A Distant Shore (19 page)

“She won’t,” Maggie said heatedly. “I promise you, Seamus.”

Seamus smiled. “I’m not sure you can make such promises. But thank you kindly for the invitation, and no matter what happens, Maggie, I do appreciate it.” He paused, seeming to want to say more, but then simply ducked his head in farewell.

Maggie watched him leave the schoolhouse, and did not stir until her uncle’s man came to the door in his greatcoat, asking her if she was ready to return home.

Calcutta, 1838

Isobel’s first sight of Calcutta was of low-lying buildings shrouded in a strange yellow haze. When she’d heard that they were entering the Hooghly River that led into the city, she had gone on deck the same as the other few passengers who had braved the four-month journey to India, including her chaperone, Katherine Daylesford, wife to a missionary in Midnapore.

“There it is,” Katherine said as the ship cut through the sluggish water, passing an odd assortment of small brigs and skiffs, piloted by men with white turbans and the brownest skin Isobel had ever seen.

For several hours the ship had been passing what looked almost like English houses, with wide verandahs and verdant lawns running straight down to the river. Isobel had been heartened by the number of people, even ladies in dresses like her own, who had come onto their verandahs to wave their handkerchiefs at the ship as it passed by.

“This is Garden Reach,” Mrs. Daylesford explained, “where many of the English live, those who work for the East India Company.”

Yet soon the English houses of Garden Reach gave way first to the imposing Fort William, with its large green maidan, and then to the city proper, the cluster of hovel-like buildings and odd pagodas intermingled with fine British buildings such as the splendid Government House, built to look like an English country manor. Isobel did not know what to make of any of it.

She blinked, the humid air like a heavy, wet blanket draped over her, the mosquitoes that had plagued her since the ship had entered the Hooghly whining around her face no matter how many times she swatted at them.

“It is a beautiful city, is it not?” Katherine said but Isobel found she could not agree. In truth everything about this journey had been strange and uncomfortable. She had never travelled on a ship before, despite her brother being a merchant sea captain. The cabin had been tiny, with everything nailed to the floor, and Isobel had been dreadfully seasick. She’d spent the first two weeks lying on her narrow bed, a pail by her head, utterly wretched. Katherine’s sympathy and nursing, offering her weak tea and wet cloths for her head, had been welcome yet had also served to only make her more homesick. She had not even arrived in Calcutta and already she missed the familiar comforts of home quite desperately.

Things had improved when she’d finally found her sea legs, and the dreadful
mal de mer
had abated. She’d strolled on the deck with Katherine, enjoyed the brisk salt air and felt her spirits lift a little. Then the ship had put into port at Malta and later Cairo, and the sense of strangeness had assailed her again. She had been quietly appalled by the endless dust and noise, and taken aback by the strange fruits and vegetables she was meant to try but could only look at dubiously. The native people seemed friendly enough, but their clothes and of course their language were strange too, and all of it together made Isobel wanted to weep. She wanted, quite fiercely, to go home to what was familiar and safe, no matter how she’d found it stifling and dull.

Now as she gazed at the city of Calcutta under its yellow haze, everything exotic and even bizarre, she wondered if Burma would be even stranger. The panic that had abated a little since leaving Cairo returned in full force. In just a few hours she would leave the relative safety and comfort of the ship and meet George Jamison. He would, she hoped, have received her letter and be at the harbor when the ship docked.

And then… and then she had no idea what would happen, or what she would do. She was, she knew, staying with missionaries in Serampore, and she was meant to marry Mr. Jamison as quickly as possible and return with him to Burma. Yet surely they would get to know each other first? Conduct some kind of courtship, no matter how strange or small?

Or would he wish to marry her right away, and secure her position? What would she do then?
What on earth had she got herself into?

The ship anchored some distance from the
Ghat
, and a boat came to escort the American passengers to the shore. Katherine Daylesford seemed pleased to be back in Calcutta, and pointed out various landmarks as they were steered to shore. Isobel could barely pay attention; all her concentration was focused on not being sick.

Once on land Isobel was overwhelmed once again, and fought not to cover her ears against the clamor of what was surely a thousand voices, all of them shouting or babbling in what to her sounded like gibberish. A raggedy urchin, and then another, grabbed her sleeve, making incomprehensible supplications, until Katherine sent them both off with a sharp word.

“You shall get used to it, my dear,” Katherine said in sympathy, drawing her arm around Isobel’s shaking form. “But in truth it is all quite overwhelming at first.”

“Yes,” Isobel responded weakly. She was feeling faint, for the day was oppressively hot, and her clothes felt heavy and restrictive. She’d never before encountered such heat or humidity, and she wondered how women could bear wearing all their petticoats. Her underclothes were sticking to her in all manner of uncomfortable places. She fanned the mosquitos away from her face as Katherine directed their bags into a wagon, and then led her towards a palankeen.

