A HAZARD OF HEARTS (9 page)

After an uneventful trip they hove to overnight,
well outside Sydney Heads; then in the pearly dawn light they took on a pilot
and slipped into the harbour. Elly stood at the prow, absorbed by the beauty
surrounding her, green hills, golden sandstone cliffs, white sandy beaches.

‘How lovely. I was young when we went north. I’d
forgotten how lovely this place is.’

She spoke to herself but Paul, coming up behind
her, said in a softer tone than she’d heard for some days, ‘It must be the most
beautiful deep-water harbour in the world, plus the safest.’

She turned around. ‘Mr Gascoigne...’

‘Miss Ballard?’

‘I’d like to apologise for my behaviour. You’ve
been more than kind, while I repaid your generosity with carping and
argumentativeness.’

He smiled down at her. ‘Say no more. The shoe
fits us both, I believe. In other words, I’ve been every bit as difficult to
live with. Shall we agree to part friends?’

‘I’d like that.’ Elly held out her hand, which
he grasped firmly.

‘Miss Ballard, what will you do? Have you
somewhere to go when we dock at the Quay?’

She reclaimed her hand, turning back to watch
the rapidly approaching rooves and spires of Sydney Town. ‘Thank you for your
concern. I shall do very well.’ Her tone was sufficiently discouraging, she
thought, but Paul Gascoigne was not easily put off.

‘Miss Independence came a fall, if I remember my
nursery tale correctly. Come, will you not oblige me? I’d like to call one day
and pay my respects, once you’re settled.’

Elly straightened her shoulders as if going on
parade, aware of mixed feelings, not quite defiance not quite amusement. ‘Then,
sir, you had best apply to the Sydney Infirmary.’

The clipper
East Wind
rode at her
anchor off the British Settlement in Shanghai, graceful as a seabird, even without
her great sails set, her raked prow dipping in the wake of passing junks as if
in the majestic courtesy of an empress to underlings. Men swarmed about her
thousands of yards of rigging and scurried across her decks, lowering into her
holds the precious tea and silks she’d crossed the world to carry to home
markets.

Twenty-four hours later she weighed anchor, slipping
down river to clear the river mouth and enter the muddied waters of the China Sea.

Jo-Beth Loring had been glad to see the
coastline disappear into the horizon. She stood in the stern, a statuesque
figure with the wind playing in her bright coppery hair while she farewelled
one more foreign land.

Yet all the while she was aware of the activity
of the ship, the crack of sails, the rigging creaking, the men scurrying to
orders given in a clear deep voice that was echoed by the bellowing boson. That
clear voice had attracted her from the moment she came aboard to meet its
owner, Captain Petherbridge, a golden-bearded Atlas who overtopped her not insignificant
height by at least ten inches, a strong man who controlled his ship and crew
without resort to the usual bullying and threats.

Mentally she contrasted him with the spoilt
young males back home, more interested in the polish on their dancing pumps
than the set of a sail in the wind above a canting deck, or a prow shearing
through a silken sea. It was men like Captain Petherbridge who really lived,
braving the elements, circumnavigating the globe, while the owners in the
counting houses kept their white hands clean and worried how to invest their
profits. At the thought of the long weeks ahead at sea, Jo-Beth smiled. Then,
taking one last look at China, she went to inspect her well-appointed cabin.

Lying on the bunk, her arm flung across her
face, she felt weariness seeping through to her bones. How tired she was of
travel, tired of new sights, sounds, smells. Honest to goodness, the smells in
the Far East were beyond description. She was more than tired of being dragged
from ship to ship by her globe-trotting Papa, of trekking miles to admire a temple,
shrine or pagoda, or a view of anything from a bare windswept plain with harsh
mountain peaks beyond, to a sea of green sunken paddy fields peopled with
wading peasants.

She’d seen too many ancient crumbling cities,
explored their noisome alleys, bounced along like a parcel in carts drawn by
skeletal runners, been outstared by a populace who thought her a giant with
hair of flames, and chased by beggars whose miseries turned her stomach. Today
they’d visited the markets to see carcases of cats, dogs and rats, among the
more recognisable animals, hung on long stretched strings. She’d given grave
offence, she feared, by not eating the dinner provided by a local Chinese
dignitary who conducted business with Papa. Well, she couldn’t help it. Her
mother could scarcely devise a greater punishment than the present situation,
and anyway, she was beyond caring.

