of bluebells. A strange, spicy fragrance hung, intoxicating in the hot air. I had hardly an ounce of strength and lay dreamless for a long time. Then I heard voices.
‘Une femme. C’est une femme!’
I opened my eyes and blurred, through the haze, I saw two, half-naked, black children running towards me, and a white man, leading a horse. His tunic was dark with sweat and his grey hair had come loose and shielded his eyes. He was old—fifty at least.
‘Mon Dieu!’ he said.
I was safe, thank God. The man gave the reins to one of the children. He leant over and gently poured warm water from his flask into my mouth. It tasted heavenly.
‘The others?’ I said, still woozy. ‘Les autres, monsieur?’
My French did not extend very far. The man shrugged his shoulders and shook his head sadly.
‘Personne.’
Even in a daze, half battered to death, I could hardly believe that I was the lone survivor. Were they all gone? The stinking deckhands, seadogs every one, the gruff captain with his two surly officers, the elderly, unsmiling chaperones who had attended our cabin and, of course, those like me, the companions of my shameful voyage—Miss Cameron, Miss Hughes, Miss Lucas, Miss Thornton and more. Punished by our families—sent away forever. Each on the run into the arms of the first Company man who would have her. And now, every soul aboard swallowed up by the wild and tropical sea. Every soul that is, except me.
‘Où est ici?’ I hazarded as the man lifted me up and placed me, floppy as a rag doll, on his horse.
I could not sit upright and lay flat instead with my head on the animal’s long mane and my fingers curled loosely around the reins.
‘Ici c’est Réunion,’ the man smiled.
‘I want to go home,’ I said.
My heart was in London. I had never wanted to leave. The whole journey had been forced upon me, after all. A banishment. A casting out. I had hated every minute even before the sea reared up. Now it occurred to me, perhaps the storm was a sign.
The old man clicked his reins and the horse began to walk up the beach. The movement below me felt awkward on the uneven sand and even my bones ached, but I smiled through my exhaustion. I had survived.
‘Allons nous à St Denis,’ the old man said. ‘Il y a un docteur.’
I think my family were glad that I had died. It must have been a relief. Crystal clear, I can see Jane now, wringing her tiny hands while she reads out the news from the evening edition—the first they know of the storm. As her lips form the words she is all too aware that her tidy navy dress with the red buttons is inappropriate attire in the circumstances, and that she will have to unpack the mourning clothes she used when our mother died. She wonders if she will be expected to organise a memorial service or a monumental stone.
‘What is it one does,’ she thinks, ‘when there is no body to bury?’
Robert, her husband, in his dark jacket and carefully chosen cravat, is pacing the thin carpet of their Wedgwood-green drawing room, circling around her like a wiry, wily woodland predator as he listens to the article read out from the paper. It is five weeks after the ship went down and all they have are the scantiest of details—a dry little column about the ferocity of the storm and the notorious waters of the Indian Ocean—fifty souls on board, no survivors and no mention of me.
Even if you are at sea, the weather in England is unlikely to kill you. Drama on the high waters off the Cornish coast or in the North Sea is not unheard of, but fatalities are very rare. Of course, there is plenty that will carry you off. The pox, the cutthroats fired up on gin who will burst your skin for a shilling, or the sheer poverty, the circular fortunes of the slums. If you have no money you can’t eat so the poor are thin, the unlucky starve and, for the most part, the likes of Jane, Robert and I don’t notice. But whatever filthy, threadbare, rat-infested, desperate horrors you might encounter in London, the weather all on its own is unlikely to take you, whatever Miss Austen might have her readers believe about the frailty of English women subjected to a summer rainstorm.
In the Indian Ocean it’s quite different. I can’t imagine Jane cried at the news of my demise. Her soft voice doesn’t waver as she reads the report aloud. My sister does not find it strange or tragic that I have been borne away by the sea. I imagine she thinks of it as the ‘sort of thing Mary would do.’ Always stoic, her dark eyes dart emotionless, like a tame bird. She copes uncomplainingly with everything and causes no fuss. I am the wild one.
She did cry, however, three weeks later, when I came back. I paused at the front door, wondering if I should have sent word from Portsmouth rather than simply a note from St Denis. The doctor had had good English. He made idle chatter as he inspected my bruises and cuts, pressing gently where the skin had swollen.
‘You will be marked for life,’ he pronounced, ‘but you will recover.’
Then he had them feed me bone marrow and a little brandy. Now, weeks later, the bruises were gone but there were scars that still ached. I was back in London after an uncomfortable voyage home on a trading ship. The city was my lifeblood and I was glad to be there, but my heart was pounding too, for I did not know what my family would make of my return. It had been five months since I was here last and I had disgraced them. I reached out and let the knocker strike and then waited.
The maid opened up and revealed my nephew behind her in the hallway. He froze as soon as he saw me and I thought he looked rather like a photograph, a perfect picture of England. His little body was already taut and strong in the image of his father and his skin was so pale in his charcoal grey shorts that his knees seemed somehow luminous against the shiny, dark, wooden floorboards.
‘Aunt Mary!’ he shouted when he found he could once more speak. There was panic rising in his voice and his eyes were wide.
‘Now, now, Thomas,’ I said to comfort him, as I advanced into the house past the plump, open-mouthed serving girl and laid my hat on the satinwood table. The poor child backed away as if I was a spectre and I realised straight away that my note had not yet arrived. They had evidently been mourning me.
‘A good thing that I can swim, don’t you think?’ I said gently, smiling to make light of it.
Thomas was taking lessons at the new pool in Kensington. We had discussed the subject on many occasions and he had vouched that it was his ambition to dive into the deep end from the balcony. Now, far braver than taking a fifteen-foot drop, he put out his hand and touched my cheek.
‘There now,’ I said. ‘Don’t ever believe a bad review, Thomas. Let that be a lesson to you.’
By this time we had been too long without being announced and Jane appeared from the morning room to investigate. She was holding the baby. My baby. I think it was only there in the hallway that I realised how much I had missed him. He had grown in my absence and there was a rash on his cheek. I found I was smiling quite involuntarily as I stared at it. It was a relief to see that he looked chubby and healthy, dressed in a little smock. They had kept their word. Jane hesitated at the sight of me and seemed to deflate—the black skirt of her mourning dress was huge and she too small within it.
‘He must be almost six months old now. He looks well,’ I smiled.
‘Mary,’ she mouthed.
I reached out to hold her in greeting and as I pulled back I saw there were tears in her eyes.
‘I was washed ashore,’ I whispered. ‘I wrote to you but I must have overtaken the letter…’ My voice trailed.
I put out my arms and she gave me the baby. I hugged him close. I never will understand how it is possible to so love a child—a child