Chapter 4
A beetle in the garden, crawling through the moist leaves or alluvial soil was one thing. But one on the dining table was quite another. And a quick-moving black splotch on the bed-linens was not to be borne.
And yet, somehow, it had to be. Her flinches and inadvertent exclamations grew less, and her ability to step on one with her small boot and feel it crunch grew in proportion.
Whenever Susan was in her room, she killed them relentlessly.
Caroline feared eradication was impossible, but Susan did not seem to doubt that—eventually—the ship could be vermin-free.
As for the scratching of rats, which could be heard in the night, Caroline refused to contemplate it at all, and she and Susan kept a tacit silence on the subject.
One of the best distractions was cards, which Caroline played often with Richard, Anne, Wentworth, and sometimes with Mrs. Scott and Mr. Belvedere.
Caroline also drew and wrote in her new journal. It was a lovely book bound in leather with hot-pressed sheets of pale green. Even taking some care with the composition and clarity of her journaling, however, the task could not fill more than an hour of the day.
She napped in the afternoon—for she did not sleep well at night, yet—and multiple times a day she took the air by walking to and from the foremast to the stern thirty times.
The captain suggested the exercise, and she and Anne and the others took him up on it from the very first day.
The ship goat, which was kept for milk and usually allowed to wander freely, had a penchant for chewing on their gowns, but at least it was docile and easily dissuaded.
Caroline was not a great proponent of goat milk in their daily tea—it was so strong!—but with a little sugar, it was drinkable.
The very best thing was that Caroline did not seem prone to sea-sickness. The uncertain dip and rise of the ship did unsettle her stomach at times, but nothing like the Marston’s maid. The poor girl had not left her cabin since they set sail.
Susan was acting as maid to both Anne and Caroline and now also assisting Lady Marston.
When questioned, she confirmed that she did not feel resentful.
“For it don’t take much more work,” she explained to Caroline.
“Neither you nor Mrs. Wentworth is dressing for balls or routes or morning visits, and it isn’t as if I had to go more than five steps to her room when she is ready to undress.
” And although Lady Marston had not yet offered her even a small vail for doing this extra service, Susan hoped that it might be coming later.
The young man who had the parrot catered to the gentlemen; his name was Donny and he was general ship’s boy.
He helped them tug off their boots and would polish them when the steward directed.
The steward was also in charge of the captain and surgeon’s clothing, and he did his best for the gentlemen aboard.
Caroline and Anne were quite happy on Day 5 when two lanky sailors came to construct the harpsichord.
The case housed the main box and strings of the instrument, and under these, lengthwise, were the legs and the keyboard.
The men must have done the task before, for they seemed to know their business.
Caroline shuddered a little to see their dirty hands and oil-stained fingernails as they handled the blond wood and fine hinges, but she did not protest. She certainly did not know how to construct a traveling harpsichord.
The harpsichord was considered an inferior instrument to its larger cousin, the pianoforte, but beggars could not be choosers, and Caroline was relieved at the thought of any music to enliven the coming tedium.
When the sailors had got the thing put together, they wedged it tightly in a corner.
The small bench was trapped behind one of the large posts that held up the upper deck, and Caroline had to suck in her slight person to fit around the beam.
That was followed by a tricky operation to sit on the bench and get her feet to the other side without showing a scandalous amount of petticoat or ankle.
She accomplished this, however, and ran her hands over the keyboard. It was somewhat pitted and worn. She pressed a key experimentally and the quintessential plucked sound rang out, quickly subsiding.
For one brief moment, she allowed herself to long for her beautiful pianoforte at Netherfield! Its rich sound, sustained notes, and dynamic volume would be much missed.
Resolutely, she put that aside and played a simple scale. The keys had half as much depth as piano keys and they clicked a little disconcertingly, but she would grow accustomed to them. A slight delay in the sound was also different than the hammer-strike immediacy of the pianoforte.
Still, the notes were the same. She played a light air, reminding herself not to press too hard on the keys. She’d heard the strings were notoriously breakable.
Anne applauded. “You play so well.”
“Thank you. It is a little out of tune, I’m afraid.” It was dreadfully out of tune.
Anne wrinkled her nose. “I suppose that’s to be expected for an instrument kept on a ship. The humidity and water must be terrible for it.”
“True.” Caroline sighed. To be humble and uncomplaining did not come naturally to her, but she was determined to do it or die trying. “I’m just thankful for what we have.”
Anne smiled, seemingly unaware of Caroline’s struggle, which was for the best. Caroline wanted Anne—and Richard, for that matter—to think optimism and kindness were natural to her… Although perversely, Caroline also wanted them to recognize how hard she was working.
“Would you like a turn, Anne?” she asked.
“Play another before you crawl out of there. I am delighted to have something musical to while away the hours, both listening and playing.”
Caroline did so, and the other guests emerged from their rooms before too many minutes had passed.
Suppertime was near, and Lady Marston and Sir Mark had changed for dinner.
