The captain wandered back to the Bittersweet. Crossing the Atlantic, there would be plenty of time to investigate the secrets of the chocolate bar and try to figure out the cut of Will Simmons’s jib. The dead boy had seemed callow, but now there was a whiff of the mastermind about him. Might he have been up to anything else? Was everything and everyone different in London? Perhaps the city would transform Henderson too. The gemstones would certainly be more valuable there.
Striding aboard, the captain summoned the mate. Clarkson was famously lucky at cards, which Henderson put down to his wry expression. Whether he was dealt a good hand or bad, he always looked convivial.
‘We can cast off in half an hour or slightly less,’ the man said. ‘The tide is turning. It’s favourable weather too, breezy enough.’
Henderson lifted his hat and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Half an hour?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir. If it pleases you. You said you wanted a quick turnaround. I had the cannon cleaned and shot prepared. In case there might be trouble. Pirates.’
Henderson’s eyes moved in the direction of Maria’s cabin. He had a sudden longing to breathe in her scent, gulping it down like a glass of Tempranillo, swimming in it like a hidden pool. He endeavoured to control himself.
‘Has Mrs Graham stirred?’ he asked.
‘No sir, not as far as I know.’
He motioned the mate to follow him along the deck, looking down the dock at the Jury and peering out to sea. Then, with the other man waiting, he quietly recapped the route he’d plotted.
‘The Bittersweet is smaller but she’s faster,’ he mused. ‘We’ll get there more than a week before they do. Perhaps even longer. The Jury is loaded to the gunwales. She’s heavier by at least half again. We’ll beat her to port, no doubt about it.’
‘Beat whom, sir?’ Clarkson enquired, smiling no more and no less than usual.
The captain took a deep breath. ‘Set sail, Mr Clarkson,’ Henderson instructed. ‘Quietly.’
‘Quietly?’
‘The lady is asleep.’
Clarkson looked uncharacteristically bemused, but the captain ignored him. The crossing would take more than a month, and perhaps half that again if the weather were against them. But any ship would face the same conditions and the Bittersweet would have several days’ march on the Jury, on top of what she could make up along the way.
‘Gentleman be damned. I am her quickest way there. Raise the anchor and cast off,’ he said, disappearing into his cabin.
Inside, instead of looking at the chart or lingering on what Mrs Graham’s view might be of the ship’s departure, Captain Henderson removed the brick of cacao from its hiding place. As he chopped into the chocolate, he wondered how many gems and how much gold was in there. His heart was racing.
11
On board the Bittersweet
Maria turned over slowly. Her mouth felt dry and her arm lolled over the edge of the bedclothes. She focussed on the shady outline of the decanter that sat on the table, its dark contents shifting from side to side. Then she noticed the petticoat she had left on the chair was also swaying in the shadows. The tide must be high. She hesitated, waiting for the familiar thud of dockside water against the frame of the ship, but nothing came. She hauled her legs over the side of the bed, rising to open the shutters. As the warm light flooded in, she gasped, for there was no question that the Bittersweet was at sea. An unobstructed blue vista stretched before her. Sinking into a chair, she lifted the discarded linen that had swaddled the smuggled chocolate. The bar and the booty embedded within it were gone. There was no way to tell what time it was, but the light in the cabin had the feel of a Caribbean late afternoon. Mrs Graham felt in a state of abject disarray. Her stomach growled as she poured a tot of wine, sipped it and then set the pewter cup to one side. Carefully, she removed her hairpin and drew off her gloves, her eyes drawn to the porthole.
‘We are at sea,’ she intoned as her mind flashed through the possibilities.
She had never said she wanted to leave the Bittersweet – she hadn’t reasoned her way through that argument yet. The truth was she wasn’t sure whether she was judging the captain too harshly. There was something about him – something that might never work out, like an equation that could not be solved. Now, however, she had no choice as to her passage and she certainly minded that. Maria surveyed the desk. The journal of her voyage to Brazil was all but finished and she would move on to Murray’s Chilean book next, but she was so vexed she could scarcely imagine being able to concentrate. The captain might at least have consulted her. She looked out of the window once more. There were no seabirds – he must have cast off hours ago. It was an outrage.
