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‘Are you mad?’
‘I suffer from no mental malady, Mr Linton.’
Well, if he thought that thing in front of us was going to make it through the Strait of Gibraltar[12] and the entire Mediterranean all the way to Egypt, I wasn’t so sure about that.
The ship - if you could call it that - was large and sleek, granted, but it had ridiculously few masts. We would hardly be able to sail out of the harbour with those. In addition, the entire hull was a gleaming blackish-grey. I was no expert in nautical matters, but to me it looked as if the wood was covered with mould and rotting away.
‘It’ll break apart as soon as we leave the harbour!’ I protested.
If we ever get that far…
‘Hardly.’ Marching up the gangway, Mr Ambrose stretched out an arm and knocked against the side of the ship. Instead of the wet thud I had expected, there came a hard, hollow clank that spoke of anything but rot.
‘Iron?’ I stared at the vessel. ‘The whole ship is coated in iron?’
‘Not coated in iron. Built from iron. Every last part of the hull.’
‘In God’s name, why?’ I laughed. ‘Are you expecting to sail into a war zone?’
‘Yes.’
And with that, he left me standing and strode aboard.
‘You might have mentioned that before baiting me into coming along,’ I informed the empty air where he had been, then grabbed my suitcases and marched up the gangway. Not one of the sailors on deck jumped forward to help me carry them - one disadvantage of wearing trousers.
It’s not a disadvantage! You’re a feminist! You’re supposed to love to carry your own luggage, and laugh haughtily at men who dare to offer to carry it for you!
All true. But that didn’t change the fact that those suitcases really were bloody heavy!
Halfway up the gangway, I stopped and sat them down for a breather. My eyes fell for the first time on the name engraved on the prow of the ship.
Mammon
‘The demon of greed.’ One corner of my mouth twitched. ‘How quaint.’
Rikkard Ambrose was standing at the railing, staring at the water again as if he had a personal grudge against it for being so wet. I marched up to him and prodded him in the ribs.
‘Where is my cabin?’
He threw me a cool look. I sighed.
‘Where is my cabin, Sir?’
If I have one, that is. If he doesn’t expect me to sleep in the sailors’ quarters.
He jutted his thumb towards the door leading down into the belly of the ship. ‘Third door on the left.’
He really had a place for me? I was slightly taken aback. So instead of just going, I, like the dunderhead I am, asked the first question that popped into my mind.
‘If you didn’t think I was coming, why do you have a cabin for me?’
‘I make it a point to always be prepared for the worst.’
Gah! Was it legal to try to strangle a man on a ship? After all, I wasn’t technically on British soil anymore, so the Crown could hardly arrest me for murder!
The ship’s captain, on the other hand, could, and probably would if I assassinated his employer. Besides, if I killed him, how would I get enough money to buy more solid chocolate?
Turning demonstratively to give him a good look at my new peacock waistcoat, I tightened my grip on my cases and marched off towards the ship’s superstructure.[13] Inside, I found my cabin without difficulty, and was actually surprised at how exorbitantly luxuriant it was - for Mr Ambrose’s standards. True, the space was miniscule, there was no furniture to speak of, and to fit into the bunk I had to bend myself like a banana, but there weren’t any holes in the floor, and the walls looked freshly painted. I suppose even a man of Mr Ambrose’s frugality realized that shoddy workmanship could lead to a watery grave at sea.
