‘I am so sorry,’ Richard panted as he arrived at Portia’s side, by now with a firm hold on the dog’s collar. ‘This is Rug and he’s a fairly new arrival so he’s not very well trained yet, I am afraid.’
‘Will he be all right with Henry?’ Portia wondered, feeling her own little dog stiffen in her arms.
‘Gosh, Rug’s all right with anyone,’ Richard laughed. ‘That’s precisely his trouble. Anyway, wait till you see.’
Just in case Henry might be either overawed or overcome Portia carried him up the lawn in her arms while Richard kept a firm hold of Rug’s collar until they had reached the house, where much to her delight Portia was greeted with the sight of a line of four wickerwork chairs containing four very serious-looking pugs.
‘These are Mamma’s,’ Richard explained. ‘I knew you had to come here and have tea the moment I saw your dog. Mamma has a total passion for the breed – but before I introduce you to them I had better introduce you to Mamma and Pappa. And then everyone else.’
Admiral Ward was everything Portia had imagined a famous sailor might be, a tall upright blond-haired man with a fine set of naval whiskers and a glow to his weatherbeaten skin as well as a habit of standing with his legs slightly apart as if the world beneath his feet was constantly on the move. The only thing she had not reckoned on was the bright twinkle in his eye, which made him look as though rather than viewing life as a very serious matter, which was how Portia had imagined he might, he was expecting something amusing to happen at any time which as it emerged was precisely the case. Lady Ward was as small and delicate as her husband was tall and strong, a very pretty dark-haired woman with a snub nose and extraordinary green eyes which seemed permanently widened in surprise. Then there was Richard’s very pretty younger sister Victoria who was about the same age as Portia and small like her mother but blonde like her brother and father, his older sister Marie-Louise who was tall like her father but dark like her mother and seemed rather earnest on first acquaintance, and finally Hubert, the youngest of them all, a tousle-haired ten year old who judging from his suntan must spend every daylight minute on the water. They were an altogether handsome family and unlike Portia’s own a totally unselfconscious one, and as soon as Portia had been introduced they fell into easy and interested conversation with no regard whatsoever for the normal, dull routines of propriety.
‘Ah yes,’ said Lady Ward, leading Portia to her dogs. ‘I know what you would like. You would like to meet my four boys. And I am sure you will wish your little chap to meet them. In order of seniority, then, this is Wrinkles, Portly, Gruff and Snort.’
From their special cane chairs four serious and frowning pug-dog faces regarded Portia steadfastly.
‘And this is?’ Lady Ward enquired of her so far only unknown guest.
‘This is Henry Pug,’ Portia replied. ‘Will your dogs mind if I put him down? He’s very well behaved.’
‘Of course not,’ Lady Ward said. ‘They adore visitors.’
‘I’ve never seen a black pug before,’ Portia remarked as the five dogs inspected each other thoroughly. ‘In fact I didn’t even know there was such a thing.’
Lady Ward bent down and scooped up the youngest dog who at once laid his head on her shoulder and gave a great and lovelorn sigh.
‘Snort is rather special,’ Lady Ward admitted. ‘A cousin of mine introduced the strain as a matter of fact. She brought them back after a visit to China about eight years ago.’
‘Your cousin went to China?’
‘She went further than that,’ Richard chipped in, now at his mother’s side. ‘She sailed right round the world on her yacht with her entire family. Cats, dogs, servants, the lot. She’s rather amazing actually.’
‘She’s very amazing actually,’ Lady Ward laughed, echoing her son. ‘And she brought back Snort’s father and mother which is how we came to have Snort.’ Depositing a kiss on the top of the little dog’s head, she carefully replaced him on the ground, allowing him to rejoin the other dogs who were now all playing on the lawn.
‘That’s what I should like to do, more than anything,’ Portia sighed, watching Henry enjoying the company of his new friends. ‘I should like to sail my yacht round the world.’
‘You’ll need something a bit more seaworthy than – what’s your dinghy called?’ Richard asked.
‘Swallow.’
