Peter was beginning to despair of getting the party to the George Inn on time. The driver, however, suggested that if they proceeded up Thames Street, past Billingsgate and the Tower of London, they would be sure to find a wherry there. No one could bear the idea of returning back to Lincoln’s Inn Fields and being forced to wait another twenty-four hours and so they took the driver’s advice. Soon they reached Billingsgate but there were still no boats to be had. There had been a fish market here for centuries and the very ground seemed to be permeated with the stink of fish.
“It’s actually making my eyes water!” exclaimed Mr. Schock. “How can fish make your eyes water?”
They drove past two fishwives having a violent argument, and Hannah clapped her hands over Kate’s ears.
“I have never understood,” she complained, “what it is about selling fish that causes these women to have such foul tongues in their heads.”
Before long Kate found herself looking up at the White Tower, which seemed the same as she remembered from visiting the Tower of London on a family trip to see the Crown Jewels—although she couldn’t remember the moat being filled with water. At first she thought she was imagining the sound of big cats roaring and monkeys screeching, but Hannah informed her that there was a menagerie inside which members of the public were allowed to visit for a small fee. She also told her, which, as Mr. Schock said, was definitely one piece of information too many, that she had visited the zoo with an aunt and uncle who had donated a sick, old dog to the lions in lieu of an entrance fee, a practice which was not uncommon.
But at last, on the other side of the Tower of London, just beyond Traitors’ Gate, they caught sight of two red-jacketed wherrymen taking their ease and smoking clay pipes in a long, narrow boat which bobbed up and down on the green-brown water. Peter shouted over to them and the watermen jumped to and rowed toward them.
John helped them with the luggage and stood by as everyone clambered with difficulty into the boat. In fact it was fortunate that he did, for the vessel listed this way and that, and Hannah, who was endeavoring to keep her balance while she clasped a bag with one hand and clutched the generous flounces of her skirts with the other, wobbled violently and would have fallen in had John not come to the rescue. Kate fared better because she lifted her long skirts right up above her knees and draped them over one arm while she took hold of John’s proffered hand. Hannah was scandalized at the sight of her charge showing her legs to all and sundry and pursed her lips. However, a smile soon came to her face as she saw John imitating the ladies and pretending to lose his balance before leaping out onto the slimy shore. The wherry was twenty feet long, and by the time four passengers, several items of luggage, and two watermen were installed, it lay very low in the water. The Thames was turbulent on this stretch of the river and waves lapped against the wooden sides of the boat, and there was a satisfying thwack as the front of the wherry rose up and then slapped the surface of the water as it fell back again. They became accustomed to the stench surprisingly quickly and the fresh breeze which ruffled Kate’s hair put her in mind of the sea journey that was soon to come.
John took his leave of them, as there was not enough room in the boat to take him too, and he wished everyone a safe journey. He bade Hannah be strong in the face of all the rich food she would shortly be obliged to eat and prayed that she would not return home all French-ified and triple their butter bill….
The watermen were attuned to the river’s ways. Not for an instant did they lose their balance as they moved about the boat, and when they started to row it was in perfect unison, with powerful, athletic strokes. The boat cut through the choppy water and soon John was left behind, waving from the bank. John’s cry was carried away in the breeze, only just audible, and neither Hannah nor Mr. Schock heard him. But Kate did. And so did Peter.
“Good luck, Master Peter!” he cried to his master.
Kate turned around as sharply as if she had been slapped in the face and stared questioningly at the man whose identity was suddenly in doubt. Could she have misheard? Peter smiled innocently, pretending not to have noticed John’s slip of the tongue, and then turned to look fixedly at the opposite bank and their destination. His father was facing the same way. Kate caught sight of both of them in profile. Joshua and Mr. Schock had similar builds, she thought, but very different coloring and features. Mr. Schock’s chin was bigger and his ears were smaller than Joshua’s. But their noses … Kate gave a sudden gasp. They had the same nose! Could this man—easily as old as her father—really be Peter? She felt a little giddy as the possibility sank in and her heart started to beat wildly. As for Peter, he could feel Kate’s eyes burning into him, but he did not once return her gaze.
