Tide of Fortune

by Jane Jackson

  She had read the note several times, sensing behind the careful phrasing all his frustration and disappointment. The childhood loss of his father and consequent early responsibility had enhanced Nick’s natural reserve. But his inability to frame flowery compliments did not indicate lack of feeling. On the contrary, often when their eyes met what she read in his gaze made words not merely inadequate but unnecessary.

  She would have willingly remained at home herself. But having accepted the invitation, good manners demanded she attend.

  ‘Oh, Kerenza, he’s looking this way.’ Raising her fan so it masked the lower half of her face, Sophie fluttered it provocatively. ‘I wish I had worn my gown with the pearl rosettes. It is far prettier than this old rag. Oh,’ she squeaked. ‘He’s coming over. Do you think he’ll ask me to dance?’ Kerenza had remained silent, wary without knowing why, yet not wanting to dash her friend’s hopes.

  Lieutenant Ashworth had bowed to them both. After dropping a curtsy Kerenza started to turn away as if to speak to another acquaintance, politely indicating to the lieutenant her lack of interest and expectation. But to Sophie’s devastation it was Kerenza he asked to dance.

  Caught by surprise, she had no time to think of an acceptable excuse. Before she could demur, he was leading her into the set where she felt her smile grow fixed as he boasted at length about the actions in which his ship had been involved.

  Then he cajoled her grandmother – who either did not notice or completely misinterpreted Kerenza’s pleading glances – into allowing him to accompany them in to supper.

  Though she knew herself the object of envious glances, Kerenza was not flattered. Her discomfort increased when, having introduced Nick’s name into the conversation by informing her that Nick’s mother and his own were sisters which made Nick his cousin, he then spent an astonishing amount of time comparing Nick’s seagoing career unfavourably with his own.

  Eventually she shook him off by appealing to his vanity: reminding him that he owed it to all the other young ladies present to spread his addresses more evenly. She returned to her grandmother, only to learn that he had announced his intention to request permission to call on her.

  ‘No, nana, absolutely not. He is the most insufferable, conceited, odious –’

  ‘I thought so too,’ her grandmother agreed, stopping Kerenza in mid-rant. ‘But had you liked him, I would have made an effort to be pleasant. Ah well.’ She sighed. ‘You may be easy, Kerenza. I shall ensure he pays his respects elsewhere.’

  ‘Am I correct?’ Nick’s voice jolted her back to the present. ‘You are acquainted with Lieutenant Ashworth?’

  Kerenza thought fast. Good manners, and the family relationship existing between the two men, demanded she say nothing detrimental – even though the lieutenant had clearly felt no such constraints. ‘We have met,’ she answered carefully.

  ‘That’s all? You met?’

  ‘Yes. At the Roseworthys’ supper-dance.’

  ‘As you and I met, at the Antrims’ party.’ It was his first acknowledgement of what they had shared, but his tone chilled her with its bitterness.

  Swallowing the lump in her throat, Kerenza shook her head. ‘Oh no. You are mistaken. The two events could not have been more different.’

  He stared hard at her, as if trying to see into her heart, read her thoughts, and she could feel tension emanating from him. ‘Would you call him a friend?’ As she started to shake her head, his eyes narrowed. ‘Something more, perhaps?’

  ‘No!’ Her denial was immediate and she realised both her tone and expression betrayed her distaste. It could not be helped. ‘We were introduced. He favoured me with his attention –’ recalling his snide criticism rekindled her indignation ‘– until persuaded he should not neglect the other young ladies. He indicated a wish to call on me. However, I preferred him not to do so.’

  Nick’s face was as grey and hard as granite. ‘Indeed? Others remember it differently.’

  Kerenza stared at him, bewildered. ‘What others? I don’t understand.’

  ‘No?’ His scepticism stung.

  ‘No! Perhaps if you were to explain –?’

  ‘What point would it serve? Your recall of events is so different from my cousin’s.’

  He didn’t believe her. She had yearned, ached, for a chance to talk to him, to find out what had happened, why he had changed. What had Lieutenant Ashworth to do with it? Unless … It was clear that the two cousins had talked and her name had been mentioned.

