11. In which there is hauntingly beautiful singing and a proposal
IN WHICH THERE IS HAUNTINGLY BEAUTIFUL SINGING AND A PROPOSAL
There was a soft knock on Charlotte’s door.
It was probably Hester or Valerie, come to check she was drinking enough. She had vomited for most of the last nine days, as they’d sailed into the heavy seas of the Southern Ocean.
Clutching her stomach, she swung her legs off the bed and opened the door to find Arnold standing there, dressed in furs and a woollen hat. All of the men now sported facial hair. They looked better for it.
“How are you this morning?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe.
“I’ve been better,” she said, her grimace turning to a smile as Marjorie bounded into her, followed by her motley crew of three enormous pups.
She’d had them before they’d left Argentina, with Arnold, and his experience as a farmer’s son, to help deliver them.
Due to their size, Charlotte had named the boys Hercules and Samson, and Hester had named the third, the only girl, Snowball.
“Come and get some air. We’re nearly there,” Arnold said, offering his arm. “Besides, there’s something I want to show you.”
She took his arm, dodging the fluffballs ricocheting off the walls of the corridor. “I’m intrigued! You’re a dear friend for coming to check on me.”
Arnold’s smile faltered for the briefest of seconds. “Of course.”
They walked up the companionway and onto the deck, the bitter wind blowing Charlotte’s hair in all directions. She wrapped her arms around herself. It was a little below freezing, and she was glad of all of the layers of wool and animal pelt.
“Up there.” Arnold pointed skywards. “Do you see it? The albatross?”
Charlotte spotted the enormous white bird flying next to the ship. “Oh! Wonderful.”
“You know, they say that albatrosses are sailor’s spirits come back to watch over those they love, and they bring luck.”
Charlotte swallowed past a lump that had formed in her throat and stepped forwards to grasp the railing, gazing up at the bird. There was a sudden lightness in her head. Could it really be Ernie keeping an eye out for her? She wanted to believe it. There was no harm in believing it.
A strange sound was wrapped into the howling of the wind, and she cocked her head. “Do you hear that?”
Arnold moved to stand closer to her side, his knuckles turning white on the railing.
Charlotte listened harder.
Singing. Someone was singing, the pure notes lilting, hauntingly beautiful. “Who is that?” She’d heard all of the crew sing at some point on the voyage, but no one sounded like that.
In a burst of movement, Arnold was up on the railing, feet balanced precariously.
“Arnold!” She grabbed for him, pulled him back, both of them falling into a heap on the deck. His body was heavy and taught on top of her, his eyes glazed over as if he were in a trance.
She slammed her hands over his ears, heart beating fast.
“My God,” he breathed, the glazed look in his eyes dissipating. “I wanted to throw myself into the sea.”
Charlotte’s cheeks flushed at the weight of him on top of her, heat spreading from her cheeks and down her neck.
She glanced up and down the deck, but none of the other men were above decks.
Only Betty and Fliss. The singing still floated on the wind, but it didn’t seem to have the same effect on her as it had on Arnold.
She knew the myths of course, had read about all manner of things in the little book Ernie had left for her, the one that was tucked under her pillow.
There was one creature with a beautiful voice that could lure men to their doom.
But surely it couldn’t be…“You should go below.”
“Right.” He pushed to his feet but made a dash for the railing again as soon as he took his hands from his ears. Charlotte dragged him back.
“Go!” She pushed him back. “Tell the other men to stay below, too. Send Hester up.”
Ears covered, he ran for the companionway.
Hester appeared moments later, bleary-eyed from sleep. “What is it?”
The singing had stopped. Charlotte frowned. “There was beautiful music—singing. Arnold tried to throw himself overboard.”
Hester frowned, cupping a hand to her ear. “I hear nothing.”
“It has stopped now.” She paused. How could she say this without sounding mad? “I think the men should stay below until we reach the whaling station.”
Hester looked out over the railing, bottom lip between her teeth. “Beautiful singing. Men throwing themselves to their deaths…” She shuddered. “You don’t think…”
It seemed too ridiculous to believe. “Sirens aren’t real,” Charlotte said with as much conviction as she could muster.
Hester blew out her cheeks. “I’ll give the order for the men to stay below decks.”
They had docked at Grytviken that afternoon.
Hester stalked down the rain-slicked wooden quay, past the dead, stinking whale carcasses and the ramshackle warehouses towards the senior officer’s house, where she had been invited to dine.
