He came out of his brooding thoughts as the door opened, and when he turned he saw his wife framed in the entrance. She was dressed in a long green velvet cloak, the hood thrown back from her rich chestnut hair, and her eyes were very bright, so that he suspected the tears were only just held in check.

He crossed the room and took her hands. It was still difficult to understand the good fortune which had made her his wife. She was beautiful and ten years younger than he, and as he looked down at her he knew that leaving her now was the hardest thing he had ever done. Bolitho was thirty-seven years old, and had been at sea from the age of twelve. During that time, as he survived both hardship and danger, he had often felt something akin to contempt for the men who preferred to stay in the safety of their homes rather than sail in a King's ship. He had been married to Cheney for five months, and now he understood just how agonising such partings could be.

During the long refit she had never been far from his side. It had been a new and devastatingly happy time, in spite of the ship's needs and the daily work which took him to the dockyard. Mostly he had spent his nights ashore with her in the inn, and sometimes they had gone for long walks above the sea, or had taken a pair of horses as far as Dartmoor. That was until she had told him she was going to have his child, when she had laughed at his immediate concern and protective uncertainty.

He said, "Your hands are like ice, my dear."

She smiled. "I have been down in the yard telling Allday how to unpack some of the things I have prepared for you." Again the tilt of the chin, the slight quiver in her lip. "Remember, Richard, you are married now. I'll not have my captain as thin as a rake for want of good food."