Maiden Voyage E-Book

Vivian Stuart

• Herausgeber: Jentas Ehf
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Historical Romance
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 394

Beschreibung

INTRIGUE. TENSION. LOVE AFFAIRS: In The Historical Romance series, a set of stand-alone novels, Vivian Stuart builds her compelling narratives around the dramatic lives of sea captains, nurses, surgeons, and members of the aristocracy. Stuart takes us back to the societies of the 20th century, drawing on her own experience of places across Australia, India, East Asia, and the Middle East.    Elizabeth Ogilvie sailed on the Maiden Voyage of the S.S Viking with rather mixed feelings. It was not that her job, as assistant purser, was likely to set her any problems; nor was she worried at having to keep secret the fact that she was virtually related to the Chairman of the shipping line, who was also on board — travelling incognito, for reasons of his own. What had been so upsetting for Elizabeth was to discover, at the last moment, that the Captain of the ship was to be Hugh Anson, with whom she had once been in love. But although Elizabeth did not know it, there were others on board with even bigger reasons for treating the Captain with hostility. Altogether it looked like being anything but a peaceful voyage!

Leseprobe

Maiden Voyage

Maiden Voyage

© Vivian Stuart, 1964

© eBook in English: Jentas ehf. 2022

ISBN: 978-9979-64-420-0

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

All contracts and agreements regarding the work, editing, and layout are owned by Jentas ehf.

–––

For my good friend

Clytie Williams of

Adamstown, New South Wales

CHAPTER ONE

I

TO the sound of shouted comments and a loud murmur of approval from the dock workers waiting to begin loading her, the S.S. Viking entered her berth at Southampton and tied up alongside the Mackinlay Anstruther Company’s wharf.

The great white ship, with her single red-painted funnel and towering, gracefully streamlined superstructure, was on the eve of her maiden voyage to Australia. The Viking was the long-awaited addition to the Mackinlay Anstruther Line’s growing fleet, and she was reputed to be an example of the latest and best in British design, as well as one of the most luxurious passenger liners afloat. Built on the Clyde, her trials had been carried out there, so that this was the first sight of her that the Southampton dockers had had, and they were evidently impressed.

Members of the catering crew—stewards and cooks, barmen and mess boys, who had been signed on the previous day and were now queuing up to go on board—listened with pride to the dockers’ admiring shouts. Already, although none of them had yet set foot on board, they felt that the new ship belonged to them, that they themselves were a part of her. They watched, with grinning pleasure, as her Captain brought her smoothly and skilfully into her berth, the sturdy, smoke-grimed tugs, for all their noisy chugging and their belching smoke, seeming to play little part in the complex manoeuvre.

“That’s the Old Man for you!” A senior steward, who had sailed with him before, remarked knowingly, and he gazed upwards in the direction of the glassed-in bridge on which, though not to be seen from the wharf, he knew that Captain Guthrie would be standing. “And there’ll be hell ter pay,” he added, with relish, “if them tugs go and mess up our nice clean paintwork. Raise Cain, the Old Man will . . . you see if he don’t!”

A youngster, signed on for his first voyage, ventured a low-voiced question, and the grizzled steward answered it smilingly.

“The Old Man? Why, he’s the Master, sonny—Captain Archibald Guthrie. He’s the company’s senior Master, that’s why they give him the new ship, see? It’s a reward, like, for services rendered, as you might say.”

“You sailed with him before, mister?” the boy asked.

“You bet I have, lad . . . during the war and after it, when he was Master of the old Vulcan. There’s no finer commander ever drew breath than Captain Guthrie, I’m telling you.”

“Bit of a martinet, though, ain’t he, George?” one of the barmen suggested. “I heard he was.”

“Some folk may think so,” the grey-haired George returned shortly. “But they’d have reason to . . . he don’t stand for no stepping out of line. Well—” a gangway was in place, leading from the wharf to the after part of the ship, and he gestured to it. “That’s for us, lads. Let’s go and look her over, eh?” He led the way and the rest followed, needing no second invitation. They would have just forty-eight hours in which to settle into their new quarters before the passengers were due to arrive, in special trains, from London.

As they approached the gangway, a startlingly pretty fair-haired girl, trim in uniform, looked down from an upper deck. The stewards stared at her and one of them whistled appreciatively, until sternly ordered to watch his step by George. “That’s Miss Ogilvie, the assistant purser,” he warned, “and she don’t take kindly to them sort o’ manners, any more than the Old Man does.”

As the long line of men mounted the gangway at his heels, a chauffeur-driven car crossed the railway tracks and drew up a few yards short of the main gangway amidships. A tall man, in overcoat and bowler, emerged from it to thrust past the crowd of dock workers still lingering at the foot of the gangway. He was met at the head of it by the Captain himself—although few of the watchers on shore recognised him in his dark town suit, for they had seldom seen him out of uniform when his ship docked.

The newcomer extended a hand and said sympathetically, “Good day, Captain Guthrie. This is very bad news, sir, and I’m extremely sorry that it had to come just now. However”—he indicated the waiting car—”as soon as I heard what had happened, from Head Office, I had a car laid on for you, and there it is, at your disposal. There isn’t a great deal of traffic at this time of day, so you should be at the hospital in under an hour.”

