Chapter Six
In spite of Hatton’s reassurance, Sophie felt deeply troubled as she went back to her room. She’d had no alternative but to agree to his scheme, but the thought of the coming ordeal filled her with dread.
Could she play her part? He’d made it all too clear that the slightest slip would mean disaster. She could recall every word of their conversation and now it seemed to her that he was asking far too much of her.
She’d been shocked by the discovery of the second cellar and its content, and Matthew’s terror had added to her own.
How could she succeed in acting as Hatton’s spy when his own men, highly trained and experienced, had lost their lives in the attempt?
She caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror, expecting to see panic written there. True, she was pale and the great grey eyes seemed larger than ever, yet her inner turmoil did not show. She took a turn about the room in an effort to calm herself. She must remember Hatton’s purpose and her own.
He’d been clever, she thought ruefully. Not only had he promised that Richard’s killers would be brought to justice, but he had offered her the chance to help her country. Could she do less than the men who were dying in their thousands on the continent of Europe in an effort to defeat Napoleon? It would be craven to even think of it.
With an effort she thrust her misgivings from her mind. The thing to do was to occupy herself, taking one day at a time.
She looked at the bolt of flannel cloth which she’d bought at Hannington’s, and the pieces of Kit’s shirt, carefully unpicked to act as a pattern. Then she laid out the flannel on the carpet, trying her pattern first one way and then another so as to make the best use of her purchase. Heaven knew when she would have the means to buy such cloth again.
Satisfied at last, she began to pin the pieces down. If she cut wide of the seams and extended the length of the garment at the sleeves and tail, her son would be well clad for the rest of the winter.
Her mouth was full of pins when she heard a tap at the door. In response to a mumbled command to enter, Nancy came towards her, bearing a number of boxes.
‘The carrier brought your purchases from Brighton, ma’am,’ she said.
Sophie was puzzled. Then she remembered. ‘The gowns? I had forgot! Will you help me unpack them?’
Nancy lifted out the garments one by one, laying them on the bed, and Sophie quailed. She could not recall having ordered so many. She recognised the green with the black stripe, and the blue with its matching pelisse, but the bronze?
‘How beautiful!’ Nancy said softly. ‘It is almost the colour of your hair, Mistress Firle—the same shade as autumn leaves. Must I put them away?’
‘Please do!’ Sophie’s eyes had fallen upon an expensive dark-green redingote and a number of spencers. Long-sleeved and waist-length with revers and a collar, they were designed to provide extra warmth, but she had not ordered them.
Nor did she recognise a braided pelisse in french merino cloth. There were a number of scarves in printed, knitted silk and yet another gown in dark blue kerseymere, buttoned high at the throat. Sophie picked up a tippet edged with fur.
‘What is this?’ she demanded.
Nancy looked her surprise. ‘You didn’t order it, ma’am? Perhaps there has been a mistake.’ She smiled at Sophie. ‘I believe it is known as a Bosom Friend because it protects the throat and chest…must I leave it aside to be returned?’
‘I think so.’ Sophie picked out the garments which had been her choice. ‘These may be put away. Please leave the others on the bed.’
She was seething. Her order had been more than doubled. Hatton must have had a private word with Madame Arouet. Well, she would not allow him to dictate her choice of clothing. Nor would she allow him to pay for it.
‘Where is Mr Hatton?’ she asked.
‘He left here at first light, Mistress Firle.’
‘I see!’ Sophie tried to contain her fury. ‘When he returns, will you tell him that I wish to see him?’
‘Yes, ma’am!’ Nancy glanced at the pattern laid out on the floor. ‘Would you like me to help you with that? I’m handy with my needle…’
‘Why, yes, of course, if you’d like to do so.’ Sophie was surprised, as much by the fact that Nancy’s rich Sussex burr seemed to have vanished, as by her offer of help.
Nancy knelt down and began to pin the pattern with skilful fingers.
Then she saw the ring on Nancy’s hand.
