It was a long time in coming, but come it did.
‘Then our business is done,’ Spafford said in a flat tone, head bowed and eyes down, which hinted at his disappointment. ‘Happen we will never clap eyes on each other again and it will end up in regret for my boy and you too. The last will be some recompense to me when I meet my maker, if I am so blessed.’
Tulkington opened the coach door, shivering at the blast of wind that swept in, stepping out to deliver his parting words. ‘Given you’re a product of pure devilment, I am sure you will meet your maker the second you expire. Satan will welcome you to the fires of hell with open arms.’
He turned away, pulling his coat and comforter tight around him as he strode back to his own coach and the safety of his men. John Hawker, the man who led them, looked at him quizzically only to get a shake of the head. It was not that Tulkington intended to keep his promise to Spafford, but it was not yet time to break it for a man who always kept his cards close to his chest.
‘Let us get out of here.’
His long-time adversary sat still in contemplation until the fellow he had set to arrange matters could hold his curiosity no longer. The Tulkington coach was heading away by that time, with the men he had brought as escorts following on foot.
‘Well,’ Daisy Trotter asked softly, a sleeve crossing his nose to remove a drop. ‘Did he fall for it?’
‘He says not, but from what I know of Tulkington, fast thinking is not his way. Happen, when he reasons on the matter it will be seen a notion to act on. Let it stew for a few days.’
‘It’s either that or we have to do for him, at whatever cost.’
Spafford looked at Jaleel Trotter, called Daisy, with his stringy build, wheezy breath, watery eyes and the near-permanent clear drip on the end of his nose. He appeared to be weak and, in truth, he was not sturdy. But he had a reputation as the master of the sly knife in the ribs, backbones for choice.
‘If it comes to that it has to be.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Not expecting an immediate reply from Cottington Court, Brazier had time to reacquaint himself with riding a horse, not that the basics were a mystery. You do not forget how to hold the reins, or the need to use thighs and heels, backed up by the voice, to get the mount to obey a command. But he was conscious that after such a long absence, the muscles employed would ache after too long in the saddle, that part of his anatomy in contact with leather the same.
The Irishman, Flaherty, had put forward to him a near-perfect mount called Bonnie, a bay mare of some eighteen hands and one that showed no inclination to tug at the bridle, so the trot around the paddock promised to be pleasant. This proved to be the case, the owner – an inquisitive soul who had already asked several questions – standing in the middle with a keen eye and the odd suggestion.
‘So what would be bringing a Jack tar to this neck of the woods, with him not having a ship in the Downs?’
‘You discount mere curiosity, sir,’ Brazier replied, as he nudged the animal into a trot. ‘A desire just to see the sights.’
That got a smile. ‘How could I, when it’s me posing the enquiry?’
Flaherty had a hair colour to match the mount, though unlike the smooth coat, his wild ginger mop looked to be untameable. With that went pale, freckled skin and bright-green eyes, alongside an easy manner. Brazier had to remind himself it was one which could be used to deceive as well as charm. Garlick was right: horse dealers were a highly suspect lot.
‘You sit reasonably well, I will say that, but I would suggest a straighter back.’
Brazier pulled himself upright and was pleased to notice the effect as it increased pressure on the stirrups; he seemed more connected to the horse as he urged it into a canter, taking her over some poles lying on the sand, something he did a dozen times, while declining the Irishman’s suggestion that they be raised a few feet. When he finally dismounted, the session – conversation included – had lasted, to his surprise and by his watch, for near a full hour.
As he held the timepiece in his hand he saw Flaherty looking at it keenly, which made him realise he had been unwise, it being a new and expensive gold-plated Hunter bought on the way through London. A man who traded in horseflesh was well versed in picking up the signs of a customer’s means by his possessions. Quickly he snapped it shut and put it back in his waistcoat.
Bonnie was put to a hay net, Flaherty leading him into the empty stall he used as an office. ‘How long will you be wanting the beast?’
