by Regan Walker
For his godson, he wanted something unusual, something that would remind the boy of his destiny, which naturellement, must be the sea. A sextant, the essential tool of every sailor, was far too precise an instrument for a child. A silver cup was the traditional gift, but the lad would likely receive many of those from the well wishers invited to the christening. Jean wanted to give his namesake a unique memento of the occasion.
He paused in front of the silversmith’s window. The glass projected into the street so that the goods displayed could be seen from three sides. Many well-crafted items were shown to advantage, including an array of silver cups, small boxes and eating utensils. He was about to pass on when his gaze fixed on an item in the center of the window: an extraordinary table clock set upon a small pedestal draped in dark blue velvet.
He had come across a similar planetarium clock in Paris the year before. A work of art, the gilded Pendulette de table avec planétarium rested on a base of white marble balanced on three golden hooves. It kept time on its round watch face, white with black hands. Above the watch, inside a crystal globe, a small earth rotated around a larger, golden sun in perfect real time. The other five planets, shown as smaller balls, some silver, some gold, rotated on arms—up, down and around—in relation to the constellations that were precisely etched on the crystal globe.
C’est magnifique!
In Paris, he had stared at the clock for an hour, fascinated by its movement. Now, as if an omen had presented itself, the same clock appeared once again. This time he meant to have it and bestow it upon Jean Nicholas.
A very special gift indeed.
The shop bell jingled as he entered and strode to where the silversmith stood over his counter polishing some silver object.
“Sir?” The gray-haired man looked up as Jean arrived at the counter. “May I show you something?”
“Oui, the celestial globe clock in the window.”
“Ah, a Frenchman who knows what he wants! Then you must recognize what a rare item the clock is. In England, we call them Orrery chronometers after the Earl of Orrery to whom one was given. I only recently acquired this exquisite specimen from a dealer in Paris.”
Jean followed the thin man to the window where he lifted the clock from its pedestal and held it up. Again, the planetarium’s movement and the solar system contained in the crystal ball drew his gaze. He did not ask the price for cost mattered not. “Superbe. I will take it.”
“Very good.” The silversmith dipped his head and carried the clock back to the counter.
It was then Jean noticed the two women in the far corner of the shop staring at him. Like a pair of bon bons, one was dressed all in pink and the other in blue, perfectly attired for a spring day.
He recognized the beautiful redhead at once. Lady Joanna West’s light blue gown of fine silk adorned with ruffles complemented well her red curls swept off her neck. Atop them she wore a straw hat at a jaunty angle. Next to her stood a younger version of her in pink satin and lace.
Doffing his hat, he inclined his head. “Ladies.”
“Monsieur Donet,” Lady Joanna returned, coming forward. “Might you be here on the same errand that brings my sister and me out today?”
Jean had not met the younger redhead but the resemblance was clear. It seemed Torrington and his siblings all bore the same stamp: red hair of one shade or another, brown eyes, pale skin and finely carved features. “That may be, for I seek a gift for the christening of my godson, Jean Nicholas.”
“As do we,” said Lady Joanna. She stood before him, her sister beside her holding some silver object. “I was so pleased when my friend Cornelia asked if we might attend. How delighted you must be.”
“I am, particularly since the child is also my first grandchild.”
Her eyes, he realized, were not merely brown like her sister’s. They were the color of aged cognac, deep amber pools alight with intelligence, the kind of eyes a man could look at for the rest of his life. Her manner might be direct, but her full lips were enticing and her subtle smile beguiling.
She glanced at the girl in pink and back to him. “I don’t recall if you were introduced to my sister at the reception.”
He cast a glance at the younger woman and shook his head. “Je regrette, I did not have the pleasure.” His mouth hitched up in a grin he knew would delight the young miss who was looking at him with an expression of keen interest.
“Well, then,” Lady Joanna began, “may I present my sister, Lady Matilda West?”
