by Peter Greene
“It is for you, on your travels,” she said, “and to remember our adventures.”
Jonathan held up the gift: a silver crescent moon upon a silver star, with the compass points, north, east, west, and south, each engraved on the corners.
“Delain,” Jonathan said. “It is stunning. I thank you. Coming from you, it will be a great comfort to me.”
“Please return, Jonathan,” she said.
“Of course,” he replied.
He lifted her hands to his face slowly, and kissed them ever so lightly.
Delain smiled even brighter, let out a slight gasp, then turned and ran inside.
On the slow ride home in Admiral Moore’s carriage, a light drizzle began to fall. Nathaniel watched his son in silence as the boy stared alternately between the silver star and the passing scene out the window, deep in his own thoughts. Jonathan’s face was neither happy nor sad, but it showed some emotion. Was it concern—or possibly even loss in a way? It was true; he recognized that Jonathan would get to know, quite intimately, this feeling of being drawn between two loves. He would never be truly happy with just one, and never be able to satisfy them both.
5
The Treaty of Akbar
At the close of the evening, after the dinner at Captain Walker’s home, Delain and her sisters prepared for bed. Upstairs at Bracknell Manor, there was a small parlor that was afforded to the girls, with a private room for each off its sides. Every evening they sat at three vanities, each set with a large mirror. The girls brushed their hair, discussing what they had seen in London that day, what had happened in school, and what activities were planned for tomorrow. Delain had, of course, mentioned Jonathan’s kiss, or what her sisters called “the long-awaited kiss.” Though none of them would consider it a proper kiss, as Rebecca called her final sample from Thomas Harrison, to Delain it was ever so special.
“I thought of just taking one from him,” Delain had told her giggling sisters. “Jonathan has had so many chances. But I am glad I let him deliver it in his own time.”
After her admission, she suddenly became silent, and her sisters became curious, noticing her scrunched brow and frown. She even started murmuring to herself, as if trying to recount some activity or conversation. Though they loved her dearly, she seemed to be a bit, well, off. Normally, Delain would complain about the appointments for tea, the ridiculous poise-and-manners lessons, and the fact that Jonathan, and all her friends who provided any modicum of excitement, would soon abandon her. Tonight, however, Delain seemed to be in her own world.
“Delain,” Rebecca said, “whatever are you thinking?”
“Pardon,” said Delain, affecting a proper and sophisticated air. “Whatever do you mean?”
“You are almost completely silent, something we are not accustomed to,” Rebecca said.
“I have been formulating an opinion,” Delain said flatly.
“About whom?” asked Penelope, who had finished her own hair brushing and came to Delain’s side to take over the task.
“About Lord and Lady Wilder,” she answered.
“The lovely couple we met at the race?” asked Penelope.
“Yes,” said Delain. “Something is not right with them. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
“Why on earth do you have a concern with them?” asked Rebecca.
“I can’t get the fact out of my mind that they are nobility in London, yet…Lady Wilder dressed slightly, well, shabbily.”
Rebecca laughed. “Look who is now a fashion critic of the London elite! I never thought I would see the day that my tomboy sister would ever make such a comment. I mean, coming from you? You actually own pants!”
“I am not a tomboy!” said Delain forcibly.
“But you do own pants,” stated Penelope. “I have seen you in them. Ghastly!”
Delain shook her head as best as she could; it was difficult with her sister stroking her hair. She settled on rolling her eyes and sighing loudly.
“It is not the lack of fashion that has me interested. It is the condition of Lady Wilder’s clothes. They were tattered and frayed. Also, the Wilders departed after the race with Barbara Thompson in Captain Walker’s carriage. Wouldn’t you think they would have their own carriage?”
“They do,” said Penelope. “I saw it before the race. A gray affair. Not very nice, I will admit.”
“Why not take that carriage home?” asked Rebecca.
“Because, I think it is rented. By the hour!” claimed Delain.
“Good heavens!” scolded Rebecca. “How can you say such a thing?”
“All I am saying is that something is abnormal about the Wilders. They are not very…refined, to use a form of your word.”
“Maybe they have money complications,” offered Penelope.
“Possibly,” said Delain. “However, I would like to get a little closer. Someone must assist me in—” She stopped short, and an uncomfortable silence remained.
“Spying?” asked Rebecca.
“I wouldn’t put it that way,” said Delain.
“I would,” said Penelope.
“And why not then, if you must label it?” retorted Delain, slightly angry. “There were a few other items they mentioned that made little sense. And there were contradictions.”
Rebecca stopped her grooming and turned to her sister.
“Lord Wilder claimed he knew little about sailing ships,” said Delain. “However, he had no trouble telling a frigate from a corvette. And he asked a few questions about guns, and, may I point out, did not use the term cannon, as many uneducated persons would. There is a contradiction if I ever heard one.”
“Contradiction?” exclaimed Rebecca. “Delain! Lord Wilder knew one small fact about sailing ships, hardly a reason for an inquisition. He obviously knows a thing or two being on the Navy Board. Might he have had a few conversations?”
“It was the manner in which he stated it,” said Delain, “as if he were trying to appear innocent.”
