The Peacock Throne

by Lisa Karon Richardson

  “Sarah Emsley, yer Honour,” she whispered.

  “Thank you, Sarah. We have a few questions for you.”

  The girl’s nod was barely perceptible. She seemed to be holding her breath. This must all be overwhelming—well beyond her experience. No doubt she feared being blamed for something. Lydia tried to offer an encouraging smile, but the girl had eyes for no one except Mr Harting, sitting with all the awful solemnity of a magistrate in the seat of honour.

  “How long have you worked at this establishment, Sarah?”

  “Three years, sir.” Her voice remained a mere breath of sound.

  “Do you like the work?”

  “It’s all right.”

  “Do you know many of your customers?”

  “Most of ’em.”

  “Would you remember someone if they weren’t a regular?”

  “Mayhap I would.”

  “Did anyone approach you to ask about our party yesterday?”

  The girl crumpled as if she were a bit of blotting paper balled up for the rubbish bin. Bending over, she sobbed loudly into her apron. Lydia hurried to the girl’s side, and put a comforting arm around her shoulder.

  “It’s all right,” she soothed. “Come now. Don’t carry on so. There’s no need for this. We aren’t interested in getting you into trouble. We simply need to know about this person. Hush now.” It took a few moments but the girl managed to collect herself. She clutched Lydia’s hand as if she might offer absolution.

  “I’m sure I didn’t mean to do wrong. I never thought fer a second the gentleman were a wrong ’un. He were ever so nice and polite to me.”

  “Why don’t you just tell us how it happened?” Lydia gentled the girl onto a couch.

  “Lizzie Dalton took sick yesterday so I got stuck waitin’ tables in the common room. This right gent come in lookin’ for a good supper. I poured him a draught and he were quite pleasant. Said as how he were travellin’ through on his way to the coast. He thought as how he’d seen his friend’s carriage in the yard, and asked if Lord Danbury were stayin’ here. I said as how you were. Then the gent said as how he hadn’t seen you in an age and wanted to know which room you were in so he could pay his compliments. I told him a’course, and then said as how I thought you were in the private sitting room.” Tears again welled in her eyes and the girl’s words choked off.

  “You’re doing well.” Lydia offered an encouraging smile. “Did this gentleman have anything else to say?”

  The girl nodded. “He were ever so nice. Told me as I was pretty and how I shouldn’t have to work so hard fer my livin’.” Sarah’s ears turned scarlet. “He talked about settin’ me up in a cottage near London. I…I left the latch off the door so as he could come t’ see me last night. But he never come.” With a whimper, the girl again buried her face. Lydia patted her back. It hurt to realize one had been played for a fool.

  Lydia looked to Harting.

  Harting spoke quietly, taking care not to frighten the maid. “Can you describe the man for us?”

  Sarah mopped at her face with a handkerchief Lydia handed her. “He were a gentleman. His manners were so nice and he spoke well too. He were taller than most. He wore a good wig, well powdered. Kind of old fashioned, I s’pose.”

  “What of his clothing?”

  The girl closed her eyes and screwed up her face in a caricature of someone thinking hard. “He had a fine, dark blue jacket of broadcloth. I’m sure it cost a good deal.” She turned again to Lord Danbury. “I’m sorry, yer Lordship, I never thought fer a second he meant anyone harm.”

  “Think no more about it, my dear,” Lord Danbury said. “We’ll not mention any of this to your employer, but do be careful in future. You deserve a good deal more than that fellow promised.”

  Sniffling, the girl nodded again. She could add nothing to what she had already told them, and Lord Harting dismissed her after a few more minutes.

  “It’s a pity she could not be more specific in her description,” Harting said when the maid had gone.

  Lydia frowned. “She did her best.”

  “No doubt, but her description could fit half the male population of England.” Harting stood. “If you will excuse me, I must send a message to Pitt.”

  Anthony paced and grumbled. He hated delay at any time, but this situation magnified his impatience a thousand-fold. Surely the roads were passable by now? If he were forced to spend another night in the dreary inn, he would be a candidate for Bedlam. Bored with his own grousing, Anthony brought his attention back to his surroundings. The peeling paint and dusty, mostly empty, bookshelves held no interest. He needed a distraction.

