by Jane Feather
The buyers came as the sun rose. They gathered in the hold, all aware that they were buying contraband, no one interested in its provenance.
Olivia could hear the bustle as she lay dry-mouthed with pounding head, desperate to return to a sleep that would not come. She heard the scrape of the boats against the ship’s side, the feet on the deck, the voices, the comings and goings down the companionway. She couldn’t hear what was happening in the hold, but she could guess.
A wrecker.
He had said so, as casually as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if, of course, she would know it anyway. She knew he was a smuggler and a pirate, what more natural than that he should turn his hand to a bit of wrecking now and again?
If she turned her head, she could see the gown, the slippers, the stockings that she had worn during the enchanted hours of last evening. To whom had they belonged? What women, dashed to their deaths on St. Catherine’s Point, had treasured that green gown, those silk stockings, those satin slippers?
Nausea rose anew and Olivia struggled over the high sides of the bed and stumbled across the cabin to hang uselessly over the commode. She had never felt so ill, so achingly aware of every pulse and joint in her body. And she felt so bereft of hope, of happiness, of even the ordinary expectations of the little satisfactions of everyday life. She had swung high on the pendulum of entrancement. Its downward swing brought misery in exact proportion to the joy.
But she had felt this way before. Many times before. Throughout her childhood. One minute she had been happy, contented, deep in her books or her play, and then it would happen. This great black cloud would come out of nowhere, and there was no more happiness, no more contentment. She hadn’t known then where it came from, hadn’t connected it with those dreadful moments at Brian’s hands, but she knew it now. And this time the black cloud was of Anthony’s making.
She crawled back into bed and pulled the covers over her head. Her misery was her own fault. After Brian had touched her, she had always felt that she was somehow to blame; now she felt that same unfocused guilt. She had been a naive fool, allowed herself to be entranced by Anthony, invited him to entrance her, just as she had once believed that she had invited Brian’s violations. Believed that if she’d done something, said something different, they wouldn’t have happened.
* * *
It was mid-morning when Anthony came down to the cabin. He came in quietly, glancing towards the still figure in the bed. He hesitated, wondering whether to see if she was awake, but then, slipping into the habit he had acquired when Olivia had slept through the draft he had given her, he sat down at his table to work through the figures of the auction. It had been a very successful operation. He had paid Godfrey Channing eight hundred, but he had made seventeen hundred. Enough to please Ellen. Whether it was enough to sweeten the taste in his mouth from his dealings with the lordling was another matter.
Olivia felt rather than heard Anthony in the cabin. Her back still held the memory of his. His particular fragrance was in the air. Her curled and unhappy body still responded on a deep instinctual level to the knowledge of its partner so close.
Somehow she had to face him. Had to get off the ship and go home. And yet she didn’t know how to wake up. How to show herself. She didn’t think she could bear to look at him.
“Drink this, Olivia.”
He had come to the side of the bed with a cup in his hand. Olivia turned over, holding an arm over her eyes.
“It will help.”
“I’m not sure anything could,” she muttered even as she dragged herself up onto an elbow, keeping her eyes closed, afraid of what they would reveal if he looked into them. “When will we get back to the island?”
“By nightfall.” Anthony held the cup to her lips. “My poor sweet, does the light hurt that badly?”
“Terribly,” she murmured, thankful now for the excuse of her bodily ills.
“Never mind, you’ll be in your bed by midnight.”
“What is this?” Olivia sniffed the acrid contents of the cup.
“A hangover cure.”
She drank it. There were some ills he could ameliorate.
* * *
There was a soft light in her bedchamber. Someone had left a candle burning. Olivia stood at the foot of the magnolia calculating her climb. As she’d expected, it was going to be more difficult than the descent, but she’d climbed rope ladders onto frigates, jumped across boarding nets. She could do this. Phoebe had said she would leave the side door open, but this would be a safer way into the house. There would be no chance at all of running into anyone.
