Another Heartbeat in the House (8 page)

What a damnable voyage
that
was! London to Cork (a city in Ireland, where my future employers awaited me) was a journey of some three days' duration. I had intended to while away the time writing in my journal, reading, and practising whist and piquet. (These games my father had taught me when I was still quite small, having assured me that card games were a more profitable pastime than needlework or drawing.) However, I was distracted from the above-mentioned pursuits by the presence on board of a gentleman, his wife, their two small children – one a girl of four years or so, the other a babe in arms – and their nurse.

The gentleman was tall, well proportioned and not ill-favoured. By contrast, his wife – though pretty – was thin and pallid. I heard her speak but once, when I happened to be passing their cabin. From within came the strains of a melody sung in a passably tuneful, rather plaintive voice. I stopped to listen, then overheard a frightful wail – ‘God abandoned, I am! Oh, it is when I am saddest that I sing. Blessings on your tears, William! I would weep too, but my brain is dry and it burns, it burns, it burns!'

‘Be comforted, Isabella. Our Janie is in heaven,' came the reply.

‘Is she, indeed? And shall we meet again, then? It cannot be too soon!'

I could not place the accent – it had a curious French inflection – but it was followed by a peal of laughter so manic it made me fear for the lady's sanity.

On the first day out, I was sitting upon the deck reading an exceedingly dull and ancient pamphlet that Miss Pinkerton had given me concerning rules of etiquette for children – ‘
For the Instruction as well as the Amusement of little Masters and Misses'
– when the daughter of the family approached me.

‘What are you reading?' she asked.

‘It is a book of instruction on how children should deport themselves,' I replied.

‘Why?'

‘Because I am to be the governess of two small children, and I am keen to know how to make them behave.'

‘Why?'

‘Because I have no desire to have charge of a pair of savages.'

‘Read me something, if you would be so kind.'

Curious to try if the child should make sense of the advice contained therein, I opened the pamphlet at random and read aloud the following: ‘Among Superiors, speak not till thou art asked.'

The child looked at me gravely. ‘Oh dear,' she said.

‘Approach near thy Parents at no time without a Bow,' I continued. ‘Jog not the Table or Desk at which another writes. Gnaw not Bones at the Table.'

‘Gnaw not bones?'

I fixed her with a look of mock-rebuke. ‘Repeat not over again the words of a Superior that asketh thee a question, or talketh to thee. At play, make not thy Hands, Face or Cloaths, dusty or dirty.'

‘I hope you heard that, Puss.' The gentleman – who had been passing the time of day with the ship's purser – had drawn abreast of his daughter, and was regarding her with a fond smile.

‘Approach near thy Parents at no time without a Bow,' chanted the precocious child. She bobbed him a curtsey, tossed her head, and made to go.

‘Wait!' said her father, taking hold of her sleeve and inspecting first her hands, then her face. ‘Done and dusted,' he pronounced, releasing her. ‘Now, run along with Brodie and take care not to disturb Mama. She's resting.'

‘Gnaw not bones,' she replied. ‘Gnaw not bones.' Then she trotted down the timbered deck to where her nurse was waiting for her, chanting the phrase over and over.

‘Walk!' her father called after her. ‘I keep telling you, Annie, you mustn't run or you may end up in the sea!'

She stopped at once, then turned and gave him a peculiar look. ‘I forgot,' she said, before continuing on her way at a more sedate pace.

The gentleman looked down at me and smiled. Behind his spectacles his eyes were both interested and interesting: grey, with a gleam that betrayed humour, and considerable intelligence.

‘Permit me to introduce myself,' he said, effecting a polite bow. ‘Mr William Thackeray, at your service. The imp is my daughter, Annie.'

‘Miss Eliza Drury,' I replied, with a corresponding bow. ‘Your daughter is quite charming, Mr Thackeray.'

‘That is the first occasion upon which she has ever dropped me a curtsey. I hope she doesn't make a habit of it. It's unsettling.'

