Tide of Fortune (8 page)

Handing over command to Maggot, who remained at the wheel, Nick went below. Hunger gnawed at his stomach and his eyes were sore from the salt spray. His first task after eating would be to write up the log.

At the bottom of the companionway he struggled out of his tarpaulin coat and hung it on the hook, rubbing head and face with the towel Toy had left for him. He paused, glancing up. The sudden drumming indicated another torrential downpour.

Looping the towel round his neck, he started along the passage. Passing William Vyvyan’s cabin, he saw again the expression on Kerenza’s face as she told him her father had refused to see her despite insisting she come. Bewilderment he could understand, or surprise, even irritation. But she had been hurt,
deeply
hurt. Why? She had not lived with her parents for several years.

According to Kerenza, it was to manage the Danby house during her grandmother’s illness that she had moved from Falmouth to Flushing. Once well again her grandmother, having grown accustomed to her presence, had asked her to stay on. Because of the great affection that existed between them she had been happy to do so.

Though it struck him as a little unusual, he had accepted the explanation and thought no more about it. Until the evening Jeremy, his ship on a brief visit to deliver dispatches and pick up supplies, had paid a duty call on his aunt, who had been unable to contain her delight at the increased number of invitations her normally shy son was accepting.

Instantly divining the cause, Jeremy had pressed Nick for a name. When told he had said nothing and changed the subject to talk of events in the Mediterranean. But later, when they were alone, Jeremy had sadly mocked Nick’s gullibility.

Pressed by Nick he had, with a show of reluctance, revealed the
real
reason Kerenza Vyvyan lived with her grandmother. The truth was she had been banished from the family home. What some generously termed “an excess of high spirits”, and others less charitable called “unsuitably forward behaviour”, was swiftly blackening the family’s good name, not to mention wrecking any hope of her elder sister achieving a good match.

Nick refused to believe it. Yet even as he denounced Jeremy’s sources as at best misinformed and at worst gossipmongers, Jeremy reminded him that by his own admission he had not known her long, nor did he know her well.

‘Perhaps she is improved. But in the past – Of course, being so much away at sea, you cannot be expected to have heard about her flirtations. Some were beginning to call her “fast”. As for her dancing –’ Jeremy shook his head. ‘I will not deny she is light on her feet and a pretty mover. Though my mother would never permit either of my sisters to behave with such lack of decorum. But when control is left to a doting grandmother, what can one expect?’

Nick thought back to the Antrims’ party. He had looked into her eyes as they were introduced. They were strangers, yet the shock of recognition had been profound. His own reaction was mirrored in her widening gaze as he took her hand. Never easy making light conversation, he had been unable to think of anything to say.

She had filled the silence with inconsequential chatter, and he had been grateful, understanding as he never had before that his sisters’ prattle before an important occasion was rooted in nervousness. Her soft, slightly husky voice and breathless laugh were so different from most girls’ nerve-rasping squeaks and giggles. He would have been content to listen to her all evening.

‘Think about it, Nicholas,’ Jeremy had urged softly. ‘Kerenza Vyvyan goes almost every night to parties and dances. Can you imagine her content to remain quietly at home while you’re away at sea for weeks or months at a time? Having been indulged by a wealthy grandmother, can you see her willing to forego a new wardrobe every season and the freedom to buy any trinket that takes her fancy just so that you may save to buy your packet-ship? Her manner toward me at the Roseworthys’ convinces me otherwise. But I will say no more.’

Nor had he. Though Nick burned to ask for explanations, for details, he could not. Because asking would betray his interest. Asking would reveal how much he cared. Asking would expose his emotions and leave him vulnerable. And asking would give credence to Jeremy’s insinuations.

But, like a slow infection, his doubts grew and multiplied, gradually poisoning his memories. Though Nick had not recognised the Kerenza he knew as the girl Jeremy described, certain facts could not be denied. They had been acquainted less than a month. Work and family pressures had filled his days, limiting time in her company to evenings at social gatherings where opportunities for quiet conversation were few and brief. Of her past he knew only what she had told him. Why would she lie? Then again, why should Jeremy lie? He was family. They had known each other since childhood.

Yet, despite everything Jeremy had said, and despite his own fears, Nick knew he loved her. If he loved her, because he loved her, how could he ask her to give up a life of security and comfort when it would be years before he could offer anything remotely similar? How could he put her in the position of having to make such a choice? How would he bear it when she turned him down?

Better to end it now: free himself with one swift cut. After two sleepless nights, meeting her unexpectedly in the street had nearly undone him.
One swift cut.
He had kept on walking.

