Part One: The Mainland 

It was a sunny Spring morning when I pulled into Portsmouth train station car park. I checked my face in the driver's mirror and reapplied my lipstick. Getting out, I straightened out my tailored suit and adjusted my stockings. I was far too formally dressed but it just seemed right somehow. I mean...I felt I had to use some old world courtesies with Jack. Dress like a woman, wear sexy underwear, smell of a flowery feminine perfume, appear elegant and charming. Present myself in a suitable day outfit. It didn't make my heart beat less frantically in my breast, though. Despite the bracing sea air, I was feeling starved of oxygen already.

I looked at the board. It was too early; his train was delayed as was to be expected from the incredibly poorly run British Rail network. What to do? I bought a cappuccino and a Guardian and sat down at the café to wait.

'The next train to arrive at platform 2 will be the Virgin Service from London Paddington. We apologise for the delay but it was due to adverse weather conditions. There was too much sun on the tracks.'

I heard the muffled announcement spoken by a woman who must have had Hando's dick in her mouth at the same time from the obscurity of her diction. (Diction- ha! I like that pun) Least ways that sounded like what she said.

I had hummed and haa-ed whether I should pick Jack up at Heathrow but he had insisted on taking the train. He said he wanted to taste a bit of England for himself. I could understand that but I am not sure if Jack realised how little he would see on such a journey. Heathrow Express to Paddington - Intercity to Portsmouth. He wouldn't see any of London and a mere quick glimpse of the countryside as the train sped on. Mind you, if he travelled Virgin then maybe he would see more- they would probably be broken down for part of the journey.

In a state of utter terror, I gathered up my bag and ran to the platform. Passengers were streaming off. I couldn't see him. And then I did. He was talking to a little old lady who had a lot of luggage and, naturally, she couldn't find a porter. Jack had stopped and was taking all her baggage with his own and swinging it along as she chattered away and he smiled back at her. I almost swooned. It was really Jack. Really and truly Jack. Carrying a little old lady's luggage and as happy as a sand lark. I'll bet he can smell the Solent on the air.

"...I must say, young man, there are not many who show that sort of manners these days.  You say you used to live about these parts?" The old dear was a typical Hampshire upper middle class lady- you could have cut her accent with a knife.

"Yes, ma'am. I had a house in Petersfield, not far from here."

"Petersfield? My dear boy, I must know your mother! I have lived in Liphook since 1946! What's your surname?"

Jack frowned. "Aubrey, ma'am but I suspect you did not know her...she died when I was young."

"Poor boy! Not to worry. You must be over it now. Aubrey, you say? One of the Aubreys of Liss? Colonel Aubrey's son?"

"No, ma'am, a different family...navy ..."

I listened to this conversation and tried to distract the pair by coughing a few times but I wasn't getting through.

"Excuse me..."

Jack spun round and his face lit up. "Why, Uma! Don't you know, I would never have recognised you in that ...outfit. Most becoming. Most becoming...Mrs. Farthingale, may I present my dear friend Uma? She will be entertaining me during my stay in the area. Uma...Mrs. Harriet Farthingale." We shook hands and I was speechless. I just don't think we modern Brits know anymore how to deal with the social niceties.

Jack placed down the luggage and took my hand, giving it a gentle kiss. My knees went.

Then he motioned to a lurking porter who had failed to hide when the train arrived as it seems to say they ought on their job description. "You there! Shake a leg and take this luggage to the taxi station. See that this lady is secured a vehicle with the greatest haste. Look lively, man, there's a good fellow!" Jack's stentorian tones so bowled over the porter that he forget to say 'Get stuffed!' and merely complied with Jack's request. We followed behind as Jack supervised.

"Is he your young gentleman?" Mrs. Farthingale asked with a knowing look. Her paper- thin powdered skin cracked into a teasing smile. "You modern girls have all the fun. Lovely men and no rules to bind you. I know what I would do with him if I were you- and this sea air will work on him a treat. Find a nice guesthouse and roger his brains out, darling. It will do you both a power of good!" At that she sailed off to be helped into her taxi by Jack. I simply stood with my mouth hanging open. Does Jack work his magic on all women from nought to ninety? Apparently he does.

"Jack."

"Uma."

I put on this gauche kind of face and he smiled some more and we just looked at each other in an embarrassed sort of way.

"So, you have a house on the Isle of Wight?" Jack asked.

"It belongs to my sister. A little cottage." I smiled nervously.

"Excellent. Excellent." He looked a little unsure what to say next.

"Um...I was thinking...would you like to take a look around Petersfield before we take the ferry? Or is that too painful a memory?" I really didn't know if I was being too personal to raise the issue.

"Why, Uma, I would be most obliged! I had wondered what had happened to dear old Ashgrove...do you think it might still stand?" Jack asked, his open and earnest face hopeful and trusting.

"It well might, Jack. It may even be a listed building now. They rarely destroy country homes in the same way that they have wiped out city buildings- not unless it's on the path of a motorway or bypass. Come, let's get to the car and I'll take you there."

Half an hour later we were in Petersfield. Jack looked amazed; I was surprised. Petersfield is a little market town and has many old protected buildings. Apart from a few modern office developments and complexes, it appears to me little changed since the nineteenth century. But most of the buildings are probably Victorian. He certainly seemed lost.

"Where was Ashgrove in relation to where we are?" I asked.

"South of the town, towards Horndean on the Downs." I had an idea. I went into the Library and asked for the maps of the early 1800s. They furnished one easily and Jack  selected his target in seconds. We compared it to a modern day Ordinace Survey map and saw that the house was still marked. I burst out laughing.

"What is it, my dear?' He asked, confused as we bent together over the large map and I tried to ignore the long blonde hair that had fallen against my cheek and his solid finger tracing the location on the map.

"It says PH next to Ashgrove!" I giggled. He looked even more confused.

"Public House! It is a pub! An inn. Your home is now a country pub, probably with rooms! A guesthouse!"

"Bless my soul! Then we can look around?" He laughed and shook himself as if he could scarce believe it. "Perhaps we could even stay a night? If there are rooms? Delay our crossing until the morrow?" He asked.

I nodded. "Of course, whatever you want! But wait until you get there. It might not be as easy or as pleasant as you think to visit. You will have memories, Jack, and it may upset you."

Jack looked at me and then I saw dawning realisation in his eyes and knew he had not foreseen that. But he raised his head and squared his jaw and I could see Jack, the decisive leader, take over. "Let's go." He stated tersely and he held the door for me to leave.

