The Peacock Throne

by Lisa Karon Richardson

  The girl visibly swallowed and then nodded. She raised the gown and Lydia stooped so she could lower it over her head. Sophie carefully did up the long row of tiny buttons down the back. She sat Lydia down in front of the vanity, and swept her hair up and away from her face, securing it with a couple of gold pins. When they were finished Lydia stood up to see the results in the glass.

  “You look beautiful, Miss.”

  The gown was a trifle too long and the slippers too large, but overall she did look nice. The cream and green was becoming with her auburn hair. Lifting her skirt and poking her slipper-shod foot out, she gave it a shake.

  “These feel light as air after wearing boots for so long.”

  “I’ll show you de drawin’ room,” Sophie said.

  Conversation stopped and the gentlemen stood as Lydia entered the room.

  “Mademoiselle, you are lovely,” Pierre-Louis said.

  Lord Danbury and Mr Harting added their voices to the compliment.

  “Thank you,” replied Lydia. Both the gentlemen had taken full advantage of the hour to shave and have their hair trimmed, as well as being rigged out in formal dinner attire. “I imagine your valets were relieved to make you appear as gentlemen again.”

  “I don’t know about my valet, but I’m glad to look like a gentleman again,” Mr Harting said.

  “Well, you are all dashing.”

  Poiret went about his duties as host. “You have met my friend Paul Laurent, but may I present his lovely wife, Madame Laurent.”

  A stout woman of middle age, Madame Laurent wore a gown in a style popular a decade earlier, with a tightly corseted waist and wide, panniered skirt. Heavy ornamentation weighed it down. She had even powdered her hair and piled it in a high pompadour.

  Lydia curtsied to the older woman. The woman did not smile. She sized up the party, Lydia in particular, with a critical eye even as the appropriate pleasantries were exchanged. It seemed unlikely that they passed muster. Danielle’s innuendo of the afternoon set her cheeks alight once more. This old harpy probably thought the same.

  Glancing around for an escape route of some sort, Lydia fidgeted with her fan. What was she doing here? She had no idea how to behave at a formal dinner party. If she could just draw one of the gentlemen aside she could tell them of the maid’s strange reaction and then she could plead illness.

  “We are waiting for Mr Cabot, then we will go in,” Pierre-Louis said.

  As he spoke the man entered. He looked extremely uncomfortable out of his uniform. The jacket appeared too small, the pants too loose, and he had retained his own battered boots, but he smiled in response to their greeting.

  “Shall we go in?” Pierre-Louis asked.

  He took Lydia’s arm to lead the parade into the dining room.

  The dining table was of the same dark wood as the other furniture in the house, but ornately carved with vines and flowers. The walls provided relief for the eye with their stark white simplicity, and again the view was so breathtaking that artwork would have been redundant.

  The heady aroma of nutmeg, pepper, cinnamon and any number of other delights swirled around the table. Lydia grew almost dizzy with the scent, and sat gratefully when a servant pulled a chair out for her. Her stomach gurgled in anticipation and she clasped her hands discreetly over her middle to muffle any further comment from that quarter.

  It felt novel to sit at a table and dine on something that had not been prepared over a campfire. She restrained herself from devouring the hot, crusty French bread like a maddened goat. The closest they had come to bread in weeks was the ship’s biscuit they had brought with them.

  The conversation did no more than limp along initially, but Pierre-Louis Poiret was skilled at oiling the gears of social mechanism and soon had everyone interacting with one another—if not comfortably, at least cordially.

  After the meal Madame Laurent led Lydia away to the veranda to catch a bit more of the breeze while the men enjoyed their port.

  The Frenchwoman’s stays creaked as she seated herself in the breeziest corner. Lydia took a nearby chair. Long, awkward silences were punctuated by brief bursts of pointless conversation.

  Sophie appeared and bobbed a curtsy. “For you, Miss.” She extended a small slip of paper to Lydia then turned on her heel and scurried away.

