The Wilde Flower Saga: A Contrary Wind (Historical Adventure Series)

by Schulz, Marilyn M

  "Perhaps just a fortnight would suffice?" the Marquis offered. “We will need not have all the renovations completed, I’m thinking, nor full supplies put on board as the journey will soon have us back here again. Perhaps it would not be wise to have a port in mind.”

  It was all meant as a form of disguise, for distance could also be gauged by water and supplies. The Earl nodded and tapped his forehead, murmuring, “Ah, spies. Good thinking. You think there might be sea hunters looming.”

  The Frenchmen snickered. Clearly they had forgotten about the Royal Navy’s own blockade.

  Standish glanced back to Kate then. She had been watching the other Frenchman intently, same as himself when he got the chance. The Marquis’s cousin hadn’t said much, other than suggesting the journey in the first place. But he had been looking everywhere.

  The man had bulges under his jacket; clearly he was holding pistols there. He also wore a long blade, shorter than a sword, but with more reach than a regular knife. There were telltale signs of straps at his neck, which held a knife between his shoulder blades as well. It made for easy, but concealed, access.

  A bodyguard, she thought, probably for the Marquis. Royalists in England were skittish, it seems. She couldn’t blame him for that.

  Ambrose and the Marquis were chatting in French now. Both were standing so close to Kate that she felt caged. They were also talking about her, and didn’t realize she understood every word. Better if they didn’t know that though, but it was hard keeping her temper.

  She stepped away, but the Marquis followed each move. She glanced around for salvation.

  They were near a wall of stone, which had steps leading up to the streets. Several Naval officers were standing up there, some talking, some just looking out to sea. Possibly waiting for conveyance to their ships, she thought, or just wishing it could be.

  No help there. Kate took a turn to the pier. There was a stack of bundled cargo there, probably cotton coming in for milling. The bale on the bottom had a hole torn away in the outer binding. A little dog was scratching at it frantically.

  She went over, followed closely by the French.

  "What do you have there, Kate?" Standish called.

  She picked up the dog. It was obviously a hungry stray that had once known some human attention. It yipped excitedly and licked at her face. She set it down and rubbed at her cheek. The animal had been chewing on a long-dead rat. She could easily tell by the smell, though the others didn't seem to notice.

  The little beast circled her legs, then rolled over and let out a fountain of pee, panting at the pleasure of her company. Standish backed away, but when the Marquis again stepped near her, Kate knelt and picked up the little dog again.

  "Look, isn't it darling," she cooed, and held it against his chest. "Be a lamb and carry it for me. It seems in need of some tenderness.”As the man opened his mouth to protest, the mutt started to lick, ending up in a French kiss of the worst sort. The Marquis dropped the dog and started to cough. The others had the sense to back away, for the dog started gagging as well.

  In a moment, the last remains of a long-departed rodent were deposited in a steaming pile before them all. The Marquis went into full convolutions then, losing what was left of his night’s worth of revel right where they stood on the quay. The sound made Kate queasy as well.

  "I don't think that I could care for a man who doesn't like animals," she said. "Anyway, you will excuse me, I have to see to the ship if there’s to be an upcoming adventure. My Lords, gentlemen."

  She again curtsied as etiquette required and hurried away to the snickers of the dockworkers nearby. The dog watched after her for a moment, and then went back to his rat.

  Captain Lindsay was still near and still looking down from the top of the stone wall. She thought to wave, to tell him that he was seen and not sneaky at all, but Ambrose Standish called and hurried to catch up.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER 10 - Louis Dumars

  "What was that all about, Kate?" Standish demanded.

  "I thought it went rather well."

  "Well? Do you know who that man is?"

  "Of course, he's the Earl, he gave me money. I never forget a business transaction. It's something my father—"

  "I meant the other one."

  Her mouth twisted in the remembrance. She knew he wasn’t talking about the Marquis. "He looked mean. I'll wager his shoes were as tight as his trousers."

  "He has no business with the others."

  "His coat was too plain? He didn't flinch when he got dust on his stockings? Perhaps he just doesn’t like the weather here, England is such a foggy place sometimes."

  He rolled his eyes. "Kate, he's a French Republican. I’m sure of it. Happily, he didn't notice me much overly. I hear they like to slit throats when they don’t have a guillotine handy."

  "I’m sure he wouldn’t take the trouble. Spoiled little brats, all three, grown up to be wasted excuses for men—my father would have made short work of them."

  They had reached the ship by then. Standish pulled her aside into the shade of a nearby awning.

  "For God's sakes, don't speak of it so loudly. I’ll wager he's a spy. Or maybe he's here on sordid business and the Marquis is the spy. Or maybe the Earl . . ."

  He rubbed his chin in thought. She had seen Sir Edward do the same thing, and she wondered just how much the two of one another.

  She said, "The Earl can't be a spy, he wants to go to India."

  "What was that?"

  "What would be the point of making spy connections now if you're going to India? He will be gone at least a year on his own adventures. Maybe more if a foul mood of weather chases him awry. Maybe forever if it catches him. I hope he doesn’t sink my ship. I hadn’t thought of that."

