‘Are you comfortable?’ he whispered to the girl in Italian. ‘Yes, thank you. Will your people come?’ ‘I hope so. We deserve some good luck.’ ‘Yes – touch iron!’ ‘Touch some wood as well.’ ‘Why?’ ‘In England we touch wood for luck, not iron.’ He saw her reach out and feel for the bottom boards on which she was lying. He then took her hand and guided it to the metal tiller. ‘That will do for iron!’ The men, whispering among themselves, seemed completely unworried; quite happy to live for the present moment and leave the next one to him. If only he had as much confidence in his own judgement as apparently they had… Now the gig was out here, Ramage could think of a dozen reasons why the frigate would not arrive. A few moments later the girl said in a low voice: ‘May I ask you something, if I whisper?’ ‘Yes,’ he said, bending so that his head was near hers. ‘Your parents – where are they now?’ ‘Living in England: at the family home in Cornwall.’ ‘Tell me about your home.’ ‘It’s called Blazey Hall: it was a priory once.’ That was a tactless remark to make to a Catholic.
