The Lady's Slipper (36 page)

After his afternoon nap, Geoffrey awoke feeling nauseous and disorientated. He had slept too long and now he forced himself to step up on deck to take some air, where he zigzagged from rail to rail, looking blankly out to sea. His headaches were now severe enough to stop him in his tracks or cause him to hold his skull between his hands and rock back and forth like a lunatic. Since waking he had alleviated the pain with rum, so that now it was a mere throb like distant thunder.

Under the brisk easterly the ship forged ahead like a white-capped mountain, shouldering the waves aside, the water pouring from the canvas, the breeze singing in the tautened ropes. Spray whipped across the deck in the eddy of the mainsail, the deck a-tilt, so that all movement became a lurch from handrail to rope in the slippery film of salty water. Rain was falling now, insistent and blinding, from a sky devoid of stars.

He climbed the narrow steps and breathed in the smell of salt from the top deck, leaning over to watch the tips of the waves slip by in flashes of white. He held onto the rails and looked out beyond the prow to the inky line where the sea joined the sky. The rain stung his face.

He always used to love the ship’s motion, the sense of riding on such a huge depth of water, but now he was unsettled by the constant movement, and irritated that it made him bilious. He had hoped another spell at sea would improve his health and clear his mind of the nightmare of the past few weeks. His life was falling asunder. He had never thought he would see the day when his son would disobey him. He did not think Stephen had the guts.

Geoffrey hurried below. Although he had an oilskin cloak, he had no desire to fetch it and subject himself to the sheeting rain when he could lie on his bunk below and read
Pinax Theatri Botanici
, a fascinating manual by a Frenchman which listed species of New England plants. He was determined to follow in the footsteps of the famous Tradescant and find and list further wonders–ones not already collected by the French.

As he turned the pages he could not cast Stephen from his mind. He thought back to the embarrassing scene in the dining room where Stephen had virtually called him a tyrant and dared to imply he was a laughing stock. Stephen’s words had hurt, but he had decided to forgive and forget, and make a new start with his awkward son. He had tried everything to persuade Stephen to take passage with him but to no avail. Even at the last minute Geoffrey had thought he would come round but, frustratingly, despite his best efforts, at the turn of the tide Stephen had been nowhere to be found. Patterson and the dairymen had searched the whole estate, but the old brown nag was missing from the stables so it was clear enough he had purposely ridden out. So to Geoffrey’s bitter disappointment he had been forced to take ship alone.

He was angry with himself–he suspected he had been too soft with his son. A few months at sea would have got rid of Stephen’s heretical Quaker notions. But he was damned if he was going to let Stephen rule his life, dictate to him what he should and should not do. When it had become clear Stephen was to stay in Westmorland, he had called on Rawlinson and enjoined him to take Stephen under his wing–tutor him a little, whilst he was away. Rawlinson had said Stephen was a grown man now, and perhaps giving him his trust, and a measure of responsibility, would make a man of him. Geoffrey hoped he was right. Rawlinson was no fool; he would keep Stephen on the straight and narrow. And Stephen would return to his senses soon enough–no sane lad would turn his back on an income of forty pounds a year and a house like Fisk Manor.

Eventually, chewing on his lip, Geoffrey took up a quill to pen a letter to him. A six-month absence was always a risk in these uncertain times, and he hoped Stephen was home by now at the manor, safely under Rawlinson’s eagle eye. He dreaded he might go back to London to drain the coffers of his inheritance–or, even worse, that he might be hanging about with the scullions at the Hall. Rawlinson had promised him the fire-setting Quakers would be tried and sentenced, so perhaps that would quash Wheeler’s treasonous sect for good.

Geoffrey sharpened the quill and dipped it in the ink. ‘My dear Stephen,’ he scratched, but then paused, wondering how to continue. He did not know what to say, had no idea where to start. He realized he had never written to his son before. Emilia had always done it. He blinked, surprised. His eyes were wet.

