‘I shall write letters until we are near Gibraltar,’ said Miss Jeroboam. ‘I had my turn on the deck before breakfast this morning, and now I must settle to answering the enquiries of my well-wishers.’ Maisie fought the urge to roll her eyes, and succeeded.
‘Sophia will be practising the piano,’ said Mrs Jennings. ‘I shall enjoy her music while I am answering correspondence.’
‘How lovely!’ exclaimed Miss Jeroboam. ‘What do you like to play, Miss Jennings?’
‘Oh, Sophia can play anything,’ said Mrs Jennings. ‘She is very accomplished.’ Maisie saw the tiniest squirm from poor Miss Jennings.
‘I shall be holed up in the smoking room with a dull book,' said Mr Merritt, with the curl of his lip which seemed set to become a permanent state of affairs.
‘Each to his own,’ remarked Mr Randall.
‘It is hardly by choice,’ his friend replied tersely.
‘Perhaps you could choose another novel from the ship’s library, if you are not enjoying the book you have,’ observed Mrs Smythe.
‘I am reading for business, not pleasure,’ said Mr Merritt. ‘It is to do with the position I shall take up in India.' He closed his mouth firmly, and clearly did not want to be questioned further. Maisie wondered how pleasant Jasper Randall and sour Mr Merritt could have remained friends after their school days. I don’t think I have ever seen two such different men, she thought, and took another piece of toast.
***
Following breakfast Maisie made her way to the promenade deck, a pleasant, sheltered place strewn with deckchairs, where the open sea could be viewed through the spaces in the veranda almost as if one were in one’s own drawing room looking at a painting of a seascape. However, after ten minutes of gazing at the sea, and meeting none of the few people she knew, she decided to repair to the music room. There was an entrance from the promenade deck, and as she approached Maisie heard a minuet so correct that it could have been played by a pianola or a music box. Oh well, I don’t have to stay for long.
Within she found Miss Jennings sitting very straight-backed at the instrument, her fingers dancing over the keys, her mother, observing keenly, and Miss Jeroboam, sitting at a small round table next to the rail of the gallery, which overlooked the dining room. She was writing a letter, and the rest of the table was covered with letters, except for a pile of stamped and addressed envelopes.
‘You have many well-wishers,’ observed Maisie, nodding at the pile of post.
‘Yes,’ said Miss Jeroboam, with a note of mock-tragedy in her voice. ‘They are so kind, and such good correspondents, and I fear I am neither.’
‘Have you thought of hiring a secretary?’ asked Maisie.
‘That would be wonderful,’ replied Miss Jeroboam. ‘But I doubt a secretary would want to travel to the furthest reaches of the globe with a writing desk perched on his or her knees.’
‘No, I suppose not,’ replied Maisie thoughtfully.
Miss Jeroboam dashed off a signature, blotted the letter, folded it neatly, and slotted it into a fresh envelope, already stamped. ‘Luckily they usually send me a ready-stamped envelope,’ she remarked. ‘That is the only saving grace of the whole business.’ She sighed, and laid the envelope on the unsteady pile before her. ‘There, that will do for now. I already have a cramp in my hand!’ She swept up the pile, tucked it into her writing case, and stood. ‘More for the post bag,' she observed, and left the room by the inner door.
‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Mrs Jennings. ‘If I do not get on I shall never catch the post!’ Rising swiftly, she took two letters from her bag and followed Miss Jeroboam.
The minuet ended, but instead of launching into something similar Miss Jennings began to play an altogether different piece — wild, flurrying music which Maisie could only describe as stormy. Now she leaned towards the keys; now a fire blazed in her pale-blue eyes which Maisie had not observed before. It was as if the wind whirled through the stuffy, over-furnished room. Miss Jennings seemed to be playing for her life, rushing to finish the piece before her mother returned.
At the end of the piece Miss Jennings was breathing quickly, whether from her exertion, or the emotion the music aroused in her, Maisie could not tell.
‘That was wonderful,’ she said, applauding quietly.
‘Thank you,' said Miss Jennings, who appeared rather surprised that anyone was in the room.
‘Where did you learn to play like that?’
‘Oh no, you mustn’t tell anybody,’ Miss Jennings said quickly. ‘That piece was entirely for my own amusement.’ And placing her fingers to the keys again, she began a stately gavotte.
