Tide of Fortune (2 page)

Half an hour later, after the briefest of inspections, the Customs Officer had departed, the heavy purse nestling inside his coat.

Clean and tidy in his best uniform, Nick sat in the cutter’s bow. His uncle, as
Kestrel’s
commanding officer, sat at the stern with the two leather portmanteaux containing the mails and dispatches at his feet.

A captain’s first job on returning to port was to hand over the mails to the Packet agent. Some captains waited for one of the clerks to come out to them. But Sam Penrose had always preferred to take the bags ashore himself to hand over to the Packet agent in person. And if Nick could keep him upright long enough, the usual procedures would be observed. But what about the next trip?

The voyage home had been a waking nightmare that allowed little time for rest. But Nick had spent his few quiet moments wrestling with an insoluble problem. Did he remain aboard
Kestrel
knowing that though Sam was the ranking officer. his mental condition coupled with his drinking made him incapable of command? That responsibility for the ship, the mails, and any passengers would fall instead on
his
shoulders?

The alternative, if this voyage was to be considered repayment of his debt to his uncle, was to apply for a mate’s berth on a packet bound for Jamaica where opportunities for private trading would greatly increase his savings. But if he left
Kestrel
, so would Maggot. Saving Maggot’s life had bound the Tanjawi to him with an oath of gratitude and loyalty stronger than chains of iron. How would Sam manage? Who else would care enough to cover for him?

At least the struggle to reach a decision had given him something to focus on, to take his mind off Kerenza Vyvyan. Nick rubbed his face. He was so tired.

Back on board the packet, Maggot was supervising the departure of passengers and their luggage. The carpenter and sailmaker, both trusted hands, had already organised their gangs. Tomorrow morning both jollyboat and cutter would be sent to pick up ropes, spars, and canvas. And with luck, by tomorrow evening most of the repairs would be complete. Only then would the crew be allowed ashore. With the money made from their ventures and goods to sell they would be intent on a good time. Many of the ordinary seamen – criminals, men escaping the press, harbour dregs hired each voyage – would simply disappear. Replacements would have to be hired.

But that was next week’s problem. And if he decided to leave, it wouldn’t be his. Right now, he had enough to worry about.

As the cutter’s crew bent and strained at the oars, Nick angled himself so he could look toward Falmouth. Sam had told him years ago that a mate could not learn to be a captain. Only when he had the responsibility of command would he discover whether he was up to it.

Nick knew he had what it took, though he had found out through necessity rather than choice. He wished there were someone he could tell. There was his mother, of course. She would be proud, but she would worry. His gaze was drawn past the hunched figure of his uncle, through the forest of masts, to the village of Flushing on the far side of the river. The light was fading. But the final rays of a rose and turquoise sunset were reflected in the upper windows of elegant Queen Anne houses that lined the street above the quay. Here and there pinpricks of yellow light showed that lamps were being lit.

Kerenza would have understood what it meant to him. How could he know that? Her eyes had told him. He looked away, clenching his teeth so hard that pain shot up through his jaw into his temple. Her eyes had said so much. But to how many others besides him?

Chapter Two

After handing her pelisse to a waiting maid, Kerenza followed her grandmother across the hall toward the ballroom, where the warm air was fragrant with the scent of flowers and perfume.

Light from three huge chandeliers sparkled on jewels at ladies’ throats and wrists, and gleamed on gold braid adorning the officers’ blue coats. Dancing had already begun; the music supplied by a quartet seated on a small raised platform in the far corner.

Looking around, Kerenza saw that every girl her age, and many of the older women, were wearing white, declared by the London magazines to be the latest all-seasons fashion. But her grandmother had stood firm.

‘No, Kerenza, with your colouring it would be most unwise. White will make you appear sallow. Let the rest of them resemble a bunch of candles if that is what they wish. You must wear pastel shades: pale green, apricot or peach; yellow perhaps, though not lemon; and definitely not blue or pink.’

