by Jane Orcutt
“And I hope that you are, for though your intentions may be noble, I cannot believe that your method of revenge is pleasing to God.”
“Well, then.” He smiled. “It will be interesting to see whose expectations are met.”
“‘All things are possible to him that believeth.’” I smiled in return. Phineas Snowe was not the only one who could quote Scripture!
As though nothing had changed between us, that night Phineas picked up the story of Wo-Ping and Mei. The two had become romantically involved, but they still kept their weapons a secret from each other. When the villain convinced each of them that the other was plotting the village’s destruction, Wo-Ping retrieved his sword and Mei hers.
At last I would see them fight! I could see the intricate scrollwork on Wo-Ping’s sword and feel the delicate balance yet razor sharpness of Mei’s. When sword met sword, I saw sparks fly.
I forgot all about the Dignity and my own plans for China. I had fully entered the believable world Snowe spun, and it was as though I were an eyewitness to the battle. So it was with no small amount of bewilderment on my part when Wo-Ping suddenly ran, weightless, up the wall, and Mei followed him.
“What?” I cried aloud. “How can that be?”
“It is the story, Isabella. Accept it as it is. May I continue?”
I gave my consent somewhat unhappily. I had thought the story real. Yet more magical feats occurred than running up walls. Wo-Ping and Mei could all but fly, Wo-Ping made himself invisible, and Mei hurled balls of fire from her palms. Sadly, I stopped Snowe in midsentence. “I do not wish to hear any more.”
“For just tonight or any nights hence?” he said.
“I am not certain.” I felt shaken.
He was silent on his side of the canvas curtain. “It is but a story, Isabella. Do you believe that King Arthur truly tossed Excalibur into water, only to have it caught by the lady of the lake? Is Britain allowed her myths, but not China?”
I had no response.
“We are but a few days from Cape Town, where we will pass several nights. Perhaps we can resume the tale once we are aboard ship again.”
I rolled over, turning my back to the canvas. I could not explain my disappointment, but it was there nonetheless. “Perhaps,” I mumbled.
Other than the sound of water bumping the ship and the perpetual creak of timbers, our cabin was silent. At length I said, “You have yet to procure my sword, Phineas Snowe.”
He groaned. “Go to sleep, Isabella.”
The next morning I saw Miss Whipple strolling alone about the deck. The weather had indeed grown warmer as we sailed farther south, and she had abandoned her shawl. I thought that she looked quite respectable in a lovely blue muslin dress with a deeper blue ribbon in her hair. Mr. Gilpin did not seem to share my sentiments, however, as he passed her, barely acknowledged her presence, and moved on.
Flora would have boxed my ears for such behavior, but I could not stand to see Miss Whipple slighted. I fell in step beside her.
She glanced at me with surprise. “I was not certain if you would speak to me today.”
“Why ever not?” I said, smiling. “Perhaps it is Phineas who will not speak to you.”
“It would be of no consequence.” She shrugged. “I could not stand another moment whereby I knew he lied to you. You two have spoken?”
“Indeed we have.”
“The expression on your face indicates that the conversation was to your advantage.”
“I believe it was to both our advantages. Phineas knows that I will keep his secret, and now I do not have to worry about being left behind in Cape Town.”
“You should be careful, Miss Goodrich. He might yet find a way to change your plans.”
“Thank you for the counsel, but I believe not.”
We walked together in silence. Men overhead climbed the rigging, tending to some matter of a sail. Mr. Gilpin frowned at us, and I took Miss Whipple’s arm in my own and turned us aft. “Let us go astern.”
“Have you a peculiar desire to see the chickens on the poop deck?” she said, smiling. “Or do you hope to avoid Mr. Gilpin?”
“Both, if you must know.”
We climbed up to the poop deck. Mr. Swinney, the poulterer, was nowhere to be seen. The number of chickens and ducks had diminished since we set sail from England, and I thought somewhat guiltily of our past dinners.
