Greek Wedding (6 page)

A quick order in Turkish and the rowers backed water, holding the galley a little way off. ‘What ship?'

‘English. Stop us, for God's sake, we're out of control. Here, you,' to Barlow, ‘get ready to throw them a line. It might just save us.' A fresh shower of sparks gave point to his words.

It also seemed to make up the Turks' minds. Another order, and then a shouted command. ‘Keep off!'

It was hardly necessary. In the short time they had talked, the
Helena
had surged forward through the straits. The Turkish galley was already well astern when they saw her turn and head back for the lights on shore.

‘Oh, well done, sir,' said Barlow.

Brett laughed. ‘A lively scene for
Childe Renshaw's Pilgrimmage
! With an apology to Lord Byron, of course. If only life could be all action, Barlow, I might be a happy man.'

‘We've got action aplenty now, sir, if you ask me. Just look at those sparks! Shall I send below and tell Brown to damp down his engines?'

‘No! Not till we're through the straits.' He laughed, and quoted: ‘ “Pleasure and action make the hours seem short”.'

*          *          *

Down in the cabin, time passed more slowly. ‘Oh God, who'd be a woman!' said Phyllida. ‘Always waiting…' And then, ‘I know.' She crossed the saloon quickly and for one horrified moment her aunt was afraid she was going to draw the curtains and look out. But she was merely looking for something in the shelves under the stern windows. ‘Look! I noticed it this morning.' She came back with a chess board and a box containing an elaborate, carved set. ‘Black or white, Aunt?' She laughed. ‘Can you really believe that Helena played chess? Or do you think that poor man intended to teach her?'

‘I'm sure I don't know.' Disapprovingly. ‘And I'm sure you ought not to speak of her like that.'

‘Of Helena? But we don't know any other name for her, do we? Would you like me to ask Price?'

‘No, Phyllida, I would not. Nor am I at all sure whether Mr. Renshaw would like us to be playing with his chessmen.'

‘Then he should be down here entertaining us,' said Phyllida, arranging pawns. ‘Aren't they beauties, Aunt? Do you think he had them specially made for her?'

‘Probably,' said her aunt repressively. ‘And all the more
reason why he should not find us amusing ourselves with them.'

‘Amusing ourselves! Aunt Cass, do you happen to remember that two days ago we were slaves in the Sultan's harem? That I was expecting momently to have to kill myself rather than submit to his “passion”? And that, right now, we are careering down the Dardanelles so fast that if there are islands in the way we will probably run into one of them—if the boiler doesn't settle our business by blowing up first? Don't you mind the idea of death? I hate it. I've so much living to do. How can I bear the idea of ending here, in the dark, with so much that I've never seen, never thought, never done? Do you know, sometimes, in the harem, I wondered if it might not be better to live, whatever happened, to be the Sultan's toy, his amusement, his drab— Oh, I'm sorry—' She answered her aunt's horrified expression. ‘But don't you see, here I am, twenty-seven and never lived. To die would be so wasteful.'

‘I don't know what you mean, child.' Her aunt chose the easiest point to answer. ‘Never lived? What in the world would your poor father say?'

‘Father?' She thought about it for a moment, then smiled. ‘I think he would understand. Why do you think he brought me? He saw there was no way I could really live at home. A woman? A thing! For a man to play with, and get children by: never, never to talk to.' She laughed, suddenly. ‘I suppose one should give the devil his due, after all. Can you imagine an American husband planning to teach his bride chess? I just wish I knew whether Mr. Renshaw had consulted Helena. Oh!' The saloon door had opened behind her, and she was aware, just too late, of Brett Renshaw himself. ‘Mr. Renshaw! You startled me. I do hope you don't mind my appropriating your beautiful chess set to help us pass the time.' She was babbling, and knew it, but in face of his white and, momentarily, silent rage what else was there to do? ‘I beg your pardon,' she went on, absurdly, and, her aunt thought, almost pitifully.

‘I beg yours, Miss Vannick, for intruding on your privacy. I merely came to tell you we are out of danger for the time being, but from your tone I collect you were already aware of it. I won't intrude on you further. Your servant, ma'am.' His bow, formal, and oddly final, was for Aunt Cass.

‘Oh dear!' Phyllida moved a pawn at random. ‘He's very
angry.'

‘And I don't blame him,' said her aunt roundly. ‘I hope you're ashamed of yourself, Phyl, because I certainly am.' And then, as Phyllida dissolved, suddenly, into tears. ‘Oh, darling, I'm sorry!'

‘So am I. How could I be so stupid, so heartless…' She delved into the pocket of her tunic, produced the handkerchief Price had lent her earlier in the day and blew her nose. Then, looking at it: ‘It's even his handkerchief! I wish I was dead.'

‘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 welcome 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?'