The wind howled down off the mountain, and she turned her face towards it, her lips curving up.
South Georgia was just as Godforsaken as she’d been told it was, but somehow, she liked its harsh bite.
It was a place she never thought she’d get to see, and yet here she was.
Perhaps the singing Charlotte had heard earlier had merely been the wind wailing through the sharp mountains.
Of course, she knew there were strange things in the world.
She was one of them. But sirens? Stuff of fairytales and myth.
She picked at a loose thread on her coat, ears pricked as she approached the largest house amongst the hand-built shacks.
Hester drew the cold air into her lungs, clenching her fists. She disliked occasions such as these, but supposed it was too rude to refuse the invitation. And besides, the senior officer might have information that would be useful.
She knocked on the door and waited, wrapped in her reindeer-fur coat. It was still light; the sun wouldn’t set for another few hours this far south.
A manservant opened the door, took her coat and led her through to a dining room.
Low lights hung from the clapboard ceiling, charts and paintings of whaling vessels hanging on the white-painted walls.
A long table stretched the length of the room.
The senior officer sat at the head of the table, with two whaling captains, and—
“Septimus,” Hester said, a grin spreading over her face as she was shown to a seat opposite the Pirate Lord. Oh, this would be fun. She sat and leant forwards, treating him to a full view of her delectable cleavage.
“Hester,” Septimus said warily, taking a gulp of wine that was slightly too big to be polite, his eyes firmly on her face. Hester smiled like a wolf. He was nervous of her. Was worried about what she might do or say under these circumstances. Well, she would certainly play into his fears.
Under the table, she slipped her foot from her boot and reached across, running it up his inner thigh.
He coughed, spraying wine, his eyes wide.
Hester snatched her foot back and hid her grin behind a hand.
Everyone turned to Septimus, who glared at her, blue eyes hard as sapphires. What an excellent start.
“What are you doing?” he hissed across the table.
“Apologies, I must have slipped,” Hester said, settling back into her chair and turning to the senior officer. Septimus’s eyes bored into her. The manservant returned with plates of salmon, laying them on the table.
“Good evening, Captain Orn,” the crooked-nosed, blonde-haired man said in a thick Norwegian accent, extending his hand to shake Hester’s. “Anders Larsen.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Officer Larsen,” Hester said, then cringed as he raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, his moustache scratching her skin, his lips horribly wet. She snatched her hand back. How disgusting.
“Would you kiss a male captain’s hand, sir?” she asked. Septimus sat up straighter in his chair. And well he might. If he was worried she was about to kick up a fuss, he wasn’t wrong.
Anders frowned. “I suppose I would not. I apologise if I have offended you. It was not my intention.”
Hester rolled her shoulders back and stabbed at a piece of cured salmon on her plate with more ferocity than was wholly necessary. “Perhaps you would care to treat me as you treat the other captains.” She gestured to the other men at the table with her fork.
“As you wish, Captain Orn,” Anders said, inclining his head, cheeks flushed.
Hester raised the salmon to her mouth and chewed it thoroughly, though it was hard to swallow.
Anders turned his attention to Septimus. “Another trip down south for you, Lord Septimus?”
Septimus raised his eyes to Hester’s. “Yes.”
“And the first for you, Captain Orn?”
“Yes,” Hester said, squirming in her seat.
“I hear you have travelled to the north before. You should be warned that the South is much more hostile. Much more unpredictable. Much less forgiving of the inexperienced.”
Hester took a long, steady breath, waiting for the inevitable.
“And no lady captain has yet made an expedition to its shores.”
“There it is,” she muttered under her breath.
She weighed up her options. She could get angry and storm out.
Or she could have her fun with this ignorant man.
She grinned, choosing the latter. Septimus slowly shook his head as he, too, realised the chaos that might now ensue, and was begging her to reassess her course of action.
“But you know, the ice is so bad this year. The worst we’ve seen in all my years here,” Anders said, his voice like nails down a chalkboard.
“Is that so?” Hester asked, her eyes flicking to Anders, then back to Septimus.
“The whaling captains told me before dinner,” Septimus said. “The pack ice is reported to extend far beyond the normal reaches of the Weddell Sea. They say it is inadvisable to sail through it.”
Hester raised an eyebrow. “Goodness. However will my delicate female constitution withstand ice?”