A Distant Shore (11 page)

“So I did,” Margaret said slowly, “and I’ve never had any cause to regret it. But even so, Isobel, I’m afraid I don’t see what that has to do with your present situation.”

“I thought,” Isobel said, “you could talk to Father. He has always held you in high regard, and you can be very persuasive when you wish to be, Margaret. You could convince him that it is worthwhile for me to pursue this course. I know you could.”

Margaret didn’t answer for several moments. Isobel clenched her hands in her lap, hiding her whitened knuckles in the stiff fabric of her skirt. Her heart pounded for she knew Margaret’s powers of persuasion were her last hope in being named on Mr. Anderson’s list.

Finally Margaret looked up, her gaze terribly serious. “Are you sure, truly sure, this is what you want, Isobel?”

“Yes
.”

“Then I shall do it.” Margaret nodded decisively. “Although your father’s wrath may come upon my head!”

“He’s always had a fondness for you, Margaret.”

“I fear it shall be tested severely,” Margaret warned, but she was smiling. “And who knows, perhaps we shall see you married yet—if I have anything to do with it!”

The South Seas, 1838

Dearest Margaret, I know full well this letter will not reach you for many months, when I have already, God willing, arrived in Canton. Yet still I write, for writing to you helps me to imagine you sitting in your favorite chair, reading my letter with a faint smile on your lips...

“Captain?”

Henry Moore looked up from the letter he’d been composing to see his first mate standing to attention in the doorway of his small cabin.

“Yes, Mr. Martin?”

“There is some black cloud boiling on the horizon, sir. We need to make ready for a storm, I should think.”

Henry nodded briskly, suppressing the queasy churning in his stomach. He’d never been afraid of a storm before, but then he’d never had so much to lose. Although they’d rounded the dangerous Cape Horn several days ago, the southern Atlantic was still a treacherous place for storms, and many a clipper had foundered or sunk when buffeted by the waves and wind. “Thank you for informing me, Mr. Martin. I shall be on deck shortly.”

The first mate nodded and left, clicking the door shut behind him. Henry put his letter to Margaret in a calfskin portfolio to finish later. Rising, he put on his coat and reached for his spyglass before ascending to the deck.

Outside the air was still and drowsy, the sky a brilliant blue, the sea flat and shimmering. Putting his spyglass to his eye, Henry was able to see what his first mate referred to—clouds that now were no more than a dark smudge on the horizon, yet within hours could be a full-blown storm right above their heads. It was impossible to predict how fast such a thing could travel.

He lowered the spyglass. “Come downstairs to my quarters,” he told his first mate. “And bring Mr. Ellison.”

Just a few minutes later Henry stood poring over a map of the South Pacific with Mr. Martin and Mr. Ellison, the ship’s navigator, at his side. All three men were silent, their faces grave. Their journey was already half over, and rounding Cape Horn had surely been the most dangerous part of the clipper’s voyage to China. Even so, once they’d crossed into the Pacific, storms and fierce winds known as the screaming forties still presented grave dangers.

“Can we outrun it, do you think, Mr. Martin?” Henry asked his first mate. Since clipper ships were so fast, often keeping ahead of the storm was the wisest course of action.

The first mate lifted his gaze from the map. “I don’t rightly know, sir. These storms can boil up something fast, and if we’re caught with our sails—”

Henry nodded, knowing no more needed to be said. To be caught in a tropical gale in full sail could mean devastating damage to the sails, rigging, or mast... and leave the ship dead in the water, miles from nowhere. It was as good as a death sentence.

“Mr. Ellison, is there an island nearby where we could shelter?”

On the map the area of the south Pacific they were sailing through was a depressingly empty square of blue. They’d left behind the islands that hugged the southwest coast of South America, and they were still days or even weeks away from the cluster of islands that made up Indonesia.

“Not with a known harbor or cove,” Mr. Ellison said after a pause. “As you know, sir, there is little land in this part of the ocean.”

“I do know it.” Henry gazed grimly down at the map. “Then, gentlemen, we shall have to attempt to outrun the storm. The
Charlotte Rose
is one of the fastest tea clippers out of Boston. Let us put her to good use today.”

Nodding, the men returned to the deck to begin issuing orders. Henry rolled up the map and stared out the porthole at the stretch of blue sky he could see. Already the dark smudge on the horizon was widening, and the wind was picking up, ruffling the surface of the sea. The
Charlotte Rose
would, Henry acknowledged grimly, have to race for her life... as well as his and his crew’s.

Two hours later the winds were screaming down on them and waves were cresting over the deck. They had not been able to outrun the storm, and Henry feared worse was to come. He sluiced water from his face, squinting through the wind and rain as the timbers of the boat creaked ominously. Men scrambled to safety as a wave crashed over the deck, washing away anything that wasn’t fastened securely. Henry clung to the wheel, attempting to keep the ship on an even keel as the winds and waves rocked the craft mercilessly.

