The Earl’s Intended Wife

by Louise Allen

  The scene never failed to hold her for several minutes, but eventually she tore herself away and walked down the paved slope to the waterside where the main fish market was held.

  But its stalls proved disappointing for once and, after buying some shallots, six lemons and a large bunch of herbs, she turned her steps along the harbour wall to stroll in the direction of the mouth of the harbour and the defending bulk of Fort St Elmo. Small fishermen often berthed alongside here under the towering protection of the cannon-battered St Lazarus curtain wall. Usually they only landed enough fish for their extended families’ needs, but occasionally there was something interesting that they would be willing to part with for a fair price.

  But the long wharfside was almost deserted as she rounded the angle of the bastion. A few of the brightly coloured boats bobbed at the end of their mooring ropes, sails furled, empty, the painted eyes watching silently from each prow. Perhaps the weather out to sea had been unfavourable. Hebe supposed it would be sensible to go back and look at the meat stalls in the long covered alleyways where the butchers congregated, but it was early still and she was disinclined for the bustle of the streets and the smell of the newly butchered meat.

  Settling her basket more comfortably in the crook of her arm she began to wander slowly along, feeling pleasantly invisible in her plain gown, her wide-brimmed straw hat in the local style and her handwoven shawl draped simply around her shoulders. She looked like any of the local girls out marketing, which was exactly the appearance she intended to give. Despite her desire to preserve appearances, even Mrs Carlton had to admit that, surprisingly, in this cosmopolitan harbour city with its naval ships, trading vessels and polyglot population, any respectable young woman could walk unattended in perfect safety, let alone Hebe who, besides having a grasp of several languages, was widely known and liked.

  Hebe walked on for some time, eventually coming to rest almost at the St Lazarus Bastion. She leaned against the bulk of an ancient cannon, dragged up on to the harbour wall many years ago after some great battle and left to rust slowly into oblivion, and wondered what the hour was. It was probably time to turn back, she realised, discovering that her feet were more than a little sore, for she had foolishly put on light shoes and the waterside cobbles pressed painfully through the thin soles.

  As she turned she saw a small fishing boat, its sail flapping as it was tacked to and fro to catch the light wind. It had the distinctive high prow of the traditional luzzas, and was banded brightly in blue and yellow, although something about it was not quite the same as the local boats; it was a variant from Gozo, perhaps. It appeared to be heading for her part of the wharfside. As she watched it a small boy of eight or nine years of age, who had been sitting with his feet dangling over the edge tossing pebbles at the minnows, got up and began to stroll towards her, a wide wicker fish basket in his arms.

  Meeting his father, she deduced. Perhaps it would be worth waiting and seeing what the fisherman had caught and if he was willing to part with some of his catch. She curled up in an embrasure beside the cannon and waited, watched by a tiny green lizard who flicked away as she sat, then settled again, an emerald jewel on a sun-warmed ledge of crumbling stone.

  The little boat came on, dancing over the small waves, and glided neatly to a halt against the wharf only a few feet from Hebe’s perch. The fisherman was obscured by the sail and she waited patiently while he freed it and caught the tumbling canvas, bundling it up to stow away.

  As soon as he straightened up Hebe realised this was no Maltese fisherman, however authentic his clothing might be. The tall, dark-haired, unshaven figure in its coarse linen shirt and canvas trousers, feet bare on the wet boards, was unmistakably Major Alex Beresford.

  Chapter Three

  Instinct kept Hebe in her place. She did not want to spy, but something told her that intelligence officers were hardly likely to wish to be seen by chance acquaintances under such circumstances. The Major could simply have been out fishing, or he might have had quite another purpose.

  The boy called out a greeting, ‘Bongourno!’ and came to kneel on the edge of the quayside, holding out his basket ready for the catch.

  Alex Beresford grinned up at him, a startling white flash of teeth against tanned and stubble-darkened skin. ‘Bongourno, Pauli. Kif int?’

  The lad started to reply in Maltese, then caught himself and said carefully in English, ‘I am very well, I thank you, Signor Alex. That was good, no? Mama says I must practise if I am to find workings…work for the English.’

