Valiant Gentlemen

by Sabina Murray

  “Cricket,” says Ward, “fish out a bottle of Champagne, will you?” Cricket lifts the lid of the basket and, full of mischief, pulls out a smaller bottle. “That’s lemonade. I said Champagne.”

  “I don’t like Champagne.”

  “That’s what you say now, but in a few years—”

  As Ward predicts, they all look to James, and he is disapproving, and Cecily starts giggling, quietly, but James will be seeing her shaking back.

  Ward pops the Champagne open and it’s warm. They had been dragging bottles in the water, in a nice net bag rigged for the purpose, but the bag is lost and with it the other bottle of Champagne, lying on the bottom of the Thames, no doubt, with many other Champagne bottles that have drifted down from Henley, post Regatta, although those bottles are certainly emptied—he’s responsible for at least one of them. Ward pours a glass for Sarita and hands it to her. He pours one for himself.

  The banks are slipping slowly by, and James drops and pushes, drops and pushes. The foxgloves are in ferocious bloom, bothered by bees. A cloying swan arcs his neck, dips, emerges, unfolds to his full-feathered span, showering a rainbow of fractured light across the river’s surface. A wood pigeon with singing wings flaps to a branch overhead.

  “Shoot it, Daddy,” says Cricket. “Shoot it.”

  Little Cricket has the gift of violence. She loves to walk out with him, although she’s so small that she quickly tires and he has to mostly carry her on his shoulders. She loves him picking the hares out of the fields, the clean crack and whistle of his gun, Ticker leaping through the grass to fetch. She loves to pat the warm soft fur of that new dead thing and once she dipped her little finger in the blood and tasted it. She’d met his eye and he’d thought that maybe this fierce little creature would also meet cannibals, would hear drums, would walk for miles and miles not sure of any worthy destination.

  Harefield. That’s where they live. Harefield. Although Sarita has wryly noted that if he keeps at it, soon they will be living in “Field.”

  Cricket takes the bottle of lemonade and sticks the top in her mouth, ready to grapple off the cap with her teeth.

  “Cricket, don’t,” Ward says. He takes the bottle from her.

  “Paulson does it.”

  “You’ve yet to acquire Paulson’s talents. That one will come with age.”

  Ward sees little Dimples pry open the top of the biscuit tin and take out a dead butterfly, admire its powdery wings, and then place it back inside, lid pushed on with a creak. She shakes the tin gently.

  “Think you’ll whisper it back to life, sweetheart?” says Sarita. She does this to bother James—which it does—and to make Cecily laugh—which it does.

  Sarita sights around the hotel lobby. At least they’ve made it to Gorley. The reception area is full of people, many of whom seem to be a part of the Ward party. Will they always be traveling in such a crowd? Cecily has the baby in her right arm and her left hand wrapped around Cricket’s wrist. Dimples isn’t inclined to run off: She’s standing by her father, cooing at the biscuit tin. James had to stay behind with the punt. Seems like everyone has had the same idea: Henley for the Regatta, then a punt down to Gorley. So, there was nowhere to moor the boat and now they’re short-handed. Sarita and Herbert both have an aversion to an excess of servants, but this is absurd. Herbert’s struggling with the basket and wraps, and she’s checking them in.

  “But you do have our rooms?” asks Sarita.

  “Madame, we do, and I apologize. As soon as we have a man free, he will be sent to find out precisely what happened to your mooring.”

  “We know what happened to the mooring. Someone took it. Can’t you send a man now?”

  “As soon as your belongings have been unloaded from the cart . . .”

  He continues, but Sarita has become distracted by Cricket, who is struggling mightily to free herself from Cecily’s grip. Sarita sees Cricket prying at Cecily’s fingers with her left hand, then her open mouth and bared teeth.

  Dimples’s eyes widen.

  “Sarita Enriqueta Ward!” says Sarita. “Don’t you dare!” She returns her attention to the concierge. “I do apologize, but I need my man James immediately. I don’t care if you leave our things in the street to be pilfered by derelicts.”

