Free The Secret Mandarin by Sara Sheridan Page A

wooden ladder onto the deck.
    The sky was clear as far as I could see. It was as if there had been no storm at all. As I emerged into the scorching heat Robert was salvaging battered plants from the end case. The bougainvillea petals were smeared over the shattered glass, the soil soupy with seawater.
    ‘Help me, Mary,’ he directed.
    My fury stung me. It was clear these stupid plants meant more to Robert than I or anyone else. I could not forgive the fact that his first comments did not concern the welfare of the crew or our good fortune in surviving the storm. I surveyed the battered plants with no pity.
    ‘If they will die, they will die,’ I pointed out and swept past him back to my cabin.
    I was not allowed ashore at the Cape although Robert must have trusted me more by then because I was at least allowed my freedom. I sat on deck under a makeshift parasol and watched the supplies being loaded. Bare-chested men with gleaming ebony skin carried boughs of fruit on board. They brought sacks of cornmeal and barrels of palm oil on their heads while I fanned myself regally with an ostrich feather, which I had bought leaning over the side and bartering in sign language with an old Indian man on the dock who seemed fascinated by the whiteness of my arms. While the loading of the ship diverted me, I admit that the views above the bay held my attention more. The flat mountain and the verdant countryside were entrancing. I found it difficult to harbour a grudge in such a setting.
    Robert repaired his case and restocked it. He chose grape vines that were delivered in terracotta pots and slotted into the empty spaces under the newly puttied glass.
    ‘Perhaps,’ he hazarded, ‘we shall start a vineyard or two in China. They make rice wine, you know. And five grain spirit. Now they can try a hand at a decent claret.’
    This amused the captain, who had come to stand with us as Robert bedded down the vines and soaked them well.
    ‘Are you recovered from the storm, madam? My petty officer tells me you were distressed,’ he said.
    Before I could answer this Robert stood upright.
    ‘My sister is now quite recovered,’ he said as if this should end the matter.
    Captain Barraclough, however, persisted. ‘I can imagine how frightening such an experience must be for a lady.’
    ‘Tell me,’ I asked, ‘are the crew all right? Did anyone…’
    The captain nodded. ‘All present. One man hurt an armwhen the rigging snapped but everyone was held fast with rope. No one overboard.’
    At this news my eyes filled with tears, a vision of those long past, another crew, another captain. Barraclough looked concerned.
    ‘I was on the Regatta, ’ I said simply.
    Robert looked furious at my admitting this but Barraclough’s face softened into understanding. He evidently thought that here he had found the reason for my behaviour when I boarded ship.
    ‘I knew James Norman,’ he said, naming the captain.
    There was a moment’s silence. I could think of nothing more to say. Then Barraclough bowed, having evidently decided I was not mad after all.
    ‘Will you do me the honour tonight of dining with myself and my officers?’
    ‘Thank you,’ I replied. ‘I will.’
    When the captain turned back towards the poop deck, I waited for Robert to reprove me. Instead he surveyed his planting.
    ‘I will say nothing to cause you embarrassment,’ I promised.
    ‘I suppose ‘tis well enough,’ Robert nodded curtly.
    That evening, like a debutante, I enjoyed dressing for dinner. I put on my finest dress and piled my hair into a bun with trailing wisps. For scent I chose lavender oil with a touch of violet. I pinched my cheeks ferociously to heighten my complexion and gazed at myself in the tiny glass with pride. To enter society again was exhilarating. I blew myself a kiss.
    The tales I had heard of high jinx and drunkenness in the captain’s cabin aboard British ships proved unfounded that night. Barraclough and his two officers, Matthews and