  ‘Very good indeed, Pauli. Hold the basket steady now, I have had a good catch.’

  Alex Beresford began to toss the mixed collection of fish into the waiting basket, then suddenly his focus changed from his task and his head came up as he scanned the harbour wall. It was the same piercing bird-of-prey stare that had so startled Hebe when she first saw him. Was he so sensitive to anyone watching him, or was there something about her gaze which touched him? She held her breath.

  ‘Who is there?’ he called out sharply in Maltese.

  ‘It is only me,’ Hebe replied composedly in English, sliding down from her niche and out of the shadow. ‘Good morning, Major. Your Maltese is very good.’

  ‘Good morning, Miss Carlton. I have about six phrases and twenty words, all the rest is a mixture of Greek, French and Italian, but it seems to suffice. But what the d—how did you come to be here so early?’

  ‘I am out marketing; looking for fish, in fact, but the catch this morning was very dull. You seem to have done better, though. Will your young friend sell me any, do you think?’

  Pauli, who had been following the exchange with bright-eyed interest, jumped forward, his basket of fish held out for her inspection. ‘Ghal bejgh…all for sale, Madonna.’

  ‘Kemm?’ Hebe asked. Not to bargain would be to be taken for a fool.

  ‘Irhis hafna.’ Pauli named an ambitious sum.

  ‘That is not cheap,’ Hebe protested, looking shocked. ‘I only want a few—that one, that one and those red snappers.’

  Frowning with the effort of mathematics, Pauli adjusted his price down.

  ‘Gholi wisq!’ Hebe gasped in apparent horror, with a fair imitation of the Maltese matrons bargaining in the market. Never, her expression said, never had she heard of such an outrageous price for fish.

  They wrangled amiably some more, then Hebe handed over a sum that was roughly double what she would have paid in the market, let him put the fish in amongst the palm leaves with which she had lined her basket and smiled as the boy skipped off with a wave and a jaunty, ‘Sahha!’

  ‘Sahha!’ Alex called in response, turning back to Hebe. ‘You paid him well, his mother and little sisters will be proud of him.’

  She smiled down at him as he stood, bare feet braced on the wet bottom boards of the boat. ‘He looks as though he works hard.’

  ‘He does. He approached me as soon as he saw me sail into harbour and offered to do any odd jobs for me in return for what fish I catch. He runs errands, takes messages—and eats anything he can lay his hands on.’

  Questions were crowding into Hebe’s brain, clamouring to be asked, but she bit her tongue. So few days had passed since the Major had arrived in Malta, surely he could not have had time to purchase a boat, and the more she looked at it, the more she was convinced that it was not a local boat. Could he have arrived in this little vessel all the way from the Ionian islands? No wonder he had looked so exhausted.

  ‘Are you going to moor her here now?’ she asked casually, swinging her basket.

  ‘I was,’ he replied, eyeing her with some amusement. ‘It is considerably less crowded than it is nearer the fish market. Why? Do you wish to be conveyed to somewhere?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Hebe admitted. ‘I have walked much further than I intended, and in quite the wrong shoes, and my feet hurt.’

  ‘Do you mean to say you walked here all the way from your house? Where is your maid?’

  ‘I rarely trouble with
a maid,’ she explained. ‘And I like to walk. Malta is very safe, you know.’

  ‘What, no impudent officers to ogle you?’ he teased, pulling on the mooring rope to bring the boat tight against the quayside. ‘Come on, I will take you wherever you want. Give me the basket first.’

  Hebe handed it down, then, wrapping her skirts tight around her, sat on the edge and reached out a hand. It was a drop of several feet to the bottom of the boat, but she felt no qualms about jumping.

  ‘No, keep still,’ the Major ordered. He reached up, took her firmly round the waist with both hands and lifted her bodily down into the boat. Hebe gasped at the ease with which he held her, for she was slightly above average height and by no means the ethereally slender sylph that Mrs Carlton considered to be the ideal.

