A Fierce Wind (Donet Trilogy Book 3)

by Regan Walker

  Richard rose and poured another round of brandy for the three of them. “You mentioned the ship usually monitors the French coast, particularly the Vendée. It turns out that due to his frustration with the Prussians and Austrians in the war on the Continent, Pitt has a growing interest in that province.”

  “He means to aid them?” asked Freddie, recalling d’Auvergne’s words but not realizing the interest went so high as the Prime Minister.

  “Pitt is desperate to claim some success in France. If sending arms and supplies to the Vendée to equip a ready-made army would give him that, then yes, I expect he does.”

  Donet, staring into his brandy, turned the glass in his hand. Was he thinking of Freddie’s new assignment and of Zoé’s part in it? Looking at Richard, Donet said, “The aid, though late in coming, will nevertheless be welcomed. The royalist army in the Vendée, or what is left of it, has sometimes been forced to fight with farming implements for weapons.”

  “Yet the royalists in London tell me they are worthy fighters,” put in Richard. “That would appeal to the Prime Minister.”

  “What is the occasion for his visit?” asked Donet.

  “Now that is a bit peculiar,” said Richard with a thoughtful expression. “He sent word he would be in the area and wanted to call upon me. Something to do with the war, I expect.”

  Freddie had met Pitt many years ago when Richard gave a reception in his honor at The Harrows, but he’d not spoken with the Prime Minister since becoming one of the Crown’s spies in France.

  Richard gave Freddie’s sling a pointed look. “Since you have said nothing, I must ask. Was it on the Channel you managed to be wounded, little brother?”

  At twenty-seven, Freddie took umbrage at the reference to his junior status but, then, one had to make excuses for Richard. “No. I owe that to a republican soldier in Granville who did not like the cut of my coat.”

  A deep furrow appeared between Richard’s eyes.

  “I jest, Richard. ’Tis not worth the telling.”

  “Freddie acted quite the hero,” said Donet. “Kept your sister, Joanna, from widowhood.”

  Richard’s gaze darted between Freddie and Donet. Neither spoke a word, their countenances suitably devoid of expression. Richard shrugged. “Very well, be mysterious if you must. But if Pitt asks, you must tell him what happened. He likes good stories.”

  Zoé spent the next morning with Tante Joanna and Freddie, visiting their friends in the town of Chichester. Spring in West Sussex, she decided, though not as warm as Guernsey, nevertheless brought with it a bevy of wildflowers dotting the green hillsides, which made for a lovely sight.

  In the carriage, they talked of the family they were to call upon, the Barlows. Zack Barlow, a longtime friend of Zoé’s aunt, was the brother of The Harrow’s housekeeper, Nora.

  Tante Joanna explained that the Barlows had five children, the three oldest, Danny, Nate and their sister Briney, were Polly’s by her first husband who had died. “After she married Zack, they had twin boys of their own.”

  “The twins had just been born when I was last here,” said Freddie. With a smile for his sister, he added, “Zack seems to have settled down from those days when we engaged in free trade.”

  Zoé had known Freddie and his sister once led a smuggling ring to help feed the poor in West Sussex, a story she had forced them to divulge when she caught the two of them laughing about some escapade. But it had taken her weeks to wheedle Freddie into telling more about the French tea and brandy they smuggled that had put food in the mouths of English children.

  “That’s how your uncle came to meet my sister,” said Freddie. The details of that meeting were never supplied, though Zoé had first met Joanna in Saintonge where her uncle had brought her. The thought of them all being involved in some nefarious plot for the good of the poor gave Zoé a new respect for her aunt by marriage and her friend who called her “Pigeon”, a name she had come to accept but never quite liked.

  Just outside of Chichester, they arrived at the Barlows’ whitewashed cottage with its well-kept thatched roof and pretty curtains in the windows. Surrounding the small home, interspersed between the oak trees, was a carpet of bluebells covering the floor of the ancient woodland.

  Smoke rose from the chimney announcing the family to be home.