Ashgrove- or The Grove Inn as it is now called- stands off the main A4 link road to Portsmouth, which leads to the motorway. It is, however, down a country road and surrounded by hedgerows but, even so, Jack appeared to be shocked by the incursion of civilisation onto his property. He sat in stunned silence as we approached. It was a pretty, late eighteenth century building with a few noticeable additions and alterations- I know Jack himself had added wings to it as his fortune had increased but there had clearly been later restoration work done, too. The forecourt was tarmacked as a car park but there were window boxes full of spring flowers and barrels of daffodils and tulips all around. The door was festooned with a splendid wisteria, still in its winter green, and the whole building was choked with ivy. I am sure if it had been removed, the stones would have crumbled.

We stepped across the portal, Jack's front door, and I saw his hand reach out to touch the lintel. I held my breath. He was crossing time in a forward motion; seeing his future in his past. I did not dare to meet his eyes; he needed this time to be alone. Inside it appeared to me as any other similar pub of its type: low beamed ceilings, flagged stone floor, walls decorated with brasses and old farming implements, prints and maps, ancient paraphernalia mixed in with modern reproductions supplied by the brewery to keep up the effect. The windows were small and glazed with original bulls' eyes; there was a fire burning in the central hearth. It was hard to imagine Jack living in this house; he had to bow his head to enter and he seemed to make the low room even smaller with his vast presence.

He stood in the middle of the bar and looked about in amazement. The place was fairly quiet- it was early afternoon on a weekday and there were no customers, just staff setting up. I walked to the bar and ordered two glasses of the local ale.

"Your friend seems interested in the place. He not from these parts?" The landlord asked in his Hampshire burr.

"Actually he is. He lived here a long time ago," I replied.

"Here? In the area?"

"No. In this house." 

"Really? His parents owned the pub?"

I smiled. "It was a private house then."

"Ah then, you're mistaken, my love. This has been an inn for nigh on a hundred years. Since the last Aubrey died out."

"Aubrey?" I whispered, hardly believing my ears.

"Yes, m'dear. That was the family. There's a bible in the other room, it used to be a study, I believe. It dates back from ...dunno, 1800 or so, I imagine. Belonged to a Captain Aubrey. He used to be a famous naval captain and he took it with him to sea. But it recorded his marriage and his children's birth and their children...and so on. I believe the family sold up about 1910 and moved to Liss. It's been an inn from then until now."

My head reeled with his words and I felt as if I would faint. Going through the portal was a mere merry-go -round to this. Jack had not heard the conversation, still turning round on his heels and staring about him; then he moved to the inner lounge, the study. I carried the drinks through.

I found him sitting on an armchair staring at the wall. His hand was on his face and he seemed to be breathing deeply. His eyes were fixed upon a spot before him. I followed his gaze. There was an original watercolour hanging on the wall. It was of a ship in a harbour. I did not need to look at the title. There was no doubt what it was: the Surprise.

"It is my ship. My Surprise. It was painted by one of my midshipmen. He had a fine eye. He later exhibited in the National Gallery." Jack shook his head. I handed him the glass and he took a drink, placing it down on the table thoughtfully.

"Perhaps this was a bad idea..." I began.

He smiled sadly at me. "No. It was a very good idea. I need to lay the ghosts. But I did not imagine it would hit me this hard. In my mind it seems like yesterday, Uma. This house ringing with the infernal din of my children, with the tiresome prattle of my Mother-in-law and the sound of Sophie's sweet voice. I know they have all gone, as I had or should have, but..."

I put my hand on his arm and knelt beside him. "It was only yesterday-or rather only a few months ago when you crossed..."

"Ah, yes. How strange! It already feels like a lifetime away." I left him to his musings and went to the bookshelf. There was the bible. I opened it and in the flowery elegant script of the day was the family tree- it suddenly occurred to me that he would not know of his descendants. He had left his world when his children were still small. I closed it and replaced it. Perhaps it might be better if he did not know.

"Do you wish to stay, Jack?"

"Yes. Can we take a chamber?"

I returned to the bar, asked the landlord and arranged our accommodation. Going out to the car, I struggled back with his large leather doctor's bag and my case and vanity. By the time I returned Jack was leaning on the bar and chatting to the landlord about the local ale and the ancient brewery that produced it. He jumped when I returned.

"My dear, put those down! You should not have done that! Why, you will do yourself some harm." Jack snatched up the luggage and we followed the landlord, Vic, to the upper storey and to a large room, which looked out over the field behind the house. Jack went to the window and said little.

"This is the bigger room, miss. The other is further down the hall...." I followed him out and settled my luggage in that, a pretty corner room with a view of the road.

Returning to Jack's room, I found him sitting on the bed, a pensive look upon his face. "Jack? Was this your room?"

He nodded. "Yes, mine and Sophie's. Just think. My children were conceived and born in this bedroom..."

"Jack, I have a room down the hall. It seems more appropriate somehow," I whispered quietly.

He raised his eyes to mine and I saw the flash of relief. "Yes, I would appreciate that, my dear. Somehow it would not feel right...I do apologise..."

I smiled from the door. "This world of ours allows us privileges. We can partake of love freely- but it is not obligatory. The overriding gift is friendship and comradeship. I hope I may be able to extend that to you, Jack, as well as support in time of need. You can count on my support, Jack. You do know that, don't you?"

He looked up and his eyes showed gratitude. "I do indeed. And I will not forget this kindness."

I winked at him and left. It had not proceeded as I had imagined. But then, when did anything I was involved in turn out as I originally expected?

We took dinner in the restaurant attached to the bar. It was rather more pleasant than I had expected- a local eaterie of some note with a traditional but well presented menu and a rather fine cellar. It is a rare experience to dine with Jack because, of course, he does it properly- soup, fish course, meat, dessert, cheese and several bottles of wine to match the courses; a white Pouilly Fume, a strong Burgundy, a half bottle of Muscat for the dessert and a couple of glasses of 18 year old Taylor's Vintage port with the cheese board. I can drink but I reckoned I would probably slide onto the floor if I had any more when Jack ordered coffee with cognac and asked for the humidor.

Of course I joined in and helped myself to a little aromatic cigarillo while he chose a Monte Cristo Number 4- he knows his cigars, all right. The heavy meal and the volume of alcohol were making me sleepy. We had passed a most pleasant evening in conversation; Jack regaling me about his trials and tribulations at Ashgrove- building projects, failed ventures, extensions, stories of his children and the local gentry. It was fascinating to hear this living history at first hand and my historian's imagination and ear were fully attuned. It was for the most part jolly despite the number of crises Jack had weathered on land. He spoke freely of Sophie and how she had clearly held the fort for him (better than he could have done, he reckoned) and that he had often used the sea as a means to escape the reality of his many debts and court cases. Of that he was not proud and his respect for Sophie's capabilities was immense.

