Tide of Fortune

by Jane Jackson

  She undressed and pulled it on, inhaling the faint fragrance of jasmine and sandalwood. Then she unpinned her hair. As the heavy coil fell down her back she threaded her fingers through it, left it loose, and climbed beneath the covers. Lying on her back, she watched the dancing shadows on the low ceiling. Listening to the low rumble of her father’s snores, she was glad he was free, if only for a few hours, from the weight of his loss.

  What must he have felt, having made such desperate efforts to bring back the money as fast as he could only to hear that he was too late? Kerenza tried to picture her mother but, despite her efforts, the image remained blurred, indistinct. She remembered a rounded woman whose youthful prettiness had begun to fade, but she could not distinguish any features. But that vagueness was preferable to seeing clearly the sick and damaged person the doctor had described.

  A hard knot of grief had formed in Kerenza’s chest yet her eyes remained dry. Over the years she had shed enough tears to fill a lake. She mourned the fact there would be no reconciliation, no chance to build bridges or make a fresh start. Yet perhaps she was deluding herself. Those might not have come about even had her mother lived. But now, unless she could persuade Dulcie to tell her, she would never know why.

  It took her a long time to fall asleep. She was jerked awake by an eerie, undulating cry. She recalled hearing it at different times during the day. She had meant to ask, but was distracted by other things. It lasted only a few minutes, long enough for her to see that the blackness of night had lightened to pre-dawn grey. The familiar shriek of seagulls reminded her of home. She slid once more into unconsciousness.

  During a breakfast of stewed fruit, yoghurt, soft, sweet-smelling flat bread, and small cups of strong coffee, she asked Maggot about the sound.

  ‘Is call to prayer. Good Muslim pray five times a day.’ His eyes twinkling, he gave a lop-sided grin and shook his head. ‘I am very bad Muslim.’

  A little while later, Nick arrived, his gaze holding hers as he took her hand, the pressure of his fingers warm and firm as he bowed over it.

  ‘I brought Broad with me. He will do everything necessary for your father’s comfort, and ensure that when he wakes he sees a familiar face.’

  Her breathing had quickened and she knew from the heat in her cheeks that her colour was high. Acutely conscious of her body’s betrayal and of being watched, she took refuge in formality. ‘You are very good.’

  He shook his head in brief denial. But his look told her he knew what she was doing and why, and her gratitude increased as he matched her formality.

  ‘On my way here I called at the consulate. Mr Corbett has already sent his Jewish interpreter with a note to the governor’s palace. If Maggot and I go up there now, as envoys for your father, I hope we might at least be able to speak to one of the governor’s staff. It’s worth a try.’

  ‘I do hope it works.’ Behind her, Kerenza could hear Maggot and his stepmother talking in low voices.

  ‘Miss?’ Maggot said. ‘The wife of my father say she must go to markets. You want go with her?’

  Kerenza was unsure. ‘My father –’

  ‘Is in good hands,’ Nick said softly. ‘It’s better if he sleeps as much as possible while we try to set up a meeting with the governor. Besides, you need a rest from caring for others. Do you want to go?’

  ‘Very much,’ Kerenza replied. ‘But not if I will be stared at as I was yesterday.’ Turning to her hostess with an expression of apology, she grasped a handful of peach muslin and shook her head.

  Zohra flapped a hand, talked to Maggot, pointed to the saffron kaftan and white headscarf she was wearing, then nodded, smiling encouragingly at Kerenza.

  ‘She say she will find Amazirght dress for you. Then you go, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’ Kerenza nodded, smiling in gratitude at the older woman. ‘Ateikum-saha,’ she said carefully, and was rewarded with a beam from her hostess and a grin of approval from Maggot. Nick’s expression of astonished admiration lifted her chin and tilted the corners of her mouth with a tiny rush of pride as she followed Zohra out.

  Shrouded in an emerald green kaftan, with matching embroidered slippers on her feet, her hair covered by the folds of a white scarf, and the lower half of her face hidden behind a veil, Kerenza was able to spend two enthralling, exhausting hours in Tangier’s market.

  She stayed close to Zohra, avoiding eye contact even with other women. There was so much to see. She paused to watch copper and silversmiths tapping intricate designs on trays, jugs, and lamp holders, while beside them their young sons polished the finished articles to a dazzling shine.

