King of the Sea

Chapter 22

Chapter 22

RANK LEANED FORWARD and opened the door of the stove. He'd had no proper sleep for nights; in all that time he'd lived with the near certainty of death, not only for himself but for all the hundred-odd souls in his care; yet with God's help he'd brought them safely through it at the last. By rights he ought now to collapse in grateful exhaustion and sleep until the c***k of doom - or at least until Boris returned tomorrow with whatever science he'd gleaned from the local fisherfolk. Instead he felt bright and mellow, stretched out on the rug, half-up on his elbow and cradling a brandy in his hand. The soft glow of the fire, which was now their only light, made a line of dark gold down Teresa's profile. He wondered if he would ever be able to look at her without this turmoil of his innards. "Tell me something of yourself," he said.

"Oh God, that'll be done in a hack," she replied. "What's to tell? I'm from Philipstown in the King's County, which is famous for nothing except a reformatory for the bad boys. My daddy, God rest his soul, was a cabinetmaker, and a good one. And my mammy, Lord 'a mercy well, she was just my mammy. She passed on to her rest on St Stephen's Day last."

"How did she die?"

"She just wasted. Sure there wasn't a pick on her bones when we buried her. The man said 'twas like lifting the coffin of a child." "And your father? Is he long gone from you?"

"Six months before the mammy, but he drowned. I I don't know which is worse, sudden death or lingering." She smiled, not wanting a sadness she had mastered to come between them now. "I'll tell you the worst death, Frank. "Tis the death that comes up and threatens ye and then goes away again. Aren't we after meeting that death often enough, those days that went by!"

" "Cowards die many times before their deaths"." He quoted Brian Dowty's lines from last year's Drama Society production - an untimely reminder of life in Highbury, which made him uneasy.

""The valiant never taste of death but once'," she capped him.

"You've had a good education," he commented. "Stop! My father and the Bard ..." She shook her

head at the impossibility of conveying the depths of such an obsession. "But I did have a good education, too. There was a widow woman, Mrs de Quincey of Derrin, who took a liking to me when I went with my father once to deliver some chairs he'd made. She's a Protestant buta dacent sort, fair dues to her. And she took me in and trained me up as her lady's maid, but I ended up more companion to her than anything. And you never saw the library like that one had her husband's it was, of course. And now 'tis her son's." A slight frown creased her forehead at this last

"Are you a great reading man, Frank?" she asked, looking up at his one shelf of books. "The Bible, The

mention.

Whole Duty of Man, Griffin's Law of the Sea, The Anatomy of Melancholy... sure you've all you need for a wet Sunday!"

He laughed. She could not possibly be reading the titles at such a distance and in this dim light. Where else had she pried? In his journal? No, he could feel the key to it in his pocket now, for it was one of those fancy books complete with its own hasp and lock which, come to think of it, any child with a good pin could pick. If she had, she'd know the truth about him. Not that he'd lied to her; he'd simply failed to correct a misapprehension.

It was on the tip of his tongue to blurt out the truth now, to trade happiness for honesty and hope she'd forgive him enough to love him still. After all, if he could love her so desperately, knowing it was a sin, knowing he'd roast in hell through all eternity for it, then why should she not do the same?

But one look at her in the gentle firelight, her face all eager to see his response to her teasing, and he knew he couldn't risk it. He felt a brief intimation of the earthly torments he'd have to endure, long before he started on those of eternity the lying, the prevarication, the terror of discovery, the shame of facing her when he was at last unmasked, as he did not doubt he would be in the fullness of time.

"I bought them all before I knew you," he pointed out, stretching forth his hand to caress her cheek. She shivered and inclined her head to trap it in the

fold of her neck. you not have stayed with Mrs de Quincey?" he asked. "After your mother's death?"

She shook her head but said nothing. "Did you fall out of sorts with her?"

"The son. I'd liefer not talk of it." He made to remove his hand but she trapped it more firmly and said, "No!"

"Come and lean against me, then," he said, reaching his other arm behind and pulling a chest toward him, where he could rest against its side.

When she'd settled in his arms she leaned her head against his shoulder. "Talking of the terrors of those days that went past, d'you know the worst of it? The one thought that camped in my ear, day and night?"

Every little movement of her body sent intoxicating draughts of warm air up out of her clothing. He remembered Napoleon's signal to Josephine: "Home next week. Do not bath!"

"Do you?" she repeated.

He drew a deep breath and replied, "I'll tell you mine. Let's see if they're the same. I lived in mortal terror that Death would take me before I'd had the chance to ... to know you."

"Yes!" She breathed rather than spoke the word as she craned her lips up to his. "Oh, Frank! Go on now, my darling man. My whole body's on fire with welcomes."

Hating himself, loving the moment, he loosened her bodice and slipped his hands inside, feeling for her breasts.

She shuddered in surrender when he held them. "I'd forgotten." His voice quivered. "A woman's body. The wonder of a woman's body. It is the most glorious thing in all the world."

She lifted her arms up around his head to pull him hard against her. She marvelled at the strangeness of it all, at the strange touch of a man's hands where no man's hands had ever touched before. Yet strangest of all was the feeling that none of this was new to her, it was like some ancient lore, long forgotten, but now, at last, dimly returning, bringing with it all the warmth and wonder of a forgotten childhood another life ...

A S THEY BEGAN THE second slow circuit of Highbury Fields, Lawrence dared to take Emma by the arm - a gentle but proprietorial gesture. Or so Catherine chose to interpret it as she sat in Aunt Daphne's window, watching the pair of them through Uncle Brian's telescope. At least it was an advance on last Sunday, when they had not touched at all not while they were in the public gaze, - anyway.

To Lawrence, however, it was less of a proprietorial gesture than one of amazement. He couldn't recall what they'd talked about last week. Nonsense of some kind - the verbal equivalent of those silly little notes schoolchildren love to pass around the form: BILLY THINKS SUSAN'S HAIR IS LUVELY! TEE HEE! The reason he couldn't remember was he'd been obsessed with but a single thought that afternoon. It was only seven days ago, too, and how things had changed meanwhile!

The thought that consumed him last week was how to suggest to her that he should find a pretty little apartment somewhere in Holloway or Islington, far enough away to be anonymous, near enough to reach on foot; and there she could lead the wonderful life of idleness that all servant girls dream about, while he could visit her daily and enjoy those melting moments all slave-men dream of (and all men, he now realized, are slaves in that department, even to the most servile of servant girls). "Just popping out for a walk, Mama shan't be long!" He had practised the right degree of nonchalance in his mind until he had it off perfectly. He had also practised how to put the notion to Emma. He had a stammering way of doing it, and a cheeky-cheerful way, and a soulful way, and a lordly-and-masterly way. Never had he been more thoroughly prepared for any contingency. And all last Sunday he had waited his chance to trot out at least one of them. And what had happened? Nothing! They had simply strolled round and round on the dog-dirtied grass, talking scribble - almost relishing their ability to be childish once again.