His references to his mother-in- law were very different and I was surprised how negatively he spoke of her. I somehow hadn't expected Jack to be so caustic about a lady but he spared her nothing of his tongue. He called her a lady of singularly little charm with the temperament of a dog who had been left out too long in the sun, the appearance of a she goat and the voice of a donkey. He had obviously suffered at her hands!

It had been a long day and I think we were both tired so at a little before eleven we decided to retire for the night. Jack walked me to my door and thanked me for my company, taking my hand to kiss me goodnight. It was most courteous, flattering and proper. There was no sign of Lusty Jack.

Once inside my room, I changed into pyjamas and sat on the window seat looking out across the Downs. The moon shone on the rolling fields and cast an ethereal silver wash over everything. It seemed as unreal as the whole day had been, like I had been slipping in and out of the past and the present until I was unsure where reality actually lay. As I brushed my hair, I mused about what I had expected from this visit and I realised that I had never got past the image of Jack that was in my head. He was a character from a book I had read, from a story I had written, and a collection of shots from a movie that I had never seen. Even the other diaries had not broken through my stereotyped view of him nor had the days I had spent in his company in New Orleans.

But alone with him this day, I had met a complex and fascinating man who was funny and clever, handsome and dignified, hot-tempered and stubborn, chauvinistic and old fashioned, sensitive and emotional. It was a revelation and a recognition all at the same time for me - I should have known he would be all these things but my own amazement at his physical and enigmatic presence had blinded me to his other qualities.

One thing I hadn't met yet was his tendency to say the wrong thing or put his foot in it but I had a suspicion that would come and when it did it would be a major goodie. But I had seen his serious and contemplative side and his vulnerabilities and they were compelling. I wanted to know him better but I was not sure that was what he wished. Maybe he feels awkward? He met me with Terry when we were in New Orleans and knows him well now. After an initial tension between the two men, they had clicked and parted as pretty firm mates, comrades-in-arms even after they had shafted SID for his little fiasco. It occurred to me that a man like Jack would never make a move on another man's woman -not unless she threw herself at him (he had been known then not to resist temptation!) but I didn't really feel like doing a Molly Harte. With a sinking sense of disappointment, I realised that he had no intention of making a pass at me and probably never had. I turned the light off and slipped into bed more than ready to put aside my ramblings and go to sleep.

A knock at the door jolted me back from that half state just before sleep descends. For a moment I was unsure where I was and wondered if I had imagined it but then I heard, quite clearly, the soft but firm rat-a-tat again. Slithering out of bed, I padded over to unlock the door and there was Jack looking rather sheepish, his elbow resting on the door lintel.

Jack!" I gasped. "Is everything all right?"

He nodded. "Everything is most accommodating. But..." he sighed and rubbed his hand against his chin in a gesture that was more Creator than Jack- but then they all were the Creator, weren't they? We do not usually have such strong alternative images from other sources to confound us. "I fear I am unsettled. May I come in and speak to you, Uma? I do not wish to compromise you but this hallway is very public..."

I stepped back. "Of course, come in! I didn't want to embarrass by offering. Come in, sit down and tell me what ails you, Jack."

Jack stepped in to the room and looked around. I was surprised to see a slight flicker of a smile pass across his face but then he sobered and took a seat. "I want to tell you about how I feel. Is that acceptable to you? Would I be presuming too much on your friendship?"

"Why no, of course not! What is on your mind?"

He paused and then sat forward in his chair, his hands joined and resting on one knee. "I love my wife as befits a man of my time. She was the mother of my children, my partner in my affairs, my stalwart steward when I was away. Sophie was a dear, dear girl and I had deep affection for her and great admiration. That is the way men and women lived their lives in my day and, even if some aspects of a marriage were not successful, a husband and wife cleaved to each other and made the best of what they had. I was luckier, far luckier, than most men in this regard."

I smiled and sat cross-legged across the room listening enraptured at his declaration. It was so romantic and heartfelt. "I know you loved her, Jack, that was plain to see all along."

"You do not smoke what I am trying to say. When I crossed the portal and found this world, it was a great revelation and a trauma of mammoth proportions. I had to adjust to an alien place and the sudden loss of all I knew. But I have had time to think and there are some things I have learnt. The most important lesson has been about love."

At that his voice tailed away and he blushed slightly. He is not a man to feel comfortable with emotional confidences. But he persevered. "I spent my life with men and on the sea. I rarely lived with my wife and I must confess I did stray now and then- partly on account of loneliness but partly my physical nature, which had driven me to err. I knew little of women and how they thought but here in this world I have met women who are the equal of any man and yet have never lost their femininity or self-respect.  You all take responsibility for your lives and desires in a way that first shocked me and then made me see how honest it is compared to the days I lived in."

He grunted slightly in frustration at his inability to speak his feelings in a way I might understand. "What I mean is this. I never knew love where a man and woman were equal. Women were either wives who gave themselves to their husbands to assure their lives and fortunes were secured, mistresses who had the thrill of illicit love behind their tedious husbands' backs and were rewarded for their charms with gifts and jewels or women of ill-repute for whom men were their source of income. I am not sure any of those women gave me the kind of passionate love I have received since crossing over. I know Sophie is gone and will always mourn my loss of her but I have accepted it and begun to move on. I have a new love now and also know several women with whom I have fascinating friendships and deep emotional bonds. It is something that I adore and value greatly."

I heard him out but began to wonder a little at his purpose. "Jack, do you wish to stay with me tonight? Is that what you are saying?"

He coughed a little and looked down at his knees. "I did not wish to share a bed in my old room but nor could I settle to sleep alone there either. I fear there are too many ghosts keeping vigil around my bed. Yes, dear girl, I do not wish to be alone this night. Is that a great presumption on my part? Do not hesitate to upbraid me if I have dared to suggest an impropriety of any sort."

I slipped off the bed and crossed the room to settle on his knee where once I had so comfortably bounced. And I bounced again. "Jack! Say the word and you can have any liberties you like. I am past behaving with decorum in these matters. I am so taken by you and would love to share this vigil in whatever capacity you deem fit. As long as I can bounce on this splendid lap- for once you did extend me such an invitation, did you not, sir?"

Jack's face broke into a broad grin and he laughed out loud. "I did indeed, ma'am, nor have I forgot, don't you know! Then take your pleasure on my lap and we will familiarise ourselves with each other for, as yet, we are hardly close. I warrant that may change in a very short time to come."

There is only one phrase to complete this section. In the immortal words of that great diarist, Samuel Pepys... And so to bed.

