“A woman at sea?”
“I should disguise you as a boy.”
“For the sake of art only?” She reached her face up to his and very lightly brushed her lips against his neck.
“Well,” he mused, beginning to smile, “perhaps not purely for your drawings.” And with a great tug he pulled her to him and kissed her while she laughed.
WHEN FEBRUARY drew to a close, the snow began to give way to water, and his journey became slower and less elating. Time had rediscovered them and the deepening mud was a warning. It was only four months until he was due to leave on the Resolution.
Their time together became quieter, parting more painful. Neither wanted to think of their days ending, but each day they did. It made both of them less playful. When they did laugh together, there was a wildness about them, a desperation to seize the moment and hold it for as long as it could be held. Instead of walking, they took to sitting quietly together for long periods, touching more.
Finally they lay close to each other one night with only the fire lighting the room and he said, “Come with me.”
She was lying half on him, her head on his chest, one leg between his. She might have been asleep, but at his words she raised her head to look at him. Beyond her the fire still glowed dimly. He expected her to laugh, to tease him, but instead she held his look for a long time.
“I couldn’t,” she replied at last.
“You could!” With sudden energy he rolled her onto her side, then moved to kneel beside her. “De Commerson did it. His mistress traveled the world dressed as his page. She saw the East Indies, China, India—amazing, wonderful places!”
“And people know she did.” Her voice stayed calm. “She was caught in the end.”
She knelt to face him. His energy was infectious.
“You could join the ship in Madeira,” he continued, “away from prying eyes. I would tell Cook that one of my draughtsmen was joining us there.”
“Joseph! It isn’t possible, a woman at sea pretending to be a man. The arrangements on board…”
“I will have more space for my party this time. It is already being arranged. I will demand an extra cabin, next to mine. They won’t refuse me that.”
She looked away from him, trying to imagine herself cropped, tightly jacketed.
“Just think!” he cried. “You could see the oceans and the tropics for yourself, see all the things we talk of with your very own eyes. You could stand with me on unmapped lands, pick out the Southern Cross in the night sky. You could smell the brine in the wind as we round the Cape. All those things you’ve imagined, you could see them for yourself! Think of it! Think what it could be!”
It was impossible, she knew, madness born of the long nights and the winter stars. Yet the firelight wove his words into bright images, and her deepest-held dreams seemed for a moment close enough to reach. She would be prepared to risk a great deal to touch just one of them. And what did she have that she was putting at risk? Only him. And she would lose him anyway.
A week later a carriage rolled into the busy yard of the Bell Post, a crowded coaching inn some half a day’s journey from London on the Bath road. It was an unremarkable carriage and the servant who leapt down to hand out its occupants wore no livery. The two figures that descended were well, if unobtrusively, dressed—minor gentry, thought the landlord who welcomed them and showed them to a private room; to him their clothes were more important than their faces. He was too busy to note the solicitousness of one and the paleness of the other. The woman who served them looked more closely, but her attention was caught by the larger of the two. Handsome, she thought, with proper manners and nice eyes. Intent on him, she barely noticed his slight, tongue-tied companion; otherwise she might perhaps have wondered at the smallness of his features. The boy from the taproom who rushed to hold the door as they left the inn thought little about the varied travelers who passed by him each day, but remembered for many months the shining gold coin pressed into his palm.
And no one much cared that when the carriage departed it turned back toward London, the direction from which it had come.
SHE KNEW from the first that they were deluding themselves. Their experiments were too easy, too dependent on the carelessness of others. Further outings followed the first, but the results were always the same. She fooled nobody; she merely passed unnoticed. That might suffice for the passage to Madeira, where a quiet traveler who kept to his cabin would not be unusual, would not be much noted among the many others. Apart from a few sentences to ask for food to be brought, she would barely have to speak. And to those who served on busy ships, Banks assured her, even seasick passengers were too much routine to excite curiosity. As long as her passage was paid and she caused no trouble, she would be largely ignored.
But on Madeira she knew it would be different. He would give her letters to an English household there and they couldn’t fail to be interested in their guest. Even if she spent her days botanizing in the hills, it would be impossible to avoid the speculation of others. In her heart she knew it could not work and she trembled at the thought of shameful and humiliating discovery. Yet what form would that take? Protected by letters of introduction, she would surely not be publicly denounced. Those who guessed were more likely to say nothing to her, to talk instead amongst themselves. The thought of being the subject of such derision horrified her, yet what harm could it do? If she failed entirely she would return to London on the first ship, anonymous again. She would have done no harm to Banks. And by then she would already have seen new places and things, studied for herself a foreign flora, made drawings she could keep forever.
Even if she was not exposed on Madeira, discovery would come when the Resolution arrived. There would be no fooling Cook, she knew. Banks had always talked admiringly of his perspicacity. At some point he would know the truth, and what then? If it was immediate, she could slink away blushing and leave Joseph to repair his fences and continue the journey. He would be able to laugh off the incident, and at the end of a three-year voyage it would have been forgotten. But if it was later, after they had sailed, what then? Could she live with the thought of discovery at sea? The humiliation would be almost overwhelming and there could be no quick escape. And yet, however dreadful, she would still be on board when they crossed the Equator, when they put in to Rio de Janeiro. Even if Cook insisted on her leaving the ship there, she would already have lived dreams she had never dared to believe.
