Dangerous Women

by Hope Adams

  * * *

  * * *

  Hattie stood in front of Miss Hayter’s door and tried to work up the courage to knock. Then she looked down at the piece of fabric in her hand. Speak & you die. I can’t hide this, she thought. I can’t walk about wondering what I mustn’t say and who is going to kill me. Perhaps someone had lost their reason, or why would they threaten her? She knocked and, after a few moments, Miss Hayter opened the door.

  “What’s the matter, Hattie?” said Miss Hayter. She was holding her embroidery in her left hand. “Is someone ill again?”

  “No, no, Miss Hayter.” Hattie knew they were both remembering the night of Marion’s miscarriage. “Only I must talk to you, please. Away from company.”

  “Come in,” said Miss Hayter, and held the door open. Hattie came in and stood awkwardly next to the chest of drawers.

  “There isn’t very much space, I’m afraid.”

  “Thank you,” said Hattie, and glanced over her shoulder, as if someone might have followed her.

  Miss Hayter was already dressed, which surprised Hattie a little, though she was too preoccupied with her own troubles, too terrified of what she held to take time to wonder why she was awake so early. She stood, hesitating, at the door, till Miss Hayter put out a hand, drew her in and closed it behind her. “Tell me what’s wrong,” she said. “Come in and sit down . . . here.” She guided Hattie to a chair and sat on the bunk, close enough to put out a hand and touch Hattie’s knee to comfort her.

  “I’m so sorry, Miss. It’s this, you see.” She held out the square of blue cotton. “Someone put this on my pillow . . . You see what it says . . . I can’t speak of it to anyone . . . Please say you won’t tell anyone, please . . .”

  Miss Hayter looked both vexed and worried.

  “I must tell the captain,” she began, but Hattie interrupted her, horrified.

  “Oh, no! If I thought you’d tell anyone I’d have—I wouldn’t have come to you. I thought you’d be willing to keep my secret. You’d not want to see me in danger. See what it says, Miss. Speak and you die. Maybe I shouldn’t have come to you. Please say you won’t tell anyone. Please.”

  Hattie felt her heart knocking in her chest. A chill fell over her. If Miss Hayter told the captain, he might announce the threat to the whole ship, and Hattie would be done for. What would happen to Bertie if she wasn’t there to look after him?

  “Do you think”—Miss Hayter sounded doubtful—“that this could be someone’s warped idea of a jest?”

  Hattie shook her head. Who’d go to this trouble to stitch these horrid black words in secret if they weren’t serious? There had been times when she’d thought she felt the force of someone’s gaze on her back, but she’d dismissed it.

  “No, I can see that it’s not . . . I’m sorry.” Miss Hayter looked distressed. She said, “Very well, Hattie. I’ll do what I can on my own. But first of all, you must tell me the truth, Hattie. Is there something, something in the past? Can you think of anything?”

  Hattie went through in her head everything she’d done that could in any way be called bad. Her crimes . . . By the time her young victims reached their parents, Hattie was far away. What about Patrick? Could he somehow be taking his vengeance, punishing her for running away from him? Of course not. He’d have been furious for twelve hours, then drowned his sorrows in another glass and found another gullible female to enchant.

  “No, I swear, Miss Hayter. Nothing. I can’t think of anything. As far as I know, no one who knew me before this voyage is aboard this ship. Who could possibly know what I’ve done and not done?”

  “Someone clearly thinks there’s something others shouldn’t know . . . Perhaps you’ve seen something done by someone else. Someone who wants their deeds kept secret.”

  “No!” Hattie was firm. “Nothing like that. I’ve not seen anything.” Hattie wailed, “I don’t know . . . I really don’t, Miss Hayter.”

  “Well, then,” said Kezia, “you must put on a brave face and see to it that no one suspects you’re troubled. But you must be on your guard. See if anyone around you behaves in an unusual way that makes you uncomfortable. You must undertake to tell me if you see anything.”

