Late that night, there was a soft knock on Sibylla’s bedroom door. Emily’s voice whispered timidly, “Are you still awake, Mummy?”
“Come in!” Sibylla hastily stuffed her tattered edition of the One Thousand and One Nights into the drawer of her nightstand and sat up on her pillows.
Emily slipped inside the room. She was barefoot and, despite being almost twenty-one, her wide nightgown and long curls made Sibylla think wistfully of the little girl she had been. She felt a rush of sadness at the thought that her youngest was about to leave for faraway England.
The day had ended in a mad rush. The news that she would accompany Emily and Victoria had caused Firyal to panic. “Please don’t do this to me, my lady, I beg you!” she had implored. “The ocean’s evil spirits will devour our ship and we will all drown!”
She had only given herself over to fate after much cajoling, many tears, and the promise of extra pay.
Then they’d realized that neither Emily nor the servant had clothes suitable for the English winter. Victoria offered some of her own, and Nadira altered them as best she could. Still, Emily’s dress was too short and Firyal’s too tight. But they would have to do until a new wardrobe could be acquired in London.
And then the messenger Sibylla had sent to the Queen Charlotte to reserve two cabins had returned with bad news. Because she was a cargo vessel, the Queen Charlotte had few passenger cabins and all but one were occupied. Emily, Victoria, and Firyal would have to share one cabin. Knowing how cramped conditions on a ship were, Sibylla could only hope that the two very different sisters-in-law would not have a complete falling-out before they had berthed in London.
“You’re excited, aren’t you?” she asked her daughter.
Emily nodded.
“I feel the same.” Sibylla pulled back her bedspread and patted the mattress. “Come here, little one.”
Emily happily slipped in next to her mother. Sibylla tucked the covers in around them and put her arm around her daughter. The dimly flickering light of the oil lamp danced on the dark walls and furniture.
Emily snuggled up to her mother. “Almost like the old days, isn’t it, Mummy?”
Sibylla smiled. “You mean when Firyal told you stories about the djinn that skulked around our house at night and you wanted to sleep with me because you were afraid?”
“She used to do that to punish me whenever I snuck sweets. But now she’s afraid that Satan’s son, Zalamur, is going to drag our ship down to hell.” Emily giggled.
“And what about you?” Sibylla stroked her daughter’s hair. “Are you afraid of your trip to England?”
Emily was silent, and Sibylla was surprised to see tears in her eyes. She had thought that Emily’s curiosity and love of adventure would overpower any fear of the unknown.
“You’re going to have a wonderful time in England, my sweet girl. I’m going to give you a letter for your uncle Oscar to explain the reasons for your unannounced visit, and I’m quite sure that the family will be delighted to meet you. And I will inform your father of your departure as well.”
Emily began to cry. “Oh, Mummy, I shall miss you and Father so much!”
“And I you, dear child. But I know that you’ll have so many wonderful experiences. There’s no reason to cry.” Sibylla opened her nightstand and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe Emily’s nose the way she had done in years past.
“Mummy! I’m not little anymore.” Emily managed a crooked smile. She took the handkerchief from her mother and blew her nose noisily. “I have something I want to ask of you, Mummy. Do you promise not to be angry with me no matter what happens?” She seemed tense.
“What do you imagine could happen? Is something weighing on your mind?”
Emily avoided looking at her. “Oh, nothing. A lot can happen in a year.”
Sibylla took Emily in her arms. “Don’t you worry! You and your brothers are the most important people in the world to me, and nothing and nobody can change that.”
On the Queen Charlotte, December 1861
After finishing his breakfast of hard dry rusks, tea, and corned beef, Sabri stepped from the mess hall onto the deck of the Queen Charlotte and looked up at the azure blue sky. A strong wind hurried along the puffy white clouds. The Atlantic rushed, lifting the ship up and dropping it back down on the waves. With one hand, Sabri held his turban firmly on his head and clutched the railing with the other.
It was their third day at sea and he had yet to catch a glimpse of Emily. But the steward had assured him that Miss Rouston and Mrs. Hopkins had indeed come on board.
“With this kind of swell, the ladies are not feeling well,” he had informed Sabri as he swayed to keep his balance on the unsteady surface, carrying a metal bucket from which the smell of vomit emanated.
The Queen Charlotte had only been at sea for a few hours when the trade winds had worked themselves into a mighty storm. The sailors had managed to tie down anything that might be swept overboard, but the cow meant to provide fresh milk for the thirty passengers had fallen and broken a leg, so Sabri had had to assist the ship’s doctor with emergency butchering during the heavy storm.
He was among the few passengers not afflicted with seasickness. During the day, he sat in his cabin listening to the creaks and squeaks of the wooden hull, the roaring winds, the crashing waves, and the shrill sailors’ whistles. At night, he lay awake and tried to forget the pain of the separation from his family. If he did nod off for a little while, he would invariably be awakened from restless dreams by the ship’s bell announcing the change of guards.
Mealtimes were a welcome distraction, even though only a handful of passengers appeared at the captain’s table. The steward had tied down cotton strips crosswise on the tablecloths. This way, the dinnerware and glasses would not empty their contents into the passengers’ laps.
There had been decidedly more people at breakfast this morning, but Emily and Victoria were not among them. Captain Comstock had good-humoredly announced that the storms were now behind them—they had reached the more temperate westerly winds at last.
Now Sabri spotted the captain standing on the stern next to a sailor who was measuring the ship’s speed using the Dutchman’s log. He tossed a log attached to a rope knotted at regular intervals into the water and counted the number of knots that passed through his hands. A second sailor stood on the other side of the captain with a sand timer.
“Four knots!” the sailor called when the sand had run through the timer.
“Hmm,” Comstock grumbled and chewed on the mouthpiece of his pipe. “The Queen should easily manage nine knots in this weather.” He rubbed his hands together. “Into the shrouds, men. We’re going to pick up some speed! The group to finish first gets extra tots of rum!”