A Certain Latitude (32 page)

March drew on his gloves and took up a cane, as though he was about to walk in a London park. He took Allen’s arm. “I am gladder than I can say to see you once more, my dear. But where shall we go?”

“To my father’s ship. But we must make haste, sir.”

He turned March over to Clarissa and Celia, and he and Nerissa dragged the large trunk of belongings, which, apart from smaller bags the women carried, seemed to be all that they had had time to pack.

The smell of burning wafted up from downstairs, although the sound of the voices and some drunken singing suggested the slaves had broached March’s cellars.

The descent of the staircase took longer than Allen would have liked. March was frail enough that he was required to rest every few steps, and the smoke in the house, now quite thick, made all of them cough. As they crossed the entry hall, a ceiling beam came down in a burst of flames from one of the flanking rooms. Allen wondered how long the house could last—and how long it would be before one of the slaves saw them leave and reconsidered the tenuous bargain they had struck.

Outside on the steps a few slaves lingered: several boys, including the one with the machete, who now clutched a porcelain figure of a shepherdess, a man with a knife chest, busily bashing the lock open with a rock, and an elderly man leaning on a stick. They had been joined by a couple of women whom Allen recognized as kitchen slaves.

“We come to England wid you,” said the boy with the porcelain.

“Very well,” Allen said, pushing aside problems of extra provisions and clothes for a long cold voyage, let alone sleeping quarters aboard ship. “That ornament does not belong to you. Put it down. And you, sir, the chest and the cutlery inside it are not your property.”

“It’s a pretty t’ing,” the boy said, clutching the china to his chest. “It’s mine.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” March said with a flash of his old manner, “what the devil do I care for porcelain and cutlery now? If they do not keep the things, others will take them. Keep the shepherdess if you must, Jack. And Hercules, if you can carry the knife chest to make the tide, you are welcome to it.”

“Very well,” Allen said, trying not to let his impatience show. He helped Lemarchand, Celia, and Clarissa into the trap, and allowed the elderly man with the stick to ride in it too. Jack and his porcelain shepherdess jumped aboard before Allen could stop him.

“Get that dirty boy out of here!” Celia squealed. “There’s no room.”

“Hold your tongue,” Clarissa said, and hauled the boy onto her lap. He protested at first, then laughed and snuggled close to her.

“The rest of you, take the path through the trees,” Allen said. “Go to the jetty. We will meet you there.” He whipped the horse into a fast trot—best not to make it seem as if they were in too much of a hurry to leave. The horse was made nervous by the flames and smoke now coming from the house, and Allen had to concentrate on keeping the pace steady.

Behind him, Celia screamed, and he turned to see the crowd of slaves emerging from the house, arms laden with loot, yelling angrily. Something crashed into the trap—one of March’s bottles of claret, splashing them with red, and scattering splinters of glass—and Allen whipped the horse to a gallop across the lawn and along the road that led to the sea.

One month later, aboard the
Persephone

“Get some air, my dear.” The words were little more than a whisper. Clarissa had to lean close to March to hear them.

“Later,” she said. “I want to stay with you.”

“You need daylight.”

His hand uncurled from hers. Every day, it seemed, his bones became more prominent, his skin waxier and yellowish, and he retreated into a place where she could not reach him. The light of the lamp overhead threw the bones of his face into sharp relief, his beauty diminished by sickness.

Don’t watch the lamp sway
, she reminded herself.

“If you’re sure…” She snatched her cloak, trying not to appear too hurried as the nausea threatened to return.  She bolted out of the cabin and onto the deck, breathing cold, salty air through her nose. Above the sails roared like wind through tall trees—how she longed for England, for the gentle misty green of lawns and trees and hedges. But every day they sailed closer to home, was a day closer to March’s death.

On deck, a familiar scene played itself out.  Allen and his mother strolled together, her hand on his arm, deep in conversation. Now and again, she turned her head to his and smiled. Lord Frensham, tall and silver-haired,  hovered—there was no other way to put it—occasionally staggering with the movement of the ship, looking mostly at the son he had nearly lost, but occasionally at the woman who had borne him.

