by Regan Walker
The village had the usual collection of craftsmen, among them carpenters, blacksmiths, gunsmiths, tailors and shoemakers, who did their work in stalls and shops for all to see. And there were bakers, brewers and grocers. But once the American War ended, many sailors were left without jobs; and those who had supplied the ships that had once called Chichester Harbor home struggled to earn a living.
England levied duties on more than tea and brandy. The government taxed everything, including bricks, candles and soap. Farmers were among the poorest. Joanna had known this but until she met the Ackerman family, she had not made the village poor a part of her life. And now that they were, she could not leave for London without looking in on Polly Ackerman and her three children.
Just outside the village, Freddie pulled rein in front of the whitewashed cottage. A humble dwelling to be sure, but Daniel Ackerman had taken great pride in what he had been able to provide his wife and children. Polly had decorated the windows with muslin curtains and their beds with pretty bed covers made from scraps of fabric. She kept a clay vase of wildflowers on their worn table, which brightened the small space. Outside their door, a carpet of bluebells covered the floor of the ancient woodland.
The children seemed happy enough even after their father had died. But when the ague befell the family and their mother took ill, it was as if a cloud descended over the little home. The children, who recovered more rapidly than their mother, worried they might lose their only living parent. Joanna had seen the fear in their eyes and wished to dispel it. If smuggled tea would cheer the small family, she would provide it.
No one was about as Joanna and Nora climbed down from the bench seat. Freddie lifted the baskets from the wagon and handed them down. The wagon also held blankets, clothes and firewood.
Joanna knocked on the wooden door.
It opened almost immediately and the youngest of the Ackerman children, a blonde cherub of four years named Briney, greeted them as she leaned against the doorpost. She had two older brothers, ten-year-old Danny and six-year-old Nate.
Big blue eyes peered up at Joanna from a sweet round face. “Hello, m’lady. Mum’s still in bed. Will ye see her?”
“Of course. That is one reason we have come.” Taking a tart from the basket, Joanna gave it to the little girl. “I brought this for you. There is one for each of your brothers, too.”
The child eagerly reached for the cherry tart and took a bite, smearing cherry juice over her mouth.
Joanna took that opportunity to enter. Behind her, Nora and Freddie followed.
The main room of the cottage was empty. “Where are your brothers?”
The child’s expression was glum. “Danny and Nate are gathering wood, but Danny’s not well yet.”
Joanna and Nora set the baskets on the table in the room that served as parlor, dining room and kitchen. There was no fire in the stone fireplace and the air in the cottage was chilled. Little Briney had a shawl around her slender shoulders but nothing so warm as a woolen cloak. And her feet were bare. Many in the village did not wear shoes.
“We will soon have the cottage warm as bread in the oven,” said Joanna, looking at Freddie and inclining her head toward the door.
Freddie gave her a nod and went to fetch the wood. Joanna and Nora began taking things out of the baskets. Sadly, the clay vase in the center of the table was devoid of flowers.
“While Nora sets out food, how about you take me to look in on your mother?”
Briney nodded and glanced toward the door to the bedchamber. The children slept in the loft. The bedchamber in the back that had been their parents’ was now Polly’s alone.
While still clinging to her half-eaten tart with one hand, Briney took Joanna’s hand with the other and together they walked to the bedchamber. Joanna slowly opened the door.
Polly Ackerman lay in bed, her pretty face pale and her blonde hair tucked into a muslin mobcap.
Joanna walked to the bed and sat on the edge. Polly was not yet thirty, but heartbreak, sickness and worry had taken their toll, adding lines to her face. Reaching out her hand, Joanna touched Polly’s pale forehead and breathed a sigh of relief. She was only slightly warm. “Has she eaten anything today?”
“Only the tea Danny brought her afore he went out.”