“Appear innocent?” asked Rebecca. “Why do you persist? This is all an attempt to promote your dissatisfaction with London. You, Penelope, and I—like Miss Barbara Thompson—are destined to be ladies of London!”
“Miss Barbara Thompson,” Delain said softly.
“And if you marry well,” continued her older sister, “you will be a polite and sophisticated woman, living in comfort and enjoying what polite society can offer. Can you not accept that?”
Delain stood, smiled, walked over to her older sister, and put her arms about her. They both saw their reflections in the mirror.
“My dear Rebecca,” said Delain, smiling. “The answer to that question is an unequivocal and unsympathetically stated no! And thank you for the suggestion.”
“What suggestion?” asked Rebecca.
On the eastern portion of Van Patten Wood, the night had settled in, and a cool wind blew a gray mist across the estate of Lord and Lady Wilder. It had been raining lightly and had just recently stopped. Stars peeked out from the space between the departing clouds, adding a glimmer of light to the wet cobblestone. At the end of the drive leading from the house to the street stood a figure. Cloaked in a heavy coat and hood with head cast down to hide his face, the man stood close to the trunk of a large pedunculate oak, hiding from the weak light in the tree’s shadow. Not wanting to be seen, he stood as still as stone, staring not toward the sleeping mansion of the Wilders, but outward to the road.
At precisely three a.m., just as it had happened previously, there came the faint creaking of a carriage and the soft clip-clop of a lone horse’s hooves. The cloaked figure strained to see through the darkness and remaining haze. After a moment, he saw the carriage materialize just a few yards to his left and then slow noticeably to continue beyond his position. As it rolled past, he could see the carriage’s black form pulled by a blacker horse. There were no lamps lit, inside or out, and no human shape. Not even the form of the driver could be distinguished. The carriage stopped several yards
to his right. A moment later, the side door was opened from within.
After a long moment, the cloaked man waiting by the tree looked briskly to the left and right, then behind, and stepped quickly toward the carriage. He rushed inside, then closed the door just as the cart began to move once again. A voice greeted him warmly.
“Lord Wilder. A pleasure to see you again.”
Removing his hood, Lord James Wilder nodded.
The carriage moved south, away from the posh country estates of Van Patten Wood, heading south through the night toward Camden.
These trips were infrequent, though Wilder had come to realize that they all unfolded in the same manner. A note would almost magically appear at his dinner table—once in his salad, of all places—or in his study next to the brandy vase and snifter. There would be a clumsily written note in almost juvenile handwriting, with simply a date written on it. All he was required to do was to appear at the end of his drive at three in the morning, ensuring that his wife and servants would all be asleep, and await the carriage.
The driver outside had never spoken to Wilder in all the trips he had taken. The man inside never spoke, except the greeting, until the carriage was far from his home. The eventual conversations were always extremely interesting to Wilder, and the subject and plans made were befitting of a man in his position and with his talents. He was, after all, a lord of not only the Crown, but a lord of His Majesty’s Navy, and he held an important position on the Admiralty Board, presiding over a variety of ship’s assignments. It was, however, this added duty of working with one of His Majesty’s secret agents that was the coup de grace.
Finally, the spy spoke.
“Some good news, Lord Wilder. His Majesty has been so taken by our last bit of success that he has decided to entrust us with another, more important mission.”
“Indeed?” said Wilder. “It is my pleasure to serve him, and in the least, to do my small part.”
“A true Tory, you are, Lord Wilder, and modest. It was no small part, nor will be this new endeavor. Shall I proceed with the details?” asked the spy.
“By all means,” said Wilder, quite pleased at hearing that his last effort had been well received.
Reaching Camden, the carriage proceeded down a dark and quiet street and came to a halt under a small footbridge that spanned a brook. The driver stayed in his seat and looked in all directions, as if expecting someone to happen by at this late hour, curiosity and possibly an opportunity to better their financial position driving them. Of course, none did this evening. If one had, a simple look from the driver and a flashing of his long, French pistol gleaming in the gaslight from across the street would be enough to send anyone quickly on his way.
Inside the carriage, the spy leaned close to Lord Wilder, dropped his voice to a low whisper, and presented the plan.
“The king desires a stronger relationship against Napoleon with his allies. Though at peace for the moment, all know it will not last. Hostilities are surely to break out within the year. Our list of allies is short, and the quality of our relationships is fragile.”
“Indeed,” said Wilder. It was true he had heard rumors, but these political events and machinations placed him out of his element. He had always believed that these things were best left up to those who had an interest in foreign affairs and had some means to affect them.
Means! Without the special compensation he expected to receive for his part in all of this, over a thousand pounds for his last effort, he would not have the means to keep his estate afloat, much less change the course of European history. But in his small way, he believed he could use his position to aid the British cause.
“What is the king’s desire?” he asked.
“To deliver a treaty to the tsar of Russia, Ferdinand the second. The Treaty of Akbar.”
“Akbar? Russia? Are they not already our allies?” asked Wilder.
“Yes, yes, but it is a tenuous relationship,” interrupted the spy. “The king and his ministers feel a more specific treaty will ensure our alliance. It is our duty to secretly, and with the utmost dispatch, route this treaty to the tsar. Only the fastest ship will do.”
