passengers, the doctor said, were strictly forbidden here. Margaret looked for Henry, but saw only women coming and going, old and young and in between, all laden with sacks and baskets. Off to the side, four women stood in a close huddle, Mrs. Randolph obviously presiding, one hand holding her fancy cape closed, the other gesturing wildly.
“Your husband will have earned his stipend,” said the doctor, reading Margaret’s mind.
She asked, “Do you have any idea when we might expect him?”
“I don’t. Sorry.” He brought them as far as their cabin door and left, saying that he was overdue.
She entered thinking, Henry, Henry, wait until you see. They’d both imagined a fairly spacious cabin, anticipated a small sitting area at least. In fact, the room offered only three places to sit: upon one of the two lower berths or upon the stool beneath the writing shelf. Lamps and washstand were bolted to the wall, virtually promising heavy seas. A shout came from outside, along with a grating rattle of chain. The ship shuddered and began to move. John begged to go to the bow, but Margaret said no, Father wouldn’t find them in the crowd. They waited for Henry inside, the dim little cabin rocking like an elephant’s cradle. When he didn’t come, she prepared the children for bed. “It’s been a long day, hasn’t it?” She changed into her nightdress and climbed the six-rung ladder to her berth, crouching at the top, proceeding on her hands and knees. There was no other way. The Queen herself would access the bed with her bottom in the air. Below, John kept up a steady stream of chatter.
“We’re bound to see whales tomorrow,” he said. “And sea pigs too.”
“The wobbly man told us not to say pig,” said Josephine. “You’re to say sea swiney instead.”
“Porpoise then,” said John. “That’s their other name.” Margaret fell asleep to their voices, dreaming that Henry had snuck off the ship and gone home on his own.
He showed up just after ten, whispering apologies. The captain had detained him, along with the other constables, treating them all to brandy and cigars. “The skipper’s a dyed-in-the-wool bachelor,” he said, “with no appreciation of a lovely girl waiting.” He attempted to squeeze his large self in beside Margaret, but even with her backside flush against the wall, the berth would not hold them both. He climbed down and then up again, settling in the opposite upper with a loud sigh. They were to sleep like celibates for the duration then, something they’d never done. A lonely, hemmed-in feeling came over her. In the dark, she touched the ceiling, calculating the distance—eight inches, ten at the most. A near-term woman wouldn’t fit. “’Night, Henry.”
“It’ll be all right, Meg,” he said.
She closed her eyes. “It will.”
HENRY WAS CALLED away to duty the next afternoon, missing the last spit of England. Margaret bundled the children and took them up top. A few dozen others stood somberly at the rail, a westerly whipping their clothes, blowing hats from heads. Cornwall’s jagged cliffs rose somewhere off the stern, no longer visible without a glass. Ahead lay nothing, absolutely nothing but an alarming expanse of churning sea and dull winter sky. A man began to play the anthem on his flute, slow and mournful. Some of the passengers locked arms and sang. The women sounded especially sad, their voices cracking. Margaret wasn’t the only one, then. There were others whose bones wouldn’t warm, others thinking: What in God’s name have we done?
THEY ENTERED the Bay of Biscay that evening and came along the edge of a storm. An hour into the weather, Henry complained of dizziness and blurred vision. Margaret went to fetch Dr. Pritchard, finding his tight quarters filled with patients. He gave her an orange and instructions to have Henry go up on deck. “I think you should come have a look,” she said. The doctor promised he would first chance. But he didn’t, and Henry was left to rally on his own.
On the sixth morning, in sight of the African coast, the seas placid, Margaret awoke feeling queer herself, quaky and nauseous. The doctor gave her an exasperated look when she came in, one that said: You, again. He asked straight off, “Are you in a family way?” Margaret said yes, and he shrugged, as if to say the symptoms were to be expected. He advised her to keep a full stomach.
“Much easier said than done,” she said.
The doctor laughed, showing another side of himself. “You’re a droll one. I like that.”
Mrs. Randolph was passing the infirmary just as Margaret came out. “Mrs. Oades! You’re well, I hope?”
“I am.” The lady’s eyes were glassy, fevered-looking. She was younger than Margaret first thought, probably Margaret’s own age, give or take a year. “And you, madam?”
Mrs. Randolph put a hand to her middle. “The lamb stew of two nights ago nearly killed me. Mind what you eat.”
“I shall,” said Margaret. “Pardon my saying so, but you appear a bit peaked still. Perhaps you should see the doctor.”
“I’ve seen the no-good,” said Mrs. Randolph. “Once was enough, thank you. A baby died last evening, you know.”
Margaret’s eyes filled. “Oh, dear God. Of what?”
“Whatever the cause,” said Mrs. Randolph, “the quack inside made not the first bloody attempt to save it. He’s a dentist, by the by, not a bona fide doctor. The purser informed me.” She touched Margaret’s hand with trembling fingers, her voice softening. “The child was the mum’s one and only. She is beside herself with grief, poor wretch. She’s not left her berth even to relieve herself. Some of the others and I plan to attend the service at four. Will you come, Mrs. Oades?”
“Of course.”
“We’ll show she’s not alone in the world, won’t we?”
“Yes,” said Margaret. “Though we won’t begin to solace.”
THE BABY’S NAME was Homer Brown. Someone whispered, “Barely a year old.”
Prayers were said, and then the shrouded child was let over the rail, into gray water, beneath a gray sky. The bereft mother faltered as the baby was released, grasping the rail in lieu of a husband. There was no man present, no kin at all.
Above, Margaret could hear the rowdy drunks in the men’s hatch, Norsemen, a good many of them. Someone shouted in English, “Show a bit of respect for the baby’s mum.” But they did not let up for a moment.
MARGARET BEGAN to miscarry on the eleventh morning out. A strong wind had come up during the night and was only now abating. A keen howl continued, along with straining-timber noises, hideous, ungodly sounds to die by.
Henry brought her down to John’s berth, and then went for Dr. Pritchard, returning instead with Mrs. Randolph. She carried a sack and something wrapped in blue flannel.
“Dr. Pritchard is ill,” said Henry.
“He’s utterly worthless is what he is,” said Mrs. Randolph, placing the flanneled package upon Margaret’s abdomen. “A brick hot from the oven,” she said. “Just the thing.”
Mrs. Randolph turned to Henry. “Take the children up top, why don’t you?”
“Yes, do please, Henry,” said Margaret.
Henry began snatching the children’s clothes from pegs. He dressed them, consoling all the while. “Mum is fine, Mum is perfectly fine.” With sleepy Josephine riding his hip, he bent and kissed Margaret’s forehead. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered.
The ship rolled to port. A stir of odor rose from the chamber pot. Margaret turned to the wall, cramping still. The heat from the brick helped some. She drew up her knees, the sheet falling away, exposing her stained nightgown.
John