Читать книгу The Secret Mandarin - Sara Sheridan, Sara Sheridan - Страница 8

Robert and I did not speak for a month. He waited until we were suitably far from shore before he let me out of his cabin. He had it in his consideration, I expect, that I might have jumped ship and swum back had he not left a few miles of open water between England and me.

‘You swine,’ I hissed at him, my voice acid and my heart black, as he led me to my own quarters that first afternoon.

I had never hated anyone as much as I hated Robert then—not even William. If I had had the opportunity I would have cheerfully pushed him overboard but our passage to the cabin newly assigned to me took us nowhere near the fringes of the ship. As it was, my trunk had been fetched from Mrs Gordon’s, a small ship’s cot had been made up for me and from there on, as Robert closed the door, not a word passed between us as we sailed south. My meals arrived from the galley on a wooden tray. Robert dined with the captain and the officers. Everyone avoided me. I had been hauled aboard red-faced and screaming, and I could only guess what Robert had told them.

My isolation made the days and nights both long and lonely. There is little enough to do on a voyage, no privacy outside the dark, wooden cabin and scarcely any space or, indeed, occupation outside your own mind—if no one will speak a civil word to you, that is. I passed Robert frostily on deck every day that first week or two and neither he, the officers or the main body of the crew acknowledged me once. I was a pariah.

At night I had a strange dream, that Henry, his body still that of a baby, but his face as old as his father’s, screamed abuse at me for leaving him behind. As the ship sailed further I felt the lack of him like a hunger—a physical sensation—that woke me often in the night. I had not had this on my last voyage for I had not known the child at all and my mind had been focused on William’s betrayal. Now, I tried not to dwell on these dreams and, during the long days and their endless line of blue outside my porthole, I continued with my Hindustani lessons out of sheer boredom, and read about India’s history and the customs of the Bengali region around Calcutta. Of elephant-headed goddesses and golden temples. Day after day after day, my hours in the dark cabin were punctuated only by a short and uncomfortable stroll along the deck with all eyes upon me. With a sinking sadness I resigned myself to this punishment and to my banishment once more.

One such dreary afternoon, the line of blue at the porthole grew a streak of vibrant, tropical green and, unable to take my eyes from it, I flung open my cabin door to discover we were pulling into dock. I rushed across the deck, excited, halting in my tracks only when I saw Robert standing at the rail, his brown suit buttoned up and cravat in place. As if he sensed my movement he swung round, his blue eyes hard.

‘Is this Tenerife?’ I asked in a breathless rush, quite forgetting my hatred of him in the excitement.

We had stopped here on the Regatta and the ladies had bought trinkets. Robert strode across the deck towards me and almost swept me off my feet with the force of his anger as he pushed me to the side of the steps that led up to the poop deck. I still did not immediately understand what he was doing and I continued to babble.

‘They have parrots here, as I recall,’ I said, pushing back against him. ‘Let me pass, Robert. It is quite a spectacle.’

The crew were all about their business on the deck, securing the sails and making ready. The captain was above us, instructing his officers. I heard a snippet of their orders—a list ofprovisions required and names of the men who were allowed ashore.

‘Robert,’ I started, distracted and enthusiastic still. ‘What are you doing?’

He had taken a thin rope and expertly tied a knot, which he slipped quickly over my left hand and then the right, before I had time to set myself free. Then he tethered me to the post at the foot of the stairs.

‘No. No. I promise,’ I whispered, desperate with embarrassment. ‘I will not jump ship here. Please, Robert, don’t. Please.’

But it was no use. He grunted like an animal about to attack and then he moved off.

‘How could you? How could you?’ I shouted.

My cheeks were burning. My brother-in-law turned, his eyes as sharp as a hawk’s trained on its kill. I knew he was thinking of hauling me back to my cabin if I made a fuss. Damn him. My stomach turned over in fear and a single tear slipped down my cheek as I bowed my head, trying to contain my fury. I did not want to be confined to my cabin for the rest of the trip. I could not have borne it.

‘I will be quiet,’ I said, tight-lipped and unwilling.

