“But she goes by Nora,” Joan added, perhaps finding the name too grand—or too close to her real name.
“Make the porridge, will you, Nora?” Peg said. “I’ve got six orders of piecework to finish today.” Peg glanced up. “You do know how to make porridge, I trust?”
“’Course she does,” Joan said. “You go about your work, Peg, and we’ll manage breakfast.”
Peg nodded and crossed the room to the waiting baskets.
When her back was turned, Joan whispered, “Peg makes thin gruel for the children. It’s better for their little stomachs.”
And cheaper, Margaret thought, but did not say so.
“Six parts water to one part groats. Can you manage that? Unless you’d rather change Henry?”
“No thank you. I shall give gruel a go.”
———
Later, after they had eaten thin, lumpy, mildly scorched gruel with neither milk nor sugar, Margaret fumbled her way through drying the pot, spoons, and basins as Joan washed. As she did so, she thought about something Joan had said—that Peg’s name and address were recorded in Benton’s staff records as Joan’s next of kin. Sterling might very well put two and two together and knock on Peg’s door any moment looking for her. Margaret shuddered. She could not stay there long.
After the dishes were put away, Joan sat down with a wrinkled copy of a newspaper a few days old, reading through the advertisements. Not knowing what else to do, Margaret pulled her comb from her bag and went to work on the little girl’s hair, untangling then plaiting the ginger strands.
Peg glanced from her sewing to Joan, still bent over the newspaper. “Any luck, Joan?”
Joan shook her head. “It seems everyone wants maids-of-all-work here in town. That’s one fate I should like to avoid.”
Reaching the end of the girl’s hair, Margaret looked around for a ribbon or something else to secure it.
Peg tossed her a thin scrap of muslin. “Here.”
Margaret tied the end of the plait, and the girl stroked her coppery braid, smiling coyly up at Joan. “Am I pretty, Aunt Joan?”
Joan looked from her niece to Margaret, then back again. “Pretty is as pretty does, little miss. You remember that.”
The jab was intended for her, Margaret realized. At the moment, being pretty seemed of little use. What should she do?
The “Gentleman Pirate” . . . a retired British
army major with a large sugar plantation in Barbados,
abandoned his wife, children, land and fortune; bought
a ship; and turned to piracy on the high seas.
—Amy Crawford, Smithsonian magazine
Chapter 4
Nathaniel Aaron Upchurch spent two restless nights in his family’s London residence after his appearance at the ball. He did not see his brother at all the first day. Lewis slept in very late and then had left for his club while Nathaniel met with the family’s London banker. He supposed his brother was avoiding him after their fight.
In Lewis’s absence, Nathaniel began taking stock of the situation—gathering unpaid bills and paying the permanent staff as well as the valet and coachman who had come up from Maidstone to help run the place. All the while his sister remained in Fairbourne Hall, necessitating the upkeep of both houses simultaneously, further compounding their expenses.
Lewis sauntered down for breakfast late the second morning, sporting a black eye and bruised cheek. “I say, Nate ol’ boy, you made quite an entrance the other night.”
Nathaniel regarded his brother warily, but Lewis’s tone held no rancor. Nathaniel regretted losing his temper, overtired from the journey as he was. He was determined not to do so again.
Lewis sized him up, surveying him from head to toe. Nathaniel became conscious of the fact that he had yet to shave his beard or cut his hair.
“My, my,” Lewis drawled. “Who, I wonder, is this rogue before me and what has happened to my young pup of a brother?”
“Two years in Barbados happened.”
“The island did not have such an effect on me.”
Unfortunately, Nathaniel thought. But he said, “I am sorry we came to blows at the ball.”
“I am not.” Lewis smirked. “We shall be the talk of town for a week.”
Nathaniel said dryly, “Or until the next scandal erupts.”
Lewis helped himself to coffee with several lumps of sugar—sugar grown in Barbados, though refined there in England. Nathaniel took his coffee—without sugar—and settled himself at the small desk in the breakfast room. He placed his spectacles on his nose and continued inscribing the outstanding debts into a ledger. He ought to have brought Hudson to do this, but the man had insisted on staying aboard the Ecclesia to keep watch, since Nathaniel had given the crew three-days leave.
