The Fever Tree (9 page)

M
iss Irvine.” The boy came running towards her across the deck. “A note for you!”

“Thank you, Gilbert,” she said, ruffling his hair and opening the folded paper:

Miss Irvine, I need to talk to you for a few moments alone. There is a cabin next to the engineer’s room which is used for storage. Shall I meet you there at eight o’clock?

W.W.

Frances tucked the note into the pocket of her dress. Anticipation mingled with apprehension. Despite the risks of being caught alone with him, she would be there at eight. She was more desperate than ever to see him.

Someone clipped her on the shoulder, and she turned to see Mariella standing next to her. “You’re dreaming again! You’ll be the color of a nut if you keep mooning at the sun. Here”—she handed Frances a glass of milky water—“this heat is enough to kill you.” Frances took a sip and grimaced. It was warm and fuzzy, and tasted of iron from the tanks.

Mariella leant her head in close to Frances’s ear, and a wave of warm peppermint washed over her. “That, my dear,” she said, pointing to the doorway of the furnace, “should be enough to take your mind off whatever it is you’re thinking about.” Two stokers had finished their shift. They wore pantaloons and woolen shirts unbuttoned with the sleeves rolled up. One flipped his shirt over his head, and the other held up a bucket of seawater and doused him with it. The girls watched as the man pushed tired, blackened fingers through his wet hair, working at his scalp. Water, thick with coal dust, dripped down his chest, splashing onto the hot deck, where it oozed out through the gutters. Their muscled bodies glistened with sweat and their skin shone like waxed leather.

Mariella winked at Frances. “It’s a hundred and twenty degrees down there, and don’t they look well on it!”

Frances smiled, but warily. Mariella was frank and honest about the things that she had no language to describe. She wanted to tell her about William’s note, and ask her advice, but she didn’t want her to say anything which might spoil it.

“Now,” Mariella said, waggling a pamphlet in her hand, “look what I have got my hands on.” It was a copy of the latest
Cambrian Argus
.

Mariella turned to the last page and read, “A Fancy Dress Ball will be held on the quarter deck on Thursday, 28th October, at 8.30 p.m. Ladies and gentlemen are requested to appear at dinner in their costumes. First- and second-class passengers invited.” The girls looked at each other and grinned.

“They say fancy-dress parties bring out people’s darkest secrets,” Mariella said. “It’s only when you are dressed as someone else that you can reveal your true self.”

“And what side of yourself will you be revealing?”

“Me? Oh, I’ll be quite demure for once, while Mr. Fairley, normally very restrained, will be declaring his passionate love for me.”

“George Fairley? The farmer?” Frances asked, surprised, and they both burst out laughing.

“What about everyone else?”

“Well. The pretty Miss Jandice”—Mariella nodded her head at a girl walking the deck with a stern-looking older woman who gripped her arm—“haven’t you noticed anything strange about her?”

“Only that her clothes are about ten years out of date. She is still wearing a crinoline!”

“Exactly. The perfect disguise. Her mother insists they are on a missionary jaunt in the Africas, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she turns up to the ball, swaddling a child like the Virgin Mary.”

“She’s pregnant?” Frances was shocked.

“Absolutely,” Mariella said. “Which is why her skin glows so, and she holds her hand over her stomach in that secret way.”

William just then came up onto deck, and Frances couldn’t resist asking, “What about Mr. Westbrook?”

“Ah, William Westbrook.” Mariella’s voice became a fraction more serious, and she avoided Frances’s eye. “William Westbrook is engaged to an heiress in South Africa. Her father is a diamond magnate, and she stands to inherit a vast fortune.”

“You’re wrong, Mariella,” Frances said. “He used to be engaged, but it was called off.”

“That’s not the version of the story I heard. Her father asked him to keep it a secret until he came back from England. I suppose it is a kind of test, in case Mr. Westbrook changes his mind.”

