Lady Persephone’s words reminded me of what I had heard at the emigration meeting. It seemed to me that the empire was getting rather far-flung; there were so many colonies and Britain itself was far away from most. Perhaps it was more prudent to focus on remedying the problems within our existing colonies closer to home.
“I wonder,” I said tentatively, “how Britain can effectively manage so many territories.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized it was the wrong thing to say, especially to the prime minister’s cousin. I didn’t need Harriet’s kick under the table to tell me that.
Lady Persephone’s eyes narrowed. “We do very well. We British were born to be rulers of lesser peoples. It’s God’s will.” She raised her wineglass. “To the empire, may the sun never set upon her.”
There was a cacophony of scraping chairs as we all rose to our feet. “The empire,” we cried, raising our glasses in unison.
“What draws you to the colony, Miss Harding?” Lady Persephone asked when we’d sat down again.
I didn’t know how to reply. I wasn’t so much drawn as forced, but I couldn’t tell Lady Persephone that. “I…”
“My sister is selflessly stepping forward to do what is in the best interests of the empire,” Harriet said. “She’s willing to settle in one of our furthest outposts in order to make a respectable marriage with one of our native sons and raise a good Christian family.”
“Hear! Hear!” Reverend Burk said, raising his glass to me. Lady Persephone echoed the sentiment. I felt Reverend Crossman’s eyes on me as he raised his drink with the others, and I desperately wanted to sink into my seat, but I sat erect, my chin up, and pretended to be the woman of conviction that Hari just described as the wind howled outside.
Chapter Thirteen
I awoke in the night feeling as though I had dropped through a trapdoor into Dante’s nine circles of hell. The third circle, to be exact. I had heeded the captain’s advice and hadn’t eaten much at dinner, but clearly that wasn’t enough. I gripped the headboard of my bed, trying desperately to brace myself against the endless plunging and lifting motion of the ship. I was thankful that I had snapped the bed’s side plank into place before retiring despite thinking it childish earlier. It was all that held me from being tossed painfully from my bunk onto the cabin’s cold wooden floor.
The howling gale brought with it a pungent seaweed-smelling dampness that seeped through wall cracks and permeated the cabin. My hot, dry lips tasted of salt, and my stomach cramped painfully as bile began to percolate up my throat. Sliding from my bed onto the floor, I crawled towards the washstand in Hari’s room in the faint glow of the moonlight. I grasped the lovely porcelain washbowl that I had so admired and I retched, my stomach desperate to rid itself of its contents.
“Sorry, Hari,” I croaked, sure I’d woken her, but she didn’t respond.
As I clutched the bowl, I regretted my cynical view of Reverend Burk’s long-winded supplication and prayed that the dreadful motion of the ship would stop. I vomited again until there was nothing left.
I didn’t know how much time had passed, but eventually the endless gyrating motion that consumed my world subsided and my gut ceased its violent purging. My white flannelette nightgown was damp and clung to me. Slowly, I stood and looked over at Harriet’s motionless body. How could she sleep through all of that—the storm, my sickness?
I ignored the shivers that ran over me and went to her bed. Even in the poor light, I could see that she was deathly pale.
“Harriet?” She didn’t move. I scanned the bedside table and saw the remains of two spent vials of her medicine. Oh no, I thought. What has she done? I put my ear to her chest. Her breath came in short, shallow puffs. For a moment I was lost in panic. I couldn’t lose my sister. “Hari, wake up.” I shook her. She moaned but didn’t stir. “Harriet,” I said louder, gently slapping her cheek.
Her eyes fluttered open.
“Thank God,” I murmured.
“Wha—? What are you doing?” She was groggy and confused, but awake.
“You took too much of your medicine.”
“No, no—one, jus’ one.”
“You took two vials—two, not one.”
“I—I can’t h-have taken two.” She struggled to sit up and sort through the items on her table, stopping when her hands landed on the two empty vials. “I can’t afford to take two! I don’t have enough.”
“Enough for what?” I asked. “Hari, you were barely breathing.”
Pushing me aside, she threw back the covers and got to her feet. She staggered across the room to her trunk and rummaged through it until she found a velvet drawstring bag. “Six left, only six. What am I going to do?” She sank to the floor, a stricken look on her face.
“It will be all right,” I said, wrapping us both up in the blanket from the bed. Her shoulders were shaking. I thought at first that she was cold, but then I realized that she was crying. I was shocked. Hari never cried. On many occasions, she told me that she didn’t believe in giving in to one’s emotions.
“What’s wrong, Hari?” I asked, rubbing her back.
“I need my medicine. I can’t do without it. It’s the only thing that calms me.”
“You’ve never needed anything like this before. What exactly is it? Did Dr. Randolph prescribe it?”
She nodded. “It’s laudanum, and if I don’t get more, I won’t be able to hold myself together. What will Lady Persephone say?” She gripped my hands. “You must help me get more, Charlotte. You must.”
The fevered look in her eye frightened me. I had heard of laudanum. Mama’s friends had talked
