Unclaimed Heart (4 page)

Henry Blackchurch leaned on the rail, watching the wake of the ship. The silvery twilight had blackened the sea; the evening chill grew more intense. They had been the lucky recipients of favorable winds all day, and now, as they sailed into the first night of their journey, Henry had come to believe that it was some kind of sign from above. He was being sent good winds because his journey was fated: they would make quick time to Ceylon, they would find Faith, and she would return home with him.

Henry sighed, allowing himself a rare moment of melancholic reflection. In sixteen years, he had changed greatly. After frustrating results from the few leads he'd had, Henry had aged significantly, the wear of worry appropriate on his face. What would Faith think of him now? He knew instantly that this was his last chance.

“Sir, a moment please?”

Henry turned, straightening his spine. Jack Maitland, his first officer, stood there: a scrubbed potato of a man, altogether too serious for his young years.

“Yes, Maitland?”

“The crew have been asking if we'll stop at Porto Santo as usual. If the winds continue favorably, we should be there around a week from now.”

Henry shook his head emphatically. “No. There isn't time to stop, it would slow us down. We'll go all the way to Good Hope, put ashore there for a short while.”

“Good Hope? But there will be letters to send. . . .”

“If we see an English ship on her way home, we'll ask her crew to take letters for us.” He couldn't bear the idea of stopping. He wouldn't be able to breathe again until they saw the coast of India. Interminable pauses in the journey would squeeze his heart, make him itch.

Maitland nodded, then said tentatively, “Sir, why
are
we going to Ceylon? In such a hurry? With no trading stock aboard?”

“We are going because I said so,” Henry answered irritably, recognizing the flimsiness of his excuse. Was it embarrassment that kept him from telling Maitland the truth? Or fear that if he began to tell the story, that they were searching for the most precious cargo of them all, his voice would catch and he would be revealed for the sentimental fool he really was?

“Aye, sir,” Maitland said curtly.

Henry listened to him stride off, trying to recapture the pleasant feelings he had experienced before the conversation. They had dissolved with the last of the daylight, replaced instead with the uncertain dark.

Deep in the night, Constance woke.

She strained her ears. A noise had roused her, but all was silent now. She flipped over so she could see the sky through the window. The night was very clear, and she could see the tip of the Little Bear's tail, glowing icily. She had no pillows or blankets and had to make do with a rolled-up dress under her head, a long coat and an extra pair of stockings. Despite the lack of home comforts, she found herself very comfortable. The constant motion of the sea rocked her, and she began to drift back to sleep almost immediately.

Then the noise again. Like wood being roughly sawn. Her eyes blinked open. It was Father snoring.

She drifted in and out of sleep, the snores periodically waking her. Then came the pains in her stomach . . . hunger pains.

Gradually they became too much to sleep through. The sky was still dark, but she could sense light gathering somewhere nearby. If she was going to slip to the pantry, now was the time. If only her food hadn't spilled out at the quay.

She sat up, determined to make it unnoticed to the pantry and back. But as soon as she sat up, a great wave of nausea broke over her. She lay down again. In a second, the feeling went away. Slowly she rose for a second time, this time making it to her feet. She took a deep breath. Not too bad.

One foot in front of the other. The sea rolled; her stomach rolled with it. She swallowed hard. All she needed was to get to the pantry, steal some food, then make it back here to her bed. But being upright was proving difficult. She moved to the cabin door, opened it quietly, and listened hard. Nothing. Shuffling forward quietly, her stomach gurgling dizzily, she made her way amidships. Through the main deck steerage, ducking under beams, past a long scarred table. The smell of food gone cold hung in the air. Old trunks were stacked against the wall, a dirt-streaked cannon lashed down beside them. She could see the sky through the windows above. But there was no other light or air, and the nausea swelled inside her.

Finally she was at the pantry door. It was locked.

Tears threatened, and Constance let them squeeze out quietly. She could no longer tell if the pains in her stomach were from hunger or sickness, so she hurried back to her cabin as quietly as she could and lay down. The feeling abated slightly.

Then it rushed upon her suddenly. She climbed up to kneel on her bed, thrust open the window and, shuddering down to her knees, threw up into the vast ocean. Retch after retch, sweat prickling her face, huge acidic waves of it poured out of her.

Afterward, she sat down, wiping her damp face on the hem of her dress. The shudders started again inside her, so she lay on her back, willing them to subside. They did, but not fully. Father snored on, and Constance curled on her side in the dim room, breathing softly and clutching her bilious stomach.

