by Kage Baker
Mr. Pickett continued loud in his praises of Drake, all the way through Paignton, Broadsands, Churston Ferrers and was still going when they reached Brixham. It became obvious he had read a great deal on the subject of Drake, as well as Hawkins, Raleigh, and other gentlemen mariners and privateers. At least he had abandoned his “English” accent.
As they idled along the green cliff tops above St. Mary’s Bay, Lady Beatrice seized upon the opportunity afforded by Mr. Pickett pausing to draw breath and said: “Are not you yourself a mariner, Mr. Pickett? Some of our fellow lodgers have spoken with admiration of your yacht.”
Mr. Pickett blushed a bit but looked pleased. “Well, I don’t like to brag, but the old Sceptre is a mighty fine boat. I may have won one or two prizes with her; they’re back at the house. The place I’m staying, I mean.” He waved a hand at the open expanse of bluffs, that were empty save for three tiny cottages huddled together. “Look there, Miss Beatrice; wouldn’t that make a fine spot for an elegant residence? You can’t beat the view, can you?”
“It is certainly impressive,” said Lady Beatrice.
Mr. Pickett reined in the horses and the barouche came to a gentle halt. Sitting there above what genuinely was a spectacular view of the Bay, Mr. Pickett edged a little closer to Lady Beatrice and resumed his elucidation upon the glories of English military victories of the 16th century, presenting them to Lady Beatrice under the evident impression that she had never heard of these things and would be edified to learn of them. Lady Beatrice, who had grown up in a soldier’s household, smiled, murmured polite remarks and now and then raised an eyebrow for his benefit. She had been asked to feign ignorance of much stranger things in a professional capacity.
Mrs. Corvey, forgotten behind them, watched with interest as a man in a workman’s clothes emerged from one of the three cottages. He looked up at Mr. Pickett with obvious recognition and started forward across the cliff top, apparently intending to speak with him. Having covered slightly less than half the distance, however, he seemed to notice Lady Beatrice’s presence and halted in his tracks. He watched uncertainly for several minutes before seemingly changing his mind and hurrying back to the cottages, glancing several times over his shoulder on his way. Within the shading edge of her bonnet, Mrs. Corvey’s lenses turned just enough to bring the face of none other than Mr. Felan into focus. Having noted this well, Mrs. Corvey nodded thoughtfully and returned her attention to Mr. Pickett’s monologue.
Keen and fixed though her attention was, she nevertheless became conscious of a certain distraction, now that the carriage was motionless; a sort of thrilling vibration emanating upward, it seemed, though the very wheels. And was there a certain hollow musicality in the boom of the surf?
“Are you quite all right, Mamma?” inquired Lady Beatrice; who, on glancing back at her, had noted Mrs. Corvey’s puzzled scowl.
“Oh, quite all right, my dear; only I was thinking there’s such a funny noise to the sea hereabouts,” said Mrs. Corvey.
“Why, that would be the caves,” said Mr. Pickett. “Lots of sea-caves here, ma’am.”
“Sea-caves, to be sure,” said Mrs. Corvey. “Thank you, young man.”
Profuse as he had been with his praises for the British on the ride out to St. Mary’s Bay, on the return journey Mr. Picket focused his admiration on Lady Beatrice in specific, although in a gentlemanly manner. The subject of elocution lessons was once again raised. Lady Beatrice obligingly set about correcting his vowel sounds and encouraging a greater crispness in his native drawl.
Upon returning to Torquay, Mr. Pickett insisted that they take tea with him, an offer Mrs. Corvey accepted with enthusiasm.
“It’s a nice place, but a little too modern for my tastes,” said Mr. Pickett, leading them up the walk of an ostentatiously grand house of recent construction. “I confess to being a man of old-fashioned preferences. It’ll do until I can build myself something better, though.” He drew a key from his pocket and let them in himself. “Service may be a little slow today; I gave that butler a piece of my mind and sent him packing this morning. No man makes a fool of Tredway Pickett, no sir.”
He led them into a splendidly airy parlor with a view of the sea. It was, however, somewhat sparsely furnished; Lady Beatrice and Mrs. Corvey perched together on the single low settee, while Mr. Pickett dragged close an occasional table and set it before them. Having retrieved a chair from the desk in the far corner of the room, he sat opposite the ladies and bawled: “Alfred!”
