The Silver Lord

by Miranda Jarrett

  “Consider all the revenues lost to the Crown,” continued Sir Simon warmly, “gold that’s plucked straight from our pockets. But that is the very least of their wickedness, My Lord!”

  “Is it now?” asked George, unwilling to agree with Sir Simon on anything, even a topic as clear-cut as this one.

  “Yes, My Lord, the very least, indeed,” declared Sir Simon. “Such smuggling gangs are bold as brass, believing themselves above the law and trusting their networks of thievery and intimidation to protect them. One never knows when they shall come ashore next, rioting in taverns, horsewhipping the excise men, and terrifying poor honest people in their beds.”

  But while Sir Simon was doing his best to create a picture of lurid lawlessness, all George was seeing was the blank fear that had unexpectedly drained the color from Fan’s face. Standing alone against the wall, forgotten by the others, her mouth was pinched and her hands clasped so tightly together that her knuckles showed white. George had seen enough of what the suffering and pain of war could do to women caught in the middle to realize that the terror haunting Fan’s eyes was genuine.

  He thought of all the nights she must have spent here alone after her father had disappeared, far from any neighbors but close to the coast and the water. Being young and beautiful as Fan was would only make her more vulnerable.

  He searched her face now, hunting for the truth. What fearful memories had Sir Simon’s tirade raised for her? Had these same lawless smugglers come one night to Feversham? Had she been one of those honest people terrified from their beds, coerced into offering horses, food, shelter, and threatened into silence?

  “Oh, Sir Simon, cannot you see that you are boring His Lordship to tears with your raging?” said Lady Blackerby, glaring at her husband. “He has come here to our little corner of Kent for peace, not to listen to you rant on about smugglers and pirates and goodness only knows what else. Civil discourse and genteel conversation is what a fine gentleman expects from his acquaintance. Isn’t that so, my lord?”

  With his thoughts turned towards Fan, George was only half listening, and let the baronet’s wife overwhelm any semblance of genteel conversation with a note-by-note description of the latest piece Eliza had learned for the pianoforte. But at last even Lady Blackerby could sense his disinterest, and the family made their farewell amidst countless invitations and promises. Finally their carriage began the long rumble home, and George quickly returned to where Fan was collecting the cups and tea-dishes.

  “We shall do better next time, My Lord Captain,” she said apologetically. “With so little notice, I couldn’t do more than—”

  “Do you think I give a damn about that?” Gently George rested his hands on her shoulders, so she’d no choice but to look at him. “Fan, talk to me. Tell me about the smugglers. No matter what they told you, you don’t have to protect them any longer. Have they come here to Feversham, when you were alone?”

  In an instant the fear returned to her face. “I never said that.”

  “You didn’t have to, lass,” he said gently. “I saw it on your face when Blackerby was talking, and I see it there again now.”

  “You said yourself you pay no heed to village gossip,” she said, pulling free to turn away from him and back to the tea dishes. “Why did you listen to Sir Simon and his prattling nonsense?”

  He watched her fuss with the cups and plates to avoid his gaze, her gestures agitated and disjointed and thoroughly unlike her. Something had happened here; he was sure of that now.

  “Fan, please,” he said. “All I wish is to help.”

  “Then ask no more such foolish questions,” she said, gathering up the tray for the kitchen. “Questions will only bring trouble and grief, mind? This close to Romney Marsh, wise folk will no more speak of the smuggling companies than of the devil himself. If you care for yourself—for all of us!—you shall do the same.”

  She turned and hurried away, nearly running in her haste to leave him, and for now he let her go. But the dread in her face haunted him, determining what he’d do next. If it was at all in his power, she would never be afraid like that again.

  Chapter Seven

  With the small knife she carried for the purpose, Fan snipped the heavy thread that stitched the top of the bag closed. The bag’s rough linen sides sagged open, releasing the heady Oriental scent of the tea into the damp night air. As Captain Markham and the others watched and waited, Fan solemnly plunged her bare arm deep into the tea and drew out a fistful of the shriveled black leaves. By the lantern’s light, she crushed them gently between her fingers, gauging the texture and the density of the leaves as much as how quickly they crumbled, then held them to her nose. The men around her stood in silence, awaiting her judgment of this last bag as patiently as they had the first.

