Beyond Innocence (3 page)

Ashamed to have a gentleman see her in such a state, she lowered her head and waited.

Before he acknowledged her, the captain removed a clean handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket and gave his nose a vigorous blow. He bundled it back into his pocket and spoke.

“Miss Shipley, my log states you are able to read and write and have an interest in mathematics. Is this correct?”

As she lifted her head, the captain stepped back in apparent surprise. She was well used to the effects of her unusual eyes and watched dispassionately as the captain attempted to check his reaction.

“Your information is correct, sir.”

The captain shuffled a stack of papers, regained his composure, and turned to the lieutenant.

“Please see Miss Shipley washed and … ,” he gestured to her gown, “er — re-clothed before returning her to my cabin.”

“Clothes from … sir?”

“Use your head, man. From the clothes the women have sewn for the shops,” snapped the captain.

Electra looked down at her filthy, ragged skirt, bemused at the captain’s discomfort. She had forgotten the feel of water on her skin and wore the only clothes that had survived the last six months. Heat stole up her neck at how she must look, and worse, how she must smell.

She had once lost her way when seeking a haberdasher in the London area. Somehow, she had found herself in the maze of St. Giles. With scented handkerchiefs over their mouths and noses wrinkled in distaste, she and her companion had turned away from the smell of the poor and unwashed that inhabited the narrow hovels. A hoarse request for coin to buy food had been dismissed with the flick of a fan. She flinched with shame at how quick she had once been to judge.

The lieutenant turned to leave and she almost tripped in her haste to follow. He sent the cabin boy to fetch the clothes and then led her to the back of the galley. His mouth turned down with displeasure as he held out a bucket of seawater, a rag, and a stained, shaggy scrubbing brush. She snatched the brush from his fingers, desperate to begin.

Electra’s body glowed red from the furious scrubbing. How long had it been since she washed? She stopped to savour the moment; the tingle of clean skin, the fresh smell of water on her body, and the illusion of being alone. A runnel of water trickled from the rag she held to her face and she watched it slide down her body. It undulated over her full breasts and prominent ribs to her flat stomach; picked up speed down her long, slim legs, and swirled through a gap in the floor.

She rung out her wet ringlets and pulled a battered brush through the newly washed curls. Perhaps her luck was changing. After all, here she was with a new role, clean clothes … she blew out her cheeks in a loud sigh. Did she truly believe that by scrubbing the dirt from her body, she might scrub away the filth and despair of the past few months? As she pulled the rough brown smock over her head, reality settled over her with the garment. There was no escaping the facts. She was still a convicted felon. And at the mercy of the captain. Did he think to make her his mistress? Was that why he had summoned her?

A sob threatened to escape from her throat at the memory of a young, innocent girl who had sat and dreamed on wet afternoons: of love with a strong, handsome stranger; of two beautiful children and an opulent mansion where they would be forever happy.

She snorted. A silly, childish dream and one that had no place in the world she now inhabited. She swallowed her bitterness and called the lieutenant to escort her back.

• • •

Captain Hawley regarded Electra’s improved state. He was only a few inches taller than she and seemed conscious of his stature, as he shifted from one foot to the other. There seemed to be something that still bothered him as his eyes flickered down her body. She watched him flip the pages of his well-thumbed ledger, but his attention returned to her face, her hair, and then, predictably, to her breasts.

She returned his gaze, irritated by his barely concealed desires. Years of enduring stares and innuendo from males of all ages had left her inured to such behaviour. Besides, the captain, courteous as he was, did not ignite her firmly tamped emotions. He moved his head and she was surprised at traces of softness in his profile. In his youth, he would have been handsome, even dapper, but years of salt and wind had taken their toll.

Opinions on the ship differed with regards to the captain, but whatever they may say about him, she knew his orders were obeyed without question. However, despite the ease with which he commanded his ship, the captain seemed uneasy in her company. As to why, she could not fathom.

“Humph, right then, Miss Shipley. I am aware of your conviction for embezzlement. However, my situation forces me to put aside my concerns in the hope you might also deal honestly with books of account.”

