at each setting. For a
short while, Isobel Hanrahan was lost in a friendly flurry of pouring and pastry passing whilst Clyde and Milton argued over who had actually won the game of deck tennis which had been interrupted
by Annie Besant’s near accident.
Rowland poured tea into Isobel’s cup. “Do you take milk or lemon, Miss Hanrahan?” he asked.
“Milk, definitely milk, Mr. Sinclair,” she replied shyly. Her accent was as broad as her uncle’s, but the lilt was not unpleasant. “It would be all I can take with this
wretched seasickness.”
Milton passed her a plate of bread and butter. “I trust you are otherwise enjoying life at sea, Miss Hanrahan,” he said as she declined.
Immediately, her eyes welled and she began to weep.
Clyde kicked Milton under the table. “What did you say?”
Rowland looked pointedly at Edna, who rolled her eyes, took the young woman’s hand and patted it consolingly. Rowland handed Edna a handkerchief and the sculptress passed it on. In a few
moments Isobel had composed herself.
“Forgive me,” she gulped. “I miss Orville so dreadfully.”
“Oh, dear,” Edna said, encouraging Isobel to sip her tea. “It was a terrible accident.”
“Did you know Mr. Urquhart well?” Rowland asked carefully.
Isobel nodded. She pulled a silver locket from under her collar—an unusual piece, engraved and set with seed pearls.
Edna gasped softly. Rowland tensed.
“He gave me this grand jewel, just the morning before…”
Milton met Rowland’s eye. “Did Mr. Urquhart put his picture in it?” the poet asked evenly.
They all recognised the locket. Rowland had given it to Edna years before. Ever since, it had held a picture of her late mother.
Isobel shook her head and released the clasp—it was empty. “Orville promised he’d have a portrait taken for me.”
Rowland glanced at Edna uncertainly. The sculptress’ face held more pity than anger. Silently, he marvelled at her compassion.
Milton spoke gently, holding Isobel with his dark gaze. “Here, take my picture; though I bid farewell, thine in my heart, where my soul dwells, shall dwell.”
Isobel’s sighed, her eyes dewy. “Why, Mr. Isaacs, that is so very beautiful. It gives me such comfort.”
“Words are all I have to offer in your moment of loss, Miss Hanrahan,” the poet replied humbly.
“John Donne’s words,” Rowland murmured.
Milton ignored him. He’d always considered Rowland’s obsession with who wrote what entirely unwarranted.
“It was an engagement gift,” Isobel disintegrated again. “I am sorry… what must you think of me… we are barely acquainted.”
“How long had you known Mr. Urquhart?” Rowland asked, stirring his tea, feeling intrusive in the face of her grief.
“We found each other the moment we came aboard,” she replied with lip atremble.
“Pardon me, if I am too familiar, Miss Hanrahan,” Milton ventured, “but has your engagement been announced?”
“It has not… not yet…”
“And your uncle?”
“Sweet Lord, no!” She coloured. “Uncle Shaun would never allow… I suppose it matters little now… I would meet with Orville in secret.” Isobel raised
Rowland’s handkerchief to her face once more.
The Australians waited patiently. They had been subjected to the disapproval of Bishop Hanrahan. They could feel nothing but sorry for the young woman.
“On the night Mr. Urquhart died…,” Rowland started.
Isobel nodded. “I was meeting Orville around midnight… we had a place where we could be alone.” She looked away and blushed a little. “Uncle Shaun is usually in his bed
by ten.”
“Usually?”
“Father Murphy came to my stateroom around half past ten… Uncle Shaun had sent him to hear my confession—apparently he insisted.”
Edna hugged her impulsively. “Oh, you poor old thing. How simply frightful… What ever did you do?”
“I confessed to having terrible, uncharitable thoughts about my uncle.”
Rowland and Milton laughed,
short while, Isobel Hanrahan was lost in a friendly flurry of pouring and pastry passing whilst Clyde and Milton argued over who had actually won the game of deck tennis which had been interrupted
by Annie Besant’s near accident.
Rowland poured tea into Isobel’s cup. “Do you take milk or lemon, Miss Hanrahan?” he asked.
“Milk, definitely milk, Mr. Sinclair,” she replied shyly. Her accent was as broad as her uncle’s, but the lilt was not unpleasant. “It would be all I can take with this
wretched seasickness.”
Milton passed her a plate of bread and butter. “I trust you are otherwise enjoying life at sea, Miss Hanrahan,” he said as she declined.
Immediately, her eyes welled and she began to weep.
Clyde kicked Milton under the table. “What did you say?”
Rowland looked pointedly at Edna, who rolled her eyes, took the young woman’s hand and patted it consolingly. Rowland handed Edna a handkerchief and the sculptress passed it on. In a few
moments Isobel had composed herself.
“Forgive me,” she gulped. “I miss Orville so dreadfully.”
“Oh, dear,” Edna said, encouraging Isobel to sip her tea. “It was a terrible accident.”
“Did you know Mr. Urquhart well?” Rowland asked carefully.
Isobel nodded. She pulled a silver locket from under her collar—an unusual piece, engraved and set with seed pearls.
Edna gasped softly. Rowland tensed.
“He gave me this grand jewel, just the morning before…”
Milton met Rowland’s eye. “Did Mr. Urquhart put his picture in it?” the poet asked evenly.
They all recognised the locket. Rowland had given it to Edna years before. Ever since, it had held a picture of her late mother.
Isobel shook her head and released the clasp—it was empty. “Orville promised he’d have a portrait taken for me.”
Rowland glanced at Edna uncertainly. The sculptress’ face held more pity than anger. Silently, he marvelled at her compassion.
Milton spoke gently, holding Isobel with his dark gaze. “Here, take my picture; though I bid farewell, thine in my heart, where my soul dwells, shall dwell.”
Isobel’s sighed, her eyes dewy. “Why, Mr. Isaacs, that is so very beautiful. It gives me such comfort.”
“Words are all I have to offer in your moment of loss, Miss Hanrahan,” the poet replied humbly.
“John Donne’s words,” Rowland murmured.
Milton ignored him. He’d always considered Rowland’s obsession with who wrote what entirely unwarranted.
“It was an engagement gift,” Isobel disintegrated again. “I am sorry… what must you think of me… we are barely acquainted.”
“How long had you known Mr. Urquhart?” Rowland asked, stirring his tea, feeling intrusive in the face of her grief.
“We found each other the moment we came aboard,” she replied with lip atremble.
“Pardon me, if I am too familiar, Miss Hanrahan,” Milton ventured, “but has your engagement been announced?”
“It has not… not yet…”
“And your uncle?”
“Sweet Lord, no!” She coloured. “Uncle Shaun would never allow… I suppose it matters little now… I would meet with Orville in secret.” Isobel raised
Rowland’s handkerchief to her face once more.
The Australians waited patiently. They had been subjected to the disapproval of Bishop Hanrahan. They could feel nothing but sorry for the young woman.
“On the night Mr. Urquhart died…,” Rowland started.
Isobel nodded. “I was meeting Orville around midnight… we had a place where we could be alone.” She looked away and blushed a little. “Uncle Shaun is usually in his bed
by ten.”
“Usually?”
“Father Murphy came to my stateroom around half past ten… Uncle Shaun had sent him to hear my confession—apparently he insisted.”
Edna hugged her impulsively. “Oh, you poor old thing. How simply frightful… What ever did you do?”
“I confessed to having terrible, uncharitable thoughts about my uncle.”
Rowland and Milton laughed,
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