Almost a Lady (10 page)

“A glass of ale, sir?” the lieutenant offered.

“Thank you. It’s a hot walk up the hill.” Cosimo’s smile was amiable and he thrust his hands into the pockets of his britches with the air of one perfectly at home. “Tell me, Murray, have you sighted the
Leopold
and the
Edwina
as yet?”

“Aye, sir.” The lieutenant was suddenly animated. “They approached on the other side of the island, and, well, you’ll never believe this, sir, but a French frigate was stranded on the shoals just beyond the barrier reef . . . just waiting for them.”

Cosimo smiled. “Oh, I’d believe it,” he said. “She landed on the shoal just before dawn this morning.”

The officer stared at him. “You passed her?”

“Not exactly,” Cosimo said. “Oh . . . my thanks.” He took the tankard of ale from the guard, who had several roles on this lightly manned station. He raised his tankard in an unspoken toast to the lieutenant, who did the same with his own.

The lieutenant had little difficulty interpreting his visitor’s statement. “How did you do it, sir?” Curiosity forced the question from him, although every success of the privateer’s stuck in the craw of the regular navy.

Cosimo merely shrugged. “Her captain was overeager for his own prize,” he said carelessly. “Let us go outside, it’s stuffy in here and we have some matters to discuss.”

The two men left the gloom of the cottage and stood blinking in the bright sunlight.

Cosimo knew that if a pigeon courier had brought him a message, Murray would have told him already, but his anxiety was such that he couldn’t help asking. “I’m expecting a message . . .” he said, allowing a half question to hang in the warm air.

“From England, sir?”

“I imagine so.” But he couldn’t be certain. There were pigeon courier outposts manned by covert agents of the British navy dotted around the coastline of Europe, and Ana, as a free agent, would have access to them. Like himself she worked all over Europe, wherever her masters sent her. The dismal reflection occurred not for the first time that if she had been taken by the enemy it could have happened in almost any country. There were French agents aplenty on the prowl across the continent and he hadn’t been given any information on her mission before she was due to join up with him in Folkestone.

“Nothing received so far, sir.” The lieutenant confirmed what he already knew.

“Send it to me as soon as you receive it,” he instructed with a confidence that masked his fear that he might never know what had happened to Ana to keep her from that rendezvous on that rainy afternoon. If she was in the hands of the enemy, there would be no message.

“Aye, sir.”

Cosimo drained his tankard. “I’ll also have a message to send out to England later today. You have a bird ready?”

“Three, sir.”

Cosimo nodded. “Good. I’ll bring the message up this afternoon.” He handed his empty tankard to the lieutenant, who seemed somewhat disconcerted to receive it and handed it off immediately to the guard.

“I’ll wait here for three days in case there are any dispatches for Admiral Nelson,” Cosimo said.

“You’re joining the admiral, sir?” The lieutenant couldn’t hide his envy.

“Eventually,” Cosimo said somewhat obliquely. Knowledge of Nelson’s planned whereabouts was given on a need-to-know basis. He raised a hand in careless farewell and strode off around the cottage, blithely ignoring Murray’s disgruntled salute. On the far side of the building he raised his telescope and scrutinized the churning waters below.

The French frigate was still firmly stranded on the sand, but she’d been boarded by several longboat parties from the two English men-of-war that stood out in the Channel, well clear of the treacherous rocks. They were in the process of winching the frigate off the sand bar and Cosimo watched with a critical eye for a few minutes, before deciding that they seemed to know what they were doing.

He strolled back to the other side of the hill and began to walk down the slope towards the village. He could see his own sloop sitting peacefully at anchor in the harbor. Halfway down the hill he raised his telescope again and trained it on the
Mary Rose
. Meg was standing on the quarterdeck, looking towards the quay and the village. He thought he could detect a certain impatience in her posture. Presumably she was anxious to make arrangements for her return to England. He could delay that event for a couple of days without her even being aware of any deception on his part. It would give him some breathing room.

He folded the glass and set off back down the hill to the quay.

Meg was eating a bacon sandwich with considerable relish as she stood at the deck rail looking at the landscape when she caught sight of the unmistakable figure descending the hillside with long, rangy strides. The lithe athleticism of his step was becoming very familiar. She took a gulp of coffee from the mug that had been provided with the sandwich and watched his progress with a jaundiced eye.