He gritted his teeth, lowered the quill into the ink again and wiped it on the lip of the bottle. He must demonstrate affection to his son, put difficulties behind them, guide him away from these ranters and bad influences. It was something he had never understood, why he and Stephen were unable to see eye to eye. Even as a child, Stephen seemed bred of different stock.

Geoffrey remembered that when the Netherbarrow Hunt arrived at a kill, the other boys would be eager to be first there, to have the sticky blood smeared upon their cheeks, and he would look out for his son hoping to see him jesting amongst the throng–but Stephen was inevitably the last, left limping behind the field, his knees flapping aimlessly against his horse’s flank, his face pinched with fear.

He cast those thoughts away and instead imagined the two of them managing the estate together, constructing a vast trading network of ships and sugar colonies, putting away quantities of gold against future calamities, such as another war. Father and son together. Slowly he began to write, filling out his dreams, his pen scratching unevenly across the paper as the ship listed from side to side.

He had a sudden idea, and paused mid-sentence. He put down his pen, stood up and went over to the locker. He would make some purchases from his New England friends. When he returned home he would surprise his son with a gift of some land of his own for a tobacco plantation. His own plantation! That would surely whet his interest. And he would purchase some well-seasoned negroes to labour on it for him. Stephen could have charge of them, to accustom himself to giving orders and managing a workforce.

Inspired, he took out papers and charts from his locker, choosing a rolled map of the new territories. He undid the ribbon and spread it out on the escritoire with two lead blocks to hold it flat, for the ship was pitching more now, and he could hear the clap of the waves against the sides and the shouts of the men calling ‘Belay’. The gloom below had intensified, so he lit a small lantern and stood it on the edge of the desk, the better to see the itinerary. His eyesight had failed him of late, words often danced about on the page and his headache made it difficult to concentrate.

The last time he had been in St Christopher in the Caribbees, he recalled, he had visited a sugar farm. He had been most impressed with the vast numbers of dusky men cutting like an army through the canes, and had heard that the same technique had been adopted in New England for tobacco. He was fascinated by the blackness of their skins, their flat noses, their loose limbs, the way they needed no rest but moved inexorably along the lines like the black shadow on a sundial. The crops were made fast in half the usual time. He saw no reason why these advanced methods should not eventually hold good for his own estate, and the economics of it were plain. Stephen could arrange the building of their quarters and later sort out the gangs for threshing and ploughing. In this new age Stephen would soon prosper, and he, Geoffrey, would be free to explore his horticultural and scientific interests in his sunset years.

Now with the map in front of him, he laid out his route in his mind, progressing down the coast to the large estates in St Mary’s and Jamestown. There he would be able to buy a portion of land for Stephen. He looked closely at the map, seeking a plot close to his own. He earmarked two possible positions in his mind. Once he had made his purchase, he thought, he would check his own plantations, relax and dine in a reasonably civilized fashion, and return refreshed, a few days later, to his ship. From these holdings it was a week’s sail to the remoter parts of Virginia, where he would take armed expedition to forage for new plants and extraordinary exhibits before returning to Providence, from there to load his more regular cargo of rice and tobacco.

As he looked at the vast tracts of blank land laid out on the map, the edges fraying into the unknown, the petty world of England grew far away and, with it, the hanging of Alice Ibbetson–for by now, he thought with relief, it was over, and she was surely at peace. The old woman’s ghost must have been blown away by the fierce winds and salt spray of the ocean. Here was his little empire, moving steadily towards a new world.

Geoffrey’s shoulders began to lower, the tension bled away, his head nodded again over his chest. He rested his forearm over the crenellated coastline of New England, as if to protect it, and sank his long face into the crook of his elbow. He inhaled the subtle smell of the wind from the fibres of his green velvet coat, let his eyes close. Within a few moments he was asleep. Several hours later he half woke, found himself scratching, so took another dose of his remedy. Still dressed, he stumbled to his bunk, fell down onto it and began to snore.

As the graveyard bells rang out, he dreamt his tobacco plantations were full of crawling insects, like ants, that scuttled across the land devouring everything in a black tide.

