I was not very helpful to Mary in several respects. I had never washed clothing before. I was at a loss as how to wash children as well. I did not even know how to tie Robert’s shoelaces. However, I had an advantage in knowing how to sew. I would hardly be an English lady of quality without the ability to embroider a pretty cushion. I took on the task of darning all socks and garments, and even using other scavenged fabric to create new tunics for the children.
Mary was a blunt person, but conversation came easily with her. We spoke, briefly, of her upbringing in a different country than England, her meeting Mr. Livingstone, and of both of her precious children. Her relationship with her husband was deep and long-lasting. However, he had dedicated himself to missionary work, medical work, and exploration of the land of our destination. Mary was always so kind to not mention where exactly we were destined.
I could see that raising two children alone would be very difficult, but Mary made it look effortless and joyful. Robert helped her with Agnes and was a happy and well-disciplined boy. Mary once said I had only to look at Robert to see her husband, just as you only had to look at the toddler Agnes to see her. What joy and marvelous light I did behold in this small family! Obviously, the children were in great need of a father and Mary in need of a husband, yet they supported his adventures with perfect solemnity and responsibility. It was as if they took each step he took, every breath he inhaled, only from a physical distance. They were a family, tied together eternally by love, and they amazed me daily.
On many nights, I would sink grateful into my cot, exhausted by a long day of helping Mary and playing with the children. Agnes, especially, needed my constant and full attention. Yet in those nights of exhaustion, in that moment directly before dreaming, I felt, in a word, joyful. Completely and fully elated. I was useful to the world. In an entire day of assisting others, I had lost myself. No one had complimented my dress, nor admired my stitches. This one simple fact made me nearly giddy with pride. My dresses began to show holes and wear and were covered in Robert’s breakfast and Agnes’s accidents. I had never been so horribly dirty, yet I had never felt so needed and content. The hard work of the day made the rest of my soul that much more wholesome and lovely. With those moments of fulfillment, I was at long last able to face my dreams with courage. And a good thing too. The nightmares seemed more vivid than before.
Father and I strolled, hand in hand, down a narrow path in the forest behind Mother’s house. The tall pines stood as sentinels on every side, pointing toward a dark and celestial sky. Although the way was dim and the sounds that came to my ears were ominous and strange, I had no need to know our destination. Father was with me and Mother was far away. There was nothing else in the world I wanted.
However, even as a small girl, I knew Mother needed far more than these simple pleasures. Mother needed carriages, morning calls, and expensive clothes in order to be content. If Mother alone had raised me, what kind of person would I be? Would I be as obsessed with material gain as she? Would I hold any stock in human compassion? The path we took became more extensive, treacherous, and difficult to maneuver. Father did not speak as sweat streamed from his temples. Every step became more difficult and heart-wrenching than the last. Our feet plodded heavy on the unforgiving earth.
How long could we go on this way?
I awoke by simply opening my eyes. I gained no solace from holding Father’s hand through the night, no rest for my eyes from seeing his face. Only restlessness. I sat up and began to prepare for another day. I had come to find that my body awoke at four a.m. daily and needed no encouragement to wake.
The time on the Madras was akin to raindrops coursing down a glass window. Every day we began at the top of the pane. The same food, the same conversation, the same companions. Slowly we trickled down the glass with some little deviation in our daily course, until finally we made it to the end of our day and began the next at the top of the glass again.
That morning, I took meticulous care in applying my frivolous wig. I wished again that I could go without it. At this point my hair had grown a touch. It would feel so wonderful to be able to leave the bothersome thing behind and feel the sea wind through my own hair. But every day, I went through irritating pain.
At last, pinned, pinched, and presentable, I mounted the deck.
In my morning wanderings, I had not seen the captain since last we spoke. I tried to convince myself that he did not avoid me on purpose. Lieutenant Warley mentioned that the captain was not always called upon to supervise the men. In any case, I was glad to be alone in those dismal mornings. The first mate typically acknowledged me with a friendly nod, and I would proceed to spend the rest of the morning with the moon. I could tell we were making good distance in the two months we’d spent on sea—the stars were beginning to alter their design in the sky. When the sun rose, I would sometimes try my hand at drawing waves breaking against the Madras. I was attempting a sketch when a voice spoke.
“That is a very interesting drawing, Miss Anna,” Lieutenant Warley complimented.
“Oh!” I exclaimed, taken by surprise. “Thank you, sir.” I had sketched the helm of the ship with waves crashing up the sides.
“It has been fortunate we have not met any unfavorable weather,” he said, facing the sea.
“Yes,” I responded. “Indeed fortunate.”
“Have you ever been on a ship during a storm, Miss Anna?” he asked.
“No. I have only ever been on small boats with Sir Albernon and my brother.”
“I should have known you knew Sir Albernon!” he spoke, delighted. “How is the gentleman?”
“I am not sure I would have ever called him a gentleman,” I countered, laughing. “He cares only about his own social standing, and I have seen him on several occasions kick stray dogs and whip his horses mercilessly! He is the epitome of pretentious manners. I cannot say I should be at a loss at never seeing him again.”
