Swept Away

by Marsha Canham

  “A masquerade ball,” Florence said. “How lovely. Yes, I suppose it is time she went home. I shall miss her, of course--” she gave Anna’s ice cold hand a little squeeze-- “and will hold her to her promise to visit again soon.”

  “We were hoping to be away as early as this afternoon--?” Anthony looked from one to the other. “Really, you need only pack the essentials. The rest can be sent on later.”

  “I shall have Willerkins find Clarice at once to pack what is required. And if the gentlemen can spare our company for another few moments, I will go up and fetch that lovely ring you were admiring the other evening, Anna dear--the one that matched your eyes so exquisitely. It would be a shame for you to have to wait until I died to enjoy it. ‘Tis only a bit of paste,” she added, winking at the men, “but it is pretty, and pretty girls deserve pretty things, do you not agree?”

  Anthony offered a complacent shrug, while Barrimore only flexed a muscle in his jaw.

  “Then if you will just help me up, dear--?”

  Anthony moved forward to assist her to her feet, but Florence whacked him smartly on the shin and reached for Anna’s arm instead. At the door, she paused and glanced over her shoulder.

  “Please, do help yourself to the cheese and kidney paste. I shudder to think what Mildred will invent next if the tray is returned untouched to the pantry.”

  They progressed along the hallway with only the muted thump of Florence’s cane to break the silence. At the bottom of the stairs, Anna drew back and opened her mouth to speak, but her aunt raised a finger and pressed it against her lips, cautioning her niece against it.

  “These old hallways, you know. Full of echoes.”

  Anna bit her lip and waited until they were at the top and well along the upper hall in the direction of her aunt’s bedchamber before she could bear it no longer.

  “He knows. Barrimore knows Emory was here.”

  “He suspects,” Florence corrected her. “He saw you with a man who fit the general description of Emory Althorpe, and because he has been in the company of that oaf Ramsey and other gentlemen who have undoubtedly been engaged in endless rounds of debate concerning Rory’s purported crimes, he has considered what he saw and arrived at a breathtaking conclusion. The fact you were kissing the bounder when he saw you would only make him more susceptible to suggestion.”

  “But what if he repeats what he saw, even if he only thinks he saw it? Will that not bring every constable and soldier within fifty miles of here? Will they not search the house top to bottom and question you endlessly?”

  “If they search the house, what will they find? Dusty carpets and a thousand spiders spinning webs of intrigue. And I will have you know I was once questioned by the Duke of Cumberland himself when those pesky Jacobites were inviting the French to help restore their Catholic king to the throne. For a full month they kept me in a damp prison cell because they had heard some silly whispered rumor that I allowed smugglers to land guns and exiled Scotsmen in my bay. I merely played the innocent fool, weeping and wringing my hands, swearing on my own virginity that I had no knowledge of anyone engaged in such activities.”

  “And did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Have knowledge.”

  Florence glanced over with a wry chuckle. “I had carnal knowledge in trumps when I lost my virginity to a handsome groomsman at fourteen. And I made enough profit off the smugglers to buy and breed some of the finest horseflesh in Devonshire. Come to think of it, I sold some of those same horses to the English army a few years later for twice what I paid for them.”

  Anna expelled a soft breath. “You are a far stronger woman than I could ever be.”

  “Nonsense. You do not know the depths of your strength until you find yourself in a crisis worthy of it.”

  Anna held out her hands to show how they trembled. “Would you not call this a crisis?”

  “The tauntings of an arrogant nobleman who has had his pride cuckolded?” The snort Florence released would have better suited Broom. “A mere irritation, child. Something on which to hone your feminine skills. Despite the stiffness of his neck, I vow the man is clearly smitten with you. What is more, I would stake my new whalebone busque that a few well-fluttered glances would have him on bended knee again, offering all he possesses for the charity of your smile.”

  “But I do not want him on his knee,” Annaleah insisted. “Nor do I want him offering me anything, not even his escort to London.”