A strangled cough emerged from behind the
curtain pegged across one corner of the cabin. Jo-Beth sat up, narrowly missing
the timbers overhead. Nothing happened for several minutes. About to lie down
again, she saw the curtain bulge and she bounded to her feet.

‘Who’s there? Come out at once.’ Without waiting
for results she strode forward, twitching the curtain aside to reveal a ragged
Chinese boy curled tightly against the bulkhead, thin hands clasped around the
baggy-trousered knees.

‘Good gracious! What are you doing there?’ She peered
into the grubby, emaciated face, her manner softening.

‘Don’t be frightened. I won’t hurt you. Come
into the light where I may see you.’ She stood back and beckoned.

The boy rose gracefully then walked into the
pool of light shed by the ship’s lantern. It swung in an arc that echoed the
vessel’s motion, creating jigging shadows around the cabin walls. Glancing at
the lantern, the intruder allowed satisfaction to chase the apprehension from
his face. Jo-Beth wondered was it because they were at sea and could not put
back against the wind? She studied the guarded face, the strong brows adding
character, the mouth sweet and pink... Without warning she twitched the cap
off, allowing a thick braid knotted with red thread to tumble down.

‘Well, well. I think I’ve caught a stowaway, and
I think she’s a girl. Now, how do I discover your name, stowaway? Then what do
I do with you afterwards?’

The girl raised dark almond eyes to hers. ‘I can
answer both questions. My name is Pearl, and you should take me to the Captain
of this vessel, who will most probably throw me in irons.’

Jo-Beth sat down suddenly on her bunk and
stared, then laughed. ‘I must look like a startled haddock. But then, who would
expect to find a Chinese girl aboard, and one who speaks English with an
educated British accent?’ She paused and the twinkle left her eyes. ‘As to the
irons, that’s nonsense. I’ll see to it. However, I’m afraid you’re right about
the Captain. He’s in a terrible mood. You seem quite unconcerned at your
possible fate, I must say.’

 Pearl’s thin shoulders shrugged. ‘I was warned,
but I could not come aboard in any other way.’

‘Why did you risk it? Where are you going?’

‘To Australia.’ She sounded each syllable
perfectly.

‘But why?’

Pearl shook her head and closed her lips. She
eyed Jo-Beth measuringly.

‘How did you know we were headed there? My
father only two days ago insisted that this ship be diverted to take us to Australia
– and mighty angry the Captain is, I may tell you. He’s a Boston man, a clipper
man, not used to being thwarted. However, since Papa owns the line...’ Again
Jo-Beth paused. ‘How I do run on. I guess I must be lonelier than I thought.’

 Pearl bowed, sagged, then dropped to her knees.

Jo-Beth stooped to catch her, feeling like a
Gulliver against the smaller woman’s frailty.

‘Oh, you’re just about worn to a thread. How
long is it since you ate? Oh, dear. Don’t swoon on me. Here, sit on this chest.
Have a sweetmeat.’

She fetched a cup of water and watched Pearl
devour a handful of dried plums, waiting until she had recovered. When the
younger woman put down the cup and met her gaze, Jo-Beth said, ‘It’s no good,
you know. You’ll have to tell me about yourself if you want my support. Stowaways
are always put ashore at the first opportunity.’

Pearl blinked, reminding Jo-Beth of an exotic
cat, one with a typical feline desire to reveal little while having its own
way. If Pearl had had a tail, its tip would have been quivering while she
considered. Then she let out a sigh, as if releasing all the tensions that had
brought her this far.

‘You are kind. I will tell you my story.’ This she
proceeded to do, as prosaically as if she were listing laundry.

Watching the expressionless face, Jo-Beth recognised
the truth. No wonder Pearl was so guarded. Her bald recital was all the more
telling for its lack of emotion, but it touched off a response in Jo-Beth. The
tale having ended with the fugitive discovered, she sat back on her bunk and
surveyed Pearl, trying to match her control.