The girl giggled. Perhaps only a year or two younger than his daughter, Lady Matilda’s manner made her seem even younger. But then, Claire had been through much and was now married and the mother of a child—the key to fulfillment for any woman.
He inclined his head. “Enchanté.”
His greeting drew another giggle from the girl and a chiding “Tillie!” from Lady Joanna.
“I saw you select the clock, Monsieur. I, too, admired the workmanship, but can you not see that giving such a fine clock to a babe in arms is unwise? Would not a silver cup be more appropriate?”
“Now there you’d be wrong, Mademoiselle. Everyone gives a cup. My aim is to fascinate the boy with thoughts of the night sky he will one day see from his ship. ’Tis the perfect gift for a future ship’s captain.”
Lady Joanna’s brows rose in surprise. “But isn’t he a bit young for such thoughts?”
“Nay, I think not. A child is like a ship. One can never be too young to be steered to the right course.”
Her forehead creased in a frown. “Have you considered, Monsieur, that you might have chosen this gift, not because it will please your grandson, but because it will please you?”
Jean scowled at her suggestion. What did she know of him that she would impute such a selfish motive to his action? Of course, the clock pleased him. More importantly, it would also please Jean Nicholas.
She looked at him expectantly, beautiful in her defiance, awaiting his answer. Perplexed at his strong reaction to the redhead, he gave her none.
The tension between them hung thick in the air as they stood glaring at each other.
The sister spoke up, sparing an awkward moment. “Ah… we thought to give the baby a silver rattle.” She held up a silver toy about five inches long with a whistle at one end and a coral teether at the other and shook it in front of his face. “See?”
Decorated with silver bells, Jean had to admit it made a pleasant jingle. “Quite practical. I am certain my daughter and young Jean Nicholas will be delighted.”
“And why not?” Lady Joanna asserted. “Babies need diversion.”
From behind him, the shopkeeper spoke. “Your clock is ready, Monsieur.”
Jean tipped his hat to the ladies and turned toward the silversmith’s counter, glad for the interruption. As he strode to the counter, he could feel the disapproving gaze of Lady Joanna boring into his back. He set his jaw. Jean Nicholas would have the clock whether the lady approved or not.
At the counter, he found his package, tied up with string.
Jean waited until the women had purchased the silver rattle and Lady Joanna bid him a terse, “Good day, Monsieur.”
Once they were gone, he leaned over the counter to point to an exquisite silver cup, its handle curved in the shape of the letter S. “I will have that as well, good sir.”
“Very good!” the shopkeeper exclaimed, happy to have another sale. “Would Monsieur care to have the cup engraved?”
“Ah, yes. Paper and ink, s’il vous plaît.”
The silversmith handed him the requested items and Jean penned a line he was fond of, then slid the paper back to the man. “If you could fit this on the front of the cup, I would be most obliged.”
The man slid his wire spectacles up his thin nose and read the quote aloud. “It is not that life ashore is distasteful to me. But life at sea is better. Sir Francis Drake.”
Dropping his spectacles to the end of his thin nose, he raised his pale blue eyes to Jean
. “Well-spoken words by a native son of England. Most appropriate. And should I add a name to the other side?”
“Oui. ‘Jean Nicholas Powell’ and his birth date, ‘December 16, 1783’.”
“Very good, Monsieur.” The man scratched out the request. “You can take the clock today and the cup will be ready tomorrow morning.”
He paid the man and picked up his clock, realizing he had just bought a silver cup he had no intention of acquiring all because a beautiful opinionated redhead had thought it appropriate.
Now why, pray tell, was that?
Chapter 6
The sharp sound of Joanna’s heels hitting the flagstones echoed in her ears, giving vent to her anger, as she marched down the street toward her carriage, unsure exactly why the French comte’s manner had annoyed her so. “What an infuriating man,” she muttered.