  Miss Garrett still sat quietly in an armchair, plying needle and thread with quick, neat dexterity. Had she been there the whole time? Of course she had. He wondered if her experiences at the Green Peacock had taught her how to fade into the background. Anthony coloured and sat down. He was an ill-mannered boor to keep a young lady company in such a manner.

  “I cannot say why I am so unsettled. A sense of urgency hangs over me that I cannot escape.”

  She set aside her needlework. “I feel it too. I think we all do.” Her luminous eyes met his with such a depth of understanding that he held his breath for an instant.

  “Tell me, how did you learn physic?” Anthony asked.

  “My mother,” said Lydia. “When she married, she wanted to be the finest vicar’s wife in England—to make Father proud. She made all the usual rounds to visit the ailing, though she hated to see their suffering, and felt helpless to alleviate their pain. When she could stand no more she began to borrow books about medicine. She read everything she could get on the subject.” A far-away smile touched the girl’s lips. “Then she developed a friendship with the stillroom maid at the great house, and learned about herbs, and plants, what things made good physics, and so on. She even took to assisting the local surgeon. All so that when she visited the sick, she could offer more than pity. When I grew old enough to accompany her, she began to teach me what she knew.”

  “You must be very like her.”

  Lydia flashed him a brilliant smile. “That is one of the kindest things anyone has ever said to me.” She took her sewing up once more. “Tell me about your mother.”

  “I never really knew her. She died when I was very young.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her smile faded like a wilting rose, and a flush crept up her cheeks. Anthony rushed to reassure her.

  “Don’t be. I used to listen to my father tell stories about her. I believe she was the reforming influence in his life. He always said he wanted to be the man she thought he was.”

  “It sounds as if they were very happy.”

  “They were. I have very little memory of her. Only impressions really—a gentle voice, soft cool hands, dark hair and eyes. As a boy I used to stare at her portrait for hours, trying to will animation into the features.”

  “Sometimes I’m afraid I will forget my parents’ faces. When someone is there, you think such a thing would be impossible, but when they’re gone, memory fades and one is left only with the essence of who they were.” A distant look crossed her features.

  “I’m fortunate to have portraits of my parents.”

  “I think my mother sat for a portrait about the time she came out but, of course, her family would have it. I did have a miniature of the two of them. They paid an itinerant artist to make it, and it was fairly good. It was misplaced somehow shortly after I arrived at the Wolfes’.”

  A shuffling in the hallway announced the approach of one of the footmen. Anthony sat up, every nerve a tingle.

  “Pardon me, sir. The groom says as how the road is looking fine and the landau is waiting your convenience.”

  “Excellent.” Anthony bounded to his feet, beaming. “At last, some good news. Now where is James? I want to leave immediately.”

  CHAPTER 15

  The short caravan reached Portsmouth as twilight claimed the city. Lydia welcomed the bustle of Portsmo
uth after the isolation of the road. They found a good inn and ate a hearty supper before retiring early to their rooms. Though the inn’s proprietor grumbled over the arrangement, footmen were again placed on guard duty in the hall.

  Lydia woke early. With the assistance of one of the footmen, whom Lord Danbury insisted accompany her at all times, she headed out to the apothecary’s for a few supplies, including bandages and a healing salve for Lord Danbury’s shoulder. She had changed the dressing the night before and it appeared to be mending well. Still, she refused to allow gangrene an opportunity to take root.

  The briney scent of the air communicated clearly that they were near the sea. She inhaled deeply, a sense of excitement beginning to press out against her chest. The salt-scoured shops, with their peeling paint and exotic mix of clientele, held an unaccountable charm. Even the overflow of rowdy, landlocked sailors lounging in the streets due to the peace did little to quash her spirits. Still, despite her sense of expectation, she remained on guard. Everywhere she looked there were dark blue pea jackets and it seemed that an unaccountably high number were missing buttons.

  She scarcely saw Danbury and Harting. They were off and away, each on business of his own. It would be a relief to climb aboard the ship. They all needed a reprieve from the fear of attack.

