Song of the Sea Maid (23 page)

‘Are you sad?’ says he.

‘I am fearful.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of God.’

‘We must all be fearful of God at times. But why now?’

‘I believe I invited His anger. My work, my theories, my thoughts. Perhaps they are blasphemous, truly evil. He punished me for it. He brought forth a great wave to destroy my cave utterly. He cracked the earth open and wrought disaster on this place and thousands of souls were killed by it. I fear Him, how I fear Him!’

I weep and I am held.

‘Hush,’ says he and soothes me. ‘Hush, hush now.’

When I am quiet, he looks at me keenly. ‘You are the brightest and best woman I have known in my life. You have a gift the like of which I have never imagined in a female. Cleverer than most men I have heard of, let alone women. I believe this talent is God-given. And I do not accept it could be twisted to do the devil’s work. You are young and a little hot-headed, but there is no evil in you. I know you will use your brain for good ends, to enlighten us, to enrich our store of human knowledge. Our Lord could not ask for a better example of everything He intended the human mind to be, so lofty, so separate from the base creatures, mankind made in His own image.’

And though his manner is comforting, his argument frightens me further, as I know – and this I have told no one – that the most secret part of my theory thus far concerns precisely this: that we are not distinct from the animal kingdom; that we are intimately connected to it, as cousins are, siblings or even children. But I cannot reveal this to him or anyone. And so I keep myself quiet and bury my face in his warmth and seek peace in him. We sleep that night entwined, two heavy lazy fellows.

We must return to Peniche in the morning. We are surprised to find a familiar face awaits us at my guest-house. It is the midshipman from the
Prospect
. He salutes his superior officer and retrieves a piece of paper from his pocket, which is read then conveyed to me by Captain Alex.

‘I am to be promoted to master and commander, to captain the frigate HMS
Fox
currently docked at Lisbon. I am to arrive there as soon as possible to take command of it and another officer will pilot the
Prospect
back to England.’

Though he is taken aback, I can see pride in his eyes, and excitement. Yet as he hands the paper back to the midshipman and glances at me, I believe I see confusion there, even regret. He addresses me quite formally, in the presence of his – perhaps suspicious – colleague. As for myself, my throat is tight and I feel somewhat sick. Yet also there is a strange lightness about me I cannot explain. I am as confused as him, that is the truth.

‘Miss Price, do not concern yourself for your own arrangements. I will ensure safe passage for your return to the
Prospect
where a haven awaits you.’

‘Do ships sail from Lisbon to the Mediterranean Sea?’

‘I do not know where my orders will take me. It may well be to Gibraltar or further afield. Perhaps even to the American colonies.’

He clears his throat and shuffles; it is clear to me he wishes he could say more.

‘I request the information on my own behalf, Captain Alex. I wish to journey to Minorca and enquire if I am able to sail there from Lisbon or if I require a different port.’

‘You wish …?
Minorca
?’

‘Indeed,’ I venture, glimpsing a modicum of amusement at the corner of the midshipman’s mouth. ‘I intend to continue my studies there. I only need passage and supposed I may need to travel further south to obtain it – perhaps a port such as Faro, perched as it is at the southern end of the country, would be suitable.’

He dismisses the midshipman and instructs him to wait at the fort by the beach, that he will meet him there when ready. He does not need to explain himself to a subordinate. He watches the man go, glances at the guest-house to see there are no windows open and bids me follow him to the side of the building, where we are sheltered by lemon trees and privacy.

‘Now then,’ says he, ‘this will not do. This absolutely will
not do
.’

I retort, ‘You must know that there is nothing you can say to dissuade me, once I have made up my mind to something. I
will
do it.’

‘Here it is again. This stubborn refusal to see sense. My dear, conflict is coming to these parts. France is edging us ever closer to it. Perhaps in a matter of weeks, Europe will be at war. You must come home, as soon as you are able. It is said this war may not be resolved for many years. You are young and you will have to wait.’

‘I will not wait! And I will not be told, by you or any man, what I can or cannot do! It is my life and my choice. I do not presume to direct your actions. How dare you make free to dictate mine!’

