He spit at a sea bird swooping low, and then laughed as it swerved to be missed. “Those weeds are going to poison somebody someday, Missy, and I hope I’m not there to see it, particularly if it’s you.”
She wasn’t really listening. She was thinking of Ambrose Standish skulking about the ship like a stowaway. Or just the natural sneak that he was. Did he really think they would not notice? There was little on this ship that Mr. Whayles didn’t notice, and now there were two Mr. Whayles.
They were both gone about their business, but she added absently anyway, “Carry on, Mr. Whayles.”
Later that night, Kate put her things in a small launch and left the Wilde. She had things to do on her own, and didn’t want her ship involved, or her crew.
* * * * *
Ambrose Standish woke up and stretched. Damned comfortable for a ship, he thought. He hadn’t felt this well in days. Perhaps now he could chat with the Frenchmen about all matters French. And a few American matters too. And about how the two were really not so different after all. No harm in testing all the waters before you jumped into the turbulent pool.
He burped. It felt foul in his throat—too much Brandy, too little food. He hadn’t realized he had drunk so much until his cabin started swimming around him. He thought he was getting seasick for real. The Earl’s Brandy was good stock and there was plenty of it. Ambrose was envious, but most men were jealous of such things, he was sure.
The Earl was more knowledgeable than he seemed at first chat. It slipped sometimes when he was drunk. But he had no ambition, no desire to use his contacts to any solid purpose. The French had something to gain, because they had lost something along the way. Ambrose knew they were also frustrated with the Earl, but they would be patient and live in luxury along the way to redemption to their former lives in France.
But what if they never returned; never went home? They still had wealth and a certain martyred position in England.
“Idle rich.”
Yes, he was envious. No denying that.
Ambrose opened his eyes.
He started up.
“Where the hell—“
God damn it. God damn her.
He rose, staggered, and grabbed his head. He sat on the edge of the bunk for a moment, and then got his bearings. This was not the Wilde. He knew that ship very well, had made a point of it. They thought him ill and out of sorts, but he was planning, pretending, learning, and almost ready to put his plan into action.
He had known their position exactly. He knew where they were headed when first they set out. The meeting would have been quick, the exchange smooth, then all would be to his advantage again. It was all planned. It would have been perfect. He knew where Kate was heading, and in turn, they had not a clue what he was about.
All he needed was two more days.
And now he was here on the British ship, which was somewhere else than where he wanted to be. Needed to be. His contacts would not wait. They would not trust him after this. He would have to build a new network and that would take time. That is the one thing he had little of.
He took a deep breath and slipped into his boots. He stood, but paused at his lightheadedness. Then he scuffled out, dragging his heels. There was a Marine guard at his door. Standish ordered, “Tell the captain that I wish to speak.”
The Marine ignored him.
“If you don’t move your arse, I’ll kick it overboard. Now off with you before you were sorry I was born.”
The Marine hesitated, but left. He didn’t get very far; Dr. Llewellyn was nearby. The surgeon waved the Marine back into position.
“Ah, you’re awake. I was beginning to wonder you might be more dead than alive. But I figured you would make it when you started snoring like a walrus bull. Our other guests are not faring so well.”
“What’s that?”
“Seems they had a fashionable run of bad health and are sticking very near to the privies and their pails. It seems to be coming out both ends, and I fear they are now making wagers.”
Standish swallowed and cleared his throat. “That’s more than I prefer to know.”
Dr. Llewellyn just bowed.
Standish demanded, “I want to speak to the captain.”
“He is on the quarterdeck,” the surgeon said. “Can you find your own way?”
“I can.”
It only took a few moments.
The captain ignored Ambrose Standish as he scanned the horizon with a spyglass. It was a long time before he spoke. “Mr. Standish, welcome aboard, sir.”
“Welcome aboard? I was kidnaped.”
“Hardly that. The Earl gave his leave, and how was I to know? Besides, Mr. Whayles said you would be here or in the drink. I thought I was doing you a favor.”
“You must take me back to the Wilde. I must be with Kate.”
“I am afraid that is not really possible, sir. But perhaps you can discuss the matter with the Earl when he has pulled his arse from the privy hole and his head from the bucket. Or do I mean that the other way round?”
Someone snickered.
“On about your business, Mr. Murray,” the captain said to the midshipman behind him. Then he made to leave the quarterdeck himself.
Standish followed. “What am I to do?” he demanded.
The captain stopped, opened his mouth, and then thought better of his first words. Instead, he said, “Perhaps some tea in my cabin?”
Standish looked around. “Yes, very well, perhaps you’re right.”
Sir Edward ordered tea from his steward and offered Standish a seat. They sat together at the captain’s table, which was scattered with books, charts, and some bits from old quills and inkpots, which had seen fuller days.
“You know her very well,” Sir Edward said, carefully stacking the books out of the way.
“Kate? No, I wouldn’t say that. I knew her when she was a child. I see her on occasion now. I knew her family in New England, and I know a couple of her uncles from the war and local politics. How well is that?”
“Well enough. Where did she learn to speak French?”
