Sandra Heath

by The Haunting of Henrietta

  Marcus had no intention of accommodating Lyons, and so although he felt that the Avalon stood a chance of outrunning the Frenchman, he decided to bolt for the safety of Great Yarmouth. But even as he made the decision, the wind suddenly backed sharply, sweeping off the land and forcing him to abandon Great Yarmouth. Determined not to make for the open sea where the Légère could pounce, Marcus sailed as close-hauled as possible, keeping to the coast. He willed a British naval vessel to appear with the wind behind her, to force the privateer to sheer off, but no such rescue arrived. There was nothing for it but to put the sloop and his own seamanship to the test. A little cloud had begun to burgeon overhead, and if he could skirt as closely as possible to the Black Deeps, maybe he could lose the Légère by disappearing into a moonless winter night.

  Henrietta was seated on the flag locker by the taffrail on the quarterdeck. She was wrapped in her fur-lined cloak, with the hood held in place by a scarf. Salt clung to the dark curls around her face and her hands were thrust into a muff. The Avalon’s identification flag flapped like a wild thing as she glanced forward in the hope of seeing Marcus, but he was out of sight by the helmsman.

  She had taken the liberty of bringing the telescope from the cabin, and through it saw Amabel standing at her brother’s side on the Légère’s deck. Henrietta gazed at the woman she had regarded as a close confidante. In truth, Amabel Renchester had always been a stranger, yet the fabrication of friendship she created had seemed the very essence of genuineness. It was chilling to think how very nearly her plans had succeeded.

  Henrietta was not alone at the taffrail, for Jane and Kit were with her, as was Rowley. By now the ghosts knew how well things had progressed at the dinner à deux, but were convinced that it had now become hopeless. Even if Marcus were to propose, and Henrietta were to accept, at this cruelly late point it would all come to nothing. Old Nick was closing in upon them, and after toying cruelly for a while, would carry them off to a terrible eternity in Hades. They were all in the hands of the Master of Hades, and that was the end of it.

  But even now, when all seemed lost, they abided by the rules, which would be broken if they if they told Henrietta of their mission to bring her together with Marcus. They only told her of the struggle between St. Peter and Old Nick for possession of their souls, and said that the Master of Hades had clearly won. Henrietta comforted them as best she could, but there was precious little she could say.

  Rowley suddenly jumped from Jane’s arms onto Henrietta’s lap, for he had taken a great fancy to her. She took a hand from her muff to stroke him, because he liked it even though he couldn’t feel anything. Jane hardly noticed the spaniel’s desertion. All she could think of was that the Wessex and Basilic had foundered at first light on St. Valentine’s Day, and today was St. Valentine’s Eve.

  Henrietta didn’t hear Marcus step up onto the quarterdeck. She only realized he was there when he appeared beside her, and steadied himself with a leather-gloved hand on the taffrail. His cloak billowed as he glanced down and saw the movement of her hand as she stroked the invisible spaniel. “We have company?” he inquired above the racket of the sea and ship.

  “Yes.”

  He looked at her. “It’s too cold out here. You should be in the cabin.”

  “I wanted some fresh air.”

  “Fresh? Well, that’s one way of describing it.”

  “I’m hardy in spite of my delicate breeding,” she replied with a smile.

  He smiled too, and there was sufficient warmth in his eyes to melt polar ice.

  They were silent for a moment. Then she looked astern again at the following vessel. “Do you think the Légère is fast enough to overhaul us?”

  “The truth is, I don’t know. She isn’t yet giving full chase, but we have sail to spare as well.”

  “Are we still making for the Thames?”

  “Yes, although the river itself may be frozen in London, hopefully we’ll be able to sail far enough for the Légère to cry off. Why do you ask?”

  “I was thinking of the Goodwins.” She glanced at Jane and Kit.

  Marcus had been told about the silver glow and mingling of past and present, and he knew the fate Jane had predicted. He hunched his shoulders beneath his cloak. “Old Nick can go whistle. He’s not getting anything or anyone while I live and breathe.”

  “So there is no chance at all that we will go anywhere near the Goodwins?” Henrietta wanted to allay Jane’s fears if she could.

