by Jane Jackson
Kerenza stood up. ‘Mrs Woodrow, I’m sure you will be happy to hear that Lady Russell has a beautiful and healthy baby daughter.’
‘Has she indeed?’ Donald Woodrow sounded genuinely delighted. ‘That is truly wonderful news. It must have been an anxious and difficult time for you, Miss Vyvyan.’
‘More so for Lady Russell, I think, sir,’ Kerenza said gently.
‘Indeed, indeed.’
‘That is exactly my point,’ Betsy snapped in exasperation. ‘However, we must give thanks for God’s grace. Perhaps after breakfast I will visit Lady Russell and offer my congratulations.’
‘No, ma’am,’ Kerenza blurted.
‘I beg your pardon? What do you mean, no?’ Betsy demanded. ‘I declare, Miss Vyvyan, you take a lot upon yourself –’
‘I meant, ma’am, that Lady Russell is very tired, as I’m sure you must understand. I think it likely that as soon as she has drunk some tea, she will sleep. She is in great need of rest.’
‘Well!’ Betsy sniffed, clearly furious but without grounds on which to argue.
Relieved to see Broad come in, Kerenza went to meet him and set the honey jar on the tray between two steaming cups of tea.
‘You go on, miss,’ Broad murmured. ‘You can open the door. I’ll bring the tray.’
Betsy sighed loudly. ‘Are we ever to get our breakfast this morning?’
Judith drank her tea sweetened with two spoonfuls of honey. Kerenza did the same. Then, making sure Judith was comfortable with the baby snug in the crook of her arm, Kerenza extinguished the lantern and turned the other lamp down low. Judith’s heavy-lidded eyes had closed even before Kerenza crept out carrying the tray and closed the door quietly behind her.
‘Take that for you, shall I, miss?’ Billy offered. ‘I left your water outside the door –’ He pointed down the passage.
Ten minutes later, after washing her face, too tired even to think about eating, Kerenza climbed into Nick’s cot, buried her face in the pillow, and sobbed herself to sleep.
Chapter Twelve
Kerenza crawled up from the oblivion that had eventually engulfed her after some unpleasant dreams during which she was either fleeing from unidentifiable terrors, or desperately searching for something she couldn’t name, something that remained always just out of reach.
She was dimly aware of a sound that wasn’t the usual creaks, bells, thuds, squeals, footsteps, and shouts that went on day and night: a sound that was rhythmic, demanding, and growing louder.
She forced her eyelids open and saw, in the light through the gap above the door, surroundings she didn’t recognise. Where was she? Then memory flooded back. She was in Nick’s cabin, in Nick’s cot. But there was no time to dwell on the fact, for what had woken her was an urgent knocking on the door.
‘Yes?’ Her throat was dry, voice husky. ‘Who is it?’
The door opened a couple of inches. ‘It’s Broad, miss,’ the steward said through the gap. ‘I’m some sorry to wake you, but the baby been crying this past half-hour and Mrs Woodrow says that if someone don’t do something, then she’ll have to because ’tis never right.’
Kerenza propped herself up on one elbow and rubbed her face to banish sleep and bring herself fully awake. ‘Has Lady Russell called for help?’
‘No, miss. And I didn’t like to take it on myself to go in. But –’
‘I’ll come at once. How long have I slept?’
‘’Bout four hours, miss. ’Tis almost dinner time. I’m some sorry to have woke you, but –’
‘No, it’s all right. I’ll be just a minute or two. Would you ask Billy to bring hot water to Lady Russell’s cabin?’
‘Billy’s doing the slops, miss. I’ll bring it myself.’ There was a note of relief in the steward’s voice as he closed the door.
Kerenza pushed back the blanket and swung her legs over the edge of the cot. Splashing her face with the last night’s cold water, she put on her green muslin. Quickly unbraiding her hair, she brushed it out then pinned it up in a neat coil. Then, rummaging in her trunk, she found a high-waisted jacket of dark green wool with long, close-fitting sleeves and a standing collar. Blessing Minnie for packing it, she put it on and buttoned it up.
The circumstances of the previous night had been exceptional, so had her dishevelled appearance. There would be no excuse today, and no allowance made, especially by Betsy Woodrow. But what really frightened her was that Nick had seen her at her most vulnerable. She could not allow that to happen again. Control over her appearance signalled control over her emotions. If she were neat, tidy, and properly dressed, there would be no hint, no clue to betray the seething turmoil inside.
