Not Yet Drown'd

by Peg Kingman

  “But why, pray?”

  “You may blame the jealousy of the East India Company. As independent merchants based in Flanders, we are at liberty to buy as much tea as we can get in Canton, and bring it to market—in Europe. But if we flew the British flag, we would not be permitted to trade in tea—for that, you know, is the only commodity over which the Honourable Company still retains its old monopoly. And they protect their privilege with great zeal.”

  “It is wonderful that such vast trouble is taken over bales of dried leaves!”

  “Oh, Mrs MacDonald! Bales of dried leaves! Tea is the most important commodity in the world! Not only to Crawford and Fleming, and to the East India Company, but also to the Exchequer of the royal personage who cut so fine a figure on that gray gelding this morning. Three million pounds each year pour into the British Exchequer thanks to China tea; the duty is at ten percent now, you know.”

  As the party broke up, Catherine found a private moment to say, “Pray, Hector, do not forget my present from the Indies. There is only the one thing I long for, and it is not gold bracelets. You know what it is, and I shall not be satisfied with anything else.”

  Hector shook his head and closed his eyes for a moment.

  “Fare thee well, and come thee safely home again,” said Catherine in Gaelic, and kissed him.

  Then Mary said, as they parted, “Catherine, I hope you will forgive me for being so silly. My father returned your beautiful shawl yesterday, and although I intended to bring it to you today, I forgot it. I am so sorry, but I will send it at first light tomorrow, so that you shall have it before you sail. He sent you one of the copies made on his looms too, as a token of his gratitude.”

  Catherine and Grace were carried back to their inn before dusk.

  The two shawls arrived as promised early on Saturday morning, just after breakfast. It was wonderful to compare the gossamer Kashmiri original to the weighty Paisley copy. Folded, the Kashmiri shawl made a square hardly heavier or thicker than a good handkerchief; the folded Paisley shawl made a bundle nearly as thick as a folded blanket. Catherine shook them both out and spread them across the bed, side by side. They were the same size, and the Paisley weavers had faithfully copied the intricate swirling pattern; even the colours were a good match. But while the Kashmiri shawl felt as smooth as silk, smoother than her own hair (for the under-hair of the Himalayan goat is fine and straight), the Paisley shawl was only as smooth as the best and finest Scottish wool could be combed and spun. And while the Paisley shawl still smelled faintly of sheep and dye, the Kashmiri shawl smelled of cloves, cardamom pods, and sweet tea. Catherine carefully folded the Kashmiri original and put it in her trunk with the other things Sandy had sent her: the handwritten sheaf of music and the little silver-bound ivory tea caddy. The Paisley shawl she kept out, as more suitable for wear in Scotland.

  On Saturday afternoon a message came at last for Catherine and Grace from Captain Buchanan—but still it was not the expected summons, alas! Instead, he informed them, their departure was postponed once again; now he proposed to set sail no later than Monday, without fail.

  Grace groaned. None of her usual pastimes retained their charms after so many days confined to so small a room. “Will you read to me?” she asked Catherine, and Catherine, also madly restless and increasingly anxious, read to Grace as much as they could tolerate of The Life of Washington. They could not tolerate much: “‘Run to my arms, you dearest boy,’ cried his father in transports, ‘run to my arms,’” read Catherine. “‘Glad am I, George, that you killed my tree; for you have paid me for it a thousand fold. Such an act of heroism in my son, is more worth than a thousand trees, though blossomed with silver, and their fruits of purest gold.’”

  “The gomeril!” interrupted Grace. “I cannot believe he said that.”

  “Nor can I,” said Catherine, closing the book with a slap. “If he did, he was a blockhead. And if he did not, it is a lie, and we’ll have no more of it.”

  In bed that night, Grace told Catherine a much-improved version of the tale. In Grace’s version, young George was threatened with disinheritance if he did not replace the cherry tree he had destroyed. So he set off on a voyage around the world, and brought back a hundred exotic trees from the Indies: orange, tea, nutmeg, coffee, pineapple, chocolate and ruby trees among them. His father was delighted.