She jumped for the lowest branch, caught it with her arms, swung her legs against the trunk, and hauled herself up so that she hung over the branch. It was hard against her belly… just as Anthony’s shoulder had been as he’d carried her up over the side of Wind Dancer.
She threw out her legs, swung sideways, and straddled the branch. The rest was easy.
“So there you are, duckie.” Portia came to the window as Olivia emerged from the magnolia. “Did you have a delicious time?”
“Delicious.” Olivia jumped down. Her face was in shadow as she bent to acknowledge Juno’s exuberant greeting. “Is all well?”
“Cato and Rufus aren’t back yet. Phoebe and I have disposed of the food Mistress Bisset sent up and sat vigil around the bedcurtains. No one’s asked any awkward questions.” Portia struck flint on tinder and lit candles.
She lit the two-branched candlestick that Anthony had used for the chess game. Olivia moved into the shadows as Portia raised the candlestick.
“What’s wrong, Olivia?” Portia’s voice sharpened.
“I drank too much wine last night.” Olivia laughed slightly, keeping her face averted from the light.
“That’s all?” Portia set the candlestick on the mantelshelf. Her green-eyed gaze was uncomfortably penetrating.
Olivia turned to the bed, drawing aside the curtains. The soft white solitude offered by her deep feather bed was the only thing she desired. Bigger, deeper, more comforting than any passion.
“There’s no future to it, Portia.”
“Ah.” Portia understood. “No,” she said. “How could there be? Lord Granville’s daughter and a pirate in some cozy domestic setting? Impossible. That’s why Phoebe’s so troubled. It’s not so much your pirate’s somewhat unsavory means of earning a living. She doesn’t want you to be hurt… Oh, neither do I, of course… but it’s easier for me to see that you must decide for yourself.” She put her arm around Olivia’s shoulders.
“You do understand,” Olivia said quietly.
“How could I not?” Portia squeezed her shoulders.
Could she tell Portia about the wrecking? No, she couldn’t. It was too shaming. That she had allowed herself to be lost with desire for a man she didn’t understand at all… a man who could do such a thing.
“Will you see him again?”
“I don’t know,” Olivia replied.
Portia regarded her in silence for a minute, her eyes concerned. “It might be better to make a clean break now,” she suggested.
“Yes,” Olivia agreed.
Portia waited for her to go on, and when she didn’t, she said, “I can see you need your bed. I’ll leave you to it.” She kissed her and went to the door. “Oh, by the bye, Lord Channing came a-calling. In saffron silk.” She raised an ironic eyebrow. “With a gold plume to his hat. Quite the dandy, he is. He seemed quite put out when we said you were busy with your books and not receiving visitors.”
A shiver went down Olivia’s spine.
“Someone walk over your grave?” Portia inquired, her hand on the door.
“Does he remind you of Brian?”
Portia considered, her head to one side. “In what way?”
“His eyes. They’re so small and cold and hard. When he smiles it’s not really a smile at all. Just like Brian.”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to look at him more closely nex
t time. I can’t say I like him, though. He kicks dogs. Sleep well, now.” Portia went out, Juno on her heels.
Olivia sat down on the bed. Her head ached fiercely and she felt beset on all sides.
Anthony himself had sailed her to the cove just below Chale. He had walked with her to the boundary of the estate and left her to skirt the orchard and go in through the gate in the kitchen garden. To her relief he had seemed to accept her silence and had not questioned her mood. Olivia guessed he had put it down to the ill effects of her unwise evening.
He’d kissed her good night and said with one of his quiet smiles that she should look for him at Carisbrooke the next evening if she chose to attend the king’s presence.
Olivia didn’t know whether she would or not. She didn’t know whether she could bear to see him again. The black cloud enveloped her. He seemed to have a hand in everything that was unsavory, unlawful, immoral. What had once seemed amusing, exciting about his lifestyle and his view of the world now struck her as tawdry, as wrong. Everything about him was in direct opposition to her father, his beliefs, his honor, the way he lived his life. The way hitherto she had lived her own. And Anthony was going to try to rescue the king. She knew this and she had to keep this knowledge from her father. By keeping silent, she was colluding in a wrecker’s plot to outwit him.