It was better at least to stand on deck and see the loading and unloading on the shore. I kept my head high. The whole crew were in good spirits as the stocks of fresh water, fruit, meat and vegetables were replenished.

‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ they said, tipping their caps as they passed me, acknowledging my existence for the first time since I came on board.

No one mentioned the rope that bound me or even looked at it and I tried not to dwell on what Robert had done though I was furious with him.

Robert had written to my sister and now at length I saw her name on a packet that was passed down to the dockside. As it passed me by, I felt sad that Jane would know I had been caught trying to get away. She always worried so, as if the spectre of our father might be waiting in the wings to punish any wrongdoing. I did not wish to add my own missive home. I could think of no words that would calm her. Robert, I surmised, would make a better job of that. My apology could wait. Had he told her, by postscript, I wondered, that he had tethered me to the ship? That he had confined me by force? That in a matter of weeks he had struck me, kidnapped me, bound me and bullied me? He had a fire in his belly that belied his bookish existence in London—how could my sister have married such a brute? But then I could not be sure whether Jane would be more horrified by my behaviour in sneaking off the Filigree or her husband’s in press-ganging me to his own voyage.

All in all, I was left for four hours tied to the deck that day in Tenerife. My wrists were as painful as my furious heart as I tried and failed to loosen the bonds. When we sailed away from the port at last, heading back to sea, I watched the yellow houses on the dockside recede until they were only tiny pinpricks on the blue horizon—a final goodbye to all that was even vaguely familiar. The coast of Africa lay ahead.

When Robert came to cut me free my body tightened with fear and anger. God knows what he might do next. I said nothing, only regarded him with clear disdain and held his gaze defiantly as he removed the ropes. Still he did not speak, only stood back to let me return to my cabin.

Over the following week Robert maintained his silence. Whenever I saw him he was tending his plants. Glass cases like huge trunks had been bolted into the deck. He watched over them devotedly, like a child with a fallen fledgling. And they thrived. As the weather became warmer he appeared to relax. He worked without a jacket, or when he was not working he sometimes sat reading. The day he first said something to me it was a week since the ship had pulled out of the Canaries. I had taken to walking the deck for an hour each morning, as there were gulls and jumping fish to watch where we followed the coastline.

‘These Ward’s cases have done well,’ he said as I passed him on my way down the deck.

There was no sign of viciousness in his voice. It was as if we were in the habit of passing our time chattering to each other and this casual comment was not a landmark—he sounded just as he used to in the drawing room at Gilston Road. For a moment I found it difficult to comprehend that Robert had spoken to me at all and I was not sure how best to reply.

‘Ward’s cases,’ Robert repeated, tapping the top of the glass box.

I could see out of the corner of my eye the cabin boy stop coiling rope and silently watch us. The child was the only person on board who routinely acknowledged my presence. He never spoke but always nodded in recognition when I passed him and was often sent to deliver my tray. One time I had offered him a scrap of cloth to bind a cut on his arm, but he had fled from my cabin in terror. It made me wonder what reputation I had been afforded among the crew. Robert sat down on the deck and continued.

‘At first I was troubled by weeds. But what I realised, Mary, is that if unwanted seed can germinate on board so can wanted ones. On the way home I shall try it. I shall embark with bags of seed and arrive with saleable seedlings worth a great deal more.’

He poked his trowel at a bougainvillea plant he had brought on board. The flowers were a beautiful, deep pink. They bloomed in abundance all over the wiry stems. Robert picked one and passed it to me.

‘Robert, you know that you have bullied me half to death,’ I accused him. I was not that easy. ‘And you seem to expect simply to take up normal society. I am angry.’

I held the flower in my hand.

‘Yes,’ he said, a slight tremor in his voice. ‘I am angry too, Mary. You lied. You did not keep our agreement. But we are beyond Europe and there is no point in argument now and every point in coming to terms.’

‘No apology then,’ I suggested.

Robert’s body became tense at once and he leant forward, his voice too low for anyone else to hear. I think he wanted to strike me, but he was holding himself back.

