On Starlit Seas

by Sara Sheridan

  Strange glared. The club was undergoing a long process of refurbishment and several workmen were engaged in the hallway, renovating the plasterwork to a design by the celebrated architect Mr Papworth. Strange had met Papworth on several occasions. He appeared to be solidly English, but the chap’s predilection for ornamentation of a most continental nature was causing Sir Horace some difficulty. Classical design was to be commended, but the proposed statues of nymphs were beyond the pale. Today, under pressure from all sides, the gentle tapping of the workmen’s tools and the smell of fresh plaster that emanated from the hallway were particularly infuriating.

  ‘A woman at the Royal Society? I won’t allow it, sir. I have spoken to Sir Humphry, among others,’ Strange insisted.

  ‘I was not aware you were in charge of the Society,’ Murray said smoothly.

  ‘There is much, Mr Murray, of which you are unaware,’ the infuriated peer spat. ‘The prattling of ladies, even of ladies who travel, is not of interest to the Society’s members. We are serious fellows. Ladies, sir, lower the tone.’

  ‘You cannot have met Mrs Graham.’ Murray kept his voice low through sheer force of will. ‘I, however, have known her for some years. She has never, in my experience, prattled. She has instead written several books, which I am proud to publish. She is a keen observer of life abroad and her work sells in numbers. I will happily send copies so you can evaluate them for yourself.’

  Strange made a sound that was more reminiscent of a furious animal than of a member of the English aristocracy. ‘A woman’s place is not at the lectern, and while you are entitled to your opinion, I have heard that Mrs Graham’s writing is weak and self-serving. A lady’s thoughts are simply not designed for the rigours of intellectual discourse. It’s not their fault. Nature has made them that way, and Mrs Graham would do better to turn her hand to fiction, perhaps, or to poetry, if she must. She has a second-class mind and we will not lower ourselves by listening to her arguments.’

  Murray took a deep breath. ‘And who, might I enquire, is “we”?’

  Strange stopped. This publishing fellow was quite unreasonable, but the Scots were invariably difficult. Murray had been born in London, but his father was Scottish. Such fellows had their uses, but they were not known for their understanding of social matters. That was the main thing.

  ‘Mrs Graham is quite unprotected, sir. Her husband and her father are dead. You will not be allowed to make a fool of her,’ Strange insisted.

  ‘Whereas you are happy to discard her knowledge and try to make a fool of her that way. The idea, sir, that members of the fairer sex have little understanding is beyond me. What of Mrs Wollstonecraft, Sir Horace? What of Miss Herschel? Mrs Somerville?’

  ‘Pah.’ Sir Horace dismissed these examples of female intellect. ‘Why, the Wollstonecraft woman tried to kill herself more than once, and Miss Herschel assisted her brother with his calculations – ably, I’ll grant you, but nothing more. Miss Somerville is interesting, but the idea that a lady might origin-ate a theory is outrageous. They are not built for it.’

  ‘Mrs Graham has certainly originated more than one idea. I stand by her observations of life in South America, and she has, through hard work and scientific endeavour, come up with a notion of measuring earthquakes. It is an astonishing achievement.’

  ‘Well, the Royal Society – the Royal Society,’ Strange repeated, ‘does not exist for such female folderol. And that’s the size of it, Murray. Neither Mrs Graham nor her ideas will be appearing. A woman. Really.’

  The fact that Sir Horace had been designated as the person to make this point, rather than Sir Humphry, as president of the Society, was telling. Murray backed down. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘That’s most disappointing.’

  Strange took Murray’s retreat as some kind of threat. From the hallway, there was the sound of something breaking – a muffled crash. A shout went up from the workmen.

  ‘What now?’ He lost his temper.

  ‘Diana, I imagine. Shattering,’ Murray said drily.

  ‘I look forward to reading the reviews of Mrs Graham’s latest work.’ Strange couldn’t help continuing his attack. ‘Should there be any notices, of course.’

  Murray got up. If Strange organised some kind of campaign against Maria’s books it would be most unjust, and rather more energetically pursued than Sir Horace’s usual hobby horses. But if Murray stayed and provoked him, perhaps the vindictive old sot might find the time.