‘She's very bright. May I ask what age she is?'

‘She is not yet four. I hope she was not a nuisance?'

‘Not at all.'

I saw him glance at the chapbook in my hand.

‘It's
The School of Manners
,' I said.

He raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘I scarcely think you need lessons in manners, Miss Drury.'

‘It's intended as a present for the children with whose care I am to be charged.'

‘In that case, I sincerely hope your charges won't need it.'

Just then, a movement beyond the side of the ship caught my eye, a strange turbulence in the water. I moved to the rail and looked down to spy a dark shape cutting through the waves. It was followed by another, and another.

‘What are they?' I asked a passing deckhand.

‘Dolphins, ma'am. They like to ride the bow wave. See there!' He pointed as one of the creatures skimmed the water, leaving a silvery trail of effervescence.

‘How many are there?' I asked, but the deckhand had moved on.

‘There could be dozens.' Mr Thackeray had joined me. ‘Aren't they magnificent! What acrobats!'

We leaned over the rail to watch the spectacle, and presently found ourselves applauding and cheering as the creatures soared and crested in a streamlined water ballet. They accompanied the boat for several minutes, and when they finally sped out of sight, Mr Thackeray and I smiled at each other rather foolishly.

‘Would you care to take a turn around the deck?' he said.

To promenade with a gentleman to whom one has just been introduced is generally considered bad form, but I was in holiday mood after being liberated from Miss Pinkerton's academy, and I cared not what charges of impropriety might be brought against me. I simply told myself that the standard rules of social intercourse did not apply on board ship. Besides, the dolphin sighting had forged a peculiar intimacy between Mr Thackeray and me.

‘With pleasure,' I replied. ‘It would be a most agreeable way of passing twenty minutes, and the weather is improving.'

The sky had been a uniform grey since morning, but now sunbeams were lancing through the cloud and bouncing off the sea.

We set off on a circuit of the deck. I might have dwelt at length on how genial Mr Thackeray was, how witty and amiable; I might have recounted the entertaining stories he told of his childhood in India and his travels in Europe, and his time spent studying art in Paris. Or the sobering tales he told of inheriting a fortune at the age of twenty-one and losing it shortly thereafter through foolish investments. But as we strolled back along the starboard side of the deck for the third or fourth time a strange event occurred that sent all his intriguing anecdotes spinning from my head.

I caught a glimpse of something in the water, some five hundred yards out. At first I thought the dolphins had returned, but there was no accompanying commotion. The floating object looked like a peculiar raft or the seaborne nest of a large bird – an albatross or sea eagle or some such. I laid a hand on Mr Thackeray's arm to draw attention to the bizarre flotsam but, being short-sighted, he discerned nothing untoward.

‘'Pon my soul!' I exclaimed, shading my eyes from the dazzling sunlight. ‘I could swear it is a lady in the sea.'

‘A lady?'

‘Yes. Look! Those are her skirts ballooning; they are keeping her buoyant.'

Mr Thackeray's cane clattered to the deck. ‘My wife!' he cried. ‘It can only be she!' Whirling around clumsily, he set off in a random direction, yelling, ‘Help! Help!'

At this, a deckhand put his head over the bridge.

‘There's a lady! A lady in the sea!' I shouted, waving vigorously and motioning towards the unfortunate soul bobbing in the waves. Immediately, a whistle started to shrill, and galvanizing calls of ‘Man overboard!' went up.

In his panic, I saw Mr Thackeray shrug off his coat, as though preparing to dive into the water. I ran to him and pulled on his shirtsleeve to restrain him.

‘Stop, stop! They will get a boat to her – see, they are mobilizing already.'

