Tide of Fortune

by Jane Jackson

  Drying her hands on a piece of clean sheet, she emptied the red, sudsy water into the chamber pot and refilled the basin for the steward. Out in the day cabin she crouched by the little stove and was about to open the door when the clang of boots on the brass stairs made her heart buck.

  She straightened up, moving toward the door as it opened and Nick burst in. Seeing her he checked, startled, and for an instant his expression, usually so guarded, betrayed far more than anxiety.

  Knowing what his uncle had meant to him, a wave of sympathy submerged her own hurt, grief, and anger. ‘Nick, I’m so sorry. I –’

  ‘No.’ Shock and shame raced like storm clouds across his features. The self-reproach in his eyes stopped her breath as he took a step toward her.

  ‘The fault is entirely mine.’ His voice was low and intense. ‘It is I who must ask your pardon, though God knows you have little enough reason to grant it, or to forgive me –’

  ‘No,’ she reared back. ‘Stop. You – I didn’t – You misunderstand.’ But even as she silenced him, fearing he would be embarrassed or even angry at his error, the physical weight of her grief was suddenly lighter. ‘I was not – What I meant –’ She bit her lip hard and gestured helplessly.

  His gaze fell on the pile of bloody rags, then flicked to the sleeping area. In the silence she heard Toy heave a deep, shaky sigh and blow his nose.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, watching the colour leave Nick’s face as he realised his mistake: realised what she had really been trying to tell him. He swayed slightly and she saw his recognition of all that the loss of his uncle, Kestrel’s captain, would mean. His throat worked as he swallowed and a muscle started twitching in his jaw as he clamped his teeth together. Then, with a brief, formal bow, he moved past her as Toy emerged, wiping tears from his seamed face.

  ‘We done our best, Mr Penrose. But –’ He shook his head, clearing his throat loudly. ‘The good Lord knows I shall miss him awful. But the truth is –’

  ‘He was glad to go?’ The savagery in Nick’s voice startled Kerenza. But though she didn’t understand his anger, she knew his instinct was correct. Sam Penrose had left this world willingly.

  ‘Not from you, Mr Penrose,’ Toy’s voice was strong, his reply firm. ‘Don’t you ever think such a thing. He couldn’t have been prouder of you if you was his own son. But you know as well as I do prison done for him. Not the same man, he wasn’t. Nor ever would be. Well, he’s out of it now, God rest his soul. What about the Frenchie, sir?’

  ‘Sunk with all hands.’ Nick was terse. ‘Maggot lured him onto rocks, ripped his keel out.’

  ‘Bleddy good job too. Begging your pardon, miss.’ Ducking his head respectfully, Toy turned back to Nick. ‘Looks peaceful as a sleeping babe, he do, sir.’ His voice broke. ‘You see for yourself.’

  As Toy stood aside so Nick could enter the cramped sleeping cabin, Kerenza picked up the bloodstained bundle and started toward the door.

  ‘This is too much for the small stove. I’ll ask Broad –’

  ‘While you’re there, miss –’ Toy held out one of the jugs. ‘Would you ask him for more hot water? The captain got to be laid out proper –’ His voice wobbled and her throat thickened in sympathy.

  ‘Of course.’ As she quietly closed the door, her father’s opened.

  Though dressed, he looked unkempt. His clothes were stained and creased, his puffy eyes bloodshot and greying stubble covered his sagging jaw. Seeing her, he flinched, muttered incoherently, and started to retreat. But as he caught sight of the bloodstained bundle he froze. ‘Good God, what happened? Are you hurt? How –?’

  ‘It’s not mine,’ she said quickly. Could he really not have heard the gunfire nor felt the ship’s violent changes of course? ‘There was a chase.’

  ‘A chase?’

  ‘A French privateer. It’s over now. He was sunk. But a ball hit the rail and the captain was injured.’ She shuddered at stark images she could not escape. The gaping wound; the protruding splinter of wood; blood spurting unstoppably from a pierced artery.

  ‘Is it serious? Can I see him?’

  Kerenza swallowed, shaking her head. ‘He died, Papa.’