‘It is not me who dictates. It is the state of affairs that surrounds you. To put on blinkers and ignore the danger of your circumstances would be half-witted. I always suspected that most women are children of a larger growth. And here is my evidence! I thought you had more wit than this.’

‘Minorca is owned by the British. It will be quite safe, I am sure. War is the business of men, not women. Life goes on in wartime. And so will I.’

He furiously shakes his head, even raises a fist and clenches it.

‘Will you blaze with me, sir?’ I ask, unable to suppress a smirk. ‘You are most quarrelsome and hot!’

‘Do not mock me!’ he spits. ‘Do you care nothing for me? Do you?’

He takes me by the shoulders and kisses me very hard. My body cries out for his, but I will not be used roughly and I step back from him.

‘Now we see the truth. The man possesses the woman, even one not his wife. Or believes he does. But you are misguided, sir, if you think you own me or my direction. And the question of how I care for you: it is an insult to the memory of yesternight to say I care not. But whether I do or do not makes no odds with your plans. You are to captain a new vessel, most likely to sail to war. Your feelings for me will not stop you. And I will not dutifully trot to London and await your pleasure there, while you fight the French and on rare visits home father more children with your wife and appear at my door from time to time for entanglement. I have a life, sir, and I will live it.’

‘Foolish pride! You think I wish to control you?’

‘I do, sir.’

‘It is your free will makes me love you. It is your life I wish to
protect
, not direct. I want you to be safe, away from harm, as I would my own child.’

‘I am not your child. I am a grown woman.’

He turns from me and grasps at the roots of his hair, stares at the ground and paces away a few steps. My eyes fall upon his form, the long curve of his back, the straight solid fullness of his thighs and his beautiful sunburned neck. It is then, in the heat of my self-righteousness, I must face the likelihood that we may never be alone again. He may even die in this war. Never more to feel his body against mine, around, beside or inside it.

I go to him and embrace him, kiss him over and over.

‘Robin,’ I murmur.

We are in shadow, beside a white house in Peniche, Portugal – yet we are nowhere and we are all alone, the world slipped away.

Time returns, and, with it, responsibility and the future. We discuss our plans. He knows he will not dissuade me and does not try. He will escort me to Lisbon, find me passage to Minorca, then he to his ship and I to mine. We will try to write letters, yet we need an intermediary we can trust. It cannot be anyone who knows him. It must be someone in my camp. But who? Mr Woods would not approve, and in a drunken mood may open a letter; and then we are lost. No, and even Susan Applebee is quite clear on virtue. There is no safe, private way for us to correspond.

Robin says simply, ‘The moment I am able, I will discover your whereabouts, and I will come to you. Do you believe me, my love?’

‘I believe you would do that. I do.’

We go inside and I quickly write a letter to my benefactor, explaining my plans and begging his approval and continued funds. I shall ask Robin if he can see it finds its way to England. So it is arranged, and I pack all my things up. I take my leave of Dona da Seda, who bids me well. I cannot think I will ever see her again and this pains me, though I have no particular attachment to her; her wrinkled face and black mourning dress bind me to Peniche, its soft-sanded beach, the
Gaivota
, the ladies of lace, my friends dead and gone, and my islands.

It is then I realise my plan to travel to Minorca is the correct one. It had been brewing silently in my mind these past days and yet did not voice itself until I said it to Robin outside. What I seek there, I cannot quite explain. There are islets ripe for study, that is true. Yet there is more to it. I wish somehow to pay homage to my friend Pilar, honour her death in the place of her birth, and investigate her stories of mermaids. This latter part is rather far-fetched, I know, and I do not put much stock in it. I recall my childhood wonder at the pages on mer-people in one of my benefactor’s volumes, where these creatures were illustrated faithfully and described in as much detail as the trout or the pike or any other English fish. But my tutor told me they were so rare that it would be a miracle to see one and witless to search for one and I vocally concurred, though secretly I harboured thoughts of seeking my own mermaid one day. The magical memory of it beckons me there at least, and I would rather be in Minorca than London any day of the week. And I cannot stay here.