‘I don’t think you’d get much farther than the estuary in Swallow. Lady Brassey – Mamma’s cousin – has a schooner. A three-master.’
‘Perhaps you’ll meet her one day,’ Lady Ward said, leading the way to where a large table had been set for tea under the shade of a nearby beech tree. ‘She used to like to come to stay up here now and then. When she wasn’t sailing.’
‘I should love that,’ Portia replied. ‘It must be quite unbelievable to have sailed all the way round the world.’
As it was Portia was finding it incredible enough being where she was at Brueham House, surrounded by such an entrancing family. Much as she loved Aunt Tattie and fond as she was of Uncle Lampard, they seemed so very different from everyone else she met that Portia had begun to think she was as peculiar as they were. Consequently she had despaired of ever making friends with what she privately thought of as normal people, yet even though she had only been in the company of the Wards for a matter of minutes, and despite the fact that neither side had yet had enough time to get to know each other properly, for the first time in her young life Portia felt in place. Instead of being considered some sort of eccentric, either because of the manner in which she was dressed or the way her relatives behaved, she was being treated in the style she now realized she had always wanted to be treated, without patronage or undue sympathy or as a figure of fun. She was being taken for what she was, a young woman quite able to hold her own in company by dint of her wit, her intelligence and the sweetness of her disposition.
Throughout the afternoon her confidence grew as it became increasingly obvious that the Ward family had taken as warmly to her as she had to them. After tea had been taken, Lady Ward and her children showed Portia round the house and its grounds followed by all five pugs, of whom the four resident ones had accepted Henry as easily as the Wards had accepted Portia. As for Brueham House, it was as different as it could be both in style and atmosphere from Bannerwick, which with its handblocked wallpapers, heavily patterned hand-woven rugs and locally fashioned cottage-style furniture had been all but turned by Aunt Tattie into a shrine to the Arts and Crafts movement.
Lady Ward on the other hand had obviously never heard of William Morris and his associates, for her family’s country home was as traditional as Bannerwick was radical. The furniture was solid, comfortable and well worn, the polished wooden floors were carpeted with faded Persian rugs, and the walls liberally hung with a catholic selection of paintings, many of which were seascapes and studies of the Broads done in watercolour executed, as Portia learned on enquiry, by Admiral Ward himself, some of them while he was actually at sea for as he said he found painting not only relaxing but a great aid to his concentration.
It was also, despite a large staff, spectacularly untidy which amused Portia no end given how very neat and tidy Lady Ward was in herself. In the vast drawing room there were books and maps and open sailing charts everywhere, model ships in bottles, model ships out of bottles, model ships half in and half out of bottles, telescopes of all shapes and sizes, sextants, flags, abandoned card games, croquet mallets, tennis rackets, compasses, rowlocks and even one odd oar propped up in one corner.
‘You must forgive the chaos,’ Lady Ward murmured, not sounding in the least apologetic. ‘But when we all descend on this place it is to relax and enjoy ourselves, do you see. Far away from all the formalities of London and the Admiralty.’
‘There is nothing to forgive, Lady Ward,’ Portia replied, as all five pug dogs charged past her in convoy to jump up onto one of several large sofas. ‘I think this is a perfectly splendid room.’
‘Most of th
is is of Pappa’s making,’ Richard said, tugging one end of an old sock which was being offered to him by one of the pugs. ‘As you can imagine, when Pappa is at sea everything is shipshape and Bristol fashion, but we all refuse to crew for him here and this is the result. We often tease him and wonder what would happen to him if his ship mutinied. He wouldn’t be able to find a compass let alone his bearings.’
‘If I may say so I love his paintings,’ Portia said, taking a closer look at a watercolour of waves crashing on rocks and marvelling at the way the artist had captured the mood of the storm.
‘Pappa wanted to be a painter first and foremost, ever since he was a boy,’ Richard told her. ‘But of course it just wasn’t the thing. Not in his family anyway.’
‘Yes? So what are you going to be, Mr Ward?’ Portia asked. ‘Are you too expected to go into the Navy?’
