Agatha was sixteen, and because she was clever in more of a bookish than a common-sense way, she had written to Lord Lawrence. He was her uncle, and until she turned twenty-five, he was in charge of the money she had inherited from her father (her real father, her English one, not Pedro). She had met him once or twice, years ago when she’d been at school in England, and he had always seemed kind.
While she waited for the reply, with every hope that it would be favourable, she taught Missouri English. He didn’t approve, but he was a polite child and he learned anyway, although she did overhear him telling his friends that his sister was making him learn a made-up language that sounded like spitting. She couldn’t help wondering how it was that somebody who was only five could go round having opinions like a real person.
When the letter came from England, it was a hot day, and they were doing the laundry on their doorstep, beneath the waving lines of other people’s washing. Their tenement was in the shadow of the church. The letter arrived exactly on the hour, she remembered that clearly, because the bell had just rung three deafening peals, and like always, she had to dive protectively over the laundry tub as the tower parakeets shot along the alley.
The letter was short.
Lord Lawrence was not bringing them to England.
Lord Lawrence was very sorry, but he didn’t see what a carpenter’s son was to do with him. Agatha was free to come, of course, because she was real family, and he would see that she had a proper education for an English gentlewoman, but she was not to bring Missouri, who would embarrass the Lawrence name. As she would know, she could get her inheritance from her father’s estate when she turned twenty-five, whereupon she was free to do as she pleased, with however many undesirable relatives in tow, but until then, it was his responsibility to safeguard the family’s reputation. He regretted it deeply, but he was sure she would understand.
‘Oh, fuck you,’ she said aloud.
‘Mrs Perez says ladies shouldn’t swear,’ Missouri told her solemnly. He was wringing out the things she had washed, observed by upstairs’s cat. Sometimes it put its paw in the soapy water, plainly trying to see why he liked it so much. It didn’t look impressed.
‘Mrs Perez hasn’t met any ladies except ladies in novels. There’s a difference between what a lady can say in a published book and what she says when someone screws her over. Come on,’ she said. She took his hand. ‘Sod the laundry. We’re going to sign on with the Trinidad again.’
‘I thought we were supposed to be going to the rainy place?’
‘Change of plans. We don’t like Lord Lawrence any more.’
‘Why?’
She taught him some words he probably shouldn’t have known.
The Santíssima Trinidad was the ship Missouri had been born on, the ship his father had died on, and the ship where Agatha had been a nurse for five years. It was in the dock at the moment, being refitted. Agatha had a happy drop when she saw it. It was home. The size of a castle and by far the largest warship in Europe, it was five decks high, and it carried a hundred and forty guns. Now, the deck was alive with carpenters, the air rich with the smell of sawdust and fresh tar.
The gangway was open, so Agatha shuffled Missouri up ahead of her, and looked around for an officer. The captain was passing. He stopped mid-stride.
‘Miss Lawrence! What are you doing here, did we forget some of Pedro’s things? I thought we got his sea chest to you safely?’
‘No, sir, it’s all right,’ she said, nervous now that she was here. It would have been better to talk to a more junior officer, someone whose job it was to remember her name. ‘But I want to sign on again in the infirmary.’
He frowned. ‘I thought there was some provision in England.’
‘There isn’t, sir,’ she said, sprung tight and ready to argue if he tried to say she might like to consider shore work. Shore work would mean some miserable convent hospital surrounded by people she didn’t know. And, she was eleven years older than Missouri. People would assume he was her son and take that as an excuse to be repulsive. ‘And I can’t afford the rent.’
‘You’re sure you’re happy, without protection? It might be better to come aboard as a married woman now.’
‘I trust in the authority of your officers, sir,’ she promised. It was true; the officers were strict, and she had never had any trouble. Partly, that was because she was tall and flat-chested, and possessed of a sexless straightforwardness that made her invisible most of the time. When it didn’t, she found that a lot of difficulties could be solved by stabbing someone with a suture needle and then lamenting how dreadfully clumsy you were. Perhaps you got the occasional punch in the head, but you couldn’t go round being precious about things like that. A bit of fighting was improving.
‘I’m not asking to be paid, sir,’ she pressed. ‘I just want a berth and three meals a day for me and my brother. The same as before. As a volunteer.’ She swallowed. ‘Please. I’m good. If you hire a student instead it’ll cost you a fortune and he’ll know half as much.’
‘I know,’ the captain said, waving his hand. ‘I’ll sign you on as Mr Lawrence and then we can pay you for your trouble. Just do me one favour; cut your hair and put on some trousers, and at least the Admiralty inspector will think we’ve made some sort of nod to the rules when he comes round. And – aha, hello young man,’ he added to Missouri, who smiled and hid behind her skirt.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Agatha said, afire
