Down on the cobbled quay a little crowd had gathered, huddled in the shelter of the brickbuilt lifeboat station, whose blue doors stood open. As she arrived there were nods and halfsmiles, but no one said very much. What could you say at such a time? The vicar, old Mr Trelawney, would have gone to the little granite church—he always did when there was a rescue bid on—and would be praying quietly, while the rest of the village just . . . waited. Inland people didn't know, she thought bleakly. They were spared this silent agony of waiting, for sons, husbands—sweethearts. Her eyes filled with scalding tears and she turned away, gazing out to the grey horizon so that no one should see them. At last, after an endless time, through the driving rain they all saw the little orange hull of the lifeboat rising and falling as it cut through the waves, and a ragged cheer went up. As it manoeuvred in through the narrow harbour entrance she strained to peer through the rain, searching for one figure, but they were all anonymous in their glistening yellow oilskins and sea boots.
She heard the strident wail of an ambulance weaving its way through the narrow streets, and then the lifeboat was easing in alongside the stone steps that led up to the quay. She saw John Carer, the coxswain—ex-Royal Navy, now landlord of the Star and Garter inn—his usually jovial face showing the strains and tensions of the last two hours . . . and then she saw Jared. He had taken off his oilskin sou'wester, and was bending over a young woman with long dark hair, swathed in a blanket. As he lifted her gently to her feet a surge of such intense joy and relief as Petra had never felt in her life before filled her brimful and left her trembling, so that all she could do was watch as the woman, a youngish man and three children were lifted up on to the quay with kind efficiency by the medical team. As they were helped into the ambulance and driven away one by one the crew clambered ashore, their clumsy movements betraying their near-exhaustion.
Jared came up the steps last but one. He followed the others into the lifeboat station, then emerged a few minutes later, dressed in sweater and jeans. They shook hands, John Carter clapped him warmly on the back, then he turned away. And saw Petra, standing there, motionless, her hands in her pockets.
Very slowly he came up to her and stood, just as he'd done that first morning in her kitchen, his thumbs in his belt, looking down at her, his eyes searching her face. She managed a weak smile. 'Hi.'
'Hi.' But he did not return her smile. Like all the others, his face was showing the strain—
there were white marks beside his mouth where he'd kept it tightly clenched, and his whole body was sagging slightly with weariness. She wanted to take him in her arms and cradle him against all dangers, but instead she said, 'Well—I just came down to see how the rescue went. I'll—I'll go.'
As she turned away he caught her by the wrist. 'Look, I'm sorry, but will you drive me back? I seem to have done something to my shoulder—yes, honestly this time . . . ' he gave her an offcentre little grin, a fleeting glimpse of the old J a r e d ' ... and anyway, if I stand here much longer, I have a nasty idea I'm going to collapse in an unseemly heap.'
'Oh, Jared.' She clutched at his arms, terrified he really would fold up at her feet. 'Of course I'll drive yon?' and she led the way to his car.
When she opened the Aston Martin's passenger door he slid in, and as she sat down beside him he expelled a long, rather shaky breath. 'That has to the most terrifying experience of my whole life. We all thought at one point, when we were broadside on to the y a c h t , t h a t we were going over. I tell you, Petra, I was sc
ared half to death.'
He shot her another crooked half-smile, and at the thought of what could have happened the sickness burned like acid in her stomach.
'And then I thought we weren't going to get them off alive. Do you know that?' he banged his fist down on to the dashboard, 'that guy kept insisting they'd be all right—that they'd run in front of the storm? Oh, God, what fools people are.'
She took his large icy hand between her small ones and, squeezing it, said tremulously, 'But they're all safe now—and so are you.'
When she drew up by his gate a tinge of colour was back in his cheeks. 'Sorry about that back there,' he said ruefully. 'I didn't realise I'd got such a yellow streak.'
'Of course you haven't!' she exclaimed indignantly. 'You went straight away when they rang, didn't you?'
'Yes, but—'
'And you'd go out again right now if they needed you?'
'Well, of course—'
'So there you are, then. It's only liars and fools who say they don't know what fear is. But what you do need right now is a hot meal. I'll get you—'
'No. What I really need is an extremely stiff drink.'
'Well, come into my place, then.' She led the way down her path. 'My whiskey's handy. Oh, no—'
She clapped a hand to her mouth, then as she flung open her door the acrid smell of burning met her nostrils. Snatching up an oven-glove, she opened the cooker and pulled out the cake—a charred ruin. Tight-lipped, she banged her toe down on the kitchen bin, and when the lid shot up she hurled the cake into it, threw the tin into the sink—and burst into tears.
'What the hell . . . ?' Jared pulled her roughly into his arms and cradled her head against his chest. 'Don't, my sweet.'
'I—burnt the cake,' she gulped between sobs.
'So what? It's only a cake. Ssssh.' He stroked her hair, and at the tender gesture she sobbed even harder.
'B—but it was your cake.' Another huge sob, which shook her whole body. 'I was making you a w—whiskey cake.'
Her voice disintegrated again, and as he held her to him she gave herself up to the sheer anguished bliss of standing in his arms, being comforted like an unhappy child. He would never hold her again, and after today she would never even see him, but —
'My darling.' Holding her away from him, he tilted her face up.
When she murmured protestingly, putting up a hand to hide her swollen eyes and tearblotched cheeks, he gently pulled it away. So she had to look up into his face, and at his expression her heart turned right over, then began pounding against her ribs.
'My darling,' he gave her an odd little smile, 'it doesn't matter about the cake—no.' His finger, laid across her lips, silenced the snuffled protest. 'You can make my wedding-cake instead.'