by Jane Jackson
‘An incompetent master who got in my way.’ The cold indifference in his reply sent a shiver down Caseley’s spine. ‘Where is Captain Bonython? I wish to speak with him.’
Stiffening at his imperious tone, Caseley moved round behind her father’s desk so it became a physical barrier between her and the bearded man. But Richard did not appear in the least put out.
‘Of course.’ His frown cleared as he set the ledger down on top of another. ‘You have been two months away. You will not have heard.’
‘Heard what?’
‘My brother has succumbed to a mild indisposition aggravated by overwork. As you are aware, Captain, it has been his policy to maintain an interest in every aspect of the business.’
‘Indeed,’ came the dry agreement.
‘So to ensure a speedy return to health, his doctor advocated a short period of rest.’
Caseley could not help admiring her uncle’s smooth explanation even as she shrank inside at the yawning chasm between what he believed and the truth of her father’s condition. She was startled to see Richard steer the visitor towards her.
‘Allow me to present Captain Bonython’s daughter.’
When he first entered the room his surprise made her wonder if he recognised her from the yard. But he had not mentioned it. Perhaps a woman in a consular shipping office was reason enough for astonishment.
His expression gave her no clue to his thoughts. But the sharpness of his gaze made her wary.
He started forward, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
A smile designed to flatter anyone lacking the perception to see the pirate underneath. Why should she think such things? She knew nothing at all about this man. Yet every instinct was warning her to be wary.
Despite glimpsing her uncle’s bewilderment, she remained behind the desk, her fingertips resting lightly on her music case, her chin high.
One dark brow lifted fractionally and she saw a gleam of amusement in his narrowed gaze as he bowed. ‘Jago Lantsallos Barata, at your service, Miss Bonython.’ His voice was low-pitched and as smooth as dark chocolate.
It was a battle of wills and the force of her reaction overrode polite dishonesty. She cared nothing for his health and she was certainly not pleased to meet him. Remaining silent, she inclined her head briefly.
No longer smiling he turned to Richard. ‘Perhaps we could go to your office. There are matters I wish to discuss and I have other appointments.’ He started towards the door, irritation crossing his aquiline features when Richard did not immediately follow.
‘I fear you do not understand, Captain Barata.’ Richard’s smile was uncertain as his gaze darted between them. ‘I did not introduce my niece out of social convention.’
‘I’m relieved to hear it. Apparently Miss Bonython is not sociable.’
‘I do not play games, sir,’ Caseley said, stung into speech.
He cast a brief sharp glance in her direction. ‘Nor do I, madam. You would do well to remember that.’
‘Er – what I meant was,’ Richard intervened, clearly bewildered. ‘She is here at her father’s insistence.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘Miss Bonython enjoys her father’s complete confidence. She is more than capable of conveying even the most complex matters to him.’
Caseley felt a rush of gratitude towards her uncle.
‘I see.’ Coolly Jago looked her up and down. ‘It appears I misunderstood. For a moment I thought – a foolish mistake. So, you are a messenger.’
Caseley looked down to hide her wince. As far as Richard and Thomas were aware, that was precisely the extent of her involvement. Anxious to avoid further friction between her father and his half-brothers, she had tried hard to make it appear that she was simply a courier, that it was her father who answered the questions, solved the problems, and made the decisions.
Concerned for his wife’s health and busy with his own side of the business, Richard might well have forgotten how long his half-brother had been away from the office. He relayed his queries to her and the following morning she gave him answers. It was natural he should assume that Teuder was dealing with matters from his bed.
Only she knew it wasn’t so. Weakness and delirium had often made it impossible for her father even to hold a rational conversation.
It was totally beyond him to balance materials, manpower, and available berths against deadlines set by owners and agents who wanted repairs done, yet needed their vessels in ports many miles away to collect cargoes won against fierce competition.