Richard lay in the dark in the narrow cot, Alice’s hand clasped in his, her head on his shoulder. He held her loosely, feeling the back of her ribs expand and contract with her breath. She was heavy-limbed and warm, sleeping peacefully. From his position he propped himself up on one elbow to look out of their salt-smeared window for any sign of land. Of course that was foolish, he knew. But it was what everyone did on board ship.

He looked down and twined one of Alice’s fine coppery curls in his fingers; they were ebony in this light. They had eschewed the hammock and gladly slept in the same cot despite the lack of space. It felt natural, inevitable, like a coming home. She had opened herself to him trustingly, and so he had found himself gentle, respectful, despite the urgency of his desire. Having seen her so near to death, the want in him for life was intense, but also the search for life’s deep secret in her eyes. He had been surprised by his own nakedness; it was as if in the previous years he had forgotten his body was there at all. He stretched his cramped bare limbs like a new-born.

A great crash of something falling on the upper deck roused him from his thoughts, and woke Alice, who moved to cling to him more tightly.

‘Hush, dear one,’ he said. ‘The sea is rough, there may be a storm coming.’

‘Should we rise?’ she asked sleepily, pulling him close.

‘No need,’ he said. ‘I am sure this vessel is built to withstand any storm. But it may get more blustery yet, and the sea swell more fierce. I had best secure anything loose in the cabin.’

He slid out of bed and hitched on his breeches. He made to stow away the wash-jug and basin just as the ship began to keel more violently from side to side. With difficulty he crossed back and forth to the locker, carrying a shaving mug, the chamberpot, a water flagon. When it was done, he climbed back into bed. Out of the porthole he could see the oily surface of the sea coming up towards them, followed all too soon after by the gaping black hole of the sky.

As the night drew on, and the ship’s timbers began to moan and the sails whipped louder, he lay beside her and prayed silently, asking God for a safe passage, and for deliverance–not his own but hers. He assumed that God would be disapproving of his lust, but to his surprise his conscience remained untroubled. He was following some inner law of natural behaviour, and as he prayed he discovered that his God had changed, become more forgiving, more accepting of him. It was a great wonder to him. He realized he had prayed to many different ideas of God through his lifetime. How strange it was, that each man’s God seemed to be his own unique creation.

The ship heaved and rolled through the night in heavy seas. Richard had to go above decks to vomit but Alice seemed unperturbed by the motion. When he returned she was asleep still, her face pale, almost luminous, against the dark blankets.

The hammer of the rain stopped. Curious, he pressed his face to their cabin window again to see the skin of the sea stretched out into the distance, like the back of a great black dragon arching its spine. He paced the floor, restless and unable to sleep, making plans in his mind. Stephen had loaned them a large amount but he worried it might not be enough for their needs. He took up writing materials and calculated the likely cost of the passage, and worked out what essentials they might be able to afford to give them a start in the New World. He wanted to prepare, for he worried that Alice was bound for a rough life, not of her own choosing.

His eyes kept returning to her sleeping figure–he relived the breathless passion of the night before. He could still feel her touch as if newly branded on his skin, the way his body tingled beneath her fingers, the softness of her lips. She had pressed her mouth tenderly to his scar, the raised weal that ran down his chest like the mark of a whip. She had not asked him about it, and her tenderness and quiet acceptance of it touched him.

Through the night they had heard the bells for the changes of watch, right enough, but their time was slow and meandering as each uncovered traces of the other’s past, the memories interspersed with languorous touches. Richard found with awe that his hunger for Alice, and the fact that he had so nearly lost her, became a desire to look into her eyes and drown there, and this seemed to him to be a great paradox–that his love became the shadow of death, haunting, just beneath the surface of his thoughts.

He climbed back in beside her, cold and damp and still half dressed. He stroked her smooth back. She rolled over.

‘Thou art all gooseflesh,’ she murmured, rubbing at his arms. ‘Here, let me hold thee.’ She chafed his hands between hers, bringing them to her lips to blow on them.

‘I never thought to hear it, but the Quaker speech sits well with thee,’ he said.

She smiled up at him and squeezed his hand. ‘Hast thou been up on deck?’