He disappeared from view for a few minutes as he reached the bottom of the hill and vanished into the narrow village lanes but soon reappeared on the quay. He was dressed in britches and shirt, a kerchief tied loosely around his throat, his auburn hair tied back carelessly on his nape. He put two fingers to his lips and an imperative whistle pierced the tranquil scene.

Two sailors materialized as if by a magician’s wand on the rope ladder leading to the dinghy. Meg watched as they jumped into the boat, took up the oars, and pulled strongly to the quay. They grabbed the rope dangling from the bollards and pulled the boat close into the bulwark. Cosimo stepped down into the dinghy and sat in the stern as the little craft returned to the
Mary Rose
.

Cosimo swung himself up the rope ladder and onto the deck with the same agility Meg had noted the first time she’d laid eyes on him. He stood for a minute casting a quick appraising eye over his empire, then, smiling, came towards her.

The smile faded somewhat as he absorbed her expression. “You look as if you lost a guinea and found a penny. Is something the matter?”

“Yes, as it happens,” she declared, aware on the periphery of her vision that Miles and his cousin, who’d been hovering close by, were now stepping discreetly backwards. “I’ve been kicking my heels on this ship for the last hour when I need to send a message to my family and arrange for passage back to England. I could have spoken to a dozen fishermen in the time I’ve been waiting for you to appear from whatever jaunt you’ve been on so that you can tell these men of yours that I am not a prisoner and am free to go wherever I choose. Just why would you abandon—”

“Whoa!” he exclaimed as if she were a bolting mare. “When I left, you were in your underclothes and awaiting David’s ministrations. I’ve been gone less than an hour.”

Meg took a deep calming breath. “Will you please inform your nephews and anyone else who needs to know that I am not a prisoner on this ship and am entitled to leave it whenever I choose.”

He nodded easily. “Certainly. Miles . . . Frank . . .” He gestured to the cousins, who were clinging like limpets to the rail on the far side of the quarterdeck. “Miss Barratt is her own mistress. Please accommodate her wishes in as far as it’s possible.”

“Aye, sir,” the two said in unison.

“There.” Cosimo turned back to Meg. “Satisfied now? It was a simple misunderstanding.”

Meg, with an air of resignation, leaned back against the rail and tipped up her face towards the sun, closing her eyes against its brilliance. “Very well,” she said after a minute. “But now I would like to be rowed to shore so that I can make arrangements for my passage. I realize it might be too late to set out today—one wouldn’t wish to spend the night in the middle of the Channel in a small boat—but I’m sure one of those bigger fishing smacks can make sail at dawn tomorrow.”

Cosimo shook his head with a considering frown. “Unfortunately storms are in the air for the next twenty-four hours. I don’t think you’ll find a fisherman willing to risk his boat and his livelihood on such a journey until the forecast is clear.”

“How can they know?” Despite her irritation, Meg was curious.

Cosimo waved vaguely towards the sky. “Sailors read the weather in the clouds, they smell it on the air. And they’re rarely mistaken. They trust their instincts anyway . . . right or wrong.”

Meg in some agitation rubbed the cleft in her chin with her fingertip. It sounded perfectly reasonable for superstitious folk whose life and livelihood depended on the fickleness of sea and weather. “Well, that makes it all the more imperative that I send a message to my friends at once,” she said. “I presume pigeons can fly through a storm?” There was a sardonic edge to the question.

Cosimo ignored it. “They have their own instincts,” he said affably. “If they smell danger, they find a safe haven until it’s passed.”

“In the meantime,” Meg persevered, “I will find a room at some local hostelry.” She waved towards the village.

“I’m afraid there are no such amenities on the island,” Cosimo murmured.

“No tavern?” Meg exclaimed in disbelief. “What is this island? A monastery?”

He laughed. “No, there are certainly several taverns, but none that have accommodation for visitors.” He looked at her with a sympathy that Meg did not find in the least convincing. “Sark can only be reached by sea. Those who do come stay on board their own vessels.”