‘I preferred your other piece,’ said Maisie, with a smile, but Miss Jennings did not seem to hear her.
Maisie rose, and leaving by the inner door saw a man hurrying away. His wrists were protruding from his suit jacket.
So, thought Maisie.
***
‘It is so wonderful!’ breathed Maisie, gazing at the huge austere mass of the Rock of Gibraltar. ‘It is like a lion. Just as they say.’
‘Not a sleeping lion, though,’ said the colonel. ‘A lion on guard. As he should be.’
Jasper Randall leaned towards Maisie. ‘I’m surprised the colonel doesn’t want to shoot it,’ he whispered, and Maisie stifled a giggle.
The whole body of first-class passengers had gathered on the promenade deck to watch the ship pull into Gibraltar. Luckily for Maisie and the others, the captain had sent a steward to give them notice in good time, so they had managed to secure the best vantage point on the deck.
‘To be so close to Spain, and to Africa!’ Maisie exclaimed. ‘Before today I had never gone further than Paris.’
‘So do you think you will acquire a taste for foreign travel, Miss Frobisher?' enquired Mrs Smythe.
‘If it is more like today, and not like the Bay of Biscay, I think I could get used to it.’ Maisie turned again to gaze at the rock and the houses nestling at the lion’s feet. ‘What a shame that we can’t land.’
‘The mail must get through in time,’ said Captain Carstairs. ‘We have a responsibility to Her Majesty.’
‘You look like a disappointed schoolgirl, Miss Frobisher.’ Mr Randall laughed.
‘The place is rife with smugglers, you know,’ said the colonel. ‘People from everywhere, and some of them up to no good.’
‘That sounds rather romantic,’ said Maisie.
‘And it is romantic, at the right time and place,’ said the colonel. ‘Gibraltar is where I met Mrs Fortescue.’
Until she saw it, Maisie would never have believed Mrs Fortescue could blush and giggle. ‘I was a slip of a girl then,’ she said, ‘and Alfred was a young lieutenant. You wouldn’t believe it to look at us now, would you?’
‘Oh, I would,’ the captain said gallantly.
‘I think we should give it back to the Spaniards,’ said Mr Merritt.
The colonel wheeled round and stared at him. ‘Give it back? What do you mean, give it back? Gibraltar is a key strategic position which we have fought to maintain for almost two hundred years! Would we have won Trafalgar without it? Would we?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ Mr Merritt replied, coolly. ‘If you were there, perhaps you can tell me.’
The colonel glared, turned away, and resumed his scrutiny of the bare, forbidding rock.
‘Look!’ said Miss Jennings. ‘A boat is coming!’ Sure enough, a small lighter boat was advancing from the bay.
Captain Carstairs raised a finger and a steward came running. ‘I’m going up to the bridge,’ he said. ‘Please tell Lieutenant Barry to make ready. Do excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, straightening his hat. ‘Duty calls.’
Fifteen minutes later the ship began to slow, and they heard a cry of ‘Make anchor!’ A ship's boat was lowered and they saw the elegant Lieutenant Barry, in full-dress uniform, accompanied by two crew members in turbans and several sacks of mail, cast off from the ship and approach the lighter. Colone
l Fortescue saluted as the boat moved away.
‘Do you think we should give Gibraltar back to Spain?’ Maisie murmured to Mr Randall.
He laughed. ‘I don’t think it’s my place to say!’ And with that Maisie had to be content. She resolved to hunt out a good history book in the ship’s library, and decide the matter for herself.
Chapter 3
A surprise and a disappointment to Maisie came with the return of Lieutenant Barry to the ship at Gibraltar bearing two sacks of mail.
‘A bumper budget of letters!’ exclaimed Mrs Smythe, rubbing her hands.
‘Oh, please don’t,' pleaded Miss Jeroboam, looking pained.
‘I’m sure that only half of those will be for you, Miss Jeroboam,’ teased Mrs Fortescue, giving her a slight nudge.
‘I would be happy with one,’ said Miss Jeroboam.
And so should I, thought Maisie, though she knew she had not a hope of a letter. ‘I hadn’t realised that the ship would collect mail at Gibraltar,’ she ventured.
