Dangerous Waters (7 page)

“I'm sorry you have been put to such unnecessary inconvenience, Mr Crossley. My uncle made the arrangement with my best interests at heart. However, as you see I am not a child. I have been used to going about the town quite independently. With only three other passengers aboard I cannot think I shall require protection. As you pointed out, you have too little time already. And I do not need, nor do I want, anyone feeling responsible for me.”

As the silence stretched and she waited for his reply she could feel her cheeks burning. “I intend no offence, Mr Crossley.”

“None is taken, Miss Dymond.” He stood up, his head almost touching the great crossbeams that supported the deck. “May I escort you up on deck? It is a fine sunny day and – “

“No!” Phoebe blurted. Then collecting herself she forced a smile. “No, thank you. I will stay here.”

But instead of taking his leave as she had expected, he sat down again resting one elbow on the table and briefly inspecting his fingers.

“You have not made a sea voyage before?” He made it a question but Phoebe guessed he was just being polite.

She shook her head. Then darted him a glance. “Is it so obvious?”

He smiled and raised one shoulder in a shrug. “I wouldn't know. This is my first trip too.”

Phoebe searched his face warily. Would he say such a thing if it were not true? What would he gain? “Are you humouring me, Mr Crossley?”

“No, Miss Dymond. I am stating a fact. I did not mean to be impertinent. I asked only because I wondered if perhaps the ship's motion is affecting you. I understand it can sometimes take a day or two to get used to it.”

For the first time she was able to smile naturally. “No, the motion has not disturbed me at all, at least not so far. But should it do so I have several remedies in my case.”

“Then why,” he quizzed gently, “on such a beautiful sunny day do you choose to remain down here? Heaven knows there will be rain enough before –” He stopped, rising to his feet as Phoebe jumped up grabbing the table edge to steady herself.

“Because – because I have things to do. Excuse me.” Wrenching open the door to her cabin she whirled inside and pulled it shut. Leaning against the partition she pressed her palms to her fiery cheeks. He had no right to question her. She held her breath, waiting, counting the seconds as she willed him to go. She had reached
six
before she heard him move away, then the sound of his boots on the brass stairs.

Trembling she took off her long cloak and hung it on the hook on the back of the door. Having claimed she had things to do she had better find something. Keeping occupied would pass the time.
And there was so much time to pass.
Kneeling she pulled her trunk forward, opened the lid and lifted out two sheets, two blankets and a pillowcase. As she shook out the folds and began to make up the bed she breathed in the sweet fragrance of lavender. A flood of memories made her eyes burn. Blinking away tears before they could fall she concentrated on tucking the sheet neatly over the grubby mattress.

Chapter Five

The smell of cooking made Phoebe's insides cramp and she pressed a hand against her stomach. Breakfast – the little she had been able to eat of it – had been a lifetime ago in a different world. Normally she enjoyed meeting and talking to people. But circumstances were far from normal. Though she would have preferred to remain in her cabin she knew that to do so would provoke curiosity, even censure, among the other passengers. It certainly would not help her prove to the surgeon that she was competent to look after herself and had no need of a guardian.

With difficulty – for her fingers were shaking – she poured out another small measure of valerian tincture, shuddering at its bitterness.
Please let it work quickly.
Smoothing her hair, shaking out her gown and fastening the top button of her short jacket, she opened her door.

Mossop entered the mess from the other end carrying a fistful of cutlery. “Ready for your dinner, Miss? Be ready in five minutes.” He began setting out knives and forks.

With a hand out to steady herself as the ship gently rose and plunged, Phoebe lurched into the short passage, past the armoury, and into the WC. It was much colder in here and she shivered. Warily approaching the wooden seat all she could see was an encrusted lead-lined chute. But then she glimpsed white foam, became aware of how much louder the hiss and slap of the waves were, and realised the chute led directly into the sea. She flinched back, her heart giving a convulsive lurch. But as she leaned against the unyielding wood, Sarah's words echoed inside her head.
Be grateful.
Phoebe swallowed hard. Yes, it was draughty. But what if the ship had not possessed this convenience? And had she been travelling in winter it would have been far colder than this, and the sea much rougher.

Back in the mess she slid onto the bench seat close to her door. Footsteps on the stairs grew louder.

“Are neither of the officers eating with us?” A man's voice enquired.

“It doesn't appear so, at least not today,” another replied. “I overheard the master telling Mossop that he and the mate would take their meal later in the saloon.”

“You know why, don't you?” a third voice edged with irritation intervened. “Several of the crew have never sailed before. The mate and the bosun have placed each new man is with an experienced able seaman, and divided them so half are on each watch.“

“Well,” the second speaker placated, “that makes sense. They do need to learn their way around the rigging as soon as possible.”

“No doubt they do. But everything is taking twice as long and the old hands are none too happy. What was the master thinking of, taking on crew who don't know one end of a rope from the other?”

