Ramage (22 page)

‘But how can I–’

‘Come on,’ interrupted Probus, pointing to the companionway, ‘your protégée wants to see you.’

‘How is she, sir? I’m afraid I dozed off last night before the Surgeon came down.’

‘Judge for yourself,’ Probus replied, knocking on the door.

She looked even smaller, even more frail in the cot: a delicately made and raven-haired doll in a shallow box. Fortunately Probus was a man of taste, and the sides of the cot and the quilt were covered in embroidered silk instead of scrubbed canvas. She was wearing a silk shirt as a nightdress and had made a brave attempt with one hand to tidy her hair – he was pleased she had kept to the style he had made for her on the beach, combing it to one side. A comb and ivory-backed brush were at the foot of the cot.

She held up her left hand, and Ramage raised it to his lips. Keep it formal, he warned himself conscious that the worldly Probus was obviously curious about their relationship.

‘How are you, Madam?’

She looked happy enough.

‘Much better, thank you, Lieutenant. The doctor is most encouraging: he tells Lord Probus that I shall have a small scar but no disability
permanente
.’

‘Is that so, sir?’

He’d reacted too quickly and Probus would be quick to spot it…

‘Yes, Ramage: our Sawbones, old Jessup, is a hard drinker and I expect his flow of blasphemy while treating her must have shocked the Marchesa; but he’s a good surgeon for all that, and he says she’ll be up and about in a couple of days.’

‘I’m very glad, sir.’

‘I’m sure you are,’ Probus said dryly, adding hurriedly, ‘we all are. But although we wish her a speedy recovery, we want an excuse to keep such a charming young lady on board for as long as possible–’

‘Lord Probus is
molto gentile
,’ Gianna said. ‘I have given the Lieutenant much trouble, too.’

‘No,’ Probus said quickly, ‘you have been no bother to anyone.’

Ramage was puzzled for a moment by the faint emphasis on ‘you’.

‘Well,’ said Probus, ‘I have a lot to do: Mr Ramage, will you please go to my cabin in fifteen minutes’ time and write your report: use my desk – I’ve left you pen, ink and papers. If you will excuse me, Madam?’ he said to the girl, and left the cabin.

For a moment Ramage reflected: Probus said he could stay with Gianna for fifteen minutes: most considerate of him. But why make a point that he should use his desk? And he had left pen, ink and papers. Why papers, not paper?

‘My Lord Probus is very
simpatico
,’ Gianna said, breaking the silence. ‘
Allora
, how are you,
Commandante
?’ she asked with gentle mockery.

‘No longer a
commandante
: just a
tenente
. But I slept for hours. Apart from your shoulder, Madam, how do you really feel?’

‘Physically, very well,
Tenente
,’ she said very formally and added with more than a hint of a blush: ‘Nicholas, “Madam’s” name is Gianna: have you forgotten? “Madam” makes me feel very old.’

When he made no reply – he was repeating ‘Gianna’ to himself and marvelling at its musical sound – she said, rushing the words as if embarrassed at her boldness: ‘Lieutenant! Repeat after me: “Gianna”.’

‘”Gee-ah-na”,’ he said dutifully, and they both laughed. He pulled over a chair and sat by the cot. Momentarily he saw Ghiberti’s ‘Eve’, naked and held by cherubs. One of the cherubs had its hand resting on her flat belly and, glancing at Gianna, he realized that she too was naked beneath a thin silk shirt, a quilt and a sheet. He could see the outline of her legs and then the curve of her thighs: they were as slim as those Ghiberti created. And there the cherub rested his hand: and her breasts, too, were as small as Eve’s.

‘The Captain – he is an old friend?’ she said calmly, and he flushed as he realized she had been watching his eyes.

‘No – I’ve not met him before. What made you think that?’ Silly question, but he could think only of her breasts…

‘Well, he is friendly, and you call him “Sir” and not “My Lord” like everyone else, so I thought you must know each other.’