  ‘I bid you good day, sir.’ He bowed. ‘I will apprise Mrs Graham of your views. She will be leaving shortly, to take a position with the Brazilian royal family.’

  ‘What position?’

  ‘The governess of the young Princess Royal.’ Murray made for the door.

  ‘Now that is most suitable for a widow.’ Strange raised his hand in farewell. ‘The Royal Society, sir, does not, and never will, admit women.’

  Murray restrained himself from saying anything further. Instead, he collected his outerwear from the servant on duty at the club’s entrance. Maria would be disappointed, but he would have to be honest with her. Perhaps the next time she returned he would see if they might take another tack. A member of the Society could present Mrs Graham’s theory on her behalf, perhaps. The battle was lost for now.

  As he headed up St James’s Street towards Piccadilly, Murray cursed himself for not being more effective. He could have cited women who had attended the Royal Society in the past. He seemed to recall there had been one in Pepys’s day – a titled lady. He had not arrived at Boodle’s prepared to tackle Sir Horace’s fallacious argument, for no one had informed him what Strange wanted. It was infuriating. Maria was so seemly – who could possibly be offended by her? It was true that occasionally scientific ladies were harridans and that some women (and men as well) had submitted scientific papers that upon examination had proved unoriginal, or inaccurate. But Maria? Intelligent, educated and now, of course, widowed, there was simply nothing to which a reasonable man might object. Murray puffed. There, he thought, might lie the problem. What London needed was a club for reasonable fellows. He must make a note of it. Such an institution would be graced with a dignified name – not called after a head waiter, like Boodle’s, but named after something worthwhile. An institution of erudition and learning.

  ‘The Athenaeum,’ he smiled.

  Should such an enlightened edifice ever open its doors, Murray decided, it would not admit the likes of Sir Horace Strange.

  *

  London might have been large, but finding a gentleman was surely not too difficult a business, nor a lady for that matter. Captain Henderson restrained himself, however, from seeking out Maria. For one thing, he had realised his erstwhile behaviour was quite unacceptable. The more time he spent in the city the more he realised that Maria was right. In the circumstances, she had been both patient and generous with him, and he did not know how to proceed. For another, the business of dealing with the Old Street Bridge Club was consuming and Maria was best kept out of it. Still, he could not help but notice the next morning, with a twinge of pride, that Mrs Graham’s journals would be on sale shortly, as advertised in the London Times. Journal of a Residence in Chile and A Journey of a Voyage to Brazil. Hot off the press at twelve shillings a volume and available to order in advance from booksellers nationwide.

  ‘So we are going west to conclude this business?’ Fry asked when he rose on the Bittersweet to find the captain reading a newspaper he had sent Clarkson to procure and sipping a coffee of inordinate fortitude at the long cabin table.

  Henderson looked up. ‘You don’t have to come, Richard. You’ve done quite enough.’

  Fry shook his head. The smell of lavender salve, smeared onto his injuries the night before, was pervasive. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I promised. This is my part of the deal. The wooing of the ladies and the dealing with the gentlemen. You took me to Old Street; let me take you to Piccadilly.’

  Given what had transpired, it did not feel a fair exchange. ‘How are your
bruises?’ Henderson enquired.

  Fry sat down with only the tiniest cringe. ‘They’re better than last night, though I expect I’ll avoid ball games for a while,’ he said, employing the gentleman’s art of understatement.

  When they had finally returned the night before, the city had felt dark and dangerous – an inescapable metropolis only remitted by the memory of his brothers and, once Clarkson had administered some morphia, a fantasy of chocolate. Henderson’s extraordinary idea for a chocolate bar was still with Fry. If he could find a way to set the stuff, Richard realised, he could cast shapes like edible sculptures. That aside, if he could sweeten the chocolate and cast it into little blocks, how many men might carry one with them at all times? Past two bells in Henderson’s cabin, exhausted and sated upon cheese, bread and scalded brandy with opium, Fry had clung to dreams of commercial success as he descended into a sleep that blacked out the world.