She splashed her face with cold water and drew the grey dress from the trunk, changing quickly and pinning her hat in place. Then, not even checking her appearance in the reflection of the porthole, before she stepped out of the cabin into the sunshine.
On deck, Henderson was nowhere to be seen. Two of the sailors doffed their caps and wished her a good afternoon. The ship’s sails were full and the Bittersweet glided along at a clip – there was no sight of land on any side, only the Atlantic and the sky, clear as crystal. The men were coiling rope, the smell of wax and sea spray seeping towards her from their direction. The ship had the habitual feel of the first day of a long voyage – she recognised it from every vessel she’d ever set sail on. The crew were smart to their orders, supplies were high in all things, optimism included, and full wages were due at their destination.
‘Where is the captain?’ she asked.
‘In his cabin, ma’am.’
Maria stretched her fingers like a concert pianist about to take the stage. The joints clicked as she headed across the deck. She knocked smartly and entered without waiting.
Henderson was squashed inside, sitting at his desk with a chart before him and a small tankard of port in place of the inkwell. He had washed, shaved and changed, and looked annoyingly fresh.
‘We are at sea, sir,’ Maria stated flatly.
The captain sprang to his feet, knocking over an empty cup and propelling two of his papers to the floor.
‘The tide was with us and I checked at the dock,’ he said. ‘There was no ship for London for another week or so. I took the decision on your behalf.’
‘You didn’t think to wake me?’
‘I did. Of course. But you were tired and you seemed so peaceful. I know how keen you are to make time.’
Maria sighed. Henderson reeled. The cast of her eyes was like a punch in the face. He couldn’t blame her.
‘First it transpires you are a smuggler, and now a kidnapper,’ Maria said simply. ‘I don’t wish to be churlish, Captain Henderson. Those around you say you are a man to be trusted. You garner respect from your crew and yet when it comes to—’
‘I know. I know.’ He gestured half in apology, half in explan-
ation. His actions had been weighing on his conscience. ‘I cannot say how sorry I am, Mrs Graham. I find myself, when it comes to your person, I find myself . . . in difficulty.’
‘My person?’
He looked sheepish, but he had brought it up now. ‘Yes, madam. You are so admirable. It seems that in your presence I am seldom myself. I wanted to keep you in company.’
Maria laid her hand on her stomach. The cabin was tiny and she was jammed against the desk. Henderson was no more than a few inches away, the familiar scent of tobacco smoke emanating from him. It felt comforting. Strangely, however, that annoyed her more. She felt as if she was being unreasonable, though she was sure she had the high ground. No one had used this excuse before. Not even her late husband.
‘If you expect to flatter me into condoning your actions, Captain, I assure you that won’t work.’
‘Oh no,’ Henderson insisted. ‘I know what I am and I hope I have been clear about it. I’m not trying to flatter you, Mrs Graham, I’m only offering an explanation.’
He did not turn away. It was just like yesterda
y – eye to eye, absolute honesty and no backing down. There was something of the prizefighter about Captain Henderson.
Maria had often observed that a person’s true nature was only apparent in extremis. This conversation felt like a head-to-head bout, or at least like a high-stakes game of cards. She’d travelled in the company of many men who would have liked to have set off without her permission, organise her lodgings and curtail her plans. Their interference, however kindly meant, had never felt so personal. Captain Henderson was disarming, not least because he was so frank.
‘I pride myself on making my own decisions, sir,’ she said. ‘I do not welcome gentlemen making them for me.’
Henderson nodded sharply. ‘You are quite right.’ He bowed as far as the space in the cabin would permit him. ‘It was selfish of me not to consult you. Might you forgive me, Mrs Graham?’
Maria sighed. There was no course of action but to abide by what he’d done. They were at sea now. ‘When do you expect to arrive in England?