Miss Whipple sat near an empty cage and studied the wake behind the ship. After a moment, she spoke. “I have thought about your offer to teach me, Miss Goodrich.”
I tried to conceal the smile from my face. “Indeed?”
She nodded. “If it would help you, I am willing to learn what you have to teach.”
“Is there anything in particular you wish to study?”
“I can read well enough, but I know little of history. I know little of Napoleon, for all the talk I hear of him.”
I sat beside her. “Is it the French who interest you?”
“To begin with. I would learn the history of England, of course. And the . . . what do you call them . . . ancient civilizations?”
“Mr. Gilpin loaned me some books on that very subject. We could start with those.”
Miss Whipple was silent for a moment. “I imagine you wonder how I came to be the type of person that I am.”
“It is not for my speculation, Miss Whipple,” I said, lowering my gaze.
“I did not choose my life. I made a foolish mistake in trusting a man to lead me from Portsmouth to London, but he abandoned me.” She paused. “I could not go home after that for fear of completely ruining my family.”
I touched her hand, moved by her plight. “I am sorry.”
She smiled bitterly. “Perhaps my story will have spared you from following after a man foolishly, though I think not. I believe that Phineas is not quite the same as the man who misled you originally, but he has misled you all the same.”
“Yes, he has. But I do not plan to stay with him once we reach China. I intend to find an established mission or someplace where I can serve, but I certainly will not travel with him.” I brightened. “Will you not go with me, Miss Whipple? I am certain that two ladies can help as well as one.”
“I am afraid that I am only suited for a life with men. That is why Phineas confided his plan to me, even though we never—” She looked away, coughing into her hand. “I would still like for you to teach me, if you are willing. But perhaps you do not want to be seen with me. Gilpin—”
“Mr. Gilpin is not master of my soul,” I said. “I would be delighted to teach you, but please . . . you must call me Isabella.”
She looked at me fully for the first time since we had sat down. She smiled. “Only if you will call me Julia.”
Mr. Calow solemnly informed me one morning that ships approaching the Cape of Good Hope were often besieged by violent winds. I could not imagine going through another storm. Indeed, he must have thought my expression particularly alarmed, for he hastened to add that hardly ever were the ships wrecked, though he repeated “hardly ever” as though reassuring himself as well. Fortunately for us all, we encountered no problems and soon sailed into Cape Town, docking at Table Bay.
I knew a little of the town, of course, but nothing prepared me for the joy I would feel at the sight of land again after so many days at sea. Particularly land as beautiful as this historic town. Phineas and I stood together on deck to watch as we docked, and I could scarcely say a word.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” I murmured, glancing at the crystalline beach and a large mountain in the distance towering overhead.
“That is Table Mountain,” Phineas said. “It appears clear today, but at times the top is shrouded in mist and fog.”
I fanned myself with my hand. “I cannot believe that we have traveled so far and to find the weather so changed. I have read that the climate is different below the equator but never dreamed I would experience it for myself.” I turned my attention from the scene and smiled. �
�But you must find me silly, for you have traveled this course many times.”
He smiled down at me. “I have not seen the journey through your eyes. I find the view most enjoyable.”
I caught my breath in hesitation. His dark eyes seemed to shine, and I thought that I had never seen him look so attractive. The outdated queue he wore now seemed quite familiar and . . . handsome.
I turned away, forcing myself to watch the seamen perform the laborious tasks of docking the ship. I did not quite know what to expect when we were ashore, but Cape Town seemed modern. I had pictured grass huts, perhaps, and natives running about in who knew what manner of dress (or undress!), but many solid buildings, some appearing British and some Dutch, comprised the city. The British buildings were easily recognizable, reminding me of home with their brick, pitched roofs, and sash windows. The Dutch buildings, on the other hand, had thatched roofs and high gables and were whitewashed with lime. The combination of the two styles was not displeasing, however, and seemed a reflection of the various peoples we encountered.