“The Paladin!” said Lord Wilder. “Why, of course! The fastest ship in the fleet, even faster than the Echo, if that seems at all possible. And a beauty, I must say. Eighteen guns, though her best weapon is her speed. I have heard she can make almost seventeen knots.”
“Seventeen? That will surely do. Yes. The Paladin,” agreed the spy.
“She will take the treaty to the Island of Dugi Otok in the Adriatic Sea. A ship will be waiting to receive the treaty and take it to the tsar. I have the details on rice paper,” he said, handing the sheet to Wilder. “Please destroy it once you have committed it to memory.”
“I will,” said Wilder dramatically.
“In this packet is the treaty,” said the spy, who handed the package to his friend. Wilder took it and placed it in his breast pocket, giving it a firm pat.
“I will have Captain Spears change their orders immediately and inform the crew before they set sail tomorrow. They will be honored to carry such a valuable—”
“Begging your pardon, Lord Wilder,” said the spy. “The crew must not know anything about the treaty or its purpose. They must be kept in the dark completely. Too risky to let any details escape.”
Wilder thought about this. His few discussions with His Majesty’s naval captains had taught him one thing: they were not accepting of duty without extreme amounts of detail, and they were a suspicious lot to a man. Not telling them of the purpose of the treaty could cause them to attempt all sorts of dangerous departures and take unnecessary chances in the execution of their duty. And then what would happen? The treaty could be captured by an enemy or lost during the taking of a ship, burned in a fire, blown overboard.
“I think it would be prudent to tell the officers of the Paladin at least something about their duty,” said Wilder. “Just sending them to a delivery point with a diplomatic pouch will raise a great deal of suspicion. They will question the order more than usual.”
“I am worried, Lord Wilder—”
“These are good men, my friend. I have spent a day with them. A topnotch crew they are, and trustworthy. The commander, Lieutenant Thomas Harrison, is beyond well respected! Recovered the Drake, I am told, and fought in the Battle of Fire gallantly! We can count on them, I am sure!”
“As you wish it, my lord,” agreed the spy, “but let us tell them only that they carry an important treaty—not its name or purpose—and that information is for officers only. We cannot afford to have tongues of ordinary seamen wagging in every port.”
“Completely understood, my friend,” said Wilder.
“In addition,” continued the spy, “I must say the schedule is extremely tight. The Paladin absolutely must not be late to Dugi Otok. The ship meeting them will only wait within a short window of time. I am afraid that if they are tempted to pursue prizes, as all captains are, they will likely miss the appointment. We must find a way to keep them on course and on schedule.”
“I have it!” said Wilder after a moment of thought. “The midshipman aboard the Paladin, Jonathan Moore? Yes, Jonathan Moore is his name, the son of Admiral Nathaniel Moore! He has been given favor by the king himself, directly. If we could have His Majesty send a personal request for him to influence Commander Harrison, if needed, then he will advise as we desire. It would be like having one of our own spies on the ship.”
Wilder chuckled at this comment, as he thought himself the spy—and obviously his companion was one as well.
The spy thought about this for a moment and realized that an extra amount of insurance would help keep the Paladin on course to meet her appointment. He had his own insurance, of course, though no one can have too much in this business.
“I will speak to His Majesty first thing in the morning, and I will send word to you of his response. When does the Paladin depart?”
“Just before noon. We
must hurry,” added Wilder as he glanced out the window of the carriage. They were now moving once again.
The carriage continued in silence, mostly, and after half an hour arrived quietly at the Wilder Estate. The spy leaned over to Lord Wilder and grasped his arm.
“I also have a personal request, Lord Wilder. My nephew, Lieutenant Phillip Quinn, is a member of the Royal Navy and is awaiting assignment. I was hoping he would join the crew of the Paladin on this historic mission. Would it be at all possible to have him—”
“Consider it done, my friend,” Wilder said holding up his hand. “Phillip Quinn? He will be assigned and will deliver the orders personally to the Paladin. Have it at my office by eight a.m.”
“That is most gracious of you, Lord Wilder,” said the spy. “Here we are.”
The carriage stopped a short distance from the drive leading to the Wilder Estate. The door opened. Both men looked about to see if anyone had noticed them. The fog was thinning, and a slight glow of the approaching day could be seen to the east, turning the edge of the night’s blackness into a thin line of deep purple. It was silent—still only five in the morning at the most.
“His Majesty relies on us once again. I thank you for your service to him and to my network.” The spy smiled and reached for the carriage door. “A pleasure doing business with you, Lord Wilder. Good evening.”
“The pleasure is all mine, my dear Orvislat.”
With that, Lord Wilder left the carriage and proceeded toward his home in the remaining darkness.
Orvislat smiled broadly as the carriage moved on through the night. He thought of the Paladin, and yes, it confirmed what Lupien had told him: it was a fast ship and should be suitable for their needs. He tried to contain a laugh as the carriage rolled on.
6
Simply Lieutenant Gray
“He’s dead,” said Hayes, covering the form of seaman Bedard with a coat. “Too much blood lost.”