‘A wedding ring?’ she exclaimed. ‘Nancy, you did not wear that when you came to see me first of all.’ Then realisation dawned. ‘Oh, I see! When we re-open it will serve to keep away the most importunate of our customers?’
She could not blame the girl. Nancy was quite lovely. She would be the target of every man who fancied himself as a devil with the ladies.
‘The ring is my own,’ Nancy told her quietly. ‘I am a widow, ma’am.’
Sophie’s heart went out to her. ‘Oh, my dear, I am so sorry. You are young to suffer such grief…’
‘I had been married six months.’ Lost in memory, Nancy seemed to have forgotten the presence of her listener. ‘They tortured him, you know. Then they threw him down a well, and stoned him to death.’
Sophie’s blood ran cold. Wide-eyed with horror, she stared at her companion.
‘But why? And who would do such a dreadful thing?’ She had already guessed at the answer, and it terrified her.
‘The same man who killed your husband, Mistress Firle.’ Nancy’s voice betrayed no trace of emotion and that deadly calm chilled Sophie to the heart.
‘Who…who are you?’ she whispered.
‘I was Nancy Welbeck, the daughter of one of the Collectors on the Kentish coast. Then I met John Tyler. He was one of my father’s Riding Officers. We married less than a twelve-month ago…’
Impulsively, Sophie reached out and took the girl’s hand in her own.
‘Then this is why you are here. You seek justice, just as I do?’
‘Justice?’ Nancy looked at her then and something moved in the depths of her eyes. They were swiftly veiled, but Sophie was undeceived. For this fragile-looking girl justice would not be enough. In her implacable hatred she sought nothing less than revenge.
‘Justice?’ she repeated. ‘They owe me more than that. They took two lives when they killed John. I lost my unborn child when the news was brought to me.’
Sophie slipped an arm about the slender shoulders.
‘Won’t you try to remember the happy times?’ she urged. ‘Your husband would have wished that for you. The memory of those months, short as they were, will stay with you always.’
Nancy did not reply. She sat as if turned to stone. Her sorrow was too deep for any words of comfort to reach her. Vengeance was her overriding passion, and Sophie sensed its corroding influence.
‘Did you mean it when you said that you would help me with this pattern?’ she asked as she returned to the task of pinning the cloth. ‘Can you think of a better way to arrange the pieces? I must not cut the flannel to waste.’
In silence Nancy knelt beside her, swift fingers laying out the pieces of Kit’s shirt to best advantage.
Sophie was appalled by the story she’d just heard, but she hid her feelings well. Nancy needed help to recover from the tragedy which had overtaken her. It would be best to keep her busy.
Perhaps it was not tactful to engage the girl in cutting out garments for her own child, but Nancy seemed to be absorbed in her task. The sight of any child must sadden her, but Kit was an affectionate little soul. His unerring instinct led him always to offer love where it was needed. Nancy might yet find comfort in his company.
With the cutting-out completed, Sophie smiled at her companion. ‘How skilled you are,’ she said in admiration. ‘You have done this before, I think.’
‘I enjoy it, ma’am. I had some hopes of setting up a business…that is…before I married. I was often asked for copies of my gowns.’
‘You de
signed them?’
Nancy managed a faint smile. ‘They had a particular advantage, Mistress Firle, which I did not advertise to everyone. I chose always the best cloth, but the garments were put together with running stitches. That meant that they were easily taken apart, and the material re-used.’
‘What an economy! I must remember it. And, Nancy, there is only one other thing. Pray do not call me ma’am, or Mistress Firle. My given name is Sophie.’
‘Thank you!’ the girl said gravely. ‘It is kind in you to suggest it. Perhaps when we are alone? Otherwise it will give rise to comment in the kitchen.’
‘Oh, I had not thought of that.’ Sophie’s face fell. ‘I have so much to learn about the spying game.’
‘You must be cautious at all times,’ Nancy warned. ‘It will become a habit.’
With those parting words she returned to her duties below stairs.
Sophie was anxious to make full use of the remaining hours of daylight, so she spent the rest of the afternoon stitching together the pieces of Kit’s shirt. When he popped his head round the door she suggested that he try it on.
