Stars Across the Ocean

by Kimberley Freeman

‘That is right, ma’am.’

  Now she knew for certain the money was not freely given by Julius. It had conditions: her return on a date of his choosing.

  Agnes softened as she thought of what Julius might say, were she to question him sharply. He would say he didn’t want to be parted from her so long, that he was only trying to protect her. She supposed she understood; the problem was that his care and protection resembled restraints and control, just the way she had been treated for nineteen years at Perdita Hall, where nobody had cared for her.

  She followed the steward along the deck and then through a door and down a narrow flight of stairs. The air here seemed stale and trapped. They arrived on a long corridor, barely more than a shoulder span across, with brass railings running the length of both walls between a series of numbered doors. He pointed out the two bathrooms at the end of the corridor, but then stopped at room twelve.

  ‘This is yours, ma’am. The keys will be inside, but …’ He paused and listened, and Agnes could hear it too: raucous laughter. ‘It sounds as though your roommate is already here.’

  ‘I was led to believe I had just one roommate,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, that is correct. It sounds as though she may have some friends with her.’

  Agnes steeled herself. The steward backed away and strode off down the wooden corridor, his white suit bright in the gloom. Agnes turned back to the door and pushed it open.

  All at once the laughter stopped, and four pairs of eyes were looking at her. Three young women and an older one, presumably their mother, who sat on a long couch with her feet up on Agnes’s trunks.

  ‘Hello,’ Agnes said.

  ‘Well, here is your roommate, Tempie,’ the mother said, lazily removing her feet. She was a large woman, corpulent and ruddy, dressed in a grey taffeta gown that strained at the seams.

  One of the daughters, a plump girl with mousy hair, ducked out of the bunk where she had been sitting and came to take Agnes’s hand. ‘I’m Tempie,’ she said.

  ‘Agnes,’ Agnes replied, noticing how very soft Tempie’s hand was.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed by my sisters and my mother. They don’t intend to stay. They are sharing cabin number seven. It’s quite a large one.’

  ‘I’m not alarmed at all,’ Agnes said, though she was spectacularly relieved. Tempie had a kind, soft face, but the two other girls were studying every inch of her from shoes to bonnet. ‘Pray, introduce me to your family.’

  ‘My mother, Mrs Dartforth; my sister, Mercy.’ Here, Tempie gestured to a dark-haired, sharp-eyed young woman who barely raised a smile. ‘And my other sister, Constance.’

  ‘Or you can call me Connie; I don’t mind,’ Constance said. Her hair was white-blonde and tightly curly. ‘It’s lovely to meet you.’ Nothing about her voice or her posture suggested this was the truth.

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Dartforth. ‘I suppose we should leave you to unpack. Tempie, will you come with us?’

  ‘I would rather like some quiet time to unpack too,’ Tempie said.

  Agnes went to her trunks and kneeled on the rug to unclip the clasps, listening but not watching them.

  ‘Quiet time?’ Constance sniffed. Agnes could identify her by her sharp voice. ‘Lord, but you are boring, Temperance Dartforth.’

  ‘Leave the poor girl be,’ Mrs Dartforth said. ‘You know she’ll never be the equal of either of you.’

  There was the sound of taffeta rustling, the air next to cheeks being kissed, and then the door closed and it was quiet.

  ‘Sorry,’ Tempie said.

  ‘What for?’ Agnes asked, turning to her.

  ‘My family.’

  Agnes held her tongue, although she wanted to say, They should apologise to you. Instead she said, ‘Be right, Tempie.’

  Now that the cabin was emptier, Agnes could take in all its detail. It was a small room, with wood-panelled walls and a lamp mounted on a brass fitting. On one side was the couch, built into the wall but lushly upholstered. Opposite was a set of bunk beds with white covers and pillows. Between, stood a dresser with four drawers and a large mirror. Behind the cabin door was a narrow wardrobe, built into the wall. The ceiling was painted iron, with rivets and girders visible. Light came from a round window above the couch.

  ‘It isn’t bad, is it?’ Tempie said.

  ‘Very comfortable.’ Agnes pulled out her nightgown and undergarments and began to fold them away in a drawer. ‘Will you miss your family down here?’

  ‘No. I volunteered to take a separate room from them.’

  ‘With a stranger,’ Agnes said, trying not to laugh.

