A guilt, he realized as he folded the letter carefully, that he need no longer feel. He stared at the polished top of his desk, his eyes following the sweep and curve and twists of the mahogany grain. So by now she could be married, and knowing Italian marriages and the demands of politics, perhaps already carrying another man's child.
He put the letter in a drawer and locked it. He could believe her wish that he would meet a woman he would love. The damnable irony, he reflected sourly, was that he never fell in love with women who were free to love him. Gianna held in the chains of religion and the heavy inheritance of a kingdom; Sarah held by - what? Something represented by a trunkful - two trunksful - of military uniform. Where was her heart? Probably buried in some grave in the plains and hills of Bengal.
If the peace held, he would send in his papers, find some good plain woman of respectable family, marry her and spend the rest of his days in St Kew. There was more pain attached to love than joy, and months at sea gave too much time for black thoughts; of unfaithfulness, of handsome Army officers dancing quadrilles, of - he stood up, grabbed his hat and went up to the quarterdeck, where the sun was bright.
It was particularly bright because the men were taking down the large harbour awning which almost completely shaded the quarterdeck. Soon it would be rolled up and stowed below and the smaller one, heavily roped, rigged in its place.
He looked at the island half encircling the bay. It was so peaceful that the events of the past weeks were impossible to believe - except that his left arm still pained him and his right leg ached, and he could see four or five Marines with cutlasses and pistols exercising some of the privateersmen who clanked across the deck in irons.
Wilkins Peak, Rockley Bay, Garret's, Aitken Bay, Wagstaffe Battery . . . They had all come to the Ilha da Trinidade and had (on paper) changed it. But Trinidade had changed all of them permanently: no one, privateersmen now in irons going to face trial or English aristocrat travelling home in a John Company ship, surveyor employed by the Admiralty Board or artist with a plentiful supply of paints, would ever be the same again. The memories would have changed them in some way.
After taking his noon sights five days later and working them out, Southwick walked over to Ramage, who had been pacing moodily up and down the weather side of the quarterdeck for an hour, and now stood at the rail staring forward at the horizon. Staring, Southwick knew, but not seeing.
'First five hundred miles, sir,' the master said. 'Only another four thousand or so to go and we'll be in the Chops of the Channel. Our latitude is fourteen degrees thirty-nine minutes South and the longitude is twenty-three degrees forty-seven minutes West.'
'That's an average of four knots,' Ramage said sourly. 'At this rate it'll take us more than forty days. Six weeks. That's if we don't spend a couple of weeks slamming about in the Doldrums -'
'Deck there, foremast here...the East Indiaman's making a signal.'
Kenton, the officer of the deck, looked with his telescope and took the sheet listing the flag signals agreed between the Calypso and the Earl of Dodsworth: single flags which represented complete sentences.
'For you, sir,' he told Ramage. 'The captain of our ship invites the other captain to dinner.'
Ramage tried to appear casual. The sea was reasonably smooth, the trade wind clouds matched in orderly procession, the Calypso was up to windward on the Earl of Dodsworth's larboard quarter. He looked at his watch - he would be expected on board about one o'clock for dinner at two. Usually he was not fond of large dinners: taking up a couple of hours and involving too much food and too much wine (and too much talking about extremely boring subjects), they left him with a headache and an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach.
All of which did not matter a damn now because here was his first chance of seeing Sarah since the day before both ships had left Trinidade. Five days, did Southwick say? It could have been five months.
'Acknowledge the signal and accept the invitation,' he told Kenton. 'Then in half an hour I want the ship hove-to a mile ahead of the Earl of Dodsworth while you hoist out a boat to take me across. I'll keep the boat and make a signal when I'm ready to return. You'll see the Earl of Dodsworth heave-to.'
'Aye aye, sir,' Kenton said and saluted. Heaving-to and hoisting out a boat made a welcome break in the boredom of keeping station on a John Company ship day after day ...
Half an hour later Ramage, in his second-best uniform and wearing the obligatory sword, climbed down into the jolly boat, settled himself in the sternsheets as Jackson draped a light tarpaulin to keep the spray from spattering his uniform, and watched the Calypso with interest as she drew away, seeming huge and almost clumsy from what was little more than the height of the wavetops.
The East Indiaman was sailing down on to them and in a few minutes would luff up and back the foretopsail. It would all make a diversion for the jaded passengers who, even now, would be exclaiming over the tiny boat. . .
Two hours, probably three, before he would return to the Calypso. Would he manage to speak to her privately - or, at least, with no one able to hear what was said - during that time? What a stupid position to be in. He wanted to ask the question because he wanted to know the answer. Yet the answer could bring such black misery that the rest of the voyage would be like being transported to a penal settlement in Australia. Some people preferred not to know the worst, but he was too impatient to be able to bear the suspense.
Someone had once said to him: 'Why be unhappy today when you can put it off until tomorrow?' That made sense if the unhappiness came unexpectedly, but waiting until tomorrow to be certain of something you half expected - no!
'Sir,' Jackson was saying and Ramage glanced up, startled to find the bowman about to hook on to the Earl of Dodsworth, whose sides reached up beside the jolly boat like a black cliff.
Two ropes covered in green baize hung down almost to the water, one each side of the battens, and held out clear of the hull by boys. He flung off the tarpaulin, jammed his hat hard on his head, swung his sword behind him and stood up, grasping a rope in each hand as the jolly boat lifted on a swell wave. A moment later he was climbing up the ship's side, conscious that the muscles in his right leg and left arm were still not completely knitted.
Hungerford and the Marquis were at the entryport to greet him. The master was soon apologizing for their slow progress; the Marquis regretting that Ramage had been unable to accept the two previous invitations to dinner.
'Paperwork, sir; I'm trying to get my reports written while things are fresh in my mind,' Ramage lied. It would hardly do to tell him that he had been so miserable he did not want to speak to anyone, least of all Sarah's parents.
A few minutes later he was among the East Indiaman's passengers, smiling, kissing the Marchioness's hand and then Sarah's; making small talk with the woman who had sat on his left at dinner when they presented the painting, reassuring Mrs Donaldson (already a little tipsy) that indeed, the Calypso's men were keeping a sharp lookout for pirates . . .
Then, as if by chance - but he realized the two of them had been circling like fighting cocks to arrange it - he found himself with Sarah, and no one else within a couple of yards.
She wore a pale turquoise dress which had a fine lace overskirt. Her tawny hair caught by the wind and free of pins and clips had strands bleached blonde by the sun; her skin was gold and her eyes, green flecked with gold, were watching him, as though she knew he had something to say to her.