  Dismal Sunday passed, somehow. Monday dawned at last. Catherine and Grace waited in readiness for their summons to go aboard Die Vernon. Catherine observed the wind: southwest. She inquired about the tides: nothing extraordinary; an ebb beginning at about eight in the evening. Probably they would sail on that. She considered sending a message to Captain Buchanan; but what would it say? She decided not to bother him, and waited, impatiently.

  No message came. Dinner came instead, brought up by the little blond maid, who was looking pale and wan, not her usual brisk self. Robbed of appetite by their restlessness, they ate anyway out of duty. Usually the serving maid came back promptly to clear up, but now the cold greasy plates remained on the table for a long time, and no one came. Some sort of fuss was kicking up down by the waterfront; Catherine heard voices hallooing and shouting, a bell clanging somewhere, and then groups of men went hastening down the street under her window toward the docks. When she noticed a column of smoke rising some distance out, and blowing off toward the hills of Fife, she concluded that something had caught fire. There was a great deal of roaring and shouting in the distance, and poppings like firecrackers, but Catherine’s narrow slice of the view between buildings did not show her what the disturbance was about.

  Evening drew on, and shadows gathered. Catherine was sitting near the window for the last of the light when finally there came a tap at the door. It was a serving maid come at last to clear up. It was not the little blond girl, and Catherine looked again more sharply as the maid pulled her plain shawl back from her dark sleek head. “Mrs MacDonald,” said the gypsy-like foreigner in the voice and accent that Catherine had heard before. “Ma’am, the ship Die Vernon has burnt down to the water.”

  6

  the most bungling Excecution

  “You! Who are you?” cried Catherine. “How did you find me here?”

  “I am serving here, at this very good inn favored by the ship captains,” said the Indian woman. She nodded to silent Grace, curled in her chair. “They are giving me a bed in the attic, with the other maids, and I am helping with the work of serving. It is a temporary arrangement only. When the king is going away, the town will become empty again. Soon I will be finding a place as a ladies’ maid, and a passage back to my own country. Very soon, I think. How very surprised was I that you yourself, ma’am, were taking rooms here.”

  “Who are you? Won’t you tell me your name this time?”

  “I suppose there is no harm. My name is Sharada Swarnokar.”

  “It is an Indian name?”

  “Oh, yes. I was born in the holy and famous city of Benares, on the bank of the Ganges River.”

  “My brother is bound for India.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Unhappily he is not needing a ladies’ maid, I think.”

  “Quite. I, on the other hand, do need a ladies’ maid. But I am not going to India.” There was a silence while they both considered the inconvenient symmetry of these facts. “Why did you tell me just now of the burning of the Die Vernon?” asked Catherine. “Why do you suppose it is of any importance to us?”

  “All the servants in the kitchen are knowing that you and this child were to be sailing for Inverness on the Die Vernon,” said the maid as she gathered up the greasy dishes and piled them on her tray. She had shapely brown arms, and a long curving column of a neck, but Catherine could see white and pink scars puckering the tender skin on the inside of her arms. The scars ran up under her loose sleeves. She was young, probably younger than Catherine. “The Captain Mainwaring’s steward was speaking of this when his master went away and gave these rooms to you,” she said.

  Catherine tu
rned, annoyed. Had Captain Mainwaring and his steward nothing better to do than rattle on about her private affairs? But the harm, if it was harm, was already done, she reflected. “Well, then, Grace, my dear,” Catherine mused quietly, “what are we to do now? I suppose we must find another ship bound for Inverness.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” said the maid, her back pressed against the door. She was poised to push it open and take out the heavy tray of soiled dishes. “Excuse me for speaking, ma’am. But permit me to say this: Inverness is not your true destination. You will not go to Inverness.”

  It was quite true that Skye, not Inverness, was Catherine’s eventual destination; but who knew that? “What do they say in the kitchen?” said Catherine drily. “Have you seers there? Perhaps one of them would be so good as to advise me and my daughter. It would save us a vast deal of trouble in making our own arrangements.”

  “Oh, no, in the kitchen they are supposing it is Inverness. Only I am supposing a different place, but I am saying nothing. Only I am thinking that you will go on a ship that is sailing to India, ma’am, to India. And I am thinking I will go on that ship with you.” With that, the woman backed out the door with her laden tray, and was gone.

