* * *
The Lively Lace was fast, all right. Clinging to the rail near the aft mizzenmast and watching her mainsail and two jibs crack in the wind, it seemed to Vespa that the yawl fairly flew, her bow throwing up billowing clouds of spray as it sliced the waves.
George Leggett had been quite willing to convey them to the port on the Brittany coast where his brother would hopefully have dropped anchor. The fee was surprisingly low. George had said with a twinkle that since he’d not be carrying any contraband for once, if a Revenue cutter did challenge him, he could claim that he was simply ferrying passengers to the Channel Islands. “Put their noses proper out of joint, it will,” he’d chuckled, as he showed them to the small cabin below decks. There were bunks in the cabin, and within minutes two were occupied. Vespa had slept for almost seven hours, awakening to the familiar pitch and roll of a ship and the heavenly aroma of frying ham that wafted from the tiny galley. A wash and shave and a hasty meal, then, leaving Manderville still sleeping like one dead, he’d come up on deck feeling a new man.
A bright moon escaped the clouds from time to time and was reflected on the endless expanse of heaving waters. The cold air blew salt spray in his face. He thought yearningly, ‘I’m coming to you, my love. God keep you. I’ll find you soon.’ Leggett, at the wheel, had watched his approach approvingly and called that the captain had his ‘sea legs’ all right.
Vespa crossed to his side and shouted, “I’ve done my share of sailing. Can we hope to reach France tonight?”
“If this wind holds, sir, I’ll have you in Brittany by dawn—give or take sunrise.”
Vespa nodded and returned to the rail. Time passed, and he was joined by the tall yellow-haired Samuel, who Leggett had explained sometimes sailed as ‘crew.’ Samuel offered an oilskin coat with the warning that Cap’n Vespa would get ‘soaked through’ without it, because it looked like ‘weather’ was blowing up.
He was right. Within an hour, Leggett and Samuel were struggling to shorten sail while Vespa took the wheel. Manderville came reeling up, shouted something unintelligible, lost his balance and shot across the deck. Vespa gave a horrified yell, secured the wheel and ran. Manderville was hurled over the rail but somehow managed to clutch it. He hung on for dear life while Vespa dragged him back onto the deck.
Bracing himself, Vespa gasped out, “Devil of a time … for a swim, Paige.”
Manderville clung to him and groaned, “What … I don’t risk … in the name of…”
“Of—what?”
“Of—er, friendship, of course. And—curse you, you’ve torn my—new coat!”
“Ingrate,” panted Vespa, staggering back to the wheel. “D’you want a turn at this?”
“Certainly not! I’m a soldier—not a damned merman! When dare we hope to reach—to reach dry land again?”
“Dawn—so Leggett says, if this wind keeps up.”
“Wind? I thought it was a hurricane!”
Hurricane or not, when the pale fingers of dawn streaked the eastern clouds the Lively Lace was following the Normandy coastline towards Brittany, just as George Leggett had promised. Vespa had seen several distant lighthouse beacons, but not so much as a glimpse of a Revenue cutter. The seas were treacherous here; great plumes of spray boiled up around offshore rocks, and the dark water surged in swift and deadly currents that only a skilled mariner could hope to navigate.
The wind having dropped, Manderville risked another climb to the deck. One glance at lowering skies, heaving seas and a great mass of black granite that suddenly reared up beside the bow, and he flung a hand over his eyes and retreated, moaning.
For Vespa it had been a night of backbreaking effort, but the battle against the elements, bruising as it was, had given him the chance to put aside, for the moment, his crushing anxieties, and he had the satisfaction of knowing his health was steadily improving and that he’d managed to be of real assistance.
Peering at the looming ridges of Brittany, he stood at the wheel beside Leggett, and asked, “Are you sure of your brother’s destination? That coastline ahead looks very wild. I never saw so many coves and inlets, and each guarded by offshore rocks. Might he not choose an easier route?”
“He got no choice, Cap’n. With that there coach to off-load, he’ll need a port with a crane, but he’s got to take care. The French navy don’t amount to much since our Nelson met up with ’em, but they got a few ships of the line and some Customs cutters, and Willy being English they’d be main glad to send him to Davy Jones’ Locker!”