Brief dizziness made him stumbled against the bulkhead. Inside the cabin Kerenza shared with Lady Russell the murmur of voices stopped. Swiftly pushing himself off, he overheard the familiar sounds of argument from the Woodrow’s cabin. If that was marriage he was better off without it.

As he entered the saloon, Broad teetered toward him with a tray of hot chocolate. ‘Give me a minute, Mr Penrose. I got a nice pan of stew keeping hot.’

Nick slid behind the table. ‘See to the passengers first. I’ve waited three hours. Another five minutes won’t kill me.’

He was half way through his stew, eating it with hunks of thickly buttered bread, when the door from the passage was flung back and Betsy Woodrow lurched in.

‘Ah, Mr Penrose.’ Closing the door, she squeezed into the padded seat. ‘I need to speak to the captain on a matter of some delicacy. So if you would be so good –’

‘The captain is fully occupied running the ship, Mrs Woodrow –’

‘Indeed,’ she cut in. ‘His ability to do so without ever leaving his cabin is an astonishment to us all.’

‘As I told you the day we left Falmouth –’ Nick continued as though she had not spoken ‘– he has delegated care of the passengers to me.’

‘With respect, Mr Penrose, you are far too young for me to –’

‘In that case, ma’am, I must ask you to excuse me.’ Nick bent his head once more to his supper, willing her to leave.

‘Well, really!’ She blew down her nose, making clear her irritation and disgust. ‘It appears I have no choice.’

‘There is always a choice, ma’am.’

‘Not when it is a matter of duty and conscience. Now I would not wish you to think I found this anything but pain –’

‘Mrs Woodrow.’ Revulsion hardened Nick’s voice. ‘I must shortly return to my duties. What is it you want to tell me?’

Betsy thrust out her chest and drew back her chin, reminding Nick of a pigeon. ‘The amount of time Miss Vyvyan and that per – your deputy spend talking together is altogether inappropriate.’

Anger coursed through Nick, swelling to a fury that caught him by surprise. But though Betsy Woodrow’s spiteful meddling disgusted him, it was not the sole cause of the turmoil inside him. He was jealous. He had watched Kerenza and Maggot at the rail; had seen the interest in her expression as she listened. Her brief smile had twisted his heart. Had made him realise how rarely she smiled now. Yet during those few weeks they had been – close – her smile had been constant, radiant, lighting her face from within so she had appeared to glow.

Wrenching free of memories that haunted him day and night, making him question his worth, his judgement, his decision, hurling him from remembered pride and delight into an abyss of despair, disillusion and shame, he raised his head.

As he met her self-righteous gaze, he saw Betsy Woodrow flinch.

‘Miss Vyvyan’s father is the person to whom you should address your concern.’

She snorted. ‘Mr Vyvyan may as well not be aboard for all the care he shows for his daughter’s reputation. And Lady Russell’s condition makes it impossible for her to be aware of all that is going on.’

‘What, in your opinion,
is
going on?’

‘I dread to imagine. But a young woman without suitable guardian or chaperone is prey to all kinds of dangerous and improper influences.’

Stifling his anger and disgust, Nick enquired, ‘Who exactly are you accusing of improper behaviour? Surely not Miss Vyvyan?’ Even as he spoke he was struck by the bitter irony of his question. Had he not done exactly that? Only he had not voiced any accusations. He had
said
nothing. He had listened, and allowed doubt to persuade him. And the fear – that he was right? Or that he was wrong and had made a dreadful mistake? – had been eating away at him ever since.

Something in his face made Betsy’s pugnacious gaze falter. She raised a hand to her cap. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘Not yet. However, considering the lack of supervision aboard this ship, a situation that permits persons unlikely to be familiar with the rules and customs of English society to consort with a young woman clearly unaware of the unfortunate impression this may give rise to –’

Nick cut her short. ‘You refer, I assume, to the second mate. Allow me to reassure you, Mrs Woodrow. Miss Vyvyan could not be in safer or more respectful company. As for her reputation, if her father has no objection to her choice of companion, I see no reason for you to concern yourself. Now, if you will excuse me.’ He stood up, and waited pointedly, leaving Betsy with no alternative but to follow suit.

She clung grimly to the door. ‘I only hope you don’t live to regret this, Mr Penrose.’

‘Goodnight, Mrs Woodrow.’ Shutting the door firmly on her departing figure, Nick returned to his chair. Pushing aside the congealing remains of his supper, he rested his head against his clenched fists and closed stinging eyes. Regrets? Where did he start?