‘And did you apologise? You are headstrong, Mary Penney. You simply do whatever you please. I took in your son for Jane’s sake but that lodging did not come free of charge. If you leave he will be recognised a Duke’s grandson, one day a Duke’s son, too, with a title of his own. Don’t you want that for him? For us all? And I catch you in Portsmouth and your ship has sailed. Come now.’

I bit my tongue but I am sure my eyes flashed with fury.

‘Think on it,’ he said. ‘I have done what’s best for the boy.’

And he returned to his work as I stalked away. He had a point, of course, God damn him. I knew he did.

In my cabin, I placed Robert’s flower in a tiny glass of water on my bedside table. It was the brightest thing I owned by far.

That night, after dinner, I took my life in my hands and crossed the deck to Robert’s cabin. The weather had become hotter and I was uncomfortable despite the breeze. My only sleeveless gown was of a pale eau de nil tulle. I coiled my hair in the French style to keep it off my shoulders. I had come to try for a peace. Some kind of resolution. Robert was right—there was no point in quarrelling so far from home though it was difficult to quell the anger in me. I paused a moment, took a deep breath and then knocked.

‘Come in.’

Inside, lit by two oil lamps, Robert was surrounded by his books. He stuck stringently to his suits the whole voyage and was still wearing evening dress, having dined earlier with the captain. His face was dark from the sun and lines of paler skin showed at his wrists. If he was surprised to see me he showed no sign of it.

‘Mary,’ he said. ‘Can I offer you…’he gestured towards a decanter on the side table.

I shook my head.

‘Robert,’ I started with my heart pounding, ‘I have come to ask you, where am I heading? You have kidnapped me and I don’t have a clue of your plans.’

‘I had no choice, Mary,’ he started his defence.

My fingers quivered. I did not intend to fight with him—that would not get me what I wanted and I knew now that he would simply force me to do whatever he decided was best. Straining against my instincts, I stepped further into the room and shut the door behind me.

‘You were probably right,’ I conceded. ‘I had promised to leave. Only that fellow Hunter recognised me. He threatened me and I walked off the ship. He wanted…relations I was not prepared to accord. And now, Robert, I merely want to know where I am going and when I might get there.’

Robert shifted uncomfortably before he replied.

‘Oh, Mary. I had no idea that man had…’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said miserably. ‘You are right in that I intended to stay in England and I should not have done so.’

I waited momentarily and Robert nodded, clearly deciding that I was at least rational.

‘The captain’s plan is to dock somewhere on the western side of the Indian continent but he told me he must consider weather conditions to the other side of Africa before he can be sure.’ Robert jerked his head to the left indicating the general direction of the land mass. ‘It is only then he will make his judgement where we will port.’

‘Will you leave me there?’ I asked plainly.

My hands were still quivering.

‘We are bound for Hong Kong,’ he said quietly. ‘I have paid your passage.’

The truth was, of course, that Robert did not trust me to stay in India. I can hardly blame him. Shortly after we embarked he amended his original plan. He discarded Calcutta and chose to take me somewhere remote that had the advantage of a less regular passage, as well as being a hub for his own voyage. His plan was to use Hong Kong as a rallying point at the end of his trip. He would therefore be able to check on me over time. It made sense now I thought of it.

‘I see,’ I said, hiding my surprise.

‘We have another eleven weeks or so. The current to the other side will bear us more swiftly.’

I hung my head. I knew the currents around the African coastline only too well. I had to be practical and control myself. Robert took my silence for fear.

‘There are no monsoons at this time of year, Mary. I trust Captain Barraclough. He is prudent.’

This half-hearted attempt at comfort annoyed me but I said nothing. I was further and further from London, that was all. At least now I knew.

‘Did you tell Jane that I am here?’

Robert nodded. ‘As briefly as I could,’ he said.

I suppose that was fair of him.

That night I stayed up late. As the humidity increased I found myself keener on the clear, balmy, black skies than the midday swelter. I excused myself from Robert’s cabin and took a turn around the deck. The wide sky was breathtaking, more pinprick stars coming into focus every minute. The only sound was the boat cutting through the water, slapping against the swell. I have always been a night owl rather than a lark. It felt like a very long voyage as we sailed into the inky blackness ahead. I was childish, I suppose, but with tears on my cheeks I surreptitiously snapped the stem of one of Robert’s stupid plants in a silent rebellion. I ripped the bright flower to pieces and threw it over the side.

