Moon Rising (43 page)

~~~

We ate our meals at the same table, in our usual places, with Dr Graeme and the Chief Engineer beside us, Alice and Miss Fenton opposite. Nevertheless, over the succeeding two weeks I felt we were connected by invisible cords, and that our lightheartedness made them dance. Jonathan called me Mrs Lindsey in public, but since Damsy was the name he preferred, that was what he called me in private. He said Marie was for other people, and I was happy to go along with that.

Meanwhile he and I kept up the pretence that no one else could possibly know about the two of us, yet it must have been something of an open secret. Alfred, the steward who looked after the Master's cabin, often caught my eye and winked, while everyone else discreetly looked the other way. Aboard passenger ships, I imagine these things must have happened regularly; and possibly some kind of unwritten law existed amongst the men, to the effect that nothing was ever mentioned ashore. But there again, perhaps they were forgotten as soon as they left the ship.

Alice maintained that Miss Fenton never did catch on, simply because she was so self-centred; and Alice, bless her, made sure her attention was distracted anyway. To begin with, I worried what Alice would think – not enough to stop me, to be sure – but in the end I realised she was far more worried about what would happen when we reached London.

I didn't want to think about that, so did my best to behave like the proverbial ostrich, while over the final few days of the voyage Jonathan became increasingly concerned.

We were approaching the Isle of Ushant and the Channel when he said to me in desperation one afternoon in his cabin: ‘Damsy, my love, I've measured my regard for other women against what I felt for you all those years ago. It wasn't that I imagined myself still in love, but rather that I remembered how it
felt,
the bad bits as well as the good. I've known women since, none very well – there was never time to know them well – but I've never been able to recapture that feeling.

‘No, listen to me,' he went on when I would have interrupted. ‘This is important. I'd honestly begun to think it was something of a delusion, part of my youth, one of those things that can never be repeated. I'd stopped looking for it. But then, suddenly, on a voyage from Bombay to the Port of London, you came back into my life again.

‘And do you know what? When I saw you on deck that day – when I recognised you – it was like a blow to the chest. I couldn't believe how shocked I was – I couldn't understand how difficult it was to adjust to the idea of
then
and
now.
But when I did –when I began to accept you as you are now – I knew that all the old attraction was still there. Only much deeper and stronger than before. And since then,' he added intently, ‘you must know how much I love you – you must know that?'

‘Yes,' I whispered, ‘I think I do.'

‘So what do I do? Now I've found you again, what happens next? Do you expect me just to stand by when your husband arrives aboard my ship to collect you? To shake your hand and say,
Goodbye, Mrs Lindsey, it's been a great pleasure knowing you –
is that what you expect me to do?'

His intensity cut me to the quick, but there was nothing I could say. I kept reminding him that I was married. I kept explaining about Henry and my work as a ship-broker, but he didn't seem to understand how much I owed to Henry, and how impossible it was for me to contemplate leaving him.

‘Besides, what about your profession?' I demanded later, as the sun went down over the western sea. ‘Do you expect me to leave my husband – and a business which has been my life – in order to sit about somewhere for months at a time, twiddling my thumbs and just waiting for you to come home? I can't do that.' Over the past few days I'd privately considered such a life, but I knew I couldn't do it, not even for the sake of what we were sharing now.

‘Why can't we compromise?' I suggested gently. ‘We could meet when you're in port or on leave? Or even when you're expected on the Continent? Hamburg, or Ostend – we could have a few days together – Henry need never know -'

I could hardly believe I was saying this, and clearly, nor could he.

‘Good God, Damaris – this is your
husband
we're talking about! How can you contemplate a life of lies and deception like this? What about truth and honour – don't they mean anything anymore?'

I wanted to say that life was made up of warp and weft, a tapestry of compromise, but he was in no mood for such pragmatism. Time was running out, and I longed for him to agree, but he seemed quite unable to do so. Then we were entering the Channel, and he was busy with other shipping, too busy for conversation. Not until we were anchored in the Thames estuary, waiting for the pilot, did the opportunity arise again.

It was about dusk, very mild and still, with a mist hovering mysteriously over the mudflats and the lights of other ships reflected like lanterns in the water. There was a melancholy beauty about it that reminded me of pictures by Whistler, and by reflection, later, those pictures for me
became
that evening, with all its sad nostalgia.

By next day the worst part of the crisis would be over, I knew that. Henry would be waiting for me as the ship docked, and – no matter what was decided – I would have to go home with him, and either find some way of explaining what had happened to me on the way home from Egypt, or some way of living with my memories. I'd fallen in love with Jonathan, and he with me – it was, after all, part of the price we had to pay – and the idea of never seeing him again was almost unbearable. But then I thought about giving up my work and living alone, for months on end, and I knew I could not do that either. For me, the only answer was compromise, which really meant deceiving Henry, and Jonathan was too proud for that.