Mariella’s words hit Frances like stinging slaps across the face. Her stomach contracted, and a hot tightness crept over her chest. How could William not have told her? How could he be engaged to be married and still have touched her the way he did? But was it really his fault? When she had told him she wasn’t committed to marrying Edwin, he hadn’t kissed her, and still she had practically thrown herself at him. How could she have been so naive?

Mariella put a hand on her arm, and Frances broke out of her reverie into the real world of sea, sky, and whirling birds. “A marriage of convenience,” Mariella was saying. “Apparently, the girl isn’t at all beautiful, but she can offer enough wealth to make up for it.”

Frances nodded, and thought, Thank goodness I found out before I met him alone. Though, God, how it hurts.

F
rances’s world closed down around her. She spent days below deck in the cabin, stripped down to her nightdress, feigning sickness. Humiliation tortured her, and periodically she would cry out in exasperation when she remembered something she had said or done. The concert came and went, and she didn’t play. She couldn’t bear to see him. The ship crossed the equator and each day was hotter than the last. The
Cambrian
, the girls reported one evening, was making record progress. They would dock in Cape Town in less than a week. The news filled Frances with dread. Down in the belly of the boat, her sheets were damp and her skin sticky with sweat. She thought about William constantly—the way he had stroked her neck while she played the piano, his hand circling her ankle, his thumb against her lip—and she fought off waves of longing.

It was too hot to sleep, and she couldn’t concentrate on the novel which Mariella had given her, so she lay on the narrow bunk, staring at the sea floating into the horizon, her head throbbing with the groan of the engines. She could hear the muted cries of passengers on deck as they won at tennis, the pulling up of chairs for cards, and the tramp of feet downstairs for luncheon. She imagined each noise had been made by William and found she could picture him perfectly, a dark, laughing presence on deck towards which everyone else gravitated.

In the quiet of early morning, when the other girls were still sleeping, she heard footsteps walking above their cabin, and she wondered whether their even, elastic tread was William’s. Once she lay so still that a rat crawled out from behind Anne’s bunk and clawed its way up the wooden frame. It was brown with a sharp muzzle and outsized, translucent ears. She shuddered, and it turned and stared at her, twitching its thick tail like a whip, not at all afraid.

•   •   •

T
HE
C
AMBRIAN
STOPPED
at St. Helena for the day to refuel, and the passengers were invited to disembark. Mariella and Anne were eager to explore the old-fashioned little settlement of Jamestown, but Frances didn’t join them. Instead she waited until the ship was quiet then padded shoeless to the bathroom, drew a bucket of water, stripped off her clothes, and washed first her body then—leaning over the tub—her hair. The dirt ran off her in soapy pools, along with some of her disappointment and shame. The sea air had dried out her skin, and she rubbed oil of cacao into her face, applied some tuberose to her throat, and combed out her hair. She dressed, then sat up in bed with her legs stretched out, sketching. From the cabin porthole she could see the island, shrouded in mist, rising in steep, forbidding cliffs from the deep.

For the first time in weeks the ship was quiet. The engines were deliciously still, and apart from the occasional shouts of sailors loading coal on board, the ship was so silent that she could hear the water lapping against the hull. Her eyes were heavy, her hair was cool and damp on her shoulders, and she let her head drift back against the pillow.

“So this is how you spend your time.”

The door to the cabin had been pushed open. William was standing there in his shirtsleeves, one shoulder propped up against the frame, with the louche confidence of an off-duty corporal. His dark eyes looked fixedly at her. She shook her head slightly to clear the fug of sleep, then in a cold, still voice asked him to leave. He ignored her, searching around the room for somewhere to sit. In the cramped cabin his body had the lithe, nervous energy of a caged animal.

“I asked you to leave,” she said, but he showed no sign of having heard her. “What would someone think if they saw you here?”

“They won’t.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Frances, there is no one of any consequence left on the boat. They are all ashore. Your reputation is safe.”

