The Fever Tree by Jennifer McVeigh Page A

suddenly and without warning, the ship leapt. The deck pitched, rolled, and became a vertical. Her face slammed into the railings. Seawater surged over her, sweeping her off her feet. She tried to scream, but her mouth was full of water. It was cold, like melting ice, and it had fingers which pushed down into her throat. Then a sharp pain under one arm and a force pulling against her fall. A hand, like a vise, held her upright. She snatched at the figure, caught at a coat, and pulled herself against it. The man pushed her hard against the railings, so she knew where she was and felt safe from falling.
    The wind roared. She felt the strength of the man, and the rain driving against them, soaking her skin. She pushed her face into his chest. He pulled his jacket up around her head and spoke into her ear, his lips brushing against her skin.
    “We’re safer here for a moment. But you must move when I say so. Can you run?”
    She dreaded having to walk across the open deck, but she nodded her head against the wet wool of his coat. The storm had risen up in an instant. She could hear the hoarse shouts of the sailors and the screeching of ropes. The engine groaned. Her legs felt weak, and there was a dull ache above one eye where her head had struck the railings. The ship felt as though it had no more strength than the leaf boats she had launched as a child into the small rapids of a stream, spinning desperately across the surface until the water sucked them down.
    The ship plunged into a wave, righted itself, and the man said, “Now,” in her ear. He moved, flipping her round so that she was in front of him and his back was against the railings, then he propelled her forwards. They stumbled and slid with the motion of the ship, his weight behind her until they reached the stairs. He wrenched back the door and pushed her inside, and they slipped down the steps to the deck below. Her stomach contracted and she doubled over, retching. Bile and salt water poured from her nose and mouth.
    “That was interesting.”
    She looked up, her face streaming water. William Westbrook was studying her, the corners of his mouth curling with amusement. “Some people might even have called it suicide.” Then he shook his head, running a hand over his hair, and water flew off him like rain from a dog.
    She was dizzy and sick, and she bent double, retching again, then stood up. Her legs felt light and very cold, and when she put out a hand she missed the wall. Mr. Westbrook caught her with one arm under hers, propping her up. “Oh no you don’t.”
    He sat her down at a table in the first-class saloon, found blankets to wrap around her, and ordered coffee from a terrified steward. When the coffee didn’t arrive he went off to hunt the steward down in the kitchens. She was numb with cold. There was no feeling from her feet to her thighs, and her upper body was gripped by convulsions. Once she started shaking it was hard to stop. Four men played cards in a corner of the saloon, passing a bottle between them and laughing as the ship threw them sideways, wreaking havoc with their game. The room was otherwise deserted. Most of the lights had been left to go out, and the red velvet and gilt mirrors which lined the walls were a mockery of grandeur in the midst of the dark storm blowing them across the sea. A few bottles of wine had escaped and were rolling loose across the floor. With every lurch of the ship, remains from dinner, left abandoned on the tables, clattered onto the carpet.
    Frances thought she had seen bad weather in the first few days they had been at sea when they had pitched and rolled, and the captain had praised her for having good sea legs. Now she understood. This was a tearing, terrifying thing. A storm that whined and howled, that swept them up and slammed them down again so hard the timbers of the hull sounded as if they were splintering. It blew in dark funnels, like water roaring down a tunnel. She held on to the edges of her