I said, rising: “You have been most kind. We must go. It only remains to say thank you for being so good to strangers.”

I sensed Stirling’s annoyance with me. He wanted to stay; he seemed to have no idea that we were intruding on their privacy, or if he had he did not care. But I was determined.

Minta smiled at Lucie who immediately rose to conduct us to the gates.

“I do apologize for intruding on your tea-party,” I said.

“It was quite a diversion,” replied Lucie. There was that in her manner which I found disconcerting. She was aloof, yet somehow vulnerable. She seemed over-anxious to maintain a dignity which was perhaps due to the fact that she was a poor relation.

“Miss Minta is charming,” I said.

“I’ll endorse that,” added Stirling.

“She is a delightful person,” agreed Lucie.

“And I am grateful to you for bandaging my hand, Miss …”

“Maryan,” she supplied.

“Lucie Maryan.”

“A poor relation certainly,” I thought.

Stirling, who, I was to discover, snapped his fingers at the conventional rules of polite society, asked bluntly, “Are you a relation of the Cardews?”

She hesitated and for a moment I thought she was going to reprove him for his inquisitiveness. Then she said: “I am nurse-companion to Lady Cardew.”

And then we had reached the gate.

“I trust,” she said coldly, ‘that the hand soon heals. Goodbye. “

When we had passed through the iron gates Lucie shut them firmly behind us. We walked in silence for a few moments then Stirling laughed.

“Quite an adventure,” I said.

“Well, you certainly wanted to know what was going on behind that wall.”

“And so it seems did you.”

“It’s a pretty scarf. We should both be grateful to it. It was our ticket of entrance, you might say.”

“It’s an odd household.”

“Odd! How do you mean … odd?”

“On the surface there are the mother and daughter and nurse-companion.

Very ordinary probably. But I felt there was something different there. The mother was quiet. I believe she was half asleep most of the time. “

“Well, she’s an invalid.”

We were both silent after that. I glanced sideways at him and I knew he shared my mood. We were both bemused in some strange way.

I said, “Do you know, when I stepped through that gate I felt as though I had walked into a new world … something quite different from anything I had known before. I felt that something tremendously dramatic was happening and because it was all so quiet and in a way ordinary that made it rather sinister.”

Stirling laughed. He was definitely not the fanciful type. It was no use trying to explain my feelings to him. Yet I did feel that I knew him better since this adventure in Whiteladies. I had forgotten that this time yesterday I was not aware of his existence. And for the first time since my father had died I felt excited—it was all the more intriguing because I was not quite sure why.

The next morning we left the Falcon Inn for London and the day after that we boarded the Carron Star at Tilbury.

My journey to the other side of the world had begun.

Two

I quickly realized that life on the Carron Star was going to be a little spartan, even though we travelled first class. I shared a cabin with a young clergyman’s daughter who was going to Melbourne to be married. She was both elated and apprehensive; her fiance had left England two years before to make a home for her in the New World and now had a small property there. She was worried about her trunks of clothes and the linen she was taking out.

“One has to be prepared,” she told me. Fortunately she wanted to talk about herself so much that she did not ask questions about me, for which I was glad.

She told me that the fare was 50 and I felt a glow of satisfaction because my new guardian was paying so much to have me conveyed to him.

We were lucky, she explained, in the first class, because passengers in the other two classes must bring their own cutlery, drinking mugs, cups and saucers, besides a water bottle. Her fiance had been most insistent that she travel first class. It was really a great adventure for a young girl to travel across the world by herself; but her aunt had seen her safely aboard and her fiance would be waiting to greet her. She wanted me to know that she was a very cherished young lady with her trunks of clothes and fine linen.

She did ask if I were travelling alone, so I told her I was with my guardian. She opened her eyes very wide when she saw Stirling who, she commented, seemed somewhat young for the role of guardian; and I am sure she thought there was something very odd about me from that moment.

In the dining-room I sat with Stirling. At first most people thought we were brother and sister, and when it became known that I was his ward there was some raising of eyebrows, but the wonder of this soon passed. The weather was rough to begin with and that meant that many were confined to their cabins; and when they emerged the unconventionality of our position seemed to have been accepted by most.

During the gale Stirling and I sat on deck and he talked to me about Australia. Lynx was never long out of the conversation and I was more impatient to see him than I was to see the new country. Every day seemed to bring me closer to Stirling. I began to understand him. His manner could be brusque, but this did not mean that he was angry or indifferent; he prided himself on his frankness and if he was blunt with me he expected me to be the same with him. He despised artificiality in any form. I learned this through his attitude to our fellow passengers. I thought often of those people whom we had met at Whiteladies and it seemed to me that Stirling was the complete antithesis of Franklyn Wakefield as I was to Minta. It was strange that these people whom I had seen so briefly should have impressed themselves so much on my mind that I compared them with everyone I met.

