by Jane Feather
Fortunately she didn’t have long to wait before David’s cheerful voice asked permission to come in.
“Yes, do,” she said, adding ruefully as he entered, “I need help.”
“Yes, Cosimo said you were having trouble.” David set down his bag. “Let’s take a look at the arm first.”
“It opened up again.”
“Mmm.” He said nothing further as he worked and then when the arm was once more tightly bandaged said, “Now, what else can I do for you?”
“Button me,” she said. “I’d ask Gus, but I suspect it’s one of the rare tasks that might be beyond him.”
David laughed and obliged. “Anything else?”
She shook her head. “No, but thank you.”
“My pleasure.” He picked up his bag and made for the door.
“David?”
He stopped, his hand on the latch, and looked questioningly at her.
“Cosimo said he would send a pigeon with a message to my friends.”
“Yes?” His tone was still inquiring.
“It really can be done?”
“My dear ma’am, if he says it can, it most certainly can. In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never known Cosimo to make a promise he couldn’t keep.” With another nod, David left her.
Meg wondered why she’d doubted Cosimo, and yet she knew so little about him. In fact she knew nothing about him. Oh, he had twin sisters, he was thirty-seven, he was a skilled and ruthless privateer who relished danger and adventure, but who he was remained a mystery. He frightened her a little, and he attracted her a great deal more, but the two were somehow intertwined. This didn’t surprise Meg; she knew herself and her own predilection for men society would consider dangerous. But Cosimo was in a different category altogether. There was nothing ordinarily unconventional about him.
Absently she combed her hair, thankful for the fashionably short crop that at least meant she didn’t have to wrestle one-handedly with hairpins. She was hungry but more important than food was getting her message to Arabella, who would be a less emotional recipient than her parents, and then finding a fishing boat to take her back across the Channel. Stockings required two hands, so she opted for sandals and bare feet and went in search of the captain of the Mary Rose.
She found an orderly scene on deck, two sailors scrubbing the planking with holystones, several others polishing the brass rails. The appetizing smell of frying bacon came from below. The ship was anchored about a hundred yards from the quay, a dinghy tethered to her stern.
Meg looked around for someone in authority. One of the identical cousins, or Mike the helmsman or the grizzled boatswain. Even as she looked around, Miles Graves materialized from somewhere in the bow and eagerly skipped over rope coils to reach her. “Morning, ma’am. The captain said I should look after you. Is there anything you need?”
“Morning, Miles,” she returned cheerfully. “Yes, I need to go ashore. Could someone row me in that dinghy?”
The eagerness left his face to be replaced with a look of acute embarrassment. “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but the captain’s not on board. He’s gone ashore,” he added rather obviously.
“Really. Well, I wish to do so too,” she said, still smiling.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, it can’t be done.” His pink cheeks were flushed with discomfort. His uncle had instructed him to take care of Miss Barratt and see to her needs, but there’d been no mention of going ashore.
“Why can’t it? The boat’s there. Surely one of the sailors could row me the short distance to the quay.” Meg was puzzled and beginning to feel annoyed.
“Not without Captain’s permission, ma’am,” Miles confessed. “No one leaves the ship without his say-so.”
“Ridiculous,” Meg scoffed. “I’m not a prisoner.”
“No . . . no, ma’am . . . of course not,” he said hastily. “But you can’t go ashore without the captain’s permission.”
“Is that what he said?” she demanded, incredulous, her annoyance now edged with real anger.
Miles scratched his head, reflecting that Miss Barratt was becoming rather alarming. “He hasn’t authorized shore leave for anyone, ma’am,” he said eventually.
“For the men who work for him,” Meg said with an attempt at patience. “But I don’t. If I choose to go ashore, that’s my business. If there’s no one available to row me to the quay, then I’ll row myself. That way none of the men can be accused of disobeying the captain’s orders.” Belatedly she realized what an empty threat that was. With her bandaged arm, she certainly couldn’t pull an oar, or even manage to tie up the dinghy single-handed. In fact she wasn’t entirely sure she could manage to get herself down the precarious-looking rope ladder that hung over the stern just above the bobbing little boat.
