He and Émile arrived at the door and a servant graciously escorted them into the large sitting room where Franklin greeted his guests.
“It is good to see you, as ever,” said the aging American as he extended his hand.
“And you, m’sieur,” said Jean. He shook the man’s hand and re-introduced him to Émile.
“Welcome again,” Franklin said to Émile.
Jean recognized the two men standing behind Franklin. The one with the prominent nose, gray hair and dark brows, Edward Bancroft, was secretary to the American mission in Paris. Standing next to him was Charles Gravier, comte de Vergennes, the French Foreign Minister. Jean was quick to acknowledge both.
He respected Vergennes, for it was he who had convinced the king to support America in the hope it would weaken Britain. Having secured the king’s agreement to aid the young republic, Vergennes then worked tirelessly to bring the Spanish and Dutch into the fold. But Jean believed the alliance now in place owed as much to England’s vanity, ignorance and pride as it did to the efforts of the French minister.
“I have persuaded le comte to stay for tea,” said Franklin. “He and I have been discussing the American situation and I know he will welcome any news you have.”
“Of course,” Jean replied. After all, he served both America and France.
At Franklin’s gesture, the four men took their seats on the two brocade-covered sofas facing each other over a small oval table, where tea was served. Jean marveled, as he always did, that the American commissioner seemed so vital though he was now in his mid-seventies. His hair, which fell thinly to his shoulders, was more dark brown than gray. The commissioner’s waist had expanded since the last time Jean had been to Passy, but he was not surprised. Franklin’s love of French food and wine was well known.
Franklin took a sip of his tea and set down his cup. “I trust you have brought me good tidings, M’sieur Donet. Something with which to bargain for my Americans languishing in British prisons? Those who have escaped tell me horrible stories of their confinements.”
“Oui, I bring you an English sloop and her thirty crew. I had thought to bring you the crew of another ship, but at the moment my efforts have been thwarted.”
“You would be mysterious, my friend?”
“I have no choice. Something I hold dear to my heart is involved. But I promise you more British seamen and soon.”
“I suppose I cannot complain,” said Franklin, “you have brought me hundreds of English seamen and more than twenty prizes in the last year.”
Bancroft lifted his pen from the tablet on which he’d been scribbling as if the figure had surprised him. As secretary to the American mission, he had to know Jean had secured British ships and their crews for Franklin’s prisoner exchange, but perhaps the secretary had not kept an account of the number.
Desiring to steer the conversation away from his reasons for withholding the crew of the second ship, Jean asked, “How go the negotiations for peace? Is there aught I can do to help?”
Franklin shared a knowing look with Vergennes. “There has been much talk, but little progress, I’m afraid. The British representative insists it should be sufficient they give America its independence. I informed him in no uncertain terms we will not bargain for that which is already ours, that which we have purchased at the expense of so much blood and treasure.”
Jean nodded. “I believe the English are exhausted by the war but too proud to make peace.”
Franklin nodded.
Vergennes interjected, “We do not lose hope, however. Paris is crawling with English emissaries these days, so perhaps an accord will be reached. France has little interest in prolonging what has become a very expensive war.”
Franklin gave his colleague a kind look. “We are not unmindful of the generosity of our French friends.” Then looking at Jean, “And your efforts, M’sieur Donet.”
Throughout the conversation, Bancroft said nothing but continued to scratch upon his pad. Jean slipped him a side-glance, recalling the rumors that spies surrounded Franklin, both British and French. Bancroft was in a prime position to gather useful information, and while he might be an American, Jean had heard he once made his home in London.
As such meetings had gone in the past, after Franklin told Jean of his needs for ships and the numbers of British seamen he hoped to have with which to bargain, their conversation turned to those men who were helping or hurting the American cause. Jean wanted to inquire about the man to whom he had promised his daughter. When he reclaimed her, the marriage would be his first priority.
“Have you encountered François de Dordogne in the negotiations?” he asked the two men sitting across from him.