Phineas acted as a guide as we strolled around town, taking in the sights while he supplemented my knowledge of the area. He purchased bananas for us to eat, a strange yellow fruit. Laughing as I attempted to bite into it, he took it from my hands and showed me how to peel back its skin. The true fruit within was delightfully firm but easily chewed, the taste warm and golden.
We saw many people of all skin colors because so many different people had inhabited the area. The Dutch influence was prevalent because the town had been established by the Dutch East India Company, whose sailors used it—as we were now—to acquire provisions and, if necessary, mend their ships. They traded with the local native villagers, then sent Dutch colonists of their own several centuries ago to establish a town. Soon afterward they were joined by Huguenots, Protestants who fled France during an un-successful Reformation. Sadly, too, the area had known its share of slaves, not only those who labored there but those who were but mere cargo bound for other destinations.
Over the centuries, the town had been in the hands of the Dutch, the French, the British . . . in various order. Fortunately it had been controlled by Britain for the past few years, and though the town and its people bore signs of many cultural influences, it felt somewhat like home.
It was also good to be on land again. It occurred to me that I might actually have a real bed to sleep in tonight, as opposed to a hammock. “Where will we pass the night?” I asked Phineas.
He looked down at me again with his unfathomable brown eyes. “I know a husband and wife who accept lodgers.”
A peculiar thrill tingled my stomach. We had been cabinmates for so long that I scarcely thought about it anymore. Particularly when everyone on board ship thought us related. Being on land reminded me that we were back in civilization. “We will . . .” My mouth went dry. “We will no doubt need to keep up the ruse about brother and sister.”
“It is preferable,” he said. “Were we to run into anyone from the Dignity, it might not bode well otherwise.”
We would be in Cape Town for several days, but the remainder of that first day was spoiled for me. I worried about Snowe’s intentions. I worried about my own, as well, for I did not trust the curious attraction I felt toward him. I would never betray my place as a lady, of course . . .
My fears were put to rest when we arrived at the lodgings, a home that could have been plucked from one of the finer sections of London. A lovely elderly couple, Mr. and Mrs. Eaton, were our hosts. They were British and had evidently known Phineas for a long time. “But you never mentioned a sister,” Mr. Eaton said, smiling at me.
“How lovely you are, my dear.” Mrs. Eaton turned to Phineas. “She must have Mary’s room, of course.”
“I do not wish to put anyone out,” I said.
The room went silent. “Mary was our daughter,” Mrs. Eaton said. “It has been some three years now since typhoid took her.”
“I am very sorry,” I murmured, glancing at Phineas, who revealed nothing by his expression.
I could think of little else while I waited for sleep that night. It was by far the most comfortable bed I had lain upon, and even though I was accustomed to a hammock these past many weeks, I do not believe I overtell my delight. However, I could not cease thinking about the poor Eatons and their daughter, which led me to think of Uncle Toby and Flora. Did they count me as one dead?
I tossed and turned. Perhaps the comfort of the bed did not matter. Perhaps it was the lack of a ship’s motion just before sleep that would not allow me rest that night. Something was indeed amiss . . .
In the morning, after Phineas and I had quitted the Eatons’ to tour Cape Town, he was forthright. “You should write your uncle to let him know that you are well,” he said.
I was all astonishment at the prospect. “I did not know there was postal service available.”
He nodded. “I would very much like to relieve your uncle’s mind about your welfare. If you want me to write to him as well, I will oblige.” He paused. “I was awake most of the night, worrying for his sake. Perhaps being ashore has brought my guilt to bear, but I feel I must make amends to him somehow.”
“Can you trust anyone to carry money back to him in Oxford?”
Phineas stopped. “It is not his money that concerns me, Isabella.”
“Then what?” I cocked my head.
