Unclaimed Heart (5 page)

“Still weak,” she replied. “And very hungry.”

“So I hear. My crew are, at this moment, running about trying to find food for you. When they should be doing other things.”

Constance opened her mouth to say, “I'm sorry,” but sensed it was too early. He would give her much more to apologize for yet.

He stood and began to pace. As he did so, a small glass object fell from his pocket. He didn't notice, and she didn't mention it, bracing herself for the onslaught.

“What on earth were you thinking?” he said angrily. “You have caused me untold embarrassment and inconvenience.”

“I wanted to come with you to find Mother,” she said simply, in case he had forgotten that she had overheard the original conversation.

“That much is clear. But your desires are not the only engine driving the globe, Constance. You should have stayed at home, as any dutiful daughter would, and waited for news from me. Instead, you have followed your silly impulses and within an eye's blink created pandemonium on my ship. The crew are laughing at me behind my back. What a great joke: Henry Blackchurch can control a crew of eighteen sea dogs, but he can't control his daughter. I had thought you an intelligent girl, Constance. But only a selfish ninny would act as you have.”

Constance dropped her head forward so he wouldn't see the tears pricking her eyes.

“Well you might hang your head in shame, girl. So, you are aboard now and, as you no doubt reckoned, I'm not turning back. Who knows how long it could delay me?”

She didn't know whether to feel relieved by this knowledge or not.

He stopped pacing next to her bed. “Here are the rules that you will now follow. You will be invisible. Stay in here. Do not come near the cuddy saloon or the great cabin. I will ensure meals are brought to you twice a day. Every evening, you may take a turn about the poop deck for your health. But keep away from my crew, do not speak to them, do not ask them questions. God willing, they will forget you are even here. If you need anything, you speak to me directly.” He nodded, once, definitively. It was her cue to speak.

She lifted her head. “Yes, Father,” she said. “I am truly sorry for—”

“Silence! You are not sorry. You are glad you did it, and you would do it the same again,” he said.

He was right, and although her mouth moved to deny it, her heart wouldn't let her.

“Yes, I thought so.” He turned on his heel, striding towards the door again. “Food will arrive soon. Burchfield recommends another day in bed. I think some fresh air up on deck this evening might do you good. I expect you will make up your own mind.”

The door slammed behind him, shaking the thin walls. Constance lay back on the soft pillow, telling herself to be brave. He would have found her out eventually, and he wasn't sending her home or—worse—putting her off with some dreadful acquaintance in a foreign country. Yes, he was angry, but his displeasure wasn't such a mighty thing to be feared: it wasn't as though he ever took pleasure in his daughter's company after all.

She turned; the shining object caught her eye. She flipped back the sheets and bent to pick it up. A brass and glass compass, small enough to sit in the hollow of her palm. She rolled it over in her hands. Tiny words were engraved on the base. She took it to the window, so the light could make the inscription clear. Her heart picked up a beat. She knew it would be from her mother, a message of love:
come and find me
.

It wasn't. It was from Violet, his sister.
A safe return always, V.

Disappointed, she took the compass to the cabin door and made to follow her father. Voices within stopped her. She remembered her father's warning, that she must be invisible. Instead, she slipped into his cabin and placed it on the dresser.

As she was leaving, she noticed Father's bed. No pillow, no linen. She felt mingled guilt and surprise. Her pillow and sheets had not come out of storage: there was little room to store such things on a ship. He had given her his own.

It was a clear night, cool but not cold.
Good Bess
carved through the waves resolutely, a strong north-westerly hard against her sails. Henry stood on the quarterdeck with Maitland at the wheel, gazing up the mighty mast.

“We've been blessed by good winds,” Maitland said, reading his mind.

“Somebody up there likes me,” Henry joked gruffly.

“I was thinking it was a pity that we had no cargo to trade. It might have been our most lucrative journey ever.” Maitland forced a smile, twitching his moustache up at the corners. “That's not a criticism of your motives, Captain.”

“I know.” But Henry was not unaware of the discontent that laced Maitland's words.

He grew irritated, dropping his voice to a harsh whisper. “Loose talk like that won't do, Maitland,” he continued. “The crew aren't saying such things, are they? I hope nobody has forgotten that my daughter is aboard.” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder and Maitland glanced up to the poop deck, where Constance sat on a chicken coop, star-gazing.

Maitland cringed. “Sorry, Captain. I didn't know she was there.”

Henry was bemused by this statement. Constance had been told to become invisible, and she had achieved this admirably. Days could pass without him seeing her. Old Harry left meals at her cabin twice a day. Henry had no idea what she amused herself with down there. He had given her what books he could find, but there was little room on a merchantman for reading material.