‘That will depend on the weather. It will take a month at the minimum and most likely a week or two more. We’re reliant, as I’m sure you are aware, on the winds, though at this time of year there should be nothing untoward. We’ll go as quickly as we can. There was no ship to get you to England faster. I trusted I was doing the right thing.’
‘You cannot have been sure, sir.’
‘No.’
Mrs Graham paused. Had he been less apologetic, she would have fought harder. It was difficult not to forgive someone so apparently decent. Still, it irked her. She was bound for home on a smuggling vessel, however appealing the man at the helm.
‘There is nothing to be done.’ She nodded curtly, her eyes still hard as she swept out of the cabin, taking some of the light, it seemed, with her.
Henderson sank back into his seat. He felt like a heel – the worst kind of cad – and yet the night before, they had chatted like old friends at dinner. He had teased her and she had laughed. He opened the desk drawer to reveal his haul from mining the chocolate bar. There was a pirate’s treasure trove of gemstones and three small bars of gold that were pleasingly weighty. He touched the nearest one for luck and then jumped as a second knock rapped at the door. Thinking it was Mrs Graham returning, he shot to his feet like a guilty schoolboy and slammed the drawer shut.
The door opened to reveal Big Al Thatcher, the ship’s cook, whose skills extended to minor surgery. The Bittersweet’s crew did not run to a ship’s doctor.
‘Pressed neck of pork tonight, sir?’ the old cook asked, his accent as fresh as if he had left York only the week before. ‘We have cream and I thought I’d try a sauce. A sweet Madeira? With ginger?’
Henderson nodded. ‘The Spanish white we picked up in Natal will complement it nicely,’ he mused. ‘We’ll need something full-flavoured. Have a table set for Mrs Graham and I to eat together, would you?’
Big Al’s long face twitched. The Bittersweet rarely afforded passage to guests and certainly not to ladies. He felt out of his depth cooking for the quality, never mind setting table. Under Henderson’s tutelage, his culinary repertoire had expanded from the simple home cooking upon which he prided himself to a small array of fancy sauces and prime cuts. Now it seemed tables required to be set.
‘Where would you like to eat, sir?’
The captain thought for a moment. Given Mrs Graham’s annoyance, he could hardly arrange dinner in the woman’s cabin and then invite himself for a meal, though the captain’s cabin, which she now inhabited, was the usual place to eat.
‘On deck,’ he tried.
Big Al looked momentarily dubious. ‘We have cheese to finish, if a picnic is what you desire,’ he offered.
‘Yes,’ Henderson chimed. ‘A picnic. Exactly. Port with cheese and some fruit.’
‘I loaded fresh figs, sir. And we have some exotics.’
‘Very good. Have the cabin boy invite Mrs Graham. Dinner on deck. Yes.’
*
The stars were breathtaking. Maria would miss that about the tropics. In her memory, London was invariably foggy, and even when the fog abated, the city was peppered with too many gaslights to allow the constellations their glory. At night the skies were a uniform dun brown over the sprawl. It was, her father said, the price London paid for being the biggest and best city in the world. As a child, Captain Dundas had taught her the names of the stars, mapping the constellations with ditties that aided memory. At her family home, many a night in his long absences, she crept from her bed, sneaking to the chilly window with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, to watch the moon wane and the stars trace their passage, ever mindful that thousands of miles away they were shining down on her father’s ship.
Later, after she left England, the stars stayed with her, their positions varying – cold companions whether they were viewed from a campfire in Khandesh, a nunnery in Umbria or the top of a Chilean mountain. They proved comforting when a journey was arduous or Maria found herself in danger. This dinner was a good way, if unconventional, for Captain Henderson to say he was sorry – these were the last few weeks after all they might dine al fresco, before the constellations were masked by the cloudy skies of Northern Europe. South of the equator, the night sky swirled as the ship cut through the surf, providing a stunning backdrop.
