The publisher beamed. ‘Yes. I noticed his passion when he was discussing cacao. Well, that may be all to the good for the manuscript.’
Hayward finished his glass.
‘Might I accompany you down?’ Henderson enquired.
Murray rose, still without an inkling that anything untoward had taken place. ‘It is a pleasure doing business with you, gentlemen.’ He nodded happily. ‘I shall look forward to reading your book, Captain,’ he called, already making for his desk. ‘Please call again.’
At the bottom of the stairs, Hayward and Henderson collected their hats and gloves.
‘I should still kill you,’ Hayward growled. ‘I’m tempted to chop you up, bit by bit. A finger first, then a nose, and the devil take us all.’
‘That’s why I arranged to meet you here.’ The captain had no illusions. ‘I expect you’ll calm down in time.’ He spoke with the lightness of a fellow who was not at all disturbed by gruesome threats. Likewise, the butler’s face betrayed not a whisper of concern as he assisted the gentlemen with their attire. It was as if he hadn’t heard them. Where did Murray get such exemplary staff? Hayward wondered.
‘You have written the letters and lodged them?’ he asked.
‘With a reliable and well-paid solicitor. Should anything untoward happen to me, or to the Bittersweet, there will be revelations, and the force of the law will hear of your oper-ations. Men swing for smuggling, sir, as you know. And should you escape the penalty of the law, you’ll be done for in society. Still, I have no interest in pursuing you and your friends. As far as I am concerned, the deal is done – you have been paid. I should like to be left alone. And though Mrs Graham is nothing to me, it is only fair you should leave her alone too. That was a low blow, sir. She is a lady.’
The butler opened the door and the gentlemen turned down Albemarle Street towards Charing Cross. Hayward took a minute to break the silence, but when he did so, he had come to a conclusion. ‘You have a deal,’ he said with a curt nod.
The fellow had presented a clever solution. The Old Street Bridge Club had never done business with one of their own. Not in all the years. Perhaps this was why. Hayward wondered if Henderson might best him at chess.
‘We wanted you to work for us,’ Hayward said, as if he was excusing his actions. ‘We might have made a very great deal of money.’
Henderson shrugged. ‘And I respectfully decline. No measure of harm in it. I am simply not available.’
‘I shall follow your lead, sir. I shall address letters to Murray and to the Lord Advocate, outlining what we know of you. Your shadier dealings. Smuggling and even piracy, from what I understand. I shall unmask Mrs Graham’s moral failings. I shall lodge letters safely and see her ruined and you hanged if you do not keep your word. How about that?’
‘I suggest you do,’ Henderson insisted. ‘That’s the spirit. Fire ahead. I prefer the chances of two fellows equally armed, don’t you? I knew you’d get the hang of it.’
Hayward’s eyes narrowed, but he kept his head.
At the street corner the carriage with his coat of arms was waiting. Inside, Charming Charlie Grant sat, both hands on his stick, a man in the shadows. His eyes lit on the captain and he leaned forward greedily, ready to help Hayward force him inside. He had a knife drawn and, furious as he lunged, he plunged it into Henderson’s forearm. The razor-sharp blade cut through the fabric of the captain’s jacket and a stream of blood shot up from the gash. Henderson called out, more in fright than in agony. His heart was pounding. Hayward lifted his hand and roughly pushed Grant away.
‘No,’ he said.
Grant spluttered.
‘I shall tell you on the way,’ His Lordship drawled. Fisher would feel the sting, he swore silently. The fool had comprom-ised them all. Hayward hated to trust anyone.
Henderson pulled back. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket to bind the wound. Later Big Al Thatcher could stitch it and the pain would settle.
‘Apologies,’ Hayward said, though he clearly didn’t mean it.
The captain held out his good hand, but His Lordship declined to shake it. The captain pressed him. ‘I insist. It will hurt me more than you, I’ll warrant.’
Slowly, Hayward grasped Henderson’s fingers.
‘What became of Sam Pearson?’ the captain enquired.
‘He’ll recover,’ Hayward lied.
‘He’s loyal, you know.’