“I haven’t seen much in the way of towns. This area’s pretty sparsely populated, isn’t it? Would it be worthwhile for French naval ships to patrol here?”
“Not in a reg’lar way, sir. But the more lonely it is, the more chance for free-traders and such to slip in and out.” He shouted suddenly, “Hi! Sam! We’re going in! Shorten sail!”
The yawl slowed, and turned landward. For some minutes Vespa had heard a dull roaring, and now, looking ahead, he caught his breath. Here again, the coastline was guarded by clusters of rocks like so many jagged teeth snarling against shipping, the waves thundering and foaming around them. “Good Lord!” he muttered.
Leggett’s hands were strong on the wheel, his keen eyes fixed on the tumultuous seas. “If it weren’t for that there dratted coach…” he muttered.
The Lively Lace began to buck and leap like a fractious horse. Vespa clung to the rail and marvelled at the skill of these men who could pick their way through such treacherous currents. Black-green water hove up along the side, then suddenly fell away; the roar was deafening, and for a heart-stopping few seconds the deck seemed to drop from under his feet and he was sure they were going down. A moment later the yawl drifted easily on a surface with scarcely a ripple.
Leggett shouted, “Good for you, Cap’n! Ain’t many landlubbers could keep their nerves steady through that. This is where I put you off.”
“Here?” There was nothing in sight but a deserted beach backed by low, barren-looking cliffs. “I cannot see the Saucy Maid or any other shipping. Where are we?”
“As close as I can bring ye to Brittany, sir. Sam’ll row you and Mr. Manderville ashore and set ye down on the beach. You see that headland, yonder? Go ’round that, and you’ll find the fishing port. It’s called La Emeraude, what means emerald, on account of when the sun shines on ’em, the rocks and the sea looks green. Not today, they don’t. But there’s times they does. They got a nice deep harbour and a crane.” He winked. “Cater to The Gentlemen, they do.”
“Free-traders, you mean.”
“Aye. Them. Likely, Willy will be already tied up and offloading. He’s knowed here, and he’s got plenty of Frenchies aboard what had no business going to England, any more than you got going to France. More’n I dare do to sail in right under their noses with two Englishmen aboard, and one of ’em a army captain! You take care, sir, and don’t speak nought but French. It ain’t exactly what they speak here, but better they should think you French than British. Been a pleasure having you on the Lively Lace. Good luck finding your lady!”
“Thank you. You’ll be sure to send my letters off, and keep my dog safe till I return or my people call for him?”
Leggett gave his solemn promise to do as asked. Manderville came up in response to Vespa’s hail, and having shaken hands with Leggett, they climbed into the dinghy and were rowed ashore.
“How do we get home, once we find Consuela?” asked Manderville, eyeing the departing dinghy uneasily.
“We’ll arrange that with brother Willy.”
“If he hasn’t already sailed.”
Vespa didn’t respond. His thoughts were all on finding Consuela and settling accounts with Monsieur Imre Monteil.
The sun was up now, but concealed by a grey overcast. The air was dank but not as cold as it had been in Dorsetshire. They were both wearing riding boots which made the long walk tiresome. Manderville said morosely that he didn’t believe there was a port at all, but Vespa’s fai
th in Leggett was justified when they rounded the headland and a little forest of masts came into view. A moment later they saw the port. It was not much more than a village; some clusters of pale granite houses and on the outskirts quite a number of whitewashed cottages set well apart from each other, their steep thatched roofs and the unfamiliar shapes of the chimneys appearing alien to British eyes. On a nearby hill a church spire rose among sparse trees. There were few people on the cobbled street; an old lady wearing severe black except for the tall and snowy lace cap on her head carried a covered jug to a nearby house; three small boys were running down towards the quay, where Vespa’s searching gaze had discovered several fishing boats and men already at work repairing nets.
Manderville muttered, “Don’t see no Saucy Maid, do—”
“The crane. See—there!”
And there she was, a large two-masted vessel, with some half-dozen passengers gathering their luggage on the deck, and four or five children watching in great excitement as a fine travelling carriage was hoisted from the hold. Observing this procedure critically was a tall, elegant gentleman with jet-black hair and very pale skin.