“But where is Mr. Jamison?” she asked, trying to raise her voice to be heard above the din.

“He must have been waylaid, or perhaps he did not receive your letter?” Katherine suggested.

“Oh, but…” Isobel drew back in dismay. If George Jamison had not received her letter, then he did not know the first thing about her! She’d spent the ship’s journey comforting herself that George Jamison knew her particulars, and might have even, through her painstakingly written letter, developed a small affection for her.

Now she realized she would be nothing but a complete and utter stranger to him, and perhaps even an unwelcome one at that.

“Do not concern yourself,” Katherine said. “Mr. Jamison is no doubt waiting in Serampore. We’ll go there now.”

Isobel climbed awkwardly onto the palankeen. “I have never seen such a conveyance,” she exclaimed, for the enclosed wooden carriage was hoisted on poles and carried by four brawny Indians, their white teeth gleaming in their brown faces.

“It is the only decent way to travel in Calcutta,” Katherine said, fanning herself as she sat opposite Isobel.

Isobel made no reply for although they moved steadily, the jostling felt far worse to her than a proper carriage led by horses. She wondered, dismally, if she would ever get used to it, or anything about this place.

Half an hour later the palankeen came to a stop; Isobel peered out of the latticed shutters and saw they were in front of a neat Swiss-cottage style abode on a quiet street with fenced-in gardens and a reassuring air of middle-class respectability.

“Mr. Jamison will be waiting for you here, surely,” Katherine said, her eyes alight at what she perceived to be the romance of it all.

Isobel could only nod. The thought that she might now finally come face to face with the man she intended to marry was as frightening to her as it was exciting. She had read his letter so many times during the sea voyage that the paper had worn to near transparency in places, and she had almost every word memorized.

Not that the letter in fact told her much of George Jamison. She knew he was from Philadelphia, had gone to Yale University, and had three younger sisters and an older brother who practiced law. He had wanted to be a missionary since he was a child, and was currently working on a Bible translation into Burmese with the famed Adoniram Judson, America’s first foreign missionary and the man who had inspired Isobel to attempt this amazing adventure in the first place.

Beyond that the letter gave very little away. What manner of man was he? Mr. Anderson had said he was studious and earnest, but would he be kind and gentle as well? Would he have a sense of humor? Would he find her attractive or interesting?

Now she might find the answers to some of those questions herself, and yet for a moment Isobel was too nervous even to leave the palankeen.

“Come, my dear,” Katherine said, seeming to sense Isobel’s inner turmoil. “The day has been exhausting for you. Come inside and have something cool to drink and rest upstairs. Then we shall see about Mr. Jamison.”

Isobel nodded in grateful acceptance, glad for a temporary reprieve. Although, she acknowledged as she headed up the little stone path to the cottage, if Mr. Jamison was in residence she could hardly avoid him for very long.

Inside the house it was much cooler, and Isobel accepted a glass of
nimboo pani
, a drink made from limes that was tart and surprisingly refreshing. Katherine introduced her to Joshua Marshman and his wife Hannah, who had been in Serampore for some years and were working on a translation of the Bible into Bengali.

“You probably know that Miss Moore has come to marry George Jamison,” Katherine said as they all sat in the sitting room, sipping their drinks. “They have been introduced through the Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions.” Introduced was surely stretching the truth a bit, but Isobel did not correct her. Katherine smiled expectantly. “Has Mr. Jamison arrived yet from Burma to greet her?”

Joshua and Hannah exchanged looks, and Isobel felt her heart somersault in her chest. Why did they not say anything?

“He has not arrived,” Joshua finally said, sounding strangely reluctant to impart even that information, and Isobel wondered if he had already summed her up and found her wanting. The thought made her face burn.

“How long a journey is it to Burma?” she asked, her voice sounding tight to her own ears.

“A few weeks at most. But Miss Moore...” Joshua Marshman hesitated, glancing at his wife again, who nodded her encouragement for him to continue, her lips set in a firm line, her eyes troubled. “I am sorry to tell you that Mr. Jamison will not be coming at all. He died two months ago, of a fever.”

Chapter Ten

Serampore, 1838

Isobel threw down the embroidery hoop she had been listlessly working on and stared moodily out the windows of the Marshmans’ cottage, the shutters ajar to let in a bit of air during the hottest part of the day. The weather, Isobel thought, had been insufferable with a muggy, still heat that was so damp mold had grown on her embroidery overnight. Hannah Marshman had brushed it off and said such things were common during India’s rainy season.