Lieutenant Warley was silent. I admit, I had stunned myself as well. Why did I feel the need to put him in his place? I had never spoken so uncivilly about anyone. Yet, I could not apologize for such a speech. If I was going to rid myself of polite society, I should feel no guilt in exposing a man who was unkind and foul.
“I, myself, have always known him to be a gentleman,” he attempted.
“Yes, I am sure you would,” I agreed. “He is always at his best when around fellow men. However, when in the presence of women and animals, he can be the very devil.”
My mind clicked in satisfaction in using the word devil. Mother would have punished me for using that word.
“I see,” was all he muttered.
We stood there silent, watching the waves and the rising sun in silence. I was not sure I wanted him to speak again. I was sure Lieutenant Warley was feeling awkward, but I dismissed it. The waves provided some happy scenery, which I cherished. I tried to draw some floral decoration on the ship, but the tiny flowers unfortunately reminded me of others …
There were five hundred and forty-eight printed flowers on my bedroom walls. I had counted them many times. Each mirrored another in perfectly straight lines until the cut of the paper halted their progression. My door was a dark chestnut, made of sturdy material, yet showing signs of wear in large, progressing cracks. It had been thrown shut several hundred times, and a door could only sustain so much abuse. A large fireplace dominated the space on my left. Its bricks and mortar showed signs of having housed flames, yet those were merely a memory now. Windows dotted the large walls, but Mother had them covered with large sheets of cheap fabric so that the room was dim at noonday. She told others she put up the sheets to protect my fair skin from the sun. I knew better.
I forced my mind to think of other things.
Tall, soft grass frozen mid-sway as Father leaned up against a tree in happy dozing. Big bloated tears running down his weathered cheek in relief as I jumped fence after fence on his horse. He could see the freedom in my countenance. I had been taught to ride a hors
e from a very young age. Father’s horse would not permit me to ride side saddle as Mother would have wanted—I rode astride like a man.
A realization came to me. All of my happy memories had two things in common. They involved Father, and they did not involve any frivolous thing. All of my joys came from the outdoors, from learning, from Father. No balls I had attended, nor beautiful dresses I wore, no handsome suitors who had escorted me elicited this kind of joy from me. I took part in social events but simply performed the actions required of me. Mother’s reign of terror had not allowed me to even consider neglecting a social function. I suppose I felt since I was a woman, I should enjoy those things. No one would listen to a girl go on about how much she detested balls, and if I had, I surely would have made myself a social outcast. Mother would have been livid.
I had pretended to enjoy parties to protect myself from her. Father had been so easy to please I had not needed to try, but I had put on the pretty dress and pounds of undergarments to please Mother, and did so without question. Too scared to consider doing what pleased me instead. The one person who was incapable of affection, I had hurt myself to please. Suddenly, I hated the dress I wore. I hated the mannerisms and etiquette I kept up for her sake.
I hated my wig.
“Excuse me,” I said quietly.
I made my way to my cabin in quick steps. Once there, I ripped the pest from my head and stared at my reflection in the mirror.
This was Anna.
This was who I was meant to be.
I decided, with the removal of the wig, that I would more fully follow my new manners and not heed the stares and questions. I enjoyed this new version of myself. This Anna spoke whatever came into her mind. It was almost a reckless kind of happiness. And who would stop me, except God? Until then, I would strive to not be rude to someone directly, but I would not allow others to force me into every social nicety.
Ignoring the gazes of those around me, however, proved very difficult. Every single crew member stopped in his tracks at my passing. I thought men weren’t supposed to notice hair. Of course, they had little idea that my hair had been even shorter weeks ago. They thought a girl had just cut all of her beautiful, glossy locks in exchange for short, spiked, boyish hair. Surely they thought me mad. All I could do was walk right past them. After a few minutes, with the feeling of the wind finally playing with my scalp, it was easy to ignore them.
I returned to my sketching next to Lieutenant Warley. He gazed wide-eyed at my state, but I had no words to explain it. I simply continued to sketch a storm-wrecked ship.
“How—” he began. I chanced a glance up to his face. He blinked once every second. He shook his head while holding out his hands. He must be searching for some clue as to why I would return this way. I had bewildered him. I pressed my lips together to contain my laughter.
He tried again.
“Why—” he muttered, still searching for meaning around him. “Why did you just cut your hair? Did I possibly say something to upset you?”
“Lieutenant,” I said between bouts of giggles, “I did not, just now, cut my hair.” I spoke slowly, willing him to understand. “It has been short for some time, you just helped me to realize that I didn’t need the wig anymore.”
He simply stared. “I do not understand,” he said miserably. I pitied his confusion.
“It has been short for some time,” I repeated. “Mother had that piece of hair made for me to avoid questions.”
“Why would she allow you to cut your hair in the first place?” he asked, still bewildered.
There was no way I could explain and have him understand fully. Father had cut my hair so that we might leave England discreetly. I was known for my auburn hair that was long enough to touch the ground if it were not pinned up. He felt if I could be passed as a boy we might leave without raising awareness.
