The Golden Flask

by Jim DeFelice

  Alison, well aware now that they had washed up in enemy territory, hesitated for only the slightest moment before answering "Al."

  "Mine is Lady Patricia. Come along." The woman took her by the hand. "King, stay here until I send one of the soldiers down."

  At the sharp tone, the dog's ears became erect. He gave a quick bark and bared his teeth, then began strutting back to Jake. No member of the Black Watch mounted a prouder patrol.

  If the woman had appeared to be an angel when Alison opened her eyes, the building she led her to could have been Heaven's own mansion. The gabled roof gleamed bright red with the light from the rising sun behind it, and the brick front was glazed with a glowing warmth that welcomed her as she stepped on the oyster-covered path leading to the door.

  Lady Patricia led her gently by the hand, opened the mansion’s door and then called to a servant to assist. A young black man only a few years older than Alison appeared; he was dressed in a silk suit finer than any clothes her father or any of their customers had ever owned. He bowed as he received his instructions. Addressing Alison as "sir," he soon led her down the hallway and up two flights of a back staircase to a small guest room.

  "If you take off your clothes, sir, I will have them dried."

  "I can't do that," blustered Alison.

  "Sir?"

  "I—I'm afraid of catching a cold."

  "That would be the point of your taking the wet clothes off your back, sir."

  "I won't change until I have something to change into."

  The servant frowned, but as he had been planning on fetching new clothes anyway, merely bowed and left.

  Alison closed the door and examined the room. It was sparsely though elegantly furnished. The bed and curtain fabric were thick and sleek beneath her fingers, ten times as luxurious as any her father had ever used at the inn. The wardrobe and small chest of drawers glowed a reddish brown, their surfaces so strongly polished that Alison could see her reflection in the wood as clearly as if it were glass.

  The harsh river currents had scrubbed her body clean of the blood that had bathed it last night. With her short hair and thin face, she did indeed look like a boy — an exceedingly fair one, and a few years younger than she actually was, but a boy nonetheless.

  Her clothes were very damp; finally feeling the chill through them, she made sure the door was barred and window curtains closed, then whipped off her coat and shirt. She peeled back the breeches and walked naked through the room, her toes tickling the fine wool of the carpet, feeling as if she had been reborn.

  Her father's death was as yet a bad dream, unreal to her. Jake, on the other hand, was very real, and her feelings toward him sharp in a way she had not felt before.

  It was as if some new part of her had grown inside; if she were able to reach inside her chest she might find a new heart or lung there.

  It took a few seconds for Alison to hear the knock on the door, and a few more to realize it was for her.

  "Sir? May I come in, sir?"

  "Wait," Alison said, running to the door. She wedged her bare foot against the floor, then leaned her head over to the edge of the doorway as she creaked it open. "What do you want?"

  "I have your clothes, sir, if you'll permit me."

  "Give them here."

  "Sir?"

  To open the door even another inch would be to give herself away. Alison eased her hand into the hallway — and pushed her weight harder toward her foot.

  "Please give me my clothes," she told the servant. "I'll dress myself."

  The servant sighed heavily, but nonetheless complied.

  "Tell the lady I'll be down shortly."

  "The lady is a dame," said the servant heavily, "being the wife of an earl. Her full name is Lady Patricia Eileen Buckmaster. You may call her Lady Patricia, if she so directs you."

  "She already did," replied Alison. "Tell her I'll be right down."

  "As you wish."

  Alison whisked the clothes into the room, then fell against the door, closing it. She stayed against the oiled wood panel until she had finished pulling on a shirt and then the breeches.

  The servant had not brought a coat, which presented her with a bit of a problem. As Jake had discovered, her chest was not so completely unnourished as to escape close scrutiny. She saw no choice but to wear her damp waistcoat over the linen shirt, buttoning it despite the moisture.

  Barefoot, she emerged from the room to find the servant waiting impatiently.

  "Here," she said, handing him a wadded pile of wet clothes. "Can you dry these?"

