Not Yet Drown'd

by Peg Kingman

  Mary could not identify it, though she knew every kind of tea that every Edinburgh purveyor had ever claimed to offer for sale: Keemun, souchong, Yunnan, congou, Pouchong, gong fu, pekoe, Wuyi, and more. It was none of these.

  There was no letter, not even the briefest note. There was nothing to date the parcel. Sandy’s name did not appear in it or on it.

  “He must have sent it before the monsoon, early last summer,” said Hector.

  “How could it have taken so long to arrive?” asked Mary. “More than a year. And why is there no letter? Why so mysterious?”

  “Perhaps his friends packed up his personal effects after…after the flooding, and sent them home to you,” Mr Hay proposed. “Curious that they omitted to enclose a letter of explanation, however.”

  “According to the officers of the East India Company, all of his personal effects were lost when the wall of the tank burst,” said Hector. “His entire villa was engulfed instantly, along with everything and everyone in it.”

  “Well, not quite everything, apparently,” said Mary.

  “That is Sandy’s handwriting on the outer cover,” said Catherine. This was indisputable. “And his seal.”

  “It was he who sent it, then, sometime before July of last year,” said Hector. “Parcels and messages often do go astray. It may have taken a very circuitous route. Must have. There is no other explanation.”

  Catherine thought about other explanations, each of which posed other puzzles.

  “Mrs MacDonald, may I beg you to lend me this shawl long enough to have it copied?” said Mr Hay. “Ten days at the most. It is such a fine thing of its kind…. I am obliged, most obliged.”

  Except for the shawl borrowed by Mary’s father, Catherine secreted the inexplicable parcel and its silk wrappings on a shelf in the back of the wardrobe in her bedroom. She placed them there by feel in the dark. Eight-year-old Grace was already in the bed the two of them shared. Careful not to disturb her, Catherine slid carefully between the cold heavy linen sheets. Grace was not asleep, however. As Catherine settled herself, Grace quietly commenced to speak, as she did every night. Her light young voice was nicely calibrated to the intimacy of a small bed, in a small room, in a tall dark sleeping house.

  2

  a stranger wild & rude

  To Catherine, the tea sent by Sandy tasted like nothing. It made a dark red-amber liquor that was only hot and wet. Once brewed, the spent leaves were the colour of copper. She tried to really taste it, to truly notice its qualities, as if it could tell her how Sandy had sent it and what he meant by it. But although food and drink were no longer mere ashes in her mouth (as they had been for the first months of her widowhood, when she had become so painfully thin), it was just like everything she managed to swallow now; it generated no sensation at all. It was up to Mary to notice and enjoy the sweet malty fragrance, the brilliant garnet tones, the substantial body and velvety feel in the mouth, the astringent finish like chestnuts.

  “But it’s not quite like any tea I’ve ever had before,” said Mary. “I wonder if my tea merchant could put a name to it…. Do you know, Catherine, I asked each of the girls about your parcel, and not one of them had any notion how it arrived here. It is mysterious.”

  “Everything about it is mysterious,” agreed Catherine, and setting down her needlework, she took up the little silver-bound ivory coffer and turned it over, examining the decorations engraved on the silver. Some of the designs were like the complicated infinite-knot designs found on old-fashioned Celtic brooches, bracelets, knives, and the like. She had seen them all her life, and had never given them a moment’s thought; they were just primitive old-fashioned decorations. Now she wondered for the first time what they meant—not only to the smiths whose work she had always known but to the maker of this particular box, from so distant and different a place. It had other, unfamiliar decorations, too. The most intriguing was a pattern of sinuous, swirling irregular forms over a darker stippled background. What could that be? She sighed and, taking up her canvaswork again, found her place: a long, straplike leaf of indeterminate species. It was a large piece of work, for it was intended someday to be a sofa cover.

