All the Tea in China (12 page)

“Where are the other passengers?” I whispered. At Oxford, I was accustomed to being the only woman in sight, but there I was around gentlemen. Here I felt like a scholarly lamb among wolves, though Mr. Swinney, the poulterer, had been naught but polite.

Miss Whipple smirked. “The last I saw of the husbands, they were tending their wives below deck. Seasickness, still. You are fortunate to be past that. The sailors told me that sometimes passengers go ten days before they are well. At least the captain’s table will be empty for a few days yet. Besides the officers, Phineas and I have been his sole companions since we set sail.”

Canvas flapped above my head, and I stopped short. Miss Whipple released my arm, and I leaned back, trying to catch a glimpse of the highest sail. “I feel like a child beneath a laundry line,” I murmured, feeling small and insignificant. “I am sure each sail has a name, does it not? And however do those sailors manage to climb the ropes?”

“It is called the rigging,” she said. “And as for the sails, I am not quite certain. We shall have to ask the captain. Hello, sir.”

Startled, I jerked my gaze downward to its normal level. A man of some three score with a white wig and resplendant uniform stood beside Miss Whipple. Fortunately, his ruddy complexion and poorly suppressed smile told me I had nothing to fear. “So this is our stowaway, eh?” he said, affecting gruffness.

I trembled nonetheless. “Y-yes, sir. I am sorry, sir.”

“Miss Goodrich, this is Captain Stephan Malfort. Captain, this is Isabella Goodrich.”

I curtsied.

“At your service, miss,” he said with a bow. “Pray tell me what was so urgent that you risked life and limb to be with your brother?”

This I could answer without fear. I explained about my calling from God and how I must get to China. “It is a burning in my heart,” I said, then pressed my case. “I am certain that it is not unlike your passion for the sea.”

He smiled. “My passion is somewhat more pecuniary than yours, but aye, there is something wanting in my soul that being at sea fulfills. Still, I can’t imagine following a sibling to the detriment of my own health, not to mention avoiding fare passage, as you have done.”

“I am sorry about that, Captain,” I said. “I hope I can repay the money to the East India Company.”

A shadow fell across the deck. “No need to worry about that, dear sister,” Phineas said, looping an arm through mine. “I have already paid the captain for your rather unexpected passage. At least for the portion of the trip during which you will be aboard ship. But I must say that I am delighted to find you in better health.”

I tried not to cringe at his touch. Miss Whipple looked on in amusement.

“Ah, Mr. Snowe,” Captain Malfort said. “It is indeed a delight to meet your sister at last. But one thing troubles me.”

The muscles in his arm seemed to tense. “Yes?”

“Why is it that you and your sister have different last names?”

He relaxed. “In truth, Captain, we are only half brother and sister, raised by different parents, of course.” The lie sprang a little too easily from his lips. Not an admirable quality for a man of the cloth! “Miss Goodrich was raised by an uncle at Oxford, Mr. Tobias Fitzwater.” That, at least, was not prevarication.

“Ah,” the captain said, as though it explained everything. To my taste, it certainly did not.

Miss Whipple smiled. “Captain, just as you joined us, I told Miss Goodrich that we should ask you for the names of the many sails above us. Would you do us the honor now?”

Snowe released my arm. “As I am familiar with such terminology, you will excuse me if I take my leave then, Captain. Miss Whipple.” He bowed, and upon rising, looked directly at my eyes. “Isabella.”

The sound of my name in his voice bred confusion in my soul. He headed aft, and I wanted to follow him, for I had many questions yet for Phineas Snowe. Captain Malfort, however, was already pointing up high. “The upper sail is called the main topgallant, below that the main topsail, and the one nearest us is the mainsail. That one is the main topgallant staysail, and the one aft is the mizzen topgallant.”

Miss Whipple strolled forward, moving our group in the opposite direction Snowe had gone. “And the sails at the very bow are called . . . ?”

“The flying jib, the jib, the fore topmast staysail, and the fore staysail. That one there . . .”

I only half listened thereafter, for even if I were put off ship at Cape Town, I would no doubt have a long time to learn the intricacies of the
Dignity
. And perhaps other information, as well. I did not know if I could maintain my forbearance.

