Regency Belles & Beaux

by Michele McGrath

  “What do we do next? I don’t think I can go much further.”

  “You’ll have to. If you stay out on these cliffs at this time of year, you’ll die of cold. Come on, I’ll help you.”

  Together they stumbled over the grass, tripping over bushes, going up and down hills. The journey seemed forever to Lucy, unused to walking long distances and certainly not over rough country. Water squelched between her toes. She had to discard her broken shoes and stones hurt her feet. As the day wore on she needed to rest more often. O’Rourke was practically carrying her by the time they approached what he told her was their destination, a farmstead he called Les Crux. She sank to the ground thankfully while he rummaged in his pack and pulled out a small bottle.

  “Drink this.”

  She swallowed and fire ran through her body although she found the taste disgusting. She was unable to speak for a few moments. When the shock left her, she gasped and burst into tears. O’Rourke knelt beside her and stripped her stocking from her foot. Then he rubbed something into her skin before turning to the other foot.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Your feet are blistered. The cottage of my friend is just over that rise. Once you’re there you can stay with them for a while and rest. But you can’t go there dressed as a man; old Katarin would have a fit. Time you became a woman again.”

  “But I left everything behind me on the ship.”

  “You did, I didn’t.” He opened the bundle she had been carrying and dropped the contents onto her knee. “I took these out of your trunk. Get out of those clothes you’re wearing and put these on.”

  Lucy examined the clothes. “You’ve brought me an evening dress, a silk shawl and shoes, nothing else!”

  O’Rourke shrugged. “I don’t know anything about women’s fashions. Just put them on, there’s a good girl.”

  “I can’t. Not with you watching me.”

  “If I was your husband you would quick enough.”

  “Well, you’re not my husband!”

  “No, more’s the pity but we’re wasting time. Someone could come along this path at any minute. I’ll turn my back and you get changed. Will that do?”

  “No peeking.”

  “As if I would!”

  O’Rourke turned and walked away but he saw no reason not to turn around occasionally. He’d always thought Lucy was pretty but he could see she had a good figure too. Once she was in Ireland, he would be unlikely to see her ever again. For a moment he wondered what would have happened if he had met her before he had fled from home and had been in a position to court her. Would he have married her? A picture of him kissing her came into his mind. Then he thrust the thought away. Those things were a dream, best left in the past where they belonged. What quixotic impulse had made him promise to help her and then to rescue her? He could never go back to Saint-Malo. Kerrien would report what he had seen on the beach and Dupré would be found by now. The captain would kill him for his betrayal and Rollin would no longer protect him. Every man’s hand would be against him and he would not survive for long. He shrugged. The decision had been instant and he could not say he was sorry. He had known so many changes in his life, another one did not matter.

  Lucy was annoyed that O’Rourke had managed to pick her least favourite gown, a dowdy black silk. It had a modest cut appropriate to her mourning but was not flattering to a young girl. If she had to choose something to bring with her, she would have picked the amber walking dress and for a few moments she wondered who would wear it now.

  “Hurry up,” O’Rourke growled, “or do I assist you?”

  “Don’t you dare! Stay where you are.”

  She rose to her feet, undid the belt and pulled off the captain’s jacket and shirt. She cast the frock over her head and struggled with the tight sleeves. Then she realised she could not reach the fastenings at the back by herself. She reached under her skirt and untied the string of the captain’s breeches, letting them drop and stepping out of them before calling to O’Rourke,

  “Help me please.”

  He turned with a quizzical look on his face.

  “Are you sure you want me to?”

  “I wouldn’t ask you if I could manage on my own,” she replied tartly. “You’ve brought me a gown with a set of buttons which I can’t reach. My maid used to fasten them for me but she’s not here. You’ll have to do it otherwise I’ll be half naked.”

  He grinned. “No problem to me, but Mère Katarin wouldn’t like it. What do I have to do?”

  He came forward and she turned away from him, holding her dress around her as best she could.

  “There’s a line of buttons on one side and a set of little loops on the other. Start at the top and put the buttons through the hoops.”

  She swept her hair up and stood still, waiting as he fumbled at her neck. He muttered soft curses then he said,

  “Got it! That’s the first one. Why do women wear such silly things? My fingers are too big for these holes…”

  His hand fell onto her bare back and Lucy felt another shock run through her. She trembled and he pulled her against him. He nuzzled her skin. Then he seized her shoulders and turned her in his arms. Lucy looked up into his eyes and smiled. His lips came down on hers and left her breathless; it was so different from the captain’s kiss. This time she had no wish to pull away. Her hands stole up to hold him close while he slipped his own inside the dress and caressed her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  They lay down on the ground. O’Rourke pulled her dress from her shoulders, exposing her breasts and stroking them. He bent down to kiss them and then suddenly froze. What stopped him from going further, he could not afterwards say. Lucy made no move to push him off as she had, so drastically, with the captain. She was smiling, her eyes shining. O’Rourke stood up, trembling.

  “I can’t do this to you, Lucy.”

  “Don’t you want me?”

