Greek Wedding Page 3

  ‘Of course. God knows, we don’t want to put you in any more danger than we already have. I’ve not begun to thank you properly.’ She was speaking more to Barlow than Renshaw. ‘I don’t see how I can. As for tomorrow, now I’m safe, I feel as if I could sleep all day. I’m only sorry it has to be in your cabin, Mr. Renshaw.’ His man had been busy moving his effects into Captain Barlow’s cabin. ‘And poor Captain Barlow, too.’

  ‘That’s all right, miss.’ Aware of Brett’s brooding silence, the captain answered for them both. ‘There are worse things happen at sea. I just hope you and your aunt will be comfortable. I’m afraid we’ve not much to offer you ladies—’ And then, struck by a sudden thought: ‘Mr. Renshaw, would you think it presuming if I reminded you of the boxful of things in the hold?’

  ‘Yes!’ He was on his feet as if a spring had snapped inside him. And then, with an effort: ‘I mean, no. Do whatever you please, Captain. It’s your ship. Good night.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Phyllida as the saloon door shut behind him.

  ‘What’s the matter with the poor man?’ asked Miss Knight.

  ‘You just bear with him, ma’am.’ Captain Barlow was glad of the chance to explain. ‘He doesn’t mean a word of it: not really. I know he must have seemed unwelcoming, harsh even, to you two ladies, but, you see, it’s like this: he had the Helena specially built for his honeymoon. There wasn’t anything good enough for his lady—for Miss Helena—not by his way of thinking. Planned and replanned, this boat was; designed and redesigned till I thought she never would be launched. Poor Mr. Renshaw. It took years … I never did know whether it was his idea to delay the wedding till the ship was ready, or hers. Though, mind you, I’d venture a guess. It was a bad idea for Mr. Renshaw; that’s for sure. The ship was ready at last, and the day set for the wedding. We’d champagne on board, and quails in aspic and potted grouse and a lot of other knickknacks and kickshaws, and then, a week before the wedding, comes the news that the Duchess has had a son. Mr. Renshaw was the heir, you know. They’d been out of England, see, her and the Duke, and anyway, what with one thing and another—the old Duke being the age he was, and the state he was in—no one reckoned there was a chance. Except Miss Helena, if you ask me. Sharp, she was, though poor Mr. Renshaw never saw it. I always thought she was glad the ship took so long a-building. It gave her a chance to hedge her bets, don’t you see? She certainly changed her mind times enough and set things back. She said her say pretty quick when the bad news came. No Dukedom, no marriage. Just like that. I never saw anything so downright cruel in my life, ma’am.’ He had been addressing himself throughout to Cassandra Knight. ‘Mr. Renshaw, he was brought up to be a Duke; it’s what he’s trained for, knows how to do, could do well though I admit you might not think so after seeing him today. But to have that taken away from him, so sudden, and the woman he loved, all in one breath like. Well, no wonder he’s in a state. And you know what she did? Miss Helena?’

  ‘No?’ Cassandra Knight leaned forward with gratifying interest.

  ‘She made him take the blame. With his heart breaking, he had to jilt her. She showed up in church, see, on the day, and told him to stay away. Get drunk, she said. Do what you like. Just, don’t come. If you do, she said, I’ll refuse you, there in the church. And then she cut a lot of wheedling stuff about her broken heart and a woman’s reputation—Oh, it would make you sick. And if you’re wondering how I came to hear it, ma’am, you’re quite right, I listened. It all happened right here on the Helena and I heard every word of it, and glad I did. If I hadn’t, I doubt I could have borne with Mr. Renshaw these last months. As it is, I’m right down sorry for him and so would you be if you knew the half of it.’

  ‘I thought he didn’t much like women.’ Phyllida absentmindedly drank out of the glass Brett had filled for her. ‘Now I can see his point. But I don’t quite understand about this Duchess.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t,’ said her aunt. ‘You never did pay much attention to the English aristocracy. It’s Sarum, isn’t it, Mr. Barlow?’

  ‘That’s right, ma’am. “The oldest Duke in the world,” they used to call him. He was in corsets before Trafalgar. Long-lived they are, the Renshaws. No one ever thought the old Duke would marry, that’s certain. Everything else—oh yes, excusing me, ma’am, but not that. And when he did, he was past seventy. That was five years ago. Well, you can’t really blame Mr. Renshaw for expecting the Dukedom, can you?’

