Perhaps he was working for the American government, as he claimed, and in ways not originally discerned. Or worse, Standish could be an operative working for the highest bidder. Either way, it was time to put a stop to his free and easy way. A man like that on the loose was only trouble for any and all in his way.
But then there was Kate. All the same things could be said for Kate Senlis too. A pretty package didn’t make the danger any less real. She had the added advantage that no one would expect it of a woman. She had the opportunity, the nerve, and the intelligence.
But which was the spy?
Was one just a pawn, or were they in it together after all? Was there something between Kate and Ambrose Standish that he did not understand, did not even see?
Am I really that big of a fool?
Sir Edward decided that he was not.
“Does this spy have a name,” Sir Humphrey said as he sat behind his desk. “I will need it for the warrant.”
“Standish.”
Sir Humphrey stopped his movements. “Ambrose Standish? Dirty ginger hair and eyes as dark as ebony? Face that looks like an artist’s line drawing and has about as much depth?”
Sir Edward nearly dropped his glass. “You know him, sir?”
“Why he is here in Gibraltar. Came to announce himself with balls of brass. You are right about the politics. Yes, that part you are right about after all, what, what?”
“The circumstances are the same, the man is still a danger.”
“True enough, though we probably could not hang him. The Americans would frown upon that, what? Blasted colonists. Impertinence, that’s what it is. Always has been. I was with Cornwallis, you know. Disgraceful, shocking—it went on for too long and you see the results. I do not blame the military, and not the colonists either.”
He blamed the politicians for the colonial revolt, that Sir Edward knew. He rubbed his face in weariness, for everyone he knew fought his country’s part in that war over and over again from time to time. In drawing rooms and dinner tables, the military seldom won out. Sir Edward took a deep breath, and quietly, slowly let it out.
Sir Humphrey thought for a moment. “Well, it seems that your luck came with you, lad. We can arrest him right now. What is the sense in being a military commander if you cannot arrest a subversive now and again, what, what? Give me that quill and ink, I will make out the order and the business will be done before you can count two. The diplomats will not like it, nor with the Americans, which is probably why I find myself enjoying it now.”
* * * * *
Later in the evening, as he went in for drinks before dinner, Sir Edward’s eyes swept the drawing room. He could tell without looking that she wasn’t there. He felt let down, but also relieved. He wasn’t quite sure he knew what to say to her: I thought you were a spy, but reason returned?
Or maybe I still do. That would make it more convenient. A problem easily solved, just taken away and no longer thought about. But he knew that last part was not true. He had not been able to stop thinking . . . about her.
“You are looking for your lovely lady passenger?” Sir Humphrey said.
He had a lovely lady on his own arm that Sir Edward happened to know was the man’s third wife. Sir Humphrey was a younger son who had married well twice. Both women died and were well mourned. What remained were a collective fortune and heirs, and this time they said Sir Humphrey had made the bargain for love.
This bride was not of the peerage, nor rich. She was quite beautiful, and of respectable stock. But by the way she was winking at him from behind her fan, Sir Edward was thinking that it was for love on her part too: the love of money and position.
He blushed. “No, I—“
The man cut him off with his laughter and slapped him on the back. “Come now, there are charming ladies over here. School friends of my precious pet here. Plenty to go around, just plenty, what, what?”
“I was given to believe . . . I thought that Miss Senlis would be here. She made it ashore all right?”
“Not to worry, a woman changes her mind, what? I fancy you shall see her shortly. We are on a small island here; no one can hide for long.” Then Sir Humphrey said under his breath, “I cannot say that I blame you, lad, a bewitching lady. She’s staying here, the guesthouse, it seems, says my fine lady. She gave me some hummingbird tea, the American, not my wife.”
“Sir?”
The man laughed. “Bee balm and marshmallow, Kate tells me. Ghastly stuff, until she put a bit of honey in the brew. Still foul, but easy enough going down when she gave it to me with that lovely smile of hers. Helped my indigestion, it did. Not a bit of heartburn after lunch, what? Then she told me to make nettle tea on a regular basis, it would be good for my gout. And you know, I believe her. She made me memorize the prescription.” He quoted in a softer voice:
“Nettle for gout has mettle you see.
Take a bit of dried nettle and make a strong tea.
Care in the harvest; wear gloves if you please.
Use shoots for a salad, brew mostly the leaves.”
Sir Edward only stared with his mouth a little open.
The older man winked and began to introduce Sir Edward to some of the other guests. Sir Edward was surprised at the level of formality so far removed from England. But such things came along when you brought women into the mixture, he knew.
Civilization, some called it—culture or society or pure nonsense. Call it what you like, but he didn’t like much of it. Even so, Sir Edward chatted and listened as best that he could, though he found that his appetite was not good tonight, even at Sir Humphrey’s fine table.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 28 - Moonlight
“You’re not at the grand dinner tonight, Kate? I thought it would be in your honor.”
Kate started at the unexpected voice, glancing around a bit before she got her bearings. “Ambrose, what are you doing here?”
“Business. There is no pleasure here, I find. Too much military and too little culture, I’m out of my depths.”
