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‘Nicholas.’ Cassie tugged his sleeve as he stood in the stern surveying the port of Dover as it receded slowly into the early morning mist. ‘That sailor says that with this breeze we’re only going to be five hours reaching France.’
‘Thank heaven for that,’ he remarked absently, then focused sharply on his charge’s eager face. ‘And what the devil are you about, talking to common sailors?’ Lord, this was a nightmare, having to look out for an innocent at every turn.
Cassie blinked at his vehemence. ‘He’s a very nice man, and his wife lives in Dover with their three small sons and they all want to be sailors, too…’ She broke off and studied his set expression. ‘I know why you’re so mumpish, you’re feeling seasick.’
‘And you, I suppose, are not?’ He could not doubt it, looking at Cassie’s shining eyes and wind-blown hair. She was licking the salt from her lips with relish and the sea breeze had whipped colour into her cheeks.
‘Not in the slightest, I wish we could sail all day.’ She looked closely at him again. ‘If you are feeling unwell, you must not go below. It is too close and full of people being sick. The smell is disgusting.’
‘Thank you for your advice and that entirely unwelcome detail,’ Nicholas said stiffly. ‘There is nothing amiss with me save the effects of trying to sleep in a bed a foot shorter than I am.’ He buttoned his greatcoat firmly to the neck and set off to stride up and down in the small deck space not occupied by roped piles of barrels and boxes destined for the Continent.
Cassandra fell into step beside him. ‘The sailor told me that if I was feeling seasick there was this amazing cure. You need a nice piece of fat bacon, apparently. Then you tie it on a long thread, swallow it down and jiggle the thread up and down.’
Every meal he had eaten since last Wednesday seemed to gather in his throat, begging to go upwards. Pride saved him. He was not going to be observed by Cassie hanging over the rail, casting up his accounts. ‘I will walk, you go and find a sheltered corner and stay out of trouble,’ he said as soon as he trusted himself to speak. She grinned, every inch the cheeky boy, and made for a nook by the main mast leaving him to his lonely dignity.
Cassandra smiled to herself and settled on a barrel in a sheltered corner to watch the sailors coiling the maze of ropes cast off when the ship left port. Well, she had offered to sleep in the truckle bed, so he had only himself to blame.
One of the deckhands stopped beside her. ‘You’re faring better than your master, lad.’ He winked. ‘Having trouble with his breakfast, is he?’
Cassandra felt a prick of guilt at discussing Nicholas with this sailor. She had never seen Nicholas other than in complete command of himself and now it seemed her idol had, if not feet, then one toe of clay. ‘He is perfectly all right,’ she said stiffly.
Her nest among the barrels was snug and yet afforded her an uninterrupted vista of the grey Channel waters widening behind them as England slowly receded into the haze. She had expected the sea to be a great lonely expanse, but it was not. In the brightening morning light, coastal scows paralleled the shore and the fishing fleet was returning to harbour accompanied by a wheeling cloud of gulls clamouring raucously for scraps. And, in elegant contrast, a sleek private yacht, its sails snowy, glided past headed for Newhaven.
She was so absorbed it was some time before she realised Nicholas was standing at her shoulder. ‘Enjoying yourself, brat?’ he asked softly.
‘You startled me.’ Cassandra’s heart thumped unaccountably in her chest, then she glared at him indignantly as he ruffled her hair with a careless hand.
He was smiling, the colour once more back in his cheeks. ‘Aren’t you afraid of all this deep, cold water? I presume you cannot swim? What will you do if you fall in?’
‘You’d save me,’ Cassandra said confidently. Her hero seemed himself once more. ‘Are you feeling better?’
‘Much, it just needed fresh air.’
All too quickly for Cassandra the coast of France filled the horizon, the cliffs dipping down to long sandy beaches. The huddled roofs of the small port of Calais grew steadily closer, then unaccountably the boat hove to and dropped anchor. Nicholas hailed a passing crewman.
‘You there! What’s going on? Why are we not entering harbour?’
‘Can’t, sir. It’s low water. See, boats are coming out already to take you and your baggage off. Cost you a guinea, sir.’
‘A guinea?’ Cassandra’s housewifely instincts revolted. ‘But we’ve already paid to cross, why must we pay again?’
‘Quiet, Cass, don’t draw attention to yourself,’ Nicholas ordered. ‘These rogues have the upper hand. If we want to land on French soil, we must pay French prices.’
They hung over the rail together, watching as the swarm of flat-bottomed rowing boats hove up. They were crewed by men and boys wearing rags no better than beggars, their feet in wooden sabots.
There was a chaotic period while negotiations took place to secure a boat for each party, then they and their luggage were roughly loaded. Cassandra was dangled dizzily over the edge of the packet boat by her wrists before being seized by the men in the craft below and dropped among the bags. She noticed a momentary look of concern on Nicholas’s face as she was manhandled, then relief as the crew seemed to sense nothing amiss.
On the quayside their luggage was seized and carried away by a gang of brawny females, their skirts kilted up to show bare, muscular calves.
Jostled by the crowd, Cassandra struggled to keep an eye on their things. ‘Nich… My lord! Where are they taking the baggage?’
‘The Custom House. Follow me and keep your mouth shut.’
Nicholas strode off in pursuit of their porters, Cassandra scuttling to keep up through the press of touts all shouting the names of various inns.
In the Custom Hall officials searched their bags with an insolence that shocked Cassandra. ‘Why do you not protest?’ she whispered, scandalised as dirty hands rummaged through the fine linen.
‘Quiet, or they will deny us a passport.’
