Decline in Prophets (8 page)

“Milk, definitely milk, Mr. Sinclair,” she replied shyly. Her accent was as broad as her uncle’s, but the lilt was not unpleasant. “It would be all I can take with this
wretched seasickness.”

Milton passed her a plate of bread and butter. “I trust you are otherwise enjoying life at sea, Miss Hanrahan,” he said as she declined.

Immediately, her eyes welled and she began to weep.

Clyde kicked Milton under the table. “What did you say?”

Rowland looked pointedly at Edna, who rolled her eyes, took the young woman’s hand and patted it consolingly. Rowland handed Edna a handkerchief and the sculptress passed it on. In a few
moments Isobel had composed herself.

“Forgive me,” she gulped. “I miss Orville so dreadfully.”

“Oh, dear,” Edna said, encouraging Isobel to sip her tea. “It was a terrible accident.”

“Did you know Mr. Urquhart well?” Rowland asked carefully.

Isobel nodded. She pulled a silver locket from under her collar—an unusual piece, engraved and set with seed pearls.

Edna gasped softly. Rowland tensed.

“He gave me this grand jewel, just the morning before…”

Milton met Rowland’s eye. “Did Mr. Urquhart put his picture in it?” the poet asked evenly.

They all recognised the locket. Rowland had given it to Edna years before. Ever since, it had held a picture of her late mother.

Isobel shook her head and released the clasp—it was empty. “Orville promised he’d have a portrait taken for me.”

Rowland glanced at Edna uncertainly. The sculptress’ face held more pity than anger. Silently, he marvelled at her compassion.

Milton spoke gently, holding Isobel with his dark gaze. “Here, take my picture; though I bid farewell, thine in my heart, where my soul dwells, shall dwell.”

Isobel’s sighed, her eyes dewy. “Why, Mr. Isaacs, that is so very beautiful. It gives me such comfort.”

“Words are all I have to offer in your moment of loss, Miss Hanrahan,” the poet replied humbly.

“John Donne’s words,” Rowland murmured.

Milton ignored him. He’d always considered Rowland’s obsession with who wrote what entirely unwarranted.

“It was an engagement gift,” Isobel disintegrated again. “I am sorry… what must you think of me… we are barely acquainted.”

“How long had you known Mr. Urquhart?” Rowland asked, stirring his tea, feeling intrusive in the face of her grief.

“We found each other the moment we came aboard,” she replied with lip atremble.

“Pardon me, if I am too familiar, Miss Hanrahan,” Milton ventured, “but has your engagement been announced?”

“It has not… not yet…”

“And your uncle?”

“Sweet Lord, no!” She coloured. “Uncle Shaun would never allow… I suppose it matters little now… I would meet with Orville in secret.” Isobel raised
Rowland’s handkerchief to her face once more.

The Australians waited patiently. They had been subjected to the disapproval of Bishop Hanrahan. They could feel nothing but sorry for the young woman.

“On the night Mr. Urquhart died…,” Rowland started.

Isobel nodded. “I was meeting Orville around midnight… we had a place where we could be alone.” She looked away and blushed a little. “Uncle Shaun is usually in his bed
by ten.”

“Usually?”

“Father Murphy came to my stateroom around half past ten… Uncle Shaun had sent him to hear my confession—apparently he insisted.”

Edna hugged her impulsively. “Oh, you poor old thing. How simply frightful… What ever did you do?”

“I confessed to having terrible, uncharitable thoughts about my uncle.”

Rowland and Milton laughed, even Clyde smiled.

“Father Murphy stayed and stayed. I confessed and confessed.” Isobel’s shoulders slumped wearily. “’Twas nearly midnight before he left… by then, I was sure
Orville would be angry.” Her cheeks flushed red once more. “He is not… was not… a patient man.”

“So you went to meet him?” Edna asked quickly as she noticed Isobel’s eyes well again.

“I would certainly have done, but Uncle Shaun arrived to say the rosary with me.”

“In the middle of the night?” Rowland put down his teacup.

“Uncle Shaun is often moved by the Holy Spirit at unusual times,” Isobel informed him sadly.