  And then the time was upon her, with the last-moment breathlessness that always seemed to accompany highly anticipated moments. As eager as schoolboys on an outing, they piled into the carriage and drove down to the quay.

  Lydia accepted the help of a stout oarsman as she climbed gingerly down into a teetery skiff. Waves slapped against the side of the small boat pushing it up against the dock and then sucking it back. Her stomach lurched. Why hadn’t she ever paused to consider that travelling by ship meant being surrounded by water? And why, oh why, hadn’t she ever learned to swim?

  Lord Danbury skipped down into the boat as nimbly as if he were a mountain goat, and with as much subtlety. Lydia clutched the side as the boat bobbed and weaved drunkenly. They were going to capsize, and she was going to drown right there in the harbour.

  Only slightly slower, Harting joined them. Lydia closed her eyes and swallowed hard. In a moment, the oarsmen were pulling with sure, swift strokes for the ship.

  A spray of evil-smelling water splashed into Lydia’s face. She released one white-knuckled hand from the seat to dash it away. These were not the sea waters physicians encouraged patients to bathe in. The harbour of Portsmouth was befouled by the waste of the city’s inhabitants and the many ships at anchor. Every sort of effluvia floated on the insalubrious liquid. Unable to keep her nose from wrinkling, Lydia peeked into the rippling brown waves. It was worse than the Thames.

  With an expert hand, the coxswain guided the skiff right up to the ship. The gentlemen latched onto the net and began their ascent with fluid dexterity. Even Danbury’s injured arm didn’t seem to give him pause, while Lydia looked on in consternation. She could make the climb, but not with the sailors leering up from below. And first she’d have to release her hold on the plank that served as her seat. She bit her lip.

  One of the sailors took pity on her. “It’s all right, Miss. They’re lowerin’ a boatswain’s chair for you.”

  Lydia looked up to find an odd contraption descending towards the skiff like an angel from on high. The men helped her into it as if it were a swing and she a playful shepherdess posing for a portrait. The seamen let go as their friends from above hauled her up with a sickening lurch. Lydia’s stomach contracted. The ship rolled, and she slammed into the hull with a resounding thud. A chorus of apologies rained from above. If she ever made it aboard alive, she would spend the rest of her days there. Anything to avoid this torturous process again.

  At last the sailors restored her to her feet, and she stood on Legacy’s deck, gazing in awe at the cobweb of ropes and cables, the rush of coordinated activity, and the gleaming brass. She had already entered foreign territory.

  “Miss Garrett, are you quite all right?”

  “Hmm?” Bemused, she turned to Lord Danbury. “Oh, yes. Thank you, I’m perfectly fine.”

  Harting clapped Danbury on the back. “How did you manage to hire such a fine craft on such short notice?”

  “She’s a beautiful little frigate, isn’t she?” He was positively smug. “Fact is, I didn’t hire her. My father bought her after she had been retired from naval service and began to fit her out as a private man o’ war, complete with a letter of marque.”

  “You own a privateer?” Lydia shook her head.

  Danbury grinned. “She was scheduled for completion in a month, but the dockyard was able to move up the date, with the persuasion of a bonus for quick work.”

  Captain Campbell hurried to meet them. A short, stout man with a barrel-chest and a fringe of red hair encircling a bald pate, he led them to the quarterdeck with the air of a bridegroom introducing his bride.

  “My Legacy here is a beautiful ship. That she is. Well built, sound, and weatherly, you couldn’t ask for better, my Lord.”

  “She will do well, then?” Danbury asked. His tone conveyed confidence that the answer would be in the affirmative.

  “Better than well.” He ran a rough hand over the smooth wood of the rail, caressing the ship with a lover’s ardour. “Your father, God rest him, spent a great deal on her refitting, but it was money put to good use.”

  Lydia turned her eyes upward, examining the complex web of ropes and sails. Some were drawn in close to the yardarms. Some were full and billowing, and filling the air with an audible sense of the wind’s movement. The cloth flapped and the rigging creaked in pace with the lapping waves. She looked to the nearest ship in the harbour, an East Indiaman, for comparison. By her account, Legacy was smaller and sleeker, though she still had vast yardage in her sails.

