Against the Wind

by April Hill

  “I see,” he replied, mildly. “Unfortunately, it’s hardly an ideal day to practice seamanship, Miss Fowler, but if you still wish to pursue a career as an able seaman, I’ll be happy to send you aloft on the rat lines when the weather clears. For now, though, I would go below, if I were you, until the sea is a bit easier, and the wind lighter.”

  “Thank you,” she said, as haughtily as she could mange while the bile in her throat beginning to rise, again. “But I’m quite comfortable where I am. Actually, I find the weather exhilarating.”

  McAllister smiled, and as he turned to leave, he reached down to the deck and handed her a large bucket, half-filled with frozen water.

  “Have a pleasant day, Miss Fowler. Cook informs me that we have creamed oysters and jellied tripe for supper.”

  Emily gagged, and vomited into the bucket.

  She did not go to supper, or to breakfast the following day, and when she finally emerged from the cabin and stumbled above again, the sun was glistening on a gentle sea and a brisk breeze was filling the Liza’s sails. Everyone aboard seemed to be on deck, enjoying the improved weather and happily anticipating the ship’s arrival in Halifax. It was possible, though, that Emily was anticipating the end of the voyage with even greater relief than her companions.

  At supper, that evening, McAllister announced their imminent arrival.

  “I’m sure you’ve noticed, ladies and gentlemen, that we’ve been blessed these last two days with a leading wind and clear sailing. If these conditions hold, we should make land tomorrow at Cape Sable, and not long thereafter, we’ll be docking at Halifax. I have no doubt that those of you traveling on to London on the steamship Mary Caroline will find a bit more comfort than my poor vessel has afforded you.” He paused as a ripple of polite laughter went from passenger to passenger at the long table. “Still, I hope you have had as pleasant voyage as possible, and that your passage to England is smoother, and warmer. Thank you, and a good evening to all.”

  Emily was up early the next morning, hoping to be the first to catch sight of the coast of Nova Scotia. She was relieved to see no sign of the captain. She didn’t want to risk another unpleasant scene. Like many of the sea-going men she had met throughout the years, Emily regarded McAllister as a bully, and a lout. Exactly the sort she hoped to escape by marrying a gentleman like Mr. Withers. An educated person who could speak of art and music, with aspirations to something beyond a bulging hold of stinking fish or a profitable cargo of potatoes and lard.

  She had been on deck for only a few minutes when McAllister appeared at the helm, in the company of two other men, one of whom she recognized as the Elizabeth B. Portman’s first officer. She made quickly for the hatch, but McAllister saw her, and approached.

  “Miss Fowler, a moment of your time, if I may?”

  Emily threw her hair back and attempted a haughty look, with only mild success.

  “What is it, Captain? I have things to do before we land, if you don’t mind.”

  “Please. This will take only a moment. I had intended to apologize when we last spoke, before you became so suddenly ill, but, with your permission, I would like to do it now. It has come to my attention, Miss Fowler, that you are somewhat older than I had reason to surmise, by your … your diminutive height and demeanor. Had I known your true age, I surely would not have … would not have treated you, or your person, in the indiscreet manner in which I did. Without the intention of doing so, I’m afraid I’ve been guilty of an act of unforgivable disrespect.”

  Emily cast a cold eye on him. Without realizing it, Ethan McAllister had just offended her pride almost as hatefully as he had in publicly chastising her. Throughout her adulthood, Emily had been teased relentlessly about her small stature and youthful appearance, and she did not find it flattering, especially as she prepared to begin life as a married woman.

  “You are suggesting, as I understand it, Captain, that I look like a child?”

  McAllister flushed. “No, not at all. I simply mistook your size and lack of …” He stopped. The conversation was not going as he had intended.

  “Lack of what?” she demanded. “You are an intolerable boor, Captain, in addition to being a very poor judge of either age or maturity. No apology is necessary, however, since I do not make it a practice to hold persons of low intelligence, such as yourself, to normal standards of etiquette or decency. I am twenty-seven years of age, and unaccustomed to being treated like a …” She stopped, unable to think of a word that wasn’t vulgar.

  McAllister was smiling again, in that irritating and superior manner she had observed at their first disagreeable encounter.