“I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Miller,” the Captain acknowledged. He was a big, heavily built man, with a ruddy complexion and alert blue eyes, but he looked tired and his eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep, as if he had endured more than his share of anxiety during the past few days. Glancing over his shoulder to where the Chief Officer, who had accompanied him from the bridge, was standing talking to the pilot, he lowered his voice and went on, “Mr. Duncan will be in command during my absence—unless you have received any instructions to the contrary from Head Office?”

The company’s agent shook his head. “No, Captain, none.”

“Good.” But the Captain’s tone was guarded, the look he exchanged with the agent equally so. Both men knew Chief Officer Duncan’s record and both were aware that the board of directors of the company had twice passed him over for command. “You understand, don’t you, Mr. Miller,” Captain Guthrie said, his bushy white brows meeting in a frown, “that it may be days or even weeks before my wife . . . that is”—he corrected himself hurriedly— “before I shall be able to rejoin this ship? If I’m able to rejoin her.”

“Yes, Captain, Head Office made that quite clear,” the agent replied evenly. “In fact, I spoke to Sir Nigel himself on the phone, less than an hour ago. He told me that you were to be granted compassionate leave as soon as the Viking docked and that this would be extended for however long it might seem necessary.” He hesitated. “Er . . . I understand that Sir Nigel would like you to telephone him from the hospital, after you’ve seen your wife, so that he can talk things over with you.”

Captain Guthrie nodded. “I’ll do that, Mr. Miller,” he promised. “Certainly Sir Nigel is entitled to be told how matters stand. I only hope I’ll be able to tell him something definite—but you know what these doctors are like. You can never get a straight answer out of them, can you? And in a case like this . . .” he sighed, and moved towards the gangway. “They’re doing their best, of course, but—”

“Most doctors seem reluctant to commit themselves,” Mr. Miller agreed. He stood aside to allow the Captain to precede him. The two descended the gangway and then, side by side, started to walk over to the parked car. “I do hope that in Mrs. Guthrie’s case, sir, they will at least be able to reassure you . . .” the younger man began, but broke off when he glimpsed Captain Guthrie’s expression.

“That’s unlikely, I’m afraid, Mr. Miller.”

“Unlikely, Captain? I’m sorry, I thought—”

“My wife is dying,” the Captain said bleakly. His voice was controlled and his face expressionless now; only his eyes held the reflection of his pain as he continued quietly, “When she first went into hospital a fortnight ago, there was every hope that an operation might be successful. Apparently it was not, but she wouldn’t allow them to tell me. She had made up her mind, you see, that I was to command this ship on her maiden voyage. She knew how much it meant to me—I’d talked a lot about it, I suppose, in the thoughtless way one does talk of such things, and she didn’t want to stand in my way. Well . . .” he shrugged resignedly, “the doctors had to ignore her wishes in the end. They decided I’d have to be sent for . . . and thank heaven they did! I shall stay with her, Mr. Miller. I must, even if it means that command of the Viking has to be given to someone else.”

“Yes, Captain, I understand,” Miller assured him. But he wondered, as he said it, whether Sir Nigel Anstruther also understood. If Captain Guthrie had to resign his command, it was improbable that the board of directors would allow Chief Officer Duncan to take the Viking to Australia on her maiden voyage. But who else was available, at such short notice? Captain Prentiss was in Hong Kong, with the Valerian; the Valhalla—commanded by the next in seniority, Captain Davis—had docked in Sydney the previous night. Either could be flown home, it was true, but Prentiss was due shortly for retirement and Davis had never hit it off with the chairman. Which left only Captain Taylor of the Valkyrie, who had just been promoted, and the freightship Masters, the majority of whom were junior to the Vikings Chief Officer.

Although, of course, there was Captain Anson, whose ship was being refitted in Belfast. The agent found himself smiling. Hugh Anson was young—not yet forty—but he had the seniority and the experience. He had had a meteoric career in the company’s service, having come in as a junior officer from the Royal Navy at the end of the war, with Dartmouth training and the undoubted advantage of a particularly well-earned V.C. behind him. He had now had almost two years in command, was possessed of an excellent record and, although his present command was one of the company’s larger cargo ships, he had served his time in passenger liners and had been Captain Guthrie’s Chief Officer in the Vulcan before his promotion. Guthrie was known to think very highly of him and, what was more, Anson was in the country . . . on leave but available.

As if his thoughts had followed the same train as Miller’s, Captain Guthrie said, before stepping into the car, “I’ll speak to Sir Nigel as soon as I can, Mr. Miller. If I’m unable to sail with the Viking the day after tomorrow, they’ll probably feel they’ve got to appoint another Master, and that may present something of a problem. But the Denmark’s in dry dock at Harland & Wolff’s, isn’t she? I believe she was due in Belfast a week ago.”

The Denmark was Captain Anson’s ship . . . Miller slowly inclined his head. “Yes, that’s perfectly correct, Captain Guthrie.”