Miles merely looked at her helplessly. “Ma’am, I can’t let you have the dinghy.”
“Well, it’s moot anyway,” Meg stated in unconcealed frustration. She walked away from him to the deck rail and gazed at the fishermen mending nets on the quay. There was a tantalizing number of fishing boats tied up at the quayside, one or two of them surely big enough to make the voyage to the English coast. It wouldn’t be as comfortable a sail as on the Mary Rose, but she could handle a little discomfort.
“Ma’am, I’m really sorry.” Miles spoke from behind her and she turned again towards him.
Poor lad, she thought. He was really between a rock and a hard place. An angry woman on the one hand and the prospect of one of Cosimo’s looks at the very least on the other. “I understand, Miles,” she said with a slight shrug and a smile. “I’ll settle the matter with your uncle.”
Miles looked relieved. “Thank you, ma’am. Is there anything I can get you?”
“Breakfast,” she said, settling for the mundane and easily achievable. “I’m famished.”
“Right away, ma’am.” Beaming, he sprinted across the deck towards the companionway, leaving Meg to resume her watch on the tantalizingly close but unattainable quayside.
Cosimo climbed the hillside behind the village, his long stride easily covering the springy turf. He’d disdained the gravel track that took a more winding and circuitous route to the gray building that crowned the hilltop, and every once in a while paused and turned to scan the blue waters below with his telescope. He wouldn’t be able to see the French frigate until he’d attained the brow of the hill and could look out the other side of the island, but he was looking for any sign of the naval men-of-war. If they’d missed the prize awaiting them, they could be alerted by a signal from the hilltop.
He saw nothing but a few fishing smacks, curlews, and seagulls, however, and continued on his way, arriving at the open door of the gray cottage. It was an anonymous-looking building, indistinguishable from the other cottages on the small island, but an armed guard in navy uniform appeared from nowhere as Cosimo approached.
“Oh, it’s you, Captain,” he said, offering a rather halfhearted salute that he knew wouldn’t be returned.
“It is indeed,” Cosimo agreed. “Is the lieutenant ashore?”
“Aye, sir.” The guard ducked into the cottage. “Sir, the captain of the Mary Rose, sir.”
The young lieutenant in command of this small outpost of the British navy adjusted his tunic and straightened his shoulders just as Cosimo ducked through the lintel and entered the gloom of the almost windowless cottage.
“Ah, Lieutenant Murray, nice to see you again,” he greeted pleasantly, extending his hand.
The young officer stiffened and saluted with rigorous attention to form, then hesitantly shook the proffered hand. Cosimo knew he was an affront to the navy’s hierarchy, not least because he refused to observe even the most elementary rules of naval etiquette, but he had the king’s writ and a reputation for successful if dubious enterprises that earned him grudging respect.
“A glass of ale, sir?” the lieutenant offered.
“Thank you. It’s a hot walk up the hill.” Cosimo’s smile was amiable
and he thrust his hands into the pockets of his britches with the air of one perfectly at home. “Tell me, Murray, have you sighted the Leopold and the Edwina as yet?”
“Aye, sir.” The lieutenant was suddenly animated. “They approached on the other side of the island, and, well, you’ll never believe this, sir, but a French frigate was stranded on the shoals just beyond the barrier reef . . . just waiting for them.”
Cosimo smiled. “Oh, I’d believe it,” he said. “She landed on the shoal just before dawn this morning.”
The officer stared at him. “You passed her?”
“Not exactly,” Cosimo said. “Oh . . . my thanks.” He took the tankard of ale from the guard, who had several roles on this lightly manned station. He raised his tankard in an unspoken toast to the lieutenant, who did the same with his own.