  Campbell caught the direction of Lydia’s gaze. “Legacy’s more heavily armed than an Indiaman, and has an advantage in her speed. She can lead any merchant ship she comes upon in a merry dance.” He rubbed his hands together in contained glee. “Lord Danbury’s father ensured she should.”

  When she looked at Danbury, she noticed that he, too, had a kind of barely controlled excitement. If time and tide had been right he would have ordered them to sea immediately.

  Captain Campbell waved a hand at the hive of activity around them. “I’ve manned her with experienced seamen. Most of them are old navy hands what got landlocked when the peace was declared. If we ever have a need, I guarantee that Legacy will make a fine showing for herself.”

  A young man in a neat, dark navy coat climbed onto the quarterdeck and approached the captain. The buttons matched the one Harting had found at the inn, and one of his buttons seemed to have been replaced. The thread used to sew it in place was a lighter blue that showed up against the ebony of the button. But that was hardly conclusive. During her foray through Portsmouth’s shops she’d found more than one establishment that seemed to be doing a roaring trade in buttons of the same design.

  She stepped closer to the young man. A head taller than his captain, he held himself with stiff formality that made him appear older. She tried to imagine him in a powdered wig and he easily fit the scullery maid’s description.

  “The buttons on your coat are quite unique.”

  He looked down at his chest as if surprised to find any buttons there at all. “Not at all. Every port in England carries them, or similar. Shopkeepers seem to think all sailors wish to emblazon their profession across their wardrobe.”

  “True enough. Even I have buttons like that.” Captain Campbell patted his ample belly. “Your Lordship, Mr Harting, Miss Garrett.” He nodded to each in turn. “Allow me to introduce Dan Cabot, my first mate. If I were still in the service he would be my first lieutenant, and a fine one at that.”

  Lydia watched the fellow closely. “Were you in the navy then, Mr Cabot?”

  “Briefly.” He did not elaborate.

  Captain Campbell rushed to fill the social void. “L
et me give you a tour of the ship. She’s just as beautiful within as without, I can tell you that much.”

  Lord Danbury had been all over Legacy the day before, but he joined them on their rounds, pointing out with all the pride of ownership what he felt to be the most interesting features of the ship. Lydia’s mind whirled with capstans, and mizzen masts and fore jeer bitts abaft. It was an alien world, full of strange objects and foreign notions. Even the floor beneath her feet moved. She would take a step only to find the deck meeting her too soon or too late. More than once she staggered. Perhaps it was this phenomenon that gave sailors their legendary reputation for being drunkards?

  Captain Campbell assured her that she would grow accustomed to the sway of the deck and learn to move with the ship. He was a kind man and she smiled her thanks.

  Lydia could not have said what she had expected, but she was pleasantly surprised at the accommodations below decks. Mr Wolfe’s tales of life at sea had prepared her for far worse.

  “This here’s the greater cabin.” Captain Campbell made an expansive gesture. Every bit of the space had been put to economical use. And there was no doubt that Legacy was a fighting ship. Two cannon punctuated the outer wall on either side, their bulk taking up most of what might otherwise have been large, sunny windows. A dining table and chairs occupied the centre of the space, and a great sideboard rested against the bulkhead.

  “This will serve as a fine command post.” Lord Danbury nodded his approval.

  “Aye, sir. On an Indiaman, I think they calls it a saloon,” Captain Campbell said.

  Danbury clapped him on the back. “None of that civilian twaddle for us. This is by rights the greater cabin, and that’s what we’ll call it.”

  The captain beamed his approval and continued the tour.

  Beyond lay a simple private space with a hammock and washstand, writing desk and stool, as well as one of the seemingly ubiquitous cannon. The room’s best feature was easily the stern gallery windows, which let in a good deal of light and could be opened to air the cabin. Adjacent to this was the quarter gallery and a private seat of ease. Lydia had been hanging back, but a glimpse of her bags piled beneath the hammock made her start forward.