The demonic, howling wind intensified, bringing even heavier rain with it.
He closed the door against the gale. Damn. Now he could not only not leave, but the front of his shirt and trousers were damp as well.
If he dried his clothes and left early enough, no one would be the wiser that he’d spent the night at Kenstec with the young woman. Well, Polly would know. Jory, too. Gossips though they were, he knew they wouldn’t say anything about this. He opened the door to the stove and inspected the orange glow of the coals. He stirred them with a poker until they reignited.
He thought he heard a sound and glanced up at the ceiling as if he could see through the floors. He listened hard over the rain to hear if Olivia moved about the house.
Nothing but the raging of the storm.
Adam loosened the lacings of his shirt and pulled it over his head to lay it over the back of a kitchen chair and set it before the stove to dry. He took off his boots, then made quick work of the buttons of the front fall of his breeches.
The chill air aroused gooseflesh across his body.
He slipped his boots back on, shrugged into his coat and buttoned it up. He ventured out of the kitchen into the passage beyond, finding his way out to the entrance hall off which he assumed the study would lie. It was damned cold out here, as well as damned odd.
Once he’d been in awe of the “big house” on the hill. In his boyhood, it had seemed to be as large and as grand as a palace. But it was smaller than he remembered, diminished by the lack of furniture. Over the rain, he heard a sound again and beneath a closed door glowed a sliver of light.
He approached cautiously and listened a moment. There was no sound of rummaging for valuables. Adam glanced down to make sure he was more or less modest. He opened the door cautiously, so as not to alarm the person he suspected was behind it.
Lightning illuminated the room. He spied two folded blankets on a chaise lounge of powder blue velvet. At the fireplace, Olivia knelt, coaxing small flames from the new fire she’d set. The windows rattled with the accompanying thunder.
“You needn’t have gone to the trouble,” he said.
“It’s no trouble,” she replied without looking back. “I couldn’t sleep anyway.”
“The storm?”
Olivia glanced at him and nodded before returning her attention to the fire where mean, thin wisps of smoke rose.
“Here, let me help with that.”
Olivia got to her feet, letting him take her place by the fire. She had changed out of her day gown and instead wore a buttoned flannel wrapper hiding her figure beneath swathes of blue tartan fabric. She was subdued, cautious. Was she afraid of storms, or of him?
While he concentrated on the fire, he listened to her move about the room. He heard the sound of her shaking out the blankets. If he turned, he would be sure to see a bed being made up for him.
“When Lydia was very small, she was afraid of storms,” said Olivia softly. “She would climb into my bed and I would make up stories about brave sailors and clever smugglers until she fell asleep.”
Adam smiled at her recollection. The fire caught firmly at last. Flickering flames of orange and yellow burned merrily in the grate. He got to his feet.
“Would you like me to tell you stories of brave sailors?”
Olivia cocked her head as if considering his offer.
“Just the stories of one brave sailor will be sufficient.” She picked up one of the blankets, wrapped herself in it and sat in a green leather wingback chair large enough to tuck herself fully into, feet drawn up beneath her. “What was the worst storm you’ve ever encountered?”
Adam pondered for a moment; not the question, but whether Olivia wouldn’t be more comfortable on the chaise. No. If he asked her, she might take flight. And he’d rather have her company than not.
The French doors that led out into the garden rattled as though the wind itself was trying to force its way in like a burglar. The top and bottom bolts held firm as they must have done in such storms many times before.
He sat on the chaise and covered his lap with the blanket – for her modesty, rather than his. From this position, he could see the firelight flickering over half of her face, the rest in shadow and a single pale hand, holding her blanket together.
He recalled a storm much worse than this.
“There was a December tempest so fierce it was said it rivaled the Great Storm of 1703. I had just been promoted to carpenter on the Icarus when it blew in,” he began.
“We’d sheltered at Falmouth with a dozen other ships and battened down the hatches, but the seas battered our moorings. The captain made the decision to put out to sea before the storm grew worse, fearing if we remained where we were, we’d be dashed to pieces.”
Adam sat back along the chaise.
“There was no time to recall the full crew. The Icarus’ full complement was two hundred men, so we short-sailed out into the Channel against the wind and rode the anchors for as long as we could before they started to drag and we lost them completely. For the first and only time in my life, I was seasick.”
He turned his head to see if Olivia still listened or whether he’d bored her to sleep. But there she was, with her eyes open.
“Go on,” she whispered. “Tell me more about the brave sailor of the Icarus.”
He flashed her a smile in return and continued.
“It was also the first time I really thought of a ship as being alive, not just the way she moves when under sail but, in rough weather like this, a ship will talk to you – she groans, squeaks, and screams…oh yes, she’ll talk to you if you let her.”
Adam slid onto his back and closed his eyes, allowing his body to relax and drift toward Morpheus as he related the tale.
Swamped by massive seas, the Icarus had started taking on water. He was manning one of the pumps below when he was ordered to the stern to help with repairs to the damaged steering gear. On the way there, the ship was hit broadside by a wave. He had stumbled backwards and fell down into the lower hold which was filling with water. He was winded by his tumble onto the ballast but otherwise unhurt.
