Page 33 of The Fortunes of Ashmore Castle

‘Not with this wind. It’s dead foul for the direction we’re going,’ Truman said tersely.

‘You know a lot about boats,’ she said, thinking flattery might unbend him a little.

‘I grew up in Chichester,’ he said – which, as she didn’t know Chichester, was no answer at all.

‘I’ve never been in one before,’ she said. He gave her a look that said plainly, ‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ and she lapsed into silence.

More clouds had blown up, cutting off the sunshine, and the sea was now a grey-green-brown colour that was much less jolly.

The further they went the livelier the water became.

She held on to the seat under her with both hands as a naughty wave went under them and nodded her back and forth; but she could tell that none of the three men with her was in the least concerned, so she concentrated on looking around at the harbour buildings and the other shipping.

Seeing this, the lead oarsman kindly took to pointing out things to her, or at least to naming things he jerked his head towards, since he couldn’t free a hand to point.

A much bigger ship was now coming towards them, one with a smokestack as well as a mast. It looked grim and black and businesslike – no pleasure craft, for sure.

The lead oarsman looked over his shoulder and warned Jed, who said, ‘ Hero . Used to be tender t’th’ gunnery school. Gorn into dockyard reserve now.’

Truman Smith perked up. ‘Oh, I’ve read a bit about her. She was one of the early ironclads. Supposed to be able to ram enemy ships without sustaining any damage, but they never tested the theory. What’s she used for these days?’

‘She bin in anchor trials, sir. Testin’ stockless anchors for the navy.’

‘What’s a stockless anchor?’ Nina asked absently, noticing the waves growing steeper as the ship approached and disturbed the water with its weight and speed.

She had to hold on as they bounced violently up and down.

She smelt the bitter reek of smoke, saw the dash past of the iron sides, saw men up on the ship’s bridge, felt the beat of its engine.

She was thrown vertically by one especially wild bounce, breaking her grip on the plank seat.

Both oarsmen were looking over their shoulders now, gauging the movement of the waves and their response to it.

She looked over her own shoulder to check that Trump was all right.

He wasn’t there.

She ducked her head to look under the seats, thinking he’d taken shelter; twisted and peered more frantically, then clutched at Truman’s hand and cried, ‘My dog! My dog’s gone! He must have gone overboard!’ Truman repeated her actions. She cried to the oarsman, ‘Stop! Oh, stop! We must go back!’

They were doing something to the oars, which meant they were not going forward any more, but holding more or less in one spot. The black steamship with her yellow superstructure and belching chimney churned on indifferently. Jed looked at Truman for instructions.

‘Turn around!’ Nina cried. ‘Turn around! We must go back!’

‘Pull starboard, Jed,’ said the lead oarsman, and the boat began baulkily to turn.

Nina tried to stand up, the better to scan the water, but the boat rocked wildly and Jed made an inarticulate protest. Truman caught her wrist and pulled her back. ‘Steady, you’ll go over. Sit down. We’re going back.’

Nina woke in the middle of the night to a feeling of heaviness and shock, and after an instant of blessed amnesia she remembered. The same image came to her that she had fallen asleep with, of her little dog struggling madly in the water.

The image came from her imagination only.

There had been no sign of him. They had rowed up and down for almost an hour, long after it was clear the oarsmen thought it was pointless.

Back on shore, Truman had parted with coins and handed out business cards to every boatman and idler on the wharf to look out for the dog, and to pass the word around, in case he was picked up or managed to swim to shore.

Later, Mr Cowling had sent him out again to report the loss at the police station and to the harbour master, promising a reward for the dog’s return, or for news.

Everything had been done that could be done.

But Nina had heard Truman say to Cowling that the dog was probably overwhelmed by the churn as the steamship passed and would have drowned right away.

Was it better to think that he died instantly than that he had struggled on, trying to find her, a tiny white head above the water in the vastness of the great harbour, until exhaustion overcame him?

Probably. But dead was dead. Her little dog!

Grief was compounded with guilt. She should have looked after him.

She should not have taken him on the boat. She was to blame. It was bitter.

She had not cried – she would not allow herself to do so.

Truman had not said so, but she believed he was thinking she should never have gone out on the boat in the first place, and certainly not have taken the dog with her.

So she would not give him the satisfaction of dissolving like a weak and foolish woman.

She held herself rigid, and buried everything deep inside.

Everything you loved was taken away from you. It was better not to love anything or anyone: it only ended in heartbreak.

She heard by the change of his breathing that Mr Cowling had awoken.

He had tried to comfort her when they went to bed, tried to put his arms round her, but she had moved away from him to the very edge of the bed, hunched her shoulder against any touch of his.

Now she lay rigid, so that he would not know she was awake and try to touch her again.

Her grief was hers, not his; he would not understand it; and she would not let him have any part of it.

Cowling lay desolate in the darkness. What could he do to comfort her?

He had said Trump probably didn’t suffer.

He had said he’d buy her another dog. But she had cried passionately that she didn’t want another.

It tore his heart to see her mute, white face.

It was only a dog; but he knew it was more than that to her.

It was the only thing she loved. She ought to have had a baby – that would have been the right and natural outlet for her emotions.

He longed with every fibre of his being to give her a child, and could not.

In business he was a powerful, respected man, he was shrewd, capable, he created, he built, he achieved.

But in his personal life he was helpless.

What use all his wealth? He had taken this precious girl from her home, taken her into his keeping, with the unspoken contract that he would take care of her.

But he could not make her happy. He could not even keep her from the ordinary pains of life.

The next morning he looked at her across the breakfast table, heavy-eyed, listless, and said, ‘Do you want to go home?’ She thought about it, but shook her head.

‘London, then?’ he said. He saw that London appealed more than Market Harborough in her present state, and elaborated.

‘Now the Season’s started there’ll be plenty to do.

You could visit your aunt. I expect your friend Kitty will come up at some point. ’

‘But what about you?’ she said. ‘Don’t you have business to finish here?’

‘I need a couple more days. But you could go up today and settle in and I could join you. I need to go up anyway, to see how young Tullamore’s doing.’

‘I don’t have the right clothes with me,’ she said doubtfully, but willing to be persuaded.

‘Tina can pack everything and meet you in London.’ She hadn’t brought her maid with her to Portsmouth. ‘I’ll send a telegram. Moxton can pack for me and go up with her. And I’ll send one to Berkeley Square, to open the house up ready for you. Truman can take you up on the train.’

‘You needn’t send him with me. I can travel on my own.’

‘Without even a maid? Certainly not. I can do without him for another day – he can be back here by teatime. Would you like that, then?’ He gazed at her yearningly. ‘I just want you to be happy.’

She blenched as the word ‘happy’ brought up again the thought of Trump struggling in the water, and she forced her mind to reject it. She made herself smile for him. A feeble effort, but all she could manage just then. ‘I know you do. You’re very good to me.’

For once the reassurance didn’t work. ‘I try,’ he said sadly.