The possibility of being rebuffed existed, as did the reverse. It would be unwise to show confidence on a mere smile. ‘That is uncertain; I could not even say it would go to a week. I would therefore posit that a daily rate would serve.’
‘Fair enough.’ The green eyes narrowed then and the lips thinned. ‘With, of course, a sum in indemnity, for the tack and lest the horse suffer in any way. Strong they might appear, but they are frail creatures and much given to ailments. This here Bonnie is of value to me – a favourite, you might say.’
Brazier wanted to say pigs might fly as the two men locked eyes, not in any rancorous way, but in that fashion folk do when they are seeking to discern the limits of what one can charge and the other can contest. If the Irishman was good at it, so was Brazier; a man could not rise to be a captain of a fighting ship, dealing with admirals, a crew of three-hundred-plus men added to a dozen officers, every one ambitious, and not be well versed in the rules of the mute encounter.
Edward Brazier had learnt long ago that his best weapon was silence; the first to speak was usually the first to give ground. It was plain that Flaherty had studied at the same academy, for he said nothing, the only indication of his knowledge of the game a slow spreading smile until finally he realised he could not win.
‘I sense I am dealing with a fellow who is not of the swaying kind.’
Brazier grinned. ‘While I sense a worthy adversary, Mr Flaherty.’
A hand came out. ‘Vincent in the name.’
‘And a commendable one for your race,’ was the reply as it was grasped. ‘A fair price I will pay, but—’
‘Such a price will be provided. I suggest three shillings a day for both mount and tack, with an indemnity for me to hold of five guineas, plus the cost of stabling.’
‘Done. But I will be stabling at the Naval Yard, where your favourite will be well cared for in the article of feed and grooming and at a cost not inflated by avarice.’
Flaherty threw back his head and laughed as Brazier reached into his coat for his purse, an act which caused the Irishman to cap his humour. Looking stern, he raised ginger eyebrows.
‘You carry such sums on your person, sir?’ The look Flaherty got implied the obvious, given his customer was quickly counting out the guineas. ‘If I could be so bold to advise you, I would not maintain it as a habit in a place like Deal. They teach filching in the cradle hereabouts.’
‘As they do in every port I’ve ever set foot in, Mr Flaherty.’ Brazier nodded to his weapon, lying on the man’s trestle desk. ‘But as you see, I rarely go abroad without my sword and we sailors are not known to be gentle with our knuckles, regardless of rank.’
‘I would still advise double purses, one for small coin and another for gold.’ Flaherty began to smile again as he looked at Brazier’s breeches. ‘The one you’ll have to resort to in order to get yourself some boots.’
Brazier had not thought on it beforehand, and so had arrived at the paddock in his uniform breeches and white stockings – adequate for the roads hereabouts, dry paths and the deck of a ship, but no good for a horse. The inner part of both calves, which had not been protected by the saddlecloth, were now streaked with dirt, he having ridden Bonnie when she had been fetched in from grazing, without her being groomed first.
‘There’s a cobbler opposite St George’s Church who has pairs for loan. It’s quite common for men of the sea not to have any with them, often their bein’ stuck here for a month or more.’
The stil
l-saddled mount was led to the gate where sat the lad who had guided him to Flaherty’s paddock, now waiting to show him the way back. Brazier saw the light of wonder in the youngster’s eyes, for the animal was handsome, which caused him to pose the question.
‘Your name, boy?’
‘Ben to all.’
‘Well, Ben, would you care to sit atop her?’
‘Why that would be sure fine, your honour. Ain’t never got up on anything but a donkey.’
‘Then let me hoist you aboard.’
Which he duly did, settling him on the saddle and taking the reins to lead Bonnie down the lane. If the boy was delighted and excited, Brazier forbore to tell him that it was he who was doing the favour, this for a man whose lower limbs were aching.
The note he had written was being waved with some irritation. ‘I feel I must forbid you to respond, Elisabeth.’