“When? I mean how . . .”
He stepped out of the shadows. “You should not walk on your own out here. Not at night, at least. You never know what kind of beast will be roaming about. They say there’s feral animals left here from way back in the time of the Moors. Lions and monkeys and wild dogs.”
“This isn’t wilderness, Ambrose. There’s civilization here, and order it seems. Why, there’s a patrol right over there.”
His head snapped in the same direction she pointed. Then he laughed just a bit. The patrol was passing fast and far away too.
“Well, that’s neither here nor there, as I have some very good news,” he said, pulling at his vest to cover his bulging belly.
She didn’t say anything, but she could tell by his expression that he wanted her to ask. Kate didn’t want to be so long around Ambrose Standish. She took a step back.
“You look well pleased with yourself, Ambrose, so tell me your good news.”
“Our good news, Katie. I have a passage booked for us both to Madeira. I will be making some contacts there and then moving on. But you can wait for your uncle and his little armada.”
“Madeira? How did you—”?
”All right, I only booked for me, but I know for a fact that they have room for more passengers. They leave early on the morrow, so you best get your affairs in order. No telling when the next ship will be along.”
It was true that it was time to be heading for some kind of rendezvous with her Uncle Lewis. The plan had been to meet up in Bordeaux. But even her uncle down in Africa would have heard the news of the blockade by now. He would not endanger his ships and his American crews to the Royal Navy. The logical choice would be to stay in Madeira until he had word, since he was making a stop their anyway.
It wasn’t a stretch; her uncle loved it there. But time was money, and timing was important in this, she knew. Kate chewed on her lip as she mulled over the options.
“L
ook,” Standish said, and reached in his pocket.
Kate fought the urge to turn and run away. “What is it?”
“It’s a note left for me by sources that don’t concern you. We all have need of spies, it seems. The British, the French, America does too. Due to recent past history, any American vessels are considered allies to the French. Here, read it yourself.”
She took it, held it toward the light. She could barely make it out, but she could see that the handwriting was not his own, though she hadn’t put him past him to try and trick her like this. But the message seemed sound enough.
It meant the British saw American ships as fair game.
She said, “All right, where shall I meet you?”
“You sound sad to be leaving this place. That’s because you just got here, I’ll wager, and are not quite ready to say goodbye.”
“How did you know that?”
“They know a lot of things at the Government House, my dear Kate. It is their business after all. And mine.”
Of course they would know of the comings and goings of all the vessels here and the cargo on board, including passengers. Kate had to remind herself that he was probably speaking in general terms and not about Sir Edward in particular.
“All right, I’ll be ready,” she said.
He gave her the details, and then bid her good night. He whistled as he walked away, but she saw him pick up the pace as she heard a patrol come marching from behind her.
She hurried back to her fine accommodations. Sir Humphrey and his wife had been very generous. The man knew her father by reputation, and her uncles by business arrangement. The American war was long over; Sir Humphrey was nothing if not a practical man. Kate didn’t regret accepting neither the kindness, nor her solitude ever since: The guesthouse gave her place to hide.
A fine place, it was true: curtains and lace, rugs and pillows and doilies on the furniture. There was a set of brass implements for the coal fire, and even a bathing room.
Kate reveled in a hot bath and then tried to relax in the fine feather guest bed—which was much softer than she was used to. She finally ended up on the floor with a pillow and quilt to wrap around her.
In front of the fire, she drifted off to sleep, but the dream came again . . .
* * * * *
Spring, 1774,
Senlis Family Compound, New York colony
Katie woke in the morning in her own bed, stretched for a second . . . then she remembered.
Her mother was sleeping, lying quite still beside her. Katie watched her breathe for a moment, watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Her mother had bruises on her neck and her face. She had a big lump on her temple, and her wrists were bruised too.
And mother’s fingernails were bloodied and torn. Katie picked up her mother’s hand and rubbed at the blood on her finger and wedding ring. The blood was dried and flaked off onto the linen sheeting. She set her mother’s hand down gently and brushed the dried blood away.
Katie touched her mother’s stomach were the new baby still lived. Her mother moved, sighed, and opened her eyes. They were red and swollen, and no longer quite green, but a deeper color . . . the color of the deepest ocean in a looming storm . . . the color of sorrow.
“Katie, my baby, I do not know what to do,” her mother said, “We have to finish burying those people, then we have to leave here. We have to tell someone, get help to go find the boys. We can’t wait for your Papa, we have to go find the boys.”
That’s when they heard the noise on the porch.
“My God, they’re back,” said her mother in only a desperate whisper.
Her face had gone quite white. But her cheeks flashed red as if she had fever, and thin beads of sweat now glistened on her upper lip. Katie felt bitterness in her own mouth, not unusual now, and she thought it must be the taste of fear.
Her mother grabbed Katie by the arm and whispered in her ear. “Hide, Katie. Run and go hide. Do not come out until I call you again.”