  Ignoring Madame Laurent’s disapproving sniff Lydia opened the folded note.

  If you want to know more about caves come to the nutmeg grove.

  CHAPTER 22

  “Please excuse me.” Setting aside her tea, Lydia stood and hurried after Sophie. It was strange, but something urged her to trust the girl. Madame Laurent’s huff of disdain followed her as she hastened into the gardens. No doubt she thought Lydia was on her way to a tryst with her lover, whoever she assumed that to be.

  It didn’t matter. What mattered was locating the throne. She stumbled over an upturned root and slowed. She had not the faintest notion where the nutmeg trees grew. Hoping Sophie was nearby she called out, “Hello?” Her voice sounded tentative even to her own ears.

  She opened her mouth to try again when a hand gripped her arm. She gasped and opened her mouth to scream before she recognized Sophie in the moonglow.

  “This way, Miss.” Sophie tugged on her arm.

  A sharp rebuke died on Lydia’s lips. They halted beneath a stand of trees and Sophie held her finger to her mouth. Lydia nodded and rubbed her arms. Mist pooled and puddled around them, gathering in the hollows and snagging on the tree limbs.

  A voice hissed behind them and Lydia whirled round.

  “C’est elle?”

  Sophie nodded and gave Lydia a little push forward, and then replied in French. “She’s a good lady. Kind. I think we can trust her.”

  A large African man loomed away from the shadow of the trees and Lydia wanted to hide behind Sophie. Instead she stood as straight as she could and met the searching, dark-eyed gaze.

  “You’re looking for the caves?”

  “Oui.” Her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. She rummaged through the baggage of her mind for her disused French.

  “This will cause trouble.”

  “I’m sorry for any inconvenience. I would not press, but it’s most important.”

  “We do not want you to keep looking.”

  Lydia’s stomach churned and she feared she would lose her dinner. Still she straightened and raised her chin. “Who is ‘we’?”

  Sophie intervened, impatience colouring her voice. “We don’t have to fight. We can help each other.”

  She drew them to a cluster of wide stumps and warily Lydia sat.

  Lydia sent up a silent prayer for guidance.

  Sophie reverted to English, perhaps because she could tell Lydia would be more comfortable in her own language. “This my brother Emmanuel. He and two others run away from his master near a month ago. That man is wicked cruel. He… Never mind, you don’ care ’bout that. They been hidin’ in the caves and I think I know what you after.” She planted her hands on her hips. “You help these men escape the island on your ship, I’ll tell you where it is.”

  “How could you possibly—?”

  Sophie shook her head impatiently. “It’s a great seat covered in jewels.”

  Lydia’s mouth fell open and she closed it with a snap. “If you know where it is why not just take it for yourselves?”

  Sophie looked at her as if she were a bit simple. “How a slave explain where they get jewels? We can’t eat ’em. A throne is no use to us—not unless we crown a king of slaves.”

  “Of course.” Lydia held up a hand.

  Sophie still eyed her as if reassessing her capability. “Hire a cart and oxen from Monsieur Poiret to carry your supplies. The throne is too big for donkeys. Tell him you have not found what you sought and you are goin’ home. I will meet you when you are away from the house and take you to the cave. But you mus’ take my brother and the others with you. No more slaves.” She turned to her brother and spoke rapidly in
a language that Lydia couldn’t even guess at.

  When Sophie had completed her speech, Lydia licked her lips and spoke in French. “I cannot promise. It’s not my decision to make alone.”

  Emmanuel shifted restlessly and she hurried on. “I will tell the gentlemen what you’ve said. I think they will be amenable. Whatever they decide, I vow to keep your confidence. No one else will know of our meeting or what you have told me.”

  Sophie and Emmanuel looked at one another for a long moment. Finally Sophie turned to Lydia. “Give me your answer tonight.”

  Lydia returned to the veranda just as the men emerged from the house. She wandered over to the edge of the porch hoping to draw one of her comrades near and confide her news.

  Far below in the natural cove overlooked by the plantation, a ship lay at anchor. A sickly lump settled in the pit of her stomach.

