Easton by Paul Butler Page A

as she draws close and not addressing her or catching her eye. He allows himself to feel an awkward attraction for her; Easton has almost certainly noticed this before anyway.
    Easton now watches George after Jemma refills his milk.
    “Not hungry today, Captain Dawson?” he asks.
    George feels his lip twitch slightly. But he returns Easton’s smile.
    “I think I may be rather under the weather. Perhaps the storm.”
    “Ah,” laughs Easton, “the sailor’s malady—seasickness.”
    Whitbourne laughs and breaks some more bread.
    “Well, the storm is over, but we are soon entering the tropics. So expect lightning.”
    His eyes flash in mock horror and he smiles pleasantly, as though humouring a child. Then he looks at Whitbourne. “I am sorry to have been less than social of late, but duties...” he shrugs.
    “Please sir, do not worry yourself on our account,” Whitbourne replies. “Your hospitality has been lavish. Has it not, Captain Dawson?” Whitbourne nods at him with a mixture of encouragement and warning, and George knows he must back up the admiral.
    “Indeed, sir, indeed,” he says enthusiastically. “That...um...” he begins again with a slight tremble of the lip, “...that rather delicious meat we have been dining on...” He glances at Jemma who having filled Easton’s mug now instantly turns her back and retreats to the side table, her face still turned away. “It was so succulent and I am now so unused to such opulence...” George manages a hearty smile as he speaks.
    The admiral unknowingly helps him by giving a quick laugh and chipping in, “Life in the northern colonies!”
    “Quite,” says George. “Was it wild meat, sir? Boar perhaps?”
    Easton sustains the same smile and wipes his fingers on a napkin. “It was indeed the most brutish and ignorant of animals, sir, which by the oddest of nature’s perversities yields the most gloriously tender meat.” He pauses. “You were right in your guess. A pig. One with all the faults of its breed yet young enough to be tender. I believe my cooks are now salting the remains so that we may enjoy some ham in the weeks to come.”
    George nods and smiles while swirls of nausea rise in his stomach. Does Easton know that he suspects? His words, as always, communicate more than they say, and the fixedness of Easton’s smile suggests a calm defiance.
    But he turns to Whitbourne as though distracted by more important thoughts. “But, Admiral, I wanted to engage you and your good captain in talk of the New-found-land. My mind always runs ahead and I find myself planning my return to the north even before accomplishing my mission in the south.”
    “Of course, sir, we would be happy to tell you all you wish to know about the New-found-land,” Whitbourne answers.
    George now catches Jemma’s eye. She is standing by the serving table arranging the dishes. Worry, and perhaps reproach, show on her face. It is enough to persuade him never to risk the subject of the meat again. He looks away and Jemma moves off toward the serving hatch.
    Whitbourne has begun telling Easton about the planters along the coast. Easton listens attentively, his face serious and his head slightly cocked, although none of the information is entirely new.
    “St. John’s, you will know, was named after the Baptist upon whose day the island was reputed to have been found,” Whitbourne says, folding a napkin and coughing slightly. The admiral’s discomfort is clear to George. He wonders what it feels like to walk the tightrope of goodwill, knowing that every detail given is helping an enemy force. “Our most bustling settlement other than this, as I think we have mentioned, is Cuper’s Cove where John Guy, an excellent man held in high esteem by the King, is overlord.”
    Easton’s smile returns slowly. He picks up his mug of milk. “If he is a friend of the King, Admiral, I will tread carefully and act as his friend, as you so subtly suggest.” He takes a drink, the cup