Chapter Seven

Leaving the saloon, Nick went to the captain’s cabin. The pungent smell of brandy was stronger than usual as he opened the door. He closed it quickly behind him. He knew the passengers were curious, even suspicious. But none had actually
seen
the captain distraught and incapable through drink. Nor must they.

Neither Samuel Penrose nor William Vyvyan appeared to have noticed his arrival. Slumped in the corner of the padded seat, William continued talking, his glass clutched in shaking hands against his chest. His speech was slurred, his tone a mixture of anguish and justification.

‘I shouldn’t have done it. But there was never a moment’s peace. Anyway, how was I to know? I couldn’t have known.’

Nick had heard those same words every day. Did William Vyvyan think that by repeating them he might somehow change the outcome, undo whatever it was he had done? Did he seek punishment, or forgiveness?

Sam was sprawled forward across the table, his face resting on an outstretched arm. His skin looked grey, his eyes were half-closed, and a silver thread of saliva hung from the corner of his slack mouth. One hand clasped the brandy bottle. Beneath the other, a glass lay on its side and runnels of spilled brandy glistened on the chart.

Nick’s fingers curled into fists and a roar of frustration swelled in his chest. Damn him. Damn both of them to hell and back. He dived forward, scrabbling among the débris littering the table for the captain’s log. Finding it, he extracted it carefully, and breathed a sigh of relief. It was dry and unmarked. Edgar Tierney might be prepared to accept log entries made in a hand other than the captain’s. But Nick would not be able to afford a bribe large enough to persuade him to ignore a logbook stained and smelling of brandy.

Placing the log on the cluttered shelf out of the way, and with nothing else to hand, Nick quickly wiped the chart dry with the sleeve of his coat. He’d have to think up some excuse to explain the smell, but right now that was the least of his worries.

As his uncle twitched, mumbling unintelligibly, Nick was submerged by a wave of anger and loathing, but it receded just as quickly. Powerful emotions demanded energy, and he was simply too tired.

Reclaiming the log, he also lifted down the polished wood block that held inkbottles and pens, and sat down on one end of the padded bench. Rubbing the back of his neck, feeling the tendons bar-taut, he opened the book, picked up a pen, and stared at the blank page.

‘I shouldn’t have done it,’ William started again. Jerking round, Nick glared at him. William was oblivious, staring blank-eyed into the past, trapped in his guilt. ‘I shouldn’t have let it go on. It wasn’t right, the way they both picked on her.’

Nick froze. This was new.

‘I don’t know why they did it. The look on her face … I couldn’t bear it. But what could I do? She tried; I’ll give her that. She apologised even when she didn’t know what her fault was. She defied them but that made it worse. I didn’t know what to do. They wouldn’t listen anyway. In the end, she ran away. Fled from her own home. They were all right then. But why did they do it? Aurelia don’t think much of me. Don’t blame her. Can’t face K’renza.’ He shuddered. ‘The shame … My fault, you see.’

Nick listened intently, taut as a mast stay.

‘They warned me but I didn’t listen,’ William muttered, tears trickling down his haggard face. ‘Should never have … Not an
Italian
ship.’ His face contorted. ‘How d’you live with the guilt?’

Sam roused himself. ‘Not enough guns,’ he said thickly. ‘Packet-ship’s a target for any bastard privateer. Post Office don’t give a damn. Lose a ship, hire another.’

William blinked, frowning at him. ‘Wasn’t a packet. I chartered an Italian brigantine. Cheaper, see? But I bought a Pass. Didn’ forget that. Sure we’d be safe.’ He gave a bark of laughter. ‘Did you know Algerian pirates target Italian ships?’

Sam moved his head on his sleeve. ‘Religious war. Catholics and Muslims.’

‘Without that Pass, they’d have sold me for a slave!’ Indignation swiftly died. ‘It was my fault. All of it. I can’t face her.’ He moaned; Nick realised William’s ramblings had come full circle to Kerenza again. ‘Not like this. But I can’t – I need – without the brandy I –’ He shuddered, his face a mask of self-loathing.

Nick felt no pity, only disgust. For, while his younger daughter’s life was being made wretchedly miserable by her own mother and sister, this man had stood by and done nothing to stop it. Small wonder Kerenza had run away. Yet in claiming her move to Flushing was to keep house for her sick grandmother she had protected the very people who had ill-used and betrayed her. That she had done so was understandable, for she was protecting her name as well as theirs. But why had Jeremy told him such a different story?

