He smiled. “That’s the spirit. And speaking of spirits, we have a small luncheon arranged in a private parlour, and I do believe there is a bottle of Portugal’s finest waiting to dispel whatever unpleasant feelings the morning appointment has inflicted.”
With that he interposed himself between Roberta and Lieutenant Worthington, took her arm and escorted them all back to the private room.
After a couple of small glasses of excellent port and a fine chicken pie, the whole memory of the inquisition in the magistrate’s gloomy justice room faded into the distance. She could hardly believe herself so easily freed from such a brush with the law . . . a brush that would have resulted in certain transportation to Botany Bay, or perhaps even a hanging, if she were still no more than an engineman’s daughter. How much more pleasing was England when a girl had such powerful friends.
“We’ve received word from Lord Bond that he will meet us at Falmouth,” Mr. Holmes announced over the port. “He has entrusted me with the task of asking all the foolish questions on the voyage from Dover, if you will be so kind as to accommodate my ignorance.”
“He is called elsewhere?” Roberta asked. She had to admit a touch of disappointment that his plan of joining them on the evening train had been changed.
“He has to call upon the Marquess,” Holmes said with a haughty mien and dignified voice.
Aunt Nelly let out a laugh that she quickly tried to hide. “Oh, Mr. Holmes. You must not be so cheeky.”
“Ah, Aunty . . . not as cheeky as all that. His Lordship, the Marquess, has lectured me enough in years past—I must admit to relishing the thought of Lord Bond facing the music in his turn. Although I do not know what he has done to warrant it.”
He said this last with his eye on Roberta, which gave his words a tinge of mystery rather than humour. A mystery that seemed connected to her.
“What train will we take to Dover, then, Mr. Holmes?” Lieutenant Worthington wanted to know.
“Since we no longer must wait for His Lordship, we might take the afternoon train. I believe it leaves in an hour . . . if that will suit the ladies.”
“Fine by me,” Aunt Nelly offered.
“Yes,” Roberta said more lightly than she felt. “I shall be glad to get aboard the Spiteful and set out into the Channel on this evening’s tide.”
Lord Bond peered into the darkness outside the railway carriage as the Bristol and Exeter Railway train left Taunton behind on its way south. In half an hour the train should stop briefly to let him disembark at the end of his journey. His father had informed him a carriage and four would be awaiting to take him the rest of the way to Tiverton Castle.
He rested his chin on a hand as the faint glow of a lantern beyond the window penetrated the darkness. In less than a second, as the train rushed past, the eye registered a quick glimpse of a man crossing a farmyard beside the track. Perhaps a yeoman farmer with fertile land and no miserly landlord to call him to account. The Marquess had not included a reason for his own summons in the letter. It meant he expected his eldest son to spend time on the journey examining all of his recent activities for transgressions.
Lord Bond sighed and looked away from the darkened land. He had a strong suspicion he knew what had angered His Lordship.
A knock on the compartment door announced the arrival of the train’s ticket collector. With a nod from Lord Bond, the man slid the door open and came part way into the opening. “Tiverton Junction halt, My Lord?”
“That is correct. Are we almost there?”
“Not yet, My Lord. If you wish, I can come back to inform you when we are five minutes away. Will you have servants to carry your baggage, My Lord?”
Lord Bond waved a casual hand upwards to the luggage rack. “A small valise. I can dismount with it in my hand. There should be a coach and footmen awaiting my arrival.”
“Very good, My Lord. I will return as we commence slowing down.”
Lord Bond returned to his ruminations. He doubted the Marquess’ new tirade would return to disapproval of the perils involved in his son’s journeys to the Continent. He seemed to take a quiet, unspoken pride in the fact that the family was well represented in the defence of the realm. As for the prospect of the loss of the heir to the title, his father’s last words at the close of an earlier argument had been blunt—“die under a French guillotine if you will, Sir. I still have a younger son in reserve.”
