Free Easton's Gold by Paul Butler Page A

words suggest themselves.
What can he mean?
    A timber groans and there follows a woodpecker-like tapping as the boat sways.
    â€œBut anyway,” he says, turning his hat another half revolution and staring down at his feet. “It is my pleasure to invite you to dine at my table tonight.”
    Gabrielle’s throat tightens, but she manages to smile and give a short nod.
Why would the captain want to have a passenger’s servant at his table
?
    â€œI will send the bursar in five minutes to escort you.”
    â€œThank you, Captain,” Gabrielle says hoarsely.
    __________
    F LEET STANDS BACK A FEW paces as Easton raps on the door. There is an answer of sorts, more of a cough than a “come,” but Easton enters and Fleet follows. The cabin is only twice the size of his own, but the furniture is finely wrought—an oval table of some fine dark wood with four elegantly prepared places; a side table with jugs and silver serving bowls; a mantle shelf with polished or painted sea shells; a pair of deep red curtains between two spiral-patterned oak posts, concealing, no doubt, the captain’s bunk.
    The captain himself stands oddly erect and pink-faced by the dinner table. His hands seem to fidget behind his back. At first Fleet thinks it must be bad news, that the ship has sprung a leak and he is about to tell them. But then he steps forward and extends his hand to the Marquis.
    â€œMy dear lord, welcome to my table.”
    Easton takes his hand and gives a short bow.
    â€œI thank you, Captain Henley, for your hospitality. May I present Mr. Fleet, my apothecary.”
    Fleet steps forward and accepts the hand proffered to him. The formality of the situation has taken him by surprise, and he is further thrown by the curious dampness of the captain’s palm.
    â€œWelcome to my ship, sir,” the captain says. “The Marquis’s accounts of your cures have already reached my ears. I am privileged indeed to have you at my table.”
    Fleet is lost for words and decides to bow modestly and take a step backwards.
    The ship sways a little, and a mast creaks. The three men stand close to each other in a triangle. Fleet surreptitiously wipes his palm dry on the back of his breeches.
    â€œWe are awaiting your lady guest, I take it?” says Easton.
    â€œIndeed, my lord,” replies the captain, gazing at his shoes and sighing.
    No one speaks further, and Fleet notices the captain’s forehead is damp with sweat.
    Presently footsteps approach from beyond the door. The captain coughs and clears his throat. There is a short rap and the door opens.
    The bursar, Sykes, stands aside in the doorway, and Gabrielle enters. Her eyes flit from Easton to Fleet then to the captain.
    â€œWelcome, dear lady,” booms Henley. His face is overtaken by a jovial smile that somehow doesn’t suit his features. He bundles past Fleet and Easton and holds out his hand.
    Gabrielle seems to wince at his words but returns the captain’s smile and puts her own hand into his. As the captain presses her fingers, Gabrielle gazes at Easton, her expression helpless. But Easton merely smiles and turns to look through the darkening porthole.
    Keeping hold of her hand, the captain leads Gabrielle to a place on the far side of the table, closest to the cabin wall. Gabrielle takes her place very quickly, grateful, it seems, to be released from Henley’s grip. The captain gestures Easton to his place at the foot of the table, and Fleet to his, facing Gabrielle. The captain himself sits, with a little cough, at the head of the table and rings the bell at his right hand.
    A red-haired young serving man in a blue tunic enters the cabin and goes to the side table.
    For a moment they are all silent, watching the man as he takes the lid off a serving tray then approaches the table. He circles the table then holds the tray toward Gabrielle.
    â€œIt is an honour, indeed,” Gabrielle says quietly, taking