One morning four weeks ago, having taken half the night and dozens of sheets of paper to work out the figures, she had gone to the yard and handed the foreman, Toby Penfold, a list of vessels due in for repair the following week, and a countersigned order for materials.
Then she had walked to the office and handed Richard the list of dates, a sheaf of letters to owners and agents, and a page of figures for Thomas to enter in his invoice and accounts ledgers.
When Richard asked how her father was, Caseley referred to the previous evening’s delirious ramblings as ‘a slight fever.’
Richard smiled, shaking his head. ‘He really is amazing, managing to do all this despite a fever.’
Caseley had opened her mouth to tell him the truth. But he didn’t give her the chance.
‘Of course, it’s the business that keeps him going. It means everything to him. After losing his first wife, then your mother and Philip, it was the yard that kept him sane. A lesser man would have given up, but not Teuder. He put aside his grief and built up one of the busiest shipping agencies and repair yards in Falmouth. There were ups and downs, but he never gave in. Even now he is working from his sickbed. What a man.’
After that, telling him was impossible. That evening she took home with more letters needing immediate replies, an enquiry from the Lloyd’s agent regarding preliminary inspection of Fair Maid for her A1 classification, and a polite refusal by the Embassy to reimburse the expenses incurred in repatriating two injured Mexican seamen.
The letter stated that information had come to light proving that their wounds had been sustained not, as they claimed, when their ship sank in a storm, but during their attempt to commit an act of piracy. By repatriating them in his capacity as Consul, Teuder Bonython had, albeit unwittingly, abetted the escape of two felons. Therefore he would have to bear the cost.
Finding her father weak but lucid, she had fully intended to tell him what she had done. But then she recalled her uncle’s praise for his half-brother. If she revealed her deception she might deal him a blow from which he would not recover.
So she read him the correspondence, soothed him over the Embassy decision and, as she was writing his reply to the Lloyd’s agent, she announced casually that she had done all he’d asked her to the previous evening and both Richard and Toby were delighted to have the matter settled.
She passed him the copies from her music case, hardly daring to breathe. His forehead was deeply furrowed and she could see the effort it was costing him to check the pages that had taken her hours.
What if she had made some glaring error that would demolish her fabrication like a house of cards? What if he thought, as he must, that he was responsible? Would he be able to shrug it off as the effect of his illness? Or would it undermine his confidence and erode his belief in himself? If that happened, Caseley knew he was as good as dead. His body might linger, but his spirit would wither away.
As the strain became unbearable and she was on the point of confessing, he sighed and shook his head.
‘I don’t remember any of this.’
Moistening dry lips, Caseley took the pages gently. ‘You had a spell of fever last evening, Father.’
He gave a tired smile and sank back against the pillows. Caseley replaced the papers in her case, relief leaving her shaky.
‘I’ll do it, girl,’ Teuder grunted. ‘I’ll keep the vultures away and the yard working just like it always has. Truth to
tell, there have been days when I just couldn’t think straight. The doubts came then. It was all getting away from me.’
Pride shone in his watery eyes as he pointed an unsteady finger at her case lying on the coverlet. ‘But I’ve been running that yard so long I can do it in my sleep. You keep on bringing the work home. I’ll be out of this bed soon and when I get back to my yard and the office, no one will know I was ever away.’
That had been four weeks ago. Four long busy weeks, during which she had repeated the deception daily, gaining in knowledge and experience but terrified of getting it wrong and being found out.
She was used to solitude. Ever since the accident her disability had set her apart from her contemporaries. But never in her life had she felt so achingly lonely.
There was no one in whom she could confide, no one to share her anxiety and the crushing burden of responsibility.
Having promised her father she would not reveal the severity of his illness to Thomas and Richard, nor could she reveal the extent of her deception.
Standing behind her father’s desk she linked her hands and dug her right thumbnail into her left palm. The pain helped her to focus, gave her strength.
‘Yes, Captain Barata, you will find me an adequate messenger.’ She lowered her lashes at a sudden sharpening of his gaze.
