Hunting Midnight

ordered from London — the one I still have.” Mama’s eyes radiated love for him.

“Then, when I gave birth to you, John,” she said, tapping my nose playfully, “I knew that I had overcome all the evil done to me. You were my proof that all would be well in my new life.”

To me, of course, this fierce and intuitive solidarity between my parents made the destruction of their marriage even more terrible.

We then discussed my life since Francisca’s death, and she listened intently. I had been unaware of how strongly — and for how long — I yearned for this simple act of listening. She in turn spoke to me of her desire to open a music school, where, with Fiona’s help, she might begin to accept scholarship students.

She burst into tears upon hearing that I’d received a letter from Violeta, for whom she had prayed every night for many years. I refrained from telling her about my plans to see her in New York. I could not yet bring myself to speak of the troubling matters that concerned Mother directly.

*

Over the next days, Esther and Graca enjoyed visits to St. Paul’s and Kensington Gardens and were much taken with the perfumeries in Shire Lane and a Fantoccini performance on Oxford Street. Secretly, I posted a letter to Violeta saying that I would be arriving in New York as quickly as a ship might carry me. I added that I’d very much like to make a tile panel for her home, but that it might have to wait for a month or two while I attended to other business that I would explain to her upon my arrival.

I begged the others for a day alone to rest after the sea journey. From the sideways looks that Mother and Fiona gave me, I was sure they believed I had an afternoon of debauchery in mind. Not so. On Oxford Street I hired a hackney to a shipping agent’s countinghouse in King William Street, where I booked a room aboard the Saxony, which only a few months later would sink famously in a storm. I would be departing from Portsmouth precisely eight days hence.

I was feeling very relieved to have the ticket in my hand, until I asked the booking agent how long we would be at sea. “Last year,” he replied jovially, “at the very same time, her sails caught every gust of wind and she made the crossing in twenty-four days.”

I ought to have kept my mouth shut, but I could not help asking, “And if she fails to catch just a few of the breezes?”

“In that case” — he grinned — “I’d say you were looking at a journey of three months at least.”

XXXII

That evening, the girls went out with my aunt to the Covent Garden Theatre to attend a production of Macbeth, with Charles Kemble in the principal role. Though I had long hoped for a chance to attend one of his performances, this was the last play in the world that I wished to see. Mother, too, wanted no part of it, and so we remained at home together.

Knowing I could not delay discussing my travel plans any longer, I carried the letters addressed to Father from Captain Morgan into the sitting room, where Mother was embroidering.

“What do you have there, John?” she asked.

“Letters, Mama.”

“From whom?”

Taking a deep breath, I replied, “I shall tell you presently.”

“Aren’t we secretive tonight,” she said, smiling. Then she saw my distress and added, “But whatever is the matter, son?”

“Mother, you’ll excuse me if I ask a difficult question, but what precisely do you know of Midnight’s death?”

“I know just what you know.”

“You’re sure of that?”

She switched to Portuguese. “I’ll thank you not to adopt that supercilious tone with me.” She put down her needlework and set it on the side table. “John, I am in no mood for whatever nonsense you are planning at my expense.”

“Was Midnight truly killed poaching?”

She crossed her arms over her chest defensively. “That’s what I was told.”

“Did you not think it strange that there was no grave for him in Swanage?”

“Indeed. But the minister there explained — John, I told you all this in a letter years ago. Are you losing your memory or is it — ”

“Did you never suspect Father?” I interrupted.

“Suspect him of what?”

“Of having killed Midnight?”

She sighed, rubbed her temples, and stood up. “John, I fear that sleep is upon me. You’ll have to excuse me, but I — ”

“Sit!” I shouted, surprised at the vehemence in my voice. “We’re not finished.”

“You are not to talk to me like that, young man.”

“I’m thirty-two years old. I shall talk to you as I like.”

“I see that not even Francisca’s untimely death has improved your manners.”

I regarded that as a very cruel thing to say. Yet I was also decidedly glad that she’d made a tactical error, if the truth be told, for wounding me in this way served to make us equals; she could no longer oblige me to proceed with delicate caution.

“John, forgive me,” she said, shaking her head disapprovingly at her own behavior. “That was terrible of me. Please forgive me.”

“I do, Mama.”

She sat back down. “Yes, I suspected your father of having caused Midnight’s death. Whether through his negligence or willful encouragement of his hunting on private lands, I knew not. James could be irresponsible at times.”

“Encouragement?”

“Permission may be a better word. I still regard your father’s behavior as criminal in allowing Midnight to venture off into the countryside in a land so unfamiliar to him. But it has been so long. Can we not let both of them rest in peace?”

Convinced that she knew nothing of Father’s having sold Midnight to a slave-trader, I said, “Mama, what if I were to tell you that Midnight might still be alive?”

She snorted dismissively, so I added, “I’m deadly serious.”

She leaned toward me. “Are you telling me you saw his ghost? What did you see?”

Picking up the letters and handing them to her, I replied, “I saw these. Please look at them. They’re addressed to Father.”

She opened the first one as though it were a curiosity. “I don’t know a Captain Morgan. And I must say, reading letters addressed to your father makes me feel a bit like a thief. I think it better — ”

“Read them, Mama, please…. Do it for me.”

As she read, she complained about the illegibility of the handwriting, hoping, no doubt, that she would be able to dismiss the contents of the letters that easily as well.

After Mother had read the first of the letters, she said, “John, I’m not sure if this means … if this means what I think it does.”

“Read them all, Mama. Then we’ll talk. And after tonight, I shall not speak of them again, if that’s what you prefer.”

She nodded her agreement. To avoid the temptation to watch her while she read, I went to the window and pulled up a chair. I was picturing Mama preparing tea for Violeta and Daniel. How kind she had been to the three of us.

When I returned to her, her bottom lip was trembling and her cheeks were flushed. She removed her spectacles and said, “John, the English is beyond me. Tell me what this means.”