by Amelia Smith
“I know,” he answered. “It never was enough. I suppose I’m beginning to see that now,” he said, as if that meant anything. “I felt deep affection for her.”
“I thought that you had left your heart in the Indies.”
“I thought I had,” he said, “and I thought that I loved her, too.”
“Let’s say no more about it,” Hyacinth said. She was suddenly sick to death of hearing of Mr. Smithson’s mistress, and she didn’t even know the woman’s name. What he said next was worse, though.
“Will you have my heart, what’s left of it, Miss Grey?”
It sounded so like a plea that she was half-tempted to relent and say yes, but he was only asking in order to fulfill his half-forgotten sense of propriety.
“No,” Hyacinth said again. “I do not mean to be coy or cruel, but I do not think the fragments of your heart are enough. For one thing, my father would hardly grant his permission, rescue or no.”
“I doubt that would be true, if he knew everything.” Mr. Smithson frowned and leaned against the cabin wall, gazing ahead. He straightened a little as a sailor approached, making the rounds, checking lines as he went along the deck.
“Well, I don't know everything, either,” Hyacinth said, “but what I do know is that I don't wish to marry now, even if...” She took a deep breath and steered herself back to practicalities, away from the thoughts of kissing and more, which threatened to cloud her senses.
“I expect to receive an inheritance when I reach England,” she continued. “I intend to live on it if I can. I intend to enjoy my independence.”
Mr. Smithson snorted. Snorted!
“I am afraid you'll find that difficult. Independence, for a woman, is elusive, especially in England, if I recall correctly. Men will judge you as either a bluestocking or a light-skirt, and respectable women... well, they would suspect that you were not one of their kind and would keep you at arm's length, or shut you out entirely.”
Hyacinth looked at him, wishing she could see the thoughts that lay behind those words.
“Are you so familiar with the world of respectable women, then?”
“I knew my mother, and my girl cousins. We were young, but some things became clear to me, looking back from the safety of thousands of miles' distance.”
“I wouldn't know any better, myself,” Hyacinth said, “but I mean it. I intend to enjoy my independence, and we know nothing of each other, do we?”
Mr. Smithson turned his gaze away from the northern horizon and looked at her.
“Many go to the altar knowing less,” he said. “I would...” He trailed off and took a deep breath. “May I kiss you again?”
Hyacinth's whole self flushed. She shook her head.
“I must go to my cabin,” she said. “The sailors will think it strange that we are standing here so long.”
“But Miss Grey, please,” he said. “I would be greatly honored.”
He gazed at her so longingly, so admiringly that for a moment, she thought that perhaps he was proposing in earnest, but he had only lately declared that their shared world, life aboard the Whistler, was little more than a waking dream to him.
“It doesn’t matter,” Hyacinth said. “I do not wish to make any kind of permanent arrangement without knowing the details of my own situation in England, even if you truly are so inclined. Which I am not sure of.”
“But I have no one,” he blurted out.
“You have family in England, as I do,” Hyacinth reasoned. His lost mistress could hardly have been his first confidante, just as Hyacinth herself was unlikely to be his last.
Just then, a slight turn of the wind brought the ship sideways against a wave and the deck rocked farther than usual, unbalancing Hyacinth. Mr. Smithson caught her, and she found herself wrapped once more in his arms. For a moment, she would have gladly lost herself in them again, if only to taste another kiss, another useless, world-spinning kiss.
The mate at the wheel stood only a short distance away. He could turn around at any moment, and besides, the sailor who had been making his rounds was approaching again, whistling “Blow Ye Winds,” a popular new tune from America. Hyacinth pulled herself away.
“I cannot accept,” she repeated, “but you are the most daring man of my acquaintance, Mr. Smithson, and among the handsomest.”
She pulled away. In two long steps, she covered the distance to her own cabin door. She heard Mr. Smithson’s steps behind her.
“Please, Miss Grey,” he said, “may I ask you one favor?”
