The Orphan's Dream

by Dilly Court

  ‘You must tell Captain Starke, Bodger,’ Mirabel said urgently. The thought of leaving Jack without a word was too much for her to bear. ‘He should know what we’re planning.’

  Bodger grinned drunkenly. ‘He must come with us. I shall tell him so.’ He wagged his finger at Mirabel and tottered off into the undergrowth.

  That night they slept in their cabins at Mama Lou’s and the next night they slept on board the Virago, having said their goodbyes to everyone except Jack, who was nowhere to be seen. Mirabel had watched and waited, hoping that he would at least come to say a final farewell even at the last minute, but there was no sign of him and she knew she had only herself to blame. She boarded the Virago feeling as though she had left a vital part of herself on shore.

  It was only when she awakened next morning to the sound of the waves lapping the wooden hull of the ship and the captain shouting commands to his crew that she realised they were really on their way home. London with its teeming streets and terrible poverty existing cheek by jowl with extreme wealth had seemed like another world. Now they were on their return journey to a life that she had come to question, but which nothing could alter. She had chosen her path and she must bear the consequences of that decision.

  Hubert did not put in an appearance for breakfast in the cramped saloon where the crew took their meals. Mirabel made a show of eating but she was not hungry. She made her excuses and went to Hubert’s cabin, expecting to find him prostrate from sickness, but he was sitting on his bunk holding one of the orchids in his cupped hands. ‘Isn’t it perfect?’ he said, smiling. ‘They’ve survived this far, although I doubt if we’ll get them to London in this state, but I hope they will set seed. I can’t be sure if they’ve been pollinated but it would be such a coup to be able to propagate them myself.’

  ‘I thought you might be unwell,’ Mirabel said, staring at the delicate bloom with a rush of near hatred. It was something tangible to blame for her heartache. But for the wretched ghost orchid she would never have gone to Florida, and if she had remained in ignorance of Jack’s survival she might have lived a reasonably contented life. Knowing that he was alive and well and that he loved her was going to torture her as long as she lived, and it was all the fault of the peerless little flower that had captured her husband’s heart and soul.

  ‘I am quite well, as you see,’ Hubert said happily. ‘Perhaps I have conquered mal de mer after all.’ His smile faded. ‘If I should fall ill I want you to promise me that you’ll look after the orchids. You mustn’t allow them to die.’

  A sudden desire to snatch the plant from him and toss it overboard was quickly crushed and she managed a faint smile. ‘Of course, Hubert. Just tell me what to do.’

  They were two days out when a sudden tropical storm hit them in the middle of the night. The ship bucked and tossed on the giant waves, hurled about like a child’s toy. Mirabel climbed out of her bunk and was thrown against the bulkhead with such force that she was momentarily winded.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Gertie shrieked, holding on to the rails of her bunk. ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘I’ve got to make sure that Hubert is all right.’

  ‘Don’t go out there. You’ll be killed.’

  Mirabel lurched towards the door and wrenched it open. The ship ploughed into the trough of a wave and she slithered along the deck towards Hubert’s cabin. Despite the fact that Bodger would be there to look after him she had a terrible feeling that all was not well. Seawater came crashing down the companionway but she struggled on, slipping and sliding, her nightgown already soaked and clinging to her like a cold compress. The vessel peaked momentarily on the crest of a huge wave and she was able to grab the door handle. She burst into the tiny cabin expecting to see Bodger but Hubert was on his own, slumped against the bulkhead with the ghost orchids clutched in the crook of his right arm.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Mirabel demanded anxiously. In the pale light of the paraffin lamp swinging precariously from its hook in the masthead, she could see that something was wrong. ‘Hubert, speak to me.’ She peered closer and was horrified to see his mouth hanging slack with a dribble of saliva running down his chin. His facial features were distorted and his left arm hung limply at his side. ‘What’s wrong?’ She tried to prise the orchids from his grasp but a low moan escaped his lips and he recoiled from her. ‘All right,’ she said hastily. ‘I won’t take them.’ She took a step backwards, eyeing him warily. ‘Where’s Bodger? He should be here taking care of you.’