Lewis turned from the sideboard and laughed. “Now there is the brother I remember. Nose in a book and wearing unfashionable spectacles.”
Nathaniel ignored the jab. “Were you ever going to pay these bills?”
“Me? Is that not why we have staff?”
Nathaniel clenched his jaw. “You tell me. I see that you have hired another French chef but no clerk or secretary.”
Lewis popped a hunk of sausage into his mouth and spoke around the bite. “Monsieur Fournier preferred to stay at Fairbourne Hall, and I could not leave Helen in the lurch, could I?”
“That is exactly what you have done.”
“The season is almost over, ol’ boy,” Lewis soothed. “Then I shall tuck tail and go home like a dutiful spaniel, ey? But to insist I leave London now? Especially now that you are returned? You cannot be so cruel.” Lewis rubbed his bruised jaw. “Though after meeting with your fists, I am not so certain.”
Nathaniel noticed that Lewis did not bring up the reasons for his return. He knew their father had written to Lewis about it, but he was relieved not to have to rehash it all again.
After breakfast Nathaniel spent several more hours meeting with tradesmen and bringing accounts up to snuff. Then he allowed Lewis’s valet to cut his hair and give him a better shave than he’d had in months. Finally, Nathaniel felt ready to return to his ship, collect Hudson and the rest of his belongings, and set off for Maidstone.
Nathaniel left the coachman and fashionable barouche with Lewis and insisted on driving the old traveling chariot himself—to the coachman’s horror. Nathaniel would have settled for horseback or a small curricle, but he had quite a bit of cargo to unload and transport to Fairbourne Hall before the captain and crew departed for Barbados without him.
He enjoyed handling the reins, though the boxy enclosed carriage and team did not handle as well as the small trap and spirited mare he had driven around the island.
He pulled up the collar of his greatcoat and pulled down his hat, ignoring the disapproving look of an old dowager-neighbor, stunned to see him playing coachman. No doubt he had just given the gossips more reason to denounce him as uncivilized.
He drove his customary route to the Port of London and, when he arrived, hopped down and tied the horses near the Legal Quays. He turned toward the river and stopped, staring in disbelief. Flames shot up from the Ecclesia and smoke billowed. God have mercy. What next?
He began running while these thoughts still echoed in his mind, his boots thumping against the wooden planking in time with his heart. Beside the three-masted merchantman, a dinghy floated. Several men waited at the oars, ready to make their escape. This was no accident, then, but an intentional attack. Where was Hudson? Almighty God, please spare Hudson.
Nathaniel ran up the gangplank, heedless of the flames and smoke. If only he had retained a skeleton crew. Where were the river police? They were supposed to patrol against cargo theft and vandalism. Had a port worker—or even a member of the river police—been bribed to look the other way?
Fire licked up the mizzenmast. Nathaniel ran to the larboard rail and looked down at the dinghy. Still there. Nate was torn between the desire for revenge and the desire to try to save h
is ship. The ragged crew smirked up at him. What were they waiting for?
He had his answer soon enough, for a man leapt down from the quarter deck and sprinted across the main. He wore the clothes of a gentleman. His face was tanned, distinguished, and . . . familiar. Nathaniel’s gut clenched. Thunder and turf. Not him. Not here.
Nathaniel drew his pistol.
Abel Preston skidded to a halt, an infuriating grin on his handsome face. “A pistol? Not very sportsmanlike.” He glanced down at the fine sword sheathed at his side.
“But effective,” Nathaniel said. “Where is Hudson?”
Preston jerked his head toward the stern. “Fast asleep, poor lamb. Better drag him off before he’s overcome with smoke.”
Nathaniel gestured with the gun tip. “You lead the way.”
“Very well.” Preston stepped forward as though to comply but then whirled and slashed out with his sword, knocking Nathaniel’s gun to the deck, where it went skidding beneath a pallet of sugar-syrup casks.
Nathaniel drew his sword and struck. The former army major coolly met him thrust for thrust for several minutes. Then Preston stepped back and the two men circled each other warily.