She hesitated. “I suppose. Yes, you may ask.”
“Please, call me Thomas. Or even Tommy. It is the only name I feel is really my own. In India, I went by Mr. Smithson, wishing to be rid of my family name. When we land, I may have to go by Pently again, much as I'd rather not. I don't feel it's truly my name any more. So please, Miss Grey, would you call me Thomas?”
Hyacinth let go of the handle and leaned against the door, looking up at this stupidly brave and handsome man. It seemed a small thing to ask, under the circumstances.
“I will call you Thomas, then,” she said, “but not in company.” That would incite comment, as both of them knew. “You may call me Hyacinth,” she added, surprising herself. “When we are alone. Which had better not happen again on this journey.”
“No?” he asked. Then he nodded. “You are correct, as always, Miss… Hyacinth. Hyacinth. Thank you.”
“It is nothing, Thomas,” she said, but it was something, far more than she ought to have given up, but it was done now, like the fiery kiss they’d shared.
A round of ribald laughter sounded out of the captain’s salon.
“You had better go,” Hyacinth said. “They will wonder what is keeping you.”
“Let them wonder,” he said, catching her hand in his. Then he released it. “No, you’re right. I’d better not.”
Hyacinth unlatched her door. “Good night, Thomas,” she said, and closed the door behind her. She locked it, fell onto her bunk, and cried.
#
Chapter 6: England
Thomas knew, in the cold light of day, that everything Hyacinth had told him was perfectly reasonable, but she was the prettiest English lady he’d met in ten years, which made her reasoning seem weaker, somehow. They could marry now, and be spared their families' scheming. He knew that his family, at least, would have plans for him which had nothing to do with his own wishes, or even his character. He would rather marry a woman who had no interest in his possible title. That argument would not be likely to sway her. He had forgotten much about the ladies at home in his decade of self-imposed exile, but he did know that Hyacinth was sensible and practical, the sort of woman who could help her husband manage an estate, if it came to that. Not that he wanted it to come to that, but his father could not survive on bile forever. Thomas would need a wife. Why not Hyacinth, instead of some society miss who knew nothing of the world outside of a ballroom?
He would not really know what awaited him until he arrived in London, at the very earliest. It seemed a long time to wait. As he contemplated the possibilities, he wished that he would be free to return to India, even though his mistress would not be there to greet him.
The ships sailed on, creeping north through the chilly Atlantic waves. Thomas spent part of every day on deck, looking at the warships they traveled with. They sailed close enough to the coast of France that sometimes he could see the green countryside. He almost wished he’d chosen to travel by some other means, some place where he was not confined to a creeping ship with the same ten men at the table every night, their conversation becoming insipid and repetitive as the weeks wore on and the rations grew short. The captain had hoped to make the journey in a fortnight. Between light winds and foul weather, it threatened to stretch to a month or more. England would at least offer some relief from the tedium of months of sea travel and hard tack.
Except that once he had arrived, he would no longer sit opposite Miss Grey over a meager dinner eve
ry afternoon. He would miss the sight of her, even if she had avoided any intimate conversation with him for over a week. They could not help but exchange a few polite words, and sometimes at the table she forgot her reserve and proved a more entertaining conversationalist than any of the Whistler’s officers. She was alluring, and she reminded him that England might hold some good things, even though they both sailed back as strangers to the land of their birth.
Even with the thinning rations, Thomas half-wished that the journey would go on forever.
#
Hyacinth kept herself busy tutoring George and embroidering with Mrs. Hotham when the seas were calm and the ship idled in its maddeningly slow journey to England. George studied because it was the only form of distraction available to him, but no amount of calculation and translation and study could keep him from feeling the effects of his imprisonment. The threat of the gallows seemed to sharpen his mind, although Hyacinth felt that their studies seemed futile in its shadow. Despite Mrs. Hotham’s assurances, she worried that her brother would be hanged for a traitor.
