by Jane Jackson
‘She wasn’t.’ He was grim.
‘She said – she said you would be angry if I didn’t let –’ she stopped. It was pointless to continue. ‘Anyway, she wants to do it.’
‘And you don’t?’
‘I never did. You know that.’
‘I know the idea did not appeal.’ His tone softened slightly. ‘But now you are seeing it change and come to life, are you still so set against it?’
She did not reply.
‘Look at me, Caseley. Tell me.’
‘I –’ Her throat was parched. The lie would not come. ‘That is not important.’
‘It’s the only thing that matters,’ he said quietly.
‘To you.’ He did not understand at all. How could she have thought him intuitive, aware? He saw nothing, cared for nothing but his own selfish desires.
‘I want you to finish it.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
She raised her eyes to his. ‘I’ve given you my reasons.’
‘Louise will not come to the house again. You have my word.’
Pride stiffened her spine. ‘It’s your house. You can please yourself whom you entertain, or involve –’
His breath hissed. ‘You –’ He yanked her towards him and her eyes flew wide as she saw his fury. ‘Who in God’s name do you think you are? What gives you the right to –’ He stopped suddenly, eyes narrowing. The speculative gleam in their smoky depths made her tremble inside. ‘Unless …’
Bracing her fists against the hard wall of his chest she pushed with all her strength.
‘Caseley?’ He sounded stunned.
‘Let me go,’ she panted, struggling violently. ‘I hate you!’
A rap on the door froze them both.
‘Yes?’ Jago snapped.
Martin’s voice came through the wood. ‘Dinner, Cap’n.’
‘We’ll be right there.’
Seizing her chance, she pulled free. He made no effort to hold her. She was shivering yet perspiration pricked her temples and upper lip. Her heart pounded against her ribs. She rubbed her arms, the flesh tender where his grip had crushed it.
‘After you,’ he said solemnly, gesturing towards the door.
‘I’m not hungry.’ Her voice was husky and unsteady.
‘I told you once, and I’m telling you again, while you are on board you are under my protection. You will not go hungry. Nor,’ he forbade the idea even as it occurred to her, ‘are you going to disrupt the routine of the ship by having your meals served in here. Now, will you walk to the mess, or must I carry you?’
She lifted her chin. ‘And who will protect me from you, Captain?’
One dark brow rose. ‘What makes you think that will be necessary?’
Wrenching the door open she stormed out of the day room, wanting to scream with frustration. How did he always manage to twist her words?
As she entered the mess, Jimbo, Hammer, and Martin scrambled awkwardly to their feet bumping against the wood table and making the spoons clatter against the enamel plates. It cost effort, but she smiled.
‘Where shall I sit?’
‘Beside me,’ Antonio Valdes said from behind her, indicating two places on the bench opposite the twins. She sat down and he slid in beside her.
Jago took his place at the head of the table and ladled out steaming stew from a large iron pot with a ring handle and lid, serving the crew first in order of rank.
Antonio Valdes looked astonished, then annoyed, as Jago poured meat and vegetables onto his plate. He muttered something in Spanish but seemed unwilling to issue a challenge.
Caseley was served last. She murmured her thanks and the meal began.
Chapter Thirteen
There must have been conversation, but no one addressed her directly. By serving her last Jago was making it clear that despite her financial interest in the vessel, the crew’s welfare took priority. Antonio Valdes took it as a personal slight. She did not. Besides, she had other things on her mind.
Barely tasting the food, she chewed and swallowed, her thoughts fluttering like a jarful of moths.
The sound of her name on Jago’s lips had jolted her. Had he been anyone else she might have ignored it, or told him that such familiarity had no place between them. How could she do that? He was like no one else she had ever known.
Recalling the look on his face as comprehension broke through his scowling anger, embarrassment dewed her skin so her shift clung uncomfortably. It hadn’t occurred to her that her weary remark might be construed as jealousy. Only when she saw his expression change did she realise how it must have sounded.