And there was something else, something that gave her a thrill of excitement that she didn’t attempt to explain to Banks. From London to Madeira, and on the island itself, she would be traveling alone. With no attendant and no companions. She would be forced to rely on herself for everything. It was a vision of independence that could never be contemplated in her own world, and just a glimpse of it stirred her. Mockery, derision, contempt, even disgust—these might cause her pain but not damage. On her return those things would wash away and leave only those things she had reached out and seized for herself.
Banks thought less of these things. It can be dangerous to be in love and an optimist. He was still a little intoxicated by his own successes and he knew his plan would work because he would make it work. The realities were less important than his determination to overcome them. But even for him there were moments when he became suddenly uneasy. He began to find himself waking in the night when she was beside him, panicking at first that she was not there. Then he would lie and watch her sleep, cradled in blankets, her breathing so light she barely stirred. At those moments a huge tenderness would rise up to engulf him and the thought of what they had contemplated was nothing more than laughable. For her to set off alone would be unimaginable folly perpetrated at his command; it would demonstrate nothing but his own colossal selfishness. He vowed that in the morning he would call off their plans. But when sleep started to reclaim him and his fears were less important than the closeness of her body, he would remember how brave she was, how special in her daring,
and he was proud of her as his thoughts lost their focus and dissolved into the surety of sleep.
With the arrival of spring his London world became harder to escape. The pressures of preparing for a second voyage were different. The last time he had not been burdened by experience, nor by the attentions of countless botanists, taxonomists, philosophers, priests, clockmakers, chandlers, inventors, artists, speculators, merchants, tailors, beggars, and optimistic younger sons. Everyone seemed eager to claim acquaintance, to hint at schemes, to offer advice, to detail their talents, or to ask most blatantly for preferment. And, worse, his plans for his party and their accommodation on board were not going as he had wished.
He felt strongly that the problem was Cook. For their first voyage, the captain had opted not for a ship of the line, but for a squat, round-bottomed Whitby collier, a boat as slow as it was stable. The Endeavour had served them well, but such ships were small and cramped, and for the second voyage Banks’s ambitions had outgrown them. This time the Admiralty was convinced of the value of the voyage and was prepared to offer Cook a larger vessel should he want it, one that would be large enough to accommodate Banks’s plans, both scientific and personal. Yet, to his dismay, Cook refused a frigate and insisted on another collier, and his masters supported his choice. Banks’s frustration at this decision began to manifest itself in increasingly peevish letters to the Admiralty arguing his need for an expanded entourage and the space to accommodate them. This time around, Banks had influence and the Admiralty agreed to certain alterations and additions to the Resolution in order to increase the space available. Banks would, after all, have the accommodation he demanded.
The result was a victory of sorts, but he still felt wounded that his recommendation of a larger vessel had not been given more weight. Worse than that, the whole issue had brought him into conflict with Cook, a man he respected and with whom previously he had always been in accord. This shook Banks’s confidence a little and made him wonder if Cook would be quite so quiescent in the matter of Banks’s extra passenger as he had anticipated. Yet even as he paced the floors of his house in New Burlington Street, he knew that a little of his anger had its source elsewhere. The strict, even-handed honesty that the Yorkshireman brought to the argument illustrated a great many of the virtues that Banks admired in him. The thought that he proposed at best to deceive Cook, at worst to place him in a position that would both embarrass and anger him, was not a pleasant one. In the company of his friends, Banks was daring and irreverent. By the firelight in Richmond, he was pure and passionate. But Cook inspired different ideals in him, those of leadership and honesty, which Banks had always admired in the navigator. Smuggling his mistress on board ship was hardly a demonstration of such qualities. And the more guilt he felt about his own behavior, the more Cook’s virtues began to irritate him and the more their conflict rankled.
Strangely, as his doubts grew, she became more reckless. Summer came early and the days became hot, the nights short and breathless. Her passage to Madeira was confirmed, the arrangements made for money and accommodation. It was a fantasy that seemed to have its own life and logic. She began to rehearse in her mind every step of the journey: the carriage to Southampton, embarking on the Robin, her voice as she did so, her name, her manner, her conduct. She rehearsed her lines and stared down her fears before they grew tall enough to engulf her. During that period Banks needed to be so much in London that his visits became shorter and irregular. That made it easier to imagine how her Richmond refuge would be if he was gone and she remained. What had once appeared to be discretion would become isolation, what was secretive would become suffocating. The more she reflected, the more she knew she could not stay without him. It mattered to her less and less what happened next as long as it was not that.