  Tempie smiled, her cheeks flushing. ‘Quite. Look, Agnes, I know we’ve only just met but could I prevail upon you to let me sleep in the bottom bunk? Only, I’ve a dreadful fear of falling out in my sleep.’

  ‘I would prefer the top, so you see we are already perfectly compatible.’

  ‘I’m so glad. Are you going to Calcutta too?’

  ‘No, I am travelling all the way to Colombo,’ Agnes said, as she began to hang her dresses.

  ‘Colombo! On your own? Do you have family waiting there for you?’

  It was easier to say yes, then Tempie offered that she too was meeting family. Her father, in fact, who had been living in India for two years and had at last asked the rest of the family to join him.

  ‘I rather hope that Mother won’t be so difficult when she has her husband by her side again,’ Tempie said. ‘But that may be a silly thing to hope for.’

  Agnes finished unpacking, set her hairbrush on top of the dresser, and slid her trunks under the bottom bunk next to Tempie’s. She reached up to tuck her purse under her pillow.

  Tempie said, ‘I am not good at conversation.’

  ‘I need none,’ Agnes said.

  ‘I like to read and think quietly. Would you be offended if I did that until dinnertime?’

  ‘I would be delighted,’ Agnes replied.

  Tempie smiled. ‘You’re right. Perfectly compatible.’

  Agnes climbed the ladder at the end of the bunk and flopped down on the bed. It was deep and soft, and the boat rocked gently. She breathed out slowly. She was on her way.

  •

  The first- and second-class passengers shared a dining room and saloon, and it was into this first room that Agnes and Tempie entered together, after having spent an afternoon in perfectly blissful silence and then helping each other to dress. There were twenty-eight passengers in all at this end of the ship, many already seated at two long dining tables that, Agnes noted, were bolted to the floor. A glistening chandelier hung from the ceiling, but the same rather grim wood panelling made the room seem dim and small. Tempie’s mother beckoned them grandly, and Tempie leaned into Agnes and said, ‘I’m afraid I must join my family, but you are free to sit where you please.’

  ‘Come along!’ Mrs Dartforth called. ‘You too, Agnes. It won’t do for a young woman to be sitting among strangers.’

  ‘Well, that’s settled then,’ Agnes said lightly.

  Two long upholstered seats sat either side of the dining table, and Agnes followed Tempie and Constance down one side, and ended up sitting opposite Mrs Dartforth and sharp-eyed Mercy, who gazed haughtily around the room as the ship rolled softly beneath them.

  ‘Ugh,’ Mrs Dartforth said as the ship lurched. ‘I have been quite ill all afternoon.’

  ‘Wait until we reach the Bay of Biscay later this evening,’ Tempie said. ‘We shall all be sick as cats eating rats!’

  ‘Delightful,’ Mercy sneered.

  ‘Temperance likes to read about ships,’ Constance offered, as though it explained all her sister’s failings.

  The table slowly filled up. Introductions were passed between people who were close enough to offer them. Agnes met the ship’s Reverend and his daughter, a gap-toothed girl of about fourteen. Across from the Reverend sat a missionary and his wife, who were on their way to Colombo. Beside Mrs Dartforth sat a pair of young gentlemen who simpered at them blushingly. Me
rcy looked fed up before the food was even served, and Constance threw another casual, careless insult at Tempie. Agnes had already had quite enough of the Dartforth family.

  ‘Is it true you like reading about ships?’ Agnes said quietly, so that only Tempie could hear.

  Tempie kept her voice low too. ‘Oh yes. I have books and books. I know all of the different types and I even have a whole book of route maps that my uncle gave me. I love them so much. I wanted so badly to go to India on a real sailing ship, but Mother wouldn’t have it. Steamships are not real ships, you see. Steamships are changing the way men connect with the sea. The thrill of it is dissipating.’ Then Tempie stopped, blushed. ‘I suppose you think me a fool.’

  Agnes smiled. ‘Quite the opposite. What an interesting girl you are.’

  ‘It’s just when I think about ships and the way they travel, it makes me feel as though the world is vast and beckoning. My family say it’s a silly thing for a girl to be interested in.’

  ‘They don’t know everything.’

  Tempie smiled shyly.

