All the Tea in China Page 10

  I laughed. “Do you mean rabbits? Why ever are you not to mention them?”

  Mr. Calow flushed. “Sailors believe they bring bad luck. None are allowed on board, even for food. We’re not to mention their names, either, which is also bad luck.”

  “But Mr. Calow, surely you were raised in a Christian home. You do not believe in superstition, do you?” I was appalled that grown men should pass on such myths to a mere child. What foolishness was this?

  “There are those who believe Christianity itself to be superstition, Miss Goodrich. The lad is merely following orders.”

  I looked up. Phineas Snowe stood beside me. Again I felt the intensity of his gaze, and I longed for him to retrieve those spectacles—no matter how horrid—and put them to good use on the bridge of his nose.

  Though he said nothing further, he seemed to desire a private conversation. “Mr. Calow, I have intruded upon your time long enough,” I said. “Thank you for sharing your knot-tying skills. I should like to discuss latitude and longitude with you some time. At your convenience, of course.”

  His mouth gaped. “You know about those things? Why, you’re only a woman.”

  I raised my chin a trifle and rose.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, rising alongside me. He touched his cap. “Good day, miss.”

  Mr. Snowe walked to the ship’s rail, out of the way and out of earshot, for the moment, from anyone aboard ship. “I confess that I thought to reprimand you for bothering the crew, but I was present long enough to find that you accomplished quite the opposite.”

  I suppose that was his way of paying me a compliment. “Mr. Calow only shared his knowledge, and by so doing, he increased his own. As for bothering the crew, I am pleased that you find yourself in the wrong. I am determined to be of no consequence to anyone aboard ship.”

  I lowered my gaze. Oh, how Phineas Snowe could irk me, but he was a man of the cloth. “Unfortunately, I realize that I have now forced you to bear the burden of my decision to become a stowaway.”

  He leaned both elbows against the ship’s rail, studying me like a lazy cat to a trapped mouse. “Indeed?”

  Oh, I was a miserable wretch! Must I say it so plainly? “Yes.” I nodded. “I am in debt to you not only for my fare, but for your efforts to protect me. I find them gallant, and I thank you for your efforts at offering me your protection as my, er, brother.”

  “I am not without chivalry.”

  “Yes.” I cleared my throat. “However, you should know that I am prepared to defend myself physically, should the need arise.”

  “From me?” He quirked an eyebrow. “Miss Goodrich, I have already informed you that I have no intention of—”

  “I was thinking more of an untoward advance from any stranger aboard ship,” I said, flushing. “You are a missionary, Mr. Snowe, a man dedicated to holy work. It is true that you and I do not always see eye to eye, but your character must be impeccable for the London Missionary Society to accept you.”

  He waved a hand. “We were speaking not of my character but of your—what did you say?—your preparedness to defend yourself?”

  I nodded. “Until recently it was a well-kept secret that I trained in martial arts.”

  “Indeed? Pray continue.”

  I could not tell if he mocked me or expressed genuine curiosity. “I have studied with a fencing master for nearly twenty years now, Signor Eco Antonio. He himself studied under the great master Domenico Angelo . . . but you probably have not heard of him.”

  “Actually, I have. Most impressive, Miss Goodrich . . . if it is true.”

  “Believe me, Mr. Snowe, I mention it not to impress but to alert you that I have little fear of caring for myself on this voyage and in China, as well.”

  “And yet you brought no sword for the journey.”

  So he did mock me! “I thought it best to leave it behind. A missionary should have no need of such training, is that not true? Particularly when it involves violence.”

  “Yet even Jesus remarked to the disciples that a man should sell his garment and buy a sword.” He straightened. “Miss Goodrich, you are an enigma to me, yet one thing is clear. You have a heart for helping others, and for some reason, an earnest desire to serve in China. But I must insist that it is no place for the fairer sex.”

  “I was led to believe otherwise when I thought Julia Whipple part of your group. Nevertheless, I am determined to convince you that I am quite capable. Surely there are ladies and children in the Orient whom I could reach.”

  “You cannot speak their language.”