  “Where could Hector be all this time?” said Mary. “I had expected him back before now. He and my father were going to watch the king’s entry, of course, at Picardy Place, and then he was just to go down to the ship with Mr Fleming to make sure that both his engines had got safely carried aboard and properly stowed. But I suppose I shall have to make a fresh pot of tea anyway when he comes in, so we might as well finish this.”

  Mary refilled their cups and, sighing, took up her sewing again. “How I hate to think of his being gone away from me for so long, and the voyage so filled with dangers, and the climate in India so unhealthful. When he first began talking of this journey, I scarce believed that the time would ever arrive. But here it is upon us. We have finished all his shirts but this, and filled his trunks, and his two precious steam engines are actually on the ship. Everything is ready except for me. I have not yet schooled my spirit. I have not found out how I shall bear it.”

  “Yes, learning to bear the unbearable is…slow,” said Catherine. “A lesson one learns anew each day.”

  “My dear! My complaint must seem trivial to you.”

  “Far from it,” said Catherine with a smile. “I have been admiring your spirit. You have been so cheerful, so whole-hearted, so courageous.”

  “Oh, not courageous.”

  “You are, though, and so is Hector. Of staunch and willing heart is what I mean.”

  “Well, my staunch heart is aching already,” said Mary. “I could wait a long, long time if only I could be certain there would be an end to it. Only there is no such certainty, is there? No assurance at all.”

  “No, and there never has been any, not even when he is here, not even though he has succeeded thus far in always getting safely home to you each night.”

  They both pondered this for a while. Then Mary said, “But you will stay with me, I hope, Catherine. You know you may make your home here as long as you please. And poor Grace, too.”

  “Thank you, my dear. Your kindness has done me so much good already. Soon I shall have to take up my own life again, but not quite yet.”

  They both stitched in silence for a time, then Mary said, “It does gladden my heart, of course, to see Hector so happy. He quite means to make his fortune.”

  “And so he may. It is a great thing to have designed an important new style of engine, and to have it taken up by so forward-thinking a firm as Crawford and Fleming. People say that steam power will transform the country trade between India and China. And as the firm is paying for Hector’s passage, and his expenses in India, and even allotting cargo space for him to trade on his own account—why, it is quite as good as a partnership—or better, in being without risk of expenses; it is no wonder that Hector is so confident of success. You won’t mind, Mary, when he comes home a rich nabob!”

  “Riches from the East; aye, so he promises me. And yet we’re quite well enough as we are, quite comfortable, and I am my father’s only child, after all. But it’s different for men, I suppose. So many things are different for men.” Mary shifted, and put down the shirt she was hemming. “Catherine, do you think it is possible, actually possible, for a man—a youthful, healthy man—vigorous, of an ardent nature, to, to remain faithful to an absent wife? For so very extended a period of time? My dear, he will be gone two years! Perhaps more. That’s what I cannot bear, the thought…And yet how can I expect…If I had a truly generous spirit…but how could any wife reconcile her heart to…?”

  “Ah, never fear, Mary; you are the center of his universe. You are his roof and his pillow, the comfort of his house, the fire on his hearth. You are his lodestone. No matter where he goes, you are that place in the north where the needle of his compass always will point.”

  “It is just that ever-ready needle of his compass which worries me!” cried Mary, and they both fell back
laughing.

  “Miss Johnstone to see Mrs MacDonald,” said the maid rather loudly, for they had not heard her at the door.

  “Oh, a Miss Johnstone? Who is Miss Johnstone?” said Mary, reaching up to smooth her always-smooth hair.

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am. For Mistress Catherine MacDonald, if you please,” said the maid. “She said she was expected, so I put her in the master’s study.”

  Catherine was expecting no Miss Johnstones. Curious, she went downstairs and found a carefully dressed woman, perhaps twelve or fifteen years older than herself, wearing a brilliantly embroidered Spanish silk shawl and standing erect before Hector’s desk. “You are Miss Johnstone?” said Catherine. “How may I be of service to you?”

