Song of the Sea Maid (30 page)

‘There is a question betwixt us,’ says he. ‘I do not know how to phrase it.’

‘Nor me to answer it.’

We lie in each other’s embrace and I screw my eyes shut to force it out. But there it remains. I sit up.

‘Do you love your wife?’

‘I do not.’

‘Why not?’

‘That is a strange question.’

‘Why did you marry her, if you did not love her?’

He shakes his head. ‘Is it possible to be so clever and yet so naïve? I married for position. Her uncle is high up in the Admiralty.’

I am quiet for a moment. ‘That is a cold fact.’

He looks worried. ‘Do not think ill of me, Dawnay, please. Many have done as I have. Our parents arranged our meeting when we were but sixteen years of age. It was a match advantageous to all. We had little say in the matter and we found each other amiable, at first.’

‘And now?’

‘She and I have been fortunate that I am away from home as much as I am. We cannot support more than a few days in each other’s company.’

‘I am not so naïve as you think. I am aware that an Act of Parliament is needed for divorce. And even if it were possible, such a move would ruin your career.’

And there it is. The question betwixt us.

I continue, ‘We were quite sensible of our situation, even on our first night together on the island. We knew it then.’

‘We did,’ he answers quietly and watches me, frowning.

‘Thus it must be approached with logic, as befits a sea captain and natural philosopher.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Thus, we conclude that our relationship has no future, no possible role to play in our lives. For you seek promotion and cannot risk a scandal, and you have your boys and must see to their prospects also. And I have my work, and once returned to England I intend to seek publication. And cannot risk my work not being taken seriously – at best – and at worst, being painted the whore by London society.’

‘That would never be. I would not allow it.’

‘You speak from your heart and not your mind. You know it to be true, as I do. I possess not your lucky heritage. I am trying to make a place for myself in this world. I did not have it carved for me at birth. We are mismatched creatures, you and me.’

Robin sits up and hangs his head, grasps hold of his hair, as he is wont to do in moments of emotion.

‘My love,’ I try, but his head sinks lower.

Says he, ‘What will become of me, I cannot think.’

The time of our parting comes stealthily and sits between us, an indolent, dead weight. There is one night left before we arrive at our journey’s end. We shut out the world and lie together hours longer than we usually risk. We promise not to talk. But he cannot help himself and says we simply must discuss our prospects, yet I beg him to refrain.

‘We have done this,’ I remind him, ‘and there is no way for us.’

‘How can you relinquish us so easily?’

‘Easily? How dare you! You believe this comes easily to me?’

‘No, but I
could
come to you, in London. Whenever I am on leave, we could find a way. I could come to you and find you, we could snatch moments together. It would be better than nothing, better than a life without each other at all.’

‘No, it would not. It would be slow torture. It would spoil and ruin our lives.’

‘Then at least we could correspond, to begin with. Let me write to you, and you will write to me. We can read each other’s words and I can touch the paper your hands have touched.’

‘No, not even that. I will not do it. I will not waste my life waiting for you, for the moment you deign to send me a letter or visit my chamber. You will not come for months, years even, or, worse still, you will die at sea and nobody will think to tell me, until I read it in the newspaper and mourn your death alone, a nobody with no connections, no family, no home.’

‘But you have a home!’

‘I do not! I do
not
and never have. It is pretence only. Let us pretend once more, shall we? I wish my brother had escaped from that tender in which they impressed him and come back to me and found me and we lived together always. Or that my parents never abandoned us and we were brought up in a loving home; poor or otherwise is of little consequence, as it is
love
that a child needs more than any other one thing, a loving family. A father, a mother, and twin boys secure in the knowledge that their father adores them.’

‘I do adore them but …’

‘But nothing further. That is how it should be, how it must be, and I would hate you if it were not. You love your sons and would never abandon them. You have no idea how fortunate you are, how fortunate your boys are, and your wife.’

‘But I am
yours
, Dawnay.’