  Marcus replied, “I cannot deny that the safety of the Downs is a great temptation.”

  “The Downs?”

  “The haven between the sands and the Kent shore. It’s where all shipping coming in and out of London holes up when necessary, and is reckoned the most protected stretch of water on the east coast. But the estuary is closer and I really have no desire to test the Légère’s mettle.”

  Henrietta looked astern again. “I’ve seen Amabel on the Légère. I wonder what she’s thinking?”

  “Amabel? Most probably that since she’s unlikely to enjoy Sutherton’s embraces again, comfort will have to be drawn instead from the prospect of shining very nicely in the Paris salons on the proceeds of a prize like the Avalon” he replied dryly.

  “What will happen to us if we’re captured?”

  “When the Avalon picks up her skirts to run, she shows a very neat pair of heels. If nothing else, we’ll give Lyons a run for his money.”

  She noticed he hadn’t actually answered her question, and remembered that Charlotte had told her Charles Lyons offered no quarter, even to women.

  Suddenly the lookout shouted down from the mainmast that the Légère was hoisting her full rig. As Marcus glanced swiftly at the other vessel, Jane and Kit saw everything around them begin to turn silver again. The dreadful weakness of the previous night returned, and they were no longer in control. Jane gave a sob of utter dismay, and buried her face against Kit’s shoulder. They were on the Wessex again, and there was pandemonium on the main deck as all hands were summoned. The Basilic was coming up astern and the merchantman had to flee if she could.

  Henrietta experienced it all too, although she remained in the present. She saw the Wessex superimposed on the Avalon, and the Basilic upon the Légère. There was so much panic, yet everything was silent. It was like dreaming while awake. Rowley whimpered and pushed his head deep into the folds of her cloak, trying to hide. “You’re safe with me, Rowley. I won’t let anything hurt you!” she whispered determinedly.

  Marcus looked concernedly at her. “Henrietta?”

  But her gaze was following the past, and she sank to her knees as the tragic fate of the Wessex unfolded inexorably before her.

  “Henrietta!”

  The other images disappeared, as did Jane and Kit, but Rowley was left behind, kept back by the sheer force of Henrietta’s determination to protect him. Marcus pulled her to her feet and gripped her elbows to search her face, which was now quite ashen. “What happened, Henrietta?”

  She swayed a little as everything became normal again, but Jane’s dread now enveloped her as well. “Marcus, Jane is right, we are going to founder on the Goodwins! We’re the Wessex all over again!”

  “That’s nonsense. Tell me what happened.”

  “I—I saw the past.” Still cradling Rowley, she described it all, and then raised frightened eyes to Marcus. “It’s coming full circle, Marcus, and cannot be avoided.”

  “What utter nonsense! I admit that there are such things as ghosts. Indeed how could I deny it?” He nodded down to the way her arms clearly enveloped the invisible spaniel. “But I will not accept that our fate has been decreed by some supernatural force. All that’s happened is that the Légère has tired of stalking us, and I’m going to show Lyons just how handy a good British sloop can be when necessary!” He kissed her passionately on the mouth, and then strode away, shouting for Mr. Barrington.

  Henrietta looked down at Rowley. “Where are Jane and Kit? What’s happened to them?” The span
iel gazed back, and whimpered again.

  * * * *

  As the sea chase began in earnest, the Master of Hades sat back to watch. He was safe in the knowledge that weather conditions would soon favor the privateer, and unavoidable decisions would be forced upon Marcus. St. Valentine’s Day and the Goodwins awaited, and with them a very neat and satisfactory repetition of the past. And all this while dithering St. Peter was well and truly distracted by a jealous dispute among angels. How provident that angels were not always angelic!

  However, in spite of his outward display of calm confidence and gloating anticipation, Old Nick was in fact quite ruffled. The reason for this lay in the outcome of the dinner à deux, for he knew how very, very close the ghosts were to success, and if that happened they would elude his grasp forever. When the whole business began in 1714, he had promised himself the eventual satisfaction of thumbing his nose toward heaven. The final snatching of their souls, one hundred years to the day, would allow him to do just that, but he would lose face entirely if they slipped through his fingers. Victory had to be his!