‘I hope, Captain, we do not meet again.’ His Lordship shrugged as he mounted. ‘I hope that wound is infected and you die of it.’
Henderson stood on the pavement as the door slammed and the coach drew away.
As he walked down Charing Cross Road, Henderson could not help but feel that Hayward was still there, on his shoulder. He realised it was a sensation that might take a while to shift. The Old Street Bridge Club was nothing if not memorable, but, he thought, smiling, he had brought them to terms. He had done it.
It was a short stroll to Mr Thin’s bookshop, but the captain felt like the walk. He was a free man. He wondered if the old bookseller might have an atlas – specifically, now he thought on it, maps of west Africa. The idea that had lit beside Murray’s globe was growing. Fluid, it trickled around his mind. However a gentleman made his money, surely the most important thing was to be able to pay your bills. London welcomed new ideas, Maria had said. Henderson wondered how well London welcomed new money. He checked his pocket watch and wondered if Maria had received the parcel he had sent her. He had wanted her to have the present, no matter how his meeting with Hayward transpired. He shrugged. Later, he’d return to the Bittersweet. He hoped she had sent a note.
The sun was at its height. A ghost shivered by, a shadow of his mother creeping along the shady side of the street. Henderson smiled. There was a long way to go, but at least he had started. He must lay his plans now and investigate the profits available under a hot African sun – closer to London and nowhere near as developed as Brazil. His new life was starting. He had discovered a new land here – a place of possibilities. England. As he passed a newsstand, he picked up a copy of The Times. The headline was of Admiral Cochrane’s victories on behalf of Brazil. The war, it would seem, was over, and the Emperor’s throne secure. I might never see it, the captain pondered silently. I might never return to South America again.
31
Mayfair
In the window seat at Georgiana’s mansion, Maria pored over the newspaper reports of the South American war for almost an hour. However, there was nowhere near enough detail. Nothing was mentioned about Rio, or at least only in passing. It appeared Cochrane had not yet returned to the capital, which meant, she expected, that he had set off on some other mission. It was most frustrating not to know. Her things were almost packed and in two days she intended to leave for Portsmouth, where she would take a berth across the Atlantic. She considered writing to the editor and asking if she could read the original report upon which the article had been based. She might well have done so had there not been a delivery.
The package arrived in a small pine packing-box that she opened by means of Georgiana’s letter knife, retrieved from the desk. Inside, packed in straw, was a bar of chocolate and a note. The Spanish way, it said. She smiled. Then she fetched a little sharp from her vanity case and drilled into the bar, immediately hitting something solid. She looked over her shoulder and then began to mine it. Maria peered, wide-eyed, realising there was gold inside, just as the note had promised. And there was only one person who might have sent it. Grinning now, she worked quickly, scraping off the chocolate in long curls to reveal a substantial necklet of almondine garnets that twinkled darkly in the room’s low light. The stones were the colour of claret, but there was an appropriate hue to them – a shadow the colour of chocolate. The necklet was set in thin gold cups with links between them. Maria detached the bottom garnet and turned it around, realising it might be used as a brooch to sit on the lapel or in a hairpiece. She sank back on her haunches and sighed. It was beaut
iful – with more substance than any opal. It was as if he knew. Her face was flecked with chocolate scraps and her hands were brown as she scrambled through the box, spreading straw and chocolate shavings over Georgiana’s Chinese carpet. At the bottom, she found Henderson’s note.
This gift is for you, Maria. I do not expect us to meet again and I want you to have something to remember me by. I apologise for my imposition and thank you for inspiring me to improve. Anything I may achieve would be impossible had you not shown me the way. ‘Don’t you want something better?’ you asked me once. Now I have seen what that means and the answer is that I do. It is thanks to you that I have discovered my path. Given my behaviour, most ladies would have shunned me from the moment we met. Your generosity and patience are not disregarded. Both have changed me, and I shall ever be your friend, should you need one. More than that – your protector, I hope. Thank you.
Your friend, a gentleman, James Henderson.
She sank onto a side chair and read the note twice, slipping the paper quickly into her pocket as Georgiana bustled into the room.