  Standish thought for a moment. "Well, perhaps it's a disguise of sorts, a secret identity. Perhaps they are not foolish at all, but clever—"

  "I can think of better ones,” she said, “like an American diplomat, for instance, or perhaps an austere British captain who would rather chase a pair of French corvettes across the cold North Sea than break into a smile. I don’t care about the war with France. We already won our war. I shouldn’t get pulled into another just because I wasn’t there to see it."

  He glanced around and found a place to sit. "What do you care about, Kate?" he said quietly.

  She shrugged and brushed at a fly. "Family, friends, my ships. What else is there?" She noticed that her hand still smelled of dog.

  He stated the obvious, holding his nose, "You smell like that nasty little brut."

  "True, but he is a French nobleman. Well, a former one, even if he won’t admit it."

  "I meant the dog,” Standish said.

  She grinned. "I'll go change. I feel useless in a gown when there’s so much work to be done."

  "I'll wait here, I want to talk more," he said.

  Kate thought he looked like an unhappy toad there on his seat. She said, "Then you better come along, or else I’ll get myself in trouble with the Hessians again."

  "Why did you hire them in the first place? I hear they yodel when they're happy and cook sour cabbage when they’re not. I can't understand a word they say in any case."

  "Luckily, they are not happy all that often,” she said. “And I understand them well enough, though my own diction is seldom practiced and I suspect it’s a point of humor to them."

  They walked up the gangplank and across the deck. The Hessian foreman glared all the way. She ignored him, to his obvious relief. They went to another cabin, not her own. Kate opened the door and waved him inside.

  "Wait in here. Have some sherry; you look a little pale. I won’t be a moment."

  She was a few moments, in fact, and Standish was on his second glass of sherry by then.

  "You don't care, do you?" he said, tapping on the cover of one of her mother's journals: the one documenting her family tree.

  "I like to know their names, where they lived, who they married
. I care about their children and who died where and when, but about privilege and position, no."

  "But you're one of them. It still matters in England, if not in France or America anymore. Why do you think the Marquis was so familiar with you?"

  She sniffed in false indignity. "There's no need to insult me."

  "It's not funny. Some people would give anything, do anything, to have what you have."

  Especially my money, she thought.

  "My father gave me what I have,” she said. “I didn't earn it, and I don't think I deserve it either. Still, I’m grateful. If I had to make a living as a seamstress, I think I might starve to death."

  He said, "I'm talking about your mother."

  Kate hesitated, and then looked down as she said, "She left me. I know it wasn’t her choice, but still, she went away."

  "I meant her family ties, Kate. "

  "You think more of them than I do. I should not have let you talk me into going to see Louis Dumars. It ended badly, though worse for him. Don’t you understand? I still wonder if that was my fault."

  She rubbed at her forehead. Her bruises were fading, her cuts were healing, but she still had terrible headaches. And the dreams—nightmares . . .

  His eyes were shifting around the cabin, but there was nothing much to see. "Kate, you must see the opportunities here. With all the upheaval, the possibilities are endless."

  Did he mean with France now and with her, or was he talking to her mother about all the troubles before the American Revolution? It sounded like something his father would say, had sometimes discussed with her parents. Suddenly she wondered what had become of the man.

  She wasn’t brave enough to ask about that. She said, "Possibilities? Those ended soon enough for Louis, and all those others who lost their freedom and then their heads. I can’t think of a worse way to die."

  Maybe she could, like being tortured to death.

  Ambrose said, "But it's not over, I know it. They have no strong leader there now and until they do, the opportunities are just waiting for someone like me."

  She wondered if maybe he knew about the map and all that Louis had told her. She hadn't really taken pains to hide the map very well, and the prisons were full of informers. Someone could have easily been listening. People would reveal anything to avoid the guillotine. That’s why Louis was arrested in the first place.

  And me, she thought. I was definitely in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was hard to imagine that such a betrayal could have been planned. She sighed.

  "You're not being fair," he said. "You have yours, so you don't care about others."

  He meant that he wanted to be rich, she knew, and France would be a new beginning for him. Easy pickings. In America, people knew him, his history, and his family’s too. Tories were still looked on with suspicion in some places. Someone with native blood would never be in line for greatness. It was just the way life worked—here, and there. He would not be the first to suffer from such social customs.

  But he also wanted to be well connected. Walking in privileged circles wasn't good enough for Ambrose Standish. That was only money. He needed to lord above someone else, and not just servants.

  She murmured, "You have proud people, Ambrose."

  "Not like yours. My God, Kate, the same blood that conquered these lands runs through your heart as we speak. It's there pumping, driving, and yet you deny it. You deny your birthright."

  "Now you do sound like a Kiowa. Your grandmother used to talk like that."

  He flinched and took another gulp of sherry.

  "That's why I can't think about it, Ambrose. If I gave it any mind, I would have to remember them too."

  "You mean your mother?" he said.

  "And my brothers. I never knew what lonely was until I didn't hear them teasing me anymore. I wonder if they still think of me?"

  He turned to pour more liquor. When he turned back, his face was blank, and his eyes seemed like they were looking faraway. "I can't help feeling that you're not telling me everything, Katherine." His voice was cold and distant too, as if he wasn't really talking to her, but to someone else.

