The Penny Heart by Martine Bailey Read Free Book Online Page B

sweetheart,
John Francis
     
    A heavenly sunset mocked me that night, the sky a tumult of lavender clouds tinged with gold. I sat on my narrow bed, my tinderbox in hand. Father had returned from the Bush Tavern some hours earlier, and was noisily sleeping away the effects in his chamber. Our hall clock chimed a half-hour after nine. I had to decide.
    I did my utmost to imagine a future for John Francis and myself. Yet all I could summon was fear: of hiding in shabby rooms, of every day dawning with the expectation of discovery. As the sky imperceptibly darkened to night, all vitality drained from my limbs. I began to rock gently back and forth and to touch my crucifix, longing for a sign from my dear mother. How could I go? Yet how could I stay? I searched in my heart for courage and found that fleshy chamber empty. As the minutes passed, my head throbbed with agitation.
    I believed I loved John Francis, but still I found objections. How could I be sure John truly wanted me – the awkward, impractical me? Would I not be a burden to him? Nor did I wish to betray his honest parents. And was it rightful to leave my own father, so soon after Mother’s death, just as he was cast so low?
    The clock struck ten. My candle stood unlit in my window. With shaking hands I struck the flint and coaxed a flame. Picking up John’s letter I burned it as the tears wet my cheeks. Then, throwing the letter in my grate, I cast myself down on my bed in wretched darkness.
    Soft footsteps approached below my window. I buried my head in my pillow. After a dreadful interlude of silence the footsteps quietly moved away.
     
    Almost at once I comprehended my mistake. My mother had wordlessly told me the truth on her deathbed. She had been chained to my father and now I was, too. Instead of locks and keys, I was a prisoner of drudgery and lack of funds. A few weeks later, news reached me that John Francis had sailed away on his uncle’s ship bound for America. In the meantime, our servants were dismissed, so each day I hauled myself through exhausting chores and fretted over dull concerns: the rising cost of bread, the darning of shirts. Once Father had drunk away the proceeds of his business, we were forced to live on the few shillings he received each week from a Friendly Society. After the apricot tree caught a blight and died, there were no more knotted biscuits. Besides, I could no longer afford fine sugar or aniseeds.
    I grew into a child inhabiting an over-tall body, a half-formed woman lacking even a working woman’s sense. And so you see, I have tasted the life of a drudge – the treadmill of unrewarded industry, of scalding pans, and battling against mud and dirt. My only pleasurable hours lay in the secret pursuit of my drawing: my pencils sharpened to needle points, my miniature portraits shrinking the world to a fairy size. I re-drew John Francis’s portrait from memory, seeking to resurrect something of his warm gaze, seeing again his lips parted in an indulgent smile. The precious lock of his hair shone a rich orpiment yellow in the sunlight; I wove it in a plait to set below his portrait.
    Then a letter arrived at Palatine House, and inside was such news that I was roused to startled wakefulness. I have heard it called a sort of murder to wake a sleepwalker; that the heart may be shocked into stopping. But is that sufficient reason to let a slumberer sleep on?

4
    The Pacific Ocean
     
    Summer 1792

~ To Broil Sea Lion Steaks ~
     
Cut your steaks from the shoulder about one inch thick. When your fire is hot lay them on your gridiron, upon a little melted blubber. Turn until enough and send to the table hot. Said by some to be superior to beefsteaks, if one can ignore the odour of aged mackerel.
     
A receipt from the log books of Pacific whaling ships
     
     

 
     
     
    Just after eight bells on a Friday night, when the parson of the Forbearance always performed Evening Service, Mary began a careful search of his cabin. Dimming