Betsey Langridge put much effort into keeping calm, which was far from easy. ‘I think, Aunt Sarah, you exceed your responsibilities.’
‘I do not. It is my task, given to me by my dear nephew, to see your reputation is not sullied.’ A loud sniff saw her fingers entwined at her waist. ‘I daresay it is easier here at home than it was in that heat-blasted island on which you lived, but the limits of proper behaviour do not alter.’
‘A gentleman of some standing, a highly respected naval officer, asks merely to call and renew an acquaintance. What harm can there be in that?’
Her much older relative did not have to work hard to display displeasure; the cast of her features – pinched pale lips with the creases of her years, hollow cheeks and catlike eyes – naturally leant towards it. The assemblage was fully deployed now for she could see harm as plain as day.
‘If Henry were here he would back me up.’
The tone hardened; Betsey was heartily sick of not being able to go anywhere without her aunt in tow. Likewise she hovered on the perimeter of any conversation, even with a woman, never mind a man. Betsey reckoned she had no role in life other than satisfying her brother, so was taking comfort from the one with which she had been tasked.
‘He has no more right to rule my behaviour than do you. Is it necessary to remind you that I am no longer some inexperienced maiden, but a woman who has been wedded and also mistress of her own household?’
‘You are a widow.’
‘Something of which I hardly require to be reminded.’
Sarah Lovell changed tack, her tone less entreating. ‘What do you think this Captain Brazier thought of your behaviour outside the graveyard?’
That touch of rouge on the cheeks appeared again, which had Betsey turn to face the mullioned window to hide it. ‘I cannot fathom what you mean.’
‘Fiddlesticks. You know precisely what I mean. I would not say you actually simpered on seeing him, but it was not far from that. And what is the fellow doing here, anyway? I do not recall him saying he was in a ship.’
‘I have no idea and neither do you.’
‘You do not see yourself as the reason?’
Betsey spun round again, making no effort to hide her resentment. ‘Now it is my turn to say fiddlesticks to you. I recall, as I am sure do you, that Captain Brazier was punctilious in his manner from the very first time we met in Jamaica.’
‘On that occasion he was in the Governor’s House and on his best behaviour, as he needed to be. I would not say that he held to that standard every time you met subsequently. In fact, he became increasingly forward.’
Seeking distraction, Betsey mentioned another pursuer. ‘You mean like Prince William!’
Aunt Sarah fell for it, saying with some vehemence, and throwing her eyes to the ceiling, ‘May the Good Lord forgive me for lese-majesty, for that’s a fellow who needs to meet the birch rod he was spared as a child.’
Betsey could not say, dare not admit, she had taken a liking to Edward Brazier on that first occasion and it was one that had grown with further acquaintance. On the island it was impossible not to meet at every event when his ship was in harbour; horse races and regattas, the balls that followed, and celebrations such as the Governor’s or the King’s birthday.
Within the bounds of good manners, he had shown himself to have a telling wit, which never strayed into the vulgar. There was, too, an attraction to him beyond that, a certain presence that went with his rank and responsibilities, fortified by a modest self-confidence. Betsey had observed he was respected by both his inferior officers and fellow captains, an attitude that extended to the Governor of Jamaica himself.
What she hid, even from herself, was the fact of a physical attraction, for he had a figure good to look upon. When she had searched for a word to describe him to herself, it settled on saturnine. He had regular features on a dark skin made more so by the Caribbean sun, under straight black hair tied at the rear by a silk ribbon, for he eschewed a wig. Even his height, a bit over six feet compared to her own five foot and a half, seemed to feel right. He also had a penetrating and steady way of looking at her and spoke with a deep and attractive voice; it was that which she recalled above all.
‘I will reply, inviting him to call; to do otherwise would be a want of the good manners you so prize. Added to which, you will be present, so nothing that might offend the sensibilities can occur.’
