by Fay Weldon
How could her arrest be connected to Ryan’s death? It made no sense. If Mr Dillon was in search of a scandal then perhaps she been too hasty in trusting him.
Laurence took the negative from the wallet. He opened the stationery box and removed a piece of paper that looked almost identical. He placed the plain paper on top of the negative and then fixed both beneath the glass. He removed the wooden plate from the top of the press so that the sunlight was falling directly onto the glass.
‘It will take approximately fifteen minutes. For goodness sake sit down, Rhia, you look as though you’re about to fall over. I keep a spirit lamp and coffee pot in my washroom, would you care for a glass?’
She smiled. The thought alone revived her.
‘I’ll take that to be a yes,’ he said. He disappeared through a panelled door behind her.
Rhia perched on the chair, allowing the soft upholstery and the lilting blue and green through the window to soothe her. She was still smiling. Coffee, a friend and a comfortable chair. It seemed the most extraordinary luxury.
The paper beneath the press was changing colour.
Laurence returned and placed a steaming glass in her hand. His fingers brushed hers, but she did not thrill at it. She wished she had. She inhaled the sharp fragrance rising from the glass. Laurence turned away to check on the transfer and beckoned her over.
Beneath the glass, a shadowy outline was forming in shades of brown. Some of the gradations were almost purple, while others had a reddish tinge. The image became sharper by the moment. A group of men stood on a lawn before a stone wall and plentiful ivy. It was the garden at Cloak Lane. She stood perfectly still in case she disturbed the spell that sunlight was working on salt and silver. More detail appeared. The shine of a patent shoe, the grain of cloth, the bristle of whiskers. Rhia leaned closer, completely transfixed. The tableau was almost complete. She recognised four of the five men: Ryan, Mr Montgomery, Mr Beckwith and Isaac Fisher. The fifth man, another Quaker, identifiable by his flat, wide-brimmed hat and collarless coat, could only be Josiah Blake. He had a round, kind face and, unlike the others, he was gazing into the lens with an intensity that made Rhia feel that she was prying. Of the five men, two were dead.
Laurence was nodding as if he understood something. ‘This is the portrait Antonia took last summer,’ he said. ‘She couldn’t bring herself to transfer the image, to see Josiah.’ Laurence faltered. It was strange for him, too, to look at Josiah. Just as it was for her to see her uncle.
She could not take her eyes from Ryan. He was smiling, his eyes laughing and his cravat tied rakishly. Mr Montgomery looked dashing, his posture elegant and erect and his face relaxed. Mr Beckwith was stooped and awkward but he had straightened his necktie and smoothed his hair. Isaac Fisher looked as inscrutable as always.
‘I am stunned,’ she said finally. ‘I suppose I should give it to Margaret so that she can keep it with the negative. I assume Juliette wanted her mother to see the portrait for some reason. Do you think Antonia gave it to Juliette, though?’
Laurence shook his head. ‘I cannot believe she would, though I suppose she might have decided that she couldn’t ever face seeing Josiah. It is impossible to know.’
‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Rhia agreed.
Laurence shrugged. ‘The maid has always been … unpredictable. Though I’d be curious to know her reasoning, if there is any. You take the negative for now, and once I’ve fixed the image I’ll have Albert deliver the portrait to you.’
Rhia nodded. ‘Is it four o’clock yet?’ Laurence pulled a timepiece from the pocket of his waistcoat.
‘Almost.’ He lifted the glass plate and removed the negative gently. He replaced it in its wallet and gave it to Rhia. When it was safely in her apron pocket, he took her hand again.
‘Rhia,’ he began hesitantly, ‘you know, there is a way I could help.’ She knew what he was going to say. Could she marry Laurence? Was she a fool if she didn’t? It seemed, in many ways, to be the only thing to do. She was fond of Laurence; they were friends. Perhaps the rest would come. She needed to think. ‘I must go. I’ll be in trouble.’ She left before he could say anything else.
In the mess, Margaret was at the table comforting a tearful Nelly, whose girth was now as round as a butter churn. Miss Hayter was settling a dispute over whose turn it was to take the pail up to the deck. Rhia beckoned to Margaret when Nelly went to her hammock to continue weeping. Margaret listened silently to her description of the portrait, but looked increasingly distressed.
