The Forbidden Orchid Read online

  Alex returned to fetch me a few hours later. He stopped when he saw me, his eyes traveling to my hair. He nodded grimly, understanding, and said nothing.

  It was a very dark night with clouds shifting over the moon, the ocean still and calm. The fresh air on my face felt like a balm after so long in the fusty ’tween deck. I wanted to pause, close my eyes and let the gentle breeze flow over me. But we had to move quickly. Alex’s quarters were in the back of the ship, inside of a large cabin he called the Liverpool House. Everyone was abed, save the sailors on watch, and no one took any notice of us.

  I thought I would simply sleep on the floor of Alex’s cabin, curled up in a blanket. But the room was wee, with barely enough space to move about. The small bed took up most of the space. There were maybe six inches of floor left. Enough for Kukla, but not for me.

  “I’m sorry, myshka. We’ll have to share,” Alex whispered.

  I looked around the small space and nodded.

  “The captain is the only one who has large quarters,” he said. “A clipper ship is built for speed and cargo and thus we must make use of every inch of space.” Alex gestured to an earthenware jug and bowl that sat on a small table near the bed. A small cake of soap and a folded towel sat beside it. “I’ve brought up some fresh water for you. I expect you want to wash. There is an extra nightshirt of mine there, as well.”

  The thought of a wash filled me with gladness. Just being clean would go a little way toward making me feel normal again.

  Alex made to leave.

  “Wait,” I whispered.

  He turned, his hand on the door’s latch.

  “You should stay here in case someone hears me moving about,” I said. “They will think it’s you.”

  Alex’s face colored. “I . . . oh . . .”

  “If you turn around and face the wall, perhaps . . . ?”

  “Uh, of course.” He turned around. Kukla leapt up onto the foot of the bed, turning round and round before settling down.

  I disrobed, washed quickly, and put on the nightshirt, which was frayed and much mended. It hung past my knees, but my calves and ankles were exposed. I climbed into the bed, moving close to the wall, and slid my feet under the blanket, which I pulled up to my chin. “You can turn around now.”

  Alex sat on the side of the bed and untied his boots, tucking them under the bunk. I closed my eyes so as to give Alex some privacy as he undressed. I heard splashing as he washed at the bowl.

  A few moments later, Kukla, hearing something, leapt to her feet and let out a high, shrill bark. Startled, my eyes popped open, and I saw Alex. He’d blown out the lantern, but the moonlight streaming in the little window lit up the room. He stood at the foot of the bed with his back to me, completely naked. It was only for an instant as he slid his nightshirt over his head, but I saw enough of him to sear the memory into my mind’s eye: the curve of his buttocks and the muscles that ran down his back. He was beautiful.

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  I’d never in my life seen a naked boy before. That small glimpse I’d had was enough to send my mind spinning. My fingers tingled, longing to touch him, to know what those muscles felt like under my fingertips. This thought was swiftly followed by one of embarrassment. Alex was my friend, not someone to ogle, as Deacon Wainwright had done to me. I felt as though I should apologize to him, but the idea of explaining why filled me with such humiliation that I wanted to grind my teeth.

  Alex climbed into the bed beside me. I turned toward the wall so he would have enough room, pulling my shoulders up tight to my ears and crossing my arms across my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible.

  Perhaps I should return to the hold and take my chances there. I wasn’t sure I could withstand this nightly humiliation, this inability to rein in my own thoughts, for three months. And I wasn’t at all sure I could fall asleep next to Alex.

  Alex had to lie on his side too, and this he did, facing away from me. Kukla, making things worse, stood up and draped herself over our legs, stretching her entire length across the bottom of the bunk.

  Alex said something to the dog in Russian, nudging her farther down the bed with his foot, and as he did so I felt his buttocks press against mine. The picture of what those looked like flashed into my mind again. I inched away from him until my nose was touching the wall. But still it was not enough room. If I could have crawled inside the wall and slept there, I would have done.