  “Of course I do! What man wouldn’t? But if I take you now, no one else would ever want you again. I’ve nothing to offer you, no home, little money and a price on my head. I’m a fugitive but, if I can get you to Ireland, there’s no reason why you should become one too. You’ll be safe there.”

  “I’m not sure if I want to be safe without you.”

  “You’ll have to be. I won’t take you with me.”

  “Where will you go?”

  He shrugged. “Not to Saint-Malo. Dupré will kill me if he lives. I’ll find somewhere else. Now get up and cover yourself, for the love of God. You’d tempt the angels in Heaven, Alannah, so you would!”

  He pulled her roughly to her feet and turned her around. It took time to fasten her dress and he could feel her shuddering against him. He finished at last and reached down to pick up the shawl he had brought for her. When she faced him he saw that her face was wet with tears.

  He forced himself to ignore it, picking up their scattered belongings and helping her down the small hill that led to the farm called Les Creux. Overwrought by what had just happened and his rejection of her, Lucy did not pay much attention to her surroundings. She only noticed fishing nets drying in the sun and a brown and white dog that ran in circles around her. A man and woman came out of the cottage. O’Rourke greeted them and kissed the woman. Then he brought Lucy forward. She could not understand what they were saying, although she caught her own name and the word ‘Ireland’. When her ear became more accustomed to their speech she realised that they spoke in English, overlaid by the thick local accent.

  Lucy was tired, cold and unhappy. She kept shivering, because the silk shawl was no protection from the keenness of the wind. She was glad to be drawn inside the building. The old woman, Katarin, gave her a seat beside the crackling fire. A beaker was put into her hand which was hot and tasted of herbs. Her senses began to swim so much she almost fell off her stool. Katarin noticed and took her to a corner of the room. Lucy fell asleep rolled up in a piece of sacking on a pile of straw, her troubles forgotten for the moment.r />
  She woke to the sound of voices, unsure of where she was. The old couple and O’Rourke were sitting around the fire, the firelight flickering on their faces. A noise made her look away as a tall figure came through the door. He pulled up a stool and joined the others. She sat up and the movement drew O’Rourke’s eyes.

  “How long have I been asleep?” she asked.

  “Several hours.” He came over to her and helped her to stand. When her feet touched the floor, she could not stop herself from groaning aloud.

  “Sit here,” he said, leading her to the stool he had been sitting on. “These are my friends, Paol, his wife Katarin and their son Yannick. Paol and Yannick are fishermen and I have arranged with them to take us part of the way to Ireland.”

  Katarin had risen and poured something from a pottery jug into a beaker and gave it to Lucy.

  “Is this..?”

  “Only wine mixed with water,” O’Rourke told her. “Not as powerful as the eau-de-vie in my flask.”

  “Thank you,” Lucy said to the woman. She sipped, finding the drink sour but glad to quench her thirst. She was hungry too. There was a strong smell of salty fish from the pot which bubbled on the hearth. In other circumstances Lucy would have refused even to try something so pungent but, when she was given a bowl and a hunk of coarse bread, she did not hesitate. Afterwards, Katarin took her outside. When they returned, O’Rourke told Lucy to put her feet in a basin of warm water. He poured a clear liquid into it and the effect was soothing. Later O’Rourke smoothed a paste into her skin and bandaged her. Katarin gave her a pair of old clogs, much too large for her. She started to refuse them but O’Rourke said,

  “Put them on. Your feet must heal as quickly as possible. We’re leaving on the morning tide and you have to be ready to walk by then. We can’t stay here any longer or someone might see us and ask questions. This coast is watched because it is so close to France. Paol is already taking a chance by letting us stay in his house overnight. Do as I say and we will have you with your grandmother very soon.”

  Early the next morning, Paol, Yannick, O’Rourke and Lucy said goodbye to Katarin and walked down to the small cove where their fishing boat was beached. Lucy’s feet were better, but she found difficulty with the steep sloping path. She slipped twice and one of the men had to grab her until she steadied. They reached the boat, prepared it for sea and put Lucy aboard before they pushed it out into the water. They rowed into the bay and then set the sail.

  Lucy found the motion of this small craft strange after the bigger ships. The steep up and down jerking at first made her feel odd but then the boat turned and the prow cut into the waves as it steadied. White waves creamed along the sides and bursts of spray flew up into her face. The boat had little shelter but Paol had given her a piece of tarred cloth that protected her body. O’Rourke had wrapped himself in another. He sat beside her, pointing out mountains, bays and farms on the coast of Jersey as long as it remained in sight. As they headed out to sea, the land became hazy and it slipped behind a mist.

  “What happens now?” Lucy asked.

  “A fishing fleet gathers off the Old Head of Kinsale, near to where your grandmother lives. We’ll join the other boats and wait. A fisherman from Cork is our contact and he’ll be looking out for a stranger coming up from the south. He’ll come abeam as soon as darkness falls and then he’ll take you into Kinsale and hand you over to your people.”

  “What about you? Aren’t you coming with me?”

  “The original plan was for me to see you aboard, pick up the ransom and return to the Matou on the boat that brought me. That’s not possible now.”

  “Then come with me.”

  “Do you want me to?”

  She slid her cold hand into his. “Very much.”

  “It’s dangerous for me in Ireland.”