  They lingered at a canopied stall selling joints of fresh meat where a small boy stood waving a bunch of palm leaves tied to a stick to keep swarms of flies away. Nearby, lidded baskets contained squawking chickens, and another stall displayed freshly caught fish.

  In the centre of the market pyramids of oranges and melons, and shallow baskets of fresh dates, were guarded by women who squatted beneath straw hats at least six feet across with turned-down edges that concealed the wearer’s face, exactly as Maggot had described to her.

  There were piles of onions, carrots, courgettes, and glossy purple aubergines. Other stalls displayed boxes of soap, raisins, small barrels of sugar and tea. A cotton cloth stretched over a wooden frame shaded cone-shaped piles of powdered spices. Their bright colours and the mingled smells of ginger, saffron, cinnamon sticks, and mint leaves assaulted her senses.

  Zohra bought from several stalls, demanding in her choices, often refusing what was offered and selecting her own preferences instead. Gradually her baskets filled, but Kerenza’s attempt to take one was gently rebuffed and her attention directed to rolls of fabric that ranged from heavy weaves in indigo blue or black and white stripes, to colourful cottons and fine shimmering silks.

  Where did it all come from? She wished she knew how to ask.

  The market seethed with people: musicians tapping drums and playing rhaitas; beggars; women shopping, as gaudy as butterflies in their vivid, rainbow-shaded kaftans and headscarves; children shrieking with laughter as they darted about, and men coming and going. There were men with beards and men without, men in white turbans, in brimless caps, or bareheaded. Men in dusty indigo wraps, hooded striped gowns, and layers of white covered by sleeveless blue robes.

  Kerenza turned to see Zohra watching her, and read amusement in the older woman’s dark eyes. She raised her brows, and lifted one hand to indicate the noisy, crowded, smelly, fly-ridden square.

  Jerking her head in a gesture Kerenza interpreted as an instruction to follow, Zohra left the marketplace. But instead of turning toward her house, she led the way up a wider street. It was thronged with men carrying sacks and baskets, bent double under the weight as they staggered down toward the marketplace, walking upright as they returned.

  Ahead, Kerenza could see the ruined city wall and a crenellated tower. The huge doors stood open and armed men were stopping and checking the loads of everyone coming in through the tall, arched entrance.

  Alongside the tower a flight of stone steps led up onto a wide walkway just below the battlements. Climbing them, Zohra beckoned Kerenza up. Following the older woman’s pointing finger, Kerenza looked through the gap and caught her breath.

  The undulating plain was crowded with men and animals. Over a wide area outside the wall the grass had been worn away to bare earth and rock. Strings of camels padded in, swaying beneath bulky loads slung from their humps. Donkeys tottered by on tiny eggcup hooves, so heavily laden that only their heads were visible. Tethered mules stood with lowered heads, flicking their ears and constantly swishing their tails against marauding flies as their packs were removed. Bare-legged boys in ragged tunics and flapping sandals, with only a short stick for protection, herded small flocks of sheep and goats. Strange-looking cattle with pale coats, wide horns, and long faces stood or lay chewing placidly.

  Bellowing animals, the tonkle of goat bells, squawking chickens, gunshots as n
ew arrivals fired into the air to announce themselves, and men arguing, laughing, and haggling at the tops of their voices combined to create a deafening noise.

  The air was thick with dust, sweat, dung and the sweet stench of decay from fallen fruit and vegetables trampled into the dirt. It stung the back of her nose and caught in her throat. Coughing, her eyes smarting, she turned away.

  Zohra pointed to the pack animals, then toward the town and the market.

  Still coughing, Kerenza nodded that she understood, wiped her streaming eyes and patted her chest. Zohra rolled her eyes in sympathy, flapped a hand toward the noisy crowd of men in a gesture Kerenza knew her grandmother would have recognised instantly, and led the way down the steps.

  Just before reaching the alley they stopped in a lane where two men were tending a bed of coals beneath a dozen cone-shaped clay pots. Zohra handed over some money. One of the pots was lifted from the coals and put in a small wooden crate with a thong handle. Gesturing for Kerenza to carry it, Zohra led the way home.

