New World

by Jo Macauley

  “You’re coming on the very same ship as us?” Beth asked, pleased. She knew Ralph had been to sea before – even, once, on a pirate ship!

  “’Course I am. What, you didn’t think I was going to wait around when the rest of you were shipping out, did you?” Ralph tutted. “As if you could get rid of me that easy.”

  They all smiled at one another. Their spy ring would remain unbroken after all. Now they just had to wait to cast off for a new world.

  Chapter Eighteen - Adieu, Adieu

  “I can’t believe how quickly this week has gone by,” Beth said.

  She and Maisie were standing together at the window of their bare room, watching the street for signs of their carriage. Hiring it in advance had been expensive, but Beth hadn’t had any other choice; walking to the Antelope would have been quite out of the question for a high-born lady and her maid. So there was nothing to do now but enjoy the experience.

  Beth was quite pleased with the cover story she’d dreamed up. Naturally Maisie couldn’t be told the truth – that Beth, John and Ralph were all spies travelling undercover – so instead, Beth had spun a tale around a wealthy, eccentric theatre patron. This peculiar and rather paranoid old man, she said, had property and land in America that he wanted Beth to keep a watchful eye on, and he’d come up with the ruse of disguising her as a highborn lady along with her staff, knowing that she was a good enough actress to pull it off. And, Beth told her friend, he was paying her a small fortune to do so. Layers upon layers, Beth thought; lies piled upon lies. She felt uncomfortable deceiving Maisie, even if it did mean they got to travel together to America. However, Maisie didn’t baulk at the story one bit. Beth had barely finished telling it before she had begun to pull on her maid’s outfit.

  Now the girl couldn’t keep still. “When’s our carriage coming?” she said, for the umpteenth time. “Oh, this is all so exciting!”

  Beth smiled. Maisie might not be completing her current role at the theatre, but she certainly enjoyed playing a role! And she’d been a glorious success during the week when she had taken to the stage as Maid Marian and the patrons of London had cheered and cheered at the sound of the young girl’s beautiful voice, enough for William Huntingdon to genuinely want the girl to join the company for future productions. He’d been saddened to have to find another actress to take over the role of Marian for the last few performances, as Maisie had supposedly “strained her inexperienced voice”.

  But now the girl was as excited as she had been on her first night on the stage. When there had been a knock on the door ten minutes ago, Maisie had practically jumped out of her skin, but it had only been a messenger delivering a note from Ralph, to say he’d had word from his contacts and there was not even a whisper of Vale’s assassin anywhere. Beth wondered whether the shadowy would-be killer had given up the hunt, or was just biding his time.

  Leaving Maisie to watch, she took a last look around their little room. It was strange to see it stripped bare of all her familiar things. Her clothes and possessions, along with the vast collection of outfits Strange had provided, were already on their way to the Antelope. Her manservant, John Briskell, had seen to that.

  And an efficient servant Briskell was, Beth thought with a grin. It was astonishing how smart he looked in his white wig and fancy jacket, and how politely he answered his lady employer. Nobody would have guessed that he was really John Turner, or that his ankle still bore a red weal where his prison chains had chafed him raw. Maisie was happy with Beth’s explanation that he’d had a last-minute reprieve from his sentence, and was also using this cover story as a far less dangerous passage to a new life in America.

  “Let’s do a final rehearsal,” Beth suggested. “So, Miss Blanchet, remind me how we spent this morning?”

  “First I fetched you the water to make your ablutions, m’lady,” Maisie said. “Then I dressed you, and arranged your hair just so.”

  “And a marvellous job you did,” Beth said. “And then?”

  Maisie frowned, then remembered. “You went down to breakfast and I tidied the room. I cleaned all your brushes and combs, and folded away your things, and organized your jewellery. A shocking state it was in too, if I may say so, ma’am.”

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Miss Blanchet,” Beth laughed.

  “Tell you what, it’s a good job I’m only pretending to do all this stuff,” Maisie said. “Imagine if I really did have to clean up after you all the time. I’d have a fit!”

