by Sandra Heath
Felix watched him. “Warrender succeeded over you because he has influence in high places. He moves among prominent politicians, and it is my guess that he knows many an awkward secret. If he didn’t, his sleight of hand with legal documents in your case would not have passed unchallenged.”
“It is a small comfort to know that,” Jack replied dryly.
“I know. Anyway, although I knew of Warrender through you, this is the first I have heard of him from Cora. About five years ago, just after his victory over you in the courts, he purchased Temford Castle, which is adjacent to Fairfield Hall. Cora tells me that from the moment he arrived he clearly had a fancy for Emily, but she was a faithful, adoring wife. Now she is a widow, burdened with debts, and impoverished to boot. Cora envisages Warrender offering marriage to persuade Emily into his bed. How was it you once described him? As ‘a silken serpent, agreeably patterned, but poisonous?’ I cannot bear to think of such a man marrying my daughter, my only child ... Jack, I want you to return to England to stop him.”
Chapter 4
“And how am I expected to do that?” Jack asked patiently.
Felix closed his eyes and sighed. “I don’t know, Jack, but I want you to try; indeed, I beg you to try. If I—we—do nothing, Warrender might very well succeed in persuading Emily into wedlock, especially if she is in such dire financial straits.”
“But if Cora mistrusts him so much, surely she will steer Emily away from—”
“Emily is a widow with many debts and a growing boy to consider. To her Warrender is security, not folly.”
“Did her husband really leave her destitute?” Jack’s face registered disapproval of such a circumstance.
Felix nodded. “According to Cora, Geoffrey Fairfield was a charming wastrel, a skilled lover, and a portrait painter of some merit, but he lacked common sense or business acumen. Cora mentions debts to the sum of forty thousand guineas.”
“Forty thousand? Dear God above ...”
“Now Emily must struggle to keep Fairfield Hall, provide for her boy, and give Cora a roof over her head as well, because believe it or not, Cora’s wretch of a husband was an even worse provider than Fairfield! All in all, I am desperately afraid that Cora’s fears are well founded, and that a timely offer from Warrender would be accepted.”
“You mentioned your lawyer earlier, and seemed to hint at a connection with Rafe.”
“Yes. You see, the lawyer I so unfortunately chose thirty years ago was Sir Quentin Brockhampton.”
“But he was Rafe’s lawyer at my hearing!” exclaimed Jack.
“I know that now, but he wasn’t when I knew him.” Felix drew a deep breath. “You see, it was because I learned from you that Brockhampton now acts for Warrender—at least, he did five or so years ago—that warning bells sounded through me from the moment I received this last letter of Cora’s. Jack, I find it very suspicious indeed that Brockhampton denied all knowledge of the money I left in his charge. You know from bitter experience that Warrender likes to twist the law in order to get what he wants, so it is a little too convenient that my purse should disappear, thus ensuring that Emily and Fairfield Hall remain in jeopardy. I smell collusion.”
“I think I do too.” Jack ran an agitated hand through his long blond hair. He had been trying not to think of his thieving cousin Rafe, trying not to let bitter memories affect him, but this brought it all back. He drained his glass and placed it on the table. “Supposing I do go back to England, what exactly do you want me to do?”
“Time is still on our side, Jack, but it is beginning to run out. There are just over five months to go until this coming November, when Emily’s year of mourning will be over. The voyage from here to England takes about five months too. If you leave on the Stralsund you could go to Fairfield Hall and try to find a way of rescuing them all from debt, and from Warrender.” Felix held Jack’s gaze. “If you are my friend, you will not refuse me in this.”
“I fail to see how I can rescue them from forty thousand guineas of bills! And aren’t you rather overlooking the small fact that Emily may not want to be rescued from Rafe? What if you and Cora are wrong anyway, and he has no designs upon Emily?”
Felix put a hand against his heart. “I know Cora is right, Jack. I fell it here.” He paused, still keeping Jack’s gaze. “I also know that you and Emily are right for each other.”
Jack stared at him. “You think what?” he gasped.