Struggling to catch his breath, Nathaniel scoffed, “This is the career you left Barbados to pursue?”
Preston smiled. “Yes, and I am making quite a name for myself.”
“I must have missed it. For I’ve not heard your name mentioned since you left.”
“That is because I’ve acquired a new name.” Preston gave a mock bow and recited, “They call me the Pirate Poet. And some the Poet Pirate. How fickle is Lady Fame, when she cannot settle upon a name.”
Nathaniel cringed, remembering several island socials this man had attended—without his wife—during which he had attempted to impress the ladies with his long-winded recitations. Nathaniel had heard tales of a poetry-spouting “pirate” but assumed them mere legend. He had never imagined Preston might be that man. He supposed it made sense. The fop always did love poetry. Preston had spent more time composing rhymes than overseeing his plantation—when he wasn’t tormenting his slaves. No wonder he’d failed as a planter.
But the man had always been good at one thing—he was highly skilled with the blade. Once again Preston advanced, striking with startling speed. Nathaniel countered, but his every strike was parried with ease. He fought back hard but with the growing realization that he was the inferior swordsman. Barring aid from Hudson, or heaven, he would be beaten. Sweat ran down Nathaniel’s face. Fear threatened, but he refused to cower before this man. Almighty God, help me.
Preston knocked Nathaniel’s sword from his grasp and kicked his feet out from under him in a blinding blur of motion. Nathaniel landed on the deck with a thump, his breath knocked out of him, his sword out of reach. Preston pinned him to the deck with a sword tip to his throat.
I commit my soul into your care, Nathaniel thought. Please forgive my many sins, for Jesus’ sake. He said, “Take what you want and kill me if you will, but let Hudson go. This is my ship. He only works for me.”
Preston’s lip curled. “Do you suppose I’d forgotten how you lured Hudson away—stole my best clerk? Not to mention the other problems you caused me.”
Nathaniel’s calls for reform had not made him many friends in Barbados. Preston had been chief among his detractors, especially after Nathaniel reported his continuing involvement in the slave trade after it was outlawed.
Still pinning Nathaniel to the deck, Preston called over his shoulder, “Turtle, bring me the master’s chest.” He looked down at Nate once more. “This year’s profits, I assume?”
“As well you know,” Nathaniel snapped, though he’d taken half the money to their London town house to begin paying bills. The remainder was even now hidden in the coach’s lockbox. “I see how it is. Why live off the meager profits from your own ill-managed plantation, when you can live off the profits of others?”
“Exactly so.” Preston’s eyes gleamed. “I hear your father bragged about this season’s yield—the highest in several years, I understand.” The man lowered his sword tip to the chain around Nathaniel’s neck. “The key?” With a flick of his wrist, he severed the chain, speared the key through its hole and tossed it into the air, catching it handily.
“I’ve got it, sir!” the man called Turtle shouted, lifting the two-foot-square padlocked chest in the air. His scar, from mouth to ear, looked like a gruesome leer.
“Take it down to the others. I shall join you directly.”
Here it comes, Nathaniel thought, his whole body tensing. He has everything he wants from me. This is the end. He found himself thinking of Helen. More alone than ever now. And his father. Would he think him a failure? And then he thought of Margaret Macy. Perhaps it was just as well she hadn’t married him. He wouldn’t want to leave her such a young widow.
Preston lifted his sword once more—to bring down the death blow, Nathaniel knew. Instead the man rose with a jerk. “Away with us, me lads! Take our bounty and be gay. Let these good men live, to see another day!” He leapt from the burning deck and swung from a mooring line with impressive agility.
Nathaniel jumped up and dashed to the rail in time to see the man land in the dinghy with practiced ease. Preston smiled up at him and tipped his tricorn.
Nathaniel called down, “Running away? For all your skill and supposed renown, you are a coward, sir.”
Preston’s smile faded. “You risk my sword, saying that.”
“Name the time and place.”
An eerie gleam shone in the man’s eyes. “Your place. When you least expect it.”
The crew began rowing, and the dinghy pulled away, no doubt on course for a waiting ship.
