Henderson sprang to his feet. ‘But . . .’ The word hung in the air.
Maria hoisted the manuscripts into the crook of her arm, the way a mother holds a baby. ‘I’ve had enough of your buts and whys and wherefores. No apologies are acceptable. You presume too much. Good day, Captain Henderson.’ Her eyes flashed as she crossed to the door.
Henderson’s temper flared. She really was the most infuri-ating woman. He brought down his hand on the table as Maria’s figure disappeared. Petulantly, he finished his ale, listening to the sound of the traces being threaded on the Calcott carriage and the clinking of the brasses as the horses stamped. Augustus put his head round the door.
‘Goodbye, old man,’ he said, raising his hand in salute. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get the ladies home.’
Henderson grunted. The carriage pulled away and the captain called for his horse. He must return to the Bittersweet, pick up the spoils of his cargo and seek out Will Simmons’s partners. There was a great deal to figure out and no point in trying to assuage Maria when she was in such a temper. He had meant no harm.
Albion almost sighed when she was turned towards London. She sneezed and the stable boy laughed. Henderson paid his account – a bucket of oats and the stabling. Then he clicked the reins. Back on the road, it felt as if it was really summer, and the low heat was reliably set for the day. By daylight the road was pleasant, and Henderson rode the horse hard for a couple of hours, taking in the green lush countryside as it merged into the city. England was undeniably beautiful. Here, nature smiled at you rather than trying to catch a fellow out. There was a fresh scent on the air from the orchards. The captain tried not to dwell on Maria – the sweep of her dress as she left the inn and the finality of her warning, like a lid snapping shut. He did not allow himself the sneaking suspicion he had – that however much he loved her, she might be right.
With the easy road and pleasant weather, the captain was in town in three hours. At Charing Cross, Henderson returned Albion. The boy from the night before was mucking out the stalls and begging small change of gentlemen as they left their horses. The captain tossed the child sixpence, for he’d kept his word – the horse had been a godsend. ‘Give her a carrot,’ he said.
Out on the street, he bought a chicken pie to eat on his way and headed for the river – it was the quickest route back to Greenwich. The bustle of London felt like coming home, the bright streets familiar with their colourful costermongers and shops with displays on the pavement. He had even begun to recognise the look of the cutpurses that loitered in the shadows, round corners and in doorways. London was a city of layers – bright, brash buildings cheek by jowl with the shifting, shifty alleyways behind. Two separate cities. A fellow could disappear into either easily, or rise above them, he supposed. The streets were busy and filthy and alive, the sweepers hard at work, clearing a path for the carriages that were heading to Leicester Fields for an afternoon’s entertainment.
It would take half an hour to Greenwich – London’s size was part of the city’s glamour, but that also meant constant journeying. As he stepped off the rowing boat at the dock, the captain smiled. Clarkson had been as efficient as ever and, ahead of him, the Bittersweet was looking shipshape – she’d had a lick of paint and Henderson could smell fresh wood shavings as he strode up the gangplank. Richard was still aboard.
‘You’ll stay to dinner?’ he offered as he passed the boy.
‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’
With a wave, the captain headed for the cabin to prepare. There was plenty to do.
*
The Calcotts were good company and the carriage ride passed swiftly. Coming back to London was like visiting an old friend, and in the pleasant weather Maria kept the window down and watched one house after another slide by. As they pulled up outside Thomas’s sister’s residence in Piccadilly, Maria saw Georgiana skulking in the long upstairs window. She waved, but the girl’s face disappeared as she dodged out of sight. It was poor manners to gawp at a carriage.
Augustus handed her down. This felt, Maria realised, like being ten again and arriving with nothing in the big city, climbing down from a strange carriage unsure what to expect. Lady Dundas’s home was only two streets away.
‘Shall I?’ Augustus gestured towards the door.
‘Thank you.’
It was strange, Maria thought. She’d rather face the earthquake in Chile again than this. And yet there would be a scandal if this wasn’t the first place she came to. If she didn’t lodge here while she was in town. Her bereavement tied her to Thomas’s family.