‘Might I be permitted to visit Captain Bonython at home?’ His voice was silky smooth.
‘Oh no. That is out of the question.’ Richard’s apologetic smile softened the rejection. ‘Even my brother Thomas and I have been dissuaded from calling.’
‘Oh?’ Jago Barata’s black brows rose.
Caseley knew that on no account could she afford to underestimate this man. Formidably intelligent, he was also predatory. She sensed he was listening not just to her words and the timbre of her voice, but to all she was not saying.
She made herself relax. Exhaustion was causing her to over-react. Her imagination was playing tricks. For weeks she had kept the severity of her father’s illness, and her part in keeping the business going a secret from Richard, Thomas, and Toby. Jago Barata had been in the office only a few minutes. He couldn’t know anything. It wasn’t possible.
Yet her reaction to him had been instinctive and violent. He represented danger. As a battle raged inside her she managed a contrite smile.
‘Perhaps you think me over-anxious, Captain Barata, but my father is very dear to me.’
‘I do not doubt it, Miss Bonython.’ She recognised genuine sincerity and felt a little of the tension leave her. ‘I trust your protectiveness has served its purpose and your father will shortly be well enough to return. He has been away for several weeks?’
‘Yes, but we have every hope –’
‘When?’ he enquired pleasantly.
‘It – it is not easy to –’
‘But you must have some idea?’ He was relentless.
Desperate to be rid of him and free of his probing she blurted, ‘A few days.’
‘Really?’ Richard beamed with pleasure. ‘Caseley, that’s wonderful. I didn’t realise you had definite news of his return.’
Hotly conscious of Jago Barata’s steady, speculative gaze, she could not backtrack. ‘I – Father wanted it to be a surprise. He – he intended to come in and simply pick up the reins as if he had never been away.’ That much was true.
She smoothed damp palms down her skirt. ‘Under the circumstances, Captain Barata, no doubt you would prefer to return later in the week and conduct your business with my father in person.’ With all her strength she willed him to leave.
Neither his expression nor his shuttered gaze gave any clue to his thoughts. Eventually he smiled.
‘I wish that were possible. But as I mentioned earlier I have other appointments and may not be free at a time convenient to your father. On reflection it suits me better to accept your uncle’s recommendation and avail myself of your talents – as a messenger.’ The pause was brief, but Caseley knew it was deliberate.
He turned to Richard. ‘Doubtless there is much requiring your attention, Mr Bonython. I will call in at your office when I have finished here.’
Caseley stiffened. He was dismissing her uncle like a servant. But Richard seemed oblivious, still smiling at the news of Teuder’s return.
‘Yes, yes, do. I cannot wait to tell Thomas. He will be as delighted as I am.’
‘Uncle Richard!’ Caseley did not want to be left alone with Jago Barata. He was a threat. But she did not know why. She shot a desperate look at her uncle, only to have it intercepted. Realising her nervousness was bound to encourage speculation she reached into her case and pulled out two letters, both unfolded.
‘One is for Señor Mantero at Guanajuato, the other for Fox’s foundry,’ she offered them to her uncle.
‘Allow me,’ Jago murmured. Taking them from her trembling grasp he passed them over.
Richard nodded. ‘I’ll see they go in the afternoon post. Sam can take them.’
‘I was not aware Bonython’s had interests in Mexican silver mines,’ Jago said, one hand on the door as Richard disappeared back to his office.
She wanted to tell him to leave it open, but something stopped her. She was afraid for her father and for the tangled web of deceit she had spun to protect him. But the slightest hint of fear would re-ignite the curiosity and scepticism lurking in Jago Barata’s slate-grey eyes.
The door closed with a soft click and panic tightened her throat. She swallowed. ‘We don’t. But as consul my father is frequently asked for information concerning the purchase and shipping of mining equipment.’