He came out on deck and we walked the length of the ship in silence. On the way back, he said: ‘I'm nearly thirty-seven years old, Damaris, and I've been at sea since I was fourteen. I've been thinking for a while it's about time I packed it in, took a superintendent's job somewhere, settled down, had a family before it's too late... We could do that, you know – it wouldn't have to be in London, there's plenty of other places...'

He talked on, illustrating the possibilities of a shared home and family, while I struggled not to weep. It was an impossible dream, part of these weeks aboard, and part of me longed to respond to it, to continue the illusion...

I dared not trust my voice to speak, and he interpreted my silence as disapproval. Before we reached the steps to the boat deck, he said with whispered frustration: ‘Haven't you thought about what might happen? You and I have made love almost every night since the storm, sometimes two and three times, with absolute abandonment and no thought for the consequences. What if you discover you're expecting my child?'

He was watching me closely. I couldn't hide my reaction to his question, and he knew as I winced and turned aside that something was wrong. ‘What is it?' he demanded, grasping my arm, ‘what have I said?'

‘I hoped you would realise,' I said, leaning against the rail for support. ‘I didn't want to have to explain. I can't have children...'

Until that moment, the inability had never really bothered me, had been one of those things I considered more fortunate on balance, since I was able to follow different paths as a consequence. But now, strangely, it hit me hard. I don't know why. Perhaps because I thought I was in love with him, and I wanted to seem whole and perfect in his eyes, if only for a while. Admitting that lack, I felt crippled suddenly, unwomanly, unworthy of his regard. And it came between us in a way that nothing else could. It made the decision, solved the problem, and to my eternal shame I used it to end things.

Now that I knew what he really wanted from me, I said, I would always feel inadequate in not being able to provide it. I said there was no point in my leaving Henry, none whatever, since it would make no one happy, and him unhappiest of all. He didn't deserve that.

I hated myself. Jonathan seemed bemused as much as grief-stricken, uttering questions that were less than half complete, turning away, exclaiming, cursing the hand of fate which spirited me away when he loved me first, and then, cruelly, set me before him, only to take me away again.

‘All right,' he said desperately, ‘we'll meet. Tell me when and where and we'll meet. I love you too much to lose you again...'

But it was too late for that. We'll leave it, I said; for a while at least. Think things over. That will be best. Leave me an address, I said, and I'll get in touch. You can reach me at my office in the City...

And then the Thames pilot came aboard and there was no more chance to talk.

The ship berthed in the early morning, not long after first light. Although I'd hoped that Alice and I would be able to leave before Henry had the chance to come aboard, we could not disembark until officialdom had set its seal upon us, and unfortunately by that time Henry – in company with the Addisons' agent – was already climbing the gangway.

I dreaded a meeting in Jonathan's cabin. To avoid it, I created a fuss over the luggage, pretending that one of my small trunks was mislaid, which excused my nervousness to some degree, and occupied Henry as well as Alice and myself in a fruitless search. Only when I saw Jonathan out on deck with the Mate, checking one of the cargo holds, did I suddenly ‘find' my box underneath the lower bunk in my cabin, and then, seized by relief, I embraced my husband, apologised for my absent-mindedness, and was suddenly all haste in the move to disembark.

Henry, dapper as ever in a pale grey frock coat, picked up his top hat and cane, viewed me quizzically for a moment, and then said he must first pay his respects to the Master.

Alice caught my eye, pursed her lips and looked down as we made to follow him. She went down the gangway with Dr Graeme and Miss Fenton as we met the agent on deck, while I would have given anything to be able to follow them. Instead, I dragged myself behind the two men to where Jonathan was leaning over an open hatch and speaking to one of the men below. He knew we were there, but did not look up until the last moment, eyes dull, mouth grim, every gesture one of slow reluctance. He was wearing his navy-blue uniform but his hands were filthy, covered in oil or wax from some tarpaulin nearby; deliberate, I imagine, since when they were introduced, Jonathan was able to bow to my husband rather than shake hands.

They were much of a height and of similar build. Fleetingly, I saw a resemblance between them, and wondered for a startled moment whether it was that which had attracted me to Henry in the beginning. Having expressed his thanks, my husband listened with raised brows and a broadening smile to Jonathan's account of my help with the invalids during the storm. He responded with his usual blend of formality and charm, then turned to me and instructed me to say goodbye. That was very much out of character; but what was worse, like some doll-wife with no volition of her own, I found myself obeying, while Jonathan stood in the guise of a mourner at a funeral, with hands behind his back, gazing at the deck.

I expected no reply, but somehow he forced his mouth into a smile, and said, ‘It's been a pleasure, Mrs Lindsey. I hope we'll meet again someday.'

As he escorted us to the gangway, I thought the weight of guilt and regret would drag me down. Somehow we crossed the deck and reached the quay. Henry assisted me into the waiting hackney, Alice confirmed that all the luggage was safely stowed, and we were on our way home, crunching across the cobbles and into the busy traffic of a London morning.