  Herbert is laughing now.

  “Madame—”

  “Where is Paulson?” Sarita asks Herbert. “I know he doesn’t like carrying things, but for pity’s sake.”

  “Sir—” says the concierge, appealing to Herbert.

  “I’m sorry, but my wife seems to have everything under control.”

  “Do I really?” says Sarita.

  “Don’t you?”

  “I’m not sure,” says Sarita. She looks over at Cecily, who is jerking the poor baby around in an attempt to keep Cricket in place—Cricket whose heels are dug into the rug and has a look of pure rage on her face. Herbert lets the wraps and basket drop with a crash of crockery (is he drunk?) and dramatically presents himself to Cricket. Cecily lets her go, and the girl jumps into her father’s arms.

  “Problem solved?” asks Herbert.

  “And a good thing too,” says Sarita. “I thought my wheel was about to come off.”

  She sees the concierge looking dolefully at their abandoned belongings on the floor. A fashionable woman with a hummingbird hat edges away. Dimples looks at the hat with nervous horror. They are a circus. That’s what she gets for marrying a circus performer. Although part of her does feel remorse for subjecting the other guests to this—people need their peace—but how is it that they don’t have a man managing the moorings? Sarita has an image of whomever this moorings-man might be raising a pint glass with Paulson.

  A boy with a silly, jaunty cap—hallmark of porters—appears at her elbow, and she gestures to the pile of rugs and the basket heaped on the floor. “I assume he has the keys?” she says to the concierge.

  “Of course, Madame.”

  “Well, thank you for your kind attention.”

  “And Mrs. Ward, may I inquire . . .”

  She waits. “Of course.” Although the man doesn’t seem to know what he is inquiring.

  “Madame, do you know a ‘Wardy’?”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand the question.”

  “A telegram has arrived for ‘Wardy.’”

  “May I inquire, who is this telegram from?”

  “It is from a Mister Harmsworth.”

  Sarita shakes her head. “It’s for my husband. ‘Wardy?’ What is Alfred thinking? Doesn’t he want you to get the telegram? And how did he know we were here?”

  Herbert volunteers to take over the last of the check-in and she can’t wait because Cricket needs the toilet as soon as possible. In New York, this hotel would have an elevator. Sarita follows the porter, who has nothing to port but the picnic basket and the key. She hopes he does not expect a tip because she hates dealing with that and also isn’t sure that she has any appropriate coinage. She’s carrying Charlie with Cecily bringing up the rear with the blankets, the girls in between, Cricket blocked from escape by the two women’s skirts.

  So, ascending with her three children, Sarita has a moment to process what has just happened. What is in that telegram? She thinks this through. The options are limited. It’s something polar, no doubt. That’s what’s selling papers, unless Harmsworth’s ladies’ magazine has finally come through, although Herbert knows nothing about any women except for his girls—Dimples, Cricket, and her. And that’s almost worse than knowing nothing because the three of them are hardly representative. Cricket just wants to kill everything. Dimples wants to bring it back to life. And what does she want? That Champagne has gone to her head; she’s feeling fizzy and could use a quick trip to the toilet. The porter turns down the hallway with all of them processing close behind. He stops to unlock a door and they all pile in. Cecily has a
coin for him, which he takes with a mild bow. Herbert must have given it to her. He’s so clever about people, because of course Cecily likes to tip—thinks it’s grand. The porter shuts the door behind him.

  “Do you want me to take the baby, Madame?” Cecily asks.

  “I’m fine holding him. Why don’t you unpack the children’s things?”

  “They’re not here yet, Mrs. Sanford.”

  “Yes, of course. They’re at the pub with Paulson.” She smiles. The door swings open and there is Herbert. He’s holding the telegram in his hands, a hopeful look on his face.

  “So where’s Alfred sending you?”

  “Russia.”

  “Russia?” It is polar. “Fine. Russia, and no farther, and I want you home inside of six months.”