‘Yes, of course.’ One corner of his mouth tilted up. ‘Are we not known for our expertise in all aspects of mining? Wherever there is a hole in the ground, a Cornishman will be found at the bottom of it.’
‘You claim to be Cornish?’ The words were out before she could stop them.
One brow lifted. ‘My claim is legitimate, I assure you.’
‘But your name –’ She broke off in confusion, keenly aware it was not simply his name that had convinced her he was of foreign descent. The Cornish were brilliant engineers, fine seamen, and knew more about mining than any other race on earth. They were hardworking, loyal, and self-contained.
Jago Barata might have any or all of those attributes. But he had something else; a patrician arrogance that was as much a part of him as his limbs. She also sensed ruthlessness and a cold implacability that would make him a terrible enemy. Though she brushed the thought aside as fanciful nonsense, her skin tightened in a shiver.
‘Surely you know that Jago is Cornish for James?’ He was toying with her like a cat with a mouse. ‘My maternal grandfather, Joseph Lantsallos, came from Redruth, and my mother’s family bible records ten generations born in that area. But you are right, Miss Bonython, I have other blood in my veins. My father’s family came originally from Castile. I see you are fluent in Spanish.’
The statement hit Caseley like a slap. ‘How –?’
‘The letters. The same hand wrote both, a firm neat hand betraying no sign of weakness. Did it take you long to compose them?’
She saw the trap just in time. ‘Captain Barata, I am, as you say, simply a messenger. You mentioned having other appointments. If you would care to tell me what it is you wish my father to know, I will detain you no longer.’
He gripped the back of the visitor’s chair angled in front of the desk.
‘You are not detaining me, Miss Bonython.’ His half-smile mocked, and Caseley felt warmth climb her throat and flood her face. ‘I am here because I choose to be. Shall we sit? The message I have for your father is not unduly complicated but it does deserve your full attention.’
He moved round the chair. ‘No doubt you are about to tell me you can attend perfectly well on your feet. That may well be so. However, courtesy does not permit me to sit while you stand and, despite your apparent aversion to introductions, I cannot believe you are entirely lacking in manners.’
Fee
ling her face flame, she sat on the edge of her father’s chair, her back ramrod straight, her hands tightly folded. She could feel herself trembling with anger.
‘Your message, sir?’
He settled himself comfortably, crossing one leg over the other. ‘I want the post of senior captain. I also want your father’s word that if the writ holding my ship in Bilbao is not rescinded in time, I, and no one else, will skipper Fair Maid to the Azores in December for the start of the fruit trade.’
Caseley gazed at him in horror. ‘No, you can’t,’ she whispered, completely forgetting she was supposed to be merely a go-between.
‘Why?’ he enquired calmly.
‘The post is not available. We already have a senior captain –’
‘Will Spargo,’ he broke in. ‘He’s a good seaman, excellent on coastal trading. But for the Atlantic he is too old.’
‘No,’ Caseley repeated, her voice rising. ‘Will Spargo has sailed Bonython ships all his life. He started as a cook’s boy with my grandfather and worked his way up to master. He has earned his rank and the privileges that go with it.’
‘Of course he has. I don’t deny that. Coastal runs make a fair profit and will bring him home to his family every week or two instead of once in six months.’
‘You don’t care about Will, or his family,’ Caseley cried. ‘You just want his job.’
Jago’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why not? I am the best there is. I have equalled all crossing records and broken several. I have sailed through storm, typhoon, and hurricane without losing a ship or a cargo.’
It was no boast. He was simply stating facts. But Caseley recalled Cygnet’s broken jibboom.
‘A situation due more to luck than judgement if the vessels you command require repair every time you reach port.’ Her heart thumped painfully against her ribs.
‘So it was you,’ he murmured. ‘What is wrong with your foot?’
‘That is none of your business.’ He had been fully occupied bringing Cygnet in alongside the wharf and she had been many yards away among the sheds and stockpiles in the yard. Yet he had noticed her limp.