  “I guess you’re pretty surprised to see me,” drawled the unknown lady in an American accent. “It looks like nobody opened this letter I sent along last night saying I’d call here today. Maybe you’d better read it now. I guess that would be the quickest way of explaining all this business.” She pointed to a letter lying on Hector’s desk. It was indeed addressed to herself, Catherine saw, taking it up. But the handwriting was so decorative as to have been misread. The letter had been lying neglected all day in the excitement of the royal entry.

  “How unfortunate!” said Catherine. “I beg your pardon. Won’t you be seated?” she added courteously as she opened the letter. There was a brief note wrapped around a more substantial inner letter. The note, in the same decorative hand, read:

  Miss Arabella Johnstone will be much oblidged by Mrs MacDonald recieveing her on Thursday at five o’clock. With a view to arrangeing about the enclosed from Judge Grant of Grantsboro Plantation, Virginia. Trusting the named time will suit, unless Mrs MacDonald likes to fix another appointment by return.

  This was the inner letter:

  Grantsboro Plantation, Virginia

  June. 20th. 1822.

  Madam,

  The sad news which prompts this letter has only just reached me from my Glasgow agents, and I immediately take pen in hand to offer my sincere, though belated, condolences upon your bereavement. Although I was not personally acquainted with Mr James MacDonald, his reputation was well known to me, and while my poor sister lived as his first wife I knew her to be a happy woman.

  Please accept also my grateful thanks for your care and custody of their poor orphan, my niece, to whom there now remains no living relation but myself. My wife joins me in desiring to receive the child at Grantsboro Plantation as soon as possible, here to be brought up among our own seven children, who are her cousins. Whereas Grantsboro, by the excellency of its tobacco, supports in excess of two hundred souls, both white and black; and whereas I furthermore have the honor and duty of presiding as chief magistrate in this county, you may rest assured that my niece’s prospects among us here will be all that is comfortable and desirable.

  The bearer of this letter is Miss Arabella Johnstone, my wife’s sister. I do hereby authorize Miss Johnstone as my deputy to assume custody of the child, relieving you directly of all further responsibility, and to return with her to Virginia as soon as may be convenient.

  The enclosed draft on my Glasgow agents will reimburse you for the costs of the child’s maintenance since her father’s death.

  I have the honor to be,

  your obedt. Humble servt.

  A. Grant

  Catherine needed a long moment to find her voice, and some polite words. “Forgive me,” she said at last, “but this is very sudden, and quite unexpected. I fear that we are not in the least prepared for such…for such a turn of events, and I find myself unable to respond without reflection. Perhaps you would be so good as to call again at this time tomorrow. By then I shall find an opportunity to…to consult with…with my advisors.”

  But Miss Johnstone objected: Tomorrow would not be convenient, because she had another engagement. It was best to settle these things promptly. And there was no time to be lost, because she suspected that her maidservant, a foolish black girl she had brought from Virginia, might take it into her head to run away. So, she proposed, it would be best that the child be introduced to her now, this minute. Then they would choose a time, two or three days hence, to accomplish the actual transfer.

  “Oh, but I am afraid that is quite impossible,” Catherine started to say when the door opened and Grace burst in, then drew up short, apparently surprised to find anyone there. What unfortunate timing! For an instant Catherine thought of pretending that this was some other child, but then she thought better of it. “Well,” she said, “I am forestalled after all. Miss Johnstone, this is my stepdaughter, Grace MacDonald. Grace, this is Miss Johnstone. She is, ah…your uncle’s sister-in-law. She has come from America to…to see you.”

  Grace sketched a curtsy, but she did not utter a word.

  “Not only to see you, dear, but to bring you home to your own people, your own kinfolk,” said Miss Johnstone in a cloying tone especially suitable for addressing good little children. “Did you know that you have seven dear, good cousins awaiting for you, and a dear, good aunt, and a dear, good uncle?”

  Grace made no reply, so Miss Johnstone went on. “And a nice big new house, in such a nice warm climate—much warmer than here. And a music master, and a dancing master, and drawing lessons. You’ll have new dresses as pretty as you please. You’ll even have a little pickaninny of your very own to wait on you and play with you. Won’t you like that?”