Joanna had brought them a good supply of tea and bread when she’d come the day before, but she wanted to encourage Briney, whose sweet face wrinkled with concern. “’Tis good she is sleeping. The rest will help her get well.” A smile spread across Briney’s face and Joanna drew her into a hug as the child nibbled on her tart. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, she will be fine.”
Nora peeked her head in the doorway. “Freddie’s got the fire going and the cottage will soon be warm. I’ve put the kettle on for tea.”
“Thank you, Nora.” Then turning to the child still in her arms, she said, “The boys will be hungry when they return. ’Tis good we brought food, don’t you agree?”
Briney nodded her head vigorously. “Danny an’ Nate are always hungry.”
“Let’s let your mother sleep.” Joanna rose from the bed, taking Briney’s hand that did not hold the tart. She led her back to the main room. Already it was warmer. “If you want to save the rest of your tart, there will soon be tea to go with it.”
Briney set what was left of her tart on the table flanked by two long benches. Joanna lifted Briney onto one of them and placed some bread and cheese in front of her. “You can’t live on tarts.”
Briney nodded. “Yes I can.”
Joanna chuckled. “Well, maybe you can, at that. When I was your age, I thought so.”
Danny burst into the room carrying a stack of branches and sticks. Nate, at his side, had a bundle of wood under one arm. “Lady Joanna!” Danny exclaimed. “I didn’t know you were coming today. Hello Freddie, Nora.”
Where Briney and Nate favored their mother with blonde hair and blue eyes, Danny had the brown hair and hazel eyes of their father.
“We came to look in on your mother and to bring more things for you and your family.”
“Thank you, m’lady,” said Danny. Only a youth, he had shouldered much responsibility, and Joanna’s heart ached for him.
His cheeks were flushed. “Do you still have a fever, Danny?”
“’Tis not bad,” he said, making light of it.
Not wishing to embarrass him or worry his siblings, she did not reply. But she was glad she had brought all the children warm jackets and shoes.
The boys laid the wood next to the fireplace where a warm fire now crackled, sending heat into the room.
Respecting Polly’s preferences, Joanna reminded the children to wash their hands in the bowl on the sideboard before eating. Freddie added more logs to the fire. Everyone gathered around the table and Nora poured the tea.
The cups they drank from were not the fine porcelain used at The Harrows, but it mattered not to Joanna. Giving to this family was worth more to her than all the porcelain cups she would ever have.
Briney slipped from her chair and crawled into Joanna’s lap. “Are you warm enough?” she asked her.
“Now I am,” Briney answered in her little girl voice.
“How is Mum?” asked Danny, picking up a piece of cheese and dropping it on a crust of bread. His forehead creased with worry.
“She is only resting,” Joanna assured him. “Soon she will be well and it will be summer and you will have months of warm weather.”
“We have some things for you,” said Nora. “Blankets, linens, clothes and food. The mistress and I will be going to London, but my brother, Zack, will be keeping an eye on you and can help with anything you need.”
“Is he the big man?” asked Nate.
Joanna met Nora’s gaze and they both laughed. “Aye,” said Nora. “The big one.”
“I’m not going to London,” Freddie put in, “so I will be dropping by from time to time.”
Neither she nor Freddie mentioned the smuggling that had produced the tea
they had brought or the coins she would send the Ackermans from her share. It was enough they knew she and Freddie wanted to help.
Joanna hugged Briney. “When we are done here and I’ve seen your mother has something to eat, how would you like to pick some flowers for the table?”
The cherub’s eyes lit up and she clapped her cherry-stained hands. “Yes, oh yes!”
On the road from Sussex to London
Lord Torrington had tried to persuade Jean to stay at The Harrows, but he, the Powells and the Danvers had gracefully declined. They did not wish to impose upon their host after the lavish reception he had given for the Prime Minister.
The Danvers had reserved rooms at the White Horse Inn in Chichester for their party, so Jean had thought to have a restful night’s sleep. But in the middle of the night, he’d awakened with the face of Lady Joanna West in his mind. Their exchange at the reception had been brief, yet it had led to the momentary impulse to ask her if she would be coming to London. His desire to see her again surprised him.
