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“I will not abandon her,” Lady Eleanor proclaims and sets off, a mad tilt of the deck sending her careening into the rail. Certain she will go over, my stomach jumps to my throat.
I can’t leave Lady Eleanor to venture to that part of the ship alone. The sailor didn’t give directions for a reason.
“Why don’t you leave it to me? I will go.”
She does not budge. Back straight and rigid as the most stubborn of grand ladies, she stands in the rain, lighter but still falling, and waits. I sigh. Bad enough one of us has to go, but I tried, and she will not stay behind.
Arms linked, we take turns grabbing something, anything, to stay upright. By the time we reach the foredeck, we’ve found our rhythm.
“Look.”
Eleanor points to a young boy scrambling up the rigging, agile and quick. The watchtower, atop the tallest mast, sways in the wind like an upside-down clock pendulum.
“They can’t hear the watch, so the boy will go closer and pass the word back,” I explain.
“Never!”
Lady Eleanor turns away, unwilling to witness a possible fall.
“They're quite adept.” I smile, remembering. “I once climbed up to the top of a sail. Father was furious!” But he’d noticed me.
“You didn’t?”
“I did.” My smile fades. “Poor Bentwood cried. It took years to outlive it.”
“Oh, dear. A young boy’s self-importance is so easily shattered, especially if they're frightened.” Lady Eleanor shook her head. “How old was he?”
“Nine, maybe ten. But he wasn’t frightened. Not at all. Frustrated. He desperately wanted to climb up after me, to help me down. The argument was strenuous. His father refused. The heir apparent does not climb masts.”
We’ve reached the hatch. No pretence of stairs here, nor promising lamplight below. Just a simple ladder and well of darkness.
Lady E. looks down.
“Oh, my.”
“I’ll go first,” I offer.
“Very brave of you.”
She makes no attempt to go below.
With a jaunty wave, I spin around, then pull the back of my skirt hem through my legs and up, showing off ankles and a bit of calf but making the descent easier. Scandalous, really, but better be branded a hoyden than fade into the background, unnoticed. A fate that terrifies me. So here I am, swallowed up in putrid darkness. Lucky me.
“Don’t follow,” I call up. “If she needs anything, I’ll give you a shout.”
“Wait.” Lady Eleanor fusses with the seam of her dress. A pocket. Of course. She’s just the sort of woman who would have at least one sequestered in every garment. “Add a few drops of this in her water.” She tosses down a tincture bottle.
I catch it, though I’m doubtful it will be needed. The steward would have given Jenny morphine. It’s a marvellous trick. By the time she wakes, her body will have adjusted to the ship’s movement.
This, however, isn’t your usual roll of a ship.
Jenny’s cabin was another deck lower, so I go down another level. A lone candle strains to light the entire passageway, revealing a young boy sitting, back against the door closest to the ladder. There wouldn’t be many females on a merchant ship, but plenty of sea-locked sailors. Bentwood would have secured protection. The boy would be the watch.
He scrambles to his feet as I approach, eyes wide.
“She ain’t hurt,” he promises.
“What does that mean?”