Checkmate.
Meg’s nostrils flared. She needed to feel that she was regaining control of her own destiny, that she was able to make her own choices, and that sense was growing ever more remote. She wanted to stay on Cosimo’s ship only if
she
chose to do so. But it seemed choice didn’t come into it.

Cosimo read her mind without difficulty. Having won his point, he needed to conciliate. “Let us go below and write your message to your friends,” he said. “It has to be written according to a certain formula so that the initial recipients can read it. They will transcribe it and see that it’s delivered to the right place. But as you can imagine, the pigeon can’t manage to carry an entire scroll.”

“Yes,” Meg agreed with a sigh. If this was as much as she could achieve at present, it would have to be good enough. “Show me how to do it.”

He gestured that she should precede him to the companionway and they went down to the cabin. Gus greeted them with a cheery “G’day,” alighting briefly on Cosimo’s head before swooping onto his perch.

“Does he ever go ashore?” Meg asked. For some strange reason she found the macaw fascinating. She was used to dogs and horses and farmyard cats, but exotic birds with very strong personalities had never come her way before.

“No, he gets anxious if he ever leaves the ship,” Cosimo replied, rifling through a drawer in the chart table. “I tried it once and he dug his claws so deep in my shoulder he drew blood . . . ah, here we are.” He laid a translucent sheet of onionskin parchment on the chart table and took up a quill. “Who’s to receive it?”

“The duchess of St. Jules.”

Cosimo raised an eloquent eyebrow, observing, “You keep good company. Where is her grace to be found?” He dipped the quill in the ink.

Meg tapped her fingertips against her mouth as she considered. Would Arabella still be in Folkestone? Would she have gone back to London? Or would she have gone to Lacey Court in Kent to be close to Meg’s parents?

No, she decided. They wouldn’t have left Folkestone as yet. It wouldn’t make sense to leave the place where she’d disappeared, not until they’d covered all the possibilities. She gave the address of the St. Jules’s residence on The Leas.

Cosimo was making tiny scratch marks on the onionskin. Meg watched over his shoulder in fascination. They reminded her of the hieroglyphics that adorned the margins of his dictionaries.

“Now give me a word . . . something that only your friend will understand so that she knows the message is from you.”

Exactly the right word popped into Meg’s head with such apposite relevance that she spoke it as she thought it.

“Odd,” he commented, inscribing the password in another series of scratches.

“What do you wish to say . . . and keep it very brief.”

Meg gave due consideration to this too. After a moment she said, “What do
you
suggest? You know the truth better than I do.”

Cosimo, still bent over the paper, glanced sharply up at her. She gave him a sweet smile. His eyes narrowed and without a word he made a few more marks on the paper before holding it up and waving it gently to dry the ink. He took a tiny cylindrical canister from the drawer and began to fold and roll the parchment into the same shape.

“Wait,” Meg said as he was about to insert the roll into the canister. “What did you say?”

He didn’t answer until he’d completed the task. “That you were safe and sound and they shouldn’t worry. I assume that’s good enough?”

“You didn’t say that I was on my way home?”

“You aren’t,” he pointed out. “At least, not at the moment.” He straightened, dropping the canister into his britches pocket. “Are you?” His eyes were still narrowed, but now they held a gleam that was part challenge, part promise. He didn’t touch her . . . not yet.

Meg moistened her lips. “No,” she agreed.

“It would be a pity for you to leave too soon,” he said.

She closed her eyes for a second in an attempt to slow things down, but this exchange was up and running at its own speed. “Yes,” she agreed with a tiny sigh. “I suppose it would.”

“Before we have the opportunity to . . . to explore a little.” He was watching her closely.

“I’m sure the island has many places of interest,” Meg returned. “I would certainly like to see them. It would be a productive use of the wait until I can get passage back home.”

“One should never waste time . . . or opportunity,” Cosimo said. Slowly he smiled, and as slowly reached a finger that lightly brushed the cleft in her chin. He took a step towards her and placed his lips where his finger had been. Then quickly flicked his tongue into the indentation and up into the corner of her mouth.

It was over in an instant but Meg knew as her loins moistened and her belly tightened that she had lost the conductor’s baton. This orchestra was following another’s direction.