Three and a half weeks after they’d left Gibraltar, Captain Hotham called her aside one night after dinner.
“Miss Grey,” he said, “you must not worry yourself. My wife has tried to reassure you, but I want you to know that Mr. Bromley and I have concluded that young George’s confinement is punishment enough. He will hardly turn Spaniard once he’s settled in England, I think.”
Hyacinth realized then how worried she’d been about the threat of a formal charge against George.
“I hope that you are right, Captain,” she said.
“I am quite confident of it. He has your father’s blood, after all.”
Hyacinth looked over her shoulder. Mr. Smithson – she still couldn’t really think of him as Thomas – and the officers were engaged in a loud, dull debate over the dubious merits of the port they were drinking, from the last cask on board. They were paying no attention to her, for once. She felt so exposed, some nights, with Mr. Smithson stealing glances in her direction and Mr. French flirting so clumsily, but never to the point of giving offense. Besides, Mr. French knew better than to try to speak with her in private, as Mr. Smithson, Thomas, would if he had the chance.
Hyacinth avoided walking on the deck after dinner, when she knew that Thomas would be there, but as they approached the coast of England she couldn’t contain her restlessness. First, she stopped in to George’s cabin.
“I’ve translated that bit of Horace,” he reported dispiritedly. The sight of the English coast seemed to have dampened his spirits. He’d been mad with boredom during the weeks of his imprisonment, but he’d been petulant, rather than dull.
Hyacinth glanced at the paper he’d handed her. It was neat and, at first glance, appeared nearly perfect.
“You’ve done well with this, George,” Hyacinth said. “You’ll be ready for school I'm sure.”
George sat up straighter. “You think I will go to school after all?” he asked hopefully.
“Yes,” Hyacinth said, “of course you will.”
“They won’t try me for treason?”
Hyacinth bit her lower lip and glanced at Maria.
“Well, he should know it was serious!” Maria said.
“It’s not?” George said. “They’re not going to hang me?”
Hyacinth found herself wanting to laugh as George’s relief turned to anger, but she kept a stern countenance.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He stomped his feet on the floor, just as if he were a much younger child.
Hyacinth calmed herself. “It was not at all frivolous,” she said, “but Captain Hotham and his crew have concluded that you fell overboard quite by accident. He only told me recently. I didn't know, either. The seas were rough, after all, and no sensible man would make that leap by choice. You must not do or say anything to suggest otherwise. Ever. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” George answered. “Do you think I’ll do all right in maths, too?” he asked.
“You’ll do brilliantly,” Hyacinth assured him. “Now collect your things. You'll be at that school tomorrow, if all goes well.”
Hyacinth bade George goodnight and stepped out onto the deck feeling lighter of heart than she’d been since leaving Gibraltar. Soon George would be in a place with other boys, and she would be free to uncover her mysterious inheritance and to… to do whatever it was that young ladies did, as her father had put it.
The breeze carried the ships along at a steady clip, steering a course parallel to the coast. Hyacinth was tired of the sight of the other ships, their constant, silent companions on the journey. Although the captains communicated with each other as needed, she’d only spoken to the officers and her fellow passengers on the Whistler. At least England would provide a fresh set of companions. Whether she liked them or not remained to be seen. She leaned on the rail, peering out at the low, dark outline of the shore. Here and there, the dim yellow light of candles and fires shone through cottage windows in the gathering dusk. This was the land called home, she thought, this dark silhouette of a country.
“Good evening, Hyacinth.” Mr. Smithson’s voice startled her, close at her side.
“Good evening… Thomas,” Hyacinth said, trying to sound cheerful. She smiled nervously at him.
“Ominous, isn’t it?” he said with a nod to the coastline.
“Pardon?” Hyacinth said. Then she laughed nervously. “England, ominous? Maybe dawn will improve the view.”
“I expect it will still be gray and dark,” Mr. Smithson, Thomas, said. “It tends to be, this time of year.”