  “You’d better not tease me like that in public,” Beth said with a grin.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Maisie sighed. “I know the rules. ‘A lady’s maid is always respectful and obedient, even if the lady is throwing a tantrum and breaking the china.’”

  “I promise I won’t make it hard for you. Though we should probably have a couple of Lady Frightful scenes, just to make it look real.”

  “Lady Frightful!” Maisie shuddered, remembering.

  To research their roles, Maisie and Beth had gone to all the places they could think of where ladies and their maids would be, so they could watch how they behaved. Lady Frightful was the name they gave to a ghastly woman in a coffee shop, with hair “all done up like a bird’s nest” as Maisie had observed, and a terrified cowering maidservant.

  Every other word out of Lady Frightful’s mouth had been “stupid”. The stupid girl had failed to do this or that, had brought cold water instead of hot, had broken a mirror, had lost – or stolen – an earring.

  “If she was my boss, I’d smother her in her sleep,” Maisie had muttered.

  But other ladies had provided better examples, and soon Beth had been practising the finer points in front of her mirror: the demure peek out from behind a fan, the offering of one’s hand for a gentleman to kiss, the slight lifting of the skirts as she swept into a room. She read guides to table etiquette and looked up the names of lords and barons she ought to have heard of, along with descriptions of their estates and houses. By the end of it all, they both felt ready to put on a good show for their fellow passengers.

  Then came the only sad part, saying their goodbyes to Big Moll, to all their friends at the theatre ... that had all been mercifully quick, and necessarily a little woolly on details.

  “The carriage is here!” Maisie squeaked at last.

  “Very well. From this moment on we’re Lady Easton and Maisie Blanchet,” Beth said. “We can’t be Beth and Maisie again until we’re on our own.”

  “I understand.”

  Beth quickly kissed her cheek. “Good luck.”

  “You too!” Maisie ran downstairs to open the door for Beth as if she were born to it.

  The carriage driver didn’t bat an eyelid at the sight of a grand lady descending the steps of the Peacock and Pie. He touched the brim of his hat and said, “Where to, ma’am?”

  “Hay’s Wharf, my good man.” Beth swept majestically aboard, holding her embroidered skirts carefully aside as she stepped up. Maisie, carrying her small bag, climbed up to take her place beside the driver. With a lurch, they were off.

  “So far, so good,” Beth whispered to herself.

  * * *

  The Antelope was an English galleon, standing proud on the water. The young manservant waiting on the quayside looked every bit as proud to be sailing on her. Beth smiled to herself. John did love his ships. He looked like he was posing for a dramatic portrait, like Sir Francis Drake.

  She put the smile away and assumed an expression of frosty calm as she descended from her carriage. “Good morning, Briskell.”

  “M’lady,” John said, with a bow. “Your belongings have been stowed aboard and I’m told your cabin is ready.”

  “Very good.”

  “Captain Clark requests the pleasure of your company at his table tonight.”

  “Please tell our captain I shall be glad to join him,” Beth replied. All the “quality” passengers on a voyage of this sort could be expected to dine with the captain, as a mark of his respect f
or their status.

  She hesitated before stepping onto the gangplank and gave the ship a look over. This would be their home for many months to come. Even for a grand lady, it would surely be uncomfortable, possibly even dangerous. Her life was in the sailors’ hands now. One of those sailors was waving to her, high aloft in the rigging, and she realized with a small smile that it was Ralph, sporting a fine new rigger’s uniform. She gave him the tiniest of waves back and then strode on board, with Maisie trotting behind like an excited puppy.

  The captain himself, a beaming bewhiskered man, showed Beth to her cabin. She almost felt sorry for deceiving him, he was so eager to please. “Now, I’m right across the corridor from you, Lady Easton,” he kept saying, “so don’t hesitate to knock if you need me, day or night.”

  “I shall.”

  “And if any of the crew are uncivil to you, pray tell me so. I’ll have ’em flogged!”

