‘Where’s that?’ asked Tom, who had never been to England.
‘London, my boy! London!’ replied Matthieu. ‘Astonishing, the ignorance of the young,’ he added, shaking his head sadly. ‘You should read some of Mr Dickens’s novels. Many of them tell of orphans, just like you.’
Tom frowned. That was especially tactless, he thought. But one thing he had learned about this Mr Zéla since they had met was that he spoke his mind with little consideration for tact.
‘And what happens to these orphans?’ he asked, considering it.
‘Most of them find that, once their parents have died, their new guardians—often older men—become cruel and abusive. They don’t feed them, they beat them mercilessly, and they make their lives so painful that they are forced to run away without so much as a pair of shoes on their feet. Ultimately, however, they triumph. How was your bed last night, by the way? Did you sleep well?’
Without warning a ball appeared in front of them, appearing from the other side of the ship where a game of tennis was being played by some children, quite careful to avoid losing it to the sea. Matthieu turned around to see where the ball had come from, and in that moment Tom scooped it up in his hands and tossed it into the water, where it landed with a distant plop. Sniggering to himself, he leaned back in his deckchair and folded his arms, pretending to be asleep. Matthieu stared at him, amazed by what the boy had done.
Two small children appeared within moments and looked around the deck desperately for their ball.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the smaller one, a polite little girl with ringlets and green eyes. She was wearing a very formal dress for the middle of the afternoon. ‘Our tennis ball, sir.’
Matthieu opened his mouth and closed it again, unsure what to say, regretting that he might have to lie to such an innocent. ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t seen it,’ he said.
The girl narrowed her eyes, suspecting otherwise. ‘Yes you have,’ she said in a deeper voice, pointing her finger at him before bursting into a sudden rush of tears and being escorted back to the tennis court by her brother. ‘You stole it!’ she cried as her parting shot, displaying more fury than he knew a child could muster.
Matthieu turned to his nephew in frustration. ‘Tom!’ he exclaimed. ‘What a charmless thing to do. Why did you throw that ball away?’
Tom shrugged, still smiling, delighted by his trick. ‘Nothing better to do,’ he said in a quiet voice.
‘Well, it was extremely childish of you,’ Matthieu scolded him. ‘I believe you should go over to those children and apologize. Tell them it was a mistake by all means, that you were trying to retrieve it for them when it escaped you, but apologize.’
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Who cares?’
‘I care,’ Matthieu insisted. ‘Now do it. This instant. I’m serious.’
Tom thought about it. The rules of their relationship were still being defined; the level of Matthieu’s authority over him was still in some question. Although he was fourteen years old, he was still a child and hadn’t quite reached the point where he believed himself strong enough to disobey his elders. Also, although he scarcely wanted to admit it to himself, he worried what would happen if this man, who had never laid eyes on him until a couple of months earlier, was to decide that he was a bad lot after all and leave him destitute. Matthieu Zéla was clearly wealthy; he could help him in his future life. There was no point antagonizing him unnecessarily. Deciding to play the scolded child on this occasion, he gave an exaggerated sigh and stood up, dragging his body around the deck as if it weighed two hundred pounds.
Matthieu shook his head. For his part, he had little experience of children and this one had been rather foisted on to him; he was far from sure that he could manage in loco parentis.
‘You were right to send him to apologize,’ a voice beside him said, and he turned to look at the young lady who had just sat down in the deckchair next to his.
‘You saw it then?’ he asked, a little embarrassed for his nephew. ‘You saw what he did?’
She nodded. ‘He’s just a boy,’ she said, excusing his actions. ‘And he’s bored. But you were right to send him over there. Manners are important.’
Matthieu nodded and looked into the sea, before remembering his own manners and turning back to his companion. ‘I do beg your pardon,’ he said, extending his hand, ‘I should have introduced myself. My name is Matthieu Zéla.’
‘Martha Hayes,’ she replied, shaking his hand happily.