‘Falsehood!’ I am white with rage now. ‘I have
never
had a thing wholly mine, not one thing just for
me
, for
myself
. I cannot have you and therefore I will not wait for you or yearn for you. I will make my own life. I will put you out of mind and I will forget you. Do you hear me? Even now, I have
forgotten
you.’

And I weep and weep – as I have not since the days at the orphanage – and he holds me hard and fast and is silent, and we hear four bells and know it is dawn and he must go.

On arrival at Gibraltar, the order comes that the fleet will make ready to exert all haste in repairing itself in order to return again to Minorca. But my place here is over, and I am to be transferred to a merchantman back to England.

Robin explains, ‘As it is wartime, your ship will sail in convoy with several other merchantmen under the protection of a forty-four-gun man-of-war. You will be quite safely relayed to England.’

I must shake hands with Robin on board and we nod our heads politely – watched complacently by his junior officers – I thanking him for his kindness, he praising me for my bravery and other such meaningless banalities. Though he does hold on to my hand a little too long and I feel the loss of it terribly when we are forced by convention finally to let go.

Says he formally, ‘I imagine we will meet again in London some day, when I am on leave.’

‘And when do you think that might be, sir?’

‘I could not say, Miss Price. I am required elsewhere. But I will visit with my good friend your benefactor again one day, and peradventure I will see you there.’

‘Perhaps,’ say I, and I wonder if his eyes ache as do mine when we stare at each other, and if his heart aches at the imminent moment of parting. I am sure of it, I am sure he is racked by it, and it breaks my own heart to see him suffering.

But there is a moment where we are both aware that no one about us seems to have a close eye on us – though ears may be listening – then he grasps my hand again and encloses it between his own, and tenderly says, ‘I have not forgotten you. Nor will I ever.’

The flurry of activity at the quayside prevents any further private moments or even longing looks, and I must content myself with the pleasant goodbyes of his officers and men, who seem genuinely sorry to see me go. The saddest face is that of a boy who has never done well in hiding his feelings: Francis Noy. He is charged with taking me to my new ship home, and his round cheeks are fiercely red and his eyes start with tears again as he shakes my hand goodbye.

‘Be a good boy, Francis.’

‘I will, miss. I always will.’

‘Look after Captain Alex, won’t you, dear?’

‘I most certainly will, Miss Price.’

‘Don’t let him be hurt, injured or be in harm’s way.’ My tears come now.

‘Of course not, miss.’

And I feel I am to say to Francis everything I wished to convey to my love.

‘Do not let him die, Francis. Never,
never
that.’

‘Never, miss. Oh, God save you and be safe. I never did like his wife, you know. She’s too proud. Goodbye, Miss Price.’

And with that he is gone, and I turn to my place in line to board a tender bound for the ship home. No more for me the ships-of-the-line and frigates of the Royal Navy. I am ordinary now. And I am alone again.

On the 28th day of June 1756 the British garrison under Blakeney surrenders to the French on Minorca, after a heroic siege of over two months – and the island is lost. Admiral Byng is ordered to return to England and on his arrival in Portsmouth is arrested immediately. During these events, I am to be found heading for England on the most repulsive, badly run and deficient ship that ever sailed the seas. Our captain is a buffoon, the winds are set against us at every turn and the sailors are used to practise a foul range of oaths and imprecations. Everything is sordid, disease-ridden and sickening. There is a store below of rancid cheese that the captain will not hear of being thrown overboard, which stinks out the entire ship and can only be escaped by leaning over the side and filling one’s nostrils with the salt air of the sea. My neighbour in the next cabin has an insufferable toothache and cries out all night of her woes and who will save her from this prodigious pain and they say in her ravings she has broken the whalebone of her stays in two – yet there is only a pretty young fellow on board playing at being a surgeon. The captain is a numbskull unable to comprehend the squalor of his own ship and the degenerate nature of his men; he crows at dinner of how he saw a ten-year-old murderer pardoned in court and brought the wretch on board to serve him, only to find him drunk the next day and have him flogged soundly; he boasts of what an orderly ship he runs and, when we are stilled, insists that the wind will at any minute come about fair, and he is always wrong. And much other nauseating cant does our perfidious captain spout, too tedious to mention, as well as turn on me a lascivious eye, at which I barricade my cabin door with my baggage when I am abed.

