Freddy tell them back home when he tried to explain how he had so quickly become a widower?
The lead jerked her upright again as she started to go under. Penelope flailed with both her arms against the water for traction as she scanned for that disappearing burst of human flesh.
There it was, a hank of sodden white cloth beginning to turn as brown as the water. Penelope grabbed blindly at the struggling figure in front of her, grasping at cloth and missing.
“Grab on to me!” she shouted, but the water was loud in her ears and her own voice sounded dim to her, choked with water and interrupted by a fit of coughing.
Striking out again, she got cloth, a good handful of cloth, and held on for all she was worth, hoping she wasn’t accidentally choking the man in the process. That would be a fine kettle of fish, to save him from drowning only to strangle him with the collar of his own robe.
Raising her other arm, Penelope signaled wildly in the direction of the boat. At least, she hoped she was signaling at the boat. Stinging sprays of water clouded her vision, reducing the whole of her world to the buffeting of the waves and the dead weight yanking against the cloth in her hands.
The rope jerked hard against her ribs, knocking the wind out of her, but at least she was moving, propelled back against the current of the water. Fumbling with the floating folds of his robe, Penelope managed to grab the drowning man beneath the armpits, yanking him up against her chest as she let herself be hauled back, making sure his head stayed above water.
Penelope thought vaguely that now she knew how a fish on a line must feel, as the rope jerked her backwards in unsteady strokes. The man in her arms was completely inert, his head lolling back against her chest, his beard like a trickle of ink along his robe. Penelope couldn’t tell whether he was still breathing. The slap of the water, buoying them up and down, made it hard to gauge.
Someone reached down and heaved her burden away from her, while a pair of ungentle hands grasped her under the armpits and hauled her up over the edge. Penelope lay gasping for air like a fish in a net. For the moment, nothing mattered but the glorious working of her lungs, in and out. No one had bothered to untie the lead, and she could feel it seizing against her ribs as her lungs expanded with air. Such a lovely thing, breathing. Somewhere nearby, she could hear choking and sputtering going on as someone worked over the syce, pumping the water out of his lungs.
A large face hove into view over her. Funny, how bizarre a man’s features could look turned upside down. But there was no mistaking him. Penelope wondered vaguely if it was he who had reeled her in and, even more vaguely, when it was that the boat had docked.
“When I said I wouldn’t jump in the water,” Penelope managed to get out, with a shadow of her usual bravado, “I hadn’t thought that someone else might do it first.”
Bravado wasn’t quite so easy when one was flat on one’s back.
But Captain Reid didn’t tax her with it. Instead, he held out a hand, helping her to a sitting position.
“Are you all right?” he asked, squatting down beside her.
“A little damp”—Penelope experimentally shook her wrists, splattering the deck with fat drops of water—“but otherwise tip-top.”
Her voice was hoarse, but still recognizably her own. Penelope luxuriated in the sensation of good, hard wooden planks beneath her backside, splinters and all, sun-warmed and solid. A sudden thought struck her.
“Are the horses all right?” she asked anxiously.
Captain Reid choked on a laugh. “Perfectly,” he said. “Far better than you. Do you think you can stand?”
“Of course,” said Penelope, with more confidence than she felt.
Her legs felt about as stable as undercooked soufflé, but she took the hand he offered her, making a show of shaking out her soaking skirts as a pretense to hide the fact that she wasn’t quite as
The lead jerked her upright again as she started to go under. Penelope flailed with both her arms against the water for traction as she scanned for that disappearing burst of human flesh.
There it was, a hank of sodden white cloth beginning to turn as brown as the water. Penelope grabbed blindly at the struggling figure in front of her, grasping at cloth and missing.
“Grab on to me!” she shouted, but the water was loud in her ears and her own voice sounded dim to her, choked with water and interrupted by a fit of coughing.
Striking out again, she got cloth, a good handful of cloth, and held on for all she was worth, hoping she wasn’t accidentally choking the man in the process. That would be a fine kettle of fish, to save him from drowning only to strangle him with the collar of his own robe.
Raising her other arm, Penelope signaled wildly in the direction of the boat. At least, she hoped she was signaling at the boat. Stinging sprays of water clouded her vision, reducing the whole of her world to the buffeting of the waves and the dead weight yanking against the cloth in her hands.
The rope jerked hard against her ribs, knocking the wind out of her, but at least she was moving, propelled back against the current of the water. Fumbling with the floating folds of his robe, Penelope managed to grab the drowning man beneath the armpits, yanking him up against her chest as she let herself be hauled back, making sure his head stayed above water.
Penelope thought vaguely that now she knew how a fish on a line must feel, as the rope jerked her backwards in unsteady strokes. The man in her arms was completely inert, his head lolling back against her chest, his beard like a trickle of ink along his robe. Penelope couldn’t tell whether he was still breathing. The slap of the water, buoying them up and down, made it hard to gauge.
Someone reached down and heaved her burden away from her, while a pair of ungentle hands grasped her under the armpits and hauled her up over the edge. Penelope lay gasping for air like a fish in a net. For the moment, nothing mattered but the glorious working of her lungs, in and out. No one had bothered to untie the lead, and she could feel it seizing against her ribs as her lungs expanded with air. Such a lovely thing, breathing. Somewhere nearby, she could hear choking and sputtering going on as someone worked over the syce, pumping the water out of his lungs.
A large face hove into view over her. Funny, how bizarre a man’s features could look turned upside down. But there was no mistaking him. Penelope wondered vaguely if it was he who had reeled her in and, even more vaguely, when it was that the boat had docked.
“When I said I wouldn’t jump in the water,” Penelope managed to get out, with a shadow of her usual bravado, “I hadn’t thought that someone else might do it first.”
Bravado wasn’t quite so easy when one was flat on one’s back.
But Captain Reid didn’t tax her with it. Instead, he held out a hand, helping her to a sitting position.
“Are you all right?” he asked, squatting down beside her.
“A little damp”—Penelope experimentally shook her wrists, splattering the deck with fat drops of water—“but otherwise tip-top.”
Her voice was hoarse, but still recognizably her own. Penelope luxuriated in the sensation of good, hard wooden planks beneath her backside, splinters and all, sun-warmed and solid. A sudden thought struck her.
“Are the horses all right?” she asked anxiously.
Captain Reid choked on a laugh. “Perfectly,” he said. “Far better than you. Do you think you can stand?”
“Of course,” said Penelope, with more confidence than she felt.
Her legs felt about as stable as undercooked soufflé, but she took the hand he offered her, making a show of shaking out her soaking skirts as a pretense to hide the fact that she wasn’t quite as
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