Ravenscliffe (60 page)

‘Quite slow, then,’ said Mr Trencham. ‘Slower than Cunard’s vessels. Awfully long journey to Jamaica.’

‘We’re not after the Blue Riband, Mr Trencham.’

‘Happily for you.’ The journalist sniffed and pocketed his notebook, as if he’d seen all there was to offer and was sorely disappointed. Hugh, who had been silent until now,
said: ‘Mr Trencham, our aim is to provide our passengers with a voyage they will wish to prolong, not one that they long to be over. These ships will redefine first class.’ A low buzz of agreement emanated from the crowd, though Mr Trencham didn’t add to it.

‘And how much has the Colonial Office put forward to support the new venture?’ he said. This was an impertinent question, and both Silas and Hugh ignored it, instead steering the pack away from the ballroom where they currently stood and up the magnificent central staircase to the upper deck.

‘Irritating bastard,’ Silas said
sotto voce
to Hugh.

‘Next time he asks a question, just answer it,’ Hugh said. ‘You make it appear we have something to hide. Who cares about knots? Or, for that matter, how pally you might be with Alfred Lyttelton and the Colonial Office. The paying passenger doesn’t. Stop being so evasive.’

Silas took the point, but grudgingly. He rubbed his temple, where a headache threatened. The strain of the past few months had been immense: the
Pegasus
would set sail at the end of September and all the cabins were fully booked. Two weeks later the
Cassiopeia
would leave harbour, and then, two weeks after that, the
Orion
. And yet the Whittam Hotel, when he had left it at the end of his last visit, still lacked shutters at its windows and mosquito screens at its doors. It was highly possible that he might have to accommodate his passengers in the Mountain Springs Hotel, though it would half kill him to have to admit defeat and ask. The Whittam staff, all recruited locally – a prerequisite of the deal with the Colonial Office, otherwise Silas would certainly have recruited in London – persisted in an insolent refusal to appear in any way helpful. They lolled about the hotel as if Silas had built it for their own leisure. That, or they weren’t to be found at all. One could be forgiven for thinking that the cheerful ping of the
brass bell on the reception desk was a signal to the staff to lie low. It was all a source of immense concern. He thought he might yet have to sail ahead of the
Pegasus
to reassure himself.

‘I hear there are difficulties with the hotel.’ This was Mr Trencham again, settling with uncanny accuracy on the least welcome of questions. He was so close that Silas could see the hairs that sprouted unchecked from inside the journalist’s ears.

‘From whom?’ On his other side, Silas heard a hiss of irritation from Hugh, which he ignored.

‘I never reveal my sources, Mr Whittam, but your answer confirms my suspicions. They do say that only the Americans can manage the Jamaicans. Apart from anything else, they’re a sight closer to the island than you are.’

‘Can’t fault your geography, Trencham. But do tell your spy from me that the Whittam Hotel will be a flagship resort, and the Americans are welcome to watch and learn.’

The journalist laughed. He so enjoyed needling Silas Whittam. There was no spy, in fact; but something was troubling the man, and since the ships looked quite remarkably beautiful, he had surmised that the hotel must be the problem. He delved for his notebook and scribbled a few words, glancing up to see Silas rub once more at his temple. Mr Trencham smiled. There was nothing personal in his satisfaction; he had no grievance against Silas Whittam at all. But in his experience, life never ran smoothly for anyone for as long as it had apparently run smoothly for Whittam. Wilberforce Trencham just wanted to be there, notebook in hand, when the great man fell.

The town hall office was festooned with pink roses; the blousy, wanton kind that spilled forth their petals and their
fragrance with wild abandon. Frederick Sidebottom, the registrar, raised an eyebrow at the sight. All very well, he thought, but who’d be sweeping up the mess when today’s comings and goings had knocked petals and leaves all over the floor? Not the bride and groom, that was for sure. Mind you, he thought, the room looked grand, all trussed up with flowers like this. Most of the civil weddings he presided over were drab affairs, a quick in-and-out, ring offered and accepted, register signed and a forced smile for Mr Mainwaring and his box Brownie, then on their way. Today, though, Mrs MacLeod had come first thing with armfuls of blooms and foliage and had spent a good two hours stringing them up on the walls and the backs of the chairs. Then her husband had come in with a trellis affair, a metal arch, which he’d stood at the head of the aisle between the rows of chairs, and then watched as his wife twisted flowers and leaves through that as well. She’d sprayed them all with water so that tiny droplets still hung on them now like morning dew, giving them a freshly picked appearance. They’d taken liberties, strictly speaking, and Mr Sidebottom would have been well within his rights to ask them to take their flowers elsewhere, but although he wasn’t the most romantic of individuals, some small neglected corner of his heart softened at the effect, and he held his peace.

He cast an eye over his desk. Polished to a high shine, with his name nailed to it on a brass plaque. Mr F. J. W. Sidebottom. Many were the times he’d had cause to silently thank his parents – long departed now, of course – for their wisdom and ambition in giving him three fine Christian names, a string of initials to elevate him in his chosen field and confer upon him gravitas and import. Plain Fred Sidebottom couldn’t have ever been a town registrar; Fred Sidebottom would have had to be a coal merchant or a chandler. But Frederick Jeremiah William Sidebottom – now
there was a man who was destined to preside over a register of births, marriages and deaths, the solemn rituals of a town’s population.