  "You are expected in the north parlor."

  Alison had no idea what a north parlor was, much less where to find it, and so followed quietly as the servant led her back downstairs to a large paneled room twice as large as her father's inn. The thick carpets covering the floors were the first thing the shoeless girl noticed. Then a pair of massive chandeliers caught her eyes and led them to a white marble fireplace that took up nearly three-quarters of the wall. Despite the fact that it was summer, a fire had been started, and as Alison approached she felt the heat blow across her face, chasing the last vestiges of the river's chill. Her vest seemed to dry immediately.

  "Isn't your waistcoat still damp?"

  Startled, Alison spun quickly and took a step back, avoiding Lady Patricia's touch. The woman moved so silently and quickly, she might well be an angel or a ghost.

  "It's not wet at all," she told her.

  Lady Patricia frowned briefly, dimples forming in her round cheeks. But they soon slid into an indulgent smile. "You are just learning the rules of decency, I see. Very well. I am glad to see Thomas's old clothes fit. They haven't been worn since he was thirteen or fourteen, when he first came to visit his uncle."

  "Is that long?"

  "Too long, now," said the woman. "Take this chair and sit by the fireplace, child. With luck, the Servant will find you some shoes."

  Alison nodded and sat. "Tell me how you came to be, on my brother's beach while we wait for your shoes," said Lady Patricia. "Then we will go inside and eat."

  "There's not much to tell, ma'am. My father and I were fishing."

  "Fishing?"

  Alison nodded her head up and down. She could tell that the woman did not believe her, but had no other lie to offer.

  "And what happened to your boat?"

  "The waves took it," said Alison. "We had to swim to shore, from at least midway. My father — saved me."

  "Fishing? At night?"

  "It was only late afternoon when we sank."

  "Your father seems quite young to have a boy your age," said Lady Patricia.

  "He seems old to me. But he has said my mother and he were young sweethearts."

  "I see. And where is she?"

  "She died. I was to have a younger brother."

  Lady Patricia, who despite her high birth knew the trials of childbirth all too well, nodded sadly. "Let me have George get you some breakfast. My husband and brother are in the city," added the woman as she rose, "or we would have been able to greet you properly. With the rebellion, of course, times are strained. And my brother's ways here are somewhat different than our own — refreshingly so, I think."

  Alison nodded. She belatedly realized she should have gotten up when the woman did — it would have been considered the gentlemanly thing to do.

  Fatigued by his exertions and relative lack of sleep, Jake found it difficult to shake off Morpheus's shackles. He pushed his arms against the hard rocks beneath his chest several times before actually rising. When he succeeded he found himself squinting not into the sun but at a member of Her Majesty's Light Dragoons, an impressive if slightly haughty unit whose members spent considerable time each day primping the smart blue facings on their red uniforms — and a lot more time practicing with their swords and carbines.

  Only the fact that Jake's legs were still weighed down by the invisible forces of exhaustion kept him from bolting.

  "Lady Patricia directed
that I wait on you," said the man. He was nominally at ease but still gripped his carbine tightly. "Your son has already been taken inside."

  "My son?"

  "He's quite safe inside Mr. Clayton Bauer's house. Were there others in your boat?"

  "In my boat — no. Just myself and my son," said Jake. Fatherhood had come upon him unexpectedly, but he saw no option but to accept the condition gracefully and without comment. "Is he all right?"

  "He has been seen to, sir. Please come with me."

  Jake nodded and followed. He'd picked a fine bit of shore to wash up on. He wasn't sure who the lady would be, but Clayton Bauer was responsible for a good number of Tory spy rings around the freshly declared nation. He was an important member of the city commission, known as the police, besides.

  Nor was he reputed to be particularly hospitable toward "rebels," no matter how cheerful the guard promised breakfast would be.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Wherein, Jake learns features of his past heretofore unknown to him.

  “Father!"

