by Jane Jackson
On Jago’s orders, Jimbo had rested for twelve hours. But he had refused to stay in bed any longer.
Caseley approached Nathan at the wheel. ‘I realise this is an imposition, but would you mind if I used your cabin for the remainder of the voyage?’
After a moment’s hesitation ripe with surprise and speculation the mate nodded. ‘’Tis all right with me, miss. But you better check with the skipper.’
Caseley went down to the day room, knocked then opened the door, and went in. Jago was seated at the table writing in the log.
‘May I speak to you?’
‘Yes.’ He continued writing in his bold scrawl.
She cleared her throat. ‘Now Jimbo has moved back to the fo’c’sle, I would like your permission to move into Nathan’s cabin until we reach Falmouth. He has no objection but said I must ask you first.’
He raised his head then leaned back against the panelling, studying her with piercing intensity.
It cost her dearly to hold his gaze as she forced herself to add. ‘I think you will welcome my absence and the return of your privacy.’
The silence stretched. Then he nodded. ‘As you wish. When do you –’
‘Now. I’ll just collect my things.’ Braced for a biting comment, his agreement came as a relief. Yet she was acutely aware of him watching as she removed her bag.
Wearing her spare green skirt and a pin-tucked cream shirt-blouse, she had pushed her other clothes, stiff with salt after drying in front of the stove, into her bag. Even looking at them brought back painful memories.
Nathan’s cabin was not much bigger than Jago’s sleeping cubicle. After stowing her bag, Caseley sat on the bunk for a few minutes. But with the only light coming in from gaps at the top and bottom of the door, she was suffocating. Putting on her salt-stained jacket she quickly buttoned it then hurried up the brass stairs to fresh air and the wide expanse of sea and sky.
The crew gave her friendly nods when their paths crossed but focused on their work, eager to get home.
Jago spoke little. When he did his tone was cool.
It was for the best, she told herself. He had shown he was not to be trusted. Wretchedly miserable, she grieved for the intimacy they had shared.
As they crossed the Bay of Biscay heading towards Falmouth she realised how hard he was driving himself. From dawn until nightfall he was either at the wheel, supervising and helping with repairs, or bent over the charts and log.
No matter what hour of the night she slipped from the mate’s tiny cabin, unable to sleep, desperate for escape from her tormented thoughts, she saw light from the oil-lamp under the day-room door.
Did he never rest? With a sudden fierce yearning for revenge she hoped not. Why should he be granted the blessed relief of oblivion when it eluded her?
Before meeting him she had been trying hard to come to terms with the limitations of her life. Yes, she had been lonely. Especially when there was no task demanding her attention, when the household slept and the new day had yet to dawn.
In those dark hours she pined for a man who might love her in spite of her limp, her boyish figure, and her coppery hair. A man she could love and respect, a man to share her thoughts with, to have children with, grown old with. Yes she had yearned, but it had been manageable.
Until he came, shocking her into quivering awareness, kindling wild hopes and soaring dreams, only to trample them. He had broken her heart, leaving her nothing but aching misery and the pitiful rags of her pride.
At least he had never known the depth of her feelings for him. But that was small consolation.
Midmorning on the fourth day after leaving Santander, Cygnet sailed into Falmouth. The sun shone in a cornflower sky, the sea sparkled like sapphires. Only a short time ago they had been fighting for their lives.
Quay punts and rowing boats criss-crossed the water ferrying goods and passengers to and from bigger ships moored to huge buoys.
Jago was at the wheel. Acutely conscious of him, she had chosen a spot well out of everyone’s way. She could not have borne to stay below.
‘Right, boys.’ Those two laconic words were all Jago said. Yet within minutes the foresail and jib had been dropped, the square topsail hauled up, the mainsail reefed a couple of points, and the peak lowered.
She drank in the sights and smells. Nothing had changed yet everything was different. She had not wanted to make the voyage. But the events and emotions she had lived through had changed her forever. Right now her heart felt like a raw wound. But even the deepest wounds healed. Eventually.