  The carriage pulled to a stop and a blonde, blue-eyed woman came out the door. “M’lady! How good to see you. And you, Mr. West. Come in, come in.”

  Freddie introduced Zoé as their cousin by marriage from France.

  Polly was an accommodating woman, rosy-cheeked with a kind demeanor and, despite their countries being at war, Zoé was made to feel welcome. “I’ve just put the kettle on for tea,” she said as she beckoned them inside.

  In the main room of the cottage, Zoé met Zack and four of the couple’s five children.

  In his middle years, Zack was a big man with short brown hair and a scar on the left side of his face. He wasn’t handsome, but his wife and children seemed to adore him and his hazel eyes sparkled whenever he glanced toward Polly, who bustled about setting out cups for tea.

  Nate was the oldest son still at home, sixteen years and a handsome lad. Both he and his sister, Briney, had their mother’s fair coloring, but the two twin boys who appeared to Zoé to be five or six, had their father’s brown hair.

  They all took places around the long wooden table and Polly poured tea.

  “What have ye done to yerself, Frederick?” asked Zack.

  “Oh this?” said Freddie with a glance at his sling. “’Tis nothing but a scratch. I’m fine.”

  “If ye say so,” said Zack. Then, turning to Zoé’s aunt, he said, “Since yer last visit, Jo, yer brother, his lordship, added a few rooms to the cottage to allow fer the twins’ coming. The extra space has been a boon.”

  Zoé’s aunt took the gingerbread biscuits from the basket they had brought from The Harrows. “I’m glad he is good to his tenants, especially you and Polly,” she said. Still warm from the oven, the gingerbread, formed into the shape of plump little men, sent an aroma of ginger wafting through the air.

  Freddie handed a gingerbread man to each of the dark-haired twins. Briney, who had taken one for herself, ushered the two boys out the front door to play.

  “How old are the twins now?” asked Zoé’s aunt.

  Polly grinned. “Six. Briney is a great help with them.”

  “We named the boys George and Richard,” explained Zack, “fer the king and fer the earl who has done so much fer us.”

  Through the open door, Zoé watched the two boys playing among the bluebells under the watchful eye of their half-sister. She wondered if she would ever have a child of her own. At twenty, it was not too soon for her to marry but the war had delayed much. She couldn’t imagine thinking of such things with the present situation in France. Beyond the peace of England, the world lay in turmoil. And there was the memory of Henri and her vow that drove her on.

  “Thanks to the earl,” said Zack, “our oldest, Danny, has risen in the Royal Navy and is now a young lieutenant on the HMS Orion.”

  Zoé glanced at Freddie and, not for the first time, wondered why he had not chosen that path. Perhaps he had no love for the military life.

  “Young Nate here,” Zack said, nodding to his stepson, “helps me with the bit of farming we do.”

  Nate smiled sheepishly. “I prefer to stay on land.”

  Freddie said, “I’d wager you have become your father’s right hand.”

  “Aye, he is,” said Zack giving his adopted son an approving look.

  “I tend the home and still do a bit of sewing,” said Polly. “That much ain’t changed.” Zoé had noted the cottage’s windows framed with muslin curtains neatly sewn and embroidered with yellow flowers. They were very pretty.

  “I brought you some cloth you might be able to use,” said Zoé’s aunt. “It comes from France via Jersey. It will make you and Briney lovely dresses.”

  Polly’s countenan
ce brightened, a smile forming on her round face. “How generous of you, m’lady. I will surely use it!”

  “I thought of you and your skill with a needle and thread the minute I saw it at the dressmaker’s.”

  Freddie said to Zack, “Jo and I have often thought of you and Polly and the children. I’m glad to see you and your family happy and well.”

  “Aye, we are,” said Zack with a fond look at his wife. “The Good Lord has blessed us and we are content, save that we pray Danny will come home from this miserable war. And ye? How do ye like living on Guernsey?”

  “It suits me,” said Freddie, “though much of the time I’m on one of Donet’s ships.”