‘Oh yes,’ Mrs Fortescue replied. ‘We always direct people beforehand to write to everywhere the ship pulls in. That way you get news from home several times during the voyage.’
That evening at dinner the captain’s table buzzed with the news that people had had from home, as well as the little luxuries and reminders of everyday life which had been packaged up and posted with love. Maisie wondered if she’d ever felt so alone in her life before. Here I am surrounded by people, and yet I barely feel kinship with one of them. She glanced at Jasper Randall, who was recounting a story an old school friend had told him in a letter that afternoon, and felt a pang. What I would give to have Connie or Delia at this table. She thought she had never truly appreciated her friends before.
‘And did you receive a whole sack of post, Miss Jeroboam?’ she asked, feeling that whatever answer she received could not make her feel worse.
Miss Jeroboam, who had been talking to the captain, grinned in a rather unladylike way. ‘Just a hundred letters or so,’ she said. ‘Beyond expectations! There is a chance that I may be able to come out of the library before we reach Bombay!’
Maisie repaid the grin with a tight smile and applied herself to her mulligatawny soup, feeling very small and insignificant.
After the excitement of the almost-stop at Gibraltar, everyone settled into a routine. Maisie felt herself doing the same, despite her initial resistance to such an idea. Breakfast at eight-thirty, followed by reading or letter-writing in the music room, listening to Miss Jennings play her chamber music, occasionally punctuated by forays into the romantic, tempestuous tunes which Maisie had experienced the first time she listened, if no one else was around to hear. Maisie sometimes felt like a secret conspirator in Miss Jennings’s inner life.
‘Why don’t you play this music for others, too?’ she once asked.
A shadow crossed Miss Jennings’s face, and she glanced into the empty dining room before answering. ‘Mother doesn’t approve,’ she said. ‘She feels that young ladies who wish to get married should not demonstrate the deeper emotions, in case it frightens away acquaintance both male and female.’
‘Oh,’ said Maisie.
Miss Jennings closed the piano lid. ‘Do you wish to get married, Miss Frobisher?’ she asked.
Maisie considered. ‘I don’t wish not to marry,’ she said. ‘But that is not the same as wanting to get married. I am an independent young person, with my own fortune, such as it is, and I like to please myself.’
Miss Jennings nodded. ‘I should feel just the same,’ she said. Then she opened the lid of the piano again and played a waltz of such decorum that Maisie could not keep from laughing.
Morning coffee was followed by an airing on the promenade deck, where Mr Randall would play skittles or quoits with anyone who cared to compete. He even attempted crown green bowling, although the grooved deck and the movement of the ship were hardly conducive to this. When Maisie pointed this out he laughed, pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen forwards, and said, ‘A man has to try, Miss Frobisher. It is effort and endeavour that made the Empire.’ Maisie felt there was really no answer to that.
Following lunch, a walk to settle one’s stomach, before perhaps reading a novel or listening to music, and a gentle convening over afternoon tea. Then another walk and perhaps some light gossip before everyone retreated to dress for dinner. It was perfectly pleasant; everyone was nice, and polite, and formal; but Maisie sometimes felt, even in a ship which had a hundred people in first class, and doubtless hundreds more below decks, that there was simply not enough to keep her interest.
Next day, after breakfast, Maisie was on her way to fetch her writing case from her cabin when a hand touched her elbow. ‘Miss Frobisher, might I speak to you for a moment?’ said Mrs Smythe.
‘But of course, Mrs Smythe,’ said Maisie.
‘Amelia!’ Mr Smythe hurried over, looking rather out of sorts. ‘I would welcome your assistance,’ he said. ‘Please excuse us, Miss Frobisher.’
Maisie watched them depart, Mr Smythe’s arm firmly through his wife’s, and wondered. ‘Oh well,’ she said, shrugging, and resumed her journey to the cabin.
She hoped Mrs Smythe would apprehend her in the music room, or at morning coffee, or perhaps on the promenade deck. Mrs Smythe did not reappear. It’s probably nothing, she told herself. But that little intervention nagged at her, and would not leave her alone through all the time she looked at the sea, or tried to make out where they might be in the world right now, or made small talk with the Fortescues and Mrs Jennings.