The door opened and Georgiana’s butler, Billingham, peered into the street.
‘Mrs Graham,’ he said. ‘Miss Graham will be delighted. Please come in.’
Maria waved at Miss Calcott, still ensconced in the carriage. The girl smiled and nodded.
‘I have seen you safely delivered.’ Augustus bowed. ‘You must call on us at your convenience.’
‘I will, Mr Calcott.’
Everything must seem formal where it might be overheard.
Clutching her manuscripts, Maria stepped into the hallway. The air felt cool. Billingham closed the front door and dodged ahead, leading the way upstairs past familiar furniture and family portraits. Georgiana was in the drawing room, bent over a small tapestry, apparently engaged in working it. She was dressed in a mourning gown.
‘Maria.’ She rose as if she was surprised. ‘You have come home.’ Her eyes took in her sister-in-law’s travelling dress and her lips tightened. ‘You look well.’
Maria smiled. If the house had not changed, Georgiana certainly had. She was thinner and older than when the Grahams had quit London a little over three years before. Her eyes were steely and small lines had appeared at their fringes. Georgiana was a good five years younger than Maria, but a stranger would have guessed she was the widow.
‘Now you are here, you must see the plaque I raised to dear Thomas.’ The girl took a little gulp of air as if she might burst into tears.
‘He would be so glad,’ Maria said.
It was a lie. Probably not the last she’d have to voice. Georgiana patted the chair next to her and a puff of violet scent rose from her sleeve. Thomas had joined the service when he was ten. He had been home scarcely more than two months at a time since.
‘You must tell me everything,’ she said. ‘How he died.’
‘It was as I wrote to you,’ Maria parried, sitting a little further away than Georgiana might have liked.
Tears welled in the girl’s eyes. Maria looked down. The tapestry Georgiana was working was a representation of the Doris, Thomas’s ship. Dear heaven, she has thought of nothing else, she realised.
‘We must be brave,’ Maria managed to get out. ‘It is what Thomas would have wanted.’
‘I’m so very glad you’re back.’ Georgiana gave a half-smile. ‘It is so much more fitting, Maria. London is where you belong. And who would want to marry me with a sister-in-law who is gallivanting halfway round the world, expressing her opinions in print?’
Maria ignored the implication. A man would have to be half mad or desperate to marry Georgiana – she had not had an offer since she was seventeen. That was a good fifteen years ago and had been scotched, from memory, at Lady Dundas’s insistence. No man, it seemed, would ever be good enough for Georgiana Graham or, at least, none yet had proved himself so.
Georgiana clasped her hands. ‘We should have a memorial service now you’re here. Another one.’
Maria sighed. Downstairs, she heard the door and movement in the hallway. Billingham appeared. ‘Lady Dundas,’ he announced.
News travelled at speed in Piccadilly. Georgiana had probably sent a message the moment she spotted the carriage.
If Georgiana looked older than when Maria last left London then the reverse was true of Maria’s aunt. In her mid-fifties, Catherine Dundas could pass for ten years younger. She spent, Maria knew, a good deal of time and effort effecting this illusion. Her speedy arrival belie
d her immaculate dress. In a swathe of carefully worked silk, she swept into the room.
‘Maria,’ she said. ‘You may kiss me.’
Maria did so obediently. Lady Dundas sank onto the sofa. ‘Tea, Georgiana,’ she said. ‘Would you, Billingham?’ Her eyes fell to the pile of papers that Maria had deposited on the side table. ‘Oh really,’ she said with distaste. ‘Another of your books. At least you have come home. Now we must make plans.’
‘Plans?’
‘Yes. For your future.’
Maria sat back. ‘There really is no need. I shall leave for Brazil, Aunt Catherine, in three weeks. I have found a position.’
‘You have no need of a position,’ Lady Dundas spat. ‘The Dundas trust will provide for you and, as Thomas’s wife, the navy will furnish you a pension. Really, Maria.’
‘The position I have secured is at the royal court,’ Maria continued smoothly. ‘I shouldn’t like to defy Her Royal Highness the Empress of Brazil.’
