathan grabbed my arm, steadying me against his side as I started to giggle helplessly. ‘Careful,’ he cautioned, ‘things are getting dangerous.’

  ‘I know.’ But I was laughing. I felt drunk, out of control, almost on the verge of collapse. We seemed to stand there for an age, clinging together while the ship was pitching and rolling and doing its best to throw us off our feet. His hands were firm, and while he was holding me I felt safe. I didn’t want him to let go.

  But on the next roll, Jonathan reached for my door, opened it and pulled me inside. In that narrow space he could lean one shoulder against the upper bunk while holding the door with the other hand. As he held me steady, there was a long, close moment in which we swayed together like dancers. I felt my breasts grow heavy against him, his muscles tensing as he took my weight; then a sudden lightness, a delicate brushing of his body against mine, the nearness of his face and a parting of lips in anticipation.

  ‘Damaris,’ he whispered, and it was like a hungry sigh. But after so many years the name sounded strange to me. As I frowned and took a breath, he shifted his stance, and suddenly the tension was different, the intimacy gone.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said abruptly, setting himself apart. ‘When you get to bed, Mrs Lindsey, wedge yourself in with something – a pillow or spare blanket. And be careful – especially between cabins. Doors can be lethal.’ For a moment, in contrast to his speech, he looked vulnerable. ‘Forgive me – I must get back to the bridge.’

  With that he was gone.

  Like a punctured balloon I felt the air leave me. As I let go of the upper bunk, the ship knocked me down into the lower one. Since it promptly threatened to disgorge me, I did as Jonathan recommended and stuffed a blanket under the mattress before lying down fully dressed.

  I didn’t sleep, or even get much rest. The motion was too distressing, and anyway, I was torn between thwarted desire, guilt at what I desired, and a niggling doubt about whether Jonathan wanted me as much as I wanted him. My longings were so strongly physical I could feel my pulse racing. No matter how wrong that was, how unfair to Henry – how disloyal, betraying, and utterly adulterous that made me – I felt my conscience was unlikely to hold in any battle between the two.

  That initial skirmish almost took my mind off the storm. It certainly made me forget to be afraid. From time to time I remembered to be concerned about the invalids – well, I was concerned about Alice, and felt a reluctant duty towards the other two.

  I was up and down half the night, applying cold compresses to fevered brows, and emptying slop buckets before the ship could tip them over the deck. That was an art in itself, since the bathroom floor was wet, and flushing waste down the lavatory had to be timed, otherwise a gush of seawater could jump back out again. But it took my mind off Jonathan Markway. Even so, underlying frustration found vent in the kind of language I hadn’t used for years.

  Sometime before dawn, Alfred, the senior steward, appeared, and after that we managed the worst between us. I felt queasy myself at one stage, but it was no more than a combination of hunger and exhaustion. I had a bowl of kedgeree for breakfast, and after that was able to sleep for a while.

  Despite the conditions, I needed fresh air, but even on the boat deck exercise was arduous. I confined myself to the area around the accommodation, holding on to the rail as I took a few steps up and down, marvelling at the wildness of the sea as I fought for breath against the wind and spray. The storm and that combination of fear and exhilaration reminded me of Bram and our first meeting; and then, as memory led me down some familiar paths, I caught myself wondering whether that day had been the breaking point where Jonathan and I were concerned.

  Not for the first time I railed against fate, questioning why I’d had to meet such a man, and why I couldn’t have been happy to settle down in Bay like the rest of my forebears, with a seafaring husband like Jonathan.

  But I’d fought against that idea before I met either of them, and my feelings for Jonathan had been divided from the start by what he did for a living. I tried to cling to those thoughts, but they slithered away before the more powerful fact that I’d always found him physically attractive. That was what plagued me now, and I even caught myself wondering whether it was some kind of retribution for past shortcomings.

  I might have gone up to the bridge, but there was no invitation; anyway, I was held back by the memory of those moments in my cabin. Instead, Jonathan and I met awkwardly in passing, between the cabins and the saloon, or briefly out on deck. I longed to feel his arms steadying me again, but we kept well apart, knuckles showing white as we gripped separate sections of rail. He would ask how I was, in tones that suggested genuine concern, but maybe that was standard for anxious women passengers.

  I thought he looked worn. No doubt he thought the same of me.

  Forty-three

  At last, on the fourth or fifth day, the weather abated. The seas were still violent, but the wind had dropped, which meant everyone could relax sufficiently to get cleaned up and take some rest. That afternoon, having intended only to lie down for a while, I slept the sleep of the just. When I awoke, about three hours later, I felt strange and uncertain, and went out on deck for some air. To my amazement, in the westering light I could see mountains, bare, cinnamon-coloured peaks between the grey sea and the misty blue of a late afternoon sky. The vista was so beautiful, and so unexpected, that my eyes blurred with gratitude. Without acknowledging it, I realised I’d been afraid for days, hardly daring to believe that any of us would see land again.

