her first, and won’t be her last, if ever
I’m let at her again.
Morgan nodded to show he understood. Already one part of his mind was in riot, clamouring
for the worst, the perfect solution. For her, he had to imagine, the grief would
be an ordeal of definite length, like a body of water to be waded through, traversed,
emerge on the far side.
12th August
The next day was Sunday. One by one, the whole ship came up on deck for the service,
even their guest. They stood to listen, bowed their heads.
Even now, as much in station as in motion, MacDonald told them, we offer our heartfelt
gratitude for the love and mercy of He who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.
And of course I cannot let this opportunity pass without expressing publicly my congratulations
to Mr Morgan and Miss Rink, MacDonald said, after his sermon.
There was a long, loud round of applause. To Morgan it sounded like a slab of meat
slapped onto a sizzling pan. He kept his face blank, refused to in any way acknowledge
it.
L’heritier, I think he meant, DeHaven said when it was done.
Ah, Morgan said. Is that what it was?
The entire ship is quite delighted for you, DeHaven said. As you must imagine.
Delighted for me, or delighted at the news?
They seem happy, that’s all I will say.
Well, Morgan said, I’m glad I could be the source of so much joy.
Afterwards, he helped her down the ladder again.
A lovely service, she said. This morning.
I suppose it’s a useful distraction, he said. It breaks the monotony, marks the passage
of another week.
He looked around MacDonald’s cabin. Already she’d made herself at home. The desk
was swarming with needles, hairpins, spools of thread. Under the bed, a pair of
her button-up boots. They looked brittle. They looked too small. They looked like
things from another age, for another race.
Do you believe? he asked her.
No, she said.
Nothing of any persuasion? Morgan said.
No, she said. It was as simple as that. Talk of God, at even the greatest remove,
merely irritated her.
You’ve played MacDonald fairly smartly then, he said. I wonder would he have been
so quick had he known he was helping a heathen.
Nonsense, she said. He thinks of nothing but their salvation. Why else is he out
here? Have you seen the way he hounds Petersen?
He has his work cut out for him there.
All those nights I had to lie here listening to his blather, she said. He used to
read me passages from the Bible, von Kempen, all that.
Caught in a little nook with a little book, Morgan said. How lovely.
He has great plans for me, I fear.
Does he not realize you may have plans of your own?
They talked. They felt quite alone. It was noon. Almost everyone else had stayed
up on deck, greasing their leather, worshipping the sun.
Did you say goodbye to your brother? Morgan said.
What good would that have done?
You can’t leave him thinking you’ve just vanished off the face of the earth.
I’d wager he hasn’t even remarked I am gone.
You’re wrong, he’ll be worried for you.
I won’t go back, she said.
You may be obliged to go back.
I’d rather jump overboard.
Be careful or you’ll break a leg.
I’m clear in my mind, she said.
I wonder will you be quite so sure of yourself by the time we get to Beechey. If
we ever do.
She said her mind was fully made up. She said she’d already written her brother a
letter, that she would send back from Beechey. She took it from her journal and held
it out.
He looked at the name, the address. The devout schoolgirl’s script. Then, with a
feeling of foreboding, mortal, he slid his finger under the seal. She said nothing
to stop him. The letter was written in prim little strokes on a watermarked sheet.
It was only three lines long: Dear Edmund, it said. It said she was never coming
back. He should not expect further news. There was neither thanks nor reproach. It
said: I hope you will understand, but expect you will not. Your sister, Kitty.
Until now he’d always seen her as a
I’m let at her again.
Morgan nodded to show he understood. Already one part of his mind was in riot, clamouring
for the worst, the perfect solution. For her, he had to imagine, the grief would
be an ordeal of definite length, like a body of water to be waded through, traversed,
emerge on the far side.
12th August
The next day was Sunday. One by one, the whole ship came up on deck for the service,
even their guest. They stood to listen, bowed their heads.
Even now, as much in station as in motion, MacDonald told them, we offer our heartfelt
gratitude for the love and mercy of He who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.
And of course I cannot let this opportunity pass without expressing publicly my congratulations
to Mr Morgan and Miss Rink, MacDonald said, after his sermon.
There was a long, loud round of applause. To Morgan it sounded like a slab of meat
slapped onto a sizzling pan. He kept his face blank, refused to in any way acknowledge
it.
L’heritier, I think he meant, DeHaven said when it was done.
Ah, Morgan said. Is that what it was?
The entire ship is quite delighted for you, DeHaven said. As you must imagine.
Delighted for me, or delighted at the news?
They seem happy, that’s all I will say.
Well, Morgan said, I’m glad I could be the source of so much joy.
Afterwards, he helped her down the ladder again.
A lovely service, she said. This morning.
I suppose it’s a useful distraction, he said. It breaks the monotony, marks the passage
of another week.
He looked around MacDonald’s cabin. Already she’d made herself at home. The desk
was swarming with needles, hairpins, spools of thread. Under the bed, a pair of
her button-up boots. They looked brittle. They looked too small. They looked like
things from another age, for another race.
Do you believe? he asked her.
No, she said.
Nothing of any persuasion? Morgan said.
No, she said. It was as simple as that. Talk of God, at even the greatest remove,
merely irritated her.
You’ve played MacDonald fairly smartly then, he said. I wonder would he have been
so quick had he known he was helping a heathen.
Nonsense, she said. He thinks of nothing but their salvation. Why else is he out
here? Have you seen the way he hounds Petersen?
He has his work cut out for him there.
All those nights I had to lie here listening to his blather, she said. He used to
read me passages from the Bible, von Kempen, all that.
Caught in a little nook with a little book, Morgan said. How lovely.
He has great plans for me, I fear.
Does he not realize you may have plans of your own?
They talked. They felt quite alone. It was noon. Almost everyone else had stayed
up on deck, greasing their leather, worshipping the sun.
Did you say goodbye to your brother? Morgan said.
What good would that have done?
You can’t leave him thinking you’ve just vanished off the face of the earth.
I’d wager he hasn’t even remarked I am gone.
You’re wrong, he’ll be worried for you.
I won’t go back, she said.
You may be obliged to go back.
I’d rather jump overboard.
Be careful or you’ll break a leg.
I’m clear in my mind, she said.
I wonder will you be quite so sure of yourself by the time we get to Beechey. If
we ever do.
She said her mind was fully made up. She said she’d already written her brother a
letter, that she would send back from Beechey. She took it from her journal and held
it out.
He looked at the name, the address. The devout schoolgirl’s script. Then, with a
feeling of foreboding, mortal, he slid his finger under the seal. She said nothing
to stop him. The letter was written in prim little strokes on a watermarked sheet.
It was only three lines long: Dear Edmund, it said. It said she was never coming
back. He should not expect further news. There was neither thanks nor reproach. It
said: I hope you will understand, but expect you will not. Your sister, Kitty.
Until now he’d always seen her as a
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