“You heard me, my friend. If you set your mind to it, Emily will be an easy conquest. Marry her, Jack.”
Thoroughly shaken, Jack continued to stare at him. “You take my breath away,” he said at last, shaking his head incredulously. “First you tell me about a daughter you’ve never mentioned before, then—quite blithely—you add that you want me to solve her financial problems and make her my wife!”
Felix’s countenance became troubled. “Jack, I have a deep feeling that tells me that Emily should become Mrs. Lincoln. It’s a feeling that is so strong that it has kept me awake every night since I received Cora’s letter. I’ve wrestled with the demon of my conscience, and now I know I’m right about this. I want you to look after her, to be her lover, Peter’s mentor, and Cora’s protector. I need to know they are all safe under your capable wing. Can’t you understand that? They must be shielded from the Warrenders of this world, and you are that shield, m’boy.” He held out the miniature again, and pressed it into Jack’s hand. “Look at her, man. Look at her! Can you tell me you will not love her?”
Jack looked at the lovely painted face. “No. Nor can I tell you that I will. Love does not come to order, like a new hat!”
“All I ask—no, all I beg—is that you at least go to Fairfield Hall for me. Will you give me your word on that? And if love should follow, as my heart tells me it will, then all well and good.”
“Love will not be of any help at all where the debts are concerned. I am still the church mouse that I was when I left England,” Jack reminded him.
“I know that, m’boy, but I still ask you."
Jack eyed him. “Is there something you aren’t telling me?”
“No." Felix was all innocence.
“You are a tricky old devil, Felix Reynolds.”
“I know it, sir, I know it.”
Jack smiled resignedly. “Very well, I promise to go to the Hall and do all I can, which to be truthful I anticipate will not be much. Neither do I know under what pretext I can go there.”
“The last is easy. I have written to Cora and want you to deliver the letter, just as the sea captain did from Venezuela. No, no, keep the miniature, for I wish you to have it. Look at it whenever you doubt your purpose. You and Cristoval will leave on the Stralsund next week.”
“He’s coming as well?” Jack was surprised.
“Yes. I have already discussed all this with him.”
“Including your wishes regarding a marriage between Emily and me?” Jack did not know whether to be indignant or not.
Felix cleared his throat. “Er, yes, as it happens.”
“So the truth of it is that you are sending him along to see that I keep my word?”
“Certainly not. He has always longed to see the world, but has never had the temerity to leave Peru. How better to realize his ambition than by sailing with you to England? I doubt if he even intends to go to Fairfield Hall, but plans instead to tour the country, commencing with London. Look, be totally honest, Jack. There is no point in either you or Cristoval staying with me now, for I will simply lie here each day getting grumpier.”
Felix paused, expecting a rude comment, but none came, so he continued. “A muleteer has already been engaged to carry all the baggage to Callao, Manco has the arrangements well in hand. Er, by the way, as I understand it, Manco will be going with you as well.”
“Will he indeed? At the very least he’ll frighten the horses.” Jack hardly dared imagine the stir Cristoval’s Indian manservant would cause in England! Manco played his flute whenever the mood took him,
danced if he judged the gods to desire it, and every dawn and dusk he sang loudly in praise of Viracocha, supreme God of the Sun. He was very proud of his Inca ancestry and lived by Inca laws and practiced Inca magic, in which he was very skilled indeed.
If summary justice seemed necessary, Manco did not hesitate to carry it out. Woe betide anyone who crossed him, for he was apt to be very free with bow and arrow, blowpipe, sling—and sorcery. From time to time he also indulged in the ancient Inca pleasure of coca-chewing, which gave him boundless energy and brought out his mischievous side. Nothing amused him more than to slip the tricky herb into others’ food, just to see what happened. There was no doubt that all these traits, together with his red-and-yellow poncho and brightly patterned woolen hat, which had a pointed crown and flaps over the ears, would make the British populace sit up and take notice!
Felix grunted. “Frighten the horses? Let him, for they are foolish creatures. Give me mules or llamas any day.”
“Unfortunately, there aren’t many llamas in England.”
