Grace Ferguson faced her, having made up her mind. "You'm not eating right, m'lady. You'll fade away if you don't eat! When Lady Roxby comes I shall bring some of those little cakes you like, I made them myself."
"I don't mean to worry you, Grace we've all had enough of that in the past few years. All I want is to have him here, with me, with us. He's done so much can't they see that?"
She seemed suddenly troubled by the watching portraits. '1 want to be strong, to be patient, like all the others must have been."
Grace said. "You'll be strong, m'lady. I knows it."
Later, when the Roxby carriage rolled on to the cobbles. Catherine saw that there were two visitors. Nancy was accompanied by a young woman with fair hair. She was neatly but plainly dressed, a servant, or perhaps a companion. She heard Grace Ferguson greeting them and then went to the door, hoping her anxiety and lack of sleep would not be as apparent to Nancy as it obviously was to her housekeeper.
Nancy embraced her, and said, "This is Melwyn. Her mother is a dressmaker and seamstress over in St. Austell. I've known her family for years, since I was a child."
Catherine looked at the girl, for that was all that she was. Serious, almost grave features, but when she smiled she had an elfin prettiness which would soon draw some young man's attention.
"Melwyn has been staying at the house with me for the past few days. She works hard, and is pleasant company. A fine seamstress too, like her mother." She smiled, and Catherine saw Richard's warmth in it. "As you have lost your Sophie, I thought you might consider taking her into your service."
Catherine said, "Melwyn. What a pretty name."
Nancy said, "It means "honey-fair" in the old Cornish tongue."
Catherine asked quietly, "Do you want to leave home, Melwyn?"
The girl seemed to consider it. "I – I think so, m'lady. I need the work." She looked at one of the portraits, her eyes distant. "My father went for a soldier, to the West Indies. He died there. I do still think about him." She turned again. "Do 'ee know the West Indies, m'lady?"
Nancy said with unusual severity, "Don't ask so many questions, my girl."
But Catherine said gently, "Yes, I know them. Where I found my love again, after losing him." She felt the girl's shoulder tremble slightly beneath her hand. As I once was.
"They do say that you travelled all over the world, m'lady."
Catherine patted her shoulder and smiled at her. That story grows in the telling!"
Nancy watched, quietly satisfied. Melwyn was not like most of the local girls who served the big houses and estates. She was a dainty worker; her fingers could skim over a piece of silk or linen as if enchanted, and she was sometimes withdrawn, and a bit of a dreamer. Like her remarks about her dead father: a sergeant in the Eighty-Seventh Foot, true enough. But a foul-mouthed braggart until the army had recruited him. probably while he was drunk. Perhaps it was safer to be a dreamer.
Catherine said, "If you want it, Melwyn, I would be happy to employ you."
The girl smiled, beautifully. "Oh my dear life! Wait till they hear about this,"
Catherine looked away. Her voice was reminiscent of Zenoria, although she was completely different in every other way.
The door opened slightly; Grace, she thought, to tempt her with her little cakes.
But it was Bryan. She kept her hand on the girl's shoulder, feeling the sudden chill in her body in spite of the room's heavy warmth.
"What is it?"
"A letter, m'lady. I told the post boy to wait, in case……"
He looked round, relieved as his wife entered and took the letter from his hand.
Nancy spoke, saying that she would remain, but Catherine did not hear her. She picked up a knife and slit the envelope; her hand was quite steady, and yet she felt as if her whole body was shaking. The girl made to move away but Catherine said, "No. Stay with me." She dashed her hand across her face, angry with the sudden tears. The writing was blurred, unfamiliar. She persisted, turning it to the light, hardly daring to draw breath.
Then she said, " Bryan, have you heard of a ship named the SaladinT
Bryan watched her, seeing the strength and determination, and something more.
"Aye, m'lady. She's a big Indiaman, fine-looking vessel. Put into Falmouth once John Allday an' me went down to see her."
"The Saladin sails from Plymouth next week." They were all waiting, listening, but she was speaking to him. To Richard. "She sails for Naples, but will stop at Malta… Will you come with me, Melwyn?"
Nancy exclaimed, " Malta? How is it possible?" She was near tears, and also proud that she was still a part of it, of them.
"It has been arranged. By a friend." She stared around the room, seeing it come to life again. The loneliness, which she had been forced to share with the memory of that night when she had known raw terror, would now be gone.
A friend. She could almost sense Sillitoe's amusement.
14. The Edge of Darkness
Lieutenant George Avery spread the chart across the cabin table and watched as his admiral examined some notes, before leaning over it in the fading light.
In the afternoon the wind had backed again, and had risen unexpectedly. Tyacke had discussed it with Bolitho and they had decided to reef Frobisher's bulging topsails. Men had fought their way out along the treacherous yards, the wind hot across their bodies as if it were from the desert itself.
Now, looking at the well-used chart with its bearings and the hourly calculations of their progress from Malta, Avery saw that the nearest land was about eighty miles away. The little brig Black Swan had taken up her station for the night, and Avery had last seen her through a telescope, tossing about under minimum canvas like a gull in distress. A lively command at the best of times, and Avery had wondered what her youthful captain thought of his present position, under the very eyes of the flagship.
He knew that Bolitho was troubled by the lack of contact and knowledge of his various captains. He had heard him speaking to Tyacke about Norton Sackville of the Black Swan. Only recently promoted from lieutenant and highly recommended by his previous flag officer, he was in his early twenties, and eager for a chance to distinguish himself. Tyacke had replied to a question, "Sackville is clever enough, to all accounts." He had tapped his forehead. "But a little lacking in wisdom."
The ship felt quieter now under reefed topsails, but she yawed occasionally to broken water; so different from the days of calm seas and limp canvas.
Bolitho was aware of Avery's scrutiny, and thought he was probably questioning why it was necessary to divide the squadron on the strength of an idea, a rumour.
Perhaps I am driving myself for the wrong reasons?
He felt the deck shiver, the heavy rudder taking the brunt of sea and wind.
Two days and ten hours to reach this position: the port of Bona was lying to the south of them. To tack any nearer overnight would be inviting disaster; a lee shore would offer no hope if they misjudged the final approach.
He had been thinking, too, of Black Swan, and had tried to put himself in her captain's place. Sackville's lookouts would be the vital link, would make the first landfall, and Sackville himself might have to decide on a course of action.
He half-listened to the sounds around and above him, the creak of straining rigging and the rebellious crack of loose canvas. Voices too; the thud of hard, bare feet overhead. Allday was on deck, Ozzard was in his pantry. The ship carried them all.
He glanced across the table and winced as the lantern's light swung across his eyes. Surely it was no worse? Or was it another attempt to delude himself?
He remarked, "I have asked the surgeon to come aft, George."
So calmly said. Like a man chatting to his second before a duel.