“Do you not know?” He took my hand, the first time that he had ever touched me in a personal manner. A tingle raced through my fingers, and I watched as though outside myself as he brought them to his lips. “I regret that you became a means to my ends, Isabella Goodrich,” he said softly. “Though it pains me to say so, I would still have you safe on board the next ship to England.”
My gaze met his. “I . . . I cannot,” I said, wondering even as I spoke whether my answer depended upon my missionary plans or the thought of being parted from Phineas Snowe.
Slowly he released my hand, and I held it with the other as though I did not trust it to ever again be as it should. I did not think that I would ever be.
“I do not want you hurt,” he said. “I lay awake last night . . .”
Oh, I was foolish! I had plans, as did Phineas, no matter how misbegotten. Such talk was heartbreak to us both.
I glanced downward. “We have said enough. Perhaps we should return to the Eatons’.”
He drew a deep breath, then took my hand again, only this time tucking it into his arm in a brotherly, gentlemanly gesture.
Once again that night I appreciated the softness of the high four-poster bed, but sleep eluded me. I thought of Phineas just down the hall, and I wondered if he found a better rest than the previous night. We did not speak of it the next day, nor the next, and I must confess that I was more than eager to bid Mr. and Mrs. Eaton farewell. I had enjoyed their company and certainly their hospitality, but I did not feel comfortable away from the ship. I found myself wondering about our fellow shipmates—Mr. Calow, Mr. Gilpin, even Mr. and Mrs. Akers. I did not dare ask about Julia Whipple, but it seemed to me that when we were all aboard again, ready to set sail, that she looked, if possible, even sadder.
A niggle of doubt troubled me the day we embarked, for I recalled her words to be on my guard with Phineas. He could contrive some reason to keep me ashore and, ultimately, from my purpose. But any fear was laid to rest, for it was he himself who held my arm and escorted me back onto the ship and stood beside me at the rail as we watched Cape Town recede.
I looked at Phineas, who stared solemnly as land faded into the horizon. “I have missed our Chinese lessons,” I said, affecting lightness.
He turned, his expression solemn. “I have missed a great deal.”
Captain Malfort approached, Mr. Gilpin and Mr. Calow in his wake. “Miss Goodrich,” he said. “I am delighted to hear that you are continuing with us on to Macao.”
Gilpin and Calow echoed his sentiments, the former solemn as a vicar and the latter beaming.
�
��However did she win you over, Snowe?” the captain said. “The fairer sex often uses the most peculiar methods to get their ways. Some use tears, some silence, and others talk a man to death.”
Snowe smiled at me like a begrudging brother; his demeanor changed from his previous intimate words. “Her persuasion was of a gentler nature.”
“I’m delighted to hear of it. Ladies who act aggressively are not ladies at all. And now if you will excuse me and my officers . . .”
After they left, I turned to Snowe, curious as to his words. He was already bowing, however, to take his leave.
“I will never understand you,” I murmured, watching his retreating figure.
That night after we retired and the candle had been snuffed, I spoke into the darkness. “Did you procure me a sword in Cape Town?”
Silence.
“You have not forgotten, surely,” I said, suppressing a groan. “Phineas?”
“Your flight of fancy has not diminished south of the equator,” he said. “Fortunately, mine has not either. Are you prepared to return to Hu-King? I believe Wo-Ping and Mei were engaged in battle.”
“With each other,” I added.
“Yes.”
“And racing up buildings and becoming invisible and hurling fire.”
“Yes. Thank you for the reminder. Do you wish me to continue? As I recall, the mythical elements seemed to disturb you.”
I settled into my hammock, which cradled me far better than the Eatons’ comfortable bed after all. “I am anxious to hear more. Please continue.”
I fell into a deep contented sleep that night, happy to be back aboard ship. It felt like home, and I realized that I would miss it—and my shipmates—when we reached our final destination. I dreamed of Cape Town and Oxford and China, even though with the latter I had little upon which to base my dream. However, the Orientals were pleased that I could speak their language, and they were eager to hear the gospel.