  Polly poured them more tea and then came to stand behind her husband, placing her hand on his shoulder. “We live a simple life here but our needs are met and, unlike the people in France, we do not live in fear. ’Tis a comfort to know you are no longer living there.”

  Zoé exchanged a knowing look with Freddie but neither mentioned they were often in France.

  A short while later, Tante Joanna thanked their hosts and rose to leave. “It’s been too short a visit but we must go. I will keep your growing family in my prayers.”

  Freddie got to his feet and extended his hand to Zack. “I will inquire about Danny and the ship on which he serves.”

  “We’d be much obliged,” said Zack. “Only remember when you do, Danny is a Barlow now.”

  “Indeed, I will,” said Freddie. “If you need anything, send a message to The Harrows. You are part of our family, as is Nora.”

  Zoé eyed him curiously as she stood and bid goodbye to the Barlow family. Something about Freddie had changed. The winsome lad of her youth, who had proudly showed her around his family’s estate, had become a man, taking on a man’s responsibilities and caring for The Harrows’ tenants.

  Chapter 5

  The Prime Minister and his retinue arrived late that afternoon just as Freddie was coming down the stairs in search of a brandy before dinner. Although he had taken off his sling, pleased he no longer appeared the wounded man, the lingering pain in his shoulder was a constant reminder of that night in Granville. The night he feared he might lose Zoé to a republican’s musket ball. That she was safe in West Sussex hardly signified since, upon their return, she would be following him into Brittany, a province in open rebellion against the revolutionary government.

  Save for his sister and Madame de Montconseil, who had left earlier for a ride around the estate, Zoé and the others had changed for dinner and were now gathered with Richard and Annie in the parlor awaiting the Prime Minister whose carriage had just pulled up in front of the estate.

  “That blue brocade silk becomes you, Pigeon.”

  “You like it?” she asked, her gray eyes glinting with delight. “Tante Joanna selected the fabric for me in Jersey.”

  “I do.” With her hair done up with dark ringlets framing her ivory face, she appeared a French temptress.

  Carter announced Pitt shortly thereafter and he and two other men he’d brought with him joined the rest of them in the parlor.

  A head taller than his companions, who Freddie took to be his secretary and valet, Pitt dressed in modest style, a black frock coat and breeches, white waistcoat and simply tied cravat. His stockinged legs rose above silver-buckled shoes. He wore his brown hair shorter than Freddie’s and combed back from his strong features.

  “I must apologize for the short notice, Torrington,” he said, taking Richard’s offered hand, “but the matter about which I must speak to you is of considerable urgency. I’m paying visits to all the peers on the southern coast between Brighton and Southampton.”

  “Now you have me intrigued,” said Richard.

  Freddie’s interest suddenly piqued. What could the brilliant leader of the British government have in mind? He had come as a friend, surely, for he and Richard had been good friends for years, but Freddie did not expect it would be a social visit. The Prime Minister was always working, particularly in time of war.

  “I’ve brought my secretary who keeps track of my commitments,” said Pitt, introducing the member of his staff traveling with him, who promptly faded into the background.

  Turning to the matter of his own introductions, Richard said, “You know my wife, Lady Torrington, of course.”

  Annie offered her smile and her hand to the Prime Minister, who gently shook it. “Lovely as always, my lady.”

  “And I believe you know Jean Donet, comte de Saintonge. His wife, my older sister, Joanna, should be here soon. She is out just now showing one of our guests the countryside.”

  Donet extended his hand. “Mr. Pitt.”

  Pitt shook Donet’s hand. “Welcome to England, monsieur.”

  A small smile crossed Donet’s face, making Freddie think there was something in the Prime Minister’s greeting that the Frenchman found amusing. As a French privateer during the American war, Donet had surreptitiously entered London many times with no welcome whatsoever. And, as a smuggler, his ship had often lingered off England’s southern coast.

  Richard motioned to Freddie. “You might not remember my younger brother, Frederick, but you have been introduced before.”

  “I do remember meeting Frederick,” Pitt said, shaking Freddie’s hand. “He has that familiar auburn hair and eyes of the West family, though ’tis been some time. Have you remained in West Sussex since I last saw you?”

