Tide of Fortune (5 page)

During the next three weeks they saw each other almost every evening at balls, suppers, and dances. Never in her life had she known such happiness. Walking along Market Street the day after a Royal Navy frigate arrived in Falmouth with dispatches from the Mediterranean, she saw Nick coming toward her. Heart leaping, smiling her delight, she quickened her pace. And he had walked straight past.

Flinching at the relived pain, she slammed a mental door on shattered hopes that had proved so hollow. ‘Your husband will be relieved to have you back.’

Judith nodded. ‘I will be glad to get home.’ A brief spasm of anxiety crossed her features as she rested a gloved hand on the curve of her belly, barely visible beneath the folds of her velvet pelisse.

Kerenza touched her arm. ‘It won’t take long, perhaps two weeks. Maybe less, if the wind remains westerly.’

In the meantime, Nick had made it clear he had no wish to speak to her. That being the case she was free to ignore him. Only it wasn’t that simple. Already Judith and Maggot had noted the air of strain. How long before her father and the other passengers noticed it too? What then?

Her head aching with questions to which she had no answers, Kerenza stared at choppy water that sparkled like sapphires in the sunshine as the packet passed the lead-covered elm pole marking the dangerous Black Rock, and headed out of Falmouth Bay.

Later, after they had returned to the cabin and unpacked their bedding, Kerenza offered to make up both cots.

Judith shook her head. ‘It’s kind of you, Kerenza. But I do not expect you to take on the duties of a maid.’

‘I know that, ma’am – Judith,’ she amended hurriedly as her companion frowned. ‘But this cabin is rather cramped. And – well – with the greatest respect, your present condition does mean you take up more space than I do, as well as being less agile. So would it not be more comfortable if you were to rest for a moment on one of the trunks and let me make up both our beds?’

Judith burst out laughing. ‘How can I argue with such tact, or such common sense?’

Later, just before dinnertime, Kerenza left Judith tidying her hair and went to knock on the door of her father’s cabin. There was no response, and no sound from within. Glancing toward the closed door leading to the captain’s quarters, she recalled Broad’s warning not to knock unless invited, and debated what to do next.

She had not seen her father since his unexpected arrival at her grandmother’s. Were it not for the fact that the steward had confirmed it, she would have begun to wonder if he were actually on board. Suddenly, the captain’s door opened and Nick emerged.

Kerenza flinched. After an instant’s frozen silence both spoke at once.

‘What –?’

‘I was –’

The frown lines creasing his forehead and bracketing his stern mouth deepened as he gestured abruptly for her to continue.

She took a quick breath and folded her hands so he should not see their tremor. ‘I was looking for my father.’

‘He is dining with the captain.’ He was clearly angry, and containing it with difficulty. But whether the cause was her father, the captain, or the fact that he had been forced to speak to her, she had no way of knowing. Questions clamoured but she held them back. If she did not ask, she would not face the ignominy of him denying her answers.

‘I see. Thank you.’ Turning, she started down the passage and, after an instant, heard the clang of his boots on the brass stairs. Heart pounding, she was forced to stop as Judith emerged just in front of her.

‘Did you see him?’

Kerenza was grateful for the dimness in the passage. ‘Yes –’ Her father. Judith meant her father. ‘No, I didn’t. I’m informed he’s dining with the captain.’

Accepting this with a nod, Judith walked ahead. Kerenza followed, tension cramping her stomach. The smell of cooking was strong, but she had no appetite. Yet somehow she must eat. Just to survive this voyage would demand every ounce of strength she possessed.

On the right of the narrow saloon were two closed doors. At the far end the passage continued through another door, currently fastened back. To her left a long table was surrounded on three sides by benches with backs and seats of brown padded leather. Tucked under the open side of the table was a single chair. A middle-aged man and woman were already seated on the long bench. The man struggled to his feet, swaying with the schooner’s dip and rise.

The dark broadcloth of his frock coat, waistcoat, and breeches proclaimed sober respectability.

Judith extended her hand. ‘Good afternoon, Mr –?’

‘Woodrow, ma’am. May I present my wife?’ He turned to the stout woman. ‘Betsy, my dear –’

‘Lady Russell,’ Betsy Woodrow gushed, smiling widely. ‘We never expected to find ourselves in such august company.’

‘Do not let it alarm you, Mrs Woodrow. I daresay we shall all survive the encounter.’ A diplomatic smile softened the slight briskness in Judith’s tone.

