The eyes of the American prisoners followed her as she walked alongside Captain Field, but their stares did not make her feel uncomfortable. Perhaps it was due to the presence of the guards or the baroness, but they were all polite.
“It’s been a long time since these men have had proper clothes,” he said, “though Lady Danvers and her friends come often. I owe what I am wearing to her good charity.” He lifted the lapel of his coat. “I believe this once belonged to Lord Danvers.”
“It looks well on you, sir,” she said with a small smile.
For a moment his gaze held hers. “You’ll have to excuse me for staring. Never have I seen eyes such a vivid blue. They’re like the open sea… and very beautiful, even in this place.”
Claire hoped he couldn’t see her blush. “Thank you, Captain. It seems I am destined to be surrounded by sailors. You are not the first to tell me my eyes remind you of the ocean. My captor, my father—who I have only just learned has his own ship—and now you—all are privateers.”
“Your father is a privateer for France?”
“His ship was flying the American flag when I saw it last.”
“Hmm,” said the captain under his breath. “Perhaps he has a letter of marque from Dr. Franklin. I’d heard he was issuing some to French ships. Your father’s efforts on America’s behalf are most welcome, mademoiselle.”
In the minutes that followed, in between chatting with his men, they talked about the war. “I do not know much of the battles,” she told him, “but I have heard from the baroness the war draws to a close and negotiations for peace have begun.”
“Yes, according to what we’ve heard, that news is all over London.” Looking wistfully into the distance, he said, “Perhaps next Christmas, if not this one, we will be home.”
“I shall pray toward that end, Captain.”
With the assistance of one of the footmen and Captain Field, Claire distributed the clothing they had brought for the men. Afterward, Claire and Cornelia set out the food the footmen had carried in from the carriage. Those who could walk gathered around the table. To the others, Claire carried cold, sliced beef, along with bread, fruit and cheese. They ate as if starved. To her way of thinking, they were all too thin.
“Do they get enough to eat?” she asked Cornelia.
“Now they do. I try and fatten them up before they are sent to other prisons. ’Tis not so bad as it was a few years ago, before the relief committee got involved. Now they have bread, meat and some kind of vegetable, often cabbage or turnips. A few years ago, they only had oatmeal or broth. Not enough to keep a grown man filling out his clothes.”
Claire’s heart went out to the American seamen, some of them barely out of boyhood. “How fare your sick and injured?” she asked Captain Field.
“As well as can be expected in this place. Better now with blankets and decent food,” said the American, giving a nod of acknowledgment to Cornelia.
“Might I see them?”
Captain Field seemed momentarily flustered at the insistent look in her eyes, but reluctantly bowed in the face of her calm demeanor. He swept a hand toward the back of the warehouse where the light barely penetrated and a clot of men occupied the dirt floor.
“Oh,” said Claire softly as she approached. The wretched state of the men was quickly apparent.
“You see, mademoiselle, it’s not pleasant.”
Claire brushed past him, her face softening with concern at the bloodstained linen and soiled bandages. In a matter of minutes, she had secured clean bandaging from Cornelia and bent to help the wounded men, changing their bandages and doing what she could to cheer them. One in particular tugged at her heart.
“What’s your name?” she asked the young seaman.
“Alexander Monroe,” he said rather shyly. Perhaps he did not often encounter women. “But everyone on Cap’n Field’s ship called me ‘Sandy’.”
“What did you do on the captain’s ship, Sandy?”
“I’m his cabin boy,” the lad proudly replied.
She couldn’t resist smiling at his cherubic face. Like her, he had blue eyes but his hair was a light brown. Her gaze drifted to the linen wrapped around his arm. It was dirty. “Can I change your bandage?”
“All right,” he said, holding out his arm rather tentatively.
She thought she saw him wince in anticipation of being touched. “It still pains you?”
“Aye, a little.”