  Her mother. She shivered.

  "You're cold," he said, his old self.

  "Just thinking about Louis."

  "You never told me about that place, about what happened there, I mean."

  He meant the gory details, but there was no way she would relive those by repeating them now. "I can't talk about it," she said.

  "Dumars should have gathered his money, and his art and jewels, and any loose coins he had lying around, then left in the middle of the night like the Marquis."

  "The only thing that he cared about he couldn't leave."

  Standish smirked. "Now what might that be—Mother France? His lands? His heritage? How sentimental and stupid. Lands can be taken away, but you can regain them again. Same with titles, but not so with your head."

  "Haven't you ever loved someone or something so much that you would risk everything?"

  He studied the glass in his hand, but she noticed that the fingers on his other hand were twitching. He blinked at her blankly again before he answered in that faraway voice.

  "Maybe, but I lost it. Eventually, I came to believe that I didn’t want it anymore.”

  "Louis did think it was worth it. Or he died to protect me. Either way, I owe the man my respect, if nothing else."

  "Is that all there is to it?"

  "What do you mean?" she said

  "I mean that the man with the Marquis isn't really his cousin. I think maybe he was more interested in you than the Marquis was, though you didn't seem to notice. The Marquis was acting to distract you while the other man just watched you."

  "Maybe they find me attractive?"

  She laughed, but he didn’t.

  He said, "They expect you to go along too."

  She shook her head. “They can think what they want. By the time they notice I’m not aboard, the Wilde will be well on her way to . . .“

  But then she thought of the possibilities.

  Standish watched her for a moment, and then he said lowly, "I think he's planning something, our shadowy friend.”

  His fingers were twitching again, though his eyes were focused on her quite clearly now. She didn’t like it. There was no warmth there. His eyes reminded her of a snake assessing the mouse as dinner.

  She shivered. "It has nothing to do with me."

  "How can you be sure?"

  "Because the French Republicans let me go, Ambrose. I was not worth the bother.”

  “Then why not just kill you?”

  “I’m American, with some means, as you keep saying. Someone would notice. They knew where I was heading.”

  He nodded then. “Your family, you mean. You think they would have been able to avenge you? Or is there something else you not saying? Are your ships carrying supplies for the Royalists?”

  She looked at him a moment, fascinated at the way his mind worked. She knew he was clever, but this was a reach she did not think of herself. Of course, the British would think of it too. Perhaps that’s why Sir Edward . . .

  But he was waiting for a response, and the longer she waited, the more he would suspect. She shrugged and said, “Ransom, revenge, who knows? I’m just glad it wasn’t necessary.”

  She pointed to the door and then started to leave.

  But he continued, "Have you considered that they let you go in order to follow you, to find out what it is that Louis might have told you before he died."

  "You assume he had secrets."

  "There could be something," he said. “Maybe Louis wanted to protect you by not telling you everything.”

  They were now on the deck.

  Or telling me anything, she thought, but said, "Something, like kidnaping the Marquis and taking him back to France for trial? He doesn't seem worth the effort. Why not just kill him, save the bother? Besides, don’t you think the Marquis would know his own danger and be sure of the men he
has traveling around him?"

  He said, "What if the Marquis isn't quite what he seems?"

  Two spies, she mused, what danger—better and better. She took a deep breath so as not to laugh, but the wind had shifted, and it smelled like hot sauerkraut. It was better than the confines of the cabin, but she felt a twinge of homesickness and the real freedom of the open sea. It always smelled better out there.

  She said, "You can’t have it both ways. The Marquis as a spy wouldn’t be kidnaped by the Republicans.”

  “Unless he was kidnapped to prove the point, and that’s how he would pass information. He could conveniently escape, just like you, and then they’d trust him explicitly.”

  Kate did laugh then, just a bit, but closed her mouth at his surly look. Finally, she said, “More likely it’s the other mysterious Frenchman, as you first suggested. He could be gathering information in the Earl’s circle, and now wants to pass it along.”

  He was studying her. Finally, he said, “You have a head for intrigue, Kate."

  "Not really, it's just obvious. Too obvious, I think, for it to be the case. What were you doing with Captain Lindsay on the quay this morning?"

  "Just seeing which way the wind blows," he said.

  She twisted her bracelet further up her arm. "And did he tell you what you wanted to know?"

  "No, not really. But I told him a few things."

  He was grinning now and resembled the little dog—breath, teeth and all. He wanted her to ask him about it, but she would not. She had to bite her lip to keep from doing so, but Kate held firm.

  "Are you going with them on the Wilde?" he said.

  "Mr. O'Malley is with Uncle Lewis, Ambrose. And the first officer is off to Scotland to visit his family. He disappeared before the press gangs could haul him away, and I bear him no blame for that. Anyway, I don't see as I have much choice, I don't trust anyone else. I must go."

  "A woman captain,” he said, shaking his head. “The Royal Navy will be dragging their anchors along to see that one."

  "That's reason enough," she said stubbornly.

  "What if the sailors don't do what you say?"