by Erica Vetsch
They reached the nursery door, and as she pushed it open, she said, “Maybe you and I and Thea can have a snuggle in Thea’s bed. She’s not been herself lately either. I will pop down to the kitchen and get us some cups of chocolate, all right?”
The room was dark except for the faint light from the windows. Even that wasn’t much, because just before dinner, a squall had moved in, sending down fitful gusts of windblown rain. Was Thea asleep?
Sophie put Betsy on the bed. “I’ll be back, love. I just need to fetch a light from the hall.” She hurried out and removed a candle from a wall sconce, bringing it in to light the lamps. When she raised the candle near Thea’s pillow … it was empty. Her dinner tray sat beside the bed, only crumbs on the plate.
“That child. She’s probably snuck down to the kitchen to talk to the maids and perhaps get some apple tart. Betsy, love, do you want to come with me, or do you want to start getting ready for bed while I fetch Thea?”
“I … want … to come with … you.” Her voice jerked, though she’d stopped crying.
“That’s fine, but I can’t carry you this time. You’re getting to be such a big girl, you’ll have to walk.” Sophie held out her hand.
The scullery maid and Mrs. Chapman bustled in the hot kitchen between the preparation table and the fire.
“No, milady, I ain’t seen her.” The new scully was fresh-faced and young.
“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Chapman shook her head, the lace fringe on her white cap fluttering. “Thea was upstairs when I took her tray. I haven’t even thought of her since.” She transferred pastry to a tray.
“Botheration. Betsy, you stay here, and I’ll find your sister. If the captain finds out she’s disappeared, he’ll be rightly upset.” Sophie hurried out to check first in the captain’s study, which held fascination for both the little girls. Thea loved to use his spyglass at the windows to search for ships.
Not there.
Should Sophie raise an alarm? Thea had been punished for going down to the beach without permission. Surely she wouldn’t do it again. And in this weather?
But alarm bells rang in her head. Better to be sure than have regrets later.
Hurrying into the dining room, she interrupted the conversation, not worrying about manners. “Charles, I’m so sorry, but I cannot find Thea. She’s not in her room.”
Penny tossed her napkin down. “That girl. She’ll be hiding, angry about being punished. She did this once before at Miss Fricklin’s.”
Charles pushed his chair back. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us.”
“We’ll help you look.” Marcus stood. “We’ve got time yet.”
“Penny,” Sophie said, “please fetch Betsy from the kitchen and get her ready for bed. Search the nursery, dressing room, and schoolroom, then stay with Betsy.”
They had barely moved into the hall when a heavy pounding started on the front door. Without Miles, who still hadn’t made an appearance, to perform his duties as footman, Charles took it upon himself to open the door.
Partridge stood there, streaming water from his hat and canvas cloak. “Boss,” he gasped, looking past Charles to Marcus. “They came early. They’re loading the boat, and …” He gulped a gout of air. “The little girl, the red-haired one, she snuck past me and went down the stairs to the shore. Went right into the boathouse. Boss, they saw her, and they’ve snatched her. I’m ashamed. I don’t know how she managed to get by me. They’re preparing to shove off with her aboard.”
Ice ran down Sophie’s spine. “Who has her? What’s going on?”
“We’ll get underway now. Signal the cutter to round the point, and send a boat to the pier to pick us up,” Marcus ordered. He opened a chest by the front door. Sophie hadn’t noticed the box before. Partridge vanished into the dark rain without another word.
Marcus whipped out a scruffy cloak and a brace of pistols. He tossed another heavy cloak to Charles, who didn’t seem surprised at the contents of the chest. Mr. Lythgoe took a sidearm and a coat as well.
“What are you going to do? Who has Thea?” She gripped Charles’s arm.
“We planned this action this afternoon. While I was in jail and Marcus was scouring the countryside for evidence to exonerate me, he also left some men here to watch the real culprits. We thought they would probably try to move the smuggled goods tonight, and when Partridge gave the signal, we’d spring the trap we’ve laid.”
“And somehow Thea has gotten entangled in this?” Sophie let go of Charles’s arm and yanked her cloak off the hall tree. “I’m going with you.”
