‘I shall call,’ Henderson said lightly.
Maria felt her stomach turn. ‘Indeed,’ she replied. ‘I am sure she would welcome that.’
The cabin boy entered with a pot of chocolate. ‘Are you back, ma’am?’
‘Only to visit.’ Maria raised a smile.
The boy popped the pot on the table and Henderson poured two draughts. The dark scent of hot milk, cacao and a sprinkle of cinnamon pervaded the cabin.
‘Are we at peace then?’ Henderson asked.
‘I do not recall ever being at war, sir,’ Maria replied.
‘Do you not?’
She sipped. The rich liquid slipped down her throat, and for just a moment it was like being on a star-strewn deck, in the middle of the ocean. Then, as she opened her eyes on the English afternoon, Henderson smiled.
‘I hope you make your mark, Captain Henderson,’ she said. ‘I only came to say thank you.’
She got up and offered him her hand. For an instant, it seemed he might bow and kiss it, but he simply took her palm in his and shook instead. Maria’s disappointment sent a tiny ache through her ribcage. This afternoon, that emotion wasn’t even tinged with relief. Once, when she was a very young child, her father had left for sea in winter – was it the first time? The rooks that weighed down the bare branches took flight suddenly as his carriage drew away. She watched him leave the sullen February driveway, past the naked trees. The birds were ominous black smudges in the sky ahead. She had been bereft. All that day and all the next, she had thought, He will come back. If I wait he will be around the next corner, teasing me. But Captain Dundas had come home more than a year later. She had waited for him every day. Now, the memory came to fetch her. She left Henderson a moment of clear space, a brief few seconds that offered him one final gap in which to strike like lightning.
The captain bowed. Maria waited. He moved to hold the door.
‘You are a gentleman, sir,’ she said.
‘I have certainly found something new here, Mrs Graham.’
She waited again. An instant only. Under her skirts, her knees clicked as she stood on tiptoes.
‘Well,’ Maria Graham said, wondering how she might bear it. ‘I must be getting on.’
32
Further along the river
Richard Fry did not adopt a pauper’s guise, but he certainly made himself as inconspicuous as he could. He had sworn that before he left London he’d eat jellied eels and that he’d visit Mallow Street again. He did not want to feel he’d run away. As he came into the East End, the place was frantic with workmen. The sound of the dockyards echoed through the streets, and he could hear the unloading of the ships and the shouts of the stevedores. The highway that had been deserted late at night was now busy with carts and drays, transporting goods further along the shore and into the city. It hardly felt like the same brooding, deadly part of town where he’d half killed a man and almost lost his life.
Richard cut down Mallow Street at a nip and stood outside the door of the Old Street Bridge Club. In the sunshine, it did not seem half so sinister. He worried that they had got away too lightly. Richard wanted a solution that bled, not one that lacked teeth.
On a whim, he decided to pop into the Rose and avail himself of some luncheon. Inside, behind the bar, Mrs Wylie was cleaning the gantry, her hair a rat’s nest of ribbons. A few quiet tables of daytime drinkers keeping out of the sunshine gave a background hum to the bar.
‘Good day, sir,’ she called out cheerily.
Fry ordered a pint of porter and enquired after the menu.
‘I got pie and cheese, sir,’ Mrs Wylie offered.
Richard nodded peremptorily. He wondered if any of his blood was still out there on the cobbles.
Mrs Wylie served the pint and then disappeared into the rear to fetch a plate. Fry contemplated his surroundings. The Rose was clean and well kept. Today it was pleasantly cool inside, if a little dark. From the back, three doxies watched him, but Fry was never tempted by women. Today he even ignored the game of dice that was under way by the door. Settling to drain his tankard, however, he felt a twitch, as if a tiny mouse had climbed his britches. He swung round and caught a barefoot boy, the child’s skinny fingers deep in Fry’s coat pocket.
‘Most people wouldn’t feel it.’ Fry grasped the youngster’s wrist firmly. ‘But you picked the wrong gentleman.’
The boy squirmed, trying to get away.
‘Sit down,’ Fry growled.
The boy stopped moving. One of the slatterns in the shade shouted, ‘Pick on someone your own size.’
Fry ignored her.
‘I didn’t take nothing,’ the boy spat.
‘You want me to fetch someone?’ a man on another table offered, coming over to clip the boy about the ear.
‘And let them imprison him for not picking my pocket? You, boy, be more careful who you try to rob.’