Shortly after breakfast, they had departed Chichester. Jean, Claire and her husband took one carriage and the Danvers the other.
Travel by carriage, whether from Sussex to London, or from Le Havre to Paris, always reminded Jean of the reason he preferred traveling by ship. He had the changeable nature of the sea to contend with, but the motion was less jarring and the challenge of being in charge of one’s own destiny ever appealed.
Powell’s carriage was much like the one Jean kept in Paris, a fine, black town coach with good springs and well-padded seats covered in tufted velvet. According to his son-in-law, the roads had improved in the last decade but, even so, the ruts rendered the ride a bumpy one. To his mind, the roads in France were better but not so much they afforded a continuously smooth ride. He was thankful it had not rained, else they would have been mired in mud.
At day’s end, after many stops to change horses, they arrived at the Angel Posting House in Guildford in Surrey. The coachman pulled rein and, a moment later, the footmen opened the door.
Jean considered the three-story inn, painted white with black trim, a typical English coach house. He followed Claire and her husband inside to find the Danvers waiting for them amidst a large crowd clustered around the bar, overflowing into the common room. Jean had never been happier to be handed a glass of brandy and thanked Lord Danvers profusely.
“As you see,” remarked Cornelia, “spring brings many to London; hence the inn is quite crowded.”
“To afford us privacy,” said Lord Danvers, “I have reserved a private room in which we might sup once you have seen your rooms.”
Soon after, they gathered in the small private room for a meal of English beefsteak, fried potatoes and cheddar cheese, accompanied by a pretty good French Bordeaux. Though a heavier meal than he was used to, it did suffice to sate his appetite after the long day on the road.
“’Tis not French fare, I grant you,” said Lord Danvers, “but the brandy and wine are French and perhaps that serves to make up for it.”
Jean didn’t want the gracious man to think him ungrateful. “The wine is quite good. On my ship, we dine on simple fare. Fish and poultry form the mainstay, of course. But we often pick up supplies from Guernsey. In Lorient and Paris, the meals might be more elaborate, as they would be in London.”
Powell spoke up. “Claire taught the Irish cook aboard my schooner the Fairwinds a few things about spices and soups, so the crew now asks for the French dishes.” He grinned. “I was already enamored by the food.”
“Is the Fairwinds in London?” asked Lord Danvers.
Powell glanced at his wife before answering. “Aye, but after the christening, I will be taking her out for a short while.”
“And your ship, Monsieur Donet, is on its way to London?” asked Cornelia.
“Oui, under the command of my quartermaster, M’sieur Bequel. You will meet him at the christening. He is quite fond of my daughter.”
“M’sieur Bequel has known me since I was a girl,” offered Claire.
Cornelia smiled. “There will be much to do in London now that the Season’s on. The christening, of course, but also plays, concerts and a soiree or two.”
“Cornelia loves to entertain,” put in Danvers.
After supper, they were all of a mind to seek their beds, as a full day of travel awaited them on the morrow.
Jean mused over the possibility of seeing again the intriguing Lady Joanna.
Chapter 5
London
Jean had agreed to stay with his daughter and her husband until his ship arrived, so the morning after their arrival in London he shared brioche and coffee with them in the room where they took their déjeuner.
Bathed in light from the many windows looking out on the shimmering waters of the Thames, the yellow-painted room welcomed the morning sun like the mythical Aurora greeting the dawn.
“Did my daughter introduce you to brioche?” he asked his son-in law. Like Jean, Powell had made his own way in the world. Both had spied for their governments during the American War and had battled each other on the Channel. But those days were past. When Powell had promised to care for Claire, the enmity between them had died.
Powell set down his coffee and reached for Claire’s hand, meeting her gaze across the table with endearing affection. “Our fondness for brioche was something we shared even before we decided we liked each other.”