  Hubert remained motionless, but he was in little danger of falling from his bunk as he seemed to have wedged himself against the bulkhead. There was nothing she could do other than to sit with him and pray that the ship would weather the storm, although it felt as if hell had been let loose and the Atlantic Ocean was about to swallow them in one great greedy gulp.

  Someone was shaking her by the shoulder and she opened her eyes, staring blearily into Bodger’s anxious face. ‘What’s up with the guv, missis? I can’t get a word out of him.’

  In her dreams she had been with Jack, sailing on a calm sea towards eternal happiness, but Bodger’s bedraggled appearance brought her back to reality. ‘Is he worse?’ She rose to her feet, leaning over the bunk. Hubert had not moved and the orchids were still clutched to his chest. She prised them gently from his grasp. ‘I’ll take great care of them, my dear. Bodger has come and he’ll make you more comfortable.’ She turned to Bodger, lowering her voice, although it did not seem as though Hubert was aware of his surroundings. ‘How far are we from port?’

  ‘The captain reckons we’ll make landfall this afternoon, in spite of the bashing we had from the storm. It was one of the worst I’ve seen on this coast that wasn’t one of them tornadoes. Our cabin trunks were washed overboard even though I lashed them down.’

  Mirabel was too concerned for her husband’s state of health to care about the loss of personal items. They had not been in a position to bargain when the captain refused to stow their belongings below decks as the hold was filled with cargo. There were, she thought grimly, more important matters to discuss and Hubert must be her main concern. ‘We’re heading for Newport News?’

  ‘Aye, missis.’

  ‘Will we be able to get a ship to take us back to England from there? Or will we have to return to New York? I know so little about these things.’

  ‘We might find a tramp steamer to take us home if we wait long enough, but if you want to travel quickly and in luxury we’ll have to get to New York, and it’ll cost you money.’

  She dismissed this with a wave of her hands. ‘That won’t be a problem. My husband has made ample provision for our travelling expenses. The most important thing now is to make him comfortable. If you could lift him I’ll fold back the coverlet and we can get him into bed properly, but he’s in desperate need of a doctor.’

  ‘What’s up with him?’ Bodger lifted Hubert, holding him while Mirabel rearranged the bedding. ‘There you are, guv,’ he said, laying him down gently. ‘That’s the ticket.’

  Mirabel drew him aside. ‘I don’t know, but I think it might be apoplexy. I seem to remember one of the men who used the soup kitchen collapsing with something similar. He died.’

  Bodger laid his hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, missis. We’ll get him to a sawbones on shore.’

  Battered and with ragged sails, the Virago limped into Newport News in the early afternoon as the captain had promised. An hour later they had booked into the hotel where they had stayed on their way to Florida. It was, Mirabel realised, only a few weeks ago, but it felt like a lifetime. She sent Bodger to find a doctor while she sat with her sick husband, but she did not need a physician to tell her that Hubert was mortally ill. He was quiet most of the time but only as long as he could see his beloved orchids, and they had been placed on a table at the foot of his bed. The papery white flowers were drooping sadly, the delicate petals turning brown at the edges. Mirabel knew in her heart that they would not survive the journey home,
but she dare not think too far ahead. The main thing was for Hubert to believe that they would live and produce seed so that he could fulfil his ambition to propagate the species. The flowers might be dying, but she suspected that in Hubert’s eyes they were as fresh as the day they were hacked from the trunk of the custard apple tree.

  She jumped to her feet as someone tapped on the door. It was, as she had hoped, Bodger returning with a doctor.

  Mirabel went down to dinner that evening accompanied by Gertie. She had not wanted to leave Hubert, but Bodger had insisted on remaining at his employer’s bedside, and Gertie had persuaded her that she must eat in order to keep up her strength. The doctor had not been hopeful. His words echoed in Mirabel’s head, and they were not encouraging. ‘Your husband is a very sick man, Mrs Kettle. I don’t wish to alarm you, but I would not recommend a long sea voyage in his condition which might deteriorate quite suddenly, although I sympathise with your desire to return home. The decision must be yours, ma’am.’