Halfway across the Thames they had to stop on account of a small ship, with billowing, dun-colored sails, which had emptied its cargo of mackerel at Billingsgate and was now returning to the coast. Hannah grabbed hold of Kate’s arm.
“Look, Mistress Kate! Did you ever see a better view of the city?”
Kate nodded distractedly. She had other things on her mind than the panorama of domes and towers, bridges and steeples that rose up to the west of them. She had to decide what to do. By the time they had reached the opposite shore, Kate had come to a decision. She would confront Joshua and ask him to his face who he really was, but she would wait until they were alone…. In the meantime she looked first at one nose and then at the other to compare the two. A sliver of a doubt set in. Was there really a family likeness between these two noses? She turned her head to and fro so many times she could have been watching a tennis match. Hannah observed Kate’s behavior anxiously—not only did she look pale and tired but now she had developed a nervous tic. And they hadn’t even reached the stagecoach yet, let alone France….
Kate now stared quite blatantly at Joshua, not caring if she was being rude. She studied this eighteenth-century gentleman in his fine clothes, observed his quick, dark eyes that took in everything, looked at his feet which could not keep still when the rest of him could, and, finally, recognized something familiar about the cast of his mouth, the way that he held it, like the young Peter Schock was apt to do, in a crooked half-smile when he was self-conscious or embarrassed. He was Peter! He was! All at once she was certain of it. How could she have missed something so obvious? But what possible reason could Peter have for concealing his true identity so cruelly?
FIFTEEN
THE DOVER PACKET
In which a supporter of the revolution flees the country and receives a hero’s welcome, Kate confronts Peter, and the party arrives on French shores
At nightfall a fresh northeasterly wind blew up, which boded well for the passage of the Dover packet across the English Channel. It sent ribbons of clouds scudding across the luminous sky while high above the cliffs, Dover Castle, bathed in moonlight, looked out over a silvery sea. Below, facing the harbor where giant, rusting chains draped themselves over stone quaysides and masts creaked and waves lapped against the prows of sailing ships, stood a whitewashed inn.
Inside the low-ceilinged dining room, Hannah, Kate, Peter, and Mr. Schock were looking forward to their beds. A roaring fire, a bellyful of pigeon pie, and the tang of sea air after a long journey would make anyone sleepy, yet the fatigue that could be discerned in Kate’s face was more than that. Her skin was waxy pale and her eyes hollow. To Hannah’s disappointment Kate had pecked at her food even though she had said she was hungry. But now, warm and satisfied, everyone drooped over the table, snug inside a large inglenook, and only Hannah was alert enough to be interested in what was going on around them.
The bustling dining room was full to bursting, and it was difficult to make oneself heard above the good-humored din. One group, however, sat silent and subdued at a corner table. There was a boy, a little older than Kate, who stared blankly in front of him with large, dark eyes that spoke of fathomless despair. Hannah nudged Kate’s arm.
“They are come from France. Look at that poor child; why, he s
hould be abed, just as you should, Miss Kate.”
Kate was sure that it was more than lack of sleep that was wrong with him. He wore a shirt with long, flowing sleeves and an embroidered silk waistcoat of the highest quality, but it was grimy and finely spattered with mud or perhaps red wine.
The landlord, a broad-shouldered man with ruddy cheeks, was trying to squeeze between their table and the neighboring one in order to attend to the fire. He carried a bundle of wood and was panting with the effort of holding it up. Neither Kate nor Hannah had noticed him.
“By your leave, my ladies,” he said.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Kate, as she and Hannah drew in their chairs. The landlord dropped the logs onto the fire, causing a shower of glittering sparks. As he made his way back, he noticed the pile of books intended for the Marquis de Montfaron, which Peter had placed in front of him and was intending to dip into before he retired for the night.