“Hi!” cried Manderville. “Jack! Hold up, you lamebrain!”
He was too late.
With an inarticulate growl of rage Vespa was already sprinting up the gangway to the deck of Willy Leggett’s Saucy Maid. In another instant an astonished Swiss gentleman was whirled around, an enraged young face glared at him murderously, a strong hand was ruining his perfectly arranged neckcloth, and a very British voice was snarling a demand to know what he had done with ‘her.’
Unaccustomed to such treatment and considerably off-stride, Imre Monteil gasped a bewildered, “With—who?”
“You know who, you murdering bastard,” raged Vespa, tightening his grip on the neckcloth. “Tell me, or so help me God, I’ll—”
“Jack!”
However shrill, there was no mistaking that beloved voice. Vespa’s heart leapt and he jerked around, whispering a prayerful, “Consuela!”
Her face aglow with joy, she rushed to him.
Monteil, half throttled, gasped, “Let … me … go, you curst imbecile!”
“So you did take her! Damn your eyes!”
Vespa’s deadly right was brought into play and Monsieur Monteil ceased to complain.
Ignoring the resultant uproar, Vespa crushed Consuela to him and with his cheek against her silky curls half-sobbed, “Thank God! Thank God! My little love!” He held her away, scanning her frantically. “Did he hurt you? Did he dare to touch you?”
“No.” Her radiant eyes searched his face. “I am perfectly all right. Oh, my dear, how ever did you find me? How worn you look! I must tell you that—”
His overwhelming relief turned perversely to anger. He shook her, and snarled, “If ever you deserved a good spanking! Wandering off alone again! Frightening us to death! After I’d told you—”
They were wrenched apart.
“Ma foi, but this one is of a violence!” cried a Gallic voice.
Two of the deck hands who’d been working with the crane gripped Vespa’s arms, and told him in an odd French dialect that he was fortunate Monsieur’s servant was a victim of mal-de-mer else he would assuredly by this time be very dead.
Manderville ran up beside a stocky young man who bore a strong resemblance to George Leggett. Several of the male passengers gathered around, ladies were shrill in their condemnation of such bestial behaviour, various saints were called upon for protection and the air rang with questions and expostulations.
Leggett waved his arms about and spoke loudly in the language that sounded like a mixture of French and Gaelic. It was hard to follow, but Vespa identified enough words to realize that the onlookers were being informed this was a simple case of mistaken identity, and that no great harm had been done.
The two deck hands released their prisoner reluctantly.
“This wild one he is sans doute from Paris,” declared one.
His companion nodded scornfully. “There, they all are mad.”
Vespa slipped his arm about Consuela’s waist again. “I suppose you would be overjoyed if your lady was stolen,” he said in French.
They stared at him, obviously taken aback.
The small curious crowd that had gathered began to disperse, and the deck hands carried the awakening Monsieur Monteil off—presumably to his cabin.
Willy Leggett said in low-voiced English, “They was right, sir. Your friend tells me as you sailed here with George. I can’t hardly blame you for cutting up rough if he stole your lady, but you’d be wise to stay least in sight for a while. If I knows Monsieur Monteil, he’ll be out for blood! Was you wanting to make the return voyage on the Saucy Maid?”
“Yes,” said Vespa emphatically.
“No,” said Consuela, even more emphatically.
Someone shouted urgently for Willy.
“You people best get below,” he said. “And make up yer mind, sir. I don’t stay hereabouts a second longer’n I must. The Saucy Maid sails with the tide.”
He hurried away, Manderville following and enquiring uneasily as to the likelihood of interference by French port authorities.
“No, we cannot go,” said Consuela, tugging at Vespa’s arm and leading him into a narrow passageway. “Do come quickly. Oh, I wish you had not struck that horrid Swiss man!”
“I should have wrung his scrawny neck,” he growled. “You’re of an extraordinarily forgiving nature, Consuela.”
“There is nought to forgive. Monsieur Monteil never touched me. He didn’t even know I was on board.” She flung open a cabin door. “This gentleman has been taking care of me.”
Bewildered by her revelations, Vespa was more bewildered to face a steadily aimed pistol in the hand of a tall and distinguished individual.