“Ah, the young lawyer,” said Vergennes. “Why, yes. He has drafted several papers for me. Very good work, too.”
Jean shared a look of understanding with his quartermaster and inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. He had selected Dordogne for his well-respected family and his reputation as a rising star in legal circles, often advocating the ideals of reason and individualism rather than tradition, which would appeal to Claire. But the lawyer was still in his mid-twenties and, as yet, untested. It comforted Jean to know that Vergennes was aware of the young man and had used his services with good results. It was important that Claire’s husband be respected in society. The dowry Jean would provide her would set Dordogne on firm ground to care for Claire and their children.
No doubt it was one reason the lawyer had eagerly agreed to the match and asked no questions asked about Jean’s recent business dealings.
The brief meeting concluded with Jean explaining the location of the ship and the captured British seamen and promising more bounty and soon, which put a smile on Franklin’s lined face. Plying the Channel for English ships had become a profitable pastime and Jean did not intend to disappoint.
Rye Harbor
Alone in his cabin on the Fairwinds, now anchored in Rye, Simon looked up from the ship’s log to see the man who had been guarding Claire Donet’s door at night standing before him. “You wanted to see me, Anderson?”
“Aye, Cap’n. ’Tis the French girl.”
Simon set down his quill and gestured for the man to sit.
The burly Anderson, who often assisted the ship’s carpenter, dropped into the chair on the other side of the desk.
Seeing the look on his crewmember’s face, he spoke his thought aloud. “What new mischief has she gotten into now?” To allow her privacy, Simon had given her his cabin while he shared the first mate’s. Each night, he posted a guard at her door, often it was Anderson. It wasn’t just to keep her from trying to escape while they were in port, but to make sure none of his crew, who might happen to return from the Mermaid Inn with too much ale in their bellies, disobeyed his orders to leave her alone.
“’Tis no mischief, sir. ’Tis her dreams.”
He sat back and crossed his arms. “Tell me more.”
“Well, at first I thought it were just an odd dream. I’ve had ’em meself. But this tweren’t no single dream. She’s had more than one in the nights I’ve stood guard. Some would call ’em night terrors. She moans and screams in her sleep like she’s bein’ chased by one of McGinnes’ banshees. The sounds die down after a time.”
“Have you asked her about this?”
“Aye, once. After the first time, the next morn I ask if she slept well. All she said was ‘Not altogether, Mr. Anderson’. I thought ye should know, Cap’n.”
“You were right in telling me. I hope she’s not troubled by her captivity.”
“Don’t think that were it, Cap’n. I heard her call out a woman’s name… Elsie, Lisee…somethin’ like that. It were slurred, ye see.”
“Thank you, Anderson, that will be all.”
As the big man rose and left, Simon picked up his quill, dipped it in the ink and then hesitated. What would cause her to have such dreams?
He had lingered in Rye, now well over a week, to await a reply from Donet and to s
ee to the needs of his hostage, her clothes, shoes and other things a young woman might need. Elijah had taken her to Sally at the Mermaid Inn who had more knowledge of a young woman’s clothing. All Simon knew of feminine attire was how to remove it.
There’d been no word from Dartmouth or Donet. With a fast coach from Paris and a faster ship across the Channel, he thought he might have heard something by now, unless Donet had not yet received the missive he’d left on the girl’s pillow in Saint-Denis.
An hour later, he had turned to his charts of the Channel when his first mate stepped over the threshold. Jordan’s dark eyes, usually full of mirth, carried a grave look. It raised the hair on the back of Simon’s neck.
“You have news?”
Jordan stepped into the cabin. “I do. Donet received your note. You won’t be surprised to learn he’s sent a nasty reply.”
“I expected as much. After all, we have his daughter. What does he say?”
“You might as well read it.” He walked to the desk and dropped the letter on top of the ship’s log. The blue wax seal was already broken. “The short answer is he agrees to the exchange and threatens the crew with death if she’s harmed.”