The landlord nodded at a volume of Thomas Paine’s The Rights of Man, which was on the top of the pile.
“I am proud to have the author of that book sleeping under my roof tonight. Are you bound for Calais, sir?”
“Yes, we sail with the tide in the morning.”
“In which case, you and Mr. Thomas Paine will be fellow passengers,” said the landlord before disappearing into the kitchens. “He’ll have a warmer welcome in France than he’s been used to of late, and that’s for sure!”
“Upon my word,” said Peter, “we shall be traveling in distinguished company!”
“Who is Thomas Paine?” asked Kate.
“Mr. Paine is an Englishman and a thinker of some repute—at least, according to some…. He played no small part in encouraging the American colonists to break away from British rule—”
“Oh!” said Kate. “Isn’t America a British colony anymore!”
“Did you not know, Mistress Kate?” said Hannah. “It must be nigh on ten years since the war ended.”
“I bet Parson Ledbury didn’t take the news too well!”
“Not to mention King George,” said Peter. “And now Mr. Paine turns his attention to the French Revolution—which he defends in no uncertain terms in his renowned book. It has won him friends and enemies in equal measure….”
“‘Renowned’ isn’t a word I’d care to use about that book, sir, if you’ll pardon me for saying so,” said Hannah. “I’ve heard John and his cronies talk about it….”
“John has read it!” said Peter in surprise.
“Well, no, but Mr. Soanes’ footman has…. He and John were sitting around our kitchen table half the morning last week, while his master was away and John was busy polishing the shoes. And Mr. Paine’s book had set him off on talking about the rights and freedoms of the common man and I know not what…. Though they were very happy for a common woman to wait on them…. And then the butcher’s lad came in to deliver a ham, and lingered awhile to listen to the conversation, and he said that in his opinion it was a fine thing that the French people had thrown off the shackles which had so long oppressed them! And he’s barely fifteen, if you please! So I asked him,” continued Hannah, “if he thought that we should do likewise and rise up against our masters. To which he replied that if he could stop being a butcher’s boy, and have a share in some of what he sees his betters enjoying, he’d be all for it!”
Hannah looked so outraged it made Kate laugh.
“You’d better watch yourself, Joshua!” said Mr. Schock. “It sounds like there’s rumblings below stairs….”
For the first time in many years, Peter saw himself through twenty-first-century eyes—a gentleman of means who was used to having servants at his beck and call. Suddenly he felt very uncomfortable.
“I know I’m not an educated woman,” continued Hannah, “but I say that coffee house philosophizing is all very well, but whoever has an ounce of common sense would not wish what is happening in France to happen here! Faith, we’ve already had one revolution and where did that get us?”
“Actually, Hannah’s got a point,” said Mr. Schock, “after all, in a very few years the French will …”
Kate stared meaningfully at Mr. Schock and stroked a finger across her lips as if to zip them up. He smiled and stopped mid-sentence. She’s learning to handle my father better than I ever could, thought Peter.
The fire suddenly blazed as the new logs caught fire and great orange flames flew up the chimney.
“Why does our host not baste us with a little goose fat and have done with it, for his guests are already slowly roasting,” said Hannah.
Kate laughed and fanned poor Hannah’s scarlet cheeks with her napkin. “You know,” said Kate, “you can get a really good breeze around your legs if you just lift your skirts up and down. Look, like this.”
Kate hoisted her skirts above her knees and let them drop. Hannah put on a severe expression and slapped her hand on Kate’s skirts, but then smiled.
“Are you trying to teach your grandmother to suck eggs, Miss Kate? There’s all sorts of things you can do with a long skirt, but there’s a time and a place for everything.”
On their way to their rooms they passed an alcove just big enough for one table. Someone, a youngish man from what Kate could tell, was slumped forward, his fingers still wrapped around a tankard of ale. He was facing away from them, sound asleep. His golden hair glowed in the soft candlelight. Two serving wenches stood over him, craning their necks to look at his face.