He was pleased that the older man had come to the same conclusion as himself and his smile widened. Undoubtedly the chairman, faced with this emergency, would seek the opinion of his senior Master as to the appointment of a successor to command the company’s newest and finest ship on her maiden voyage. And, judging by his last remark, Captain Guthrie intended to recommend Hugh Anson if his advice were asked. Well, it was a sound choice, even if necessitated by expediency; as a temporary measure the chairman would probably endorse it. He murmured a few words of sympathy and farewell as Captain Guthrie climbed into the waiting car, slammed the door shut and stood watching it out of sight.

Then, with a hurried glance at his watch, he returned on board the Viking. The purser would have to be warned, if he didn’t already know what to expect; there would have to be some reshuffling of names, for those passengers who would be seated at the Captain’s table at meal times, if Guthrie didn’t sail. The ship’s papers and cargo manifests would have to be altered . . . there would be a great deal to do, and probably it would all have to be done at the last minute because poor Guthrie could not decide anything until he had seen his wife.

As he waited for the purser to be summoned, the company’s agent thought about Mrs. Guthrie. It took courage—and love, of a very special sort—to do what she had tried to do, he decided. Captain Guthrie had been fortunate in his wife, fortunate indeed to have been married to a woman of her calibre for over thirty years . . . even if he was losing her now.

It was then that, quite suddenly out of the blue, he remembered about Hugh Anson’s tragic marriage and drew in his breath sharply. Would it, he wondered, affect his relationship with the passengers, if he should be appointed to temporary command of the Viking? Or had time, the proverbial healer, dulled the bitter memories for him? He doubted whether even Captain Guthrie or Sir Nigel Anstruther could supply the answers to these questions; whether anyone could except, of course, Anson himself. And he had no time to make enquiries now, it was too late. Besides . . .

A voice said his name, coming from behind him. The agent turned, startled, to find himself looking into the cold grey eyes of the Chief Officer, Robert Duncan—the man who, in his own mind, he had passed over for command, just as the company they both served had passed him over.

“Why, good morning, Mr. Duncan. Forgive me . . .” Miller’s surprise was quite genuine, for he had not expected the Chief Officer to seek him out. “I didn’t know you wanted to see me.”

Robert Duncan acknowledged both greeting and apology with a thin, faintly sardonic smile. He was of medium height, a man who carried himself well and, for this reason, appeared taller than he actually was. He was in his late forties, but, with his abundant dark hair and lean, deeply tanned face, did not look his age or anything approaching it. He was said to have a mania for physical fitness and his powers of endurance were, Miller knew, envied by most of the men who had served with him—few of whom, apparently, liked him. According to the company grapevine, he was attractive to women—and himself attracted by them—but he was always extremely discreet. There had never been any trouble with female passengers on his account or, indeed, anything more than gossip to suggest that there might have been . . . and in any case, he was a bachelor.

The agent, studying him now, had often been puzzled by his unpopularity, and he wondered about it as they discussed some minor administrative matter. Duncan was an efficient officer, but the men who served under him— and in particular, the junior deck officers—cordially detested him. His superiors respected his efficiency, yet seldom reported on him favourably without making some reservation, Which detracted from their praise. Yet his only lapse, which had marred an otherwise exemplary record of over thirty years with the Mackinlay Anstruther Line, had occurred towards the end of the war, when the company’s ships had been carrying troops. Miller did not know the details, but had been told that the court of inquiry had found Duncan guilty of negligence, as the result of which a number of lives had been lost.

The court’s findings would be noted on his sheet, of course, in the company’s confidential files, but it was probably the reports from his various commanders, rather than this, which had precluded him from further promotion. His appointment to the Viking was the best the company had to offer for one of his rank and, Miller supposed, he must have been pleased, if not relieved, to have been offered it. Although it was unfortunate in the circumstances that the question of a successor to Captain Guthrie should have arisen quite so soon. If Captain Anson were to be appointed in his place, even temporarily, it was going to be a bitter pill for Robert Duncan to swallow . . . a very bitter pill indeed.

“I imagine,” the Chief Officer said, “that Captain Guthrie put you in the picture, didn’t he? About his wife, I mean?”

His tone was flat and without pity. The agent eyed him reproachfully and then sighed and inclined his head. “He told me that his wife was dying, Mr. Duncan, if that’s what you mean. It must have come as a terrible shock to him when he heard that.”

“Yes, it did. She deliberately kept it from him, I believe, which made the shock more acute when he eventually heard the truth. But . . .” Duncan dismissed this with a shrug, as if it were no concern of his. “Did the Captain tell you that it was likely to be a pretty long-drawn-out business?”

“Yes, he said it might be. But I don’t think he was certain of anything. He can’t be, can he, until he’s seen his wife and had a talk with her doctors?”

“He won’t be back, Mr. Miller,” Robert Duncan stated positively. “Certainly he won’t be back by the time we’re due to sail, you can make up your mind to that. So . . .” his pause was significant, and Miller was uneasily conscious of the cold grey eyes on his face, their gaze intent and searching, as if seeking to read his unvoiced thoughts. He guessed what question was coming and would have evaded it if he could have done so, but Duncan gave him no chance.