Jack is quite an experience in any woman's bed and I am not sure I have the words adequately to describe him when he launches one of his amatory boardings. He is a sensualist whose appetites are full and earthy. He has the uncomplicated attitude to sex of a man of his time who has never read an article in GQ advising him on his technique, has never watched a film where women complain how their men would still not find their G-spot or their clitoris with a map and a compass. He doesn't realise that men are now viewed as the enemy by many women and the cause of all their unfulfilled ambitions and longings. He doesn't know that the Pill led to the invention of sex (or so people seemed to think at the time), he hasn't a clue that women of any pride at all burnt their bras long ago and insisted on being called 'persons' or the odd abbreviation Ms. In fact he has never once in his life had doubts about his masculinity or felt the need to search for his feminine side.

Does that mean he has no respect for women, cannot make love with any skill, expects to be treated like a god, disapproves if women have opinions and speak out of turn, believes that we should lie there, think of England and the Empire and bear his little ones? Of course it doesn't, and anyone with any real understanding of historical attitudes would know that the oversimplified modern sound bites about the past are largely untrue and simply mantras to hide our modern society in flux while it is dealing with a search for new social bonds to cling to.

Jack loves women, adores to pleasure them and is all the better and more uninhibited because he has no image in his mind to meet. I always wonder if modern people go through life with a film soundtrack in their heads (most young men still favour Rocky as they stroll along the street, I am sure) and try to recreate their experiences as they might look in airbrushed glory on a giant movie screen. People in the past had never seen anyone else make love and so didn't feel inferior if they couldn't match up to a celluloid image. I know for a fact that this is true because I have heard it from the mouths of men from the past- it is something I have discussed with Maximus many times. I mean - do you think he really went to battle with a rousing orchestra and slo-mo to render his savagery more fetching as if it were a choreographed dance?

But men from the past do make love differently. There is much more foreplay, teasing and flirting, clothes are not removed so early and intimate places are not investigated with such openness. As such then the feel of a kiss on the soft skin beneath one's ear, the gentle blow of breath expelled against one's skin, the pressure of a body, warm and urgent against one's own, the firm but unsure touch of an unfamiliar hand- all these tokens take on a new and erotic meaning until one feels that one's heart may burst if more is not granted.

Jack knows the moment of capitulation, that real lowering of colours, when a woman lies in his arms and no longer wishes to feign pretence. And then he fires. With a deep rumble and unleashing of restrained passion, he struggles with buttons and fastenings, and becomes something of the Ripper of his reputation...aided by one's own feverish need to lay him bare and savour the touch of his naked flesh.

We said little, unable to speak, mewling and panting as we reached for each other and he took command of my body. His fingers gently opened me up and he eased himself inside with an "Oh Madame, but...you are ready..." and we joined together in a slow but deep exploration of ourselves. Jack held my hips and hung his head, his hair falling in my face as I bucked and simply cried out "Jack! Oh Jack! Oh Jack!"

It was exquisite, like a moment from a poem or a love elegy. And then something happened. I have to explain that Jack is quite a strong man, as you know, and I am rather slight. As firm a grasp as he had on me, he did rather tend to shunt me from one end of the bed to the other. Then as we reached the headboard he would alter my position and the dance would continue again until we found ourselves at the foot and we turned once more. I seemed to be travelling a great distance- I vaguely wondered how many yards I had been fucked already and was this a record?

I am not sure if we accidentally knocked it over but I really think if we had then it would have fallen straight down, not ended up flung halfway across the room. I will explain. Suddenly our wild lovemaking was interrupted by a loud noise. We both stopped (at a rather crucial moment) and saw that a copy of the Gideon's Bible had moved from the cupboard by the bed to the middle of the floor. We stared and then looked at each other in surprise. And then Jack started to laugh. I mean really laugh. He threw his head back and laughed and laughed until he fell back against the pillow and tears ran down his cheeks. I began to laugh too although I didn't really know why I was laughing- but you know how it is when someone else is amused and, frankly, it was infectious just to hear him so amused.

"Jack, what is it? Why are you laughing?" I giggled and flopped onto his belly, rather enjoying the way his laughter seemed to resonate right through his body.

"It's...she's...'pon my soul..." and he raised his voice "You old goat! Is that you? Are you watching?" And then he began to laugh again.

"Jack? Who are you talking to?" I asked bemused.

"Ha! Ha! Ha! My dear mother-in-law. This room. This is her old chamber. It is the only room in this house in which I would dare to entertain another lady. In fact, I was rather amused at the notion of rumpling her bed with you. I swear she threw that book. The sight of my arse pounding up and down, my dear, must have been the final straw. Ha! Ha! Ha!"

I looked about. Could it be? Did he really think her ghost was keeping vigil? And was she watching her rogue of a son-in-law rogering this modern lady with such abandon? I know I shouldn't have, but I have read the books and she really was a cow...and I'll bet she was half the cause of Sophie's reluctance in the marriage bed, too...anyway I started to laugh and the two of us were helpless at the idea, rolling over the bed at the thought of it, with Jack shouting at intervals: "Ha! Madame, what do you think of that then, you ugly old donkey?" or "This must be the first rogering that this bed ever had!"

That was when I laughed so hard that I fell out of bed. It was most undignified but I hit the deck and rolled over ending up in a naked heap. Jack jumped up to assist me and joined me on the floor where I was still rubbing my sore knee. I picked up the Gideon's Bible at my side. It had fallen open on a page about the evils of fornication and the fate of the inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah. I pointed it out to Jack.

"Not a doubt in my mind, dear girl, she is here. How droll!" he chuckled.

"Or maybe she is suggesting that we might move on to Sodomy later?" I burst out laughing and he stared at me in surprise. Then he began to smile but this time the hilarity had gone. It was replaced by a gleam of devilment in his eye and I wriggled away on my bum and hands giggling: "I was only joking, Jack...I mean...it was a joke! Jack- NO!" Fortunately he was only joking too.

If I had wondered at the yardage in the bed, it must have moved into mileage round the room from that point on. I honestly don't know where I got the stamina from, but we certainly worked off the heavy meal. He attacked me on the floor until I moaned of the carpet burns on my bottom; at which he merely flipped me over. Then my knees gave out, so we tried the lovely ottoman by the window- until we knocked over the vase of flowers and he pulled me into an armchair- bouncing of a slightly different technique was required there- and then we took a break while I slithered off his knee to taste a little bit of Jack himself. I must have pushed him too far with those attentions for he suddenly roared and picked me up- I found myself pressed against the chintzy wallpaper sliding up and down the wall as Jack raised and lowered me like a sail on a windy day.

Finally, exhausted, we hit the bed again. I heard the wooden slats groan as Jack buried himself deep in me. I was such a limp rag by then, like a rag doll who has lost her stuffing (despite the fact that Jack was replenishing the stuffing by the minute) that despite the thundering orgasms that were shaking me, I could hardly make a sound or do more than moan insensibly. At that point, Jack arched his back and came, rocking and shuddering, deep groan in his throat and eyes rolling in his head. We fell to the pillow, side by side, arms and legs entangled; he wrapped the blankets round us and ...oblivion.