Two days out from Gibraltar, we sail into fog so thick we lose sight of all other ships in our convoy, including our man-of-war. We hear shots fired and all passengers cry out and there is much consternation. Where is my Robin now? Our hopeless captain assures us this is no corsair here to attack, rather it is another ship from our group signalling its location and we shall soon discover them. As with all his other promises, he is mistaken and we see no more of our convoy. We emerge from the mist a week later, off course and drifting aimlessly. We must make our way alone now, in warring waters.

We are almost two months at sea and I fear I will turn distracted. The only moment of respite is the sight of a voluminous cloud of white butterflies fluttering past the ship on its way south, which lifts my spirits momentarily in awe at a thousand fragile wings making such an epic journey. I had not suffered a moment of seasickness since the
Gaivota
’s
first trips, and yet on this journey I find myself vomiting copiously several times a day. In my delirium, I come to believe I died at Gibraltar docks and this ship is my boat to purgatory, which I rave at our surgeon-quack. He does at least agree, being a young man of hitherto fine manners and rather appalled to find himself in such a revolting posting. He gives me some small help and ensures I eat broth when I am able and brings me raisins too, but he is run off his feet with the other passengers and mostly I shift for myself. I miss my boy Francis exceedingly; there was so little of ill design or ill nature in him, he is a rare friend and I feel his absence weigh upon me.

I never thought to be glad to see London, but I am so relieved when the Thames is first sighted that I weep overboard and my tears mingle with the river’s flow. Our ship is weeks past its estimated arrival and thus I know no one will await me at the wharf. I must find my way to a carriage and manage to stay standing long enough to hire a post chaise to rush me home. I am told later that I arrive at the door pasty and talking gibberish, whereupon I faint in the hallway, though I have no memory of this. I am carried to my bed and sleep for many hours. I recall Susan Applebee coming to me and it is gratifying to see her benign face again. Within two days of comfort and broth I am sitting up and feel quite well. Mr Woods comes in to see me and we have our first proper talk since my arrival in England.

‘In your absence, my dear, I have had a most melancholy time and missed your company exceedingly. I have in consequence embarrassed myself with liquor on too many occasions. But what am I to do? If I go out with my associates or in society, I must drink as they do or they will label me a poor singular fellow. But I always had my happy home to return to, with my dear Dawnay to speak with on the morrow. But this past year – yes, a year, you cannot deny it; and it was meant to be only six months or so – I have lived with constant worry about you and sincerely regretted my decision to let you go. Now you should know that I will not be funding any more travels for you around the world; no, indeed, I will not. You are aware, I believe, if you received my letter? You did? That the Lisbon disaster harmed me financially and so will war with France; now we all must take care in pecuniary terms. So it is that, even if I did not miss your company so much, my dear, I would not be able to afford to fund your adventures for much longer.’

After this oration, we fall into our old habits of chatter and talk affably of the sights I have seen. He is most enthralled with my sea journeys and not so interested in the islands I visited or even the earthquake or the battle for Minorca. It seems he misses his days at sea, as his particular interest is directed at which kinds of sails, boats, ropes and cables and suchlike each ship I sailed in possessed. I do my best to answer him but fear I disappoint him as – when his eyes might have been looking inward at the ship’s fittings – mine were usually outwards, to the sea, the sky or the land, or else to a particular sea captain.

The curve of his neck to the bare shoulder as he kissed me.

Next I am visited by Susan, who ushers out Mr Woods. ‘Do not vex or upset the child,’ she chides, as if I am still in infancy, and insists I must rest.

‘Travelling does not agree with you, my dear.’

‘Oh, it was a bad ship home, that is all.’

‘You are thin and whey-faced and you look sick. Did you catch a tropical disease of some sort?’