Then her mother got up and looked around the room. There was nothing there but a little girl’s things. Katie followed her down to the kitchen. Her mother had no weapon, for the French had taken the guns and even the kitchen knives. Many of Mama’s jars were now broken, and the dried herbs scattered about. Jagged and curved pieces of broken glass were scattered around the floor.
The sparkling facets cut into her mother’s trembling hands as she picked them up, trying to find a suitable weapon.
Katie didn’t want to leave her, but her mother pushed her away. Katie stared at the ghastly blood prints left on her pinafore apron, and she touched lightly the smears left by her mother’s blood. The smell was metallic; Katie put a finger to her hand. It was slightly salty. She didn’t see when her mother disappeared out the door.
Katie looked around then, as if lost. She could not run; there was nowhere to go. Upstairs was too far; outside was ugly, too red and too black with the buzzing of flies. And the crows would peck out your eyes.
Hide, like Mama said. Katie had to hide. Be a fawn.
But where?
The sideboard was big and had a front panel that folded up for serving dishes. It was down now for they ate simply when her father was away. The legs were reinforced with boards that formed a shelf of sorts beneath. When the panel was down, you could not really see the shelf.
Katie crawled up to the shelf and waited.
In a moment, she heard her mother scream. Katie felt sick to her stomach. She started singing. No special song, no particular words. It didn’t matter anyway, because though she moved her mouth, no sound came out at all.
* * * * *
Ambrose Standish slipped through the shadows. He heard distant shouts from further down on the dockside. Some were orders being called from patrols. Others were occasional songs from some of the dockside places used as public houses and brothels on this rock island, also known as a military post.
But he didn’t know this settlement, he had never been here before, and that made him careful. He had thought to slip aboard some ship and stowaway until he felt safe enough to move. Money would solve any problems when he was in the middle of the Atlantic. But that was no longer an option, and he hated to be limited this way.
How he knew they were after him he didn’t know—survival instinct, a trait of his grandmother maybe. But when he first saw Kate, he knew. The British were now suspicious of him, but what of her? Was she really so foolish, so naive as to know nothing? Or was she clever enough to not let it show?
He took a moment to wipe his face with his handkerchief. It smelled of dried blood and sweat. He should swipe another and wondered just where?
Then he heard talking nearby and pushed tighter into the sheltering shadows. The duty sergeant of the patrol was reading a description: “Big head with ginger hair, pudgy, American with eyes as black as coal and a few missing teeth.”
Someone said, “Sounds like every other bloke around here.”
Some laughed.
The sergeant continued, “Arrest him on sight, shoot if you have to.”
“Is there a reward, Sergeant?”
“A kick in the arse if you slack, same as usual.”
Some laughed more, and then they all marched away. Eventually, it all seemed quiet again. He was alone with his thoughts, and his dilemma.
They were going to arrest him, if he gave them the chance. He was so close to finishing his plan; he couldn’t let that happen. It wasn’t fair.
Fair? The strong eats the weak; the old keep up or are left to die.
It was his grandmother’s voice in his head once again. Standish put his hands to his temples and pressed. The tears came anyway.
“It’s not fair, it’s not fair at all,” he said, swinging his head back and forth.
“Oy! You! What you doin’ there?”
Standish looked up in surprise.
“Lookee, Jimmy, my lad. I think we got us a kipper,” the soldier said. “Run and get the sergeant, Joey. It’
s a pat on the back for the both of us, and maybe an extra pint or two, us findin’ him so quick like.”
The other soldier snapped back, “Why don’t you go and I’ll stay.”
“On with you, boy, or you be feelin’ the back of my hand.”
The other soldier swore, but ran. Standish could hear the footfall, though he could not see the man. The soldier that had spoken first was circling him now with his musket at the ready. It had a bayonet. British bayonets were nasty things, sharp and long with no hint of mercy at all. He could see the gleam of the blade as the soldier moved, even in the dim light.
Standish tried bravado. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said and straightened up. “Do you know who I am? What is it that you want anyway?”
“Lookee at the Yank. You turncoat rebel!”
The Red Coat spat at Standish’s feet.
“I was a Tory, my father was a Tory too. We fought for England.”
The man grumbled, “That makes you a sorry excuse, that does. Better for you if you was on the winnin’ side. Now what are you? Some kind of spy, that’s what, and a dirty business that is too. It’ll be hangin’ for you. I’ll be there to see, I’ll even make me a bet. Choke or broke neck.”
“You must be mistaken,” Ambrose said. “I’m an American diplomat. I have my papers here.” He slipped his hand inside his jacket.
“Keep’em, use’m when you squat. Don’t need no papers. I got my orders. Them there’s paper enough.”
“I can read them to you, you ignorant—“
The soldier hit him in the gut with the butt of his musket. “There now, you just shut it and keep your hands where’s I can see. We’ll just wait for the sergeant and the rest of the lads.”
Standish doubled over and coughed in the pain, but forced himself to stand straight again. He struggled to say, “Look, I have money, gold.”
“Gold?”
“Not on me, obviously. You never know when you’ll be robbed. But we can get it, it’s not far from here.”
The Wilde Flower Saga: A Contrary Wind (Historical Adventure Series) Page 28