  Hattie nodded. “I will, Miss, I promise. Thank you. I’m so sorry.”

  “There’s no need to apologize, Hattie. None at all. I’m sure everything will turn out well.”

  As she left Miss Hayter’s cabin, Hattie felt a little better. Part of her longed to say something; to gather her friends about her and spill out her fears to them. Maybe she ought to speak to Emily or Rose or Izzy. But, no, the threat was there: Speak & you die. The other side of that was Keep silent and you’ll live, and Hattie knew that not a word, not a syllable about the square of blue cotton would pass her lips. She was happy that Miss Hayter had the care of it now.

  * * *

  * * *

  On the way to the lower deck, Hattie heard stifled noises coming from behind an enormous coil of rope lying on the deck. Her heart jumped. Who was that? Was it one of the crew? She paused, listening. It was still very early. No one but a few sailors would be up at this hour, and that was a woman’s laugh, suppressed, not very well. Hattie tiptoed carefully around the rope, and there, squeezed between the rope and the side of the ship, was Emily. William was emerging from her skirts, his face flushed and his mouth hanging open. Hattie swiftly moved away and came across Sarah Goodbourne, standing by the ship’s rail. She often rose early and walked on the deck.

  “Quick, Sarah, move away. Emily’s there with William,” Hattie whispered. She put out a hand to draw Sarah back toward the companionway.

  Sarah cast a glance in the direction of the rope. William emerged onto the deck and vanished in the opposite direction. There was no sign of Emily.

  “Did you see them both?” Sarah asked.

  “Yes, I did. Emily was . . . well, she was . . .”

  “I can picture the scene, Hattie. Don’t bother describing it.”

  Sarah walked away and Hattie stood still to collect her thoughts. Should she say something to Emily? She’d been preoccupied to say the least, and might not know, even now, that she’d been seen.

  “Hattie . . .” That was Emily, emerging onto the deck, hair hanging down and face flushed. “Did you see?”

  For a split second, Hattie thought of lying. “Yes, Emily. I asked you to look after Bertie. Don’t you remember? How could you leave him? You’re at William’s beck and call. You’re a fool, you know. If you’re caught with one of the crew, I don’t know what’d happen to you but he’d be punished severely, I’m sure.”

  Emily was shamefaced. “I know. But I couldn’t help it. He’s so . . . I’m so . . . When he looks at me, I come over funny, and when he touches me, oh, Hattie, I want him to touch me so very much and he does and I touch him and I can’t stop wanting that. I can’t.”

  “Then you must be more careful. Sarah was here, too, you know.”

  “Tell her to say nothing, Hattie. Please tell her. For me. Explain to her, please. Will you? It would be the ruin of us both, me and William.”

  “You could tell her yourself.”

  Emily looked so alarmed at the prospect of doing this that Hattie took pity on her. “Very well,” she said. “I’ll talk to her. No one’ll find out from either of us.”

  In that moment, Hattie determined never again to ask Emily to look after Bertie. She’d been frightened and desperate to talk to Miss Hayter but she wouldn’t do that again. Bertie would never again be left unsupervised, however terrified she’d been by the words embroidered on the patch. Embroidered . . . Someone had sat down in a hidden spot, taken out her needle and made those stitches. There was work in those stitches. Someone had had to work to make that abomination. The thought buzzed in her head like a wasp.

  31

  THEN

  Cotton piece: pale green and madder red str
ipes printed with large red flowers and thick darker green leaves

  May 1841

  KEZIA

  “In some ways,” Kezia said, “I’ve grown used to it. Being at sea, knowing that whichever way I look in any direction there’s no sign of life.” She corrected herself almost at once. “I mean, apart from all of us on board. No other sign of human life. I love the porpoises and the seabirds . . . but we are the only people. It can seem”—she paused to find the right word—“precarious. As if we might at any moment disappear . . .”