“No. This will be a sea chase, and there could be violence. Not to mention that you get seasick in calm waters, and the sea tonight is choppy at best.” Charles strapped on his saber. The admiral armed for battle behind him. “This won’t be a pleasure cruise.”
“I’m going, and that’s final. Thea is my …” Her voice broke. “She’s our daughter, and she’s in danger. I won’t get in the way, but I’m going with you.”
“Soph—” Marcus began.
She held up her hand. “Don’t start. I’m going. Now stop wasting time.”
Cold rain splattered her face when she stepped outside, and she pulled her hood up. They ran through the long, wet grass to the staircase leading to the pier. Marcus carried a lantern, and his strides were long. Water soaked her skirts, making them heavy. When Sophie fell behind, Marcus and Charles each grabbed her upper arms and helped her hurry.
“Nearly there.” Charles sounded grim. But focused as well, which was what Thea needed him to be.
They reached the cliff edge, and Marcus raised the lantern. A light flared below, and he moved to the side. She could only see a few feet of the staircase before darkness swallowed the rest.
Sophie’s head spun. She wasn’t fond of heights or this rickety staircase even in broad daylight, but in the darkness, with rain making each step slippery … Her heart jumped into her throat and lodged there.
“I’ll go first. Hurry.” Charles stepped onto the platform. “Send Sophie next so I can guide her.”
Marcus ushered her onto the wet planks, but after that, Charles took command. “One step at a time, Sophie. Keep one hand on my shoulder and the other on the rail.”
He spoke over his shoulder all the way down, his voice calm and reassuring. “Revenue officers have kept an eye on the village, making it difficult for anyone to move the illicit property quickly or openly. While the officers were being overt in town, Marcus’s men were moving in the background to confirm the main persons involved. When they had that information, we decided to lay a trap for them. Yesterday the Revenue men were withdrawn from the town in the hopes that the smugglers would feel safe enough to gather and stockpile the goods in one location here on the estate before moving them to the Shearwater. Our hope was that if word spread that I had returned to Gateshead, they would move quickly. We’ve been waiting for Partridge’s signal all evening.”
She was so focused on what he was saying, she forgot to be scared. His shoulder was firm under her hand. The sound of the surf grew louder, and before long her shoes hit the rough sand. The cutter rounded the eastern point and entered the cove. By the time Marcus, the admiral, and Mr. Lythgoe arrived at the bottom of the steps, she could see the splash of the oars digging into the water from the smaller boat that would ferry them to the cutter. A clattering above announced Mr. Partridge’s descent. He leapt the last half flight, his boots puncturing the sand.
“The Shearwater is nearly out of sight to the west.” His chest rose like bellows.
The dory arrived at the pier. Marcus jumped in first and held his hands up for Sophie. Charles put his hands on her waist and lifted her over the gunwale into Marcus’s grasp.
Her hair hung in rattails, and she had barely caught her breath when Charles landed in the boat beside her. His arm came around her waist, and he anchored her into his side on the seat. His cloak covered her, providing her additional protection against the rain and wind, and she buried her h
ead on his shoulder, closing her eyes and willing herself not to become dizzy or sick.
The rowers shoved off, and in seconds the small craft lurched over the incoming waves as the men bent the oars. Almost immediately dizziness swirled through Sophie’s head, and her gorge rose. If only she had skipped dinner. The few bites she’d managed threatened to make a reappearance.
Just the thought of the fillet of sole she’d eaten made her feel pea green and clammy.
Thea. Focus on Thea. She needs you.
Oh, God, please protect that child. Don’t let evildoers escape.
After that she could only pray that God would help her survive this rescue mission, as crest after crest of nausea poured over her. She clung to Charles, trying to stay out of the way of the brawny rowers.
Finally a hulk loomed out of the darkness, and the boat bumped into the side of the cutter. Sophie had only to stand, bracing her feet on the bottom of the dory. Partridge and Charles lifted her up to strong hands that brought her over the side.