  I never imagined what it would feel like to lie next to a boy, and indeed my imagination could never have conjured up this sensation. It was the most intimate thing I had ever done in my life. I could hear every breath Alex took and feel the bed and blanket shift every time he moved. I could smell him, too. He smelled like the old wood of the ship, and tar and Kukla’s fur and something else. Something masculine that made me want to turn over and rest my head on his chest, tuck my head under his chin and tell him every fear and worry that I had. Tell him about how happy I was to be with him. Because if I were honest with myself, despite the fear over my family and how I would survive the next few months at sea, at that moment, I didn’t want to be anywhere else but on that ship, experiencing something I had only ever dreamed of, and with Alex.

  I lay there, willing myself to sleep, but sleep would not come.

  And then he spoke, his voice sounding clear and calm, “I think we will have three months of no sleep if we don’t relax ourselves to each other.”

  “I must own you are correct,” I whispered. “But what do you suggest?”

  “I suggest you should stop staring at the wall, for one thing. And I think we should stop holding ourselves still like statues. I will touch you a little bit and then you can touch me. That way it will feel right when we accidently touch in our sleeps.”

  I laughed.

  “What is funny?”

  “Sleeps.”

  “Is that not the correct saying? There are two of us, so it must be sleeps, no?”

  “No,” I said. “Just sleep.”

  “All right, then. Sleep.” He turned toward me and set his hand gently on my shoulder. His hand was heavy and warm and comforting. My shoulders relaxed and I dared to let myself melt against him.

  “Horosho?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “It means good.”

  “What does myshka mean? You called me that before.”

  I could sense him smiling. “It means little mouse.”

  I snorted. “That’s hardly complimentary.”

  He laughed. “I only call you myshka because Kukla wanted to hunt for mice and instead she found you. In Russian it’s a term of affection. But I will stop.”

  “No,” I said. “I like it.” I loved it, in actual fact. I loved the way Alex said it, mish-ka, drawing the first part of the word out like a whisper.

  Down at our feet, Kukla kicked her paws and made a noise that sounded like a muffled bark.

  “She’s dreaming,” Alex said. “Probably dreaming right now of running and chasing a myshka.”

  “Or stealing food.” I smiled into the darkness.

  Alex moved his head on our shared pillow. “She is a naughty dog, but I love her still.”

  “How did you come by her?”

  There was a long silence before Alex answered, and I was worried that perhaps I had overstepped the mark, although it felt to me that we could say anything to one another, lying here together as we were. But perhaps it was not the same to Alex. I was about to apologize when he spoke, “She came to me when I was living in Canton. She was a street dog, and she helped me find food. The only time she’s been away from me was when she was with you.”

  “You lived in China?”

  “Yes, for a few years.”

  “Do you speak Chinese?”

  “Yes.” I felt his arm move as he reached up to brush my hair away from his face.
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  “Why did you stow away?” I asked.

  Alex cleared his throat and took his hand off my shoulder. I thought he was angry with me for asking, but then I felt his hand return, this time to my hip. “That is a story for another day. It is sad, and I’m thinking we should be trying to have our sleeps. Sleep,” he corrected himself. “My mother used to tell me it’s bad luck to have sad thoughts when you close your eyes at night. Here. Lean back. Pretend I am your own bed at home and think about happy thoughts. We must rise in a few hours to take you to the ’tween deck. Close your eyes.”

  I did as Alex bade me. I closed my eyes and let my body settle against his. I thought about happy things. I tried to think of home, of my sisters and my mother and my conservatory, but instead I thought about a jungle full of orchids, mountains of tea, and a Russian boy named Alex. And I slept.

  SIXTEEN

  As the days went by, Alex and I took to whispering long into the night. I knew that I was keeping Alex from his “sleeps,” but he seemed happy to talk, often starting up a new conversation long after I thought he’d fallen asleep. We talked about his life on the ship and what China was like and my plants at home. And Alex brought back reports on my father, who, Alex said, spent his days writing in his journals or reading, rarely leaving his cabin or the saloon to walk on the deck.

