Woodrow’s hunched shoulders relax. ‘I am, sir. May I present my wife? Betsy, my dear, Mr Penrose is –’ He hesitated, glancing apologetically at Nick. ‘I beg your pardon, but not being acquainted with shipboard terminology I find myself at a disadvantage. How should I describe you?’
‘I am the senior deck officer.’
‘My, my,’ Betsy Woodrow simpered, a hand fluttering to the pillowy swell of a bosom swathed in frills and folds of snowy muslin over a dark grey gown that emphasised her high colour. ‘What an important position for one so young.’ Her shiny face dimpled but the smile did not reach her eyes.
‘Age is no measure of experience, ma’am. But between us, Kestrel’s officers may claim over 70 years’ sea time.’
‘There you are, my dear,’ Donald Woodrow reassured his wife. ‘Did I not tell you there was nothing to worry about?’
Ignoring him, Betsy leant toward Nick. ‘When we came aboard, there was another –’ distaste puckered her mouth ‘– person on the deck. What is his position?’
Glancing involuntarily at Nick, Kerenza saw his grip on the chair back tighten sufficiently to turn his knuckles white. But he remained calm, if mildly impatient. ‘Mrs Woodrow, prior to sailing there would be upward of 20 men –’
‘I don’t mean the crew,’ she cut in. ‘I was referring to the foreign person, whose uniform, I confess myself astonished to see, is similar to your own.’
‘Ah. That is the second mate, my deputy.’
‘Your deputy?’ Betsy’s expression mirrored shock and disapproval. ‘But he is –’
‘Older than me? Indeed he is, though by a few years only.’ Nick’s tone remained light, but the underlying note of warning sent a chill down Kerenza’s spine. Betsy either did not hear, or chose to ignore it.
‘I was going to say he’s not English.’
‘Indeed, ma’am. As you so rightly observe, he is not English, though I understand he has English blood in his ancestry. Of greater importance to me is his gift for reading winds, tides, and currents. He is the finest sailor I’ve ever met, and I consider myself exceptionally fortunate to have his knowledge at my disposal.’
‘If he’s that good,’ Betsy Woodrow remarked in a waspish tone, ‘I cannot help but wonder why he is not commanding a ship of his own.’
‘He was. Until it was shot to pieces by the French and sank under him,’ Nick replied. As Betsy Woodrow’s mouth pursed, he turned to address Judith. ‘Lady Russell, I trust you are as comfortable as circumstances permit? No doubt you would have preferred a single cabin –’
She waved his concern aside. ‘With none available the matter is academic.’ Glancing at Kerenza, she smiled warmly. ‘Nor can I regret it, for Miss Vyvyan has proved to be delightful company.’
‘Then you are fortunate, ma’am.’ His undertone of bitterness stopped Kerenza’s breath like a blow. As he pulled out the chair and sat down, heat rushed to her cheeks. She bent her head, feverishly hoping her flush would be attributed to shyness. Was this a foretaste of what she might expect for the next six weeks? How would she cope?
‘These little brass rails around the edge of the table are very inconvenient,’ Betsy complained.
‘On the contrary,’ Judith said, ‘I can safely promise that in a few days you will be very glad of them. Speaking for myself, I prefer my food on my plate and my plate on the table rather than in my lap.’
‘You speak for all of us, I’m sure, Lady Russell.’ Donald Woodrow’s smile was anxious.
‘Ah, Broad.’ Nick greeted the passengers’ steward as he staggered in bearing a tray containing a platter of sliced ham, separate dishes of boiled potatoes, carrots, and cabbage, and small bowl of mustard.
‘What’s this?’ Betsy Woodrow demanded. ‘I expected a hot dinner.’
‘The veg is hot, madam,’ Broad replied, unloading the dishes.
‘But that meat is cold. So what is that savoury
‘I am the senior deck officer.’
‘My, my,’ Betsy Woodrow simpered, a hand fluttering to the pillowy swell of a bosom swathed in frills and folds of snowy muslin over a dark grey gown that emphasised her high colour. ‘What an important position for one so young.’ Her shiny face dimpled but the smile did not reach her eyes.
‘Age is no measure of experience, ma’am. But between us, Kestrel’s officers may claim over 70 years’ sea time.’
‘There you are, my dear,’ Donald Woodrow reassured his wife. ‘Did I not tell you there was nothing to worry about?’
Ignoring him, Betsy leant toward Nick. ‘When we came aboard, there was another –’ distaste puckered her mouth ‘– person on the deck. What is his position?’
Glancing involuntarily at Nick, Kerenza saw his grip on the chair back tighten sufficiently to turn his knuckles white. But he remained calm, if mildly impatient. ‘Mrs Woodrow, prior to sailing there would be upward of 20 men –’
‘I don’t mean the crew,’ she cut in. ‘I was referring to the foreign person, whose uniform, I confess myself astonished to see, is similar to your own.’
‘Ah. That is the second mate, my deputy.’
‘Your deputy?’ Betsy’s expression mirrored shock and disapproval. ‘But he is –’
‘Older than me? Indeed he is, though by a few years only.’ Nick’s tone remained light, but the underlying note of warning sent a chill down Kerenza’s spine. Betsy either did not hear, or chose to ignore it.
‘I was going to say he’s not English.’
‘Indeed, ma’am. As you so rightly observe, he is not English, though I understand he has English blood in his ancestry. Of greater importance to me is his gift for reading winds, tides, and currents. He is the finest sailor I’ve ever met, and I consider myself exceptionally fortunate to have his knowledge at my disposal.’
‘If he’s that good,’ Betsy Woodrow remarked in a waspish tone, ‘I cannot help but wonder why he is not commanding a ship of his own.’
‘He was. Until it was shot to pieces by the French and sank under him,’ Nick replied. As Betsy Woodrow’s mouth pursed, he turned to address Judith. ‘Lady Russell, I trust you are as comfortable as circumstances permit? No doubt you would have preferred a single cabin –’
She waved his concern aside. ‘With none available the matter is academic.’ Glancing at Kerenza, she smiled warmly. ‘Nor can I regret it, for Miss Vyvyan has proved to be delightful company.’
‘Then you are fortunate, ma’am.’ His undertone of bitterness stopped Kerenza’s breath like a blow. As he pulled out the chair and sat down, heat rushed to her cheeks. She bent her head, feverishly hoping her flush would be attributed to shyness. Was this a foretaste of what she might expect for the next six weeks? How would she cope?
‘These little brass rails around the edge of the table are very inconvenient,’ Betsy complained.
‘On the contrary,’ Judith said, ‘I can safely promise that in a few days you will be very glad of them. Speaking for myself, I prefer my food on my plate and my plate on the table rather than in my lap.’
‘You speak for all of us, I’m sure, Lady Russell.’ Donald Woodrow’s smile was anxious.
‘Ah, Broad.’ Nick greeted the passengers’ steward as he staggered in bearing a tray containing a platter of sliced ham, separate dishes of boiled potatoes, carrots, and cabbage, and small bowl of mustard.
‘What’s this?’ Betsy Woodrow demanded. ‘I expected a hot dinner.’
‘The veg is hot, madam,’ Broad replied, unloading the dishes.
‘But that meat is cold. So what is that savoury
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