  A black-coated waiter hovered anxiously at their table as Mirabel studied the menu with unseeing eyes. Her mind had gone completely blank, and for once she was at a loss as to what to do next. She looked up at him dazedly. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘He said that the clam chowder is good,’ Gertie said without giving him a chance to respond. She waved her hand to attract his attention. ‘Yes, mate. Two of them, please.’ Waiting until he was out of earshot she leaned across the table, lowering her voice. ‘Are you all right, Mabel? You’re whiter than the tablecloth.’

  ‘I’m just tired. I didn’t get much sleep last night.’ Mirabel picked up the starched white table napkin but it slipped through her fingers, and as she bent down to retrieve it she spotted someone she thought she recognised. ‘That man sitting by the window, Gertie,’ she said urgently. ‘He’s not looking this way, but I’m sure I know him.’

  Chapter Twenty

  GERTIE SPUN ROUND, craning her neck to follow Mirabel’s gaze. The setting sun shone on the young man’s fair hair, creating a golden halo around his well-shaped head. ‘I think you’re right,’ Gertie said, chuckling. ‘What a coincidence.’

  ‘Not really.’ Mirabel studied him carefully, taking in the details of his expensive well-cut jacket, and immaculate trousers with knife-edge creases. She rose to her feet and made her way between the tables where businessmen and commercial travellers were taking their meals. There was a brief lull in the conversation as they turned to stare at her but she ignored them, holding her head high as she approached the table by the window. She cleared her throat to attract his attention and he looked round with a slow smile of recognition. Ethan Munroe stood up, holding out his hand. ‘Mirabel, upon my honour, this is a pleasant surprise. I thought you were deep in the Florida everglades.’

  She breathed a sigh of relief. It was wonderful to see a familiar face. ‘It’s a long story, Ethan.’

  ‘I’d be delighted to have you join me for dinner.’ He glanced over her shoulder. ‘Where’s that husband of yours? Are you dining alone?’

  ‘Gertie is with me, but Hubert is extremely unwell. I really need some advice because I have to get him home to England before . . .’ Her voice broke on a suppressed sob. ‘I’m sorry. It’s been a long day and we sailed through a storm last night. I’m just tired.’

  He pulled up a chair and pressed her down on the seat. ‘I’m happy to be of service in any way I can.’ He beckoned to Gertie. ‘You must both join me. You’ll feel better when you’ve eaten.’

  Gertie needed no second bidding. She took her seat opposite Ethan, interposing frequently when Mirabel faltered over her account of their travels and the difficulties they had encountered during Hubert’s quest for the ghost orchid. The waiter brought their food and Ethan ordered a bottle of wine, listening attentively as he filled their glasses. Mirabel faltered when it came to repeating the doctor’s grim prognosis. ‘But he may be wrong,’ she added defensively. ‘Doctors don’t always get things right, do they?’

  ‘Indeed they don’t,’ Ethan said earnestly. ‘Take Mrs D’Angelo, for instance. She started to speak again while you were visiting, and now she seems to be well on the road to recovery. Jerusha says it’s a miracle but I just think the time was right. Betsy waited until she was good and ready and then she came back to us. Maybe it will be the same with Mr Kettle.’

  Gertie dipped her bread in the creamy chowder, keeping her head down over her food, saying nothing, but Mirabel was not convinced by Ethan’s optimism. ‘I do hope so,’ she said vaguely.

  ‘In any event, I must insist on taking you back to Loblolly Grove.’ He refilled his own glass. ‘I know it’s what Jerusha and her pa would want me to do.’ He reached across the table to cover Mirabel’s hand with his, and his eyes brimmed with sympathy. ‘You are tuckered out, Mrs Kettle. It’s plain for all to see, and if you should fall sick there’ll be no one to look after your husband. I suggest that you accompany me back to Richmond tomorrow morning, and that you postpone your journey home until Mr Kettle is well enough to travel. What do you say to that?’

  Ethan had sent word ahead, and when his carriage drew up outside the mansion Jerusha and her father were waiting for them on the veranda. Jerusha rushed down the steps to fling her arms around Mirabel. ‘I declare I was so excited when the messenger brought the news this morning. I’ve been running to the window every few minutes to look out to see if you were coming, and here you are.’