  “’Twill do,” she said at last, purposefully nonchalant. With her approval, her men quickly tied the top of the bag once again closed, and slung it over the back of the final waiting pony, ready to be taken to the waiting customers. Fan dusted her hands together and smiled at Captain Markham, as brisk and businesslike as she could, considering she’d been awake for nearly twenty hours straight.

  Markham touched the front of his hat. “You are a discerning woman, Mistress Winslow,” he said, his words showing as faint clouds in the chilly air. His face had a colorless, washed-out look to it, as if he seldom saw any daylight, his laugh a dry, perfunctory bark. “That never changes, does it?”

  “Nor do you, Captain,” said Fan. She always took care to keep her own men close by, just as, by her orders, they kept their pistols at hand. Her father had never entirely trusted Markham, saying the man had spent too much time among the French to be truly reliable. Fan agreed: there was something too silky, too smooth, about Markham.

  Now he nodded. “Then all that remains is our usual conclusion, mistress.”

  Fan reached into her pocket and unpinned the fat pouch of coins from the gathers of her petticoat, there beside the pistol she wore tucked into her belt. “The same fee as always, eight pence a pound for seven hundred pounds of black China tea.”

  Markham took the pouch, tossing it lightly in his palm as if he could tell how much was inside by the weight alone, and for all Fan knew, he could. “The same fee, Mistress Winslow, but alas, the last.”

  “The last?” Uneasy, Fan frowned. “We have an agreement, Captain Markham, one that is favorable to us both.”

  “But the conditions have changed, haven’t they?” His smile widened, not reaching his eyes. “I’ve heard you’ve taken a new lodger at Feversham, the captain of a frigate. I do not like frigate captains, Mistress Winslow. They are bold and brash and ambitious, and make life very difficult for poor sailors like me.”

  “But this captain no longer has a command, let alone a frigate,” insisted Fan, her heart racing as she remembered the conversation she’d had earlier with George, and how much it mirrored the one she was having now. “I do not know what you have heard, Captain Markham, but Captain Lord Claremont is not your usual Navy captain. He has come to live at Feversham as a gentleman in the country, not as a customs-man intent on hunting you.”

  “Then perhaps you can persuade this country gentleman to take his lodgings elsewhere,” said Markham, an unpleasant edge to his voice. “Surely, for the sake of our agreement, you can do that much.”

  “No.” She took a deep breath. There was no point in lying about this; he’d hear the truth soon enough elsewhere. “He’s not a lodger, Captain. He has bought Feversham outright, and he has no plans to leave.”

  “Bought Feversham?” Markham grunted with surprise. “Ah, who would have guessed there’d be such a fortune to be made in following the king? I am only a poor sailor, you see, mistress, with only myself to answer to. You will understand my concern, I am certain.”

  “But I can assure you that—”

  “Assure me? Of what, mistress? What kind of assurance can you offer me that will carry any weight when your own men are speaking of how you yourse
lf have changed your gang’s meeting place from Feversham lands, for safety’s sake?”

  “A common enough practice,” she said quickly. She could guess which one of her men had let that slip. Most likely it had been Bob Forbert, who was now studiously gazing away from her. “Every sensible company switches their meeting places to help confuse the customs officers.”

  “Or to avoid crossing the path of your pet frigate captain.” Markham waved for his men to join him at the boat. “When next we meet, Mistress Winslow, the price of this black China tea will be a shilling a pound instead of eight pence.”

  “A shilling!” cried Fan, stunned. Quickly she did the reckoning in her head. A shilling would mean that with the next run, that little pouch of coins would need to hold a hundred crowns. “That is half again what you ask now! A shilling a pound is beyond reason, beyond sin!”