A moment later, a footman appeared in the doorway, showing a certain reluctance. “Alfred, kindly take the ladies’ bonnets and cloaks, and tell Mrs. Drumm I want her finest tea for three persons.”
“Very good, sir.”
Mr. Pickett entertained them with light conversation on the subject of his yachting triumphs, pointing with pride to the trophies on the mantelpiece, until tea was duly brought in by the cook and housemaid. The dainties arranged upon the tray—tiny sandwiches, petits fours and buns—looked delicious; but the cook (in keeping with the fierce temper implied by her fading red hair) glared so balefully at Mr. Pickett as she set them out that Mrs. Corvey half-expected them to be laced with arsenic. Cook’s unhappy in her situation, thought Mrs. Corvey to herself. She watched thoughtfully as Mrs. Drumm departed the room in highest dudgeon, and an oblivious Mr. Pickett talked on.
“…and, by jingo, it worked, because I shot past him and the scoundrel ran himself on a sandbar! I always say, when a gentleman goes in for a sport, he ought to play to win,” said Mr. Pickett. He noticed the teapot, looked uneasily from Mrs. Corvey to Lady Beatrice, and at last made up his mind. “Ah—Miss Beatrice, ma’am, I believe it would be correct to ask you to do the pouring?”
“I should be delighted,” said Lady Beatrice smoothly.
Tea was served round, and Mrs. Corvey was elated to discover that, whatever animus the cook might bear her master, it did not influence her culinary performance; at least as far as cress sandwiches and tiny cakes were concerned. Wonder if she can do water ices, Mrs. Corvey speculated.
“I hope this meets with you ladies’ approval,” said Mr. Pickett. “Fine old English custom, afternoon tea.”
“It is really quite pleasant, Mr. Pickett,” Lady Beatrice assured him. He positively beamed at her. She took a long, slow sip of tea, keeping her eyes fixed steadily on his, and was interested to note the color rise in his face.
Mrs. Corvey noted it also.
“Why—thank you, ma’am,” said Mr. Picket.
“You are most welcome, dear Mr. Pickett. Do you not find that the sea air gives one a prodigious appetite?” said Lady Beatrice. Still holding his gaze, she sank her white teeth into a bun.
Mr. Pickett coughed. “I do indeed, Miss Beatrice.”
During the ensuing conversation, through which Mr. Pickett was unable to tear his eyes from the slow progression of delicacies towards Lady Beatrice’s red lips, Mrs. Corvey grew silent and at last unobtrusively set her cup and saucer to one side. Composing herself in a comfortable attitude, she feigned sleep. Lady Beatrice, who had been half-expecting this development, glanced sideways at her and spoke in a lowered voice to Mr. Pickett.
“Oh! Dear Mamma has fallen asleep. Perhaps it is the unaccustomed exercise.” She set down her own cup and saucer on the depleted tea tray. “Let us not disturb her. Have you anywhere private wherein we may continue our conversation, Mr. Pickett? A garden, perhaps?”
“Why, there is indeed a garden, Miss Beatrice,” Mr. Pickett whispered loudly, rising and offering her his arm. “Your servant, ma’am!”
Lady Beatrice rose, took his arm, and with serene and unshakeable purpose led him out upon the terrace.
Mrs. Corvey, once well-assured of privacy, rose and swiftly approached the roll top desk at the far end of the room. She was pleased to see the desk was open and unlocked, rendering her set of lock picks unnecessary. Rapidly she sorted through the papers scattered here and there on the desk. They consisted principally of receipts and b
ills of trade from wholesale dealers in iron and steel, timber, and chemicals of the sort most commonly used in the manufacture of incendiary devices; all of which Mr. Pickett appeared to have purchased in remarkably large quantities. There was also a long list of accounts of what appeared to be wages paid to laborers, as well as pages of extensive correspondence with a Mr. Shrove, who seemed to operate a foundry.
In addition to these, Mrs. Corvey found some rather heated correspondence with an American banking house, contrasting with rather more cordial letters of inquiry to one Mr. Lawrence, a house agent. Mr. Pickett certainly seemed well-supplied with funds, and determined to stay in England.
Nothing more of importance was to be found, though Mrs. Corvey searched diligently, and long before she heard approaching footsteps had returned to the settee. She watched sidelong as Mrs. Drumm, accompanied by the housemaid, peered into the room.