When we came to cross the equator, the traditional initiation to the Southern Hemisphere was due for anyone who had not passed that way before. The ship was all excitement and the cabin boy—the only person on board who had not been that way before—was nowhere to be found.

On my first voyage it was only the ladies who had not previously crossed the line. The crew showered us with buckets of seawater on deck and we toasted our luck with Madeira. It had been a fête of good spirits. The Braganza’s cabin boy, however, was not treated so kindly—he was found hiding in an empty barrel. They bound his hands with rope and then hauled him over the side. He emerged minutes later, spluttering, bruises appearing on his childish skin and bad cuts where the rope had chafed him. The crew made him drink more than he was able, holding his nose and pouring rum down his throat.

‘Enough of that!’ I said, horrified. ‘Enough. Stop it!’ But no one listened and my voice was lost in the jeers of the horde, while Robert held my arm tightly in his grip as we watched from a distance. I expect he worried that I might fling myself among the sailors and attempt a rescue.

My eyes filled with tears though I knew it was foolish. It had not been so long since I spluttered seawater myself.

‘It’s cruel,’ I said simply. ‘That boy is so young.’

‘Sometimes you are too soft, Mary,’ Robert chided me. ‘I hope you are not going to make a fuss. It will be worse for the lad if you do.’

I let it be though my blood boiled. The life at sea is hard and I did not at that time realise that being half drowned was the least of the child’s worries. Drunk and exhausted they let him fall asleep.

Later that day, alone in my cabin, I put my mind to remembering everything I had heard about Hong Kong. It was an island; I had seen that on the map. And it had not long been British. The London Times had been sceptical when China had handed it over. They said the place was hardly worth taking. The truth was that it sounded even worse than Calcutta—some god-awful backwater full of second-rate pioneers. As I stacked the now useless Indian books in one corner of my trunk, I resolved to ask Robert to let me read some of his books about China because, apart from this scanty impression, a Chinese embroidered shawl the wardrobe mistress used at Drury Lane, and a beautiful lacquered cabinet William had in his London drawing room, I knew not one thing about where we were going.

My bougainvillea was already wilted and I slipped the faded bloom inside a flyleaf to press it as I packed my things away. ‘The colour was bound to dampen down,’ I thought sadly and wondered if Hong Kong might supply as steady a contingent of suitable husbands as had been expected from the Indian colony.

‘Is this the best I can hope for?’ I asked myself but, of course, there was no one to reply.

There was still a long way to travel. Even by the time we had reached the Cape of Africa we had not yet covered half the miles. It felt as if I had spent a whole year at sea. When we encountered the storm it scared me more than I expected. Thankfully, my voyage home through these waters had been uneventful, the variety of weather limited. This time the sea reared mountainously and we were closeted below decks. The petty officer escorted us to the hold. The ship was keeling so hard that it was difficult to remain on the wooden bench, though it was bolted to the floor.

‘You will not lock us in,’ I begged.

The officer did not answer me. He directed his comments to Robert.

‘Stay below decks,’ he said. ‘It is safer. Some will be swept away in this.’

Then he fastened his greatcoat and left.

We were below for hours as the weather raged. The winds were high, the water towering exactly as it had the day the Regatta went down. Robert paced up and down, worried only about his Ward’s cases, while every tiny creak had my heart pounding as I waited for the ship to split in two. This time would I be lucky enough to be driven towards the shore or would I be swept further south to the open ocean? Robert hardly noticed my anxiety, such was his concern for his plants. He muttered under his breath about the ropes holding the canvas covers he had fitted in place. He worried about how low the temperature might drop or if the cases would flood. He had no sense of our mortal danger at all. From time to time a sodden deckhand passed and sent up another man to relieve him.