Simon unfolded the single sheet, quickly confirming the message, and raised his head. “He says nothing of the Abundance?”
“I noted that as well. Expect the pirate intends to keep her.”
Simon sat back, wondering if he should go himself. But the note said Donet was sending his quartermaster. And he’d need Jordan in London. “Send Elijah and Giles to Paris for the meeting Donet wants. Whitehall has enough of its representatives in France right now, they’ll be in good company. Tell Elijah to demand the return of the Abundance as well as her crew.”
“I’ll see to it, Captain,” Jordan said and turned to leave.
Before his first mate had stepped through the cabin door, Simon asked, “Where’s the girl now?”
Jordan paused, looked over his shoulder and smiled. “She’s in the galley with Nate listening to tales from our new cook. Safe enough, I think. And one of the crew stands guard as you ordered.”
He nodded and Jordan departed. So she’s discovered McGinnes.
During the day when he had work to do at his desk, Elijah often escorted her to the weather deck. The galley was a new venue for her, but he’d known she’d eventually find her way there. His Irish cook was only a few years older than she and quite a charmer. Educated in one of the Ursuline schools for the poor in Cork, they would have many stories to exchange. Simon had no bias against Catholics, as many in London did, and knew the Ursulines to do much good. That his captive was Catholic concerned him not at all. That she was French nobility and the daughter of his enemy concerned him more.
Since Simon had kissed Donet’s daughter, they’d arrived at an uneasy truce. He was polite and she was cool and remote, though from the way she had responded to his kiss, he suspected a core of molten liquid simmered beneath the surface. He was certain she feared her response should he kiss her again. No future nun would have responded so. How would she explain that to the sisters in Saint-Denis? Lord knew he wanted to kiss her again. No woman had captured his attention like the wild Claire Donet. He still remembered the taste of her lips, the feel of her soft breasts pressed against him and the way she had kissed him back, notwithstanding her innocence. In his mind’s eye, he could still see the look of wonder in her passion-glazed eyes when he’d left her in his cabin that day.
She was a tasty tidbit he dare not touch again.
Simon looked about his cabin, noting the feminine things piled neatly on top of his sea chest at the foot of his bed. Oddly, he did not resent the intrusion into his domain. And he liked the lavender fragrance her presence left in his cabin.
But he had more to worry about than her dreams or his attraction to the French beauty. Yesterday’s messages from London had included a summons from his superiors, William Eden and Lord Danvers. He must sail to London. The night they had taken the girl from the convent, one of his men had retrieved additional messages from the Scribe in Paris that he must place in their hands.
Once they were anchored in the Thames, he would leave Jordan in command, but what was he to do with the French girl? He did not want her to remain on the ship. Nor did he want to leave her in Rye. The Mermaid Inn was not a safe place for a fetching young innocent who must be watched at all times. And because of the note he had left him, Donet was now aware of Simon’s connection to Dartmouth, so that was not an option. Not that he wanted to let her out of his sight. There was no help for it. She would have to go with him. He smiled to himself. She would enjoy Cornelia, Lady Danvers. After all, the baroness, only six years older, was an American.
Chapter 7
Claire sat in the galley listening to the cook weave stories of Irish fairies, her mind wandering. She had been on the ship over a sennight and anxious to escape. Once they had anchored in Rye, seeing land so close, she had begun to devise a way to get a message to her papa. A friend would be needed as she had no coins to bribe someone motivated only by greed. To a man, the captain’s crew appeared loyal to him. Though she still held out some hope young Nate could be persuaded to help her, she knew she would feel guilty for making use of the growing affection between them.