‘It’s not that I’m expected to do so, Miss Tradescant,’ Richard replied. ‘I shall go into the Navy because I would like to do so. Pappa would really rather I did not, but there you are. It is what I would like to do most of all.’
‘I would also rather you did not, young man,’ Lady Ward interposed, straightening an oil painting of her beloved pugs. ‘But then I am only your mother.’
Later as they wandered through the lovely gardens which apparently were all of Lady Ward’s making, with Hubert running in front of them pursued by the deliriously barking Rug and the pugs walking decorously ahead of the party, Portia couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to be part of such a jolly family. More than anything she began to get a sense of what she might have missed, having been brought up the way she had.
‘Miss Tradescant?’ Richard asked her, breaking her reverie. ‘Are you all right? You have become very quiet.’
Portia turned and smiled.
‘Oh, yes, I am fine, Mr Ward,’ she replied. ‘I was just daydreaming.’
Before it was time for Portia finally to take her leave the party wandered over to the spot where Admiral Ward had earlier decided to sit and do some painting.
‘I was rather wondering if you intended to go sailing this weekend, sir,’ Richard asked his father when he saw he had his attention.
‘You don’t reckon a chap sees enough of the sea, eh? That right?’ Admiral Ward replied, carefully licking the end of his paintbrush and holding it up to the light.
‘You don’t seem to, sir,’ Richard replied. ‘It’s generally you who suggests we go sailing first.’
His father grunted and then smiled. ‘You’ll be wasted at sea, Richard,’ he said. ‘Always said you should stand for parliament or the diplomatic service. What you’re made for. Yes, I was intending to sail this weekend as a matter of fact. Any particular reason for asking?’
His steady blue-eyed gaze now fell on Portia, as if to ask if he might indeed be looking the reason in the face.
‘Miss Tradescant here is a pretty useful sailor—’
‘So you’ve told me.’
‘Exactly, so I thought if we were going to sail Merlin for instance – that is Mamma said if the weather’s fine which Tom the gardener said it’s going to be—’
‘Get to the point, Richard. Me paint’s drying.’ Admiral Ward carefully wetted the tip of his brush on the end of his tongue once more before dipping it in a wash of the palest green.
‘Mamma said perhaps she could ask Miss Tradescant’s uncle and aunt across to lunch and you and Miss Tradescant and I could go out in Merlin.’
‘Splendid idea,’ his father agreed, returning to his painting so as not to prolong his son’s obvious shyness. ‘Your uncle a sailor is he, Miss Tradescant?’
‘No, Admiral Ward,’ Portia replied. ‘He has no interest in the sea whatsoever. But he is very interested in art.’
‘Excellent,’ Admiral Ward concluded. ‘We shall have plenty to talk about then. So let us just hope that your relatives will be able to accept my wife’s invitation.’
‘I agree, Admiral Ward,’ Portia said, darting a quick look at the handsome young man beside her. ‘I too hope they will accept Lady Ward’s invitation.’
Such is the way of the world that when people of apparently similar dispositions are put in social proximity to each other they rarely find anything in common except the most trivial of matters, such as the price of corn or the state of their own houses, while people of totally different complexions more often than not and most unexpectedly hit it off at once. Even so, Portia was actually dreading producing Uncle Lampard and Aunt Tattie at Brueham House, thinking that the probability was that in common with the rest of the neighbourhood the Wards would find her relatives ridiculous, but far from it. The moment the Tradescants stepped from their carriage the two families took to each other instantly, and far from finding the Tradescants comical figures the Wards treated their guests with deference and kindness and with the kind of ease that springs from only the most generous of natures.
