7

Red. Billows of red surround me. Beneath the red tinge we vow.
Offered honestly. Freely.

The sickness was intolerable. Edward languished on his bed, feeling every bit as green as the country pine curtains and furnishings that decorated the cabin. Through the thin wall beside him he heard retching. The exhaustion in the cough told him it was Rosalind. The travel from their home estate, Hathrone, had exacerbated her symptoms terribly, and the constant pitching of the waves was doing nothing to help. When his own stomach allowed, he tended to her every need, pulling more blankets over her when she shivered at night, feeding her broth, helping her to dress in the mornings and pretending not to notice the blood that stained her pillow; a halo of red splattered about her head. Her condition had advanced, they both knew it. But acknowledging this new development would do nothing to help either of them. So he praised her resilience and she batted his fussing away. All a ploy to disguise the fear that hovered around them.

Mary, whose constitution somehow overcame the constant roll of the sea, watched on frowning. Edward could see the rebuke in her eyes; he was taking over her role. Today, however, she would have Rosalind all to herself. Edward was too ill to move. He had thought his symptoms to be easing, but a wild storm the night before had thrashed the boat for what seemed like hours. And now, in the soft light of morning, the smell of Rosalind’s vomit drifting through the rooms threatened to set him gagging.

He rolled onto his side, curling into a ball, quietly groaning to himself.

‘You need to get some exercise, and you need some distraction.’ Mary’s authoritative tone broke through the malaise of illness that cocooned Edward.

The sheet was thrown from his body. He looked up at his round maid, ready to give her a firm piece of his mind. But the words died on his tongue as he took in her pale face, the dark circles under her eyes, wrinkles etched in deeper along her mouth and cheeks. She had not slept, not all night. How selfish of him to lie here in self pity while she carried the burden of caring for his wife.

Edward sat up. ‘Get some rest Mary. I will tend to Mrs Barrington.’

‘Miss Rosalind,’ Mary began, she still used the diminutive for her long time charge, ‘is finally at rest. And I plan to catch a few minutes myself. But you need to get outside. Fresh air is the only cure for the seas, everyone knows that. It’s so musty in here it’s no wonder you are ill. I can’t imagine what the poor people in steerage are dealing with.’ She paused, huffed and planted fists on ample hips. ‘Miss Rosalind, she can’t be moved. But you have no excuse. Now get to the decks and take a walk. Get some colour back in your cheeks. And when Miss Rosalind is more rested you can take her for a turn through the halls. What do you say?’

Irritated he began to rise, but his stomach rebelled. He barely made it to the chamber pot beside his bed before retching. The spasms gripped his stomach, his cough tearing his tender throat raw. Only a few drops of liquid came up. He was empty. Retching from illness alone with nothing left to pass. Next door he heard Rosalind murmur fitfully. He tried his best to be quiet as he cleaned himself up, Mary watching his every move. She did not offer to help.

Grudgingly, he admitted that Mary was probably right. He was far better off than his wife, and he should get some air. Mary would take care of her. Standing stiffly he reached for his cloak. Allowing himself to check briefly on Rosalind, he pressed a butterfly kiss to her forehead then strode from their rooms.

He wandered along the hall from their rooms, stepping gingerly, one hand clutching his stomach. Light was shining through the portholes positioned along the roof, shards capturing the dust motes that danced up from the rich red carpet lining the floor. Mounting the stairs to the top deck Edward stubbed his toe against the wooden stoop.

‘Dash it!’ he exclaimed, slamming his fist into the handrail before continuing to climb the stairs.

The despair that had been coursing through his veins these past months was transforming into an indignant fury. His vision went red, then deepest black as his mind followed an all too familiar path down into a spiral of hopelessness. Everything he tried went wrong. Australia was meant to be the answer to Rosalind’s sickness, and yet here they were, emptying their stomachs of all nourishment, surrounded by nothing but waves and wind.

His head broke free of the lower deck and into the bright sunshine. A wash of icy wind traveling off the open ocean smacked into his face. Above his head two large expanses of white flapped and caught its power, blowing Edward from his homeland. Bracing against the cold, Edward lurched himself onto the deck. His temper was so enraged he didn’t notice the drastic change in temperature. He stumbled to the left heading for the front of the boat, his balance unsure on the open deck where he became suddenly and acutely aware of the waves buffering the vessel from side to side, front to back. Edward pitched forward with the boat, catching his feet on each other, yet his frustration propelled him on. Coming to the boat’s bow Edward threw himself against its railing.

Clutching the cold, steel barrier that held back the sea, or rather his body from the sea, Edward screamed as violently as his lungs would allow. As if in time the boat pitched back, wrenching his grip from the rail, heaving him onto his back. He hit the deck with a loud thud, a sharp pain shooting up his spine. Edward screamed his anger out again, punching his fist against the wood. The boat leaned forward once more, Edward felt his weight move with it and he slid forward again. Gripping tight to the rails, he looked out before him.

There was nothing to be seen.

Blue water so deep as to appear almost black stretched on for miles, ending only at the line of the sky. The heaving of his chest began to slow and his breathing deepened, filling his lungs with the cold wet air off the ocean. The nausea that had tormented his nights began to ease.

Pulling himself into a tight ball, still clutching the rail, Edward bent his head down and wept. Wept for Rosalind, for his passion to write; so linked with his love for his wife that its place in his heart was also dying. Wept for the open sea, too alike the echoing halls of his childhood abandonment. Wept for the wide world and the pitiful nothingness his life, and his tribulations, were to it. Against the black of the depths, Edward felt even more alone than he had ever before.

Next Chapter: Chapter eight: To find a companion