He walked to the double doors at the back of the room and flung them open with aplomb. A collection of guests had assembled in the galleried entrance hall, and their animated chatter subsided at the sight of Mr Sidebottom, big-bellied and broad-chested, imposing in a pin-striped three-piece suit. He scanned the gathering and his eyes alighted on the Countess of Netherwood and Lady Henrietta Hoyland, whose presence at the town hall was so remarkable that Mr Sidebottom momentarily forgot himself and stared at them in a foolish, round-eyed manner. The striking of the clock’s bell on the hour brought him to his senses. He took command once more, reordered his features into a dignified half-smile, and without words but with a considerable flourish, he invited them into his inner sanctum.

‘Did you think of asking Eve and Daniel here today?’

Hugh and Silas were still on the
Cassiopeia
, but they were alone now. They reclined like overdressed holidaymakers in two cream canvas deckchairs on the upper level of the ship. On the floor between them stood an open bottle of Dom Perignon which Silas reached for now and, holding it to his mouth, took a copious swig.

‘Indeed I did,’ he said. He belched, handed Hugh the bottle, then leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed. ‘Not only did I think of it, but I also acted upon the thought. Invited Evie, the gardener, Seth, and the girlies. However, they declined.’

He looked rather sorry for himself, Hugh thought: Silas was full of arrogant confidence and pride, but he was also a
younger brother who wanted his sister to see what he’d achieved.

‘Shame,’ Hugh said. He lifted the bottle to his mouth and took a swig too. ‘Another time, perhaps. What kept them away?’

Silas looked at him and grimaced. ‘The wedding of Anna Rabinovich to that dreadful union agitator. What she sees in him I do not know. Mind you, she’s a handful herself. Just as well they marry each other. Spare some other poor devil the fate. Hugh?’

Hugh had stood up, apparently in some agitation, and was now standing at the rail, gripping it hard and staring at the row of warehouses on the dockside.

‘What have I said? Don’t tell me you wanted to go to the wedding.’

Silas laughed, but Hugh, when he turned, looked grave.

‘I proposed to her,’ he said.

Silas gaped at him. ‘To the Russian?’ he said.

‘To Anna, yes.’

There was a silence. Gulls wheeled overhead and threw obscene cries into the empty sky. Silas and Hugh looked at each other, neither of them knowing what to say.

‘I had no idea,’ Silas said at last.

‘No. Neither did I, really. But then I saw her again on that last visit and …’

‘Lucky escape, old chap. She’s a wilful little harpy who thinks far too much of herself.’

‘Stop it.’ Hugh’s voice was harsh. ‘She’s a better person than you and me, that much I know.’

Silas gave a sceptical laugh. Hugh glared. He felt, in this moment, that Silas Whittam might benefit from a good old-fashioned thrashing. He didn’t look like a man who had ever taken a punch, or thrown one; his perfectly regular features had an almost womanly delicacy and Hugh imagined the pale
skin splitting like a peach as his fist drove into the beautiful, mocking face. He turned away again, to keep himself from temptation.

‘I was going to sail back to Kingston,’ Silas said, moving instinctively into safer territory. ‘Soon. Before
Pegasus
leaves harbour. I thought I’d stay until the first guests arrive, just to be sure they get what we’ve promised. But you could go in my place. What do you think?’

‘Fine,’ said Hugh. ‘As you wish.’ He didn’t turn around.

There was very little ceremony in the event, in spite of all the roses. Anna and Amos met with a smile on the town hall steps and waited together until the small collection of friends and family were seated inside. She wore a cream two-piece, which she’d made from a Butterwick’s pattern, adapting the unadventurous cut of the skirt to give it more swish and flair. Amos surprised everyone by appearing in a new, rather well-made suit in dark grey wool, which he wore with a white waistcoat and a navy and white dotted necktie. He carried a soft grey Homburg.

‘Nice,’ Anna said, when she saw him.

‘You expected my old tweeds and a flat cap, didn’t you?’ Amos said. ‘You’re not t’only one with a bit of an eye, you know.’

He took her hand and pressed it to his lips in a moment of silent communication. Then, still holding hands, they went side by side into the room, down the short, carpeted aisle and under the bower of blooms. There, with the utmost simplicity and economy of words, they pledged their love for each other and became man and wife.

A
fterwards, at Ravenscliffe, they all gathered in the September sunshine and ate as if they’d spent the morning in hard labour. The spread consisted entirely of Russian delicacies:
pirozhki
,
blinis
, caviar – which had arrived by train from Fortnum & Mason – potato salad, pickles, smoked fish and borscht, ladled into tiny cups and served with dark, grainy bread. The health, wealth and happiness of the bride and groom were toasted with vodka, poured again and again from bottles that Anna had packed into an ice-filled tub. Mrs Powell-Hughes, knocking back her third, had an uncharacteristic flush to the face and a marvellous, inexplicable sense of wellbeing. She had manipulated the staff rota to give herself a half-day holiday, and to feel part of this merry band of well-wishers was beyond price, as unfamiliar a sensation to her as the particular saltiness of the black fish roe on her tongue or the rush of heat in her throat as the vodka slipped down.