  Ethan and Bodger lifted Hubert to the ground, placing him in a chair that Amos had had the forethought to bring from the house. Vincent D’Angelo descended the steps more slowly, greeting Mirabel with equal enthusiasm. He leaned down to speak to Hubert, who lolled helplessly against the back of the chair. ‘It’s good to see you again, sir. We’ll make you as comfortable as possible.’ He straightened up, moving closer to Mirabel and lowering his voice. ‘I’ve sent for my doctor. He’s looked after Betsy since the accident that almost took her from us. You must stay as long as it takes to get Hubert back on his feet.’

  Mirabel was about to thank him when Hubert began to make inarticulate noises, waving his good arm in a frantic attempt to attract her attention. She moved to his side. ‘What’s the matter? Are you in pain?’

  He pointed to Gertie who was perched on the driver’s seat next to Caleb with the ghost lilies clutched in her arms. ‘Can somebody take these blooming plants?’ She leaned forward, holding out the bundle. Mirabel stepped forward to relieve Gertie of her burden, but the delicate blossoms were brown and shrivelled and it was obvious that they were dying. She hesitated before handing them to her husband. If he saw the parlous state of his beloved orchids it might make his condition worse, but he was holding out his hand, fixing her with a pitiful gaze and she had not the heart to deny him. Placing the orchids on his lap she held her breath, waiting for his reaction, and to her relief Hubert’s paralysed muscles twisted into the parody of a smile.

  ‘He sees them as they were,’ Vincent said softly.

  ‘The bloody things are dead as a door post. Best throw them out, missis.’ Bodger made as if to take the bundle from Hubert, but he hugged them to his chest, mumbling words Mirabel could not catch, although his meaning was clear.

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Let him keep them. They might have set seed and we’ll be able to grow them on when we get home.’ She spoke with more conviction than she was feeling.

  Vincent beckoned to Amos, who was hovering in the background. ‘Help Mr Kettle’s man carry the chair into the house.’

  ‘I had the blue room made up for Mr Kettle,’ Jerusha said, linking arms with Mirabel. ‘And Zenobia is getting yours ready, Belle. Come inside and take some refreshment, and then I want to hear every last detail of your travels. I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re here. I truly thought we’d never see each other again.’

  ‘I must make Hubert comfortable first,’ Mirabel protested, watching anxiously as Bodger and Amos lifted the chair.

  ‘Steady, man.’ Bodger
scowled at Amos. ‘This is a person, not a sack of spuds.’

  Amos stared at him, a puzzled frown furrowing his brow. ‘Spuds?’

  ‘Potatoes,’ Bodger said impatiently. ‘Don’t you speak English?’

  Gertie had clambered down from the carriage and she faced up to Bodger. ‘Mind your manners, you big oaf.’

  Hubert was comfortably settled on a chaise longue in front of the open windows in his room. Kezia had been assigned to look after him, which she did with quiet expertise and gentle understanding of an invalid’s needs. Mirabel was able to relax at last and enjoy a glass of iced tea on the veranda as she listened to Jerusha’s excited account of the ball that had been held at the Munroe plantation to celebrate her engagement to Ethan. ‘It’s such a pity you missed it, Belle. It was wonderful and we danced the night through.’

  Mirabel smiled. ‘I’m so glad for you. Ethan is a fine man and I know you’ll be very happy.’

  Jerusha gave her a searching look. ‘Something has changed, but I can’t say what it is. You have me puzzled.’

  ‘I’m just tired. It wasn’t an easy journey, and now Hubert must be my main concern.’

  ‘I don’t claim to have Mama’s gift of second sight, but I am a woman and I know very well there’s something you aren’t telling me.’ Jerusha angled her head, smiling. ‘What really happened in the Florida swamp?’

  Mirabel had vowed never to tell a soul, but it was a relief to unburden her emotional turmoil on someone as kind and sympathetic as Jerusha, who sat in silence listening intently until Mirabel faltered to a halt, fumbling for her handkerchief. Jerusha produced one from her pocket and handed it to her. ‘I’m sorry, honey. I feel for you, I really do.’