  Grace made no reply.

  “And as you must learn to be an American girl now, I have brought you a little book as a present. You must study this little Life of Washington, for every good American child makes a solemn resolve to emulate the greatness and goodness of our brave General Washington. His was a true nobility, you understand, for it derived from his character and his command of his passions, not from crowns and sceptres. Hmm! You must especially study the incident of the cherry tree, for a good child must never let a lie cross her lips, let the consequences be what they may. I am sure you’re a good girl, aren’t you? You don’t tell lies, do you?”

  Grace remained silent.

  “Can’t she hear me?” Miss Johnstone asked Catherine in a low voice.

  “Aye, she can hear you. But our Grace does not speak.”

  “Is she mute?”

  “No, she is able to speak; but she does not, except sometimes to me. Perhaps it may cheer you to know that she never does tell a lie.”

  “Well! How unaccountable! I suppose that the child…that her understanding…Has she the usual powers of understanding? Has she been taught to read and write?”

  “Our wee Grace was able to read and write very well by the time she was four,” said Catherine. “However, she too was in the carriage with her father when it overturned. Aye, a runaway horse over the cliff. There was some injury to her head, but she came to herself, more or less, within a day or two. Since then, however, the ability to read has been lost—for the time being, we suppose.”

  “Shocking!” said Miss Johnstone.

  “And since then, Grace does not speak, nor eat, in the presence of anyone but myself,” added Catherine.

  “Well! I call that naughty! But I guess some good management will soon put a stop to that. My sister and I are quite wonderful at managing children. No nonsense is tolerated in our household, I guess! What a strange complexion, though,” remarked Miss Johnstone thoughtfully, as though Grace were indeed deaf. “That unfortunate hair, and those freckles. Was it her father who had that bright coppery hair?”

  Catherine’s own hair was a similar colour, but she took no notice of the insult in this question. She only said, rather mildly—surprising even herself, “My husband was quite bald by the time I met him.” Bald indeed! Where had that come from? James’s hair had been thick until the day he died.

  Grace raised an amused eyebrow at Catherine’s lie.

  “What a pity,” said Miss Johnstone. “Particularly as wigs have gone so entirely out. Fortunately Judge Grant has kept all his hair. Wel
l, her hair can’t be helped, I guess, and my duty is clear. Only, what my sister will say about a red-haired child, I don’t know.”

  “Perhaps you would like to reconsider, or write to your brother-in-law for further instructions under the circumstances,” suggested Catherine. It seemed that the American woman was on the brink of changing her mind altogether about this disappointing Scottish orphan.

  “Oh, no! Writing would take much too long. And there’s my Annie, you know; I have to return as quick as I can, before she takes it into her silly black head to run away. She hasn’t got any notion of natural feeling or loyalty. My duty is clear. No matter how…we can’t always have things our own way, can we? No, I’ll call for the child on Saturday, Mrs MacDonald. Any messages in the meantime will find me at my hotel; here’s the address on this card. And don’t bother with clothes or that kind of thing. Judge Grant has sent along some money so I can buy her everything she’ll need. He was very generous…though I’m sure none of us expected…Small for her age, isn’t she? Well! There is satisfaction to be had in doing one’s duty. Good-bye, then, Mrs MacDonald, and little miss—until Saturday.”

  As she saw Miss Johnstone out, Catherine said only, “I shall be sure to communicate with you before Saturday.” Then Catherine and Grace turned to look at each other in wonderment. “But you must not come bursting into rooms, Grace!” Catherine said severely after a moment. “I would have given a great deal for that woman never to have set eyes upon you.”

  “I was only looking for string, Catriona,” said Grace. “I did not know anyone was here.”

  “You are too young to call me Catriona,” Catherine said. “Here is the string; now do go upstairs, my dear.”

  Where was Hector? Catherine urgently wished to consult him.