He motioned Drinkwater to a chair.
'You are most kind, sir,' Drinkwater replied, 'but I do not think my actions were those of an hero…'
'Come, come…'
'No, sir. I fear the threat of a French prison revived our spirits…' He rose as a woman came in bearing a tea kettle.
'Ahh, my dear, the tea…' The old man bobbed up and down wringing his hands.
'Mr Drinkwater, I'd like to present my daughter Elizabeth. Elizabeth, my dear, this is Mr Drinkwater… I fear I do not know the gentleman's Christian name though it would be an honour to do so…' He made little introductory gestures with his hands, opening and closing them like an inexpertly-managed glove puppet.
'Nathaniel, sir,' volunteered Drinkwater. The woman turned and Drinkwater looked into the eyes of a striking girl of about his own age. He took her hand and managed a clumsy little bow as he flushed with surprise and discomfiture. Her fingers were cool like the church. He mumbled:
'Y'r servant ma'am.'
'Honoured, sir.' Her voice was low and clear.
The trio sat. Drinkwater felt immediately oppressed by the quality of the crockery. The delicacy of the china after months of shipboard life made him feel clumsy.
The appearance of a plate of bread and cucumber, however, soon dispelled his misgivings.
'Nathaniel, eh,' muttered the old man. 'Well, well… "a gift of God"', he chuckled softly to himself, '…most appropriate… really most appropriate…'
Drinkwater felt a sudden surge of pure joy. The little parlour bright with chintzes and painted porcelain reminded him poignantly of home. There was even the air of threadbare gentility, of a pride that sometimes served as a substitute for more tangible sustenance.
As she poured the tea Drinkwater looked at the girl. He could see now that she was indeed his own age, though her old fashioned dress had conveyed an initial impression of greater maturity. She bit her lower lip as she concentrated on pouring the tea, revealing a row of even and near perfect teeth. Her dark hair was drawn back behind her head in an unpretentious tress and it combined with her eyes, eyes of a deep and understanding brown, to give her face the inescapable impression of sadness.
So struck was he with this melancholy that when she looked up to pass him his cup he held her gaze. She smiled and then he was surprised at the sudden vivacity in her face, a liveliness free of any reproach that his directness deserved. He felt contentment change into happiness absent from his life for many months. He felt a keen desire to please this girl, not out of mere gratuitous bravado, but because she had about her the soothing aura of calm and tranquillity. In the turmoil of his recent life he felt a powerful longing for spiritual peace.
Occupied with such thoughts he was unaware that he had consumed the greater part of the sandwiches single handed.
Isaac Bower and his daughter showed some surprise.
'Pardon me for the liberty, sir, but you have not eaten for some time?'
'I have not eaten like this for near a twelvemonth, sir…' smiled Drinkwater unabashed.
'But on board ship you eat like gentlemen and keep a good table?'
Drinkwater gave a short laugh. He told them of what his diet consisted. When the parson showed a shocked surprise he learned himself how ignorant the people of Britain were as to the condition of their seamen. The old man was genuinely upset and questioned the midshipman closely on the food, daily routines and duties of the respective persons aboard a man o'war, punctuating Drinkwater's replies with 'Pon my soul' and 'Well, well, well' and copious sighs and shakings of his venerable head. As for Drinkwater he discoursed with the enthusiastic and encyclopaedic knowledge of the professional proselyte who had done nothing but imbibe the details of his employment. His picture of life on a frigate, though slightly lurid and excusably self-important, was, once sifted by the old man's shrewdness, not far from the truth.
While the men talked Elizabeth refilled their cups and studied her guest. Ignoring the soiled state of the linen about his neck and wrists she found him presentable enough. His mop of dark hair was drawn carelessly back into a queue and framed a face that had weathered to a pale tan, a tan that accentuated the premature creases around his eyes. These were of a cloudy grey, like the sky over the Lizard in a sou' westerly gale, and they were shadowed by the blue bruises of fatigue and worry.
As he talked his face blazed with infectious enthusiasm and a growing self-confidence that, if it was not apparent to its owner, was clear to Elizabeth.
For she was more than the sheltered daughter of a country parson. She had experienced near poverty since her father had lost his living some two years previously. He had unwisely attacked the profligacy of his patron's heir and suffered the heir's revenge when that worthy succeeded suddenly to the estate. The death of his wife shortly afterwards had left Bower with the child of their declining years to bring up unaided.
In the event the girl had matured quickly and assumed the burden of housekeeping without demur. Although brought up in the shadow of her father's profession, the hardships and rigours of life had not left her untouched. In his younger days Bower had been an active man, committed to his flock. Within the circumscribed world of a country parish events had served to temper Elizabeth's growing character. Much of her adolescence had been spent nursing her consumptive mother and during the last weeks of her life Elizabeth had come face to face with the concomitants of sickness and death.
As she contemplated the ruins of a fruit cake that would have lasted the parson and herself a week, she found herself smiling. She too felt grateful for the tea-party. Drinkwater had blown in with some of the freshness of youth absent from her life until that moment. It was a refreshing change from the overbearing bombast of the red-faced squireens, or the languid indolence of the garrison infantry officers who had been until then almost the only eligible members of the male sex that she had met. She detected a sympathy about the young man sitting opposite, a sensitivity in him; something contained in his expression and given emphasis by the early lines appearing on his face, the umbra of nervous strain about his eyes.
At last the discussion ceased. Both men were, by now, firm friends. Drinkwater apologised for monopolising the conversation and ignoring his hostess.
'It is quite unnecessary to apologise, Mr Drinkwater, since my father has too little of such stimulating talk.' She smiled again. 'Indeed I am glad that you have come, albeit in such circumstances.' With a little pang of conscience Drinkwater remembered he had that afternoon attended a funeral.
'Thank you, Miss Bower.'
'But tell me, Mr Drinkwater, in all these comings and goings did you not feel afraid?'
Drinkwater answered without hesitation. 'Aye greatly… as I told your father earlier… but I think fear may be the mainspring of courage…' he paused. It was suddenly imperative that he convey exactly what he meant. He did not wish the young woman opposite to misunderstand, to misjudge him.
'Not that I wish to boast of courage, but I found the more I feared the consequences of inactivity, the more I found the… the resolve to do my utmost to alter our circumstances. In this I was most ably supported by the other members of the prize crew.'
She smiled without coquetry.
Nathaniel basked in the radiance of that smile. It seemed to illuminate the whole room.
The cake consumed, the tea drunk and the conversation lapsing into the silences of companionable surfeit Drinkwater rose. The sun was westering and the room already full of shadows. He took his leave of the parson. The old man pressed his hand.
'Goodbye my boy. Please feel free to call upon us any time you are in Falmouth, though I do not yet know how much longer we shall be here.' His face clouded briefly with uncertainty then brightened again as he took the young man's hand. 'May God bless you, Nathaniel…'