  “Treated like? Excuse me, but what was it you were about to say, Miss?”

  “You know perfectly well what I meant, sir! Or, could it be that you are as slow-witted as you are rude?”

  McAllister’s smile faded, and he clasped his hands behind his back, unable to trust himself. He would have liked nothing better at this moment than to throw this unendurable little wretch across the rail and use Mr. Johnson’s wide strap on her obnoxious ass.

  “Fortunately for both of us,” he said grimly, “this voyage is nearing its end. If I am extremely lucky, and obey each and every commandment, and if I am very, very generous to the poor, perhaps God will grant my sincere wish that I never lay eyes on you again. Closely seen, Miss Fowler, I would now have to confess that you look every day of your twenty-seven years, and it is only your appalling behavior that makes you seem a child. Children as insufferable as yourself usually profit from being soundly and frequently spanked, and were I your sainted mother or your unfortunate intended spouse, you would have your drawers lowered and your insolent backside blistered at least once a day and twice on Sundays, until you had learned some manners. Good day, Madam!”

  For perhaps the first time in the twenty-six years since she had learned to speak, Emily was speechless.

  Chapter Two

  The next morning, having landed safely in Halifax, Reverend Mr. Fowler, Mrs. Fowler and Emily left their hotel dressed in their finest though somewhat damp apparel, and hired a carriage to drive them to the stately Greek revival residence of Mr. Harlan Withers I. The purpose of their visit was to conclude the final arrangements for Emily’s wedding ceremony, scheduled for the day after next. As they pulled up to the house, however, the bride chose this highly inopportune moment to lose her mind. Having already wept the entire distance from the hotel, she now adamantly refused to leave the carriage. Mrs. Fowler, her nerves frazzled, collapsed in hysterical tears on the Withers’ front stoop, leaving Gideon to reason with the unreasonable bride-to-be.

  “Emily, darling, please! Thee is upsetting thy poor mother! And for what purpose? I am begging thee to stop this unseemly and inappropriate outburst, lest we all be humiliated. Thy intended is certain to be nervous about this first meeting, as well, but we must go inside at once, for decorum’s sake, if nothing else.” The reprimand was as tender and quiet as he could manage, under these embarrassing circumstances. (The elder Mr. Withers’ roundish face had just appeared at an upper window, watching the spectacle on his doorstep with a look of alarm.) “We have come a very long way, at great expense, and at thy request, I might add. What on earth is wrong, my dear?”

  Emily blew her nose and tried to explain. “I simply cannot marry, Father. Not poor Mr. Withers. Not anybody! After much thought, I’ve decided that I was grievously mistaken in leaving the convent all those years ago. It is my fervent wish to return there, take my final vows, and live in perpetual chastity, as God clearly intended.”

  From the stair where she was seated, dripping copious tears onto the Withers’ polished flagstone, Naomi overheard these outlandish remarks, and summoned the last of her ebbing strength to push her husband aside and shove into the carriage alongside her daughter.

  “Emily, sweetheart,” she sobbed. “I believe I finally understand what is upsetting thee, and I am entirely to blame for thy current distress. I should have discussed these delicate
matters with thee before we left home.” The older woman dropped her voice and leaned close to Emily’s ear. “Please believe me, my dear, all women share the same fears before they wed. It is quite normal for a well-brought up young woman such as yourself to have apprehensions about these things.”

  Emily looked at her mother curiously, while Naomi dabbed at her reddened nose and blubbered on.

  “I have been married for almost twenty-nine years, Emily darling, and in all that time, thy dear father has been a perfect gentleman, as I’m certain that Mr. Withers will be. What is required of thee will not be burdensome, once thee has … adjusted, so to speak. There is always a certain amount of … well, let us call it discomfort on one’s wedding night, and for some time thereafter, I’m afraid. But before long, thee will find the entire nasty business nothing more than a nuisance, as all women do. I have found that it’s best to simply close thy eyes and use those disagreeable moments to plan thy weekly shopping and such. There are–”

  Emily interrupted, here eyes wide. “Mother, are you speaking of … of what I think you’re speaking?”