Uncertainty shadowed Betsy Woodrow’s expression for a moment, then she threw up her hands and twittered, ‘Oh Lady Russell, how droll.’ Her gaze shifted. ‘And you –’ she looked Kerenza up and down ‘– must be Miss Vyvyan.’

‘Mrs Woodrow, Mr Woodrow,’ Kerenza bobbed a curtsy then, quickly cupping Judith’s elbow as the ship plunged, guided her to the seat at the top of the table.

‘You’re travelling with your father, I believe?’ Betsy’s eyes were bright and hard, reminding her of jet beads.

‘I am,’ Kerenza replied, and returned to the remaining seat.

‘We have not yet had the pleasure of making his acquaintance. No doubt he will be along directly.’

‘No, ma’am. He’s dining with the captain.’

Betsy frowned. ‘Surely the captain will be joining us here?’

‘Not today.’

Nick’s voice behind her made Kerenza’s heart lurch painfully.

‘Good afternoon. My name is Penrose.’ He made a brief bow. ‘Please accept my apologies for not welcoming you aboard personally.’

‘Surely it is the captain’s duty –?’ Betsy Woodrow began.

‘No, ma’am.’ Nick didn’t let her finish. ‘The captain’s first responsibility is to the ship, not the passengers.’ As Betsy’s eyebrows disappeared into the frizzy curls adorning her forehead, he addressed her husband.

‘Mr Woodrow? I understand you are a man of the cloth, sir?’

Kerenza saw Donald Woodrow’s hunched shoulders relax. ‘I am, sir. May I present my wife? Betsy, my dear, Mr Penrose is –’ He hesitated, glancing apologetically at Nick. ‘I beg your pardon, but not being acquainted with shipboard terminology I find myself at a disadvantage. How should I describe you?’

‘I am the senior deck officer.’

‘My, my,’ Betsy Woodrow simpered, a hand fluttering to the pillowy swell of a bosom swathed in frills and folds of snowy muslin over a dark grey gown that emphasised her high colour. ‘What an important position for one so young.’ Her shiny face dimpled but the smile did not reach her eyes.

‘Age is no measure of experience, ma’am. But between us,
Kestrel’s
officers may claim over 70 years’ sea time.’

‘There you are, my dear,’ Donald Woodrow reassured his wife. ‘Did I not tell you there was nothing to worry about?’

Ignoring him, Betsy leant toward Nick. ‘When we came aboard, there was another –’ distaste puckered her mouth ‘– 
person
on the deck. What is his position?’

Glancing involuntarily at Nick, Kerenza saw his grip on the chair back tighten sufficiently to turn his knuckles white. But he remained calm, if mildly impatient. ‘Mrs Woodrow, prior to sailing there would be upward of 20 men –’

‘I don’t mean the crew,’ she cut in. ‘I was referring to the foreign person, whose uniform, I confess myself astonished to see, is similar to your own.’

‘Ah. That is the second mate, my deputy.’

‘Your deputy?’ Betsy’s expression mirrored shock and disapproval. ‘But he is –’

   ‘Older than me? Indeed he is, though by a few years only.’ Nick’s tone remained light, but the underlying note of warning sent a chill down Kerenza’s spine. Betsy either did not hear, or chose to ignore it.

‘I was going to say he’s not English.’

‘Indeed, ma’am. As you so rightly observe, he is not English, though I understand he has English blood in his ancestry. Of greater importance to me is his gift for reading winds, tides, and currents. He is the finest sailor I’ve ever met, and I consider myself exceptionally fortunate to have his knowledge at my disposal.’

‘If he’s that good,’ Betsy Woodrow remarked in a waspish tone, ‘I cannot help but wonder why he is not commanding a ship of his own.’

‘He was. Until it was shot to pieces by the French and sank under him,’ Nick replied. As Betsy Woodrow’s mouth pursed, he turned to address Judith. ‘Lady Russell, I trust you are as comfortable as circumstances permit? No doubt you would have preferred a single cabin –’

She waved his concern aside. ‘With none available the matter is academic.’ Glancing at Kerenza, she smiled warmly. ‘Nor can I regret it, for Miss Vyvyan has proved to be delightful company.’

‘Then you are fortunate, ma’am.’ His undertone of bitterness stopped Kerenza’s breath like a blow. As he pulled out the chair and sat down, heat rushed to her cheeks. She bent her head, feverishly hoping her flush would be attributed to shyness. Was this a foretaste of what she might expect for the next six weeks? How would she cope?

‘These little brass rails around the edge of the table are very inconvenient,’ Betsy complained.