‘Throw me from the mason’s cliff,’ she said finally. ‘What if the maid was being truthful! Margaret closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and looked at Rhia squarely. ‘I shouldn’t tell you, but I can’t keep it a secret now, can I? Juliette thinks that one of the men in the picture is a murderer.’
Cross stitch
Rhia lay in her hammock, pushing her hand against the wall to make it swing. It helped her to think. If her arrest was connected to Ryan’s death, then presumably someone wanted her out of London. Why, she did not know, nor why Juliette thought that one of the men in the portrait was a murderer, nor what her mother in Sydney might have to do with it. Which man did she think was a killer, and who had he killed? Possibly one of the dead men was the murderer and his own death an act of retribution. The more she thought, the more confused she became. She needed to talk to Laurence. But what if he asked her to marry him? It was a risk she’d have to take.
At least now she knew that her answer must be no.
She slipped from her cabin. The deck was silent and the moon huge. The ocean looked as black as pitch and she shivered as she remembered another part of the story of Manannán and Rhiannon. Manannán only allowed the lost land to rise from beyond the sea every seven years. Seven years was the length of her sentence.
She encountered no one as she crept along the back passageway Albert had shown her, but as she neared the galley the shadow of a man lengthened into the passageway. The cook had almost collided with her before she had time to retreat. He muttered something in his own language before he lifted his lantern and looked at Rhia.
‘You a prisoner, huh?’
She nodded, wondering if he would report her. The face illuminated by the lantern was gaunt and listless; his eyes strangely vacant. She had seen sailors in the port of Dublin that looked like this, who came in on the junks from Hong Kong or Canton. Nell the Fryer called China ‘the kingdom of the walking dead’. The spell of opium made it impossible for them to inhabit either the world of the living or that of the dead. Rhia waited for the cook to say something else, but he didn’t. He wore a faded, colourless tunic and wide-legged trousers and no shoes. On one skinny forearm was a small tattoo of a Chinese character. The character looked familiar. At his waist sagged a leather belt from which hung several canvas scabbards, and from them protruded the smooth wooden hilts of his cooking knives, too precious to leave unattended. After a moment of scrutiny, he turned his back on Rhia and disappeared.
Just as Rhia was silently congratulating herself on finding her way to the passenger deck, a figure blocked the deck in front of her. Another lantern was lifted and this time Mr Wardell’s face was illuminated. He didn’t look pleased. He peered at her for a moment before he recognised her.
‘Mahoney. You know that it is forbidden for prisoners to leave their quarters without permission.’
Rhia thought quickly. ‘Yes, I know, but Margaret Dickson has taken ill and needs the surgeon. I was looking for the infirmary.’
Mr Wardell’s eyes narrowed. ‘The infirmary is on the starboard side. I’ll fetch the surgeon myself. Please return to your cabin.’ Rhia did as she was told. She would not be able to see Laurence, and Margaret would probably deny that she had sent for help, but there was nothing to be done.
Rhia returned to her hammock, but sleep was impossible. She sat up and lit a taper, then reached for her book. She found the calling card from Ryan’s room and examined the Chinese symbol. She knew tho
ugh, before she even looked at it closely, that the character she had seen on the cook’s forearm was the same as the one on the reverse of the card. She put it back into the book and took out her pen.
1 May 1841
I remember from your stories that Manannán can conjure storms powerful enough to sink ships, and that he can carry mortals safely to his island. If it is Manannán that I am afraid of, then why am I named after his consort? Is something to be learnt from these infernal stories? I am overtired.
The door opened, flooding the cabin with the rosy light of early morning. Laurence stood smiling at her. He must have known she’d been looking for him. Rhia sat up. ‘I wanted to talk to you,’ she said.
‘I thought so,’ he said.
‘One of the men in the portrait is a murderer.’
‘Ah.’
‘Is that all you can say!’
‘Rhia. I wanted to help you, but I don’t know how I can, now.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’m not sure that I love you anyway.’
‘I had wondered …’ He disappeared and the door closed. Rhia lay down again. At least she didn’t have to make a decision now.
