And how good is that? Grey wondered. He was quite sure now of Byrd’s feelings, and sure enough of Trevelyan’s, for that matter. Whether anything had ever passed between Trevelyan and his servant in privacy—and he was inclined to doubt it—there was no doubt that Trevelyan’s emotions now focused solely on the woman who lay below, still and yellow in the interlude of her illness.

“He is not worthy of such loyalty. You know that,” Grey said, leaving the last sentence somewhere in the hinterland between statement and question.

“And you are, my lord?” It was asked without sarcasm, Byrd’s hazel eyes resting seriously on Grey’s face.

“If you mean your brother, I value his service more than I can say,” Grey replied. “I sincerely hope he knows it.”

Jack Byrd smiled slightly, looking down at the hands clasped on his knees. “Oh, I should reckon he does, then.”

They stayed without speaking for a bit, and the tension between them eased by degrees, the cat’s purring seeming somehow to dissolve it. The bellowing above had stopped.

“She might die,” Jack Byrd said. “Not that I want her to; I don’t, at all. But she may.” It was said thoughtfully, with no hint of hopefulness—and Grey believed him when he said there was none.

“She may,” he agreed. “She is very ill. But you are thinking that if that were unfortunately to occur—”

“Only as he’d need someone to care for him,” Byrd answered quickly. “Only that. I shouldn’t want him to be alone.”

Grey forbore to answer that Trevelyan would find it hard work to manage solitude on board a ship with two hundred seamen. The to-and-fro bumpings of the crew had not stopped, but had changed their rhythm. The ship had ceased to fly, but she scarcely lay quiet in the water; he could feel the gentle tug of wind and current on her bulk. Stroking the cat, he thought of wind and water as the hands of the ocean on her skin, and wondered momentarily whether he might have liked to be a sailor.

“He says that he will not live without her,” Grey said at last. “I do not know whether he means it.”

Byrd closed his eyes briefly, long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

“Oh, he means it,” he said. “But I don’t think he’d do it.” He opened his eyes, smiling a little. “I’m not saying as how he’s a hypocrite, mind—he’s not, no more than any man is just by nature. But he—” He paused, pushing out his lower lip as he considered how to say what he meant.

“It’s just as he seems so alive,” he said at last, slowly. He glanced up at Grey, dark eyes bright. “Not the sort as kills themselves. You’ll know what I mean, my lord?”