For the last two weeks, with Constance aboard, he had been in a state of persistent anxiety. His thoughts were scattered, making him short-tempered with his crew. His daughter would never guess how much vexation she had caused him. All it would take was one idle conversation, between her and one loose-lipped sailor, and everything would come undone. Each party had secrets about him that he wanted to keep from the other. He was afraid of being exposed both as a sentimental fool and as a flint-eyed scoundrel. That all of it was Faith's fault was a detail not lost on him.

A crosswind flapped the sails. Sensing the change, Maitland gave a softly uttered order to harden up all sheets to keep
Good Bess
sailing at best speed. Henry turned and made his way aft and up the ladder to the poop deck. The rush of the water masked his footfalls. Constance, still gazing at the constellations, hadn't heard him. He paused, watching her a moment. Much had been made of how closely she resembled him: her eyes and hair, her skin, the slight flair of her nostrils, the upward tilt of her eyebrows. But Faith was there too: the proud uprightness of her back, the grace of her movements, the gestures of her hands. Aspects of her mother that Constance had never seen or couldn't remember, but which had been passed to her through blood.

Constance turned. Her eyes widened as she saw him, but she didn't smile. Nor did he. She probably suspected that he was a bear, an ogre, a villain. Yes, he was all these things, and so it was better for both of them if they had little to do with each other. He nodded once, then made his way back down the ladder without a word.

As their journey progressed, Constance's cabin began to grow warm and stuffy during the day. She was at the window, trying to gulp the air, when her door opened without a knock. She looked up. Walter, the ship's boy, stood hesitantly in the threshold, a hessian sack at his feet.

“You ought to have knocked,” she said.

He stared at her, wordlessly.

“Can I help?” she asked. It was odd—extremely odd—for one of Father's crew to be here in her cabin.

“I . . . ah. Sorry, miss. It's just we seen a ship, miss, an English ship on her way home. Cap'n said I was to ask all aboard if they had any letters to go back wiv her.” He removed his hat and scratched his mousy hair. “But now I'm not sure if I was supposed to ask you as well.”

Constance deduced from this that the crew of
Good Bess
had been told to stay away from her, just as she had been told to stay away from them.

“I do have a letter,” she said, thinking of the pages and pages she had written for Daphne. “But it might take me a moment to finish it and address it.”

“The ship's close, miss. There's not much time. And . . . only, I can't wait, like. I think I should . . . go.” He kicked the hessian sack towards her. “When you've written your letter, put it in there and leave the sack outside your door.”

“Good idea, Walter. Thank you.”

He retreated, and she quickly sat up at her writing desk and scratched a few hasty lines to end the letter. She folded it and sealed it, then opened the bag to slip it in. Lying on top of the mail was a letter addressed to Aunty Violet.

Cautiously, Constance plucked the letter from the bag and turned it over. She knew it was written by Father, and wondered what he had written about her. She wished her eyes could see through paper, for she had no intention of actually opening the letter. But then the door to her cabin opened again and Father stood there. She hastily tucked his letter to Violet in her skirts, lest he discover her examining it.

“Has that fool Walter been bothering you?”

“Not at all. He just let me know I could send a letter home.”

Father clicked his fingers. “Hand me the mail bag. I shall take it. We are going to parley with this ship, see if they'll take these to England.”

Constance handed him the bag, while his letter to Violet seemed to burn a hole in her dress. What was she to do? Pull it out now and let him think she intended to open it? Or keep it hidden and know it would never get to its destination?

“You stay down here,” Father continued. “You should be able to see her from your window. A pretty vessel. Looks like a whaler; her copper sheathing is torn. Probably from ice in the Southern Ocean.”

Self-preservation won out. There were many ways a letter could go missing between here and Dartmouth. She wouldn't necessarily be blamed. Even if she was, it would be a long time in the future. She moved slightly, pushing the letter further out of view.

He turned and left, closing the door behind him. She pulled her trunk in front of the door so nobody else could burst in uninvited, and climbed onto her bed under the window.

The whaler was a London ship that had been out at sea for nearly two years in icy waters. Her head had been brought up to the wind, her sun-stained head sails flapping hard. Father and the whaler's captain communicated first through their speaking trumpets, then a rowboat was sent between the vessels to transfer the letters.

Constance watched the transaction from her window, longing to be up on deck in the sun and fresh air, rather than cooped up here like a guilty secret.

Eventually, the two ships went their separate ways, and Constance's thoughts turned to how best to dispose of Father's letter. She decided to wait until night-time and let it fly out her window on the wind. That left her three or four hours with the letter, her fingers itching to pick off the seal. Was there any way at all she could resist it? She knew the letter would mention her, expose his feelings about her stowing away. Perhaps it might even mention further news of her mother.

The last thought decided it for her. She had already stolen the letter; she might as well complete the sin by reading it. She unfolded the crisp sheets and leaned towards the light of the window to read.

Constance clenched her fists, thinking about Daphne getting in trouble on her behalf. Then she remembered that the letter would never reach its destination.