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You are, she thought, looking up at him.
‘And you are not pretty, which is very fleeting and usually turns to a sad disappointment in middle age—no, Hebe, you are something far better, and much more dangerous.’
It was strangely difficult to breathe. ‘What…what am I?’
Alex released her hand and brought up both his to cup her face. His fingers traced lightly across her cheekbones and she dropped her gaze in confusion, not realising that her lashes brushed his fingertips. ‘You are enchanting.’
‘Enchanting?’ Her eyes opened wide and she stared into his face in amazement. ‘Enchanting? Me?’
He released her and turned to lift her basket on to the quayside. ‘Surely you have been told that before?’
‘No, I have not been told that before, but then, I do not flirt, Major.’ Hebe stepped carefully over a tangle of net on the bottom boards, wondering if her shaky legs were going to support her as far as solid land.
‘Yes, I remember you saying so. But I am not trying to flirt with you.’ He caught her hand. ‘If you just step here on the side, and then put your other hand on the edge there. Just so…’
Hebe found herself standing on the harbour wall looking down into the boat and into Alex’s upturned face. ‘Thank you for taking me sailing,’ she managed to say. ‘I hope I have not delayed you too long from your duties.’
He smiled at her. ‘Not at all, it was a pleasure. Could you just throw down the rope again and I will be off. And I will take your advice.’
‘What advice?’ Hebe paused with the loop of coarse rope in her hand. She was very aware of the rough prickle of hemp: she seemed almost painfully aware of everything around her.
‘To take my shaving tackle with me when I am away for more than one night. Has anyone ever told you that you are very observant, Hebe?’
‘Observant? Oh, yes,’ she said with a sudden, genuine, laugh. ‘They tell me that all the time, only Mama calls it unladylike curiosity. Goodbye, Alex.’
‘Goodbye, Circe.’
She picked up her basket and turned to walk up towards the sally port through the thick walls, her mind a jumble of impressions and sensations. She did not look back until she was into the shadow cast by the arch of the gate, and when she did the boat was already well out into the bay, heading back round the point on its return to the Grand Harbour.
Her feet found their own way home up the steep street. Apparently she must have crossed lanes safely, avoided the laden donkeys and the porters with vast bundles held by straps around their foreheads, who thrust their way along wide avenue and narrow alley with equal unconcern for everyone else. Hebe arrived on the doorstep, absently acknowledged the greeting of the maid who took the basket from her, and hurried upstairs.
With her bedroom door safely closed she threw off her straw hat and sat down at the dressing table. The mirror reflected back the same Hebe who had left that morning, the plain mouse with the friendly smile.
Or did it? She leaned closer. Alex Beresford had seen something else—somebody else. Someone enchanting. Dangerous.
‘Enchanting.’ She said it out loud. Was he teasing her? Flirting with her? But he said he was not, and she was inclined to trust him. What had he seen then? Boring brown hair bundled into a net, revealing none of its exuberance. Grey eyes with long lashes. Hebe frowned, not seeing the sparkle that others saw when she laughed. Cheekbones rather too wide. The memory of Alex’s fingers tracing along them made her shiver. Nose: Hebe wrinkled it at her reflection. Nose, very ordinary, with freckles, despite Mama’s best efforts with lemon juice. Mouth: too wide, although her teeth were even and white, which was a good point.
No, nothing there to justify enchanting. Perhaps he meant that she had a nice personality. That was what everyone said who wanted to be nice to girls who were plump, or too tall or just plain like her. What a lovely personality dear Hebe has… And what a pity she is so ordinary.
Hebe in the mirror frowned back at the real Hebe. But still, he had called her…
‘Mama.’ Hebe ran out onto the landing. ‘Are you still in your chamber, Mama? Who was Circe?’
Chapter Four
‘Circe?’ Mrs Carlton regarded her stepdaughter with mild astonishment as she burst through the door of her chamber. ‘Do not rush about so dear, it is most unladylike. Now, did you say Circe? A nymph, was she not, or was she that girl who was turned into a bulrush? Goodness, I do not know.’ She put down the hairbrush with which she was attempting, with Maria’s aid, to copy the intricate coiffure on a model in the fashion journal propped up against the mirror.
‘There was a book of Greek myths somewhere in your papa’s study, dear, but I have not seen it for months. But why do you want to know?’ she called as Hebe whisked out of the door again. ‘Oh, I do hope you are not becoming bookish, my dear.’ But her stepdaughter had vanished.
After a dusty rummage through the books piled on the study shelf, Hebe found the volume at last and began to skim through it, for once not sidetracked by Minotaurs, men trying to fly or Zeus’s amorous endeavours.
Eventually she found her quarry in the chapters devoted to Odysseus and his wanderings. ‘Circe,’ she read out loud, perched on the edge of the desk. ‘Daughter of Helios, the sun god, and Perse, a sea nymph… An enchantress, mistress of the island of Aeaea, who had the power to turn men into wolves, lions or swine.’ She broke off, frowning at the book. That did not sound a very desirable comparison: Circe appeared to be more of a witch than anything else. ‘She turned all of Odysseus’s crew into swine, but he forced her to turn them back and he stayed on her island with her for one year before continuing his voyage.’
So, Alex compared her to an enchantress and one who had had such power over the great hero that he had remained on her island for an entire year. Was the Major saying that she was enchanting him into staying on her island of Malta?
But that was ridiculous, for he was not his own master in this, but must go where the army commanded. She was still musing on the conundrum when Sara Carlton appeared in the door, having apparently given up the struggle with the new hair style, for her blonde curls were simply knotted on top of her head. ‘Did you find what you were looking for, Hebe? Oh, mind that dusty book on your skirts; why, you are the most harum-scarum girl sometimes!’
‘Sorry, Mama. Yes, Circe was an enchantress.’ Hebe put down the book of myths and hopped off the desk. ‘I found some excellent fish for dinner,’ she added, following Sara into the passage.
