"You are not surprised?" he said.
"Ambrose Standish does not concern me.” Her finger circled the rim of the glass, and she did not look up from the play.
"What does concern you?"
She didn’t answer for a moment. "You don't like women very much, do you?" she said, looking at him squarely now.
He very much felt like squirming, and fought to stay still. He was unprepared for the words and more so for the belligerent look in her eye.
He shot back, "Do you?"
"I haven't really known that many . . . my grandmother, my uncle’s wives. They usually don't approve of me, so I save us all the frustration and avoid them as much as I can. Oh, and my mother, who I haven’t seen either for years and years, but that’s another story. Then there's Mrs. O'Malley, and Fiya of course."
"The slave?"
"She's not a slave, she's a Mullah's daughter—a bloody Arabic princess of sorts, and well educated too. More so than me, but I never really went to school or had tutors like other people. I wonder if that was because—“
"You are not like other people. I suggest that you not aspire to be."
"Why not? I might keep me out of trouble," she said, grinning.
"I like you the way that you are."
"Naive? Gullible? Easy to throw over the side like a sack of turnips or sell to slavers like Ambrose Standish did? At least, he had the incompetence to not find my Scotch. Your Scotch, I mean. I wish he had shown more of that carelessness when he set me to—“
"Do not equate him with other men, Kate."
She took a sip of sherry. It didn’t go down well. She stood up and took a deep breath, then went to pour herself some water. She took a long sip, then another. That must have been better, for she burped behind her hand just loud enough for him to hear.
"Men like you, do you mean?" she said, and then, “Your pardon.”
"I hope I am nothing like Ambrose Standish."
"You're not."
The captain was watching her too intently, he realized, and turned away. His neck felt hot and he knew it was probably red too. It made him frown, for he knew that she was watching.
She said from close behind, "So the sea worthy captain is all at sea when it comes to matters of the heart."
He did not want to discuss that subject, not when there were still questions in his mind. And the idea that she had moved up so close behind him without making a sound was not the least bit reassuring.
He said a bit brusquely, "Ambrose Standish is suspected of intrigue with the French. What do you know of it?"
She didn't answer.
"Explain this." He held up the paper that her cousin, Louis Dumars, had made in prison.
Her eyes narrowed. "Where did you get that? Never mind, you found it in my things, of course."
“I have a right and a duty for the safety of my crew and my vessel, not to mention my own country."
"Better that than just nosiness,” she said, “or do you like to snoop in women's things? Not that you’d be the first."
"Not as a rule, but the books were left in my own cabin, and you seem to be the exception to many rules."
Her eyebrows furrowed as she said, "Is that good or bad, I wonder?"
"Some of both, I imagine,” he said. “And why are you smiling?"
She stepped closer.
"Step away, Madam. I am trying to determine your degree of collusion with Ambrose Standish, and this paper does not bode well for you."
She grabbed the flyer and gently pulled. He still held on with a little tension, but eventually he let it slip through his fingers. She set it aside like it was nothing. It occurred to him that not only was she avoiding the issue, but worse, that he didn't mind as much as he should.
"Step away, Madam," he said again, and watched his breath blow the curls at her temple.
It never occurred to him to step back himself. He couldn't back down. Deep inside he knew that she had already won, but he wasn’t quite sure what the contest had been.
"Were you working with Ambrose Standish in the aid of the French? And the Spanish then? Is that what you were doing in Spain?”
Kate stiffened, frowned, stepped away from him. Kate reached for the paper and glanced at the dying words of Louis Dumars once more. Turning her head away from both Sir Edward and the paper, she recited the words by heart.
She stopped in thought for a moment, before adding, "I suppose this is part of my family history now. My cousin was taken prisoner with me. They tortured him to death.” She paused, her eyes closed. When she opened them again, she spoke quite low. “He made this with his last efforts, then made me swear to do what I thought best to help those people.”
“Which people?”
“I have no idea. The ones he cared about most,” she said. “Why do you think that it's anything more?"
“More? It seems that he asked of you quite a great deal. And did you?”
“I found his papers, if that’s what you mean. I found them in Spain, and there you found me. And that’s an end to it, I expect.”
“Papers? What kind of papers?”
“Does it matter?” she said in that feckless Cornish accent he had first heard her use in the park in Plymouth. Then she flipped her hand as if swatting away a fly. “I burned them.”
He rubbed his chin a moment. "It matters because you turn up in the most interesting places in the most unusual circumstances."
"Such as?"
He stared at her in disbelief, but the silence only lasted a short while. "To start, a tree in the park in Portsmouth—“
“It was Plymouth, I think you’ll find, though one port may seem like another to a seasoned sailor such as you. I forage and like to remember a good patch, so things like that matter to me.”
“A rock island in the middle of the ocean. Off the coast of Spain, I might add. At a midnight rendezvous with a wolf—“
"I think it was a wild dog."
"Now some sort of slave ship headed for hell and back. And before that, at the Bastille.” She opened her mouth, he assumed to tell him that the Bastille itself had been razed. This he knew. He quickly added, “A prison or a nunnery or a hole in the ground. You know what I mean."