For this evening Kerenza had chosen a gown of primrose muslin gathered behind, with scalloped sleeves and a muslin ruff edged with lace. Pearl drops in her ears matched the single strand at her throat. Minnie had brushed her hair thoroughly. Then, after stroking it with a silk handkerchief until it gleamed like a polished chestnut, had arranged it to fall in loose curls down her back.

Walking with her grandmother through the double doors, Kerenza was immediately aware of glances and whispered exchanges behind swiftly raised fans, and felt heat rush to her face.

‘Courage, my love,’ Aurelia murmured beside her. ‘You are without doubt the prettiest girl here. Was I not right about the colour?’ She clicked her tongue. ‘How pale and insipid they all look. Do you hear that noise? It’s the sound of a dozen mamas grinding their teeth.’

‘Nana!’ Kerenza raised a gloved hand to her mouth to hide her smile, feeling better at once. Her grandmother was right. It was her gown they were talking about. After all, Nicholas’s attentions had not persisted long enough for anyone to suspect a particular attachment.

He was – had been – her first love, and the pain of his rejection had almost destroyed her. She knew she should forget him, learn from the experience, and move on. God knew she had tried. Was still trying. After what he’d done, after the humiliation and anguish she’d suffered, it should be easy. But it wasn’t. How stupid was that?

‘Aurelia, at last. You had me worried.’ Standing inside the doors to receive her guests, Maude Tregenna greeted them with genuine pleasure. She was resplendent in a gown of purple and lace, and her tortuous arrangement of ringlets was crowned with a purple turban and three white ostrich plumes.

‘For shame, Maude, as if I would miss this.’ Aurelia leant forward to kiss the air beside her friend’s pink cheek. ‘When you give a ball it’s the talk of the village for weeks.’

‘Well, you are here now, and I am delighted to see you. Harry, look, here is Aurelia come to welcome you home. And Kerenza: my dear, what a pretty dress. I swear you are a very vision of spring, isn’t she, Harry?’ Taking one of Kerenza’s hands and patting it, she confided with an arch smile, ‘There is one gentleman who will be particularly pleased to see you. I swear he has been watching for your arrival this past half hour.’ Rolling her eyes to indicate where Kerenza should look, Maude squeezed her hand, then let it go and turned to greet more late arrivals.

Hope and dread coiled in Kerenza’s stomach. But it was John Carthew who inclined his head in smiling acknowledgement. Returning the widower’s bow with a curtsy, Kerenza released the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding and followed her grandmother toward the chairs and sofas where those not dancing could watch and chat. She felt shaky and confused, unsure if she was relieved or disappointed. She yearned to see Nick again. But at the same time the prospect dried her mouth and raised gooseflesh on her skin.

After that terrible moment in Market Street, it had cost her every ounce of courage to attend Captain and Mrs James’s rout. But she knew Nick had accepted an invitation. And she needed to know why he had cut her
.
He owed her that.

But as she chatted with forced gaiety to acquaintances of both sexes, he arrived late, preoccupied and unsmiling. He had not danced. Nor had he once looked in her direction.

As Mary Blamey approached with bright, inquisitive eyes, Kerenza braced herself.

Mary raised her fan to shield her mouth. ‘Whatever’s wrong with Nick Penrose?’

Kerenza shrugged lightly. ‘Nothing that I’m aware of. He looks perfectly well. Though I did hear his uncle is not in good health, so –’

‘That’s not what I mean, and you know it.’

‘Then what do you mean, Mary?’ Kerenza was proud that her voice emerged calm and level from a throat as dry as ashes.

‘Oh come, Kerenza. These past weeks the rest of us might as well have stayed at home for all the attention he’s paid us. You were the only one he had eyes for. Yet tonight he hasn’t been near you. Have you quarrelled?’

‘No.’ It was the truth. A quarrel required words. He had said nothing. He had not spoken to her on that terrible day, or since.

‘So why is he avoiding you?’ Mary demanded, avid and relentless.

‘Mary, really. You exaggerate. N – Nick has many friends and I certainly would not have him neglect them on my account.’ Kerenza’s skin burned with humiliation, but she refused to acknowledge her body’s betrayal. She would sooner die than give Mary Blamey the opportunity to crow. ‘You do him an injustice to believe him so rag-mannered.’

