Ransome's Honor (14 page)

“I am so sorry to make you wait, my dear.” Susan gave her husband a coquettish glance.

Collin responded with a besotted look that made William wish he had his own conveyance back to their house.

As the others made their way downstairs, Admiral Witherington held William back.

“William, I’ve a favor to ask of you.” Sir Edward’s gaze followed Julia’s progress down the stairs.

Uncertain but unwilling to deny his patron anything, William nodded. “Anything, sir.”

“Tomorrow morning, I leave for London. I shall be there at least a month. In my absence, Julia will be dependent upon her aunt’s guidance and chaperonage.” The admiral scowled. “I am grateful Julia will have a companion, but I do not fully trust Lady Pembroke to look after Julia’s best interests.”

William could not imagine Julia being dependent upon anyone, but kept his opinion to himself

“I ask that you watch over her—I do not mean that you must become responsible for her, just that she knows your services are available should she need anything. And that you will contact me immediately if you suspect anything amiss.”

In the twenty years he had known Admiral Witherington, the man had asked William to risk his life more times than he could remember. He had never balked at anything the admiral had commanded him to do. But no mission, no battle, had threatened William’s peace of mind like this request.

He swallowed hard. “Aye, sir. I shall look out for her.”

Sir Edward clasped his shoulder. “Good man. I knew I could depend on you.”

The way Julia closed her eyes and sighed when they joined everyone in the foyer told William she knew what her father had asked of him.

He took his leave of her quickly, frustrated at the lack of discipline he’d had over his thoughts tonight. He followed the others out the front door as the enormous clock in the entry hall struck midnight.

“What a wonderful evening.” Susan yawned behind her hand and settled into Collin’s side.

William squeezed in between his mother and sister—both of whom yawned frequently and leaned against his shoulders.

Susan waved her lace fan lazily in the warm night air. “I do not think I have ever had such an excellent meal. Although with the time and effort Julia put into planning the menu, I really did not expect anything less than perfection—Julia would not have it any other way.”

“It was Miss Witherington, then, and not her aunt who did everything ?” Collin asked, surprise evident through the gravelly fatigue in his voice.

“Yes. ’Twas all Julia’s doing. That is why she and I have not seen much of each other this week.”

“Oh.” Collin’s wide grin shone in the darkness. “And I thought that was because of me.”

Susan snuggled closer to her husband. “A happy chance.”

William wondered how far they were from the Yates’s townhouse and if he had enough energy remaining to walk the rest of the way.

In the quiet that fell, the memory of his first sight of Julia this night haunted him. Tonight it had almost seemed as if she would be amenable to William renewing his suit. But if there were any truth to the gossip around town, Julia would soon be receiving a proposal of marriage from her cousin.

While he hated to think of her married to the baronet, perhaps that would be better for her. William’s life, his first and primary commitment, was the navy. When the Peace of Amiens ended in 1803 and he had gone back to sea, he’d sworn he would never let himself get caught up with affairs on land again. Duty and honor, hollow though they made his heart feel, would be his lifelong companions.

Chapter Thirteen

H
ints of grayish pink touched the eastern horizon. The sound of movement outside Julia’s door caught her attention, and she stepped into the hall. She smiled at her father as he tried to move quietly from his room to the stairs. He gave her a frank, approving glance, then extended his hand to her.

With her hand clasped in his, Julia could almost pretend this was one of their regular early morning breakfasts and not his leave-taking.

“I thought I told you not to rise early to see me off”

“You did. Shall I be court-martialed for disobeying a direct order, sir?”

Her father stifled his guffaw and raised her hand to kiss the back of it. “Ah, my daughter, how I shall miss these times together while I am in London.”

Emotion choked Julia’s throat. “I shall miss these times as well, Papa. You must write often to tell me of everything you accomplish while you are there.”

Creighton, bleary-eyed and still settling his black coat around his shoulders, greeted them at the ground-floor landing. “G’morning, Admiral Sir Edward, sir, Miss Witherington. The coach will be here at five bells, sir.”

Sir Edward checked his pocket watch against the hall clock chiming six o’clock. Julia’s stomach twisted. Half an hour and her father would depart for a month-perhaps longer. The sick feeling returned—the disappointment from all the times he had left her standing at the dock in Kingston when
Indomitable
put out to sea after his brief and infrequent visits during her childhood. But this time he would be less than a hundred miles away, a distance a letter could traverse in only two days—one, if sent express.

She took two pieces of toast and strawberry preserves while her father tucked into the plate of eggs, sausages, and black pudding Creighton set before him. Though he performed his duty well, her father’s former steward appeared beyond fatigue. Had he gotten any sleep last night? She would insist he take the remainder of the day off He retreated to stand beside the fireplace, eyes heavy, posture stiff as if braced against the rolling of the sea.

“I think last night proved quite the success.” Admiral Witherington spooned the soft yolk of his eggs onto his toast.