The lieutenant had little difficulty interpreting his visitor’s statement. “How did you do it, sir?” Curiosity forced the question from him, although every success of the privateer’s stuck in the craw of the regular navy.
Cosimo merely shrugged. “Her captain was overeager for his own prize,” he said carelessly. “Let us go outside, it’s stuffy in here and we have some matters to discuss.”
The two men left the gloom of the cottage and stood blinking in the bright sunlight.
Cosimo knew that if a pigeon courier had brought him a message, Murray would have told him already, but his anxiety was such that he couldn’t help asking. “I’m expecting a message . . .” he said, allowing a half question to hang in the warm air.
“From England, sir?”
“I imagine so.” But he couldn’t be certain. There were pigeon courier outposts manned by covert agents of the British navy dotted around the coastline of Europe, and Ana, as a free agent, would have access to them. Like himself she worked all over Europe, wherever her masters sent her. The dismal reflection occurred not for the first time that if she had been taken by the enemy it could have happened in almost any country. There were French agents aplenty on the prowl across the continent and he hadn’t been given any information on her mission before she was due to join up with him in Folkestone.
“Nothing received so far, sir.” The lieutenant confirmed what he already knew.
“Send it to me as soon as you receive it,” he instructed with a confidence that masked his fear that he might never know what had happened to Ana to keep her from that rendezvous on that rainy afternoon. If she was in the hands of the enemy, there would be no message.
“Aye, sir.”
Cosimo drained his tankard. “I’ll also have a message to send out to England later today. You have a bird ready?”
“Three, sir.”
Cosimo nodded. “Good. I’ll bring the message up this afternoon.” He handed his empty tankard to the lieutenant, who seemed somewhat disconcerted to receive it and handed it off immediately to the guard.
“I’ll wait here for three days in case there are any dispatches for Admiral Nelson,” Cosimo said.
“You’re joining the admiral, sir?” The lieutenant couldn’t hide his envy.
“Eventually,” Cosimo said somewhat obliquely. Knowledge of Nelson’s planned whereabouts was given on a need-to-know basis. He raised a hand in careless farewell and strode off around the cottage, blithely ignoring Murray’s disgruntled salute. On the far side of the building he raised his telescope and scrutinized the churning waters below.
The French frigate was still firmly stranded on the sand, but she’d been boarded by several longboat parties from the two English men-of-war that stood out in the Channel, well clear of the treacherous rocks. They were in the process of winching the frigate off the sand bar and Cosimo watched with a critical eye for a few minutes, before deciding that they seemed to know what they were doing.
He strolled back to the other side of the hill and began to walk down the slope towards the village. He could see his own sloop sitting peacefully at anchor in the harbor. Halfway down the hill he raised his telescope again and trained it on the Mary Rose. Meg was standing on the quarterdeck, looking towards the quay and the village. He thought he could detect a certain impatience in her posture. Presumably she was anxious to make arrangements for her return to England. He could delay that event for a couple of days without her even being aware of any deception on his part. It would give him some breathing room.
He folded the glass and set off back down the hill to the quay.
Meg was eating a bacon sandwich with considerable relish as she stood at the deck rail looking at the landscape when she caught sight of the unmistakable figure descending the hillside with long, rangy strides. The lithe athleticism of his step was becoming very familiar. She took a gulp of coffee from the mug that had been provided with the sandwich and watched his progress with a jaundiced eye.
He disappeared from view for a few minutes as he reached the bottom of the hill and vanished into the narrow village lanes but soon reappeared on the quay. He was dressed in britches and shirt, a kerchief tied loosely around his throat, his auburn hair tied back carelessly on his nape. He put two fingers to his lips and an imperative whistle pierced the tranquil scene.
Two sailors materialized as if by a magician’s wand on the rope ladder leading to the dinghy. Meg watched as they jumped into the boat, took up the oars, and pulled strongly to the quay. They grabbed the rope dangling from the bollards and pulled the boat close into the bulwark. Cosimo stepped down into the dinghy and sat in the stern as the little craft returned to the Mary Rose.
