Tripping up the gangplank, the cabin boy arrived laden with the evening’s provisions. In one hand he carried a bag of bread and pears, bought from the jumble of stalls on the high street. In his other hand he grasped a pewter dish, fetched from the inn. The boy made for the galley, from where, despite the absence of Big Al Thatcher, all meals were served.
‘That’s your dinner, gentlemen,’ the mate announced. ‘I ordered pottage. With the cook away . . .’
Fry followed Henderson to the cabin, ready to eat at the long polished table. The captain’s dowdy shirt and jacket made him look out of place as the cabin boy, far cleaner and tidier, poured the wine. The boy commented on the captain’s scruffy appearance. ‘Some get-up.’
‘I need to blend in tonight.’ Henderson shrugged off the observation. ‘I’ve a deal to make.’
‘It’s lamb, I reckon,’ the cabin boy announced, placing the tureen on the table with a long serving spoon.
Henderson lifted the lid. There were carrots and potatoes in a dull-looking sauce. He stirred. There was some kind of homecoming about food here. Some kind of extraordinary comfort. ‘Can’t see much lamb,’ he said. ‘Though it smells good.’
Fry poured some Rhenish from the decanter. Henderson spooned them a portion each and then paused. He wanted to voice his curiosity. It was the boy’s first time in the big city. There was a bond forming, the terms of it as yet unclear. ‘You’re still aboard, Richard,’ he announced. ‘And you’re drinking wine.’
Fry’s eyes flashed. ‘I hoped you wouldn’t mind,’ he said. ‘I know you have business in London, sir. I hoped you might let me help you with it.’
‘Still trying out another life, then?’
‘Aren’t you?’
The captain looked down at his costume. ‘Look, son, this venture may be dangerous.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll have enough to do looking after myself. Hitting a target is different from the real thing.’
Fry pulled back his shoulders. The captain had heard of his prowess. ‘You might need someone to cover your back.’ The boy took the knife from his pocket. He fiddled with the blade, folding and unfolding it with one hand and then perusing the edge. The food lay cooling. ‘It’s late for you to be making deals is it not? After business hours?’
Henderson shrugged. ‘Your father . . .’ he started. ‘I can’t imagine he’d be glad of you—’
‘He wouldn’t approve,’ Fry agreed. ‘Not of the Rhenish either. Did your father approve of your wildness when you were my age?’
Henderson sighed. ‘Yes. He encouraged me.’
‘Well, that’s commendable,’ the boy managed to get out. ‘A fellow ought to be given a chance to try new things. You can’t spend your whole life green.’ He raised his cup. ‘I promise that I’ll be useful, Captain Henderson, if you can find a use for me. All I’m asking is a chance to discover things for myself.’
Henderson shook his head. ‘You’ll stick out a mile on the other side of the river.’
Fry considered this. Then his face lit up. ‘No. Wait.’ He sprang to his feet, dashing out of the door.
He returned with a bundle of clothes that emanated a musty odour. As he unrolled them, the captain coughed.
‘My brother disguises himself to find out what other chocolate makers are up to,’ he said. ‘And I use these. To go places I wouldn’t otherwise be welcome.’
As understanding dawned, Henderson whooped. He was glad, in a way, to see gentlemen were not of a muchness and the rules governing them were bent with more regularity than might be the expected. Maria believed the world so black and white, or at least that’s how it seemed. Perhaps he might yet find his way. Fry’s complexities were interesting.
‘Well, one of you is sharp enough – at least your brother stands to make some money.’
‘I win at cards. And dice.’
‘Put it on.’ The captain sat back in his chair. ‘Show me.’
Fry scrambled into the clothes. ‘I tousle my hair and spread it with goose fat. I don’t want to appear too clean. Look, I want to stay awhile, Captain,’ the boy pleaded. ‘I want to learn. We Frys work hard, sir, and here is something intriguing here. Let me come with you. Please.’
‘You’d be a liability, son.’ Henderson’s voice was flat. ‘The trade takes a while to pick up and, believe me, the learning isn’t pleasant – not for a gentleman. The Bittersweet’s got no business here, besides. Clarkson will refit and resupply. He’s probably seen to most of it by now. There’s nothing much to learn on board.’
