The Consul's Daughter

by Jane Jackson

  He spread his hands, palms up and lifted his shoulders. ‘I must submit to this barbaric arrangement or starve?’

  Caseley gave a brief nod. ‘It would appear so.’

  He sighed. ‘Then I will come.’ He stood and offered his arm.

  Though reluctant to take it, she knew it would be foolhardy as well as churlish to refuse. The deck was rising and falling as the schooner cut through the darkening water, and after sitting for so long she had pins and needles in her foot. Yet she knew her instincts had been right when he rested his other hand on top of hers.

  ‘We will talk again, beautiful señorita. We have much to discuss, you and I. Like a flower of many petals you hide yourself.’ His voice was husky, his smile intimate. ‘But I will pluck those petals one by one.’

  Fear trickled, ice-cold, from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine. Pulling her hand free she gripped the handrail and started down the stairs. The intense stress of the past few days had made her over-sensitive. Why else would his words, spoken in such vibrantly romantic tones, sound like a threat?

  As she reached the bottom of the stairs with Antonio close behind, Jago emerged from the day room. His cool grey gaze flicked over them both, but it was Caseley he addressed.

  ‘Martin has put hot water by the stove should you wish to wash your hands.’

  ‘Th – thank you.’ Caseley stammered in surprise.

  He nodded without expression and would have walked on into the mess had Antonio not put out a languid hand to stop him.

  ‘And I, Captain?’

  Jago turned his head slowly, looking at the Spaniard’s fingers on his shirtsleeve. Only when Antonio had removed them did he raise his head.

  ‘You may do as you choose, Señor Valdes. There are buckets on the cargo hatch and an ocean all around you.’ He nodded briefly and moved on.

  Caseley glimpsed barely concealed rage in Antonio’s shrug. Excusing herself, she entered the day room and closed the door.

  Lifting the lid on top of the cupboard to reveal the basin, she picked up the bucket. It was only a third full but given the movement of the ship, she feared more would end up on the floor than in the basin. Imagining Jago’s reaction to that, she set the bucket down again, fetched her soap and towel, and knelt to wash her hands.

  Jago need not have agreed to Antonio making the voyage on Cygnet. After his initial mistake in believing the Spaniard was the passenger he’d been expecting, he could have refunded whatever Antonio had paid for the trip and referred him to Fox’s or Broad’s to arrange another berth.

  So why had he insisted Antonio remain aboard? It wasn’t for the money. Jago was a wealthy man. Given the animosity between them, what reason would be strong enough to force each into the other’s presence? The matter had to be urgent.

  Antonio had admitted needing a fast passage to Spain. Why? Was it connected with the unrest? Or was it that, like Jago, he had business interests that were under threat? What had he meant by saying that now she knew it would be easier?

  Checking her appearance in the mirror, she tidied her hair. She was becoming far too inquisitive. This was a result of listening to Rosina and Liza-Jane gossiping.

  Pierced by homesickness she pictured the kitchen: Rosina, red-cheeked from the heat of the range, bustling about getting tea, Liza-Jane holding the doors open for Ben as he brought in the coal. She thought of her father dozing by the fire. Was he all right? Would Ben remember to give him his drops at bedtime?

  Fretting was pointless. There was nothing she could do. Placing the bucket between the stove and the cabin door she returned to her bag and lifted out a cloth-wrapped parcel.

  When she slipped into her seat the men had already begun eating. For once she was glad Jago Barata set his own rules. Nathan pushed a plate of thickly sliced bread spread with butter towards her, interrupting what he was saying to point to a jar of jam.

  ‘’Tis raspberry, miss. Susan, my eldest, made six pound of it this year from our own bushes.’

  ‘Thank you, Nathan.’ Realising there was no serving spoon and unwilling to embarrass him she dipped into the jar with her knife.

  ‘Tea, miss?’ Jimbo held the battered iron kettle over the mug in front of her. Remembering her father’s tales of tea the colour and consistency of tar, she hesitated. But longing for a hot drink overcame her doubts.

  ‘Yes, please.’ Dark brown and steaming, it wasn’t as bad as she feared. Without a word, Jago placed a jug of condensed milk in front of her and her spirits rose. Lifting the bundle from her lap she set it on the table and opened the cloth.

