'Put it down here,' she said, pointing to her lap, and tell your master I shall dine with him tonight.'
'Not at luncheon?'
'No. I'm tired. I wish to sleep. Tonight.'
'Ver' good. He sho' gonna be pleased.'
Pleased? Would he really? Still, the words had a comfortable sound to the self-imposed recluse and she rewarded Toby with a lovely smile. She liked the old negro. He reminded her of Jonas, her friend Fortunée Hamelin's butler, both in his rolling accent and his infectious good humour.
Marianne dismissed him, with orders that she was not to be disturbed for the remainder of the day, a command which she repeated a few minutes later to Agathe, who appeared, yawning, in the doorway, looking heavy-eyed and still rather sallow.
'Stay in bed if you don't feel well, or otherwise please yourself, only don't wake me before five o'clock.'
She did not add 'because I want to look my best' but that was the real reason for this sudden urge to sleep. A glance in her mirror had shown her a turned-down mouth and dark rings under her eyes. She could not show herself to Jason looking like that. So, after swallowing two cups of scalding hot tea, she snuggled down again, curled herself into a blissful cocoon and fell fast asleep.
That evening, Marianne dressed herself for a simple meal with all the elaborate care of an odalisque about to try her luck with the sultan. Her own natural good taste warned her that too much splendour would be out of place on what was practically a ship of war but, for all its deliberate simplicity, her final appearance was none the less a miracle of graceful elegance. However, miracles take time to achieve and a good deal more than an hour was required before Marianne was bathed, scented, her hair dressed and herself finally inserted into a clinging robe of white muslin with no other ornament than a spray of pale silk roses nestling in the deep décolletage. More of the same flowers were tucked into her hair on either side of the chignon which was worn low on the nape of her neck in Spanish fashion.
It was Agathe, whose attack of sea-sickness had apparently stimulated her imagination, who conceived the notion of this new arrangement. She had brushed and brushed her mistress's hair again and again until it shone satin-smooth and then, instead of dressing it high, after the mode in Paris, had arranged it in gleaming bands which hung in heavy coils on her neck. It was a style that did full justice to Marianne's long, slender throat and delicate features and gave to her green eyes, with their faint, upward slant, an added touch of mystery and exotic charm.
'Oh, my lady, you look a dream, and not a day more than fifteen!' Agathe declared, evidently well-pleased with her handiwork.
Arcadius, when he knocked on the door a few minutes later, shared her opinion, but advised the addition of a cloak for the short walk across the deck.
'It is the captain who is to be the dreamer, not the crew,' he said. 'We can do without a mutiny on board.'
His advice was sound. When Marianne, wrapped in a cloak of green silk, crossed the deck to the poop, the men on watch, who were engaged in shortening sail for the night, stopped work with one accord to watch her pass. All of them were clearly intrigued by the presence of the beautiful woman on board, and probably most were envious as well. There was more than one gleam in the eyes that followed her. Only the cabin boy, sitting on a coil of rope mending a sail, gave her a cheery grin and an easy unselfconscious: ' 'Evening, ma'am. Fine day.' And he received a friendly smile for his pains.
A little farther on, Gracchus, now apparently quite wedded to a life at sea and on the best of terms with everyone on board, greeted her with unaffected enjoyment.
She saw Kaleb, too, rubbing up the barrel of one of the guns on the maindeck under the watchful eye of the master-gunner. He glanced up, like the others, but his serene gaze was devoid of all expression, and he returned to his work at once.
Then Marianne and her companion were entering the after cabin where Jason Beaufort, his first-officer and the doctor were already gathered by a table laid for dinner, engaged in drinking glasses of rum which they all promptly put down in order to bow as she came in.
The cabin and its mahogany panelling were illuminated by the fires of the setting sun which flooded through the stern windows, filling every corner and rendering unnecessary the candles placed on the table.
'I hope I have not kept you waiting,' Marianne said, with a little smile which took in all three men impartially. 'It would be a poor return for your kind invitation.'
'Military precision was not designed for ladies,' Jason said, adding in a tone which he did his best to render agreeable: 'To be kept waiting by a pretty woman is always a pleasure. Your health, ma'am.'
The smile lingered on him for no more than a moment but, beneath the downcast lashes, Marianne's eyes did not quit his face. To her profound and secret joy, hugging the knowledge to her as a miser hugs his gold, she was able to observe that her efforts had not been wasted. As Jolival helped her off with her cloak, Jason's tanned face took on an ashen hue and his fingers whitened suddenly on the stem of his glass. With a high crack, the heavy crystal snapped and the pieces smashed on to the carpeted floor.
'You should watch how you drink,' Leighton rallied him caustically. 'Your nerves are on edge.'
'When I need your professional advice, Doctor, I'll ask for it. Shall we eat?'
The meal passed in almost total silence. The company ate little and talked less, oppressed by the atmosphere of tension which had descended on the cabin.
The gloom which was spreading over the sea seemed to have extended to those in the ship. Jolival and O'Flaherty began by exchanging various reminiscences of their travels, with a kind of forced gaiety, but the. conversation soon lapsed. Marianne, seated on Jason's right, was too much occupied in observing him to have much energy left for conversation. But Jason, at the head of the table, like the inhibited Benielli on some earlier occasions, studiously avoided letting his eyes rest on his neighbour, and especially not on that delicious and all too provoking expanse of bosom.
Marianne could see his long, brown hands on the white cloth, not far from her own, fiddling nervously with his knife. She had an impulse to put her own hand over those restless fingers and soothe them into peace. God alone knew what would happen if she did!
Jason was as taut as a bowstring stretched to breaking point. The momentary loss of control which had made him snap at Leighton had brought no relief. Head bent, his eyes fixed on his plate, he was glum, irritable, obviously ill at ease and furious with himself for being so.
Marianne knew him well enough to be fairly sure that at that moment he was bitterly regretting that he had ever invited her to his table.
Moreover, slowly his mood was infecting her. She had John Leighton opposite her and the antipathy between the two of them was so strong as to be almost tangible. The man had the knack of making her hackles rise with every word he spoke, even when not specifically directed to her.
When Jolival inquired how the vessel, on her way to Venice, had managed to navigate the Straits of Otranto where the English squadrons based on St Maura, Cephalonia and Lissa were continually harassing the French forces from Corfu, Leighton grinned wolfishly.
'If we're at war with England it's the first I heard. Or with Bonaparte, either, come to that. We're a neutral nation. Why should we worry?'
The disparaging reference to the Emperor as 'Bonaparte' made Marianne quiver. Her spoon clattered against her plate. Sensing, possibly, that it was a sign that she was ready to give battle, Jason intervened, but with an ill grace.
'You're talking like a fool, Leighton,' he said harshly. 'You know quite well our trade with England ceased on 2 February. We are neutral now only in name. And what have you to say of the English frigate which gave chase to us off Cape Santa Maria di Leuca? If by some miracle a French ship-of-the-line hadn't turned up to distract her attention, we should have been obliged to fight. As it is, there's no guarantee we shan't have to fight our way out of that damned channel.'