Holding the brim of her bonnet, Tillie hurried to catch up. “Why do you say that? I thought him ever so handsome.” She paused. “He is so… manly with his dark looks. And his French accent is irresistible. Do you not agree?”
Joanna did agree but she would never admit it. That she found Donet attractive, a man who had annoyed her, rankled. “Tillie, do not allow a man’s appearance or his seductive voice to sway you. Frenchmen are notorious flirts.”
“He can flirt with me anytime he likes,” her sister said matter-of-factly. Then, shooting Joanna a sharp glance, she spoke in a sterner voice. “I think you are just disappointed that he did not show the same interest in you as other men do. Perhaps you have become spoiled with all the attention paid you.”
“I care not a whit if the comte shows any interest in me, but that clock seemed a frivolous choice for a mere babe and he should have recognized the folly of it.”
Joanna felt Tillie’s eyes upon her but kept her gaze focused on the carriage just ahead.
“I rather liked the clock,” Tillie said. “You liked it, too, until he wanted it for his godson.”
Joanna bit her bottom lip, realizing Tillie had the right of it.
“I’m so glad Lady Danvers invited us to the christening and breakfast after. It should be grand fun! I have only met her friend, Claire Powell, but I like her very much. Claire and I are of an age, you know.”
The footman opened the carriage door.
Before Joanna stepped inside, she turned to her sister. “And that means the comte is old enough to be your father.”
The next afternoon was cold but sunny. Joanna donned a day gown the color of a London fog, draped a dark green cloak over her shoulders and set a mobcap on her head, covering most of her hair. Satisfied she had dressed plainly enough to get lost in a crowd, she left Tillie practicing the pianoforte in their Mayfair townhouse and took a hackney to the Thames where she had agreed to meet Zack.
The warehouse they had leased some time ago should, by now, be filled with tea and brandy from their last few runs. Joanna was eager to see it for herself.
Most often, Zack took care of this end of things, but she wanted to understand better how the goods were dispatched to the London merchants. Many were glad to have prized goods at a price that made them a good profit yet provided a reasonable cost to their customers.
Avoiding a duty on tea of more than one hundred per cent made everyone rich with coin. The duty on brandy was almost as bad.
The plain black carriage arrived at the busy quay where ships from all over the world were moored. It was home to customs officers, porters, watchmen and thieves, plying their trades among the warehouses and taverns. Not the place for a lady, she knew, but dressed as she was and with Zack by her side, no one would think anything of her being there.
Zack was waiting for her in front of the old warehouse. He wore an anxious expression, which reminded her he did not agree with the risk she took in exposing herself to this part of town.
The two-story building, set among others like it and faded by time, held the goods stored while in transit. A short distance away tied up to the large mooring post, the quay or to each other were tall-masted ships. Above them circled the gulls.
Watermen in their small boats ferried passengers up and down the crowded river.
The excitement infusing the air had always inspired Joanna to think of foreign ports. This, to her, was the real heart of London.
Zack ushered her into the building. “They are just sorting the barrels and chests now.”
Inside, windows set high in the wooden structure allowed light to fall on the tall stacks of chests and barrels. Two men organized them into smaller groups. She assumed it was to assist the delivery.
At a desk in the center of the large dust-covered room sat a man poring over a book that looked to be a ledger.
“We keep records?”
“Aye, we must. Else how would we remember who got what?”
“Yes, but records of smuggling present a risk, do they not?”
“I hold the book, m’lady. Ye need not fear its discovery.”
Joanna did not share Zack’s confidence but held her tongue. They would speak of the ledger again when they returned to Chichester. “I would like to see it.”
Zack spoke to the man at the table, a clerk of some sort, and carried the volume back to her. The leather-bound ledger included neat tallies of shipments beginning with their first forays into smuggling.
Zack drew his finger down the columns on the open page. “’Tis all in order. See, here are last month’s runs.”
“Where did you learn to read?” Most villagers were illiterate. Only a few had ever learned to sign their name.
