by Maggie Hope
She did indeed. Reluctantly she got into bed, lying as far away from her husband as the width of the bed permitted. But Francis moved towards her and, propping himself up on his elbow, he leaned over her. The flickering light of the bedside candle revealed little of his expression as he gazed down at her solemnly.
‘It is natural, Eleanor, and necessary for the procreation of children. If I hurt you it is because I am as lacking in experience as you. But we will learn, Eleanor, my dear, we will learn.’
Eleanor realised he had fooled her, that he had every intention of repeating his actions.
‘In the name of our Lord, Jesus Christ, amen,’ said Francis, but Eleanor was still lost in her thoughts. ‘Eleanor, if you wish to continue praying—’
‘Amen,’ said Eleanor hastily. ‘I’m sorry, Francis, I was adding a small prayer for myself, that I would be worthy of this great task.’
‘I’m sorry, Lord,’ she said as Francis went off to seek his friends for a turn round the deck, some fresh air before sleep. She considered calling for Mary to finish the unpacking and help her prepare for bed in the tiny box of a cabin but changed her mind and did it herself. She had lied to Francis but the fact was that she would much rather pray on her own, offer up her own thoughts; she wasn’t used yet to having her husband praying for her.
It was a little strange climbing into the narrow bunk and lying there, staring up at the bed above. She would not be sharing a bed with Francis for weeks, not until they reached Sydney, so at least that particular problem could be shelved for a while. Her thoughts wandered back; thank goodness she had time to think at last, everything had been such a rush in the weeks between her marriage and the time they set out for the south and the ship to Australia.
It was Mary who had reassured her, Mary, who was unmarried herself. But Mary was so worldly wise, in some ways so much more mature than herself. ‘Men always act like that, it’s natural,’ Mary had said and Eleanor forbore to ask how she knew. So there had been no question of an annulment then.
Turning over on to her side, Eleanor blew out the candle and endeavoured to sleep. It could be a difficult day tomorrow with the other missionaries’ wives seeming so disapproving of her and especially of Mary and Prue. Thank goodness they wouldn’t all be stationed in the same place once they got to Fiji. Or at least she hoped they would not.
When Francis came back Eleanor was already asleep. He lit the tiny lamp that was secured to the wall of the cabin with a bracket and gazed down at her. She was an enigma to him, he admitted to himself; she seemed so transparent sometimes, so full of vitality and enthusiasm for the ‘Great Adventure’ as she called it. Then she would say something that indicated that she did not think of it as giving her life in God’s service, but just that, a great adventure.
He thought of a remark she had made only that morning as they rose to their feet after morning prayers, a remark that even made him wonder if she had been completely with him as he prayed for the Lord’s guidance.
‘I hope to be able to practise my nursing among the natives,’ she had said in almost a continuation of her amens. ‘Don’t you think, Francis, it will be almost as good an opportunity for me as Miss Nightingale had in the Crimea?’
‘We will be there primarily to convert them to Christianity,’ he had said heavily and even to his own ears he sounded pompous. ‘You must not forget that, Eleanor.’
‘What? Oh no, of course not,’ she had answered quickly.
Eleanor stirred in her sleep and flung back the bedcovers. Francis drew back, putting himself between her and the light so that it did not disturb her more. Slowly he began to undress, folding his clothes neatly on the chair by the bunks and putting his shoes underneath. Wearing only his long shirt, he began to climb up to the top bunk before remembering the lamp.
Before he blew it out he took a last look at his wife. Although the covers were thrown back her shoulders and arms were covered to the wrists by her voluminous nightgown, but the top button was unfastened and gaping a little, showing the rounded curve of her neck. Perhaps she would catch a chill.
Francis knelt by the bed and carefully, so as not to wake her, he put his hands on the tiny buttons, only instead of closing them he found himself undoing more. She was his wife, he told himself, what evil was there in him seeing her breast? Eleanor was always so careful not to let him see her naked body; their lovemaking was done under the bedclothes, all touching and feeling and no seeing. Francis felt himself getting heated, he should not – oh, but how could he stop? The Lord gave a man these urges, did He not?