  “Uh, thank you for your gallantry, Captain Clark,” Beth said with a curtsey, and Clark’s cheeks positively glowed with satisfaction. After the captain’s ready talk of flogging his crew over what might be simply the word of a passenger, Beth no longer felt the slightest bit sorry about her deceit. Instead, she decided to exploit his feelings to the hilt. She opened the door onto a cabin almost as big as their old room in the Peacock and Pie. A washstand and dresser had been provided, and a sumptuous bed stood against one side, with a plainer one at its foot. It even had a port-hole offering a view of the ocean.

  “What luxury,” was all Maisie could say.

  “Indeed,” Beth breathed, once the captain was out of earshot.

  * * *

  Soon after, the call came from below: “Weigh anchor!”

  The great ship began to move, and passengers crowded to the railing to wave their final goodbyes. Ralph worked his way along the deck, and paused alongside Beth for a moment. “Bye, London,” he muttered at the passing skyline. “Truth is, you’re just too small for me.”

  Beth’s mind was racing with thoughts of her new life. A big house, a theatrical company of her own, and the spy work. She’d be on unfamiliar territory. There would be dangers in America she’d never faced before. Vale was there already, with a head start on her. She could only guess at what layers of protection he might have built up around himself. But she was Strange’s trusted agent – not a running dog, as Vale had contemptuously dismissed her, but a cunning, ruthless hunter. She’d run him to ground.

  “I’m coming home,” Maisie said happily. “America’s where I really belong. And my father’s there, looking for me with his eyes as blue as the ocean.”

  John was watching by her side as well.

  “Goodbye, London,” Beth heard him whisper, so low only she could hear. “Goodbye, prison and poverty and hunger. Hello, America, land of opportunity ... and freedom.”

  Chapter Nineteen - The Captain’s Table

  “How can it be dinner time already?” Beth protested, flapping her hands. “It feels like we just set off!”

  “Hold still!” Maisie told her, wrestling her hair into place and securing it with a final comb. “I knew we should have practised this more.”

  “I don’t even know who the other high-class passengers are,” Beth lamented. “I should have asked Strange to look into it.”

  “You’ll do fine,” Maisie said. “There. You look wonderful.”

  Beth sighed. “I wish we could eat together, but ... you know.”

  “Servants don’t eat with the gentry. I know me place, m’lady,” her friend said with a grin.

  Beth hurried up to the captain’s mess, where the rest of the guests were already sat at table. To her horror, she saw none of them had started their meal. They were all clearly waiting indignantly for her.

  “I’m sorry to be so late,” she stammered.

  “Not at all!” Captain Clark said, ushering her to her place. She went to pull her chair back and sit, then caught herself just in time. A lady didn’t seat herself; she waited for a gentleman to do it. Sure enough, Captain Clark pulled out the chair, and she settled on it in a rustle of skirts, graceful as a swan. That was close, she thought.

  After three courses and only a small amount of embarrassment when Beth tried to open an oyster with a fruit knife, it was time for the traditional after-dinner toasts. Beth was glad to finally be reaching the end of the arduous meal and patronizing conversation.

  “Here’s a health to His Majesty!” said Captain Clark, standing up. Everyone drank.

  “Long may he reign over England, and all her colonies too,” said Hardwicke, an elderly passenger with a Naval background.

  Another passenger, a flabby man called Howell, took exception to those words.

  “Try telling them that when we reach Virginia!” he said scornfully. “The way some of them talk, they’d just as soon throw off His Majesty and turn rebel!”

  “Stuff and nonsense,” Hardwicke retorted. “That’s just a few malcontents, stirring up trouble. We’ve guns enough to keep ’em in line.”

  “It may have just been a few at first, but the rot’s well and truly set in by now,” Howell insisted.

  “I’ve heard such guff before. We’re the mightiest empire the world has ever seen, and yet you talk as if we’re on the verge of collapse!”

  Beth listened as the argument grew heated, but kept her mouth firmly shut and tried not to look too interested. Her role in this was to sit and look pretty while the gentlemen talked. She couldn’t help the thoughts churning in her mind, however. America was supposed to be loyal to her parent country, just like a daughter to her mother. The English had worked hard for many years to colonize the place, so why shouldn’t the colonists love their King?