He swung himself down onto the end of her bunk, trapping her feet beneath the heavy weight of his thighs. Startled, she slid them out and gathered her knees to her chest.

“Don’t look at me like that. Christ! I thought we were friends. What happened?” He smiled and placed a hand on her knee. Her skin bristled. He kept it there and brushed a finger across her kneecap. The damp flesh flickered into life. She tore herself off the bed and stood, quivering with rage, between the two bunks.

“How could you come here?” The words tumbled out in accusation. “What would your wife think?”

His eyes stopped smiling and his face tightened. “She is not my wife.”

“A question of timing?”

“Frances, you can abandon your tone of outraged morality. I am not the only one who is engaged to be married.”

“My marriage was never a secret.”

“And mine was? We have barely said two words to each other. When was I supposed to tell you?” He looked exasperated.

“When you told me that you had been engaged and that you had given her up?”

“If you think back, you might remember I turned down an invitation to kiss you.” Frances found herself blushing. “I wanted to get to know you better. I didn’t know how you would react.” He ran a hand through his hair, sweeping black curls off his forehead. “Why do you think I asked to meet you alone? I wanted a chance to be honest with you.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, wishing she could believe him.

He laughed and said, “Did you imagine I was going to force myself on you?” Her blush deepened, and he leant forward and slid a hand around the back of one of her knees, pulling her gently towards him.

“And you weren’t?” she demanded, not quite able to pull herself away.

He grinned. “I was rather hoping you would do the forcing.” She could feel the pressure of his fingers through the layers of her skirts, coaxing her into life. Caution was telling her that he hadn’t quite explained himself, but it didn’t seem important anymore. His conviction, and the ease with which he understood her, had absolved her of mistrust.

“How could I take a risk without knowing that you cared about me first? I needed to talk to you.” Desire prickled up the inside of her legs. His face was serious now, his eyes soft and liquid.

“But what about . . . ?” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.

“Eloise? An arrangement organized by my cousin. I agreed to it, but then I had no reason until now not to.”

“Will your cousin allow you?” The words sounded vulgar coming from her, as if she were bargaining with him on her own behalf.

“Allow me to what?” He laughed, and at the same time pushed his hand up under her skirts. There was the shock of skin against her own. “Call off the engagement? I can’t see that my cousin has very much to do with it.” He brushed the soft place behind her knee, and she shuddered, letting her leg buckle slightly where his hand had touched her. Then he leant forward and kissed the fabric of her dress where it fell into a point below her waist.

She was too full of want to speak. He must have seen it, because he took her hand, pulling her down onto the bunk. Outside, there was the sound of a small steamer chugging across the bay. He cupped her face with one hand, his palm against her jaw. She wanted him to close the distance between them before she changed her mind.

He put a hand into her hair, bunching it up, feeling its texture.

“You are exquisitely beautiful. I want to have you, Frances, for my own.” He smiled at her gently. “But you mustn’t make me feel as though I am doing all the wanting.”

She stared at him with wide eyes, but he didn’t move, just watched her. Instinctively, she dipped her head, and the edge of his palm nudged up over her mouth. She kissed the skin, tasting its saltiness against her tongue, and she let him slide his thumb between her lips into the wetness of her mouth. He moaned softly, leaning forwards to kiss her, his beard coarse against her face and his tongue pushing very gently against her lips until her mouth became pliant under his.

Far off, beyond the current of her desire, she could hear voices. The shouts of sailors and the clunk of metal on wood. Instinct pulled her away from him. “There are people on deck.”

He tried to kiss her again, but she held him back. He listened, and then after a moment groaned in frustration. “I’ll go, but next time, when I ask you to do something, will you trust me?”

“Yes. I think so,” she murmured.

