At a sharp turn of the road the wind smote the car as with an invisible wing. One of the windows was blown in, and to prevent the rain from driving on to us my husband had to hold up a cushion in the gap.
This occupied him until we ran into Blackwater, and then he dropped the cushion and put his head out, although the rain was falling heavily, to catch the first glimpse of the water in the bay.
It was in terrific turmoil. My heart leapt up at the sight of it. My husband swore.
We drew up on the drenched and naked pier. My husband's valet, in waterproofs, came to the sheltered side of the car, and, shouting above the noises of the wind in the rigging of the steamer, he said:
"Captain will not sail to-day, my lord. Inshore wind. Says he couldn't get safely out of the harbour."
My husband swore violently. I was unused to oaths at that time and they cut me like whipcord, but all the same my pulse was bounding joyfully.
"Bad luck, my lord, but only one thing to do now," shouted the valet.
"What's that?" said my husband, growling.
"Sleep in Blackwater to-night, in hopes of weather mending in the morning."
Anticipating this course, he had already engaged rooms for us at the "Fort George."