Setting down the pen, Nick buried his face in his hands. Haunted by her expression of bewilderment the day he cut her, now every time he closed his eyes he saw the devastation on her face as she recoiled from him and shouted for Maggot’s assistance. What had he done?

While the weather remained bad Nick kept Maggot at the wheel. He was the best helmsman aboard, and the regular crew swore the ship ran drier under his handling. But this meant standing Maggot’s watch as well as his own.

Snatching rest when he could, Nick collapsed onto his cot and into oblivion, only to wake with a start after two or three hours unable to settle again for his mind’s tormented churning.

After 48 hours of howling wind and vicious seas, the gale moderated to a spanking breeze. The thick blanket of cloud rolled away, and sun rose in a sky the colour of cornflowers. Maggot relinquished the wheel to Collins, the most experienced able seaman, and stumbled, bleary-eyed, down the companionway to wash before having his breakfast.

Continuing to drive himself relentlessly, Nick oversaw sail changes, organised teams under the sailmaker and carpenter to repair canvas and spars, and sent another gang to replace frayed or broken rigging.

Having worked since before dawn, he told Broad to bring his breakfast to the captain’s day cabin. If the steward wondered at Mr Penrose’s recent habit of taking his meals elsewhere than the saloon he had the good sense not to mention it.

The snores from behind William Vyvyan’s door were echoed in the sounds behind the heavy curtain that separated Sam Penrose’s sleeping quarters from the day cabin. Wrinkling his nose at the stench, Nick jammed a wedge under the door to stop it closing, then opened the skylight. A cold draught instantly freshened the air.

He made the night’s entries in both logs while eating his breakfast. Then, after gulping down a second cup of coffee, he went to his cabin to wash and shave, and returned to the deck.

Moving to the port side, he raised the glass. Warm sunshine was burning off the morning fog but the Portuguese coastline was still hazy. Not that there was much to see, for this part was low and sandy with few prominent features.

Footsteps on the brass stairs drew his gaze sideways. But it was Betsy Woodrow who emerged from the companionway, blinking in the bright sunlight. Wrapped in a brown kerseymere cloak, she wore a plain brown bonnet over her cap with the ribbons tied beneath her double chin in a drooping bow. Her husband followed her out, one hand clapped to his round, shallow-crowned hat. A bow of greeting was accompanied by his usual anxious smile.

Not wishing to be drawn into conversation, Nick merely nodded and raised the glass again.

‘Deck ho!’ bellowed the lookout from the foretop. ‘Sail on the port beam.’

Nick swung round with the glass, but could see nothing. Cupping one hand to his mouth he shouted back. ‘What is she?’

‘Lugger, sir. She’s a big ’un. Two, no, three masts.’ The men on deck exchanged glances. ‘Bleddy ’ell!’ The lookout’s voice rose. ‘She’s a Frenchie, sir!’

As Maggot appeared beside him, Nick’s gaze flew to the sails. As well as fore, main, staysail, and jib,
Kestrel
was already wearing her square topsails and flying jib.

‘We put up topgallants?’

After an instant’s hesitation, Nick shook his head. ‘It would shift the force of the wind too far from the hull.’ He kept his voice low. ‘In these seas she could lose her topmasts.’ They both glanced at the dark blue, lumpy ocean frilled here and there with curls of foam. ‘But we’ll never outrun her in open water.’

‘How far to Cabo Carvoeiro?’

Catching the gleam in Maggot’s dark eyes, Nick knew at once what he had in mind. His own thoughts raced. ‘The tidal stream runs south on the ebb. Instead of taking the channel off the cape, we lead him between Farilhoes and Berlenga –’

‘Current sets on to Berlenga –’ Maggot murmured.

‘It’s dangerous,’ Nick warned.

‘You no trust me?’ Maggot grinned.

‘I beg your pardon, Mr Penrose,’ Donald Woodrow began apologetically, but was interrupted by the lookout.

‘Deck ho! That lugger, sir. I see ’er before. Privateer, she is. Sails out of Brest.’

Betsy shrieked and reeled back, colliding with her husband who staggered against the freshwater barrels. ‘A privateer? Oh dear God. We’ll all be killed, or kidnapped and held for ransom.’ She turned on her husband. ‘This is your fault. We wouldn’t be here but for you. Oh, where are my smelling salts? I feel quite faint. I’m going to swoon, I know it.’

‘Now, now, my dear, I’m sure –’ Donald Woodrow looked up, startled, as Nick caught his arm.