As she left the small cabin, Billy staggered down the passage carrying the slop bucket.
‘All right if I do yours, miss?’ he piped, tugging the hank of fair hair that flopped over his forehead.
‘Yes. Then come to Lady Russell’s cabin.’ Kerenza knocked on Judith’s door. ‘It’s Kerenza,’ she said as she opened it and went in.
‘Oh, thank heaven.’ Judith sank back onto the pillows, clearly agitated. Her pallor emphasised the purplish-brown shadows beneath her eyes. Lying beside her, the baby was red-faced, eyes shut, mouth open, and chin quivering with each heartfelt wail. ‘I have been listening to Mr Woodrow in the passage trying to dissuade his wife from coming to see if there is anything I need. You must stop her, Kerenza. I really could not cope with –’
‘You won’t have to,’ Kerenza said quickly. ‘No one can enter this cabin without your permission, not even Mrs Woodrow.’
Judith sucked in a deep breath. ‘No, no, she can’t, can she? It’s just – I know I’m being foolish, but there is nowhere to hide and she is so very determined –’
‘Would you like me to make it known that you are still exhausted and not yet up to receiving any visitors?’
‘Would you? I should be so grateful.’
‘No one will get past me, I promise. How are you feeling?’
Judith’s face crumpled in distress. ‘We both slept a little. When Georgiana woke I fed her, but since then she has not stopped crying.’
‘Surely that is a good sign?’ Kerenza didn’t know whether it was or not, but it was certainly not good for the new mother to be so tense. ‘She is showing you that, despite being so small, she has strong, healthy lungs.’
‘Yes, but to cry for so long –’
‘Perhaps she is uncomfortable.’ A brief knock on the door brought their heads up quickly. As Judith shook her head violently, Kerenza called, ‘Who is it?’
‘Broad, miss. With the hot water.’
Kerenza opened the door to take the jug and, as Broad turned to leave, the Woodrows’ door opened and Betsy emerged.
‘Ah, so you are there, Miss Vyvyan. Do you have any idea what you are doing?’
About to say “I beg your pardon”, Kerenza swallowed her anger. Aware of Judith’s exhausted and anxiety, she said, ‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Woodrow, everything is fine.’
‘How can you say so? That child has been crying for at least half an hour. It is most distressing, and must surely be causing Lady Russell great concern.’
Billy staggered up with the slop bucket.
‘Will you excuse me?’ Kerenza spoke to Betsy over his head. ‘One moment, Billy.’ As she emptied the chamber pot into the bucket she caught Betsy’s gasp of horror – presumably at the fact that she was performing the menial task – smiled at the boy, and closed the door. ‘It may be,’ she said to Judith as she crossed to the nightstand and poured half the water into the basin, ‘that little Miss Russell needs changing. Would you like me to see?’
‘Oh yes, please. I know you are probably right, and that she needs to exercise her lungs. But to hear her crying so –’ Her voice wavered, and Kerenza saw her eyes were brimming. ‘I feel so foolish and helpless.’
‘You are still very tired.’ Fetching clean rags, she laid the baby on the blanket at the foot of the cot, and loosened the wrappings. As sh
e rolled up the nightshirt, the little legs kicked and Kerenza’s nostrils twitched.
‘Oh, my goodness.’
Glancing sideways Kerenza saw Judith eyeing her daughter in appalled amazement.
‘My poor darling,’ Judith crooned, leaning forward to stroke the tiny head with its downy thatch. ‘No wonder you were crying. With such a task to perform, I fear Kerenza may quickly join you.’
As the oozing napkin was removed, the thin, shuddering wails died to occasional hiccups. By the time Kerenza had washed, dried, folded, and tucked a new napkin around and between little legs that kept kicking or drawing up like a frog’s, her back was aching and her shift clung damply.
Leaving the baby beside her mother, she quickly cleared away the débris, wrapping the soiled napkin in another rag. Emptying the basin, she rinsed and refilled it, then set out Judith’s soap, towel, and a wad of clean rags on the top of the trunk.
‘Would you like my help?’ At Judith’s hesitation, she continued quickly. ‘I promise you, it’s no trouble. But if you prefer to have a few minutes alone, would you allow me to take the baby as far as the saloon? A change of air will do her no harm and I know Broad is most anxious to see her. He stayed up all night in case we should need anything.’