“Well, I don't suppose he had any choice. What with the war and everything, the best will already be on some ship's list. And the press gang will have snapped up any able-bodied man who doesn't have an exemption. He'd have to take what he could get.”

The thought of her life being in the hands of men with no more experience of the sea than she had herself dried Phoebe's throat. But though she could hear the fast throb of her own heartbeat, her fear no longer stabbed like steel blades. The valerian had begun to take effect. She felt an inner tremble of relief. As three men trooped in from the companionway passage, at the other end of the mess a door opened to admit the surgeon. Seeing her, the newcomers hesitated in surprise then bowed.

“Gentlemen.” Jowan came to her side. “Miss Dymond, permit me to present your fellow passengers. This is –”

“Romulus Downey.” The older, cheery-looking man Phoebe had seen on deck earlier and assumed was the doctor immediately came forward and took her proffered hand. Holding it between both of his, he beamed. “It is an honour and a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Dymond. We are fortunate indeed that our small company should include a member of the fair sex. Though I travel a great deal it is all too rarely that I have the pleasure of sharing a journey with such beauty.”

Phoebe stiffened, darting a glance at Jowan Crossley. She heard the echo of her own voice telling him she had no need of his protection and felt her cheeks grow warm. She would deal with this.
She must. Or risk looking foolish a second time
. Withdrawing her hand she nodded coolly. “You are too kind, sir.”

However instead of taking the hint and backing off, Downey leaned towards her, subdued and anxious. “Oh dear. Pray forgive me, Miss Dymond. You have my word as a gentleman and scholar that I am harmless. But I do so
enjoy
feminine company. The trouble is I lack practice. I never married, you see. I was always too busy, first with my studies then my expeditions. I fear my pleasure at a delightful prospect has offended you. Though I swear nothing could be further from my intention.”

It was so unusual an apology, and so obviously sincere, that in spite of the anxiety and exhaustion hovering over her like a dark cloud, a smile trembled at the corners of Phoebe's mouth. “I am not offended, sir. Startled
perhaps, and maybe a little sceptical, for I am not used to receiving such extravagant compliments.”

As the old man's gaze met hers his perturbation faded, replaced by warmth, intelligence and humour. Clicking his tongue he shook his head.

“Then you are not appreciated as you deserve.”

“I would like to think my value lies deeper than my appearance, sir.”

Phoebe glimpsed satisfaction in the twinkling eyes and received the impression that she had passed some kind of test.

“You must never doubt it, Miss Dymond.”

“That is brave of you, sir. For you do not know me.”

“Ah, but with your kind permission I hope to.” He indicated the space alongside her. “May I?” At her nod of assent he eased between the bench and the table and settled himself comfortably.

During the exchange Phoebe saw Jowan Crossley's features set into an expression that appeared to be almost a frown. Yet Mr Downey's apology must surely have removed any cause for concern.

“Mr Clewes, Mr Matcham,” Phoebe repeated the names as they were introduced. As everyone sat down she noticed that though the surgeon had been standing near Mr Downey, instead of sliding in beside the older man he moved to the opposite side of the table.
The better to observe her?

She had told him she did not want or need his protection. Though after panicking because she couldn't open the door, then refusing to go on deck with him, it would hardly be surprising if he doubted her self-sufficiency. Her first task must be to reassure him. But pretending command of her body and her emotions would require strength she wasn't sure she possessed.

With her hands clasped in her lap out of sight she smiled politely at the man directly opposite. The same height as her he was plump and pink-faced. And though she would not have put him much above forty he looked quite old fashioned in his long frock, breeches, buckled shoes and roll-curl wig with its short pigtail. “Have you been to Jamaica before, Mr Clewes?”

He nodded quickly and the way his face twitched made her wonder if he suffered from some nervous affliction. Perhaps he was simply shy. “Oh yes. Mr Matcham and I make this voyage almost every year.”

Glitter-eyed and thin-lipped his colleague leaned forward. “As agents for London merchant houses we negotiate with plantation owners to buy their sugar, rum, coffee and tobacco.” His mouth widened as his gaze flickered over the bodice of her close-fitting jacket before returning to her face.

“Indeed?” Phoebe responded coolly before looking away, startled and uncomfortable. The two men could not have been more different. Taller, leaner and – judging by his fawn pantaloons, Hussar buskins, and the wide lapels on his forest green cutaway coat – a keen follower of fashion, Horace Matcham had discarded his wig in favour of a Brutus crop. He had an unnaturally high colour that reminded her of William Quintrell.

“And you, Mr Downey?” she enquired as Mossop carried in a large tray containing a steaming dish of boiled potatoes, another of boiled cabbage, a small bowl of mustard, one of butter, and a plate heaped with thick slices of cold ham. “Have you visited Jamaica before?”

She had feared the sight of food would revolt her. Discovering that she actually felt hungry was both a surprise and a huge relief.