Seamen were converging on a lifeboat, hauling ropes and winding pulleys with admirable speed and efficiency. Mr Thackeray clutched my forearm; together we watched as the vessel was lowered. The sea had become choppy, and each time a wave reared, his poor wife bobbed like a piece of flotsam. She neither cried out nor struggled, nor did she appear to be in much distress. She just lay on her back, supported by the inflated bell of her corded petticoats, paddling with her hands as the sailors laboured on their oars towards her. When they reached her, they hauled her on board with scant ceremony, laying her on the floor of the boat so that she was hidden from view.

A line of gawkers had formed. Even those who had hitherto been too seasick to navigate the deck had managed to haul themselves to the rail to witness the spectacle. I hazarded a sideways glance at Mr Thackeray, who gave me an agonized look before turning away and bowing his head.

‘She's safe,' I told him, laying a hand on his shoulder as he started to sob. ‘She's alive, I think, and we must trust that she is well.'

Finally he raised his head. ‘It's my fault,' he said. ‘I should have known that she might try this. It is a measure of her desperation.'

‘Your wife has met with an accident, that's all,' I assured him, ‘and luckily has been rescued.'

‘It was no accident. She threw herself overboard.'

Before I could respond to this astounding allegation, Annie came hurtling up.

‘Papa!' she cried. ‘Mama has gone in the sea again!'

‘Oh, Puss!' he groaned, hunkering down and embracing the child. Over his shoulder her little face was pale, her brow furrowed in bewilderment.

‘Why does she do it? Why does she always have to go into the sea?'

‘She fell, Puss. She ventured too near the rail.' He held her at arm's length and smoothed her hair back from her face: I recall the gesture because it was so charged with tenderness. ‘That is why I have told you not to run upon the deck.'

‘But Mama was not on the deck. She was in the …' Annie shot a coy look at me, and leaned forward to whisper into her father's ear.

‘How do you know?'

‘She left me – she left me with Minnie and Brodie, and then Brodie went away and told us to be good little mice and not move. And I was good and then I got scared and did move. I left the room and went to the –' she lowered her voice at the word ‘– privy, and when I knocked on the door there was no answer and I searched for Brodie, I searched and couldn't find her and then I climbed up and I looked over into the sea –'

‘You climbed up? Oh, dear God!'

‘– I looked over and I saw the men in the boat pulling Mama out of the water.'

‘What a cursed fool I am!' Mr Thackeray's tone was one of self-laceration. ‘I should not have left her side.'

‘Mr Thackeray! Mr Thackeray!' I turned to see the children's nanny staggering towards us, weeping. ‘Forgive me! Forgive me! She took her leave of me so calmly I scarcely noticed she was gone from the cabin, for the baby was fretful, you see, and when I got the child to settle and saw that Mrs Thackeray had not returned, I set off to find her and …'

Her distraught gaze lit upon Annie, and she fell silent.

‘Fetch Minnie from the cabin,' instructed Mr Thackeray. ‘Bring her up on deck and keep the children entertained while I tend to Mrs Thackeray. Annie, you must go with Brodie.'

I expected the child to protest, but she simply regarded her father with solemn, intelligent eyes before reaching for Brodie's hand and allowing herself to be led away. It was as though the instruction had become routine to her.

A shout of ‘Ahoy!' from below announced the return of the lifeboat. Mr Thackeray turned and looked at me gravely. He had regained control of his emotions, and was clearly steeling himself for what was to come. ‘Miss Drury, I am beseeching you with all my heart to show me Christian clemency. Will you help me?' he said.

‘I am not a Christian,' I replied. ‘But I should be glad to proffer any service I can. What would you like me to do?'

Edie sat for a moment with the quire of paper on her lap. Then she went to the bookcase and pulled out the copy of
Vanity Fair
that she had seen there. She had first read the novel a decade ago, and loved it – even though her English teacher had declared that Thackeray lacked the compassion of Dickens. Edie didn't care. She loved the energy of Thackeray's writing, the casual cynicism, the lack of sentimentality and the sheer joy he took in heaping ridicule upon the establishment. Above all, she loved Becky Sharp, Thackeray's vivacious, unprincipled anti-heroine.