Greek Wedding (44 page)

At last it was over, the Turks had gone and the Guard of Honour been dismissed. Codrington turned a long, hard stare on Brett. ‘Well, young man, you had better tell me all about it.'

‘Yes, my lord. But, first, allow me to present my wife, Mrs. Renshaw.'

‘Mrs.!' He looked her up and down, then surprised and touched her by a courtly bow. ‘Accept my congratulations, ma'am, on a lucky escape.' And, to Brett. ‘You're that cousin of Sarum's, of course. The
Helena's
owner.'

‘Yes—' eagerly.

‘All's well.' Codrington anticipated his question. ‘She came in a few days ago, in company with de Rigny. We sent her off to Zante, to be safe.'

‘Thank God for that.'

The Admiral actually laughed. ‘A proper spitfire you have for a sister, by what de Rigny says. He had to talk of mutiny, and irons, before he could dissuade her from sailing, single-handed, to Kitries to your rescue. You must understand that we've had affairs of our own to attend to.'

‘I do indeed. We saw it all, from over there.' Brett pointed to Neokastron.

‘You did? Then you saw who started it.'

‘The Turks. They fired on a flag of truce. But I've more to tell you than that, sir, when you have the time.'

‘Yes. Tomorrow, perhaps. For the moment, we must think what's best for Mrs. Renshaw.' His glance was friendly. ‘This is no place for a lady, even such an intrepid one as you must be, ma'am.' And then, with a look, surely, of amusement. ‘I have it: the
Redstart
. She arrived a little late for the battle and suffered no damage. Captain Froxe has his wife at Zante. What could be more suitable?' He turned away to give a rapid series of orders. ‘You and I will talk tomorrow, Mr. Renshaw. I take it whatever you have to say will keep till then?'

*          *          *

There was something indescribably glum about the atmosphere
of the
Redstart
. Here were no sinister stains in the scuppers, no groans from below-decks, and no cheerful skylarking of sailors as they repaired damaged spars and rigging above. Captain Froxe had made the mistake of setting his wife safe ashore on Zante before he followed the rest of the fleet into Navarino Bay, had lost the wind, and missed the battle. He received them with the dull civility of a man who sees his career in ruins, and showed obvious relief when Brett pleaded exhaustion on both their parts. Captain Froxe did not want to hear about the battle he had missed. He was glad to ring for his man and have Phyllida shown to the slip of a cabin that normally belonged to his wife's maid. Brett would have to share with a group of officers. Andreas presented a slight puzzle, which he solved by settling down outside Phyllida's door. Froxe shrugged. ‘It will save putting a marine on duty.'

When Phyllida waked, it was broad daylight. She had fallen asleep, as for so many nights before, in all her dirt, snugly wrapped in the filthy sheepskin capote. Now, listening to the civilised sounds of shipboard living all around her, she could not bear herself a moment longer. She opened the cabin door a crack, and Andreas started up to greet her with his broad, black-toothed smile. ‘At your service,
kyria
!'

‘Andreas, do you think you could find me hot water—much much—' (She pantomimed a large vessel) ‘and—' (What in the world was the Greek for a looking-glass?) Once again, she had recourse to pantomime, and suddenly the old man grinned again to show he understood and trotted off down the corridor.

He returned, after a considerable interval, with Captain Froxe's own man, carrying a jug of hot water, and a small hand mirror.

‘Captain's compliments, ma'am, and he thought maybe you'd not mind helping yourself to one of Miss Mincheon's outfits.' His tone was apologetic.

‘Miss? Oh—the maid.' Phyllida laughed. ‘It couldn't be worse than this.' Looking as she did, she could hardly blame the captain for not offering her the run of his wife's clothes.

‘We sail as soon as Mr. Renshaw returns,' the man went on. ‘He's been with the Admiral all morning.' And then, suddenly confidential. ‘I hope he gets back soon. We're due to dine on Zante today. At Mrs. Biddock's, where Mrs. Froxe is staying. The master says he hopes you and Mr. Renshaw will give him
the pleasure of your company.'

Phyllida had been looking with horror in the glass. ‘In that case,' she said, ‘I had better get to work.'