The buttons loosed, he turned back the collar of her nightgown and looked for the first time on her full breast and the dark circle around her nipple. Forgetting altogether his intention not to wake her, he slid his hand over the breast and ran his thumb around the nipple, feeling it magically spring up and harden under his touch, feeling his own response surge through his veins.
‘Francis? Francis, what are you doing?’ Eleanor moved suddenly, clutching at the neck of her gown, squirming against the wooden partition wall, unable to move far because of the narrowness of the bunk.
‘It’s all right, my love,’ Francis said thickly, nuzzling her bare breast with his lips, reaching down to pull up her gown. The bedcovers were already falling to the floor.
‘No!’ cried Eleanor, and then remembered where they were and lowered her voice to a frantic whisper. ‘No, we can’t, please, Francis, the bed isn’t large enough for us both. And the Gibsons will hear us, think of it, Francis, please!’ But Francis was past the stage where he might have been able to stop voluntarily; he was groaning with pleasure as he proved that, in an emergency, the bunk would hold two.
‘At least put out the lamp,’ cried Eleanor despairingly, but her cause was lost, Francis had already accomplished his end. And strangely, Eleanor found herself disappointed when he finished and collapsed on top of her.
Chapter Six
Both Eleanor and Francis barely left their cabin in the next few days as the Liberator sailed through squalls of rain and bounced up and down on waves that seemed to Eleanor to be mountainous. She lay on her bunk, filled with nausea as the world revolved around her, unable to rise without being violently sick. Her nightgown and bedclothes were stained and sweaty and the tiny cabin stank as she struggled to stifle her groans, wishing she could only die.
She should not have felt so ashamed that Francis should see her like this, for his condition was as bad if not worse than her own; yet she did, pathetically trying to hide the state she was in whenever he staggered down from the top bunk to retch into the chamber pot in the corner.
Mrs Gibson looked in, offering to help, but Eleanor waved her away, wanting only Mary. But it seemed that Mary was in an even worse condition than herself or Francis and quite unable to leave her own cot in steerage. A steward came every night and morning and left two bowls of salty, greasy soup accompanied by small hard loaves of dark bread, the smell making Eleanor’s stomach heave yet again. One day Prue came, her blue eyes twinkling merrily and her curls bouncing as she skipped about, making Eleanor’s head ache even more than it had. But at least she brought a dish of cool water and bathed Eleanor’s face, ignoring Francis as he lay on the top bunk. Prue helped her change into a clean gown, brought the brush from Eleanor’s bag and dragged it through her tangled hair.
‘Jack says not to worry, everyone gets seasick in the Bay of Biscay,’ Prue said. She smiled kindly at Eleanor. ‘Jack says—’
‘Jack? Who do you mean, Prudence?’ Francis poked his head over the edge of the top bunk. He must be feeling better, Eleanor thought, to be taking an interest in what Prue was saying.
‘Why, Jack Allan, the steward,’ said Prue, looking up at him, all dimples and fun-filled eyes, in the way she always looked at men. She just didn’t seem able to help it, thought Eleanor, despairing.
‘You must not associate with the seamen, Prudence!’ said Francis. He meant his voice to be stern but somehow it came out all weak and wobbly
. He lay back on his pillow, exhausted.
‘You have to speak to them sometimes, sir,’ said Prue. ‘It’s not polite not to.’
Eleanor listened but she hadn’t the energy to intervene and in any case she felt so ill, what did it matter? What did anything matter?
The next morning the ship sailed out of the Bay of Biscay and into calmer waters as it began the long descent along the coast of Africa to Capetown. And suddenly Eleanor couldn’t stand the stifling atmosphere of the cabin for another minute. She splashed water on her face and neck and dressed in a clean gown. Realising she was ravenous, she broke off a chunk of bread from the night before’s loaf and chewed it, washing it down with stale water. Francis was still sleeping so she slipped out quietly and made her way on deck.
It was barely six o’clock and there was no one to be seen apart from the helmsman and a solitary sailor high up in the rigging. Walking to the rail, she looked out on a sea turned from foaming grey to gentle blue. The ship swayed only softly and the air was fresh and invigorating. Oh, it was grand not to feel ill any more; happiness surged through her and she lifted her face to the sky in a prayer of thankfulness that the bad time was over.