Just before they reached the yard slipway and quays, Nathan, Hammer, and Jimbo lowered the mainsail. At Jago’s nod, Martin released the staysail halyard. The canvas dropped into a pile on the foredeck and the schooner glided gently in alongside the wharf.
After securing the fore and aft lines, Hammer and Jimbo moved about the deck furling and lashing the sails. Martin began to unfasten the hatch cover and Nathan set up the winch.
She gazed across the yard over the sheds to the little tower on her father’s house, its windows glistening in the sunlight. Home. No longer enough. But it was all she had.
She started to turn away. A shout made her glance back. Toby was hurrying towards the ship. His trousers hung in baggy folds from the belt beneath his belly, and his rolling gait made him rock from side to side. Worry furrowed his face as he beckoned urgently.
‘Quick, my ’andsome. They want you uplong.’
She knew at once. ‘He’s not …?’ She could not bring herself to say it.’
Toby shook his head. ‘No. Doctor’s with ’n now. Ben come over and told me and said for you to get on home the minute you come in.’
‘I’ll just fetch my things.’ She whirled round and bumped into Jago who caught her arms to steady her.
‘I’ve already sent Martin down.’ As he spoke the boy appeared, his young face puckered in concern as he held out her bag and cape.
Shaking off Jago’s hands, she seized her belongings from Martin. ‘Thank you,’ she managed and the boy touched a knuckle to his forehead in salute. Her world was crumbling. It was too soon. Months, the doctor had said. Why now? Why so soon?
‘I’ll come with you.’ Jago was close behind her as she limped to the schooner’s side where Toby waited.
‘No!’ she rounded on him, her voice low and intense. ‘He’s the sick old man who nearly cost you the Cygnet and the lives of your crew. Remember?’
He shook his head, abrupt and impatient. ‘I spoke in the heat of the moment –’
‘Stay away.’ Her voice broke on a sob.
Brilliant sunshine glinted on Jago’s black curls as he stood like a rock, allowing the tide of her hurt and fear to smash against him. ‘If there is anything you need, anything I can do –’
‘I can give my father everything he needs,’ she broke in, not allowing him to finish. She hated the sympathy in his eyes, hated her need, the longing for his support and strength surging through her, hated him.
‘I managed alone before. I’ll manage now. Go to your friend, Captain Barata,’ she hissed, heedless of the round-eyed stares of the crew who, sensing something was wrong, had moved towards them. ‘Go and find the peace you have missed so much. You need never see me again.’
She tossed her bag and the gabardine cape onto the wharf, then stepping onto the barrel and up onto the gunwale, jumped down into Toby’s arms, wincing as the hard landing jarred her foot.
‘All right, are you?’ Anxiety creased his lined, weathered face, and she knew he was not referring solely to her concern over her father.
Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded quickly. As she snatched up her things, she heard Jago snap at the men to get back to work. There was a cargo to unload and transfer.
She hurried away from the schooner, the pain in her chest excruciating. Jago. She kept her gaze resolutely forward. Aware of Toby’s worried glances, she hoped he would interpret the scalding tears that streaked her cheeks as fear for her f
ather.
‘See you across the road, shall I?’ he offered as they reached the yard gates.
She shook her head. ‘No. I’m all right, Toby. You get back. I know you have lots to do.’
‘We’re all thinking of ’n. And you too, my ’andsome.’
Impulsively, seeking comfort as much as giving it, Caseley leaned over and kissed the bristly cheek. ‘Thank you.’ Her voice wobbled.
Rosina met her at the door. ‘Doctor’s upstairs, my bird. He said you was to wait down here and he’d be with you d’rectly. I’m going to make you a nice cuppa tea.’ As she spoke she took Caseley’s bag, dropped it in the hall, and steered her firmly past the stairs and into the dining room. ‘Kettle’s boiled and I got a tray all set. Now you stay there.’
She pulled out one of the carver chairs and gently pressed Caseley down into it. ‘Don’t you move, mind,’ she warned, and Caseley knew the housekeeper’s sharp eyes hadn’t missed a thing.
Resting her elbows on the polished table, she buried her face in her hands as her thoughts flew like sparks from a burning log.
