Self-righteous, smug... In truth, their judgement still angered her. They had never been true friends if they rejoiced so in Papa’s downfall. Sometimes, it seemed as if she was angry with the whole world—Papa, his drinking companions and tavern keepers, everyone who pitied or ignored her, or looked down on him. But most of all she was angry with herself for being unable to halt her father’s spiral of self-destruction.
She hadn’t wanted Mr. Durward’s help. She wouldn’t have needed it, having taken the shortcut up the alley which, of course, also served the purpose of hiding them from respectable view. Only, of course, for the first time ever, footpads had tried to rob them.
Why had Mr. Durward followed them down that alley? Should she be angry with him, too? She had no idea if she could have diffused the confrontation with the robbers, who could have stolen the clothes from their backs though very little else. Durward had removed the necessity and had seemed quite happy to shoot the fleeing man. To be responsible for anyone’s death appalled her. But not him, apparently.
And yet he had picked her father up without judgement.“We inebriates have to look after each other,” he had said. But he hadn’t been inebriated. He had been a perfect gentleman.
There is no such thing. He will have had some ulterior motive, even if he didn’t take advantage of it, of me.
It seemed she had washed and changed into her mended nightgown without noticing. She brushed her teeth with the last scraping of tooth powder, blew out the candle and climbed into bed.
Durward’s face swam before her. Young, fair, handsome, his eyes intelligent and yet reckless enough to sparkle in the throes of a fight in which he was badly outnumbered. He had a pistol, ofcourse, which hadn’t been immediately apparent. She had never seen grace amongst violence before. Was that the attraction of prize-fights to gentlemen? She doubted it somehow. Butshehad noticed it.
What was the matter with her? Just because a gentleman had been kind and helpful and happened to be pleasant to the eye... And vital, exciting, like no one else she had ever encountered.
She turned over with unnecessary force and closed her eyes. Tomorrow, it would be all to do again. Without Mr. Durward’s help. She knew in her heart she would never see him again.
Chapter Two
As usually happened, Papa was drawn downstairs by the smell of frying bacon. Sadly, it was the last in the house, so tomorrow morning she would have to find another way to entice him.
She was glad to see him dressed to go out, with his captain’s coat on.
“You are going to the harbour this morning?” she asked brightly.
“I might pick up a few commissions,” he said optimistically.
In fact, he had grown so erratic that he was rarely engaged in advance anymore. He was usually too late for most jobs. But occasionally, he stood in when someone else’s tugboat was in need of repair, or no other pilots were available to guide the large ships into the haven.
“We need the money,” he added, scowling suddenly.
She forbore to remind him that he had got drunk last night on the last of the housekeeping money which he had raided from her purse. She just hoped he didn’t know about the emergency coins hidden in her bedroom.
Not long after he had gone, a groom from Mansel Manor brought her a note from Lady Mansel. Carina read it hastily with mixed feelings. She had begun to dread her visits to the Manor, but the work was undeniably welcome.
She glanced up at the groom, who was already turning away. “I shall be glad to attend Lady Mansel at two.”
He nodded, as if it had never been in doubt. No one refused a summons from her ladyship, certainly not the daughter of a drunken tugboat captain. But surely things were looking up? Lady Mansel would pay her. And with luck, Papa would pick upsomework, might even be distracted from the bottle for a night, for long enough to regret and regroup...
Sadly, he returned before midday, angry because other, more reliable men and boats had been employed before him. And he carried a bottle-shaped brown paper parcel beneath his arm. How the devil had he paid for that?
She sat him down at the dining room table in front of last night’s reheated supper, with a glass of small beer, while she quietly removed the bottle in the vain hope he would forget about it.
There had been many meals like this—Carina making bright, hopeful conversation, walking on eggshells while Papa brooded, his increasingly uncertain temper just waiting for an excuse to explode. Then he would find the bottle. And more congenial company. He would be happy but incapable by the time she found him again.
Papa had just moved restlessly to the parlour, his cup of tea untouched beside him when the knock sounded at the door.
These days it was unusual for anyone to knock at their front door. Only the vicar still called and that very occasionally. Hoping it was him indeed and that he would be able to distract Papa, even for another half hour, Carina hastened to answer it.
Trying not to look too eager, she opened the door. Not the vicar.
Mr. Durward took off his elegant hat.
Dear God, if he had been handsome in the gloom of candlelight, in daylight, he was dazzling. And it was more than his fashionable, perfectly tailored blue coat and pantaloons or the complex knot of his cravat. There were lines from laughteraround his bright eyes, which seemed determined to find and extract every single enjoyment from life, which he surely met head on without fear or hesitation. Something leapt inside her, though she couldn’t identify the feeling—longing, perhaps, or regret. Or simple, shameful desire.
While she stared at him, completely flummoxed, he bowed. “Good day, Miss Jasper. Is the captain at home?”
She stood back, her face burning for no reason she could think of except the memory of her first words to him.“Bugger off.”