“I am in temporary command,” the Chief Officer stated, placing heavy emphasis on the word. “But if Captain Guthrie doesn’t return to the ship within the next fortyeight hours, what’s to be the position, can you tell me?”

“It’s not up to me to decide, Mr. Duncan,” the agent evaded. “As you know, the matter is one for Sir Nigel Anstruther and the board of directors, who—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, man,” Duncan interrupted. “Don’t worry about sparing my feelings. I’m perfectly well aware that my command of the Viking is temporary and that they’ll appoint another Master, if Guthrie has to go. All I’m asking from you is a straight answer to a simple question—who? I have a right to know that, surely?”

He sounded more apprehensive than angry, although his tone was exasperated, and Miller felt sorry for him. It was an unhappy situation for any man to be placed in, but there was nothing he could do about it, nothing he could say which would relieve Duncan’s mind or improve his situation. So he answered, quite truthfully, “I’m sorry, Mr. Duncan, but I can’t tell you because I don’t know any more than you do. As I said, it’s a matter for Sir Nigel ana the board, and I’m not likely to be consulted. Like yourself, I shall be acquainted with the board’s decision, if and when they make a decision—but not before. As soon as I hear anything definite, naturally I’ll let you know—though I expect you’ll hear as soon as I shall. Until we do . . .” he shrugged.

It was as if Robert Duncan had not heard him. The Chief Officer stood frowning, thinking his own thoughts and evidently drawing his own conclusions. After a short silence he said, his voice low and oddly strained, “The board will take Captain Guthrie’s advice—or, at any rate, Sir Nigel Anstruther will. Of course, it depends on who’s available . . . forty-eight hours is pretty short notice. They could fly Captain Prentiss from Hong Kong—that’s always a possibility, isn’t it? Or Davis, from Sydney.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Miller agreed non-committally. He recognised the purser hurrying towards him and thankfully started to excuse himself. He and Purser Edwards were old friends, and at this moment he felt the need for an ally. “Your guess is as good as mine, Mr. Duncan. And now, if there’s nothing else, I . . .”

“Is it?” Duncan challenged, with unexpected bitterness. “Is my guess as good as yours? I doubt it, Mr. Miller—I doubt it very much indeed. However . . .” he spread his slim, well-shaped hands in a gesture of resignation, nodded brusquely to the purser and left them together, striding off down the C Deck alleyway without a backward glance. The purser looked after him with shrewd eyes, but he offered no comment. Instead he crossed the vestibule, unlocked the side door of his office and invited Miller to go in.

“You’d like lunch, wouldn’t you, Tom?” he suggested. “I’ll order it in here, so that we can talk in peace. There look like being one or two problems to settle, don’t there?”

“One or two? That’s something of an understatement, I’m afraid,” the agent told him feelingly. But he smiled. “I should like lunch, thank you . . . I had breakfast rather early, on your Captain’s account, and I could do with it.”

The purser poured two glasses of sherry and then reached for the telephone on his desk. He ordered their meal, replaced the receiver on its rest and turned to face his visitor, the look in his eyes, behind their thick hornrimmed glasses, at once regretful and anxious.

“It’s hard luck on the Old Man, isn’t it?”

“Very hard luck. Especially coming at a time like this.”

“He took it hard, too,” the purser said. “But of course, they’re a devoted couple, he was bound to . . . and she’s an exceptional woman, Alice Guthrie, a wonderful woman. They don’t breed her kind any more.” He sipped glumly at his sherry and then, rousing himself, pushed a box of cigarettes across the desk. “Help yourself, Tom. You do still smoke, don’t you?”

“Well, I’m still trying to give it up, in theory. But I haven’t succeeded.” Miller took the proffered cigarette, accepted a light and inhaled smoke deeply. He added, avoiding the other’s gaze, “I was talking to the Chief Officer about it just now—or rather, he was talking to me. And you know, John, I think his luck is about as hard as anyone’s, in the circumstances, don’t you?”

The purser did not pretend to misunderstand him. “You mean if Captain Guthrie has to stay ashore? Yes, come to think of it, I suppose it is. Although I must confess I can’t find it in my heart to sympathise with him all that much.”

“You don’t like him?”

“Well . . . let’s say we haven’t a lot in common.” The purser, too, lit a cigarette. He smiled, without amusement. “I was with him in the Valerian for nearly three years. He’s a strange, cold sort of character, Duncan . . . doesn’t make many friends and never has. He’s good at his job, naturally, or the board wouldn’t have appointed him to this ship. But I’m being rather dense, aren’t I?” Edwards broke off, his smile fading. “Am I to take it, Tom, from your remark concerning his luck, that we shan’t have him in permanent command if Captain Guthrie does have to stay with his wife?”

“It seems unlikely,” Miller admitted. “Duncan himself doesn’t seem to expect it.”

“Well then . . .” Purser Edwards leaned forward in his chair, his expression suddenly tense and questioning. “Who’ll be appointed? You’ve been in touch with Head Office—have you heard anything?”

“No, not a word. And I don’t know anything, either. Nobody does yet, because it isn’t certain that Captain Guthrie will have to be replaced, is it?”

“The chances are that he’ll have to be. He’s extremely fond of his wife—he won’t leave her, if she needs him. For this ship or any other.”

