Lieutenant Sowerby laughs, slapping his thigh. “Spun by fairies…it’s so typical of the lack of wit of the people here, isn’t it? But there’s a warning in the story to women of quality. Don’t go marrying pirates.”
He stops laughing so abruptly she feels her heart thump. The story makes her want to weep. It’s not the woman’s lack of wealth that causes a layer of melancholy to wrap around her senses, it’s the woman’s loneliness.Oh, George,she thinks, and then, with a horrible little shock:Jack.
She must reach Roskorwell before he leaves. TheRapide’s anchorage is a secret; she won’t be able to find it without him. Flustered, she rises from her chair. “I shall make tea.” Tea will provide a natural end to the visit. Once they’ve finished drinking it, Lieutenant Sowerby will have to leave.
In the kitchen, she goes through the by now familiar motions. It’s difficult to keep the tray still as she carries it into the sitting room. Her arms feel taut with nerves. As they sip their tea, she converses with the lieutenant as amicably as she can. From time to time she lets a pause fall and waits for the moment he realizes he has overstayed his welcome. It doesn’t come.
“Pray, what is the time?” she says when she cannot stand it any longer. She has been biting her nail; it’s almost down to the quick.
Lieutenant Sowerby consults his pocket watch. “It’s four forty-five.”
As smoothly as she can, she says, “As you may imagine, without servants, my jobs never end. I must do the washing before nightfall, as well as…” She almost says,cook dinner,but swallows the words, fearing he’ll expect an invitation to dine with her. “Sweep the floor,” she says. “I have most enjoyed your company, sir. Perhaps you should like to visit again soon?”
He goes. At last, he goes. Rising from his chair, Lieutenant Sowerby thanks her for the tea. Belatedly, she realizes he will likely ride the coastal path back, forcing her to take the longer inland route to Roskorwell. “Will you be returning to Saint Keverne directly?” she asks.
“Would that I were. I have business in Manaccan, which shall take up most of the evening. The innkeeper there may turn informer. It’ll be a good day for the Revenue Service if he does.”
“I’m pleased to hear it,” she says, carefully trimming the relief from her tone. “Good day to you, sir.”
“And you, mydearMrs. Henley.”
To her dismay, the same feverish coloring she’s seen before is back in his round face. He says, “If only I could convey to you the depth of my admiration.” Before she can stop him, he reaches for her hand and lifts it to his lips as he did on his first visit. Then he lowers it, but doesn’t let go. His grip is sweaty. “My dear, dear Mrs. Henley,” Lieutenant Sowerby rasps, pulling her closer. “If only you’d give in to the passion which I’m certain you must be feeling.” She raises both hands to his chest and pushes, half expecting him to resist. “Sir! You forget yourself!”
To her relief, he staggers back, the blush intensifying. “I apologize, Mrs. Henley. I did not mean to be so forward; my devotion to you is wholly inspired by your virtue.”
She has barely had time to let out her breath when he pauses on the doorstep and says, “You do realize today is Sunday?”
“I beg your pardon?” She’s thinking of Jack and the ship again. Shemustget to Roskorwell in time.
“The satchel you carried.” He indicates the bundle on the table. “Things bought at the market, you said.”
“Oh…I believeI—”
“Please, do not worry. The days blend together sometimes, don’t they?”
“Yes,” she says gratefully. “They most certainly do.”
The moment the door shuts behind Lieutenant Sowerby’s looming frame she counts to sixty, then opens the door again. It’s still raining hard. Her feet pound the path, mud splatters as high as her waist. The bundle bangs into her back with every flying step. She doesn’t feel the weight of it now. It’s a two-hour walk, but she runs it in one, arriving at Roskorwell minutes after six dripping with rain, her face a furnace, her chest aching with her gasping breath.
Mercifully, the front door is unlocked. She wrenches it open, sprints down the hall, and half steps, half stumbles into Jack’s study. He’s still there, together with Dick and a tubby man sporting a prodigious set of gray whiskers. Her legs go slack with relief when Jack looks up from the chart spread across his desk and says, “Isabel.”
His finger rests on some part of the Atlantic; his tone is one of barely contained irritation. “I’m sure as the wife of a naval officer, you’re aware the tide waits for no one. I’m about to go aboard. Another minute and you would’ve missed the ship.”
“I’m terribly sorry.” The words come out in a splutter, and she leans with both hands on her hips, catching her breath.
“What in God’s name has gotten you into such a state?” His eyes drop back to the chart as if he’s only half interested in her answer.
“Lieutenant Sowerby,” she gasps, leaning against the windowsill.
Jack straightens. “What of him?” He’s carrying his pistol in his belt, as well as a sword, sheathed in black leather. The other two men are armed as well, Dick with a single pistol and the gray-haired manwith what looks like a cutlass, also sheathed. The sight of the weapons makes her dizzy. The men look like pirates, she thinks.
She says, “I encountered him on the way here. He said he was coming to call on me. I had no choice but to return home with him. Once he left, I ran as fast as I could.”
“You did well to run. I wouldn’t have waited.”
“I know.” More calmly, she says, “Lieutenant Sowerby told me several things I believe may be of interest to you.”
Jack looks as if he’s fighting down a smile. “Did he now?”