“I’ve only been here in summer, at least, so far as I can remember, and that was ten years ago. I might have seen a winter here as an infant, but I don’t recall any of that,” Hyacinth said. “I don’t have any idea what it will be like.”
Thomas shrugged. “Cold, like this, and a little less dark in the daytime. At least, that’s what I remember from when I was a boy. Not a cheerful climate.”
“I see,” Hyacinth said. “I will probably make good use of your gift in that case. It is a fine piece. I don't think I thanked you for it properly.”
“No, you did not, but I'm glad you like it.”
Hyacinth wasn’t sure, but she thought for a moment that Mr. Smithson was blushing.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “In fact, if you wear it in company, it could be considered a favor to me.”
“How so?” Hyacinth asked.
“Well, I bought a bundle of them before I left India, shawls like that. They’ll do as gifts to female relatives, but if I don’t have to return to the family estate after all, then I might sell them, and return to India for more.”
Hyacinth was dumbfounded. “Go into trade, you mean? In ladies’ fashions? Even though your family has an estate?”
“Several, actually.”
“Surely you can’t be serious!” Hyacinth said.
“Oh, but I am,” Thomas said.
“Could you go into trade, independent of the East India Company?” she asked.
“I have a few ideas, and it’s possible that I’d be able to arrange something,” he said.
“But your family,” Hyacinth said. “Would they approve?”
Thomas laughed. “Never. They would never approve and that makes me all the more determined. It would amuse me to rankle them again, and I must have something to occupy my time. I was never well suited to the life of an idle younger son, and even if... Never mind.”
He turned away from her, but Hyacinth thought she detected a hint of sadness in his voice. Why was he so angry with his family, after all these years?
“I do not want to be tied to any of my family's estates, but if I’m saddled with it, I suppose I’ll be obliged to stay among my insufferable relations, most of whom can’t see past the end of their own long noses.”
“I confess, I do not understand you,” Hyacinth said. “Most men would be happy to inherit an estate, I think.”
Thomas shook his head. “Not really,” he said. “My elder brother, everyone loved him. He died after a hunting accident. And you're right; I was a black sheep in my family. I won't be loved as he was. Maybe better than my father, but still, I don't think I'll like my family any more than I did when I left, more likely less. They'll be insufferable. I probably will be, too.”
Hyacinth pondered that for a moment. “I’m not at all sure that I’ll like my aunt, either. What I remember of her... But it doesn't matter. I wouldn't go out of my way to annoy her. It could only make life more difficult, don't you think?”
Thomas shrugged. “It may be, but I can’t see going about things any other way. I quarreled with my father. I thought as a second son I ought to have some freedom, and there were other things… but I don’t want to think about them until I have to,” he said. “I’d rather think of you, while we are both here.”
Hyacinth blushed, but there was nothing to say. In the dim light of the lanterns, he wouldn’t see her cheeks color.
“I will miss you,” Thomas said. “I do not think the other young ladies of England will have half your wit or charm.”
“Charm? I don’t think I’ve ever been called charming before,” Hyacinth said. “I expect the ladies will surprise you.” Then again, Hyacinth thought, he himself would probably be quite an oddity among gentlemen, with his preference for India over England, and his lack of family feeling. “I cannot imagine that most gentlemen in England share your qualities, either,” she said.
“Qualities?” Thomas said. “What qualities would those be?”
“Recklessness?” Hyacinth proposed, searching for something not too damning. “And wit,” she said, “far more wit than most men.” Hyacinth looked down at the deck. A moment later she felt his hand on her arm.
“Please, Miss Grey,” Thomas said. “Would you consider my suit again?”
She shook her head. “No. It will not do, anymore than it would have before. We are still adrift, besides which I think you are merely passing the time. Would we have even spoken to each other if we’d only met on the shore at Gibraltar, and not been confined together to this one small ship on the ocean these four weeks?”