She was standing there when she became aware that there was someone else beside the helmsman at the wheel; she heard his deep voice say something and then a girl’s giggle.
‘Oh, come on, now, no one’s about, you can let me have a go,’ said Prue. ‘Look, you can stand behind me so and just put your hands over mine if you’re feared I can’t do it right.’
Eleanor gasped. What was Prue up to now? If Francis found out she was being so familiar with the crew there would be trouble and if the other missionaries found out, why, goodness knows what would happen. Thank goodness it was so early in the morning; the rest of the passengers were still in bed or at their morning prayers. She started towards the small flight of steps that led up to the wheel house but her heart sank as she felt a hand on her shoulder.
‘Leave this to me, Eleanor,’ said Francis. Of course it was Francis, she thought dismally, now he would go on about how he had not wanted the two girls to come in the first place and he had been right, hadn’t he?
Eleanor stayed at the bottom of the steps as Francis strode up them and into the wheel house. The seaman and Prue looked down at her, the dimpling smiles gone from Prue’s face at the sound of Francis’s voice and the seaman scowling behind her. Too close behind her, thought Eleanor, Francis would go mad and not surprisingly. The seaman’s arms were around Prue’s body, and his hands clasped over hers on the wheel.
‘Come away from there, Prudence Buckle,’ said Francis, his voice stern and tightly controlled. ‘Go below to your sister and stay until I tell you otherwise.’
‘Hey, what right have you to order the lass about, she wasn’t doing any harm, I was just learning her how to …’ the seaman started to argue. He did not move away from the girl and Eleanor could see that Francis was becoming even more incensed.
‘Prudence, go below,’ he said harshly and the girl looked at Eleanor, who had moved nearer.
‘I wasn’t doing nothing,’ she said sullenly. But nevertheless she moved away from the wheel and out of the seaman’s embrace.
‘I bet you fancy the lass yourself,’ said the seaman and Francis went purple.
‘How dare you!’ he spluttered. ‘I shall speak to Captain Molar about this, you insolent brute! Why the child is barely fourteen and she is in my care!’ He turned back to Prue and his voice rose to a shout. ‘Go below, I say! And don’t come back if you know what’s good for you.’
Prue burst into tears and fled, whereupon the seaman growled and stepped forward, leaving the wheel to take care of itself, his hands bunched into fists. He was about to attack Francis and, to Eleanor’s amazement, Francis took up a fighting stance, looking as though he could handle himself, Eleanor saw as she gazed wide-eyed at the pair. Fortunately, Captain Molar chose that moment to appear, no doubt roused by the commotion.
Captain Molar was a hard man, typical of his breed, and the argument came to an abrupt end. ‘Take the wheel, Simms!’ he roared. ‘What are you about, man, are you drunk? I’ll have the skin off your back! And you, sir –’ he turned to Francis – ‘I’ll thank you to retire, sir, I’ll have no passengers up here.’
‘I was protecting a young girl of our party, Captain,’ said Francis stiffly.
‘Were you, then,’ Captain Molar said. ‘If you mean that saucy chit who hangs around my men all day, I wish you luck.’
‘She is only fourteen, Captain.’
‘Aye? And already far along her chosen path, I’d say,’ commented Captain Molar. ‘Well, keep the chit down below, that’s my advice to you, Minister. I’ll not have her causing trouble among the men, do you understand me? Else she’ll be put ashore at Capetown.’
Eleanor gasped. She had opened her mouth to argue with the captain when she caught her husband’s eye and subsided. Francis took her arm and as they were descending the steps to the deck they could hear Captain Molar bellowing down the speaking tube.
‘Bo’sun! Look alive there, I want you up here now and Simms’s relief with you. You can take Simms below till I have time to deal with him. The charge is fighting with a passenger.’ Francis half-turned towards him and Captain Molar fixed a steely eye on him. ‘You have something else to say, Minister?’
‘No.’ Flushing slightly, Francis walked Eleanor rapidly away to the opposite end of the deck where a few of the missionaries and their wives were beginning to congregate for morning service, some of them by now casting curious glances at the quarter deck. The sun shone warmly down on the company, lighting winter-white faces and glittering on the sea.
