by Amelia Smith
“It’s so soft!” she couldn’t help but say.
“Yes, but do you think…” Maria began. “To accept a gift from a man.”
“Well…” Hyacinth felt a twinge of doubt, but not enough to stop her from untying the strings. “It’s not jewelry, though it is very fine, and he did say he was concerned about my health. It’s only a shawl after all,” she said. “I hardly see how it could make us more indebted to him than we already are.”
Maria frowned and nodded as Hyacinth unwrapped the shawl. The long center length of it was as plain as could be, but at the ends the sombre, half-mourning color was broken by a band of rich embroidery, paisleys and abstract flowers in all the hues of the rainbow, with tiny bright glass beads knotted into the fringe.
“Que bella!” Maria remarked, despite her disapproval.
“It’s stunning!” Hyacinth said. She wondered if it had been very expensive, but didn’t voice the question. It wasn’t jewelry, that was the important thing, even if the fringes were as bright as some necklaces. “I don’t know…”
“But no, you can’t return it!” Maria said. “It’s too pretty to give back.”
Hyacinth laughed at Maria’s sudden change of heart. “And I suppose I’d better read the note,” she said. She didn’t want to do that with anyone looking on, not even Maria. “Will you ask George to get his books out and open to his lesson?” she said. “I believe we have time to translate a page of Homer before luncheon.”
As soon as the door closed behind Maria, Hyacinth had the note in her hands. She hesitated a moment before breaking the hastily-applied seal. What would he say? Would she have to respond? She supposed she would.
The sound of George opening and closing his lockers came through the partition between their cabins. She didn’t have much time. She snapped the seal and unfolded the paper.
My dear Miss Grey,
No apology can excuse my behavior. I have lapsed in my manners as a gentleman.
Would you do me the great honour of accepting my hand in marriage?
Yours,
Thomas Smithson Pently
Hyacinth froze, slack-jawed, with the paper dangling out of her hand. Did he not even use his real name? What did that last name signify? Was that what her father had alluded to? If so...
The door of the neighboring cabin slammed shut and she tucked the note into the nearest hiding place: her bosom. As her own door swung open and George walked in, she fervently wished she’d found someplace else to hide it. The paper might have been a burning ember.
“What news, Hyacinth?” George grinned, oblivious to the lumpish paper burrowing between her breasts.
Her mouth moved but no sound came out.
“Cat got your tongue?” George continued cheerily. “That should be me, I’m the one who nearly drowned and has the gallows waiting for him in England.”
He was only a boy, Hyacinth reminded herself, and he was trying to put a brave face on things. He could have no idea what she was drowning in now. She forced herself to say something.
“Well, we’d best get on with the translation, then. Here.” She took his book and opened it at random.
Some time later, George looked at her with concern.
“Hy, we did this passage three days ago. Are you all right?”
“I am perfectly fine. Your brush with death and the threat of the law seems to have tired me more than it did you. Perhaps we’d better leave it, after all. Do a new passage, I’ll come check it before dinner.”
George looked at her as if he wanted to ask something else, but then he shrugged. “All right. I’ll go then. Should I have Maria bring you luncheon?”
That would only give her more time to sit alone and stare at the note.
“No. Tell her that I will go sit with Mrs. Hotham.”
“I’ll tell her,” George said. He closed the door, leaving her alone with her new torment.
Hyacinth sat down heavily on her bunk and clutched her knees to her chest. She didn’t know what to think. She would have to answer, but she would delay it as long as possible.
#
Unfortunately, “as long as possible,” was only the space of an afternoon. Having spent the midday hours with Mrs. Hotham, Hyacinth couldn’t see a way to excuse herself from dinner again. Besides, she was going to have to see Mr. Smithson eventually, and she didn’t think she could spend another day cooped up in her cabin. George was next to insane with restlessness already, and she felt it, too.