‘Ah, Maria, dear,’ she said. ‘Whatever is that? My, what a state.’
‘A gift.’
‘From Augustus Calcott?’ Georgiana almost spat Calcott’s name. She was clearly of the view that, with Thomas dead, it would be preferable for Maria to never speak to a man again. ‘How very French,’ she sneered, predictably.
Maria felt her hackles rise. ‘Actually, it isn’t from Augustus. It came from the captain who brought me from Brazil.’
Georgiana’s eyebrows arched and her gaze fell to the drawing room floor. ‘Well, it looks like a dog’s dinner or worse, and so do you. We should visit Thomas’s memorial again before you go,’ she said. ‘I shall have one of the maids pick rosemary and forget-me-nots from the garden. We can do it before you have to go to Mr Murray’s. You intend to attend his salon this afternoon, do you not?’
Maria hesitated only a second. Georgiana had insisted they visit the tree she’d had planted in memorial for her brother several times now. Church services and memorials were not Mrs Graham’s way, and she’d seen the damn thing four times, and on each occasion had been held in conversation by Reverend Green – a further punishment, were one required. Georgiana’s constant haranguing was too much. She had lost a brother, it was true, but Maria had lost a husband. When Maria next visited London, she would stay elsewhere.
‘Perhaps tomorrow,’ Maria replied smoothly, clasping the necklet round her throat. It fitted exactly. ‘Today, I have a meeting to attend. Cook can use the chocolate. I believe it is of very good quality.’ And with that, she swooped out of the room to fetch her hat and gloves.
Outside, as if bewitched, Maria picked up a cab to the Thames, where the stench after several days of sunshine was almost overwhelming. She put her handkerchief to her nose as she picked across the moorings, the seaweed floating like arms outstretched, beckoning her to cross the river. It was a simple matter to hire a boatman for Greenwich. The journey would take twenty minutes, and she settled in the bow in a state of mild agitation, curling and uncurling her fingers and flexing her wrists. Her heart was pounding. He didn’t expect to see her again. What might it be like when he did? Succumbing, she thought of the cabin, of stretching like a long cat in the sunshine, of the warm blue skies of their voyage and the clear starlit nights of being herself. It was as if London had evaporated. She must see him once more. Only once.
At Greenwich dock, she disembarked. The Bittersweet’s distinctive outline took only a short time to find among the hotchpotch fleet at anchor. She was not sure that she would go aboard. Perhaps, she thought, it was best to watch from a distance. In the event, however, she had no choice. Clarkson spotted her amongst the hurly-burly of the dock. She wondered momentarily if she ought to have brought the captain a gift, but it was too late now. Her heart was hammering as the mate waved and came down to escort her
‘Mrs Graham.’ He bowed. ‘Might I see you aboard?’
‘Is the captain here?’ She had not anticipated this. Not fully.
‘Yes ma’am.’
‘I’m not sure . . .’ Her voice trailed. The chance was a sweet windfall apple, if only she would allow herself to taste it.
Clarkson was insistent. ‘We can’t have you in Greenwich and not see you aboard, ma’am.’
It was what she had come for, after all. She steeled herself. Clarkson offered his arm and Maria allowed him to escort her up the gangplank. Several of the sailors saluted.
‘My,’ she said. ‘You’ve polished her up, Mr Clarkson.’
‘We’ve been at dock a good week and more,’ the mate explained, handing Mrs Graham towards the cabin and rapping on the door.
Inside, Henderson was at the table. Books and charts were laid around him. A mere glance confirmed that he was different. Something had changed. Maria couldn’t put her finger on it. Certainly, today, just from this glimpse, he might be a naval officer after all. Her skin began to tingle. I must stop, she thought. It’s as if I am a schoolgirl.
‘Maria.’ Henderson sprang to his feet. ‘Please. Come in.’
She took a deep breath. The cabin smelled familiar – a musky mixture of shaving soap and boot polish, wood and coffee. She moved forwards. ‘I’m not sure . . . that is to say . . . I don’t know why I came, except to thank you for the gift.’ She had not intended this. Not really.