‘I believe your wife would be more comfortable if you took her below.’

Recognising an order when he heard it, the minister nodded quickly. ‘Yes, of course, right away. Come, my dear –’

‘Well, really –’ Betsy began.

‘Not now, dear.’ Flashing his anxious, placatory smile, he hustled his still complaining wife toward the companionway from where Kerenza had just emerged.

‘Miss Vyvyan, you must come below at once,’ Betsy ordered. ‘A French privateer is chasing us. God knows what will happen. Where is the captain? Why is he not in command? To leave our fate in the hands of –’

‘Please,’ Kerenza interrupted. ‘You go ahead. I will follow you down.’ As Betsy disappeared, trailing loud complaints, Kerenza turned to Nick.

His heart contracted at the physical changes wrought by strain. Her cheekbones were sharply defined, her pallor accentuated by bruise-coloured shadows beneath her eyes. Yet she was perfectly calm, almost detached. He had the distinct impression that no matter what dangers the coming hours brought, they would touch her little, because for her the worst had already happened. He was responsible for that: he, her father, and his cousin, Jeremy. What reason did she have to trust a man? How could he even begin to earn her forgiveness?

She met his gaze directly. He saw no anger, no hate: though God knew he deserved both. Whatever her feelings, they were hidden behind an impenetrable barrier. Once he had been able to look into her soul. Now all he could see was his own reflection, and it shamed him.

‘Is there going to be a fight, Mr Penrose?’

‘I hope not, Miss Vyvyan. But –’

She did not let him finish. ‘I am not seeking reassurance, merely information. If there
is
a fight, it is likely there will be casualties. If you will tell me where you keep the dressings and bandages –?’ Intercepting the glance that passed between Nick and Maggot, she simply said, ‘Ah. Then with your permission, I have a sheet that will serve.’ Without waiting for his response, she turned toward the companionway.

‘Thank you,’ Nick called after her. But she did not look back.

‘Deck ho! She’s coming up fast!’

‘What is time?’ Maggot demanded.

Nick took out the watch that had once belonged to his father. ‘Just after ten.’

‘Is full moon. Low water half hour ago. Tide rising now.’

Nick thought fast. Timing was crucial. They had to stay out of range of the lugger’s guns. But if they reached the channel too soon, he would rip
Kestrel’s
bottom out. ‘You take the wheel.’ Nodding, Maggot moved away and Nick yelled to the bosun. ‘Mr Laity, have the stern chaser run out and the fire buckets filled.’ His heart pounded against his ribs. He would trust Maggot with his life. But it wasn’t only
his
life he was risking. It was the lives of everyone on board. Kerenza and her father, Lady Russell and her unborn baby, the Woodrows, his uncle, Toy, Broad … He shook his head. He could not afford doubts or distractions.

‘Billy!’ he shouted, beckoning to the boy. ‘Come with me.’ He dived down the companionway, feet clanging on the brass stairs. Telling the boy to wait, he hurried into the day cabin, went to the small cupboard above the stern shelf, and took out the keys to the magazine.

Toy came out of the sleeping cabin, carrying a basin with a cloth over it.

Glancing from the basin to the steward’s face, Nick stopped. ‘What? What’s happened?’

‘He’s bleeding.’

‘How? Did he fall? Has he cut himself?’

Toy looked away, his mouth unsteady. ‘From inside.’

Christ.
Closing his eyes in despair, Nick sucked in a ragged breath. ‘Tell him –‘ What words of comfort could he offer that his uncle would believe? There were none. He shook his head. ‘I’ll come down again as soon as I can. But it might be a while. There’s a French privateer on our tail.’

Toy’s face contorted with fury. ‘Sink the bleddy bastards, sir!’

‘I’ll do my best. But you know the rules as well as I do. We have to run. Only when we are cornered may we fight.’ But if it came to a fight, it would mean the end for
Kestrel
and everyone on board. ‘Take care of him, Toy.’

Unlocking the magazine, Nick placed the cloth bags packed tight with gunpowder carefully in a bucket and handed it to the waiting boy.
Kestrel’s
carronades and brass sternchaser had limited range and were fit only for close fighting. Though each of the squat cannons needed only two men to operate it, they could not match the four-pounders the lugger was most likely carrying.

The Post Office had stripped the packets of heavy guns to reinforce its order to flee rather than fight, and thus ensure fast delivery of the mails. The limited protection of the carronades gave a packet captain just enough time before being captured to sink the mails and despatches. At least, that was the theory.