Chapter 2

The graceful sails flap in the wind. Every now and then they billow tightly, and then the masts groan as the stern of the ship is lifted slightly out of the water by the bow slicing deep through the waves. The Martin Deens sails slowly around the point and into Saldanha Bay. It turns south and sails along the coast of the peninsula. On both sides, the land can be clearly seen where the rays of the setting sun still make the white sand glisten. Like on a long inland lake, the surface of the water is calm and peaceful.

On the middle deck, a group of men and women stand by the railings. They are all dressed according to the latest European fashion, and the men's clothes are almost more colorful than the magnificent tabards of the women. One or two of the ladies' wigs are a good two feet high, but apparently the others decided to go for lighter headgear during the few days at sea, not even wearing wigs, and she is simpler than most. Yet it seems as if there is something regal in her demeanor.

Where she stands on the side of the ship, the sun's rays catch the rippling blonde hair that hangs over her shoulders. Her forehead is smooth and intelligent. Her nose is almost slightly pointed, but it too is Grecian in shape. Her chin is strong, and it is only her full lips that betray a warm humanity in her personality. With her hands on the railing, she looks over the strip of water towards the inland.

Standing next to her is a young man wearing a jet-black wig. His three-quarter-length jacket hangs from his waist so that one gets the impression that it falls over broad shoulders. Yet a closer inspection would reveal a few thick pads over the shoulders. His calves look strong, but here too the possibility of unnatural enhancement cannot be ruled out. His face is attractive, but his chin is weak, and overall his posture is girlish.

"Why would the Marquis decide to sail into this sheltered bay?" Dudley Nielsen asks the blonde lady next to him.

"My uncle does not really discuss his plans with me, Dudley," Lydia Langdon replies.

"I understand that we are not far from Cape Town," Nielsen continues as if he has barely heard her. "Just about fifty or sixty miles. If everything goes well, we should be sleeping in Cape Town tomorrow night." He shudders as if startled by something. "They say the lions still roar in the streets at night."

Lydia Langdon's eyebrows lift slightly. She looks askance at Nielsen and then gazes ahead of her again.

"You exaggerate everything, Dudley," she says almost reproachfully, for apparently the young man is the kind who is not easily annoyed and who is especially popular and trusted by women.

"I hope they have taken special precautions for the safety of the Marquis of Langdon and his party," he continues.

"Why would they go out of their way for us?" she asks as if it does not concern her much.

"For heaven's sake, Lydia," he exclaims, "your uncle is not only the richest man in Europe but the governor is expecting him, not to mention his illustrious party."

Lydia Langdon laughs amusedly.

"You are silly, Dudley."

"I realize, of course, that you are in fact the most valuable of us all," Nielson continues softly. "You are your uncle's sole heir, are you not?"

She looks at him sharply.

"That is enough of your nonsense, Dudley," she says sternly. "I..."

"I know you have a fortune of your own!" he exclaims. "I did not mean what I said."

"Sometimes there are things you do not need to say, Dudley."

"It sounds like my company is not appreciated," he says mock-sulkily. "So I will leave you to it. There are other young ladies who eagerly await my arrival," he finishes hastily. "Here comes your fiancé. I will take my leave then."

Lydia Langdon cannot help but smile again. She watches the young fashion enthusiast for a moment before gazing back over the railing at the beach, which looks so close and inviting. Behind her, she hears the footsteps of her fiancé, Bruce Kenny.

She looks up as he stands beside her. His dark, brooding eyes rest on hers for a moment. She looks at the broad chin with the slightly loose lower lip. It gives his face the impression of strength and masculinity, but as has been the case since she met this man, and was practically forced by her uncle to become engaged to him, there is something in his features that is not entirely refined.

"You have been quiet lately, Lydia," he says in his deep bass voice. "The closer we get to the Cape, the quieter you become."

"You imagine things, Bruce," she replies calmly.

"Perhaps." He shrugs. "This group of people bores me more every day. Maybe that is why I have such an impression of you."