  “I will ensure that we do not,” the captain said, and he seemed a little amused at Kezia’s fears. “But you are right in one way,” he went on. “We are alone together for a few months and, because we are, we have sometimes to . . . We might perhaps run more speedily through the manners we’d be following on shore.”

  Kezia said nothing. They were walking along the deck. Groups of women were sitting together, talking and laughing. The day’s work on the coverlet was done. Sailors were engaged in tasks Kezia knew were important for the smooth running of the Rajah but which she did not fully understand: moving barrels and boxes, coiling ropes, climbing up and down the rigging and all at great speed. When they reached the stern, Kezia leaned over to watch the wake, frothing out behind the ship.

  “Miss Hayter,” the captain said, “I would like to call you by your Christian name. Would you allow it? When we are on our own? And will you call me Charles?”

  Charles . . . Kezia did not know how she would summon the courage to address the captain by his given name. But she liked the sound of her own name when he said it. She nodded. “I will try,” she said. “And, yes, of course you may call me Kezia.”

  “Thank you,” the captain—Charles—said, and he was smiling at her.

  Just then, a gust of wind began to blow away her shawl. The captain—Charles—reached out to catch it. He placed it around her again and his hands lingered on her shoulders. Kezia’s own hands, in the act of going to tie the ends of the shawl together, met Charles’s fingers and she blushed.

  “It would be a shame to lose such a pretty shawl overboard,” he said.

  “My sister is a great knitter,” Kezia said. The memory of his hands on her shoulders was with her still. “I have many shawls.”

  “But this color becomes you,” said Charles, and then, as if somewhat regretting such a personal remark, he added, “I must take my leave now and let you go to your cabin. Good-bye, Kezia.” He bowed again and walked away with his back very straight.

  This color becomes you . . . Kezia had never considered this before, but it was true that Henrietta had chosen a particularly delightful shade of blue for the shawl.

  My dearest Henrietta,

  Today I was called by my Christian name for the first time since I left London almost a month ago. I did not realize how much I missed hearing it spoken. The captain, who has said that I may call him Charles, asked if I would allow this. I was happy to do so. I’ve always trusted him in matters of managing the ship safely and well, but he has shown himself very understanding of the women and of the work we’re engaged in. And he admired the blue shawl you knitted for me, which shows he is a man of taste . . .

  32

  NOW

  8 July 1841

  Ninety-four days at sea

  KEZIA

  “Are you perfectly certain, Miss Hayter,” said Mr. Donovan, “that you are not tiring yourself unnecessarily with this inquiry? You seem to be . . .”

  “What? What do I seem to be?” Kezia was standing at the foot of Hattie’s bed in the hospital and Mr. Donovan was at his desk.

  “Forgive me, but you seem to be . . . irritated with the way things are progressing. I suppose we all are, in a way. It ought not to be proving so difficult to find the guilty party, yet we’re no closer to an answer than we were when Hattie was stabbed.”

  Kezia moved the blanket that was covering the end of Hattie’s bed and sat down. “You’re very kind, Mr. Donovan. And you notice things that others don’t see. May I speak to you frankly?”

  “Of course.” He pushed his chair back against the wall and looked steadily at Kezia.

  She dropped her gaze. “I fear Mr. Davies has a low opinion of me, my intellect and my motives.” Seeing that Mr. Donovan was about to answer, Kezia held up a hand to stop him. “Let me finish, please, because I don’t know if I will be able to say these things again.” She stood, and began to pace up and down between the end of Hattie’s bed and the door. “He never listens to a word I say without a sneer on his face. He does not give any weight to the fact that I know these women.”

  “Perhaps he thinks he has greater experience because of his age and station,” Mr. Donovan said mildly.

  “And because he’s a man. He does not believe that a woman might be his equal in intellect or feeling.” Kezia frowned at Mr. Donovan. “For all I know, you agree with him.”

  “I judge each person as I meet them, man or woman.”