About to protest, she had imagined the sardonic twist to his mouth, his dark brows lifting in mocking disbelief. What exactly was her grievance: his use of her first name? Or that he recognised a truth she had denied even to herself. Anything she said would only convince him he was right. Yet in his eyes her silence served the same purpose.
Still, though he might assume, he could not be certain. To say nothing and keep her distance was her only hope of hiding her fear and shame. There was something pathetic and ridiculous in yearning for a man to whom marriage meant nothing, who already had a mistress, who was contemptuous of those who condemned him, and whose regard for her extended only as far as her usefulness.
A touch on her arm jerked her out of her thoughts. Antonio Valdes’s fingers lingered as she turned. Hammer and Jimbo had risen from the table and were listening as Jago gave them quiet instructions. Martin was on his way out of the mess carrying the empty cauldron. The table was cluttered with dirty plates and cutlery.
‘Señorita, tell me,’ he coaxed softly, ‘what has caused your cheeks to take their colour from winter snow instead of summer roses? If a man is responsible,’ he paused, ‘I will kill him for you. To mar such beauty with sadness he no longer deserves to live.’
Caseley forced a smile. ‘Your gallantry does you credit, señor,’ she said lightly. ‘Indeed, you are correct. It is a man who occupies my thoughts. A man about whom I care deeply.’
Hammer and Jimbo had gone but Caseley was aware of Jago pausing to listen. She ignored him but could not control her stuttering heartbeat.
‘And he does not return your affection.’ Antonio made it a statement.
Though she held her smile steady, Caseley knew a moment’s anguish. For all his lavish compliments, Antonio Valdes did not expect anyone to love her.
As if realising he had made a slip, the Spaniard gazed into her eyes. ‘What a fool he must be.’ His voice was vibrant, his frown intense.
He had given her the perfect opportunity to offer a reason for her preoccupation. It meant accepting Antonio’s true evaluation of her appeal rather than the extravagant compliments he poured over her like rich cream. But what did that matter? Was it not the truth?
‘On the contrary, señor,’ she corrected, ‘my father loves me very much.’
From the corner of her eye she saw Jago’s mouth twitch and with a murmured, ‘Touché,’ he too left the mess.
‘Your father?’ Antonio repeated.
‘He has been ill, and I worry about him. I fear that on occasion my concern outweighs my manners. If I have been a poor table companion, I trust you will forgive me.’
He seized her hand, pressing warm, moist lips against her knuckles. ‘Lovely señorita, there is nothing to forgive. Such devotion must be admired. Come, let us go up on deck. There is little air down here, and though the furniture is adequate …’ his shrug expressed disdain.
Caseley hesitated, unsure of committing herself. More than anything she wanted to be alone, to rest and think. She slipped out of her seat and as they reached the bottom of the stairs, glimpsed Jago in the day room seated at the table writing in the log. She would find neither peace nor privacy in his company.
‘I should enjoy a spell on deck. My father warned of rough weather, so we should make the most of the sunshine.’
‘I sincerely hope your father was wrong.’ The
ir feet rang on the brass as Antonio followed her up the stairs. He moved two coils of rope and a bucket further along the cargo hatch, clearing a space for them both to sit.
Caseley looked up at a brilliant blue sky scattered with puffball clouds, enjoying the warm breeze on her face. ‘Are you not a good sailor, Señor Valdes?
‘Alas no.’
‘Then to risk such discomfort you must be anxious to return to Spain.’ She was simply making conversation, being polite while half her mind was with the man downstairs.
‘I am. Are you aware of events in my country, señorita? The battles? The terrible loss of life?’
Caseley nodded. ‘I have read newspaper accounts, but I doubt they describe the true extent of the people’s suffering. You have my sympathy, Señor Valdes.’
‘We Spaniards are renowned for many things: our wines from Jerez, the windmills of Castile, Seville oranges, the Pamplona bullfights, and even Andalusian flamenco. But it is our fierce pride and religious fervour that sets the Spanish character above all others.’
