Tide of Fortune (19 page)

‘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.

That night he slept wrapped in Kerenza’s blanket. And dreamed. And ached for her.

The next two days followed a similar pattern: kicking their heels at the Palace in the morning, dinner at the house, then back to the ship. By the third day the strain was beginning to tell on them all.

When he wasn’t asleep, William Vyvyan’s grief and anxiety exploded in bad temper. Backed up by Broad, a witness to William’s surly impatience with Kerenza, Nick wanted to increase the laudanum dosage. But Kerenza had refused.

‘I really think it would be better not to. As for my father’s outbursts, I understand they are the result of our circumstances, so I do not take them to heart.’ Her throbbing head and the tension that lay like an iron bar across her shoulders told a different story. But though sorely tempted, she dared not agree. ‘What if the governor should summon us? What kind of impression would we make if my father were too befuddled to talk sensibly? The governor knows we are here. Even if it is his practice to make people wait before seeing him, surely he will want the matter settled soon?’

Constant efforts to placate and occupy her father cost her enormous effort. Now she was aware of an additional pressure. For though he said nothing to her she had overheard enough to realise that Nick faced problems of his own. The longer they remained here the higher the personal cost to him. The crew were bored, restless. More fights meant more punishments and increased resentment.

Caught in the middle, her sympathies torn between Nick and her father, Kerenza was also worried about her sister. Dulcie had always been close to their mother, particularly during their year of shared captivity, so must surely be feeling dreadfully isolated and afraid.

With her own memories of how it felt to be excluded still vivid, Kerenza could imagine all too clearly Dulcie’s loneliness since losing her mother. Thinking about family and closeness reminded Kerenza of her grandmother, her acerbic affection, and the warmth of her welcome into the house at Flushing. But the memory, though comforting, seemed to belong to another time, a different life.

As if all that was not enough, the wind had shifted. Maggot called it the
cherqi.

‘Is a bad wind.’ He shook his head.

Hot, damp, oppressive, it rasped raw nerves and frayed tempers already on edge. Kerenza’s skin was constantly clammy, her clothes clung, and her eyes were gritty and sore. There was no escape, no relief.

Her father’s moods swung between incoherent rage and jittery apprehension. Nick returned from the palace tight-lipped with fury. Even Maggot was showing signs of strain. Kerenza felt as fragile as glass.

After dinner on the fourth day, as Maggot and Nick prepared to return to the ship, Zohra sent Maggot back to tell Kerenza to put on her kaftan, headscarf, and veil, and meet her in the court.

‘Where are we going?’

Maggot looked tired but his eyes held a glimmer of mischief. ‘
Hammam
.’

‘Where’s that? Is it far?’

He shook his head. ‘Not far. No worry. You will like.’

Zohra was waiting in the court carrying what looked like a leather bucket, its contents covered with a folded white cloth, when Kerenza came down from the terrace. A couple of minutes’ walk from the house, Zohra turned down an alley. As they passed an open doorway, the smell of freshly baked bread wafted out into the humid air. The door next to it stood open and, after handing some money to a woman sitting just inside, Zohra led the way along a short passage.

It opened into a room where several women sat or lay on couches, their faces and heads uncovered. Kerenza saw with a dart of shock that two of the women’s faces were patterned with indigo blue: one on her chin, the other in lines down her cheeks.

While some towelled damp hair, others drew combs through long, dark tresses as they chatted. All glowed and exuded a fresh fragrance that made Kerenza acutely aware of her perspiring skin and unwashed hair.

She guessed this must be a public bathhouse, like the one for the seamen in Flushing. As the women exchanged greetings with Zohra, Kerenza sensed their curiosity at the sight of a stranger. Zohra led her through to another room, noisy with the talk and laughter of women and children in various stages of undress.

Removing her clothes, she motioned to Kerenza to do the same. Shyness battled with overwhelming desire for a bath, and was swiftly vanquished. Though she was careful not to stare, Kerenza could not avoid noticing that many of the women, especially the older ones, were brown and plump and soft. They were, she thought wryly, fat roast duck to her plucked chicken. One older woman had a complicated orange-brown pattern running the length of her thighs and calves to her ankles.

Though they openly studied her, there was none of the condemnation she had seen in the men’s glittering eyes. She sensed what intrigued them was the whiteness of her skin.

Gently turning Kerenza around, Zohra unpinned her hair. As it uncoiled, two of the women reached out and gathered a handful, nodding and smiling. Kerenza smiled back. Then Zohra took her into a room cloudy with steam, where they sat side by side on stools in front of a cistern.

Using the bucket to pour water over her head and body, Zohra handed it to Kerenza and began to soap herself. After Kerenza had done the same, Zohra half-turned on her stool, grasped Kerenza’s arm, and began to scrub it gently with a fist-sized piece of light grey stone. She scrubbed Kerenza’s arms, back, legs and feet, and, when she had finished, rinsed her with buckets of water. With a tentative smile, Kerenza held out her hand for the stone and raised her brows. Beaming, Zohra handed it to her and held out her own arm.

They washed each other’s hair, and as Zohra gently massaged her scalp, Kerenza closed her eyes. Minnie usually did this for her. Imagining the maid’s expression, Kerenza smiled.

With their wet hair hanging in thick ropes down their backs, Kerenza followed Zohra to two marble slabs. Signalling someone across the room, Zohra lay down on one and waved Kerenza onto the other. Wondering what was coming next, Kerenza started as strong fingers, slippery with scented oil, began to knead her shoulders. It hurt, and she tensed, resisting. A hand slapped her twice, and a voice scolded. Though she couldn’t understand the words, the tone made the meaning plain.

About to sit up and push the hand away, she felt Zohra’s touch on her arm, coaxing, reassuring. Making a deliberate effort to relax, she received a pat of approval. The deft fingers resumed, moving down her back and legs then returning to work more deeply on her neck, arms, and shoulders.

Kerenza felt painful knots begin to loosen and tight muscles grew soft and flexible. As tension dissolved and evaporated, her anxieties drifted away. She felt boneless, weightless, and blissfully detached.

After one more soaping, another hair-wash to remove any traces of oil, and several rinses, the two women dried themselves. Twisting towels around their hair, they returned to the outer room to dress and relax. Kerenza felt as if every nerve was wrapped in velvet.

Zohra chatted with several women who had put on kaftans over a fine cotton garment resembling the one Kerenza had found on her bed in place of her nightdress the night she arrived. Pulling on her chemise, she looked at her peach muslin, grubby and damp with perspiration. Touching Kerenza’s arm, Zohra shook her head.

Amazed at her daring, Kerenza rolled up her dress. She allowed the emerald kaftan to float down over her chemise, emerging to see Zohra clap her hands, laughing.

They combed out their damp hair and pinned it up. As they put on their headscarves and veils, it occurred to Kerenza that she had shared greater intimacy with a woman she had known less than a week, a woman whose language she did not speak, than with her own mother.

Even as the sadness struck deep, she found herself able to accept it. She wondered if the odd feeling of detachment was responsible for her reaction, wondered if she might feel differently when it wore off. She decided she wouldn’t.