The ship continued to make way and the sound of singing wafted from below deck as the men diced. One or two would lose their wages before they earned them. Others would emerge on the dock like millionaires at the other end of the trip. The candles flickered in the breeze between the oil lamps illuminating the small dining table set with two wooden chairs. At first, Maria had worried that they would quarrel again, but the captain’s company had been convivial over dinner. The food had been delicious and now she settled against a tapestry pillow and decided to make the best of the voyage.
‘Who made this cushion?’ she enquired.
Henderson shrugged. ‘The soft furnishings came with the ship,’ he said. ‘There are not many and they are rarely used.’
‘And this ship was your father’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘You owe your father a debt of gratitude then. What was he like?’
Henderson faltered. ‘He was a smuggler like me. He’d been away from England the better part of forty years by the time he died in Brazil. My mother had only two visits from him, both brief.’
‘Henderson is a Scottish name, like Graham, which was my late husband’s, or Dundas, which is my own.’
‘Indeed. I have no idea where my father was born. He met my mother in London and married her there, and now they are both dead so I have no means to find out. Neither of them talked a great deal about themselves. The old man was dashing, or so my mother said. She met him at a ball in Knightsbridge.’
‘He was a gentleman, then?’
‘She believed so.’
‘But you doubt it.’
‘He had charm. And he had money. People spend more time on social niceties than I expect such matters merit. We all wish to be part of that club. I admit that I should like it.’ Henderson’s stomach lurched. The words felt raw, but he continued. ‘As a boy I considered it my birthright. I was brought up a gentleman, but I found another way. Part of me still misses what I left behind. I love the London I remember. I have no idea if it is still there or, indeed, if it ever was more than my own childish fancy.’
Maria sipped her wine. She was tutor to the heir of the Brazilian throne so she could hardly deny that social niceties were important, and yet she did not like to feel snobbish nor unkind. She’d always been considered a poor relation – her aunt still baulked at her literary attempts. The family’s disapproval of everything about Maria seeped across the wide ocean no matter how far she travelled. Lady Dundas had wanted to control her marriage, her education, her wardrobe and, she thought with a twist, the mother from whose care they had removed her. Throughout, Maria had proved troublesome. She’d swapped an opal necklace for the starlit seas and still she was ne
ver considered good enough, no matter her distinguished reviews.
‘A man is generally judged on his merits,’ she said. ‘And his actions.’
Henderson shook his head. They both knew that wasn’t true. Not entirely.
‘We are all somebody’s child,’ he observed.
She nodded. ‘The child of our most prosperous parent, and his family.’
Henderson sliced a mango. The fragrance perfumed the night air. Maria lifted a sliver of cheese.
‘It’s the custom to drink coffee,’ the captain said. ‘Perhaps while we’re waiting you might like to take a turn about the deck?’
The sound of the ship cutting through the water carried over the side, the constant wash and slap a steady rhythm. The sails creaked. It felt like only the two of them on board as they walked towards the prow into the velvet darkness. The satin of Maria’s gown was smooth against her skin, the slight breeze forcing it against her body.
‘I’m learning Portuguese from the cabin boy,’ she admitted. ‘I shall need it for my new commission.’
She was acutely aware that her fingers were trembling, but she tried to ignore them. It crossed her mind that she remained slightly afraid of Henderson. This was confusing, for she also enjoyed his company. He was confident, for a man who could not hope for the support of society.
‘Ah, the cabin boy?’ he said. ‘Now that one is a finer lad than he should be. I found him in New York. He was half-dead, beaten and abandoned just off the quay. He’d have died if I’d left him, for winter was coming. I worried that if such treatment was all he’d known, he would be vicious, but he has blossomed.’
‘You took him in?’
‘We needed a cabin boy, and had he not been a good one we’d have set him ashore. Do not think me a bleeding heart, Mrs Graham. I’ve left a man half-dead more than once. I’ve hanged a man for insubordination. When I was younger, I had a temper.’
On Starlit Seas Page 12
