Nothing sticky or damp seemed to be on the cushion.
Frowning, she studied the envelope again, turning it this way and that. There was certainly a spill of some sort there. She slipped one finger under the flap and withdrew the paper from within to examine the inside of the envelope. The stain was visible there but not as distinctly. And yet several blotches seemed to have transferred to the pages of the letter it contained.
“Oh, dash it all, how do I seem to do these things?”
She strode over to the window seat again and smoothed open the letter in the sunlight so that she might get a good look at the damage she’d somehow done.
The letter was written in a delicate hand on a fine creamy parchment. The black, carefully scripted Arabic was intricately penned and so straight as to perhaps have been written with a ruler. But it was in each space above and below the lines of black lettering that the damage seemed to have been done.
Something made her still, and she held the letter away from her, studying it more carefully. The brown splotches were just as neatly lined up as the black ink! She glanced at the sunlight beating down on the cushion where she’d napped and then back to the paper in her hands. The paper had rested in the direct sun for probably quite some time before the sun had sunk far enough to reach her and wake her with its heat. The hand holding the letter trembled, and she could feel her heart thumping against her breastbone.
There was hidden writing on the parchment!
It wasn’t clear enough to make out yet, but with a little more heat carefully applied… Her gaze flew to the two wooden drawers on the desk across the room.
She had to tell Trent about this now! There could be information written here that he needed to know!
Quickly closing the window, she laid the two sheets of paper from the letter into patches of sunlight. With any luck, by the time they returned to the room, the heat would have done its work to reveal the hidden text on the pages. With that, she lifted her skirts, carefully locked the door of her room, dropped the key into her reticule, and then hastened down the stairs and out onto the street.
Trent and Asha had been headed to the docks. She would start her search there.
Just as Asha had predicted, a longboat lowered from the side of the Harcourt ship as the sun dropped into the four o’clock hour. The ship was too far out, and the day too drained of light, to identify the people who descended the ladder and set to rowing toward the shore, but Trent felt a curl of anticipation even so.
He stepped over to a market vendor selling keffiyehs and purchased two. Quickly wrapping one around his head and lower face in the fashion of many of the vendors and traders already walking the street near the harbor, he returned to his position on the bench under the awning.
He thrust the second keffiyeh at Asha. There was no point in tempting fate. Unlikely as it was, Harcourt just might recognize him.
While Asha wrapped the headscarf around his face, Trent pondered. If only he had more proof. Even if they came ashore, and upon discovering that Khalifa was not here, purchased a shipload of slaves, he needed more than the simple purchase of slaves to convict them. Since he had no written proof, he would have to catch them sailing slaves beyond the island of Zanzibar.
He shrank farther into the shadows cast by the awning and continued to watch as the longboat drew nearer.
Too bad Brayden knew him, otherwise he could pose as a slave trader and try to trap him into agreeing to sail the cargo to Shanghai. But that particular option was out, considering he’d known the Harcourts for almost his entire life.
The longboat tied up at the dock, and the men climbed out. When Harcourt turned toward them and started down the pier, Trent felt everything inside him tighten up.
The man walking toward them was indeed a Harcourt, but it wasn’t Brayden, as Trent had supposed, but his father, William. Could the corruption run all the way through the family? How much did Brayden truly know about his family business? Trent clamped his teeth together in irritation. He didn’t like to be wrong. And he’d been so certain that it would be Brayden he would find here. So certain that Brayden was working with Khalifa quietly, and right beneath his father’s nose.
But now… Obviously, he had to rethink that assumption.
Harcourt stepped past him and headed into the heart of the city. But Trent needed to be cautious. Despite his head covering, Harcourt had known him for years and would recognize him in only a moment’s time should his gaze land upon him.
Trent thumped Asha on one shoulder. “Follow him. I need a full report of his actions. I’m returning to the inn and Miss Hunter.”
Asha nodded and faded into the wharf crowd. Trent waited a moment more before heading down the alley to take the back way to the inn.
RyAnne hustled toward the wharf with her skirts lifted to aid her speed. The answers Trent had been investigating for months might at this very moment be revealing themselves on the parchment back in her room. Her heart pounded at the mere thought!
When she and the captain returned to the inn, she would ask the old woman at the front desk for a flatiron, and she and Trent would work together to reveal the dark secrets that Khalifa had been hiding.
She skirted around a hawker selling dried fish, and then angled the other way to avoid a woman who thrust fresh fruit into her face with the demand that she buy. “No thank you. Not right now.”
An old man with a white-faced monkey on his shoulder ambled along in front of her. The walk was too narrow and crowded with wares here for her to get around him.
His arthritic shuffle filled her with frustration. She walked on her tiptoes, trying to see if she could spot Trent ahead somewhere. Nothing.
The black monkey clambered atop the old man’s turban and studied her with a curious tilt to its white head. Its white-tipped tail curled around its feet, and it stretched its lips wide in a grin that only served to heighten RyAnne’s impatience. An opening between vendors’ carts finally presented itself, and RyAnne made haste to dart around man and monkey. The colobus reached out and swatted at her hair as she went past. RyAnne ducked away and gave the little beast a glower that made the toothless old man chuckle.