Caseley considered his statement arrogant, but courtesy would not allow her to argue. Yet though she had not observed anything remotely religious about Jago Barata, other than his occasional blasphemy when she irritated him beyond bearing, and though he was only half-Spanish, he certainly possessed his full share of arrogance.
Antonio smiled, revealing small even teeth. ‘I, however, have avoided such excessive rigidity of character. I am altogether more … flexible. A trait my beloved family finds unsettling. But we do agree that it is exhausting to belong to a country which last year had four different presidents.’
‘Four?’ she echoed in surprise.
‘Yet at this moment we do not have even one. Our last president, Castelar, was ousted in a military coup and now General Serrano is back in power.’
‘At school I was taught that Spain is a monarchy.’
‘Indeed it was, until six years ago when Queen Isabel abdicated.’
‘I thought a king or queen reigned until they died. I cannot imagine Queen Victoria abdicating.’
‘The lives of the two queens have little in common,’ Antonio said. ‘The forty years of Isabel’s reign saw the worst scandals and excesses in Spanish history. My people have always been tolerant of small weaknesses in our royalty. But Isabel’s behaviour went far beyond the forgivable. At times the court resembled a brothel. Even when the king was alive there was public doubt over who fathered certain of her children.’
Caseley turned her head away, shaken that he would repeat such scurrilous gossip to her.
‘Once the junta had got rid of the queen,’ he continued, oblivious to her discomfort, ‘they declared that due to Isabel’s appalling immorality the Bourbon family had forfeited all rights to the crown. When General Serrano was made regent everyone believed it would be the dawn of a new era.’
His tone held cynicism Caseley did not understand. ‘Wasn’t it?’
‘Appointing General Prim as prime minister, Serrano decided Spain would remain a monarchy, but a limited one, with the real power invested in two chambers …’
‘Like our Parliament?’
Antonio nodded. ‘However, this provoked a revolt among those who were disgusted with the monarchy and wanted Spain to become a republic.’
‘But how could the country remain a monarchy if the royal family was no longer permitted to reign?’ Caseley was astonished that a queen could behave in such a manner, and a country could be squabbled over.
‘Serrano made Prim offer the throne of Spain around Europe.’ Once more bitterness curled his mouth. ‘But no one wanted it. Eventually he persuaded Amadeo, the second son of King Victor-Emmanuel of Italy, to accept it. Amadeo might even have been a good king for my country.’ Antonio shrugged.
‘Might have been? But he accepted the crown.’
‘Yes, he did. But the day Amadeo arrived in Spain, General Prim was murdered.’
As she caught her breath, Antonio spread his hands. ‘Amadeo could not speak our language and no longer had a mentor to help him unravel our tangled politics. After two years he gave up the struggle and abdicated.’ Antonio lifted one exquisitely tailored shoulder. ‘So General Serrano is back in power for a second time. But he has lost patience and now rules as a dictator. Thus my country is relieved of a freedom it could not handle.’
Caseley thought she detected a note of approval. But the impression was fleeting as his tone changed to one of frustration.
‘Yet still there is no peace.’
‘Why not?’
‘Though there are those who support the republic, many of the Spanish people find it totally abhorrent. We are a Catholic country and the monarchists consider the present system a godless regime. But even if the clamour to restore the monarchy gained sufficient power, how are we to choose between two men who both claim to be the rightful king, and who both have armies of supporters?’
‘Two? But how is that possible?’
Antonio took a breath. ‘Over a hundred years ago, Philip V, the first Bourbon King of Spain, passed a law that said no female could succeed to the Spanish throne. Many years later this law was reversed. But the reversal was never made public until Isabel’s father, King Ferdinand, announced his wife’s pregnancy and declared that boy or girl, the child would be the next sovereign of Spain.’
‘Yes,’ Caseley nodded, ‘and so she was.’
‘Indeed. But under the old law, Ferdinand’s brother, Don Carlos, would have inherited the throne. He and his supporters distrusted the new liberal ideas of Ferdinand and his queen, and were furious with what they considered sacrilegious interference with Divine Right. So the vendetta began. Now Carlos’s grandson, also named Carlos, claims to be the legitimate heir to the throne. Meanwhile the Royalists want Isabel’s son, Alfonso, to rule.’