‘Seems I left my sea legs in Lancaster,’ he said ruefully.

‘And we are set to sail to the other side of the world,’ she murmured. ‘Thou must purchase a new pair straight away.’

‘If there’s any coin left over when I have paid our passage, then I’ll get myself a good strong set, and maybe a spare pair for thee too.’

The next morning Geoffrey peered through the crack of the shutter that faced the deck. From here he could keep an eye on the Master and the crew. He winced and drew back a moment as daylight reached his eyes. Behind the shutter, drops of condensation rolled across the window in diagonal streaks. The morning was chill and misty, the rigging a hazy grey against a whiter sky. The men were hauling in sail.

He blinked. Over by the mizzen he saw the faint outline of a woman’s figure climb the steps. She was clinging to the handrail with one hand and carrying a basin in the other. Geoffrey stared. The mist distorted his view through the window. He must be imagining it, there were no women on board. He opened the shutter a little more. The crew ignored her presence and carried on shortening sail. He thought he saw the woman struggle over to the side and tip the contents of the basin overboard, before turning and walking carefully back towards the steps. It was Alice Ibbetson. Geoffrey’s stomach turned over. But that was impossible–she had been hanged this morning at Lancaster.

He took an involuntary step away from the window. When he looked again, she was gone and the men were working as before. He flung open the door and rushed outside towards the steps, the cold morning air wet on his face. He stared wildly about him but there was no trace of her. The ranks of men raised their eyes from their tasks to watch him, and under their curious gaze he withdrew sheepishly into his cabin.

He slumped back into his chair. ‘Get a hold of yourself, man,’ he said to himself, ‘she’s dead.’ He had not realized he would be so affected by the Ibbetson woman’s death. It must be the stress of it; his overtaxed mind had conjured up her image, that was all. What time had she died? He could not remember. He shivered, the sudden cold seemed to gnaw at his bones. Perhaps her ghost had come to find him. He told himself firmly there were no such things as ghosts.

He must set to a practical task, stop these strange fancies. He poured himself a double measure of rum and felt its sweet warmth hit the back of his throat. He took his morning remedy as usual. He would finish writing to Stephen. But his hands had a tremor like an old man as he opened the drawer and picked up the quill. He could not uncork the bottle of ink, and when he tried to read what he had already written, it was blurred and, try as he might, he could not bring the words into focus. A shout on the deck above and he thought he heard the crack of Alice Ibbetson’s neck as she swung, saw her eyes looking at him in reproach. Was she looking down on him now?

Seized with the feeling of being watched, he let the letter drop quietly back into the drawer. He swivelled his head to look over his shoulder and thought he caught a glimpse of the old woman just inside the door. His heart leapt in his chest. He jumped up but she had melted away, like a mirage. His heart was beating too fast, he thought. If it kept on like this it might burst and he would die, he had heard of such things happening–a man’s heart might stop altogether if he had a shock. Two women were in their graves because of him, and they were exacting vengeance.

A panic assailed him. He wanted to pray but no words would come; his ears buzzed, his legs were soft as cotton. When he drew his hand across his brow he found that sweat dewed his forehead; he clutched the raised edges of the desk and breathed in shallow noisy gulps with his tongue protruding from his mouth like a dog. It felt as if his chest was squeezed in a metal band, like a barrel, and he knew if he couldn’t get enough air he was going to die.

He grappled along the shelf for his Bible and, clasping it to his chest, threw himself face down onto his bunk. Grunting, he stretched out an arm and dragged his leather satchel towards him across the floor by its strap. Still holding the Bible, he felt inside the satchel for his flask of brandy, and rolled onto his back before emptying the dregs into his mouth.

The act of doing this calmed him, and he willed himself to slow his breath. He crossed his arms across the stiff leather of the book and felt the comforting weight of it pressing down on him. ‘One, two, three, four…’ He counted a beam on the ceiling with each inhalation. The idea he might be losing his wits terrified him. Once, his hand slid inside his waistcoat and felt the rough skin of his chest through his shirt. His skin was hot, his heart still beating too fast, but the thump beneath his palm was reassuring. The cabin was barely moving now, the slap of the waves turned to a gentle lapping. He stayed on his bunk, rigid, staring up at the ceiling. It was eerily quiet. The uncanny feeling remained, that if he turned to look he would see the old woman sitting there in his chair. He dared himself to look. There was nobody there.

