Читать книгу The Wives of Henry Oades - Johanna Moran - Страница 8

MARGARET BEGAN to miscarry on the eleventh morning out. A strong wind had come up during the night and was only now abating. A keen howl continued, along with straining-timber noises, hideous, ungodly sounds to die by.

Henry brought her down to John’s berth, and then went for Dr. Pritchard, returning instead with Mrs. Randolph. She carried a sack and something wrapped in blue flannel.

“Dr. Pritchard is ill,” said Henry.

“He’s utterly worthless is what he is,” said Mrs. Randolph, placing the flanneled package upon Margaret’s abdomen. “A brick hot from the oven,” she said. “Just the thing.”

Mrs. Randolph turned to Henry. “Take the children up top, why don’t you?”

“Yes, do please, Henry,” said Margaret.

Henry began snatching the children’s clothes from pegs. He dressed them, consoling all the while. “Mum is fine, Mum is perfectly fine.” With sleepy Josephine riding his hip, he bent and kissed Margaret’s forehead. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered.

The ship rolled to port. A stir of odor rose from the chamber pot. Margaret turned to the wall, cramping still. The heat from the brick helped some. She drew up her knees, the sheet falling away, exposing her stained nightgown.

John cried out, “Mum’s bleeding!”

“Lady’s blood,” said Henry in a low voice, though not so low as to frighten John with seriousness. “Nothing more natural, boy.”

“Her eyes are closed,” wailed John. “She’s dead.”

“She’s not, son, she’s not. She’s resting. Let’s let her be now.”

She’d marry him all over, Margaret thought vaguely, for his fathering alone. “Go look for whales, John,” she murmured. “This may be your lucky day.”

Mrs. Randolph went to work the moment they left, preparing a basin of cool water and fishing a bar of scented soap from her bag. “Were you very far along?”

“Not quite three months.” She’d lost two others. It never got easier. The first, a full-term boy, was stillborn. That was the unspeakable worst.

Mrs. Randolph sighed. “It’s a terrible bleak feeling, isn’t it?”

Margaret sat up and began to wash. “Have you children?”

“None living.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Tut, tut, Mrs. Oades. No need for the long pussy face. I’ve not dried on the vine quite yet.” Through the wall came a male groan, a ghoulish sound. “So many ill,” said Mrs. Randolph. “Especially down in the women’s hatch. It isn’t right the way they have us situated alongside the animals. The girl under me is ailing. Spinster sisters both have a fever.”

“They should be quarantined,” said Margaret.

“The ship is chock full. Where would you have them go?”

“Hammocks might be slung in Dr. Pritchard’s quarters.”

Mrs. Randolph swatted the air. “And have the quack incommoded? He’d force oranges on the poor women and then fault them for dying, the same way he blamed Homer’s mum.”

“He didn’t,” said Margaret.

“He did,” said Mrs. Randolph. “The baby was fed tinned milk instead of mother’s. He’d be alive if not for that. The charlatan said it straight to the grieving woman’s face. I was there.”

“How cruel,” said Margaret.

“Men are.”

“What would a dentist know about babies?”

“What would any man, Mrs. Oades? Now where might I find a fresh nightgown?”

Margaret pointed toward the corner. “In the trunk. Near the bottom.”

Mrs. Randolph crossed the rolling floor, her arms spread for balance. She wore big, bold rings on both hands. Margaret had never owned a ring other than her wedding band. Her grandmother had been the same plain way, her mother was, all the aunts and cousins. Each generation bequeathed the austerity to the next, passed it sideways.

Mrs. Randolph knelt and opened the trunk, picking up the porcelain ginger jar inside. “Here’s a lovely thing.”

“A parting gift from my mum,” said Margaret. “A keepsake from home. It’s been sitting on her chimneypiece for as long as I can remember.”

“My mum was the sentimental sort, too,” said Mrs. Randolph. She gently returned the jar to the trunk, pulling out the other nightgown and bringing it to Margaret. There were bloodstains on that gown too, flecks of Margaret’s mother’s, thanks to a lost thimble. They’d both sewed furiously preparing for the journey, talking without respite as they worked, trying to get everything said.

Margaret slowly dressed herself. She and Henry had thought of names—Anne for a girl, after Margaret’s mother, Walter for a boy, after Mr. Whitman. “The dentist couldn’t have known for certain,” she said, setting the cold brick on the floor and lying back again. “Any number of ailments might have taken the child.”

Mrs. Randolph said softly, “Just rest, Mrs. Oades.”