Elijah Hawkins had introduced her to Sally at the Mermaid Inn, who’d offered to find Claire another gown and proper underclothes. Claire was happy for the chance to be alone with the woman, thinking the innkeeper’s daughter might be enlisted to help. But Sally had been more interested in why a woman was aboard the handsome captain’s ship. After listening to her prattle on about the gallant captain of the Fairwinds, Claire determined the woman was too enamored of Simon Powell to be of any assistance in her cause. The woman’s affection for the English privateer annoyed Claire more than she wanted to admit. Had they been lovers? Shrugging off the nagging thought, she admitted any help she might find for an escape would have to come from another source. And since the captain never left her unguarded, it would not be an easy task.
Claire had been reluctant to accept the captain’s generosity in providing her clothes, but she reminded herself that none of the expense would have been necessary had he not kidnapped her in the first instance. So, reluctantly, she had accepted the clothing she so desperately needed.
One advantage of being in port was that she was able to walk about the ship without holding on to the rail for balance. But that did not mean she was comfortable. When Mr. Hawkins escorted her on deck, she could feel the eyes of the crew ogling her. The only woman on the ship, she stood out like a raven in a flock of white gulls.
Nearly all her life she had lived in the world of women. Now she was immersed in the world of men. Even the ship’s cat, a lean, black feline that stalked the decks for its dinner, was a male.
Sometimes the change from the convent to the ship was jarring. The crude language and ungentlemanly habits of the crew often startled her. Sister Angélique would have been horrified. But at those times, Claire would suddenly become interested in the large numbers of beach-nesting terns flying low over the harbor, their black heads and striking white plumage catching her eye. When he was on deck, she would beg Mr. Landor to lend her his spyglass so that she could watch the birds up close. Soon, her feigned fascination became real as she watched the elegant birds take flight over the rocky shore. Behind them was the hill town of Rye, a glittering topaz rising out of a setting of blue-green water.
After a few days of strolling the deck with Mr. Hawkins, Claire had noticed a change in the men. They cursed less and smiled more.
“’Tis yer doin’,” said Mr. Hawkins. “The men know’d ye were in a convent. They’re not wantin’ to offend a woman who talks to the Almighty.”
“But Mr. Hawkins, I am no closer to God than is any God-fearing man on this ship.”
“But there be few of those, lass.”
Her memory of her fit of temper in the captain’s cabin suddenly returned with a pang of remorse. Her actions
had hardly seemed godly. Though she was an unwilling prisoner on the ship, they had treated her as the guest Captain Powell had claimed she would be. In such circumstances, would not the Reverend Mother expect her to be civil? If the privateer’s crew could change, perhaps so could she. “I am grateful for the crew’s courtesy.”
“Aye, I ’spect they know that, too, mistress.” The old seaman drew on his pipe sending a puff of smoke into the clear morning air, a pale cloud against a sky of blue.
Because she wasn’t so preoccupied with keeping her balance now that the ship was anchored in calm waters, she noticed more about the schooner. It was a sleek vessel, black-hulled with two fine masts and a well maintained deck. Even now the crew was scrubbing it clean as they did most mornings.
When she remarked on it, Elijah explained, “’Tis the cap’n’s baby, this one. He coddles it like a lass. Handpicked the crew, he did, from those who’d sailed with him fer years.”
“And you are one of those?”
“Aye, been with him since he sailed as first mate under another cap’n. Even then it was clear how good a cap’n he’d make.”
To her relief, Elijah had assured her that while the crew might gawk at her and occasionally engage in course talk, she was in no danger from the captain’s men. None would defy his orders to treat her as the lady she was. The captain, she feared, was another matter. It was her own weakness for him that placed her in peril. Even knowing the man was her papa’s enemy did not nullify the fascination she had for him, one she’d had from that first night she’d seen him at the masquerade. So she took the coward’s way out and avoided him as much as she could.
When she was not with Elijah, a member of the crew dogged her every step. Captain Powell, it seemed, did not trust her, which was probably wise on his part, for escape was ever on her mind. But with no coins and no friend to aid her, she had yet to arrive at a plan.
To Tame the Wind (Agents of the Crown Book 0) Page 7