As Claire unwrapped the soiled linen from his upper arm, she had to bite her tongue to avoid gasping at the deep irregular wound that was revealed. It would have hurt more than a little when it happened and likely still did. “I’ll be careful, Sandy. It seems to be healing.” She said the latter to encourage him. In truth, it would take a long time to heal.
“I don’t mind when you touch it, miss. But the man who first tended it was not so gentle.” Sandy was such a sweet boy, she had to fight the urge to take him into her arms and hold him as his mother might have done were she here, but she knew he would not welcome such attention in front of his fellow sailors.
She cleaned the wound, dabbed on the ointment one of the footmen brought her and wound a strip of clean linen around his arm. “There. Now it’s clean again and the ointment will speed the healing. You’ll be good as new before long.”
“That’s what the cap’n says.” He beamed. The boy obviously admired his young captain. She wondered if Captain Field wasn’t like a father to the lad.
“Do you have a family back in America?”
“Aye, miss, my mother and a younger sister, Katie.”
She gave him a quick kiss on his cheek and squeezed his small hand in hers. “The war will be over soon, Sandy, and you’ll be going home to them.” Claire hoped it was the truth. She had to force herself not to cry, for the lad had stirred her heart.
There were a few others whose bandages she changed but none affected her more than the cabin boy. Though his accent was different, he reminded her of Nate. She would feel the same remorse had Simon Powell’s cabin boy been wounded.
Hours passed as she listened to the men’s stories of home and the families they sorely missed. She understood, missing her papa as she did. She felt a pang of regret for what had happened to these men. Even though she was a captive, she was so much better off than they were. Still, they were alive and many were not.
“You should have seen her,” Cornelia told Simon as she handed him a brandy while they waited for Danvers in the baron’s study later that day.
His gaze drifted toward the open door and the direction of the staircase. Upstairs, his captive changed for supper. He had not talked to her since the night before when he had come to her bedchamber to calm her fears.
“By the time we left the warehouse, the Yankee sailors were calling her ‘the French angel’. Now that I think of it, Captain Field seemed quite smitten with her. She was just the thing to lift the prisoners’ lagging spirits.”
“Really, Cornelia. Do you think that was wise?” Simon was not pleased. “A young innocent like Claire Donet in a room full of American sailors—prisoners?”
“Why, Simon, you sound like Danvers.” There was a gleam in her eyes. “You also sound jealous. Has she captured your heart as well?”
“Not at all,” he protested, but he thought of the night before when he’d comforted her after her nightmare. The wild Claire Donet had turned into an angel in his arms. “I am merely concerned about the security of my hostage. The life of my men depends on her remaining safe and in my hands.”
“She was never in any danger, Simon. Besides, Claire seemed to enjoy being useful.”
“Who is this Captain Field anyway, and what was she doing with him? You were gone nearly all day.”
“Captain Field is a privateer like you, except he’s an American, from Baltimore, as am I,” the baroness reminded him. “Claire was assisting me, changing bandages, listening to the men’s stories of their families and handing out food, clothes and blankets.”
“Quite. And before you ask, Danvers approves. He was appalled at how badly the Americans were treated. I daresay it continues in some places, but at least in London we no longer treat them like dogs. Claire did the prisoners a good turn today, Simon.”
“Do you intend to do this again soon? We will be gone in less than a week.”
“Tomorrow morning, yes. I promised to bring them paper for letters and a few newspapers.”
“Surely a footman can take them?”
“He could,” the baroness agreed, “but some need their letters written for them—and we make sure the letters arrive in America. Besides, you know the American sailors would not derive the same joy from seeing one of my footmen as they would from seeing Claire and me.”
Simon scowled at the baroness’ impish grin. He had no meetings in the morning. Perhaps he would accompany them to see this Captain Field for himself if for no other reason than to prove there was no cause for this annoying flash of jealousy he suddenly felt picturing Claire tending the man’s wounded crew. Perhaps the American captain was short, fat and ugly.
“If you’re to leave in so short a time, Simon, I will have to arrange the soirée immediately.”
