Mrs. Cook Read online

  Elizabeth did not look away, instead matching his gaze with her own. She took in every detail of him. The strong nose, the turn of the chin, the soft curve of his mouth. She saw his greatness, his ability to master any task he set his mind to, yet with his eyes he humbled himself before her. It was Elizabeth who felt as tall as a tree, her feet planted solidly on the ground, her branches rustled by the winds of the earth.

  Before anything could be said, those same winds brought the sound of galloping hoofs. A coach. ‘Perhaps we should be heading back,’ suggested Elizabeth, aware of what their situation must look like. As the coach flew by, Elizabeth saw Frederick waving, his face full of confusion.

  ‘A friend?’ enquired James.

  Elizabeth nodded.

  ‘The Frederick spoken of at the Sheppards’?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The walk back continued in silence, the only sound the wind starting to whip up again.

  They arrived at Crowcher’s Yard. ‘It was a pleasure to renew your acquaintance, Miss Batts.’ His formal tone was a long way from the shared intimacy of Fairlop oak. ‘I must get back to Barking, I’ll be late for the boat. Please give my regards to the Sheppards.’ And he was off, without a word of any future meeting.

  Elizabeth was dismayed. Surely it wasn’t the sight of Frederick that had sent him off? Would it be another seven years before she saw him again? She couldn’t bear it. Why had he bothered showing up at all if he was going to disappear so quickly? Was he trifling with her? She walked slowly up to the house.

  It wasn’t till later, when the dogs were let in for the night, that Mrs Sheppard remembered the package. ‘Perhaps treats sent from Mr and Mrs Blackburn. Sonya,’ she addressed the servant, ‘where did you put Mr Cook’s package?’

  ‘In Miss Sarah and Miss Elizabeth’s room, marm.’

  He hadn’t mentioned a package, not even when he was leaving.

  ‘Go up and see what it is,’ said Mrs Sheppard. ‘If it’s food it might spoil. Sarah, take a candle.’

  Elizabeth followed Sarah up the stairs, Sarah holding her hand in front of the candle’s flame to protect it from the breeze her movement made. She seemed a lot more enthusiastic about possible treats from the Blackburns than Elizabeth was.

  The package was lying on Elizabeth’s bed, wrapped in brown paper and firmly tied with string in a series of knots. Elizabeth picked it up—not as heavy as it looked. She gently shook it but heard nothing rattle. There were none of Mama’s puddings or pies inside.

  ‘Open it, open it,’ begged Sarah. Elizabeth fiddled with the knots, looking for the piece of string that would unravel all of them.

  ‘I’ll get scissors,’ said Sarah. She returned in time to see Elizabeth loosen the last knot and unwrap the sturdy brown paper to reveal . . .

  A box. An oriental box of black lacquer that gleamed in the candlelight. Around its edges were gilt flowers—chrysanthemums—and in the centre an oriental scene: bridges, steps, houses with curled roofs, all floating in the air, as if detached from the earth. This was not Mama and Mr Blackburn’s doing. It was a gift from beyond the horizon.

  ‘Oh,’ said Sarah, ‘it is beautiful.’

  Despite the fact that there appeared to be nothing inside, or at least nothing that rattled, Elizabeth couldn’t resist the invitation the box—all boxes—extended, to open it. She held the clasp, as small and delicate as an earring, between thumb and forefinger, and released it.

  There was nothing in the box except its rich red velvety lining and a piece of rice paper on the inside of the lid that had squares drawn on it in neat lines. Inside each of those squares was a letter. Elizabeth held the candle to it and read: ‘Elizabeth, marry me. James Cook.’

  THE MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE

  James Cook of the Parish of St Paul, Shadwell, in the County of Middlesex, Batchelor and Elizabeth Batts of the Parish of Barking in the County of Essex, Spinster were married in this Church by Archbishop of Canterbury. Licence this twenty first day of December one Thousand Seven Hundred and Sixty two by George Downing, Vicar of Little Wakering, Essex.

  This marriage was Solemnized between us James Cook, Elizabeth Cook nee Batts in the Presence of John Richardson, Sarah Brown, William Everrest.