Admiral Ward and Sir Lampard found mutual common ground both in painting and in naval history. While Portia knew full well her uncle’s great interest in all things artistic she had no idea of his interest in the past accomplishments of various famous navies, so this came as complete a surprise to her as no doubt it did to his host. As far as Aunt Tattie was concerned Lady Ward was immediately attracted by her home-woven and dyed clothes and within no time at all Aunt Tattie was explaining to her hostess the merits of the Loose Wool Society as well as promising to teach Lady Ward to use a loom. Seeing her uncle and aunt for the very first time at such ease in the company of what they themselves would have described as normal people, Portia saw them afresh for herself. She saw what amusing company they both obviously were, Lady Ward being made to laugh with genuine ease by Aunt Tattie as indeed was Admiral Ward by Uncle Lampard, while all four of them together seemed genuinely interested by everything each other had to say. For his part of course Richard was itching to get out on the water in Merlin, but the morning simply raced by and by the time midday had arrived Admiral Ward determined it was too late to travel to Mundesley where the largest of his yachts was moored and regretted that the treat would have to be saved for another day.
Any major disappointment was soon mitigated by the admiral’s suggestion that Richard and Portia in the company of the Wards’ general factotum Mr Perrott, himself a native of the Broads and a sailor since his boyhood, might like to take out Mandrake, the beautiful thirty-foot yacht Portia had coveted since first she saw her on her initial visit to Brueham House. Despite much vociferous pleading Hubert was not allowed to go on the trip as well, but with safety in mind was ordered to stay behind with his two elder sisters who were not at all interested in sailing. For the next half an hour amidst growing excitement Richard and Portia made ready to embark, collecting from the kitchen a handsome picnic of cold chicken, ham, fresh cheese and apples picked that day from the orchard, all of which was then loaded aboard in a large wickerwork hamper, plus several heavy glass marble-stoppered bottles of homemade lemonade which Richard slung over the side of the yacht in a specially fashioned container to keep cool.
By now enough wind was up to make conditions for sailing ideal, and once out of the creek and with the mainsail unfurled Mandrake picked up and began to cut a perfect swathe through the sun-dappled waters, her sails full of the warm southwesterly while a fine spray rose from her bows as they dipped rhythmically down and up, down and up, up and down into waves which grew ever larger the further Mandrake headed into open water.
‘Give Miss Tradescant the helm now, Perrott!’ Richard called from the side of the yacht where he stood stretched out to the full, his bare feet braced against the hull as he put his full weight against the list of the speeding vessel. ‘She can manage that fine, don’t you worry! Because I’m going to need your weight up here now! Quick as you can, man – we’re freshening the way all the time!’
Portia took hold of the long rudder which protruded up through a large steel fixing on the deck, putting her full weight on it just as Perrott had been doing w
hile Perrott himself joined Richard on the side of the dramatically leaning yacht, leaning out to his full extent on the end of his rope.
‘Excellent!’ Richard shouted. ‘Keep ’em rap full and hold hard the helm!’
With the wind slapping the canvas and the spray stinging her face, as she held hard on the tiller Portia experienced a thrilling happiness such as she had never known before. Often in her uncle’s library she had read of the call of the sea and the wind’s song in the rigging of tall ships and the shaking of great white sails on creaking masts, but now she was experiencing it all first hand as Mandrake swathed a clean pure line through the dark green waters, driven on ever harder and faster by the freshening wind. The sight, the sound and the feel of the tall graceful yacht angled against the summer sky and rushing through the waves with only the weight of two men and the length of her keel keeping her from tipping right over was so beautiful and thrilling that Portia felt as though her heart would burst with the rapture of it. As her hair streamed out behind her and the gulls cried high above it seemed a whole new world had just opened its doors.
They must have sailed for an hour or more before Richard prepared to come about, reduce sail and finally drift bare-masted head to wind. With anchor dropped they sat with their legs over the side of the gently heaving yacht and shared their picnic lunch between them, their appetites sharpened by the fresh air and the exercise.
‘It must be difficult for you having to sail in skirts,’ Richard said. ‘It’s times like this I feel really sorry for girls.’
‘Strange that you should say that. Aunt Tattie was saying the same thing only the other day,’ Portia replied. ‘She said I should wear something more practical, like a divided skirt, or even those bloomer things lots of women wear for bicycling.’
‘Can you bicycle?’
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