  ‘Died?’ William repeated blankly, then sagged against the bulkhead. ‘Sam Penrose is dead?’ He seemed unable to believe it.

  ‘I’m sorry, Papa. You had become friends, had you not?’ Kerenza lifted the jug. ‘There are things I must do. But they won’t take long, and then –’

  William turned blindly, feeling his way back into his cabin.

  ‘Papa, please, don’t go.’

  ‘You get on,’ he mumbled, waving her away. ‘I’m not fit company, least of all for you.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ she cried desperately. ‘You have been much missed. I’ll ask Broad to bring you hot water, and some coffee. You should not be alone. The other passengers are anxious to meet you. Please join us in the saloon. It will soon be time for lunch. Though apparently we must call it dinner while we are on the ship.’

  Realising she was starting to babble, Kerenza bit her tongue. But anxiety drove her to add, ‘Papa, you need to be well and strong when we reach Tangier. Mama and Dulcie will depend upon it, and upon you.’

  Shaking his head, he closed the cabin door.

  Wanting to scream with frustration, Kerenza looked up the stairs toward daylight. Blue sky and sunshine mocked the horror of the past hour. Captain Penrose was dead. For everyone else on board, once the ripples faded life would simply continue as before. But for Nick the change was irrevocable.

  She saw his face again, heard the intensity in his voice as he had begged her forgiveness. Then, realising his error, he had withdrawn behind stiff formality. Did he regret –? No. She must wait until she had time alone, time to think.

  Drawing fresh, clean air deep into her lungs, willing her heartbeat to slow, she started down the passage. At least she had seen her father and spoken to him. And he no longer seemed angry with her.

  She entered the saloon, the gory bundle down by her side to conceal it as best she could. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’ She hurried through the door leading to Broad’s cubbyhole and the galley before Betsy, mouth already open, could start asking questions.

  The sympathy in Judith’s eyes brought a lump to Kerenza’s throat as she finished relating a brief – and carefully edited – account of what had taken place.

  ‘Oh my dear, how awful for you. And for Mr Penrose as well.’

  ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,’ Betsy pronounced.

  ‘Just so, my dear,’ Donald murmured. ‘Miss Vyvyan, you have just come from the captain’s cabin. Might I be of help, do you think?’

  ‘I am sure that both M -Mr Penrose and Toy would appreciate your kindness, sir. But both are very busy right now, so perhaps if you were to wait an hour or so?’

  Nodding, he sank back onto the padded leather. ‘Of course. One wishes to comfort, not to intrude. Mr Penrose must be particularly grateful to you, Miss Vyvyan.’

  Kerenza shook her head. ‘He has no reason to be, sir. There was so little we could do.’

  ‘But you tried,’ the minister said gently. ‘And Captain Penrose was not alone.’

  ‘Well, I would not wish to be thought lacking in all proper feeling,’ Betsy broke in. ‘But it has to be said that for the captain to pass away so quickly he must have been quite beyond help. So, Miss Vyvyan, having done your duty as you perceived it you need not blame yourself in any way.’

  Kerenza folded her hands tightly in her lap. ‘Thank you, Mrs Woodrow. That is a great comfort.’

  Betsy nodded, oblivious to Kerenza’s bitterness.

  Broad had just carried in the tray containing a platter of boiled beef with dishes of boiled potatoes, carrots, cabbage, and a jug of gravy, when Kerenza saw Judith look past her.

  ‘Mr Vyvyan,’ she smiled. ‘You join us at last. We are so glad to see you.’

  Swivelling round, Kerenza saw that her father had made an effort. Though his
coat and breeches looked as if he had slept in them, he had shaved, found a clean neckcloth, and covered his lank hair with a neat wig, with a rigid roll curl each side and a short pigtail. But his face was the colour of ashes, and sweat glistened on his forehead and upper lip. Realising he was on the verge of retreat, she scrambled quickly out of her seat. As she slipped her arm through his she could feel him trembling.

  ‘Lady Russell,’ she said, ‘may I present my father, William Vyvyan.’

  ‘Mr Vyvyan, it is truly a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’ Judith extended her hand, and Kerenza gently drew her father forward so he could take it. ‘I am sharing a cabin with your daughter. I must tell you she is a delightful companion.’