The ship lurched once again. A piece of waterlogged old timber among the dredged ballast rolled on top of him, trapping him alone in the bowels of the ship. Behind closed lids, Adam recalled that night as clear in his mind as if it were yesterday.
As water lapped around his face, mortal terror and panic rose out of him like demons – he had shouted uselessly for help, unable to be heard above the storm around them. The ship took on more water and began to list. The ballast shifted once again. He took one large breath before plunging beneath the water to scramble out from underneath the timber and on to the top of the dislodged ballast. He picked up a rock and began pounding the floor above him with all his might until his frantic cries were answered. A nearby hatch opened and he was hauled out.
The Icarus survived, as did most of the crew – though three had been lost overboard. They certainly fared better than those whose ships had remained in Falmouth. A dozen men died. Three ships sank at their moorings, with many more badly damaged.
He opened a heavy eye to observe Olivia asleep in the chair by the fire.
Allowing himself to drift off, he considered the real significance of that experience in his own young life. From that day on, Adam had vowed to live every moment as if it were to be his last. He grasped every opportunity offered to him and sought out just as many that were not offered. No more would Adam allow his life be dictated by those around him.
He would be master of his destiny.
*
Olivia started awake at the sound of the study mantel clock chiming six. She was no longer in the chair, but rather lying on the chaise lounge, blankets tucked around her. Outside, the finches that lived in the hedges close to the house were calling out to one another.
She frowned. How did she get here? She’d fallen asleep in the chair across the way. And it was now empty.
“Adam?”
/>
She pulled the blankets aside. She was still dressed in the nightrail and wrapper from the night before. The kitchen, too, was deserted except for hot coals in the stove, a small glass jar filled with hastily picked wildflowers, and a note.
You learn to know the pilot in the storm
– Seneca
Seneca? The Roman poet? How did a humble carpenter-boy-turned-sailor learn about the ancients?
She placed the note onto the table and ran her fingers over the flowers, still fresh with dew. What a mystery Adam Hardacre had proven himself to be.
His kisses were arousing and his conversation illuminating. There was water already in the refilled kettle. She set it on the stove to boil after refueling the fire within. The two tea cups from last night were washed and back on the shelf beside the tea caddy.
Surely you must have considered your future? Perhaps even entertained the notion of marriage?
Peter Fitzgerald had asked these questions speaking of a marriage of companionship, not of love. She recalled Adam’s kiss last night and tried to imagine it from the solicitor. She could not. In fact, the very notion of him kissing her on the lips was decidedly unappealing.
If Adam had not proven himself to be a gentleman and master of himself, then she was under no illusion where last night would have ended. She would have welcomed it – welcomed him into her bed.
What did that say about her? Peter Fitzgerald had made a perfectly respectable offer of marriage. Adam Hardacre had made no such promises – it was ridiculous to believe the thought had ever crossed his mind.
A choice between a passionless future and a passion with no future.
Perhaps this was a test.
Olivia prepared the teapot and returned to the kitchen dresser. She opened the bread tin and cut two generous slices, covering them with butter and damson preserve.
At the table, she poured the hot water in the teapot and stirred it.
That must be it – a divine test of her resolve. She had been perfectly content to apply for another governess post four months ago and nothing of significance had changed since. She was a grown woman of twenty-eight, for crying out loud, it wouldn’t take too many years before she was a confirmed spinster.
The very best thing she could do was remove herself from such a Faustian bargain.
She carried her breakfast back up to her bedroom and threw the heavy damask curtains open wide, filling her small quarters with light.
She washed and dressed with alacrity before dragging her old trunk out from under the bed. It was made of timber and covered with green painted canvas held together with wide leather bands. It was scuffed, but in serviceable condition. She opened the lid to air it out then pulled out a sachet of dried lavender from her dresser drawer and dropped it in the bottom.
She would begin packing her belongings today.
Chapter Fourteen
Adam had been in The Blue Anchor for more than an hour nursing the same pint of beer. He observed the tide of drinkers and diners with an apparent indifference when, in reality, he worked hard to remember as many faces as possible.
How many of the Society’s fellow travelers were here? He supposed he’d have to wait to find out. Harold had yet to join them. He was on duty until six o’clock, and it was not yet seven.
It was hard to know exactly who or what he was supposed to be looking for. There were some he recognized from the Andromeda, others were vaguely familiar from other smaller ships in the harbor.
“Hardacre?”
The man in front of him looked rough, sporting on his chin several days of dark growth not so far gone as to yet call it a beard. Longish dark hair fell on his forehead.
“Who’s asking?”
“A friend.”
“My friends already know who I am.”
The man curled his lip into a sneer and leaned in. “I know who ye are, all right? And I don’t particularly care which way we play this. If ye’ve been given an invitation, then ye’re to follow me.”
Interesting, Adam thought, they’re very cautious.
“Follow you where?”
“Wherever I damned well go.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then me and a few mates will be by to make sure ye forget yer own name, let alone any meetin’.”