  Their meals began to arrive, and Agnes learned to eat with the sea moving under her. At one stage, a great lurch sent everyone’s plates sliding, and it was only with quick reflexes and a lot of laughter that they were saved from ending up in laps or on the floor. Mrs Dartforth found out the names of the young gentlemen and introduced them to her daughters as the Misters Glynn, brothers though they resembled each other not at all. The mousy nondescript one was named Leonard and the sad-eyed one with dark hair was named Peter. Agnes was more interested in chatting with Tempie or the missionaries.

  After dinner, they were invited through to the gallery saloon for the evening’s entertainment.

  By contrast to the cramped dining room, the saloon was open and gleaming with gas-lights that hung on each huge pillar. The cornices were elaborately moulded, the floor covered in patterned carpet, and all along the walls and around the pillars were positioned thick, padded chairs. At one end, a wide staircase led back up to the quarterdeck. Behind it, a long, dim corridor ran off, presumably towards more cabins and down to the mail rooms and lower-class decks. At the other end, just to the side of the entrance to the dining room, was a wooden dance floor and a stage, where a heavily rouged lady and a weary-browed man were arguing softly over the grand piano.

  ‘Let us sit at the other end,’ Mrs Dartforth said. ‘I simply cannot bear music. It is always too loud and too insistent.’

  Agnes thought about sitting with the missionary couple, but she couldn’t leave Tempie at the mercy of her family, so she followed them to the other end of the saloon, where they sat in an alcove. The young gentlemen, much to Mrs Dartforth’s evident delight, joined them. Piano music started, and the rouged woman sang. At first, they played a few sad folk tunes, but then the tempo picked up and a waltz began. Mrs Dartforth, her eagle eyes on the young gentlemen, said, ‘My daughters love to dance.’

  Immediately, Mousy Leonard Glynn stood and asked Constance to dance. Agnes could see in Constance’s eyes the flicker of disappointment. Clearly she’d had her sights set on his mopey brother, Peter. Nonetheless, she went with him, and then Peter stood and offered his hand to Agnes.

  ‘No, no, not me,’ Agnes said quickly. Quite apart from the fact she had no interest in Mister Glynn, she had never learned to dance and did not desire to make a fool of herself.

  ‘Yes, not her,’ Mrs Dartforth interjected. ‘What about my other daughter, Mercy?’

  Mercy smiled, but even her smile was cruel. Peter Glynn was reluctantly redirected and took Mercy to the dance floor.

  ‘It’s a pity they haven’t another brother for you,’ Mrs Dartforth said to Tempie, almost as an afterthought.

  ‘I am much happier not dancing,’ Tempie said.

  ‘Yes, that’s very wise. A girl of your size looks foolish dancing. It’s a pity you must eat everything you see, Tempie.’

  Tempie’s shoulders sagged forward, and Agnes grew enraged with the vile Mrs Dartforth, who was easily one-and-a-half times Tempie’s size.

  ‘I think you are very bonny,’ Agnes said to Tempie, quietly so Mrs Dartforth wouldn’t hear.

  ‘Thank you, Agnes, but I know I am not. My sisters got all the beauty, but I like to think I got a good mind.’

  ‘So you did. And a good heart, which counts for something too.’

  The dancers returned and Peter Glynn asked Agnes to dance again, and she was forced to say that as she was lately recovering from an injury she would not be dancing tonight or any night on the journey. It was partly true; Julius had told her not to exert herself lest her ankle swell up again. Peter declared that then he wouldn’t dance either, and both Constance and Mercy protested loudly and Mrs Dartforth gave Agnes an icy stare. The young men sat with them and Agnes tried to lean away from the conversation, but Peter was insistent in his attention to her, and so the other girls pulled their chairs closer and Agnes was trapped among them.

  ‘I rather think the singer has a nasty voice,’ Constance said. ‘You know I can sing. Like a bird.’

  ‘That’s hardly true, Connie,’ Mercy said. ‘You are too imaginative with the truth.’

  ‘Don’t be beastly,’ Constance replied. ‘You know that I sang for Mister Hammersmith’s party and everybody loved it.’

  ‘I have no doubt you sing like an angel,’ Leonard told Constance, and she smiled at him tightly without meeting his eye.

  ‘Do you sing, Agnes?’ Peter asked.

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘Surely this is modesty. You must have many accomplishments.’

  ‘I do not,’ Agnes repeated.

  Mrs Dartforth’s eye took a magpie glint. ‘Why, we know nothing about you; not even your surname.’

