Steam & Stratagem

by Christopher Hoare

A half hour saw her papers set in order and she had time to go over the set of plans she would need in London so two spitefuls could be built there in the yard the Admiralty had selected. She would need to clarify the payment her yard would receive from the arrangement with the Admiralty. This time she would be on her own, without Lord Bond’s support. She could not help but feel apprehensive of her success without him.

  She looked up at the clock in the draughtsmen’s’ office. Almost three in the afternoon—she had best get home to pass the message to her father. There was little more she could do here. Cam sat waiting in the barouche as she came out of the office and one of the passing workers gallantly stepped forward to assist her climbing in.

  “Thank you, Thomas. How is your mother?”

  “Still poorly, Miss. But her sen’s her thanks fer the brace o’ fowls.”

  “You were able to cook them? I believe Mrs. Hamilton sent instructions for making broth.”

  “Aye, all done right, Miss. Me sister Bessie cooked ’em.”

  “That’s good then,” she said with a smile as she closed the door. “Drive home, if you please, Cam.”

  “Aye, Ma’am.”

  The ride to the mansion required twenty minutes, but they had only gone for fifteen when she saw their trap bowling down the road toward them.

  “Stop, Cam. Who is that driving?”

  “It be Miss Nelly, Ma’am.

  Roberta raised herself in the seat to look. “Never. Aunt Nelly never drives.”

  But Aunt Nelly it was. They drew up alongside one another, to the annoyance and remonstrations of the driver of another carriage that barely had room to go around them.

  “What is wrong, Aunt?”

  “Nothing may be wrong eg’xacly, dear, but I thought you should know.”

  “What then?”

  “Lord Bond have been in the library with yer father for nigh on an hour. They be waitin’ fer you to get home—and drinking bumpers o’ toasts a’plenty as they waits.”

  A cold fear gripped Roberta’s heart. What had they talked about? What indeed—it hardly needed a Doctor at Laws to provide the answer. “Did Lord Bond ask Father for my hand?”

  Aunt Nelly glanced at Cam. “I hate to admit t’my actions but I must own to listening at the door. That is exactly what he asked.”

  “And my father—? No, do not answer, the bumpers tell me.”

  “I hope you feel well composed to meet the gentleman,” Aunt Nelly said with a sigh. “I did not want you to be discommoded at the surprise.”

  “I thank you, dear Aunt. I thank you with all my heart.”

  She smiled warily. “Nay. Not all o’ it.”

  “I am not so sure, I must confess. I think my heart is happier with you and with this meeting in the road than it would be to continue with my journey.”

  “Pray, what are you saying?”

  What was she saying? Did she really mean to refuse His Lordship? Why should she not? What right had he to sit getting drunk with Father before he had even asked . . . even heard her answer. Was she that transparent? Did he consider her no more than a grocer’s daughter to have her head spun upon her shoulders at the mere thought of his address? She would show him.

  “Go back home, Aunt, but do not immediately tell them you have seen me.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I am going to London.” There was nothing to stop her—her shipping trunk had gone to the Canal office this morning. The afternoon Puffer would leave in about two hours—ample time to be aboard. “No earlier than five of the clock you may tell my father that I have gone to take the money to Tyneside . . . and will continue on to London to speak with the Admiralty.”

  “But what about His Lordship? What is his answer?”

  “Tell him nothing—. No, I suppose you cannot do that. If he asks you, tell him to write to me. Tell him that I cannot give any answer now. His conversation with my father has so distressed me that I must have more time to think before I should see him face to face.”

  “Good Heavens! Are ye sure ye knows what you’m up to?”

  “My dear Aunt, you have been advising me to caution ever since you met His Lordship. Do not tell me he has quite changed your mind now. I had hoped you would approve of my decision—I am sure that my father will not.”

  “Well, that be true. But . . . but . . . You are a headstrong girl, but I loves thee all the more for it. Come, kiss me an’ say farewell, for I shall hold thee dear in my heart until we meets agin’. An’ never fear fer yer father—when he cools down I will tell him that you knows what you be doin’ and will hope to take yer own time and give yer own answer to His Lordship when next ye sees him.”

