Page 25 of The Cornish Widow

“Such praise, from a veritable centaur.”

“I like to think I can spot a real rider, and I can see you’re just that.” Her gaze slid past him, out to sea, where a ship could be seen breasting the small waves and heading east along the coast.

Jack would have known the ship anywhere. But then, after a lifetime at sea, he could recognize most ships from further away than they were at this moment, especially the St Ives revenue cutter. But this wasn’t the revenue cutter. No mistaking The Fly, her search for a cargo done, with all five of her sails up as she left Penzance behind. From the way she was breasting the waves, he could tell she had a good load on board, most likely of herring and mackerel stored in barrels, to be delivered as quickly as possible to Plymouth’s markets. She’d be returning to her mooring in Bessie’s Cove via Jersey in the Channel Islands where she’d pick up a cargo of duty-free tobacco. Then she’d return to the cove to pick Jack up and they’d be off to France to trade the baccie for the brandy that was so expensive here in Britain. The itch to be on board The Fly, with the wind in the sails and his hair, and the smell of tarred ropes and the sea in his nostrils, gripped Jack hard.

Harriet spoke without looking at him, her eyes squinting at the glare of the sun on the sea. “Are you as adept with a ship as you are with a horse?”

He gave himself a mental shake, remembering how he didn’t like to be aboard at the same time as a cargo of fish. “I like to think I am. But you’d best ask my Bo’sun, Dan Bussow, that one.”

She cogitated for a moment, her eyes on the neat outline of his ship. “What kind of a ship is that one? It’s such a pretty little thing with all its sails billowing full like that.”

Jack smiled to himself, strangely pleased that she liked his ship. “The Fly. My own ship, commanded right now by my Bo’sun. She’s called a lugger.”

This time she did turn to look at him. “A lugger? A pretty ship with a not-so-pretty name.”

The Flywas raking across the sea, as sleek as the dolphins they often had chasing along beside them. “It’s from the name of her sails. See their shape? Four-cornered with none of the sides parallel.”

She nodded.

“Those’re called lug sails.”

Another nod. “She looks quite small.”

Ignoring the apparent insult to his precious ship, Jack shook his head. “No. For a lugger she’s large. Bow to stern she’s forty-five feet. Add in the spars, and she’s nearer eighty, with a beam of thirteen feet and a draft of seven.”

“I know nothing about ships. What is she for? I mean, what is her purpose? What do you do with her?” She frowned at him as though trying to connect him to the doings on a small ship in Cornwall, and probably coming up with the wrong answer. Hopefully.

“She transports goods—such as the fish others have caught as she’s so swift. And sometimes other goods.” Ha. That was an underestimation of what she carried most frequently. “Like you on a horse. She’s a flyer.”

“Oh.” She gazed again, one hand up to shade her eyes, as though the harder she stared the clearer her vision might become. “What is it about the sea that made you want to own a ship of your own?”

Now she was prying, but for the life of him he couldn’t dislike her questions. He should, because he didn’t want her to know any of this. And yet… the fact that she was showing such an interest pleased him. “I’ve sailed since I was a boy younger than your Theo. The sea’s in my blood. I hear it calling and I can’t resist.”

Her eyes widened. “Like the call of Cornwall?”

Yes. She understood. He nodded. “Just like it. I could no more live elsewhere than I could give up my ship.”

She nodded. “I see.” A little frown furrowed her brow.

Perhaps in her head she couldn’t see him as captain of a carrier, no matter that The Fly was larger than most of the others. He cleared his throat. “I think we’ve had long enough gazing at my ship. Shall we continue?”

They started down the road in a trot, avoiding the many potholes and stony patches, and the small fishing village of Penzance, beyond the Mount, drew closer. He found where the path twisted down onto the beach, and soon Peggy’s and Shadow’s hoof beats were muffled by the soft sand the tide hardly ever touched. The beach stretched out before them towards the village, where all the fleet would at present be out at sea, working.

Shadow pranced under his steady hand, and even the well-mannered Peggy skittered and danced, kicking up sand, eager to stretch her legs. “Best to gallop on the damp sand where it’s easier going for the horses,” Jack said. “But keep her steady to begin with until we’ve crossed the Red River where the sand can be quite soft and deep.”

With the causeway to the Mount and its surrounding rocks behind them, they maintained a steady canter, one behind the other, to where the Red River spilled out over the sand, trotted through its brackish waters, then gave the horses their heads along Long Rock beach, only pulling up when the horses began to flag. Ahead of them, Penzance lay a lot closer now, her stone harbor wall curling out into the sea. To their left the distant waves rolled up the beach, and to the right, beyond the low dunes, the flat river valley spread out green and lush toward the higher, heather-clad inland hills.

Jack swung Shadow around to face back up the beach. “Come. It’s best if we return to the road into Penzance to see your Mrs. Bolitho. It’s only a short distance from here, and I know Causewayhead where you’re aiming for.”

Her face, that had been flushed with the enjoyment of the gallop, blanched, and she visibly stiffened her spine. “Very well.” But she didn’t sound enthusiastic.

What was she so frightened of? Jack knew very little of Mrs. Bolitho, bar the fact that she was a known skinflint just like her late husband had been. Well… perhaps if he’d been going to meet her for the first time, he’d have been as timorous as Harriet appeared to be.