  ‘Waiting for dead men’s shoes?’ Phyllida said. ‘We don’t think much of that in America.’

  ‘But you don’t understand, miss. Mr. Renshaw didn’t need to wait. He’s to be rich as Croesus on the distaff side—his mother’s side. His uncle could buy up Sarum twice over and never notice the difference. You don’t think he’d have had the Helena built on expectations, do you? Shipwrights work for cash down and no nonsense. But money alone wasn’t enough for an accredited beauty like Miss Helena. Poor Mr. Renshaw, I’ve been hoping and hoping he’d come to see the whole thing as a merciful release. And I did think he was a little easier in his mind these last few weeks. But something happened at Constantinople that changed all that. Something he got in his mail, I reckon. I tell you, ladies, I was frightened for him tonight. He’d sent me below—and the lookout, which I shouldn’t have agreed to, only I was afraid of what would happen if I didn’t. I could hear him from below the decks, prowling up and down, talking to himself. I didn’t much like the sound of it. I was right down grateful to you two ladies when you gave me an excuse to come back up.’

  Phyllida Vannick laughed. ‘Well, I’m glad someone was pleased to see us. It was more than Mr. Renshaw was. If you’d not intervened I really think he’d have left us to our fate.’

  ‘Oh no, miss. He’d have come round in a minute or so. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, Mr. Renshaw. It’s just that he’s not very fond of women just now. He’ll get over it. Just bear with him in the meantime.’

  ‘That’s the least we can do, considering we’re accepting his hospitality and risking all your lives in the process.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about that,’ he said comfortably. ‘The Turks are going to have problems enough without troubling about two runaway women. The Sultan really does intend to make an end of the Corps of Janissaries, you say?’

  ‘That was certainly his plan. And he’ll have to now, won’t he? The ones in the rest of the country will never stand for what’s happened in Constantinople today. They were killing them like flies. My aunt and I had to walk through their blood when we escaped … They were lying everywhere. Not just killed—mutilated … savaged…’

  ‘Don’t, Phyl,’ said her aunt. ‘Don’t think about it.’

  ‘Or rather, do think,’ said Captain Barlow, ‘that the worse the massacre, the worse the revenge. The Sultan is going to be busy for a while. It’s not just you two who should be the gainers. I think this is the first ray of hope for the Greeks too. The whole Turkish army is going to be disorganised by this day’s work. It may give the Greeks the breathing space they need.’

  ‘I certainly hope it does,’ said Phyllida. ‘Things are really so bad with the Greeks, Captain?’

  ‘They’re pretty bad. Well, you’ll hear for yourself, when we get to Nauplia. Poor things, you can’t even blame them, that I can see. They’ve been slaves for going on four hundred years; it’s no wonder if they don’t rightly know how to behave as free men. Just because they were statesmen and heroes and artists and so forth more than a thousand years ago, they’re supposed to come right out of slavery and behave—well, like statesmen and heroes. Of course they don’t. Why should they? The miracle is that they’ve shaken off their chains at all. But, forgive me, I’m off on my hobby-horse and wearing you ladies out, I’m afraid. You’ll understand that I can’t discuss it much with Mr. Renshaw. Well, of course, you can see his position; he’s a landowner—or should have been. A great deal of the Sarum land is in Ireland, you know. I sometimes think this Greek revolt comes pretty near the bone ther
e.’

  ‘You might be right at that,’ said Cassandra Knight. ‘But, Captain, you said something earlier about a box in the hold. Would it be too much to hope that it contained feminine knick-knacks and kickshaws?’

  ‘That’s just exactly what it does contain, ma’am, and I’ll have it fetched up for you at once, and wish you a very peaceful night. You’ll be safe as houses in there in Mr. Renshaw’s cabin. Leave your wet things in the saloon, miss, and I’ll have Price—Mr. Renshaw’s man—see to them.’

  ‘But you mustn’t give up both these rooms to us,’ Phyllida protested.

  ‘It’s no trouble, miss. My cabin—Mr. Renshaw’s now—opens outside on to the gangway, you see. And I’ll be right as rain down in the crew’s quarters. As for the saloon, we’ll sort things out in the morning; don’t you worry. And I’ll have that box sent up right away.’