  Naomi flushed. She had hoped to avoid the use of certain indelicate words. “Well, yes dear. I was speaking of … of what might be called a woman’s marital duties. If thee is fortunate, thee will be with child very quickly, and Mr. Withers, as a gentleman, will not insist upon … approaching thee during those months. And if thee arranges, as some women do, to be get with child every year, there will be only a few occasions when thy husband will find it convenient to bother thee in that way.”

  Emily stared. “Then, that’s all there is, to …”

  Naomi sighed and patted her eyes dry. “These are things of an extremely embarrassing nature, Emily, but it is absolutely necessary, in these modern times, for a young woman to know precisely what is required of her. Thee mustn’t be frightened, dear, or unduly alarmed by what I am about to say. I only wish that my own dear mother had provided me with the complete details of what to expect, as I am about to do.” At this point, Mrs. Fowler closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, preparing to impart the disagreeable “complete details” to a confused Emily.

  “What will happen is this, darling,” she began, lowering her voice. “After the wedding festivities have concluded, thee and Mr. Withers will say goodnight to thy guests, and retire for the evening to Mr. Withers’ bedroom, where he will expect to exercise his rights as thy husband. And thee, as is thy wifely duty, will allow him to do so. “

  Emily nodded, a bit annoyed that her mother appeared to have finished speaking without having shed much light on the subject at hand. Like many other sheltered young women, Emily had spent many years gleaning information—accurate and otherwise—from the few sources available to her. The marital bedroom and what happened in it had long been the most popular area of discussion among her small circle of friends, and while she had managed to put together most of the pieces of the fascinating “male-female” puzzle, there were still a few loose ends that she would have liked to clear up.

  “And…?

  Naomi flushed. “Thee will have to remove thy undergarments and lie in bed with thy hair prettily arranged. When he joins thee, simply close thy eyes as tightly as possible and raise thy nightdress discreetly to thy waist. When Mr. Withers appears to be … ready, thee must then open thy legs as widely as possible, in order to enable him to … well, to do what it is he wishes to do in that location. There are those gentlemen, I understand, who insist upon additional, less delicate marital positions and practices, and if this is thy unfortunate lot, thee must try to bear them with dignity and fortitude. I fear that men’s tastes in this regard are sometimes … exotic.” She gave Emily’s knee a comforting part. “In any case, the entire unpleasant business usually requires only a few minutes, and then, life can continue as usual.”

  “But, Mother,” Emily stammered, her voice faltering as she struggled to find the words to discuss her parents’ marital intimacies. “In all these years with Father, has there been no pleasure for you, in this ‘business’ as you call it?”

  Mrs. Fowler’s eyes widened in horror. “Well, of course not, Emily! While it is Mr. Withers’ absolute right to do these things, thy duty is to endure them as bravely as possible. That is God’s law. My dear. It is given exclusively to men to revel in such behavior, not women. The only true reward for a woman in all of this unpleasantness is the children produced.”

  Suddenly, Emily dissolved into tears. “Oh, Mother!” she wept, “Forgive me, I beg you! Forgive all of us, Caleb and Chastity, as well! What a poor reward we must have seemed. Three dreadful, ungrateful children in return for all your years of noble sacrifice!”

  Naomi shook her head, thoroughly bewildered. Her explanation had all seemed so simple when she began it.

  Finally, looking very like Marie Antoinette on her way to the guillotine, Emily dried her eyes, took a deep breath, and stepped stoically from the carriage. Inside his father’s grand house, the wealthy Mr. Withers II was waiting impatiently to inspect his most recent purchase.

  That evening, when Ethan had seen to the off-loading of the cargo meant for Halifax, he left his ship lying at anchor and made his way to a small hotel he knew, where the food was tolerable and the beds clean. He would have a decent meal, a hot bath, and a good night’s rest ashore before continuing on to Newfoundland, without the added nuisance of passengers. A week or ten days from today, ice and weather permitting, and having transferred his remaining cargo to a London-bound steamship, he would reprovision the Liza, pick up his return cargo, and then take his sea-weary home to Boston for a much needed refitting.