Now that is what I call a rogering.

Part Two : The Island

I woke up with a start in an empty bed all tangled up in sheets and blankets. Pulling myself upright I stared about, ready to pinch myself and wonder if I had dreamed the day before. But no. Here I was. But where was Jack?

Just at that moment the door opened and in he strolled whistling something, sounded like Mozart...Cosi Fan Tutte? Bit early in the morning for Name that Tune. I must explain - old country inns do not have en suite bathrooms.  You're lucky they have bathrooms at all - this is not the States with its obsession with ablutions.

"Ah you are awake, my dear. I suspected you would sleep all day! I trust you had a pleasant night?" Jack smiled cheerily. He looked all fresh and shaved and clean. Pity- I would have liked him all stubbly and early morning fuggy- I like men like that. However he did look great - wearing jeans and a white shirt hanging loose, fastened only by one button. His hair was loose, damp and he shook his head slightly while he brushed it with his fingers from his face and secured it with a band. I felt myself breathing out slowly.

"I had a very pleasant night, sir. I think you were there too, were you not?" I teased and gave him my best 'come back to bed look'. Jack grinned but remained impervious to my wiles.

"Look lively, Uma, I am eager to get on the road. What time is the ferry?" He strapped on his wristwatch and I could see the impatient captain and remembered how Stephen was always infuriated with Jack's obsession with speed. He had to get everywhere as quickly as possible. But that was his job as a sea captain, I expect.

"There's one every half hour, I think. And we can go either via Portsmouth, Southampton or Lymington. There's no rush. Let's just chill out and take a slow drive. Anyway, my head hurts. Does yours? I drank a bloody bucketful last night." I had a banging hangover not to mention the other injuries. Throwing back the covers, I rubbed the egg shaped swelling on my knee, the carpet burns, beard rash ...not to mention the parts I couldn't quite reach.

"The best cure for over-indulgence in the grape, I find, is to get on deck and have a good blow after a large platter of bacon and eggs to settle the heaving stomach and absorb the evil humours. I recommend you get yourself shipshape and we go down to breakfast. And do cover yourself, my dear. The sight of a naked nymph at this hour of the morning is a test of a man's endurance, don't you know?"  Jack said, a look of amusement on his face.

I slipped gingerly out of bed, rubbing my head and limping but still giving him those soulful eyes. I just don't think I've quite got the hang of it yet. Last time I tried it on Terry, he said- "have you lost a contact lens again?" Maybe one of the other sisters could show me how to simper?

I shrugged on my wrap, picked up my towel and wash bag and made for the door. As I passed Jack, leaning on the wall and watching me, he slapped my rump and I giggled, speeding up to get away from him. I liked the different feel of his love play. It makes me feel very womanly.

A shower refreshed me mightily and shortly afterwards I joined Jack down in the breakfast room where he had selected a table that overlooked the garden at the rear of the house. He said he had planted some of the trees once when he had been on an enforced leave. It seemed scarcely credible. How we leave our mark on the world even in tiny ways!

I'm not normally a breakfast person but Jack is right- a big burst out load of fried calories in the morning is the best antidote to a night on the booze. So we had the works- a real English breakfast with local bacon and sausages to die for. Jack was in his element and tucked in with gusto- what an appetite he has! But then he expends more energy than most men - as my wrecked vagina was ample proof. It was all I could do not to groan every time I moved my legs. We finished off with freshly baked bread smothered in homemade marmalade and cup after cup of tea. He had freshly brewed coffee - a real man's drink in his day.

"I wonder what happened to us?" Jack suddenly announced, quite a propos of nothing. 

"Who?" I enquired, crunching on another piece of toast.

"My family and me." That shut me up. I swallowed and took a gulp of tea. It is supposed to be the British cure for all ills. It didn't console me at that moment.

"You didn't leave them, Jack. You grew old and had your time. The children grew up and married. There was another you who lived to a ripe old age - and yours was a well-spent life. They never lost you nor you them." I wasn't sure what else I could say.

He nodded sadly. "But all the same...to know what became of us all would be the final closing of that chapter of my life. What is that expression that they call it these days?"

I smiled. "Closure. We need closure to move on."

"Ah yes...closure. Another way of saying that we must lay the ghosts that haunt us."

"Indeed," I whispered. I excused myself and left the breakfast room. I think he needed to be alone.

I sat in the bar and picked up a copy of the Guardian. The news was depressing but then I saw the date and flicked through the paper until I found it. The Guardian's famous April 1st wind up. They do it every year- announce something so cleverly worded that everyone falls for it. One year they had a whole supplement about a fictitious banana republic called San Serife in the travel section. Last year there was an article about how Russell Crowe was going to tour with the New Zealand Cricket team in the summer. People rushed to buy tickets in advance. The April Fool jokes are so realistic that they almost could be true. This year's kept me amused.

April 1st. Jack's birthday. Had to be really. Who but Jack Aubrey could you imagine being born on that day? (Actually I once knew a New Zealand nurse who had two babies- both unplanned- both born on April 1st on different years. And she lectured in Family Planning. Good one that- and true!) And here I am at Ashgrove with Captain Jack Aubrey. Or was that one of those April Fool's jokes that seems so real you actually believe it? Maybe Russ will bat for the Kiwis after all. A sudden idea came to me- it was the obvious thing to do! I threw down the newspaper and went in search of the landlord, Vic.

It was a fine morning as I finished packing some time later and gave a last look round the room. It held such memories for Jack and yet I hoped when he thought again of Ashgrove again he might also think of me and the love we had made last night. He came up to join me and saw me standing by the window looking out; his arm snaked round my waist and he pulled me close to him.

"Thank you for this, Uma. It has been very important and precious. As was last night. You gave me exactly what I needed when I needed it. For that I will be ever in your debt."

I turned and smiled up at him. He brushed my hair from my face and then stepped back to hoist the luggage and prod me gently out of the door. He was still eager for the off.

We drove away in silence: Jack turned back once as his former home receded down the road.

"Will you return, Jack?"

"I think not," was his reply. "The ghosts are laid."

At the ferry terminal, it was hard not to feel the excitement of the holiday spirit. It was fairly quiet being midweek and too early for school holidays but, nevertheless, there was a reasonable amount of activity. We parked in the queue and Jack sauntered off to sit on a capstan at the end of the dock and watch the busy port activity. It must have been so different from his day and yet he seemed at peace- an affinity with the maritime that even two hundred years could not dispel. I bought two cups of tasteless coffee and we sipped them as he mused and made comments, most of which I did not understand.

"Spring tide. Look at the displacement there - they have to flood the dock to an exceptionally high level at this time of year."

"Huh?" I asked bemused.