Milton looked at Clyde. “This rosary thing… does it take long?”

“If you do it properly.”

“One supposes a bishop would do it properly,” Rowland noted.

Isobel nodded emphatically.

Rowland Sinclair observed the bishop’s niece thoughtfully. Her distress at Urquhart’s demise seemed thoroughly genuine, though she had known him only a few days. He was somewhat
relieved that Isobel appeared utterly unaware of his altercation with Urquhart. She would probably not have looked well on him for that.

“What part of Ireland are you from, Miss Hanrahan?” he asked, deciding to take her focus from Urquhart and his unfortunate end.

“Dublin, Mr. Sinclair,” she smiled as she thought of home. For several minutes she told them of the Irish capital, of her family. She spoke wistfully of her parents’ decision
that she accompany her uncle to Sydney. She did not elaborate on why and they did not press her. Eventually, she stood to leave, concerned her uncle would soon notice her absence.

“You cannot be walking me back,” she protested, when the men stood and Rowland moved to walk her to her room. “Thank you kindly, Mr. Sinclair, but Uncle Shaun will be furious
if he saw me with the likes of you. He is more than sufficiently cross with me. I’ll not risk angering him further.”

“I’ll accompany you, Miss Hanrahan,” Clyde volunteered. “I’m a lot less objectionable than Rowly, and I did sit through Mass.”

That decided, Rowland and Milton returned with Edna to the Reynolds Suite, whilst Clyde saw Isobel Hanrahan to her door.

Rowland dropped into the couch, rubbing his leg.
It was holding up well
, he thought. He hadn’t won the deck tennis, but he had played.

“Do you want a drink, Rowly?” Milton was already pouring.

Rowland nodded. “Thanks.”

“Ed?”

The sculptress declined and sat down beside Rowland. She was quiet.

He put his arm around her. “I’m sorry about your locket, Ed,” he said softly. “Do you want me to talk to her?”

She shook her head and then leant against him, curling her legs up next to her. “You can’t tell the poor thing that he gave her a stolen locket. It would break her heart all over
again.”

“You’re a good sport, Ed,” he murmured, hearing the sadness in her voice. He could smell the familiar rose of her perfume as she left her head on his shoulder.

“Rowly…”

“Hmmm?”

“What do you think he did with the picture of Mama?”

Rowland tightened his grasp upon her, gently, protectively. He suspected that Edna didn’t have another photograph of her late mother.

“I don’t know, Ed,” he said. “I’ll talk to Madding—we’ll have his stateroom searched.”

Milton proffered a glass to Rowland. “Get off the man’s drinking arm, Ed.”

Edna ignored him. “Rowly’s ambidextrous,” she said flatly.

“Since when?”

“I started out with a preference for my left,” Rowly confirmed, as he took the glass.

“I’ve never noticed you using…”

“I don’t generally. Was persuaded to use my right hand when I started school.”

“Persuaded?”

“They have ways.”

“Rowly paints with his left hand sometimes,” Edna murmured. “I can’t believe you haven’t noticed.”

Milton remained surprised.

“I don’t paint with my left often,” Rowland qualified. “Just when the work isn’t going well—sometimes it helps.”

“Well as long as you can still drink.” Milton took to the armchair with his own drink. “I wonder how that bastard got hold of Ed’s locket.”

“I was wearing it the day before he died,” Edna offered. “I hadn’t even noticed it was missing.”

“You know, Rowly,” Milton started, “I’m inclined not to care that Urquhart’s dead. Perhaps we should just raise our glasses and wish the killer the best of
British—he may have done us all a favour.”

The door opened and Clyde walked in.

“You took your time,” Milton commented.

“The bishop was waiting for Isobel,” Clyde responded tersely. “She might have an easier time in a nunnery.” He cast his eyes to the ceiling. “God forgive
me—His Grace is a bloody nutter.”

“What if the bishop killed Urquhart?” Rowland mused looking at Milton. “Should we still wish him luck?”

The poet hesitated. “Well… there’s Isobel.”

“And the next bloke who wins her heart.”

“Do you think he could have killed Orville and then returned to say rosary with Isobel?” Edna was sceptical.