“Ah yes, the soirée. However did I forget?” he asked in feigned innocence. An evening with members of the aristocracy was something to be endured, not something he looked forward to.
Cornelia slapped his hand. “You rogue. You’ll be as charming as ever despite yourself, and Claire will be the envy of every woman there. Just wait till you see her new gown! By the by, I do not intend to mention how she came to be here, only that she is our guest, so I expect you to say nothing of it.”
Chapter 13
Paris
François de Dordogne turned away from his friends who were enjoying a sumptuous dinner of salad, roast chicken and artichokes in the private dining room of the popular taverne Ramponneau in Paris.
Lifting his new snuffbox from the pocket of his ruby silk coat, he briefly ran his beringed finger over its top, admiring the sparkling diamonds inlaid in the polished black enamel. Raising the lid, he smiled just as he had when Jacques had presented the gift to him the night before in celebration of their year-old relationship. Painted inside were the words gage d'amitié, a token of friendship. It was a token of much more than that, but only his closest, likeminded friends were aware of the intimate relationship he shared with Jacques Régis.
“Is that the new trinket, François? Let us see,” said Pierre, reaching out with his open hand.
“If I must.” He set the box on his friend’s palm, the diamonds reflecting the candlelight and sending glimmers of light dancing around the room. “But do take care.”
Pierre turned the box in his hand, capturing the light. “Oh, it is lovely. He does treat you well, François.” Pierre showed the box to his partner with a hopeful look that seemed to convey a desire to receive such a gift. Apparently not finding the assurance he sought, Pierre sighed and handed the snuffbox down the table to Étienne who studied it for a moment before returning it to François.
“What has Jacques to say of your betrothal to Donet’s daughter?” asked Étienne as he leaned against his latest lover, a man named Louis, some fifteen years his senior.
“He is pleased I shall have a convincing cover for our friendship. How could anyone question my manhood with a wife like Mam’selle Donet, who is rumored to be a great beauty?”
“Though we all know you’re more interested in her gowns and jewels than in her face,” said Pierre.
“If it were me,” counseled Étienne, “I’d be cautious. Should Donet discover your ruse, the man will have your head on a pike. He may be the son of a comte, but that one has a dark side. What I see behind his black eyes gives me chills. I’d not want to cross him.”
“Perhaps I can manage to get a child on her,” said François, speaking his thought aloud. “That would be convincing, oui?” It might be necessary, too, he thought, though being with a woman in that way did not appeal to him and Jacques would not like it.
“Her dowry would be worth the effort,” Pierre encouraged. “I hear Donet’s as rich as Croesus.”
“I have heard the same,” agreed François. In fact, it was one reason he had quickly agreed to the match.
An hour later he and his friends glided out of the back room and into the busy tavern crowded with artisans, shopkeepers, lawyers and libertines. Few knew the private dining room they had left was often reserved by a particular group of men who preferred their own company to that of women. Men whose fashion would label them macaronies for the flamboyant way they dressed. Those of a harsher mind, aware of their proclivities, would say they were guilty of débauche contre nature, sodomie or worse. Paris was home to so many, unless there was another crime involved, the police rarely did more than issue a warning when one of them was discovered.
Donet would be a different matter, however. Were Donet to learn of his affair with Jacques, François’ career in law—and perhaps his life—would soon be over.
Elijah set down his wine and picked up his pipe, his mouth dropping open at the fops strolling from the back room of the tavern. “Will ye look at ’em Frenchies paradin’ our way?”
Giles casually looked over his shoulder at the dandies slowly making their way through the long, crowded room. “Aye, frog-eaters every one. Enough lace to open a shop.”
Elijah puffed on his pipe, then pulled it from his mouth. “Good thing the rest o’ the crew ain’t with us. They’d be laughin’ their heads off. ’Twould draw too much attention.”
