Remember Me - Lesley Pearse [187]
She would see Dolly again, maybe Mrs Wilkes too. But she had a feeling that the few remaining hours before she had to board the boat would be her last with Boswell.
In the tavern, Mary removed the heavy dark green wool cloak Mrs Wilkes had given her. She felt almost as indebted to the kind-hearted woman as she was to Boswell, for she had taught Mary so much. No one in this waterside tavern would take her for a whore or a felon. Everything, from the cloak and bonnet to the warm woollen dress and sturdy boots gave a picture of a genteel governess. Yet Mrs Wilkes had not only chosen the clothes because they were warm and serviceable, but because they made her look attractive too. There was a ruffle of cream lace on the high-necked dress, more lace on her petticoat, and her stockings were a fashionable red. Mary had many more clothes in her box too, and she found it hard to equate the pretty woman she saw reflected in a looking-glass, with the same poor wretch who had once worn rags and fetters.
As they drank rum, sitting side by side on a settle by the roaring fire, a tender current flowed between them. Mary wished she could find the right words to tell Boswell how she felt about him. Boswell, unusually silent, kept his hand covering hers on the settle, a gesture that showed he wanted to hold on to her for as long as he could.
The place reminded Mary of the taverns in Fowey and Plymouth, the flag-stone floor wet from men’s boots, the air thick with smoke, the smell of wet clothes overpowering. Yet it was snug, a friendly place where sailors swapped stories, found a willing woman and drank their hardearned money away. To Mary it was fitting that they should spend their last hours somewhere she found so familiar. The following day Boswell would be back where he belonged, dining in elegant places, drinking coffee with his illustrious friends or sitting at his desk writing again, while her boat battled its way through heavy seas to Cornwall.
‘I have arranged with the Reverend John Baron in Lostwithiel to give you an annuity of ten pounds a year,’ Boswell blurted out suddenly. He took a five-pound note from his pocketbook and pressed it into her hand. ‘This is for the first half year, and you must go to him next April for the next half, and sign your name as I taught you.’
‘But Bozzie,’ she exclaimed in consternation, ‘why? I won’t need it, and I know you aren’t a rich man.’
Even though Boswell was wealthy in comparison to ordinary working people, Mary had discovered he had spent most of his life lurching from one financial crisis to another. Again and again he had come very close to ruin. It was only luck and good friends that had saved him from it.
‘It will give you some security,’ he said. He didn’t add that it was in case things didn’t work out for her in Fowey. Perhaps he was reluctant to point out that was a possibility, but Mary knew that was what he meant.
She thanked him, the lump in her throat making it impossible to say more. She put the bank note into the little reticule Mrs Wilkes had embroidered for her as a leaving present, and drew out a small package tied with a red ribbon.
‘This is a keepsake from me,’ she said softly, pressing it into his hands. ‘It isn’t of any value, but it was the only thing which comforted me during the bad times in Port Jackson.’
Boswell looked curiously at her, noting the tears in her eyes, and then opened the package carefully. All it contained was a few dried crumbling leaves.
‘That was what we called “sweet tea”,’ she explained. ‘I picked the leaves on my last day there before our escape. I kept those last few back throughout the voyage, through Kupang and Batavia, right home to England and Newgate. I wish I was able to give you a gold watch with your name engraved on the back, but these mean more, however humble. Look at them now and then and remember me.’
Boswell retied the package and put it into his pocket. ‘I will keep them forever,’ he said, his voice quavering. ‘But I do not need them