  An uneasy suspicion slowly surfaced in her mind. There was one person who lived to stir up hatred of the King wherever he went: Vale. Could he be embroiled in this somehow? Maybe she should investigate some of those “malcontents” when she reached America...

  * * *

  Meanwhile, John was settling in to his own cabin. It was half the size of Beth’s, and his bunk was one of four. A colossal Yorkshireman, already lying in one of the bunks, raised an eyebrow at him as he unpacked. “You’d better not be a snorer,” the man warned. “Shared a cabin with a snorer once. Had to drown him.” John froze, still on edge from prison, but the man’s wink relaxed him a little.

  There was barely room to move in the cabin once the other passengers arrived. As well as the Yorkshire giant, John was packed in with a gunsmith called Briggs and an Irish seaman called Murdoch, who seemed to have visited every country on Earth.

  “First crossing?” Briggs asked him, offering a swig of gin from a flask, which John declined. “Don’t be nervous. Our captain’s hard, but seasoned. We’ll reach Virginia in one piece.”

  “He’s a fine man is Clark,” said Murdoch. “Some of these dogs who set to sea, they haven’t a clue how to sail. All they care about is the money.”

  “That lady of yours isn’t shy of a few bob, is she?” said Briggs. “You landed on your feet with that one, son.”

  “Lady Easton is an angel,” John said firmly. “Her family took me in when I was small. I’ve served them ever since.”

  “No disrespect intended, I swear!” Briggs shook John’s hand and looked genuinely sorry. “This lad’s a proper old-fashioned servant, isn’t he? Won’t hear his lady’s name taken lightly, even in jest. It’s not just a job for you, is it, being in service?”

  John shook his head and stayed modestly silent.

  “There you go. ‘Well done, thou good and faithful servant.’ Good fortune to you and your good lady!”

  Briggs drank again, and John smiled inwardly. The man was doing a splendid job of convincing the other passengers that John really was a servant. Over a meal of fresh meat and bread – the last they’d get for a long time – John’s fellow passengers traded stories of the New World. They’d all made good money there and couldn’t wait to return.

  “I tell you, lad, it’s a place
of freedom for the working man,” Murdoch said, thumping the boards to drive his point home. “All the hard work gets left to the slaves and the convicts. If you’ve a tradesman’s skill or two, you can make a mint.”

  “And if you don’t, you can learn,” Briggs pointed out. “Tradesmen over there are always looking for apprentices. As it happens, I’m looking for a smart young fella to teach my trade to.”

  “Save your breath,” said the Yorkshireman. “Johnny here’ll be in service ’til the day he dies, waiting on his lady’s pleasure.” He gave John another wink.

  “So America really is a land of freedom?” John asked innocently.

  “Well, yes and no,” said Murdoch. “The slaves don’t do too well out of it, truth be told. Nor do them Quakers.”

  “I’ve heard of them.” Quakers were a peaceful religious sect, from what John had been told. “Why would anyone take against them?”

  “That’s not for me to say,” Murdoch said with a dark look. “But there’s been a Quaker woman hanged, and she won’t be the first.” He paused. “You’re not a Quaker, are you, lad?”

  “No, I’m not!” John said. But if anyone over there finds out what I really am, he thought, I’d be hanged too...

  Chapter Twenty - Confrontation

  Over the next few days, John and Ralph met one another by chance and play-acted the beginnings of a friendship, but it wasn’t until they were a week out to sea that John finally had a chance to catch up with Ralph properly, down by the crew quarters. He was swigging water from a tin cup, taking a rare break from his duties.

  “Sea air must be doing you good,” John said. “You look healthier than I’ve ever seen you.”

  “It’s all them nutritious weevils in the ship’s biscuits,” Ralph grinned. “That and the hard work. You forget what a slog it is when you’re on land.” He lowered his voice. “How’s you-know-who?”

  “She’s well,” John said. Ralph nodded. That was all they needed to say on the matter. One of the other sailors squeezed past them and they made small talk until the man was out of the way.