'My brother is back and wishes that you and Mr Vansittart join us for dinner. He has brought the answer we wish for.' Her triumph was tempered by the formality about to overlay the day's intimacy.
'It is surely good news, Captain Drinkwater,' Shaw said.
'Surely, sir,' Drinkwater replied, easing himself out of the saddle. He looked at Arabella. 'It is for the best, I think,' he added in a low voice.
She caught his eye and then bit her lip, just as Elizabeth was wont to do, turned away and went into the house.
'Shall we say in two hours, Captain?' asked Shaw, looking from the retreating back of his daughter-in-law to the large turnip-watch in his red fist. 'Charles has retreated to his ship refusing the ministrations of our servants to wash the dust off him, but I reckon he'll be ashore again by then.'
'I'll fetch Vansittart, Mr Shaw, and perhaps we can make some travelling arrangements for him ...'
'Of course, of course,' Shaw waved aside any trifling difficulties of that nature. "Tis in a good cause, Captain, the noble cause of peace.'
'Indeed, sir, it is.'
It was almost dark when he reached the water's edge at the same time as the returning shooting-party.
'Have you had a good bag?' he asked and was caught up in the jocular repartee of their high spirits. Metcalfe seemed to have forgiven Drinkwater his absence and had gathered an impressive bag. Already the events of the afternoon were become a memory.
He paused on the quarterdeck and looked back at the shore. The white fagade of Castle Point was grey in the gathering dusk. A few lit windows blazed out, some hid behind curtains. Was Arabella concealed behind one, washing him from her voluptuous body and dressing for the evening?
'Post coitus omnes triste est,' murmured Drinkwater to himself, and went unhappily below.
CHAPTER 8
The Master Commandant
The sudden transition from the company of Arabella Shaw to that of his high-spirited officers with their bag of duck and snipe gave Drinkwater little time to reflect upon the events of the day. Even in the odd moments that followed his return to Patrician in which his mind had the opportunity to wander, other, more pressing matters supervened. In any case, the day was not yet over and his subconscious subdued his conscience with the certainty of being in Arabella's company again that evening.
The shots of the wildfowlers which had so alarmed him reawakened his fear of mutiny, tapping the greater guilt of absence from the ship which, in its turn, combined with the knowledge that Captain Stewart had returned to his own ship prior to their meeting over dinner, and made Drinkwater consider his coming encounter with the Yankee. From what he had gleaned of Stewart's character so far, and in particular the American's hostile taciturnity, the evening promised more of confrontation than conviviality. The fact that Drinkwater had already established an intimacy at Castle Point gave him a frisson of expectation. Such was his state of mind that he was both ashamed and, less creditably, gratified by this, a feeling of elated excitement further enhanced every time he caught sight of the American sloop through the stern windows of his cabin. It was fading in the twilight, merging with the opposite river-bank, but he remained acutely aware of its presence. Not since he had joined Patrician in Cawsand
Bay had he felt so full of vigour.
There was a knock at the cabin door. 'Come!'
'Is there anything ...' Thurston began, but Drinkwater cut him short.
'No, thank you, Thurston. I am dining ashore tonight.' He unrolled his housewife, drew out his razor and began stropping it. 'There is one thing,' he said as Thurston was about to withdraw, 'be so kind as to ask Mr Vansittart to join me for a moment, would you?'
He began to shave. Vansittart entered while he waited for Mullender to prepare his bath. He passed on Zebulon Shaw's invitation, adding, 'We can make all arrangements for your travelling through Shaw; he's a most obligin' fellow.'
The diplomat's self-imposed quarantine, though doubtless proper, seemed a little foolish under the circumstances. Shaw was quite clearly opposed to war and if not an Anglophile, he was worldly enough to regard open hostilities between two countries as in nobody's interests. Vansittart might, Drinkwater reflected, profit much from his conversation by way of a briefing before leaving for Washington and he expressed this opinion while he shaved. Vansittart, his elegant legs crossed and a glass of the captain's Madeira in his hand, lounged on a chair and contemplated the dishevelled Drinkwater.
'But supposing, my dear fellow,' Vansittart said in a superior tone suggesting he was already conducting negotiations on the part of His Majesty's government, 'supposing this fellow Shaw has his own axes to grind.'
'I don't follow ...' Drinkwater stretched his cheek and drew the razor carefully over the thin scar left by a sword cut.
'Well, let us hypothesize that his pacific intentions are governed by his desire not to have some aspect of his personal economy interrupted by war; or perhaps he has some disagreement with a congressman from New England who is of a contrary opinion
'Suppose he has?' broke in Drinkwater, sensing the looming prevarications and evasions, the tortuous and meaningless sophistry of political blustering. 'What the devil does it signify? If he serves our purpose in bringin' the weight of his opinion in favour of headin' off a rupture, he serves our cause ...'
'Ah, but nothing,' Vansittart said smoothly and with a hint of patronizing, 'is quite as simple as that.'
Drinkwater looked at the urbane young man. He had been right about the proximity of the land. It had had its effect upon Vansittart, even though he had yet to step ashore. He was no longer a bewildered ignoramus, lost among the technical mysteries of a man-of-war, but a member of an elite upon whose deliberations the fates of more ordinary mortals depended. Already Vansittart's imagination inhabited the drawing-rooms of the American capital and the success his intervention would achieve.
'We are none of us exempt from our personal entanglements,' said Drinkwater pointedly, a small worm of uneasiness uncoiling itself in his belly, 'and now if you'll excuse me ...' He wiped his razor clean.
Mullender was pouring the last of the hot water from the galley range into the tin bath and the cabin was filling with steam. Drinkwater began pulling his shirt over his head. Mixed with the smell of his own sweat a sweet fragrance lingered.
Vansittart watched for a moment, saw the scarred lacerations and mutilation of Drinkwater's right shoulder and hurriedly rose, tossing off his glass. 'Well, I shall have the opportunity of judging this Shaw for myself,' he said. 'In any event my bags are packed, so I will leave you to your ablutions.'
'I shall be half an hour at the most.'
Drinkwater sank back into the delicious warmth of the bath. 'Well, Mullender,' he said, 'what news have you?'
'Mr Moncrieff has presented you with a brace of ducks, sir.'
'That's very kind of Mr Moncrieff.' He entertained a brief image of Arabella sitting down to a dinner of roast duck with him in the intimacy of the cabin, then dismissed the notion as dangerously foolish.
'Do you want the boots again today, sir? As they're muddy I'll have to clean them.'
'No, no, full dress ...'
''Tis already laid out, sir, and I've the sponging of your old coat in hand, sir.'
They had lain upon the old, shabby undress coat he had worn for the expedition. The reminder made him move restlessly, slopping water in his sudden search for the soap.
He stood before the mirror with comb and brush, an uncharacteristic defensive vanity possessing him. He suppressed his conscience by convincing himself it was to make an impression on Stewart that he dressed with such care. Mullender moved one of the lanterns and the silk stockings and silver buckled shoes, the white breeches, waistcoat and stock seemed to glow in the reflected lamp-light. He handed the comb and brush to Mullender who, with a few deft and practised strokes, quickly finished the captain's hair off in a queue.