“Before the war, the vicar taught some of the village boys. I was one. Ye can be sure he is never in want of tea.” Pointing to the last entry, he noted, “This here is the tea bound for the tea room at Twinings on the Strand.”
“Twinings, really?”
Zack grinned. “Ye don’t think all the tea drunk there comes from the East India Company’s ships, do ye?” At her raised brow, he added, “We supply a good bit, some might say the best of what they serve.”
“I see.” Joanna would never sip another cup of tea at Twinings without thinking of her part in it. “I knew the coffee houses bought tea from us, but I can see from this our distribution is wider than I realized.”
“Oh, aye, I expect ’tis.”
“What about the brandy?” she asked. Stacked high against the walls were barrels and casks of what she assumed was brandy. She knew some of the casks never made it to London. Once diluted and colored, many went to inns and taverns in Chichester. However, she was uncertain of the destination of the casks and barrels stored here.
Zack pointed to entries marked with a “B”. “The sugared mixture we sell, the kind the English swells like, goes to taverns around London and some to Vauxhall Gardens in Lambeth on the other side of the river.”
Impressed with Zack’s efforts, Joanna stayed a while to check more entries and to ask about the wagons that would carry the goods to their various destinations.
Zack told her he would not introduce her to the men he’d hired in London. “The fewer who know who ye are, the better.”
When it was time to go, she turned to Zack. “Once the money is in hand, will you see my share goes to the Ackerman family? They need it desperately. The mother has not been able to take in laundry or mending since she fell ill.” Joanna never actually received a share of their take, yet Zack went through the fiction so that she could direct her part of the proceeds to those who were the most in need.
“Aye, I’ll see to it, m’lady.”
“When is our next run?”
“More than a sennight, I expect. I should have the precise day soon.”
“Good. Then I shall have time to attend some events with Lady Danvers and return to Chichester. Lord Torrington, Aunt Hetty and my sister will remain here. We will have The Harrows to ourselves which will make our business that much easier.” She was glad Aunt Hetty had brought her cat to London. Though she would have to put up with sneezing when the cat retu
rned, at least for the summer, Aloysius would not be there.
Zack walked her to the door and hailed a hackney. As he helped her into the carriage and closed the door, she leaned her head out the open window. “Will you visit Nora before you return to Chichester?”
“O’ course. She expects it.” And then with a smile, “’Sides, she told me she’d save me one of yer cook’s tarts.”
Knowing Zack’s fondness for fruit tarts, Joanna laughed and waved him goodbye.
By the time Jean arrived at the Thames, his ship was already tied up at the quay. Judging by the scarcity of crew on deck, la Reine Noire must have arrived earlier than expected. He expected his crew not on the ship were patronizing the quayside taverns.
Émile stood at the rail as Jean took the gangway in long strides.
“I see you found a good spot.”
“Un coup de chance,” offered Émile, “but I was pleased with such luck for the Pool of London is a tangle today. The ships are crammed in together like herrings in a barrel.”
Jean studied the face of his quartermaster. Émile tended to appear stern, even when he wasn’t, in part due to his swarthy skin, heavy brows and downturned mouth. But today, he seemed to be in very good spirits.
Navigating the Thames was the worst of the trip to London, but Émile was an experienced quartermaster and their second mate Lucien Ricard was adroit at the wheel. “The trip from Chichester Harbor went well?”
“We had one near call but managed to tack our way around all the croûtons in the English soup.”
Jean chuckled and scanned the deck. A few of his crew were busy coiling lines and laying out the mooring hawsers. Seeing their attention directed at him, he paused to give them a nod. “You have given the men liberty?”
“Oui, Capitaine. All but the few I would not trust to return. Those shall remain on watch with the bos’n to guard the ship.”
Jean nodded his agreement. The quay was full of thieves, yet his men, handy with a rigging knife or a belaying pin, were well able to protect the ship. Their cutthroat appearance would discourage all but the most foolhardy.