  What had Lieutenant Ashworth said? Why would he so distort the truth? What did it matter now? Having nothing to hide, she had answered Nick’s questions with total honesty. He didn’t believe her.

  She could scarcely breathe for the pain. Her eyes filled, but she tossed her head, blinking furiously. She would not break down in front of him. Dignity was all she had left. She met his gaze directly. ‘I have no idea why your cousin should lie to you, Mr Penrose. But as you have chosen to believe him –’ and not me ‘– you are right. We have nothing more to say to one another.’ She looked past him and saw the second mate. Having caught sight of Nick, he was turning away. ‘Maggot!’ she cried desperately. ‘Please – I want to go below.’

  ‘Wait.’ Nick reached out to steady her. ‘I will escort –’

  ‘No!’ Kerenza recoiled. ‘You have done enough.’

  By nightfall the wind had risen to a full gale, whipping up high waves whose rolling, tumbling crests filled the air with icy spray. It screamed through the rigging and buffeted the crew as they slid and staggered along the steeply angled deck.

  Sending Maggot to the wheel with an able seaman to help him, for it would take the strength of two to hold the packet to her course, Nick ordered both watches topside. Eventually his voice cracked from trying to shout above the deafening noise, and Nick had to use Billy to convey his orders to the bosun.

  ‘Hold fast,’ he warned, gripping the boy’s bony shoulder. ‘One hand for the ship and one for yourself.’ Then he had watched, tight-lipped, as the boy raced away, trying to dodge the seas crashing in over the lee rail and swirling knee-deep along the deck.

  He had brought down the fore-topsail immediately the main blew out. The gaffs on the fore and mainmasts had followed soon after. Now the schooner tore along under foresail and headsail, climbing steep, foam-veined mountains, careening down into the trough on the other side, only to face the slow, shuddering climb once more. It was exhausting and uncomfortable, but the ship was in no immediate danger.

  A mocking cheer eased the tension when, after being confined for two hours in the cramped paint store preparing all the lamps, Ned Burley had eventually staggered out, splattered with oil and cursing angrily.

  Handing over command to Maggot, who remained at the wheel, Nick went below. Hunger gnawed at his stomach and his eyes were sore from the salt spray. His first task after eating would be to write up the log.

  At the bottom of the companionway he struggled out of his tarpaulin coat and hung it on the hook, rubbing head and face with the towel Toy had left for him. He paused, glancing up. The sudden drumming indicated another torrential downpour.

  Looping the towel round his neck, he started along the passage. Passing William Vyvyan’s cabin, he saw again the expression on Kerenza’s face as she told him her father had refused to see her despite insisting she come. Bewilderment he could understand, or surprise, even irritation. But she had been hurt, deeply hurt. Why? She had not lived with her parents for several years.

  According to Kerenza, it was to manage the Danby house during her grandmother’s illness that she had moved from Falmouth to Flushing. Once well again her grandmother, having grown accustomed to her presence, had asked her to stay on. Because of the great affection that existed between them she had been happy to do so.

  Though it struck him as a little unusual, he had accepted the explanation and thought no more about it. Until the evening Jeremy, his ship on a brief visit to deliver dispatches and pick up supplies, had paid a du
ty call on his aunt, who had been unable to contain her delight at the increased number of invitations her normally shy son was accepting.

  Instantly divining the cause, Jeremy had pressed Nick for a name. When told he had said nothing and changed the subject to talk of events in the Mediterranean. But later, when they were alone, Jeremy had sadly mocked Nick’s gullibility.

  Pressed by Nick he had, with a show of reluctance, revealed the real reason Kerenza Vyvyan lived with her grandmother. The truth was she had been banished from the family home. What some generously termed “an excess of high spirits”, and others less charitable called “unsuitably forward behaviour”, was swiftly blackening the family’s good name, not to mention wrecking any hope of her elder sister achieving a good match.

  Nick refused to believe it. Yet even as he denounced Jeremy’s sources as at best misinformed and at worst gossipmongers, Jeremy reminded him that by his own admission he had not known her long, nor did he know her well.