“I gathered that,” Miller confirmed.

“Then . . .”

“Then . . .” the agent stubbed out his cigarette. He said, as he had said to Chief Officer Duncan a few minutes before, “Your guess is as good as mine, John.” But, aware that John Edwards was completely to be trusted, he added quietly, “I can tell you this much, though . . . Captain Guthrie will almost certainly be consulted about who should replace him. And when I was seeing him off from the wharf a little while ago, he remarked that the Denmark was in dry dock in Belfast—if that conveys anything to you.”

A slow smile of comprehension spread across the purser’s thin, sensitive face. “It conveys the best bit of news I’ve had all day, Tom—believe me. I don’t know Captain Anson well—I’ve met him, of course, but I’ve never served with him. He has a very fine reputation and an excellent record with the company—and he’s on the spot, isn’t he? On leave in Scotland, I believe. Captain Guthrie told me he’d heard from him only the other day.”

“Captain Guthrie thinks a lot of him, I understand?” Miller pursued.

The purser nodded. “Yes, he does—Anson was his Chief Officer in the Vulcan, so he should know. He’s young for a command like this, I suppose, but there’s no doubt at all that he’s exceptionally able. And a V.C . . . . the passengers always go for that, don’t they? Duncan won’t be pleased, though. In fact, he’ll probably resent it bitterly . . . still, if it’s only a temporary appointment, he won’t have much to complain of, will he? I mean, it may only be a few weeks before Captain Guthrie’s able to return to us.”

“I may well be wrong about this, John,” the agent warned. “I’m only guessing. Sir Nigel and the board may have other ideas.”

“Oh, yes, I realise that. It’s to be hoped you’re not, though . . .” the purser opened a file and took from it a printed passenger list and a plan of the first-class diningsaloon, which he spread out on the desk between them. “While we’re waiting for lunch, we might as well glance at this, don’t you think, and make a few provisional notes as to who’s likely to want to sit where? You know how many V.I.P.s we’ve got booked for this trip—it’s going to be a bit of a headache, trying to fit them all in.”

Miller studied the plan with thoughtful concentration. Most of the names on it had been pencilled in, with queries against several of them, but this, he was aware, was only a preliminary draft submitted, as a rule, by the head dining-room steward for the purser’s approval. It was subject to amendment, when the passengers came on board and expressed their individual preferences, which were seldom if ever predictable. Seats at the Captain’s and the various senior officers’ tables were, however, reserved for any passengers of importance who were travelling, and a great deal of care and forethought went into the selection of those invited to occupy them, at the start of each voyage. Miller read through the names which had been suggested for the coveted places and nodded his satisfaction.

“Your head steward’s done a good job on this,” he observed.

“My head steward didn’t do it,” the purser corrected. “He doesn’t join us till today. My assistant was responsible, as it happens.” He laughed, with rueful amusement. “Remember how I ranted and raved when the company first decided to employ women in my department, experimentally? As assistant pursers—or purserettes, as some infernal newspaper christened them? Glorified typists, I said they would be, and prayed I’d never be landed with one. Well, I’ve had to eat my words, Tom, because one of them—but only one of them, mind you—has turned out to be the best A.P. I’ve ever had. Right on top of her job, and not demanding special privileges just because she’s a woman. She did one voyage with me in the Valhalla and I found her indispensable. She did that seating plan.”

“Did she now? Well, I’m impressed.” Miller remembered the girl he had glimpsed, looking down from the boat deck, as he drove on to the wharf. She had been in uniform, he recalled, and one of the crowd of newly joined stewards waiting to go on board had whistled at her . . . which hadn’t surprised him, for even at that distance she had looked extremely attractive. “I believe I saw her,” he said. “She was on deck when I arrived with the car for Captain Guthrie. But I don’t think I’ve come across her before.”

“Then you must meet her,” the purser told him warmly. “She’s a charming girl. Elizabeth Ogilvie . . . she’s Scots, as her name suggests. She came with me from the Valhalla, with a sheaf of glowing reports—and she was with the old Vulcan before that, which may be why you’ve never come across her. The Vulcan was cruising from Leith until they scrapped her, wasn’t she—with Captain Davis as Master?” He rose. “Elizabeth is probably next door now. I’ll ask her to join us and then you can discuss that seating plan with her, if you want to. By the way”—his tone was dry— “don’t be deceived by her appearance, will you, Tom?”

“What do you mean?” Miller began. “I got the impression that she was extraordinarily good-looking, but—”

“She is extraordinarily good-looking. But that’s not the reason why I think so much of her, I promise you. Anyway, I’m a staid old married man and not susceptible any more. A state of affairs which, between ourselves, Tom, I sometimes deplore . . .” Purser Edwards passed a hand over his thinning hair and sighed with mock regret. He opened the door to the outer office. “Are you there, Elizabeth? Oh, splendid . . . come in. The company’s agent is here and I’d like you to meet him.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Edwards.” The voice was cultured and pleasant, with no trace of accent, but it had a lilting quality about it, which added to its charm and betrayed the ancestry of its owner.