  The square battlemented tower of St Margaret’s rose above the row of yew trees with their lumps of dark evergreen foliage that was cut to wave Hosanna on Palm Sunday, but which all the year round provided protection from the winds, the dense foliage forming a large hedge separating the gravestones from the church. An old woman of the district, who some said was a witch, had told Elizabeth one day, as Elizabeth was feeling the furrows in the reddish yew trunks, that centuries ago, before even the abbey existed, yew trees were worshipped and venerated for their strength and endurance. As the wedding party skirted the hedge and entered through the arch of the tower, Elizabeth made a wish for a long life and a marriage as strong and enduring as a yew tree.

  In the weeks that followed the proposal, when Elizabeth came to London to give her answer, and the couple declared their sentiments for each other, James said it was all Elizabeth’s doing, that she had called to him, through the red and green bird, and he had come. James said he dreamt of her in the long Canadian nights, of that moment on the Blackburns’ threshold, and knew that when he knocked on the door of home it was Elizabeth he wanted to find waiting there. He said that he loved her, and that he wanted to grow old with her. Elizabeth thrilled to hear him say such things and nodded yes, it is the same for me.

  Not knowing when he might be at sea again, James thought they should be married as soon as possible, with no time for the posting of banns, and was granted a special licence from the Archbishop of Canterbury. Elizabeth was impressed with the way James had organised such a thing. Meanwhile, Elizabeth and Mama had gone to the grand shops and purchased cream silk for the wedding dress. There was much stitching and sewing, fitting and refitting, Mama with pins in her mouth making adjustments here and there, pleating the fabric in at the waist, to finally produce a beautiful gown with a lace tucker and stiffened cap to match.

  Now James and Elizabeth entered the church, with its ceiling constructed of crown-post timbers that made it look like an upside-down boat. The stained-glass St Margaret held a palm leaf cradled in one hand, a staff in the other. She was standing on a dragon, her symbol, representing the dragon that had swelled and split in two when St Margaret made the sign of the cross. When women prayed for ease in childbirth it was to St Margaret that they looked, at her lovely gentle face, surrounded by a halo.

  Ahead, at the altar, stood Reverend Downing. Reverend Mus-grave, vicar of St Margaret’s, had given permission for him to officiate on this occasion. Reverend Downing had strong connections to the parish. He lived here, was chaplain at Ilford Hospital, before taking up his present position of vicar at Little Wakering, and his sons John and Frederick had been christened at St Margaret’s.

  Frederick. Elizabeth had not relished the task of telling either him or his father. But better to get it over and done with as quickly as possible. When Elizabeth returned to Essex and went to make her announcement to the Downings, both father and son were dismayed at her news.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘On St Thomas’s Day.’

  ‘So soon?’ commented Reverend Downing.

  ‘He’s a navy man, we want to get married before he goes to sea again,’ Elizabeth explained, in case the reverend thought there was another reason.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he declared, not knowing what else to say.

  Elizabeth did not have the courage to look directly at Frederick. When she got up to leave, as blithely as if she’d just brought a present of eggs from Mrs Sheppard, Frederick followed her. ‘Elizabeth,’ he began, ‘I thought, well . . .’ The new lawyer was lost for words. ‘I had hoped . . .’ Her heart went out to him. Elizabeth was as fond of Frederick as she’d ever been and hated seeing him like this. But even if right there and then Frederick, or any other man, had asked for her hand, she would have said no. />
  Elizabeth did not know where the path of her life would lead, only that she must take it with James. It may not be the settled life Elizabeth would have had with Frederick, in which so much was already familiar. James had to go where the Navy sent him, be away for weeks, months. There were dangers at sea that a husband like Frederick would never be exposed to. Financially, James was able to provide for her. He had a small fortune in pay awaiting him, and prize money as well. Although navy men were universally loved and admired in these heady days after the war, marrying a navy man was not the same as marrying a vicar’s son. James was not born to respectability as was Frederick. He had earned it. As master, he’d reached the top rank of warrant officer. It would be unusual for a man of James’s background to rise further in the Navy, despite Mr Blackburn’s extravagant claims. But James was an unusual man.