‘I’ll help you. It’s infamous that you should
suffer so much only to be defeated at the end. We’ll go to Captain Petherbridge
and explain...’ Her voice trailed off as she frowned, eyeing Pearl’s filthy
jacket and trousers, her gaze dropping to the ragged slippers, now bound in
strips of cloth. ‘But those clothes will never do. First impressions are all
important. Of course, my gowns will be too large, yet... Yes, I think I have
just the thing.’

Pearl stood up, swaying a little. ‘I must keep
my jacket.’

Jo-Beth shook her head and the red curls flew. ‘It’s
beyond cleaning, I’m afraid. I’ll get you another one –’

‘No!’ Pearl sprang back in a crouch, her
expression fierce.

‘But... Oh, very well. We’ll manage somehow. No jacket
tonight, though. Not for your interview with Captain Petherbridge.’

Grey eyes clashed with black in equal determination,
yet a smile quivered at the corners of Jo-Beth’s mouth.

Pearl suddenly relaxed. She stood up to remove her
filthy jacket deliberately and slowly, folding it away behind the curtain where
she’d hidden. She smiled, holding out her grubby hands. ‘Where shall I wash?’

An hour later they faced Captain Ethan
Petherbridge, who, having overseen the clearing of the river mouth, now stood
at his ease, surveying the great sails stained by the sunset to crimson and
gold, sails like wings strung to a mast reaching over eighty feet above the
deck.

Jo-Beth studied his grim face and decided he
must be entertaining thoughts of ship-owners being boiled in oil or strung up
to their own yard-arms. She favoured him with her best smile, then indicated
Pearl’s diminutive figure, now garbed in a peach satin quilted jacket with one
of Jo-Beth’s skirts, hastily gathered up and pinned from top to bottom. Her
braid had been secured in a neat knot, her feet shod in a pair of slippers
meant as a gift for a younger Loring cousin. Silhouetted against the last
brilliant rays of light, her race was not immediately apparent.

‘Good-evening Captain.’ Jo-Beth’s voice was
cream, with the practised assurance of a debutante three years ‘out’ in
society.

He raised his cap, and sunset light set his
blond head and beard aflame. ‘Miss Loring, Miss...’ He frowned. ‘And who is
this? I had no...’ He peered. ‘Damnation!’

Pearl bowed. ‘Honoured sir, I freely admit to
having stowed away on your ship and ask your pardon. I am, of course, prepared
to pay my passage, if you will permit me.’

Something like a growl issued from the Captain’s
throat as Jo-Beth said hurriedly, ‘Please, Captain, be generous. This lady,
Pearl, is the orphaned daughter of missionaries, an educated Christian woman. Why,
she’s practically an Englishwoman. She cannot be left to the mercies of the
cut-throat rebels who have killed her family and forced her into brutal
slavery.’

The Captain found his voice. ‘I see no evidence
of slavery...’ He paused, seemingly surprised by his own irrelevance.

Pearl slipped her jacket from her shoulder,
displaying her brand. Then, adjusting her clothing she said serenely, ‘I
escaped to Shanghai where I overheard a clerk in the shipping office speak of
your changed orders to sail for Australia. He would not allow me to buy my
passage, so I came aboard and hid. It was necessary. I must find my last living
relative in the land of the south where men seek gold.’

The Captain had regained balance. ‘Not on my
ship.’

‘But Captain –’ Jo-Beth began.

Another voice cut across hers. ‘What’s this? What’s
this?’ A short, rotund man strolled towards them, cigar at a nicely adjusted
angle, his fat little hands grasping his coat edges while resting comfortably
on the swell of his stomach. ‘I thought I heard an argument.’ He stopped to stare
at Pearl.

Captain Petherbridge stiffened, a mastiff whose territory
had been invaded. ‘Good evening, Mr Loring. I’ve been explaining to Miss Loring
how it is we are unable to accommodate her... friend... on the voyage to
Sydney. She will be put ashore at first landfall, wind permitting.’

‘My daughter’s friend, you say?’ Josiah Loring
peered short-sightedly at Pearl. ‘My gracious. My goodness me. But she’s…’ His
voice failed.