At last, after several hours, Robert could not bear the uncertainty. Despite the petty officer’s warning he pulled on his coat and went to check the damage. The ship pitched and rolled. The storm had not abated. I thought longingly of home. Not London, but my childhood home. I admit, it crossed my mind that should Robert be swept away I would return there. When he did come back I could see he had properly realised our peril. He was drenched to the skin, his pink flesh icy and a cut on his leg.

‘One case has smashed,’ he reported, indicating the bloody slit. He must have fallen against the broken glass. ‘The one with the bougainvillea,’ he said absentmindedly, for the plants were less important to him now he had seen the height of the storm.

At that moment there was a loud crash above us as some part of the rigging came free on deck. I screamed, my whole body taut, waiting for the force of the water to smash everything and toss us away. Robert placed a hand on each of my shoulders and shook me.

‘Stay calm, Mary,’ he directed sharply.

At first I could not speak for terror. Then I found my voice.

‘This is how it happened before,’ I said, trying to explain, ‘the ship split. That noise…’

Robert cut me off. ‘Your panic serves no one.’

‘Those who have not been stung will not fear a bee the same as those who have,’ I retorted.

He really was hardly human sometimes.

Robert took his handkerchief from his pocket and bound his wound. He took a draught from his hip flask and offered it to me. I shook my head.

‘Go on, Mary. It will help,’ he said.

I took it but did not thank him. The man was unbearable but his brandy warmed me. I could feel myself flush.

‘I know you want sympathy. But my sympathy will do you no good, Mary. We have to do our best if Captain Barraclough does not succeed in riding the storm. If we will die, we will die.’

I snorted, handing back his flask. The brandy instantly made me drowsy. I have never been one for spirits on an empty stomach and now I sank down on my knees. Low to the boards I was rocked by the movement of the ship without fearing I might fall, and, despite all my apprehensions, the lateness of the hour prevailed, exhaustion overtook me and I drifted fretfully to sleep.

When I awoke the ship was steady and Robert was gone.

‘We are safe,’ I breathed and climbed the wooden ladder onto the deck.

The sky was clear as far as I could see. It was as if there had been no storm at all. As I emerged into the scorching heat Robert was salvaging battered plants from the end case. The bougainvillea petals were smeared over the shattered glass, the soil soupy with seawater.

‘Help me, Mary,’ he directed.

My fury stung me. It was clear these stupid plants meant more to Robert than I or anyone else. I could not forgive the fact that his first comments did not concern the welfare of the crew or our good fortune in surviving the storm. I surveyed the battered plants with no pity.

‘If they will die, they will die,’ I pointed out and swept past him back to my cabin.

I was not allowed ashore at the Cape although Robert must have trusted me more by then because I was at least allowed my freedom. I sat on deck under a makeshift parasol and watched the supplies being loaded. Bare-chested men with gleaming ebony skin carried boughs of fruit on board. They brought sacks of cornmeal and barrels of palm oil on their heads while I fanned myself regally with an ostrich feather, which I had bought leaning over the side and bartering in sign language with an old Indian man on the dock who seemed fascinated by the whiteness of my arms. While the loading of the ship diverted me, I admit that the views above the bay held my attention more. The flat mountain and the verdant countryside were entrancing. I found it difficult to harbour a grudge in such a setting.

Robert repaired his case and restocked it. He chose grape vines that were delivered in terracotta pots and slotted into the empty spaces under the newly puttied glass.

‘Perhaps,’ he hazarded, ‘we shall start a vineyard or two in China. They make rice wine, you know. And five grain spirit. Now they can try a hand at a decent claret.’

This amused the captain, who had come to stand with us as Robert bedded down the vines and soaked them well.

‘Are you recovered from the storm, madam? My petty officer tells me you were distressed,’ he said.

Before I could answer this Robert stood upright.

‘My sister is now quite recovered,’ he said as if this should end the matter.

Captain Barraclough, however, persisted. ‘I can imagine how frightening such an experience must be for a lady.’

‘Tell me,’ I asked, ‘are the crew all right? Did anyone…’

The captain nodded. ‘All present. One man hurt an arm when the rigging snapped but everyone was held fast with rope. No one overboard.’