"Would you have preferred if my uncle had not invited them?" she retorts.

"I think it was unnecessary to begin with."

Her eyebrows raise haughtily again. The slight movement suits her, and it comes naturally.

"I did not know you were capable of judging my uncle's actions," she says.

"I know his affairs, Lydia. You should know that."

"I am glad you think so."

"Do you always have to be so cold towards me?" he exclaims.

"I am telling you again, Bruce, you are imagining things." Her voice is cool, though she contradicts his accusation in reality. "I know you are Uncle Edward's right hand man, but I think he has plenty of secrets of his own."

"I know that. I was just talking about his business dealings. But come, let us go inside. There are drinks and we will be eating soon."

There is chatter and merry laughter in the luxurious paneled cabin. The marquis's guests sink into soft velvet cushions. Waiters in rich livery serve drinks.

On the long, comfortable couch under the window in the rear sits the Marquis, Edward Van Langdon. He is a man of about sixty years. However, his hair shows no sign of gray and is unpowdered. He is only about five feet seven inches tall and is decidedly thin. His face is gaunt, and his sharp, pointed nose makes it look like that of an eagle. His lips are thin and slightly bluish, as if there is little blood in them.

He converses pleasantly with a giggling young lady, Theodora Dryden. Usually, the first drink already goes to her head. The Marquis did not choose his guests based on intelligence but rather from pleasure-seeking nobles who can provide him with relaxation. The Marquis is known as one of the wealthiest men in Europe and as a man who still replenishes his treasures with his clever business mind. He personally manages his business enterprises and trading fleets, which are spread across the globe. However, when he relaxes, he enjoys the most superficial and frivolous company.

Lydia Langdon pays little attention to the others. When one of the group talks to her, she replies kindly. With the stem of a wine glass between her fingers, she looks down at the carpet in front of her. However, there is always something aloof about her that keeps them at a distance and does not easily provide an opportunity for an intimate conversation with her.

An hour later, the guests leave the brightly lit dining room with the long table in the middle. The men adjourn to the Marquis's study to smoke cigars, while the ladies return to the sitting room.

Lydia Langdon expresses the restlessness that has been brewing in her mind all day. She excuses herself, saying that she finds it slightly stuffy in the cabin, and goes out to the deck.

It is dark. She can no longer see the white sandstrip of the beach over the railing. The water is barely moving, but the gentle swell of the surface reflects starlight in her eyes.

A soft shuffle to her right startles her, and she quickly inhales her breath. Two sailors stand a few steps away from her. She is immediately reassured by their demeanor, as one bows politely and then holds out a letter to her.

An excited, tumultuous flow of thoughts surges within her. Her heart beats fast and uncontrollably. Trembling, she reaches out her hand and takes the envelope. Her anxiety is so strong that she can barely tear it open. Only then does she realize that she cannot read it here in the dark.

"Wait here," she whispers hoarsely, without really knowing why she is saying it to the man.

Blindly, she steps across the deck to the rear. She goes down with the leather strap and into the corridor next to her cabin. She pushes open the door and stumbles in. Her cabin attendant has already lit the lamp, but now the cabin is empty. She closes the door behind her.

She unfolds the letter. It is as if a fear has seized her that it may not be from the person whom she so fervently hopes it must be and for whom her heart beats so uncontrollably.

It takes a while before she has smoothed out the letter on the table under the lamp. She has to crouch low to read because her eyes are blurry with tears.

"The ship will anchor here all night," it reads. "The bearer of this letter has a boat with which he will bring you ashore."

At the bottom is the single letter "G." Guy du Beaufort! Of course, it is him! Who else could it be?"

She crumples the letter and presses it against her lips. Tears of joy and relief now freely flow down her cheeks. She knows why the letter was so short. Of course, it had to be short!

Did her uncle not forbid her years ago, when she was still a girl, from seeing this young man? Didn't he go so far as to banish her beloved Guy, as he then called him, forever from her life? Did he not eventually, with his...