  “But you could teach me! I still possess the Gospel According to St. Luke that you gave me at the Ransoms’ party, do you remember?”

  He nodded.

  “It is a long voyage,” I pressed. “Could you not teach me even the basics? As my uncle informed you, I am learned in several languages already . . . French, Italian, German, Greek, Latin—”

  He held up his hand. “That is enough, Miss Goodrich. I am familiar with your studies.”

  “Then you will teach me?”

  He paused for a great while. Why must he deliberate? Was his time so valuable aboard ship that he could not spend it with me? If I failed to learn any Chinese (and of course that was unthinkable!) would it have inconvenienced him so greatly?

  “Phineas Snowe, I have been looking for you.” Julia Whipple stood beside him. “And you, Miss Goodrich.”

  “Are you feeling better, Miss Whipple?” I said.

  She frowned. “Better?”

  I tapped my temple. “Your headache? You left earlier to retire to your cabin.”

  “Oh yes. That. I am much better, thank you for asking.” She glanced at Snowe, then at me. “I hope I am not disturbing you.”

  “Not at all,” Snowe said, smiling. “We were merely having a brother and sister chat.”

  I sighed. “Miss Whipple is aware that we are not related. Must we continue the pretense?”

  “But I think of you as a sister, Miss Goodrich,” Snowe said. “Are we not related in our desire to do the Lord’s work?”

  Miss Whipple coughed delicately into her hand. “Excuse me. Phineas is correct, Miss Goodrich. It is better to keep up the pretense even with me. Dining with the captain tonight will be a good test . . . won’t it, Phineas?” She brushed his shoulder. “I am rather looking forward to the meal. I am certain the conversation will be interesting. The captain is much concerned with truth and is knowledgeable about many things, is he not?” She gave him a decidedly pointed look.

  “As is Miss Goodrich,” Snowe said smoothly. “She has informed me that she is schooled in many languages.”

  “She and Captain Malfort will have much to talk about then, I imagine.” Miss Whipple smiled at Snowe, then turned to me. “Miss Goodrich, if Phineas can spare your presence, I thought it might be interesting to show you my cabin. I brought quite a collection of embroidery with me, as I find it helps to pass the time. I would be delighted to share my cloth and thread if you enjoy such arts.”

  “I do, Miss Whipple. Thank you. It would be nice to stitch something that might be of use in the Orient, as well. Perhaps a cuff or a handkerchief?”

  Miss Whipple smiled at Phineas. “Please excuse us.”

  Snowe bowed. “Miss Goodrich, we will speak again.”

  “I daresay we will, as we share a cabin,” I said dryly. “Perhaps in the meantime you will consider my request?”

  “What is that?” Miss Whipple said.

  “I would like Mr. Snowe to teach me the Chinese language during our journey. I want to prepare to help in some manner once we reach Canton.”

  She cast a sidelong glance in his direction. “And he has refused?”

  “Indeed, he has not answered. But I am sure it is not for lack of opinion.”

  Snowe said nothing, his face expressionless. Miss Whipple smiled at him then turned me away. “Come, Miss Goodrich. We will leave him to think, then, for though we have a long journey yet, every second brings
us that much closer to our destination.”

  6

  Miss Whipple and I admired her embroidery until it was time for dinner with the captain. Informed that this was normally at two o’clock, I proceeded shortly beforehand to my cabin to check my appearance. Dinner was as formal aboard ship as it was on shore, I had been told.

  Though I possessed no mirror, I could tell that my hair was not at all to my liking. I supposed I must become accustomed to such since Flora would no longer be available to help me pin it up. Julia Whipple offered to help me, even loaning me several hairpins, but I vowed that I would learn to do it myself. A missionary should not be given to much vanity and should learn to care for herself.

  However noble my efforts, I could not work the pins to my satisfaction. The lack of a mirror was one impediment, but the clumsiness of my hands was even more so. I would no more secure one strand of hair, and then another would come loose. Secure another, and the entire pile of hair tumbled loose into my hands. The pins clattered to the floor.