  Always we talked while holding hands or leaning against one another as though I were his bolster and he were mine. In the morning, we’d always awaken in a tangle of arms and legs, Kukla having given up and moved onto the floor or under the bunk in the night. My embarrassment waned as the days went on until I couldn’t see what was wrong or shameful about being alone with Alex. His bunk had turned into a world of our own making, one that existed only for us and only at night. I knew that if anyone had any knowledge of what we were doing, that world would shatter, and us along with it.

  Every morning, before the sun rose, Alex would steal me back to the ’tween deck, and I would sit wedged between the bolts of cotton and wool, longing for night to fall.

  I felt as though I held my breath all day, desperate for the sun to go down so I could return to Alex’s tiny bunk and lie next to him. I didn’t know if it was a fear that caused me to yearn for Alex or because I was lonely, or something more—something I wasn’t sure I could admit to myself.

  Perhaps it was because I had so much time on my own that I thought about too many things. My worries about my family were more intense in the ’tween deck. I worried about my family and what Papa would say when he saw me in China. Alex had given me a book to read by the light of a porthole to keep my mind occupied, The Mill on the Floss. I had read it before, but I found the familiar story of Maggie Tulliver comforting.

  Sometimes Kukla would come with me, and holding her and stroking her soft fur made my fear abate just a little. Once she left, the dread and uncertainty would return once more.

  Just when I thought I couldn’t take another minute, I would hear Alex’s step on the stairs, and his face would appear around the staircase, his smile wide, his hand outstretched, reaching for mine.

  As the days wore on, the weather grew hotter and hotter until it was almost unbearable in the ’tween deck. Alex made sure to leave plenty of water for me, and he revisited me during the day to make sure I hadn’t fallen ill.

  One of the evenings, I’d had to go to Alex’s quarters on my own, as he’d been assigned the first watch, which was from eight to midnight. I waited until it was fully dark before I went up. I carried a heavy loop of rope over my shoulder in case someone should see me. Alex had told me to look busy and carry something workmanlike, and few would question me.

  When I approached the deck, I paused on the steps and looked left and right. I saw no one, so I started making my way. Alex had taught me about the ship. There were fifty men on the Osprey. The officers were Captain Everett; Mr. Ravensdale, the first mate; and Alex, the second mate. Two stewards looked after the officers who lived in the Liverpool House, the cabin in the ship’s stern. Mr. Holst filled two roles as carpenter and boatswain. There was a cook and two sailmakers. The rest were able seamen who worked at the helm and hoisted the sails; ordinary seamen who did all the dogsbody work such as cleaning and maintenance; and the young apprentices training for careers in the Merchant Navy. If I encountered an officer, I’d have to stop to knuckle my forehead in salute. Alex had made me practice this until he was satisfied.

  The starboard, or right side of the ship, was cast in shadow, and so I headed that way, with the intention to circle round to the stern, remaining in the dark as I did.

  A lantern shone from the heads located behind the figurehead at the bow. The light sat at the feet of someone on the “seat of easement,” which was a kind of crude necessary made from a square box with a hole cut in the top. I knew, from Alex’s comments, that a queue tended to form at the heads, and since it was after supper, many of the line’s attendants would have imbibed several sippers of rum.

  When I turned, I saw four men waiting, all dressed in ordinary seamen garb, so I was not required to knuckle my forehead. Two of the men at the back were arguing, so they paid me no heed, but the men in front saw me.

  The first man carried a lantern, and he stared at me with a quizzical expression. I tried not to return his gaze. No one had questioned my disguise yet, please God do not let it be now, I thought.

  I could feel the man’s eyes boring into my back. I tried to walk tall and with a swagger, but soon I heard a call:

  “You there! Oi! Nancy boy! Whatcha doin’ on this ship? You should be back with your mamma knitting stockings. . . .”