There was a hint of relief in Judith’s smile, and Kerenza realised that the intimacy of the previous night had been a matter of necessity, and now Judith wanted to reclaim a small measure of privacy and independence.
‘Then of course you must introduce her to them. But don’t be away too long.’
Adjusting the shawl, Kerenza nestled the baby, now peacefully asleep, in the crook of her arm and left the cabin. In the passage the savoury smell of stewed meat made her mouth water. She was suddenly hungry. Approaching the saloon, she saw Nick seated at the table. Remembering the unexpected intimacies of the previous evening, of guard dropped, of help offered and gratefully accepted, a shivery weakness stirred deep inside her. No. It was too dangerous.
As she reached the door, he turned his head and rose quickly to his feet, sending the chair scraping across the floor. It was clear from his expression that he too was remembering. She felt her face grow hot, the rising colour a betrayal. The Woodrows were in their usual place, their plates almost empty. Her father, in the seat Judith normally occupied, had barely touched his. He glanced up, his gaze vague, his brow furrowing as if he was trying to place her.
‘So, this is our youngest passenger.’ Keeping his distance, Nick peered at the baby. Usually so decisive, he appeared awkward, almost shy. Behind the table the minister scrambled to his feet and Betsy put her knife and fork together.
‘She cried a great deal. I hope nothing is wrong.’
‘Nothing at all.’ Kerenza smiled down at the baby. ‘She simply wanted her napkin changed.’
Betsy’s hand flew to her bosom. ‘Really, Miss Vyvyan, the dinner table is hardly the place for such details, especially in mixed company.’
Kerenza’s colour deepened. ‘You’re right, I’m sorry.’ She turned to her father. ‘Isn’t she beautiful, Papa?’ Tipping the baby so he could see, she longed to ask, “Do you remember me at this age? Did you love me then? Are you proud of me, Papa? I helped her into the world.”
He glanced briefly at the tiny face framed in the white cambric of her mother’s cut-up shift and Kerenza’s shawl. ‘She’s well enough.’ His gaze didn’t linger. ‘You were saying, Mr Penrose?’
Her eyes prickling, Kerenza bent her head, adjusting the fine wool.
‘We’ll talk later, Mr Vyvyan.’ Nick held the chair. ‘Please, Miss Vyvyan, sit down. Is Lady Russell in good health?’
Kerenza blinked rapidly before looking up. ‘You have not finished.’
‘I need to know, Mr Penrose,’ her father persisted. ‘How long must we remain in Gibraltar, and how long will it take to reach Tangier?’
‘Everything will be done with all possible speed, Mr Vyvyan.’
Hot embarrassment washed over Kerenza as Nick switched his gaze back to her and she saw his disgust soften to pity.
‘I can move across to the bench. Please, take my place.’ His tone defied argument and she sat.
‘Thank you. Lady Russell is fine. But she is very tired and certainly not up to visitors, so we are giving her a few minutes alone.’
Broad came in from the galley passage. ‘Well, look at that. Isn’t she handsome?’ Beaming, he straightened, addressing Kerenza. ‘Lady Russell ready for some dinner, is she? You just say the word and I’ll bring a tray.’
‘That’s very kind of you. Perhaps in about a quarter of an hour?’
‘No trouble at all, miss. Now what about you? I reckon your stomach must think your throat have been cut.’
‘Well, really!’ Betsy huffed.
‘I am hungry,’ Kerenza admitted. Hearing Betsy sniff, she glanced up and saw her glaring at the baby. Betsy’s expression was angry and hostile. But it only took an instant for Kerenza to realise that the glitter in her small eyes was not caused by anger but by tears.
She recalled the minister’s confession, and relived the overwhelming rush of emotion she had experienced as she helped Georgiana enter the world. That moment had changed her, shifting her perspective and deepening her perception. Now, with sudden insight, she saw how jealousy and rage had warped Betsy Woodrow in the same way constant harsh winds deform even the strongest tree. Betsy’s ready criticism, her need to control, to demand the highest standards in others’ behaviour, were driven by grief at her barrenness, and shame at her failure to achieve what for most women was inevitable.