"How did you know about that? Ambrose?"
"Dr. Llewellyn told me. You were delirious that first night, it seems. You said you do not speak French, yet I find you speak it very well. At least in your sleep."
"How ungentlemanly of you to say. Still, you were in most of those places as well. I seem to always end up in dire circumstances with you coming to my rescue."
"Do not change the subject."
"That is the subject,” she said. “Has it ever occurred to you that you are supposed to be there for me?"
He opened and closed his mouth a few times before he managed to say, "That suggestion is outrageous.” He had the sense not to add out loud: And something a woman might say.
She poured another glass of water and offered one to him. He refused.
She sipped for a casual moment, then said, "You don't believe in destiny?"
"Not like that."
"It’s only divine right if there’s fighting involved in the bargain? King and castles, men and motes and all manner of grandiose things—chivalry died a long time ago, Captain Sir Edward Lindsay, but some folks don’t know that it’s dead. Others don’t seem to know that it ever existed."
He suspected that she was laughing at him, and he did not like the feeling. He grabbed the paper. "What is this? Is it code as Dr. Llewellyn says? I think it must be. Is it written in blood, and if so, whose blood?"
Her eyebrows rose. "Latin is not code, it's just confusing. But you're right about the blood. I'm afraid it makes it all the more binding. The natives in America do the same sort of thing. They call it being brothers in the blood if not of the womb, something like that. Come to think of it, marriage and children are also blood bonds, in a round about way. My mother always said that—“
"Stop babbling, Kate. W
hat were you so long in discussing with that American captain these last few days? Oh, I know, he is your uncle, so you say. Were you exchanging information that you gleaned from your recent travels? Is he a courier?"
She watched him for a while, and then put down her glass of water. It occurred to him that she had done it with a great deal of deliberation. He wondered if she was thinking of throwing it at him. Still, she did not answer, only chewed on her bottom lip.
Finally, she said, "We spoke of family matters, business matters."
"What family business? Why did it take you so long to answer?"
"Shipping, or lack of. And I was trying to decide if I should change my mind about throwing something at you or not."
He fought back the smirk that threatened, for he took pride in knowing her thoughts after all. He said, "Shipping?”
"Louis Dumars was my mother's cousin, their family is very old. I suppose it’s my family too, but I’ve been so far removed from— Louis and his friends have vineyards. Had vineyards, that is. The Republicans may have confiscated those lands by now. Anyway, wine makes for excellent tradable goods, if you haven't noticed, and we were hoping to convince him to coordinate trade, using our ships, with some of the other vineyards in southern France."
"Shipping," he repeated, and then he turned away and started pacing. “Then why did the Republicans arrest you?"
"They arrested Louis, I was just in the way, and unhappily included in the fray. Louis was titled in France, and there were other titles in other places all over Europe on my mother side. My family is very big. The French Republicans are not enamored of their aristocracy these days, and where there are titles, they assume there is money and connections in countries that are potential enemies.”
“And did they get all his money?”
“I don’t know. But he also traded with the English and the Americans. That's how we knew of him. He was an established exporter of his wines. But such connections are suspect in today's French Republic. I believe they have reason to fear a counter-revolution; they are still fighting in places to this day. At least, that is what Louis thought. He became very philosophical near the end."
Sir Edward stopped pacing. Too many thoughts shot through his mind all at once. He began shaking his head to clear his mind.
"You don't believe me," she said.
"No, no . . . It’s just . . . You seem to be well informed about business matters, Madam, and it is just that quality which makes you a suspect in more dubious pursuits."
"What an interesting way to say that you still think I'm a spy. That or I’m just scheming and conniving, which is still preferable to admitting that there might be an intelligent woman on this earth? Well, think what you like, but I’m not a spy, I’m usually not stupid on purpose, and I don’t lie about things like that. I'm sometimes misinformed, I'll grant you, but it's usually not my fault. The foolishness, I have to admit, is just a common occurrence, I’m afraid.”
"You must tell me what you were doing in France. And don’t tell me again you were there setting up trade. We have had the coast blockaded for months. You must have known of the troubles within."
"Doing? Crying mostly, though first it was for nostalgia. I’ve always wanted to see Paris, you see. I had this image in my mind of little cafes and streets filled with women in rustling skirts and powdered hair and funny little dogs following behind, lapping up the bonbons the ladies had tossed after. Then it all turned bad when the Republicans hauled us away. I say hauled, for there was very little dignity involved in our retreat. They say that no one was ever hurt by a little whimsy for the old days, but a whip and firebrand can do a bit of damage."
"They did not rape you?" He said it too quickly and instantly regretted it.
She studied him a moment, her head tilted just a bit. "No, but what they did was something that I will have trouble forgetting if I live to be one hundred. I watched him die, gradually. I could do nothing to stop it or even to ease his pain. I was useless."
"Kate, I ask you again, and I ask you to answer me directly. Are you a spy?"
She didn't answer, but turned away. He moved to stand before her, but she would not look at him. He had a sinking feeling in his stomach.