  Now the sun was long up. Outside the cabin window, the dock at Greenwich was alive and the Thames was bustling. It felt odd to be back to a regime of such normality. To wake to baskets of pears on the dockside, children running along the quay and the summer sun glistening off the white buildings further along the water was like wakening into a different world – one that had been swapped in the night and bore no relation to the pain-ridden, stinking hours he’d spent near Old Street. Outside, it was light and everything was possible.

  At the turning to the high street, there was a girl selling flowers. She was blonde and plump, in a worn dress the colour of sapphires. She looked like the factory girls at Fry’s, except more ragged. She made Richard think of home. From this great distance, it seemed unthinkable that the Fry manufactory was still churning out its produce and that sweet Mary was preparing a tray for his father mid-morning at his desk. Fry looked down at his grimy hands. ‘I shall need to scrub myself rather cleaner,’ he said.

  ‘We can see to that.’ The captain was good-natured.

  Fry sniffed. The coffee smelled enticing, though he was used to chocolate of a morning. And toast. Slowly, testing himself, he tried one leg after the other. His limbs were stiff, and the thought of touching the bruises made his stomach turn. His shoulder ached.

  ‘We can fetch a doctor if you need one,’ Henderson offered.

  ‘No. There’s no stabbing pain.’ The boy bore up. ‘No broken bones. It’ll take a while to heal, that’s all. I can take laudanum.’

  Henderson nodded. The boy was certainly plucky.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll try a cup.’ Fry motioned towards the coffee pot.

  ‘At breakfast, the custom in Brazil is to drink it with milk,’ Henderson said, ‘though I prefer it as black as they can make it. The natives favour cakes or doughnuts, but we only have the bread left from last night. I hope Thatcher comes back soon. He’s a good cook and will improve matters.’

  ‘Captain?’

  ‘I think, after last night, you ought to call me James, don’t you?’

  Fry moved painfully. ‘Last night, you saved my life, sir. I’m indebted to you.’

  ‘I put your life in danger, so it was only fair to get you out.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll come after us?’

  ‘I don’t know. I have to find Fisher. That’s the first thing. And track down the other – Hayward – as an insurance policy. I’d like to find the name of the third, were that possible. One thing’s for sure – they’ll come if I don’t keep the bargain I made. And fair enough. But if they come anyway, I want to be prepared. At least they won’t find you, Richard. They have no idea who you are.’

  ‘Do you always do business like this?’

  Henderson shook his head. A strand of dark hair slipped across his face and he pushed it back. ‘Nothing like it. I admit I have smuggled goods into America. But I’ve never come across the like.’ He smiled. ‘And I prefer the Fry way.’

  ‘Me too.’ Richard would never have thought it.

  There was a knock on the door and the cabin boy entered, carrying a jug of hot water.

  The captain rose from the table. ‘We’ll need more than that, I’ll wager. See if someone can get a proper pot boiling and bring soap, a scrubbing cloth and a large basin for Mr Fry.’ Henderson passed his hand over his face. ‘Time for a clean shave, I expect.’

  ‘To be a gentleman again,’ Fry mused. It flashed across his mind that he might ditch his pauper’s clothes. Maybe he’d burn them. ‘Right,’ he said, taking a sip of coffee and shuddering as it went down. ‘Best get started.’

  *

  By late morning, Henderson and Fry, arrayed like gentlemen, skirted Pall Mall. The streets were busy in the morning sun. Gentlemen of the court were about their business, scurrying to and from St James’s with a tremendous air of purpose. Several well-dressed ladies dotted between establishments, shopping and dodging carriages. They looked as if they were fashionable engravings come to life. The rain the night before had perked up the city. On a corner, flower sellers offered their wares.

  ‘Ha’penny a button’ole and a posy of lavender.’

  A gentleman stopped and bought a fragrant bunch of rosebuds before turning off for the Strand.

  ‘Normally you’d find a chap at his club, of course,’ Fry said wistfully as he guided the captain across the road. ‘Either that or you’d know the coffee shops he frequented.’

  Neither he nor Henderson belonged to a London club, unless, in Fry’s case, you counted a meeting of Friends, which he did not. And as for coffee shops, London was knee-deep in such establishments. You could scarcely round a corner without coming across one. The air was scented by roasting beans, not sweet like chocolate but still musky and fragrant.

