Edmund, looking round at Gordon, asked, “And who is Captain Deane?”
***
Anna knew most of the tales about Captain John Deane. She had never much liked him the few times she’d met him, but that had been mainly because he’d so clearly disliked the vice admiral, and being a child, that alone had been reason for Anna to think poorly of any man.
It had only been afterward, when he had first been court-martialed, then sent out of Russia, that she had begun to hear the stories that had reinforced her own ill-favored view of Captain Deane.
Edmund had, before today, heard none of them, and even when the final course was cleared and they had moved into the drawing room, they’d only reached the court-martial itself.
“So he was never tried for Captain Urquhart’s death?” asked Edmund, frowning.
Gordon answered, “No. We could not make him pay for that.” His voice still held the buried anger Anna knew would always be there when he thought of Adam Urquhart crushed to death beneath the great mast of a ship that foundered on a sandbank close to Cronstadt. Urquhart and a second captain, new to Russia’s service and still unfamiliar with the waters, had been led by Deane, who knew that coastline well and had been charged to bring them and their ships to Cronstadt in all safety. Deane had given charts to both the other captains, and instructed them on how to steer their course, then he had steered his own ship on a safer one and let the others founder. Both the other ships were lost, young Adam Urquhart lost his life, and all who heard about the incident did count it no coincidence that Urquhart and the other captain shared one common thing that Captain Deane could not abide: they were both Jacobites.
Vice Admiral Gordon said, to Edmund, “Urquhart’s death was never any accident, but with the charts conveniently lost we had no evidence to prove it. We could prove, however, that Deane had colluded with the Swedes some two years earlier, to sell them back their own ships that he’d captured, at a profit to himself. That was no secret among any who had served with him, but none would dare to speak, until…” He paused, and shook his head, and finished, “What he did to Urquhart went beyond the pale, for even Deane’s own friends.”
“And so the tsar dismissed him?”
Gordon nodded. “Banished him at first, into Kazan, then called him back here and dismissed him all in anger, with an order he was never to return.”
“Aye, well, he’s taken that to heart,” remarked Sir Harry, who was setting up the chess pieces.
“The tsar is dead,” said Gordon with a shrug. “No doubt the English do believe that Empress Catherine is a fool, or more forgiving, else they never would attempt it.”
“They attempted it two years ago,” Sir Harry said, “but it was stopped in time by our associates in London.”
“Had he come two years ago,” said Captain Hay, “the tsar himself, on learning Deane had disobeyed his last instruction, would have met him when he landed and ensured he neither walked nor chewed his food again, and we’d have had no problem.”
Mrs. Lacy, who’d been dozing in her chair beside the window, roused herself enough to ask, “And why is it a problem now?”
Her husband answered her, “Because, my darling, Captain Deane is in the pay of England’s chief of spies, Lord Townshend, who would send him like a rat among us now, to learn our business. And because Deane is a naval man, he’ll see what other men would not.”
Sir Harry said, “Not if we find a way to stop him.” He had finished setting all the pieces in their places on the chessboard. Now he looked at Captain Hay. “Come, William, have a game.”
“Thank you, no. I have a vivid memory of my last defeat.”
The general, with a smile of mischief, said, “Play Mistress Jamieson.”
Anna had not sat beside the window, as she often did. Instead she’d picked a chair well in the corner, cast in shadows, from where she had sat till now and watched, outside the conversation, keeping to herself. On any other day she might have asked what they were worried Deane might see, here in St. Petersburg, but she was thinking still about her Uncle Maurice, and felt far too miserable to play an active part in the discussion. “No, I thank you,” she replied, before Sir Harry even framed the question. “Do forgive me, but I do not wish to play.”
Sir Harry said, “A lucky thing for me, I think, for I have heard Miss Gordon say that you defeated the vice admiral on occasion, and I know he is a formidable player.”
Gordon took Sir Harry’s measure with a father’s eyes. “My daughter seems to tell you much.”
“She does, aye,” said Sir Harry. With a smile, he looked the older man directly in the eyes. “Can you be tempted to a game?”
“Indeed I can.”
As Gordon moved to sit across the chessboard from Sir Harry, Captain Hay asked General Lacy, “General, you’re the best tactician. How would you suggest we deal with Captain Deane?”
“Do we know yet when he will arrive?”
The captain said, “It could be any day now.”
“Then we do not have the luxury of time.” The general’s gaze fixed thoughtfully upon the chessboard for a moment, then slid still more thoughtfully to Edmund.
“What?” asked Edmund. “Are you wanting me to beat him for you after all?”
The general’s wife said, intervening, “No, Pierce. That will never do.”
The general reassured them all, including in his gesture Father Dominic, who’d moved to protest. “That was hardly my intention. And from what I do recall of Captain Deane, he can be vicious on his own part, when provoked.” He said, to Edmund, “There is more that could be said about his character before he came to Russia. He was already notorious as captain of the Nottingham that wrecked upon Boon Island fifteen years ago, but that tale has some details I would spare my wife.”
“Boon Island.” Edmund frowned. “Was that the shipwreck where the captain called himself a hero, and his crewmen said he had betrayed and badly used them? Where the men surviving ate the flesh of their dead cook?”