~~~

I felt physically wounded, as though flesh had been torn in that parting, and there were occasions in the succeeding weeks when I wept my heart out in the privacy of my room. Alice was a good friend to me then, but even so I had to strive to overcome my feelings of remorse. For Henry's sake I had to find the spirit to converse both at home and in the office. Work was difficult, and I made the excuse that several weeks away had undermined my ability to concentrate. At home, when Henry embraced me, it was hard to explain my sadness.

‘I thought your voyage to sunnier climes was meant to cheer you,' he chided gently one evening, ‘not cast you down like this. What's wrong, hmm? Can't you tell me?' And when I apologised for it, said I didn't know what was the matter, he said rather sadly: ‘Well, if you should discover the cause, my dear, remember I'm always here.'

One day, when we were dealing with insurance on a vessel lost off Heligoland, he asked me to tell him about the storm in the Mediterranean; and another time, when the
Holderness
came into conversation for some other reason, he made a point of telling me that the ship had her old Master back again, Barlow having recovered from his illness. He didn't tell me where Jonathan had gone, but I felt he expected me to ask; felt too that he suspected the nature of my unhappiness and was seeking either confirmation or denial. It may even have been that he was trying to be kind. But I didn't dare respond. For both our sakes, my feelings were bearable only while I kept them to myself.

I hardly expected any news from Jonathan, although I longed to hear from him. It was foolish, but part of me hoped he would give forewarning of his next visit to London, with perhaps some tentative suggestion that we meet for lunch or dinner or a companionable walk in the park. But nothing came. Even if he wanted to see me, I imagined he knew himself too well for such subterfuge, and had too clear a sense of honour to be able to make love to me under such circumstances. And if I might have been prepared to fool myself just for the sake of seeing him, I knew by then that I could not fool Henry.

For some time I kept to myself, saw no one except on business or in my husband's company, and stayed away from ships and the docks. I was glad to have work to do and the office to go to, since to be at home with the ticking clocks would have driven me mad. It took the rest of the summer, but eventually I learned to marshal my thoughts, and by Christmas I thought of Jonathan not in terms of guilt and loss but as something not meant to be. When he came into my mind I tried to be cynical, telling myself he was part of another time, a different life; we'd shared a brief but intense holiday romance, that was all, and if he couldn't see it in that light...