  She does miss him when he’s not around. Herbert is her best friend, and more than that. Communicating with him is somewhere in a realm between unspoken thoughts and actually engaging another person in discourse. When Herbert’s there, he’s most often in good cheer, and always pretending it regardless. He’s kind to a fault, a loving father, a devoted husband when he’s at home, and when he’s not, how would she know? Herbert’s letters are vivid and full of detail. He’s a professional writer, so that would make sense. He does say that he misses her; certainly the letters seem sincere. He must get lonely because when he’s at home, he can barely be in a room by himself for ten minutes without looking about for her. And even when she’s not there, Ticker is a constant companion to him. It’s as if Herbert has two modes—holding your hand, or thousands of miles away. Sarita has problems with both of these. Alfred Harmsworth. Damn Harmsworth. Thank God for Harmsworth.

  She is again impressed by Harmsworth’s cleverness. All the other ships in the Arctic Circle looking for the North Pole. The explorer Nansen, captain of the Fram, hasn’t been heard from in over a year. Is he alive? Who knows? His plan, after all, was to be stuck in the ice and adrift and as he drifted in the ice, to keep his eye out for the Pole. Nansen is an explorer and, as such, if he’s doing his job, there isn’t anyone around to confirm his precise location, which gives you nothing to print. The reading public must make do with the point at which Nansen was lost to view, combined with his intended destination. Cricket had wondered how all these people were supposed to know when they’d reached the North Pole if no one had ever been there and no one knew what it looked like. First off, the Pole wasn’t actually a pole. So why call it one? Well, they were scientists and poles meant a different thing to them. There was something magnetic involved (something Sarita herself didn’t quite understand and couldn’t explain) and the scientists would most definitely know when they were there. This explanation had somehow had the effect of convincing Cricket while at the same time filling Sarita with doubt. What was all the fuss about the North Pole?

  Harmsworth has decided that rather than looking for the Pole itself, he will just send his ship, the Windward, as far north as possible in order to collect data. This objective, although less dramatic than reaching the Pole, has some significant benefits. The scientific community is completely excited by this generous focus on research and, as Herbert wryly pointed out, if Harmsworth’s just headed north rather than trying to discover the Pole, his expedition is bound to be successful.

  “Alfred doesn’t like losing,” Herbert had said, “and with this expedition, he can’t.”

  “Unless the boat sinks,” Sarita responded.

  “In which case, the bravery of the men will fire up the hearts of our good people and probably sell even more copies.”

  The Windward had sailed on the twelfth of July from Greenhithe with Herbert on it. Back in Harefield, Sarita and the children settled into their usual schedule with Cecily taking Dimples and Cricket to the park in the morning, most often with James, who had to carry hoops and dolls and balls and keep Cricket from running off. Maybe Cricket would turn out to be religious. Of course, this was hard to believe, but only the power of God seemed of sufficient might to control her and as God was the only thing that James possessed, one had to at least consider the possibility. Baby Charlie stayed home with Sarita in a cradle by her roll-top desk that she could rock with her foot. Parents weren’t allowed to have favorites, but Charlie was such a good baby. He gurgled and cooed, took naps at regular hours, liked Cook as much as Nanny, and Cook liked him back and never complained about the odd proclivity that kept him about and not out with Cecily and the other children. And without a nanny of his own. Sarita liked being a mother. Why would she deprive herself of her children? Or at least Charlie. Look at him napping.

  Sarita has flung open the window in invitation to the glorious day. The sun is streaming into the garden and the scent of the climbing rose hangs exorbitant and cloyingly sweet. She’s finished the household accounts with Mrs. Ogilvie and the maintenance bills with Mr. Garrity, bills easily vanquished by the rising profits of Father’s latest shenanigans. She’s started to help Father with his correspondence in order to free him up for meetings—some things need to stay within the family—and so she doesn’t have as much time as she once did. She likes this excuse to stay at home and just sent money to the local chapter of the Anti-Slavery Society, of which she had once been the secretary. Having cut back on her social obligations also cut back on such things as her dressmakers’ costs and trips to the haberdashers.