  The little vessel rocked, but Alex Beresford seemed perfectly balanced. He set her down on the bottom boards, but did not at once release his hold and Hebe was suddenly aware not just of his strength but of the warmth of his hands through the cotton of her gown and the nearness of his body. His shirt was open at the neck, baring several inches of tanned chest, and her eyes seemed fixed on the curl of dark hair that showed there.

  Then she was free and he was helping her to sit. ‘Your feet are going to get wet, I’m afraid,’ he said, matter of factly, apparently untouched by their closeness, which had left her breathless and disconcerted.

  Hebe swallowed. For goodness’ sake, she scolded herself, pull yourself together! You are simply not used to being held like that, nothing more. ‘It does not matter,’ she replied, managing to sound no more than slightly breathless. ‘They are an old, worn pair—which is why I have such sore feet.’

  Alex Beresford paused with one hand on the sail. ‘Where would you like me to take you?’

  ‘Just round to the fish market, if you would be so kind, Major Beresford.’

  ‘Will you not call me Alex?’ he asked, his eyes crinkling into that sudden smile which transformed his face. ‘I have, after all, slept in your hammock—I think that justifies some degree of informality.’

  Hebe, with the fleeting thought that for once Mama would not scold her for her impetuous friendships, smiled back. ‘Very well, but only if you will call me Hebe.’

  It seemed a long moment passed while Alex Beresford stood looking down into her upturned face, then he said, ‘I would be delighted, although perhaps Circe would be more appropriate.’ Hebe sought desperately through her rather sketchy memories of Greek myths for the reference and failed to find it before he added, ‘But is your house not on the far side of Palace Square, near the Archbishop’s Palace? I am still getting myself lost in the streets here, but I think I am right about that.’

  ‘Umm…yes,’ she agreed, still puzzling over who Circe was.

  ‘Then unless you have any more business near the fish market, would it not be closer if I took you round to St Elmo Bay? It must hardly be more than a few minutes’ walk up from the sea gate there.’ He was unfurling the sail as he spoke, shaking it out, then hauling it up with strong, skilled hands.

  ‘That is right around the Point,’ Hebe protested, but her eyes were sparkling at the thought of the sail, however short.

  Alex cast off the mooring rope, pushed them away from the side with an oar and coaxed the sail round to catch the breeze. ‘Do you mind that? Will you be seasick?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ she protested. ‘I just did not want to take you so far out of your way.’ In reply he only smiled. They sailed for a minute or two in silence while Alex tacked three or four times to find the wind to take them out of the harbour. Hebe watched him, noting again the growth of stubble on his chin and the faint tiredness around his eyes. He had been out for more than a night’s fishing, that was certain.

  ‘Do you not have to report back?’ she asked innocently.

  ‘What?’ He looked at her quizzically, although she noticed his gaze had sharpened. ‘After a night out fishing?’

  Before she could think about what she was doing, Hebe said, ‘More than one night, surely? Three, perhaps. And for that length of time, not a very good catch. I would hazard a guess that you did not have your mind on it.’

  Alex was silent for a moment while he adjusted the tiller to keep clear of a larger boat heading into the docks. ‘And what makes you think I have been away for three nights?’ His voice was perfectly pleasant, but Hebe felt a sudden tingle of apprehension. ‘The fact that I have not called?’

  ‘Certainly not! But I cannot believe you have gone without shaving for only one night,’ she said tartly, suppressing the internal voice which was saying Careful! ‘And your eyes look tired again—although not like they did the other day. But then you had had a much longer voyage, had you not?’

  This time there was no mistaking the hardness in the look he bent on her. ‘And what do you deduce from that?’

  ‘That it would be better if you shave before anyone else sees you and draws the same conclusion.’

  ‘I would suggest that you do not treat this as a joke, Miss Carlton.’ His blue eyes searched her face and she felt herself colouring. ‘Perhaps I am a French spy and will simply continue out to sea where I can drop you neatly over the side with no one to see me.’

  So chilly was his voice, and so sinister the threat, that Hebe found herself looking round rather wildly. They were now clear of the harbour and she could see the bulk of Dragutt Point far out to their left. In this freshening breeze they would indeed be well out to sea in only a little while longer.

  Then she pulled herself together. ‘What nonsense! I know perfectly well that you are an English intelligence officer.’