Standish shrugged. “I didn’t know that she did. It wouldn’t surprise me that she knew it. It might surprise me that she admitted to knowing, for reasons that are private to Kate, of course. She speaks several other languages. Her father took her all over the world, and being a bright child, she was probably bored and learned them to be annoying to the rest of the crew.”
“How so?”
Someone knocked; Sir Edward called to enter. It was a servant with the tea. The man poured, then left.
“How so?” he said again.
“Forget I said it, I spoke out of turn. Perhaps I’m just envious of her prospects.”
“She’s a woman, what prospects are left to her but a good marriage?”
Standish looked surprised. He studied the captain for a moment. “Tell me, Sir Edward, have you thought more about our little chat. I meant no disrespect; I only want our countries to be allies. It could mean much to the career of the men who could see that come about.”
“I had not thought of it at all.”
Standish turned red. Then he sipped at his tea. It was hot and he took in too much. He started gagging in pain.
The captain sat back and watched him a moment. “Why do you need to go back to the Wilde?”
The change was instant. Standish stopped gagging, and he opened his mouth in an attempt to smile. It was clear that his heart wasn’t in it. “Just a first reaction, that’s all,” he said. “I will be happy to carry on with you and the Earl as my hosts.”
Sir Edward wasn’t sure how to take this quick maneuvering. “You said she learned languages on her father’s ships.”
“Not exactly that, but the inference is correct. Why is it important?”
“Not important, I am just curious.”
“Ah, has the fair Kate caught your interest? Steer clear, Captain Lindsay, those are dark and stormy waters.”
The captain’s eyebrows rose. He forced
them back down and stared into his teacup. She acted as if she didn’t understand French, yet he had heard her speak it himself. Sir Edward was suspicious of her motives for carrying the Earl and the Frenchmen into waters so close to the Spanish coast. But he could not really mention the French she spoke in her sleep, especially as he didn’t see that it had much bearing on the issue at hand. At least he hoped it did not.
Standish was still talking. "Her mother spoke several languages quite well, including some of the native dialects. Katherine had an ear for such things. Waste of time, if you ask me—French, of course, Spanish, Hessian and Italian maybe. But the native tongues were useless in the long run. Some tribes don't even exist anymore and thank God, disease and the flintlock for that."
"So you have known the family that long?"
"Oh yes. My father grew up in Connecticut with the Senlis brothers. Then he followed them up to the harbors of New York and north. There was a sister or two, now that I remember, but those had married and moved away by the time my family came into it."
"I believe your own family had a patriarch in the colonies. Miles Standish? A captain of some kind, I hear it told," the captain said.
"The Standish name goes back to near the beginning, true, but not my own line. In any case, the name is the same, and who is to know the wiser, eh?"
He winked.
"Do you know anyone named Little?" the captain asked.
"Little?" Standish scratched his cheek.
"One of the sailors called Kate by a name. Mattie Little, he said."
Standish shrugged. "Who’s to say what she does on her own? I'm not one to judge her. Lord knows she's had an unusual life."
"Aye, that is true."
“I best be on with my business,” Standish said, rising.
“Your business?”
“Being deferential to the aristocracy of France and England, sir. It is my job, my livelihood, and I’m very good at it.”
When Standish was gone, Sir Edward got up and started to pace, not feeling better for the exchange. He didn’t like Ambrose Standish. But the suggestions he made were more from ambition than subversion. And Sir Edward suspected his unease was more for Standish’s relationship with Kate Senlis than for any other reason.
What was she about? Why had she taken the Wilde to that particular place, and what was she up to now?
Sir Edward wished he had put one of his officers on the ship to see them along, but that might have tipped his hand. Even Sir Hugh could not have foreseen the Earl’s intervention. But Sir Edward was convinced that someone on the Wilde was there to make a contact near the shore.
But who was involved now, and which shore: Spain or France or both?
Spain was worse, for that could mean another alliance with the French against Britain. That region of France could turn either way, since the area was known to be a wasp’s nest for both sides of their conflict. But he knew it was important that Britain not be left out of French Royalist plans. The Crown had to know what was happening here.
It was an uncomfortable position, one of great interest to King and his council. That was good for his career, or it could be very bad. Either way, he didn’t care to play it this way. He would rather fight like he was used to and board the enemy head on.
There was no good way of looking at this, but the best that Sir Edward could do for right now was to turn sails to catch the wind back to England and make time as fast he could.
In the mean time, there was one other question he had little hope of solving. Perhaps it was worth finding Kate Senlis again just to ask her. Why in the world did the Wilde have so many sprigs of bay laurel in the hold?
* * * * *
CHAPTER 16 - Adrift
It had been two nights and three days since she left the Wilde, and Kate couldn’t remember feeling so dirty before, except perhaps there in the French prison. That was a different kind of dirty, and not just on the skin. This was more familiar: some grime was from the salt that clung to her skin after having been hit by an unruly wave or two. Some was from sweat on these hot days. Some was the stink of nerves. And loneliness.