Though Captain Malfort had to leave us soon, Miss Whipple and I strolled the deck for several more hours. We tried to stay out of the sailors’ way but also to observe their business from a distance. Even when Miss Whipple declared that her head ached and retired to her cabin, I lingered on deck. I found everything fascinating, from standing at the battered rail to scan the horizon to watching sailors tying knots. The last observation occurred courtesy of Mr. Calow, the young midshipman who had directed me to Phineas at Gravesend. The lad seemed surprised to see me, though I was certain my presence aboard ship had become common knowledge once my place with the cattle was discovered.

He and the other five midshipmen had just concluded a lesson with Captain Malfort, who apparently quizzed them on finding latitude and longitude. Mr. Calow seemed to fare the poorest of the young class and was near thorough humiliation during a knot-tying competition. Captain Malfort seemed particularly harsh on the young lad, but I understood the need for the midshipmen to learn their lessons and learn them well. These were not mere studies on Greek and Latin; the lives of all aboard might hang on whether a sailor had properly tied a line.

Left to practice on his own, the dejected Mr. Calow worked doggedly with a bit of rope, tying and retying several mysterious knots. I dared a chance to sit beside him on the bench. He sprang to his feet, hastily swiping his eyes. “Miss Goodrich!”

“May I join you, Mr. Calow, to observe your work, or would that disturb you? I know nothing of knots myself, so I shall be in no position to comment.”

“I don’t mind if you sit here.”

We sat, and he worked with the rope. I could see the frustration on his face, and I knew above all else that he would not allow himself to cry. He could scarce have been above twelve years of age, probably not long from home, but he was obviously making a Herculean effort to appear the young man he was expected to be. Two senior officers stood at a distance, watching us, and their presence seemed to have a detrimental effect on Mr. Calow’s confidence. His breath came in quick gasps, and his eyes appeared moist.

I could bear to see his suffering no more. “Do you have some extra rope for me?” I asked. “Perhaps I could learn.”

He retrieved an abandoned line and handed it to me. “What knot is the easiest?” I asked. “I should probably start there.”

With a minimum of words, he showed me how to tie a figure-eight, a square, then a clove hitch. He seemed to gain confidence as he explained them to me, and when I was capable of executing them with no help, I calmly asked, “What knot were you working on when I interrupted you?”

“The bowline.” His shoulders slumped, and he jerked the knot free in his line.

“How does it begin?”

He held out his line to demonstrate. “There is an old story to remember how to tie this knot. Imagine that the free end is a rabbit, and the other end is a tree with a rabbit hole at its base.” He twisted the rope, and I did my best to follow. “The rabbit comes out of the hole, goes around the tree, and back down into its hole again.”

I laughed, letting my tangled line fall into my lap. “My rabbit apparently ventured to the backside of the tree, where he was promptly eaten.”

Mr. Calow stared at the rope in his hands. “I did it,” he whispered. He raised the rope higher for my scrutiny. “I did it!”

One of the officers moved beside us. “So you did, Mr. Calow. Job well done. But I’ll not warn you again about speaking of those furry things on board ship.”

Joy diminished from the lad’s face. “Aye, sir. I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”

“Carry on, then.” The officer tipped his hat and moved on.

When he was out of hearing distance, I turned to Mr. Calow. “What did he mean by ‘furry things’? And why are you not permitted to speak of them?”

Mr. Calow leaned closer. “He means those animals in burrows,” he whispered, then made a hopping motion with two fingers. “You know”—his voice dropped lower still—“
bunnies
.” He clapped a hand over his mouth and looked around to make sure no one had heard. When he was not reprimanded, he relaxed.

I laughed. “Do you mean rabbits? Why ever are you not to mention them?”

Mr. Calow flushed. “Sailors believe they bring bad luck. None are allowed on board, even for food. We’re not to mention their names, either, which is also bad luck.”

“But Mr. Calow, surely you were raised in a Christian home. You do not believe in superstition, do you?” I was appalled that grown men should pass on such myths to a mere child. What foolishness was this?

“There are those who believe Christianity itself to be superstition, Miss Goodrich. The lad is merely following orders.”