As afternoon stretched the ship’s shadow across the waves, Hyacinth donned her best traveling gown. Like her other dresses, it was plain, but it had been made for her by Lady Hamilton's own dressmaker, from Naples. The fine, dark blue wool fit her perfectly. She called Maria in to put her hair up.
“Maria?” she said, inspecting herself in the small looking glass. “Do I look all right?” Her hair had been brushed to a sheen and swept up into a tidy roll. Her eyes seemed bright, and she hoped no one would notice if she bit her lip more than usual.
“Of course! You look beautiful as always!” Maria said.
“I mean, do you think I might still be ill?” Hyacinth asked hopefully. Her stomach felt unsettled. Perhaps she would be nauseous soon, though the seas had been dispiritingly calm all day.
Maria frowned. “Why would you be ill? You were only a little tired and overwrought. You will feel better after a good meal, not just these possets the cook sends you when you’re in your cabin.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Hyacinth sighed.
“Of course I am right. Go to dinner and don’t let that man frighten you.”
Hyacinth suppressed a deep sigh. “It was a lovely gift, wasn’t it, though perhaps not entirely appropriate.”
“He is a wealthy man, they say. You were right when you said that it is nothing, compared to rescuing George.”
“Yes, yes of course. The shawl is nothing to him,” Hyacinth said, hoping it was true. What if it had belonged to his lover, the woman who had been shot? What if he had given her that leftover thing, too, as well as his misplaced kisses? One thing at least was clear to her – his note had been written out of a sense of obligation, and foolish obligation, too. He could not love her, even if he pretended to hold some regard for her, or felt the tug of propriety enough to compel a proposal.
Besides, Hyacinth reminded herself, she had no intention of marrying, especially not someone she scarcely knew, who used a different name as it suited him. She was going to use her inheritance from Grandmother Miller to start a school.
“Stop looking in the mirror!” Maria chided. “Off to your dinner!”
Hyacinth nodded and stood up, keeping her spine straight and her shoulders squared. Whatever happened, she would not show how much she feared seeing him again. And the others must not guess what had happened, not ever.
#
Thomas watched Hyacinth glide into the room, steady on her feet and tall, looking everywhere but at him. She looked elegant, graceful, and perhaps not as prim as he’d thought her, before. She certainly hadn’t been shattered by what had passed between them two nights before, at least not if her demeanor were any indication.
Her hand trembled ever so slightly as she sat down opposite him, but she quickly mastered it and looked up, as if she were addressing him directly. Her eyes were focused on his chin, so that they would not risk locking gazes.
“Good evening,” she said to everyone, “and good evening to you Mr. Smithson. I must thank you again for your daring rescue the other day. We are all most obliged.”
Her gaze had drifted down to the table as she spoke.
Thomas’s heart raced. He let a long moment pass and the captain coughed, prompting him to reply.
“It was nothing, Miss Grey, nothing at all. Please, think no more of it.”
“But I cannot…” She bit her lip and looked up, then quickly glanced away again. “It was an admirable feat,” she said. “We are very much in your debt.”
“I assure you, Miss Grey
, it was my pleasure,” Thomas said, wondering what he would have thought of those words when he was under the waves, fighting for a chance to breathe. He hoped that she didn’t feel the debt too keenly. He had not intended to do anything that would prompt such feelings. He had not intended anything at all, in fact, not when he dove in.
The first mate, Mr. Bromley, was speaking. “Mr. Smithson swims like a porpoise!” he said. “I never saw such a feat in all my years at sea.”
“Well,” Thomas said, “the waters here are quite chilly. The waters off the coast of India are warmer, and it’s worth braving the surf there to get some relief from the heat.”
Thomas hoped that Hyacinth’s stammering “I cannot” was not intended as an answer to his proposal, though something told him that it might be. It would be an absurd way of replying.