  After a quick visit to the yard, Kerenza hurried to her room, took off her kaftan, headscarf, and veil, washed her hands and face, and went to see how her father was.

  ‘He’ve had a wash and shave and a bite to eat, miss,’ Broad said. ‘But he got a bit fretful then. So I gived him his dose and now he’s sleeping peaceful.’

  ‘You must be hungry yourself.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say no. Been a long morning, it has.’

  ‘I’ll go and see about dinner.’ Hearing a noise down in the court, she looked over the terrace wall and felt a surge of pleasure as Nick followed Maggot in and immediately looked up, raising his hand. Giving him a small, shy wave, she turned back to the steward. ‘Maggot and Mr Penrose are back.’

  ‘You go on down then, miss.’

  She found Nick and Maggot in the salon. ‘What happened? Were you able to speak to anyone?’

  Nick shook his head. ‘No one of importance. But Maggot says our presence was noted. We might have better luck tomorrow. How is your father?’

  ‘Sleeping. I promised Broad some dinner.’

  ‘Is coming now,’ Maggot said as Dina entered carrying a huge platter of steaming couscous. Maggot’s stepmother followed with the clay pot Kerenza had carried from the lane. Setting it down on the table, she removed the lid, and immediately the room was filled with the delicious fragrance of chicken, onions, and spices. Dina returned with a bowl and ladle, handed them to Maggot, then followed her mistress out.

  Maggot ladled couscous into the bowl and topped it with the savoury stew. ‘I take this to Broad.’

  ‘Will you join us after?’ Kerenza asked, torn between hoping he would and hoping he wouldn’t.

  Maggot shook his head. ‘No. Please, you enjoy.’

  ‘You’ve had an interesting morning?’ Nick asked, as they began to eat.

  By the time she had finished telling him about it, comparing and contrasting all she had seen with the markets in Falmouth and Flushing, little was left on the platter or in the pot. Kerenza suddenly became aware of his intent gaze.

  ‘What?’ Quickly wiping her fingers, she raised the tiny napkin to her mouth. ‘Have I got sauce on my chin?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. It’s –’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘You’re beautiful.’

  She caught her breath, heat rushing to her cheeks, and looked away. ‘Please don’t,’ she whispered. She knew she wasn’t beautiful. According to her mother and sister she wasn’t even pretty. Too thin, too dark. Her nose was too straight, her chin too firm, her mouth too wide.

  He caught her hand and held it tightly, his voice low, intense. ‘I know I hurt you; I’ll go to my grave regretting it. I can’t change the past, but by Christ, I’ve learnt from it. You are beautiful. It’s not – I don’t mean –’ His struggle to express himself, his sincerity and obvious lack of practice, blunted the sharp fears his words had stirred.

  She’d listened at dances to young men wooing her friends with compliments and flattery and knew them empty of real meaning. She didn’t want that: not from him. What did she want? She didn’t know. Yes, she did, but dared not acknowledge it even to herself.

  ‘It’s in your eyes, your smile,’ he blurted. ‘You shine.’

  Out in the passage, Maggot called to his stepmother. Kerenza wondered if he’d done it out of tact, to warn of his approach. Catching Nick’s eye, seeing his mouth twist in frustration and wry amusement, she saw the same thought had occurred to him. Releasing her hand, he straightened, reluctantly easing away to a proper distance.

  ‘I must go back to the ship. But I’ll send Maggot back before dark. Is there anything you want him to bring?’

  You . Kerenza shook her head. She could still feel the strength of his fingers, and pressed her hand protectively against her body. ‘Except –’

  ‘Yes?’ he said quickly.

  ‘If we are to be here for several days, then a book would be useful. So I could read to my father if he should become restless. There are two in my trunk, or perhaps in the leather bag. Neither one is locked.’

  ‘I won’t forget.’ He stood up. ‘Well …’ He hesitated, unwilling to leave.

  Shyly she offered her hand. The look on his face as he took it and raised it to his lips aroused exquisite sensations that were almost painful.

  ‘Kerenza,’ he whispered.

  ‘You must go.’ She looked away, not trusting her voice, her legs, or her heart.

  Back on board Kestrel, Nick listened to the bosun’s report of another fight in the fo’c’sle.