  ‘Fisher is a common name,’ Fry mused, touching his hat, which felt curiously out of place after the shenanigans of the night before. None of his clothes felt like his own. ‘Hayward might be a better bet.’

  ‘And the last one – the third,’ the captain added. ‘Don’t forget him.’

  ‘Do you think any of them might be a member of the Royal Society?’ Fry tried.

  It was difficult to imagine. The prevailing memory of Fisher was of the man wild-eyed and throttling Henderson, the others intent that he did the job thoroughly. Surely members of the Royal Society didn’t carry red-silk garrottes and assault helpless urchins with their walking sticks.

  ‘The Society? I’d like to see it,’ Henderson admitted.

  The men crossed the road and cut down towards the river and eastwards to the grand edifice of Somerset House. Outside the Society rooms, a bill was posted announcing forthcoming lectures on the subjects of ‘Bitumen in Stones’ and ‘Fluid Chlorine’.

  ‘Some Friday night. Can’t they find someone to talk about something interesting?’ Fry commented with a smile as a footman admitted them to the hallway.

  From a back room, a man emerged, pulling on a dark frock coat.

  Henderson accosted him. ‘Excuse me, I’m looking for two gentlemen. Fisher and Hayward. Might they be members?’

  The man squinted, as if considering this matter seriously. ‘My dear fellow,’ he said, his wide vowel sounds betraying his Scottish origins, ‘I can’t be expected to know everyone.’

  He made for the door, but Fry fell into step. ‘Fisher and Hayward have a friend we’re keen to get in touch with. He’s a Scot, like you.’

  The man turned. ‘And, pray, why are you so anxious to find these gentlemen?’

  ‘We were playing cards, sir,’ Henderson said. ‘There was drink taken. And reparations must be made, I fear.’

  ‘I see.’ The fellow nodded. The footman opened the door. ‘This last man? The Scot. What is his name?’

  ‘That’s the trouble. He’s of medium height with red hair going grey. But his name eludes me. He was carrying a black cane with a silver fox-head.’

  The man’s face split into a grin. ‘Why, Charlie Grant. The devil. He never plays cards, surely? Calvinist to the core, I always believed. Gentlemen, you have made my day.’ The fellow bowed cheerily.
<
br />   ‘Grant,’ Henderson said, catching the man’s arm. ‘Yes. Thank you. Do you know where we might find him? And do you think he might be with the other two – Fisher and Hayward?’

  ‘No.’ The fellow shook his head. ‘Those names don’t ring a bell. I don’t know a Fisher or a Hayward. But you’ll find Charlie all right. He’s a regular at Rules – they’ve generally got Galloway beef, on the bone, and sometimes partridge. Charlie lives on his own, poor fellow, on Tavistock Street. He prefers to dine out. I don’t expect it’s worth keeping a cook.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The man headed into the sunshine with a grunt.

  ‘Fisher, Hayward and Grant.’ Fry smiled in the doorway.

  ‘It’s a start,’ Henderson said. ‘Now we must find them.’

  ‘Well,’ Fry ventured, the stale bread and milky coffee having worn off, ‘I suggest we start with lunch.’

  Outside, they cut towards Covent Garden. More ladies out shopping passed with parasols held aloft – there seemed an interminable supply of smart women, all ribbons, sashes and bows. Outside one establishment, a footman bundled parcels into a carriage, dropping one onto the dusty paving stones and brushing it clean.

  Service for luncheon was just starting and Rules restaurant as yet was quiet. In a corner, a gentleman was pouring a glass of port for a woman who could not, in all honesty, be called a lady. The sound of her laughter gurgled between the empty tables. The air smelled of fine cigars and roasting meat ingrained over the ages.

  ‘Do they have partridge in Brazil, Captain?’ Fry enquired.

  ‘No. Perhaps that’s what we should order.’

  The waiter pointed the gentlemen to a table in the furthest corner from the courting couple.

  ‘Claret,’ Fry said. ‘And do you have game bird and potatoes?’

  The waiter nodded. ‘And some cheese?’ he suggested hopefully.