Surely, she must feel at least some of the awkwardness which made him fidget in his seat like a schoolboy. She was no maharani with an army at her back. Surely, he'd faced more fearsome prospects than protecting a young woman, who had possibly overstepped the bounds of propriety. Maybe he shouldn't have proposed. Maybe the sailors hadn't seen, and even if they had, none of the officers seemed to have heard anything. Even if the officers knew, would their gossip reach society? Still, he felt an urge to protect her, if she would have him. If she would have him?
Any respectable young lady who knew who his uncle was would snap up his offer, regardless of their personal feelings. At least, that was what he’d been told when he was younger, and that was when his much-loved elder brother, as well as his sickly cousin, had stood between him and the duchy. Of course, she couldn't be expected to know his family, even if her father did. That certainly hadn't worked to his advantage. She might not be impressed, either. It was better if she came to know him as only himself, as a man returning from the subcontinent with health intact and a decent fortune to his name. He felt that said more of his true self than his aristocratic ancestry.
Thomas’s thoughts drifted as the conversation continued around him. Mr. French, the navigator, was speaking to Hyacinth, exchanging pleasantries. There had been English ladies in India, too. About a half-dozen. He’d met three of them over the course of his decade there. Hyacinth was far prettier than any of them, and he imagined her holding court among them, in conditions that would make most of her peers faint away.
The sound of Hyacinth’s laugh snapped him back to the present. The navigator was leaning close, as if to whisper something in her ear. Thomas straightened up and leaned across the table, knife in hand.
“I say, man!” the navigator said suddenly. “You look rather alarming.”
“I… excuse me, Mr. French. I was thinking of India.”
“Always thinking of India, aren’t you?” Hyacinth said. It would be an innocent enough question if he hadn’t told her about Sarita, but he had. He hoped that no one else around the table detected the undercurrents in their conversation.
“I do think of India often,” Thomas said. “After all, I lived my whole life as an independent man on its shores.”
Mr. French's skin had an oily look, as if he drank too heavily. Thomas wondered why he’d never noticed it before. He was sitting entirely too close to the lady.
“I do think often of India, but not constantly,” he continued, ignoring the navigator. “Since my recent swim I find myself thinking more and more of home, of England, and of the future. The past is gone.”
He looked over at her, affecting a conversational smile. She didn’t seem quite her usual self, did she? She sat very still in her seat, unnaturally so.
“Is it?” she asked.
“But of course,” Thomas smiled weakly. “By definition, the past is gone.”
“And yet it haunts some men,” the first mate, Mr. Bromley, cut in. “My own grandfather even had a ghost in his house.”
“Really?” Thomas said. “Do tell us, what was its story?”
“As to that, I really know only a little,” the mate said.
“Do tell, Mr. Bromley,” Captain Hotham said. “And don’t neglect the embellishments!”
“No, indeed, don’t!” Mr. French added.
Thus, the conversation turned to another man’s haunting, and Thomas could sit back and listen to the story, keeping one eye always on Miss Grey. Once, when she thought she was unobserved, she cast a glance in his direction. She blushed, then quickly turned her attention back to her plate.
Thomas had no further occasion to talk to her until they were rising from the table. “Please, Miss Grey,” he said. “May I escort you back to your cabin?”
She bit her lip again, a gesture which made her look younger and less self-assured than usual.
“That w…would be lovely, thank you,” she said.
#
That won’t be necessary. That was what she’d meant to say! But he was already walking over to her and taking her arm. There was no way to refuse his offer without drawing attention to herself, which was the last thing she wanted. She looked back at Captain Hotham and his officers. They had already turned away, taking no notice as Mr. Smithson offered her his arm.
“Allow me, Miss Grey,” he said.
She smiled at him through gritted teeth and nodded a brief goodnight to the assembled company. Mr. Smithson touched her elbow, and all the blood in her body rushed to that lone point of contact. It left her head empty and light, dizzy. She tried to shift away, but the passage was too narrow. She steadied her breathing as they walked out onto the open deck.
Sails billowed above them like swan’s wings in the light of the rising moon. Hyacinth took a deep breath of the chilly air.
“It’s quite a brisk night,” she commented.