  There were a few days of silence after her visit to the Downings, then Reverend Downing came to see Elizabeth. ‘You know I’ve always considered you as one of my own.’ Elizabeth thought of the reverend’s little daughter, Elizabeth, buried in Ilford chapel at the age of ten. ‘I was hoping to perform the ceremony,’ he said. ‘Whomever you marry,’ he added, smoothing relations between her and the Downings.

  As the couple walked down the aisle, Elizabeth felt the prayers of all those who had worshipped here across the centuries, the prayers for a long life, for ease in childbirth, for strength to have the Lord’s will be done. She glanced at the skull set in stone, a memento mori, reminding everyone who gazed upon it that in life there was always death.

  James and Elizabeth stood at the altar. Reverend Downing beamed a smile of welcome, then cleared his throat, waiting till everyone was still and quiet. ‘Dearly beloved,’ he read from the Book of Common Prayer, ‘we are gathered together here in the sight of God and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony . . .’

  When the time came, James took Elizabeth’s right hand and repeated the words: ‘I take thee Elizabeth, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinances; and thereto I plight thee my troth.’ James delivered them solemnly from his heart, and as a man of his word, thus it would be.

  Now it was Elizabeth’s turn. Reverend Downing pronounced the words repeated by so many who had stood before this altar and others. The posy in Elizabeth’s hand was quivering, her whole body trembling under the weight of the occasion, the gravity of the undertaking. It was one thing to declare her love for James in private, another to make this lifelong promise before witnesses, before God. Although her body was trembling, when she made her vows Elizabeth’s voice rose up into the church as clear and bright as birdsong.

  They started with long, succulent kisses, a soft searching of the other’s mouth. Elizabeth could have continued like this forever. Eventually James brought her to the bed and laid her down, undid her nightdress and ran his hand over her breasts, cradled them as if they were precious fruit and finally put his mouth to them. Elizabeth’s back arched, offering her breasts more fully to him. She was surprised that her body knew what to do. It was as if she and James were partners in a dance, the movements of which had been etched into her bones, like the courtship dance of birds, movements that she knew instinctively. Elizabeth could feel love streaming out of her breasts. She wanted to give and give, as if her supply of love was endless. But when it came time for the ultimate intimacy, she gasped, overwhelmed by the sheer size of him. Were the members of all men like this? James pulled back. ‘Are you all right, my dear?’

  ‘It is a little uncomfortable,’ Elizabeth replied. He tried again but could not get past the threshold. ‘I’m sorry, James,’ she whispered.

  ‘It is of no consequence,’ said James, rolling onto his side. ‘We will wait until you are ready.’

  Elizabeth lay with her head on his chest and eventually went to sleep, lulled by the steady rhythm of his heart.

  In the following weeks James and Elizabeth Cook set up house in Mr Blackburn’s tenement at 126 Upper Shadwell northside. Elizabeth brought out all her trousseau items, put the cushions with embroidered covers on the sofa, the new kettle by the fire. The trousseau teapot seemed to be in constant use. There were visits from friends, from Mama and Mr Blackburn, who had now removed to Starr Street, Uncle Charles with his two growing boys, Isaac, aged nine, and Charles, aged eight, and a baby daughter, Ursula; Christmas celebrations, New Year fireworks. The newlyweds barely had a moment to themselves, let alone a honeymoon, yet in the spring James would be sailing to Canada. He would be away for five or six months at a time, he said.

  Elizabeth would rather have James half the time than any other man all of the time, she thought as she moved her pieces around the board. She and Isaac were playing backgammon—with a variation. Elizabeth was Montcalm, and Isaac General Wolfe, trying to beat the French general. Uncle Charles had dropped in, bringing young Charles and Isaac, and had been disappointed to find that James was not at home. When they discovered the reason for his absence—that he’d gone to the Ordnance Office to purchase surveying instruments—the boys had begged to stay. Isaac could stay if he wanted, but Charles had a cold and his father had said it was best to get him home before the night air settled on him.