The three of them had their backs to her, and she was glad because, at that moment, the nausea returned and she lurched for the side of the ship.

Someone put a hand on her shoulder. Even in her wretchedness she knew whose it was—a large, square hand, clad in a leather glove.

“I’ve lost a guinea on you.” Allen Pendale pushed a cup of steaming liquid into her hand.

“Thank you.” Tears rose to her eyes, not so much from gratitude for the ginger tea, but that he had enough regard still to include her in the seasickness stakes. At the same time, she scolded herself for how a small scrap of kindness could undo her so thoroughly.

Allen stood next to her at the rail, swaying easily with the rhythm of the ship. “Take small sips.” He sighed and handed her a handkerchief. “Don’t cry.”

“May I remind you I have quite a lot to cry about?”

“Well, let’s see. You’re about to inherit a great deal of money—you know March rewrote his will leaving you a considerable legacy. Ah, don’t Clarissa. I’m sorry.”

She blew her nose into his handkerchief, noting with a certain sour pleasure that it would not be of much use to him after, and took stock of her belly; would the tea stay there?

He rested his elbows on the side, hands linked, and stared out at the wilderness of shifting gray-green waves. “How is March?”

“Weaker every day. He sleeps most of the time, from the laudanum.” She stared into the bottom of the cup, twisting it between her hands. A few specks of grated ginger clung to the bottom.

“Will he allow me to see him?” Allen’s voice was so quiet and raw with pain she barely made out the words.

She laid a hand on his arm. “He’s dying, Allen, and he barely speaks to me now. It’s as though he sets out on his own voyage.”

He shrugged. “There is so much left unsaid. I never told him I loved him, even if it was not how he wanted me to love him. And I have not adequately apologized for doubting him.”

“I think he knows. I hope so. I’m sorry.” She didn’t want to start saying she was sorry; there was so much to be sorry for she was afraid she would not stop. “What is Celia doing? Maybe I should send her to sit with him, although he is probably asleep.”

“She’s below, and I expect she fights with Nerissa. They’re usually at it like cats and dogs, according to Mrs. Silcombe.” He paused. “I’m curious about something—the circumstances of your marriage. Do tell me about it.”

She turned to him, surprised, and somewhat suspicious of his innocent tone. “Well, we were married in the middle of the night by Father O’Brien. March thought he was dying, so…”

“And that was it? A marriage by the rites of the Catholic Church?”

“Yes.” She had the nasty feeling she was on trial, being needled by a clever lawyer.

He threw back his head and laughed. “You’re not married, Clarissa. There is nothing remotely legal about such a marriage, whatever March may have told you. There’s no way now to even make it valid under the law.”

Tears rose to her eyes. “I made a vow, Allen.”

“Ah, don’t cry any more, Clarissa.” He wrapped his cloak around her, around them both. His body, warm and familiar and solid, was a comforting presence. “Whose child is it, my love?”

So he’d guessed. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t even know if you want it to be yours.”

He grinned. “Well, to put it delicately, there was rather a lot of spunk flying around.”

She snorted. “
Delicately
, Mr. Pendale?” She leaned her head against his shoulder. “I am so sorry, Allen. So sorry for what happened.”

“I too.”

“I have always liked you above any man I ever knew.”

“I must admit, I’d hoped for a more passionate declaration,” he said, but held her closer.

She broke away. “I am pregnant, sad, and either vomiting or on the brink of doing so all the time, Allen, and you can hardly expect more from me at the moment. I lost my notes and report on slavery in the chaos of leaving March’s house, and all my work is for naught. I have to try to write it all again from memory, and my condition makes my mind plod along like an old foundered horse. Now you tell me I am not married to Lemarchand after all, so I am in no position to look after his daughter as he asked. And I feel I am a fool.”

He grinned and caught her hand. “No more of a fool than I, my love. And I believe we may rely on the generosity of my father and the Pendale family to see that Celia is well looked after in London. My sisters will be glad to sponsor her in society.”

“Thank you. But what about you? What will you do when we return?”