  Roberta smiled. “If I see him?”

  “Ah, dinna’ try to play me fer a fool. I knows what be a goin’ on. Play they gen’lmen fer fools as much as thee likes—bear in mind that once yer word is given, thee has become nort but a household chattel. If you mus’ take the navy’s ship to the coast o’ Holland do tak’ care. Oh how I wish thee were goin’ to meet our Worthington—he be a steadier hand on the tiller than they what be goin’ ter spy.”

  “Ah, hush, Aunt. Do not try to make my mind for me. Now kiss me again. Take care of yourself and Father. Tell him I am sorry to vex him so, but I must live my life my way.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  No Meeting at Sea

  Three days out of Tyneside, the passenger steamer Blyth churned its paddles to reduce the waves of the Thames Estuary to spreading foam as Roberta reclined in a deckchair in the shelter of a midship’s deckhouse. The late August sunshine valiantly made its most powerful demonstration of an English summer by propelling its warmth through the three layers of her travelling garb and possibly burning a lasting bit of colour into her unprotected cheeks. Her eyes sheltered in shade under the wide brim of one of her flamboyant bergere hats as she forsook the book in her lap to study the ships in the offing. They focused intently on a vessel destined to overtake them that she could not help but recognize—her own design, the steam ram Spiteful.

  She had left Clydebank first, but with three days spent in Tynemouth, Commander Worthington and his first ship command had all but overtaken her. All it would need now would be a glimpse of Lord Bond’s Nederlander and the embrace of coincidence would be completely full. Her own hasty departure from Clydebank had prevented her from hearing Lord Bond’s plans, but he and his spy team must surely be far distant across the North Sea by now, since she felt it wiser for him to approach the Westerschelde from the east if the French authorities were to be free of suspicion.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Stephenson,” she heard close at hand, and looked up to see the friendly middle aged couple she had met on the voyage, Mr. and Mrs. Middleton, approaching.

  “Good day to you both,” she responded.

  Mrs. Middleton stopped beside her, to smile as she reached down for the book. “Do I observe a deficiency in the charm of this novel that your eyes would rather observe the scenery? What are you reading?”

  “A novel a friend of mine sent with the recommendation I read it,” she answered, “but the ships . . . or rather one of them . . . is of considerable interest to me.” She pointed. “The steamer on the horizon that rapidly overhauls us is no less than HMS Spiteful, built in my father’s shipyard.”

  Mr. Middleton turned to follow her directions. “Jolly good show. I’m sure it must feel most gratifying to you that your family enterprise performs such sterling service for your country, my dear. What class of vessel is it? I must admit that its shape is quite unfamiliar to me.”

  “It is a vessel of a very new and specialized purpose,” Roberta answered. “Its particulars are as yet of a confidential nature and it is best I not speak more of it.”

  “Good Heavens!” Mr. Middleton stepped back and shielded his eyes to take a better look at the vessel. “A dread secret I do declare. As long as it sends old Boney packing!”

  Mrs. Middleton did not more than glance at the ship, and instead r
eached farther to pick up the book. “Why, the late Mr. Samuel Richardson’s novel Clarissa. What advice do you follow that you should renew your acquaintance with such a sad story?”

  “I’m afraid I was advised to note the wiles and trickery of Lovelace, the villain, in his attempt to besmirch the honour and modesty of the heroine during my sojourn in London, Mrs. Middleton.”

  “Good Heavens, is London such a den of iniquity these days?”

  Roberta laughed. “I do not suppose that at all, particularly as I will be a guest of Viscount Melville at Admiralty House for much of the visit. I can only ascribe the choice of novel to the apprehensions of a gentleman friend who clearly wishes me to chart a safe course through turbulent waters.” She spoke gaily to ensure her buoyant spirits would remove all trace of seriousness from her study of the ruination of a chaste young lady by a libertine.

  It must have worked—the Middletons both laughed, and as they took their leave Roberta took up the book once more with the identity of the donor firmly present in her mind. What more perils did Mr. Holmes see for her in this waning summer?