  Elizabeth looked across the board at ‘General Wolfe’. Isaac had the same Smith features that Elizabeth shared with her mother: angular lines to the face, aquiline nose and heavy eyelids. Charles was more like his mother, having a round face with apple cheeks. Even at the age of eight he resembled a portly little merchant, standing in front of the fire with his coat-tails lifted to warm his backside, just like his father.

  Elizabeth had just scooped the dice back into the container for her turn when she heard her husband come in. She hadn’t realised it but she’d been listening for his return. The house seemed still and empty without him in it, even though she had Isaac to keep her company. James deposited his packages on the table, kissed Elizabeth, and said: ‘Hello there, young Isaac.’ He looked around for the other Smiths.

  ‘Papa’s coming to collect me in the morning,’ said Isaac, who was peering hard at the packages, as if his very eyes might penetrate the wrappings to the treasures that lay beneath.

  James stretched the moment out. ‘Well,’ he said thoughtfully when he saw that Isaac was on the point of bursting. ‘Let’s see what we have.’ It seemed to Elizabeth that Isaac wasn’t the only one wanting the packages opened. James would have chosen carefully at the Tower, looked over each item, but there was nothing like examining them at one’s own leisure.

  Elizabeth sensed his excitement, anticipation, and did her best to share it, but the purchase of the instruments brought his departure one step closer. It was all very well thinking she’d rather have James half the time than any other man all of the time but living it was a different matter. She missed him even when he went to town for a few hours.

  ‘In Canada,’ James said to Isaac in the same man-to-man way in which Mr Walker had discussed scientific matters with him, ‘I was privileged to learn land surveying techniques from General Wolfe’s own engineer.’ James recalled his chance meeting with Mr Holland in the summer of 1758, a meeting that had had a great impact on him, that would stay with him after the war and into the peace. ‘It was the day after the capture of Louisbourg.’ James started undoing the first package. ‘I saw a man walking about with a small square table, but instead of legs, it was mounted on a tripod. A plane table, similar to this one,’ he said, revealing the contents of the package. ‘The man would set it down at regular intervals along the shoreline, bend to get his eye aligned and look across the tabletop in various directions. After each reading he took a little book out of his pocket and made notes. I was very curious to know what he was doing.’

  Isaac watched as James set the table up, as if he were a magician about to perform a trick.

  ‘Ev
entually we struck up a conversation. He introduced himself, explained how the plane table worked, and told me he was making a plan of Kennington Cove and the encampment. We talked so much about our mutual interests that he invited me to accompany him the next day.’ James told Isaac how in the months that followed, between the fighting, he found time to survey Gaspé bay and harbour, using the very techniques learnt from Mr Holland. It was a small piece of work but good enough to be published in London by Mount and Page of Tower Hill the following year.

  ‘I am convinced,’ James continued in his man-to-man tone, ‘that combining those land methods with marine techniques will produce precise and accurate charts of coastlines.’ He recalled again the soaring realisation at the Postgate school, when the sea was still far away across the moors, and Canada a type of goose, that the quill was an instrument of flight. Drawing an accurate picture of the world, a map that others could follow, while it was work with pen and paper, was not the same as sitting in lawyers’ rooms on a high stool, copying wills and other documents, or being a draughtsman.

  James would be venturing into new territory and outlining its contours with the feather of a bird which, in flight, saw every detail. Putting onto paper that bird’s-eye view, as if its feather quill still held the memory of coves and inlets, and every other feature. A representation that, in Lord Colville’s words, ‘may be the means of directing many in the right way’. So accurate that it would show the way not just for a few months but for centuries to come.

  He undid the second package. A quadrant. Elizabeth saw the brass quarter-disc in its green baize casing. It reminded her of a lady’s fan.

  ‘What’s the quadrant for?’

  ‘First we measure a baseline and place marker flags either end. Then we fix the latitude of the line by using the quadrant to take sightings of the sun. Work is continued with the next package. Perhaps you would like to cut the string.’