We leave Peniche for Lisbon at midday, the sun warming the roof of my coach. The midshipman rides a nag to my left, Robin his horse to my right. I cannot resist but look out of my window to catch sight of him flanking me there, and he smiles at me, his eyes burning. I withdraw and close my eyes, shake my head. What a muddle we are in. He is a gentleman, a husband, a father; and ambitious, employed by that conservative bastion of society, as were his father and father’s father, spending his days in the wooden kingdom of a ship. I am a foundling, a spinster, a learned woman and thus open to ridicule and mockery, no property or possession of my own, a nobody. It is all impossible. But we knew that yesterday, and loved each other nonetheless.

Robin is true to his word and does indeed arrange passage for me. As I had feared, we are not to be alone again. We approach Lisbon through constant heavy showers, trundling through the fragments of the city, where many Lisboetas still reside in shambolic encampments ankle-deep in wet mud; yet some have returned to live among the ruins of their former homes, unable to accept their destruction, or perhaps simply tired of living beneath canvas or carpet. Many houses are propped up with giant planks of timber and goats sheltered in the empty ruins. As my coach makes its way through, I am keenly aware of travelling over land that houses thousands of carcasses, who perhaps starved to death in the end, rather than being crushed or suffocated by smoke or burned by fire, and it makes me shudder to consider the vast mausoleum the city has become and what multitudes of spectres must haunt it at night.

Robin’s farewell is played out swiftly at the dockside and in a suitably platonic manner before the crew of the
Prospect
. They
watch the arrival of their once captain, as he stops at the wharf to take his leave. There is only a moment when he takes my hand to assist me in alighting from the coach and he squeezes it so hard I gasp. We share a glance blurred by the rain, with not a moment to stop as he escorts me a few steps to a new coach bound for Faro. Robin has assigned a marine from the
Prospect
to accompany me, who guards my coach on the journey and arranges overnight accommodation on the way. He is a beefy fellow and does his duty (though I do hear him carousing with two of the guest-house maids, sharing some bottles of strong wine late into the night). I remember I have not told Robin of my destination once in Minorca and charge the marine with relaying this message to his captain, that I am heading for the village of Fornells on the north coast of the island. But whether this news will reach Robin before he takes up his new command is doubtful, though the marine assures me he will do his best, most politely. He also guides me to my ship, a Portuguese merchant vessel with a scattering of paying passengers that calls at Minorca and the other Balearic Islands before it sails on to Corsica, Sardinia and further afield. I am sorely tempted to stay on board and see these other spectacles, but I know there will be time for that in my future.

The entrance to the Mediterranean is through the Straits of Gibraltar, also known as the Pillars of Hercules. It is said the Roman hero smashed through a mountain to forge a path, thus creating a channel through the middle, with half a mountain remaining on either side, in Spain and in Africa. The legend also suggests a warning was placed here, at the end of the Mediterranean, that ‘nothing further lies beyond’, as past the entrance to their sea was the unknown world, and there be dragons. Our ship enters the strait at dawn, with the sun blooming gold and fiery at the horizon as we pass by Europe to port and Africa to starboard, each peak looming through the sea fret. With a strong westerly wind we make good passage, yet are soon surrounded by a jumble of other vessels going to and fro and narrowly avoid several collisions, all accompanied by a cacophony of insults from our sailing companions in a variety of languages.

I survey these sights with barely a pinch of the sense of wonder I used to own, as I realise my mind is filled with these sights and sounds, yet my body is haunted by him. It is a physical necessity. I have not possessed true closeness in my life, not ever. I have no memory of it with my brother, though it may have been there. I have no memory of it with anyone, and now I understand how much a person craves it and I want it again. I did need it all those years. And yet never having it, I did not understand what a basic requisite it is, as flavour to the tongue, music to the ear. I consider the way mammals nurture their young, the infant cradled, clinging on to its mother, a circle of protection and warmth, physically manifest. It is a yearning ache for closeness and it hurts me inside. Robin may infuriate me, with his pomposity and sureness, his arrogance and patronising ways, but oh, how I ache for his body and his love. And the knowledge I will not have them again, soon or ever, is sour. I must train myself to forget him and live without him for good. I make my resolution as I watch the Rock of Gibraltar recede and see my past go with it. But the rock will still be there, solid and shiftless, whether I choose to lay eyes on it or not.