The agent got to his feet, instinctively straightening his tie. After John Edwards’s enthusiastic description, he was expecting a great deal, and the young woman who entered in response to her chief’s invitation more than lived up to his expectations . . . if possible, she exceeded them. For she was beautiful, Miller realised, one of the loveliest girls he had set eyes on in many a long day. Undoubtedly, nad she not chosen to go to sea, Elizabeth Ogilvie could have made a very successful career as a fashion model, or even on the stage, as an actress.

She was in uniform, a single thin gold stripe circling each sleeve of her brass-buttoned navy blue jacket which, for all the masculinity of its design, suited her admirably. She was tall and slim and held herself well. Miller liked her red-gold hair and clear, healthily tanned skin, liked the firm handshake she gave him and the smile—friendly but without coquetry—with which she acknowledged Edwards’s introduction. As Edwards had done, he found himself regretting for a moment his advancing years and the fact that he, too, was a staid old married man. But with unobtrusive tact, Elizabeth Ogilvie swiftly banished his regrets and made him feel at ease—she put him in his place, perhaps, but did so in a way that caused him no resentment.

He began to understand why John Edwards held her in such high esteem. She would be splendid with the passengers, for one thing, few of whom, whatever their age or sex, would be able to resist her charm. In addition, she possessed other qualities which fitted her for the responsible post she held and which, as he talked to her, he came gradually to realise. She was intelligent and well informed and she had natural good manners of the kind that could not be taught, for they were the endowment of breeding. Clearly, the agent thought, if there were any other young women of her calibre about, the company would do well to recruit them at once. He wished that he had someone like her in his own busy, under-staffed office, but knew that this was a vain wish . . . girls of Elizabeth Ogilvie’s type were rare.

The purser poured her a glass of sherry and, having refilled the other two glasses, he drew up a chair for her and passed round cigarettes. “I ordered lunch for you up here with us, Elizabeth,” he said, “and we’ve been looking at your seating plan for the first-class saloon. Mr. Miller thinks you’ve made a very good job of it.”

“Do you, Mr. Miller?” Elizabeth Ogilvie turned to him with a quick, relieved smile. “I’m extremely glad to hear that, because it’s been quite a problem and I’ve been working in the dark. In the Valhalla it was easy—I knew all the officers and would have had very little trouble finding passengers with similar interests to sit at their tables. But this is a new ship and we’re still only just beginning to get to know each other. The senior surgeon hasn’t even joined us yet, so I haven’t any idea what he likes to talk about during meals. In the end I tried to play safe, as you probably noticed . . .” she indicated a number of names, some of which were queried. “I’d appreciate your advice on one or two of these, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Miss Constance Chailoner?” the agent enquired, reading over her shoulder, but she shook her head, colouring faintly.

“Well, no. As a matter of fact, I know her personally . . . or knew her, a few years ago. She taught at the school I was at and she’s a delightful person. I only queried her because I wanted to make sure she had a good table, but as she can’t be described as a V.I.P., I was waiting to see where I could fit her in without causing anyone else to feel slighted.” She dismissed the subject of Miss Challoner without offering any more information about her, but Miller, glancing at his passenger list, saw that she was booked to Bombay and the possessor of both an M.A. and a B.Sc. degree. Which, he decided meant that Miss Elizabeth Ogilvie had been educated at a very good school, although she wasn’t anxious to draw attention to the fact. He studied her with renewed interest, wondering about her background . . . good schools were expensive, yet here she was, earning the modest salary of an assistant purser and apparently quite happy to be doing so.

“There’s Sir Harold Brownlow,” Elizabeth Ogilvie suggested tentatively.

“Do you know him too?”

“No—but I know of him. He’s a Harley Street consultant, I believe, so the obvious thing to do would be to seat him at the senior surgeon’s table. Only—”

Miller consulted the plan. He smiled. “Only you put him at the Chief Officer’s table instead?”

“Yes. But now I’m not sure if I should have done.”

Miller’s smile widened. “It’s a very tactful compromise, Miss Ogilvie. The last voyage they made with us, Lady Brownlow complained because they were put at the surgeon’s table and her husband talked shop all the time and never got a chance to relax. I gather there were some heated differences of opinion on medical matters, too— and Sir Harold doesn’t like a mere ship’s surgeon to disagree with him.”

“Yes, that was in the Valerian,” Elizabeth supplied, a hint of suppressed amusement in her grey-green eyes. “And I heard about it, so I’m afraid I cheated a little on that particular compromise and can’t take credit for my tact, Mr. Miller. But there are some of the others I couldn’t cheat with . . .” she pointed to another name at the Chief Officer’s table. They discussed the seating at some length. Lunch was served and they continued to talk as they ate their meal, the purser joining in and Miller volunteering information, gleaned from the passenger list and his booking sheets, as to the background, foibles and relative importance of the people whose names cropped up in the course of their conversation.

“You realise, don’t you,” he said, when they were drinking coffee and again had the table plan and that of the first and tourist-class cabin accommodation spread out in front of them, “that if Captain Guthrie isn’t able to sail with you, there will have to be one or two substitutions at his table, which you’d be as well to allow for now, I think.”

