jabbed her in the ribs with his elbow. ‘Now shut up. You’re embarrassing me.’
Maisie watched him, trying to gauge what had triggered his reaction.
The captain shuffled his feet and said nothing.
Although her legs were trembling, Maisie felt she had to say, ‘I should like to put on my wedding dress.’
‘What for?’
‘I’ve brought it thousands of miles for this occasion. I’d like to wear it on my wedding day. The dress I’m wearing is crumpled and stained and I should like to change out if it.’
A shadow of irritation crossed his face and Maisie saw him clench his fist. Instinctively she stepped back, and ducked her face once more into her chest.
The captain tapped the glass face of his watch. ‘Are we able to proceed, or does the lady need a moment?’
‘She’s fine. She doesn’t need to dress up.’
The captain checked his paperwork. ‘Who are the bridesmaids?’
‘Miss Locke said she’d stand in.’ He indicated the woman Maisie had seen on the gangplank.
Maisie smiled across at the elegantly clad stranger. ‘Are there no other ladies here?’
Maitland’s lips tightened. ‘Mostly in Perth. They go south for the Wet. It’s too bloody uncomfortable for most females at this time of year. They’ll flitter back in March, give or take.’
She tried to unravel her disquiet as, wearing a stained dress and with tears not far from surfacing, Maisie promised to love and obey Maitland for the rest of her life, her spirits as low as the hemline of her dress.
The party was in full swing by the time it was dark.
Maisie slipped away to her cabin. Lit only by the overhead lamp, the shadows dimmed the horror of her situation. No-one noticed she had left the wedding party. The event had not been about celebrating a marriage. Maitland had barked his responses during the ceremony, as if he were commanding a fleet of warships; she had responded in a wavering treble that Mrs Wallace would have despised.
Her husband – she shivered at the title – was now enveloped in a wave of backslapping and ribald well-wishing. She sank down onto the bunk, wondering where her great hope for happiness had gone. She lifted the lid on her trunk and fingered the princess gown of white duchesse satin that she would never wear. Her trousseau had been handmade in London and had cost a great deal of money. She ran her hand over the dress’s silky fabric, which had been embroidered with pearls – a most appropriate and clever touch, the dressmaker said, being associated with brides and weddings and the profession of her future husband and all. For Maisie, though, they represented far more than that; they were her freedom.
Everything screamed at her that this marriage was wrong.
The fabric slipped through her fingers like sand. The outfit she was to wear for her reception was of chiffon satin in the fashionable ‘ashes of roses’ shade with an overdress of silk and gold net. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever owned and he had cheated her out of wearing it. The only time expense had ever been lavished upon her, and it had gone to waste. She replaced the dress in her trunk and packed away the last of her things, wishing she could load it onto another ship and sail back the way she had come.
There was a tap on the cabin door. Maisie jumped up and clutched the neck of her dress, her heart stuttering. Was this Maitland, come to claim his prize?
‘It’s the porter, Miss. May I collect your cabin luggage?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she rasped, and coughed in an attempt to ease the pressure clogging her throat. ‘Give me a moment.’
She took a final look around the hot, brown box that had been her home for eight days, and opened the door. She followed the porter out onto the deck, which was piled high with baggage and crates of drink. From the bar, she could hear the plonk plonk of an untuned piano and, in the distance, a train whistle. She found that surprising. She hadn’t expected a locomotive in Buccaneer Bay.
Maitland hadn’t bothered with private transport for his bride. Normally, he told her, he would have walked home, as it was only half a mile over the jetty. She’d had a long day though and might be glad to take the steam-tram. He helped her onto the open carriage and squeezed her onto the last vacant bench, wedged between the window and an elderly man of significant girth. Maitland slumped down in the corner opposite and closed his eyes. The tram shuddered to life and soon they were rattling over its rails across the wooden jetty towards the lighthouse.
Maisie leaned forward and tapped his arm. ‘Tell me about your life here,’ she said.
He opened his eyes and cracked his knuckles, one by one. ‘Nothing to tell.’
‘But I’d really like to know what to expect.’
He looked at her once and turned away, his foot banging up and down on the steam-tram’s floor.
Theirs was the first stop. He stood up and prodded her shoulder with the stem of his pipe. ‘Here we are. This is where we get off.’
The single-storey house was on the edge of town. In contrast to the tall grey townhouse where she had grown up in London, this was low – a squat white rectangle, one of the long sides facing the sea. Beyond that, it was too dark to see.
There were three steps up to the verandah. She put one foot on the bottom step and clutched the handrail. Maitland nudged her up towards the front door. ‘Home, sweet home,’ he said.
Maisie worked the gloves in her hands, hoping the torque of the twisted fabric would give her strength. ‘It’s a bit too dark to really appreciate the house, Maitland, and it has been a very long day.’ She thought of Mrs Wallace. ‘I have a dreadful headache and I’d really just like to go to bed.’
He didn’t seem to register her remark. He struck a match and flared a carbide light.
The smell was too strong: an overwhelming reek of garlic mixed with damp. Maisie’s nostrils flared at the sting of the smoke.
‘Maitland?’ She shuffled her feet. It had been hours since she last used the ship’s facilities and her bladder was stretched tight, like her nerves.
‘What?’
‘Might you show me where I can tidy myself?’
A jagged streak of lightning illuminated a wide verandah, which ran the length of the house. He took a half-step towards her, his huge hand extended. She shrank back against the doorjamb, fearful that he might touch her.
‘Maitland?’ Her voice was small.
Something in her tone reeled him in. ‘The bathroom is at the back,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you.’
He didn’t understand the euphemism. Hardly more than a rudimentary shack tacked onto the back of the bungalow, the bathroom housed a stained tin bath and shallow basin sunk into the top of a wooden table. A small woodchip water heater sat on the floor beside a large enamel jug. Two taps were connected to the heater – one stretched over the bath and the other was attached to the end of a long metal pipe, running the length of the wall and coming to