‘No, there’s another reason.’

‘
Secreti
?’ she asked cautiously.

He laughed. ‘No, simply that I’m also a “Lord”.’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said, her brow wrinkling. ‘But that also puzzles me. The men in the boat – why did they not call you “My Lord”?’

‘In the Service I do not use my title.’

‘Would it be indiscreet to ask why? Because of your…’ she left the sentence unfinished, once again embarrassed at her boldness.

‘No, not entirely because of my father. No – simply that I am a very junior lieutenant, and when the captain and officers are invited to dine on shore many hostesses are puzzled who has precedence at table – a junior lieutenant with a peerage, or a captain without one. If they choose the lieutenant, his captain can feel very insulted. So…’

‘So it is more tactful to be just “Mister”.’

‘Exactly.’

She suddenly changed the subject. ‘Have you talked with my cousin?’

‘No – where is he?’ Ramage realized he had not seen him since they came on board.

‘He had a bed in the captain’s dining-room,’ she said.

‘In the “coach’.’’

‘Coach?
Carròzza
? The type with horses?’

‘Are you going to be a sailor or a groom?’ he asked teasingly. ‘In a ship like this, the captain’s quarters are called “The Cabin”, but there are really three. The biggest one is aft, through that door, and runs the whole width of the ship, with all the windows in the stern. It’s called “the great cabin”, and the captain uses it during the day.

‘This cabin is the “bed place”, or sleeping cabin. The one your cousin occupies, next to this, is called “the coach”. Some captains use it as a dining-room, others as an office.’

‘I understand,’ she said, and he realized they both felt strangers now they were in more formal surroundings. The nearness and polish of the captain’s quarters, with its odd mixture of elegant and warlike furnishings – only a few feet away a black-barrelled 12-pounder cannon sat squat on its buff-coloured carriage, secured to the ship’s side by heavy ropes and tackles – were far removed from the intimacy of an open boat. The orderliness forced on them a shyness which had previously been crowded out by the dangers of the first, hectic hours of their meeting.

‘Nicholas,’ she said shyly, pronouncing it ‘Nee-koh-lass’, ‘this is the first time in my adult life I’ve been alone in a room – or a cabin, for that matter! – with a young man who was not a servant or a member of my family…’

Before Ramage realized what he was doing, he knelt beside the cot and kissed her full on the lips; and what seemed hours later, while they both stared as if seeing each other for the first time, she smiled and said, ‘Now I know why always I had a chaperone…’

She raised her left hand and delicately traced the long scar on his forehead. ‘How did this happen, Nico?’

Nico, he thought. The affectionate diminutive.

‘A sword cut.’

‘You were duelling!’

It was an accusation but – it seemed to him – an accusation revealing her alarm that he should have risked his life.

‘No, I wasn’t. I was boarding a French ship.’

Suddenly she remembered something: ‘Your head! The wound on your head! Has it healed?’

‘I think so.’

‘Turn round.’

Obediently he turned and felt her hand gently moving his hair aside at the back of the scalp.

‘Ow!’

‘That did not hurt! The blood has dried in the hair. It did not
really
hurt, did it?’

She sounded both doubtful and contrite and he wished he could see the expression on her face.

‘No – I was teasing.’

‘Well, keep still…yes, it is healing well. But you must wash away the blood. I wonder,’ she added dreamily, ‘if you will have no hair where the scar is, like a mule track through
macchia
?’

There was a knock at the door and he just had time to regain his seat before Lord Probus came in, although his sudden movement made the cot swing rather more than the ship’s roll could account for.

‘Come along, young man,’ Probus said in mock severity, ‘your fifteen minutes are up. The Surgeon says the Marchesa must rest.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

‘But I have rested
sufficiente
,’ the girl protested mischievously. ‘I enjoy having visitors.’

‘Well, you’ll have to make do with my poor company,’ said Probus, ‘because Mr Ramage has a report to write.’

