Chapter One #2
Johnathan pulls his wife to her feet as if the matter is settled.
She kisses him. He tastes antiseptic tonight, almost liquorice.
His eyes are so blue they are practically silver.
He slides his hand round her waist. ‘Silly. You’re usually such an adventurous type,’ he says.
This is true only between the marital sheets, where Araminta frequently surprises them both. ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself.’
She feels a sudden rush of love or perhaps panic.
‘No kissing handsome Highlanders. No flirting with fellows in kilts,’ Johnathan adds playfully.
Araminta laughs. Perhaps he’s right. Perhaps her feelings are foolish. ‘I promise,’ she says. ‘I won’t lay a hand on a single one of them.’
*
The ship is a shock the next morning when the Moore party gets to Greenwich.
The cabin is a good deal smaller than the bedchamber Araminta is used to.
It’s dark and smells oily, but she doesn’t complain when Johnathan sees her aboard.
He must have realised how nervous she is, for he held her hand all the way in the carriage.
‘You’ll sort it out and be back before you know it,’ he promises.
‘You’ll see.’ The captain introduces the young couple to his other passenger.
Colonel Archibald Fraser, a beefy, strawberry-blond officer in the Royal Scots Guard, is billeted in the cabin opposite Araminta’s.
The colonel is travelling to Edinburgh to resume a post at the castle, which, he immediately tells Johnathan, has been interrupted by his being summoned to a government enquiry at Westminster.
He is sickeningly proud of himself. Araminta tries to think kindly of people, but it’s clear that Fraser is an insufferable know-it-all with a dim view of Scotland in general and Edinburgh in particular.
He complains at length about his first foray to the Assembly Rooms on George Street where the people to whom he was introduced were insufficiently impressed by his achievements.
‘Parochial types,’ he says and adds that his posting still has more than a year to run.
‘Where in the town does your great aunt reside?’ he enquires.
Araminta isn’t sure how to pronounce the address, which she has only ever read in the lawyer’s letter, and never heard spoken. ‘Glenfinlas Street,’ she stumbles with the emphasis on the first syllable and then repeats the word, with the emphasis on the second. ‘Glenfinlas.’
Fraser jumps in knowledgeably. ‘Fine houses. Quite like Bloomsbury,’ he assures her.
When the colonel goes to his cabin, Johnathan kisses Araminta’s shoulder.
‘He’ll settle down,’ he says. On deck they take in the view of the dock.
It’s a fine winter morning with a clear blue sky.
‘Such industry,’ Johnathan exclaims cheerfully and pulls a small box from his pocket with a flourish.
‘I bought this as a birthday gift but perhaps it’ll find its best use while you’re in the north. ’
He waits for her to open it, observing her expression. Inside is a small, silver-backed notebook with a pencil that slips into the spine and a tiny silver knife with which to sharpen the lead.
‘It’s lovely,’ she says. ‘Thank you.’
She kisses his cheek and nuzzles into him. ‘We’ve never been apart. Not since our wedding day,’ she adds, hoping that he might reconsider, but instead he whispers in her ear that he’ll miss her, then mumbles something about a committee on the matter of igneous rock.
She watches from the deck as the carriage trundles away and Johnathan is gone.
The sailors cast off and the ship makes way along the channel between Greenwich and the Isle of Dogs and smartly onwards down the busy estuary past Gravesend.
Gulls wheel overhead as Araminta takes the air, watching paupers mudlark on the shore and men fish off tiny boats at Chatham.
It’s mild for February with little by way of a breeze even though, aided by the tide, they are now making way at a speed of nine knots.
She casts her mind back to the schoolroom in Mary-le-Bone where she learned a poem by Robert Burns and was surprised by the rhythm his words stirred in her.
But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;
Or, like the snow-fall in the river,
A moment white, then melts forever.
She wonders if her mother knew this poem.
Perhaps her great aunt will be able to say.
At twenty she would have been excited to receive the letter that now sits in her pocket.
Somehow, she realises, she’s changed. Marriage.
Richmond. Love, perhaps. For a moment she inhabits the mind of her younger self, a hazel-eyed schoolgirl who solved word puzzles of a Sunday and on weekdays felt the satisfaction of algebraic calculations.
‘All right,’ she says under her breath. ‘I’ll take Mr Burns’ advice. I shall find what I can without grasping for it.’
Eleanor loitering nearby and with more understanding than Mr Moore, can see her mistress is in need of reassurance. ‘I’m sure it’ll be all right, madam,’ she says. ‘Plain sailing.’