woman or die! He’ll stay at the wheel, you know he will; probably throughout the whole watch, and Albert’s above and will stamp on the deck if trouble approaches.’ She laughed. ‘Come, let’s settle down and talk.’
The cabin was no more than a cupboard, how the men lived kennelled up like dogs for the weeks and months at sea I don’t know; though heaven knows, my own was not too large. But this was no more than the length of the wooden bunk against its outer wall, with a chest across one end between the top of the bunk and the inner wall, leaving when the door was closed-to, hardly room for us two to stand, our heavy skirts, much stuffed out by their petticoats, crushed close together. She climbed up on to the bunk and crawling along it, curled herself up in the far corner. I hoisted myself up to sit on the remaining space, feet dangling, facing the door, all ready for flight. ‘Now, come,’ she said, ‘what was this foolish note pushed through the crack? What of all our fine plans for the fall of the Mighty?’
‘I regret it all, Mary,’ I said. ‘When you left me, I prayed. I’d be wrong to betray my husband.’
‘No one asks you to betray him, little idiot! Only to hold the threat above his head that you might betray him—so that you’re safe from his bullying.’
I knew that I blushed but I persisted: ‘A man has—rights—over his wife. It’s for his wife to submit.’
She wore today a dress of brilliant green, like the heart of an emerald, heavily scrolled at its hem with white braid—it was ever her habit to pick out one or another colour from the Paisley pattern of her shawl, accent it in her gown and then, as though it were her very signature scrawled about the gown, decorate it with white braid. Beneath the gown was always a froth of petticoats, holding out the skirts to a heavy fullness but edged with lace and frills—my own petticoats were of good white flannel, one upon the other for warmth and decency, but with no more than a little decorative feather-stitching and perhaps some scalloping: my sisters had sat and grudgingly stitched at my modest little trousseau, suitable for a life at sea and as the wife of a sober and respectable man. But Honey Mary! How she had smuggled all these clothes aboard, heaven knew; nor how she kept all the whiteness so brilliantly white could I ever understand; but for all her way of life, no one I ever saw had such a look of health and strength and—cleanliness. Her skin was always clear, eyes bright, hair shining with washing and brushing and under the brilliant gowns with their stark white braiding, her petticoats blue-white and always as though they had been freshly starched; and her bodices… Well, one saw quite enough of them, the crisp, laundered lace threaded through with ribbons to match her gowns, frilled over her golden bosom. A time was to come when she would look less than perfectly groomed to the last miracle of perfection; but till that time, she might at any moment of her life have just stepped out of the hands of a lady’s maid. And always she wore a perfume of her own. If one could say that she smelt of the honey of her nickname—then she smelt of honey.
She sat curled up, her arms about her knees, the mass of frilled petticoats frothing like sea-foam about her pretty little lace-up boots—any costume less suited for wear on shipboard could hardly be imagined. ‘But, my honey,’ she said, as though in refusing to betray my husband after all, I spoilt some gleeful childish game, ‘our plan!’
‘Our plan was that you should tell the men of my husband’s—wrong conduct with you, Mary; so that if he failed to please me, I could hold it as a threat over him, that you and they would spread his shame abroad. But—’
‘Failed to please you!’ she said. ‘He treats you by day like a kennelled bitch; and by night—’
I said confused and embarrassed, ‘In that I think he—can’t help himself. He has strong
The cabin was no more than a cupboard, how the men lived kennelled up like dogs for the weeks and months at sea I don’t know; though heaven knows, my own was not too large. But this was no more than the length of the wooden bunk against its outer wall, with a chest across one end between the top of the bunk and the inner wall, leaving when the door was closed-to, hardly room for us two to stand, our heavy skirts, much stuffed out by their petticoats, crushed close together. She climbed up on to the bunk and crawling along it, curled herself up in the far corner. I hoisted myself up to sit on the remaining space, feet dangling, facing the door, all ready for flight. ‘Now, come,’ she said, ‘what was this foolish note pushed through the crack? What of all our fine plans for the fall of the Mighty?’
‘I regret it all, Mary,’ I said. ‘When you left me, I prayed. I’d be wrong to betray my husband.’
‘No one asks you to betray him, little idiot! Only to hold the threat above his head that you might betray him—so that you’re safe from his bullying.’
I knew that I blushed but I persisted: ‘A man has—rights—over his wife. It’s for his wife to submit.’
She wore today a dress of brilliant green, like the heart of an emerald, heavily scrolled at its hem with white braid—it was ever her habit to pick out one or another colour from the Paisley pattern of her shawl, accent it in her gown and then, as though it were her very signature scrawled about the gown, decorate it with white braid. Beneath the gown was always a froth of petticoats, holding out the skirts to a heavy fullness but edged with lace and frills—my own petticoats were of good white flannel, one upon the other for warmth and decency, but with no more than a little decorative feather-stitching and perhaps some scalloping: my sisters had sat and grudgingly stitched at my modest little trousseau, suitable for a life at sea and as the wife of a sober and respectable man. But Honey Mary! How she had smuggled all these clothes aboard, heaven knew; nor how she kept all the whiteness so brilliantly white could I ever understand; but for all her way of life, no one I ever saw had such a look of health and strength and—cleanliness. Her skin was always clear, eyes bright, hair shining with washing and brushing and under the brilliant gowns with their stark white braiding, her petticoats blue-white and always as though they had been freshly starched; and her bodices… Well, one saw quite enough of them, the crisp, laundered lace threaded through with ribbons to match her gowns, frilled over her golden bosom. A time was to come when she would look less than perfectly groomed to the last miracle of perfection; but till that time, she might at any moment of her life have just stepped out of the hands of a lady’s maid. And always she wore a perfume of her own. If one could say that she smelt of the honey of her nickname—then she smelt of honey.
She sat curled up, her arms about her knees, the mass of frilled petticoats frothing like sea-foam about her pretty little lace-up boots—any costume less suited for wear on shipboard could hardly be imagined. ‘But, my honey,’ she said, as though in refusing to betray my husband after all, I spoilt some gleeful childish game, ‘our plan!’
‘Our plan was that you should tell the men of my husband’s—wrong conduct with you, Mary; so that if he failed to please me, I could hold it as a threat over him, that you and they would spread his shame abroad. But—’
‘Failed to please you!’ she said. ‘He treats you by day like a kennelled bitch; and by night—’
I said confused and embarrassed, ‘In that I think he—can’t help himself. He has strong
Similar Books