‘On the contrary,’ Judith said, ‘I can safely promise that in a few days you will be very glad of them. Speaking for myself, I prefer my food on my plate and my plate on the table rather than in my lap.’

‘You speak for all of us, I’m sure, Lady Russell.’ Donald Woodrow’s smile was anxious.

‘Ah, Broad.’ Nick greeted the passengers’ steward as he staggered in bearing a tray containing a platter of sliced ham, separate dishes of boiled potatoes, carrots, and cabbage, and small bowl of mustard.

‘What’s this?’ Betsy Woodrow demanded. ‘I expected a hot dinner.’

‘The veg is hot, madam,’ Broad replied, unloading the dishes.

‘But that meat is cold. So what is that savoury smell?’

‘That’s the crew’s dinner, madam. Boiled salt pork and split peas. ‘Course, if you was to prefer that to this ’ere cold ham –’

‘No, the ham will do.’

‘Right, madam.’

‘Thank you, Broad. We will manage now.’ Nick said.

‘As you wish, Mr Penrose.’ Taking the empty tray, the steward withdrew.

‘These vegetables don’t look very hot to me,’ Betsy huffed. ‘Lady Russell, may I pass you the –’

‘No, please,’ Judith said hastily. ‘Do help yourself, Mrs Woodrow.’

‘Well, if you’re sure,’ Betsy simpered, and spooned a lavish helping from every dish onto her plate. Shuddering, her husband looked quickly away.

‘Is your journey for business or pleasure, sir?’ Nick enquired.

‘Some family business requires our attention,’ Betsy answered before her husband could respond. Mesmerised, Kerenza watched as she took thick slices of pink ham liberally marbled with fat then topped them with a large dollop of mustard. ‘My husband is a dedicated man, Mr Penrose. Too much so for his own wellbeing.’

‘Please, my dear,’ Donald Woodrow’s smile grew more nervous. His wife ignored him.

‘The drawback to a generous nature is that people tend to take advantage. Sometimes they want more than he is free to give. Isn’t that so, Donald?’

His smile was a grimace of shame and desperation. ‘I don’t think –’

‘That is part of your trouble, Donald,’ Betsy chided with syrupy sweetness. ‘You don’t think. And you are far too willing to believe the best of people.’

He looked at her for a moment, and Kerenza glimpsed the light of battle raging in his tired eyes. But the spark died. ‘As a minister,’ he said quietly, ‘how can I do otherwise?’

‘Do you have children, Mrs Woodrow?’ Judith enquired with a deftness that filled Kerenza with relief and admiration.

A martyred smile twisted Betsy’s mouth. ‘We have not been blessed, unfortunately. I can only conclude that God had a purpose in denying me the joys of motherhood. And that was to ensure I would be free to help my husband in his work.’

Kerenza shot a glance at Donald Woodrow. Round-shouldered, wretchedly miserable, he stared at his empty plate.

‘People have no idea how much organisation is required for a parish to function as it should.’ Glancing from Nick to Kerenza, as if daring them to argue, she focused her gaze and her attention on Judith. ‘Naturally, Lady Russell, you will understand that I refer to a properly-run parish. Of course there are plenty of the other kind. Far
too
many.’ She sighed. ‘But I suppose one must be charitable.’

‘Indeed, one must,’ Judith agreed gravely. ‘For your vision of an ordered world is one to which few would aspire.’

As Donald Woodrow glanced up, visibly startled, and Nick raised his hand to mask a sudden bout of coughing, Kerenza saw Betsy’s grease-slicked lips purse in a smirk of pride and satisfaction. She thought the remark a compliment.

The meal continued. While Betsy chewed noisily and Judith drew the minister into conversation, Kerenza cut a sliver of ham and a small portion of vegetables into tiny pieces.

The man she hated for the pain he had caused her, who had been the first to touch her heart, was sitting barely an arm’s length away, eating with swift efficiency. And though her throat felt so stiff and tight she was terrified she might choke she knew she must do the same.

Quickly clearing his plate, Nick excused himself to return topside. His departure allowed Kerenza to relax; as her shoulders dropped, she realised she was aching all over from accumulated tension.

‘Would you mind terribly if I had a little nap?’ Judith said when they returned to the cabin. ‘Though my condition has brought me great joy, I do find the constant movement of the ship very tiring.’

‘Of course you must rest,’ Kerenza said quickly. ‘I shall go to the saloon and write to my grandmother.’

‘You would do far better to go up on deck and enjoy the fresh air.’

‘Maybe later: the watch is changing and I certainly would not want to get in the way.’ Nor, for the moment, could she face another encounter with Nick.