“Have you ever seen a more handsome lad in your whole life?” Kate heard one say to the other.
“Never,” said the other, gently trying to extricate his fingers from the handle.
“And such happy manners …”
“When he started to sing, and asked me to join him in a verse, and he put an arm around my shoulders, oh, I fair near swooned!”
Kate looked back at him as she climbed the stairs, idly hoping that the sleeping youth would turn over so she could see his face, but he merely snored contentedly and did not stir.
As soon as they retired to bed, Kate fell instantly into a deep sleep, from which she did not stir until Hannah awoke her in the middle of a dream in which the persons of Joshua and young Peter and Mr. Schock had all become confused. When she tried to make sense of it, the shreds of the dream dissolved into the day like ice into water.
The rest of the party had spent a tolerably comfortable night at the inn but were eager to continue with their journey and had little appetite for breakfast. Before they set off, however, they witnessed a distressing incident. The innkeeper and his son were setting up half a side of beef on a spit in front of the fire in the dining room. As the men returned to the kitchen, carrying long butchering knives, they passed in front of the table occupied by the party recently arrived from France. The boy was staring vacantly into space, showing no interest in his plate of bread and butter, but when his attention was unexpectedly caught by the bloodstained blades, he started to scream hysterically and to fight with an unseen foe. It was several minutes before he would allow himself to be calmed and even then he sat, shaking and mute, his body safe and sound in the confines of the inn, his mind elsewhere, still trapped in some dark and terrifying place. The distraught innkeeper hurriedly sent his son back to the kitchen with the knives and went to offer his assistance to the young demoiselle who was trying to comfort the boy. They exchanged a few words in broken English and Kate saw the bighearted innkeeper pass a hand over his face. She had the impression he was close to tears. Then he pressed some gold into the young woman’s hand which she would not accept, but he insisted, closing her fingers around the cold coins.
Before they left, Hannah asked the innkeeper what ailed the boy.
“Freedom comes at a price, madam. The poor lad was caught up in events in Paris and has seen things the like of which no child should see. I will say no more with ladies and children present, particularly those who are bound for France. But I do say, have a care, for these are dangerous times. I do not know your politics but you
would be well advised to wear a tricolor cockade to show your allegiance to the Revolution. After last week’s turmoil in Paris, the whole country is as jumpy as a March hare.”
At eight o’clock they were on the quayside, and Hannah and Kate warmed themselves in the morning sunshine while white-shirted sailors stowed cargo on the Dover packet. They were a little late after the incident at the inn, but it was of no consequence, for the captain was still awaiting the mail coach, without which he could not leave. There were few passengers on the outward journey, but the captain said that with the recent news of events in Paris, he would be surprised if he did not have a full ship on his return home.
The tall sailing ship creaked and groaned as she rose and fell with the waves, for the sea was choppy, even in the shelter of the harbor. Kate looked up at the mast and the young sailor climbing along the rigging like a monkey, and she longed to be away. Hannah had kept a chunk of bread from breakfast, and she and Kate amused themselves by throwing crumbs high into the air for the sharp-beaked seagulls who swooped and dived to take them with unerring accuracy and breathtaking acrobatics.
Kate watched Peter and Mr. Schock bend over today’s copy of The Times. The pages flapped about in the energetic breeze. Every so often Mr. Schock would recognize a name and he would read it aloud: “Danton!” he would exclaim. “Robespierre!” “Marat!” These people meant nothing to Kate, but she supposed they must be famous if even Mr. Schock had heard of them. He seemed at once dismayed and excited by it all, while the only thing of immediate interest in 1792 for Kate was finding her friend. Unless, of course, she had, in point of fact, already found him. She adjusted her position until she could observe both men’s noses in profile. As soon as I can get Joshua by himself, she thought, I am going to ask him. And if it is Peter, I’m going to tell the liar exactly what I think of him!
Gideon 02 -The Time Thief Page 24