  She still deliberated unsurely over her reasons for escaping the mansion before Lord Bond had a chance to propose marriage . . . an intention that he had almost certainly designed. Sometimes she feared she would have refused him, and others that she would have accepted. The idea of a marriage into the nobility—and the eventual inheritance of a Marquisate—was too attractive to throw recklessly away, but her suspicion that he intended to hurry her into his bed so that he might involve her in spying on the new French warships at Antwerp would not be dispelled. The warning—it could have been intended no other way—of Mr. Holmes that the Marquess might oppose the marriage and perhaps have the power to undo it, reinforced her natural inclination to consider the situation more fully before giving His Lordship her answer.

  Two days in the Stephenson Railway works at Newcastle in the company of Mr. Postlethwait were quite sufficient enough to incline her to refuse an offer of marriage from anyone . . . and all the King’s horses besides. Postlethwait had been almost apologetic and perhaps chastened that her own status in the works was higher and somewhat more successful than his. Her coup in the Admiralty and the order for ten more vessels to spiteful design had deflated his arrogant self-assurance to a mere bubble in a teacup. His attempts at gallantry had been most gratifying . . . if a little difficult to accept without laughing—she almost felt sorry for his disappointment.

  She should be turning her mind to the future meetings with the shipyard managements on the Thames instead of mulling over the past and other imponderables. She squared her shoulders and settled herself deeper into the deckchair as she picked up the novel once more. The copies of the ship plans had arrived by courier while she waited in Tynemouth and as soon as the Admiralty had decided upon the most suitable contractors she must inspect their works and listen to their propositions before handing over the construction of two of her prized spitefuls to their tender mercies. She herself must expect to return to the north to complete the building of the seven ships on order there as soon as the Thames yards were contracted—unless, of course, this reckless plan to have England’s most original naval architect dare the French police and armies on a spying mission in Antwerp were carried out. Surely Their Lordships of the Admiralty must reconsider such folly.

  Lord Bond had waited for the arrival of the First Lord of the Admiralty in Chatham for two days with great impatience, two days that should have been spent sailing the North Sea, but Their Lordships had a new plan to put into action. In the interim he had received enough specie in Dutch silver guilders and gold French Louis d’or to bribe half the population of the Low Countries. He had also found enough time to visit the Archbishop of Canterbury, temporarily at his seat and not at Lambeth Palace, and receive a special marriage license that both dispensed with the need for calling the banns and also permitted the marriage ceremony to take place in any location that the uncertainties of war might impose. The one thing he had needed to deal with circumspectly, as Archbishop Manners-Sutton had minutely investigated him, had been the inclination of the future bride—he dare not admit that she had fled rather than hear his protestations of eternal love and fidelity.

  He should be chastened, he knew, perhaps angered, but he could not help but admire her spirit and her independence in the flight. He was not inconvenienced by the chase—as an experienced hunter he allowed that it gave the eventual outcome and the prize all the more merit.

  He hoped the First Lord might have come earlier, but apparently he was making this official visit to inspect the Spiteful; expected to arrive from Scotland any day now—at least that was the official story. The probable existence of a traitor in the Admiralty itself—and the visit to discuss the new spying plans for Antwerp―was to be shielded from any treachery by the ceremony of presenting the Spiteful’s captain, the stalwart Alfred Worthington, risen from the Black Gang, with his new commission. What the First Lord needed to discuss with him must be connected with this sudden concern for a speedy return to the Low Countries.

  Commander Alfred Worthington stood waiting with studied calm, if a few butterflies in the stomach, as the gig bearing the First Lord of the Admiralty drew nearer. With but an hour’s warning of the inspection—from the harbour pilot as he came aboard at the River Medway’s mouth—there had been too little time to wash the smoke and grime of four days hard steaming from the Spiteful’s decks and paintwork. For the first time in his naval career he sympathised with innumerable captains who had cursed the steam engines and boiler fires that had besmirched the pristine white of sails and decks that was the prime evidence of a well-run ship.