Claire laughed. “He served it to me for breakfast the first morning I spent on his ship. My mood was most foul. That was the morning I wrecked his cabin.”
Powell laughed. “I remember it well. Her temper landed my books and instruments in a pile on the deck of my cabin.”
When their meal was finished, Claire asked a footman to have Jean Nicholas’ nurse bring him to the table to meet his grandfather.
A moment later, with an air of self-importance, an older woman carried the babe into the room. On her head, she wore a mobcap and around her ample middle was a crisp white apron. At Claire’s direction, the nurse placed the babe into Jean’s arms.
His sweet face reminded Jean of Claire at that age. Already Jean Nicholas had a head of dark hair.
Memories of a tiny cottage by the sea flooded his mind. Despite the fact he and Ariane had been poor, those had been good years, filled with love.
The babe smiled up at him and latched on to his finger. “He seems an easy-going contented child.”
Jean looked up to see Claire returning him a look of mild reproach. “You have yet to witness his black temper, Papa. Whenever his feeding is late or his favorite plaything is moved out of reach, he quickly makes his displeasure known to all.”
“You sound surprised,” Jean said. “Did you doubt the Donet temper would emerge at some point?”
His daughter frowned. “Humph!”
Powell laughed behind his hand and, putting down his copy of the Morning Chronicle, reached for his son.
Jean placed the babe in his father’s welcoming arms and glanced at his daughter. “Jean Nicholas will be all the stronger for it, Claire. You will see. A sea captain must not appear weak, as your husband can tell you. A temper applied in proper measure can tell the crew the captain is serious.”
Claire’s response was to lift her eyes to the ceiling.
Her husband, who had likely observed Claire’s temper even after their marriage, merely smiled. The babe must have thought the smile was for him. He let out a squeal of delight.
To Jean, the scene over brioche and coffee had been highly amusing and assured him his daughter fared well with her English husband. It was clear the love the two shared made up for their many differences.
When the nurse reclaimed the baby, Jean stood and wished his daughter and her husband a fine morning. “I am for Oxford Street to buy my grandson, who is also to be my godson, a worthy christening gift.”
“We will look for you at dinner,” Claire replied. “I am going with my friend the Countess of Huntingdon to hear the Me
thodist, John Wesley. He is eighty, you know, but has not slowed down.”
Jean raised a brow to his son-in-law. The Anglican clergyman who drew large audiences to his preaching was not unknown to Jean, but Claire was Catholic.
Powell shrugged. “My wife and the countess have met with Mr. Wesley before. They admire him greatly. While Claire is with the countess, I will be seeing to my ships, but I will return for dinner.”
By the time Jean arrived on Oxford Street, it was already bustling with shoppers, most of them ladies with their parasols lifted to shade their faces from the sun. For London, such weather in April was unusually fine.
He left the hackney at one end of the street and strolled along, tipping his tricorne to the women who offered him their smiles. In his years as a privateer, he had gained an aura of danger and knew it to be a strong lure for many women. But the memory of the blue-eyed woman he had loved long ago kept him from meaningless assignations.
Much negative could be said of London’s streets, ever dirty and plagued with foul smelling mud puddles. However, Oxford Street was entirely removed from such prosaic environments.
Though the street itself was packed earth, next to the shops was pavement inlaid with flagstones, allowing shoppers to stop and gaze into shop windows without muddying their shoes. He walked with determination, thankful for the dry pavement beneath his feet, for Gabe had shined Jean’s leather boots just before he left the ship.
In the middle of the street, a long row of lacquered coaches awaited their owners.
He passed a watchmaker’s shop, then a fabric store and a china shop before he spotted a confectioner’s establishment. He could not pass by without purchasing some sweets for Claire. It had been long since he’d indulged her childhood sweet tooth and it cheered him to be able to do so again. Stuffing the packet of sweetmeats into his pocket, he returned to his mission.