“Come with me. We need to let the men do their work and stay out of their path. The Shearwater has quite the head start.” Admiral Barrington took her arm. “Captain Wyvern has command of the ship!” he shouted to the crew.
Charles headed to the bridge. Marcus lurched with the pitch of the ship, but Charles walked as comfortably as if on land. Probably more so.
“Ma’am?”
She allowed the admiral to lead her toward the stern.
“The cutter is lean and fast, built that way to aid in catching smugglers’ boats, but there isn’t much room, no luxury, and almost no privacy.” The admiral spoke above the sounds of men running and the constant patter of rain. “But there is a bit of an alcove where we might remain until we intercept the Shearwater.” He led her into a corner formed by a set of steps to a raised deck. A small overhang got them out of the worst of the rain. “I could escort you below.” The admiral had to shout as the noise increased. They were moving out of the shelter of the cove and into the open sea. “You’d be drier there.”
Sophie shook her head. She needed to stay topside. If she went into a dark hold, both her sickness and her fear might overwhelm her completely. She recognized Charles’s voice, shouting commands. He seemed firmly in control.
“He’s one of the best captains in the navy. I’ve watched his career for more than two decades.” The admiral braced himself against the roll of the deck and gripped Sophie’s arm as she lurched. “He’ll find them, even in the dark.”
“Do they know where the Shearwater is going?”
“Toward Plymouth.”
“How can you be sure?”
“That young boatman of yours, Enys? The boatyard his grandfather used to own? Marcus discovered that the warehouses have been used as a depot for smuggled goods for a long time.”
Her heart pinched. “So Miles is with them?”
“Yes. He’s sailing the Shearwater. He’s been helping them ever since the father of your young wards was killed. He took Pembroke’s place, helped them raise and repair the Shearwater after the wreck, and started running stolen goods up and down the coast with the old earl’s backing and blessing.”
Though she had no time now, she knew she would mourn the poor choices Miles had made. He had seemed a nice young man with great promise.
Men swarmed over the cutter, following orders, and as the sails caught the breeze, they filled and lifted the vessel higher in the water. The wind slapped at Sophie’s wet clothes, and her teeth chattered. Quite an odd sensation when coupled with her desire to be sick.
After what seemed forever, huddled as she was with nothing to think about but Thea’s peril and her own seasickness, someone finally shouted from the bows, “Sails ahead.”
Sophie grabbed the rail and pulled herself upright. She had to see what was going on. Her head swam, and she swallowed too much saliva, gulping in as much fresh air as she could. Please, Lord, not now.
How anyone had seen a ship in this squall, she didn’t know. She couldn’t see a thing. Charles stood behind the helmsman, giving orders. Marcus hung on to the rigging to keep from being buffeted about. His hair had come out of its queue and lashed his face and neck, making him nearly unrecognizable. The hood of his cloak whipped behind him. The pistols he’d taken at Gateshead were crossed in his belt.
Sophie went to her brother, and he clamped his arm about her waist, helping stabilize her. The deck pitched and rolled, sometimes feeling as if it were dropping away altogether. She tucked into his side, and the hilt of a knife dug into her ribs.
“If you throw up on me,” Marcus yelled into her ear, “I’ll toss you into the sea.”
Somehow his jesting made her feel better, as she knew he intended.
“Come right twenty degrees,” Charles shouted.
The helmsman twisted the wheel.
Sophie stared through the sheets of rain and finally saw their quarry. The sails were barely lighter than the surrounding darkness and occasionally disappeared from view as spray shot over the cutter’s bow.
“Those lights are Seaton.” Marcus pointed.
Seaton, the coastal town west of Gateshead.
A sailor hurried from the bow. “Sir, there’s something amiss with the Shearwater. She’s spun like there’s no one at the helm.”
Charles held out his hand, and one of the men slapped a telescope into it. The rote nature of the gesture surprised Sophie. Charles looked and acted as if he could never be anything but a ship’s captain, and the crew followed his lead. He raised the glass, searching the sea ahead of them.
“The headsail’s come loose. It’s flapping like a flag.” He lowered the telescope.