He waved the boy off and the child disappeared like quicksilver across a mirror, into the street. The most valuable thing leaving London in his possession, Fry pondered, was the idea of a chocolate bar that could be eaten without having to cook it. It would keep the third floor of the factory busy for months, if not years, to come. Richard had a sudden pang – he wanted discuss the idea with Francis. He considered how much he might reveal about his London adventures. Would his brother realise how much he’d changed? He had a sudden vision of being at home sitting in an armchair, reading.
Mrs Wylie returned with the food. She had the manner of a retired slattern. Someone on the lifelong make. ‘Is that all right, sir?’ she enquired, nodding at the barrels dotted around the room.
‘Fine,’ Richard said.
This was his final calling place. But still there was an echo, a whisper of unfinished business – the glimmer of a small revenge. Henderson wouldn’t want him to stir up trouble – to land the gentlemen in something – but, given the opportunity, it was difficult to resist.
‘I heard of your establishment from my uncle,’ he confided, leisurely cutting into the pie.
‘Oh yes?’ Mrs Wylie, ever eager, leaned forward.
Yes, she’s perfect, he thought. ‘He is a member over the road at the club, you know. Lord Hayward?’
Mrs Wylie’s eyes widened. ‘His Lordship,’ she breathed. ‘Hayward. Here.’
‘Not that you must ever tell him. Heavens, my aunt would quite expire if she knew that a gentleman of his standing . . . Well, you understand. It is only that he is so fond of his friends. The other members. Mr Fisher and Mr Grant.’
Mrs Wylie’s countenance took on a beatific glow. She had found them out, at last. ‘Oh, of course, sir. Their secret’s safe with me.’ She smiled. ‘They’re good customers, the gentlemen.’
Fisher. Hayward. Grant.
Fry downed the last of his porter. He felt suddenly, entirely satisfied. Whatever he had come to London to find, he had got it. Sated, he pushed the last of the pie to the edge of the plate.
‘Good day, madam.’ He left a shilling and headed onto the sunny East End highway, where he turned at last in the direction of home.
Epilogue
Maria stood on the deck of the Valiant. The quay at Portsmouth was alive with activity, none of it on her account. Both Georgiana and Lady Dundas had refused to see her off. ‘Really,’ Lady Dundas had said, ‘I worry for your reason, my dear, but we cannot gainsay Her Imperial Majesty, can we?’
Maria was glad of their absence at least. She directed herself to the open water, her stomach curling in excitement. She put a hand to her cheek, just thinking of it, and passed her fingers through the dark fringe she had cut into her hair. She would be in Rio inside eight weeks. She knew she had made the right decision. This was what she had lived for, and Henderson. . . Well, he had passed.
Aboard the Valiant, the captain had not given up his cabin, and Maria glanced along the deck, where she was billeted in tiny quarters on the starboard side, her room crowded already with books and copies of the Illustrated London News. Earli
er that morning, she had discovered that, with care, she could stretch on the bed, the tiny window casting the last squares of English sunshine onto her legs.
Behind her, on the dock, the other passengers mounted the gangplank. First, a thin gentleman with a moustache, determined, no doubt, to make his fortune in Brazil. After him, there was a glassy-eyed priest and two children in his charge, being sent to an aunt in Recife. The little boy, dressed in brown velvet, kept peering over his shoulder, his last glances of home, as if he hoped someone might fetch him. The little girl’s lip wobbled, her eyes following the line of the long boards.
Maria stepped forward to introduce herself. The gentleman with the moustache bowed elaborately and swirled his hat as he tipped it. He was an engineer, he said, investing in the country’s mines. ‘And anywhere else I might see an opportunity, madam.’ He smiled.
His conversation was like a pas de deux, heavily choreographed. Maria doubted he might ever surprise her. She knew the Brazil he hoped for – rich provincial towns where gold and diamonds were ripped from the red earth. He would live in an ornate stucco house, find himself a beautiful Brazilian wife and contribute to the building of a rococo church on the town’s square. Many such gentlemen arrived and most of them prospered. There would be more now that Brazil was independent and greater openings were available for English investment.
Captain Birse swept forward and welcomed the passengers to the ship, directing them to their cabins. He all but ignored the children. Maria caught the little boy’s eye and smiled. He could be not much more than seven, and his sister no more than a year older. She crouched down and addressed both youngsters. ‘Perhaps you might like to learn a little of the language of the place where you’re going. I could tell you stories.’
The girl lifted her gaze from the deck’s pristine planks and nodded slowly, her lips a sombre straight line. ‘I shall enjoy that.’
Maria nodded.
‘Mrs Graham,’ the priest assured her, ‘there really is no need.’