At this news my eyes filled with tears, a vision of those long past, another crew, another captain. Barraclough looked concerned.

‘I was on the Regatta,’ I said simply.

Robert looked furious at my admitting this but Barraclough’s face softened into understanding. He evidently thought that here he had found the reason for my behaviour when I boarded ship.

‘I knew James Norman,’ he said, naming the captain.

There was a moment’s silence. I could think of nothing more to say. Then Barraclough bowed, having evidently decided I was not mad after all.

‘Will you do me the honour tonight of dining with myself and my officers?’

‘Thank you,’ I replied. ‘I will.’

When the captain turned back towards the poop deck, I waited for Robert to reprove me. Instead he surveyed his planting.

‘I will say nothing to cause you embarrassment,’ I promised.

‘I suppose ‘tis well enough,’ Robert nodded curtly.

That evening, like a debutante, I enjoyed dressing for dinner. I put on my finest dress and piled my hair into a bun with trailing wisps. For scent I chose lavender oil with a touch of violet. I pinched my cheeks ferociously to heighten my complexion and gazed at myself in the tiny glass with pride. To enter society again was exhilarating. I blew myself a kiss.

The tales I had heard of high jinx and drunkenness in the captain’s cabin aboard British ships proved unfounded that night. Barraclough and his two officers, Matthews and Llewelyn, were easy company and civil. All had been to China before and were patient as I quizzed them about our destination while the very cream of our replenished supplies were served—a side of boar and some exotic fruits I had never tasted before, which were as honey in their sweetness. As the salty night air seeped into the candlelit room I simply felt happy to have conversation and company. No one mentioned the storm or my time on the Regatta and I was grateful for that.

‘The highlight of London on my last visit,’ Llewelyn admitted, ‘was Hamlet with Mr Charles Kean.’

Barraclough smiled indulgently. ‘Llewelyn is one of our artistic officers,’ he explained. ‘He takes drama very seriously.’

‘I know the production. So tell me, sir,’ I ventured, ‘how did you find the tights?’

Llewelyn shrugged his shoulders. ‘Tights, madam?’

‘Why yes. It was the chap playing Horatio. For you know, Hamlet—that is Mr Kean—is a most exacting gentleman and the young fellow, at the Royal for the first time as it would happen, lost the dark tights that were provided for his role. His “mourning garb”. He scrabbled about everywhere but could find no replacement save a scarlet pair, that were rather patched. For Horatio? Can you imagine? Knowing that each of Horatio’s scenes are played with Hamlet and that Mr Kean would not let such slovenliness pass, he visited the great man’s dressing room to explain and receive permission to wear the scarlet hose until a replacement could be procured. “Ah,” said Mr Kean when he heard the story, “I will forgive you, but” and here the great man pointed skywards, “will you be forgiven there?”

‘Actors!’ I declared as the men laughed. ‘They do take the whole business rather seriously, don’t you think? Did you as much as notice the famous tights, Mr Llewelyn? That’s what I want to know.’

Robert cut in, of course, as soon as the laughter subsided. ‘I shall tell you the story of the cultivation of the potato now,’ he announced and diverted the attention away from me just as the cheese came to the table.

Although I sighed inwardly, I do admit that the details of his tale did appear more interesting somehow at sea than they ever had in the drawing room at Gilston Road.

When the ship’s bell struck ten Robert walked me to my cabin door and bid me goodnight.

‘I enjoyed myself,’ I said. ‘Thank you for letting me attend.’

In my cabin, alone again as I pulled off my gloves and considered getting ready for bed, I heard a footstep on the corridor. I waited a moment or two as it receded and then checked the door. At the footplate Robert had left two books. One was on the subject of the Han Dynasty, the other an examination of Chinese porcelain production. I took them in greedily and flicked through the pages. It was difficult to sleep in the heat. Even in the dead of night it was humid and uncomfortable. I often read until my eyes were dry with tiredness. It was comforting that this gift meant Robert was set to forgive me a little and was entering into the spirit of the peace pact I had hoped for.