‘Delighted to meet you, Miss Hayes. You are returning home to Canada or travelling there for the first time?’
‘A little of both,’ she said. ‘It will be my first time there, but I hope to make my home in Quebec. I’ve lived in Europe all my life and have had quite enough of it.’
‘I know what you mean,’ he replied, smiling. ‘I’m something of a traveller myself. I never seem able to stay in the same place for very long. Circumstances always come along and force me to move.’
‘That must be exciting.’
‘Sometimes. But I’d quite like to settle down for a while. I’m not getting any younger, after all.’
‘You look very sprightly to me, Mr Zéla,’ she said, warming to him already.
‘Matthieu, please.’
‘Well, you look very sprightly, Matthieu, then,’ she repeated.
He shrugged. ‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ he muttered. ‘How are you enjoying the journey so far?’ he asked, changing the subject. ‘Found your sea legs yet?’
‘Just about,’ she said with a laugh. ‘It’s very relaxing.’
‘That’s just what I was saying to my nephew,’ said Matthieu. ‘He seemed to consider that to be the problem.’
‘Your nephew?’
‘Yes, I’m Tom’s uncle. Acting as guardian for him for the moment. His parents are both dead. His mother quite recently, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Martha. ‘The poor boy. I suppose that, under those circumstances, throwing a tennis ball in the water is not such a major crime. He’s only, what . . . fourteen?’
Matthieu nodded. The psychology of the youth was not one in which he was particularly interested. As far as he was concerned, the boy had suffered a loss, he should mourn his mother, come to terms with it and move on. He himself had been forced to do much the same thing and at a younger age than Tom, for Matthieu’s own mother had been killed by her violent second husband, leaving him and his younger brother also orphaned, only without a guardian. They had survived though.
‘I hope he will have a happier life in America,’ he said after some thought. ‘A fresh start can be a healthy thing. And he’s young, of course. He can create a new world for himself there. I’m travelling to Canada on business, but will probably move down to the States afterwards for a time. If things work out, we may stay there. Tom has proved something of a handful in Paris; I hope to steer him back on to the straight and narrow. Assuming he doesn’t go stir crazy over the next week or so and jump over the side of the ship.’
‘Oh, he’ll settle down,’ Martha said reassuringly.
At that moment, Tom reappeared from the other side of the deck and stood before them, staring at Miss Hayes suspiciously. ‘Ah, Tom,’ said Matthieu. ‘Let me introduce you. This is my nephew, Miss Hayes. Tom DuMarqué.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Tom,’ said Martha, shaking his hand.
He nodded at her but said nothing, standing quite close to the chairs and as far away from the railing as possible. Although he could not have admitted it to his uncle, he had a morbid fear of water, and every moment on board was a trial to him. He avoided thinking about the great expanse of sea surrounding him and had resolved not to look over the railing once during this journey.
‘Well? Did you apologize?’ Matthieu asked when it became clear that he was not going to offer anything to the conversation.
‘Yes,’ he cried in an exaggerated tone. ‘They have about twenty tennis balls around there, so I don’t see what all the fuss
was about anyway.’ He continued to stare at Martha, refusing to sit down, and she felt suddenly uncomfortable in his presence. He had a certain look in his eye which made him seem dangerous and unpredictable.
‘Well, it was lovely to have met you, Mr. Zéla,’ she said, standing up and smoothing down her skirt.
‘Matthieu, please.’
‘Matthieu,’ she acknowledged. ‘And you, Tom. But I believe I will continue my stroll now. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.’
‘O God, thy sea so great, my boat so small,’ Matthieu said with a smile, nodding as she walked away. ‘What a charming lady,’ he said quietly when she had disappeared from sight. ‘You might have made her feel a little more welcome, Tom. Really, your manners are astonishingly crude.’
‘Pfff,’ came the reply, a dry snort through the boy’s lips, a bubble of spittle sticking there for a moment before he wiped it away.