  “And what shall you do to protest, Mistress Winslow?” asked Markham with a careless shrug as he tucked the pouch of coins into his own pocket. “Haul me before the customs officers for deceitful trading? No, Mistress, I fear you must agree to share my risk this way, or else find another vessel to replace the Sally.”

  She had no other choice, and he knew it, and worse, he knew she knew it as well. She couldn’t afford to pay her Company men less, and risk losing them and their tenuous loyalty. Not that she’d fault them for it, either. The majority had wives, children, and aging parents, and they relied upon the money they earned to support their families, just as they’d always relied upon the Winslow Company. When Father returned, he’d expect her to have done whatever was necessary to keep the Company together, and to provide for the Company’s people. Her only option was to pass Markham’s increase on to her own buyers, and pray that, because it would still be more reasonable than the price of legal tea, they’d accept the new price.

  It wasn’t fair, not in the least, and she couldn’t help but believe that Markham wouldn’t have raised his fee if her father had still been the one making the arrangements. For that matter, if Father had been the one to show Feversham to George, he would also have been sure to contrive that George wouldn’t have even considered buying the house, and Markham wouldn’t be making his ridiculous demand now.

  And she herself would not be in this sorry, tangled mess with George Claremont, telling him such a crafted and scrupulous version of the truth that open lies would have been more honest.

  Her nod was curt and final, still that of a leader. “Very well, Captain Markham,” she said. “You’ll have your hundred crowns, but not a farthing more.”

  Yet her heart was heavy with trouble and foreboding. Honest lies, and lying truth, and the heavier weight of a bag filled with gold: no good could come from this, no good at all.

  From the height of Caesar’s back, George scanned the dark horizon for the shadow of a sail or the gleam of an uncovered sternlight.

  “Not a glim, Cap’n M’Lord,” said Leggett on the horse beside him, his disappointment echoing George’s own. “We’ll not be snaring any smuggling bastards this night, leastways not on Feversham sands.”

  “No,” said George with a sigh. His little band of followers had been eager for the hunt, the six men he’d brought with him from the Nimble impatient with housekeeping and spoiling for a fight more in their line. But despite the muskets across their saddles and the pistols in their belts, their patrols along the beach these last two nights had come up empty. “As much as we might wish it, Leggett, we can’t go prowling about on another’s land. We’d be as likely to be shot as the smugglers themselves, trespassing like that.”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n M’Lord,” agreed Leggett sadly. “But couldn’t we rig out some neat little craft, a pinnace, say, and sniff along the shore that way?”

  “And how long could we keep a secret like that on this coast?” George shook his head again, and breathed into his cupped hands to warm them. There was a dangerously fine line between protecting one’s own property and becoming a vigilante, especially for military men. “For now we’re watching over Feversham’s shore, and no other.”

  He was sure it was only a question of timing. He’d stumbled across the proof yesterday, a small, overgrown barn with a sagging roof that he hadn’t realized he owned. Close to the water, the barn had outwardly looked abandoned, but once George had pushed open the door, he’d discovered the evidence of smugglers’ visits. The smoky marks on the timbers from recently lit lanterns along the walls and the fresh hay waiting for the horses who’d not long ago been tethered to the rails inside showed the old place had often been used for rendezvous, doubtless a gathering place for a local band. Tomorrow morning, when he’d more time, he’d return there himself and see if he could discover any more clues.

  Again he remembered the terror in Fan’s eyes when Blackerby had spoken of the smugglers. Now he knew for certain they’d dared to use Feversham when there’d been no strong master to deny them, though he still could only guess what they’d done to her while they’d been here. All he could do now was make sure it would never happen to her again.

  “Remember what I told you all,” he said softly, mindful of how easily voices carried on a lonely beach. “The man who lets this slip to Miss Winslow will answer directly to me. I’m doing this to put her mind at ease, not worry her afresh. Our only task is to catch the scoundrels at their thievery, then turn them over to the magistrates. Do that, and we’ll make Miss Winslow the most grateful woman in Kent.”