In the great cabin Ramage found an elegantly carved desk, with an inlaid top set facing the stern lights. He sat down and looked out at the smooth wake the frigate was leaving across the surface of the almost harsh blue sea. The prize brig, sails furled on the yards, a white ensign over the Tricolor, was towing astern. The cable, led out of one of the frigate’s stern chase gun ports, made a long and graceful curve, its weight making it dip down into the sea before it rose up again to the brig’s bow. Occasionally, as the brig yawed and took a sheer to larboard or starboard, the extra strain flattened the curve, and Ramage could hear the grumbling of the tiller ropes running down to the deck below as the men at the wheel put the
Lively
’s helm up or down, to counteract the cable’s sudden tug.

Several miles beyond the brig was Argentario, distance and heat haze colouring it pearl-grey and smoothing the cliffs and peaks into rounded humps. The sun playing on the olive groves made them look like tiny inlaid squares of silver. The island of Giglio, a dozen miles nearer, was like a whale on the surface basking in the sun. Even closer, and farther to the right, Monte Cristo, with its sheer cliffs, sat like a big, rich brown cake on a vivid blue tablecloth.

Ramage reached for the quill and as he dipped it in the silver ink-well, saw a letter partly hidden under the sheets of blank paper. He was just going to put it to one side when he remembered Probus’ curious phrase about not writing his report until he’d read Pisano’s complaint.

Yes, it was from Pisano, written in a sprawling hand, each letter tumbling over its neighbour. So that was why Probus insisted he used the desk…

The wording of Pisano’s complaint was difficult to understand: a combination of indignation and near-hysteria played havoc with both his English grammar and vocabulary. As he read it, Ramage realized the words were an echo of the tirade he had last heard – spoken in high-pitched Italian – on the beach at Cala Grande. The letter concluded first with a demand that
Tenente
Ramage should be severely (underlined three times) punished for cowardice and negligence; and secondly, with pious expressions of gratitude that God should have been merciful in rescuing them from
Tenente
Ramage’s clutches and delivering them into the capable hands of
Il Barone
Probus.

Ramage put the letter down. He felt no anger or resentment, which surprised him. Just how did he feel? Hurt? No – you could be hurt only by someone you respected. Disgust? Yes, just plain straightforward and honest disgust: the same reaction as when you saw some drunken whore caressing a besotted seaman with one hand and stealing his money with the other. She would justify her behaviour by saying a girl had to eat and the sailor could afford the loss, forgetting he’d probably earned the money fighting in half a dozen actions, and for less than a pound a month.

Pisano obviously felt an urgent, overpowering need to save his own reputation, even if it cost a British officer’s career; and his justifications would be that a Pisano’s reputation and honour (
bella
figura
, rather) were of far greater value. Yet, Ramage thought ironically, Pisano’s honour was probably like the drunken whore’s virginity – she’d lost it without regret at an early age, later sentimentally mourned it, and then for the sake of appearances declared daily she still had it in her possession.

Well, his own report had to be written. How much notice was Probus taking of Pisano’s complaint? Or, more to the point, how much notice would Rear-Admiral Goddard, or Sir John Jervis take?

After signing his report, he folded it, tucked the left-hand edge of the paper into the right, and stuck down the flap with a red wafer which he took from an ivory box – he could not be bothered to send for a candle and use wax.

Returning to the smelly depths of the gunroom, he found Dawlish writing his report on the cutting-out expedition. After they exchanged news of their own activities since serving together in the
Superb
, Ramage asked him about the attack on Santo Stefano.

‘Simple,’ said Dawlish. ‘We were a little annoyed you didn’t stay up to help us count our chickens! By the way, I hear you’ve been rescuing beautiful women from the clutches of the Corsican monster. What’s she like?’

Remembering Dawlish’s reputation as a womanizer, Ramage said warily, ‘Depends on what you call beautiful.’