"The differential between high and low tide is greater than at any other point following a full moon and the time of year..."he trailed off and smiled. "You have no idea what I am talking about have you?"

I shook my head. "I know nuts about the sea. Actually I'm not really very confident on it. I always panic if I'm on a small boat or a launch. Anything bigger and I expect to sink. I am the world's worse mariner."

"Then it's a blessing that you are with me, my dear."

"You mean Lucky Jack can never sink?" I laughed.

"No, but when we do, I can keep you afloat while we swim for shore!" He chuckled and I raised my eyes. Thanks, Jack. That's all I need. Jack in joker mood when I am shitting bricks about a half hour sea crossing. OK, so I'm a wimp. I admit it. Terry swears he is going to make me freefall out of a plane with him one day. He'll have to hog tie me and knock me unconscious first.

During the short crossing we sat on deck and I have to say I enjoyed the experience. Jack spent the entire time pointing out shipping lanes and where we might run aground if we didn't know our water. I found it all strangely comforting. We unloaded at Ryde, a tiny village dwarfed by the terminal for the ferry and headed off across country for Shalfleet and the cottage. I had a map, a key and a set of instructions. That is normally enough to get me completely lost- I can only read a map if I turn it upside down the girly way which is hard to do when you are driving. Terry goes berserk. He once threw the AA British Road Atlas out of the window in temper and told me to "Read the fucking road signs if I could or I was going out after it". Is it my fault I have never had to find my way across miles of endless desert without a map? I have a proper job.

Jack is much more gentlemanly. He merely said, "If I may...?" and we were on the road in no time. I hope you are reading this, lover!

Dove Cottage is idyllic. It is tiny, built in 1837 according to the stone carving below the eaves - you would think that little hobbits had once lived here. It lies along the main road to Yarmouth but its high hedgerows cut it off from the traffic. Entrance is at the rear of the building down a little country lane and then along a narrow driveway of sand pebbles.

We left the car and squeezed our way past the towering evergreens which choked the pathway to the house, entering a little kitchen garden which looked as it must have done 150 years ago or more apart from the ubiquitous brick barbecue. There was an L-shaped annexe, old but newer than the main building which housed a double guestroom and a giant fridge freezer. I checked. Plenty of ice, stacks of tonic, white wine and champagne on ice, gin, glasses frosted and all waiting for me. I love my brother-in-law, Martin. We are piss artists-in-crime. Jack took the large iron door key for the main house from me and opened up, deftly hitching up the latch and we moved into the narrow corridor. I mean narrow. It would have been crowded for one child never mind two adults.

It opened up into a stone flagged room with white washed walls, decorated with brasses and dried herbs and flowers, pictures of rural scenes and Victorian blue and white pottery. It was quaint and cosy and I loved the giant black-leaded range that rose magnificently on one wall. The only furniture was a solid oak table and chairs and a well-stocked wine rack. We would survive. A small scullery led off the dining room with a built in modern kitchen making the most of the space. But I had given up on my cooking idea. Can you see me keeping Jack fed? He'd die of starvation. Good job the area was famous for restaurants.

Past the dining room was the tiniest lounge with a very comfortable settee, TV and music system. Opening the latched white wooden door that led to the stairs we investigated further. It was a little like a doll's house- so tiny and perfect and hard to imagine whole families once lived their lives in such miniature rooms. I made my way up the narrow steep staircase with Jack following, his hands on my hips in a rather pleasant manner. It was the first real contact we had had all day.

The tiny upstairs landing had three doors: a master bedroom with a view over the road and farmlands beyond- the bed was a large modern divan but the rest of the room was traditional- original wood floors, lace curtains, Victorian wardrobe and chest of drawers. It was adorable. I looked at Jack and he looked at me. We wouldn't be long before we tried it out.

One other door led to a children's room with bunk beds- Jack smiled at the toys and books and the little paintings pinned up on the walls. The third room was the bathroom and -OH JOYS!- it had a big old Victorian porcelain tub on brass feet. I flicked the central heating switch and got the water heating.

So we were there. Ensconced in our love nest and it felt as if we were the only people in the entire island. You have no idea how peaceful and silent it was.

But first - lunch. Jack is a creature of habit and I could see he was already looking around for food. I had a plan; it had been brewing in my mind all day.

"Jack? Fancy a trip to the pub and get something to eat?"

You don't need to ask Jack that question twice. He was more than amenable. I threw on a waterproof coat- it was fine but you never know- picked up my large travelling hand bag (having a quick check) and then we let ourselves out. I knew there was a pub at the end of the lane because my sister had written the details on the instructions. The New Inn.

Now for you Americans. A hostelry with a name like The New Inn invariably means something is very old in England. It was new when it was built. This old building had a 1750 mark on it although it had clearly been renovated several times. Here we settled, bought two pints of the local ale and ordered game pie and a bottle of red.

"We shouldn't order French." I reminded Jack.

"Why ever not?" Jack asked.

"Because of the war."

"The war? You are not still upset about Napoleon, are you? I would have thought that Britain had quite forgot him by now," Jack replied smiling at his own witticism.

I giggled. "The war in Iraq!"

"But the French are not involved! I fail to see why there is this antagonism. Why - we fought the French for years- actually fought them, mind- but we never gave up French wine. Life without a decent Burgundy or a Haut-Medoc? The French would most certainly have beaten us if they had deprived us of the only thing they ever did well!" He laughed. He had a point. As usual it was a Jack point and not everyone would have found it funny- but I did.

That led to an interesting discussion about war. I mean, he had spent half of his life at war with the French, the Spanish, the Americans and then his day had passed and the next generations went to war with other people. Most of these wars are forgotten. Countries offered up the flower of their youth and then time moved on. Enemies became friends. Friends became enemies and the wheel went round. How absurd it all is in the great scheme of things! Not absurd at all, however, if you are the family who loses a precious loved one- for you your chance at the future has been destroyed forever.

Can you imagine how a man like Jack must have once hated the French? And he had also been an American prisoner! He had captured Spanish frigates and killed their men in droves - but he has no bitter feelings. I'm not sure whether he ever actually did. In a sea battle the plight of your enemy is much the same as your own and yet there can only be one victor. No doubt Jack could kill, bombard or maim with gusto but I don't think he ever took any personal satisfaction in what he had to do, beyond that of a battle well fought and a victory gained with honour. His reaction to the sight of the dead of any side was invariably a sad one even when he accepted the inevitable. The loss of a ship and hundreds of men hits any sailor hard no matter under what flag it sails.

But people of his time had a fatalistic attitude to war- to life itself. There were so few certainties for anyone that death was a part of life, simply accepted and not railed against.