“I
have, Miss Dymond. And not only Jamaica. I have visited most of the islands comprising the West Indies. However, my interest lies not in commerce but in matters of the soul.”

“Are you then a m-missionary, sir?” Clewes enquired as Phoebe served herself from each of the dishes. “If so, I f-fear you will have a hard time of it. Priests are not welcome on the p-plantations.”

Phoebe wanted to ask why, but did not like to interrupt.

Downey shook his head. “Though I studied theology I did not enter the church. It is my good fortune to possess means that allow me to pursue my passion free from the necessity of earning my daily bread.”

“And what is this passion of yours, sir?” Matcham helped himself to potatoes. “I swear you have us all agog.”

“I am studying the development and practice of certain cult religions from the Dahomey region of Africa.”

“Africa? Then why –” Phoebe began but he forestalled her.

“Why am I going to Jamaica? Because the blacks transported from Dahomey and sold as slaves in Jamaica and Saint Domingue carried their religion with them, adapting the ancient traditions and keeping them alive.”

“Very interesting.” Matcham's comment was belied by his tone, and his rudeness turned Phoebe's unease to dislike.

“Indeed it is fascinating,” Downey blithely agreed. “Though of course since the rites came to be known as obeah and myalism – “

“
Obeah?
” Both merchants blurted simultaneously, their food forgotten.

“And myalism,” Downey repeated.

“There's a difference?” Phoebe ventured, intrigued by the merchants' reaction. She saw from the surgeon's expression that he shared her curiosity.

“Black magic and murder,” Matcham muttered.

Glancing briefly at the merchant with a look that reflected disappointment Downey turned his genial face to Phoebe. “Obeah is, as Mr Matcham says, a form of witchcraft. It is often employed as revenge by causing harm to the person suspected of causing injury or offence. Whereas myalism – “

“Tell her,” Matcham interrupted, “how the obeah-man tries to scare his victims to death with fetishes made from bunches of feathers dipped in blood, or alligator's teeth and broken egg shells and snake's heads, or dead birds mounted on a pole.” He spread mustard on a forkful of ham. “Should those not have the desired effect he resorts to poison.”

“Or s-shadow-catching,” Clews added. As Phoebe and Jowan turned to him he shrugged, his cheeks twitching in an awkward smile. “It's just a lot of mumbo-jumbo. Certainly nothing you need be concerned about.”

Dead birds mounted on poles.
That was what Uncle George had seen.

“What is shadow-catching?”

She looked up quickly at the surgeon's question and saw Downey's delight at his interest.

“Ah. Well. First you must understand what it is
not
. When we refer to a shadow we mean an image cast by the sun. But in this context a person's shadow refers to the essence of his personality: his or her – soul. An obeah-man – on payment of a fee naturally – gazes into a gourd filled with water and call upon his victim's shadow to appear to him. When it does he stabs it through the heart.”

Phoebe wasn't sure how to respond. On one hand it sounded ridiculous. Yet was it really any stranger than the superstition that breaking a mirror would bring seven years' bad luck, or that possession of a rabbit's foot conferred good fortune?

“You s-see? “Clewes's laugh had a ragged edge. “M-mumbo-jumbo.”

“You are of course entitled to your opinion,” Romulus Downey said with gentle courtesy. “However, many thousands of people
do
believe in these powers. And whether or not we share their beliefs I think it only courteous to respect their right to hold them.”

“People?” Matcham scowled. “For God's sake, these are
slaves
. They don't have any rights.”

“Actually, that's not true –”

“Excuse me, Mr Downey,” the surgeon broke in, skilfully heading off a confrontation. “But if what you have just described is obeah, then what is myalism?”

This was the question Phoebe would have asked had he not done so first.

Downey beamed across the table. “In effect it's the opposite. Myal-men know just as much about the techniques and practices of obeah. But they use them for good rather than evil. Myal-men are able to
release
captured shadows. They are also gifted herbalists.”

Phoebe's interest increased.

“In fact,” Downey continued, “the oldest and most experienced of them are often called
doctor.
”

The furrow between Jowan Crossley's brows deepened for a moment but he remained silent.

“Another difference,” Downey continued, “is that obeah is usually an individual contract between professional and client, agreed in secret. By contrast, myalism involves special dance rituals that are accompanied by drums. So it is more a cult or social practice.”

Instantly Phoebe remembered what Aunt Sarah had told her about the rhythmic drumming Uncle George had heard carried on the night wind. Beneath her jacket her skin seemed to shrink and her knife clattered briefly against her plate.

“Thank you, Mr Downey. It's most interesting.”

“So, Miss Dymond,” Matcham demanded, pushing his empty plate aside. “What takes you to Jamaica? These are dangerous times. And if you'll forgive me for saying so, I'm astonished to see a young lady making such a hazardous journey alone.”

Though his mouth smiled, something in his speculative gaze brought Phoebe's chin up. But before she could reply Jowan Crossley leaned forward.