With Andreas back on duty outside, she began by washing her hair. Probably as well, she thought, that Oenone had cut it so ruthlessly short. Though she had been eaten alive by fleas and doubtless worse, she did not seem to have acquired any permanent infestation. Her hair was soon curling in rather wild ringlets around her face, a testimony to Oenone's erratic shearing. Nothing she could do about that.

Delicious to peel off the Greek costume at last, to use up the rest of the cooling water, and then dress from top to toe in Miss Mincheon's clean linen which smelt, blessedly, of lavender from little bags tucked here and there among it. Miss Mincheon's best dress was pale grey muslin, cut high, with a daring little frill round the neck. It actually fitted, though several inches too short, but after wearing gaiters for so long, Phyllida found it hard to take this very seriously. She slipped Brett's signet ring back on the hand that still looked brown rather than clean and opened the cabin door again.

‘
Kyria
!' Something heartening about Andreas' surprise.

Captain Froxe's man appeared behind him. ‘The captain would be honoured if you would take coffee with him in his cabin, ma'am.' He was too well-trained to permit himself anything but the slightest blink at her transformation.

She could have been wearing chain mail for all the notice Captain Froxe took of her. He was in an anguish of anxiety. ‘We shall be late.' He gazed past her at the chronometer on the wall. ‘We shall be worse than late. She'll never forgive me.'

This seemed to be a far more serious matter than simply being late for a battle. Hen-pecked, no doubt. Phyllida spared a moment to be sorry for him, then moved forward, with an apology, to pour herself a cup of coffee.

‘What? Oh yes, yes, of course. But where can he be—' He stopped, thought about it for a moment. ‘Mr. Renshaw.'

She was beginning to see just how wise Brett had been to insist on that Greek wedding. ‘My husband, you mean?' Strange to be using the word, for the first time, almost as a matter of defensive strategy. ‘I imagine he had a great deal to tell Lord Codrington. We saw the whole battle, you know.'

‘Yes, yes,' said Captain Froxe. ‘But we shall be late for
dinner.'

Brett arrived, cheerfully apologetic, ten minutes later, and the anchor was already coming up as he climbed on board. By the time he joined them in the captain's cabin, they could feel the ship begin to respond to a following wind. ‘I'm sorry if I've made you late, Captain—' And then, seeing Phyllida smiling at him from the other side of the table. ‘Good God, love, what are you playing at now?'

‘I'm an abigail,' said Phyllida cheerfully, ‘but at least, thank God, I'm clean.'

‘You're beautiful.' He ignored Captain Froxe to come round the table and kiss her lightly. ‘I'd forgotten what your hair was like.'

‘At least it's not infested!' And then. ‘But we're shocking Captain Froxe.'

‘Too late. We've shocked him.' The captain had murmured something incomprehensible and left the cabin. ‘Tell me, love.' He settled close beside her, one arm round her waist, while he poured cool coffee for them both with the other. ‘What's the matter with the poor man? Aside from missing the battle, I mean.'

‘He's got a termagant of a wife on Zante,' explained Phyllida. ‘No, Brett! Think if someone should come in! They're doubtful enough about us already!'

‘And if they found me making shameless advances to you, they'd know we weren't married?' He laughed and let her go. ‘And we're going to be late for dinner? At the Biddocks!' He was enjoying every minute of it. ‘Do you think it too much to hope that Jenny and your aunt will be there too?'

‘I've been wondering. And—Peter?'

‘If Barlow and Brown have obeyed orders, your brother Peter is confined to his cabin at least; in chains if he's been difficult.'

‘Oh, Brett! But, surely, you never imagined—'

‘No, frankly, I didn't. But I did give orders that any emissary from Alex must be treated with the greatest suspicion. The rest follows from that.'

‘And their safety. Thank God. I only wish we knew that Oenone was safe! But, Brett, I've been longing for a chance to ask. How in the world did you persuade Ibrahim to let us go?'

His arm was round her again. ‘A bad moment, that one. I was afraid he might be too angry for reason, but he's no fool, Ibrahim
Pasha. When I put it to him that this defeat might be the beginning of independence for Egypt as well as for Greece, he was only too happy to have me go, as his emissary, to Codrington. I've told you before, Phyl, there's no love lost between the Egyptians and the Turks.'

‘But you told them, before, you had come from Reshid Pasha.'

‘Yes.' Cheerfully. ‘It saved our lives for the moment. I'm afraid you've a hardened liar for a husband, love.'

‘I shall never believe another word you say.'