It was a trump card. Lady Dundas raised an eyebrow. This was a tricky decision. Naturally, Her Ladyship was staunchly in favour of the monarchy – indeed, she stood in awe of all royal institutions – but the lady to whom her niece had just referred was undeniably foreign.
‘I am to be the governess to Princess Maria da Gloria, you see. I shall live in the palace in Rio de Janeiro.’
Georgiana looked even closer to bursting into tears.
‘We shall see about that.’ Lady Dundas turned her attention to the tray that Billingham was delivering to the low table at one side. She poured a cup of China tea for each of them, adding both milk and sugar.
‘Who was the gentleman who delivered you?’ Georgiana asked as she took a sip.
Lady Dundas sat straighter, were it possible. ‘A gentleman?’
‘Augustus Calcott. I am a friend of his sister.’ Maria smiled. ‘There was some difficulty with the stage from Bristol. Mr Calcott kindly came to our aid.’
‘Oh really,’ Lady Dundas sneered. ‘At least I know the Calcotts. One never has any idea what you will come up with next, Maria.’ She downed the cup of tea and, looking around, rose to her feet. ‘Well, I imagine you want to unpack and settle in. I wanted to lay eyes on you, that is all. I shall send a carriage tomorrow. You must come for luncheon.’
‘I shall have to deliver my manuscripts to Mr Murray, but I can call on him very early. And also, Aunt Catherine, I need to replace my luggage. There was a dreadful misadventure and the sum of my possessions is as you see – on my person. I have lost everything. Perhaps you might help me to pick out some items? Her Imperial Highness has opened a line of credit for me at her London bank.’
‘My dear.’ This raised a smile on the old lady’s thin lips. Her whole life she had relished the occasion of shopping. Still, she couldn’t quite bring herself to endow approval on her wayward niece. ‘You see what trouble you get into with all this nonsense of yours. Nonetheless, if you wish, you shall come at eleven o’clock. We shall go to Covent Garden.’
The clock struck two as Lady Dundas swept out of the room. Maria could not tell if the old lady was happy – perhaps placated was the most she could hope for.
Georgiana laid down her cup and saucer. ‘I wish I had been there. On board. When Thomas passed,’ she said sadly.
‘Shall I tell you how it happened?’ Maria offered.
This was going to be trying, but it seemed it must be borne. These women, after all, were her family.
‘Oh yes.’ Georgiana sounded rapturous. ‘Please. Tell me everything. I miss him so dreadfully, you see.’
*
There was no Old Street Bridge or, at least, none that spanned the Thames marked on the map at the captain’s disposal, which was only a tattered affair showing St Paul’s and the surrounding area. It was also a good forty years out of date, for it had belonged to his father. With a sigh, Henderson stowed it beside the ship’s log. He was trying to bring a deal to the table, but he had no idea of the table’s location. There was nothing for it but to ask directions, and the captain preferred to do that in advance. Knowing what he was heading into would be an advantage.
The captain stepped smartly off the Bittersweet and flagged down a skiff touting for business along the bank. The boatman brought his craft close to the water’s edge and held up a hand to help the captain on board. ‘Where are you headed, sir?’
Henderson held his ground. ‘I want to go to Old Street Bridge. Do you know where that is?’
‘Old Street Bridge.’ The boatman pulled his hand over a grizzled chin. ‘Yes, sir,’ the man lied. When the gentleman did not step aboard, he gave directions to Old Street to encourage him. ‘It’s on the other bank. I’d let you off at St Magnus, guvnor, St Magnus the Martyr.’
‘And from St Magnus?’ Henderson asked.
‘You need to walk past Eastcheap and across the Cornhill. Old Street’s a mile north off the quay. No further. It won’t take more’n half an hour – with luck, twenty minutes. The fare’s a shilling. The tide is with us this time of day. That’s a blessing.’
Henderson declined.
‘All right.’ The boatman bargained. ‘I’ll do it for less’n a shilling. How about ten pennies?’
‘Do you know what’s on the bridge? What’s it like over there?’