“Do you mean—” Elizabeth Ogilvie regarded him with some dismay. “I’ve heard the rumours that are going around, but . . .” she hesitated, looking at the purser now. “Mr. Edwards, is there really a chance that Captain Guthrie won’t be sailing with us after all?’

“There’s more than a chance that he won’t,” the purser told her gravely. “His wife is very seriously ill, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, I am sorry to hear that,” the girl said quietly. Her sympathy, although so briefly and diffidently expressed, sounded sincere, Tom Miller thought, and he liked her the more for it. “Captain Guthrie will be heartbroken, won’t he,” she went on, “about his wife, and because it must have meant a great deal to him to have been given command of this ship. I suppose . . .” she glanced from one to the other of the two men, her brow furrowed and her expression oddly troubled, “you have no idea of who’s likely to be appointed in his place?”

The purser answered cautiously, “Well, it’s always on the cards that either Captain Prentiss or Captain Davis may be flown home. On the other hand, in view of the time element, someone else might be appointed temporarily. It’s impossible to say at the moment. I’d rather you didn’t mention the matter outside this office, Elizabeth, until we know definitely that Captain Guthrie won’t be coming back to the ship. We don’t want to encourage any wild speculation.”

“Yes, I understand, sir.” Elizabeth accepted her chief’s warning without question, Miller noticed approvingly, even giving him the dutiful “sir” which denoted her recognition that it was also an order. She gestured to the plan of the saloon. “Shall I put this out of the way for the time being? Because there isn’t much we can do about the Captain’s table, is there, until we know for certain who will be in command, and—” the telephone rang at her elbow and she broke off, looking up enquiringly. “Shall I answer it, Mr. Edwards?”

“Yes, if you would, Elizabeth, please.”

She picked up the receiver, acknowledged the call and, after listening for a moment, said crisply, “Yes, Mr. Miller is here . . . I’ll put him on. Mr. Miller . . .” she held out the receiver, rising to allow him to take her chair. “Sir Nigel Anstruther is calling you, from Head Office.”

“Thanks, Miss Ogilvie.” The agent lifted the receiver to his ear and the chairman’s familiar deep, authoritative voice came on the line. “That you, Miller?”

“Yes, sir.” Miller listened to what he had to say, interposing a few polite murmurs of agreement and understanding. Sir Nigel virtually controlled the company; his board of directors seldom questioned his decisions, and since this was an emergency, calling for prompt and decisive action, it was unlikely that any of them would do so now, although in point of fact their formal endorsement had yet to be obtained.

Miller had worked at the head office of the Mackinlay Anstruther Line before becoming the company’s agent in Southampton and he knew Sir Nigel well, knew that he resented having to explain or justify any instructions he issued to his subordinates. So, aware of what was expected of him, he waited until the chairman had finished and then said submissively, “Very well, Sir Nigel, I understand, and you can rely on me to deal with matters this end. Just one point though, sir—am I to inform Chief Officer Duncan at once or wait until I receive your confirmation, following the board meeting?”

“No need to wait for that, Miller.” The chairman’s tone was decisive. “I anticipate no objections to the appointment—it’s being made on Captain Guthrie’s recommendation, after all. By all means inform the Chief Officer and any other officers whom you think ought to be told, including the purser, of course. Remember there isn’t much time . . . the Viking’s due to sail the day after tomorrow. We want no delays.”

“No, Sir Nigel, indeed not.” Sir Nigel bade him a clipped goodbye and the agent replaced the telephone on its rest. He drew a deep breath and his eyes met the purser’s mutely questioning gaze. “Captain Guthrie has asked to be relieved of his command, John—and his request has been granted. His wife’s condition is apparently very grave and the doctors are considering a second operation, so naturally he has decided to remain ashore with her. Which is what we expected, isn’t it?”

Purser Edwards nodded without speaking, his expression still anxious and uncertain, but it relaxed when Miller added, “Head Office has been in touch with Captain Anson in Scotland, and if the board endorses Sir Nigel Anstruther’s decision, he’ll be appointed to command the Viking, The board is meeting this afternoon. Anson’s to catch the night express from Perth and will be in London tomorrow morning. He’ll see Sir Nigel, pick up his uniforms—which are being sent over from Belfast—and he should be here by noon tomorrow.”

“Well, I’m glad, needless to say,” the purser confessed. “Glad that it’s to be Anson . . . though I wish it hadn’t had to happen this way. I gather . . .” he sighed. “I gather that you’re to inform Mr. Duncan?”

“Yes,” the agent answered, echoing his sigh, “I’m to do so at once.” They had both forgotten Elizabeth Ogilvie, who stood, a silent spectator, on the far side of the desk, but glancing up, Miller caught sight of her and smiled in her direction. “Well, we know now, Miss Ogilvie. You heard all that, I imagine?”

“I heard, yes,” she confirmed, her voice low and, to Miller’s surprise, curiously flat, as if she were making an effort to control it. The colour had drained from her cheeks, too, and she looked shocked, as though the news of Anson’s appointment had come as a blow to her. But she simply asked, still in the same flat, expressionless voice, “You mean Captain Anson of the Denmark, don’t you . . . you mean that he’s been given command of this ship, in place of Captain Guthrie?”