"Every time I left home, I honestly did not really expect to return. But then in my days, nobody felt themselves immortal. Death was ever-present. A simple infection, a bad chill, a childhood disease, an untreated wound, a multitude of everyday things could snuff out a life in days. It was dangerous for Sophie to give birth...perhaps even more dangerous than for me to go to battle...or for the children to weather their illnesses. Can you imagine how we felt - apart for years with scarce a letter more than every six months and by then the news was stale and meaningless?"

"How does one live life with those uncertainties?" I asked. 

Jack shrugged. "They are not uncertainties. They are life. You live and then you die. In between there is honour and service and loyalty and affection. Little else will count on your deathbed. Live each day as if it were to be your reckoning. That was always my motto."

I fell silent and contemplated his words. Is life in our time any more secure than Jack's? Have we been living in a mirage in which we have persuaded ourselves that we are immortals? Perhaps Jack's motto should be the one we all subscribe to. Actually I think in Perve World we probably do.

"Jack, I have been keeping something for you. I wasn't sure when would be the right time to give it to you." I reached down to my large bag and eased out the parcel. Feeling a little shy, I handed it over. "Happy Birthday, Jack."

He looked stunned. "Birthday? My word - how did you know?" Jack asked in surprise.

"The books told us."

"Ah yes. The books. Pardon me but I never expected...I had quite forgot. At my age, I'm not sure I even want to remember!"

We laughed. "How old are you, Jack?"  I grinned. He stopped and calculated quickly. 

"Two hundred and twenty seven, my dear!"

"Good God! I'm sleeping with a bloke older than my Dad. Older than my Granddad! Bloody hell!"

Jack giggled. "Older than Methuselah! Who would have thought a man of my age could still roger a pretty maid half the night long and all round the houses?" He had done it. As he had spoken, the waitress was just serving our dessert, the pub had gone quiet and Jack had boomed that one out as if he was announcing it to the residents of the next village. There was a subdued titter of laughter and all eyes were on us.

"Jack- do you think the old dear in the corner might like you to repeat that? She doesn't have her hearing aid on and she is the only one who missed it." I shook my head and grinned.

He laughed long and hard. He doesn't give a damn really. Maybe he never did. 

Then I remembered the parcel. "Jack- open your present!"

He picked up the brown paper parcel rather suspiciously and then proceeded to rip off the covering. When he saw what it was he stopped and his eyes widened. I wondered whether I had made a mistake.

"Jack...is it...all right?"

He said nothing, merely opening it up and stared. For long moments he remained like that, little sign of emotion showing other than a twitch in the muscle of his cheek. At last he looked up. "Wherever did you find this? How could you have found this? It is the story of my life."

It was his Bible from the study of The Grove Inn. I had asked Vic to sell it to me when I had sought him out after breakfast and the old bugger had driven a hard bargain. A bloody hard one. If Terry doesn't make shed loads of money in this new shop then my clothing budget is fucked for the next century. But it was worth it to see the look of utter astonishment on Jack's face and the gleam of unshed tears in his eyes.

"My Bible. I took this on many voyages. From this I read the lesson on a Sunday when we had no parson aboard, or used it to pay last respects to dead crew and colleagues before we committed them to the sea. I must have kept it up to date over the years. Look, this is my handwriting! My children's marriages, the birth of my grandchildren...and here...my own death and Sophie's....the children ....dear God...to see this, to know..."

"Jack. You lived to a ripe old age and died in your own bed! After the life you lived, what more could any man ask?" He nodded and wiped a tear from his eye. I had to go search for the Kleenex myself - I was in full flow.

He composed himself and closed the book "Thank you. I shall never be able to repay you."

I smiled at him. "Oh, Jack, you never know. I'll bet I think of something!" I grinned as I dabbed at my streaming eyes.

It was blustery and rain was threatening as we strolled back to the cottage. Entering its cosy warmth, Jack went upstairs to pack away the Bible. I knew he would want to examine it more carefully later at his leisure. But I couldn't resist the temptation then, so I ran up after him. Of course he had known I would and he was waiting for me; as I entered the bedroom, he simply swept me up in his arms and kissed me, whirling me round and round as if I were a feather and then we fell to the large divan. Thank God it was a new sprung mattress- I would hate to have to explain a broken bed to my sister- not that she would be too surprised. I'm afraid Big Sis kind of knows what to expect from me by now.

I must say I always find bed in the afternoon a very convivial place to be, especially after a good lunch and a bottle of red. Add to that the rain lashing the window pane while you and your lover make soft, slow love, doze off and then wake to make some more easy loving and you are very close to heaven. Lying back, late in the afternoon, bodies sore but satiated we luxuriated in the feeling of nothing to do but enjoy the moment and look forward to a late dinner in a nearby restaurant. I'm sorry if Jack and I seem to do little but fuck and eat but...you have to live! The most pressing problem was whether we wanted to go to Scully's the Fish Restaurant at Yarmouth or "Le Petit Moulin" in the shadow of Carisbrooke Castle (where King Charles I was held until they sent him to London to chop his head off - a bit of local history there for you!).

"Fish." I decided

"Is it too early in the year for pheasant?" Jack responded.

"Not these days. They farm it."

"I thought they would. I cannot adjust to the non-seasonal aspect of food..."

(Yes, we were really lying in bed having this boring discussion. But it wasn't boring to Jack, of course.)

I rolled over and surveyed him as he sat leaning on the pillows and talked about food. Then he smiled as if he realised the absurdity of it all. I tickled him and blew on his chest hair; he pulled me up to eye level and captured my lips in his. What started so innocently soon moved up a gear and moments later, Jack had tupped me over and I was on my back in the usual position and he was winding up for another session.

"Jack. Not again!" I murmured as he parted my aching thighs and rubbed his now throbbing manhood against my cleft.

"Soft! I will be gentle. You would not refuse a man on his birthday, would you, sweeting?" Unfairly Jack whispered deep and low into my ear - his voice should be a registered weapon.

"Oh God, Jack, I couldn't refuse you on any day of the year!" His rumbling chuckle resonated through my body. "But take your time. I am somewhat saddle sore!"

He groaned and I felt him ease his head in gently, murmuring and muttering in my ear, sweet, sweet endearments amidst ribald suggestions. He has a knack of making even the most crude of notions seem eminently courteous and appropriate for the moment. As my arousal increased and his path was made more moist and smooth, he rocked slowly against me until his entire length and girth were swallowed up. I had this dreamlike feeling swirling over me, a curious languor, as if I longed just to remain there in that tender place, covered by his body, wrapped up in his arms and never leave again. I closed my eyes and let him use me, his rhythmic movements undulating like a gentle wave until he began to thrust more urgently and shake in my arms and I felt him surge and shed, a deep sigh escaping from his lips. I hope my birthday feels like this.