Nate considered jumping in after him, but that would be suicide. He debated rousing the tardy river police, but there was no time. The stern of the ship was burning rapidly now. His ship. The one he had convinced his father to add to their small fleet. The one he had invested in with his own share of the profits.
He ran to where Hudson lay, insensible but alive, and bodily dragged the man away from the burning master’s cabin. A flaming yard clubbed his arm, nearly felling him. Ignoring the bone-deep pain, he lugged Hudson across the main deck and down the gangplank, hearing the alarm being raised at last. Too late. The dinghy was already fading into a dim shape and disappearing behind a row of moored frigates.
Nathaniel ran up the gangplank once more, vaguely hearing Hudson’s groggy voice calling after him to stop but not heeding him. He ran into what was left of the master’s cabin, grabbing what he could of value—monetary or sentimental. A roar surrounded him. The deck below him buckled. He grabbed one last thing. The only thing he had of hers. He ran from the cabin as it caved in, a section of the wall crashing into his left side, searing his temple.
But he did not let it go.
That evening, Margaret sat thinking at Peg Kittelson’s open window, elbows on the sill, her back to the depressing room crammed with toppling piles of piecework, childish babbling and wailing, and meager food. Margaret inhaled the outside air, fresher than the stale apartment, though carrying the smell of the nearby river. She tried in vain to reach an itch through the wig and wished she’d thought to bring a wig scratcher. The narrow lane below, littered with tumbling wads of newspaper and horse droppings, was relatively quiet compared to the clamor of the room behind her.
She wondered if she should try again to contact Emily. Perhaps wait a day or two and knock at the servants’ entrance in disguise. Or would the runner still be on guard, questioning everyone who came to call?
On the distant street corner, three young men sat on the stoop of an ale house. A hulking black-haired man tossed pebbles into the gutter, while his thin comrade whittled and spit seed hulls into the street. The third sat, limbs sprawled, head lolling against the wall behind him in an ale-induced doze.
“Come away from the window, girl,” Peg whispered. “You don’t want that lot to notice you. Blackguards th
ey are.”
Margaret was about to comply when clattering hooves and wheels sounded below. From around the corner came a black coach pulled by two horses. As it passed the ale house, the enclosed carriage all but filled the narrow lane, its brass lamps blazing like beacons in the night.
Joan said from her shoulder, “Might as well light a sign asking to be robbed.”
Joan and Peg receded into the room, but Margaret remained at the window. The equipage and horses were too fine for the neighborhood. The man at the reins, a sturdy man in his midthirties, did not look the part of traditional coachman. No top hat graced his head. No many-caped greatcoat fluttered in the wind.
The carriage stopped on the street below for no apparent reason, and the driver tied off the reins and clambered down none too nimbly. He opened the carriage door and leaned in. “Are you all right, sir?”
She heard no reply.
Margaret looked past the coach to the ale house on the corner. As she’d feared, the ne’er-do-wells on the stoop had taken notice of the carriage as well. The thin man stopped whittling. The black-haired hulk stilled, his gaze focused on the coach, nose high like a hound on the scent. He slowly rose, gesturing to the second fellow to follow and kicking the foot of the dozing youth.
Dread prickled through Margaret’s stomach and along her limbs.
She glanced back down at the driver standing with his head and shoulders in the coach, completely unaware of the danger he had steered into.
“Hello?” she called in a terse whisper, trying to make herself heard. Vaguely she heard Peg shush her in the background. “Excuse me, you there!” she hissed, not daring to shout. She did not want to draw the ruffians’ attention to poor Peg’s window. Only belatedly did she realize she had not bothered to disguise her voice. No matter, for the man had not heard her.
Margaret closed the window and stepped back, retreating into the relative safety of the room. Well, she told herself, she had tried.
Then in her mind’s eye she saw her beloved father calling “Whoa” to his old driving horse, pulling the gig to the side of the road to help a farmer with a broken wagon wheel, mucking his breeches and gloves without complaint. Just diving in to help a fellow traveler in need. How often he had done so.
The Maid of Fairbourne Hall Page 5