The pilot paused and spat a gob of tobacco that landed on the green water like a parcel of pus. He didn’t want to dally longer without assuring his fare.
‘You want to go over or not?’ the fellow asked, his voice cheery but his eyes dead. Ten pennies was his best offer – he wouldn’t make the journey for less.
‘Not till later,’ Henderson admitted.
‘Well, you’ll see what it’s like then, won’t you?’ The man moved to punt away.
Henderson caught the side of the little boat and held it to the shore.
‘Woah,’ the boatman shrieked.
‘I said, what’s it like over there?’ Henderson repeated calmly. ‘It’s a civil question.’
‘I wouldn’t say a gentleman such as yourself might like it. But there’s those as would reckon they was after the adventure. Gaming. Women. Men too,’ the man spat viciously. ‘Whatever your vice, they got it over on Old Street if you got the money.’
‘Is the bridge famous for anything?’
‘Nah,’ the man said. ‘There ain’t no bridge. It’s just Old Street, you stupid cuss. And all it’s famous for is docks and scum, like most places east of London. Now let go my boat.’ He raised his oar to demonstrate he’d strike. At the dock, a rope punctuated by tiny birds jumped to life and a little flock took off.
Henderson turned back towards the Bittersweet. Strange – Will had been adamant about the bridge. Wherever it was, surely it must be on or near Old Street, and by the boatman’s description, there was no question of the area being home to a respectable business at night. He decided that taking the goods with him was out of the question unless he brought a posse of men to act as guards. Even then, the skeleton crew left on board were not the ones he’d pick for such an outing. He’d deal with the investors alone and arrange to pay the money separately.
Will had made the Old Street Bridge sound cosy – the inn was the Rose and the ale was excellent. The investors were benevolent. But then, the boy had been at home among all manner of roughness, Henderson now realised. In fact, Simmons liked it rough – after all, he’d bought a girl on the sand dunes, not that he could be blamed for that or, indeed, what happened next. Still, look at how handy he’d been with a blade. Simmons fell into place now the captain had seen England, or at least parts of it – the layer of the city that was tucked like a filthy sheet below the clean stucco frontages of Covent Garden and Piccadilly. Will had been savvy and now Henderson must be savvy too. He’d expected that dealing with smugglers would be the easy thing, but it appeared not. It crossed the captain’s mind that perhaps it was best that he hadn’t shaved this morning before he left White Waltham – it would give him a rougher appearance – and he’d need to change ou
t of his smart clothes too. By the sounds of it, a man would fare better along Old Street if he was ready for anything. He’d count the gemstones, weigh the gold and calculate his margins on the cacao beans. He required the figures at his disposal so he could make a quick decision. No doubt the merchants at the Old Street Bridge would drive a hard bargain.
*
As the captain emerged on deck later that evening, the light was fading and the men had lamps already hoisted. Intending to cross the river that night after dark, he had changed. The crew fell to their evening occupations to the strain of a melancholy squeezebox playing a Welsh shanty below decks. Beer had been brought aboard and the deck was humming with contentment as the crew filled their tankards and pursued idle chatter, board games and the following of a tune. Two were whittling blocks of cherrywood, slumped against the mizzen, alternating their attention between knives and tankards to a steady rhythm. It was easy to blend into the background. Henderson had searched out a grubby suit of clothes that ensured an overall impression of disarray. He had the air of a down-at-heel ruffian who was not to be tangled with.
Beyond him, Richard stared down the wharf, taking the evening air and watching, curious about the hostelries that spilled noisily onto the beaten earth. People were eating dinner outside rather than in their miserable hovels, and fast-looking gentlemen – perhaps naval officers – were slumming it, on the lookout for women. The boy appeared able to ignore the whores, which, in a young man of his age, was impressive. The doxies promenaded along the quay, which meant business tonight on the high street must be quiet. They called up, making eyes over their pale shoulders. Richard passively regarded the trade. Strangely, Henderson noted, the lad looked like he belonged on the deck of the Bittersweet.
On Starlit Seas Page 25