  I sat down on the wooden crate, for I needed a moment to think. Flora. Where was she now? Had she made her way back to Oxford to report to Uncle Toby that I was gone? Surely he would not be cross with her for my decision.

  The door opened, and Phineas Snowe entered. I rose quickly, startled. “I am sorry,” he said with a bow. “I did not mean to disturb you.”

  “I think perhaps you have saved me,” I said, trying to smile as I gestured at the misbegotten pins scattered about the floor.

  He gathered them in the palm of his hand. “Sit,” he said, gesturing at the crate.

  “But I—”

  One look from him, and I realized he would brook no argument. I sat.

  “I do not fancy myself a hair styler, but I know that it can be difficult for a woman to accomplish this task with her own hands.” He paused. “I have a younger sister.”

  “Indeed? Then you must realize my quandary. I want to appear presentable, since it is my first dinner with the captain, but I should learn to do it myself.” I chattered because he stood a bit too close for my comfort. When his hands touched my hair, I felt my heart beat faster. “I . . . I do not imagine that there will be many formal occasions in China.”

  Snowe said nothing. He smoothed my hair then looped a section, deftly securing a tendril here, affixing another one there. Flora was the only person who had ever touched my hair before; certainly no man had ever done so. His hands, warm and smooth, brushed against my neck. I was aware that he stood just behind me. It was most unnerving . . .

  He stepped back. “There. You may stand.”

  I did so, touching my hair lightly, breathing a sigh of relief but feeling curiously bereft of his nearness. “It feels quite secure. Thank you.”

  He stared at me—all of me—so critically that I paused. “Is something wrong?” I studied my dress, twisting about to see if I had acquired a spot or a tear.

  “Your appearance is pleasing,” he said. “That brown dress . . .”

  “It is certainly a suitable color for being a missionary but not, I confess, a color to which I am much accustomed.” I do not know why I sought Snowe’s approval, but in truth, I did. “Is my appearance suitable . . . for dinner with the captain, I mean.”

  “Your appearance is pleasing,” he repeated, this time with a bit more gruffness. “Miss Goodrich, there is something I—”

  “Yes?”

  Somewhere a drumroll sounded. “That would be the announcement for dinner,” he said, sounding relieved. “If you are ready . . . sister, we should proceed. We would not want to keep Captain Malfort waiting.”

  He took my arm and led me from the cabin. It was only then that I wondered how a missionary such as himself had acquired the experience of arranging ladies’ hair.

  The cuddy seemed a different place from earlier, when Julia Whipple and I had strolled through. The table was laden with a fine linen cloth, silver candelabra, and the most attractive blue-and-white patterned place settings that must surely be Wedgwood. I remembered to keep my mouth closed and a pleasant smile on my face, though in truth my jaw longed to go slack and my eyes widen. I had never imagined such beauty and sumptuousness on a seagoing vessel.

  An older officer—not one of the young midshipmen— seated Julia Whipple. She had changed into a lovely blue muslin with a floral print. As much as I tried to think Christian thoughts, I coveted that dress. Couldn’t a woman be a missionary and dress stylishly? Surely it would bring comfort to the poor and downtrodden to have an angel of mercy clothed in fine raiment! I tried not to picture how like a mouse I must appear in my brown frock.

  “Mr. Snowe, Miss Goodrich.” Captain Malfort beckoned us to the table, bestowing us with seats of honor next to him. Snowe sat at his left hand, and I at the captain’s right. The officer who had seated Miss Whipple sat to my immediate right, and she sat across the table. The midshipmen sat at the end of the table, removed, ostensibly, from the main conversation. I surmised from their schoolboy awkwardness and efforts to avoid fidgeting that they did not normally dine at the captain’s table.

  The captain made the proper introductions, and I learned that my companion was the chief mate, Thomas Gilpin. He seemed serious and proper and several years older than I. The same could be said of the second mate, whom Captain Malfort introduced as Joseph Baggott. Perhaps one or both of these gentlemen were already married, but I wondered fleetingly whether an introduction to naval personnel years ago might have secured me a husband. It was most peculiar that Flora had not thought of this and dragged me to a port city long ago to introduce me into their society . . .