Cato and Rufus returned the next morning. “You’re looking well, Olivia,” Cato observed as he passed her in the hall, noticing how her glowing complexion had a golden tinge to it. “Have you been out in the sun?”
“We’ve been taking the children for picnics,” she said.
“Ah, that would explain it.” He smiled. “I was just talking to Phoebe and Portia. They are attending the audience at Carisbrooke this evening. Will you accompany them?”
Olivia hesitated. Maybe her father could help her with one of her problems. “I would come willingly, but Lord Channing troubles me.”
“In what way?” Cato frowned.
“I don’t like him, sir,” she said simply. “And I don’t want him for a suitor, but I don’t know how to tell him that when he hasn’t actually declared himself. I was wondering if you might put him off for me.”
“It’s hard to put him off if he hasn’t declared himself.”
“I know, but maybe if you told him in passing that I intend never to marry, he’ll take the hint,” she suggested.
Cato shook his head in some amusement. “You’ll have to forgive me, Olivia, if I don’t take that too seriously. At some point you’ll change your mind. But you may rest assured I’ll make no attempt to press you to do so.”
He thought how like her mother she was. The same thick creamy complexion and black hair. Olivia had his own dark eyes, but they took their velvety quality from her mother. She had inherited from her father the long Granville nose and a certain determination to her mouth and chin. Additions that added distinction and character to her otherwise conventional beauty.
“I foresee an endless procession of prospective suitors,” he went on, still smiling. “You’re of age to marry and you have much to recommend you.” This last was said in a teasing voice, and Olivia couldn’t help responding with her own somewhat rueful smile.
“I shall reject them all, sir,” she declared. “But please c-could you try to reject this one for me? I really c-can’t endure to be in his presence.”
Cato knew the stammer only escaped her under pressure. “What has he done?” The question was sharp with concern.
Olivia shrugged helplessly. “Nothing… it’s just a feeling.”
Cato looked relieved. “I’ll see what I can discreetly do,” he offered, beginning to move away, his thoughts once more returning to the issue uppermost in his mind. Someone, somewhere on the island, had information about a plan for the king’s escape. Ordinarily the king’s affairs were known to his jailers almost before Charles was aware of them himself. It made the present impenetrable secrecy all the more puzzling.
It was this issue that had summoned him to London. Cromwell had suggested strongly that they move the king to some other, more secure prison. Cato had been reluctant to make the king’s life even more restricted than it was when they had nothing definite to go on, and it had been left that he would make what decisions he considered necessary as circumstances developed. If the king did escape, Lord Granville would be held solely responsible. It was an uncomfortable burden.
Olivia made her way to the parlor, where Phoebe and Portia were to be found in the noisy midst of their children.
“You came back just in time,” Phoebe said bluntly. “Cato returned at dawn.”
“And I was safely asleep in my bed,” Olivia said. “Thank you for… for, well, you know what I mean.”
“The ring was a clever idea… once we’d decided it wasn’t a cry for help,” Phoebe said, reaching into her pocket for Olivia’s braided ring.
Olivia took it. “Surely you didn’t think…”
“No, of course we didn’t,” Portia said, looking up with a quick smile from the toy soldier whose broken leg she was mending for her impatiently waiting son. “Phoebe’s only teasing.”
Olivia managed a half smile. “My father says you’re going to the c-castle this evening.”
“Yes, I’m missing my husband,” Portia said with a grin.
“Are you coming too, Olivia?” Phoebe asked.
Was she going to go? And yet even as she asked herself the question, she heard herself say, “Yes, I might as well, I suppose.”
Phoebe’s blue eyes glowed in ready sympathy. “It might take your mind off things, love. I don’t mean to pry but you seem so sad. Did things not go well after all?”
