4. In which there is a final straw and running and whiskey don’t mix
IN WHICH THERE IS A FINAL STRAW AND RUNNING AND WHISKEY DON’T MIX
Charlotte had dithered in the hallway for so long that Marjorie had started to whine and scratch at the front door.
Then nudge at her legs. Then bite the door handle.
And somehow, the dog had managed to get her to open the door.
She had dragged Charlotte by the sleeve out of it.
And now they stood on the quayside before the Valour, where a passing sailor had told her she would find Captain Orn.
Charlotte marvelled at the ship. She was a fine, sturdy vessel, and not displeasing to the eye, either. The morning sunlight made the fittings gleam, and not a thing was out of place. It seemed, however, that the ship was deserted. Perhaps she had come too early? Too late?
“Hello?” Charlotte called, standing at the edge of the gangplank. Marjorie voiced her own greeting, in a much louder manner than Charlotte. It was as if the dog were taking matters into her own hands. Charlotte huffed a laugh, ruffling the ears of her friend.
A door banged and quick footsteps pattered.
Charlotte peered around the deck, taking a step onto the gangplank. “Good morning? Captain Orn?”
A door opened a crack, and a woman with black curling hair peeped her head around it, sighing with relief. “Who are you?” the woman said, stepping onto the deck.
“I’m Charlotte Bailey. I was looking for Captain Orn,” Charlotte said, taking another step onto the gangplank, her hand outstretched.
The woman’s eyes raked over her black mourning dress, flashing with interest. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs Bailey, and my sincere condolences.” She shook Charlotte’s hand with a strong grip.
“Hester left last night on an errand and has not returned. In fact, I’ve looked all over Havenport for her this morning, and there is no sight nor sign of her. ”
“Goodness,” Charlotte said, letting her hand drop to her side. How disappointing that Captain Orn should vanish just as she wanted to meet her.
The first mate looked expectantly at her.
“It’s just that—my husband was helping her plan an expedition to the Frozen South, and I wondered if Captain Orn would still be interested in going ahead with it.”
The mate’s face lit up. “Yes! We absolutely would. I’ll tell her to call on you when she returns from…wherever she has gone.” The dark-haired woman turned to go, but then spotted Marjorie and beckoned her forwards. “I like your dog. She reminds me of the sled-dogs we took to the Frozen North.”
Marjorie snuck past and allowed herself to be petted.
“Mrs Bailey, isn’t it?” a deep voice rumbled behind her. Charlotte spun to find an enormous man with dark hair and beard standing with his arms crossed on the stone quay. He looked like a sailor—he had the build of one, the tattoos, but his clothing was certainly fine.
He continued, “It’s not safe around the docks. You’ll have your purse cut. I saw you from over the road. I would be happy to do Ernest a favour and escort you home again. My deepest condolences for your loss.” He offered his arm.
Charlotte hesitated. He knew her name. Had he known Ernest? Perhaps he was right. Perhaps it was all a dangerous idea. Marjorie pressed into her side, as if lending her strength, her hackles raised and a growl rumbling in her throat.
Then again, she had made it this far and nothing bad had happened. She really ought to keep going, to keep being brave. “No, thank you. I’m looking for Hester Orn.”
“Perhaps His Lordship can tell you where she is,” the first mate said, folding her arms to mirror the man, her chin jutting out.
His Lordship. Goodness. “Ernest was sponsoring an expedition of hers. I have decided to go ahead with his plans.” She faltered. “If Captain Orn is still interested, that is.”
The lord shook his head. “That is not the way we do things here. If you wish to commission an expedition, you must give each captain his fair interview before deciding who is the best man for the job.”
“Or the best woman for the job,” the mate countered. “Surely the commission still stands. She shouldn’t have to advertise.”
He raised a thick, dark eyebrow. “I cannot make any exceptions. If Mrs Bailey wishes to hire a ship from my dock, she must abide by the rules and advertise.” He pointed to a wooden board down the quay.
“Fine, I shall do just that,” Charlotte said, a flush creeping over her cheeks.
The first mate bristled up on the deck. “I shall inform Captain Orn upon her return.”
The lord shot a venomous look at the woman.
Charlotte stepped back onto the quay, eager to be away from him.
“Now, can I escort you home, Mrs Bailey?” he asked, offering his arm again.
She would rather poke rusty nails in her eyes. “I shall be perfectly alright. Good day to you.”
“And to you.”