‘But you’ll reload, surely?’ Fry asked. ‘You’ll take on cargo to ferry back to Brazil. Fine silk from India perhaps? Tea from China? Or British goods – engines, pottery, bales of wool?’
Henderson paused. He might reload. He had not thought of it. ‘There are some people in London with whom I’m looking to make a deal,’ he admitted. ‘Investors.’
‘Well, perhaps I could help you there.’
The captain considered. Will had said something about meeting the investors at night, because it was then that the gentlemen tended their business. That hadn’t seemed strange at the time, though now, having seen London, no respectable business operated after dark. The city at night was a pleasure ground of carriages, dinner, dancing and music for anyone from the upper echelons. The dark sky shrouded London’s guilty delights – illicit women, certainly – and the shops closed early; the bonds were all done and only the hostelries and their ilk had an open door come nightfall. The truth was that the investors were clearly smugglers, though both Sam and Will had called them gentlemen. Henderson already felt the sting of superiority – he wasn’t a smuggler any more. He took a deep breath and decided to confide in the lad.
‘I want to make a deal with the investors who paid for the beans I sold your father. I know nothing about them except that the area where they reside is of the lowest and they undertake most of their trade at night. They are smugglers.’
Fry’s eyes shone. ‘Smugglers?’ he breathed.
‘I had a partner in the cargo I sold to your father. He died in Brazil, and tonight we must return his effects and come to an agreement with the fellows who backed him. They are my investors only by inheritance.’
‘Who are they?’
‘I understand them to be gentlemen, but we have never met and the more I hear about the Old Street Bridge, from where they do business, the less I like it. I do not mind whether they are gentlemen or not. I am accustomed to dealing with difficult characters. But, generally, I restrict myself to the reasonable.’
Richard stood straight. ‘It’ll be dangerous,’ he said.
‘I shouldn’t take you, by rights, but if you’re really set on doing something, Richard, perhaps you might be able to help me find them? Or, like you said, you could watch my back, and for that, you’re right, this get-up of yours might be handy.’
Fry’s eyes shone. ‘I tell you what. I’ll cut a deal with you, Captain Henderson. Let me come now, where it interests me, and I’ll help you in the real bear pit. I know why you’re really in London – it’s Mrs Graham, isn’t it?
Henderson felt himself blush. He cursed silently. Maria had said he had been too obvious about his feelings. That Fry knew at all was evidence of that.
The boy continued. ‘I can help. I know how to woo a lady. I have been tutored in etiquette, deportment and elocution. My education has been finished and finished and finished. Show me the ins and outs of your world and I’ll show you mine. I want to see what it’s like – a deal that doesn’t take place in the offices of my family’s manufactory.’
The captain considered. He could understand Fry’s curiosity – admire it, even. Maybe the boy could offer some assist-
ance in the matter of developing a modicum of respectability. ‘I am considering penning a treatise,’ he admitted.
‘On what subject?’
‘Cacao.’
Fry nodded. ‘It must, of course, be illustrated.’
Henderson had not considered this, but
now he’d said it, he realised the boy was right, and this presented a challenge. ‘Yes.’ He leaned back. ‘I had not thought.’
‘Perhaps Mrs Graham might know someone who could help,’ Richard suggested. ‘Illustration is often a matter accomplished with the help of ladies. Or do you think she might wish to illustrate the work herself?’
Henderson could not bring himself to explain that Mrs Graham would be deeply offended by the notion. She was, after all, an accomplished author, far more competent than he was ever likely to be. Quite apart from the fact that he was, at present, hardly her favourite. ‘I had hoped that John Murray might publish me,’ he continued. ‘I called on him yesterday evening, but we did not discuss it. There were other matters to attend.’
Richard smiled. The captain’s exploits continued steeped in intrigue. ‘Matters such as the matters tonight?’
Henderson did not reply immediately.
‘Mrs Graham was offended,’ he said after a pause. ‘I used her name to gain admittance. I had hoped to find her at Murray’s address.’