We dined French, I am ashamed to admit, and then took a moonlight walk around the castle walls, another place of ghosts, thankful that the blustery rain had given way to a quieter night. It was romantic just to wander in the starlight, tucked up in his arm, stopping for kisses and hugs or for him to hoist me in his arms and carry me when the path was muddy- I didn't even have to ask him. He just automatically swung me up. I felt like a princess in a fairytale.

Back home and another night of bliss. We fell into an exhausted sleep with me ticking off the number of birthday fucks I had give him so far this holiday. We had got up to six.  Still three to go, one for each of my sisters... fortunately, as my mentor Scarlett used to say, 'Tomorrow is another day'!

Wednesday we went to Cowes. It is a famous harbour town, which is devoted to yachting and has zillions of shops selling everything a mariner would need. Every year the famous round Britain race departs from there- Cowes Week is a major sporting event. Despite my reluctance to sail, I could not deny Jack a trip there and so I swallowed my nervousness and decided to go for it. We went to the marina and Jack hired a small yacht, quickly convincing the sceptical harbour master of his maritime knowledge.

I had bought all the right gear for a day afloat determined to look the part even if I didn't act it. Jack lifted me over from the jetty (I have a suspicion he thought I would do a Stephen and fall in) and he was settled in no time, busying himself with all sorts of sailor things with ropes and sails and anchors and booms and jibs. Don't ask me to explain. He gave me a running commentary and a quick lesson while I just looked at him and thought how he suited navy blue. He was wearing a ribbed fisherman's sweater in a deep navy with a white pair of cotton deck pants. And he wore deck shoes with no socks with his hair clubbed to keep it out of his way. Who cares how you sail with that eye candy to look at?

I sat cross-legged on a leather cushioned bench and just kept out of the way, eventually learning to duck my head when he shouted something like " larboard down!" and after he had thrown himself on me several times to avoid my decapitation. To give him credit he kept patience with me although I did realise he was getting a little annoyed. Jack is quite different on the sea from the land and doesn't suffer fools gladly but he did his best. I can think of another man who would have tossed me over the side hours before. But then...he's not a gentleman, is he, mate? ( Sorry for the private jokes but I'll bet you he does read this one!)

Finally way out in the Solent with my stomach relatively calm considering, we dropped anchor and had some lunch; a picnic that I had cobbled together from the local Sainsbury's on the way. I bet all you wonderful cooks out there are shaking your head in shame at me. But I laid a mean table of Belgian pate, smoked salmon mousse, cold meat platter, pork and cranberry pie, various salads, crusty bread, various cheeses, fruit and a nice bottle of Chablis. I wondered about that. Should you drink alcohol when you are sailing? I mean, is it like driving a car? I put that to Jack and he just laughed. Then I remembered how he would drink a gutful of wine and brandy and then take the helm, maybe even for a battle or a storm. It just didn't signify in those days and I reckon I was pretty safe with him even after a half a bottle of Chablis.

The afternoon wore on and I was even in danger of getting to like sailing. I began to become confident enough to hold things for Jack (don't be crude, I mean ropes and things!) and some of what he was saying started making sense. He pointed out the famous landmark of the Needles as we rounded the south west tip of the island and I jumped up to have a better view.  I must have moved too fast and lost my balance because- you guessed it- I fell head first into the water.

Despite my weatherproof jacket I felt the immediate chill of the water- in April it is still very cold. I'm a good swimmer but that is in tropical waters with warm currents- and the shock of cold and the deep sea beneath me make it a long way from a swimming pool.

But before I had time to react, I felt the sudden support of strong arms and Jack holding me, treading water while he shouted, "Lie still, I have you. Do not be afraid." He turned me on my back and swam strongly back to the boat, which he must have secured at speed before ripping off his jumper and shoes and diving in almost before I had time to surface.

With an easy lift, he hoisted me indecorously over the side and I slithered to a heap on the deck, coughing and spluttering. He pulled himself over and was quickly at my side.

"Below, now! Take off your wet clothes and wrap yourself in something warm. The water is chilled and can settle on your chest. Look lively, Uma." He helped me up and we staggered below where I stripped off the soaking garments and Jack found a blanket for me. Next minute he brought me a cup of tea and I just sat there amazed at the calm and efficient manner he dealt with everything.

"Jack, you are wet, too." He grinned as if it meant little to him. He was only wearing his cotton pants and they were saturated. I bit off the desire to giggle. Well, I had obeyed the rules and I risked my own life to do so. What a perve!

With his usual careless way, Jack peeled off the pants and wrapped a towel round his waist, using another to dab at his chest and hair. Then he excused himself and went on deck. I gathered up our wet clothes and wrung then out as best I could, hanging them up on the deck to try to dry them out. Rummaging around in my bag I found a spare pair of shorts and a T-shirt, but they hardly suited the weather. Jack had a dry T-shirt and jumper but no pants. What a pity, I grinned, but hoped they would dry sufficiently before we made land. Meanwhile he was quite happy to sail the yacht wearing only a towel.

"Jack, don't you feel the cold after that drenching?" I asked, handing him a fresh mug of tea.

He shook his head. "I rarely feel the cold.  My skin is weathered and toughened and I probably have enough fat on me to insulate. Never fear, my dear. I will not catch cold."

"You saved my life, Jack." I gazed up at him in adoration.

"You gave me my life in that Bible. I'll warrant that makes a fair deal, don't you think?" He smiled down at me. "And did you expect I would leave you to drown? I've pulled out enough incompetent sailors in my time - do you imagine I wouldn't add to my tally? What is it now? Thirty six?"  He laughed easily and chucked me under the chin. I blushed like a little girl. That's how Jack makes me feel. Like a young girl in the flush of romance - and that takes some doing to work that particular spell on an old hand like me.

I almost forgot. The bath. I promised you the bath, didn't I? When we finally reached the cottage, Jack damp but happy, me cold but even happier, we decided that a hot bath was essential. Whilst the enormous tub filled and I swirled in some fragrant essence that I found in the cupboard, Jack went downstairs and made a jug of hot toddy: Jamaica dark rum, warmed red wine, honey, lemon juice and spices. He carried that up with two glasses and we thankfully removed our clothing and slipped into the warm, scented bubbles. Lying back in his arms, we drank the fiery hot brew and let the pleasure of heat and relaxation soak into us.

I fitted perfectly into the space between his bent knees, lounged comfortably on his padded chest and wriggled into his enfolding arm. Our murmurs of pleasure were a language of their own. Here we were, in our little hideaway, warm and wet, pleasantly fuelled by our rum ration and the evening to look forward to...I put down my glass and slithered down into the water.

"Oops Captain...I think I just fell in again..."  I teased.

Jack laughed, shouted, "Hold your breath!" and pushed my head down to his waiting groin. Number eight. Only one more to go...and then the last one's for me!