‘I insist.’ She smiled. ‘I must practise. In almost three weeks in London, I have hardly spoken a word of anything but English.’
The priest looked perturbed at the very idea and swept his charges towards their cabin, the little boy distracted by the wide-winged wheeling of the gulls high above.
The last of the supplies were loaded. They were not promising, Maria noted, consisting mostly of smoked, dried meat, hard tack and sacks of potatoes. This captain was not a connoisseur. On the dock, a woman was selling the first of the English strawberries. The bright fruit was packed in wooden punnets and glistened on the straw like luscious rubies. Maria gave a ragged cabin boy sixpence and sent him to fetch a punnet. ‘Make sure they smell ripe,’ she said.
Dallying near the gangplank, she watched him handing over the coin. Behind her, the captain directed the crew. The tide was ready. As the boy came aboard and handed over the fruit, the gangplank was raised behind him, and Maria turned, suddenly unwilling to watch England shrink and everything become smaller.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
She’d give some to the children, she decided. The wide blue sky was beautiful out to sea. That was what she must think on. She banished the encroaching picture of Henderson, the way his hair flopped over his face when he was concentrating. The Valiant was another ship entirely and she had chosen to make her journey upon it.
‘Goodbye,’ she murmured under her breath, and then, managing a smile, she remembered she had a brand-new journal to start, its leather bindings fresh and its blank pages full of promise. A new story. One she would share with the world in due course.
‘I shall be in my cabin,’ she told the captain as Maria Graham, governess to Princess Maria da Gloria, and one of John Murray’s most celebrated authors, took the world in her stride as she swept away.
Writer's Note
I don’t have a single view on what is acceptable when using historical fact in a fictional story. My ideas vary over different novels and sometimes I surprise myself. However, I always find archive material and written history both inspiring and fascinating, and I love finding an echo of someone from two or three hundred years ago – a letter or a diary that is so fresh and well written, it brings the writer once more to life, as if they’re standing next to me.
Maria Graham is one such figure. I am struck absolutely in admiration for her achievements. To continue her (real) story from where it leaves off here (in fiction): she did not last long as the tutor to Princess Maria da Gloria. The English fell out of favour at the Brazilian court and she left Rio just over a year after she arrived. Returning to London, she rented a house at Kensington Gravel Pits and shortly after married Augustus Calcott (soon to be Sir Augustus Calcott), with whom she travelled across Europe. Maria continued to write books for John Murray and died childless aged fifty-seven. She is still remembered today, though, like many extraordinary people (and particularly extraordinary women), her story is not widely known. Her letters show her tremendous good humour and also her seriousness in the matter of defending her reputation. She was an admirable and extremely brave worldwide traveller at a time when few women journeyed more than a few miles. After she arrived back in London, her ideas were presented at the Royal Society and caused a furore, but she stood up for herself and, in addition, was backed by Charles Darwin, among other gentlemen.
Of the other real-life characters that appear, John Murray, Augustus Calcott, Admiral Cochrane and Richard Fry are heavily fictionalised. However, the details about Dutch presses and the intrigue and espionage in the chocolate industry are not. The advances Henderson dreams up all come to pass – Danish investors farming cacao in Africa, a new process that produces eating chocolate and, of course, the Fairtrade movement.
Cochrane is a national hero in both Chile and Brazil today, where they honour his memory far more than in the UK. He is said to be the character upon which Captain Jack Aubrey, of Patrick O’Brian’s Master and Commander series, is based.
Although it was initially Maria’s story that interested me, I became drawn to the core of this novel – Henderson finding his identity not only as a man, but as a gentleman too. It has ended up being his story in many ways, as much, if not more than hers. James Henderson is entirely fictional, but the social difficulties he encounters are not, and unlike many who fell through the cracks in Georgian society, I’m delighted that he hauls himself back aboard. One of my favourite eras is 1820–1845. It gurgles with life and is full of have-a-go heroes (my favourite kind).
Lastly, I want to thank all those who helped. My agent, Jenny Brown. Lisa Highton, who gave me sterling editorial advice. The kind readers who suggested improvements along the way. Members of staff at the John Murray Archive at the National Library of Scotland (who I hope are not too horrified by my fictionalisation of their wonderful facts) and also Creative Scotland, which, as an organisation, has solidly supported my work for many years and did so in particular with this project by funding research and development work. Research tips, support and cups of tea provided by Joe Goodwin were also gratefully received. And lastly, to the wonderful team at Black & White Publishing, who have brought the book to print, I say thank you very much.
On Starlit Seas Page 37