  ‘These were baked yesterday –’

  ‘Saffern and a hevva cake,’ Jimbo gasped in awe. ‘I ’aven’t tasted saffern cake for months. Bless your ’eart, miss.’

  ‘I’ll cut ’n,’ Nathan insisted as Jimbo reached for the knife. ‘Leave it to you and we’ll only get half a dozen slices. By your leave, skipper?’ he added quickly, glancing at Jago who nodded. His gaze met Caseley’s, and his barely visible nod suffused her with warmth. Quickly she looked away. Aware that cake was a rare treat, she had brought it for the men not to win his approval.

  ‘You won’t want none, Mart.’ Jimbo shook his head at the boy, who was staring round-eyed at the two cakes. One was deep yellow-gold and studded with currants and lemon peel. The other was a square slab just over an inch thick, full of dried fruit. The top was crunchy with sugar and scored in a criss-cross pattern.

  ‘I do too want some,’ the boy yelped, blushing as everyone grinned and he realised he had fallen for Jimbo’s teasing yet again.

  The cakes were sliced and everyone took a piece with a decorum Caseley found touching.

  ‘Cap’n, is it all right if Nathan finish what he was saying ’bout that boat from Peru?’ Martin asked.

  Jago gestured to the mate. ‘Carry on, Nathan.’

  The mate washed down the last crumbs of his cake with tea. ‘Well, knowing ’twas a long trip home and the captain’s mortal remains wouldn’t keep, the mate had the body stuffed with guano –’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Antonio broke in. ‘What is this guano?’

  ‘Bird shit,’ Jimbo said, ‘begging your pardon, miss.’

  Caseley swallowed and simply nodded, hard-pressed to hide her smile. After a bewildered moment, Antonio’s eyes widened and he studied the slice of saffron cake on his plate.

  ‘They buried the coffin three foot deep in the hold,’ Nathan continued. ‘When the ship reached Falmouth, they dug ’n out and he looked as good as the day he died. Smelled a bit ripe, but you can’t have everything. Anyhow, they took ’n over to St Ives where he come from, and buried ’n there in the churchyard like he always wanted.’

  ‘’Tis the lime,’ Jimbo announced. ‘Keep a body in lime for years you could.’

  ‘Know about that, do you, boy? Got a few in your garden, have you?’

  ‘Jimbo, tell ’em about Captain Evans,’ Martin nudged the stocky seaman. ‘Go on.’

  Jago poured himself another cup of tea.

  ‘Well, Hammer and me wasn’t on board ourselves, but our cousin Arfie was. He swore ’t was God’s honest truth. See, Captain Evans was master of Odette, a tea-clipper out of China. He took sick with some bug out there. The cap’n I mean, not Arfie. Anyhow, he died. Cap’n’s wife was with ’n and she said she wasn’t going to have ’n buried in no heathen country. He had to be brought home. Well, you know what the heat is like out there. He wasn’t going to be very sweet after three weeks at sea.’ A master storyteller who relished his audience’s attention, Jimbo paused.

  ‘The cap’n had always run a dry ship. Both he and Mrs Evans was teetotal and they never allowed so much as a drop of liquor on any vessel under his command. But there was only one way missus was going to get her man home for burying all in one piece, so to speak. She had to have ’n put in a barrel filled up with alcohol.’

  His grin gleeful, Martin wriggled on the bench.

  ‘That’s almost poetic,’ Jago mused.

  ‘P
ickled,’ Nathan guffawed. ‘And the poor soul wasn’t even alive to enjoy it.’

  ‘Ah, but that isn’t all,’ Jimbo said quietly, his eyes dancing as everyone turned to him once more. ‘Mrs Evans couldn’t understand how the crew was so cheerful, specially after they was caught in a typhoon four days out. She asked the mate and he told her that though the cap’n was gone the whole crew was uplifted by his spirit. That was God’s honest truth too. When Odette reached port and the barrel was opened, the cap’n’s body was fresh as a daisy. But there wasn’t a drop of alcohol left.’

  After a moment’s stunned silence, the small mess erupted in laughter. Shocked, Caseley couldn’t suppress her giggles. Excusing herself, she returned to the cabin for her paisley shawl and, swirling it around her shoulders, went up on deck.