  Bowing over her hand, William’s voice was rough as he muttered, ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  ‘Mrs Woodrow, Mr Woodrow, my father.’

  ‘Mr Vyvyan.’ Betsy inclined her head, her mouth pursed in censure. Kerenza knew the sharp eyes had noted every stain and wrinkle, the missed patch of stubble, the bead of dried blood, the pouches beneath his eyes, and the network of fine veins that lay across his nose and cheeks like patches of purple lace.

  Awkwardly rising to his feet behind the table, Donald Woodrow extended his hand. ‘Mr Vyvyan. It is a pity that we should meet for the first time on such a sad day. But we are glad to see you, sir. We understood from Miss Vyvyan that you have not been in good health. I hope you are beginning to feel better?’

  ‘A little, thank you.’

  ‘But these things take time, do they not?’

  ‘Do sit down, Mr Vyvyan.’ Judith indicated the chair tucked against the table. ‘I think it unlikely either of the officers will be joining us.’

  As William pulled out the chair and sat down and Kerenza slid into her seat again, Betsy leant forward and began to help herself from the dishes.

  ‘I do not wish to cause alarm, but I have to say I am not convinced of Mr Penrose’s suitability for command.’

  Kerenza clenched her teeth, staring at her empty plate, not daring to say anything. Of all at the table only she knew that Nick had been in command ever since the ship left Falmouth, and probably during the whole of Kestrel’s previous voyage to Lisbon.

  ‘Oh, come now, Mrs Woodrow,’ Judith said, taking a small portion from each of the dishes. ‘The very fact that we are sitting here about to eat this meal indicates to me that Mr Penrose possesses remarkable courage and tactical skill. It must be a shocking thing to see one’s captain struck down. Yet, setting aside his personal anxieties, he not only evaded capture, he caused the French privateer to sink. No, Mrs Woodrow, I cannot share your doubt.’

  She turned to William Vyvyan. ‘I understand you run a trading business to the Mediterranean, Mr Vyvyan? My husband and I are currently living in Gibraltar and I must say I do not know how we would go on without regular visits from ships bringing in all those things we have come to rely on for our comfort.’

  Relieved that she was no longer the focus of attention, and grateful for Judith’s ability to redirect conversation from contentious subjects to harmless ones, an apparently effortless ability honed to perfection by the demands of diplomacy, Kerenza turned to her meal.

  But after forcing down a few mouthfuls, her stomach rebelled and she set down her knife and fork, feeling shaky and slightly sick, suddenly overwhelmed by the enormity of the morning’s events.

  ‘Please excuse me, I must –’ Sliding out of her seat, she slipped out of the saloon and walked quickly along the passage toward the companionway. The open-work brass treads had been wiped clean, and the trail of blood leading into the captain’s quarters had gone. She ran up the stairs. Perhaps in the fresh air and sunlight she might escape her tortured thoughts.

  Chapter Nine

  As she reached the top of the companionway, Kerenza suddenly realised she had forgotten to put on her cloak. She hesitated for a moment, then stepped out over the coaming. She would not take cold in the spring-like warmth. As for her lack of a hat, who would even notice? The crew had more important concerns. The only person likely – no, certain – to disapprove was Betsy Woodrow. But she was below and hopefully would remain there.

  Looking round, Kerenza saw the carpenter and a couple of hands replacing the length of rail splintered by the French privateer’s cannonball. The rest of the duty watch was busy with various tasks. The remainder of the crew were down in the fo’c’sle having their dinner. The silence seemed strange.

  Normally while working on the continuous repair and replacement of rigging, the men talked. Sometimes the banter flared into snarling quarrels. But a few well-aimed blows of the bosun’s rope starter swiftly ended these.

  Maggot was by the mainmast, talking to the bosun. Both had their backs to her. As she passed the skylight on her way toward the stern, the temptation to look down was too strong to resist.

  Seated at the newly tidied table, his jacket discarded, the sleeves of a loose and crumpled white shirt rolled halfway up his forearms, Nick was writing in what appeared to be a journal, his head supported on one hand. Wrenching her gaze away, she caught the eye of the AB at the wheel and felt her colour rise.