  The eastern sky was just beginning to pale as Fan parted from the others in the Company, and began the last part of her ride home across Feversham lands. At least Pie knew the path without any guidance from her. The extra time Fan had had to spend dickering with Markham had made the night stretch out much longer than usual, and now she was too exhausted to do more than hold the reins, the weariness in her limbs matched by the weight upon her conscience. She couldn’t wait to wash the heavy scent of the tea from her skin and to shed the clothes that were covered with black flecks of it, infinitesimal reminders of what she must do in her father’s name.

  As she led Pie into the stable, both her father’s fat old bay and George’s chestnut gelding thrust their heads over their stalls to nicker a welcome, or more likely, being male, to request an additional ration of oats for their breakfast.

  “Hush now, you two,” she said softly, unsaddling Pie and beginning to brush her down. “The last thing I need tonight is having the pair of you telling tales on me.”

  The horses whinnied again as if to answer, and Fan smiled. She wasn’t yet accustomed to having the third horse here in the stable, and such a grand horse as Caesar, too. At least George had not yet hired grooms or stable-boys, and she could still come and go through the stables as she pleased without being noticed.

  Navigating the house would be more of a challenge. Because none of George’s men seemed to bother with the nicety of using the back stairs, she could go up that way without being seen, then come back down only to announce that she felt unwell and would be returning to her bed for another hour, not to be disturbed. No one would question her, even if to her own conscience it seemed like a measly, idle excuse. Men always grew squeamish about any sort of women’s ailments or illness, one of the more dubious advantages of being the only female at Feversham.

  One hundred crowns. With a groan, Fan closed her eyes and rested her forehead against Pie’s warm side. Father had dealt with Markham for as long as she could remember, and she wouldn’t know where to begin to find another captain to replace him. But how she hated the thought of carrying that much hard money on her person, as much a temptation to her own men as to Markham and his!

  And what was to stop Markham from asking for more next month? Any excuse would do now, or even none at all. She’d still be helpless to refuse him, or risk losing her supply of tea altogether. On and on it would go, with no end in sight, and as Fan’s despair deepened, she realized she was thinking what, before this, she’d always dismissed as unthinkable.

  What would she do i
f Father never returned?

  The horses whinnied again, but this time she didn’t open her eyes. Another moment here to rest, she bargained with herself, just another moment, and then she’d have the strength to go into the house.

  “Fan?” asked George with obvious surprise. “You’re up with the sun, aren’t you?”

  Her eyes flew open, and her head jerked up to stare at him over Pie’s back.

  “Why are you here?” she blurted out. “That is, here in the stable, at such an hour?”

  “For Caesar,” he said evenly. “I couldn’t sleep, and thought an early-morning ride might clear my head. Besides, he could use the exercise as well.”

  Of course that was why he was here. She’d only to look at how he was dressed, in polished boots, light leather breeches, and a dark riding frock coat, to see that for herself.

  She, of course, as housekeeper had no good reason at all for being in the stable at this hour. Her day in the house should have already begun. Certainly Small would be at work by now in the kitchen.

  “So it is with me,” she answered quickly. With Pie standing between them as a screen, she prayed he wouldn’t notice the crumbs of tea still clinging to her skirts and cloak. “I could not sleep, either.”

  “There is a great deal of not sleeping at Feversham these days, isn’t there?” He smiled. “Or rather, these nights.”

  “Both, if you are to be truthful,” she said, wincing inside at her choice of words. Hadn’t he always been truthful with her, while she had been the one playing games with words to twist their meaning? “Night into day, that is.”

  “And day and night.” He glanced over his shoulder as if to marvel at the rising sun, showing in the doorway behind him. “This is your pony, then?”

  She nodded as he came forward to stroke her horse’s shaggy neck, and wondered uneasily if he even knew that Pie was hers. “I know it is unusual, Captain My Lord, for a servant to keep a horse in the same stable as the master’s, and I know we have not discussed it, and if you wish, I can shift her to the stable in Tunford.”