  It didn’t please him at all that in the meantime he felt it necessary to defend his reputation. If Jane and Kit were to get away with their effrontery, his lieutenants in hell might question his authority, and that could not be tolerated. To prevent this, he had commenced the ghosts’ punishment. The year 1814 had ceased to be for them. Instead they were reliving every anxious moment of the 1714 events. They felt as if they were alive again, except that they knew exactly what would unfold in the coming hours.

  His claw-nailed fingers drummed grimly. The specters might think they already knew what terror was, but when they were carried down into Hades, they would discover an eternity of something much, much worse…

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  All day the Avalon fled, keeping so dangerously close to the land that at times it seemed she must founder among the shoals and sandbanks, but somehow she slipped safely through. The much larger Légère did not dare follow her example, so sailed a parallel course in deeper water, and slowly but surely began to overhaul the sloop.

  Henrietta had nothing to do except watch and wait. Rowley did not leave her arms, but by his cowering manner, and the way he whined wretchedly from time to time, she knew he was seeing things that for some reason were now denied to her. Rowley himself was her only link with the supernatural; she neither heard nor saw anything else. Of Jane and Kit there was absolutely no sign, nor was there a reoccurrence of the silvery echoes from the past, and although Henrietta prayed that one or other of her ghostly friends would appear, she waited in vain.

  In fact they were enduring Old Nick’s callous punishment. As Henrietta gazed back from the Avalon toward the Légère, the phantoms gazed instead from the Wessex to the pursuing Basilic. Their feelings weren’t those of the past, however, for instead of the anxiety they’d experienced then, they were now weighed down by an overwhelming sense of impending doom. Every second that ticked away was an agony of fear and suspense.

  Marcus had too much on his mind to be concerned about Jane and Kit. He longed to make a run for a port, but the strong offshore wind denied him the opportunity. Nor did help come in the form of other vessels. The horizon remained empty, and not so much as a fishing boat sallied forth from the snow-covered land. It was as if the sloop and its hunter were the only ships afloat, and all the time the Black Deeps loomed ever closer. When dusk fell, the Légère was barely a quarter of a mile astern and the perils off Orford Ness were only five miles ahead.

  With darkness came a quirk of the wind that carried a snatch of sound from the Légère. Marcus distinctly heard a burst of idle laughter from the privateer’s crew, and knew they weren’t as vigilant as they should be. Overconfident, he thought, and with a shrewd smile ordered all lights on the Avalon extinguished. Then he changed the sloop’s course to avoid the Black Deeps, veering due east so that the offshore wind was now directly behind her. With barely two hundred yards to spare, she cut directly across the Légère’s path. It was a risky business, relying heavily upon the Frenchmen’s unpreparedness, and everyone on the Avalon held their breath as they waited for the shouts that would signify the privateer’s realization, but none came. The Avalon sailed on eastward, and the lights of the Légère continued south. Marcus hoped Amabel’s brother would run his vessel into the Black Deeps, but knew that was very unlikely. Lyons was probably dining at this moment, but his eye would be upon the time. He could not help but know about the Black Deeps, for their whereabouts were very well charted, and in a while he would toss his napkin aside and come up on deck. His crew might be less than alert, but it wouldn’t take him long to realize his quarry had gone or which direction she must have taken.

  Therefore, after two hours Marcus changed course again, this time to beat southwest across the wind toward the Thames estuary. There was a risk they might encounter the privateer again, but he guessed Lyons would crack on as much sail as possible to surge east, and wouldn’t expect what amounted to a doubling back. Even supposing the Frenchman realized the trick, and veered about as well, he would have to beat across the wind as much as his quarry. The Avalon only had to stay ahead of him for the night hours. By dawn she would be in the estuary, where there was bound to be sufficient naval presence to drive the Légère away.