Kit pulled a face. ‘Must I, Mama?’
‘It won’t take a moment. Then, if you like, I’ll tell you a story…’
This promise kept Kit still for long enough for her to make sure that the garment fitted him. Then she laid it aside.
The parlour was already filled with shadows, but the fire provided enough light without the need to send for candles as Kit climbed on to her lap.
‘Have you had a busy day?’ she asked tenderly.
Kit gave a sigh of deep content. ‘Yes,’ he told her. ‘We’ve been tying flies.’
‘Tying flies?’ Sophie was perplexed. ‘How do you catch them, darling?’
Her son’s laughter echoed about the room. ‘Not those kind of flies, Mama. We were making fishing flies. Reuben says that they are better than worms for catching trout.’
‘I see. Is it difficult to make them?’
‘Very difficult. Reuben says that what is needed is dex…dex…’
‘Dexterity?’ Sophie supplied helpfully.
‘Something like that. They are so pretty. I’ll bring one to show you when we’ve finished them.’ Kit snuggled closer. ‘You smell good,’ he announced.
Sophie hugged him close. ‘Which story would you like?’ she asked.
Kit’s reply was prompt. ‘The one about the pirates, please.’
Sophie smiled to herself. It was what she had expected. Kit never tired of her tales of adventure upon the high seas, the running up of the skull-and-crossbones when a prize was sighted, and the hoards of treasure to be found upon the Caribbean islands.
Blackbeard was his favourite. The exploits of the infamous Captain Teach fascinated him, and he tried to excuse the worse excesses of his hero.
‘Did he always make his prisoners walk the plank?’ he asked anxiously.
‘Not always, I expect, especially if they begged for mercy. Besides, you know, most probably they could swim.’
‘But what about the sharks, Mama?’ Kit gave a delicious shudder. ‘I’d have been so frightened.’
Sophie laughed. ‘I doubt if you’ll ever meet a shark, my love…’
‘But I might find buried treasure,’ Kit insisted. ‘You promised that we should go down to the coast.’
‘And so we shall when the weather improves. Sometimes the storms uncover treasure upon the beaches, though it isn’t always gold and jewels.’
‘Tell me about the jewels…’ Kit fingered Sophie’s brooch. ‘Did they look like this? It’s beautiful!’
‘Blackbeard had chests full of such things, but he buried them far away, in the Indies.’
Kit would not give up his cherished hopes. ‘You said he was an Englishman,’ he insisted. ‘He may have brought some back with him.’
‘Perhaps he did.’ She kept her thoughts to herself. No amount of treasure would have been much comfort to the famous tiger of the seas as he stood upon Execution Dock with a rope around his neck. He had taken his secrets with him to his Maker.
‘If I dig deep enough I’ll find it.’ Kit was growing drowsy. The warmth of the fire and the comfort of his mother’s arms finally overcame his efforts to keep his eyes open and he fell sound asleep.
Sophie looked down at him. She ought to rouse herself and put him to bed, but the moment was too precious. This vulnerable little creature was her entire world. She would protect him with her life.
Carefully she moved her arm to settle him more comfortably. Then she leaned back and closed her eyes. After a succession of troubled nights a lack of sleep was beginning to tell on her. She did not stir as Hatton entered the room. Then, suddenly, she was wide awake, aware that she was being watched.
‘No, don’t get up!’ His hand rested lightly on her shoulder. ‘You must be much in need of rest.’
There was a note in his voice which she had not heard before and she looked up quickly. As the flickering firelight played upon the harsh planes of his face she thought she detected an expression which astonished her. In another man she would have described it as tenderness. It vanished quickly, confirming her belief that she must have been mistaken. Once more his look was unfathomable.
‘Nancy informs me that you wish to see me,’ he continued. ‘How can I serve you, Mistress Firle?’
The mention of Nancy brought Sophie’s concerns to the forefront of her mind.
‘Mr Hatton, I feel that you are making a mistake,’ she said earnestly.
