All the Tea in China (9 page)

The milk slaked my thirst and fortified my stomach. I scarcely noticed any aches or pains and indeed felt revived enough to see what was happening on the rest of the ship. Once I took stock of my rumpled dress and realized that my living quarters were much more fragrant than at first because of the cattle’s natural eliminations, I questioned my ability to mingle with any passengers who might have boarded. No doubt I was a bit more fragrant as well. I would have to be careful about returning to the main deck.

Signor Antonio had taught me to be a superior fencer, but his lessons had not included any espionage skills. I longed for them as I crept as quietly as possible up the stairs, poking my head through the hatch to the deck. The sun hit me square in the face, and its brilliance forced me to duck back a bit into the lower darkness. I had not realized that it was so easy to become unaccustomed to full light. I gave my eyes time to adjust, then, still shading them with my hand, I carefully ventured topside again.

Sailors scurried to and fro, and to my delight, I saw regular passengers now aboard. I should be able to blend in better.

I stared down at my dress, which was sadly rumpled and somewhat smudged from my time spent in the straw. If only I had foreseen the necessity of bringing my bag! Still, what I had left behind for Flora to guard, God would no doubt provide. I smoothed my dress as best I could and brushed at the dirt.

When I spied a group of passengers coming my way, I waited until they had just passed, then I scurried up the steps and onto the deck, blending in with their group. No one seemed to be the wiser, and hopefully Midshipman Bates, if he saw me, would think me merely reboarding.

My plan called on me to find Snowe, however, and soon. If he would vouch for me (and surely he would when he learned of my earnest desire), he could no doubt see to my accommodations and perhaps some new clothes. I hated to dispel any noble missionary thoughts, but the idea of a new frock and a comfortable bed for that night gave me the strength to proceed. Bossy’s milk had satisfied my growling stomach for the moment, but it would not last for long. Heaven help me, I desired meat.

I walked the length of the ship without detection, keeping a keen eye out for Snowe and his group. I did not know how long the ship would lay in harbor, but I did not want to miss him. I observed another group of passengers boarding, but they did not look familiar either.

I caught several glimpses of Midshipman Bates and stayed clear. No need to run into him unless necessary. I did see another, even younger midshipman—whose rank I recognized by an identical uniform to Bates’s—and stopped him. “I am sorry to detain you,” I said. “But I am looking for Phineas Snowe. Has he boarded yet?”

The young lad recoiled for a moment, his nose wrinkling. Then, as though remembering an elder’s admonition, he relaxed. “I believe he has, miss. I saw him near the cabins.”

I could have kissed the lad! “Thank you so much. You are doing a marvelous job, truly. I am certain you will be promoted as soon as possible.”

He flushed, touched his cap, then turned to more pressing matters. I turned heel and rushed toward what I hoped was the direction of the cabins. I took a set of stairs at the opposite end of the boat from the cattle and, just as I headed down them, whom should I run into but Phineas Snowe himself.

His eyes went wide. “Miss Goodrich!”

How odd. He was not wearing those horrid spectacles. “Mr. Snowe.” I curtsied.

He bowed stiffly. “What are you doing here?”

Under his cold eye and manner, the speech I had prepared fell apart on my lips. I clasped my hands to steady my nerves. “I . . . I have come to join your group. I want to go to China to serve in whatever capacity the Lord has prepared.”

He stared for a moment, then smiled as though speaking to a child. “Come, Miss Goodrich. The Orient is no place for a lady such as yourself. What could your uncle have been thinking to bring you as far as Gravesend? I trust he will see you safely back to Oxford.”

“But I came alone, Mr. Snowe. I knew that Uncle Toby would protest, but this is God’s plan for my future.”

Snowe’s face darkened, and I involuntarily stepped back. Without his spectacles, his eyes appeared opaque, his countenance more serious than I could have imagined. I had always thought him out of place somehow, but rather than being a step behind most people, he suddenly seemed to want to be two steps ahead. He almost seemed a different person.

“Foolish girl,” he mumbled, then reached into his pocket. “Here.” He pressed several coins into my hand. “This should see you back to Oxford. I am sorry if you misunderstood my attentions toward you. My purpose was to discuss my work with the mission, not to court you. You have no need to follow after me like a poodle.”