Impulsively, she stood up again. ‘Mrs Woodrow, if you have finished, I wonder if you would be so kind as to hold Georgiana for a few minutes so that I might have my dinner?’
Betsy’s eyes rounded and her mouth fell open, but for once not a sound emerged. Quickly, she shook her head.
Wincing, Kerenza turned to the minister, trying not to notice the arrested look on Nick’s face. She had obeyed her instinct, an instinct that had been right about Judith, yet so wrong about Nick. ‘Mr Woodrow? No doubt you have held many babies during services of baptism. Would you be so kind –?’
‘No.’ Betsy’s voice sharp.
Already tense and braced for yet more criticism, Kerenza turned and saw Betsy hold out her hands.
‘I will take her. Give her to me.’
Glimpsing gratitude on Donald Woodrow’s face, Kerenza leant over and laid the sleeping baby gently in Betsy’s arms. ‘It’s very good of you.’
‘She’s so small.’ Betsy’s voice held awe, concern, and the inevitable hint of censure. ‘Are you sure she’s warm enough?’
‘I think so, while we are below deck. I expect Lady Russell will carry her beneath her pelisse when she leaves the ship.’ Kerenza smiled her thanks as Broad set a plate of stewed beef and vegetables in front of her.
Nick finished and stood up. ‘I must ask you to excuse me.’ He turned to Kerenza. ‘I’d be obliged if you would pass on my felicitations to Lady Russell.’
‘Of course.’
‘Mr Penrose, shall we reach Gibraltar today, do you think?’
Donald Woodrow voiced the question Kerenza had been about to ask.
‘If the wind holds, we could arrive during the early evening.’
‘How long must we remain there?’ William Vyvyan demanded anxiously.
‘No longer than necessary,’ Nick replied.
He walked out before anyone could ask further questions. He was still trying to understand what he had felt seeing Kerenza walk in with that tiny bundle in her arms. Babies had rarely figured in his thoughts, except when his sisters’ children were born, or if he was invited to join colleagues celebrating the birth of a son. That was women’s business. But the effect of seeing Kerenza carrying that baby had been a shock: like an unexpected blow, powerful and disorienting.
Not yet 20, and without experience of younger brothers and sisters, she had risen to the challenge. It had required great courage and he sensed
the experience had changed her in some indefinable way. Yet she had received not a single word of praise from her father.
Nick’s fingers curled. What he had seen in her face had made him want to grab William Vyvyan and shake him until his teeth rattled. The man did not deserve such a daughter.
Walking into the day cabin he shut the door and leant against it. Who was he to criticise? What of his own behaviour? Had he not thrown her love back in her face? Had he not been too blind to see past the superficial gaiety of self-protection to the fear beneath? Too wary to risk being hurt – or worse, laughed at – he had listened to lies. Worse, he had been willing to believe them.
Why had Jeremy lied to him? He would find out. And when he did … But right now even that did not matter as much as regaining her trust. Words were cheap. Apologising was not enough. Not, he realised suddenly, that he ever had apologised. He had to show her he was worthy of her love if he was ever to stand a chance of regaining it. And he wanted that. By God, he wanted it.
He pushed himself away from the door. After checking the chart he stood up, lifted the seat, and took out the strong box. Unlocking it, he removed the package of dispatches lying on top of the soft leather bag of gold sovereigns that made up the ransom money with which William Vyvyan was buying the freedom of his wife and elder daughter. As he closed and re-locked the box he wondered if they were worth it.
Slipping the package into a satchel that he slung into his sea berth, he pulled the door shut and left the cabin. Passing him with a grin and a nod, Maggot went below to have his dinner.
Kestrel flew along under full sail, her taut canvas filled by the fresh north-westerly breeze. The crew went about their business with new purpose. On the port side was Spain, bleak, brown and sandy. Fourteen miles away across the Strait the low, green hills of Morocco were visible in the late afternoon sunshine. Ahead across the wide bay was their destination, a long, high promontory rising out of the sea. From a jagged spine, steep green slopes fell to tiered plateaux of grey shale and white limestone that formed rugged cliffs.
Nick raised the glass and scanned the water, noting the British navy ships heading into and out of the naval dockyard north of Rosia Bay. Dotted across the Straits were shebecs, dhows, schooners, and other merchant vessels. Some would be bringing goods to Gibraltar from Morocco and other Mediterranean countries, others returning to pick up fresh cargoes.
