Winds of Change & Eye of the Storm

by Lee Rowan

  “No, my eyes have had enough for today, and this room will quickly grow cold.” Beauchene put the journals into a semblance of order upon the table. “Let us go down the hall and drink an aperitif with my mother, by her fire.” Halfway to the door, he paused and touched Marshall’s arm. “William—I would not insult you for the world, and I say this only in friendship—but may I ask, are you extremely fond of this friend who owns your ship?”

  “I—” Caught completely off guard, Marshall felt the heat rise in his face. “Yes, I am, we’ve been together—sailed together, I mean—for six years.” He raised his eyes to Étienne’s and added, almost defiantly, “He is my dearest friend.”

  “I mean no offense,” Étienne said quickly.

  “None taken,” Marshall said, still uneasy. “Only—”

  “William, I find you very attractive, and I think you do not dislike me. So… one must ask. But I think that you have your dearest friend, and do not seek another, n’est-ce pas?”

  “I—” The room seemed very warm now, and he was not so much alarmed by Beauchene’s inquiry as by his own unexpected reaction. “Étienne, if I were seeking…. I do not dislike you at all. Quite the opposite. But you judge the situation correctly, my friend.”

  “Ah, well,” A quick smile touched his lips. “One must ask. At least you did not call me out for my presumption. Many Englishmen would, even those who had an interest.”

  “Never,” Marshall said. He was suddenly full of pity for this lonely man, regretting that he could not offer more than friendship. “I am honored by your question, sir. And your trust.”

  “What we must decide next,” Étienne said briskly, turning toward the door, “is how to communicate with your ship, once we have found Dr. Colbert.”

  Chapter 8

  DEAR WILL,

  I know that you can write, however badly—I have seen your log entries, which is why I know that “badly” is the appropriate word. No doubt you are so busy clearing the seas of Bonaparte’s minions that you have no time to let friends know you are still alive, but a line or two to reassure me of your continued existence would not go amiss.

  If, on the other hand, you are in fact no longer alive, please accept my apologies for the terse tone of this letter, and rest assured that I shall be devastated with remorse.

  D S-J

  Marshall winced and put the letter back with its fellows. He broke the seal on the next.

  Dear Will,

  I must apologize for the distemper of my previous letter; Kit received a long missive from home, full of news of his wife and family, and I was feeling particularly bereft. But you are the world’s worst correspondent, and if there is some reason you cannot write, at least put pen to paper—or hire a scribe to do so—and give me some hint of what is wrong! Did you break both arms emulating Nelson’s daring leap from one ship to another?

  The past few weeks have been most interesting, now that I am able to spend a full day on my feet without requiring intermittent naps. My cousin is doing excellent work with the plantation, and I think if other owners followed his humane and enlightened example, we would see fewer revolts and uprisings. He has manumitted all the slaves except one very old woman who could not possibly care for herself, and each worker now receives a small share (a very small share, but theirs to keep) of each year’s profit. The effect of this change is truly inspiring. His only difficulty now is how to deal with slaves who run away from other plantations and seek employment on his. If it were not contrary to the law, I am certain he would give the poor wretches sanctuary.

  On a more serious note, I must tell you, sir, that the young person from whom you took such a fond farewell on your last visit is quite beside herself with anxiety at your failure to communicate in any way.

  Young person? Will stared at the sentence stupidly until he realized that Davy was speaking of his own feelings by attributing them to some fictitious young lady. The ruse filled him with admiration. That would be a gentlemanly way of passing a message to a swain if the lady’s parents did not approve of her choice and insisted on reading her letters. And, more importantly, it would protect them both from court martial for a capital offense.

  I hesitate to commit such a delicate matter to paper, but if you do not exert yourself to make at least some token attempt to reassure her of your continued affections, you will be responsible for a broken heart.

  I have suggested to the lady that you might possibly have found another.

  Marshall looked away. He had decided to finish reading Davy’s letters as a way of reminding himself of his responsibility to his lover, and he did want to keep the promise he gave when they’d parted. Given this evening’s temptation, though, the words cut too close to the bone.