Felix eyed him, suddenly needing reassurance. “So we are definitely agreed upon all this, Jack?”
“Yes. I’ve given you my word, and I will stand by it.”
The sick man smiled and drew something else from beneath his pillow. It was a purse, which he pressed upon Jack. "Take this. It does not contain the crown jewels, but the coins it does contain I estimate to be worth around five hundred pounds. Enough to provide you with a suitable wardrobe when you arrive in England.”
“Felix, there is no need—”
“No? I thought you were a church mouse.”
“I am.”
“Right, so take this purse. I happen to know that you don’t possess any fashionable clothes these days, just things that are suitable for exploring the Peruvian hinterland! That being so, you can hardly grace the grand parlor at Fairfield Hall looking as if you have just wandered out of a jungle or descended from the cordilleras.”
Jack looked into his eyes. “Which once again raises the obvious point that my lowly financial circumstances hardly make me a suitable husband for Emily. My honor forbids me to court her, Felix. Geoffrey Fairfield left her impoverished, and I cannot improve upon his record, so I will be doing her no favors by—”
Felix interrupted. “Trust in fate, Jack.”
Something in the older man’s eyes prevented further argument, so Jack accepted the purse. “All right, I’ll take it, but only in order to give it to Emily or Cora. I shall tell them it is a gift from you. I have my pride, Felix, and I also have sufficient money to buy my own clothes when I reach England. Five hundred pounds will not make much of a dent in forty thousand guineas, but it will help to put food on the table at Fairfield Hall.”
* * *
That night, as Felix slept, Jack donned a warm brown poncho made of llama wool and woven with a design of serpents and condors, then went out into the garden at the rear of the hacienda. The night air was very cold but clear, the garúa having lifted for a while, and as the full moon slid briefly from behind a cloud, the snowy peaks of the Andes were revealed in all their magnificence.
Manco was seated on the ground by a fountain, playing a gentle Inca lament on his wooden flute. His bow, quiver, and capacious vicuna wool purse lay on the ground beside him.
Heaven alone—and perhaps Viracocha—knew what that purse contained, for it was bulging and heavy, and the Indian never went anywhere without it. All that Jack could say for certain was that it held Manco’s sling and some stones, but there was much else besides, secret things that the Indian used for his Inca sorcery. Manco’s other weapons, his knife and blowpipe, were always secured to his belt.
He was a short man in his mid-fifties, deep-chested and strong, with brown skin and a broad hairless face, and he too wore his red-and-yellow poncho against the night chill. Discs of gold stretched his earlobes, which were just visible beneath the flaps of his knitted hat, and his short hair was combed forward in a fringe. His dark eyes were set deep above a prominent hooked nose, and his expression was impassive; his music, however, was filled with emotion.
Don Cristoval de Soto leaned against the trunk of an evergreen molle tree, gazing toward the distant cordilleras, but he straightened as he saw Jack approaching.
“Ah, my friend, you too feel the need for the night air?” He was a slender, darkly handsome man about the same age as Manco, with a mane of iron gray hair that swept back from a point low on his forehead. His brown eyes were quick, and his Spanish ancestry very evident. Unlike Jack’s, his clothes were fashionable and European, as were those of all Lima’s high society.
Jack joined him beneath the tree as they listened to Manco’s flute. The music died away at last, and the Indian looked solemnly at Cristoval. “I definitely go England, Capac Cristoval?” Capac or “lord” was a form of address he used both for his master and the two Englishmen.
“Yes.”
“Pizarro day today,” Manco stated. Pizarro had been the hated sixteenth-century Spanish conquistador who had commenced the downfall of the Inca nation, and thus his name had become Manco’s favorite insult. Today the Indian had been hoping that there would not be a bowing to Felix’s wishes about going to England, a country Manco had no desire to see, so the fact that Jack had given in meant that the day was indeed a Pizarro day.
Cristoval smiled and nodded. “Yes, for you today is indeed a Pizarro day, Manco.”
“And for Capac Jack.” The Indian grinned unexpectedly and gave Jack a sly look. “You go England to make Palla Emily your wife?” Palla meant “lady.”