  He bobbed his head. ‘Aft’noon, miss.’

  ‘G -good afternoon.’ They had never spoken before. And she was surprised that he should speak without first being addressed.

  ‘Begging your pardon, miss.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, we ’eard what you done this morning. Much appreciated. Just wanted you to know. Hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘No, not at all. Thank you.’

  With a jerky nod, the seaman checked the compass then raised his gaze to the topsail.

  Kerenza continued toward the stern. Usually the crew behaved as though the passengers were invisible. But with this helmsman most often at the wheel when she came topside, deliberately ignoring him seemed ill mannered. So after their second encounter she had started to acknowledge him with a brief nod.

  On one of her rare visits to the deck, Betsy Woodrow had witnessed the silent exchange. Later, over tea, she took Kerenza to task.

  ‘Miss Vyvyan, I’m sure you intended mere courtesy. But to men such as these your conduct might well be seen as overly familiar.’

  Stung, Kerenza felt heat rise in her cheeks, but she kept a tight rein on her temper and her tongue. ‘I have no reason to think so, ma’am. Nor can I believe it in any way wrong to recognise the presence of men to whom we owe our safety while we are at sea.’

  Exasperated, Betsy turned to Judith. ‘Lady Russell, I know you will support me in this. Surely such behaviour is tantamount to making friends of one’s servants.’

  With a sigh of mock penitence, Judith had shaken her head. ‘Alas, Mrs Woodrow. I fear I must disappoint you. You see, my husband’s job is extremely demanding. It would be almost impossible but for the dedication and loyalty of our staff and servants. Over the years both he and I have discovered that appreciation inspires even greater commitment. I will confess that among my personal servants are some I do indeed think of as dear and trusted friends.’

  As Betsy flushed, her mortification self-inflicted, Judith demonstrated kindness as well as tact by changing the subject to the new season’s fashions.

  In her corner between the paint-store and the stern, Kerenza rested her forearms on the wooden rail and gazed eastward at the restless, glittering ocean. She had deliberately chosen the lee side, even though being closer to the water meant flying spray dampened her face and hair. Running her tongue across her lips, she tasted salt.

  The upper, or weather, side of the ship was traditionally the captain’s domain. Though Nick wasn’t on deck now, he might come up in a little while. She did not want him to feel obliged to speak to her. In the captain’s day cabin he had started to apologise and she had stopped him. If he came up on deck and found her, apparently waiting, might he try again? Did she want him to? The truth was she wasn’t sure. Might it not be less painful to leave things as they were? The relief and surging joy she
had felt earlier were being smothered by suspicion.

  Why had he apologised? Because he thought she had? That alone was surely not sufficient incentive. Something else must have prompted his change of heart. But what? He had severed their attachment without a word of explanation. Yet it was clear to her now, from the tone and content of his questions, that his cousin had had something to do with it.

  Surely if she had really mattered to him he would have trusted her, believed her? But he hadn’t. She had believed their attraction, their love, to be mutual. What if it existed only on her side? Perhaps she had seen what she wanted to see.

  No stranger to rejection, she had learnt over many years to deal with it. And though not all her strategies had been successful she had survived. Given her previous experience she should have been more wary, less willing to trust. Instead, she had opened her heart to him. And he had almost destroyed her. She could not take that risk again.

  The watch bell struck, and with a deep, shuddering sigh she turned her head. Maggot and the bosun had both disappeared, and the sailmaker was sitting on the deck by the capstan. With his ditty bag beside him and a piece of coarse sail canvas in his lap, he was setting stitches in a steady rhythm, using a metal palm to force the needle through, then drawing up the thick thread. After a moment, he tied a knot and cut the thread with a folding knife. As he lifted the sailcloth she saw its long, narrow shape, realised its purpose, and her skin tightened in a shiver.

  Donald Woodrow lurched down the deck to the rail, one hand clapped to the shallow crown of his round hat. ‘Ah, Miss Vyvyan. Forgive me, I did not mean to intrude upon your privacy. After the very distressing events of the morning I understand very well your desire for a quiet period in which to compose yourself. Though given the nature of our surroundings, space and solitude are not easily found.’