In the second tome a detail caught my eye—an unusual china plate with a star pattern. At dinner the captain had mentioned how different the stars were when he viewed them from the south and I thought to show him what I had found. Perhaps he might be able to identify the stars in the illustration. We had a long way to go together. I grabbed the book and left my cabin once more.

In the moonlight I crossed the deck and rapped on the captain’s door, not waiting for an invitation to enter. I had left him so lately that I still expected there to be company in the room. As it turned out there was. The cabin boy. As the startled child ran past me, a flash of bare flesh and rags, it struck me that he could not be more than twelve years of age. His breeches were not fastened properly and I could smell a grown man’s sweat—the smell of sex on his skin. My blood ran cold.

Barraclough squared up with his shirt tails trailing. He ignored the boy’s flight entirely.

‘Ah, Miss Penney,’ he said. ‘Can I help you in some way?’

I am no prude and no innocent either. I know of such things. Unlike Jane, I have moved in many circles and some are circles of the night, of gambling dens and seedy brothels, of smooth young boys and richer men. There were reasons Robert did not wish me to admit to my life in Shaftesbury Avenue, Drury Lane and Covent Garden. Talent might not be thoroughly unrespectable but some of the places it can take you are. This child had been tampered with. I thought of the bruises I had seen on his arms and legs over the weeks, his treatment at the equator, the way he had fled from me when I offered to bind his wound and now this. Barraclough was despicable. Had he done this every night of the voyage? Had he dismissed the company he entertained at dinner in order to terrorise this child? And if I accused him openly what might he do? Buggery is no mild offence. At home they hang you. For the captain, the stakes could rise no higher. I did not want to corner him and make him fight. I only wanted to save the boy if I could.

‘It is nothing. It doesn’t matter,’ I said and left at once.

The child was nowhere to be seen. I ducked inside my cabin with my mind racing. My only point of appeal for injustice was to the captain. On the water they are as kings. I thought of telling Robert. I almost did but the captain was the captain and Robert cared for no one.

The next morning I approached the child on deck at his duties. He was afraid and lashed out at me.

‘Go away!’ he hissed.

‘What is your name?’ I tried.

He regarded me plainly.

‘I am Mary,’ I said.

He hunched his shoulders, clearly calculating whether talking to me could cause him any harm.

‘Simon,’ he said. ‘I am Simon Rose. Please leave me alone, Miss. They will beat me.’

No child should have to endure such wickedness but on board there was little I could do. I resolved, however, to take whatever action I could think of. When the invitation came to join the captain’s table that night I declined. I declined every night from then on.

Perhaps a week later, Barraclough passed me as I strolled on the deck. He tipped his hat. ‘We miss your company, madam,’ he said.

‘Manners maketh not the man,’ I replied, gliding on. ‘I have seen what you have done.’

He did not answer and kept away from me then.

‘Lord, Mary,’ said Robert, some time later, when he realised finally that I was avoiding the captain. ‘You are never at ease. What fuss is it you are making now?’

I almost rebutted him. I almost told him, but it would have done no good. He was not a person who cared for cabin boys and servants, actresses or illegitimate sons. I had no more power to help the child than my sister had had to help me. I offered what little I could but the child would not accept even a scrap of food from me (for I tried that) or the whispered offer that he might, if he wished, sleep outside my door for protection.

When Robert later wrote the memoir of his travels he did not dwell on the voyage. He said, I think, that his passage of four months to Hong Kong was ‘uneventful’. After all, of more interest to his readers were his wanderings in China, the allure of the East and the plants he found there, along with some account of the people. The book sold well. It secured his children’s education and saw Gilston Road polished and repaired, hung with fine curtains hand-embroidered in Soo Chow and fitted out with intricate papers on the walls. I can see Jane pulling her cashmere stole around her, enjoying the spoils. Of course, I was not mentioned—his companion on the uneventful voyage. He did not tell of the storm at the Cape nor mention any of the crew. Those days are unrecorded. The late night games of rummy in my cabin. The night we ate spices off the coast of Alleppey. Or the day Simon Rose’s body was committed to the Indian Ocean, covered in bruises and swaddled in sackcloth, for the child did not even have a hammock to be buried in and had slept on the bare floor.