  If this is the case (and I can surely understand how such a thing could happen, since your duty might never bring you back to these shores) I believe it would be kinder for you to sever the relationship. I shall pass your message along in the gentlest possible terms, but whatever your feelings may be, I urge you to express them honestly. This silence does you no credit, and only prolongs the suffering.

  Yours,

  D S-J

  They had parted in June. The letter had been sent in September, and Will had received it when he was set ashore in Portsmouth, after the treaty had been signed. That was when he’d decided to set his lover free to find a proper life and a proper wife, and sent him a carefully copied page containing Shakespeare’s 13th sonnet, a plea from the poet to a male friend, encouraging him to find a wife and have children.

  One more letter had come after that. And he might as well read it before he slept and complete the task. Coward that he was, he’d waited long enough—it had only arrived a few weeks before Davy appeared to set him to rights.

  Dear Will,

  A shoemaker should stick to his last, and you should not put Shakespeare to such ignoble service. Thank you for your advice, sir, but I am not a man of inconstant affection, and having lost the only one whom I could truly love, I have no interest in seeking another.

  I wish you well in your future endeavors. I’ve no doubt you will make the Captain’s List in record time and hoist your broad pennant before Bonaparte is finally brought to heel.

  Should you find yourself in these waters, feel free to drop anchor at my cousin’s estate. You need fear no recriminations. The young person who had formed such an attachment to you has realized that a man who would not write even a line to his sweetheart would almost certainly fail to correspond with his spouse.

  Best wishes,

  D S-J

  David Archer hardly needed a sword or pistol when he wielded words with such devastating effect. He had cause to be angry, though. Marshall’s negligence had been inexcusable.

  And yet Davy had come back. After such bitter disappointment, he still had returned, and with open arms.

  Marshall folded the letters back into their cover, his mind at peace once more. Instead of his thoughts being full of a gently humorous Frenchman with exquisite manners and waving brown hair, they were focused on an irreverent, unreasonably beautiful Englishmen with an acid tongue but a steadfast heart.

  How was it he had allowed himself to find Étienne Beauchene attractive? He was that, of course, but Marshall had met many good-looking men without the slightest twinge of carnal feeling. He’d never felt such interest in any man besides Davy. It worried him, a little—what would he do if for some reason the Mermaid could not get back to pick him up? What if Dr. Colbert never appeared? How long would a handful of letters serve as a talisman against that very civilized, appealing invitation?

  Forever, he decided. The notion of taking a Frenchman as a lover—even such an interesting, intelligent, and good-looking Frenchman whose dedication to mathematics guaranteed a common interest—was not something he could ever consider. Even if the Mermaid never returned to this cove, he would, one way or another, get out of France and back to England, no matter how long it might take.

  Only if he lo
st Davy would he ever think of seeking another. And God forbid, if he were ever to lose Davy, finding someone new would be the last thing on his mind. Were that ever to happen, he would die himself, in the next battle he fought. One way or another, he would make sure of that.

  He blew out the candle and pulled the blankets up to his ears. He must be unusually fatigued tonight; the bed seemed colder than it ought to be.

  MARSHALL WOKE to skies of a blue so deep and clear, he knew he could not be in England. His sloop—he knew it was his, though he didn’t even know its name—was anchored off a beach of blinding white sand, and farther inland was greenery of a brightness and depth that made him doubt his own eyes.

  It should have been a pleasant scene, but it was not, because the other ship in the harbor was HMS Calypso, her yardarms a-cockbill, a ship in mourning, and he could not raise a soul aboard her. He had to find Davy, but he’d no idea where to start looking. There was no one aboard this sloop, either. Where had everyone gone?

  First things first. He needed to find Davy, and then together they could search for the missing crew. They had to be around somewhere.

  Squinting at the shore, he thought he saw something far up the beach, near the tree line, a man-made shape, not a plant or rock. It would take too long to lower a boat, and the shore was not far; he pulled off his shoes, jumped into the water, and swam. Strange—he hardly felt the water, except for its chill. In no time at all, his feet touched the sandy bottom.