  ‘Full of the things Mr. Renshaw bought for his fiancée?’ Phyllida asked after Barlow had left them. ‘Do you think we really want them, Aunt?’

  ‘It depends what they are, doesn’t it? Captain Barlow strikes me as a remarkably sensible man, by and large, but what he dismisses as female kickshaws might be just the things I’ve been longing for. Just imagine, Phyl, a proper toothbrush, for instance? I suppose it would be too much to hope for a nightgown!’ And then, reading her thoughts: ‘Don’t worry too much, love. He may not have been at Missolonghi at all.’

  ‘I think I’d rather face it Aunt, than pretend. But I promise I’ll do my best not to let it show. Mr. Renshaw shan’t have the satisfaction of thinking me an hysterical female.’

  ‘Poor Mr. Renshaw.’ But Cassandra was interrupted by the arrival of two beaming, frankly curious seamen with a large sea-chest.

  ‘Do you think we ought to?’ Phyllida watched with distaste as her aunt threw open the lid to reveal a jumbled pile of feminine accessories. Brett Renshaw must have scoured London to collect this curious, touching gallimaufrey of the needs of a lady of high fashion. And then, ruthlessly jilted, he had hurled it all into the box. A hare’s foot stuck oddly out of a pile of French gloves; a box of powder had come open, and a strong smell of perfume filled the air. ‘It’s not decent,’ Phyllida turned away. ‘It’s like robbing a corpse.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said her aunt. ‘Look, Phyl, a whole packet of toothbrushes! And if these aren’t nightgowns!’

  ‘Poor Mr. Renshaw,’ said Phyllida at last.

  Chapter 3

  Waking early, Phyllida sat up to peer out from behind the black velvet curtains of the luxurious cabin Brett Renshaw had planned to share with his bride. She could see land quite near, green hills rising from the quiet water of the Bosphorus, with here and there a windmill, its white sails motionless. There was no wind at all, and the only sound was the soothing splash and flutter of the ship’s huge paddle-wheels and the erratic thump of her engine.

  Except for a flock of grazing sheep, the hills seemed deserted in early morning sunshine. Then looking ahead, she saw a solitary figure on the stony track that ran along the shore, a rider, pressing his horse hard, going their way, and faster. One good look, and Phyllida picked up the crimson dressing-gown she had worn the night before. Belting it tightly round her, she opened the cabin door quietly, so as not to wake her aunt. Outside, the main saloon was empty, with black curtains still drawn at the stern windows. Someone had been in, just the same. The Turkish costume she had worn the day before lay dried and neatly pressed on a chair. She looked at it, for a moment, with revulsion, then moved nearer and saw that it had been washed. The bloodstains were gone from the ankles of the loose trousers. She gathered it up with a sigh of relief and retired to the cabin to put it on. She had not missed Brett Renshaw’s look of dislike—no, that was too weak a word—his look of disgust when she had appeared, the night before, in his dressing-gown. No doubt, like the hare’s foot and all those bottles of sal volatile, this had been bought with his bride in mind. She would not irritate him by appearing in it again. Besides—she adjusted the straight tunic over her loose trousers—she had grown to like the cool, comfortable Turkish costume.

  When she opened the door of the saloon the rhythmical banging of the engine sounded much louder, almost drowning out the whoosh of the paddle-wheels. Someone must have worked hard to cut out so much of the engine noise from the saloon. She felt, for the first time, genuinely sorry for Brett Renshaw. It might be faintly absurd to have let himself be jilted by a designing female, whose schemes had apparently been perspicuous even to Captain Barlow, but there was still something touching about the devotion that had built this ship—designed that cabin—combed London for those—she smiled to herself at memory of Barlow’s phrase—those ‘female knick-knacks and kickshaws’.

  The saloon door opened into a passage-way that looked as if it might run the length of the ship. To her left must be the door of Captain Barlow’s cabin, which Brett Renshaw had occupied the night before. There was no one in sight, and no noise but the steady pounding of the ship’s engines. But Barlow or Renshaw ought to be told, at once, about the hard-riding messenger on shore. Nothing would induce her to knock on Renshaw’s cabin door and rouse him. The only alternative seemed to be to go up on deck and ask the lookout to summon Barlow, unless, indeed, she found him already there. He had asked them to keep out of sight today, but the rider was well ahead of them by now, and, save for him, there was no sign of life on shore. Besides, she badly wanted a breath of fresh air. She hurried up the companion-way before Brett Renshaw could appear to prevent her, and ran slap into him on deck.