“Sir,” the helmsman shouted. “There’s a shoal not far ahead. If they don’t get her straightened out, she’ll hit it.”
Marcus put Sophie’s hand into the rigging. “Hold on. I’m going forward.” He plunged away from her. Spray flung up, and the cutter rolled, plowing into each wave. Sophie hung on tight. She tried to pray, but no words formed. Please, Lord, was all she could muster.
“We’re closing on her.”
Sophie opened her eyes. The Shearwater was maybe a hundred yards ahead, and her sails flapped like clothing on a line. The sail in front—what had Charles called it?—the headsail, whipped and fluttered, and beneath it, two men tried to grab the loose ropes to haul it down.
A flash of lighter cloth appeared, someone small darting on the deck. That had to be Thea. She was alive. Sophie’s breath snagged in her throat. She let go her hold on the rigging and staggered toward Charles. “I see Thea!”
The cutter leaned with the wind, taking the buffeting of the waves three-quarters on her bow, and gave a sudden lurch. Sophie crashed into Charles, and he grabbed her to keep them both from skidding to the deck.
“Hold on.” Charles anchored her into his side, clamping his arm around her shoulders. He gave the order to reduce sail. The Shearwater was only fifty yards away, but it heeled over as the boom swung and dipped. The mainsail gave a shudder and began to sink toward the sea. The flash of pale cloth scampered over and around the boxes lashed to the deck.
“Thea’s sabotaging the rigging!” Charles shouted. “Prepare the dory!”
Men leapt to lower the small boat. Charles ordered the helmsman to hold their position as best he could, and along with the rowing crew, Marcus and Charles jumped aboard the dory. Mr. Lythgoe followed, but the admiral stayed aboard the cutter.
“No, milady. You’re to stay here.” The admiral took her arm. “Let them do their work.”
Please, God, keep them all safe. Sophie fought her fear and her nausea. Bring them back to me.
Charles felt no satisfaction that their trap had worked. He could only think about getting Thea back safe and sound.
The dory bobbed in the surf. At least the tide was running in, taking them toward the Shearwater. “Row, men!” If they could get to the wallowing Shearwater before she hit the shoal, they might be able to keep her from grounding.
Charles moved to starboard, ready to leap aboard the moment they were alongside. A shout rang across the water, and a man charged across the Shearwater’s deck in pursuit of a small drenched figure.
Thea!
She eluded the man chasing her, only to run into the grasp of another of the smugglers coming around a stack of net-covered and lashed crates. Her scream rent the air.
“Faster!”
Marcus had drawn one of his pistols, but he held his fire. The danger of hitting Thea was too great.
Just feet before the two boats made contact, the Shearwater shuddered. A ripping, grinding noise rumbled up. She’d hit the shoal. Her occupants were tossed to the deck. Charles lost sight of Thea as the dory hit the side of the now immobile sloop.
Charles grabbed the gunwale of the Shearwater and scrambled aboard. Marcus was right behind him.
Thea scrabbled on hands and knees toward the stern, with one of the men grabbing at her ankles as he rolled to his feet. “Get back here, you limb of Satan.”
Reverend Dunhill.
The vicar had hold of her for a moment, but she jerked, and her shoe came off in his hand. Charles tackled the preacher, trusting Marcus to handle Grayson. Dunhill writhed, lashing out, but Charles settled the preacher’s aggression with a well-timed elbow to the jaw. The reverend staggered into the arms of one of the cutter crew, dazed and bleeding.
Marcus held Grayson by the arm, a pistol hard against his temple. The Shearwater groaned, taking each broadside wave harder than the next. The sails slapped and rippled, sagging and flying with the gusts.
More of the cutter crew climbed over the side.
“Thea?” Charles shouted. “Where are you?”
She bounced out from behind a shifting stack of cargo and launched into Charles’s arms, clutching him hard. Her drenched, slight form trembled, whether from cold or fear or both, he didn’t know. Wrapping her in his arms, safe beneath his cloak, he breathed a grateful prayer.
Then he froze. A sinking feeling hit the pit of his stomach as a memory of another ship flashed in his mind. “Fan out. Search the ship.”