  I tried not to respond, but unable to help myself I snuck a look over my shoulder. It wasn’t the man in the queue who had spoken. It was the man who had been on the seat of easement. He was staggering up from the heads now, the lantern left behind. He gripped a jug, his trousers sliding down around his knees. I jerked my gaze forward and pretended I hadn’t seen him.

  “Oi! I’m talkin’ to you, mummy’s boy! I wonder if you feel as soft as you look?”

  In a trice he was upon me, and I felt a hand grab at my bottom and pinch hard. And God help me, I did it again. I lashed out.

  I turned and swung the heavy rope off my shoulder and into his belly.

  Oof! The breath left him with a grunt, and hobbled by his trousers, he fell facedown onto the deck.

  I hefted the rope back onto my shoulder as best I could because my hands were shaking, and continued on my way, leaving the men laughing at their friend lying prone on the deck.

  I wasn’t sure whom I had struck, or what his position on the ship was, but I hoped he was drunk enough not to remember me.

  “WE’LL BE CROSSING THE EQUATOR TOMORROW,” ALEX TOLD ME after we’d been at sea a few weeks. “They will be conducting the initiation ceremony for anyone crossing the line for the first time. So if you hear yelling and running about, don’t fret. We won’t have been boarded by pirates.”

  “Will your father be taking part?” I was lying on my side against him, as usual. It was so hot that we had left the blanket off. Kukla had taken to sleeping on the small space of floor, where it was cooler.

  “No. I hate it, as does my father. It’s a terrible ritual, but it means a great deal to the men, so my father allows it. He despises it so much that he remains in his cabin and lets Holst arrange it. I feel very sorry for the new sailors. The others have been taunting them since we left London, creating fear in them.”

  “Did you have to go through it?”

  “I did. I wasn’t harmed because the captain is my father, but one ordinary seaman, whom the others disliked, did not fare so well. They tied him to a rope and threw him overboard, dragging him alongside the ship. He very nearly drowned.”

  “I used to think life as a boy was much easier, but now I’m not so sure,” I said.

  “We have more freedom than girls, but we can never show we are afrai
d. Any sign of weakness can ruin a life.”

  “Alex?”

  “Da?”

  I turned to face him. “You are very wise.” Alex’s face was bathed in moonlight spilling in from the little window above the bed. I saw he was smiling. The ship’s bell rang out the hour, and two men out on the deck called to one another.

  “I don’t know about that,” he said.

  THE FOLLOWING DAY I WAITED IN THE ’TWEEN DECK, AS USUAL. I hadn’t slept much the night before because Alex and I had stayed awake too long whispering in the dark. I was stretched out on a bolt of cotton trying to fall asleep in the heat when the door was flung open.

  “In! Get in, you foul griffins!” a burly voice shouted. “Be quick about it!”

  Footsteps thundered down the wooden stairs. I sat up, swinging my legs to the floor. I stood up with the intent to hide amongst the bales but it was too late, for coming toward me, blocking my escape, was a line of the young apprentices, shuffling along, stooping so as not to hit their heads on the low ceiling.

  The man who had been chasing them wore a mask made of buckram painted green. A wig made of long strips of hessian sat atop his head. Another man, dressed in a similar fashion, appeared behind him and shoved a couple of the boys over bolts of wool, tumbling them onto the tight spaces between them.

  “On your knees!” he shouted, his voice muffled by the mask. “And pay homage to Neptune’s constables!” Soon, everyone was kneeling in any bare space they could find. There was a stack of cotton bales just to the side; I made to slide between them, but my movement caught the eye of the first constable. “You!” he shouted. “Avast and on your knees! Curse you for a coward!” He climbed over several bales after me, his mask menacing and terrifying. “King Neptune will hear about this, upon my word.” He reached me, and before I had a chance to kneel he kicked my legs out from under me.

  “All right, you slimy pollywogs!” his mate said. “You’ll stay here until King Neptune calls you to the weather deck. Prepare yourselves!”