  ‘Perhaps she is improved. But in the past – Of course, being so much away at sea, you cannot be expected to have heard about her flirtations. Some were beginning to call her “fast”. As for her dancing –’ Jeremy shook his head. ‘I will not deny she is light on her feet and a pretty mover. Though my mother would never permit either of my sisters to behave with such lack of decorum. But when control is left to a doting grandmother, what can one expect?’

  Nick thought back to the Antrims’ party. He had looked into her eyes as they were introduced. They were strangers, yet the shock of recognition had been profound. His own reaction was mirrored in her widening gaze as he took her hand. Never easy making light conversation, he had been unable to think of anything to say.

  She had filled the silence with inconsequential chatter, and he had been grateful, understanding as he never had before that his sisters’ prattle before an important occasion was rooted in nervousness. Her soft, slightly husky voice and breathless laugh were so different from most girls’ nerve-rasping squeaks and giggles. He would have been content to listen to her all evening.

  ‘Think about it, Nicholas,’ Jeremy had urged softly. ‘Kerenza Vyvyan goes almost every night to parties and dances. Can you imagine her content to remain quietly at home while you’re away at sea for weeks or months at a time? Having been indulged by a wealthy grandmother, can you see her willing to forego a new wardrobe every season and the freedom to buy any trinket that takes her fancy just so that you may save to buy your packet-ship? Her manner toward me at the Roseworthys’ convinces me otherwise. But I will say no more.’

  Nor had he. Though Nick burned to ask for explanations, for details, he could not. Because asking would betray his interest. Asking would reveal how much he cared. Asking would expose his emotions and leave him vulnerable. And asking would give credence to Jeremy’s insinuations.

  But, like a slow infection, his doubts grew and multiplied, gradually poisoning his memories. Though Nick had not recognised the Kerenza he knew as the girl Jeremy described, certain facts could not be denied. They had been acquainted less than a month. Work and family pressures had filled his days, limiting time in her company to evenings at social gatherings where opportunities for quiet conversation were few and brief. Of her past he knew only what she had told him. Why would she lie? Then again, why should Jeremy lie? He was family. They had known each other since childhood.

  Yet, despite everything Jeremy had said, and despite his own fears, Nick knew he loved her. If he loved her, because he loved her, how could he ask her to give up a life of security and comfort when it would be years before he could offer anything remotely similar? How could he put her in the position of having to make such a choice? How would he bear it when she turned him down?

  Better to end it now: free himself with one swift cut. After two sleepless nights, meeting her unexpectedly in the street had nearly undone him. One swift cut. He had kept on walking.

  Brief dizziness made him stumbled against the bulkhead. Inside the cabin Kerenza shared with Lady Russell the murmur of voices stopped. Swiftly pushing himself off, he overheard the familiar sounds of argument from the Woodrow’s cabin. If that was marriage he was better off without it.

  As he entered the saloon, Broad teetered toward him with a tray of hot chocolate. ‘Give me a minute, Mr Penrose. I got a nice pan of stew keeping hot.’

  Nick slid behind the table. ‘See to the passengers first. I’ve waited three hours. Another five minutes won’t kill me.’

  He was half way through his stew, eating it with hunks of thickly buttered bread, when the door from the passage was flung back and Betsy Woodrow lurched in.

  ‘Ah, Mr Penrose.’ Closing the door, she squeezed into the padded seat. ‘I need to speak to the captain on a matter of some delicacy. So if you would be so good –’

  ‘The captain is fully occupied running the ship, Mrs Woodrow –’

  ‘Indeed,’ she cut in. ‘His ability to do so without ever leaving his cabin is an astonishment to us all.’

  ‘As I told you the day we left Falmouth –’ Nick continued as though she had not spoken ‘– he has delegated care of the passengers to me.’

  ‘With respect, Mr Penrose, you are far too young for me to –’

  ‘In that case, ma’am, I must ask you to excuse me.’ Nick bent his head once more to his supper, willing her to leave.

  ‘Well, really!’ She blew down her nose, making clear her irritation and disgust. ‘It appears I have no choice.’

  ‘There is always a choice, ma’am.’

