‘Nonsense,’ said Cassandra. ‘Think what you were saying a few minutes ago. Besides, you may still get your wish. We’re not out of the woods yet—or the Dardanelles—and if the Turks don’t get us, the boiler may. So no need to wish yourself dead, child?’
‘I’m sorry. For everything. But what can I do about Mr. Renshaw?’
‘Nothing, I’m afraid. I doubt if you’ll get the chance.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Didn’t he sound rather final to you? I think we’re going to find ourselves in a kind of Coventry from now on.’
Price proved her right when he appeared a little while later. ‘May I lay supper, ma’am? For the two of you?’
‘The two of us, Price? What do you mean?’ Phyllida was grateful to her aunt for asking the question.
‘Those are my orders, ma’am.’ Price kept his face wooden. ‘Mr. Renshaw and the captain are to eat with Mr. Brown.’
They made a brief and silent meal. Cassandra Knight felt at once sorry for her niece and impatient with her. They were Brett Renshaw’s guests: she should have been more careful. Now they were in Europe she must learn to restrain her casual American habit of coming right out with things. If only she had got to America sooner to take charge of Phyllida and Peter. But when their English mother had died, in 1812, America and England had just gone to war. Cassandra had not even heard the news for nearly a year, and then it had been impossible to follow her first instinct and cross the Atlantic to look after her favourite sister’s children. When she finally reached New York late in 1815, she had found them a formidable enough pair. Their father had been at sea throughout the war, running the British blockade and doubling his fortune. At fourteen, Phyllida had taken charge of the big house outside New York and of her eight-year-old brother. There had been no one to intervene. Her father’s nearest relative, a cousin, was with the army on the Canadian frontier. The neighbours had problems of their own. And Phyllida had a sharp tongue, a driving temper and a way with her that servants respected. Her aunt, who arrived expecting to find a household in chaos, had been surprised and a little daunted to find everything in apple-pie order and the niece she had planned to mother a grown up young woman, at seventeen, who welcomed her, with enthusiasm, but as a guest.
Cassandra sighed. Should she have made more of an effort to take control of the situation ten years ago? And, if she had, would it have done any good? Might it not simply have meant the final quarrel with her niece she had managed to avoid? Used to the strict British code of chaperonage, she had been appalled at the freedom of Phyllida’s behaviour, but had had the good sense to see both that it was less shocking to other Americans than to herself and that it was too late to do much about it.
What really saddened her, as she grew increasingly fond of her wilful niece, was Phyllida’s attitude to men. An old maid herself, Cassandra knew she would have been a much happier woman if her fiancé had not been killed at the battle of Aboukir Bay. She did not like being a spinster, and hated to see her niece repel one possible suitor after another. ‘But they’re all such bores,’ Phyllida had explained. ‘They think of nothing but making money, and they talk to me as if I was a fool.’
Peter had been a problem too, and Cassandra had hoped in vain that life at Harvard College would suit him and help him to settle down. Instead, he had flung off to Greece, where he had been taken up by Lord Byron just in time to help nurse him through his last illness. The whole business had infuriated his hard-headed father, who had decided, at last, to go to Europe and bring him home ‘by the scruff of his neck’. When he half-seiously suggested that Phyllida and her aunt go too, Cassandra had welcomed the idea. If it was a chance for Peter, it was also, she let herself hope, one for Phyllida. Twenty-seven, and heiress to at least half her father’s immense wealth, she had still not found a man who did not bore her. Soon it would be too late. But, perhaps, in Europe?
Miss Knight was too sensible a woman to blame herself for the disastrous outcome of their European voyage. It had been no part of her plan that her brother-in-law should be killed, and her niece immured in the Sultan’s harem. But now? It had been impossible not to feel a small, guilty spurt of hope at being rescued by so eligible a young man as Brett Renshaw. And look what had happened. She sighed, and reopened her Bible.
‘I’m truly sorry, Aunt.’ Phyllida answered the sigh. ‘And you’re an angel not to give me the scold I deserve.’
‘I learned better than to scold you ten years ago, love. Besides, there’s no need, is there?’
‘You certainly couldn’t call me worse names than I’ve been calling myself. But, Aunt Cass, what are we to do?’