So he did, as long as James’ feeble lungs did not give out before he departed Oxford and managed to produce a legitimate son upon a suitably connected young bride. The family dynasty of healthy bastards seemed as safe with the younger son as with the father and the elder.
And there resided the hint of the Old Man’s summons. He must have heard the rumours from London about the buxom Miss Stephenson . . . either that or he was possessed of the arts of divination—an attribute Lord Bond had suspected more than once before. But, alas, a more mundane explanation always overthrew the supposition . . . the Tiverton fortune was more than sufficient to buy whatever spies its master desired. And he was never shy about casting judicious silver about in that manner.
About an hour later Lord Bond peered out of his coach window as the horses’ hooves clattered into the stone tunnel of the castle gatehouse. In the light of the wall lanterns he glimpsed the low arched interior gateway before they emerged into the south courtyard. Tiverton Castle had been attacked but once, but that was by a Parliamentary force during the civil war, who had finished their business by levelling the walls and corner towers to prevent the castle from being held against them again. Later owners had accepted the destruction as permanent and built a mansion against the ruins.
Lord Bond alighted in the glow of a lantern held by Pearce, his father’s aged house steward. “Good evening, My Lord. So good to have you visiting again, Master Julian.”
Lord Bond glanced around at the part of the house and buildings he could see—nothing seemed to have changed, but then why should it? “Thank you, Pearce. Your rheumatism being kept at bay?”
“Yes, My Lord. Thank you, My Lord.” Pearce gestured for a footman to take the valise Lord Bond carried.
“Where is His Lordship? In the library?”
“I believe not, My Lord. He is reading in the Joan of Arc Gallery.”
They entered the portico and into the front door where another footman stepped forward to take Lord Bond’s hat and travelling cape. Pearce directed the footman with the valise toward the staircase. “You may take that to Lord Bond’s old room.” He then led Lord Bond to the rear of the foyer, remarking, “I had a fire laid in your room when I heard you were coming, My Lord. It’s not a cold night, but these old stones need airing out when the occupants have been so long away.”
“How does my father’s mood seem?”
“Pensive, I might take the liberty of suggesting, My Lord. He is reading one of the histories written in French, I believe.”
The Joan of Arc Gallery reputedly held a collection of paintings of the lady herself as well as members of her family. Lord Bond suspected they were not genuine, but an attempt at piety for the martyred Joan by an earlier, Catholic, holder of the castle. The Marquess, in a seat beside the fire, looked up from his book at their approach.
“So, you found your way home, did you?”
Lord Bond stepped to his father’s side and bent to kiss the old man on the temple. “Vraiment, Papa.”
The Marquess eyed him narrowly. “Hah! Sit down and tell me what you have been engaged in—I hear many rumours from my friends in the Admiralty. Pearce . . . bring some brandy for us . . . and some of those cheeses we had at dinner.”
As Pearce left, Lord Bond seated himself on the other side of the fire and regarded the old man carefully. His father’s face still held a ruddy glow even if his hair had long since deserted him. His hands seemed more gnarled than he remembered; the fist holding the book trembled slightly, and his eyes seemed excessively watery behind the spectacles perched on his nose. His tall frame
looked bent over in the chair and the strong man’s body became more gaunt as the years passed. Almost seventy, Lord Bond remembered, a very good age for the primary swashbuckler of His Majesty George the Third’s new court in the 1760s.
“What’s all this steam business, lad? It’s too new for me to fathom. What is wrong with good oaken ships and a fine spread of canvas?”
Lord Bond took a deep breath; yes, the topic he had expected. Best he keep it to naval matters. “Napoleon is building himself a new invasion fleet. He has steam vessels preparing to haul his barges across the channel, and,” Lord Bond could not help a glance around the otherwise empty gallery, “a possible steam powered battleship to keep our frigates and gunboats from scattering them.”
“One battleship?”