  “That is not Legacy, is it?” Lydia gestured towards the ship.

  “No, it can’t be Legacy. It’s too large.” Danbury joined her, squinting through the darkness. “It looks more like…” His face paled as a breeze caught the flag at her mainmast and snapped it to life. “It is a French ship of the line.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Marcus surged towards the railing. He stared hard through the gloom. Confound it, they were right. He struck the rail with his open palm and swallowed a curse. What were the Frogs doing? Were they unloading men to begin a search? He needed a spyglass.

  Miss Garrett edged closer. “I must—”

  “Is something amiss, my friends?” Their host hovered at his shoulder.

  Marcus plastered on a smile full of bonhomie. He nudged Anthony in the ribs. “Nothing to fear. We’re at peace with ol’ Boney.” He turned to his host. “Our nations have been at war so long it’s difficult to remember peace has been declared.”

  “Do warships often put into this harbour?” asked Danbury.

  Poiret peered down the mountain. “Usually they put in at Établissement.”

  He took Miss Garrett’s hand and raised it to his lips. “You have no cause for fear here, ma chère. Even if the war has recommenced I bear Bonaparte and his ilk no friendship. That rabble dispossessed me of my rightful lands and title. I will not allow them to take you.”

  Miss Garrett made her curtsy and thanked Poiret sweetly, even as he continued to hold her hand.

  Marcus clapped him on the back, perhaps with a tad too much force since the other man staggered forward a step. “I’d be most grateful for a touch more of that claret.”

  “Of course.” Poiret released Miss Garrett and led the way to a pleasant seating area.

  The Laurents and Mr Cabot excused themselves, pleading weariness. Now to be rid of their host.

  Marcus rather liked Poiret, but he needed to discuss developments with his companions, and he couldn’t do that in the presence of a Frenchman, no matter how disaffected.

  The hour grew later and later still. Finally, Marcus could stand no more.

  “Another glass with you, sir.”

  When Poiret made to stand, Marcus waved him back.

  “Allow me to pour.”

  At the table he pulled a tiny vial from his waistcoat pocket. A few drops in the Frenchman’s glass would be all that was required. Marcus handed the drugged drink to Poiret with silent apologies. Their host would suffer an aching head in the morning, but no worse.

  In but a few moments, Poiret’s words began to slur and he looked a trifle dazed. Another moment and his head slumped forward and he began to snore. Marcus called for one of the servants and had him taken off to bed.

  Danbury spoke as soon as the slave had manoeuvred the staggering Frenchman into the house. “Who would have conceived that they would have access to a ship of the line?”

  Miss Garrett sat forward in her seat. “My Lord—”

  Marcus leaned towards Danbury. He had no desire for any of the household to hear this conversation. “We must consider our course of action. There could be as many as six hundred men on that ship and we have not a third that number. Is it feasible to continue the search or should we flee?”

  Miss Garrett held up her hand. “My—”

  “I hate to abandon the search, but we can’t hold out against such odds. Perhaps we should leave tonight? They won’t know where we are so soon, but do we wish to tempt fate?”

  Miss Garrett rose and planted herself between the two. “Listen to me.”

  Anthony scrubbed his fingers through his hair. He needed to do something to stimulate thought. “You’re certain she knows what we seek?”

  Seated primly again, Miss Garrett inclined her head. “I refuse to believe there is more than one jewelled throne hidden on this island. Perhaps she came across it when searching out a place for the men to hide from their master.”

  He shook his head. “All she wants in return is that we take these men off the island with us?”

  “We must pledge that they will never be returned to slavery.”

  Anthony snorted. “I can agree to those terms readily. If it means getting the throne I’ll buy them an Admiral’s commission.”

  “That would be a feat.” Harting sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “But we must consider. If we aid these slaves we will in essence be stealing.”