‘I don’t think there’s much we can do. Except wait for him to come about. His manners are so good, basically, that I expect he will.’
‘Unlike mine!’
‘I didn’t say it, but I’m glad you did. Manners are important, you know. Manners of the heart, at any rate.’
‘Of the heart? You never put it like that before. I wish you had.’
‘So do I.’ By tacit consent they left it at that, but Price, coming to clear the table, thought he saw the shine of tears in Miss Vannick’s eyes. And a good thing, too.
‘Where are we, Price?’ she asked.
‘Getting along nicely, miss, and the boilers cooler. Captain Barlow says you ladies are to go to bed and not to worry.’
‘And Mr. Renshaw?’
‘Says nothing, miss.’
Left alone, the two women looked at each other. ‘ “Go to bed and don’t worry”!’ quoted Phyllida furiously. ‘And get hauled out in our nightgowns when the Turks board us. I don’t think so!’
‘Perhaps not,’ said Miss Knight. ‘But we will most certainly retire to our cabin and put out the light.’ For a moment she thought Phyllida was going to rebel, but then she sighed, and smiled, and crossed the saloon to give her a quick, conscience-stricken kiss.
‘You’re quite right,’ she said. ‘It’s the least we can do. And besides,’ incorrigibly, ‘once the light is out there’s nothing to stop us looking out the windows.’
But there was not much to see. Lights here and there along the shore looked alarmingly close. ‘Do you think there are guns all along?’ asked Phyllida. And then: ‘Aunt Cassandra—’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you really think there’s a chance Peter might have left Missolonghi?’
‘My love, I doubt it.’ One of Miss Knight’s virtues was an unswerving, almost ruthless honesty. ‘You remember how he felt about Lord Byron, and the place as connected with him. No, our hope, I think, must be that he might be one of the group who fought their way out. After all, he was young and strong…’
‘Was?’ She was crying quietly now in the darkness.
‘I’m sorry. But I think it would be wrong to encourage you in much hope.’
‘Yes.’ She swallowed a sob. ‘Aunt, do you think it was my fault he went to Greece?’
‘Your fault?’ Pretending amazement, Cassandra racked her brain for an answer that would satisfy her own high standards of truthfulness.
‘You know perfectly well what I mean. Don’t pretend, please. After all, I brought him up, all those early years.’
‘And then, so did I. But I’m not blaming myself, Phyl, and nor should you. What’s the use? Besides, think how he enjoyed himself at first—’Again that fatal past tense. She hurried on.‘Remember his letters; he sounded alive as he never did at Harvard College.’
‘And now he’s probably dead.’
Phyllida was crying unashamedly now. Presently she gave a loud sniff and sat up in the creaking berth. ‘Poor Mr. Renshaw,’ she said surprisingly. ‘How am I going to apologise, Aunt?’
‘God knows.’ Once again, she would not pretend a comfort she did not feel. ‘We’ll think of something in the morning. I hope.’
‘If we live till morning.’ But she spoke sleepily now. It had been a long day.
* * *
They were waked by Price with a we
lcome offer of hot water. ‘I hope you ladies slept well.’ He was splendidly matter-of-fact as he drew the black velvet curtains to let in a flood of daylight.
‘Where are we, Price?’ Phyllida sat up and pulled down her tunic all in one movement.
‘Well out in the Aegean, miss, just like I said. They never even stopped us at the bottom of the Dardanelles. Fast asleep in bed, I reckon they were.’ He was arranging his hot water cans on the cabin’s washstand, whose Dresden china basin and ewer had filled Phyllida with awed amusement. ‘What time shall I serve your breakfast, ma’am?’ He turned to Cassandra.
‘In half an hour?’ She exchanged glances with Phyllida. ‘And Mr. Renshaw?’
‘Had his some time ago. With Mr. Brown.’
‘Price, what shall I do?’ Phyllida leaned forward impulsively to ask it.
‘Nothing, miss. If you’ll take my advice. Just leave it. He’ll come about.’ And with this bleak encouragement, he left them.
‘May we go up on deck?’ Cassandra felt positively sorry for her niece when she heard her put it to Price as he poured her second cup of coffee.
‘I don’t know, miss, I’m sure. Would you like me to find out?’