  He stood and waded ashore. The shape near the trees was clearer, now; it was a squared-off tablet of stone. Marshall stared at it, uncomprehending. At first he didn’t realize there was writing on it, didn’t realize it was a grave marker, until the letters began to stand out dark and clear, blood red against the pale marble: David Archer, Beloved. 1780-1802.

  “No,” Marshall said. He could hear his heart thudding, his breath stopping in his throat. “No. This isn’t right, this isn’t what happened—”

  “Will.”

  He whirled, and Davy stood behind him, his uniform coat open and that same bright red stain spreading across his white waistcoat. “Davy! What…. How can you—”

  Davy’s face was angelic, his eyes as blue as the sea, and his hair lit as though the sun shone nowhere else. But he was pale, white as a drained corpse, and his eyes held only pain and accusation. “Will, you left me—I waited, but you never came back, I wrote and you never answered. Did you leave me?”

  “Davy, I’m here. I didn’t mean to hurt you, I’m sorry….” He tried to take Davy into his arms, but somehow he could not even cross the few feet that separated them.

  “It’s too late, Will.” His eyes spilled over with tears. “I can’t stay. You waited too long.”

  As Marshall watched helplessly, paralyzed, Davy walked to the gravestone and lay down before it. “Davy, no!”

  “You waited too long, Will.” He put his hand into the white sand and it pulled up like a blanket, wrapped around him, swallowed him. In a moment Davy was gone, and the stone sank into the sand, and Marshall was left standing on the beautiful beach in a darkness that would never see the dawn, convulsed with grief and loss.

  The sound of his own sobbing woke him. The cold brought him back to reality. He saw the shape of the room, the rectangle of window that admitted enough light to make out the lines of armoire and chair, the frame of a picture too shadowed to see. The night was perfectly still; he had not wakened anyone with his disturbance.

  It was only a dream. Thank God.

  But dream or not, it was too near what had happened for any shred of comfort. And worse, too near what could happen at any time. Davy was no mistress, no child. He would not stand for being coddled or protected. If they stayed in the service together, one or the other was likely to die violently, and young.

  Marshall pulled up a spare blanket that had been thoughtfully placed on a bench at the foot of the bed. He was still cold.

  He busied himself with multiplication tables until the numbers ran together, then just lay staring at the window, wondering what in the world he was going to do even if he was able to get back to the Mermaid. Finally, after an hour or more, he passed into an exhausted sleep that was too deep for dreams.

  Chapter 9

  “DID I not tell you? We needed only a plan so that it might be upset.”

  Étienne Beauchene’s voice rose above his mother’s exclamation of surprise after Jean-Claude clumped into the sunny little room where they were having a light breakfast and boomed out, “Monsieur le Docteur has arrived.”

  Dr. Colbert followed close on his heels and kissed Madame Beauchene’s hand before planting himself wearily on a chair beside Marshall. He looked much the same as he had some years earlier—a wiry man with mouse-brown hair, now shot through with more gray than Marshall remembered. The alert brown eyes remained, though, and the ease of movement that always made him seem younger than his years. He looked his age this morning, but after such a long trip, who would not? He was alive, he was here at last, and the long wait was finally at an end.

  “Bonjour, my friends,” he said, surveying the table. “Shall I speak French for the household, or English for Captain Marshall?”

  “Whatever you please,” Marshall said in French. “I am so glad to see you, sir, that you could speak Chinese and I would not care. What kept you?”

  Colbert shrugged. “Bad roads, a horse that resented my presence, and a guide with no sense of direction. I would have arrived last night, but it was so dark I was not sure of the road. I stayed in a woodcutter’s hut and made the last few miles as soon as the sun came up.”

  “You must have some coffee first,” Madame Beauchene admonished him, passing a plate of brioche down the table. “Jean-Claude, go find Yvette, tell her we have another for breakfast, and hurry.”