  No, she has no use for the dressmaker, nor as much use for Paulson who, in Herbert’s absence, spends half his time in London as second groom to her parents, which he prefers. Paulson considers himself a Londoner, although why, who can say? Cecily knows for a fact that Paulson is from Yorkshire, the son of a bricklayer, and grew up in a small town not far from but not overly close to Sheffield. Charlie cries in his sleep, gasps a little, and then returns to some baby dream with a smile. Sarita rocks the cradle with her foot.

  This latest piece of information from Father is an instruction to the family solicitor concerning a rather large deposit into her bank account. Could they really be worth that much? She looks around at the décor of the little study—an odd combination of juju masks and spears, stained glass and stuffed birds, a fashionable miniature putica and sketchy French paintings. These last she’d saved from being auctioned off in the Carleton Terrace liquidation: They were recent and not worth much anyway, but she—like some critics—found them really inspiring. Sarita sets the letter down and rests her chin in her hand.

  It is crowded in this little room, and everywhere in the house. They will have to move at some point and she will have to tell Herbert that they’re rich again and he’ll get that agonized look that has to do with fluctuating between joy that the children are so well provided for and misery that he hasn’t been the one to pull it off. And she’ll have to admit she’s rich again and hire more people, when all she really wants is what she has: Paulson, James, Cecily, Garrity, Kate the housemaid, and Mrs. Ogilvie, who’s the housekeeper, but still insists that she’s the cook because “It isn’t Christian to be putting on airs.”

  Who knows? Maybe having only five upstairs rooms and Georgian plumbing is Christian too; it is also inconvenient. Herbert has taken over the whole southern end of the drawing room for his easel, even though he’s claimed the room next to the nursery for his artistic pursuits. Or maybe that’s for writing. Regardless, that room doesn’t have the long windows that Herbert needs to paint. And paint he must, although, this being England, long windows and southern exposure don’t guarantee you sunlight. In a way, she wishes they had returned to Paris this past winter. They’d meant to, but Herbert had fallen in with Seymour Lucas, a painter with a distinctly English perspective, who felt that Julian’s Studio was some sort of radical hotbed of Continental dissipation. It was as if Lucas didn’t know that Herbert was studying with Bouguereau and Robert-Fleury. Bouguereau painted naked women and children whose gorgeous glowing flesh was reduced to perfected marble, but there was always something overtly erotic about his work. It was as if
he had meant to cool some of this by chilling women’s skin and putting wings on naked children, but this just made the seductive quality of the pieces all the more perverted. And as for Robert-Fleury—well, he didn’t have the saving grace of Bouguereau’s overt pleasures: He was just standard Neoclassical establishment. Why would Lucas have a problem with him?

  Herbert has no problem painting the common man—that’s his natural inclination. But years of sketching and a tendency towards outline—the two-dimensional side of the two-dimensional—make him shy away from techniques determined to replicate light and movement, that underscore ephemera, that celebrate the fact that these subjects are fading, have already faded, are gone.

  Ward has been living on the Windward for the last month. He gets his articles in to Harmsworth, but that doesn’t fill the days. He keeps busy doing whatever needs to be done, painting boats, oiling gear, counting stores. His tiny cot is in a storeroom filled with photographic equipment and oilskins and pepper pots. And tomorrow the Windward will sail and he will be left onshore, left to return to his wife and family. He takes a bottle of vodka from his trunk and heads for the deck. All is quiet. Some of the crew are onshore with their own families, and some may have gone to sleep early. But who can sleep with such a journey looming? He sees a familiar figure lying on the hay bales. The flare of a match illuminates the man’s face as he studies a book. It’s the captain, Jackson.

  “Jackson,” says Ward, “what are you up to?”

  “I’m committing the sky to memory as one is not always in the position to consult a book.”

  “Fascinating,” says Ward. “Well, there’s Ursa Major.” He points.

  “That’s Ursa Minor,” says Jackson. “And Cassiopeia. And the tip of Draco.” Jackson’s arm arcs across the sky. “My last trip, Siberia, we survived because of three things. Celestial navigation. Dogs. And the third thing?”