A week before she was due to depart, she dressed in her new clothes and slipped out into the dusk. The streets were already quiet, but there were still figures moving through the warm half-light, stirring up the dust. Lights burned in houses and in the taverns by the river. The Thames was a dark glass, reflecting nothing. She walked the streets unnoticed for an hour or more, saying good-bye to the things she had come to know. As she walked the wind got up and began to break open the overcast night. Eventually she came to the place where the last houses stopped and gave way to woodland, and here she paused. She felt very small and very alone and scared to the very core of her soul. But when she looked up at the clouds rushing across the moon, her lungs filled with a deep, shuddering breath, and when she breathed out it was as if the night sky embraced her.
BY THE TIME he rode to meet her three days later, he had made his decision. The excitement of the game had gone on long enough, but now they could maintain it no longer. They had planned that night as their last together. The next day he was to see her on her way. Now he would tell her she must not go, forbid it if necessary. It had been a mirage of his creation, and the fault lay at his door; he would beg her forgiveness and they would plan instead their lives on his return. His decision brought with it an immeasurable relief.
On his arrival in Richmond, Martha met him solemn-faced and handed him a note written in a now-familiar sloping hand.
My darling,
Forgive me. If I spend another night in your arms you will make me change my mind. It is too easy to be afraid when you are beside me. Alone, I have no choice but to be brave. And I know that when you hold me you will tell me not to go. So I have gone already. I know it is what I must do. I will wait for you in Madeira. Find me there.
There was no signature, but at the foot of the page there was one more line of writing, which, at the last, she had added in small, less certain letters:
It is dark now and there is something in the wind that makes me afraid. What ever befalls us I will always think of you. If you can, think of me.
By checking into the same hotel, I’d planned to disconcert Karl Anderson. I hoped that it might persuade him I was hot on the trail, perhaps fluster him into making a mistake. Instead, as things turned out, the confusion was all mine.
Anderson rose to his feet as soon as he saw me and then came forward with a smile, his hand extended to shake mine. He looked as he had before, all Nordic good health and self-confidence. His suit was impeccably cut and he wore it well. An annoyingly attractive man.
“Ah, Mr. Fitzgerald! We saw from the book that you had checked in. Welcome.” He might have owned the place. His grip was firm and suitably proprietorial.
“Hello, Fitz. I thought I might see you here.” Gabby was also on her feet.
“I thought you were in London,” I replied, trying to sound casual and almost certainly failing.
Anderson was quick to ooze unction over any trace of awkwardness.
“I rang Gabriella today and urged her to join me here to celebrate. I have a feeling that this may be a good week.”
Gabby rested her hand on his elbow. “Karl thinks he may have found the bird.” Her eyes met mine. Beautiful eyes. But hard to read.
Anderson signaled for an extra glass, then put his hand on the back of my shoulder and guided me over to where they’d been sitting. “Come and drink. You have to admit that the recovery of such a rare specimen is something worth celebrating.”
“You’ve actually seen it?” I asked, still standing.
“Not yet.” The smile didn’t flicker. “But I expect to.”
“I see.” I dropped into the leather vastness of the armchair. “Then there’s still hope.”
“Hope?” Anderson feigned surprise. “Ah, of course! A few minutes ago I was lucky enough to bump into your charming companion. Katya, I believe her name is. I understand that you have been making certain investigations of your own.”
“I have one or two ideas,” I told him.
“Ideas about the Fabricius papers?”
That caught me off balance. It hadn’t occurred to me that Katya would tell him about her trip to Denmark. Though, of course, Anderson’s charm was legendary.
“I c
an assure you that trail doesn’t lead anywhere,” he went on. “Joseph Banks’s mistress and all that. I’ve been down all those alleys and they’re all dead ends. If you’d told me, I could have saved you some trouble. You see, I know exactly where the bird was at the turn of the century, and I think I know where it went after that. Remember, I’ve had a team of researchers working on this for months, Mr. Fitzgerald. Today my team spoke to someone, a farmer whose family once lived near here. Soon I may be able to show you the bird itself.”
“And the pictures?” I asked, watching him closely.
“Pictures?” He looked calmly across at Gabby. “Ah, yes. The paintings by Roitelet. You will forgive me for not mentioning them earlier, I’m sure. They are likely to be worth a very, very large sum of money indeed, and in such situations a degree of discretion is always sensible.”
“And you think you’ll find them when you find the bird?”
“It seems a reasonable hope. Remember, they have never come up for sale, and no one has ever recorded seeing them. That means there is a very good chance they are still where they were before, still in the same case as the bird. Finchley, who saw them in the nineteenth century, says they were well hidden. Of course, they may not be by Roitelet at all. But the rumors are most persistent and Finchley is a reliable witness. And tomorrow I hope to know for certain. I have a very good feeling.”
“Just one thing,” I said, reaching out and stopping his arm as he tried to drink. “Why did you break into my house?”
In that polite atmosphere, the rawness of my tone jarred, and left him in no doubt about how I was feeling. His eyes flicked quickly to my face and he seemed about to speak, but I carried on regardless.
“Or if not you, one of your people. I’m sure you don’t do that sort of thing yourself. You might have asked them to leave things neater. They didn’t need to throw the notes everywhere.”
The Conjurer's Bird Page 18