“One very strong battleship with iron sides that may be invulnerable to our cannon shot.”
The Marquess stared sightlessly up at the paintings above the mantel for a long moment. “What do we do about it?”
“I have to go to the Continent one more time. I learned when I was there last month that the vessel is under construction at Antwerp. I need to accompany an agent with expert knowledge of steam and steamships to learn enough of this monster to allow us to build a vessel to counter it.”
The Marquess sat forward abruptly. “And this expert is supposed to be an engineman’s daughter?”
“Good Lord. Where did you hear that?”
The Marquess glowered and would have launched into a loud tirade except Pearce and a footman appeared with their brandy and refreshments. The barrage had to be delayed until the two departed.
Lord Bond rushed in first. “The engineering firm of Stephenson and Partners is assisting the discussions and have a contract to build ten iron steamships of a novel kind. We are calling them steam galleys, as, like their namesakes of old, their chief weapon is their ram bow—”
“Very interesting, but I insist you tell me about this young woman. My informants told me that she had the temerity to lecture Their Lordships of the Admiralty about ships.”
“Miss Stephenson was able to greatly assist the discussion of the steamships in the Admiralty boardroom. My impression was that Their Lordships were most gratified and pleased with her contribution to a technical discussion beyond their own direct experience.”
“Miss Stephenson! Who is this girl?”
“Her father is Mr. George Stephenson, the steam locomotive and railway inventor. He it was who built the railway between Stockton and Darlington, and has designed and built many since—”
“The daughter. Tell me about the daughter.”
“Roberta is the only child of the family, and has been raised almost as a son . . . as far as the family business goes. She is the manager of the shipyard on the Clyde where the first of these steam galleys has been built. She had considerable responsibility for the design and construction. I’m surprised you do not ask me about the sinking of my yacht by a French sloop of war in the channel. It must have been included in the stories you have heard. If she and her steamship, the Spiteful, had not arrived to sink the Frenchman I should be either drowned or a prisoner in France by now.”
“Her steamship?”
“Yes. I was as surprised as you when I reached the Spiteful’s quarterdeck and found a young woman in command—”
“My informant did not suggest that this young woman was actually the captain of the vessel.”
“For reasons of secrecy, it was decided upon in the Admiralty meeting not to reveal such details. Neither would you have heard about the new steamship—it was decided to claim the rescue vessel was one of the navy’s steam tugboats.”
“I see.” The Marquess sat back in his chair and took a draught of brandy. “This Miss Stephenson—she is a woman of beauty?”
Lord Bond took a deep breath. “I would not go so far as to suggest her to be of great beauty, but she is a very handsome young woman of about mid-twenties. She has, from my observation, a very bright and lively mind, and a degree of courage not often found in the fair sex.”
“Courage? What courage?”
Oh. Lord Bond decided he had been too forthcoming. It would not be at all to his advantage and possible plans to let the Old Man know about her shooting the French spy. “Well, to sail boldly against the broadside of the French sloop and hold the course until Spiteful’s ram smashed into the side of the enemy. We were not very well placed to see, and were very busy trying to keep Foresight from sinking, but from what we heard, the Frenchman kept up a continuous cannon fire until his ship was smashed.”
“Yes,” the Marquess mused. “Very admirable qualities; very admirable indeed, but only in a woman of low degree who has enjoyed a very strange and novel upbringing. Certainly not ones to recommend her to be presented in the Prince Regent’s court or in the drawing rooms of aristocratic England.”
“My Aunt Caroline did not appear offended.”
“My sister is not head of this family.”
Chapter Nineteen
Night Navigating
Roberta took her place beside the quartermaster at the helm as she took over for the morning watch. The steady thump of the engine cylinders beneath her feet and the splashing of the paddlewheels astern attested to Spiteful’s steady progress. The sulphurous reek of coal smoke drifted past on the wind of their passage. There were nearly two hours before sunrise, but a glance astern showed her the first glimmers of light streaking the eastern horizon. The Devonshire coastline was invisible to the north, but she fancied she could see the brief glimmers of distant lanterns on the cliffs as countrymen began moving about to prepare themselves for the day.