Margaret closed her eyes. Never name a child before the christening. She’d heard it said often enough, but didn’t see how it mitigated the loss. Name or no name, Margaret loved them completely from the moment she knew. She fell asleep weeping, waking an hour later to Mrs. Randolph’s close whisper.

“How is it now?”

Margaret turned to face her. “You are kindness itself.”

Mrs. Randolph arched an eyebrow. “You didn’t think so at first. Mounting your high horse the way you did down on the docks.”

“Oh, forgive me, please. I shouldn’t be so touchy about my age. My husband is nearly two years younger. He likes to tease.”

“I assumed the gentleman was your da,” said Mrs. Randolph. “I was merely making certain.”

“Why?”

“I took a slight fancy to him.”

“You don’t mean it!” Margaret’s unsuspecting papa would have fainted dead away had she made an overture. “He’s an old man.”

Mrs. Randolph shrugged. “I prefer a mature gentleman.”

“My mum would have run you through with her umbrella.”

They laughed a little, Mrs. Randolph’s hand brushing close, her dazzling red-stone ring glinting. Margaret felt an odd urge to try it on for size. “Captain Burns would be more your sort,” she said. “I happen to know he’s an eligible bachelor.”

Mrs. Randolph waved off the suggestion, pulling a hankie from a side pocket, wiping her perspiring brow and neck. “No, thank you. His breath is foul, and he has a tremendous backside for a man. It’s every bit as broad as my own.” Her watery eyes shifted about. “The wind has died down, hasn’t it? Perhaps it’s time I fetched your husband.”

Margaret sat up a bit. “Please visit a moment longer.”

The cabin air was inhospitable, as warm and muggy as a coop’s. Still, Mrs. Randolph didn’t hesitate. She pulled the stool close and sat, buffing the ring with a sleeve and splaying her fingers. “Pretty, isn’t it? I noticed you looking.”

“It’s lovely. A ruby?”

“A garnet, actually. You should see how it does in a good light.” She tugged the ring free and pushed it down Margaret’s middle finger. “There now. Hold your hand to your cheek.” Margaret shyly complied. “Yes, like that. Isn’t it striking next to your dark hair? Christmas is coming. I’ll make a mention to Mr. Oades.”

“He’d think us both daft,” Margaret said, studying the ring. Henry was always saying that she was a natural, a born beauty. She denied that she was, though of course she liked to hear him say it. Oh, she wasn’t a scare. Her features were arranged nicely enough. She was a tall woman, a bit too tall, though she walked erect as she’d been taught, in fear of growing a hump. Her wasp waist, considering the children, drew the occasional flattering comment from other women. Her eyes were clear, more gray than blue, and her complexion was even, unblemished. But her mannish hands weren’t right. The knuckles were too large, unworthy of the ring’s glamour.

“You may borrow it one evening,” said Mrs. Randolph.

Margaret removed the ring and returned it. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly.”

“It was given to me by a circus performer,” said Mrs. Randolph. “A wild-animal trainer, a Persian living in Paris, a splendid masculine specimen.”

“How romantic,” said Margaret. “And the blue ring? A sapphire, is it?”

Mrs. Randolph nodded, smiling as if with fond memory. “An English gent surprised me with this one, a charming old dear from London. Rich as Midas. George. I don’t recall the surname. We’d just been to the Lyceum to see Sarah Bernhardt onstage.”

“Sarah Bernhardt. Really.”

“It was the highlight of my life. She sleeps in a satin-lined coffin, you know.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Am I tiring you, Mrs. Oades?”

“Not in the least,” said Margaret. “Was she as vulgar as they say?”

Mrs. Randolph leaned in. “She was sensual. She embodied the complete woman, if you know what I mean.” She closed her eyes and threw back her head, embracing the air, an invisible lover. A warm flutter passed through Margaret. She felt herself blushing. Mrs. Randolph let out a dreamy moan, her back arching, the stool teetering. She toppled off sideways, hitting her head with a solid thud.

“Mrs. Randolph! Are you all right?”

The cabin door flew open. Storming in ahead of the children, clumsy Henry nearly stepped on Mrs. Randolph’s outstretched hand. She rolled out of his range and stood awkwardly, brushing herself off, starting to laugh. Margaret laughed too. She couldn’t help herself.

Henry stood staring, looking as if he’d happened upon a cell of loons. “I heard the noise. What are you up to here? I thought my wife had fallen out of bed.”