‘Another one? What do you have in mind?’
‘How well do you know Nancy?’
‘Well enough! Don’t tell me that you are still convinced that she will be unsuitable? Too young? Too beautiful? Such sentiments are unworthy of you.’
‘Those are not my main concerns. Why did you not tell me who she was? I learned today that her husband has been murdered. Is she yet another woman whom you seek to use for your own ends?’
Even in the dim light Sophie could see that his face had hardened. ‘It may surprise you to know that I did not seek her out. Nancy came to me.’
Sophie was silent for a time. ‘No, it doesn’t surprise me,’ she said at last.
‘Well, then, what is worrying you? You must believe that she will play her part in apprehending her husband’s murderers.’
‘My dear sir, you told me once that you have no great understanding of a woman’s heart. I must tell you now that you are playing with fire.’
She heard a snort of disgust. ‘Dramatics, Mistress Firle? I can well do without them.’
‘You would do well to listen to me. Nancy is beyond your control. She is obsessed by hatred.’
‘You think that a bad thing?’
‘I can understand it, but I think it dangerous. She could put us all in jeopardy. If she finds the men who killed her husband and robbed her of her unborn child, I shouldn’t like to be responsible for her actions. No words of yours will sway her.’
Hatton regarded her in silence. ‘You may be right,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘I’ll watch her closely.’
Privately, Sophie thought that it would take more than that. Nancy was adept at concealing her true feelings. It had taken another woman to discover them.
‘So you won’t send her away?’ she asked.
‘I think not. If you are right, she might take matters into her own hands and ruin our entire operation. Better to keep her here. Don’t you agree? Of course, if you and she are at daggers’ drawn…?’
‘We are not!’ Sophie told him sharply. ‘I like her very much. I’m sorry only that she is so obsessed. Hatred is the most corrosive of emotions. It harms the person who feels it far more than the object of their loathing.’
‘You are right.’ Hatton sank into the armchair opposite. ‘I have often felt the same. In one way we play into the hands of our enemies by hating them. It can cripple a person for life, robbing them of normal pleasures.’
Sophie was surprised to find that he was i
n agreement with her. His philosophy was unexpected. She had imagined that this ruthless creature was no stranger to the worst excesses of hatred.
Now she looked down at the sleeping child upon her lap. ‘I must put Kit to bed,’ she said. ‘Will you excuse me, sir?’
‘Let me!’ With astonishing gentleness he took Kit from her, bending so close that his lips almost brushed her cheek.
Sophie turned her head away. For some unaccountable reason she was disturbed by his nearness as an unfamiliar scent of tobacco, clean linen, soap and the outdoors assailed her nostrils. It was not unpleasant, and it stirred long-forgotten feelings in her breast.
What must it be like to feel those massive arms about her once more? The memory of his bruising kiss returned to trouble her. Her response had been immediate. He had sensed it immediately, as he had reminded her. It was humiliating to find that she had so little control over her natural instincts.
Now she held out her arms for Kit, but Hatton nodded to her to precede him from the room. If she tried to argue she would waken the child, so she led the way to Kit’s chamber.
Hatton laid him on the bed, and proceeded to unfasten his shoes.
‘What a family you are!’ he joked, ‘I seem always to be removing shoes from sleeping figures…’
The colour rose to Sophie’s cheeks. ‘There is not the least need for you to do so, sir. I am perfectly capable of undressing my son.’
She was seething with indignation. It was ungallant of him to remind her of the previous night when he’d carried her to her own bed and removed her clothing.
Now he seemed to have read her mind. ‘Forget it!’ he advised. ‘Now, if you’ll lift the lad I’ll slip him out of his coat and breeches.’
He was surprisingly deft and Kit showed no signs of awakening even as Hatton eased him into his nightshirt.
‘There, ma’am!’ he said with satisfaction. ‘You’ll hear no more of him before morning. He has become Reuben’s shadow, and the pair of them are busy from morn till night.’
Sophie hesitated. ‘Your man is very good to him,’ she admitted.
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