Mary tossed her fair curls. ‘Well, it seems very odd to me –’

The band struck up again, drowning the rest of her words, and on the floor new sets were forming. Three young officers approached, each pleading for Kerenza to partner him. Pairing one with the dimpling and eager Mary, she pressed a gloved hand to her bosom and begged the other two to excuse her for the moment.

Promising to come back and ask her again, they departed to find other partners. But as she turned, Nick was nowhere to be seen. A few minutes later she overheard someone say he had left early because he was sailing at dawn. That had been almost four weeks ago.

Surveying the room, Aurelia murmured softly, ‘Courage, my love. Send the gossips elsewhere for their sport.’ Without waiting for a reply, she settled herself comfortably on one of the sofas and adjusted the folds of her dove-grey silk. ‘Kerenza, John Carthew is a good man, with a thriving business. And his two girls think the world of you. Could you not consider …?’

‘Nana, he’s –’ not Nick ‘– old,’ Kerenza whispered.

‘Old?’ Aurelia’s brows climbed. ‘My dear child, he’s not yet 40.’

‘But that’s still twice my age.’

Aurelia sighed. ‘Oh well, it was just a thought.’ She patted Kerenza’s hand. ‘All I want is your happiness. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Yes, Nana.’

‘Ah, he’s on his way over. Smile, my love. We are here to celebrate. Allow Maude the pleasure of seeing you enjoy dancing.’

‘Good evening, Mrs Danby.’

‘Mr Carthew.’

‘And Miss Vyvyan. It is indeed a joy to see you here tonight. You have been much missed.’

‘You are kind to say so, sir.’

‘Nothing kind about it. I deal in facts, Miss Vyvyan. And I
have
missed you. I swear no other young woman in this village is as light on her feet as you are.’

Recalling how much she owed her grandmother, and glimpsing the love and relief on Maude Tregenna’s beaming face as she looked up at her husband who, had things gone differently, might have come home in a wooden box, Kerenza made a huge effort. Widening her mouth in a smile, she shook her head.

‘You flatter me, sir. And I must advise you to keep such remarks to yourself, or risk finding yourself very short of partners.’

‘I could bear it, Miss Vyvyan. Your absence from the Eversons’ dance meant as well as severe disappointment, I also suffered badly bruised toes.’

Kerenza felt her smile become easier, more natural.

‘I can only conclude,’ he added in a low voice, ‘that certain young ladies –’

‘No names, Mr Carthew,’ Kerenza warned. ‘For you surely cannot expect agreement from me if you criticise my friends.’

‘My pain and injuries were so great that I have
quite
forgotten who they were. Only that they defied all natural law. For while
appearing
light and graceful, they were cursed with two left feet and iron-toed slippers.’

‘Mr Carthew!’ In spite of herself, Kerenza giggled. ‘Have you not heard the old saying that a bad workman always blames his tools? Perhaps it was not after all
they
who were at fault?’

‘Indeed, you may be right. Perhaps the truth of the matter is that I dance atrociously, and it is your skill that allows me to appear proficient.’

‘Now you are teasing.’

‘Me? How could you think it?’ He leant forward slightly. ‘Your arrival has been noted by some of the young Packet officers. So before I am thrust aside and trampled in the rush, will you do me the honour of standing up with me for this dance?’

Kerenza hesitated.

‘Please, Miss Vyvyan? How else can I appear to best advantage? Besides, I should so enjoy being envied.’

His gentle flattery was balm to Kerenza’s battered self-esteem. While they moved through the familiar steps he related amusing snippets of village gossip. Even as she laughed she was aware of aching loss. But, for the first time, it was accompanied by anger. Anger as bright and sharp as a blade. How
could
Nicholas Penrose treat her so? She had done nothing to warrant such hurtful or offensive behaviour.

Watching Sam Penrose stumble from the boat onto the granite steps and feel the solidity of the stone quay beneath his feet was, Nick thought, like watching a man wake from a nightmare. Taking his first unsteady steps, Sam had clung to Nick’s arm.