‘Oh yes, please! And, Price—’
‘Yes, miss?’
‘Say we’ll be quiet as mice. Tell Captain Barlow—’
‘Yes, miss.’ He understood her perfectly.
Chapter 5
The message Price brought back was not encouraging. ‘Could you wait until this afternoon to take the air, miss? The captain says there’s less chance then of our meeting a Turkish ship.’ His tone quite failed to carry conviction. Cassandra wondered whether he even intended it to. She was not at all surprised, when she and Phyllida emerged into brilliant afternoon sunshine, to find the deck empty save for the lookout.
But a canvas shelter had been rigged up just forward of the ship’s tall, slender, funnel. Two chairs and a table stood in its shade, and she was glad enough to settle at once in one of them and watch as her niece took a quick turn to the ship’s rail and back.
‘I feel like a prisoner out at exercise! Do you think Mr. Renshaw has told the captain he’s not to associate with us either?’
‘Well, it is Mr. Renshaw’s ship,’ said Cassandra mildly but was relieved just the same to have Phyllida’s conjecture refuted by the appearance of Captain Barlow himself.
He looked, poor man, hideously embarrassed as he made his enquiries as to their well-being, and received their congratulations on last night’s escape. ‘Mr. Renshaw begs that you will excuse him,’ he said at last. ‘He’s not feeling quite the thing today.’
‘Kind of you, Captain,’ said Phyllida dryly. ‘But this is too small a ship for pretences. He won’t meet me, is that it?’
Cassandra thought Barlow looked relieved. ‘That’s precisely it, miss. It will make it much easier for all of us if we just admit it. Of course,’ he hurried on, ‘Mr. Renshaw said nothing about his reasons. Some misunderstanding, I’m sure—’
‘Not at all,’ said Phyllida. ‘It was my fault entirely. But—it’s awkward, isn’t it?’
‘Deuced awkward, miss. Excusing me, ma’am. It’s too small a ship—’
‘We’ll leave it at Nauplia,’ Phyllida interrupted him. ‘I shall want to spend some time there anyway, making enquiries about my brother.’
‘But, Phyllida,’ interposed her aunt, then hesitated. How could she point out to her niece, in front of the captain, that they were, for the moment, penniless?
‘You’re thinking of funds?’ Phyllida did not share her scruples. ‘Surely Nauplia is as much of a capital as Greece has got right now? There must be an American representative of some kind there, who will make us an advance until we can get in touch with Mr. Biddock on Zante. We can do that just as well overland as by sea.’
‘I don’t know about that, miss.’ Captain Barlow looked unhappier than ever. ‘You can’t rightly know what’s been going on in Greece. The news is terrible. I doubt if it would be possible to get a message across by land.’
‘It’s as bad as that?’
‘I’m afraid so. It all seemed to be going so well for the Greeks until Ibrahim Pasha arrived from Egypt. Since then, it’s bad. He’s got Modon, and Navarino, and Tripolitsa, which gives him pretty well full control of the Morea. He could have had Nauplia last year, by all I hear, if it hadn’t been for a gallant stand by one of those Greek brigand captains, someone called Makriyannis. But, don’t you see, that was a kind of miracle. It won’t happen every time. You know how divided those poor devils of Greeks are among themselves? Half the time they’ve got two governments going at once. If not three. And, meanwhile, who knows what Ibrahim will do now Missolonghi’s fallen? The word, when we were at Nauplia, was that they were afraid he’d be back there soon, while Reshid Pasha, who’s responsible for mainland Greece, had a go at Athens. Well: what’s to stop him? And what’s to stop Ibrahim taking Nauplia any time he really sets his mind to it? I don’t think you ladies ought to leave us there, I truly don’t. Let us take you on to Zante—to the Ionian Islands—where you’ll be safe on British soil? Please?’
‘And make poor Mr. Renshaw spend half the day in his cabin to avoid me? On his own ship! Not on your life, Captain.’
It looked, for the moment, like deadlock. ‘When shall we reach Nauplia?’ asked Cassandra.
‘All going well, some time tomorrow. The wind’s freshening; we’re going to put on some sail and take advantage of it. If it holds we might be there quite early. Mind you, I’m not going in there until I’ve spoken a Greek ship and made sure all’s well.’