  “No,” replied Freddie. “Monsieur Donet asked me to join his business sometime ago and that took me to France and the Caribbean. Most recently, I have settled on Guernsey where Monsieur Donet makes his home now in the wake of the revolution.” Though Donet was well aware of Freddie’s work for Captain d’Auvergne on Jersey and Evan Nepean in London, they did not openly speak of it to others.

  Lastly, Richard introduced Zoé. “I don’t believe you have met Monsieur Donet’s niece, Mademoiselle Zoé Donet.”

  “I’ve not had the pleasure,” said the Prime Minister, fixing his dark eyes on Zoé.

  From the look the Prime Minister gave her, it was clear he approved of Donet’s ward. Pitt was thought by all to be a confirmed bachelor but that didn’t stop Freddie from experiencing a pang of jealousy.

  A few years younger than Richard, who was all of thirty-seven, Pitt had a remarkably youthful appearance for a man who had governed England for more than a decade, almost all of it during wartime. One would have expected more lines, more wrinkles, a more haggard appearance, yet Pitt’s handsome visage was virtually unlined, his eyes brimming with intelligent gleam.

  Having been gone from England for several years, most of what Freddie knew of William Pitt’s administration came from the newspapers and Jo who followed closely England’s politics.

  If the Prime Minister admired Zoé, Freddie could hardly fault the man. She had grown into a beauty of great charm and keen wit. But the last thing he wanted was another hero served up for her impressionable heart when he planned to claim it as his own.

  Zoé inclined her head to Pitt, her eyes smiling. “Prime Minister.”

  Pitt bowed. “Mademoiselle.”

  To Freddie’s relief, Richard chose that moment to turn to Pitt. “Some refreshments?”

  “Excellent!” said the Prime Minister. “My throat is as dry as the dust on your West Sussex roads. Port would do nicely.”

  Freddie recalled Pitt drank only port and had from his youth when a doctor prescribed it for his health. It was reported he drank more than a bottle a day.

  A footman escorted the Prime Minister’s valet above stairs as Freddie looked around the parlor, a room in which he’d spent much of his youth. In those days, his family had been larger with two older brothers, two sisters and both a father and mother. In a few short years, their mother had died. Then their father and eldest brother, Wills, were killed in the course of their duties as soldiers. The walls were graced with their portraits, the small painting of Wills in his Coldstream Guards uniform consigned to a place of honor almost like a
shrine. Freddie would never object; he had idolized his brother.

  So many deaths.

  Freddie tore his gaze away from the portraits and the memories that went with them to see their guests taking seats on the cream-colored brocade chairs and settees. He drew comfort from the fact the room had changed little in the years he’d been gone. It still felt like home.

  A footman added a log to the crackling fire, warming the room. The spring days could be chilly.

  Two wing chairs in Prussian blue silk had been acquired since he’d last been here, no doubt owing to Annie’s good taste. Richard’s countess would also have been responsible for the pillows in the same silk placed at each end of the settees. He liked the change, just as he liked Annie.

  The brass chandelier hanging from a medallion in the center of the scrolled ceiling was the same one he’d gazed up at during the long evenings when he was forced to act the adult while dreaming of adventures. The adventures had come to him, though not as he had expected, as a soldier. Rather, they began when he joined Jo in the dangerous business of smuggling, then continued when he decided to sail with her husband, Jean Donet, who was no ordinary merchant ship owner. And now he was a spy for England.

  With Zoé in his life, he expected to have more adventures, desired or not. Keeping her safe might yet be the death of him, but he had no other choice, for he had loved her for a very long time and could not envision life without her. He had not told her all he had done for the spymasters in London, but in withholding the truth of it, he worried. She might continue to think of him as merely her childhood friend, an English dandy who knew nothing of war and, in cowardly fashion, had chosen not to follow his father and older brother into the British Army. Until she could come to respect him for the man he was and love him as he loved her, he would allow her to think what she would. It might be safer for her were she ever captured.