Milton shrugged. “Maybe it was the bishop who needed to ask for forgiveness… or whatever it is that you do with the rosary.”

Clyde sighed and shook his head. “We make port tomorrow.” He poured himself a drink.

“The bishop and his entourage will reboard for the leg to Sydney,” Rowland returned ominously. “We’ll have another few weeks in His Grace’s charming
company.”

Clyde sat down and pulled a deck of cards from his jacket. “He can move in and call me ‘darling’, but I’m not going to Mass again. Edna, get off Rowly—you’ll
be able to see his cards from there.”

Their final dinner aboard the
Aquitania
before she reached New York Harbour, was a celebration of particular grandeur. Only Jiddu Krishnamurti and the clergymen
weren’t in white tie and tails, remaining in the attire of their respective religious affiliations. The ladies glittered in their most lavish gems, both true and paste. Edna’s claret
gown had been purchased for her in Paris. She wore no jewellery this night. She was startling.

“What the hell are we going to do with these outfits when we get home?” Clyde muttered as he tried to sit without catching the tails of his coat.

“We’ll be the best dressed blokes at Trades Hall,” Milton grinned in response. “Even Rowly might have trouble finding a fancy enough do for these get-ups.”

They were seated again with Theosophists. In Orville Urquhart’s place was Richard Waterman, a middle-aged surgeon, whose accent only just betrayed him as Australian. His wife was an
American, severe eyes, lips drawn tight like the neck of a drawstring bag. The only time she stopped looking disapproving was when she spoke to Krishnamurti, whom she seemingly held in high regard.
Also at the table were the Colonel and Mrs. Benson, an elderly couple who started in the movement with Annie Besant. They were on their way to Sydney to stay with Charles Leadbeater at
The
Manor,
which served as the Theosophical Society’s southern headquarters.

Annie was talking with Rowland who had clearly become a favourite of hers. In this conversation she extolled the virtues of Co-masonry over its more traditional prototype, Freemasonry. The new
Lodge had adopted much of the ritual and regalia of the original, but its membership was not restricted. Unaware that the Sinclairs had been Freemasons for generations, she did not curb her
criticisms of the exclusively male society.

“Freemasonry has much to commend it,” Annie declared. Her hand once again found Rowland’s knee, where, it seemed, she preferred to keep it. “But it is a patriarchal
anachronism—determined to exclude women.”

Rowland smiled. “I would not have thought you so keen to wear an apron, Annie.”

His membership of the secret society was a family tradition more than a personal choice, though his brother Wilfred took the Lodge quite seriously. Indeed Rowland only went to meetings under
sufferance when Wilfred insisted. He honestly couldn’t imagine why women would want to join.

“I will write to Charles,” Annie Besant said, undeterred. “You must go and see him when you return to Sydney. I am sure you will get as much from Co-masonry as I have over the
years. You must take your companions too.”

He tried to dissuade her without admitting to being a Freemason—it was after all supposed to be a secret society. Annie Besant would not be moved, and it so seemed he would have to call on
Charles Leadbeater with a letter of introduction.

Father Bryan came by their table to admire Edna, as did many young men. She dealt with it graciously, as she always did.

Milton nudged Rowland and pointed out Isobel, who sat at a table on the other side of the hall beside her uncle. Her gown was white, extremely modest with girlish flounces at the shoulders; her
face was mutinous.

The ship’s orchestra struck up a waltz and Captain Madding led his partner onto the parquetry floor. Many couples followed. Edna grabbed Rowland’s hand.

“Come on, Rowly, let’s test your leg.”

He looked at her dubiously.

“Oh, don’t be such a coward,” she said pulling him up. “It’s a waltz—just grit your teeth and dance. Excuse us, Annie.”

The result of Rowland’s first dance since the bullet had done its damage was not altogether successful, but neither was it a disaster. Edna chatted blithely in her usual manner, ignoring
the fact that her partner was concentrating on forcing his leg to take the weight required of it.

“Sorry,” he mumbled as he stumbled slightly on a turn.

She smiled at him. “Just don’t fall—everybody’s watching.”