“It was nothing,” said Mrs. Randolph, breathing hard. “Just a bit of cheer.”

She left a moment later, with a sisterly kiss to Margaret’s cheek and a promise to look in on her later. When Mrs. Randolph knocked at two, Margaret was sleeping, and Henry didn’t wake her.

“I hadn’t the heart,” he said.

They put in at Malta the next morning. Margaret looked for Mrs. Randolph at breakfast, but then the ship began taking on coal, a filthy process. A dry black dust rained down on the decks, their faces, their clothes. She and the children were forced below because of it. Soon after leaving tranquil Malta they were in rolling seas again. Henry ventured out toward the end of the day, bringing back cheese and warm milk that was to be their supper. The captain had ordered the decks cleared and the hatches closed.

“It’s expected to get worse before it gets better,” said Henry, breaking up the cheese with his hands.

They remained penned for the better part of two days. It fell to Henry to dump the pot and fetch the food. Margaret stayed with the children, entertaining them with stories and spillikins, a simple game when played on land. Players take turns selecting a jackstraw from a scattered pile, losing if another straw is disturbed. Margaret should have known that the ship’s movement would spoil the game, although the children didn’t seem to mind. They spent hours playing, riding John’s lower berth together.

On the third morning Henry returned later than usual from his constable’s duties. “Your Mrs. Randolph is gravely ill, I’m afraid.”

Margaret stood to leave. “You’ll mind the children?”

“I’m sorry, Meg. I cannot allow you to go. She might be contagious.”

“Think of all she’s done for me, Henry. I’ll stay no more than a minute, I promise. I’ll simply peek in to show I’ve come.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

She kicked the stool instead of him. “Imagine my preventing you from going to a friend in need!” John quit playing suddenly, gathering up the jackstraws. Josephine began nibbling her thumb, her wary eyes darting from parent to parent.

“Never mind,” Margaret said to the children. “Carry on with your game. Or would you rather a story? Shall I read some Tom Sawyer?” Henry hovered too close, looking infuriatingly contrite. There was no place to turn with her anger.

MRS. RANDOLPH DIED the next day. Margaret left John and Josephine with Henry and attended the service alone, joining a clutch of women on the lower deck. The cause of death was internal convulsions. So said the dentist. He volunteered the information straightaway, before anyone might think to inquire.

“I did everything within my power,” he said.

Margaret spoke up. “She didn’t respond to the orange cure?”

The dentist turned, glaring at her, drawing up his collar. As if her remark had sharpened the day’s gray bite. “I beg your pardon?”

“Mrs. Randolph complained to you of a stomach disorder early on, did she not?”

The dentist cupped a hand to his ear, feigning deafness. Margaret was about to repeat herself when Mrs. Randolph’s sailcloth-wrapped body arrived. She made a heartbreakingly paltry package. Margaret wept. There was so little to her in death.

Two African sailors brought her. The somber, broad-beamed Captain Burns—the bounder who’d allowed the dentist to pose as physician—followed behind, Bible in hand. Margaret bowed her head and prayed curses. God blast them both.

When she lifted her eyes, the sailors were in position at the rail. The Africans shivered in the damp air, awaiting their cue from the captain, who appeared impervious, both to weather and death. Almighty Burns began with a great heave of his shoulders, a world-weary glance skyward. A minute was given Mrs. Randolph, two at the most.

“We therefore commit Martha’s body to the deep…”

The mourners were forced aside to allow the crew room. Her body fell with a flat splash into the choppy sea, floating only a moment inside the weighted shroud.

“Looking for the general Resurrection in the last day, and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ, at whose second coming in glorious majesty to judge the world, the sea shall give up her dead…”

All sails were full. She was already gone, behind them. Somewhere off the stern, in the Mediterranean Sea, east of Malta, out of sight of land. Margaret imagined meeting Mrs. Randolph’s relations one day, or George from London, and having only these few unlovely facts to offer.

A week later, approaching Aden, Margaret pulled her own aching tooth with a string. She’d extract every tooth in her head, she told Henry, before she’d betray Mrs. Randolph by seeking out Dr. Pritchard.

“What does one have to do with the other?” said Henry. “Besides, you hardly knew the poor woman.”

Margaret tried, but she couldn’t make him understand an affection forged in a single morning. The small transactions between women, particularly mothers, cannot adequately be explained to a man. Some, like hers with Mrs. Randolph, will bind women for life.

CHRISTMAS CAME. Carols were sung. A plum pudding was served. They were nearly halfway quit of this wretched, murderous bark.