‘It’s as bad as that?’
‘Quite as bad. I didn’t save you ladies from the Turk at Constantinople to hand you over to him at Nauplia. I do beg you’ll be considering your position before we arrive. It shouldn’t take more than a few days to round the Morea and deliver you safe and sound on Zante. And now, if you’ll excuse me—’ He turned away to shout an order and the two women watched as the square sail was run up on the funnel. ‘You’d think it would catch fire,’ said Cassandra.
‘Yes, it does look risky. Father said the Savannah had an adjustable elbow to her funnel so they could direct the smoke and sparks away from the sails. I see Captain Barlow just relies on extra lookouts.’
‘And tubs of water,’ said her aunt approvingly. ‘He’s a very sensible man.’
‘Yes. But if you think I’m going to take his advice and stay on board all the way to Zante, you’re crazy.’
‘Let’s wait and see.’ Cassandra never believed in rushing her fences. ‘We can’t decide till we know how things are at Nauplia. Even you will hardly insist on going ashore if it’s in the hands of the Turks. Nor would Captain Barlow take you. They’ve risked enough for us already.’
‘Yes. I wish I knew how much coal their bunkers hold. If we can’t put in to Nauplia I suppose we’ll have to go clear round to Zante before coaling up. Look at that miserable little bit of sail, and think what it will be like, cooped up here, out of coal, while we wait for a wind to take us round Cape Matapan.’ And without waiting for an answer, she resumed her restless promenade up and down and to and fro on the deck.
Cassandra watched her anxiously and actually found herself hoping that Nauplia would turn out to be in the hands of the Turks, so that the question of going ashore there would not arise. No good pretending that she could influence Phyllida’s decision. She folded her hands tightly in her lap and found herself wishing for that beloved and soothing standby, her embroidery. A shadow fell across her and she looked up to see Price.
‘Will you be taking your tea on deck, ma’am? You and Miss Vannick?’
‘If it’s no trouble.’ A quick look established that Phyllida had vanished from the deck. Was it also, visibly, an anxious one?
Apparently it was. ‘It’s all right, ma’am,’ said Price. ‘She’s in the cabin. Crying, I rather think. I’ll fetch her when tea’s ready. No,’ he had seen Cassandra’s instinctive movemen
t. ‘I’d leave her, if I were you. She needs it, don’t you think?’
‘Price, you’re extraordinary.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ He seemed, for once, to hesitate.
‘There’s one thing, if I might make so bold as to ask it?’
‘Anything, Price.’ What could be coming now?
‘Thank you. It’s Mr. Renshaw’s linen,’ he said, suddenly confidential. ‘I can manage—ahem—everything else, but I’d counted on Miss Helena’s woman to do the fine work on the linen. I don’t know what the master will say if he finds he’s not got a shirt fit to dine with the High Commissioner, when we get to the Ionian Islands. That was the last one he put on yesterday, of the evening ones, that is, and full of burns now. Little holes, you know. I wouldn’t know how to set about them.’
‘Price!’ She sounded like a warhorse hearing trumpets. ‘Do you mean they need mending?’
‘That’s just exactly it, ma’am.’
She smiled up at him a little mistily, and he thought what an unusually pleasant lady she was. ‘And I was just missing my embroidery. I hate to sit idle. Price, I saw a needlebook in that box—’ She paused, at a loss how to describe that heart-rending collection of offerings for Helena.
‘In the saloon,’ he finished for her. ‘I’ll fetch it, ma’am, and the shirts, before I make the tea.’
So Phyllida, emerging from the companion-way red of eye but apparently calm, found her aunt busy sewing. ‘Do look, love,’ Cassandra said cheerfully. ‘Did you ever see such fine linen?’
‘What on earth are you doing?’
‘Mending Mr. Renshaw’s shirts,’ said her aunt, blandly ignoring storm signals. ‘And high time too. Poor Price had counted on the abigail to do it.’
‘Abigail? What do you mean?’
‘Of course, you don’t have them in America. The lady’s maid. Helena’s. Price thought she would do the fine mending.’ She laughed. ‘He said he could manage—“ahem, everything else”.’ She found herself waiting anxiously for Phyllida’s reaction.
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