  “Be that as it may, you will have to find some way to endure it. Now come here a moment and let us choose a trinket that will inspire the appropriate awe in any future suitors.”

  She led the way into her bedroom--a cavernous chamber filled with mementoes from the past eight decades, including a huge carved oak tester bed that could easily sleep four. Its canopy and curtains were made of scarlet velvet swagged with fat gold cords and fringed tassels, a color scheme that was prevalent in the carpets as well as the brocaded silk wallpaper. The ceiling was painted with naked cherubs and cupids peeking through a forest of red and gold leaves. Everything seemed old and dusty at first glance, but it was just because there was so much clutter crammed into every nook and corner. Paintings, books, chairs, a hundred figurines and objects collected over the years vied for space with tables, a tapestry stand, even a small pianoforte buried under another mound of well worn books.

  Anna had never been invited inside her great-aunt’s bedroom before; she had always been left standing at the threshold like a tinker hawking wares at the kitchen door. Part of the reason for that, she suspected, was the full size painting of a nude woman reclining on a scarlet fainting couch. The woman was young and beautiful, with full, lush breasts and generously rounded curves; a portrait that had obviously been painted with an eye attentive to the smallest, most erotic detail. Her hair was a cascade of thick chestnut brown waves spilling over the cushions and trailing over the side of the couch. Finer, silkier curls were clustered at the top of her thighs, where one of her hands, with its long delicate fingers was placed with the teasing suggestion of an invitation.

  “I was just about your age when I posed for that,” Florence said proudly. “I had every stallion in the parish rearing up on his hind legs to show off his potential, driving my father mad day and night with their flowers and poetry. I recall one persistent fool used to read sonnets outside my window late at night until Father could not take it any more and had the servants empty all the thunderpots onto his head at once.”

  “Yet you never married.”

  “I wanted to. I must have asked him a hundred times over the years, but the man I loved was as proud as he was stubborn. He was just a lowly groomsman, you see. A stable boy. Regardless of how high he climbed through the ranks, he still considered himself a servant and respected my father, my family too much to besmirch my blood with his. I called him every kind of fool I could think of, especially after Father was gone and we were both too old to care about scandal. But by then I suppose we had become too comfortable living as we were, husband and wife in everything but name. I even tried my damnedest to get with child, hoping that would shame him into relenting, but alas, that was not to be either, though I vow there is not a chair, a carpet, a cranny in this house we have not put to good use. Even now, I frequently have occasion to call him old Tremble Legs.”

  Anna could scarcely give voice to her thought. “Willerkins?”

  “Not much to look at beneath all those wrinkles, I grant you, but ah when he was young he could put me on my knees with just a glance.” Florence gazed up at the portrait and chuckled. “He caught a dreadful fever one year and I thought I was going to lose him. I had this painted and hung in his room so that every time he opened his eyes he would see what was waiting for him when he recovered. The fever burned nearly four stones off his weight, but wobbling or not, as soon as he could stand he came scratching at my door.

  “That is the kind of man you deserve, Annaleah Fairchilde,” she added softly. “And you s
hould not settle for anything less.”

  “My...situation is somewhat different.”

  “Why? Because your mother has set her sights on a grand block of ice like Barrimore and because your father is too involved with his son’s political aspirations to see that his daughters are equally precious commodities? Sad to say, your sister shares the same temperament as your mother and would not have questioned their decision to marry her to a wooden post--which, as it happens, her husband handily brings to mind. But you. You have a sparkle in your eyes, my dear. Do not let them blot it out.”

  “How can I possibly prevent it? You give me too much credit, Auntie, for in truth I have no more wit than my sister.”

  “If that were the case, you would not have lasted an hour in my company. And I would not already be missing you even though you are not yet out the door. Now come, help me move this rubble.”

