LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter Eight

       24th December 1808

      They rounded the southern tip of India and headed across the ocean towards Mozambique as dinner was served on Christmas Eve. The stewards had brought a load of greenery on board from Madras and the Great Cabin and cuddy were lavishly decorated with palm fronds and creepers.

      The ladies cut both red and gold paper into strips to weave amongst it and there were garlands of marigolds that had been kept in the cool of the bilges and were only a little worn and wilted if one looked too close.

      ‘At least that reduces the look of Palm Sunday in church that all those fronds produced,’ Averil observed as they made table decorations to run down the length of the long board.

      The captain had decreed a return to formality and precedence, Dita noticed as the stewards began to set out place cards with careful reference to a seating plan. It meant she would be sitting next to Alistair. She had been avoiding any intimacy ever since their return on board ship, despising herself for cowardice even as she did so.

      She had tried not to be obvious about it: she owed the man her life, after all. But it was torture to be close to him. She wanted to touch him, to have him take her lips again, and yet she knew that the passion he had shown her would have been the same for any woman. It was not much consolation that he appeared to have been avoiding her, too.

      ‘We can put out the presents now,’ Averil said. ‘The place cards will help.’ Dita made herself concentrate on the task at hand. The stewards were having a difficult time of it, trying to lay an elaborate formal setting while ladies ducked and wove between them, heaping up little parcels that slid about with the motion of the ship, but the mood was good natured and, as Miss Whyton said, sorting out the gifts could only add to the jollity.

      Dita juggled her pile of packages, squinting at labels and tweaking ribbons while she tried to avoid thinking about the fact that there was one person she had no gift for. Alistair wouldn’t notice, she tried to tell herself, not with such a pile of parcels in front of him. But she suspected he would. It was not that she wanted to snub him, but she had had no idea what to give him. A trivial token was just that: trivial. She could not insult the man who had saved her life with a trinket. A significant gift—and she was a good enough needlewoman to make a handsome waistcoat from the silks in her trunk if she applied herself—would cause comment.

      There was only one thing and it nagged at the back of her mind until the last teetering pile was stabilised with tightly rolled napkins.

      ‘Just time to get changed,’ Averil said as they all stood back to admire the effect, then Dita followed her to their cabins.

      The jewellery box was locked in her trunk and she lifted it out and set it on the bunk. Emeralds for dinner, she decided, and lifted out the necklace and earrings and set them aside.

      Her hands went back to the box, hesitated, then she lifted out the top tray, then the items below until it appeared to be empty. There was a pin to be pulled, a narrow panel to be pushed and then the secret drawer slid out. In it was a slim oblong package wrapped in tarnished silver paper. The amber velvet ribbon was frayed and the label, Alistair, Happy Birthday with love from Dita XXX, was crumpled.

      It was almost nine years since she had wrapped it up. The stitches might be embarrassingly clumsy—she should check. Certainly it needed rewrapping. Dita hesitated, then lifted out the package, slid it into her reticule just as it was, and reassembled the box before she locked it safely away.

      The cuddy was filling up as she returned and the noise level was rising, helped by bowls of punch and glasses of champagne. The doors had been thrown open to the deck so the sea breezes could mitigate the heat of twenty-one bodies, hot food and scurrying stewards and some of the sailors had been posted on the deck to play fiddles and pipes.

      ‘Lady Perdita.’ Captain Archibald bowed over her hand and handed her wine.

      ‘You look, if I may be so bold, utterly stunning, Lady Perdita.’ Daniel Chatterton appeared at her side, his gaze frankly appreciative as he took in her amber silk gown and the glow of the emeralds. ‘You look so … uncluttered—’ he glanced towards some of the other ladies, weighted down with jewellery and feathers ‘—and that shows off your beauty.’

      There was no denying the pleasure his words gave her. She had deliberately set out to dress her hair without ornament, only one long brown curl brushing her shoulder. The emeralds were simply cut and simply mounted to achieve their effect by their size and quality and her gown shimmered in the light.

      But it was not Daniel Chatterton she had dressed for. It was a satisfying statement of the polished style she had made her own and it was a defiant gesture to Alistair. See what you spurn.

      He was on the opposite side of the cabin, talking to Averil, making her laugh and blush, and Dita allowed herself a moment’s indulgence to admire the dark tailcoat, the tight breeches, immaculate striped stockings, exquisite neckcloth. He would look perfectly at home in a London drawing room, she thought. Then he moved and the play of muscle disturbed the cut of the coat and the look he swept round the crowded room held the alertness of the hunter. He isn’t quite civilised any more, she thought, and found she was running her tongue over dry lips.

      The gong sounded, the patterns shifted and broke up as people went to their places, the chaplain said grace and then went below decks to do the same in the Great Cabin, and Alistair was holding her chair for her. She smiled her thanks and he smiled back. No one looking at them could have imagined that kiss in the rickshaw, she thought. It almost seemed like a dream now. But, of course, he didn’t want her, so there would be nothing in his look to betray him.

      The meal passed in a noise-filled blur. The food was good, but too rich, the wine flowed too freely, Alistair made unexceptional, entertaining small talk, first to her, then to his other partner. Dita nodded and chatted and smiled and plied her fan and drank a second glass of wine and wondered if the room was spinning or whether it was her head.

      Finally the dishes were cleared, fruit was set out, more wine was poured and the captain raised his glass. ‘A toast, my lords and gentlemen, to the ladies who have created this festive table.’

      The men rose and drank, the ladies smiled and bowed and the captain picked up his first present, the signal for them all to begin.

      There were shrieks and laughter and people calling their thanks down the length of the board. It would be impossible, Dita thought, to notice if someone had omitted to give you a present unless you were looking for one gift in particular. The Chattertons waved and mouthed Thank you for the watercolour sketches she had done of them. Averil seemed delighted with the notebook she had covered in padded silk and the captain was most impressed with her drawing of the Bengal Queen’s figurehead.

      Her own collection of gifts was delightful, too. Thoughtful, handmade presents from some people, well intentioned but prosaic ones from others. The Chattertons had given her a pair of beautiful carved sandalwood boxes, Averil a string of hand-painted beads. There was nothing from Alistair.

      Dita carefully folded up the wrapping paper, handed it to a steward

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