  Caught off guard entering the hallway beyond the front door, Jake staggered backwards as Alison abruptly leapt into his arms.

  "My name is Al and our last name is Stone," she whispered quickly. "We were fishing."

  "Your son told me of your shipwreck," said Lady Patricia, coming out of the room behind Alison.

  "My son told you, did he?" Jake put her down. "He's a remarkable young man."

  "I'm just glad you're alive," Alison said. "I did not think we would make it."

  "It must have been quite a storm," said Lady Patricia, her arms folded. "Yet I did not hear any thunder last night."

  "Surprising currents," said Jake, who read her smirk all too well. "Not a storm. What else did Al tell you about our misfortune?"

  "He has told me quite a lot. How the rebels burned you out of your home and left you penniless, so you had to make a living fishing. How you saved his life on the water last night, and plucked him from danger a dozen times. You sound like quite a hero."

  "I'm sure every father is a hero in his son's eyes," said Jake. "Though I would allow as to how he may tend to exaggerate at times."

  "I am Lady Patricia," she said, smiling in a way that suggested she was entering into a mild conspiracy with him.

  "Pleased to meet you, m'lady." Jake returned the smile. "Your husband is most famous. I had not heard he had wed, but then it has been long since I was in the city. Is he awake?"

  "Clayton Bauer is my brother," she answered. "He is awake but not at home. My husband and he are seeing to business in town."

  "Excuse me for my mistake." Jake's air, at once gracious and mildly flirtatious, could not have been more finely tuned if he were at King George's court.

  "I have only recently arrived from England," continued Lady Patricia, "where I can assure you my husband William is almost completely unknown, despite the fact that he is the third earl of Buckmaster and a peer."

  There was just the slightest hint of annoyance in her voice.

  "I'm sure you exaggerate," said Jake. Lady Patricia's skin was nearly translucent, lighter than the downy white of her long, low-waisted white gown. The stomacher pulled tight at her waist rose like a funnel of silk tissues to the large scoops of her bosom. Undoubtedly considered simple, everyday wear in her circle at home, it would have passed for a ball gown in America. Though she might be close to forty, she had the body of a woman barely older than Alison, and carried herself with the simple grace of a woman born not merely to station but beauty as well. Her face was light and cheerful; Rubens, perhaps, would have used her as a model when contemplating beauty.

  "You are charming as well as mysterious," Lady Patricia told him. "George, show Mister …"

  "Stone," said Jake.

  Lady Patricia nodded, though it was clear she did not believe most if any of what Alison had told her. "Show Mister Stone upstairs. I believe my brother would not begrudge him a fresh set of clothes. And thank you for the shoes. Your son has fit perfectly into my … poor dead son's old clothes," Lady Patricia added to Jake.

  With her last sentence, the studied polish of light chatter chipped away, and the woman showed her true face. It was no less beautiful for not being daubed with rouge, and considerably warmer.

  Alison's expression clouded. She had not realized she was wearing a dead boy's clothes.

  A thousand calculations fluttered through Jake's brain. Clayton Bauer was a close associate of Andrew Elliot, the hideous Scotsman who had returned from exile in the Jersey mountains to become the city's superintendent general, the highest-ranking civilian authority on the island. He could, on his own authority, have Jake put to death for as much as sneezing out of place — and with about as much thought.

  On the other hand, Bauer's duties as spymaster would put him in a position to answer the perplexing question Jake had been sent here to answer. An hour of rifling his study might save the Revolution.

  And a third hand, or at least consideration, presented itself: The beautiful woman standing before him fully realized he was not who he, or rather Alison, claimed. If they could not fool her, how could they hope to fool her brother? Already the redcoat guard behind him seemed edgy and suspicious.

  "We must be on our way," said Jake.

  "Do stay," said Lady Patricia, taking his arm. "My husband and brother will be in the city for several hours, and I would much appreciate the conversation of two people familiar with the rebellion. My only son was a young officer in Lord Cornwallis's army in the Jerseys this past winter when he disappeared. It would give me some solace to know more of this land."