"Tell me," he said and grabbed her shoulders. He pressed so hard that she flinched, but he didn't let go
"No, I am not a spy or an informant or a collaborator. I’m not even a good patriot. I'm just a coward. But my family has ties to the old families in France, and in Britain too for that matter, and that’s why I thought we could get a little trade. Haven’t your family and friends ever done a favor for you?"
Sir Edward felt his face flush, but he would not be sidetracked again. He sat down and took a deep sigh. "How close are your ties in France?"
"My family, my mother’s family, that is, has not been close for years. Louis was the first I have ever met. My mother’s family did not keep in touch with my father after— My father’s line is mostly British and Welsh, but who knows?"
"Years? How many years?”
"Hundreds, I should imagine. Oh, there were trips to the old estates, and my mother kept track of it all as a hobby or a legacy or a history, your choice. Whatever you call it, the theory is much the same. She knew Louis when they were young, and loved to share all the old stories. My mother had a way with words. But now with Louis dead, I think that’s an end to it all. I have no wish to go back there."
"Why would they free you because you were an American? Because of your family? Because you were a woman? You must see my dilemma. If you were freed because you are American, that makes the Americans the allies of our enemy. If it was because of your family, do you still have ties inside France? People you feel loyal to, or have some kind of obligation towards?
“And if it was because you are a woman, well, I have seen too much of you here and there and back again to believe you do anything by chance. If it’s true what you say, and you were there for the trade, then we come back to the French once again . . . and so the Americans, meaning you, your uncle, your ships and your brood. Face it, Kate, your family business is a bloody armada compared to the rest of the American Navy."
She smiled for a while before she said, "I wouldn’t put too much worry in a supposed alliance between France and the United States. The French think they are like us, but they are not."
"How so different? You are all rebels."
"We found a new country on a new continent. We fought for our land against the beasts and the natives and the very terrain. Then we fought for our freedom without marching on the king's palace and beheading him and his wife, sir. You forget that many Americans have never even been to England. Some of my family left for the colonies in 1632. And they left from England, by the by, and not France at all. Except for my mother, of course. I'm sorry if you think that is the same."
Sir Edward sat down and rubbed his neck wearily. He knew it was true enough, all of it. Some colonial families had gone to America in the early 17th century. They had been an ocean-away from their ancestral homelands for generations. They did not have the social season to govern their calendars—that was done by the seasons of nature.
They had to grow their crops, and hunt for their meat, and they even spoke differently now. They had words you would never hear on a London street: Indian words, frontier words, words of rebellion.
He believed her, but if he let her go, he might never see her again. Maybe that was the real problem. She walked behind him and started rubbing his shoulders. He flinched, both in shock and because it felt very good.
"Relax, I won’t kill you,” she said. “Just the opposite, I'm trying to help."
He grunted and stood up, but tried not to start pacing. He thought about a drink, but stopped short when she said, "The real question is, will you marry me now, or shall we wait until we reach Gibraltar?"
His mouth dropped open, but it took him a moment to finally say, "Madam?"
"My uncle is a captain, we are on the high seas. He can marry us on
the Narragansett. If you don’t like the idea, then you should have never helped me with my piccolo and my apple. The might of the British Navy is one thing, sir, but never underestimate a woman's will to have her own way. Especially where music and food both come into the equation."
For a long time, he could only watch her watching him.
Eventually, he cleared his throat and said, "A man in the service of His Majesty's Navy has no business with a wife."
"Yet many have them. Some take them on their ships, even into battle."
"That is their privilege, by their admiral’s leave, of course. The restrictions have grown very lax, I agree, but it’s more a matter of priorities with me."
"I know your priorities."
Her head was lowered. She watched him through her eyelashes with those eyes of hers that held so much gold. He felt distinctly like he was being considered for some tiger’s dinner.
He shook himself from her gaze. "I have yet to meet a woman who truly understands. Some say it is so, but—“
"The sea is your priestess,” she said. “Some might say your priest, but no man of the sea truly believes that the Deep is anything but a woman. True?"
"True."
“You worship her and she cares for you, but when a higher hand might smite you, she is there to carry you down.”
He swallowed at the picture in his mind. Shipwreck, war, storms. He nodded.
She continued, "Your ship is your lover. She changes from time to time, but young or old, she always has your devotion."
"What an explicit way of putting it, Madam. That would scandalize society in London. You would be quite popular, I think. But it is also true enough."
"Your duty is your reason, some might say excuse, for submitting to the sea, for it is a weakness as much as a calling."
"What do you mean by that?" he said, intrigued.
"Only that you have no choice. It's in your blood and you must follow this way of life. It's something you can’t fight, and if you ever did once, you don't try to fight anymore."
He decided he was enjoying this. He put his hand to his chin. "Go on."
"And finally, your men are your charge like your children. You are responsible for their lives and their safety. They must trust you with both. Those who love them must do the same, they must trust you too."
The Wilde Flower Saga: A Contrary Wind (Historical Adventure Series) Page 41