Day broke, the wind picked up, the sea grew rougher. At least Father wasn't in his cabin any more so she needn't vomit quietly. Every hour or so, she had to put her face to the window and throw up. She tried to drink a little water from the decanter on the table. But then the ship heeled sharply starboard without warning, and the water spilled all over the floor. Hunger made her weak; sickness made her weaker. As the sea grew rougher, it seemed that everything was in motion around her. The lantern swung, the furniture shifted an inch this way and that on its ropes, her trunk skated the floor and back again. Her eyes grew dizzy; she longed for stillness. It was time to be sick again.

This time the wind had changed, now blowing briskly across the stern of the ship. She didn't notice, and when she threw up, the wind carried it all back into her face, her hair, and over her bodice.

She climbed down from the bed, holding back sobs. She struggled out of her dress and wiped her face on it. The sour smell of sickness was everywhere. Her hands were shaking, and her face felt cold and sweaty all at once. She collapsed onto the bed, wishing she had never set foot on
Good Bess
.

Henry sat down to dinner in the cuddy dining saloon, well pleased with their progress. Only two and a half days at sea and they had already cleared the Scilly Islands and were making fast pace towards the Bay of Biscay. Old Harry, the cook, was so used to life at sea that, despite his crippled left leg, he stuck to the deck as though nailed, even in the most tempestuous of conditions. He plopped down a roasted chicken that swam in its juices on a pewter plate. Potatoes skidded along next to it.

Matthew Burchfield, the ship's surgeon, peered over his spectacles at the meal.

“Jus' killed today,” Old Harry said.

“Quite,” Burchfield replied.

Henry was glad to see Burchfield and Maitland on time for dinner, but Hickey, the second officer, was late as usual.

“We'll start without Hickey,” Henry said, picking up the carving knife. “Maitland, I'll need you to have a word with him. I like to run a tight ship, and—

The door slammed open. The ship rolled. Henry looked around startled.

In the threshold, white as a sheet and wearing a filthy stained dress, was his daughter Constance.

“What the blazes?”

“Father, I'm . . .” she gasped, before collapsing in a heap on the deck.

FROM THE BAY OF BISCAY

 

In the days that followed, Constance suffered a fever that turned her thoughts into a confused, nightmarish fog. Imagined spiders gathered in the corners of her cabin, old tales of Indian gods and goddesses wove themselves into dreams of jungles and fires, a growling bearded monster—not unlike her father—waited behind her eyelids if she dared to sleep. She called for Aunty Violet, disoriented and frightened. In rare lucid moments, she was aware of a thin man with spectacles, the ship's surgeon, who attended her carefully, if coldly. Father came once; he barked questions at her but was removed by the doctor when she started to cry. After that she slid back into her jungle dreams and didn't emerge for what seemed like weeks.

In fact, it was only two days later that the fever broke, and she woke feeling weak but comfortable. She was alone in her cabin. Somebody had brought her sheets and a duck-down pillow. She still wore her dirty dress, and the smell of vomit hung sourly about her. On the table a decanter stood, with a cup next to it. Water. She smacked her lips together, pulled back the sheet and rose slowly.

The nausea was gone. Good.

The ship rolled underneath her; she caught herself on the back of the chair. The door opened, and the thin man came in.

“Back to your bed,” he ordered.

She scurried back to bed, pulling her sheets up again. He filled a cup with water and brought it to her. As she drank, he stared at her with flinty grey eyes.

“Thank you,” she said meekly.

“I am Matthew Burchfield, the ship's surgeon.”

“I know. We've met before. When I was just a child.”

“You are still a child,” he said, with condescending amusement.

The water tasted sweet. Her stomach rumbled with hunger.

“How long have I been seasick?” she asked.

“You've been abed two days. But you weren't seasick. Perhaps initially that's all it was, but you've had a fever, quite a serious one. Your father has been very worried.”

Constance almost laughed. Her father saw her for a dozen days in every year. If she died, he'd barely notice.

“Mr. Burchfield,” she said hesitantly. “I wonder if I might . . . eat something?”

He lifted his eyes in a world-weary expression and sighed deeply. “I shall speak to Old Harry.” He moved to the cabin door, and his nostrils twitched. “When you are feeling strong enough, I'll find you a bar of marine soap and a tub of seawater to wash your clothes.”

As soon as he was gone, Constance rose and went to her trunk. She pulled out one of the other dresses: a short-sleeved muslin dress with a satin ribbon. It was splattered with mud, but at least it didn't stink. She quickly changed, then returned to her bed. The little effort required had exhausted her.

A brief knock at the door. She assumed it was Old Harry with her food, but before she could call, “Come in,” her father strode in, thunderclouds on his eyebrows.

“Father,” she yelped, pulling the sheets up defensively.

“Constance,” he replied sternly, sitting himself on the chair next to the table and folding his arms across his chest. “You are well, then?”