  “Rude gypsy nonsense!” said Catherine, trying for a breezy note of dismissal, and not succeeding. She took several turns across the room and back again, agitated. Uncanny, that foreign woman’s habit of suddenly appearing with predictions and dismaying warnings. The room was so very small—only two paces across. It was difficult to calm oneself here, difficult even to draw a deep breath. But when she saw that Grace was studiously avoiding any notice of her, Catherine made a great effort to settle herself. From her trunk she extricated her writing paper, pen, and ink, and sent a message to Captain Mainwaring, begging once again for his kind help in finding them another passage to Inverness.

  “Inverness be confounded, begging your pardon, Mrs MacDonald. Why not sail with us instead, just as far as Antwerp?” said Captain Mainwaring to Catherine early on Tuesday morning, having downed his coffee in three gulps while standing. He had declined to sit down, though Grace’s usual chair was empty, for she had fled to the bedchamber when he came in. “You would be quite safe in Antwerp, and perfectly comfortable. You would be there in three or four days—so much quicker and easier than making your way out to the western isles. You could have the apartments above the Crawford and Fleming warehouses, you and the wee lass. That is, I daresay Mr Fleming would have no objection. There are a great many Scots in Antwerp—quite likely you have acquaintance there already—and most of those Netherlanders speak French or even English, so you would have no difficulties with that. And it’s such an economical place; one can live comfortably there in a quiet way at very little expense. Your return would be perfectly easy, too, once your affairs had arranged themselves in a more satisfactory train.”

  “As a plan, it seems to have a great deal to recommend it,” conceded Catherine. “And you really know of no ships at all due to sail for Inverness just now?”

  “Nothing that sails before I do, Thursday morning. You might have to wait about for some time. Poor Buchanan! Hemp, ship, and all—up in smoke! And just when things were going so well with the widow. I doubt she’ll have him now. Well! You shall have the big cabin next to your brother. You’ll find it quite commodious for just the lass and yourself. And a maid?”

  “No. No maid,” said Catherine decidedly. “It will be better to hire a maid in Antwerp, I think.”

  “Quite. Your trunks are here, I see. My steward is below; I shall have him convey them aboard directly. Then you and the lassie must board tomorrow evening, so as to be ready for the morning ebb. I shall send my skiff for you at the pier at nine o’clock sharp; that should be dark enough. What a surprise for your brother! We are loading our last consignment tonight and tomorrow—last but not least. Just a whisper in your ear: steam looms! Half a dozen of the newest and best design. Your brother knows all about it. Very much in demand in Liège, you know, for nothing equals the Scottish machines. So shortsighted of the Netherlanders to try to ban them; you’d think they’d be happy to get them. Well, well, I know who will be happy to get them. But hush, not a word, and I’m sure you are discretion itself.”

  So the decision was made: Antwerp, not Inverness.

  Aboard a ship that is sailing to India.

  The trunks were carried down and put in charge of the steward; the passage money was paid; and Catherine promised to be at the pier with Grace at nine o’clock on Wednesday evening.

  “One last question,” said Catherine. “Do you know where I might send to Captain Buchanan?”

  Captain Mainwaring did not, but he promised to inquire as he went about his business, and to let Catherine know whether he learned anything.

  Catherine’s supply of ready money had seemed sufficient for going to Inverness and then to Skye; and replenishing her purse from anywhere in Scotland would have been easy enough. But that same sum might not go far in Antwerp, for the captain’s idea of economical living might not coincide with her own. And there might be difficulties and delays if she were to draw upon her bankers from abroad. The money she had sacrificed for two places in the Glasgow coach was gone, the price of laying a false trail. But the sum she had advanced for their passage to Inverness aboard the Die Vernon might perhaps be recovered. She did not like to dun a man just laid low by misfortune, but she felt obliged under the circumstances to make the attempt.

  That evening, Catherine received Captain Mainwaring’s note: Captain Buchanan was probably to be found at the small and inexpensive Red Bull Inn, which stood a mile or two westward along the road toward Queensferry. Promptly Catherine sent a messenger there, with a tactful note requesting that her passage money be refunded to her. It was nearly midnight when the messenger returned to report his unsuccess. He had found the Red Bull Inn, and he had found Captain Buchanan. But nothing that he or the innkeeper could do would rouse the unfortunate man from his profoundly unconscious state. The messenger had left her letter in care of the innkeeper until Captain Buchanan might be in a condition to read it.