‘Not even when I say, “I love you,” love?' He shook her a little, gently, and let her go. ‘It's time we were up on deck. We must be nearly there, and Captain Froxe will be in agony, lest we delay him still further.' And then, as she stood up. ‘I never saw an abigail with skirts as short as that!'

She laughed and looked ruefully at her exposed ankles. ‘I know. Do you think there's any hope we could stop at the
Helena
on our way to this dinner party?'

‘Not the least in the world, my darling, so if I were you I would resign myself to the knowledge that you've the prettiest pair of ankles I ever hope to see.'

‘You're a great comfort!' Her tone was so cross that Captain Froxe, joining them at that moment, began to think they must be married after all. He agreed at once to Brett's request that a message to be sent to the
Helena
. ‘Though I shall be surprised if we do not meet your sister at Mrs. Biddock's.' An anxious glance at the chronometer decided Phyllida not even to mention the question of her dress. She was afraid she was problem enough to Captain Froxe as it was. Where Codrington had accepted their marriage as the most natural thing in the world, Froxe seemed perpetually to be looking at it nervously, sideways.

*          *          *

‘Mr. Biddock is your man of business, I understand?' They were in his gig now, being rowed swiftly ashore.

‘Yes!' She was looking at the
Helena
, safely moored some way away along the jetty, with a sudden mist of tears in her eyes.

‘He must be delighted to see you.' Was the captain anxious
about arriving with two uninvited guests and such dubious ones at that? ‘His wife and mine are the greatest of friends.' It gave the last touch to Phyllida's picture of his domestic tyrant and her eyes met Brett's with a suspicion of a twinkle.

‘English soil—or as near as makes no difference.' Brett helped her ashore, and she paused for a moment to look round her at the well-remembered quayside, the tumble of houses up the hill, to enjoy the sight of a perfect orange tree hanging over a garden wall, and persimmons golden as the apples of the Hesperides beside it. She took a deep breath, compounded of harbour, and garden, and, somewhere, the smell of baking.

‘Freedom,' she said.

‘Yes, yes.' Captain Froxe had sent a man running ahead to announce them. ‘This way, my dear'—he paused—‘lady. We're most deplorably late for dinner.'

Brett had taken her arm. ‘Lucky you're so rich,' he said,
sotto voce
, as Froxe hurried on ahead. ‘I somehow don't fel he much approves of us, do you?'

‘Approves!' She could not help laughing. ‘He can't even bring himself to call me by my name. What will he do when it comes to presenting me to his wife?'

‘I look forward to finding out. You don't mind, do you, love?'

‘Mind? Now I've seen the
Helena
safe? If only we knew about Oenone.'

‘We'll find out.' But they had arrived at the Biddocks' house.

Coming in out of the bright sunlight, it was hard, for a moment, to distinguish faces among the group that awaited them in the Biddock's saloon. Captain Froxe was bending over Cissie Biddock's hand, unnecessarily profuse in his apologies. Beside her, Biddock was in a visible anguish of embarrassment.

He bowed rather stiffly to Phyllida. ‘My dear Miss Vannick—'

‘Mrs. Renshaw.' Brett's correction was made in tones of steel.

‘N … n … no.' Could he actually be contradicting it? It seemed he was. Brett's hand tightened on her arm as Biddock began again. ‘Some form of ceremony gone through on the mainland I collect?' He got it out with difficulty. ‘Under normal circumstances, perhaps.' He looked from one to the
other. ‘Miss Vannick, Your Grace, try to understand my position.'

‘What did you call me?'

‘Y … y … Your Grace.' And then with a wretched attempt at humour. ‘You must see that whatever she may be, Miss Vannick is quite certainly not Mrs. Renshaw.'

‘But my cousin? The child?'

‘Tragic,' said Biddock. ‘Quite tragic. The smallpox.'

‘I don't understand,' said Phyllida.

‘No.' Amazingly Brett was laughing. ‘Why should you? I do apologise, my love, I seem to have made you a Duchess without knowing it.'

‘A—Good God! Me?'

‘I'm afraid so. That's why Mr. Biddock is in such distress. Peers of the realm usually marry in more state. Will it make you feel better, sir, if I tell you that our first intention, my wife's and mine, is to get married again with all the ceremony you can contrive. And that reminds me, where's Jenny?'