“They went very well. I’m just facing reality, that’s all.” Olivia picked up her small half brother. “So, my lord Grafton, how are you this fine morning?”
The child regarded her solemnly from eyes as dark as her own. Then he threw back his head and shrieked with laughter as if she had said something hilariously funny.
“He has such a wonderful sense of humor,” Phoebe said proudly, diverted for a moment from her concern for Olivia.
Olivia couldn’t help laughing as she relinquished the ecstatic child to his doting mother. “I wish he’d share the joke.” She was aware of Portia’s sharp scrutiny and bent hastily to stroke Juno.
“Do you play bowls, Mr. Caxton?” King Charles turned from the casement in the chamber above the great hall and regarded his visitor from beneath heavy-lidded eyes.
“Indifferently, Sire.” Anthony stood beside the empty fireplace, one silk-clad arm resting along the carved mantelpiece. There were perhaps ten men in attendance on the king. Colonel Hammond stood beside the door, his stance watchful, his gaze roaming the chamber as if he expected the king to disappear suddenly into thin air.
“Hammond, my friend, you seem perturbed,” the king remarked gently. “These last days I’ve found you most unsettled. Is something troubling you?”
The governor controlled his irritation with difficulty. If plans were afoot to rescue the king, then His Sovereign Majesty was well aware of what was disturbing his jailer.
“I am aware of no perturbation, Your Majesty.”
“I am so glad to hear it,” the king responded sweetly. “But now I have a mind to bowl. Mr. Caxton, you shall show your skill.”
Anthony bowed low and Godfrey Channing jumped to open the door. The little group followed their sovereign down the stairs and out into the courtyard.
“Walk with me, Mr. Caxton.” The king beckoned Anthony to his side and took his arm. “Tell me something of your family estates. I have always had a fondness for the New Forest.”
Anthony talked glibly as they crossed the courtyard, went through the postern gate and into the outer bailey, which the governor had turned into a bowling green for his royal prisoner’s entertainment.
The round bowls were piled at the far side of the green, and the group strolled across under the afternoon sun, the king’s arm still resting on Anthony’s. No one
saw as Anthony slipped a tiny fold of paper into the deep cuff of His Majesty’s coat.
“You shall roll first, Mr. Caxton.” The king gestured to where a soldier stood holding the first bowl.
Anthony demurred politely but allowed himself to be persuaded. Laughingly he protested his lack of skill and made a great play of hefting the bowl before rolling it across the smooth green lawn. It was a pathetic roll and drew laughter from the assembled courtiers. No one noticed the king retrieve the slip of paper and put it in his pocket.
They were still playing when Mistress Hammond with the Granville party approached through the postern gate.
“Your Majesty is winning as usual,” she observed.
“I fear I’m unable to give His Majesty a good game, Mistress Hammond,” Anthony said with a little titter. “Lady Granville… Lady Olivia.” He bowed with a flourish of his plumed hat.
“Lady Rothbury, allow me to present Mr. Edward Caxton.” The governor offered Portia a gallant bow as he gestured to Anthony.
“I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, madam. Such a pleasure, I do declare.” Anthony bowed over her hand, brushing it lightly with his lips, before acknowledging the men who had accompanied the ladies.
“Lord Granville… Lord Rothbury. Such a pleasure, my lords. Such an honor to have your notice.” They were the enemy, formidable individually, together an almost insuperable force. Outwitting them would be no easy task and Anthony harbored no illusions, but his expression showed only a hopeful eagerness to please.
They acknowledged his greeting with polite nods that nevertheless conveyed a degree of contemptuous indifference that reassured Anthony that he was playing his part well.
He stepped aside as the king with a brief nod deigned to acknowledge the new arrivals.
“Lady Olivia, how delightful to see you. I was so disappointed to miss you yesterday.” Godfrey Channing swept her a flourishing bow. “I trust you’ll indulge me with a little private speech anon.”