She bit back a caustic response. Her old tutor had been right, she thought. He said a woman should not involve herself with mathematics; it was unseemly and would only lead to trouble. But she had always been a woman who had a mind of her own and found once she had experienced the beauty and symmetry of mathematics, she could not leave it alone. She bristled anew at the old accusation.

“Honesty is
all
I know, captain.”

The captain seemed disconcerted by her response, and she saw his eyes soften as he continued to regard her. He tapped his fingers on the scratched teak desk, and then moved toward her, seemed to reconsider, and stepped back again. She could see undefined emotions in his eyes and in the slight tic on the right side of his face. He seemed ready to speak. She waited.

Instead, he offered her a chair, sent for tea and bread with jam, and explained his predicament.

“My purser took ill days before we set sail leaving me no time to seek a replacement. I find I cannot effectively undertake his duties as well as my own, and require someone with the skills to record purchases and supplies used in the ledger.”

“You have only to instruct me and I will follow your lead, captain.” She exhaled silently with relief. It seemed she was not to be forced to submit to the captain’s approaches after all.

He frowned at her forthright manner but her stubborn pride would not allow her to play the cowering convict.

Without leave from the captain, she drew a chair over to the desk and sat beside him. His eyes looked straight ahead but she did not miss the twitch of his lips at her actions.

The books were stained with years of handling, and many entries were illegible from smudged ink and spilt liquids. Even making sense of the previous entries would test her capabilities. He presented a bundle of receipts and explained how he wanted the entries made.

Once the captain was satisfied with her skills, he pushed out his chair and stood. “I’ll leave you to it then, shall I?”

She looked up, surprised again at being trusted with the task and treated with such courtesy. “Yes, I can manage, thank you.”

The ledger lay open before her but her eyes were drawn to the small round window where foaming mist spattered against its cloudy surface. The ship was under full sail. Propelled by brisk winds, it rose and plummeted into the heaving sea as it carried her closer to the penal colony. What did the future hold? Would she survive to see England again? She sighed, her defeated imagination unable to project beyond her seven-year sentence. A sentence based on lies and bribery. But survival was all that mattered now. And despite her uncle’s betrayal, she was determined to survive. Seven years imprisonment would not break her, she vowed. Seven years …

She had told the captain she would manage. Was that the truth? She drew in another deep breath of the fresh, salty air. Her father had raised her to be brave, resilient and determined. But he could never have imagined the horrors she had been forced to endure. Four months in the cold, dispiriting malignance that was Newgate Prison, two months moored on the Thames in the fetid hold of the good ship
Liberty
— a wry grin moved her lips at the irony of the ship’s name — and now six weeks at sea.

She shuddered and lifted her pen to begin, but another thought interrupted its path toward the ledger. If she were honest, her removal from England and society did have some small benefits. There was no longer the need to entertain the band of witless suitors who had jostled and pestered her for attention. No necessity for her to sip tea and make mindless chitchat with other women. No need to ever see Edward again.

A tear slid down her face and dropped onto her skirt at the memory of his despicable behaviour. To think she actually believed he loved her.
Blast him! Blast them all! I will get through this and clear my name without them.
She straightened, brushed a hand across her wet cheek, then turned to the ledger to begin her task. She would survive.

• • •

Soon after dawn each morning, Electra rose from her bug-infested bed. It took all her self-control not to scratch frantically at the festering bites on her arms and legs as she dressed and splashed water on her face. The smell in the women’s hold was as thick as the sewers of London, and she watched the door like a cat at a mouse hole, waiting for the lieutenant to fetch her. Such was her relief at escaping the confines of the hold and the cruelty of the other women, even the jibes of the foul-mouthed crewmen above decks were preferable.

At first, she believed if she ignored the women they would lose interest but she underestimated their hostility. They hated her difference and determined she would suffer for it. Lizzie Cranston was their ringleader.