Richard looked quizzically at the captain. ‘Might I enquire, sir, are you and Mrs Graham betrothed?’
Henderson shook his head. ‘I have been refused,’ he admitted. ‘She is now, of course, very angry.’
For the first time on board the Bittersweet, Richard Fry looked shocked. The men might target practise their deadly skills, the captain might treat with smugglers, but this was beyond the pale.
‘You hoped to find her at the residence of a male acquaintance and yet you are not . . .’ he stuttered.
‘I know. I know.’ Henderson brushed away the words. ‘In Brazil it is different. In fact, I expect, nowhere else in the world must a fellow behave in such a circumspect manner, but here, I understand, such niceties are important. I never finished my education and I am ignorant of the way it works. I am mired in guilt, Richard. I realise that my behaviour has been . . .’
‘Mrs Graham must be . . .’ The boy’s voice trailed.
‘I understand,’ the captain repeated, this time with finality. ‘I see it now – women so afraid of meeting a man’s eye that they walk instead with their eyes on heaven. I mistook what was possible. She’s absolutely right. I should not have presumed.’
There was no question he could do with Richard’s help in the drawing rooms to come, if not on the streets this evening.
‘You are sure you can endure the East End, whatever its horrors? We don’t know what we’re going to.’
‘I’d like to.’ Fry’s eyes were bright.
Henderson considered. It might do the boy good. ‘All right,’ the captain said. ‘I’ll take your deal.’
Fry grinned. He held out his hand and Henderson shook it.
The pottage proved an elegant dish, smooth, silky and rich. The captain murmured as he dipped a piece of bread into the gravy. Fry scooped a spoonful of carrot and beans. The atmosphere felt relaxed – almost confessional.
‘And after, will you run more cacao?’ the boy asked.
The way Richard discussed business had an air of the Fry factory, where all men were decent and most likely knew each other socially. Henderson considered momentarily.
‘To sell to your father?’
The boy nodded.
‘I don’t know. I’ve decided to stay in London for at least some of my time. I like it here.’
‘Father would definitely buy more,’ Richard observed. ‘Especially the wild beans. He was exceptionally excited by them. You should consider it.’
Henderson had thought of it already and had decided that the quality was the thing. He might, he reasoned, come to some arrangement with Thys. If he ran two shipments a year from the Bagdorf estates, he would have a reasonable income as prices stood now in England – certainly enough for a house in Soho and the maintenance of a wife. Having seen John Murray’s residence, however, he wondered if he should perhaps be more ambitious. Ideas were stirring that might result in crystal chandeliers of greater proportion, libraries of leather-bound volumes, and exotic handwoven carpets in extraordinary Oriental hues. Why not?
‘It is a great shame the journey is so long,’ he commented.
Fry smiled. ‘The beans wouldn’t be worth as much if we could farm them in Sussex.’
Henderson shrugged. ‘The Atlantic crossing must be reckoned a matter of six weeks at a minimum. I have an excellent source in Trinidad, but I should much prefer to run something closer if I can.’
‘Spices from Maroc, perhaps? Ivory from Africa?’
‘My expertise is with cacao.’
The men finished their meal.
‘What time do we venture out?’ Fry wiped his mouth.
The captain stood up. Outside, the sun had sunk and the water was a glossy stream of jet, far more attractive than the murky daytime river.
‘It is time,’ he said.
The sailor at the gangplank gave a salute that looked odd from the shore, as the two shabby fellows (surely more accustomed to a life of receiving orders rather than giving them) left the vessel. Clarkson smiled from the shadows in a pall of tobacco smoke. ‘Blow me,’ he whispered. ‘The lad got what he wanted.’
Within three hundred yards of the Bittersweet, the sound of church bells punctuated the night air. Ten bells. The moon sidled up an alleyway, but Henderson and Fry kept to the shadows. A woman stepped between them. She smelled of sweat and syrup. ‘Time for a bit of fun, lads? I’ll do both of you together. Come on.’
The men strode faster.