“Yes, that’s right, Miss Ogilvie. Do you . . .” Miller bit back the words. He had been about to ask her if she knew Captain Anson personally, but some instinct, stronger than reason, warned him not to ask this particular question— at all events, not in the purser’s presence. He covered his pause by saying instead, “You’ll like Captain Anson, I’m quite sure,” and, almost gratefully, she took him up. “Yes, indeed, Mr. Miller. And I shall be able to finish the seating for the Captain’s table now, shan’t I?”

The awkward moment passed. Elizabeth Ogilvie was smiling, her composure perfectly restored as she reached for the table plan and started to rub out some of the pencilled names. She appeared to be completely at ease, but although her smile persisted, her eyes moved swiftly away from his, as if she feared to betray herself.

Only she was too late, Miller thought, watching her. She had already betrayed herself, so far as he was concerned. The look in her eyes a moment or so ago had answered the question he had so nearly asked, without the need for him to voice it—this, and her stricken pallor when Anson’s name had first been mentioned. Clearly, Hugh Anson had been the last person she had imagined likely to be appointed to command this ship—the thought that he might be evidently hadn’t entered her head. The agent wondered, feeling apprehensive on her behalf and also, to his own astonishment, protective towards her, what had been between this slender, attractive girl and the Viking’s new Master. And then how and in what circumstances they had known each other, because it was obvious that they must at some time have done so, and that there had been something between them. Something bitter and hurtful, he decided, to have made her look as she had looked just then . . .

The purser said, breaking into his troubled thoughts, “You can put your Miss Chailoner at the Captain’s table now, Elizabeth. Captain Anson will appreciate having some slightly younger company there, I imagine, and she’s what . . . about thirty-four or five, I believe you told me, didn’t you?”

“About that, Mr. Edwards,” Elizabeth agreed. She bent over the plan, her face averted, busy with pencil and rubber and apparently absorbed in her task.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” the purser told her. “Because we’ve got work to do, haven’t we, Tom?” He glanced at his watch and sighed. “Rather a lot of work and all of it urgent now, so we might as well make a start by seeing the Chief Officer, I suppose, and . . .” the telephone again interrupted him. With a quick, “It’s all right, don’t bother,” he waved Elizabeth back to her chair and himself picked up the shrilling instrument. “Purser’s office, the purser speaking . . . yes, I’ll hold the line.” Covering the mouthpiece with his hand, he glanced wryly at Miller. “Head Office again, with a message from the chairman. That must have been the shortest board meeting on record!”

“It isn’t due to begin for half an hour, John,” the agent reminded him, “so it can’t be that.”

“Then what the devil can it be? Yes, I’m still holding the line . . . thank you.” The purser was silent for several minutes, listening, and Miller watched his expression change to one of almost ludicrous dismay. But he said at last, with admirable restraint, “Tell Sir Nigel that we have a stateroom on B Deck available, owing to a last-minute cancellation. But that’s all we have . . . both the A and B Deck suites are booked. Oh, I see . . . yes. Well, if you’re quite certain Sir Nigel understands the position, I’ll see to it immediately. And as regards seating in the saloon, I take it he’d prefer to have his own table? He what? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you said . . .” there was a pause and then John Edwards went on, “Yes, that’s quite clear, thank you. I’ll make the necessary arrangements. Goodbye.” He hung up, his hand not quite steady and—unusually for him—swore softly under his breath. “Dear heaven, if that doesn’t beat everything! Elizabeth, you’ll have to alter that seating plan of yours again, I’m afraid. Put in a table for the chairman. A table for six—and he wants you to sit with him.”

His listeners stared at him in stunned disbelief.

“You don’t mean that Sir Nigel Anstruther is sailing with us—” Elizabeth began, and Miller objected, “You can’t mean that! He’s arranged to spend his holiday in the South of France, surely? In Nice . . . or so I understood.”

“He’s cancelled his holiday arrangements,” the purser declared, a note of weary resignation in his voice. “He’s decided instead to join the Viking on her maiden voyage, according to his secretary . . . and in spite of the fact that there isn’t a suite to give him, because we’re fully booked up. He’ll travel with us as far as Colombo and fly home from there. And he wishes to travel incognito—the other passengers are not to be told who he is. Honestly, I don’t know . . .” he shrugged and added, with restrained emotion, “I’m most infernally sorry for Captain Anson, I must say. First he’s recalled from leave, without warning, and told he’s to take over the company’s most senior and responsible command and then—right out of the blue—he’s going to have this sprung on him! The chairman travelling as a passenger . . . and on the ship’s maiden voyage, too, when all kinds of unforeseeable teething troubles are liable to develop. Why, good lord, it’s a prospect that might even have shaken Captain Guthrie. Certainly it’s one that shakes me to the core, I don’t mind telling you.”

There was an uneasy silence. Unexpectedly it was Elizabeth Ogilvie who broke it. She said, with brief bitterness, “I don’t think you need worry about Captain Anson, Mr. Edwards—he’ll rise to the occasion, he always does. He’s very ambitious, you see, and his career is his life. I learnt that much about him when I served with him in the Vulcan.”