“Miss Grey?” Mr. Smithson lightened his grip on her arm. She could feel the warm spots left behind where he’d clutched her in the dark. His touch still lingered lightly on her forearm as he turned her to face him.
She looked up at him. He was tall, and his hair shone silvery in the moonlight. His eyes lay in impenetrable shadow.
“Would you answer me?”
Ahead of them on the deck, the second mate stood at the wheel. He nodded a greeting to them, but with the sound of the creaking blocks and lines, the whisper of the wind and the gurgle of the passing waters, he would be able to hear nothing of the words that passed between them.
“No,” Hyacinth said at last. “I cannot.”
“Cannot answer?”
“I can answer well enough,” she said. “And my answer is no. I cannot accept your offer.”
“I have behaved most dishonorably,” he said. “I must rectify the situation.”
“It is not the only way. No one saw. We may easily go on as if nothing has happened. I am not a child lost at sea needing rescue.”
“But we are at sea, if not lost,” he said, “and something has happened. You cannot deny that. And I confess I cannot see you the same way since.” A plea colored his voice.
Hyacinth jerked her arm away. “Have you lost all respect for me, then? Is that any grounds for…” she couldn’t bring herself to say the word marriage, it was all too preposterous. They scarcely knew each other, she told herself, no matter what drunken confessions he’d made in the night.
“Not at all,” he said. He looked anxiously towards the wheelhouse and reached out as if to take Hyacinth’s arm again. She backed away. “I retain the utmost respect for you. I am the one who is at fault.”
“And you would not think me… improper for staying there with you?” Hyacinth said. “I should have left the moment I saw you there. I should not even have been out on deck at all.” Her throat felt tight, constricted. She swallowed, trying to keep breathing normally.
“But you did stay,” he said. “Do you think me such a rogue?”
Hyacinth closed her eyes lightly and shook her head, feeling the night wind tease a curl of hair out of her chignon.
“I don't know,” she said at last. “My father warned me against you.”
“Yes, he seem
ed to form quite a firm opinion of me on very brief acquaintance,” Mr. Smithson said, a note of bitterness in his voice.
“I have seen nothing to confirm his appraisal of you, except that you seem to change your name at a whim.”
“It...” he stammered. “Forget that. It means nothing. I've been Mr. Smithson for all these years. I don't even know if I'll go back to being a Pently at all.”
Hyacinth peered at him. “Well,” she said, “there was also your rescue of George. That was heroic. Whoever you say you are.”
“Heroic?” Mr. Smithson laughed. “More the foolhardy act of a man who thought nothing of throwing his life away.”
Hyacinth shrugged. “It remains that your life is still with you, and maybe you are a rogue. You may not see yourself as such, but you as much as said that you ruined a woman in India, then let yourself be carried away by misplaced passion to the point of killing a man, a man who might have made an honest mistake.”
“I did not ruin her. It is different there. Not altogether different, but different. And I do not believe my passions were misplaced,” Mr. Smithson said. “Besides, he could not have done what he did innocently. He may not have recognized her, but she was, beyond doubt, a woman, and unarmed.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before continuing.
“Believe me, Miss Grey, I am well aware of the disservices I did her over the years, making her a stranger to her family for the sake of their pride, making her so much more alone than she might have been otherwise, but we had each other, and at the time it seemed it would be enough. She had her own house, and wasn’t kept in a harem with half a dozen other women, as some of the British officers kept their mistresses. No, I did the best I could. I ask you to believe that, at least. Can you?”
Hyacinth paced to the side of the boat and looked over the rail at the water gurgling slowly past. There was very little wind that night. She wondered again if perhaps it would be better to simply leave, to not continue this conversation. After a long minute of reflection, she answered.
“Yes,” she said, “I believe you, of course I believe you. You have no reason to lie to me, do you? We are strangers. We will probably never see each other again after we dock in Portsmouth. I certainly believe that you meant her no harm, and could have done worse. It isn’t enough, though.”