A letter had gone ahead of them by fast courier to England to let the newly made Earl of Verbury know that they were en route to Antigua. Vincent had called at the post before they left the port in Falmouth, and a letter from Richard had awaited them, full of such unreserved gratitude that it made Jane a little easier about their decision to go. Still, Jane could not help but think that affairs in Antigua would be much altered eight months after the late earl’s death.
One of Jane’s true concerns as they finally set sail for the West Indies was that Vincent would be unable to work glamour as a means of distraction at sea. She had packed a few books and their painting supplies, but her best hope lay in the Verres Obscurcis they had made in Venice. Vincent was ever a theorist, and puzzling out a conundrum would be just the thing to occupy his mind.
Their berth upon the Marchioness of Salisbury was a small room, no more than five feet long and six wide, though it was large by ship standards. Jane could touch the ceiling with a flat hand without standing on her toes. Vincent had to duck to enter the room at all, and he stood with his head cocked to one side, as though he were afraid he would knock it upon the ceiling. Its two narrow bunks, one atop the other at one end of the room, made it clear that Vincent, who was rather over six feet in height, would be sleeping bent the entire voyage. A desk stood built into the forward wall with a variety of cunning shelves above it. Each had a rail to keep the items on it from tumbling off as the ship rolled.
When they first boarded, the movement of the ship troubled Jane not at all. In the morning, however, she was barely out of her bunk when she was afflicted with unexpected nausea. With an urgent necessity, she availed herself of the chamber pot and emptied her dinner from the night before.
Vincent sat up in the top bunk and knocked his head upon the ceiling. With a hand to his head, he clambered out of the bunk. “Muse, are you all right?”
Jane’s answer was apparent as she was sick for a second time. When the heaving had passed and Jane had wiped her mouth upon the cloth that Vincent provided, she straightened. “That is most vexing. I hope that I did not acquire an ague at the last inn.”
“Might you simply be seasick?”
“I never have been before.” Her stomach churned again and, as if her body needed to voice its disagreement, Jane was sick for the third and fourth times in rapid succession.
“Would you like to lie down?”
“Yes.” Jane caught her breath, grateful that she had not yet put on her stays. “I think I might.”
*
By the afternoon, Jane’s stomach was improved enough that she felt she might venture forth. She stepped into the dining hall that divided the main cabin. A long narrow table ran down the middle of it, under a skylight that showed an abundance of sail overhead, and beyond that a brilliant blue sky. Jane walked to the front of the cabin and climbed the short ladder, which led up and out.
Stepping over the raised threshold and onto the deck brought her almost immediate relief. The fresh salt air brushed away the lingering nausea. A stiff breeze whipped past her, clutching at her gown and playing with the ribbons of her bonnet. If Jane had not tied it snugly down, she would have lost it to the sea in moments.
That great body of water surrounded them, grey-green and rolling. The passage to the West Indies would be close to a month, and Jane could only hope that she would not be ill that entire time. The ship was filled with men in smart blue uniforms working on the various tasks. Though most were of European descent in appearance, a few Black Africans and a slender Asiatic man worked amongst the others. She could not pretend to understand what any of them were doing with the ropes, beyond adjusting something in the rigging, but the boys scrubbing the deck were obvious enough.
The ship pitched, and Jane grasped the rail as the deck tilted beneath her. A moment later it levelled, and then tilted the opposite way as the ship climbed the next swell.
“Look at the horizon, madam.” A Black African sailor stood on a platform a few feet away, steering the boat. He spoke with a curious accent, almost as though his words had been flavoured with sweet jam. He had a broad forehead beneath close-cropped curls and had a long, narrow, nose. He wrinkled that nose and smiled at her. “If the motion of the ship troubles you, the horizon is steady.”
“Oh. Thank you.” Too ill to be much disturbed at being addressed without an introduction, Jane swallowed and looked out at the far horizon. “Were you much troubled your first time at sea?”
“Oh no, madam. I was sailing with my father before I have memory. But I have seen other Europeans turn your particular shade of green.”
“Ah.” Staring at the horizon did seem to help. “I thought that Africa was a desert sort of place. I had not thought of sailors there.”
He laughed. “It is a large continent with a significant coastline. Somalia, where I am from, has a navy to make the British take notice.”
“I confess surprise.” She inhaled and let her breath out slowly. “Thank you for the advice about the horizon. I am not usually troubled by seasickness, so have no methods for assuaging it.”