Margaret was not in her hammock: so she’d played along with the infirmary story after all. Rhia was rostered with Nora to take all the bedding onto the poop deck, above the quarterdeck, where the blankets were shaken out and aired once a week. Nora scowled when she realised that her companion was to be Rhia. She swung a sackful of bedding at her, almost bowling her over, then hauled her own bundle onto her broad shoulder as if it were a bag of feathers. They climbed the ladder without a word.
On the quarterdeck, half a dozen of the youngest seamen were on their knees in a line, tarring and caulking the timbers and quietly singing a shanty, alternating a solo and chorus. The language bore similarities to Irish, so it was probably Welsh or Manx. A cauldron of pitch was smoking on a huge brazier. The pitch, Albert said, kept the cracks between the decking sealed. The endless washing down of the timbers that Rhia had at first thought uncharacteristically clean and fastidious, also had a purpose. It kept the wood from shrinking in the equatorial heat. When the sea was calm ‘ventilations’ – variously called scuttles and ports – were opened in the hull so that the warm air could circulate throughout and dry out any parts that were damp and musty. Describing the area below decks as damp and musty was kind. It was, at best, rancid.
Several of the deck hands paused to watch Rhia and Nora pass, their eyes riveted to Nora’s imposing bosom. The singing stopped and a remark was made about cannon balls. A low laugh tripped along the line of boys. They had chosen the wrong woman. Nora dropped her sack on the deck and put her ham hands on her vast hips.
‘I don’t suppose you little sods have seen the glories beneath a woman’s petticoats, but if you’ve not the guts to look her in the eye, you’ll get nowhere near her bloomers.’ It wasn’t entirely true, but an impressive sermon all the same. Nora tossed her head and picked up her bundle, walking straight across the decking that was being caulked, so the boys had to move out of her way.
When they reached the ladder to the poop deck, Rhia was laughing. She stole a glance at Nora who was also laughing. Their eyes met and, for the first time, Nora didn’t scowl at her. As they came to the top of the ladder and were at eye level with the upper deck, they heard low voices. Captain Ferguson and Miss Hayter were embracing. Someone coughed close by and they hastily pulled apart and retreated.
Albert poked his head out from behind a coil of rope. Nora sighed. ‘Is there no peace from bloody sailors? Go on, Mahoney, go see what the little squint wants.’
Albert was sitting with his back resting against the rope, whittling at a piece of wood with a short-bladed dagger.
‘Mornin’, Mahoney.’ Albert looked smug. ‘I expect ye’ll be wanting to get a message to your sweetheart?’
‘I do need to speak with him, as it happens. Would you see if he could visit me? Perhaps tonight?’
Albert grinned and kept whittling. ‘Could do.’
‘Albert, do you know if Margaret Dickson is in the infirmary?’
‘Aye. They took her in last night. Groaning and carrying on, she was.’ Albert shook his head. ‘I heard Mr Donovan say she’s got acute something-or-other and he’s tried castor oil, chalk mixture and sulphate of something-or-other.’
‘That’s very informative.’
Albert grinned. ‘I’ll go see your fancy man now. He likes to be up early – something to do with the light.’ He tipped his cap and disappeared down the hatch.
Before they had shaken out even half of the bedding, there was a burst of shouting, as if a squall was approaching. They leant over the railing to look down onto the quarterdeck where the sailors who had been caulking were standing in a huddle listening to something that James, the gangly ship’s boy was telling them. In another moment James appeared on the poop deck. He looked frightened.
‘You’re to return to the mess immediately, captain’s orders.’
‘So now the captain’s ordering us about too,’ Nora muttered sullenly. They stuffed the blankets back in their sacks and heaved them down the ladders and steps to the orlop.
There was a hum of excitement as more and more women returned below from various early morning chores. A rumour was spreading that there would be no prayer service, which made it feel like a holiday, until Miss Hayter came below and the hatch was closed from above.
‘What’s all the fuss about, Matron?’ asked Agnes, as they collected around the table. No one seemed to know anything, not even someone who had been keeping company with the captain.