Adam locked eyes with the man and slowly rose from the table. He was taller, but the man before him was built like an ox. Adam had already decided how he was going to play this. If Wilkinson had him pegged as a trouble-making malcontent, then he would give him one. Appearing too eager would only serve to arouse suspicions.
“I’m waiting for someone.”
“Ye don’t have to worry about him, Hardacre. He’ll be along in his own good time.”
The man turned on his heel and walked toward the door. Adam waited a beat, then followed, skirting around the patrons who milled at the bar.
Outside, the light had softened to a pale purple. Adam fell into step with the man as he marched up the hill toward the Packet Quays where some of the wealthy shipping owners had built their homes to overlook the harbor.
“If we’re friends now, I ought to know your name.”
All Adam received in return was a grunt.
As they crossed one of the streets, Adam felt himself grabbed from behind. He struggled hard against Grunt and his unseen associate when another man came in from the side and shoved a canvas sack over his head. The men secured his hands.
“Calm yerself, Hardacre, ye’re still among friends,” said Grunt, sounding a lot more companionable than he did in the pub. “We just have to be cautious like.”
The three men took turns for a moment in shoving him along and turning him about, as though he were a ball in some game. By the time they finished, he had no idea where he was, precisely, nor how far they had gone. After about ten minutes, Adam could see light through the loose weave of the Hessian bag and heard the sound of a door opening.
“Hardacre,” Grunt announced on his behalf. An unseen hand shoved him hard in the center of his back. Adam stumbled forward. He gritted his teeth as two firm hands clasped his shoulders, propelling him down a carpeted hallway and into a room where, from what he could hear, a group of men gathered.
At last, the bag was pulled away. Adam was momentarily blinded by the brightly-lit room.
He seemed to be in some kind of library or private gentlemen’s club. Bookshelves accounted for three walls. There was a smattering of leather seats clustered around a fireplace, but the dominant feature in the room was a large, round mahogany dining table that might seat twelve. Now, however, no more than half a dozen men were in the room, including the three who had “accompanied” him. Behind him, hands worked to release the knot of the leather thong that bound his wrists together.
Unsurprisingly, Major Wilkinson sat at the end of the table. Adam experienced the odd feeling of being back before the Naval Board. He resisted the urge to stand to attention. Instead, he rubbed the red weal on his wrist where he had been tied.
“I was expecting a meeting of bluestockings,” said Adam. “You gentlemen play a bit rough.”
“It’s because this is not a game, Hardacre,” Wilkinson answered with no small measure of condescension. “Now, sit down and have a drink. Brandy will be acceptable, won’t it? Or is whiskey more to your taste?”
Adam raised an eyebrow and took the nearest seat. Brandy had been near impossible to get since the outbreak of war. Whiskey, too – especially the high quality ones from Cork. They were extremely hard to come by.
Both things hinted at connections with both France and Ireland.
“Whiskey,” Adam answered and a moment later one was placed to his right.
“You’ll have to forgive our unorthodox methods. Prime Minister Pitt has spies everywhere and I’m sure we have better things to do than swing at the end of a hangman’s noose, right gentlemen? Don’t misunderstand me, Hardacre. We are all patriots here to a man. But we will not obey a mad king or his tyrannical Prime Min
ister.”
Wilkinson’s impassioned words were met by quiet affirmations by those present. Adam looked around at all of them. These men did not seem like fanatics. They seemed sober and earnest.
Wilkinson continued. “We will not stand by and see men fight in a war for which there is no just cause. Good men; hard working men whose hands are callused by true labor. Good men like you who have been made to suffer indignity, refused a commission that was rightfully yours for no other reason than you weren’t born into the ‘right’ social class.”
As the man spoke, something stirred within Adam, a vestige of resentment, the bitter taste of humiliation he bore for eight long years watching the promotion of men younger and less skilled than himself. His right hand squeezed the glass in it. His bosun’s tattoo stood out starkly.
Adam downed the amber liquid and welcomed the fire in his throat that added fuel to the roiling in his gut.
The role of malcontent seemed made for him and he determined he had a few choice curses for Sir Daniel-Bloody-Ridgeway when he next saw him.
“What can be done of it?” he asked. “Your pretty words and sympathy won’t restore my years or persuade the Royal Navy of their error. My background may be humble, but I’m not a stupid man. The revolution in France starved and slaughtered thousands. What for? They got rid of a king and got an Emperor instead. What makes you think this band of merry men can do better?”
Wilkinson’s lip lifted a fraction.
“That’s more than you need to know.”
Adam set the glass down heavily and shook his head slowly.
“No. Not enough for me to put my neck on the line.”
“Then let’s put it like this, Hardacre – plans are well advanced to usher in a new era that the Radicals have only caught a glimpse of. We have men the length and breadth of the country ready to rise up. You’re not the only man who has much to gain in this.”
“To usher in a Heaven on Earth? I’m not buying it.”
“Then what will you buy?”
Adam focused his attention on the grain of the timber of the table. His mission had been clear – uncover specific information about a secondary plot to invade England, and identify the ringleader.
Barons, Brides, and Spies: Regency Series Starter Collection Volume Two Page 79