‘You’ll get a rowing boat further up,’ Henderson said. ‘Take it to St Magnus the Martyr. On a quiet night like tonight, and in your get-up, you’ll be able to haggle a good price. Here are two sixpences, but you’ll only need one. Engage the sorriest-looking boatman and say you’re on an errand. I’ll follow.’
Fry’s eyes gleamed. ‘Yes, captain.’ He grinned. This sort of thing was exactly what he hoped for. ‘I won’t let you down.’
24
Piccadilly
Maria sat on Murray’s canary-yellow sofa and took in the drawing room. Dinner had been magnificent, but she could scarcely recall the exact menu, for the fare that most delighted her was the company. There were ten at the table, most of them men and Murray authors. The conversation sparkled. History. Literature. Science. Art. Having been sequestered from society for almost three years, Maria had catching up to do.
‘Only in London. Only in Piccadilly. Only in Albemarle Street. At number 50,’ she teased Murray. ‘Only here.’ This last most contentedly.
Murray motioned the footman to serve Mrs Graham another liqueur as she moved a flat ochre pillow so it settled in the small of her back. ‘You must not become too comfortable, my dear,’ he said. ‘We rely on your travels for news of the world. Your manuscripts inform us.’
Maria looked suddenly serious. She had sent the manuscripts to Murray that afternoon. ‘Have you read them already?’
‘I have read Chile.’ Murray’s blue eyes focussed. ‘In one sitting and at speed. I sent it to press. The Brazilian journal will follow tomorrow. They shan’t be on the shelves before you depart, Maria, but I shall send your notices.’
When Murray’s invitation to dinner had arrived, Georgiana had declined it.
‘I shall attend,’ Maria had said stolidly.
Georgiana scowled. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘at least this afternoon you will visit the monument I raised to Thomas’s memory.’
Maria acquiesced.
The tree was in the grounds of the local church, only a few streets away. The minister of the parish had greeted the ladies enthusiastically. The Grahams and the Dundases were his most generous parishioners.
‘And what ghastly stories can we expect?’ Miss Graham had enquired on the carriage ride home. ‘What revelations of a woman travelling alone? What was in those horrid papers you sent round to Albemarle Street?’
When Maria told her, Georgiana looked pained.
‘Oh really,’ she sighed. ‘You tar us all with this brush
of yours. I do wish I had been clever enough to snag an admiral or a duke. I don’t suppose now there will be any hope.’
‘Will neither a captain nor an earl suffice?’ Maria posited, and then cursed herself for being so uncharitable. She reminded herself she ought to pity her sister-in-law. ‘Why don’t you join me and dine at Murray’s tonight?’ she offered. ‘You can change your mind.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Georgiana snapped shut her fan. ‘Why on earth would I want to dine there?’
Still, the conversation had left Maria nervous about what she might have produced. No one had read the manuscripts. She craved Murray’s opinion. If the books garnered poor notices, they would cement her family’s low opinion of her. That said, Lord Dundas, her late uncle, had insisted the notices of her previous publications, both good and bad, were removed from his morning paper before the footman brought it, to save him the distress of having to read them.
‘And the manuscripts are not too personal? I worried that I had put in too much of myself,’ she enquired nervously, shifting on the publisher’s sofa, eager for his reply.
Murray’s eyes sparkled. ‘Not at all. They will stand with the work of gentlemen, my dear, if that is what concerns you. In many regards, my view is that the touch of a personal detail engages any intelligent reader. Tell me, how long will you be in London?’
A vision of the grand but cold hallway of Georgiana’s mansion entered Maria’s mind’s eye. ‘Not much longer,’ she admitted.
‘I shall endeavour to have proofs produced as soon as I can. Perhaps we shall manage that at least before you go,’ Murray said kindly. ‘Not bound, I’m afraid, but I will send them on. And your charge in Brazil?’
‘The Princess Royal,’ she confirmed. ‘She is only three – though she will be four, I expect, by the time I return. I shall be taken up by my teaching duties, which will not be onerous for the time being. I hope I might pen you something while I am in Rio – a memoir of court life. Its practices and customs.’
On Starlit Seas Page 26