“Yes, I believe nearly everyone enjoyed himself.” Julia rose to pour more coffee. Creighton started, his eyes trying to focus out of their former glassy state, but she silenced his protest with one look. “I believe, however,” she turned back to her father, “one of our number did not find the evening quite to his liking.”

Sir Edward did not look up from his plate, but amused lines danced around his eyes and mouth.

“Papa—what did you say to Sir Drake after dinner?”

The corners of his mouth twitched, despoiling his stern expression. “All I did was ask the man about Marchwood and the farms and mills. ‘Twas he who brought up the topic of the press-gangs taking all of his workers. If the Marchwood mills turned out woolen of a quality the navy could use, perhaps he might not have had to sell three of them.”

Julia’s cup clattered against her saucer. “He has sold three of the textile mills? How do you know?”

“From a former subordinate who bought them. He seemed to think Pembroke in dire need of funds, as he was willing to accept a very low price.”

“Was the loss of men to work the Marchwood holdings so severe?”

“I wondered the same, so I looked into the matter. For all his claims of press-gangs, I found very few had operated in the area—and those who did found men eager to volunteer for paid service, because many who worked for Pembroke had lost their employment. When I made further inquiry, I discovered the reason behind the reduced workforce and sold mills: Pembroke is in debt—deeply in debt. Even after selling off the mills, he mortgaged all the Marchwood land, and yet even that did not bring in enough to satisfy all his creditors.”

“But how... ?” Julia could not believe what she was hearing. Although she’d never given her Pembroke heritage much thought, the knowledge of how close Sir Drake might be to losing the estate where her mother had grown up made her ill. If she were to face losing Tierra Duice—a chill trickled down her spine.

“Gambling.” Sir Edward spat out the word as if it tasted foul. “He had not been left much. But his father, the general, was a good, honest, intelligent man who, according to local sources, had started to turn around Marchwood’s fortunes. He had just paid off the lien against the land—the legacy he inherited from your grandfather—mere months before he died in glorious service to the Crown. Now, within two years, Sir Drake has sunk the estate lower than it has ever been before. Even your grandfather, with all his excesses, managed to pass it along intact.”

“I had no idea.”

“Nor would he want you to.”

“Do you think my aunt knows?”

“I have no doubt she knows some of it. I am certain your cousin’s visit to Portsmouth was not made from affection for his mother, but necessity.”

Julia traced the rim of her coffee cup with the tip of her finger. “Do you think he hopes we will give him the money to pay off his debts?”

The admiral’s scowl darkened. “Of that, I am not certain. I do know his creditors will soon be knocking on the door of Pembroke House here in Portsmouth. The sum of his debts would not harm us, but I cannot abide the thought of supporting a gambler—why, were he one of my crew, I’d have him hanged from the nearest yardarm.”

The hall clock struck the half hour, nearly drowning out a business-like rap on the front door. Creighton started from his fatigued stupor and trudge-marched out of the dining room. Sir Edward finished the last bite of black pudding and rose, tossing his napkin on the table. Julia accompanied him to the foyer and greeted Admiral Hinds as her father shrugged into his coat, assisted by Creighton.

“If you need anything, contact Admiral Glover at the port Admiralty.” Sir Edward kissed her forehead and then pressed a small brass key into her hand, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Keep a close eye on the household accounts—in my absence, your aunt might try to find a way to support her son.” He gave her a significant look.

“I will, Papa.” She closed her fist around the key. “And I will pray for your safe journey.”

He caressed her cheek and looked as if he wanted to say something of import, but refrained. “I will write as soon as I arrive.”

She stood on the front steps and waved as the hired coach rumbled down the cobblestone street. The sky glowed pink and golden in the east, and the warmth of the morning promised a deliciously hot day to come.

Creighton, a bit unsteady on his feet, stood in the open doorway.

“Thank you for making last night a memorable evening for our guests, Creighton.”

“My pleasure, miss.”

“And because of all your labors this week, I am hereby ordering you to take the day off and rest.”

The butler cocked his head. “Ordering?”

“Aye.
Ordering.”

“I see. So the chain of command is that when the admiral leaves it is the first lieutenant who takes command?”

Julia laughed at the way his lack of sleep allowed him to fall back into the easy rapport they’d built on the voyage from Jamaica nine months ago. “Whether I am captain or first lieutenant, I still outrank you,” she pointed at him, “and disobeying a superior’s order is an offense punishable by flogging or death-or have you been away from the sea so long you have forgotten the Articles of War?”

Creighton snapped to and knuckled his forehead. “Aye, aye-miss.”

“Good, now that we understand each other—go. I do not want to see you until this time tomorrow morning.”

She returned to the dining room for another cup of coffee before she faced returning to her room to review her tasks for the morning. Creighton followed her.