  Kezia sighed. “I know you do, and I am sorry I spoke so carelessly. You have always been kind and fair to me and in your dealings with the women. He cannot see that women often commit their crimes for good reason. They’re hungry. They’re poor. They steal to please their husbands. They are taken advantage of in so many ways.” Kezia’s voice was raised now, and Hattie stirred, muttering. Immediately, Mr. Donovan sprang from his chair and went to stand beside the bed. Kezia fell silent and turned to see if Hattie was awake.

  “It often happens,” Mr. Donovan said quietly. “She moves a little, says something unintelligible and my hopes rise, but they are always dashed.”

  “She couldn’t have been better cared for.”

  Mr. Donovan seemed about to speak, then thought better of it, and leaned forward to smooth Hattie’s pillow. “It’s kind of you to say so, Miss Hayter,” he said. “Very kind indeed.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “You’re distracted, Kezia,” said Charles. They were walking as the sun was setting behind banks of cloud, tinged now with purple and gold. The air was cool, and Kezia had put on her cherished fingerless gloves, knitted by Henrietta in dark green wool, as well as a shawl.

  “I am,” she said. “I saw Hattie today and she looked so ill, so pale and still. So very unlike herself.”

  “We mustn’t despair. And I know . . .” He paused.

  “What?”

  “I know you’re often impatient with what Mr. Davies says to you. He’s a man who believes he knows best. There are many like him. He does it to me, too, and to Mr. Donovan. If he could come up to the wheelhouse and steer the ship, he would. He can’t help it. I’m sure he has the best of intentions.”

  “He treats you quite differently. I’m a lesser creature because I’m a woman, even though he gives me some credit because my cousin is a court painter. It’s the convict women he thinks of so dismissively. That’s what I don’t like in him. He considers them lost souls, incapable of any change or improvement. He treats our work together as frivolous and useless, of no spiritual help whatsoever.”

  They had reached the stern. Lacy trails of foam streamed out behind the Rajah and it seemed to Kezia in that moment that they were the only people on the ship. The rigging and the timbers creaked around them; the wind and the water were always there, in the background, but between them, there was silence.

  “Should I speak to him?” Charles asked her. “Tell him to keep his opinions to himself?” He put an arm around Kezia’s shoulders and she leaned against him, enjoying the wind blowing the hair forward onto her face, wishing she could always stand close like this, in the shelter of his arm.

  “No,” she answered. She had no intention of allowing another man to speak up in her defense. “I can speak for myself.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “Please sit down, Sarah.” Kezia watched her lower herself onto the leather seat of t
he chair presented to her. She might once have been a handsome woman, but it was hard to tell. Frown lines marked her brow and her gray hair hung down to her shoulders, covered with a scarf in a color that was no color at all. A hue into which her eye sank without seeing it properly.

  “Now, then, Sarah,” said Mr. Davies. “There’s no need to be frightened. We’re here seeking the truth, that’s all. Your matron has given a good report of your work and diligence. I hope your answers will prove that your powers of observation are likewise to be commended.”

  Kezia smiled inwardly. How easy it was, if you knew how to do so, to turn words this way and that so that they caught the light and glimmered! Kezia had told the others that Sarah Goodbourne worked well but was hard to get to know, and now the clergyman’s added “diligence” gave her an air of obedience to duty that was not part of her character, as far as Kezia had been able to tell, though it was true that no one could have called her lazy.

  “Where were you, Sarah, when Hattie cried out?”

  “Still sitting on the bench. I’d only just put my work away.”

  “And did you run to her side when she called?”

  Sarah thought about this. “I was the last one to get there, I think,” she said at last.

  “Did you hang back for some reason?” Kezia asked.

  “No, Miss. I was putting my pieces of fabric in my pocket. I didn’t want them to fall on the deck and get dirty.”

  “Most commendable,” murmured Mr. Davies. “So, when you reached Hattie’s side . . .”

  “Others were holding her up, speaking to her. I kept quiet. I didn’t have anything useful to add to the clamor.”