I looked up. Phineas Snowe stood beside me. Again I felt the intensity of his gaze, and I longed for him to retrieve those spectacles—no matter how horrid—and put them to good use on the bridge of his nose.

Though he said nothing further, he seemed to desire a private conversation. “Mr. Calow, I have intruded upon your time long enough,” I said. “Thank you for sharing your knot-tying skills. I should like to discuss latitude and longitude with you some time. At your convenience, of course.”

His mouth gaped. “You know about those things? Why, you’re only a woman.”

I raised my chin a trifle and rose.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, rising alongside me. He touched his cap. “Good day, miss.”

Mr. Snowe walked to the ship’s rail, out of the way and out of earshot, for the moment, from anyone aboard ship. “I confess that I thought to reprimand you for bothering the crew, but I was present long enough to find that you accomplished quite the opposite.”

I suppose that was his way of paying me a compliment. “Mr. Calow only shared his knowledge, and by so doing, he increased his own. As for bothering the crew, I am pleased that you find yourself in the wrong. I am determined to be of no consequence to anyone aboard ship.”

I lowered my gaze. Oh, how Phineas Snowe could irk me, but he
was
a man of the cloth. “Unfortunately, I realize that I have now forced you to bear the burden of my decision to become a stowaway.”

He leaned both elbows against the ship’s rail, studying me like a lazy cat to a trapped mouse. “Indeed?”

Oh, I was a miserable wretch! Must I say it so plainly? “Yes.” I nodded. “I am in debt to you not only for my fare, but for your efforts to protect me. I find them gallant, and I thank you for your efforts at offering me your protection as my, er, brother.”

“I am not without chivalry.”

“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “However, you should know that I am prepared to defend myself physically, should the need arise.”

“From me?” He quirked an eyebrow. “Miss Goodrich, I have already informed you that I have no intention of—”

“I was thinking more of an untoward advance from any stranger aboard ship,” I said, flushing. “You are a missionary, Mr. Snowe, a man dedicated to holy work. It is true that you and I do not always see eye to eye, but your character must be impeccable for the London Missionary Society to accept you.”

He waved a hand. “We were speaking not of my character but of your—what did you say?—your preparedness to defend yourself?”

I nodded. “Until recently it was a well-kept secret that I trained in martial arts.”

“Indeed? Pray continue.”

I could not tell if he mocked me or expressed genuine curiosity. “I have studied with a fencing master for nearly twenty years now, Signor Eco Antonio. He himself studied under the great master Domenico Angelo . . . but you probably have not heard of him.”

“Actually, I have. Most impressive, Miss Goodrich . . . if it is true.”

“Believe me, Mr. Snowe, I mention it not to impress but to alert you that I have little fear of caring for myself on this voyage and in China, as well.”

“And yet you brought no sword for the journey.”

So he did mock me! “I thought it best to leave it behind. A missionary should have no need of such training, is that not true? Particularly when it involves violence.”

“Yet even Jesus remarked to the disciples that a man should sell his garment and buy a sword.” He straightened. “Miss Goodrich, you are an enigma to me, yet one thing is clear. You have a heart for helping others, and for some reason, an earnest desire to serve in China. But I must insist that it is no place for the fairer sex.”

“I was led to believe otherwise when I thought Julia Whipple part of your group. Nevertheless, I am determined to convince you that I am quite capable. Surely there are ladies and children in the Orient whom I could reach.”

“You cannot speak their language.”

“But you could teach me! I still possess the Gospel According to St. Luke that you gave me at the Ransoms’ party, do you remember?”

He nodded.

“It is a long voyage,” I pressed. “Could you not teach me even the basics? As my uncle informed you, I am learned in several languages already . . . French, Italian, German, Greek, Latin—”

He held up his hand. “That is enough, Miss Goodrich. I am familiar with your studies.”

“Then you will teach me?”

He paused for a great while. Why must he deliberate? Was his time so valuable aboard ship that he could not spend it with me? If I failed to learn any Chinese (and of course that was unthinkable!) would it have inconvenienced him so greatly?

“Phineas Snowe, I have been looking for you.” Julia Whipple stood beside him. “And you, Miss Goodrich.”

“Are you feeling better, Miss Whipple?” I said.

She frowned. “Better?”