Mrs. Scott still wore one of her dark, plain traveling dresses, which seemed to be the bulk of her wardrobe, but she had persistent color in her cheeks now, from the wind and sun.
Mr. Belvedere sidled up to her while they listened to Caroline play.
“Beethoven, yes? I know, I’ve been to many a concert at Cambridge. ”
“Hm. I think it may be Rossini. Something Italian, at all events. I’m not very musical.”
“Ah, yes. I love a good opera.”
She raised an eyebrow. “For the opera dancers, rather than the sopranos, I suspect.”
He laughed, not at all abashed. “Why, no, ma’am, for them all together!”
Caroline finished her piece to polite applause. She turned to Lady Marston. “The captain kindly had this put up for us. I promised Anne the next turn, but if you or Mrs. Scott would like to play, it is at your disposal. It is for us all.”
Lady Marston deigned to smile. “I do not play myself, certainly not on such an—er—eccentric instrument. Sophia does not play at all.”
Mrs. Scott inclined her head with a somewhat sharp smile. “A clear lack in my education.”
Anne did take a turn, and Captain Wentworth looked so proud and happy, Caroline was touched. Wentworth and Anne were quite adorable. Caroline did not know the precise details, but she understood they had been tragically parted when they were young.
While clapping for Anne, Caroline stepped on one of the pernicious beetles. Perhaps the journey would not be so terrible as she had feared.
The next morning, Day 6, Caroline took her thirty turns to the foremast, while Sir Mark and Lady Marston were at the front gunwale at the very bow of the ship. Sir Mark smoked a cheroot, and the wind carried snatches of the smoke and their conversation to her.
“I’ll jump overboard if you don’t stop nagging me, woman,” Sir Mark said roughly. “You keep me too close. A man must get some air! And I really must smoke on occasion. If you won’t let me do it in the cabin—”
“It is bad enough that I have to share a cabin with you, you vile creature. But fine, I will allow—”
The wind changed and Caroline was too far away to hear what Lady Marston would allow.
A pretty picture of marital felicity, indeed!
Caroline had found sharing a cabin with Richard a little trying as well, but certainly not to that extent.
It was not that she didn’t love her husband, for she did.
But in Caroline’s formative years, it had been de rigueur that a man and wife did not share a bed-chamber.
Everyone she knew considered cohabitation low-class and plebeian, not to mention showing a strange particularity.
A man was supposed to come to his wife’s room when marital duties were either required or wanted, but more than that…
Well, it was a little strange to her. She had to continually subdue the feeling that it was dreadfully vulgar.
It was also odd to wake up next to Richard every day.
He might be holding her close or lying on his back with one leg out from under the blanket, or even on his stomach, with his handsome face turned toward her in his sleep—but he was there.
And, in return, he saw her in such moments of unguarded sleep when he woke before her.
It was such a vulnerable thing to sleep with someone!
From her late mother and her older sister, Louisa, Caroline had gathered marital duties were a thing to happen once or at most twice a month, but usually far less—particularly after the children were born.
But Richard, perhaps because she was continually in his bed—or he was in hers depending on how one looked at it—did not seem to have that idea.
She did not mind—her face colored as she paced, and she was glad that the wind could account for it—but she hadn’t expected it.
The Marstons seemed to have the opposite problem with proximity, if the disgust in Lady Marston’s voice was anything to go by.
It was a shame they hadn’t gotten two cabins.
And it was a little odd too, because they were held to be very wealthy, and they could have afforded it.
Mr. Belvedere had been a last-minute passenger—the captain had mentioned as much—so it would have been available when Sir Mark booked passage…
But what with one thing and another, the passengers were rubbing along tolerably well until the seventh day. That was when one of the sailors came to Captain Smythe just after supper and spoke softly in his ear.
“What’s that—a problem with the mail?” He rose at once. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. I must attend to business.”
They couldn’t refrain from speculating about his sudden departure. “Were the mail bags disturbed, you think?” Anne asked.
“Perhaps water seeped in,” Richard offered.
Captain Wentworth shook his head. “Oiled and sealed, waterproof. Weighted too, so that they can be sunk quickly if the French should threaten the ship.”
“I daresay the beetles scoff at seals,” Caroline said. “They certainly scoff at every other barrier.”
“The parasites are terrible for documents,” he allowed. “There are also termites, booklice, and silverfish, which love to eat paper and glue. But the bags are usually preserved against this, for the Post Office is determined the mail get where it is going and not be intercepted by man or beast.”
The captain returned and he was as red as he had been pale.
“A great crime has been committed. I am at such a loss!—on my ship! It is too appalling.” He sank into his chair, clutching a handkerchief and wiping his brow.
His hand shook as he poured himself some wine and drank it in one go. It seemed to settle his jangled nerves.
“What’s the matter?” Richard demanded. The image of the recent murder in Bath was still fresh in his mind. “You don’t mean—surely, that there has been a—death?”
“Worse, sir,” the captain said. “Someone has rifled through the mail.”