A sharp knock on his door made him startle. The Bible thudded to the deck as he sat up. He reached to the hook for his sword belt and buckled it on. Agitated, he dragged out his sea trunk, flipped it open and found his flintlock. He shoved it into his belt.

It was the Master.

‘There’s another ship close by, sir. We think she’s passed us, but we heard her six bell. Just letting you know we’ll have to keep the bell tolling, sir. We cannot risk a collision in this fog.’

As if to punctuate his words the doleful clangour of the bell began. Geoffrey groaned and put his hands over his ears.

‘Get out,’ he shouted.

The noise vibrated through to his core. Unable to bear it in his cabin, he went out on deck, holding his head. The ship was almost at a standstill, apart from the vague shapes of two men above tugging on the bell rope. He could scarcely see a yard before him. Figures loomed out of the mist and then disappeared into it again. There was no horizon, no sea, no sky, everything seemed to have been swallowed in a white shroud.

He felt his way across the deck, from handhold to handhold, grasping at the rigging as he went. The men were leaning over the rails peering into the fog. He looked up. The bare masts swayed above him like burnt-out trees, the tops fading into nothingness.

Then he saw her again, Alice Ibbetson, leaning over the rail. He would recognize that russet hair anywhere. He rubbed his eyes. She seemed to drift away, down the stairs. He watched her disappear below decks before following her. He stumbled in his haste to see where she went, tripping over one of the big guns, ready in case the French should attack again. He brought himself back to upright, his head throbbing, and set off towards the steps. It was impossible to hurry, for the decks were still awash after the rain, and he cursed as his feet slipped in the wet despite the fact that the ship was barely tilting.

He ducked into the tween-deck corridor and flung open the first door; it banged back against the wall. He caught a glimpse of her standing with her back to him, folding a piece of linen, but at the sound of the door she swung round. Her eyes widened, her hands flew up to her mouth. ‘By all the saints…?’ She took a step back. ‘My God,’ she whispered. ‘Geoffrey, ’tis thee.’

Richard waited outside the owner’s cabin swinging his purse by its strings.

Perhaps he was not in.

After the squally night he was glad the roll of the decks had dwindled to a gentle rock and he was feeling less queasy. He took in a few good lungfuls of air, tasting the salt in his mouth, though the morning mist made it seem as if they were gliding through steam.

Richard knocked again, the rap of his knuckles staccato in the silence. He waited a few more minutes before deciding to stroll down to the prow to stretch his legs. When he set off, the decks were quiet. The ship had taken on water last night and he could hear the sound of men baling below. He walked the length of the deck, lost in thoughts of New England, summoning the maps from his atlas to his mind, musing on the crops of cotton and tobacco.

When he returned, he was about to knock on the owner’s door for a third time when faintly in the distance he heard a bell toll.

‘Saints preserve us, it’s another ship,’ said one of the men appearing close by, but then all sound was drowned by their own bell giving its answering call.

Richard went to join the men leaning over the side. They were still, like statues, trying to pierce through the whiteness with their eyes, searching for the other vessel.

‘Curse this fog,’ shouted the man next to him above the pealing din. ‘You never know what’s out there. Can’t get no bearings without sun nor stars. ’Tis easy to be off course, run aground, see. Or worse, hit another ship. And you can’t tell which way she’s drifting.’

‘Sounds like the bell’s coming from over there, behind us.’ Richard pointed.

‘Could be.’ He leaned in to talk into Richard’s ear. ‘But then it might just as easy be ahead of us. There’s no telling in this.’

They looked out again over the rails.

‘Were you after Sir Fisk?’ the sailor shouted in his ear.

‘What?’ Richard thought he had misheard him, the bell was still clanging above them.

‘I saw you knock on his door.’

‘What didst thou say his name was?’