  ‘Resolute,’ Agnes replied.

  ‘Unusual! Who was your father? What kind of name is that?’

  Agnes was tired of Mrs Dartforth, and the three weeks ahead seemed very long. ‘It’s Hungarian,’ she lied. ‘My father was a Hungarian bearskin trader. He is now in the grave, along with my mother, who was the last daughter of a dissolute noble family from the north of England. I travel to Ceylon to live with an uncle whom I’ve never met, who owns an enormous cinnamon plantation and is obscenely wealthy. But I have only ever seen a portrait of him and he has no pity in his eyes.’

  There was a moment of perplexed silence, and then Mrs Dartforth said, ‘Well, then,’ with a loud puff, and Peter exclaimed at the same time, ‘Poor orphaned girl!’ and it all became too much for Agnes. She stood and excused herself, and made for the staircase, up and out through the panelled alcove and through the door to the deck.

  It was drizzling, and clouds covered the stars. She sank down on the very same bench where she had sat and watched London disappear behind her that morning, heedless of the wet. The air was fresh and salty, and she took huge gulps of it. She thought about Julius, and compared him to Leonard and Peter Glynn, and wondered why she hadn’t agreed to marry him. The ship steamed on into the night, leaving England, and Julius, further and further behind.

  •

  Agnes woke in the night to a hacking, choking noise. She took a moment to orient herself, eyes running over the girders above her. The ship. That’s where the pitch and sway came from: she was out on the ocean, somewhere between England and Ceylon. The sea was fierce; rain thundered overhead. And in the bunk below, Tempie was vomiting.

  ‘Tempie?’ Agnes asked, sitting up.

  ‘Oh, Agnes, I’m so sick,’ Tempie managed, before coughing wetly again.

  Agnes folded back her covers and put her bare feet on the cold rungs of the iron ladder. The ship yawed dramatically, and she clung tightly to the rails on the way down.

  ‘It must be a storm,’ Agnes said, inching in beside Tempie. The sour smell of vomit was strong in the air.

  ‘I had nothing to vomit into, so I used this hatbox,’ Tempie said. She sat up, dishevelled in the dark. ‘But I think I have it in my hair.’

  Agnes patted her shoulder. ‘I will
go to the bathroom and fetch you some water and a cloth.’

  ‘Would you? I’m so wretched, and I don’t think I’d make it all the way down the hallway without being sick again.’

  ‘Wait here.’

  Agnes climbed off the bed and opened the door to their cabin. The lamps all along the way were lit, a gentle golden glow in the stormy night. The ship seemed to rise and slap down on the sea hard, and Agnes had to hold the rail all the way up the corridor so she didn’t fall over. But she didn’t feel sick, not at all. She’d known she wouldn’t. She’d known she and the sea would get along just fine.

  The rug was soft under her bare feet. She staggered down the hall and then opened the door to the bathroom. A bureau by the bathtub had dozens of folded towels and washers in it; on the stand were four china jugs of water. Agnes doused two washers in water and then made her way back down the corridor, the whole world rolling beneath her. The cabin door creaked shut behind her on its own. Tempie had lit the lamp, and Agnes could see she was pale and shaking. The hatbox sat on the ground beside the bunks.

  ‘That will have to be thrown over the side,’ Agnes said, pushing it aside with her toe. ‘Here.’ She wiped Tempie’s face and chest. ‘Your nightgown is all soiled. Do you have another?’

  Tempie nodded and indicated the drawer. Agnes found a cotton nightgown and helped Tempie out of her dirty one. Her big soft body was as white as a lily. Agnes helped her dress, tied the ribbons at her cuffs and collar for her, then sponged the vomit out of her hair.

  ‘Thank you, Agnes,’ Tempie said. ‘I can’t think what I’ve done to deserve such kindness.’

  ‘Everyone deserves such kindness,’ Agnes said. ‘Lie down. I think it’s fighting the rolling that makes you sick. Lie down and roll with it.’

  Tempie did as she was told and Agnes found a spot on the side of the bed, from where she could stroke Tempie’s hair. ‘You have to imagine that you’re an infant, and this is a big cradle. Let it soothe you.’

  ‘My belly does not feel soothed,’ Tempie protested. ‘Why are you not seasick, Agnes? Have you been on the ocean before?’

  ‘Never,’ Agnes said. ‘I crossed the Channel. That is all.’