  "We have our own business in the city," said Jake. "But it would be ungracious of me to turn aside your kindness."

  "I'll show you to the room where you can change, Father," said Alison, springing forward and taking Jake by the hand. "I know the way."

  "I will see to breakfast," said Lady Patricia. "When you are done, we will be in the dining room."

  "Yes, m'lady," said Jake, as Alison pulled him up the staircase.

  His decision to stay involved more than the admittedly long-shot chance that he might search Bauer's office. Lady Patricia had charmed him. Her voice, while it contained the presumptive tone common to all British nobility, was softened in a most human way. How many earls' wives would condescend to seeing to breakfast themselves?

  But life's more pleasing quandaries often must stand in line behind more pressing questions.

  "Why did you tell them you were a boy?" Jake hissed at Alison after they closed the door behind them.

  "She assumed I was. I thought it too dangerous to enlighten her."

  "Her brother organizes Tory spy rings," said Jake. "And she has already seen through your fishing tale." He went to the window to peek through the curtains. Besides the man who had taken him from the beach, he had noticed two guards in the foyer and another pair on the front lawn. Now he saw two more posted at the rear of the property. Not overwhelming numbers, to be sure, but trouble enough.

  "It's spooky to be wearing a dead boy's clothes," said Alison. "I feel as if I'm a ghost."

  "That would be most convenient," said Jake. "You could slip through the walls and escape. Or search Clayton's office for me."

  "Is that what we're going to do? I'm ready." Alison started for the door.

  "No!" Jake grabbed her. "It's far too dangerous. There are redcoats all around, and God knows how many servants. We are not playing a game," he added. "We will have to tread very lightly here. You wanted adventure — well, here is some, and we must not lose our heads over it, you understand? If we are discovered, we will both be hanged."

  "Yes, father."

  Jake snorted. "We have some time before her brother returns. Let me discover what she knows. If I disappear for a while, continue talking with her."

  "She is easy to talk to, though a bit suspicious."

  "We will have to give away your story. It's too obvious that it's fake."

  "Why?"

/>   "Because I'm not your father."

  "How would she know?"

  A knock on the door killed Jake's sardonic reply. He found the servant standing outside the room with a set of clothes in his hand. Jake took them and dismissed the man.

  "How did you fool him?" Jake asked when he had gone.

  "I am more clever than you think."

  "Yes, well, see that being clever doesn't get us in trouble."

  "Should I close my eyes while you dress?"

  "Can I trust you to keep them closed?" He didn't bother to wait for an answer. "Out the door with you."

  "What if the servant comes back?"

  "You'll just have to show again how clever you are. Wait for me, and add nothing to our tale. When I confess everything downstairs, play along completely. Until then, say as little as possible. You understand?"

  Alison nodded solemnly — a bit too solemnly for him to trust, but there was no alternative. Jake pushed her out the door and quickly changed. The clothes the servant gave him were plain cotton breeches and shirt, serviceable and well made. A new pair of stockings and boots were also supplied; these were small and pinched his feet, but overall the re-dressed spy saw little reason to complain.

  His Segallas was still in his belt, but as he had not had time to place it in the water-sealed lining of his money belt, it was seriously fouled. He had no other weapon, save his tongue and wit.

  The pass from Washington was a liability. Ordinarily he would have burnt it, but no fire presented itself.

  Eat it?

  As hungry as he was, Jake could not quite bear the thought. He had seen a fire flickering downstairs; he decided to go immediately and warm himself, disposing of the pass in the bargain.

  Alison was not outside the door when Jake opened it — not that he was very surprised. Cursing mildly to himself, he descended the stairs patiently, the wadded pass in his hand. Jake turned into the large room where the fireplace was and discovered the servant just extinguishing it.

  "M'lady is in the dining room, sir, with your son," said the servant. The accent on the word "son" made it clear he, too, did not believe Alison's story.