“Good,” he said, smoothing a strand of hair behind her ear and standing up. “Because I want to see more of you.” She watched his strong, tanned hands adjusting his necktie in the mirror. His face, dark-skinned and broad, turned in the glass as he looked himself over. She wanted to tell him how happy she was, but when he looked at her he almost seemed not to see her. With a brisk smile he bent over and kissed her on the lips. “It pays to be careful. There’s nothing people on a ship like better than gossiping about a love affair.” Then he opened the door, checked the corridor, and slipped out.

•   •   •

T
HE
DECK
GLEAMED
in the sun, light glinted off metal, and the furnace radiated a blanket of heat which made the air shimmer. By four o’clock, a lethargic calm had fallen over the ship and the pulsing throb of the engine had sent all those who were trying to read asleep in their chairs, or downstairs to their cabins. Only one group of passengers were enjoying themselves. They were playing some kind of parlor game on the first-class deck, and their laughter washed over the boat. Frances could see the Whitaker cousins, and William in the midst of them, beckoning to a steward, who returned carrying two ice buckets full of champagne.

She sighed, put down her paintbrush, took off her hat, and smoothed her hair. She had no patience for painting today. It was good to feel her fingers in her scalp, and she rubbed for a few seconds before pushing her hair back away from her ears. Anne had gone down to their cabin, but Frances couldn’t drag herself away from watching William. He had kissed her, and said he wanted to see more of her, and every time she remembered she felt a rush of pleasure. She picked up her brush and went back to her painting. Another burst of laughter from the stern of the ship.

She looked across the deck and saw Emma Whitaker pulling off her blindfold and William looking past them all straight at her. He beckoned to Emma and whispered in her ear. The girl smiled and began to walk across the deck towards Frances. She was mortified. What had William said to her?

“Will you join us for a game?” Emma Whitaker looked at Frances, her cheeks flushed with champagne. “We’re playing blindman’s buff, but Mr. Westbrook’s being a terrible bore and won’t stop cheating, and it would be so much more fun if we had an extra player.”

Frances shook her head. “I shouldn’t . . .”

“Shouldn’t what? Play a game on the first-class deck?” The girl laughed. “No one is going to notice, and besides, if they do, we’ll get Mr. Westbrook to have a word with them.” She offered her arm, and Frances, unable to resist, put down her paintbrush and took it.

William winked at her when she walked up. There were five players: Frances, William, the Whitaker cousins, and Daniel Leger, a small, hard-faced man with a hook nose. William clapped a hand on his head and laughingly said he had been an acrobat in a former life. They appeared to be good friends, but when Mr. Leger handed Frances a glass of champagne he smiled a little too widely, almost knowingly, and said, “How lovely of you to have joined us, Miss Irvine.”

They played a few rounds of the game, her glass was filled, and then it was her turn to be blindfolded. She trapped one of the Whitaker cousins, but couldn’t name which one, and was given a forfeit.

“Say a proverb backwards!”

“Which one?” she asked.

William said, “Where there is a will, there is a way.”

She stumbled over the words, laughing, finding it hard to think with William watching her. On the next round, William was blindfolded. He deliberately ignored the calls of everyone but Frances. It was too obvious that he wanted to find her, so she eventually let him trap her against the rigging. She stayed very still when he reached out his hands and touched her face. She could smell his skin, and the salty sweetness of his breath that was the taste of champagne on her tongue. He ran his fingers over her face and felt the texture of her hair, and her muscles turned soft with longing.

Eventually he called out, “Miss Joanna Whitaker.” The cousins shrieked with delight.

“Mr. Westbrook, remove your blindfold!” He did, and smiled at Frances, not bothering to feign surprise that he was staring not at Miss Joanna Whitaker but at Frances.

“A forfeit!” one of the cousins declared gleefully.

“Yes. William, you must say half a dozen flattering things to Miss Irvine beginning with the letter
S
.”

William stood very close to Frances and, without pausing for thought and in a low voice, said, “Soft, suspicious, serious, stern, supple, secret.” She smiled at him and thought, If I marry him, I will never ask for another thing.