Electra gathered snatches of Lizzie’s story from gossip and whispered warnings. It was not much, but it was enough to make her fear the woman. Lizzie’s husband had been hanged four years past for murder and thievery. It was said Lizzie took over where he left off and trained their three sons to work in the
family business
. Her two youngest sons ended up in Newgate and Lizzie carried an inveterate hatred for those who put her boys away. Electra’s breeding made her the perfect brunt and the others were only too happy to back Lizzie up. The taunts and abuse began the minute they roused themselves from sleep each morning.

“Ooh, was that your cup I spat in, duchess? I’m jes’ too clumsy for me own good,” cackled Lizzie, as she thrust her hip into Electra and jammed her against a wooden beam.

“Goodness, I think as ’ow I’ve splashed what’s in the privy onto yer bed, duchess,” hissed Hetty Bender, as she passed by.

If Electra tried to move across the room, a foot would jut out to trip her as she passed. Or an elbow would happen to jab into her ribs by accident. By the time she escaped to the upper decks, she was bruised, humiliated, and angry.

She recalled the first time they called her “duchess.” The turnkey was delivering Electra and four other women from Newgate to the
Liberty
. She had not climbed from the small boat quickly enough so he had shoved her over the ship’s railing and sent her sprawling onto the deck. She picked herself up, lifted her chin, and admonished him for his rough handling. At least the beating was swift. The women’s exclusion and brutality that followed continued throughout the journey. Her present status as the captain’s assistant only confirmed the women’s jealousies and prejudices.

The hostility escalated until one evening young Mary Buckley blocked her path to the deck. She grasped Electra’s arm and hissed through clenched teeth, “Yer got the golden eyes of a witch an’ we got ter pertect ourselves from yer.”

At Mary’s comments, Lizzie nodded slowly, her eyes riveted to Electra’s face. A chill ran up Electra’s spine as she read the intent in Lizzie’s eyes and in the faces of the women around her. She had already learnt through bitter experience that this was not a world where a woman squealed for help when threatened. No, it was clear she was on her own, with vigilance her only friend. She didn’t know when they would come but she knew it would be soon.

• • •

Nights were the worst.

It was past midnight the third day after Mary’s comments and Electra lay rigid on her sleeping shelf. Her head spun and her eyes were scratchy from lack of sleep. But she would not succumb until she heard the heavy snores of the women around her.

At last, all movement ceased and the steady rhythm of snores reverberated through the hold. As she relaxed, she felt an urgent need to use the privy. Hardly daring to breathe, she tiptoed to the far end of the room. She resisted the desperate urge to scratch the hundreds of tiny flea and lice bites that covered her body for fear she might disturb someone. As she made her way back, the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. The snores and snorts had stopped. Silence enveloped her like a dark cloud.

Like wraiths they appeared. Rough hands lunged from the shadows and slammed her against the bulkhead. She flung up her arms to protect her face as claw-like fingers lashed at her eyes and gouged skin from her cheeks. Others wakened by her screams either joined the melee or stood silently and watched. Bent purely on self-preservation she spun around, fists clenched and punched wildly. She kicked and she bit. She scratched; she plunged her elbows into windpipes, wrenched handfuls of hair, and refused to be beaten. Suddenly, at an unspoken signal, the women backed off and returned to their beds. And in minutes the grunts, snorts, and snores resumed.

Electra huddled in terror behind the curved rib of the hull until dawn. When she crept back to her small space, no one paid her the slightest attention. It was as if she had dreamed the night’s events.

• • •

Scratched, bruised and weary from lack of sleep, Electra dragged herself up the stairs and scanned the deck. Please let them leave me alone today, she prayed. As she hesitated, eight bells signalled the end of the watch. Perhaps she wouldn’t be noticed as the crew changed shift. She took a deep breath, put her head down, and took her chances.

The captain’s cabin was in sight when one of the crewmen, a flabby, unpleasant creature called Critchley, blocked her way.

He grinned with a marked lack of teeth. “Well, if it ain’t the duchess! Looky here lads, the captain’s whore has come to show us her wares. An’ by the look of her face, I reckon yer’d have ter fight for a look.”