  No matter. I was duty bound and determined in my current course. It was, after all, ordained by God. The Chinese translation, the slippers, and the tea had proven that to be true.

  “Are you feeling better, Miss Goodrich?” Mr. Gilpin said.

  “Yes, thank you. I believe that I am.” I hoped that the evening’s conversation would not center around my antics. I had already caused enough embarrassment. No need to rewarm it like second-day gruel.

  Fortunately, the servants set the courses before us. What a feast! The sumptuousness of the table setting was far outweighed by the food on which we dined. I had suspected our fare for the entire voyage would be some sort of salted meat (and I worried that that was, indeed, the average sailors’ meal), but we were served pea soup, mutton, chicken, ham, duck, and cabbages and potatoes. I was certain to be the most rotund missionary in China ere we arrived.

  I tried not to smack my lips, but I still had hunger pangs from the time spent in the cattle stall. While Snowe conversed with Captain Malfort, and Miss Whipple apparently charmed Mr. Baggott, I tried to engage Mr. Gilpin in conversation between mouthfuls of meat and vegetables. This, I hoped, would force me to eat more slowly. “Have you made more than one voyage with this ship, Mr. Gilpin?”

  “This is my fourth,” he said. “The Dignity is the most solid East Indiaman I have had the pleasure to serve on.”

  “Really?” Oh, fiddle, the peas! I wanted to shovel them into my mouth but was forced to pick them out carefully, as a lady should.

  Mr. Gilpin sliced his ham with grave precision. I could not help admiring his attention to detail. It was plain to see why he had been considered officer material! “It may interest you to know that the Dignity was built in Bombay nearly seven years ago,” he said.

  At that moment, I am ashamed to say I was more interested in filling my stomach. “I should think all the East India Company’s ships would be British built.” I forked some of the stewed cabbage. Oh, heavenly leaf!

  “Ships built with British oak are often eaten through by sea worms. The teak found in India is a better hardwood not only for construction but durability.”

  I was certainly in favor of a ship’s durability. Particularly the Dignity. “Then she is not only beautiful but solid,” I said.

  It suddenly occurred to me why sailors spoke lovingly of ships in female terms. Men desired to have both ships and wives wi
th the admirable traits of beauty and solidness. And an absence of worms, of course.

  Mr. Gilpin laid down his fork and smiled. “She is a fine ship, Miss Goodrich. Steady and dependable.”

  There. I was right. “Miss Whipple and I strolled aboard deck this morning. I have never been away from land before.”

  “How did you find the Dignity?”

  “I am certain she is as fine as the Victory,” I said.

  “Oh, have you seen Nelson’s ship?”

  I shook my head, chewing thoughtfully (and somewhat greedily, I am afraid) on a portion of duck.

  “It is moored at Portsmouth,” Mr. Gilpin said, his voice lowering to a sad pitch. “My father was killed during the Battle of Trafalgar aboard ship. I visit the Victory whenever I am home in England.”

  I ceased chewing and sipped my wine. My appetite fled as I thought of poor Mr. Gilpin’s loss. “How dreadful.”

  He smiled. “I am at peace with his sacrifice. After all, it is what prompted me to seek a naval career myself. I considered joining the Royal Navy but could not bear the thought of my mother losing another family member to battle.”

  “Yet merchant ships are not without danger too,” I said, then winced. When would I learn to put thought before speech?

  Mr. Gilpin’s smile broadened. “Your honesty is refreshing, Miss Goodrich. Yes, that is true. There is always the danger of privateers, particularly in Eastern waters, but nothing for you to worry about. Come, let us speak of happier matters.”

  If it was nothing for me to worry about, why did he make mention? Must men always feel compelled to protect the fairer sex? I daresay we ladies would be better off by half if they would but tell us of worldly dangers and allow us to have a voice or hand in our own defense.

  Captain Malfort turned to me. “Forgive me, Miss Goodrich. I have spent far too much time talking to Mr. Snowe and not you.”