‘Do you want to rest for a minute?’ Nick had indicated a flat-topped iron bollard ready, if his uncle looked like falling, to drop the heavy portmanteaux, the captain’s log, and the passenger list, to catch him.

‘No,’ Sam rasped. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

Nick had kept the pace deliberately slow as they made their way along the quay, pity battling with frustration and impatience as he watched his uncle’s painful efforts to pull sick body and broken spirit together.

Now, seated in the Packet office, still whey-faced and red-eyed, Sam’s words were firm even if his voice wasn’t.

‘Can’t do it. It’s not possible, not in three days.’

The Packet agent leant forward in his leather chair. From the top of one of the piles of paper covering the surface of the vast desk, he picked up a thick package wrapped in oiled cloth and fastened with wax seals. Edgar Tierney’s upper lip lifted in a smile that did not reach his small eyes. There was no warmth or welcome in them, only mild impatience.

‘Captain Penrose, these are urgent dispatches from the Admiralty in London. They have to be delivered with all possible speed to Admiral Hotham, who is presently commanding the navy’s Mediterranean Squadron.
Kestrel
is the only packet available.’

‘I tell you, we can’t do it. It’s too soon. We need more time.’

Hearing the underlying note of fear – returning to sea would always come too soon for Sam Penrose – Nick addressed his uncle. ‘With your permission, sir?’ As Sam conceded with a shaking hand, Nick turned to the packet agent.

‘Mr Tierney,
Kestrel
is back in Falmouth four days early due a severe gale. The ship has suffered damage. It will take time to put that right.’

‘Then I suggest you get about it, Mr Penrose. I should not need to remind you that we are at war.’

Anger lanced through Nick. Pompous and portly, the Packet agent had never ventured outside Falmouth harbour. ‘No, you don’t, Mr Tierney.’ With an effort, he kept his voice even and his face impassive. He was only
Kestrel’s
mate, not her commander. To make an enemy of Edgar Tierney was unwise. The Packet agent carried considerable influence with both packet-ship owners and the post office. This power enabled him to make life easy or difficult for packet commanders.

But Nick could not sit silent while this buffoon pontificated about realities of which he had no experience to men who did.

‘Captain Penrose knows better than most what the French are capable of.’

‘Quite.’ Edgar Tierney drew the captain’s log forward and tapped fat white fingers on the cover. He didn’t open it. There was no need. Tierney had known before
Kestrel
sailed that Sam Penrose wasn’t fit. He had relied on Nick’s loyalty to his uncle to ensure the packet made the trip to Lisbon and back without mishap. Nick recognised Tierney’s unspoken threat and felt his blood run cold.

The log fell far short of a full and detailed record of events on board. And the entries had been made not, as the law required, by the captain, but by the mate. So it wasn’t only Sam’s future lying beneath Tierney’s hand. It was Nick’s too. He’d had no choice. For much of the trip Sam couldn’t even sit up, let alone write. And submission of an incomplete log could get a captain dismissed. Tierney had known that Nick would protect his uncle for as long as he could.

The agent looked up, speaking directly to Nick. ‘You will complete your repairs, you will ensure you muster all the crew necessary, and
Kestrel
will leave for Gibraltar in three days’ time. This is not a request.’ With a brief, meaningful flick of his eyes in Sam’s direction, he arched one eyebrow. ‘I trust I make myself clear?’

Nick felt sweat trickle down his sides. His plans to transfer to a Jamaica packet, to escape for 17 weeks from constant reminders of Kerenza Vyvyan, scattered like dust on the wind.

Nick sensed his uncle’s swift, anguished glance. Sam too had recognised the agent’s warning.
Kestrel
must sail, and he must be aboard. Refusal would not only cost him his contract and his income, Tierney would see to it that both master and mate faced criminal charges.

Nick gave a terse nod. There had never really been a choice. ‘Perfectly clear.’

Edgar Tierney rubbed his hands together. As he beamed, his eyes narrowed to cold, glittering slits in his fleshy face. ‘Well, that’s settled. I trust it was a successful voyage?’