She poured the coffee and flavored it with milk and sugar. “Creighton,” she said, taking a small sip, “I wonder if you might do me a favor?”

“Yes, of course. Anything you need, Miss Witherington.”

“Go away. Go see your sister in Portsea or go down to the docks and practice tying rope into knots. I really do not care what you do as long as you are not doing it in my sight.”

He knuckled his forehead again. “Aye, aye, Lieutenant Witherington.” He gave her a saucy grin and bowed out of the room.

Julia rubbed her fatigue-gritted eyes. Returning to bed for a couple of hours might not be amiss. However, Lady Pembroke had left on Julia’s desk, sometime before Julia retired last night, a list of the errands she wanted Julia to see to this morning-the post office, the apothecary, the stationer. Just thinking about it sank her further into weariness.

The hall clock chimed seven times. Julia finished her coffee and forced herself to climb the two flights of stairs to her room, where Nancy was making the bed.

Once dressed in an appropriate walking gown-or morning dress, she couldn’t remember the difference—Julia returned downstairs to ask Elton to bring the carriage around in half an hour.

She entered her father’s study and crossed to the bookshelf behind his desk. In the cabinet underneath, she opened the door and withdrew a small iron box—a precautionary device created for her father by a master ironmonger in the Navy. He’d kept it aboard his flagship to carry confidential orders and papers ever since the mutiny of the crew of a friend’s ship.

With the key her father had given her earlier, she unlocked the box and removed the leather cash pouch and the bank record book. She laid the register flat on his desk and reviewed the most recent entries. Her allowance, the food for last night’s dinner, the payment to the extra hands all summed neatly into a total balance.

She recorded the three guineas she took from the cash pouch for the household items she would purchase this morning, entered the new sum, returned the book and bag to the iron box, and locked it again. The key shone bright in the morning sun streaming through the window at her back. For now, she’d best hold on to it. She dropped it into her reticule and looked up at a tap on the door.

“Enter.”

Her father’s valet, filling in for Creighton, opened the door. “Elton is ready with the carriage, miss.”

“Thank you, Jim.”

Several people were already in the post office when Julia alighted from the barouche a few minutes after eight o’clock. Most looked like household servants, but a tall man standing in the corner in deep conversation with the postmaster, their foreheads nearly touching, drew her recognition.

She turned to leave, hoping she could get out before Sir Drake looked around and saw her.

“Miss Witherington!” The clerk’s loud voice silenced everyone in the place.

Her heart fell, and she stopped two steps from escape and looked over her shoulder. “Yes?”

“A letter arrived for you, miss, on that sloop from the West Indies.”

The West Indies! All thought of Sir Drake fled at this news, and she rushed to the desk. The young clerk handed her a thick envelope. Eagerly she took it from him and turned it over to see the direction. Emotion clogged her throat and burned her eyes. Jerusha’s meticulous, practiced hand would be recognizable to Julia anywhere—after all, Julia had taught Tierra Dulce’s housekeeper to write.

The packet was thick enough to give her hope it might include a letter from Jeremiah as well. Temptation urged her to untie the twine that bound it together and break the seal, but with extreme effort she refrained.

“Good news from Jamaica, I hope.”

Oh, how could she have forgotten Sir Drake’s presence? “Yes—I hope so. Good morning, Sir Drake.” She dipped a slight curtsey and turned to go...but then remembered Lady Pembroke’s letter to Aunt Hedwig. She returned to the clerk and, doing her best to ignore her cousin, pulled the letter from her reticule—and something else fell with a sharp report on the counter.

A flash of bright brass caught her eye, but before she could reach for it, Sir Drake’s hand covered the key. He lifted it between thumb and forefinger to examine it. “I have never seen such a fine piece of engraving as this.” He held it so the flat, scalloped butt of the key caught the light from the front windows. “Was it crafted by a local smith?”

Julia’s fingers itched to grab the key from his hand. “Aye, Mr. Chubb, formerly of the Royal Navy.”

Drake gave her what he probably thought was a seductive smile. “Aren’t most of the men in Portsmouth ‘formerly of the Royal Navy’?”

Swallowing a retort, she completed her business with the clerk, and then held her hand out, palm up, toward Drake. “May I please have that back?”

He reached forward and, just as he was about to put the key in her palm, snatched it back. “It must be valuable, this key. Perhaps it is the key to Miss Julia’s personal diary. No, too large for that. Ah, it is the key to the chest where she keeps the letters from a secret lover.”

Julia’s jaw ached from the pressure of her clenched teeth.

“It must be important, else she would not be carrying it with her,” he mumbled, as if to himself. “I shall strike you a deal, Miss Witherington. Allow me to walk you to your next destination, and I shall there return the key to you.”

She had a choice between acquiescence and creating a scene. She dropped her hand to her side. “Very well then, I have business at—” the bank was nearest, just across the street, but she could not conduct her business there with him dogging her steps—“the stationer.”