  Early on Wednesday morning, Catherine thought it best to send to her bankers. It was not until noon that she had a reply from them; or rather from their clerk, who politely advised her that both partners were gone to Newbattle Abbey for a glimpse of the king. But they would be sure to give her draft their immediate attention on the next morning.

  That would be Thursday morning—too late.

  Time was running short. Catherine considered what she ought to do. Could she count on Hector to have provided himself with funds, on the eve of his departure, sufficient to cover her expenses too, until she could instruct her bankers to reimburse him, wherever he might be? Perhaps. But it was presumptuous; and she did not like the idea. Hadn’t she better try Captain Buchanan again? She sent downstairs for a messenger. But not even a boy could be spared, it seemed, until six o’clock at the earliest. What now? She was herself able-bodied; why not go to Captain Buchanan herself? It would not be pleasant, of course. Even if he could now be awakened, he might still be drunk. And there was Grace’s safety to be considered. Catherine did not like to leave Grace alone; nor did she like to take Grace out in the town, where she might encounter Miss Johnstone’s writs and bailiffs and ruffians.

  Was it impossible, then? She was tempted to give up and rely on Hector for funds; then she scolded herself for weak-mindedness. Firmness, she told herself: Resolve. “Come, Grace,” she said briskly. “Put on your jacket and your bonnet, and I will lend you a veil. We must go out.”

  “But I haven’t got them,” said Grace. “They are in the trunk that was taken away to the ship.”

  “What! Your jacket and your bonnet? Didn’t you keep them out, to wear? What did you expect to wear?”

  “I forgot. I didn’t think I would need them.”

  Catherine sighed with exasperation, knowing that it was her own oversight; Grace was only a child.

  “I’ll stay here,” s
aid Grace. “I’ll keep the door locked.”

  Catherine took two turns about the room, considering this. At last she said, “Don’t you show even so much as one eyelash outside this room, not for any reason whatever. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Not even if the place is burning down?”

  Catherine glowered at her.

  “I promise to stay inside, snug and safe as a little lamb in the fold, and the door bolted. I’m not a baby, Catriona.”

  “Expect me back within two hours. And don’t call me Catriona.” Then Catherine veiled herself closely, wrapped her warm Paisley shawl about her arms and shoulders; and went out into the windy late afternoon.

  Catherine walked westward along the waterfront. With some distance to cover, she strode along briskly. She had always enjoyed walking, and the narrow confinement of the last week had been a hardship for her. As she moved along, she felt her mood lighten, her anxieties fall away. Yes, why not Antwerp? It was a good plan. And it would be charming to astound Hector. But perhaps Captain Mainwaring had already told Hector; he was startlingly ready at telling news that might better have remained untold. Nevertheless he was kind, always helpful, generous with his time and advice. His generosity, it seemed, could be relied upon; only his discretion was uncertain.

  The water sparkled at her right hand, teeming with boats and barges, skiffs and launches; the busy town hummed to her left. The late-afternoon sun was still high, but the brim of her bonnet and her dense veil shaded her face. People glanced at her as she passed; veiled, she could look at them, too. She felt deeply relieved at being out and moving—and poised, finally, to leave Edinburgh.

  Half an hour’s walking brought her to the Red Bull Inn, where she inquired for Captain Buchanan. The innkeeper and his strapping wife exchanged a look laden with meaning. “I’ll go and see,” said the wife, and disappeared up the creaking wooden stairs. Catherine could hear her heavy tread overhead. Gratefully Catherine sat down and accepted a glass of buttermilk offered by the innkeeper. Her fashionable little pumps had thin soles and a remarkably elegant-shaped toe—too elegant for long-distance walking. She thought of her old childhood boots, thick and sturdy, so well suited to long tramps over hills, rocks and bogs. For a long time she waited. There were creakings on the stairs, and groanings of floorboards above, doors slammed, and loud voices. Eventually the landlady returned. “Well, he’ll do now, I trust,” she said. “Follow me, ma’am, if you please.” And she led the way up to Captain Buchanan’s sitting room.