Hearing Alfonso’s name reminded Caseley of the package, her reason for being aboard Cygnet. Trepidation made her tremble inside as she recalled the documents, wrapped in the disguising contract and sealed inside another envelope, hidden among her clothes.
Concerned about her father, desperately anxious to fulfil what might be his last request, and burdened with the realisation of her feelings for Jago, she had pushed the package deep into her bag and out of her mind.
In her possession was something that could have a profound effect on the future of Spain. In the hands of either faction the package would be explosive. But which side was right?
She was only a courier. As soon as she handed the package over, her job would be done and she could go home.
‘I fear I have bored you,’ Antonio broke into her thoughts.
‘Not at all. I appreciate you taking the time to explain.’
‘So now you understand it will be easier.’
Caseley wasn’t sure what he meant. ‘Your people must be suffering greatly during this unrest.’
He moved one shoulder in a careless gesture. ‘It is the price of progress.’ His gaze sharpened. ‘But the instrument of change is within reach.’ He smiled. ‘Now let us talk of other things. You were telling me about your father.’
‘Was I?’ Caseley could not remember doing so.
‘He sounds a most accomplished man. The name of his shipping agency is not confined to Cornwall. Juan Roderiguez speaks most highly of him.’
‘You know Señor Roderiguez?’ Caseley asked eagerly. ‘I have corresponded with him on my father’s behalf and found him charming.’ The wine merchant’s letters with their courteous old-world phraseology had created in Caseley’s mind an image of a tall, silver-haired man of proud bearing and the impeccable manners of a grandee.
‘Not personally,’ Antonio admitted after a moment’s hesitation. ‘But his views were passed on in conversation.’
‘Oh, I see.’ How foolish of her to assume that simply because he was Spanish, Antonio Valdes might know people with whom her father did business.
‘Managing such a thriving concern would be demanding even without the added burden o
f illness,’ he gushed. ‘Then there are his consular duties. I have heard you are of great assistance.’
Startled, Caseley caught herself. Showing concern would convince him she had something to hide. She softened her dismissive gesture with a smile. ‘You flatter me, señor. ’
‘And you are too modest, señorita. A young woman helping her sick father in such masculine domains as shipping and politics? How could that pass unnoticed?’
Her unease increased. ‘My help – such as it was –consisted of paperwork relating to cargoes. It simply released my father from routine matters during his recovery.’ What was Antonio Valdes’s interest? Where had he obtained his information? Had he learned it from Jago?
Perhaps he had asked who she was and why she was aboard. The thought of them discussing her father or herself was unnerving. She had never pictured Jago as a gossip. In fact the idea seemed impossible. But was it? He had no reason to consider her feelings. Indeed, up to now he seemed to have made a point of not doing so.
She realised she was very much alone. As her skin tightened in a shiver she was overwhelmed with relief to see Nathan approaching. Hammer had taken over the wheel.
‘Skipper says to come for tea, miss.’ The mate sketched a salute. ‘You an’ all, sir.’
Caseley stood up at once, clinging to the hatch cover for support as she shook out her skirt. Though a command rather than an invitation, it provided escape from a conversation she suspected was more than polite interest. ‘There is no hurry,’ Antonio protested. ‘Let us ignore this tea and take our meal at a more civilised hour.’ He patted the hatch beside him.
His warm smile did not disguise his irritation and Caseley was surprised at his thoughtlessness. She remained standing, gently rotating her crippled foot to ease its stiffness.
‘Señor, I understand it is the custom in Madrid to take one’s evening meal at ten or even later. In English cities dinner may be served at any time between seven and nine. But in Cornwall our habits are different. On board ship tea is not simply a drink. It is the last meal of the day. I’m sure it will be possible to get a mug of cocoa later in the evening when the watch changes. But a seaman’s main meal is served in the middle of the day, not at the end.’