‘You see?’ Francis whispered through clenched teeth. ‘That girl almost had me brawling on deck!’
There was no time for Eleanor to reply, for the service was already beginning. They sang a hymn of thanks to the accompaniment of a travelling harmonium and, in spite of Prue, Eleanor’s spirits lifted. Now she felt better she would watch Prue, give her things to do so that the girl wouldn’t have time to flirt with the crew. Not that she was really flirting, she was still a child, but with men on their own away from their wives, well, a child’s friendliness was easily misunderstood.
The Reverend Johnson’s view of Prue was not so tolerant. Mr Johnson was a small, slight man with a luxuriant dark beard threaded with grey and his beard was the only luxuriant bit about him. Privately, Eleanor thought he grew it as a statement of his masculinity, his figure being smaller than most women’s. Mr Johnson and his wife were in their forties. Childless, they had been in the mission field for fifteen years already and were returning from home leave. Unfortunately, his years of service made him the senior missionary and he took his position very seriously indeed.
Some days later, as the Liberator sailed south into the Tropics, Mr Johnson drew Francis aside after morning prayers.
‘A word with you, Mr Tait, if I may,’ he said, his tone rather peremptory, Eleanor thought.
‘Of course, Mr Johnson,’ said Francis and the two men drew away, leaving Eleanor with Mrs Alice Johnson, a rather plump lady who would have made two of her husband.
‘I’m pleased to have this opportunity to have a talk with you, just the two of us,’ said Mrs Johnson. ‘We’ll take a stroll round the deck, shall we?’
‘Well—’ said Eleanor, thinking of Prue and wondering where she was, for neither she nor Mary had been present at morning prayers. ‘I was going down to see Mary Buckle and Prue,’ she went on but Mrs Johnson took her arm and led her to a secluded part of the deck.
‘It was about Mary Buckle I wanted to talk to you,’ she said.
‘Mary?’ Eleanor was surprised; her worries had been all about Prue.
Alice Johnson turned to face her. ‘Did you know the boatswain and she were becoming, well, to put it mildly a little too friendly? It’s a mistake, my dear, to allow servants to have followers and especially on board ship. Take my word for it, dear, I am
more experienced in these things and I should put a stop to it. No good can come of it, Joseph Rae is a sailor, an ungodly man and even if he weren’t—’
‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Johnson, I can deal with it myself, if what you say is true,’ Eleanor said.
‘Oh, it is, my dear, it is. And that sister of hers is quite brazen, ogling the men with her blue eyes, she’s immodest, Mrs Tait, really. I know you are young and possibly you were worried about going into a heathen country without a female servant but I was against it from the start. There are always plenty of servants to be found among the natives. If I were you, I’d send the both of them packing as soon as we reach Capetown.’ Mrs Johnson paused as she caught Eleanor’s eye and realised that her audience was far from sympathetic.
‘Thank you, Mrs Johnson, I’ll deal with it,’ Eleanor said again. She turned on her heel and went immediately in search of the Buckles.
‘Hoity toity!’ said Mrs Johnson but her disapproval was carried away on the breeze and in any case, Eleanor was already on her way below.
Mary and Prue were sitting on the bench that ran along the side of the ship and was all the furniture provided for the steerage passengers. The atmosphere was thick and stale, redolent of bodily odours and something else, something Eleanor couldn’t place and didn’t want to.
Mary was brushing Prue’s curls vigorously and Prue was squealing loudly at every tangle caught in the bristles of the battered old wooden brush. Looking at her now, seeming such a baby with tears in her eyes, Eleanor could not believe she was grown up enough to know what effect her friendliness had on the seamen. In any case, she hadn’t had the chance to be friendly these last few days with Eleanor keeping her busy all day from morning prayers until she sent her to bed in the evening. People just had suspicious minds, she thought. But Mary and the boatswain, that was different.
‘Good morning, Mary, Prue,’ said Eleanor. ‘Prue, will you go up to our cabin and sort out the dirty linen? I thought we might wash today, it’s such good weather.’