  Hearing a footfall, I blinked and took a deep breath. Jonathan came out on deck and leaned against the rail. ‘The Atlas Mountains,’ he murmured, with a sigh of satisfaction. ‘A sight to be thankful for, don’t you think, after the last few days?’

  His sentiments echoed mine so precisely, they came close to destroying what little self-control I had left. ‘Yes,’ I answered thickly, fishing in my pocket for a handkerchief. I blew my nose somewhat vigorously, whil
e trying to control emotions that seemed determined to let me down.

  After a while, he said hesitantly, ‘I was planning to have a drink before dinner in my cabin – I wondered if you might join me? In about half an hour, if that would suit?’

  My heart gave such a thud of astonishment that I almost wanted to say no, I couldn’t possibly; but I heard myself agreeing.

  Moments later, in the privacy of my cabin, I was in a fever, struggling with my hair, powdering my nose, trying to find something to wear that was reasonably smooth and unstained. And then, when I’d tried and discarded several items, suddenly I was childishly apprehensive at the thought of what he might say, the questions he might ask when we were in a position, at last, to talk.

  Having longed for a chance to explain myself, I found myself dreading it. But on my way up to see him all at once I was reminded of the Markway house on Southgate, and his room at the top of the stairs.

  The door to his cabin was hooked open, the curtain swaying with the ship. To reinforce that feeling of time slipping back, he was seated at his desk, writing, but there the resemblance ended. It was a man who turned to face me, bearded, freshly washed as I could tell from the wet curls at his neck, wearing a clean shirt, a flamboyant blue tie, and a crumpled linen uniform.

  With a warm yet uncertain smile he offered me the other chair, which like his own was anchored to the deck by a short rope, and asked what I would have to drink. He was drinking brandy, so I said I’d have the same, and while he was pouring it I glanced around for photographs.

  I could see only one, and that not clearly. It was attached in some way to the panelling above his desk, and seemed to be of a small family group, which I was afraid must be Jonathan, his wife, and three young children. I forced a smile and peered rather obviously, thinking we might clear up one point at least. When he saw me looking, he released the picture with a smile, and handed it across.

  ‘You’ll remember my brother, Dick? He has the chandlery now – that’s him, with his wife and family, taken last year.’

  I felt my mouth begin to twitch. ‘He looks prosperous,’ I said, studying his somewhat smug expression, and the plain faces of his wife and children. ‘And a proud family man.’

  ‘He is indeed,’ Jonathan said drily. ‘Dick weighs everything, and chooses well.’

  ‘Not a gambler, then?’

  ‘No, he’s a good man, but he never took a risk in his life.’

  We shared a conspiratorial smile across a space that was small, yet somewhat bigger than the passenger cabins below. My spirits improved as the fortifying spirit took hold, and I was bold enough then to ask after his parents. I discovered that his mother was dead and had been for many years, while his father had married again and was living at Bay.

  ‘He likes it there – says it puts him in mind of Cornwall.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard others say that.’ I paused, just long enough to make the question sound casual. ‘And you, Jonathan – are you married?’

  He shook his head. ‘Never found time, somehow. But I keep a cottage at Bay.’

  Robin Hood’s Bay. The name brought back so many memories, I felt choked by them and couldn’t speak. Jonathan gazed into his glass for a moment, and then at me. ‘You know, I’ve been wanting to talk things over with you ever since you arrived on board – but it was so unexpected it’s taken me a few days to adjust. I’m sorry if I seemed... rude.’

  He paused to add more brandy to his glass, and I saw his hands were unsteady. At once a warm flood of sympathy – and, I must admit, a modicum of triumph that I could make him nervous – made me feel better than spirits ever could. ‘It’s understandable,’ I said. ‘It’s taken me a while, too.’

  Before I could become too complacent, he mentioned the storm, and began to thank me for keeping going, for looking after the other passengers when the weather was so bad. I didn’t want to be thanked, and had no desire to talk about the weather, but he would not be diverted. ‘No, about the other night,’ he said, ‘I feel I should apologise . . .’

  ‘Apologise? What for?’

  ‘Well, in case you thought...’ He broke off, his mouth twisting with just the merest hint of irony; then, as he glanced up to meet my enquiring gaze, he said drily: ‘I don’t know what you thought, but please try to imagine it from my point of view. I mean, here you are, with all you possess – with all your influence on the world I inhabit – and suddenly, without any warning, you’re aboard my ship.