‘Do you like it?’
Her cheeks coloured. ‘Yes. It is very generous, especially given how we last parted.’
Henderson’s shoulders squared. ‘You were quite right on that occasion. I have learned my lesson. I hope you will forgive me. I shall never intrude again.’
He pulled out a chair and motioned for her to sit down. She would never know how close she had come to disgrace, he thought with the merest blush. He’d saved her that, at least.
Maria noted his effects had been put away. The cabin seemed darker than when she’d stayed here and she felt suddenly smaller. No longer the great Maria Graham, a figure in London society, but simply herself.
‘What are you reading?’ she asked as she sat peering over the table with its array of scattered papers.
‘About Africa. The strangest thing. I am wondering, well, several things. Topaz is mined in the west and diamonds in the south – as in South America. I wondered if I might be able to procure gemstones there. The voyage is shorter than across the Atlantic and it will be quicker. But now I’m considering something quite different, though I fear it may be foolish.’
Maria shrugged off her jacket and gestured to him to continue.
Henderson faltered. ‘It is nothing,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
She stared. It felt good to be back. ‘Go on,’ she insisted. ‘Tell me.’
Henderson let out a sigh. ‘It’s only that if cacao is grown between distinct latitudes in certain conditions in tropical countries in South America, might it be possible to cultivate the beans in African countries between the same latitudes? Where the same conditions prevail?’
He pushed over a map and indicated the areas to which he referred, rolling the names around his tongue with relish. There was an attraction in the Dark Continent – a place of possibility, however dangerous. It was somewhere new. Maria’s face lit up. ‘Ah, I see what you mean. But in Africa, surely, whatever might be botanically possible would be subject to other difficulties.’
‘Such as?’
‘We are at war there.’ Maria indicated the location on the map. ‘With the Ashanti tribes. And some of these other territories are Dutch, Danish and French.’
‘They would not welcome English investment?’
‘It’s hard to say.’
‘But they might welcome Dutch or Danish money?’
‘They might.’
Henderson looked up. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, ‘I have forgotten my manners. Might I offer you some refreshment?’
Maria flushed. The captain was quite changed, it seemed. He appeared more dista
nt, though his manners had improved. His arm was bandaged near the wrist, as if he’d cut himself.
‘It’s nothing,’ he insisted, following the line of her eyes.
She wanted to touch it. Instead she drew her attention to the point. ‘Is there chocolate?’ she asked.
‘I’ll see.’
He disappeared, and Maria pulled the map closer. She glanced furtively around the cabin, her eyes lighting on the bed, which was unmade. Every part of this wooden room reminded her of the long, hot nights and the breezy afternoons – a time when she had almost melted. When Henderson returned, she was so deep in thought that she was startled.
‘Is your book out soon?’ the captain enquired, sitting back at the table. ‘I hoped to take a copy with me.’
‘It will be published in the next few weeks.’ She waved off her success and changed the subject. Henderson’s interest in Africa intrigued her. ‘I notice there are regions in the African interior that are unmapped,’ she said. ‘You might like to speak to the Royal Horticultural Association about your theory. They may know someone who has spent time there and has an idea of conditions.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It seems to me that the most promising area will be around the Gulf of Guinea. The Ivory Coast, which is French, and the territories next to it – Danish, I think. Further inland, it gets drier, if I’m right, which I think is no good for cacao?’
Henderson nodded. ‘I will need partners. I wondered if Thys might be interested. I shall write to him. He has the requisite nationality, and I trust him.’
Maria smiled. Henderson was impressive. He had transformed. She admired that, but it held a tinge of sadness. He would never approach her again. He had attained his place, or at least an idea of how to find it. But then she had changed too. She had her portrait. Maria paused before she made the decision. She must be generous. She flexed her fingers, as if she was letting something go, and then nonchalantly she said, ‘I bumped into Thys’s sister. She is staying with her aunt in Marylebone. Off Manchester Square. The aunt is unwell and Ramona is nursing her. She is collecting English recipes as if they are a curiosity.’
On Starlit Seas Page 36