As Betsey swept out to go to the library and pen her note, she was thinking not only would Sarah Lovell never leave them alone, but her mere presence would drain out of the meeting any possible pleasure.
Sitting at the desk, quill in hand, it was some time before it was dipped in the inkwell. Betsey looked around the book-lined walls and reflected how much she had loved being in here as a growing girl. It was in this very room that her governess had taught her embroidery. The Reverend Moyle was held to be incapable of much in the education line – indeed he often demonstrated staggering ignorance.
So the nearby Vicar of St Leonard’s in Upper Deal had been engaged to impart Latin, Greek and mathematics. It was rudiments, naturally, and not to a standard of a fully educated cleric, but good enough to allow her to engage in conversation with people of some erudition without sounding foolish.
It was impossible, too, not to recall her life with Stephen Langridge, a much-loved only child whom she had known from infancy, his family being nearly as prominent locally as her own. Deal and its surroundings were not overgifted with folk of quality, so they formed a somewhat incestuous circle that had met often, in the same manner as people in Jamaica. The two had grown up together and had meandered, on reaching maturity, into a mutual attraction without really noticing.
This had not met with brotherly approval, he acting as though the man asking to marry her could be some kind of threat, which was absurd. Henry did like to command those around him, but how could he see gentle Stephen in that light? He was handsome and graceful of manner, qualities that her brother had always lacked, so she rated him jealous.
Betsey could see and hear Stephen too, in her mind’s eye, right now: a flop of fair hair dropping over his brow, a hand uselessly and continuously employed to sweep it back into place, his voice light and kindly. There were the soft eyes and the lazy smile, at its best when she caught him gazing at her unawares and, if the place had been discreet, with no servants to observe, they would fall into each other’s arms to allow spontaneous mutual pleasure to follow.
That aspect of their life together, of which she had been warned in the most alarming terms by Aunt Sarah, amongst others, had turned out to be the very opposite of the tales of painful and unpleasant duty. Stephen had been a gentle but eager lover and had found in his wife someone who returned his desire in full and enthusiastic measure. How she missed that.
He had been mounted the last time she saw him in full health: astride his stallion, wearing his broad-brimmed straw hat and blowing her a kiss as he set off to tour the plantations, a journey that would take a week. It was impossible to not contrast that with the speed of his decline, for within the month he was a near skeleton, whose hair had go
ne, the lazy smile more of a rictus.
She felt tears pricking her eyes and a thought came to her that she could never quite suppress. When Stephen passed away, the same when he was committed to the ground, Betsey could not be sure for whom she felt more remorseful: him, or herself for being left in limbo. It was hard to push the shame of that out of her mind, but with effort she did so, beginning to write.
My dear Captain Brazier
He having returned, Sarah Lovell went straight to see her nephew to appraise him of what had happened outside the graveyard and, what’s more, his sister’s response in writing to invite this fellow to visit at his own convenience, which to her was on the very edge of respectable acceptability. She found him occupied with a visitor: a local mill owner, she was informed, who had already been kept waiting to see him, obliging her to go away and return, so she heard very little of what was a heated exchange.
Sarah Lovell was absolutely certain Henry would share her view once the fellow had departed and she was admitted to tell her tale. Yet the attitude he adopted, as he went to stand before the fire to couch his first question, did not much indicate any firm opinion.
‘A navy man, you say?’
He listened without much reaction until he posed the next question, which was an obvious one. What did his aunt know of the man? Sarah Lovell was obliged to say that when she arrived in Jamaica Brazier had been the naval officer in command at Kingston, his admiral having died in horrible circumstances. If he was popular with the governor and his inferior officers, he was not much loved by the colonials, plantation owners and traders.
‘And why would that be?’
‘Due to his diligence in enforcing the Navigation Acts, Henry, which had those same islanders paying higher prices for that which they wished and, very often, needed to purchase. The talk was of combining to sue him for their losses’
The Contraband Shore Page 5