  “It’s dangerous for you in England and you can’t go back to Saint-Malo, so what will you do?”

  “I don’t know. America or the Low Countries, Scotland perhaps.”

  “Would they know you in Kinsale? You left there years ago.”

  “They might. I was well known in the area, the doctor’s red-haired son, who was usually up to mischief.”

  “You must have changed since then. A boy is different from a man and they wouldn’t be expecting you. You could disguise yourself as you did in London.”

  “If I darken my hair again, I might risk it for a short while. Let me think about it.”

  “Please don’t leave me yet,” she said. Don’t leave me at all was what she thought but did not dare to say.

  As the hours passed, Lucy remembered the life she had lived in London and the bright future she had planned for herself. Balls, dresses, handsome young men, fame and fortune had been her ambition once. Now she was seated on a fishing boat, a reeking cloth wrapped around her. Her face was wet with salt spray and her dark curls were a mass of tangles. What must I look like? I wouldn’t care about that if only he wanted me. I’d trade all the balls and the riches to stay with him, but how can I if he won’t ask me to?

  Beside her, O’Rourke was silent. If it was not for his shoulder, pressed against hers and the warmth of his hand, she would be alone in this wild wet world. He’s with me now, she thought with something like contentment. Whatever the future brings, I will be happy for now and deal with it when it comes. Lucy was more tired than she realised and after a while she dozed. She was wakened to a meal of bread and a coarse cheese, washed down with a thin red wine.

  “How long now?”

  Paol grunted an answer which O’Rourke repeated,

  “We’re making good progress. By evening we’ll be able to see the Isles of Scilly. Another night and day should bring us to Kinsale.”

  He did not look perturbed but Lucy was finding it difficult to sit still on the swaying boat after so long. Yet it was harder to stand or to walk with any safety as the deck lurched beneath her feet.

  “The best thing to do is rest,” he said. “We’re in no danger. Paol and Yannick are experts. They often come this way chasing shoals of fish. Lie down now, sleep if you can and the hours will pass more quickly.”

  “Hold me then,” she asked, “the deck is so hard.”

  He sat beside her, with his back to the side of the boat and put his arms around her. She lay back against him, snuggling into him like a little child. He had not moved when she opened her eyes again and saw the stars dancing in the darkness. She watched for a while, aware of their beauty, until the motion rocked her to sleep again.

  Rain pattering on her face woke her in a grey dawn. To her untutored eye, the boat looked exactly the same as it had the night before except that Yannick was steering and his father was rolled up asleep. O’Rourke must have been awake because he helped her to sit up.

  “Where are we?”

  “Past the Scilly Isles and crossing Saint George’s Channel. This evening should bring us up to the fishing fleet if the wind holds.”

  He got to his feet, held onto the rigging and pulled her upright. She groaned at the stiffness of her legs.

  “Can you manage to stand still?” O’Rourke asked. “Hold on to the rigging.” When she nodded, he walked away.

  “Where are you going?”

  He grinned. “Don’t look!” When he returned he said,

  “There’s a bucket for you to use forward. I’ve rigged a tarpaulin so no one will see you. Heave the contents over the side when you’re finished but do it over the port side not the starboard.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s to leeward which means that the wind is blowing away from the boat. If you throw anything to windward, it will blow back into your face. Don’t forget.”

  He laughed but Lucy went bright red. Acute with embarrassment, she slunk away, feeling a fool to need such an explanation. She was glad to use the facilities, rudimentary and rather disgusting though they proved to be. That was one aspect of shipboard life she would be delighted to leave behind her, she thought.

  She wa
s sitting with O’Rourke when she asked the question which had been preying on her mind.

  “Have you decided to come with me or not?”

  “It would be unwise. A privateer is considered a pirate if he’s unlucky enough to be caught. I doubt they’d bother about Letters of Marque. I’d be hanged and buried out of hand if they knew who I was.”

  “Who knows you are a privateer?”

  “Paol and Yannick do.”

  “Anyone in Kinsale?”

  “No. There’s an agent of ours in Cove, that’s all. We deal through him.”

  “Then if no one knows you, why should they find out? You could pass as an unfortunate gentleman whose ransom was paid at about the same time as mine. Out of the goodness of your heart, you volunteered to accompany me here.”

  He was silent for a moment. “That would be a coincidence and people are wary of coincidences.”

  Lucy had been trying to find the words to convince him and thought she had hit on a plan that might succeed. “Not if you had a story prepared which also happens to be true.”

  “What story is that?”

  “Do you remember the curate who was captured with me from the White Hart?”

  “Yes. You didn’t like him.”

  “He’s a prosy bore, but he was on the same ship and he wrote a letter to his bishop at the same time I wrote to my grandmother. He’s never been to Ireland and nobody knows him there.”

  “You’re not suggesting I impersonate him, are you?”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not dressed like a curate.”

  “I’m not dressed as a young lady either, in these dreadful clothes you brought for me. We could say that the privateer was blown onto some rocks. Yannick rescued us, just in time for we were drowning. You cast off your collar and coat to try to swim ashore, pulling me along with you. I’ll tell everyone that you saved my life, which you did. What do you think?”