A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(72)

“I am surprised Malcolm is not here putting a stop to this nonsense.”

She shrugged again. “No doubt he has some estate business to attend. Watch now, the bloody idiot is trying to manage the oars.” We turned as one to face the shore.

For several minutes Caspian struggled to get control of the little boat, first rowing in a circle and then slowly towards the mouth of the harbor, the vessel lurching like a drunken man. It was easy to see the change in the sea as soon as the boat passed from the safety of the snug little bay. Instantly the whitecaps foamed over the edge of the gunwale, tossing the craft up and down again as a child will toss a toy in the bathtub. Caspian struggled against it, rowing hard as Helen clung to the side of the boat, one hand clamped to her hat. The boat rose and dove, again and again, making no headway towards the mainland as it faced that implacable sea. The water was grey and the cloud had come on thick and low, obscuring the sun and threatening rain.

“That is all the poor devil needs,” Stoker muttered as he stuffed the last bit of toast into his mouth.

“Will you go?” I asked.

“If I must, but I hope he has sense enough to see himself back,” he replied with maddening calm. It was surprisingly tense, watching the tiny boat strive against the waves.

“He must turn back,” I said, more to myself than to anyone else. I felt a sudden thrust of guilt at not revealing my role in Helen’s obvious reluctance to stay upon the island, but Tiberius gave me a consoling shake of the head as if intuiting my thoughts and indicating it would have done no good to confess.

“Another wave like that, and they’ll both be thrown overboard,” Stoker said, pointing to the swell gathering strength and speed as it bore down hard upon them. We watched in mounting concern as they braced themselves, clinging together as the wave broke over the boat, soaking them both and filling the vessel with water.

Stoker stripped off his coat—stiffly, thanks to the wound in his arm—but before he could make his way down to the shore, we saw Caspian change tack, making hard for the harbor again, rowing with all of his might. Helen pulled at the oars with him, her hat forgot as they toiled together to bring the boat to safety.

“How reassuring,” Tiberius said dryly. “One does like to see filial devotion at work.”

“Shut up,” Stoker said through clenched teeth as Tiberius studied his cuffs. From behind us I heard a sharp intake of breath.

“I will go and order hot baths,” Mrs. Trengrouse said. “They’ll be lucky not to catch pneumonia after this. And not one of you with a proper breakfast yet!”

I had not realized she was there, but I nodded. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Bless you, miss, no.”

Mrs. Trengrouse hurried off. As the little boat drew near the shore, the fishermen dashed out to help heave her in. Helen was in a state of watery dishevelment and Caspian looked no better, the tails of his coat trailing seawater as he stomped across the shingle. The fishermen took it in hand to help Helen and convey the bags up to the castle while Caspian argued fiercely with old Trefusis, who refused to give back his money. In the end, the boy left it, shaking his fist as he took his leave of the elderly man, following the men who escorted his mother and their possessions to safety.

We moved into the dining room for breakfast, feeling a little deflated now that the drama was ended. We picked at the meal while Mrs. Trengrouse bustled in and out with pots of tea and clutches of freshly boiled eggs. Caspian and Helen were sent upstairs for hot baths and in due course they trailed downstairs again for some refreshment. Helen was holding Hecate close to her chest, murmuring endearments and feeding bits of bacon to the outraged cat.

“She is put out with me,” Helen said to no one in particular. “She doesn’t like boats.”

“I know you’ve just nearly died at sea, but do you think you might keep that animal away from the table?” Mertensia asked in withering tones.

Caspian, predictably, jumped to his mother’s defense. “How dare you—”

His mother spoke up, in a sharper voice than I had yet heard her use with her son. “Caspian, that is quite enough. Leave it. And, no, Mertensia,” she finished with a long, level look at her sister-in-law, “I do not think I will keep the animal away from the table. She has been dreadfully upset and needs consoling.”

“Oh, very well,” Mertensia said with ill grace.

But Caspian was not to be placated. He flung his napery aside and strode from the room. Helen fed another piece of bacon to the cat and said nothing. After that everyone drifted from the table, Tiberius back to his correspondence and Mertensia to her stillroom. Helen said she would rest in her room, trailing away with the cat still clutched to her chest.

“I believe ‘resting’ is a delicate euphemism for getting blind drunk,” Stoker said.

“Don’t be horrid. The poor woman has obviously had a fright—for which I am partly responsible,” I reminded him.

He pulled a face but followed me out of the dining room. As we passed one half-opened door, we heard the clash of balls and exchanged a quick glance. A peek inside the room revealed that Caspian had taken refuge in the billiards room, idly knocking the balls around with his stick.

“Ah, thank God!” he exclaimed when we entered, his expression still thunderous. “We can get up a game now. It seemed wrong to go in search of partners, but since you’ve come of your own accord, perhaps you won’t think too badly of me for wanting a bit of diversion.”