  As the Liza’s master downed a slightly burned steak, several over-boiled potatoes, and a barely adequate bottle of wine, Emily Fowler was sitting down to a sumptuous dinner with her husband-to-be and her future in-laws. While she was approaching the evening with something less than enthusiasm, young Mr. Withers’ delight in his betrothed was so great he could barely contain himself.

  “You have such lovely hair,” Mr. Withers observed, leaning close to her ear to speak his sweet-nothings privately. “It catches the candlelight perfectly. I do believe it is the exact color of one of my mother’s own dear little spaniels!” Emily thanked him, smiling woodenly. She was accustomed to comments about her hair, but might still have appreciated the trite compliment had Mr. Withers not placed his wet tongue in her ear while delivering it—and kept his short, stubby fingers off her thigh. Indeed, it seemed to Emily that Mr. Withers II had a very odd perception of what was and what was not appropriate at a first meeting. He had twice found reason to drop a grape down her bodice and then ripple with delight at his own wit. (Emily had already noticed that Mr. Withers’ superfluous flesh rippled when he laughed, rippled when he walked, and would have rippled more but for the constraint of his very tight breeches and satin waistcoat.) Mr. Withers II was, to be absolutely truthful, a fop and a bore, and an uncommonly fat one, at that.

  After dinner had been concluded and the wedding day exhaustively planned, Emily and Chastity retired to their shared bedroom, which overlooked the Withers’ renowned but presently frozen garden. While Chastity wandered about, admiring the room’s décor, Emily slumped in a chair, brooding. She was searching for some gracious way of avoiding her wedding, and her wedding night, in particular. The mere idea of Harlan Withers II between her legs, exercising his marital duties was quite possibly the most unappealing thing Emily could imagine.

  The wedding would be a small and intimate affair—with only one hundred and seventy four guests in attendance—and would take place the day after tomorrow, in the house’s ornate ballroom. After the ceremony and reception had concluded, the elder Mr. Withers had explained, beaming, the bride and groom would retire to the groom’s private suite to consummate the happy union. The next morning, the bridal couple would depart by carriage for a short round of visits with various relatives, and on Wednesday next, they would finally board the steamer Mary Caroline, bound for London. Upon their arrival in that cit
y, the young couple would have another, appropriately splendid ceremony in the old family church, and settle into a serene life of ease and comfort.

  Meanwhile, having seen their beloved daughter duly married and safely off on her joyous wedding trip, Emily’s family would make the arduous trip back to Nantucket on Friday’s mail packet.

  As she listened to the plans being made for her, Emily made a silent vow to swallow poison rather than allow the event to occur.

  She had obviously been deceived. The portrait she had seen of her intended bridegroom had apparently been completed at a somewhat earlier date, when a somewhat younger Mr. Withers II was perhaps one hundred pounds lighter and in possession of a larger portion of his original hair. (In point of fact, Mr. Withers wore a wig, a snug cap covered with tight curls of a very peculiar color, which gave him the appearance of having sausages piled on his head, and did little to disguise his rapidly expanding baldness.) Moreover, Emily had discovered over dinner that Mr. Withers’ primary interests were cock fighting and the acquisition of fashionable footwear. He spoke knowledgeably of little else, beyond his “chickens,” (as Emily had inadvertently called them) and his extensive wardrobe, although he did admit to a “sinfully delirious passion” for a thrilling game of backgammon.

  Emily pondered how to describe to her parents her intense revulsion for Mr. Withers, and for the concept of taking Mr. Withers into her bed. She would sooner have been pecked to death by one of Mr. Withers’ nasty-tempered chickens than have his thick lips on hers. None of these objections, however, could be expressed with delicacy, and when she mentioned his faults to Chastity, they sounded a bit shallow and unkind, even to Emily, herself. Mr. Withers was fat. Mr. Withers was boring. Mr. Withers was bald. Mr. Withers was obsessed with chickens and shoes.

  “But he’s so terribly rich, Em!” Chastity’s response to her sister’s list of complaints was predictable. “You’ll have everything you want!” As she spoke, Chastity continued her tour of the enormous bedroom, greedily investigating the elegant accommodations. “You’ll have lovely jewelry, and a carriage of your own, and servants, and …”