‘You’re all to be confined below for the day,’ Miss Hayter said calmly. ‘All that I can tell you is that a crime has been committed. Mr Wardell, Mr Donovan and Captain Ferguson are conducting enquiries.’
A moment later the hatch opened again and a pair of bare feet appeared, descending the ladder slowly, followed by a dirty hem. Margaret smiled wanly as she arrived at the bottom of the ladder, but wouldn’t look Rhia in the eye.
‘Are you a suspect, Dickson?’ asked Jane.
‘Suppose so. I’m just happy to be away from Mr Donovan’s stinking potions.’
They took out their last few strips of patchwork, even though the light was poor. They were only days off Rio, and the final quilt was almost completed.
Margaret looked like she wanted to get back into her hammock, but she stayed at the table with the others. ‘I’ve had an idea,’ she said mysteriously, and paused tantalisingly for effect.
‘Come on, Dickson,’ snapped Nora, ‘let’s have it.’
‘In time, in my own sweet time. What I’m thinking is, since we’ve all benefited from the charity of the ladies in grey, why don’t we do something to show our appreciation?’
‘Oh yes,’ breathed Nelly. ‘But what?’
‘A quilt, but not a coverlet like the ones for Rio, a pretty one that they could hang somewhere, with writing on it, saying how much we’re grateful for their efforts.’
There was a chorus of approval.
‘That’s a fine idea, Dickson,’ said Miss Hayter. ‘I could even ask the governor’s wife to put it on the next ship back to London.’
‘Ask her to have it delivered to Mrs Blake,’ said Margaret, ‘she runs the Convict Ship committee. She visited many of us at Millbank.’ Miss Hayter nodded her approval. ‘I know Mrs Blake. We’ll start on it today. It would take our minds off … other things.’
‘I could start on the cross stitch,’ offered Margaret, ‘if we were allowed a lamp or two, Matron.’ The lamp oil was running low so it was now against the rules to light lanterns by daylight, but it may as well be night with the hatch closed.
‘Yes, Dickson, good point. You can’t be expected to stay down here all day in the dark.’
A few women started looked through their patchwork pieces for the pretty scraps they had been saving. Agnes remained sitting with her arms crossed, glowering, and both Georgina and Sarah had returned to their hammocks.
‘So this quilt isn’t for selling?’ Agnes snapped.
‘That’s right,’ Margaret retorted. ‘It’s a gift.’
‘Well, that’s a foolish idea if ever I heard one,’ grumbled Agnes. ‘What’s the point in that?’
Miss Hayter said she thought it might do to make a fancy border for the dedication in broderie perse, a type of appliqué made from cutting out a pattern from upholstery chintz and stitching it into place.
‘Has anyone chintz?’ she asked. If anyone had chintz, they were keeping quiet about it. It was expensive cloth and might do nicely, one day, to make into a throw for the back of an armchair, or to pretty up a cushion.
Rhia couldn’t bear for her chintz to be cut up and sewn into a quilt to be sent back to England.
‘We’ll need to think carefully about the design before we start,’ said Miss Hayter.
‘What if it were a medallion design,’ Rhia suggested tentatively, ‘concentric rows.’
Agnes rolled her eyes. ‘Oh shut your trap, Mahoney.’ She frowned. ‘What’s concentric anyway?’
‘Stripes in a circle, you fool,’ hissed Nora.
Miss Hayter was nodding. ‘Good, Mahoney. Splendid. If each of you sews one band, then we would have ten strips.’
They passed the time till lunch choosing prints and colours, and whatever was going on above decks was temporarily forgotten. This new quilt was going home. It had meaning.
They agreed that the strips of patchwork would radiate out from the central panel that bore Margaret’s dedication, like a medallion. Two of the strips would be much wider than the others and backed with plain linen and appliquéd with a simple flower motif with each petal sewn from a printed cloth. One of these wider panels would surround the centrepiece and the other would form the outer edge of the quilt.
Rhia took her patchwork and sat beside Margaret at the end of the table. At close quarters, Margaret looked tenser than she seemed at first. She was sewing so quickly that she had almost stitched an entire letter before Rhia remembered that she had the negative in her apron pocket. She nudged Margaret with her elbow and passed it, beneath the table.