  His crew stood in lines amidships although he felt their bearing could hardly impress—fully half were Miss Stephenson’s civilian crew that had been aboard the vessel during his first voyage—the Channel trial a month before designed to prove the adequacy of the vessel to meet its naval purpose. He formed the impression that he should introduce these people first to His Lordship, to establish the fact that this was not yet a commissioned fighting ship, and then he could expect to emphasize the degree of learning his naval newcomers had attained since leaving the River Clyde, and look to impress—for, indeed, he felt proud at how quickly they had formed a basic knowledge of their duties.

  The gig disappeared from sight as it reached the ship’s side and all waited with baited breath for the first sight of the First Lord’s cocked hat rising above the rail—or perhaps he was not in uniform, being a civilian head of Admiralty. The bosun and his mate put their boatswain’s pipes to their mouths in readiness and almost immediately sounded the call as Viscount Melville, in a dark blue greatcoat and tricorn hat, reached the deck. Worthington stepped forward to salute and then grasp the First Lord’s proffered hand.

  “Good to see you again, Mr. Worthington,” the First Lord said warmly.

  Worthington took a deep breath and hoped his colour had not risen enough to be noticeable as he smiled gratefully and answered, “And I am honoured to be of service to Your Lordship once more. Welcome aboard the Spiteful, My Lord, but four days out of Clydebank.”

  The First Lord stood aside as Lord Henry Paulit reached the deck. “Four days?” the senior admiral echoed. “That’s good sailing. What did you log?”

  “An average of ten knots for the entire passage, My Lord Admiral.” He thought it appropriate to point out the vessel’s deficiencies himself. “As you might tell from the soot and grime of the smokestacks that have barely cooled their fires.”

  Lord Paulit laughed. “Ah, do not take your accomplishments as excuse for your hard-worked appearance, Commander. I would not wish other commanders of steamships to learn such ploys in answer for their admirals.”

  The two Admiralty Lords and the next arrival, Commander Ripley, from the Steam Directorate, all joined in the polite laughter.

  “Of course, My Lord, but I will put my naval ratings to work as soon as your inspection is done, and meantime present my c
ivilian crew from the Stephenson Dockyard to you—starting with Mr. MacRae and Miss Elizabeth Grandin, the Chief Engineer.”

  As Lord Paulit spoke of seaman’s things to Mr. MacRae, Viscount Melville stopped before the latter. “Miss Grandin. I am pleased to meet you after hearing about your sterling service on the trial voyage in the Channel.”

  Elizabeth curtsied and responded in French and English. “Enchanté Monsieurs, I am so pleased to meet zee Lordships that has so protect the country that gave my parents sanctuary when the terrors in France was so vile.”

  Worthington thought her French accent somewhat unexpected, since she rarely lapsed into it with him, but she surely had her reasons. The visitors took the time to ask how the engines had performed and how the new bearings stood up.

  “The bearing, she are perfect, Mes Lords. I will pleased to show should you wish to visit below.”

  “Indeed, we will,” Viscount Melville replied. “I want to see all the novel features of the ship.”

  And see them he did, from the stern paddlewheels to the ram, and he even crawled inside the rocket redoubt in the bow with Commander Worthington—the rabbit hutch as the matelots nicknamed it—where the Congreve rockets were loaded and fired to distract the enemy as they steamed in to ram.

  The visitors seemed pleased and impressed as they took a glass of wine in Worthington’s cramped cabin just ahead of the engineroom bulkhead below — no spacious stern cabins as they would be used to visiting in a sailing warship.

  “I did wonder if Miss Stephenson would make the voyage south with you, Commander,” the First Lord said conversationally. “We expect her any day to begin the preparations for building the two ships on the Thames.”

  Elizabeth Grandin, who was one of the party, answered. “Miss Roberta have to visit Tyneside on her way south, Monsieur Vicomte. There was an issue one of ze famille had to deal with.”

  “I expect you will find her in London when you return, My Lord,” Worthington said. “We overtook the steamer from Edinburgh in the estuary as we arrived in the roadstead.”