  Florence led the way to where an old, iron-bound sea chest sat against a profusion of scarlet silk. It was stacked high with books and papers, which her aunt had Annaleah move and stack upon another half buried vessel. On a further wave of the cane, she leaned over and lifted the heavy lid of the chest, then removed several layers of what looked like smallclothes, corsets, and stockings yellowed with age. Beneath them was a second chest, this one made of polished wood secured with a wide brass lockplate.

  “Bring it over here,” Florence ordered, pointing to a dainty Louis XIV vanity table. “I lost the key about forty years ago, so it is not locked. Go ahead, open it. There should be a sapphire ring inside, along with a matching set of earrings if I remember correctly.”

  Anna lifted the lid and her eyebrows at the same time. The ring was only one of dozens tangled carelessly among webs of gold chains. She found three sapphires in the midst of all the rubies, diamonds and emeralds, but they were all waved away with the cane. A fourth won a smile and a nod, a huge glittering thing with a dozen blue gemstones surrounding a diamond the size of a thumbnail.

  “That should do nicely,” Florence said. “Put it on, put it on.”

  “It is lovely,” Anna agreed, slipping it onto her finger. It was a tight fit and she had to force it over the second knuckle. “I would never guess the stones were paste.”

  “Then you would be exhibiting good sense, my dear, because they are not. They are very real, I assure you, as are all the other pretties in my little treasure box.”

  “But downstairs you said--”

  “I know what I said, but if I had said I wanted to give you a trinket worth several thousand pounds, how long would it have taken for your mother to declare me an incompetent old frizzen and come searching out the rest? Now, I want that to remain in your possession,” she added with a grumble, “to wear or not to wear, to ferret away for a little nest egg of your own, or to sell as need be.”

  “Sell? I would never sell it!”

  “Never is a word that should be used sparingly, and only after a great deal of thought. In any case, the ring is yours to wear, to sell, to toss in the privy if the shine disappoints.”

  “I...do not know what to say.”

  “Say thank you and remember we are only here for one go around. Fifty years from now we will all be dust and no one will remember our names, much less the scandal of who we chose to love and who we did not. Now, run off to your room and pack. It is nearing the noon hour and Mildred will walk out the door if she is forced to cook for any more guests.”

  “Thank you.” The whispered words came with an impulsive hug that left Florence’s chin quivering, her eyes damp.

  “I will expect a letter the instant you arrive back in London,” Florence insisted, clearing her throat. “I will want to know every word that passes inside that coach. And naturally, if you should happen to hear anything of that young rogue you keep kissing without my permission, I would want to know of that too.”

  “Oh, Auntie,” she whispered. “We parted on such dreadful terms, I am sure he would never want to see me again.”

  Florence tucked a hand under Annaleah’s chin. “You just remember what I said about the word never. I suspect it is one that rarely passes Emory Althorpe’s lips.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Following the night of heavy rains, there was only one main road that was maintained well enough to support a carriage the size of the berline. From Widdicombe House, it followed the coastline, passing Berry Head, a wide raised promontory of rock bordered on three sides by two- hundred foot limestone cliffs. The town of Brixham, smallest of the three that skirted the harbor of Torbay, was built around the base of the promontory, and on top, because the summit presented the ideal strategic location for monitoring naval traffic moving to and fro in the Channel, there were four batteries of heavy cannon, two garrisoned forts, and a naval hospital.

  Normally a speedy journey, on this day it took nearly an hour to traverse the mile down from Berry Head to Brixham. Not only was the road thick with mud, but the distance was clogged with coaches and horses carrying men and women to the best vantage points along the cliffs where they might observe the huge warship newly anchored in port. The deeper the berline drove into the narrow streets of the town, the worse the congestion, because now there were pedestrians and enterprising pie sellers filling every corner and lane that converged upon the waterfront. Most of the buildings were narrow wooden structures that seemed to lean one against the other for support, and from these the windows were flung wide and more people hung over the sills shouting, waving, chattering excitedly.