“Yes, thank you, Edmund, that would be the very detail that I wished to spare my wife,” the general answered in a dry tone.
Father Dominic had crossed himself in horror at what Edmund said. “For such an act, your Captain Deane will burn in everlasting fire, no matter what you do to him.”
“Aye,” Sir Harry told the monk, “I’ve no doubt God will deal with him accordingly, but till he is committed to God’s hands, I fear we have him on our own.”
The room fell silent once again, and Anna noticed Edmund had turned slightly and was watching her. She looked away, but still he asked her,
“Are you feeling quite well, Mistress Jamieson?”
Anna nodded, which appeared to leave him unconvinced.
“And have you no opinion on how we should deal with Captain Deane? No wisdom from the nuns that you would share with us?”
He’d meant to make her smile. It did the opposite.
Vice Admiral Gordon turned. “What nuns would those be?”
“Why, the nuns she was placed with when she was a child,” Edmund said, and then stopped when he saw Anna’s eyes.
Gordon looked at her. “Where was this, Anna?”
The general, on the far side of the room, looked to the monk and said, “’Tis well you do not wager, Father Dominic, for you would have my money. You were right.”
The mild Franciscan said, “I saw the signs of it at once, in how she prayed, and in her manners.”
“Irish nuns, they must have been, for her to have such grace,” the general teased. “Were they then Irish, Mistress Jamieson, these nuns who did instruct you?”
Still Vice Admiral Gordon held her gaze, his hand above the chessboard as he asked again, “Where was this, Anna?”
Trapped, she looked at Edmund with reproach and answered all of them, “I’m sure it was so long ago, I’ve quite forgotten.” And then, because her eyes had fast begun to fill with tears, she closed them, bent her head a moment and collected her emotions, and then
rose. “You will excuse me,” she said calmly, “but I have a dreadful headache.”
She walked carefully and unconcerned until she’d left the room and reached the corridor where none could see her. Then she let the tears come, and she ran.
Chapter 38
She’d told them one thing true: her convent days at Ypres were long ago and past, but still she felt the bars. She felt them even here, today, more strongly in the yard, where she could see the sun and breathe the open air yet on all sides was caught by walls that she could not escape, and whose deep shadows ever chased her heels.
It seemed that for her sins, the penance God had chosen for her was the bitter curse of memory, and that, too, created bars that she could not escape. She saw her uncle’s face through them, the face that might have been like her own father’s, and she heard his voice demanding of the nun, “Whose child is this?”
They had done better, Anna thought, to tell him she was no one’s child.
The tears spilled over once again. She turned her steps toward the shed, to seek at least the sympathetic company of one who knew the feeling of captivity, but when she reached the cage she found it empty with the wire door swung open on its hinges, all abandoned.
She was not completely sure when she first noticed she was no longer alone, but she was well aware of it for several moments, and of who it was that stood behind her, before Edmund spoke.
“I must apologize,” he said, and she could not recall when she had heard him say those words as he did now, without an edge of mockery, but perfectly sincere. “I did not know that you had not… I did not know it was a secret.” He was standing not three steps behind her, speaking very quietly, so none could overhear them from the house. “I must confess,” he added, “that the very fact you did tell me convinced me it was not a secret, for I hardly guessed you’d hold me in your confidence. Believe me, had I known it to be otherwise, I never would have mentioned it.”
She drew a slightly shaky breath, and steadied it, and asked, without forgiving him, “What happened to the bird?”
“Her leg had healed, so I released her.”
“Did you never tell the children?”
“They had lost all interest. Truly, they’d forgotten she was here.”
“But you had not.”
“’Tis not a thing I’m likely to forget.”
She thought on this a silent moment. Then she said, “I’m glad she flew away.”
“Aye, so am I. Some things weren’t meant to live in cages.” He paused, too, then said, “I’m truly sorry, Anna, that I so betrayed your confidence. I promise it will not be done again.”
She did turn, then, and faced him. “No,” she said. “No, it will not. I should never…” Her voice, against all her best efforts, still broke on the words that were more about what she had done in the past and could never undo. “I should never have spoken.”
Edmund’s gaze searched her pale face. “This cannot be entirely my fault. You were upset by something long before I made my comment.”
She had wiped away the wetness from her eyes, and yet she knew she could not make them clear of shadows, so she told him with faint stubbornness, “I have a headache.”
“Do you? Well, I have a cure for that,” he said. “I’m sent to Vasilievsky Island, on an errand for the general. Will you come with me?”
She looked at him, to see if he were serious or teasing her. “Why should I?”
Edmund shrugged. “Because I’m sorry and you know it and you wish to show forgiveness. Or you’re sorry in your turn that I have none else who can bide me, and you wish to show me charity. Or maybe, Mistress Jamieson,” he said, “because you need to.”
She’d have sworn that, when he looked at her like that, he saw her inner self stripped bare of its disguises and defenses. Yet she did not know if he were speaking of her nature or his own, when he remarked a second time, with force, “Some things weren’t meant to live in cages.”
