Gypsy - Lesley Pearse [54]
‘I’m afraid I may lose the brolly soon,’ Beth heard him say as a gust of wind almost turned it inside out and he had to struggle to bring it under control.
‘I did say, my darling, that it was a mistake to bring it out here,’ Clarissa replied, smiling fondly at him. ‘Umbrellas don’t belong on ships, only in cities.’
‘And let my lovely wife get wet?’ he exclaimed jovially.
Beth was so surprised to discover this was the cuckolded husband that she almost jerked her head round towards the couple, but she controlled herself just in time and kept her eyes fixed firmly on the horizon.
‘I did suggest it would be wiser to watch for land from the saloon,’ she heard Clarissa retort.
‘Maybe wiser, but there’s a more exciting atmosphere out here,’ her husband replied, waving one hand at the steerage passengers. ‘Look at them all, clamouring for their first sight of America.’
Beth knew she ought to feel disgusted that this woman thought so little of marital fidelity. Clearly her husband wasn’t an ogre, and she’d been playing fast and loose with the handsome younger man’s feelings. Yet what she felt was more like disappointment, and sadness that the other man was going to be badly hurt.
A few minutes later, the mist and rain lifted just enough for land to be dimly sighted, and this took Beth’s mind off Clarissa and her lover.
The passengers learned to their frustration that they wouldn’t set foot in New York that evening, for the ship had to lie at anchor in the Hudson River until an immigration official came aboard. It was said that he had to check there was no disease on board, and then, providing all was well, they would be allocated a berth in the New York docks the following morning.
The calmer waters and the delight at being so close to their destination cured seasickness instantly and everyone wanted their last night to be one to remember. Even Miss Giles, who had watched the women in her care like a hawk, relaxed her vigilance.
When the customary cauldron of stew was brought down for the evening meal, there was a near riot in the rush to be served. Some of the passengers had eaten nothing but a few spoonfuls of thin gruel and dry bread since Liverpool, and now they were ravenously hungry.
Beth could hardly believe her eyes as they fell on the greyish-brown, greasy liquid with a few pieces of vegetables and more lumps of gristle than meat floating in it. She had forced herself to eat some of the nauseating concoction each night, because there was nothing else on offer, but they all looked as if they were positively enjoying it.
Once the meal was over, out came the fiddle, the spoons and the mouth organs and the singing, dancing and drinking began in earnest. Jack had a bottle of whisky and offered it to Beth. She took a swig and winced as it burned her throat, but, determined to be daring, she took another and found it went down more easily.
Maybe it was only the whisky, but that evening Beth felt like a butterfly coming out of a cocoon. The sheer number of young men clamouring to dance with her proved that she was attractive; she felt excited and optimistic about the adventure awaiting her in the morning. While she knew she was going to miss Molly dreadfully in the weeks ahead, she suddenly realized she wasn’t sorry she’d left England.
‘Get your fiddle and play, Beth,’ Sam urged her.
She tried to refuse because she’d never played in public before, and she was afraid she wasn’t as good as the old man. But Sam wouldn’t leave it, and soon all the other people around them were clamouring for her to play too.
Beth had always played the fiddle by ear, even though she read music for the piano, and when she came back with her instrument she listened to