In the end Mrs Smythe’s chance came after dinner, when the gentleman retired to the smoking room and the ladies to the saloon. Maisie waited until most people had taken up their positions on the sofas and easy chairs which littered the room. Then she advanced to the window and gazed at the blue, blue sea.
She did not have to wait long before Mrs Smythe joined her. ‘Thank you so much, my dear,’ she murmured. ‘I had hoped to catch you earlier, but —’
‘I thought as much,’ said Maisie, feeling a little smug. ‘What is it that you wish to speak to me about, Mrs Smythe?’
‘It is — well — I don’t know quite how to begin.’ Mrs Smythe seemed, under her usually calm and poised exterior, rather ruffled.
‘Is it a personal matter?’ asked Maisie, in the kindest tone she could manage.
Now Mrs Smythe looked confused. ‘Well, yes, and no. I don’t know. You see —’ She glanced around the room, but all the other ladies were occupied. No one was watching them. ‘Some jewellery — nothing valuable, just costume pieces — has gone missing from our cabin.’
‘Oh!’ said Maisie. She frowned. ‘Surely the best thing to do would be to make the captain aware?’
‘Oh no, I don’t want to involve the captain!’ gabbled Mrs Smythe. ‘That would cause such a fuss. I did suggest that to David when I told him, and he said absolutely not. It would compromise his position terribly if people thought our cabin was not secure.’
‘Are you sure that you have not left it unlocked?’ said Maisie. ‘Perhaps a steward, or a maid —’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Mrs Smythe, looking puzzled. ‘I am sure as can be that I always lock the cabin door behind me when I leave it. But of course I cannot speak for David, and while he is adamant that he would not leave it unlocked —’
The pause hung between them.
‘So what would you like me to do?’ asked Maisie.
‘I wondered if you might be able to, um, make enquiries?’ Seeing no immediate reaction from Maisie, Mrs Smythe ploughed on. ‘You see, Mr Smythe and I are in a delicate position, and it would be very difficult for us to pursue the matter, whereas you, an independent and, may I say, rather unconventional young lady, may go where you please and ask whatever questions you like.’
Maisie stared through the window for a moment, trying to quell her rising feelings. ‘So if I understand you correctly, Mrs Smythe, what you are saying is that you want me to sno
op around, interrogate the other passengers, and possibly put myself on bad terms with them by asking impertinent questions, in order that you may recover some costume jewellery which you yourself admit is not valuable.’
Mrs Smythe said nothing.
‘If I am correct, Mrs Smythe, and it sounds as if I am, then my best advice to you is that if you are desperate to recover the jewellery, you should inform the captain and organise a search of all passengers’ belongings. The alternative is to accept the loss and make sure that you and your husband lock the cabin door in future.’
Without waiting for a reply, Maisie lifted her chin and, nose in the air, stalked to the nearest sofa, where Mrs Fortescue was praising the large jar of Bovril she had received in the Gibraltar mail, and declaring how a good strong cup of that first thing would set you up for the rest of the day.
Maisie sat, listened, and nodded in what she hoped were the right places. Within, though, her anger bubbled as if it were about to make a cup of nourishing beef tea, and her fingers worried at one of the tassels ornamenting the arm of her sofa until it was in danger of coming off. The cheek, she thought. The utter cheek of asking me to pry on her behalf! Me, Maisie Frobisher! As if my reputation is worth nothing! And so, in a fine huff, and with a smile on her face, Maisie spent the rest of her evening.
Chapter 4
Maisie Frobisher to Delia Carroll, 28th September 1893
My dear Delia,
How you would laugh to see me, a ‘fast’ young lady according to the British press, behaving like a stately matron on board the SS Britannia! Watching young men play deck quoits, listening to young women play the piano, taking a walk after meals to help the digestion, and dining at seven! Shipboard life seems to have put at least fifteen years on me, and I feel quite forty!
In truth, society on board is every bit as exclusive as British society as we know it. Remarkably, everyone sticks with the people they meet at their table at dinner, and the rest of the first-class passengers might as well not be there at all. For this we have the purser to thank, I believe. Captain Carstairs joked that the purser was far more powerful than he, and now I begin to believe it.
All at Sea Page 2