That is what scared her most, that feeling of being so utterly alone was not unfamiliar. But where and when, and why had she felt that way before? She couldn’t quite remember. At least on the sea like this, so close to the water that at anytime she could put in a foot or a hand, she hadn’t dreamed in awhile.
She fed the passing birds, gulls and others, which were good signs that land was still near. She could often see it plain enough, but more than once in her life a heavy cloudbank had been mistaken for land, and that was also a danger now. She was always glad to see it lift again.
And then there was the tide. She knew well enough what she had to do to keep from drifting out to sea, and if her strength failed her, if she slept too long, she knew the consequences too well.
Kate missed the comfort of her bunk on her ship and wondered each evening if she would drift out to sea and be lost. Each time she saw land again, she cursed herself for this foolish task.
Louis died, she thought, but I am at home here now.
“I should stop complaining and attend to myself.”
If she ended up adrift in the middle of the Atlantic, she had no one to blame but herself.
“Most young ladies go to parties. And teas. And dinners with music and dancing after.”
Most young ladies cared about things like how their hair was fashioned and how much scent to put on it . . . and new clothes . . . and soft shoes.
“And a soft spot to sit.”
Kate adjusted her backside on the hard seat of the boat, but it didn’t help much.
“Most young ladies are married with children by now.”
Not that she missed such things. She knew how much love like that could hurt. It was just that sometimes Kate felt . . . left out.
Her stomach complained of its empty state, but she didn’t want dried beef and biscuits again. At first, Kate tried to eat the beef with some of the herbs she had filched, but found she was no French chef. Often on board a long voyage, it had been the same thing. Maybe it was seeing the shoreline and all the possibilities there . . .
Shoreline—
She glanced around full circle. There was nothing to see but water, clouds, and birds. She was alone, hungry, and maybe lost. It seemed that Louis Dumars might have had a higher opinion of her abilities than he should have.
“But that is no fault of my own,” she said, waving the birds away.
Kate wished she had her piccolo. It seemed like just something extra to carry at the time, but now she missed the company of music—and the distraction. But there were other things she thought of, wanted, missed . . . like a crisp apple cool from the morning dew . . . hot cocoa in the evening.
Lemon meringue pie—it had been years since she had lemon meringue pie. That was in Boston at Terry’s house, and only once. It was wonderful, unusual, worth dreaming about.
“And probably prevents scurvy too.”
She giggled, but caught the sound as it threatened to get away from her and turn into a sob. Kate forced herself to sit up straight. It had not even been that long since she had been on the Wilde. She had been through worse times in France, and not so long ago.
And now I bemoan an empty belly and the want of a bath, she thought. “I am too soft, too complaining. I would never have made a good pioneer wife.”
Not like her mother. Or sea-faring brides like Mrs. O’Malley. The Irish woman was no pioneer, but she had known a rough time or two. Instead of complaining, Rosalee O’Malley made sure she gave back as good as she got. Rosalee O’Malley was a wonder, Kate decided, and wondered if Mrs. O’Malley had ever had lemon meringue pie.
A blister popped on her hand. Kate swore, first in French, then in Spanish since she wasn’t sure just which shore she was invading.
This must have been what it was like to be a Viking, she thought. Open ships, long months of travel subject to the whims of the weather, and fa
tigue from the constant need to be rowing. Then there were the smelly bodies, but at least they had company. Not just the birds that perched on your rails taking liberty with your food and their own privy habits.
And the dark was even worse. The nights had been colder than she expected. The wool blanket was barely enough to keep out the foggy chill. Still, she kept on. The Wilde was long out of sight, and the Stalwart too, though not out of mind.
But it wasn’t Ambrose Standish she was thinking about—it was Edward Lindsay. Kate felt another pang of loneliness, but this was a different kind. This was not missing the familiar, but more of a longing for what might have been.
He didn’t like her—that much was clear. And trust would never come easy for a man like him. But even a scowl from him made her feel better than no look at all.
“I am hopeless.”
Kate wondered what a normal woman would do. What would Terry do? No, Terry would not have this dilemma. She usually had the opposite problem of how to get rid of too many suitors.
Was she married now? Did she have children? Was she still in Boston, and how had she fared through the war?
“With one hand on the arm of a British officer and the other with a pistol to his back, no doubt. Good for her.”
Kate closed her eyes to freeze the picture in her mind, but slowly shook her head. Terry probably made it through the war arguing with some British officer of noble birth, even treating the British wounded while slipping supplies to the rebels behind their backs. Then she probably married him in the end when all was said and done. And won. No, Terry couldn’t help her now. Not in this pointed problem of Edward Lindsay.
“What would I do in Terry’s world?”
Bat my eyelashes and giggle?
Flutter my fan and give him a wink?
Curtsy, smile coyly, and demand an escort me to the dinner table?
Kate couldn’t picture herself doing such things. She tried the eyelashes and the giggle, and then fluttered her make-believe fan. A gull squawked on its way over head. She gave it a look of disdain. It ignored her and landed on the bow, staring still and straight ahead like a figurehead.
The Wilde Flower Saga: A Contrary Wind (Historical Adventure Series) Page 16