Free The Secret Mandarin by Sara Sheridan Page B

Llewelyn, were easy company and civil. All had been to Chinabefore and were patient as I quizzed them about our destination while the very cream of our replenished supplies were served—a side of boar and some exotic fruits I had never tasted before, which were as honey in their sweetness. As the salty night air seeped into the candlelit room I simply felt happy to have conversation and company. No one mentioned the storm or my time on the Regatta and I was grateful for that.
    ‘The highlight of London on my last visit,’ Llewelyn admitted, ‘was Hamlet with Mr Charles Kean.’
    Barraclough smiled indulgently. ‘Llewelyn is one of our artistic officers,’ he explained. ‘He takes drama very seriously.’
    ‘I know the production. So tell me, sir,’ I ventured, ‘how did you find the tights?’
    Llewelyn shrugged his shoulders. ‘Tights, madam?’
    ‘Why yes. It was the chap playing Horatio. For you know, Hamlet—that is Mr Kean—is a most exacting gentleman and the young fellow, at the Royal for the first time as it would happen, lost the dark tights that were provided for his role. His “mourning garb”. He scrabbled about everywhere but could find no replacement save a scarlet pair, that were rather patched. For Horatio? Can you imagine? Knowing that each of Horatio’s scenes are played with Hamlet and that Mr Kean would not let such slovenliness pass, he visited the great man’s dressing room to explain and receive permission to wear the scarlet hose until a replacement could be procured. “Ah,” said Mr Kean when he heard the story, “I will forgive you, but” and here the great man pointed skywards, “will you be forgiven there?”
    ‘Actors!’ I declared as the men laughed. ‘They do take the whole business rather seriously, don’t you think? Did you as much as notice the famous tights, Mr Llewelyn? That’s what I want to know.’
    Robert cut in, of course, as soon as the laughter subsided. ‘I shall tell you the story of the cultivation of the potato now,’ he announced and diverted the attention away from me just as the cheese came to the table.
    Although I sighed inwardly, I do admit that the details of his tale did appear more interesting somehow at sea than they ever had in the drawing room at Gilston Road.
    When the ship’s bell struck ten Robert walked me to my cabin door and bid me goodnight.
    ‘I enjoyed myself,’ I said. ‘Thank you for letting me attend.’
    In my cabin, alone again as I pulled off my gloves and considered getting ready for bed, I heard a footstep on the corridor. I waited a moment or two as it receded and then checked the door. At the footplate Robert had left two books. One was on the subject of the Han Dynasty, the other an examination of Chinese porcelain production. I took them in greedily and flicked through the pages. It was difficult to sleep in the heat. Even in the dead of night it was humid and uncomfortable. I often read until my eyes were dry with tiredness. It was comforting that this gift meant Robert was set to forgive me a little and was entering into the spirit of the peace pact I had hoped for.
    In the second tome a detail caught my eye—an unusual china plate with a star pattern. At dinner the captain had mentioned how different the stars were when he viewed them from the south and I thought to show him what I had found. Perhaps he might be able to identify the stars in the illustration. We had a long way to go together. I grabbed the book and left my cabin once more.
    In the moonlight I crossed the deck and rapped on the captain’s door, not waiting for an invitation to enter. I had left him so lately that I still expected there to be companyin the room. As it turned out there was. The cabin boy. As the startled child ran past me, a flash of bare flesh and rags, it struck me that he could not be more than twelve years of age. His breeches were not fastened properly and I could smell a grown man’s sweat—the smell of sex on his skin.