  Miss Garrett paled and then two blotches of colour smeared her cheeks. “As one who was considered no more than chattel by certain of my relations—”

  Harting put up a hand. “I’m not defending the institution of slavery. I am a friend to Mr Wilberforce. But we must consider the implications. If we agree to this, we will be unable to seek aid from any of the landholders in the area. With the French here in such numbers we must evaluate the hazard. Perhaps we ought to abandon the notion of removing the throne from the island.”

  Anthony vaulted to his feet. “And leave the throne to these murderers?”

  “Lower your voice, sir.” Harting’s nostrils flared. “What are we to do with the blasted thing once we’ve got hold of it? Lead them on a merry chase back to England?”

  Anthony’s lips curled back in a snarl. He’d had enough of Harting’s supercilious presumption. “Why not? I don’t give a curse for the throne other than as bait.”

  “Legacy is no match for a ship of the line. And the great ships don’t travel alone. She’s not here by chance, and I would wager she has her wolf pack nearby. We cannot play act that we are the hunters any longer.”

  Blood pulsing in his ears, Anthony moved towards Harting.

  Miss Garrett’s hand on his arm pulled him up short. “We have difficulties enough without being at odds with one another.” She looked directly into Anthony’s eyes and he sighed.

  She focused upon Harting. “You once told us the French intended to spark rebellion by returning the throne to India and setting up a puppet.”

  He nodded.

  “What if we pull the fuse from their plot by returning the throne ourselves? We could call it a goodwill gesture from the British nation or some such. You’ll know how to characterize the matter.”

  Anthony opened his mouth to protest, but before he could utter a word she had turned back to him. Her hand still rested on his arm and the grip tightened. “My Lord, you know that I desire the murderer’s capture above all. But we cannot complete that task if we are slaughtered on this island. We must escape if we can and try for him another time.”

  CHAPTER 24

  No amount of pleading could induce the sun to speed its course, but morning eventually dawned. Fog shrouded the island as if a blanket had been pulled over her while she slept. No matter how hard she stared, Lydia could not discern whether the French ship still lay at anchor in the cove.

  It had taken the better part of an anxiety-plagued hour for her to convince Mr Harting that the chance to retrieve the throne was worth the risk of capture. She doubted she’d have succeeded had it not been for Lord Danbury’s shrewd support. His determination to catch the murderer rivalled her own. She smiled at the memory of his passionate argume
nts. He was such a contrast to Harting’s cold containment. Fire had carried the day, however.

  Following the scheme outlined by Sophie, Harting negotiated with Poiret for the use of an ox cart and a pair of the beasts, leaving behind the donkeys they had brought and stating that they were heading back to Établissement. Danbury sent the Longs back to Établissement with instructions to Captain Campbell to bring Legacy around to a cove on the other side of the island. Rather than returning to the village and parading the throne along the main street, the ship would come to them. With God’s help they would be well away before the French realized they were gone.

  They must avoid any action. Hearty though the men of Legacy were, seeking a battle with a ship of the line would amount to inviting a massacre.

  With a confident stride, Danbury took the lead, followed closely by Harting. Just beyond sight of the plantation house, Sophie joined them.

  She shot a glance behind her and then squared her shoulders. “This way.”

  They followed her in silence, the trek leading them slightly south, and a little lower on the mountain. They had not even become winded when, half an hour later, Sophie slowed and motioned the rest of the group forward.

  “There is the entrance,” she said, pointing.

  Following her motion, Lydia noted a grouping of the granite boulders that peppered the mountainside. Even knowing a cave must be there, Lydia could detect no opening.

  As one body, the party moved closer, circling the outcropping. Scarcely discernible amongst the undergrowth and a thick draping of vines lay the mouth of the cave. Impatiently, Lord Danbury thrust aside the foliage. The sailors lit several torches. Sophie again took the lead, guiding the group into the close darkness of the cave.

  Some six feet inside, the cave widened into a larger chamber. Boards and rocks were piled together, partially blocking the entrance so that only one person at a time could enter. The sun quickly lost its power to pierce the gloom as they travelled further into the belly of the mountain.