  ‘Not when it is a matter of duty and conscience. Now I would not wish you to think I found this anything but pain –’

  ‘Mrs Woodrow.’ Revulsion hardened Nick’s voice. ‘I must shortly return to my duties. What is it you want to tell me?’

  Betsy thrust out her chest and drew back her chin, reminding Nick of a pigeon. ‘The amount of time Miss Vyvyan and that per – your deputy spend talking together is altogether inappropriate.’

  Anger coursed through Nick, swelling to a fury that caught him by surprise. But though Betsy Woodrow’s spiteful meddling disgusted him, it was not the sole cause of the turmoil inside him. He was jealous. He had watched Kerenza and Maggot at the rail; had seen the interest in her expression as she listened. Her brief smile had twisted his heart. Had made him realise how rarely she smiled now. Yet during those few weeks they had been – close – her smile had been constant, radiant, lighting her face from within so she had appeared to glow.

  Wrenching free of memories that haunted him day and night, making him question his worth, his judgement, his decision, hurling him from remembered pride and delight into an abyss of despair, disillusion and shame, he raised his head.

  As he met her self-righteous gaze, he saw Betsy Woodrow flinch.

  ‘Miss Vyvyan’s father is the person to whom you should address your concern.’

  She snorted. ‘Mr Vyvyan may as well not be aboard for all the care he shows for his daughter’s reputation. And Lady Russell’s condition makes it impossible for her to be aware of all that is going on.’

  ‘What, in your opinion, is going on?’

  ‘I dread to imagine. But a young woman without suitable guardian or chaperone is prey to all kinds of dangerous and improper influences.’

  Stifling his anger and disgust, Nick enquired, ‘Who exactly are you accusing of improper behaviour? Surely not Miss Vyvyan?’ Even as he spoke he was struck by the bitter irony of his question. Had he not done exactly that? Only he had not voiced any accusations. He had said nothing. He had listened, and allowed doubt to persuade him. And the fear – that he was right? Or that he was wrong and had made a dreadful mistake? – had been eating away at him ever since.

  Something in his face made Betsy’s pugnacious gaze falter. She raised a hand to her cap. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘Not yet. However, considering the lack of supervision aboard this ship, a situation that permits persons unlikely to be familiar with the rules and customs of English society to consort
with a young woman clearly unaware of the unfortunate impression this may give rise to –’

  Nick cut her short. ‘You refer, I assume, to the second mate. Allow me to reassure you, Mrs Woodrow. Miss Vyvyan could not be in safer or more respectful company. As for her reputation, if her father has no objection to her choice of companion, I see no reason for you to concern yourself. Now, if you will excuse me.’ He stood up, and waited pointedly, leaving Betsy with no alternative but to follow suit.

  She clung grimly to the door. ‘I only hope you don’t live to regret this, Mr Penrose.’

  ‘Goodnight, Mrs Woodrow.’ Shutting the door firmly on her departing figure, Nick returned to his chair. Pushing aside the congealing remains of his supper, he rested his head against his clenched fists and closed stinging eyes. Regrets? Where did he start?

  Chapter Seven

  Leaving the saloon, Nick went to the captain’s cabin. The pungent smell of brandy was stronger than usual as he opened the door. He closed it quickly behind him. He knew the passengers were curious, even suspicious. But none had actually seen the captain distraught and incapable through drink. Nor must they.

  Neither Samuel Penrose nor William Vyvyan appeared to have noticed his arrival. Slumped in the corner of the padded seat, William continued talking, his glass clutched in shaking hands against his chest. His speech was slurred, his tone a mixture of anguish and justification.

  ‘I shouldn’t have done it. But there was never a moment’s peace. Anyway, how was I to know? I couldn’t have known.’

  Nick had heard those same words every day. Did William Vyvyan think that by repeating them he might somehow change the outcome, undo whatever it was he had done? Did he seek punishment, or forgiveness?

  Sam was sprawled forward across the table, his face resting on an outstretched arm. His skin looked grey, his eyes were half-closed, and a silver thread of saliva hung from the corner of his slack mouth. One hand clasped the brandy bottle. Beneath the other, a glass lay on its side and runnels of spilled brandy glistened on the chart.