  ‘I still can’t believe it. And then, without so much as a by-your-leave, this ignorant Whitby shipmaster takes advantage of your fear and a nasty bit of weather, and makes a grab at you in your own cabin. I didn’t intend to,’ he added, ‘but it might have seemed like that. So it wouldn’t be surprising if you felt angry and insulted.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ I responded with equal dryness. ‘And there I was, thinking you were just concerned for my safety.’ Before he could respond to that, I smiled and raised my glass. ‘Anyway, how did you know I was frightened?’

  ‘I knew,’ he said simply, all cleverness and pretence abandoned. In that moment, I saw the innocent boy he had been, and felt a pang of longing; then he gave me a smile which was very much of himself. ‘And if you weren’t, you should have been. I certainly was.’

  I was tempted to believe him, and the fact of danger now past struck me forcefully, as it had that afternoon. He seemed to read my expression at once, and as I put out my hand he grasped it in his strong, capable one, entwining his fingers in mine. For a moment we simply gazed at each other; then he drew me closer until our hands clasped, until our knees were touching and we were leaning forward, face to face, breath to breath, skin prickling with awareness.

  ‘How dare you refer to yourself as an ignorant Whitby shipmaster?’ I whispered, swallowing hard.

  ‘Because that’s what I am.’

  I laughed, shakily. ‘In that case, I must still be an ignorant Whitby fisherlass...’

  I felt the warmth of his sigh and his lips moved briefly against mine. But the kiss was barely there before he said, ‘I liked her, you know, that girl, Damsy Sterne – I always thought she had courage. Not one to make idle promises, either. So why did she go? Why didn’t she leave word for me?’

  Instinctively, I moved back, but his hands tightened their grip. ‘I need to know.’

  ‘Didn’t they tell you at the time, Jonathan? Surely they must have been eager to put you in the picture?’

  ‘People told me lots of things at the time – I didn’t necessarily believe them.’

  ‘You should have done,’ I said. ‘They were probably true.’

  He shook his head, released one of my hands, but only to reach for his glass. ‘That man – the one at Newholm, or wherever it was – was he the one you married?’

  ‘Goodness, no. He was married already – that was part of the problem.’

  ‘With that sort, it generally is,’ he commented, and drank some more. ‘Did you love him?’

  I nodded, barely able to trust my voice. ‘Yes, unfortunately, I rather think I did.’

  He set down his glass then, and cupped my face in his hands. He kissed me very tenderly. ‘Well, then, I’m glad you loved him. I’m just sorry he let you down.’

  Forty-four

  Looking like a wraith, Dr Graeme joined us at table that evening. He was the butt of some friendly jokes, mainly from the Chief Engineer, who was closest in age, but he responded readily enough. I was grateful, since the jesting drew attention from Jonathan’s air of abstraction and my somewhat forced spirits. After dinner, I was in two minds about rejoining him, but since Alice and Miss Fenton seemed to be enjoying a cosy chat over soup and water biscuits in Alice’s cabin, I felt my attention there was no longer required.

  Climbing the stairs to Jonathan’s cabin, I could barely believe my change of heart in so short a time. I still wanted him, but it was hard on my conscience having all those old suspicions confirmed, discovering that he had learned of my affair with Bram all tho
se years ago, and been hurt by it. In mitigation, he said we were barely more than children at the time; but even so, he hadn’t forgotten, and nor had I.

  Words had come more easily before dinner, but having broken the thread, it was difficult to recapture anything but small-talk. Above the desk were a pair of oil lamps, which moved in gimbals with the motion of the ship, casting soft light and shadows over the dark mahogany fittings. The steward brought a pot of coffee from the galley and poured two cups, together with some brandy, before disappearing again. If we’d both been inclined to gulp nervously before, now we sipped carefully, each watching the other while pretending not to, each waiting for an opening which seemed determined not to come.

  I was aware of every movement, every blink of thick dark lashes against tanned skin. There were shadows beneath his eyes, and he seemed to be undergoing a struggle similar to my own, less to do with the morality of the situation, I was sure, than this battle between then and now, this conflict between apprehension and desire. We were like unarmed combatants, edging round a ring, looking for some kind of satisfaction, but half afraid of the pain involved. It was unbearable.

  I drained my coffee and set the cup and glass on the desk. ‘I’ll go,’ I said at last, aware of the catch in my throat. ‘Perhaps we can talk some other time.’

  ‘No, please don’t.’ Frowning, he rose and touched my arm, lightly – then firmly, as he turned me towards him and closed the door. ‘Please, I want you to stay.’

  Another moment of choice presented itself, in which I knew I should do the right thing, and leave – for his sake as much as my own. But with his touch fear and conscience fled, and then the burning of his mouth against mine banished everything beyond desperate need. We clung together, intoxicated by taste and touch, swaying between the two stabilities of desk and sleeping-place. He fumbled with the tiny buttons of my blouse; I opened them at once as he pulled off his tie and began to unfasten his shirt. But we paused then, breathing hard, aware that a boundary had been crossed, some kind of commitment entered into.