A few moments later she heard footsteps in the passage, a muffled exchange of words and the tinkle of china. Sitting up she took a deep breath and braced herself for what was to come. Dr Vigurs walked in, closely followed by Rosina.
‘Good morning, Caseley. No, don’t get up.’ He studied her with a deepening frown and she realised he was seeing her pallor and the dark circles beneath her eyes.
‘Father –’
‘Is resting quietly. You will see him very soon, I promise. First I need to talk to you. And you appear to be in need of a good meal and a few minutes to compose yourself.’
‘I’ll go and get –’ Rosina began.
‘No, nothing to eat. I’m not hungry right now. Thank you, Rosina.’
Shaking her head, the housekeeper left the room.
Dr Vigurs pulled out another chair and sat down, half-facing Caseley. ‘Pour the tea, my dear,’ he ordered gently.
Starting, she straightened up. ‘Of course. Forgive me. It’s –’ Her hand shook as she lifted the white china pot patterned with roses.
Removing his pince-nez, the doctor polished them carefully with a spotless white handkerchief. But she was aware of him watching her. Replacing his spectacles he helped himself to sugar, and motioned to her cup, indicating she should drink.
She took a sip then replaced the delicate china onto the saucer with a clatter, raising anguished eyes. ‘Please, you must tell me – how – how long?’
‘A matter of hours. He had the attack two days ago. To be honest, I did not expect him to last the night. But against all odds he hung on. He has asked for you several times.’
The lump in Caseley’s throat was so painful she could hardly speak. ‘He’s not in pain, is he?’
The doctor shook his head. ‘Not any more. He’s tired, Caseley. He’s ready to go. I believe he is only waiting to see you. No,’ he pressed her hand as she started to get up. ‘Finish your tea. You have had a shock. You need time to gather your strength.’
She nodded, lowering her head, gripping the fragile china cup with stiff fingers as she blinked back scalding tears. After a moment she looked up. ‘What happened? What caused the attack? I know you said – But he was delighted to be back at work, especially going to the yard. Something must have –’ She broke off as the doctor glanced away, visibly uncomfortable.
‘What? What is it? I have to know. Please?’
Robert Vigurs’s features were sombre. ‘My dear, I am so sorry to add to your troubles, but financial irregularities have been uncovered within your father’s company.’
Caseley started so violently her cup fell over, spilling dregs of tea onto the lace tray-cloth. ‘I don’t believe it. Not Father. He wouldn’t –’
‘No, no, my dear. Forgive me. I did not make myself clear. Your father is in no way – The person responsible is Thomas Bonython. I understand the situation came to light when a money-lender demanded, with certain unpleasant threats, the return of his loan plus accrued interest.’
Caseley stopped breathing. Jago was right. She wanted to ask the doctor if he knew any more details, but held back. This was a family matter. She would speak to Uncle Richard later. She stood up. ‘Thank you for telling me. I’ll see my father now.’
Leaving Rosina to see him out, Caseley walked up the wide carpeted stairs. Her mind flashed back to a spiral of chased brass treads.
She lowered herself carefully onto the edge of the large bed. Her father’s head and shoulders were propped up on snowy feather-filled pillows. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow, and beneath the network of purple thread veins on his cheeks and nose, his complexion was ash-grey. He looked thinner. But the deep furrows of pain, the grooves of anger and disillusionment, had smoothed out. His face looked waxen.
It was then she realised that, despite the doctor’s warning, she had not really expected her father to die. She had heard the words without accepting the reality.
She looked down at the man who had always been a giant, strong, forceful, and full of life, with hands like hams and a voice that could reach from one end of the yard to the other. During her absence he had withered into frailty.
Her vision blurred. Biting hard on her lower lip, she lifted his cold hand in hers.
Creased like fine tissue paper, his eyelids flickered and parted, opening slowly. As his dull gaze focused, Caseley smiled down at him.
‘I can’t leave you for a minute, can I?’ she scolded softly.
One corner of his mouth lifted. ‘Took your time, didn’t you, girl?’ His voice was weary and slurred, but the glow of pleasure in his eyes was nearly her undoing. She longed to lay her head on his chest, cling to him, and beg him not to leave her, not yet, not so alone.