Jack wasn’t best pleased to realize Manco was apparently in on the plan as well. “Yes, not that it is anybody else’s business.”
“Manco not told, Manco just know,” the Indian explained, then looked at him again. “England have llamas, Capac Jack?”
“I fear not.”
“Hmm. Pizarro land.”
“You may be right.”
“Hmm.” Manco was about to resume his flute playing when something caught his eye, a small, stealthy movement along the top of a low wall. It was a rat. The Indian reached for his purse and felt inside, then flicked his fingers toward the rat, which was all of thirty feet away. The rat gave a squeak, jumped up in the air, then leapt away on the other side of the wall.
Jack stared, then looked at the Indian. “How do you do that?” he demanded, for it wasn’t the first time he’d witnessed such a thing.
Manco gave a mysterious smile. “Inca magic. Manco have favor of Viracocha,” he said, then raised his flute to his lips.
As the music rippled over the garden again, Jack looked inquiringly at Cristoval, who shrugged. “Do not ask me, my friend, for I do not know either.”
Chapter 5
It was just after dawn on Thursday, October 31st, Halloween, five days before the betrothal, when the Stralsund made landfall in the Bristol Channel. The weather was fine but cold, with a brisk breeze that filled the sails and whipped white tips upon the waves. Seagulls soared and screamed as Jack, Cristoval, and Manco stood on the starboard deck, watching the shore of North Somerset slip by. Five months had passed since the vessel set sail from Callao, and Peru seemed so far away that it might as well have been on the moon.
During his years in exile Jack had almost forgotten the war in Europe, but the reminders had started almost from the moment the Stralsund reached the Atlantic. A Royal Naval frigate had tracked the Swedish vessel on the final few days of the voyage, for which they had reason to be thankful when a French man-o’-war loomed on the horizon. But the Frenchman hadn’t come near, and not a shot had been fired.
Jack’s thoughts turned to the promises he had made to Felix. How on earth was he going to carry them out? It was one thing to give his word to do all in his power to solve Fairfield Hall’s financial difficulties and at the same time save Emily Fairfield from the possible designs of Rafe Warrender; it was quite another to actually achieve either aim.
All he had was Felix’s letter, and
the purse of five hundred pounds he intended to give to Cora Preston. What if both were gratefully accepted and he was immediately but politely shown to the door? What could he possibly do then? He needed to be close at hand if he was going to do anything; ideally he needed to be actually at Fairfield Hall.
Otherwise how in God’s own name was he going to know what was going on and be able to take any necessary steps? There was another aspect of it all that he had yet to consider properly, and that was the thought of coming face-to-face with Rafe again.
“Pizarro land,” Manco said suddenly, his face and voice devoid of expression. As far as he was concerned England was already a grave disappointment. There weren’t any real mountains to be seen, not a single snow-whitened peak or summit lost in cloud, and he did not like it at all. He tugged his hat down by its flaps, then drew his poncho more closely around his body.
Beneath the poncho the Indian was clad in a brown tunic that was lavishly embroidered with Inca symbols, and his loose cross-gartered dark blue trousers reached down to his ankles. His waist belt was hung with his bulging purse and small arsenal of weapons, and in his arms he clutched a plaited-reed box containing certain Inca medicines, and a variety of spices and herbs with which to give his food what he considered to be acceptable flavor.
To Jack’s uncomfortable knowledge, it also contained a supply of coca, which Manco had administered to a fellow passenger, a Flemish pastor who had been instantly transformed from a religious bigot into a singer of bawdy songs, which he bellowed from the top of the mainmast during a storm.
The Indian looked hopefully at Cristoval. “We go home again soon, Capac?”
Cristoval smiled as his mane of gray hair streamed in the wind. He wore a heavy cloak over a crimson coat and fawn breeches, acceptable attire that certainly would not cause the stir his servant would on disembarkation. The wind had played havoc with his neckcloth, and the Atlantic winds had long since convinced him it was foolish to wear a tall hat on board ship. “We will return in due course, Manco. Now remember, there are things that simply will not do in England.”