Tom might have added more to this eloquence had his eye not been taken by the form of Victoria Drake, who was standing some twenty feet away from them both at the railing, staring out to sea. His eyes widened, his mouth dropped open and he experienced the first pangs of desire. Sensing that she was being stared at, she looked around slowly in his direction, caught his eye, and gave him a disdainful glance before looking away again. Tom felt himself blush and pressed his lips together tightly. Matthieu, who had been watching the whole pantomime, could not help but be amused.
‘Why, Tom,’ he exclaimed. ‘You’ve gone bright red. Are you in love?’
‘Pfff,’ he said again, as if the very idea was ridiculous. (Yes, he thought.) Matthieu looked over at the object of his nephew’s affection and nodded slowly. Despite himself, Tom felt his eyes wandering across to Victoria again, but now she had vanished out of sight.
‘Ah,’ said Matthieu, for he had been in this position himself many times. ‘I believe I understand.’
Captain Kendall had learned through many years’ experience that it was not a sensible thing to become too friendly with the crew. In his early days as a captain he had sought to ingratiate himself with the officers and sailors under his command, hoping that earning their comradeship would inculcate a better atmosphere on board. However, that had been taken advantage of on the Perseverance when he had begun to detect complacency among his crew, who hardly saw him as the disciplined leader which had so inspired him in the story of the Bounty. He altered his manner considerably when he took command of the Montrose. Now, while he was not exactly feared by the men, he was nevertheless treated with deference, and his moods were legendary. He could be perfectly obsequious to a first-class passenger one minute, and come close to striking a sailor the next. The rule of thumb was to follow his orders but not to get too close. The only person who had—the appendicitis-stricken first officer, Mr Sorenson—had made himself even more unpopular with his colleagues for his sycophancy, and the captain was aware that he was the only man on board who regretted his stay in the hospital.
Sitting at the desk in his cabin later that afternoon, his compasses spanning across the blue charts, he made quick notes on a piece of paper by his side, calculating distance through longitude and latitude and using their knot speed to determine whether they would arrive in Canada when they were supposed to. He was pleased to note that they were making good time. Clear skies and a light breeze behind them this afternoon had given them a great advantage, and they had even picked up speed a little, despite the fact that he had only ordered four of the six boilers to be opened as yet. Captain Kendall was a great believer in not overtaxing a vessel and rarely employed the boilers to full capacity. Unlike his hero, Captain Bligh, he believed in sticking to the schedule and had no interest in beating the clock. They were supposed to land in Quebec on the morning of 31 July, and as far as he was concerned that was the only date that would do. To arrive on the thirtieth would be too showy, to arrive on 1 August would be considered tardy. As things stood, however, they would make it exactly on time, and he gave a smile of satisfaction as he sat back and picked up the newspaper he had purchased before leaving harbour. He glanced only briefly at the headlines—trouble brewing over strike action in the Belgian liquor industry, a manhunt going on for some fellow who’d killed his wife and chopped her body up into little pieces, a report of a wealthy grandmother who had recently married a boy of eighteen. He tossed it to one side, irritated by the stupidity of the world. This was why he preferred living at sea, he reasoned.
He thought of Mr Sorenson, languishing alone in an Antwerp hospital. The man had probably already had his appendix removed and would be recovering from the operation, possibly waking up from the anaesthetic around now and wondering whether the ship had sailed without him, knowing of course that it would have. As he set his cap on his head and tugged his jacket down sharply, the captain wondered whether he should use the new Marconi telegraph in the wireless room to send a get-well message to the hospital, but decided against it. It would be difficult to explain to the radio controllers why he wanted to be left alone there, and if they found out about the message his carefully honed image as a tough taskmaster might be undermined. Still, he hated to think that Mr Sorenson might feel he didn’t care. Shaking his head roughly, he dismissed the idea from his mind and stepped outside the cabin, locking the door behind him.