He shouted to his first mate, but his words were torn away from his throat on the wind and in frustration he drew a breath to call again—but the words never came. Something slammed into the side of his head and stars burst into his vision before he slumped to the deck, unconscious.

Chapter Six

Boston Harbor, 1838

Maggie MacDougall stood on the deck of the ship that had taken her all the way from provincial PEI to the grand harbor of Boston itself. The city lay before her, shining under a June sun, the tall, proud shape of the Boston Light seeming to watch over the many ships in the busy port, bidding them to enter.

“Tie your bonnet strings,” Mrs. Dunston, her dragon-like chaperone, chided. “Or it shall sail clear off into the water.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Dunston.” Meekly Maggie tied the ribbons, although a good part of her wanted to tear off the restricting item, toss it to the wind, and whoop for joy.

She was here. Here at last. The journey from PEI had only taken a few days, but they’d seemed interminable to Maggie, especially under Mrs. Dunston’s beady eye. She’d had to endure several extended lectures on Boston society and expected behavior, and Maggie quickly gathered that her country ways and best Sunday dress were not up to city standards—or at least those of the likes of Mrs. Dunston. Yet even the worry that she might embarrass her aunt or seem like a country bumpkin to most Bostonians could do little to dim Maggie’s enthusiasm now. After living for sixteen years having not travelled much more than a mile from her home—except for one voyage to Boston for her uncle’s wedding when she’d been but ten years old—she was finally having a grand adventure, all on her own. The thought made her spirit fizz and she broke out into another huge, unladylike grin, much to Mrs. Dunston’s clucking disapproval.

Her Aunt Margaret was waiting for her at the dockside, and recognized her right away. “Maggie!” She moved quickly towards her, her face wreathed in smiles, and embraced her warmly. “You’ve grown so since I last saw you! But I shall always remember your fiery hair. Just like your mother’s.” Her hands on her shoulders, Margaret drew back to give Maggie a thorough inspection.

Maggie tried not to squirm under her elegant aunt’s scrutiny. She was far more conscious of her worn dress—the hem had been turned down twice—and her simple, farming ways next to Margaret than when she’d been with the fussy Mrs. Dunston. Margaret might have come from Scotland the same as her mother, but she spoke and looked like an American now, and an elegant one at that.

Her dress was of the latest fashion, in cheerful sprigged cotton with wide gigot sleeves, full not from shoulder to elbow, but rather elbow to wrist as was the very latest style, and a bodice that came to a sharp point at her waist. Maggie had seen such dresses in the Godey’s Lady Book, but never in person. Even Mrs. Dunston had not dressed so stylishly.

No matter her gown, Margaret, Maggie thought, was very beautiful. Her dark, gleaming hair was dressed in elaborate curls and swirls, and her eyes were bright, her cheeks prettily flushed. All of it together made Maggie feel awkward and even slovenly in her homespun dress, her bright red hair scraped back into a simple bun, an old shawl thrown about her shoulders. For the first time since stepping onto the ship in Charlottetown she felt unsure of herself and the adventure she was having. For a second, no more, she almost wanted to go home.

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance again,” she said to her aunt, bobbing a little half-curtsey, and Margaret looked startled before letting out a rich chuckle and drawing Maggie to her once more.

“Oh, my dear! You needn’t stand on formality with me. Why, your mother and I lived in the same house for many years, and were as close as sisters. It grieves my heart that we hardly see each other now.” Her smile turned a bit sad for a moment, but then she shook her head and brightened once more. “But never mind! I am so pleased to have you with me now.” Slipping her arm through Maggie’s, she turned to Mrs. Dunston who was descending upon them like a ship in full sail, her bonnet strings flapping in the brisk sea wind. “Thank you so much for taking care of dear Maggie. You are quite literally a godsend.”

Privately Maggie thought she wouldn’t go so far as to call Mrs. Dunston that, but she said nothing as the two women exchanged pleasantries before parting company. Mrs. Dunston might have disapproved of her, but clearly her elegant aunt had the snobby woman’s admiration.

“Now we must get you home,” Margaret said as she led her to a shining black landau with two bay horses at its front. “You must be exhausted.”

“Oh, I feel well enough, Aunt Margaret,” Maggie said earnestly. Her aunt had so wonderfully put her insecurities to rest, and once more Maggie was determined to enjoy every last drop of this adventure.

The ride from the harbor back to Margaret’s elegant townhouse was an adventure in itself. Maggie had never seen so many buildings so close together, from the splendid open marketplace of Fanueil Hall to the imposing brick front of the Old North Church. And the people! First as they left the harbor she saw immigrants in all manner of dress, humble and plain as she was. The further they drove towards Back Bay the more upscale the neighborhood and its residents became, and Maggie saw smart looking business men in top hats and frock coats, and elegant ladies with wide skirts and parasols.