He compared me to a dog! I sputtered. “If I am a poodle, then you, sir, must be compared to a lady at court. For that is the human companion for such a breed.” I managed a laugh. “Upon my word, I believe that is quite insult enough . . . to the ladies at court.”

He drew a sharp breath. “Miss Goodrich, I have wasted enough time bandying with you. Have the goodness to take my money and leave this ship.”

“
Your
money, Mr. Snowe? Did you not manage to secure more than coach fare from my uncle?”

“He gave it to me for the mission.” He smiled. “Yet I believe I secured something from you as well. You cannot say that you did not enjoy my attentions while in Oxford. I am certain that it was quite a privilege for a bluestocking such as yourself to be treated so affably. Your . . . friend, I believe, Catherine Ransom all but begged me to entertain you at her party. She said that you were near starved for attention, and now I see that truer words were never spoken. As well, your uncle was so delighted to see you occupied with a man’s company that he was willing to contribute a great deal of money toward my work.”

I stood aghast. Cathy had not only schemed to throw Snowe and I together, she had asked him in advance to attend me. Uncle Toby, too, had not been interested in my opinion of Snowe’s mission, rather only that Snowe had shown me attention.

I was both the laughingstock and the pity of Oxford.

I clutched the coins in my palm until my nails cut into flesh. “I am sorry for the misunderstanding,” I said in a low voice. “I will leave at once.”

He bowed slightly, formal in his victory. “Have a safe journey. Rest assured that your uncle’s money will be of good use in China.”

Somehow I curtsied, dazed, and headed for the boarding area. I was conscious of activity around me, much scurrying and loading of passenger possessions, but I could only realize that my future was gone. I had believed it my calling to go to China, and now to find that not only that dream was shattered but my place in Oxford as well . . . No one would ever be able to pass me in the street without whispering, “There goes Isabella Goodrich, poor girl, the bluestocking. She claims she was destined to work at a mission in China, but it is said she was only interested in the missionary himself.”

I started down the gangplank, trying to force myself to think about how I would return home. First, I must find a coach to London. Once there, Flora—dear Flora!—would cosset me, let me weep, then together we would make our way to Oxford. Uncle Toby would love me, of course, and perhaps between the two of them and lessons with Signor Antonio, I could continue life within the walls of the university. Everything I needed could be found in books and—

No! I could not foresee such a life. Had I believed that God called me to a life of service or not? Would I give up on my dream only to return to a life of shame?

I turned and marched resolutely back up the gangplank. The young midshipman recognized me and smiled, my flattery apparently remembered. “May I help you, miss? The ship is leaving in just a moment. You are not a passenger, are you?”

I smiled, opening my clenched fist. “These coins belong to Mr. Snowe. I am such a goose that I forgot to give them to him. I will return them then disembark.”

He looked flustered, as though he had many duties that needed attention. Yet chivalry prevailed. “Perhaps I should go with you—”

“I know just where he is. I shan’t be a moment. No need to trouble yourself about me.” I waved a dismissive hand. “You have much more important things to think about, I am certain. You are a credit to East Indiamen everywhere, Mr. . . .”

“Mr. Calow, miss.” He blushed under my praise. “Thank you, miss. Please hurry.”

I curtsied. “Thank you.”

I headed back toward the cabins, then when the midshipman’s back was turned, I reversed course and proceeded directly toward the cattle. I knew exactly where to hide.

Later I scolded myself for not having secured some food while I was above deck. Thankfully, Bossy seemed pleased to see me again, or rather, she did not object when I returned to my home in the straw. It appeared that someone had mucked out the area, for which I was grateful. I knew that someone would find me eventually, for it was foolish to think that I could make the voyage all the way to China without discovery. Following the biblical admonition to let tomorrow take care of itself, I determined merely to live through one day at a time. And perhaps to find some manner of securing food.

Once again I was plunged into darkness, with no notion of the passage of time. I could have been there a week or several hours. I tried to stay hidden as much as possible, cramped into the corner, but naturally I was forced to stand up and stretch on occasion, and even to move around. Bossy was obliging with her milk, even seeming to appreciate my relieving her of its burden.