A slight noise of a closing hatchway announced the arrival of one of her passengers. Mr. Holmes appeared out of the gloom—his day of seasickness must have abated. His hatchet face seemed even more gaunt in the faint light of the binnacle, although his mouth seemed to be smiling. She felt unsure how to judge this man, seemingly foisted upon her by Lord Bond. If he was to be the judge of the fair price the Admiralty would pay for her ships, it was in her best interest to get on good terms, but her reserve was not so easily surmounted.
“Good morning, Miss Stephenson—at least I suspect it must be morning, although I am usually on my way home at this hour of the day in London.”
“Good morning, Sir. I hope you do not intend to impress me with the details of your reckless city life.” She smiled faintly. “I was brought up to consider the hours of darkness only appropriate to slumber, unless, of course, one’s duties require earlier attention.”
“Oh dear. I fear you have caught me out. In my defence, I must own that I have never spent every night of the week about town, but was merely relating the usual circumstances of my appearance in public at this time of the night. What hour is it, pray?”
“I was not aware that I was some vengeful fury appointed to pronounce upon your character, Sir. Please do not consider that I mean to improve your habits while you are aboard my ship.” She laughed lightly. “It is the start of the morning watch, or a little after four of the clock if you find that easier to comprehend.”
“I assure you that I see you as anything but a vengeful fury, Miss Stephenson, but as a most diligent and considerate hostess for this expedition. And you may consider my familiarity with nautical watches to be part of my profession . . . it’s just that I am unused to their subjective application.” He stared into the darkness over the starboard rail. “Is there land over there? I can see nothing. How do you tell where we are?”
“We are about four nautical miles off Prawle Point by our dead reckoning and will be able to confirm our position once we have sight of the Eddystone light ahead of us.”
Mr. Holmes stared into the surrounding darkness, looking not a jot reassured. “But you cannot possibly be navigating by compass. This is an iron ship.”
“I have just relieved Mr. MacRae, and I assure you that it was no accident that I assigned him to this watch, the most exacting bit of seamanship of our voyage to Falmouth
. I have complete faith in his navigation.”
“The most exacting?”
“Leaving Lyme Bay and ensuring we have ample sea room as we rounded Start Point. But we do have some beneficial use of our binnacle. A judicious placement of some small magnets around the compass serve to supply a modicum of correction to our needle’s errors.”
“Hmm. Interesting, I have not heard this discussed.”
“A practical, seaman’s extemporization, Mr. Holmes, that has not had the benefit of educated consideration in the halls of learning. Perhaps you would care to give our method some thought—we may require more practical authority when several vessels of this class are steaming in company.”
“I thank you . . . that I shall. But what sights can you take for measurement of our westward progress?”
“Only the sights of our machinery, Sir. Our engine room artificers keep a careful count of our engine revolutions during their watch. You may see here in our watch log.” She opened the logbook under the faint light beside the compass in the binnacle. “We have been making between fifteen and sixteen revolutions per minute for most of the second watch. That is equivalent to a ship speed of eight knots, although of course, tide, wind, and currents will have a small effect upon that in terms of longitude on this course.”
Mr. Holmes peered at the log and then into her eyes, a smile growing on his lips. “Wonderful. You have invented a whole new form of navigation. The Admiralty should award you a prize for your accomplishment.”
“I assure you, Sir, that the accomplishment is in fact but a small part mine, but if a prize were to be offered I would be pleased to see that it goes in suitable proportions to everyone who has had a hand in the matter.”
A call from the lookout forrard caused them to cease conversation.
“What do you have?” Roberta called, aware her voice would not carry so far. Another crew member of watch amidships relayed her call.
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