Yes, he was going to pay for this present meal in an attack of wind, but it would be worth it. It was curious that on board a John Company ship the master felt it necessary to emphasize India instead of wanting a change. Yet by the same token in the West Indies everyone seemed to drink the local rum - anyone offering something else like gin was assumed to have bought a few cases cheaply.
Curious ... the thought struck Southwick as he reached for his glass of port that the real curry lovers, the men who became excited at the prospect and then discussed the memory as though recalling a loved one, were almost without exception extremely dull fellows. Was there any relationship between brains and a liking for a particular food? He was just parading people he knew and putting them in categories when he realized someone was speaking to him.
It was Mr Yorke's sister, and she wanted to know if the sherbert had been too sweet for him.
"No, ma'am, it was just right."
"But you hardly ate any; you left most of it on your plate!"
"No discredit to the sherbert, ma'am: I have to admit I've eaten too much of everything - or nearly everything. The meal is a credit to -" he hesitated: could such a beautiful young woman arrange a dinner like this? Would she? Or would Mr Yorke leave all the details to the purser and the cook - to the chef, rather?
She gave him a mischievous smile and Southwick blessed whoever had arranged the seating for having put her next to him. She guessed the reason for Southwick's pause.
"You can give me the credit for choosing the menu. My brother deserves credit for finding the chef - he is a Scotsman who had a French mother."
"A remarkably successful combination, ma'am," Southwick said. "I have never eaten so well afloat before."
She whispered: "Do you think that Captain Ramage has enjoyed the meal? I mean, is it the kind of food he likes, or would he have preferred curry, or anyway spicier food?"
Southwick thought for a moment. This was going to be a long and probably slow voyage, and Mr Ramage would be dining on board the Emerald several times before they reached the Chops of the Channel. It was worth the risk of being tactless.
"Ma'am," he whispered back, "I was praying you wouldn't give him curry or food that's too heavy or spicy. He really hates curry. Leastways," he qualified the remark, "I've never been too sure whether it's really curry or the people that eat it. Anyway, take my word for it, ma'am, he's not one for too much spice."
"He likes more.subtle food?"
"That's just the right description," Southwick assured her.
"'Subtle' - that's just the word. Not that we ever eat anything subtle in one of the King's ships! The galley is just a big copper."
"So you can boil clothes and plum duff, but that's about all!"
Southwick grinned again, running a hand through his mop of white hair. "So you've heard about duff, ma'am. Best thing to fill a hole when you're hungry and warm you up on a cold day!"
"You've served with Captain Ramage a long time?"
"Since he was a young lieutenant given his first command," Southwick said. "You were a little girl then!"
"He's not so old," she said unexpectedly, and Southwick glanced at her in time to see her blush.
"Depends how you measure time," the old master said dryly. "In many ways he's as old as Methuselah."
"And in others?"
Southwick shrugged his shoulders. He was getting into shoal waters in what could be a twisty channel. "In others? Well, he's been at sea in wartime since he was a young lad, so there hasn't been much time for social life or horseplay."
"Just killing Frenchmen?" she teased.
"Yes," Southwick said seriously. "And trying to avoid being killed by them, too. He's been wounded enough times; I've mistaken him for dead - oh, half a dozen times or more."
"The voyage you both made with my brother in that Post Office packet - that was dangerous."
Southwick suddenly realized that Miss Yorke must know a good deal more about Mr Ramage than she had let on, and he knew he was being used to satisfy her curiosity. Well, the captain was a handsome man and attractive to women, and she was one of the most beautiful and lively young women that Southwick had ever met; a mild flirtation with Mr Ramage on this voyage, whether Mr Ramage was married or not. . . Anything, Southwick thought, that took the captain's mind off the fate of Lady Sarah. After all, Mr Ramage had always regarded Mr Yorke as one of his best friends (although they had little chance of seeing each other) and Southwick had been surprised to find that Mr Ramage and the sister had never met before. He found himself speculating about what might have happened if they had met before the Calypso had sailed for Ilha da Trinidade, where Mr Ramage had met Lady Sarah.
"Captain Ramage must miss his new wife," she said, her voice carefully flat.
"Yes. It's a terrible worry for him, not knowing if she's alive or not."
"Alive?" She sounded shocked and he saw her glance across the table at Ramage, who was talking to her brother. "Why, has she been ill?"
Quickly, before the whispered conversation was noticed by the others, Southwick told her about the Brest escape and how Lady Sarah had left for England in the Murex brig, and how Ramage had learned in Barbados that the Murex had never arrived in England.
As the old man told her the story, Alexis realized the depth of his feeling for both Nicholas and this daughter of the Marquis of Rockley. She longed to quiz him about Lady Sarah, but if they continued whispering everyone would notice. Why had Nicholas not mentioned the Murex business when he told them he was married? Had he in fact told Sidney?
So Southwick had "mistaken him for dead" more than half a dozen times. That meant that each time he had been so badly wounded that he was unconscious. There were two small scars on his brow, and a tiny circle of white hair on his head which Sidney said was where there was another wound. How many times, she wondered, could a man be wounded badly enough to be "mistaken for dead" before eventually being wounded so badly that he died - or was killed instantly?
It was curious how (even when he was just sitting there, a hand playing idly with a long-stemmed glass) he seemed to be the centre of the room. Sidney once showed her how a knife blade affected a compass needle, pulling it round by an invisible (and, as far as she was concerned, inexplicable) force and holding it there until the knife was removed. Nicholas seemed to have that effect, and it was not just because he was a handsome man: no, if anything that would tend to make other men jealous, but with Nicholas he seemed to have a magnetic hold. She was not sure, remembering her own comparison of a minute or two earlier, whether he was the compass needle or the knife, but just by being in the room he seemed to dominate it without any of the eccentricities of dress, loud voice, affected accent or manner that some men (lesser men, she realized) adopted to make themselves stand out in a crowded room. No, he had a quiet voice, and a naval uniform reduced everyone to the same fashion. No mustard-yellow waistcoats, gaudy green cravats, absurdly patterned coats ... No extravagant gestures. Then suddenly she realized what it was.
Captain Ramage - Nicholas - was sure of himself. Not cocksure, like so many of the young men who seemed to haunt London's most fashionable drawing rooms; not dogmatic like so many of the older men, especially disappointed politicians. No, Nicholas was just sure of himself. Sure in the social sense - his background and title meant he could mix with whomever he liked without feeling uncertain. Sure in the naval, or professional sense: he was at a very early age (maddening that she could not discover exactly how old) a famous frigate captain. Mr Southwick had given more than a hint that his naval promotion was due to coolness and bravery; the influence of his father, Admiral the Earl of Blazey, may well have been a disadvantage.