“When we get to China, I shall see that you have only the finest of pastureland,” I solemnly promised her. “You have been a faithful companion when everyone else has forsaken me.”

Even as I spoke the words, I knew them to be untrue. As hunger and (evidently) time wore at me, I had visions of Uncle Toby and Flora grieving for me, and regret gnawed at my empty innards. Had my impulsive nature been not only my undoing but theirs as well? I was not selfish enough to believe that I was the center of their worlds, but I knew that I shared a goodly portion of them. No doubt my unexplained absence had rent a tear in the fabric of their lives.

Light-headedness came and went in a manner that soon not even the consumption of milk could ease. I found myself little able to move and huddled in my corner. To make matters worse, I realized that I had quite misjudged my immunity to the effects of a ship upon water. Evidently the journey from London to Gravesend on the Thames was no match for an ocean voyage, for I soon realized the ship swayed and rocked in a manner that could only indicate we had encountered a good wind and were out to sea. At first it was only a mild annoyance, but soon full
mal de mer
overcame me, and I retched more than once into the straw.

Surely it was days that I lay nearly immobile, hardly caring if—and indeed close to praying that—the ship might be struck calamitous and all aboard drown. God must be sorely testing me, I could only reason, or perhaps, like Jonah, my foolishness was bringing ill fortune to all aboard. I could not be the only one to suffer from the ship’s lurching back and forth, up and down, back and forth . . .

At some point I knew instinctively that I was near death. Having been raised in the Church of England, I did not, of course, believe in Last Rites, but I tried to confess my sins, not the least of which was an apparent misunderstanding of God’s purpose for my life. As I lay in the straw, something hovered over me, and I determined that it was either Bossy or the angels come to take me to heaven. I felt myself lifted from the straw, and I was helpless to resist.

“I am . . . sorry . . . for my foolishness,” I mumbled, in case they were, indeed, celestial beings. I did not want to enter the presence of the Almighty without having offered one final, blanket apology.

“We all are,” the being muttered in response.

To my surprise, I came slowly to a conscious realization that I still walked among the living.
Walked
being a fanciful word, however, as I could no more walk than sit up at the moment. My limbs felt weighted, but the ship no longer seemed to lurch underneath me like a wild stallion. I felt a gentle sway, however, and realized I was in a hammock.

I endeavored to force my eyes open and received a blurry impression of a rather cramped cabin and Phineas Snowe lying in a hammock on the other side. Obviously I had been mistaken, for I was not in heaven but instead in Hades.

“Wha . . . wha . . .” I mumbled, trying to speak but sounding like a babe.

He was at my side. “Miss Goodrich, can you hear me?”

I nodded. If Snowe was the devil, I did not want to speak. Even if I could.

“I am glad that you are all right. Do you think you could tolerate some broth?”

I listened to my stomach. Yes, it seemed to say. Broth would be better than milk. Indeed, the sooner the better.

I nodded.

“Good. I’ll have some brought to you.” He headed toward what must be the door, then turned. “I know you will recover at your own rate, but it is imperative that you understand this now. For purposes of this voyage, you are my sister. Is that clear?”

I would not speak even if I were able.
His sister?

He approached me, his eyes burning. “Is that clear, Miss Goodrich?” The tone of his voice indicated he would brook no deviation from an affirmative answer.

In my weakened state, I had no choice but to agree. At that moment, I could only think about the impending bowl of broth, and somehow I sensed it might be withheld were I to cross Phineas Snowe.

“Yes,” I whispered.

Before he could leave the room, I closed my eyes in resignation and slept like one dead.

The next thing I knew, I was fully awake. Not dragged from sleep against my will, but a willing, nay, eager participant. My return from death’s lair was no doubt a miracle, and I said a hasty prayer of thanks.

Once finished, I took stock of my current situation. I had not dreamed the crowded cabin nor my hammock bed, as I had supposed, but found them to be reality. If such was the case, then I could only assume that Snowe’s insistence that I call him brother must be reality as well. Or at least his version of it.