“You!” he gasped.
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed de Coligny, recoiling.
“Shoot him! Shoot him, Papa!” urged Pierre, jumping up and down in excitement as he rushed into the cabin. “He is English! I heard him when he knocked down that funny black and white man. He called him a murdering bas—”
Consuela clapped a hand across his mouth.
“Well, he did!” squealed Pierre, wriggling free. “He is a spy, Papa! Just like her! I told you—”
“You will cease to tell me,” said de Coligny in a no-nonsense voice that silenced his son. He reached out. “My dear fellow!”
The two men exchanged a firm handshake, and de Coligny gestured to Pierre to close the cabin door.
“You are—acquainted?” asked Consuela, sitting on a bunk beside Vespa. “But—Monsieur Gaston, you never said you knew my betrothed!”
The Frenchman put the pistol aside and said with a twinkle, “It is, you might say, a passing acquaintanceship. Besides, Miss Jones, you did not tell me his name.”
“I never thought my Papa would cry friends with a perfid’us Englishman,” grumbled Pierre, disappointed.
“He is not perfidious!” protested Consuela.
“I believe that is from Napoleon Bonaparte’s name for us,” said Vespa. “Perfidious Albion.” He glanced at the Frenchman’s left hand, immobile and encased in a leather glove. “So you lost your hand, after all. Were you then exchanged?”
De Coligny nodded. “I was sent home. Did your shoulder necessitate your own separation from the army?”
“It was a—contributing factor.”
“Ah—you fought together,” said Consuela, the light dawning.
“But on opposite sides,” qualified Vespa.
Pierre was sitting on the floor watching sulkily, but at this he sprang up, exclaiming, “Now I know, Papa! This is the British officer you told me of! The man who shot you!”
“Fair exchange, rather.” Vespa turned to Consuela. “The Chevalier de Coligny was with D’Erlon at Vitoria. We encountered each other on the field, and were unhorsed by the same shell. Only one hack survived and, in the struggle to capture it, each of us was wounded.”<
br />
De Coligny explained. “My shot took Jacques in the shoulder.”
“And he shot off your hand,” cried Pierre, scowling at Vespa.
“Not quite,” said his father with a smile for that fierce resentment. “Although he was himself hurt, Captain Vespa was so good as to apply a tourniquet to my wrist. Else, my son, I should not be here now. Unhappily, the infection it set in.” He shrugged fatalistically. “C’est la vie. And I am fortunate. I have not to earn my living, and with the help of my family and my good servants, I contrive. I am only glad, mon capitaine, that I was not responsible for your demise, for I had heard it that you were killed.”
“Wars!” said Consuela, who could picture the battlefield scene all too well. “How utterly stupid they are. If women ran the world we would outlaw the silly things!”
“Perhaps, someday, you will,” said de Coligny.
“In the meantime,” said Vespa, still holding Consuela’s hand tightly, “Will somebody be so kind as to tell me how it comes about that my lady seems to be—ah, travelling under your protection?”
Simultaneously:
Consuela said, “I was trapped in that horrid Swiss man’s coach!”
Pierre said, “I found her, hiding with a bear!”
The Chevalier de Coligny said, “The lady slept in my cabin!”
“Did she, indeed?” Vespa seized on the final incomprehensibility. “I think you must explain that, monsieur!”
“Certainement, I must!” agreed de Coligny hurriedly. “But I pray you will not look upon me with such ferocity, mon cher Jacques.”
“He is very ferocious,” put in Pierre. “And he is an English spy also, Papa. What are you going to do with him?”
The two men looked at each other.
“Ah,” murmurred de Coligny. “Now that is the question.”
9
The chevalier, who had begun to look grave, was much relieved when Vespa assured him that he was in Brittany only to retrieve his lady. Consuela told her tale with typical Latin drama. Vespa paled when she spoke of her “flight through the air” as the coach was loaded into the hold of the fishing boat, but was won to laughter by Pierre’s exuberant description of her encounter with the bear. “So it is Pierre who has rescued your Miss Consuela,” the boy boasted proudly.
The Riddle of the Lost Lover Page 15