“Looks like they’ve finished,” the housemaid murmured.
Mrs. Corvey sat upright and in her sweetest and most tremulous voice called out: “Is someone there?”
Mrs. Drumm cleared her throat. “Shall we take away the tea things, madam?”
“Indeed, I think you might,” said Mrs. Corvey.
She watched as Mrs. Drumm and her fellow domestic entered the room and began clearing away the trays. Mrs. Drumm, thinking herself unseen, pointed at the remaining watercress sandwiches and elbowed the housemaid.
“Look at that! Always asks for ’em and scarcely touches ’em!,” she muttered, apparently under the impression that Mrs. Corvey was deaf as well as blind.
“What was that, my dear?” inquired Mrs. Corvey, putting her hand to her ear.
“I was only wondering, madam, whether the cress sandwiches was all right,” said Mrs. Drumm with a sniff.
“Oh, I had two, myself,” exclaimed Mrs. Corvey, clasping her hands. “They were delightful. And I quite enjoyed the buns and tea cakes. Your pastry cook, if I may say so, is an artist, my dear, a positive artist.”
Mrs. Drumm’s ruddy face brightened still further with pleasure. “Very kind of you to say so, madam, I’m sure, as it was me in fact made ’em.”
“What a fortunate man your employer is,” replied Mrs. Corvey.
The maid made a disgruntled noise and Mrs. Drumm shot her a warning glance. Mrs. Corvey, observing this, inquired delicately, “I wonder whether I might ask if you are content in your situation, Mrs. Drumm?”
“I’m sure I could speak no ill of him what pays my wages, madam,” said Mrs. Drumm in a tone which implied exactly the opposite.
“Of course,” said Mrs. Corvey in a tone which implied she understood exactly what Mrs. Drumm meant. “On the other hand, any sensible woman with a splendid gift must surely be sensitive to opportunities for advancement.”
Mrs. Drumm eyed her in silence for a moment. Her eyes were as black as Mrs. Corvey’s own, if more natural, but gave her examining stare a considerable sharpness. Turning to the housemaid, she said, “Dolly, just you get them trays downstairs.”
“What, both of them?” said Dolly querulously.
Mrs. Drumm appropriated the plate of sandwiches and hurriedly stacked the trays one upon another. “There! Take ’em off.”
Dolly complied sulkily as Mrs. Drumm took the liberty of seating herself opposite Mrs. Corvey. “May I offer you another sandwich, madam?”
“Oh, were there any more? I was sure they had all been ate up,” said Mrs. Corvey, groping forward. Mrs. Drumm passed her a sandwich and took one herself. Mrs. Corvey consumed hers with sounds of dignified rapture; Mrs. Drumm looked pleased.
“I make an excellent cucumber sandwich, as well,” she said.
“So refreshing in the summertime,” exclaimed Mrs. Corvey. “I don’t suppose you have a receipt for water ices?”
“It happens I do, madam,” replied Mrs. Drumm. “Water ices, ice cream bombes, syllabubs, panachee jellies, flummeries, and fancy ice water cups.”
Mrs. Corvey contained herself. “I should have thought you might have commanded your own price in London,” she said diffidently.
“Saving your grace, I should have thought so too,” said Mrs. Drumm with a shrug, helping herself to another sandwich.“But times is hard and you take what you can.”
“You understand, I hope, that I ask simply because Mr. Pickett and my daughter seem to get on very well—is he an agreeable employer?” said Mrs. Corvey.
Mrs. Drumm grimaced.
“Can’t tell a lie, madam, I’ve never worked for such a man. He’s that given to temper—last night he came in roaring and fired poor Mr. Ponsonby, saying he’d made him look a fool. Nearly hit him with his walking stick! I suspect that’s the way they carry on in America, but it won’t do here. And this morning everything was sixes and sevenses and who’s to run the household, I’d like to know? Tells me he wants all kinds of real English food—but he won’t touch the suet pudding, won’t touch the mutton, won’t touch the boiled beef and carrots, and only picks at the roast chicken and sends it back, asking whether I don’t know how to fry it! And when I fries it as best I can, with a nice bit of gammon on the side, he says it still ain’t right.”
“Dear me, how dreadful,” said Mrs. Corvey. “I think this would prove rather a trial for my daughter. If you will pardon the indelicacy, Mrs. Drumm, he must pay you frightfully well, if you are willing to endure such a difficult master.”