  The night hours passed without event, and at dawn on St. Valentine’s Day, the wind fell away to a light northerly breeze. The reassuring shores of the estuary were faintly visible to north or south, without any sign of the Légère. There was a strange absence of other vessels for an area that was usually thick with traffic, but no one gave it too much thought. All that mattered was that the British mouse had eluded the French cat. There were cheers as Marcus ordered the breaking out of a cask of rum.

  Old Nick watched and smiled. He knew their joy was premature. They weren’t safe yet, not by a long chalk.

  Henrietta shared the heady atmosphere of deliverance, but—like good St. Peter before her—was guilty of forgetting something very important. The bogle was locked in the very storeroom where the rum was kept. When the sailor entered to collect the promised cask of rum, the manikin tiptoed out as slyly as it had tiptoed in weeks before. Then it set out to cause trouble, beginning with the simple delight of jumping out and biting members of the crew. It decided to be visible to them, so the men would be frightened as much as possible. Sailors were renowned for their superstition, and had even been a little uneasy when Henrietta embarked at Mulborough, because women were supposed to be unlucky on board ship. Thus the sight of a hideous little goblin was sure to cause chaos.

  The celebrations came to a shocked halt as the bogle went about its wicked business. It leaped from an open hatchway and bit Mr. Padstow’s calf. As the boatswain howled with pain and dropped his cup of rum, the other crew members whirled in time to see the manikin dashing back into the hatchway. For a moment they doubted the evidence of their eyes, but then the ship’s cook erupted from a doorway. With a quivering finger he pointed back, and gibbered something about a gnome. As a stir of alarm spread, the bogle reappeared farther along the deck, this time treating the unfortunate Mr. Barrington to a sharp bite. After that there was mayhem. The bogle darted here, there, and everywhere, sinking its teeth into ankle after ankle, and there was nothing Marcus could do to restore calm.

  At this point, Rowley entered the fray. When Mr. Padstow was attacked, Henrietta had been standing by the taffrail with the ghostly spaniel in her arms. As incident followed hot upon incident, Rowley’s hackles rose and his hatred for the odious goblin increased. Then, with a growl of pure vengeance, he jumped down to charge after his tormentor. With a volley of barks he chased it into the hold.

  For a moment Henrietta was frozen with dismay; after all, it was through chasing the bogle that the spaniel had been lost before. Remembering how she’d dealt with the bogle in the past, she was galvanized into action. Ignoring the bemused gaze of the frightened seamen, she seized one of the brooms that had recently been used t
o keep the sloop free of snow, and hastened down to the main deck. Sooner or later the bogle would come on deck again, and when it did, she would be ready! Holding the broom firmly in both hands, she glanced swiftly at the likely doors, hatches, and ports.

  Rowley’s muffled barks suddenly became yelps of fear that emanated from one hatch in particular. The yelps grew louder and Henrietta advanced with the broom, oblivious to the watching crew. Rowley’s yelps were very close now, and then a second sound carried too—evil, high-pitched laughter. The spaniel burst onto the deck with the bogle on his back, and Henrietta had only a split second in which to act. She swung the broom with all her might. The bogle’s laughter ended on a winded squawk as it was knocked heavily from the spaniel’s back. Over and over it rolled, squealing and cursing as foully as the lowest tar.

  Henrietta swept the helpless manikin along the deck. As brisk and purposeful as a farmer’s wife cleansing a dairy, she rolled it toward the rail. But as she attempted to force the loathsome creature overboard, it grabbed a wooden fire bucket that stood nearby. For a moment the bucket wedged against the rail, with the wriggling bogle holding on tightly as it dangled above the water.

  Marcus stepped forward then, and with a deft kick sent bucket and bogle into the sea. Henrietta dropped the broom to gather Rowley gladly into her arms again, and the spaniel covered her face with licks she could not feel. The relieved crew dashed to the rail and watched the bogle clamber into the bucket. As it bobbed away astern, it brandished a clenched fist and hurled abuses that would have made a coal heaver blush. The bemused sailors could only stare at it, but then, much to the bogle’s gibbering fury, a man slightly bolder than the rest shouted something appropriately insulting in return. There was a ripple of laughter, and the atmosphere lightened perceptibly as the bogle began to jump impotently up and down in the bucket.