When she reached the street in front of the wharf, she paused and looked both directions. Where exactly would the captain have gone? She shaded her eyes. She didn’t see him to the south. She swung around and stepped out of the path of a trundling cart to look the other way.
“I beg your pardon, lady.” A British man walking down the street almost barreled into her. He tugged on the brim of his hat and grumbled in a tone that indicated he would much prefer she simply remove herself from his presence. What she could see of the lower half of his face was set in stone, and he looked none too happy to be here in Bagamoyo.
“I’m sor—”
The man dropped his hand back to his side and lifted his gaze to hers.
RyAnne’s mouth fell open. “Mr. Harcourt, sir! What a pleasant surprise, this!”
He’d been set to move past her, but upon hearing her use of his name, or perhaps it was on seeing her, he jolted to a stop. He scanned her up and down, blinking rather dazedly for a moment, and if she wasn’t mistaken, his face paled a few shades. He gave a quick assessment of the street, both up and down, and then stepped back and took a moment to look at her again. “Miss Hunter… What a…surprise…to see you here.”
RyAnne blushed as she remembered the state of her dress. She must present quite a shocking appearance, judging by his expression. And yet she couldn’t help the grin that stretched her face from ear to ear. She reached out her arms and pulled him down to kiss both his cheeks. This was perfect! “Oh, it’s really rather fortuitous, me bumping into you like this! Providence, really! Is Brayden with you?”
“Ah…” He hesitated briefly. “Not here, no, lass.”
“Well”—RyAnne waved away that line of the conversation—”that’s not really important. But, you see, the captain and I have need of a ship to sail us to Zanzibar. The captain
is here at the wharf, in point of fact. I was just looking for him. I don’t suppose we could prevail upon you to give us a lift?”
William Harcourt’s brow bunched. “The captain?” he asked.
“Captain Trent Dawson. I’m sure you’ll remember him. He and his father have sailed in and out of Stone Town since I was just a girl in braids.”
“Indeed, I remember.” He dragged out the words and once again searched the area.
And there was something in his expression that made a chill seep down her spine. She suddenly remembered Trent’s suspicions of Brayden. But Brayden wasn’t here. His father was. And Mr. Harcourt was acting quite strangely—fidgety and testy. Not at all like the man whom she’d thought of more like an uncle all her growing up years.
He’d seemed surprised to see her, yes. But not in a joyous way that someone might feel upon meeting an old acquaintance in the street. It was in a…different sort of way that she couldn’t quite place her finger on. She thought of Khalifa’s letters. And she remembered that routinely Khalifa had sent runners off on errands while they’d been marching across the plains. Had he sent communications to his partners? If so, what information had he included? Could he have informed them that he had captured one Miss RyAnne Hunter and that her lineage wasn’t quite as impeccable as everyone back on the island thought?
RyAnne suddenly felt a great need to put as much distance between herself and William Harcourt as possible.
She lifted her skirts and stepped back. “Well, it’s been lovely to see you again. I’ll just continue on and find the captain, and then perhaps you and he can negotiate our passage back home?” The truth was, she suddenly felt sure that the last ships they would seek passage aboard would be Harcourt ships.
A smile bloomed on William’s face, as though he wanted to put her at ease, but it had quite the opposite effect. “Nonsense!” He moved closer, and she had the distinct impression that were she to try and dart away, he would have her arm in his grasp before she even took two steps. His smile widened, if that was possible. “I’ll come with you. Heading this way, were you?” He put one hand to her back and snapped his fingers at the men who accompanied him. They fell into step behind them.
RyAnne swallowed. Her apprehension was foolish, wasn’t it? She’d known William Harcourt for even longer than she’d known the captain, after all. Yet… She couldn’t shake off the remembrance of the stationary baking in the sun back at the inn. She pulled in a steadying breath. Be calm. He might have a perfectly legitimate reason for being here. “So, what brings you to Bagamoyo, Mr. Harcourt?”
William flapped a hand as if to make light of his reasons for being in a thriving slave entrepôt. “Business. Just business. I’m meeting an associate of mine. But I fear he is late to arrive. I was just going to look for him. But it will wait. I couldn’t live with myself if I left you wandering the harbor alone and something happened to you. Your father, God rest him, would never forgive me.”
Another chill rippled down RyAnne’s back. This one so strong that it stopped her in her tracks. Her hands tightened about fistfuls of her skirts. She hoped the voluminous material would hide her trembling. “How did you know? About Papa?”
William turned to face her. He lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck. “Forgive me. I assumed… He was very unwell the last time I saw him, and you mentioned you were here with the captain, but said nothing of your father.”
A little relief swept in at that. His explanation was quite logical. Perhaps she was seeing shadows in a field of sunshine. Her hands loosed their hold. “Yes. Well… You are correct. Papa has…passed on. The captain is escorting me back home to bring the news to my family.”
She realized then that they had walked nearly the full length of the street and were almost to the water. “Oh, look at me. I’ve been talking so much that I must have passed the captain right by.”