Cosimo swung himself up the rope ladder and onto the deck with the same agility Meg had noted the first time she’d laid eyes on him. He stood for a minute casting a quick appraising eye over his empire, then, smiling, came towards her.
The smile faded somewhat as he absorbed her expression. “You look as if you lost a guinea and found a penny. Is something the matter?”
“Yes, as it happens,” she declared, aware on the periphery of her vision that Miles and his cousin, who’d been hovering close by, were now stepping discreetly backwards. “I’ve been kicking my heels on this ship for the last hour when I need to send a message to my family and arrange for passage back to England. I could have spoken to a dozen fishermen in the time I’ve been waiting for you to appear from whatever jaunt you’ve been on so that you can tell these men of yours that I am not a prisoner and am free to go wherever I choose. Just why would you abandon—”
“Whoa!” he exclaimed as if she were a bolting mare. “When I left, you were in your underclothes and awaiting David’s ministrations. I’ve been gone less than an hour.”
Meg took a deep calming breath. “Will you please inform your nephews and anyone else who needs to know that I am not a prisoner on this ship and am entitled to leave it whenever I choose.”
He nodded easily. “Certainly. Miles . . . Frank . . .” He gestured to the cousins, who were clinging like limpets to the rail on the far side of the quarterdeck. “Miss Barratt is her own mistress. Please accommodate her wishes in as far as it’s possible.”
“Aye, sir,” the two said in unison.
“There.” Cosimo turned back to Meg. “Satisfied now? It was a simple misunderstanding.”
Meg, with an air of resignation, leaned back against the rail and tipped up her face towards the sun, closing her eyes against its brilliance. “Very well,” she said after a minute. “But now I would like to be rowed to shore so that I can make arrangements for my passage. I realize it might be too late to set out today—one wouldn’t wish to spend the night in the middle of the Channel in a small boat—but I’m sure one of those bigger fishing smacks can make sail at dawn tomorrow.”
Cosimo shook his head with a considering frown. “Unfortunately storms are in the air for the next twenty-four hours. I don’t think you’ll find a fisherman willing to risk his boat and his livelihood on such a journey until the forecast is clear.”
“How can they know?” Despite her irritation, Meg was curious.
Cosimo waved vaguel
y towards the sky. “Sailors read the weather in the clouds, they smell it on the air. And they’re rarely mistaken. They trust their instincts anyway . . . right or wrong.”
Meg in some agitation rubbed the cleft in her chin with her fingertip. It sounded perfectly reasonable for superstitious folk whose life and livelihood depended on the fickleness of sea and weather. “Well, that makes it all the more imperative that I send a message to my friends at once,” she said. “I presume pigeons can fly through a storm?” There was a sardonic edge to the question.
Cosimo ignored it. “They have their own instincts,” he said affably. “If they smell danger, they find a safe haven until it’s passed.”
“In the meantime,” Meg persevered, “I will find a room at some local hostelry.” She waved towards the village.
“I’m afraid there are no such amenities on the island,” Cosimo murmured.
“No tavern?” Meg exclaimed in disbelief. “What is this island? A monastery?”
He laughed. “No, there are certainly several taverns, but none that have accommodation for visitors.” He looked at her with a sympathy that Meg did not find in the least convincing. “Sark can only be reached by sea. Those who do come stay on board their own vessels.”
Checkmate. Meg’s nostrils flared. She needed to feel that she was regaining control of her own destiny, that she was able to make her own choices, and that sense was growing ever more remote. She wanted to stay on Cosimo’s ship only if she chose to do so. But it seemed choice didn’t come into it.
Cosimo read her mind without difficulty. Having won his point, he needed to conciliate. “Let us go below and write your message to your friends,” he said. “It has to be written according to a certain formula so that the initial recipients can read it. They will transcribe it and see that it’s delivered to the right place. But as you can imagine, the pigeon can’t manage to carry an entire scroll.”