  Only the constant cracking of the whip by Barrimore’s driver, combined with the threat of the four matched geldings kept the path before the berline clear. Two liveried postillions walked in front of the lead team, adding their shouts and threats to the snap of the lash. Two more coachmen in the rear suffered the indignity of the occasional piece of rotten fruit pelted from a window or alleyway, but in the end, they rolled through Brixham and followed the coastal road down and around through Paignton and on to Torquay, where wealthy patrons came to rent villas and take the sea air. Here too there were crowds on the boardwalks and beaches. The harbor held a forests of masts swaying to and fro with the motion of the tides.

  Barrimore and Anthony had taken rooms in a hotel overlooking the harbor. Because they could not find a spare hackney that morning, it had made little sense to burden the berline with their belongings, so it was necessary to make a brief stop in order to collect their cases and strap them into the boot.

  Annaleah was grateful for the chance to stretch her legs. Apart from the muddy, rutted roads and constant lurching to driving around obstacles, she was suffering from the strain of having to ignore Barrimore’s brooding silence. Anthony, who barely lasted long enough to make a final comment about the unhealthy effects of so much fresh air, had fallen promptly asleep when they departed Widdicombe House and remained so until the wheels rolled to a halt outside their hotel. As for Barrimore, while he had not exactly stared at her for the entire length of time, she had felt his eyes boring into her more than once, not believing for an instant that although she kept her eyes closed, she had also slept through the bouncing and jostling.

  Annaleah was offered tea in the small cafe that fronted the hotel, but she chose instead to walk across the street to a small, shady park where visitors strolling along the boardwalk could enjoy the stunning view of the harbor below. The benches along the tree lined walk were all full, the walk itself crowded with men in tall beaver hats and women in airy summer gowns. Waving once at Anthony to indicate her intention, Annaleah followed the boardwalk to a more promising stretch of grass and was there afforded her first clear view of the H.M.S.Bellerophon, anchored well out in the middle of the great harbor.

  She was a big three masted ship-of-the-line, with an ornately carved and gilded gallery of windows across the stern and two gun decks painted with black stripes running the length of her hull. Her captain, Frederick Maitland, had set out perimeter guards, for there was a circle of smaller boats tethered to her sides, presumably manned by
soldiers who warned away the flotilla of fishing boats that swarmed around the outside of the ring like bees buzzing a hive.

  Napoleon Bonaparte, France’s most fearsome general, self-proclaimed dictator, emperor, former master of the continent of Europe was now reduced to an insignificant dot on the deck of a ship. She remembered the stories her nurse used to tell her about ‘Old Boney’. To most children, he was an ogre with one flaming red eye in the middle of his forehead and long teeth protruding from his mouth with which he tore to pieces and devoured naughty little girls who did not learn their lessons.

  “Would you care to take a closer look, Miss?”

  A young gentleman standing beside her offered Anna the use of his small brass spyglass. It was bound in leather and fit neatly into her hand, but when the various sections were telescoped and the eyepiece held against the eye, it brought the warship close enough to distinguish the various clusters of officers and seamen standing on deck.

  Anna lowered it and the ship shrank to the size of a walnut again.

  “He was on deck not two hours ago, Miss. Napoleon himself, I warrant, for he wore the green uniform of a Colonel in the Imperial Guard and the naval bicorn with the tricolored cockade.”

  Anna closed her left eye and peered through the spyglass again, counting at least a dozen men in green uniforms on the deck, most of whom wore bicorns. There were a dozen more in blue coats with gold trimmings, scarlet tunics with white crossbelts, black and brown jackets with white breeches, and still more men in frockcoats and trousers who were either not attached to the military or who were not accorded the same courtesy as the prisoner in being allowed to maintain the appearance of a ranking officer. She did not see any with flaming red eyes or long fanged teeth, nor would she have known Napoleon Bonaparte had he looked straight back into the glass and waved.