  ‘Miss Vannick!’ He had abandoned last night’s formal attire for a casual outfit similar to the loose shirts and bell-bottomed duck trousers worn by the crew. Black hair, cut rather long, ruffled round his brown aquiline face. ‘I thought Captain Barlow asked you and your aunt to stay below today.’ Black eyes blazed furiously in the gaunt face. ‘Do you actually want to get us all killed?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She was in the wrong, and knew it. ‘I thought since there was no one about…’

  ‘Sorry!’ He took her arm in a grip that hurt and pushed her back into the entrance to the companion-way, then let her go so suddenly that she had to grasp the door to prevent herself from falling down the steep flight of steps. ‘And I suppose you’ll be “sorry” when they open fire on us from the guns along the Dardanelles? Do you think of no one but yourself, Miss Vannick?’

  ‘But that’s just it.’ She fought down fury. ‘That’s why I came to find you, or the captain. Did you see the Sultan’s messenger on the shore just now?’

  ‘The rider? Of course I did. And he’s still in sight, too. You didn’t pause to think he might turn round and see you?’

  ‘Do you take me for a fool, Mr. Renshaw?’ She lost her temper as completely as he had his. ‘Are you seriously suggesting that a man, riding hard, several miles ahead of us, could make me out for a woman in this costume?’

  He had moved from her, out on to the deck, as if, she thought angrily, he found her very proximity distasteful. Now he favoured her with a withering, comprehensive scrutiny. ‘It’s true enough,’ he conceded, ‘that there is nothing particularly feminine about your appearance this morning. In fact, I’m surprised that you wish to expose yourself in such a guise. But that is nothing to the purpose, nor is the question of how many miles ahead of us that Turk may be. What we are discussing, and I would like to have it settled once and for all, is your position as an unexpected guest on my ship.’

  ‘Pray don’t spare my feelings,’ she interrupted him furiously. ‘Say, “uninvited”. It’s what you mean.’

  ‘Of course it is. And, since you are here, at considerable risk to the rest of us, it strikes me that at least you might obey the captain’s orders, particularly when they concern the safety of us all. Including yours, Miss Vannick.’

  ‘I am sorry.’ She meant it. ‘You’re perfectly right. It was inexcusable of me. My father would have beaten me for less. Only, what was I to do? I really did want to talk to you or the captain. I
wasn’t sure whether you’d know that that’s one of the Sultan’s messengers, ahead there.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Oh yes. I know the costume well enough. And, besides: I must speak to you, Mr. Renshaw, up here where my aunt can’t hear. Because it’s true: everything you say. I have put you all at risk: appallingly so. But I think I see the way out. If they do stop us in the Dardanelles, you must give me up at once. Just me, don’t you see? Tell them I stowed away; you didn’t find me till this morning. Be as furious as you please: you’ll find it easy enough to make it convincing. And say nothing about Aunt Cassandra. If they’ve got me, they won’t bother about her. And if you give me up, freely like that, I doubt if they’ll harm you. You’re English; I’m American. The Sultan cares nothing for us. He thinks we’re a pack of low rebels and won’t even receive our Ministers.’ She laughed, surprisingly. ‘Rather the way you feel about the Greeks. But it will make it easier for you. Just wash your hands of me, as an American interloper, and hand me over. They’ll be grateful for an excuse not to embroil themselves with the English by harming you or the Helena.’

  ‘But what will happen to you?’ He could not help thinking there was a good deal of sense in what she said.

  ‘That’s my affair.’

  ‘I can’t let you do it.’ The words seemed to speak themselves. ‘It’s generous of you, Miss Vannick, but I can’t let you. We must think of a better plan. Ah’—with relief—‘here’s the captain. Miss Vannick confirms that it was a Sultan’s messenger, Barlow.’

  ‘I was afraid so. Morning, Miss Vannick. I’m glad to see you none the worse for your adventure.’

  ‘Not so far, thank you. Captain Barlow, you must help me persuade Mr. Renshaw that if the Turks do stop us in the Dardanelles, you should give me up as a stowaway, for all your sakes. Or, if that doesn’t convince you, for my aunt’s. She’s suffered enough already on my account.’