Moon Rising by Ann Victoria Roberts

work I would have to do.
    In the light of what happened later, I dare say I should have paid more attention to that momentary alarm, but I was young then and thought myself invulnerable. And I should have listened to Cook, who tried her best to warn me about Mrs Markway, a woman who doted on her sons. She was determined to have the best for them, and the best, in her opinion, was to be found by her side, running the family business and making money. Jonathan might have rebelled and gone off to sea, but then, for Mrs Markway, nothing less than his own command would do, and for that he would have to apply himself to book-work as well as the more practical aspects of seamanship. Young women were not part of the plan – especially not servant girls, not even those with good family connections.
    I was too much aware of my position to want to dispute that. Of the two sons, Dick was pleasant enough, a slow-moving and determined young man, dependable where the chandlery was concerned, but not my sort at all. As for Jonathan, he was already apprenticed to the sea, and, as I said pertly to Cook when she warned me, I’d already sworn on my mother’s grave that I wouldn’t marry a seafarer. She said I’d soon change my mind when I discovered they were the only ones available in Whitby.
    I paid no attention to that, and generally tried to keep clear of the boys. But for all my fine words, and despite my prejudices, I couldn’t help but find Jonathan attractive. He was dark and graceful, with his father’s Cornish-Breton looks, and a similar taciturnity of manner. For a long time our exchanges were barely more than civilities, but one day I was bold enough ask about the books on his shelf, classic novels beside a treatise on navigation, a set of mathematical tables and volumes on rigging and ship stability.
    He knew I came from a seafaring family, and, as I explained, at home in Bay books had been important. My father had left a complete set of the Waverley Novels – all of which I’d struggled to read since I was old enough to understand – and Grandmother had possessed some ancient histories which had been in the family for generations. Not even Old Uncle Thaddeus could persuade her to part with those. While she lived, if he wanted to borrow the histories, he had to pay a fee for the privilege, and they had to be returned within the month. He grumbled, but he paid up and respected her for it. I’m not sure that he admired me so much for selling them to him.
    That conversation broke the ice, and afterwards Jonathan and I often talked. He lent me his books and I lent him those favourites of mine that I’d managed to keep. And when I evinced an interest in his studies, he was happy to show off a little, explaining the finer points of sail against the coarser advantages of the new steamships, and his desire to understand and master both. For the time being, he said, pointing out his ship at her winter moorings on the Bell Shoal, he was pleased to be aboard a lively brigantine, as fast and seaworthy as any man might desire. I smiled at his description, and, whenever he was aboard during the day, would steal a minute or two by the upstairs window, seeking out the
Lillian
amongst a score of others, trying to pinpoint Jonathan amongst the shipwrights and carpenters working aloft or on deck. Just a glimpse of him could cheer the day’s humdrum tasks for me, which should have told me much about my feelings. I found it was harder to ignore the tension between us whenever we happened to be alone.
    That last evening, he was lingering in the yard as I came out of the kitchen for a breath of air. It was my habit before going up to the cramped quarters I shared with Cook, a moment of peace and quiet before bed. Instinctively, as he approached, I moved into deeper shadow. Lamps were still lit, and with windows on every side there was little chance of our meeting being entirely unobserved.
    He said he