  Hammer was at the wheel. He nodded shyly then gazed resolutely forward as, embarrassed but determined, she passed him and opened the door in the side of the wheel shelter.

  When she emerged, her chest hurting from holding her breath against the carbolic-laced stench, she saw Martin a few feet away. He had the heavy copper stern light on deck and was topping up the oil and trimming the wick.

  She made her way forward to the companionway. Leaning against the side, she wrapped the shawl more closely and looked westward to the setting sun. As the huge orange ball sank towards the sea, the sky changed from deep rose to pale pink and gold. The small clouds that had speckled the sky during the afternoon had melted away.

  ‘Looks like she’s set fair again tomorrow,’ Nathan said, appearing at the hatch. ‘If the wind hold steady, we should make port in three days.’ He nodded at her and went aft to take the wheel from Hammer.

  Caseley watched the sun disappear, swallowed by the ocean. Jimbo and Martin moved about on deck. The port and starboard lights in the mainmast rigging glowed ruby and emerald. At the stern an arc of white light played over their wake. No longer warmed by the sun the breeze was chilly. She shivered and, bidding Nathan goodnight, went below.

  Reaching the bottom of the stairs she heard Jago’s voice. Pitched too low for her to distinguish the words, there was no doubting his anger. She hesitated, unsure what to do. Then she realised the voices were coming from Nathan’s cabin, now occupied by Antonio Valdes.

  Quickly entering the day room she closed the door. Warmth radiated from the crackling stove and the mellow lamplight made the cabin feel cosy. The chart was rolled up and pushed to the back of the table and the leaf had been folded down.

  As she tossed her shawl onto her bunk there was a single rap on the door. She opened it and stood back as Martin staggered in, a loaded coalscuttle in one hand, a bucket half-full of steaming water in the other.

  ‘Beg pardon, miss. I had to kick ’n ’cos I had both hands full.’ He set the coalscuttle on one side of the stove, the bucket on the other, closest to the sleeping cabin.

  ‘Thank you, Martin. How thoughtful –’

  ‘Cap’n’s orders, miss,’ he blurted, blushing. ‘’E said you got the place to yourself til ten.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’ Recovering, she smiled at him. ‘You must be busy enough without these extra duties. I’m very grateful.’

  ‘’Tisn’t no trouble, miss.’ As he reached the door he grinned over his shoulder. ‘Handsome bit of cake that was.’ He hurried out, pulling the door shut behind him.

  Taking off her jacket, Caseley fetched her soap, towel, and nightgown. Starting to unbutton her bodice, she glanced up and realised that the skylight was an illuminated window revealing most of the day room to anyone who cared to look in.

  Hot with embarrassment, she carried her things back into the tiny sleeping cabin and dropped them on the bunk. She could not pull the curtain over for that would cut out all the light. Instead she placed the bucket in the doorway and moved round behind it. There wasn’t much room, but at least she could not be seen.

  Twenty minutes later, after a strip-wash that left her feeling clean, fresh, and very tired, she pulled on her nightgown. After brushing and braiding her hair into a thick plait that fell over one shoulder, she put on her cape. Slipping her bare feet into her shoes she opened the door, starting as she came face to face with Jago.

  ‘Where are you going?’ He raked her with angry eyes.

  ‘I – to empty this.’ She hefted the bucket forward. ‘Martin will need –’

  ‘I’ll see to it.’ He was curt.

  ‘Thank you.’ She turned away.

  ‘Caseley?’

  She looked round. His voice held a note she had not heard before. In the lamplight his expression was forbidding and his eyes glittered.

  ‘Yes?’ Her heart thumped.

  He stared at her, unspeaking. The tension emanating from him hinted at an inner battle. He shook his head. ‘Nothing. Go to bed.’ He turned and lifting the bucket in front of him, went swiftly up the stairs.

  ‘Goodnight,’ she murmured, and quietly closed the door.

  Caseley woke with a start and for a moment could not remember where she was. Then it all flooded back. She lay, listening intently, waiting for a repeat of the sound that had woken her. But apart from the rattle of the steering gear, the creaking of the ship’s timbers, and the hiss of water against the hull, there was nothing.

  Pushing back the blankets she swung her feet to the floor and peeped round the half-drawn curtain into the day room. It was empty. The lamp was out and the grey light of dawn filtered through the skylight. She saw the bucket, once again half full of steaming water. It must have been the door closing that woke her.