  “Were you able to conclude your business successfully?” Marshall asked.

  “Yes. My house was still my own, fortunately, and an agent had been inquiring after it. He had a client who wished to purchase the place immediately—Aesclepius must have been smiling on me.” He leaned back as Yvette hurried in and placed a cup and saucer before him and poured coffee into his cup. “Unfortunately, Mercury was less generous, so the delay to attend to business turned from one day, to two, to—what day is this?”

  “The fifteenth of December, I believe,” Marshall said, and Beauchene nodded confirmation.

  “I have lost a day somewhere, then. Ah, well. I am here, at any rate. Madame, you are as beautiful as ever. I cannot believe you have not yet remarried.”

  “Nor have you, if Captain Marshall is to be believed.”

  “I have met many amiable Englishwomen,” the doctor responded gallantly. “But I cannot follow Zoe’s example and look for a mate across the Channel. There are no women in England to compare with those in France.”

  “Then it is a pity your stay must be so short.” Was that a blush? Marshall was surprised at how animated the lady’s features had become. Poor woman, she must be quite lonely here, with her son absorbed in his studies and only that dog for company. But she went on. “For myself, I would rather be a widow and live quietly than endure Paris in these times. I am happier here by the sea with my son and my little Pierrotte than I would be with some fool in the city.” Her pet, curled in a basket beside her, yipped at the sound of his name.

  “He pleases you, then?”

  Her voice dropped its arch tone. “Very much. It was kind of you to send him to me after I lost Antoine. I should never have found a papillon for myself. He has been a great comfort.”

  A smile made the doctor’s face look a decade younger. “It was the least I could do.”

  Marshall found himself surprised at the warmth of the conversation between the two. He would have thought them both too old to be flirting. Étienne caught his eye and shrugged. He shrugged back. Perhaps it was something in the water, or the effect of too much seaside solitude. Oh, well, he reminded himself, they are French, after all.

  Then Dr. Colb
ert turned and asked him when they could be away, and Marshall found himself having to explain, over half a brioche and a cup of rapidly cooling coffee, why they were not going anywhere for the present.

  Colbert was no happier about it than Marshall himself. “It would be better if we did not stay,” he said. “Safer for these good people. I believe I was followed from Paris.”

  “By whom?” Étienne asked. “Why would anyone follow you?”

  Colbert spread his hands. “I cannot say. Perhaps thieves, not knowing I sent a bank draft from Paris to London after selling the house. It could even be that Bonaparte’s police thought me a suspicious character. Captain Marshall, I think we would be wise to leave tonight, even if we only go on to the next town along the coast.”

  “Oh, no!” Madame Beauchene exclaimed. “You have had no time to rest!”

  “I assure you, my dear, I would prefer to stay, but I am most concerned for your welfare. Perhaps you might visit me in England?”

  Marshall sensed something afoot, but was not sure what Dr. Colbert was up to. “Sir, unless you have some other means of crossing the Channel, I would rather not travel too far. This is where I came ashore, and this is where the Mermaid will be looking for us. Given the profile of the shoreline, even a few miles might mean we would be left to find our own way home, and my ship would more likely come to grief trying to find us.”

  Colbert nodded. “I see. Well, then, what would you suggest?”

  Davy would be out there, Marshall could be sure of that. And now that the waiting was finally done, he was more than ready to act. But, remembering Étienne’s wariness of the previous evening, he took the precaution of making sure Jean-Claude was nowhere near enough to eavesdrop.

  He returned to the table, put his knife and fork on either side of his plate, so that the utensils stuck out to form curves. “Imagine this is the coastline—and this space here the cove. The French frigate is over at this point. She cannot be seen from the open sea, but neither can she see around the point. If we can obtain a small boat—as small as possible, just big enough to hold the two of us and sturdy enough to rig a sail—we might strike out from the shore after dark, before the moon has risen. We could row out into the Channel at a shallow angle, away from the frigate, until we are clear of the land, and raise our sail once we were out of sight. Have you any knowledge of boats?”