“Paris is crawling with English just now,” offered Giles, whose back was to the dandies. “The locals would not consider our presence strange even if the crew were here laughing above the din.” The sailmaker brushed his reddish-brown hair off his forehead. “Trust me, the only thing that stirs the French these days is joy in criticizing their king.”
“Speakin’ of strange,” said Elijah, shifting his attention from the fops back to Giles, “I thought the meetin’ with the Frenchie’s men went fine, but that quartermaster of his made me blood run cold. The man looked like the devil hisself, all dark scowl and frown, like a storm breakin’.”
“I doubt he believed my assurances that Donet’s daughter has been treated well. I had the impression Émile Bequel was of a mind to kill anyone who so much as touched her.”
Elijah sent a puff of smoke into the air, took his pipe from his mouth and folded his arms over his chest as a picture arose in his mind. “Not unlike our cap’n. Ye know Powell harbors a fondness fer the demoiselle.”
“Aye. ’Tis obvious as a red sky at morning,” said Giles downing the last of his claret.
“She’s a match fer ‘im, ’tis certain I am.” Elijah remembered well her tempest in the cap’n’s cabin and the cap’n’s reaction. “Fired his blood all right.”
“Aye, but ’tis an unlikely match. Powell would never risk his men for a bit of French pastry, no matter how enticing.”
Elijah considered the sailmaker’s words. Gesturing with his pipe stem, he opined, “Mebbe, mebbe not. But mark me words, this one’s different.”
The effeminate fops paused to speak to some men drinking nearby. Elijah took in their clothing, all satins and silks with fussy, embroidered waistcoats and frothy, white lace. Their hair was left hanging in curls, or done in tortuous, puffed up styles even more exaggerated than the French aristocrats.
“’Tisn’t proper,” Elijah murmured under his breath.
Giles said nothing but he turned to glance at the fops, his eyes following them as they resumed their stroll toward the front of the tavern.
They passed Elijah and he got a whiff of their strong perfume. It made his eyes smart as the vapors engulfed their table. Even his tobacco smoke did not hide the strong odor.
Just as the dandies reached the en
trance, the rotund proprietor wiped his hands on his apron and called out, “François!”
One of the fops turned to look back, a young one of slight frame with long, dark hair hanging loosely to his shoulders.
“Oui, Dordogne, I mean you. You have a message here.” The hefty man picked up an envelope and shoved it forward on the bar.
The dandy ambled his way to the bar, picked up the envelope, waved to the proprietor and with a “Merci,” left with his companions.
Elijah shook his head. “Damn me but those dandies turn me gizzard sour. Can’t wait to be back in England.” Then returning his gaze to Giles, he said, “I wonder if the cap’n’s still in London. He’ll be wantin’ to know the exchange is set for Calais. ’Tis not far off either.”
“We can be in Rye in three days if the weather holds. That’ll be where he expects to find us.”
Suddenly feeling a need for haste, Elijah rose, settled his knit cap on his head and dropped some coins on the table. “Aye, ’tis best we be on our way.”
London
Nervous with anticipation for the evening ahead, Claire held her hand to her midriff, studying her reflection in the mirror while Cornelia’s maid pulled the golden gown’s laces tight. This would be her first soirée. And likely her last. Since her vow to Élise, she had never thought to attend one, but Cornelia had insisted.
It might be her only chance to mingle with London’s beau monde. Another adventure before she returned to the convent. If she returned to the convent. Her papa might not allow her that choice. A choice she was no longer certain she wanted herself.
She straightened the four bows made of gold silk that formed a column down the front of her bodice to meet the full skirt of the same silk fabric. The gown was one of those from Mrs. Duval’s, this one copied from the dress worn by the fashion doll the captain had carried back from Paris. The sleeves hugged her arms till they flared at her elbows in golden flounces, each one with several dangling, golden beads. Beneath each flounce was a generous amount of ivory lace. Never had she worn a gown so fine. At her throat was a double strand of pearls Cornelia had lent her for the evening.
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