Sara Sheridan - The Secret Mandarin

‘Rubber, tea, sugar, timber,’ he enumerated, leaning over the dining table counting on his fingers. ‘They’ve all been brought back to London. Tobacco, potato, coffee, cocoa beans. I will find something,’ he muttered, ‘and it will pay.’

At the time Robert’s ranting seemed like the crazy ramblings of a Lowland Scot. Not that Robert had kept his accent. It diminished daily.

‘I will not end up like Douglas,’ he swore, ‘mad, penniless and alone.’

I nibbled the cheese on my plate. You could not argue with Robert about plants and my interest in any case was limited.

The thirty guineas a year most generously settled on Henry was the first money that had come from my side of things in eighteen months. It had been difficult for Robert and Jane, I knew. As in any household, extra money was a boon. So this windfall provided a nanny, covered all Henry’s expenses and, with what William had referred to as his ‘dues for the last several months’, Jane paid for another ticket to send me back to India, for, unspoken as William rose to leave, was the understanding that I was troublesome and the money would only be forthcoming if I was removed. If I had daydreamed of dallying in London, I had been squarely woken from it.

The Filigree was due to sail at the end of the month.

I found myself restless and unable to sleep. Things weighed uncomfortably on my mind. One night, some days after William’s visit, I was late and wakeful. I visited Henry in the nursery but at length I grew tired of watching him and had it in mind to cut a slice of bread and have it with some of Cook’s excellent raspberry conserve. I sneaked down to the kitchen like a naughty child, barefoot in Jane’s old lawn nightdress. I had not bought anything to wear after the wreck and had only the clothes kindly provided for me on the island—Parisian cast-offs, well worn—and some hand-me-downs from my sister.

The slate was cold on my feet. The air in the house heavy and silent—not even the ticking of a clock. The bread was wrapped in cloth and, as I unwound it, I jumped, spotting Robert, red-eyed, crouching beside the stove. He looked worn out—far more than I. His skin was as white as the nightshirt he was wearing over his breeches and the curl of hair that protruded at the top of his chest, clearly visible above the linen collar, looked dark against it.

‘Sorry, Mary,’ he said. ‘I could not sleep. I have not rested properly in days.’

The house, it struck me, was a shell and we were restless spirits within it, seeking respite. Though I could not see what reason Robert had to prowl about in the dark.

I had planned on opening the heavy back door and sitting on the step while I ate. Everyone in the family had done that from time to time. It was something of a tradition. That night it was too cloudy to see the stars but the moon was almost full. It cast an opaque light through the misty sky.

‘Well,’ Robert said, ‘perhaps we should have some milk?’

He brought the jug from the pantry and poured. I cut two slices of bread and spread them thickly with butter and jam. We swapped, pushing our wares over the tabletop. I glanced at the door.

‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘We should sit down.’

There was a breeze in the garden. Very slight but delicious. The fresh air blew in as we sat companionably on the step listening to the church bell sounding three. As the night wears on, the chiming sound echoes so. It is different once it’s dark and the streets are quiet. I thought this could not be anywhere but England. The touch of cool night air on my skin and the bells in the distance. There were those, I knew, who had been out half the night at cards or dancing or worse, who were only now in some dark carriage on their way home. Robert shifted uncomfortably. He had a fleck of jam on his forearm and when I pointed it out he brought his arm to his mouth and sucked the sweetness away. This left, I noticed, a pale pink mark on his skin.

‘I am going, Mary,’ he said. ‘I am commissioned.’

Robert did not look at me though an eager, almost shy, smile played around his lips. He had been given his chance. I assumed that he meant that the Society was sending him abroad to collect botanical specimens. It had been his ambition for some time.

‘Where will you go?’ I asked.

‘China. Camellia sinensis. Tea plants.’

‘You would think they had tea plants aplenty at Kew.’

‘Those are Indian tea plants, not Chinese ones. Besides, I am not going for the Society,’ Robert whispered. ‘They do not pay anything more for travelling and whatever I bring back is not mine. I will go for the Honourable East India Company, Mary. Whatever new plants I collect outside the terms of the commission will belong to me. I will sell them to a private nursery for profit.’

‘How long will you be gone?’

Robert stared towards the garden wall. ‘More than one year certainly. Perhaps two or three. If I can find something it will make us, Mary. And of all the specimens to come from the Orient I cannot believe I will not make a discovery there.’

He had not touched the food. It lay in his hand. When Robert had secured his position at the Society it seemed the pinnacle of his career. This was a leap beyond. For all his efforts to fit in, all his fears about my behaviour, Robert was audacious on his own part. He worked every daylight hour. I could not find it in my heart to begrudge him this success, however difficult a time I was having.

‘Well done,’ I said, holding up my milk in a toast. ‘I hope you discover something England cannot live without!’

We tapped the cups together, though as he drank I could see a flash of uncertainty in his eyes. Robert had fought hard to scramble up the rough battlements of advancement. He had become everything his betters wanted—a hard worker, a respectable family man and a prudent and underpaid employee. Now he had thrown over the Royal Society and struck out for himself. A mission to a barbarian land would be both dangerous and difficult. It was daring. No wonder he couldn’t sleep.

‘If anything happens to me,’ he said in a low voice, ‘I worry that they will fall. They will go hungry. I could stay at the Society, of course, but then we will never have the money to move up. I want the children to marry well.’

A few months ago I would have considered these words only proof of Robert’s desperate desire for his own advancement, but now, having Henry, I recognised the father in him. Besides, he showed more spirit that evening than I had seen in him in ten years.

‘No one could know more than you do. You have an eye for it—a feel for the plants that has brought you this far and will take you further. Strike out for yourself, I say, Robert. Jane will not be for starving if I know my sister. You are doing the right thing,’ I promised him.

He took a hearty bite of his bread and jam.

‘They do have a fund at the East India Company,’ he murmured. ‘For widows.’

We said no more.

The following afternoon I took the atlas from the morning room and sat by the fire. The tea countries are hilly and lie away from the coast. Robert was set to travel far further than I. With my finger I traced the outline of Madagascar, the largest island in the Indian Ocean. Réunion lies to its east. My fingers followed the fine line of the coast. The map seemed too small to contain the vast, empty sea, the expanse of beach, the two miles to St Denis that I had been led on horseback, half dead. What lay for me in the maze of streets behind the tiny black dot that marked Calcutta and where was my sense of adventure that I so strongly resisted its allure? Unlike Robert I would not travel in unwelcoming territory. Bohea and Hwuy-chow were closed to white men. In India I would be welcomed with open arms.