“She thought it may be the new fashion,” I lied through tense eyebrows, “and when she realized it did not suit me, she bought me the wig.” The irony of this situation sickened me. I had cut my hair to escape her, then she had forced the wig on me after she had won.
“Oh,” he pronounced finally. “You could have informed me of this before you shocked me so.”
“And be spared this reaction? I think not,” I said, smiling.
He smiled back wearily and left me to my sketch.
“Miss Kensington,” a voice interrupted my peace.
I turned around to survey the captain, although it was unnecessary. He was the only one aboard whom I did not correct when he used my surname. I felt more comfortable calling him “captain” than I did calling him “Mr. Ashmore.”
“Good morning,” I said without curtsy, bow, or proper etiquette.
I felt sure he would move along the deck, surveying his crew. He did neither of these things, but stood stationary and glared. Finally, he spoke.
“Why is your hair short?” he demanded.
I could not fathom his interest. In reality, his question made me angry.
“Why?” I asked curtly. He seemed confused. “I mean, why would you ask about my hair?” I clarified.
He simply glared at me.
“It is my own head, is it not?”
He began a new topic. “I feel the need to inform you, Miss Kensington, that we are three weeks from our berth.” I did not react. He continued. “Would you like to know your future home?” His voice was mocking.
“I have no desire to know our destination, Sir, as I have told you.” And it was true. I was happy helping Mary and the children and waking to the bright moon every morning. Although I still had nightmares, somehow they seemed easier to handle on the sea, with the moon here to comfort me. At some point I would have to prepare myself for landing, I would have to come back to the harsh world in time, but for now I could brush it aside.
“There may be preparations you can perform that would make your arrival easier,” he persisted. “There may be an opportunity there befitting a lady. I cannot tell you the details if I am held back by your childish wish to remain aloof.”
His tone and the way he said “lady” were identical to my mother’s. He was condemning, what he supposed to be, childish ignorance. What right did he have? Why did he feel the need to correct me in my direction? Why could he not let me continue on my course?
I was tempted to react in obedience and fear, as the two reactions were always partners with me. It would be sensible of me to prepare myself for our landing. I could have faith without being completely blind to my surroundings. Certainly Father would not have set sail to America without first making some arrangements for us either on land or at sea. In truth, I had been slightly curious as to my future home.
But I could not do it. I could not concede to this man who represented the world I ran from. I had been burdened by his kind for my entire existence. Years and years of balls and parties where fatherly patrons would criticize me on the cut of my dress or the slouch in my shoulders. They had never considered that, because of their remark, Mother would attempt to beat the slouch out of me when we returned home. Those ignorant and nosy fops took no notice of my desires or well-being. No genuine concern had filled their eyes as they lectured me on how a lady should not eat too many cakes at these events. Did they know that Mother was starving me? That I was not allowed any kind of food superior to my brother’s? It was taken from me at every turn with a slap to my cheek. And did they even bother to think that my mother’s supposed grace and kindness were merely a grand performance for their benefit?
No. Their need for propriety outweighed my needs entirely. There was not anything I needed, not food, nor clothes, nor shelter, nor faith that could supersede their need for dignity. And here was the living embodiment of those men.
I raised my eyes, and they felt like burning hot marbles. My existence had filled my body with sorrow, but perhaps now I could burn it out with anger.
“If I have any desire to stay aloof, it is in my desire to stay as far away from you as this ship
will allow,” I said. He straightened his posture, and I continued. “When we land, I shall endeavor to cross the entire continent we arrive on, in pursuit of becoming more aloof.” His jaw had turned hard and his eyes mirrored the hate in my own, but I could not yield. “You can keep your haughty contempt, for I have no use of it. You are worthless! Leave me alone!”
My speech was over. And I was overwhelmed by it. My goal to avoid insulting someone directly to their face was now crumbled. Was this a strength in me now? Or a weakness?
The captain’s gaze had not diverted from me. He took a moment to watch my red face as I took deep breaths to settle myself, then he began.
“There is nothing I could have wished for more than this. If you could have but told me sooner, I could have been saved the torture of this situation. Pray, carry out your plan, get as far from me as the continent will allow, even there will not be far enough to separate me from the anguish you have caused.”
“Anguish I have caused?” I screamed. “I had not spoken a word to you before we entered this ship. What responsibility do I hold for your anger?”
“I should ask the same of you,” he retorted, stepping closer. “You have no reason to dislike me, other than your natural temperament, raised by a frivolous mother and a prideful, insipid father.”
“Stop,” I whispered. I felt as though a large block of iron had just been placed on my chest. He said exactly what could hurt me most. And he found it so quickly, for which I hated him all the more. That anyone could think my idol in this horrible earth proud or insipid left me immediately depressed at the state of the world. How could anyone imagine that Father was proud? They could not see him for the angel that he was. He had fought long and hard to shield me and had ultimately failed. And this is what the world thought of him—they thought he was too prideful.
In Spite of Lions Page 4