‘I am sorry,’ says Mr Hancock.
They stand in dismay, neither one knowing what else to say. Jem Thorpe knows certainly what he would say, for once or twice he draws breath, and shifts upon his feet as if he were about to burst again into speech, but as for what he should say he is at a loss, and so remains silent.
From far down the street and beyond the lane there comes a voice, such a scrap of a call as might be made by a bird, and at such distance as to make it of no significance. Jem Thorpe, however, marks it, and tips his head. It comes again, a little nearer: ‘Daddy!’
‘Ah,’ he says. ‘My children,’ and they are at the end of Union Street, a girl in a white apron and a boy in white stockings, bending at the waist in their enthusiasm to shout his name.
‘Come home!’ they call, cupping their hands about their mouths. ‘Mama says where be you?’
‘My children,’ he repeats. ‘You do not think of them. I suppose you have no occasion to. I am coming!’ He holds a hand up to them. To Mr Hancock he says, ‘It is clear to me that you share none of our concerns. None. That is to your discredit, not to ours.’
Mr Hancock is torn quite in two. He has sought to make the best profit he can from the surprise of his mermaid; to rescue his reputation from mockery, and to raise himself some little way up in the world. He is inquisitive, in fact, as to what might come next, and refreshed by the newness of his situation: to build in a place where his forebears have not built before, and for people with whom he shares no bond of blood or society, is an appealing prospect. Why should he not build in Mary-le-Bone if he wishes?
And yet the cost of it is more than he can stomach. ‘Jem,’ he says as Mr Thorpe walks away. ‘Jem, attend a moment.’ He descends from his step and pursues the shipwright, who wavers. ‘I do have work for you.’
‘Aye?’
‘Aye. I lost my ship.’ He shuffles in the dirt. He had not yet thought what to do about the Calliope’s replacement; this decision comes almost viscerally, as if he made it in peril of his life. ‘I shall need a new one.’
Mr Thorpe is quiet for a moment. He narrows his eyes as if Mr Hancock were a troubling calculation.
‘Truly,’ says Mr Hancock. ‘You and any men you like; I leave that to your own judgement. I won’t meddle in your methods for even one second.’
‘And you’ll pay us what we are worth?’
‘Aye. And the sweepings, the chips, all the wood that’s over – that is yours too.’
‘As it should be.’
‘As it should be.’
The children of Jem Thorpe caper up now, and tuck themselves one under each of his arms. Their eyes are very bright with their exertion, and their shoulders heave as they snatch at their breath. Mr Thorpe cups his palm about the back of his son’s head. ‘Very well,’ he says. ‘Time I returned to my home.’
‘And you are satisfied?’ asks Mr Hancock. The children watch dumbly.
‘Aye,’ says Jem Thorpe, and although he does not smile his brow uncreases itself, and he stands a little taller. ‘That is the work I want.’
‘Good. Ah, but Jem, I want one more thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’ve a new venture in mind – I need a ship right away. Something modest and seaworthy, for business in the North Sea only. Not much beyond, I would not have thought. Do you know of anything likely?’
Mr Thorpe squints. ‘The North Sea? That is not your usual area.’
‘We must always be prepared for change. That is how we survive.’
‘Aye, well, I reckon I know a likely bet. The Unicorn, on the blocks at Mitchell’s yard, although he has no buyer for it yet. You might take a look.’
‘Much obliged.’
Jem Thorpe walks away with his children swinging at his arms, filling up his long strides with their leaps and skips. Mr Hancock shades his eyes against the redding horizon to see them go, and meanwhile hears – from this place and that, in streets unseen – the rising calls of women as they go to their thresholds and call home the ones they love. The bells of St Paul’s and St Nicholas’s begin to chime in conversation with one another, and from the back lane rises the percussion of children’s running feet. Mr Hancock returns to his own doorstep, where no wife stands with her arms outstretched to him, and no children buzz with their observations of the day.
The cat, at least, emerges from some shadow or other, and remarks upon his arrival with an impertinent chirp. He bends to chaff her ears but she’ll none of it, and swipes at his hand, and canters crook-backed across the floorboards with her tail puffed up.
‘Please yourself,’ he murmurs, and pacing alone to his cold pie is perplexingly put in mind of Angelica Neal, as if she had just sighed past him in the darkness of the hall. He thinks, how much longer can I tie myself to this town? Heaven help me, I’ll not tolerate such solitude much longer. He thinks, what he has long known, there is not a single woman in Deptford who will please me.
SIX
Angelica is sick with nerves; she has never known a thing like it. For two days she walks about her rooms and weeps intermittently. Grief crouches like a demon on her chest by night; by day it hangs about her shoulders and every little thing sets her off crying again. The first evening she cannot control the panic in her breast; she writes to him, and pays for its delivery, but although she stays by the window all night and through into the next morning there is no reply. Her food is like ashes in her mouth. She cannot look at Mrs Frost, who is unable to entirely conceal her satisfaction at Mr Rockingham’s departure.
‘Perhaps you should try going out,’ says Mrs Frost as coaxingly as she is able. ‘The theatre; you like that. Shall I write to some of your acquaintances? I think one of them will have a box for you.’
‘No, no. No theatre. I must wait here in case he sends word.’
‘And then the pleasure gardens are busy, they say, now that Parliament is back in session.’
Tears escape Angelica’s closed eyes and roll down her cheeks. ‘I cannot,’ she says. ‘I cannot be seen in such a way. I want nothing of any of this.’
‘Now, you must try—’
‘Why? What is the use in it? Oh, it is all very well for you to say; this is a triumph for you, is it not? You have not had your heart broken.’
‘Angelica, you have not known him even two weeks.’
‘Juliet knew Romeo three days.’
‘And if you had paid as much attention to the play as you do the audience, you would know not an ounce of good came of it. You are being a fool.’
‘You are made of stone.’
‘I will summon Mrs Fortescue,’ says Mrs Frost. ‘She will have some sense.’
‘No!’ cries Angelica in a panic. ‘Not Bel! I beg you, do not let Bel know of this misfortune. And besides,’ she spits, ‘she is married now. Her fine Hanover Square wedding won at such expense – she’ll want none of me now she is elevated.’
‘Well – perhaps then—’
‘Leave me be! I want nothing! I want only to wait for him.’ Angelica flounces into her bedroom.
She may be forgiven. If such stirrings of amorous passion came as a shock to her, being spurned by the object of her most ardent affection is quite beyond Angelica Neal’s apprehension. Love grapples judgement and experience from the hands of even the wisest of souls: what hope is there for anybody else?
On the morning of the third day, he returns.
She is locked in her bedroom, her eyes raw, with blue shadows beneath. Her chemise reeks and is stained, for she has not thought to change it in days, and until this moment had barely noticed. She marks this fact with some interest: her anguish is most certainly genuine, then. Even her hair is in disarray.