Charlotte marched past him, not liking how inferior he had made her feel one little bit. She snuck a glance back at him, wondering why the first mate had appeared so disdainful of him, and what he had to do with the unknown whereabouts of Captain Orn.
Hester alternated between chuckling at the image of Septimus’s face when he’d seen what was written on her backside, and seething at his inability to take a joke, at how seriously he took himself.
She was lying on the floor of the cellar with her eyes closed.
She wasn’t asleep, but it was so dark that it made little difference whether her eyes were open or closed.
The only light came from a tiny sliver along the cracks at the edge of the door.
He had kept her down there all night. Hester was parched, pissed off, and her stomach growled with hunger.
She had tried everything. Banging, kicking, rattling the handle, searching for something—anything—to break the door down with, but the room was empty.
Maybe she had gone too far this time.
She should have listened to Fliss.
Fliss.
Was her friend safe? She’d tear Septimus limb from limb if he so much as touched a hair on Fliss’s beautiful head. She clenched her fists and pummelled at the door once more. Her magic spilled out into the world alongside her anger. Up above, a shutter banged as the winds rose.
Surely he’d come and let her out soon, or at least send water down. Because with water, she could free herself.
When Charlotte returned home from the docks, she was met with utter chaos. Alma was standing at the open front door shrieking. Footmen dragged bags down the steps. Trunks were stacked next to a horse-drawn trap.
“What is the meaning of this?” Charlotte demanded of a footman.
“Your mother sent us to fetch your belongings, mistress.”
Charlotte’s mouth fell open. No. Surely she wouldn’t. But then, of course she would. Of course she would do this. Charlotte’s vision tunnelled, blackness trapping her, a band tightening around her chest.
Her mother appeared in the front doorway. “Charlotte, there you are! We’re nearly done, just a few more trunks and cases to bring down.”
Charlotte raced to the nearest trunk, hauled it into her arms and started up the steps. “Put it all back. Put. It. Back. NOW. I want to stay in my own house.”
Her mother tutted. “Nonsense. You’ll be lonely, darling.”
“I demand that you put everything back as it was right away. I am a grown woman, and I wish to stay here. Honestly, mother. This is the final straw!” She could hardly breathe.
The trunk in her arms dropped to the floor inside the hallway, narrowly missing her toes.
How dare her mother do this without her permission? How dare she!
“Dearest, you’re hysterical. You don’t know what you want. Go and have a nice cup of tea and then we’ll go, alright?”
Charlotte’s face turned hotter and hotter.
Through her teeth she said, “I am not hysterical, and by the time I return, everything will be as it was.” Charlotte snatched a pen and a sheet of paper from the side table in the hallway and scribbled words she had seen in a newspaper clipping advertising one of Ernie’s past expeditions, ‘Ship and crew wanted for Antarctic expedition. Bitter cold, long months of complete darkness, constant danger. Safe return doubtful, honour and recognition in event of success. Interviews to be held this afternoon, June 15th, from 2pm-5.30 pm at Amery House, Farthing Street, Havenport.’
“I swear it, if everything is not back as it was by the time I return, I shall—” Whatever could she threaten? Ah. “I will tell the bridge ladies how you serve them from the cheap tea set because Lady Witten chipped the Wedgwood set.”
Her mother gasped, eyes going round, hand pressed to her bosom. “You wouldn’t!”
Charlotte knew she had won. Couldn’t help the smile that spread over her face. She marched down the steps and back to the docks with Marjorie in tow, and there she pinned the advertisement to the board.
When she arrived home, her mother, the trap and the footmen were gone. Her trunks were stacked in the hall and being taken care of by Alma.
Charlotte smiled to herself. She had done it. Had stood up to her mother. She had an uncanny feeling that things had shifted, that she was about to step foot onto a new path.
And she couldn’t wait to begin.
The cellar door opened a crack, and a tankard of water and a plate of oysters and raw strips of beef was pushed through it. The door slammed shut again, the lock clicking into place. Hester scrambled forwards and banged on the door.
“Wait! Please, let me out,” she hollered, thumping on the door.
“I considered it,” Septimus said through the door. “But I’ve changed my mind. I’ll let you out at five-thirty this evening.”
“What? Why?!”
No answer came. The sound of footsteps died away, and she swore, fisting her hands. He was taking this too far, and she wouldn’t let him get away with it. This time, it was war. He would rue the day he locked her in a cellar. She would make sure of it.