She started to turn back.
A black cloth fell over her head, and a firm hand clamped over her mouth. Terror washed through her as she kicked and clawed to fight her way free. All to no avail. A painful blow to the side of her head stunned her to stillness.
“Hurry! Get her on the ship!” Mr. Harcourt’s voice.
She felt sticky warm blood seeping through her hair. Two men lifted her, and with the hand clamped over her mouth making breathing difficult, it was taking all her concentration just to find her next breath.
“How did she even escape from him?”
“I know not, Cap’n.”
Harcourt cursed. “My cargo better be intact!”
There was a thump and a clatter, and then she landed in a puddle of rank water—likely in the bottom of a row boat. A boot pressed into her chest, keeping her pinned down, and the sound of oars dipping into the waves left her weakened by hopelessness.
Praying that Asha would not come back to him empty of helpful information, Trent wearily climbed the stairs to RyAnne’s room at the inn. He rolled his shoulder in a circular motion, trying to work out some of the knots that had built up in it. His body begged for a few hours of sleep, but he didn’t have time to rest, nor would he be able to with Harcourt roaming the streets.
He leaned his shoulder into the wall next to RyAnne’s door and knocked softly in case she might be sleeping. When there was no answer, he tried again, just a little louder. Still she did not come to the door. An eerie foreboding filled him. Should he burst in to make sure she was all right? And if he did and she was simply sleeping soundly, he didn’t want to disturb her, especially when he didn’t have much of an update to give her.
He was still deliberating over what to do when pounding footsteps drew his gaze to the stairs.
Asha burst into sight. “Miss Hunter!” Asha was panting so hard he could not get any other words past his throat, but he was gesturing wildly to RyAnne’s door and then toward the wharf.
A sick feeling wrapped a fist around Trent’s stomach as he scrambled back from the door and prepared to breach it.
Asha bent double, hands propped on his knees, but he waved toward RyAnne’s door again, his eyes wide. “Captured!”
“She can’t have—” But his concerns had just been validated.
Dear Father above, when was the woman going to learn to consider her own safety! His chest constricted till the beat of his heart thumped against his rib cage. Uncaring of the damage he would do, Trent slammed his boot into the door.
Splinters flew as the old wood gave way to his assault, but he was left gasping in pain and holding his shoulder. The impact had vibrated through him and found his weakness.
Quickly he assessed the room, his frail hopes flagging. Empty. Just as he’d feared. “Talk, Asha! What happened?”
Asha swept a hand down his face. “I followed this Harcourt, just as you asked.” He paused to gulp another couple of breaths.
And it was all Trent could do not to step forward and pummel the man for more information. “And?”
“In the street, there was Miss Hunter.” He made a gesture like she had just suddenly appeared from thin air. “They spoke. But I was too far away to hear these words. Then Miss Hunter seemed to try and leave him, but he walked with her. They walked to the wharf, and then…” He lowered his eyes. “They thrust a gunny sack over her and took her to Harcourt’s ship.”
Trent lost the strength to stand and sank onto the window-seat cushion. “Did the ship sail?”
Asha shook his head firmly. “No. The men left the ship again and came ashore. I have a boy following them. He is to meet me here as soon as they start back to the wharf.”
Trent dabbed at his forehead. It was hot as blazes in here, and he needed to think. He stood and turned to open the window behind him. His gaze landed on the paper even as he twisted open the latch and shoved the casement open.
RyAnne must have been looking at Khalifa’s letters. But what was this?
He picked up the parchment and bent closer.
His breaths started to come in earnest then, for clearly revealed b
etween the womanly black scrawl were words written in Swahili, a language he very much understood. The more he read, the faster his breaths came. Never taking his eyes off the paper, he spoke. “Asha, light the lantern.”
“Much light still comes through the window.”
“Just do it please.” Trent strode across the room to fetch the two wooden drawers that contained Khalifa’s correspondence. “You’re sure that the ship had not sailed?”
“Yes.”
“And they didn’t look like they were leaving soon?”
“Harcourt still walked deeper into the city when I came here. And the boy is to come to me here as soon as they start back to the harbor.”
Trent realized Asha had already said as much, and eased out a breath. The ship wouldn’t sail without its captain. He had a few minutes then to see what the rest of these letters contained.
Pray to God all the letters in the drawer contained as much information as the one in his hand. For it seemed that Khalifa hadn’t trusted the people he was working with and had kept detailed information about all their interactions. And quite cleverly he’d put it down onto correspondence that wouldn’t be suspicious for him to keep in his possession at all times. Perhaps he had written it down as a means for blackmail later down the road? Would it be enough proof for a court though?
Asha was still frowning in puzzlement, but he had lit the lantern, and the moment Trent held a new letter above the chimney and the brown letters of the hidden words began to appear, he gasped in amazement.
Parchment after parchment detailed the plans and how they were smuggling the slaves beyond the island of Zanzibar from a series of underground caves on the north end of the island. This was exactly the kind of information that Cornwall needed!
The Joy of the Morning: A serialized historical Christian romance. (Sonnets of the Spice Isle Book 6) Page 5