All she knew was, when he held his hand to her, she took it willingly, and went with him.
***
Rob grinned. “A sneaky way of getting ice cream for your breakfast.”
“Well, he did say that his errand was on Vasilievsky Island, and we could hardly have just followed them across. There were no bridges, in those days. They’d have to cross by barge.” With that justification, I leaned happily against the waist-high granite wall that ran along the Strelka, and looked out across the Neva to the Hermitage, its windows brightly glittering with morning sunlight.
Clouds were hanging low off to the west, above the distant Gulf of Finland, past the far edge of the island, but the day so far was starting fair, and warmer by a few degrees than yesterday. I didn’t need my jacket.
Rob, his own ice cream in hand, and looking more awake than I was, leaned beside me. “There’s your mobile,” was his warning in the instant before it began to ring.
I told him, “Show off,” and the crinkles showed a moment at the corners of his eyes as I took the call.
When I rang off, Rob had finished his ice cream.
I said, “That was Yuri. They’re hanging the rest of the paintings this morning, but Wendy Van Hoek won’t be there until three, so I’ll meet with him then.”
“At the Menshikov Palace?” he asked. “Which is where?”
“Just down there.”
“On this island?”
I nodded, and Rob said, “Well, that gives us plenty of time.” In a casual voice, he remarked, “You’ve had no calls at all from your boss in a while.”
“No.” I’d noticed that, too.
“Does he ken that I’m with you?”
“Of course not.” I said that a little too quickly, then kicked myself, trying to make it sound less rude by adding, “Sebastian and I don’t share details about our own personal lives, as a rule.”
Rob accepted this with a brief nod. “Well, I guess he can manage without you, when he puts his mind to it.”
I tried to not try to read deeper meaning in that, nor to wonder if he spoke from his own experience. I only shrugged and said something about the new receptionist suiting Sebastian, and how we were none of us so irreplaceable.
“Speak for yourself,” Rob said lightly. “I’m one of a kind. You’ll find no other man who would work all these hours for so little food.”
I’d find no other man like him ever, I thought. Full stop.
“Nick?” He was watching my face. “Are you ready?”
It took me three seconds to realize that he was just asking me if I was ready to try to find Anna. I nodded, and turned so he’d not see me blush like an idiot.
Only a few steps behind where we stood there were white benches ringing the Strelka, beneath the clipped line of the trees, and we chose the one second along the curved path, with a lamppost beside it and little inquisitive sparrows that scattered around our feet when we sat down.
“D’ye want to give this one a go?” Rob asked.
I shook my head. “Sorry,” I said. “All new gravel and ground, all young trees… I’ve got nothing to touch.”
“Have ye not?” he replied. And then made me a liar by laying his arm on the back of the bench so it settled in warmth on my shoulders.
I had searched out the paintings and sketches and colored engravings last night, in my grandfather’s book, that showed how different places had looked in St. Petersburg in the first quarter of the eighteenth century, so I already expected to see the great Custom House, and the long warehouses, guarded by soldiers, that stood all along the exchange, where the merchants all met to do business each day. The exchange looked a lot like a very long, very wide promenade built all of wood, that extended out over the edge of the land so it served as a broad landing stage for the smaller ships moored all along it, their masts bobbing gently in time with the current, all waiting to take on new cargo or discharge the ones they had carried upriver.
Anna stepped carefully onto the wooden stairs set at the waterline, lifting the hem of
her petticoat clear of the river as Edmund, who’d climbed up first out of the boat, bent to help her, his hand strongly holding her own.
“I am not like to fall,” she assured him. “I’ve spent half my life getting on and off ships and small boats.”
“’Tis your blood,” Edmund said, “same as mine.”
Anna let go his hand as she stepped to his level, and smoothing her skirts asked him, “What do you mean, sir?”
“You Scots and we Irish, and even the English, we’re islanders all.” Edmund looked to the river, alive with its traffic, and narrowed his eyes to the sun. “We’re surrounded by seas and we’d seek to know what lies beyond them, and where those wide waters might carry us.”
Anna could not but agree with him, for from her earliest memories she’d looked to the sea and the distant horizon. She never had outgrown the thrill of sailing the half-day downriver with Vice Admiral Gordon to the naval port of Cronstadt, where the great ships of the Russian fleet all jostled at their anchors and the Gulf of Finland stretched away toward the larger Baltic Sea. She’d always loved the sound of creaking timbers and of sails that snapped and fluttered as they rose and filled with wind; the ropes that strained and stretched as though the whole ship were a living thing impatient to be free upon the waves.
She looked at Edmund now, his face still turned into the wind, and wondered if he felt the same. “And where would you be carried, if you had a ship that you could steer?” she asked.
He answered without hesitation. “Home,” he said. “To Ireland.”
And then, as if he felt that showed a weakness, he looked down at her and found his old sardonic smile. “But I cannot attempt it. I’d be hanged before I left the beach, or else transported off to the Americas, for having served King James. I have heard tell the Prince of Hanover, whom some would call King George, is not forgiving of the men who chose the Stewart cause, so I shall have to see our own king back upon the throne before I ever see my home again.”
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