After that I retired to my cabin for the rest of the voyage, tiresome though it was to be closeted and alone. I read and pondered, thinking often of my baby, wondering about his progress and hoping Nanny Charlotte was right and he was fine. The tiny porthole allowed me to daydream, my eyes on the cloudless sky and my heart in London still. It was a heavy burden. I decided to write to Jane when we got there.

By Hong Kong I was the only person on board who had not been off the ship in eighteen weeks. The air in the bay was dripping with humidity. I put on my most fitted corset for the disembarking, aware that I would be noticed and commented upon. I piled up my hair and wore a hat. The atmosphere was so full of water I noticed every hot, heavy movement, my legs damp with sweat. Still, as the lush, green bay grew closer my heart pounded. I looked up at the Peak, making out one or two houses being built.

‘Bamboo scaffolds,’ Robert said delightedly. He had brought up his binoculars. ‘An excellent idea. Ingenious.’

My notice, however, had fallen to the dock, which was coming steadily closer. It teemed with tiny figures despite the fact there were only five other ships in the bay. I took a deep breath or two, as if I were waiting in the wings, and decided that I would try my best. The island looked lush and green and not at all the unpleasant, arid rock I had expected. Perhaps my time in Hong Kong would pass well if only I could make myself amenable. By now I could make out individual faces in the mass of people going about their business. Wide-faced women were selling noodles and hot tea. Coolies with wooden chests balanced on their backs were scurrying from the docked vessels towards the town. And rows of Englishmen in red uniforms wearing pith helmets to protect their flushed faces from the sun were overseeing the activity, checking papers and directing traffic. Back from the main bustle young Chinese girls in brightly-coloured satin dresses lazily eyed the soldiers.

I watched Barraclough disembark, the first to stride down the gangplank and towards the harbour master’s office with his lading papers in hand. I was glad to come down after him and stared icily as Robert shook his hand and we said goodbye. Perhaps Robert did have some notion of what had gone on, for Barraclough was in Hong Kong a week or more and Robert did not invite him to dine.

As we watched our trunks unloaded and waited for the Ward’s cases to be unbolted and brought down, Robert breathed deeply with satisfaction. I crept off to one side, finding my land legs hard to come by. The ground seemed to sway and I felt quite in a haze, as if I had taken a swig of laudanum in the backroom at the theatre as was pleasant from time to time. Along the dock there was a wooden shrine with a cloud of incense around it and I decided to try out the solid ground and make for that. There were two old women there on their knees before it, praying, one whirling a wooden clacker and the other beating on a brass gong. The latter approached me and offered a handful of incense sticks, gesturing for payment. I scrabbled inside my purse for a small coin, which she inspected, shrugged her shoulders and then carefully stowed away. I suppose it is normal to use English coins around the world. The island was ours, after all.

‘Come, come,’ she gestured me forward and then put her hands together to indicate that I should pray at the shrine.

As I came closer I saw there was a figure, roughly hewn from wood, and small pots with tropical flowers beneath gold and red Chinese script. There was so much incense already stuck into piles of sand, I was surprised that the whole thing had not ignited, but I decided that I would light my own anyway as a gesture, foolish perhaps, for my arrival. As the sticks started to smoke I made a wish, concentrating hard on it. Please let us be all right, I prayed, as the fragrant smoke wound like a spell around me. Henry and I. Jane and the children. Let us all do well. And it was only as I walked away from the little temple that I realised I had not included Robert in my thoughts. I had just spent months on end with him and now, two minutes apart, he was the last thing on my mind.

‘A place of adventure, Mary,’ Robert commented stiffly on my return, surveying the dock with obvious delight. ‘And full of adventurous men.’

His plans for me had evidently not been changed in any respect other than location. However, I liked this little city. I bought a cup of green tea from a stall and sipped it. I had become accustomed to the island quickly, enjoying the feel of solid ground. And, as Barraclough strode back up the gangplank to give his directions, I was only vaguely uneasy that perhaps an adventurous man was not what I was truly looking for.