  ‘And how do you know that?’

  ‘Because I am not a brainless little débutante. I observe things, and I am quite capable of putting two and two together and making four. And,’ she added, becoming quite heated as his expression became positively sardonic, ‘I guessed the other day and I have not mentioned it to anyone else, nor will I, so you can stop looking like a Spanish Inquisitor.’

  ‘Like a what?’ His attention caught, he let the tiller come over and the sail flapped. With a soft curse under his breath he regained control.

  ‘An Inquisitor, or at least, a very disapproving and sinister monk.’

  Alex Beresford appeared to beyond speech, so Hebe added maliciously, ‘Maria, my maid, says you look like a beautiful, fierce saint.’

  ‘I suppose I am expected to be flattered by the “beautiful”?’ he began darkly, then suddenly began to laugh, clutching the tiller while his shoulders shook. ‘No, do not answer that, I beg you: for heaven’s sake, Hebe, spare me any more blows to my self-esteem.’ He mopped his eyes on his sleeve and grinned at her.

  Hebe grinned back. They were in open sea now, the waves beginning to increase, but she had no intention of pointing this out just yet: suddenly she was enjoying herself very much indeed.

  ‘Do you not want to look fierce and sinister?’ she teased.

  ‘Certainly not, I want to look like a perfectly ordinary English officer with nothing more on his mind than drilling his troops and when the next party is going to be held.’ He watched her steadily. ‘Are you not going to ask me what I am doing on Malta?’

  ‘No!’ Hebe was shocked. ‘I would never dream of asking such a thing. However careful one is, there is always the danger that one might say something out of place, and the island is a perfect hotbed of French spies. Or so one is led to believe.’

  ‘Possibly not a hotbed, but I suspect there are more than a few. Good grief, look at how far out we are—next stop Sicily at this rate. I am going to be in serious trouble with your mama, which is an alarming thought. Hold tight while I put about.’

  Hebe did as she was told, happily ignoring the splashes that spotted her skirts as they came round and headed back. The sunlight sparkled off the wave crests, the gulls swooped and screamed overhead and the sea was dotted with sails. It was a perfect scene, and she knew she was going to remember this moment for ever.

  �
�What did you mean just now,’ Alex asked suddenly, ‘when you said you were not a “brainless little débutante”?’

  ‘Did I say that?’ Hebe looked conscience-stricken. ‘I should not have done so, it was a horrid thing to say. And most of them are very nice girls.’

  ‘Most of them? You do not count yourself amongst them, then?’ The Major’s blue eyes focused for a moment on something over her shoulder. He adjusted his steering, and looked back at her.

  ‘Oh, no,’ Hebe said cheerfully. ‘I am too old to be a débutante. I am out, of course, but I have never been brought out—launched, as it were. When we might have returned to England for that, Mama had just met Sir Richard, so we stayed here instead.’

  ‘That seems rather unfair on you.’

  She shrugged. ‘I know everyone here, I go to all the dances and parties.’ She did not add that her mama was just as anxious as the hopeful mama of any fresh seventeen-year-old at Almack’s to catch her an eligible husband. It was just that she had to achieve it in the more limited society of the island, and with the unpromising material that Hebe represented.

  ‘And you have numerous beaux?’ Alex’s eyes narrowed as he began to steer into St Elmo’s Bay. They were almost back. ‘A fiancé, perhaps, who will call me to account for taking you out to sea unchaperoned in a little boat?’

  Hebe’s answering gurgle of frank amusement made him raise his dark brows. ‘I have numerous friends,’ Hebe said, still smiling at the thought of a crowd of beaux all laying siege to her. ‘But no admirers, and certainly no fiancé.’

  ‘Why is that so amusing? So many officers, both naval and army… Mind your hand on the side, we will be alongside the wall in a moment.’

  ‘And so many pretty girls to entertain them.’ The boat bumped on the wall. Alex picked up the coil of mooring rope in one hand but made no move to reach for the stanchion.

  ‘And you?’ he asked, in such a matter-of-fact manner that Hebe was betrayed out of her light, uncaring manner into revealing something of what she really felt.