  She washed quickly and put on the same skirt and blouse she had worn the previous day. She had replaced the bucket by the stove and was in front of the mirror brushing her hair when the door opened.

  She whirled round as Jago walked in, her hair flying like a red-gold banner. Their eyes met, held. She saw his hair was damp. His beard gleamed as if that too was wet. In one hand he carried a brass sextant, in the other a towel.

  His shirt was open to the waistband of his trousers and she glimpsed black, curling hair on his chest. Realising suddenly that she had been staring, and hot beneath his amused gaze, she turned back to the mirror, wielding the brush with fierce strokes, sweeping through the tumbling mane until it crackled.

  Jago dropped his towel on the bench seat and replaced the sextant in a lined wooden box lying on the table beside the open log. Aware of him close behind her, she lowered her arms and turned, ready to move out of his way. He reached up to stow the box in a locker.

  ‘You slept well?’ he asked without looking at her.

  ‘Yes. I didn’t expect to but – Yes I did. It must be all the fresh air.’ She felt nervous, jumpy. ‘And the movement. I’m hungry too.’ She edged out from behind the table. ‘Is breakfast ready?’

  ‘Give the boy a chance.’ His tone was mild but it brought a flush to her cheeks. ‘Hold that a moment, will you?’ He pushed the rolled-up chart into her arms and leaned down to raise the table leaf, slotting the supporting leg into place.

  As he straightened she offered him the chart. Ignoring it, he lifted a lock of hair that had fallen forward over her shoulder, studying it as though mesmerised.

  Common sense told her to step back, or knock his hand away and bundle her hair into its confining net. But she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

  He lifted his gaze and their eyes met. She swallowed. Her heart skipped a beat. Holding the chart in one hand and her brush in the other, she felt trapped, helpless. She wanted to run, but there was nowhere to hide. Still his hand moved in her hair, running it through his fingers as if testing its weight, its texture.

  ‘Listen to me.’ He spoke softly. ‘Stay away from Valdes.’

  The words seemed come from far away. Then they registered, bringing her back to reality with a jarring thud.

  ‘Why? You have refused my offer of help. You tell me I must not distract the crew. Señor Valdes provides pleasant company and conversation.’

  Jago’s lip curled. ‘So I noticed
. Nevertheless, I think it wiser that you do not spend time with him.’ Gently he twisted her hair around his hand, preventing her from moving. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘What is your objection?’ She pushed aside her doubts about the Spaniard, whose cheerful flirtatious countenance had twice cracked to reveal an entirely different personality.

  ‘Did you not want us out of your way?’ She moved, expecting him to release her hair. Instead he tightened his grip. Shock rather than pain caused her breath to catch and tears to form. She blinked them away.

  ‘You are not stupid, so don’t play the fool,’ he grated. ‘Valdes is a Basque. He has a silver tongue but few scruples. If he believes you have something he wants, he will stop at nothing – and I mean nothing – to get it. Now do you understand? You are playing with fire, Caseley.’

  ‘No,’ she began, intending to tell him she knew full well that Antonio Valdes was not serious, that his flattery and conversation were only a means of passing time. But she froze as she recognised an alternative interpretation of Jago’s warning. If she had something? The documents? Was that why he had explained in such detail about the political situation in Spain?

  No, it could not be. No one but she and her father knew about them. The package had come direct from Mexico, the seal unbroken. Even if by some terrible misfortune Antonio Valdes was aware of their existence, he could not know they were in her possession. Her father would never have betrayed that trust and she had said nothing. Nor would she. Even Jago had no idea of the real reason she was aboard. Or did he?

  His warning echoed in her head. ‘You have something he wants.’

  Did Jago know? If so, how had he found out? Did it mean he was in league with Valdes? She could not believe that. Their patent dislike of each other was no pretence. But nor would it matter. Jago was half-Spanish. He would care about the country of his forefathers. He would have his own beliefs about what was right for Spain.

  If he and Antonio Valdes were of the same mind, and were offered the opportunity to assist their chosen leader, where would Jago’s loyalties lie? With the Cornishman whose schooner he commanded? Or with the Spaniard he loathed? Yet what if that apparent loathing was indeed a ruse?