From his vantage point on the deck he could make out the figure of Billy Carter in the wheelhouse, pointing out to sea and sharing a joke with one of the navigators. He was drinking a cup of tea himself, something that the captain expressly forbade in that room. He marched around the steerage deck, avoiding the children and their parents, making sharp lefts and rights whenever he saw some annoying individual ready to catch his eye and begin a conversation. They’re all taken by the uniform, he thought to himself, which was true. He cut a dashing figure in his black naval attire, sporting what appeared to be a row of medal ribbons along the pocket but which were actually the various insignia of the Canadian Pacific fleet. Compared to the cheap travelling clothes of these passengers, he was quite the dandy. He gave a brief sigh of relief, but only a small one, as he made his way on to the first-class deck. These people, he knew, could be even worse, because they, unlike their steerage counterparts, did not look up to him. On the contrary, they looked down on him, believing that he was little more than one of their butlers or servants. And he was generally forced into politeness with them. Plus, every one of them would be angling for an invitation to dine at his table, a nightly ritual that he dreaded. Mr Sorenson was usually good at weeding out the bores from those who might at least entertain him, but there was always a hierarchy anyway. The residents of the Presidential Suite were always invited, along with several other first-class passengers. But without Mr Sorenson to sort the wheat from the chaff, what hope had he of enjoying his meal or digesting it properly? He singled out small pieces of conversation as he passed several passengers, and he even heard one complimentary—and unexpected—comment from a young boy whom he passed as he made his way towards the helm.
‘It’s a dashing uniform, isn’t it?’ said Edmund to Victoria as they sat on deckchairs, playing a game of cards, his eye caught by Captain Kendall as he walked by them. ‘The officers look very smart.’
‘Very,’ said Victoria, pleased to express an interest in the other men on board, hoping that this might finally spur him into showing her more attention. ‘Have you seen the first officer? He’s very handsome.’
Edmund smiled but said nothing, discarding a red Queen on a red eight. This was the fourth game of rummy they had played and he had lost each of the previous three, which surprised him as he considered himself quite good at cards. He was trying to concentrate now, not wishing for a complete whitewash.
‘Last card,’ said Victoria as she turned up the nine of spades and bit her lip in anticipation of another victory; she gave a whoop of delight when it came. ‘Gin,’ she cried, clapping her hands together happily.
‘Four in a row,’ said Edmund, shaking his head. ‘You’re on a roll.’ r />
‘Mother and I play cards all the time,’ she confided in him. ‘Don’t tell anyone, but we play for money and she always loses to me. I consider it something of a private income at this stage.’
‘A card shark,’ he replied, smiling. ‘Really, Victoria. I’m surprised at you, taking advantage of me this way.’
She raised an eyebrow, wondering whether this was the beginning of a flirtation with her at last, but he had already reached for the pack and was shuffling them, ready to deal another hand. She sighed. Looking around, she searched the deck for any other eligible young men but there didn’t seem to be any. It was a most disappointing selection. Usually when they travelled, there was at least a dozen who would vie for her hand. And on those rare occasions when she herself found someone to whom she was desperately attracted the competition alone would make them jump into action. They continued their game and when it became clear that Edmund had meant nothing particularly teasing in his ‘taking advantage of me’ comment, she felt herself growing more irritated with him. And completely at his will.
‘Do you know that boy over there?’ Edmund asked after a moment, torn between concentrating on his cards, determined to win, and noticing the young, dark-haired lad watching them from a distance. Victoria turned around quickly to look at him and, as she did so, he turned away and looked out to the sea before stepping quickly back in fear of falling in, his hands pressed flat against the funnel behind him.
‘No,’ she said, turning back to Edmund. ‘I did notice him earlier, staring at me though, but I have no idea who he is.’
‘I believe you have an admirer,’ he replied with a smile and, despite herself—not to mention to her utter amazement—she felt herself begin to blush.