Tide of Fortune

by Jane Jackson

  Kerenza dropped a curtsey. ‘Mr M – m –’ She felt her blush deepen as she stumbled over the unfamiliar sounds.

  ‘Maggot.’ He bowed. ‘Everyone call me Maggot.’ His teeth flashed in a grin. ‘More easy to say, no? You stay on deck? To be safe you stand back there.’ He indicated the left-hand stern quarter. Then, with a nod, he left them and went forward, pausing to speak briefly to a seaman who fingered his forehead then scurried away.

  On the fore and mainmasts the gaffs were being hoisted, drawing the huge fore-and-aft sails up with them. With the sun climbing higher, the gentle breeze was freshening. It caught the canvas and Kerenza felt the deck move beneath her feet.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked as Judith gripped her arm.

  ‘I will be when I have re-discovered my sea legs. Meanwhile I need something to hold onto.’ They crossed to the stern quarter and Kerenza inhaled the oily smell of linseed and turpentine that her grandfather had told her was rubbed into the wooden rail daily to stop it turning black. She heard bleating, glanced toward the bow, and saw the nanny goat that would provide their fresh milk penned in a large wooden cage just behind the foremast.

  ‘You know,’ Judith confided, ‘I find it very odd that a man as attractive as Mr Penrose should be so devoid of charm. His manner toward you was positively rude.’ She frowned. ‘In fact, the more I think about it, the less acceptable it becomes. I shall tell him so. No doubt he will eat with us in the saloon –’

  ‘No,’ Kerenza begged, her voice low and intense. ‘Please don’t say anything. ‘

  Judith’s brows rose in astonishment. ‘But my dear, you surely cannot condone –’

  ‘No, I don’t. But –’ Kerenza thought frantically. How could she dissuade Judith from confronting him without disclosing information she was desperate to keep secret? ‘It is my understanding that the captain has not been well. He was a prisoner in France,’ she added in a whisper.

  ‘Oh, the poor man.’

  ‘Indeed. This has placed an additional burden of responsibility on Mr Penrose. In such circumstances he will have little time or inclination to chat to passengers. I think we should just forget it.’ She bit her lip. He had virtually snubbed her again, yet to protect herself she was forced to defend him. Lowering her lashes, afraid of what Judith might see, she was acutely aware of her new friend’s assessing gaze.

  ‘I cannot like it. But if it is what you prefer –’

  ‘Yes, it is. Truly.’

  ‘In that case I shall say nothing.’

  Standing beside Judith, Kerenza watched the houses and quays of Falmouth and Flushing recede as the schooner headed out of the Carrick Roads. Gazing toward the house that she now thought of as home, she pictured her grandmother and Minnie and Rapson. But a powerful yearning to be back safe with them brought a choking lump to her throat.

  Quickly she turned her face toward the wooded slopes and gorse-studded moorland running from St Just in Roseland to St Anthony Head. Better to look forward. Except her eyes were so clouded by tears all she could see were bright shards of colour like a fragmented rainbow.

  Footsteps behind her were followed by the second mate’s voice as he murmured a few incomprehensible words in a tone of enquiry. Was he addressing her? She blinked quickly to dispel the tears. But as she glanced over her shoulder Judith answered him in his own language. With a nod and a brief bow, he returned to his position near the wheel.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Kerenza asked.

  ‘That was Maggot’s question,’ Judith smiled.

  ‘Do you know him, then?’

  ‘We have met before. He has relatives in Gibraltar.’

  ‘I expect that’s why he’s concerned about you.’

  Judith laughed, then brought her head close to Kerenza’s. ‘My dear, I am not the subject of his concern. You are.’

  Kerenza felt her eyes widen. ‘Me? Why?’

  ‘According to Maggot, when Mr Penrose received the final passenger list he became short-tempered and uncommunicative. It appears his mood has not improved.’

  Kerenza swallowed. ‘Wh -why should you think that has anything to do with me?’

  ‘My dear, I have no right to ask and you are certainly not obliged to satisfy my reprehensible curiosity, but it occurs to me there might be an alternative explanation for Mr Penrose’s appalling discourtesy. You will note I said “explanation”, not “excuse”. It is that you and Mr Penrose are not, as I assumed, strangers to one another.’

  Kerenza turned her face to the cold breeze. ‘You are correct. We are – were – acquainted. I once thought that we were friends. I was mistaken.’

  Judith’s fingers closed on hers. ‘Oh my dear. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Please.’ Kerenza cleared her throat of the tears fogging her voice. ‘It is past, and of no importance. Let us talk of other things.’ She turned to look out over the rail. ‘Where is Maggot from?’

  ‘Tangier. His father was what we would call Berber. But I believe his mother had some English in her background.’

  ‘Was that Berber you were both speaking just now?’

  Judith nodded. ‘One of the dialects. Some of our servants in Gibraltar are from Tangier, so I thought it a good idea to learn the language. Though I’m sure my accent leaves much to be desired, it appears my efforts are appreciated, as we seem to have far fewer problems than previous governors did.’

  Kerenza turned a startled gaze on her companion. ‘Your husband is governor of Gibraltar?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Judith corrected with a smile. ‘He is on the governor’s permanent staff. He’s a superb administrator. But he still misses India. We couldn’t have stayed, though. That second bout of fever nearly killed him.’ She sighed. ‘It has all been very unsettled. Gibraltar has had three governors in the past two years. The most recent appointee is Sir Henry Clinton. However, he is currently in Jamaica. Or he might possibly have returned to Cornwall. He had a house there, you know. Anyway, until he arrives to take up the post, General Rainsford is acting governor. But in truth it’s George who keeps everything running smoothly. My husband is a most remarkable man.’ Her expression, as she spoke of him, revealed her pride and happiness. ‘I was – I am – very fortunate.’

  This poignant echo of her own recent feelings sent Kerenza’s thoughts back to the night she and Nicholas Penrose had been formally introduced: the night of the Antrim’s party.

  Looking into his eyes, inexplicably deserted by her hard-won poise, she saw his polite smile fade. She took his proffered hand and, as his fingers closed over hers, experienced for the first time in her 19 years the quaking thrill of sexual attraction.

  During that first dance she talked too much while he said almost nothing. When it ended, she was terrified he would walk away and not return. But he did, regularly throughout the evening, as if drawn by a magnet. With other partners she smiled and responded just as she should to their remarks, yet could not resist scanning the crowd for his broad shoulders and dark head.

  She talked lightly of commonplace matters as befitted a public occasion. But each time their eyes met a far more complex exchange was taking place. And the deepening intensity of his stare made words superfluous. The crowd, music, and laughter receded into the distance. Held fast in his gaze, trembling on the brink of the unknown, a moment’s fear was vanquished by thrilling anticipation.

  Then someone called his name and he was forced to turn away. The abrupt return to reality had left her shaken and disorientated. But she had glimpsed, tasted, lived, emotions she had not known existed.

  That night he had filled her dreams. Next morning, when Minnie brought her hot chocolate, also on the tray was a small bunch of winter pansies. The accompanying card thanked her for “an unforgettable evening”, and was signed simply, “Nick”.

  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 F
almouth 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?’