Page 7 of Valour

Charlotte could have hugged her. “I would like that very much.”

She followed her housekeeper out of the stifling sitting room and into the drawing room over the hall. Alma threw open the double doors that led out onto the patio and the gardens. The air was mild, and Charlotte breathed it in, the smell of the cut grass a balm to her fraying nerves. She lowered herself onto the bench that perched before the manicured grass, Marjorie settling by her side.

Alma set her hands on the back of the bench and shook her head. “I’ve worked for this family for forty-six years. Ernest would have hated such a dismal party, hated for you to feel as sorry as this. He had a good life, full of adventure—a life to be proud of. There were two instances when he’d talk and there’d be a spark in his eyes—when he spoke of the South Pole, and when he spoke of you. He was ever so fond of you, mistress. Take heart in that.”

“I did love hearing his tales of the South,” Charlotte said. She had spent many an hour curled up in the armchair by the fire listening to stories of Ernie’s expeditions, hardly daring to breathe at some parts of the tales. Since his passing, she had spent hours reading through his journals. And while lost in his words, and in her memories, Charlotte had begun to dream of a different life. A life where she could escape the rigid confines of society and travel where the winds took her. “If only I could see it for myself. The way he described it, I almost thought I could see it.”

“He had a canny knack for that, indeed. May I be so forward as to mention something, mistress?”

Charlotte’s stomach clenched. She knew what Alma would say. “Of course.”

“You cannot let your anxieties get the better of you. He’s not here to protect you now, or to speak your needs to the likes of your mother. You need to be bolder.”

She tried not to let her face crumple. It was an easy thing for Alma to say. Not so easily done, however. That night, the one that haunted her, reared its ugly head once more, and Charlotte shrank into herself. “I’m afraid I don’t know the first thing about being bold.”

“Now, mistress,” Alma said, patting her shoulder. “I remember Ernest when he was just a young man, about the same age you are now. He wasn’t so confident back then, but he learnt it alright—he came back from that first expedition a changed man.”

Charlotte stared out at the white stone fountain, the idea of voyaging herself suddenly seeming foolish. It had been different for Ernie. The world was different for men, who could go off adventuring whenever they pleased. It was not so for women. Not so for her.

“I’ll surely never be as bold as he,” she said, voice breaking, hands twisting in her lap.

3

IN WHICH AN IDEA TAKES ROOT AND A MOCKERY IS MADE

Later that evening, Charlotte stood by the door of Ernie’s office. She had not dared step foot inside it over the past few days. Had been sending Alma to fetch the journals she had been reading, for she knew the office would smell of him, of pipe smoke and whiskey and the polish he used for his brass instruments—the compass, spyglass, sextant—the ones he wouldn’t let Alma clean.

She drew the door open tentatively. And just as she’d feared, his scent hit her. She took a step back, her spine going rigid. Perhaps it was too soon. Too soon to think of such things as expeditions south, and yet she couldn’t stop her mind wandering to the idea of it. She knew, deep in her heart, that she had to go. Felt a pull more keenly towards the paintings of the Antarctic ice, the mountains, the penguins and the ships. Had pored over Ernie’s journals, combing them for snippets of the man he had been and finding so much. So much that she never knew.

In the earlier entries, he had indeed been fearful. But as the years passed, as he was drawn back to the continent again and again, she saw a change in his writing. Saw him become the man she had known so well. She had especially enjoyed his notes of uplifting sayings, such as, ‘to dare is to lose your way momentarily, to not dare is to lose yourself’, and ‘it is by doing the things that scare us that we come closer to the person we were destined to become’. She had jotted those down on a piece of paper she kept tucked in her sleeve.

She looked down at Marjorie, who stood, as ever, by her side. “What do you think, girl?”

The dog threw her an exasperated expression and trotted into the room, laying down by the desk. The corner of Charlotte’s mouth tugged, and she followed her faithful friend inside, sitting at the leather-topped desk.

“I don’t even know what it is I seek,” Charlotte sighed. “Perhaps a sign?” She passed her hands over the papers on the desk, uncovering a small book. She turned the leather-bound volume over in her hands. Myths and Legends of Shape-Shifting Animals was written in gilded lettering down the spine. She flicked it open to find a note scribed in Ernie’s flowing script. ‘Dearest Charlotte. I thought you might like this one. Ernie’. A little gift for her that he had forgotten about.

She turned the pages. The first chapter was titled ‘Of The Sea’, the pages showed a woman with blood-red hair and a squid, the word ‘Siren’ written above her. The next page, ‘Devil’ and a terrifying-looking orca and a Viking-esque man with black-as-night skin. The next chapter read ‘Of The Hidden Wilds’ and the pages depicted a man with wings, ‘Aquiline’, another with what looked like wolf-ears and tail, ‘Lupine’, and a woman with antlers, ‘Cervine’. There were only illustrations, no details of the creatures. What a fanciful book. She hugged it to her chest. Oh, how she missed his easy laugh and small presents.

Her eyes caught on the paper that had been under the book. It bore the heading Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition and under that, Led by Captain Hester Orn, Sponsored by Sir Ernest Bailey.

Charlotte’s fingers stilled on the words. The paper detailed the plans for an expedition to make the first crossing of the Antarctic continent.

Hester Orn. The name sounded familiar. A vague memory of a young, golden-brown haired woman, dressed in men’s clothing, bent over the desk next to Ernie came to Charlotte’s mind. She had only seen the woman as she’d been passing the office on her way to walk Marjorie. Had not interrupted the excited chatter she’d heard coming from the two. She read on. It appeared that Ernie had agreed to sponsor the expedition, and now she thought of it, she did recall him telling her about it the day before he passed.

But Hester Orn had not been to see her. Had not come demanding the money that Ernie had clearly promised.

Charlotte bit her lip as an idea began to take root. She could find Hester Orn. Could offer to hire her, to fund the expedition on the agreement that she could go along too.

But finding Hester Orn would mean leaving the house. Of course, that was the gaping hole in this whole plan. How could she go all the way to Antarctica when she couldn’t even leave her own front door?

Hester sat on the blue settee in the chart room, hissing as she did so. The tattoo was fresh, only hours old, and it smarted. She sniggered, propping her legs up on the table and plucked up the romance book Fliss had left for her on top of the reams of charts. Hester flicked straight to the folded-down pages—Fliss always marked the filthy parts out for her. She had no intention of reading the boring in-between bits.

The words on the pages became meaningless as she started to plot her revenge on His Lordship, the throbbing of the tattoo becoming more of a distraction than the throbbing of the particular anatomy of the man in the book.

Hester cackled as she imagined the reaction she would provoke later with her new ink. If Septimus thought he could break into her cabin and stab her ship with no retaliation, he could think again.

By dusk she had her plan formulated, not that it was complicated. She had donned a scandalous red dress that showed off her figure and had covered her hair with a black wig. Her lips were painted a deep red and she had lined her eyes with black kohl. Long black gloves concealed her tattooed hands and arms, and a black shawl covered the tattoos on her chest, completing the disguise.