  ‘Any serious injuries?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Laity said. ‘Martin got his arm slashed, but Crowle sewed him up good as new. He can move all his fingers so ’twasn’t too bad.’ He hesitated. ‘Begging your pardon, Mr Penrose, but how long we got to stay here? You know what they do say about idle hands.’

  ‘Then make sure you keep them busy,’ Nick snapped. ‘From now on I’ll send any men caught fighting to the cable locker.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ The bosun tugged his forelock, his face grim as he turned away.

  ‘I find out what happen,’ Maggot said.

  With a nod, Nick dived down the companionway. He had tried to reduce the crew’s resentment at having to remain aboard by taking back joints of mutton, sacks of fruit and vegetables, and plenty of fresh bread. Men with a bellyful of decent food were less inclined to fight. But though for the most part the ploy was working, the cost of success came out of his pocket. The longer Kestrel lay idle, the faster his profit diminished. It had not been high to start with.

  Had Edgar Tierney known this might happen? Had his choice of Kestrel for this mission been deliberate? Yet even if that were the case, how could he regret it? For had the packet agent chosen differently, he and Kerenza would not have been thrown together again.

  Calling to Toy to bring him a lamp, he went along the passage to Kerenza’s cabin. As he raised the lid of her trunk he could smell her. He rested his fingers briefly on a folded garment. Guiltily, he snatched them away. She had trusted him to fetch a book. What would she think if she knew he had been pawing her clothes?

  Moving aside her writing case, he lifted out the nearest book and held it close to the lamp. Expecting a novel or perhaps a book of poems, he saw it was neither. The title read Travels to Discover the Sources of the Nile 1768-1773. The author was James Bruce.

  He raised his head, blind to his surroundings, aware that yet again he had assumed and she had proved him wrong. She had brought this for her own reading pleasure. There were as many layers to her as an onion. The more he learnt, the more he realised what a fool he had been, how badly he had misjudged her and how cruelly she had been hurt: first by her family and then, to his everlasting shame, by him.

  Sharing dinner with her at Maggot’s stepmother’s house was a memory he would treasure to the end of his days. She had seemed glad of his company. He should not flatter himself too much. Her pleasure might have been simply relief at having someone to talk to
, someone familiar who spoke English. It was not the reason that mattered, but the fact that they had spent time together.

  Treading very carefully, he had set out to make her feel comfortable, safe. Leading by example, he had ensured she ate a decent meal. God knew she needed building up. There was hardly any flesh on her. This was unsurprising considering all she’d been through.

  Watching her eat, he had felt a rush of tenderness. It was swiftly crushed by fierce determination to make amends, to shield her from anything that might cause her pain. He owed her that, and more. But wanting to protect her sprang not from a sense of obligation but something far deeper.

  For as long as he could remember, his life had been shaped by ambition. His desire to own a packet-ship was as strong as ever. But woven into it, and equally strong, was a wish, a longing, a need so powerful and relentless that to fight it was impossible. Yet as each day allowed him to glimpse new possibilities of a future enhanced by her presence, it also brought new discomforts.

  He hated having to return to the ship and leave her. Maggot’s stepmother was clearly a kind, decent woman who had made them all very welcome; even the fractious, self-centred William Vyvyan. But he wished Kerenza were back on Kestrel. He hated even more the thought of Maggot spending time with her when he could not. He would trust Maggot with his life. She needed Maggot to interpret. And while she and her father were staying in the house Maggot’s presence offered additional protection. Besides, surely to God Maggot was entitled to spend his evenings with his stepmother who had, for three years, believed him dead?

  He knew his jealousy and resentment were irrational. But that didn’t prevent or soften their dagger-like thrusts.

  He thought back over all that had happened: what he had lost and all he had gained. He had learnt so much about Kerenza, and about himself. It was ironic to think that, but for Tierney’s blackmail, none of it could have come about. Nick smiled briefly. One day he’d thank Tierney. It would drive the man mad.

  Closing the trunk, he turned to the door, then halted. Turning back, he set the lamp down, pulled the top blanket from the bunk, and held it to his face. He breathed in the faint scent of her soap. Holding it in his lungs, he quickly folded the blanket, picked up the book and the lamp, and closed the door. Tossing the blanket onto his own bunk, he went to the day cabin and wrote up the log.