“Not all that well,” said Mrs. Drumm grimly, eying the last sandwich on the plate.
“And if some other party was to offer you a situation?”
“It would be duly considered, madam.” Having decided against eating the last sandwich, Mrs. Drumm rose to her feet, took the dish and stopped midway through a curtsey, concluding that there was no point when her knees hurt and she was addressing a blind woman anyway. “I do beg your pardon, madam, but I ought to get back to the kitchen.”
Mr. Pickett had apparently not found occasion to quarrel with his gardener. His garden lawn was immaculately sheared in perfect geometric stripes and the hedges shielding the garden from his neighbors were well-tended, vigorous, and gratifyingly tall, providing more than adequate concealment for any strolling couple.
“It is a splendid sea view, Miss Beatrice, is it not?” said Mr. Pickett, hopefully slipping his arm around Lady Beatrice’s waist. To his great relief, she did not stiffen or withdraw, but rather responded to the liberty with supple compliance.
“It is an enthralling view,” said Lady Beatrice, looking deeply into his eyes.
“I reckon the house I’m proposing to build will have a view that beats this one, all the same,” said Mr. Pickett a little breathlessly, for Lady Beatrice’s steady grey gaze was having a distinct effect on his vascular system.
“I am sure it shall,” said Lady Beatrice. She somehow managed to sway closer, so that the cloud-like silk of her skirts frothed about his legs.
Experiencing a frisson of irrational happiness, Mr. Pickett continued:
“A fine view, a fine house in every way. I’m not planning to throw up any little bachelor shack, you understand, Miss Beatrice: I’m intending a real old proper British mansion with room for generations to come. A place where a man might settle down, take a gracious lady to wife, and raise a brood of valiant Englishmen, like a nest of sea-eagles, ever-ready to defend their mother country from vile invaders. Why, nothing would please me more than that our dearly beloved future monarchs might rest confident in the knowledge that as long as the Picketts of Devon live, England’s shores will be safe.”
“How noble; how brave,” said Lady Beatrice, maintaining eye contact until she felt his arm begin to tremble; at which point she turned and gazed out to sea. She gave a little sigh.
“Nobility and bravery are both called for, Miss Beatrice,” said Mr. Pickett. “The specter of war may seem far off and unlikely to trouble us, but who can trust those French? And the Spaniard is just as bent on empire as he ever was, however feeble and impotent he may appear. And don’t you think for a minute tha
t those rebels in the former colonies wouldn’t just jump at the chance to get square with us for beating them in the War of 1812.” He glared angrily out to sea, as though to pierce the distance to America, quite unaware that he was gazing in the general direction of France. “Uncouth villains!”
Lady Beatrice, seeing the light of fanaticism beginning to blaze in his eyes once more, decided it was time to drag his attention back to the matter at hand. Observing the angle of the sunset, she turned in such a way as to allow the streaming golden light to display her charms to their greatest advantage. With wide eyes and parted lips, she gazed upon Mr. Pickett as though he were the hero of her dreams. It had its due effect on Mr. Pickett, who gulped, lurched forward under the irresistible influence of her beauty, and bent her backward in a kiss.
The embrace went on for some time, so it was fortunate that the garden was, as mentioned before, quite a private one. The object of Mr. Pickett’s attentions neither screamed, struggled nor made any creditable attempt to resist him, and it was only his own sense of propriety which called a halt to the proceedings.
“Why—why, my dear Miss Beatrice, what must you think of me?” he said, gasping for breath. “I do humbly beg your pardon! I’ll go down on my knees if you but ask. Only spare a poor mortal overcome by your radiant beauty!”
Lady Beatrice favored him with an expression that managed to convey the trepidation of a wounded fawn mixed with passionate adoration. She had learned to avoid the instinctive movements of quickly smoothing her garments, rearranging her décolletage, and tucking her hair back into place; a single forlornly dangling tress had the power to break hearts when properly presented. “Oh, Mr. Pickett—dear Mr. Pickett—how can I tell you what I feel? But we must speak of this occurrence no further!” She raised her hands to her face, as in dismay. “And only think! Poor Mamma sleeps within.”
Rueful (but not absolutely mortified), Mr. Pickett took Lady Beatrice’s arm and was gratified when she clung to him. “I will be your perfect knight, Miss Beatrice. Pray, let me escort you to the good lady.”