Life at sea might have been monotonous to some passengers who longed for their journey’s end; not to me. I was interested in everything and most of all in Stirling. He undoubtedly chafed over the tediousness and was longing to be home. We breakfasted about nine and dined at twelve; and between that time Stirling and I would pace the decks for exercise while most people wrote their letters home so that they could be dispatched at the next port of call. But I had no one to write to—except a note to poor Mary. I often thought of her in the dreary attic, confined to life at Danesworth House and was sorry for her.

I remember sitting on deck with Stirling when most of the people were confined to their cabins because of the weather and feeling pleased because he admired me for being a good sailor. He was apt to be impatient with people’s failings, I had learned. I wondered how I should match up to his expectations. I gathered that he spent a good deal of time on horseback. My father had taught me to ride when were in the country, but I imagined that hacking through the English country lanes might be different from galloping across the bush.

I mentioned this to Stirling and he hastened to reassure me.

“You’ll be all right,” he told me.

“I’ll find a horse for you. A gentleman of a horse at first, with as fine manners as that Mr. Wakefield you were so taken with. And after that ” A manly horse I suggested.

“As manly as Stirling Herrick.”

We laughed a great deal together. We argued, because there were so many things about which we did not agree. Stirling was often at variance with our fellow passengers; he would allow himself to be drawn into discussions with them and during these never minced his words. He was not very popular with some of the pompous gentlemen, but I noticed that many of the women had a ready smile for him.

Later I realized how good this voyage was for me. It took me completely away from those wretched months when I had first waited anxiously for news of my father and then staggered under the terrible blow when it came.

The pattern of life on board was breakfast in the saloon, the long mornings, luncheon at twelve, the slow afternoons, dinner at four for which passengers put on their more elaborate clothes and during which the band played light music, and then strolling about the decks until tea at seven.

We went ashore at Gibraltar and spent a pleasant morning there. It was wonderful to ride in a carriage with Stirling and see the sights of the place: the shops, the apes, and the rock itself.

“Sometimes,” I said, “I wish this trip could go on for ever.”

Stirling grimaced.

“Suppose we missed the ship,” I suggested.

“Suppose we built a ship of our own and went on sailing round the world wherever the fancy took us.”

“What crazy things you think of!” He was derisive. How different from my father who would have gone on with the wild, impossible story of how we built our ship and the exotic places we sailed to.

“I remember him,” he said.

“He would talk in the most fantastic way, pretending that what he knew was impossible would happen..”

“It was a lovely way to live.”

“It was crazy. What sense is there in pretending something will happen when you know it won’t?”

I would not allow any criticism of my father.

“It made life gay and exciting,” I protested.

“It was false. I think it’s a waste of time to pretend you believe in the impossible.”

“You are very matter-of-fact and … Dull?” I was silent and he urged: “Come on. Tell the truth.”

“I like to think wonderful things can happen.”

“Even when you know they can’t?”

“Who says they can’t?”

“Like coming ashore for a few hours and building a ship and sailing off round the world without a navigator, a captain or a pilot, taking no account of harbour dues and navigation. You’ll have to grow up, Nora, when you’re in Australia,” I was annoyed, seeing in this an attack on my father.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have come.”

“It’s too early to comment on that.”

If you’re going to think I’m childish . “

We certainly shall if you indulge in childish fantasy as—’ “As my father did. Did you think him childish?”

“We thought him not very practical. His end showed that, didn’t it? If he had handed over the gold he would be alive today. What sense is there in deluding yourself into thinking that you can hold something and giving your life to prove you’re wrong? “

I was hurt and angry and yet not able to discuss my father logically.

I grew silent and was angry with Stirling for spoiling a perfect day.

But this was typical of my relationship with him. He made no concessions to polite conversation; he stated what he believed and nothing would make him diverge from it.

I knew that what he said was right but I could not bear that my father should be subjected to censure.

Although at times I disliked his overbearance, when he showed—as he often did—that he was taking care of me, I felt a warm, comfortable emotion.

The weather had grown warm and I loved the tropical evenings. After the seven o’clock meal he would sit on deck and talk. Those were the occasions to which I most looked forward, even more than the sunlit days when we would walk up and down the deck or lean over the rail and he would point out a frolicking porpoise or a flying fish.

One evening as we sat on deck looking out into the warm darkness of the tropical waters I said to Stirling.

“What if Lynx doesn’t like me?”

“He’d still look after you. He’s given his word ” He sounds difficult to please. “

Stirling nodded. This was true. Lynx might be all-powerful but he was not always benevolent.

“He sounds like one of the Roman gods whom people were always placating.”

Stirling grinned at the comparison.

“People do try to please him naturally,” he said.

“And if they don’t?”

“He lets them know.”

“Sometimes I think I should have done better to stay at Danesworth House.”

“You’ll have to learn to be truthful if you want to please Lynx.”

“I’m not sure that I want to. I should hate to be his meek little slave.”

“You wait and see. You’ll want to please him. Everybody does.”

“You’re brutally frank about my father. Why shouldn’t I be about yours?”