“Ah. I’ve sat too long on the fence, but a spell in irons can be very persuasive. I plan to be quite busy and troublesome. I believe the abolitionists could use a competent lawyer.” He took the cup from her and shook the last drops of liquid overboard. “My father wishes to free his slaves as an example to other plantation owners, although the idea of him setting himself up as the ruler of some sort of Utopian community makes me think he is in his dotage. Mrs. Silcombe has offered to be my housekeeper, but insists I should marry. So I expect to be quite busy.”

“Indeed.”

“Indeed. My bride should be a capable, practical sort of woman, who knows how to run a household and can get along with Mrs. Silcombe, and who can give me a son to inherit my farm. I’ll have no objection to a daughter, though. Would you know such a woman? She doesn’t have to be particularly young, but she should be quite lecherous.”

Her mind, dulled with pregnancy, jolted from its customary slow amble to a laborious canter. Allen Pendale was proposing to her! How extraordinary. How altogether joyful and wonderful, and, damnation, she started to cry again. “I believe I do, although the lechery is a little problematic. It appears to have been superseded by sleeping and vomiting.”

“And weeping. No worry. It won’t last forever, so Mrs. Silcombe tells me.”

They were separated briefly by the arrival of a leather ball at their feet, and an invasion by an unruly group of young freed slaves and ship’s boys, with Jack as their leader. Allen cursed and kicked the ball away, and the boys followed it, shoving each other aside, shouting loudly.

“What on earth will you do with them in England?” Clarissa asked.

“Set them up as apprentices to learn a trade. Hercules—the owner of the knife chest—will work for me. I’ll find Joshua something, but he’s not well and overly aged for a man of fifty. I thought he had to be at least two decades older. But where were we?”

“You were proposing marriage to me, I believe. Pray continue.”

Allen grinned. “Capital. Do you remember when we first met aboard the
Daphne
? You thought me an utter fool.”

“You were.” She dabbed at her eyes, but still smiling.

“I told you then I had not met a woman worth marrying or worth dying for. Do you remember?”

“Oh, yes. I remember. And also that you had a certain weakness for other men’s wives.”

“Oh, yes, so I did. Did I mention also my weakness for abandoned, pregnant mistresses—one of whom, I’m happy to say is worth marrying or dying for, not that I intend to do the latter just yet.” He reached inside his coat. “I have a bridal gift.”

She took the leather bag. “What’s this?”

“Careful! Don’t open it fully, it’s too windy.”

She peered inside to see a bundle of papers, written in her own hand. “My report, and my notes! I thought I’d lost them forever. I’d put them in my cloak pocket and they must have fallen out.”

He grinned. “They did. That enterprising lad Jack found them on the floor of the trap and sold them to me for a shilling. I hope you don’t mind that I read your narrative. I was most impressed. And there’s also something of my own.”

“Shame on you. To have not told me before!” Reaching inside the bag, she separated the pages with her fingertips until she recognized his handwriting and read:

The slave dungeon is a most efficacious method of ensuring a slave’s surrender. If thirst and the rats, and the prospect of a hideous death do not drive him mad, then certainly his fate when released is uncertain and may possibly make him wish for dying of thirst as a more desirable alternative
…

She blew her nose and attempted to smile. “I trust there is no indecent material regarding Elizabeth Blight. The Quakers would be most upset.”

His gaze dropped. “I hoped you didn’t know. I was not proud of myself. But damnation, I was alive. It’s…” he removed his gloves and spread his hands, the scars where the manacles had torn his flesh now pink and healing. “I cannot apologize for it.”

She clutched the precious documents to her chest. “You do not have to.”

He gazed at her. “I carry other scars, for I now know the circumstances of my birth. I know who I am and what I can be and hope to accomplish. And what we can be, you and I, Clarissa.”

Tenderly, he drew his gloves over her cold hands. For the moment, it was enough; a moment of sweetness on this great ship full of sugar, as the winds blew them toward familiar shores.

THE END

The book that started it all for me was
Bury The Chains: Prophets and Rebels in the Fight to Free an Empire’s Slaves
by Adam Hochschild (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2005). For life aboard a sailing ship, I was inspired by
The Last Grain Race
by Eric Newby (Lonely Planet, 1999).