The boy looked about to see if anyone else had noticed, but the rest of the crew were busy hoisting aboard the passenger’s luggage: several heavy trunks as well as smaller wooden caskets.
The ship groaned and shifted with the breeze. Polman shuddered.
‘Easy, easy.’ Robbie touched the passenger on the shoulder in a bid to calm him and studied the shoreline.
He thought of the girl at his favourite dining room swathed in black silk, her dark eyes traced with kohl. Bands of gold encircling her arms, chains about her belly. The tinkle as her hips swayed when she served him mint tea and plates of steaming yellow rice. How he’d longed to put a hand on each hip and sink his head into the soft strip of flesh above her skirt.
He glanced at the sun over the mountains behind the city and wondered when he’d visit these shores again. Would he remember where to find the girl? Would her father let Robbie visit after their table’s bawdiness last night as they filled their gullets with Shiraz? He didn’t even think to ask her name … Robbie’s chest ached with shame.
‘Carry this gentleman to his cabin,’ instructed the surgeon.
‘One. Two—’
‘Wait!’ cried the patient, lifting his hand.
The surgeon shushed the Dutchman as if he were a fussing toddler. ‘Sir! It will be far more comfortable for you in your cabin. I insist.’
The passenger ignored the surgeon and looked to where the last of his trunks was being hoisted aboard.
A burly sailor yanked hard on the rope then accidentally released his grip. The trunk spun out of control through the pulleys, creating an unnerving whistle. The sailor cursed under his breath and rubbed his burning hand on his thigh.
The Dutchman twisted his head to where the trunk had hit the deck. The carpenter was righting the chest and repacking the tools that had spilled from it. Robbie turned to followed the Dutchman’s gaze.
In among the pile of tools was a rough green stone about the size of Robbie’s fist. He’d been ashore in Bandar Abbas long enough to recognise an emerald. Beside it was a leather sack that had fallen open and a trickle of clear stones spilled out like running water.
Among them was a diamond rough that shone a little brighter than all the others, with the slightest hint of gold. He stepped forwards to pick it up but was pushed aside by one of the deckhands, who grabbed the diamond along with all the others, placed it in the chest and slammed the lid shut.
Chapter 20
ESSIE
LONDON, 1912
‘What’s happened?’
Mrs Yarwood had greeted Essie at the Yarwood’s front door with a distraught expression.
‘It’s Flora.’
Essie had arrived home a little later than usual this Saturday evening, having lost track of time as she enjoyed her first silver service Devonshire tea at Fortnum & Mason with Edward.
‘I’m so sorry, love …’ Her neighbour choked on her words.
Essie bolted down the hallway to find Flora and Maggie on a mattress, chests wrapped in brown paper, hair lank around their pale faces. The room smelled of pine oil and fear.
Ma was kneeling beside the twins, rubbing Flora’s chest with Mrs Yarwood’s oil before reaching for each of their hands and pressing them to her heart.
Gertie entered the room carrying a bowl of hot water, while Mrs Yarwood draped a woollen blanket over both girls. Flora’s skin was grey and her ribcage shuddered with each breath. Maggie started to cough, her head lolling to the side when the attack had subsided. She found Essie’s eyes, and the edges of her lips moved a fraction.
‘I’ve sent Mr Yarwood off to fetch the doctor,’ Mrs Yarwood told her.
But the words barely registered as Essie ran to the twins.
Mrs Yarwood had hardly spoken when they heard the front door open. Essie’s stomach flipped with relief and she squeezed Maggie’s tiny cold hand.
‘You’ll be right soon enough,’ she whispered as Gertie stared at her across a steaming bowl of water.
But the man Mr Yarwood ushered into the room was no doctor; Essie looked up to see Father McGuire, draped in his black robes. He smelled of cigarettes and scorn.
‘It’s the croup, Father. Their little lungs are so weak—bless their souls,’ sobbed Ma. ‘Please!’
Essie looked at Flora and Maggie, who were straining to breathe.
Gertie rolled her eyes and muttered through gritted teeth, ‘The girls need a doctor.’
Essie doubted there was a prayer in the world that could save these two, but without so much as a glance at the sweaty sallow faces of Flora and Maggie nor a word of solace to their mother or sisters, the priest began to recite the Hail Mary.
Essie dug her nails deep into her palms and tried to swallow, tried to find words to protest as the walls started to close in.
‘Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us now, and at the hour of our death …’
When Gertie was tucked up in bed each night, Essie lit the oil lamp, tiptoed upstairs and lifted Gertie’s notebook from the side table. She sat in the rocking chair with the ledger in her lap and opened to the page with the lost twins. She studied the fine line of Maggie’s limbs, the bow-tie birthmark on Flora’s neck. Ran her fingers over their loose plaits and kissed their freckles, as if she could breathe life onto the page.
This was the room where she’d rocked the twins to sleep in a shared cradle through long winter nights. When they were sick, she’d rubbed Russian tallow or goose fat into their sunken chests, wrapped them in brown paper and held them close to keep them warm.
It had taken just two days from the Saturday when they had fallen ill for Flora and Maggie to draw their last breaths. Inseparable till the last, Flora had clung to Maggie’s limp form as they both faded away.
The church sent a horse and tray filled with coffins and the twins were carried out and loaded into the smallest two.
The funeral had been almost a week ago now, but the day of the funeral remained stark and vivid in her mind.
As the dray clattered over the cobblestones, the coffins slid around and Essie wished she could shout to the driver to take a little more care. She knew the girls couldn’t feel the bumps, but all the same …
Essie walked beside Gertie, clutching her hand.
Ma stepped gingerly behind, half carried by Freddie. Essie’s brother had turned up on the night the girls took their last breath, filthy, broke and ashamed. When he’d seen the state of the twins, his wretched face reflected the grief and regret of them all.
The funeral in the stone church was attended by a handful of local Irish families and a line of coffins blessed in a batch. It was a service that could have just as easily been presided over by the rates collector, it was so devoid of emotion.
A line of coffins, a litany of prayers. An unconvincing homily. It finished with a burial in the paupers’ yard up the road.
Gertie muttered to Essie as the priest gave a righteous sermon denouncing sin and asking for forgiveness, ‘It’s a little late for prayer now.’
‘He’s praying for their souls,’ hissed Essie with a sharp look to quell her sister. ‘Now, hush, otherwise he might stop. The twins’ poor souls will be stuck in this freezing church forever.’
Essie didn’t blame Gertie—she shared her anger. Eyeing the stained-glass windows filled with lightning bolts, crosses and other reminders of God’s wrath, Essie wished she had a rock to shatter them. What business did such a vengeful God have with Maggie and Flora?