She swallowed the agonising stiffness in her throat and kept her voice low to disguise the thickness of tears. ‘Can I get you anything? Some water?’ Her own mouth was dust dry.
His hand moved in hers and he turned his head a fraction on the pillow. ‘Did it go all right?’ The words rustled from his lips like autumn leaves.
She nodded. ‘Señor Spinoza sends you his kindest regards. He said the new King of Spain has reason to be very grateful to you. So too will the Spanish people when Don Alfonso puts an end to the rebellion and restores peace.’
Teuder’s rheumy eyes shone. ‘He did? He said that?’
Caseley nodded.
Her father sucked air into his failing lungs. ‘You didn’t have any trouble?’
‘None at all,’ the lies were easy on her tongue. ‘Everything was just as you said it would be.’
‘And Jago, did he –?’
His name sent a tremor through her. She could not speak of him, even to her father. Fighting for composure, she gently pressed the frail hand.
‘All the crew were very kind to me. Jimbo told some amazing yarns. The bad weather you warned of hit us on the way back. But Cygnet rode it out. She’s a beautiful ship, Father.’
He nodded; too tired to press now he knew the mission had been successful. The groove between his shaggy brows deepened. ‘Is it out yet? Do they know in the yard?’
‘Know what?’
‘About Thomas.’
‘No. No one knows,’ she said firmly, not knowing or caring if it was the truth.
‘It mustn’t get out.’ Anxiety quickened his breath, making it rasp in his throat.
‘It won’t.’ Caseley placed her hand over his, trying to soothe.
‘I paid off Colenzo. But if word gets round …’ He coughed weakly and she heard bubbling in his chest.
‘It won’t, Father. I’ll take care of it.’ Lifting his hand she pressed it to her cheek.
His eyelids drooped and tension drained out of him like water through a sieve. ‘It’s yours, girl,’ he muttered. ‘The yard, the business, all of it. Changed my will. Don’t let it fail, Caseley.’ His eyes lost focus. ‘Ralph would have drunk it all away.’ His voice trailed off. The
n he rallied, his eyes opened and fixed on her face, urgent, pleading. ‘Listen, girl, you must –’ His face contorted in pain.
Smothering a cry, her heart beating wildly, she clutched his hand in both of hers. ‘It’s all right. Don’t try to talk.’ Tears splashed onto her hand. ‘Rest now.’
The spasm passed. His breathing grew fainter. Then, his lips barely moving, he whispered, ‘Philip?’
Caseley sat and held his hand, felt it grow cold. Eventually she laid it gently on the coverlet and rose stiffly to her feet. Her eyes burned and her throat ached. She went downstairs to the kitchen.
Rosina and Liza-Jane were preparing lunch. Ben came in from the garden as she was breaking the news. He put an arm around Liza-Jane’s thin, shaking shoulders. Rosina sobbed quietly into her apron.
Caseley didn’t think she would ever cry again. She was numb.
‘Some sorry I am, miss.’ Ben’s open face was full of sympathy. ‘I remember what ’twas like when my father went.’
‘Thank you.’ Many people would say those words in the next few days. Most would be thinking of their own losses, not hers. Few would care the way Ben, Rosina, and Liza-Jane did.
‘Ben, will you go across to the yard and tell Toby? I think it’s best if he tells the men. I’ll let him know the date of the funeral as soon as it’s arranged.’
He nodded then bent his head. ‘Come on now, maid,’ he murmured in Liza-Jane’s ear. ‘Best get moving. We want to give mister a proper send-off.’
Their closeness was too much for Caseley and she looked quickly away.
Rosina wiped red-rimmed eyes with the corner of her apron. ‘We all loved ’n, though he wasn’t always easy.’ Her mouth quivered. ‘Place won’t be the same.’ She sniffed then pulled herself together. ‘Put the kettle on, Liza-Jane. Miss Caseley, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to lay ’n out. You want it done proper, with respect.’
‘Thank you, Rosina. I have to go out for a while.’
‘But, Miss Caseley,’ the housekeeper began, clearly startled.
