Chapter Eight

Rio de Janeiro, March 1854

 

 

 

As The Frances Scott sails out of Guanabara Bay, Carrie stands at the stern and inhales for the last time the familiar, earthy scent of wet jungles, perfumed flowers, and wood smoke. She sees the jagged heights of the coastal mountains, their slopes covered with coffee plantations, and the city, which has taken the drunken heaving of the shoreline and marshaled it into a bank of low white houses, factories, warehouses, and church spires. By the docks, hundreds of tall-masted ships rock in unison as slow swells move under them and speed on to crash against beaches the color of unrefined sugar.

Carrie watches until she can no longer make out the faces of the friends who came down to the docks to see her off. Then she turns and walks toward the bow of the ship. For the first time in many days she finds herself alone. Deacon is down in their cabin tending to the luggage, her fellow passengers are nowhere in sight, and the crew is too busy to pay attention to her.

She stands in the bow until the ship has sailed out of the bay into the open sea. When she walks back to the stern for one more look at Rio, all she can see is a low, dark smear on the horizon. She is just preparing to go below and join Deacon when something moves inside her. Clapping her hand over her belly, she feels a light tapping sensation like the soft beating of butterfly wings. For a moment she stands there puzzled. Then, suddenly, she understands.

“Hello, my darling,” she whispers to her unborn child, and all at once, she feels a rush of joy and grief so tangled together that she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.