"To be widowed? Hardly."
"Of course not, sir. To have one's hand sought in marriage."
A long, awkward silence followed. As she passed it, Anne Gladden plucked a daisy and picked its petals, one by one.
"If your own heart is still at liberty, Miss Gladden," Hoare said at last, "and if you will permit me, I may be able to help you and another person to happiness. Let us be seated, and I will explain my thought."
When he had finished, Anne Gladden literally clapped her little mittened hands with joy.
"Perfect!" she cried. "Let us go in now and address Papa!"
Leaving the garden, the happy couple, linked hands swinging, returned to the house to bring the glad tidings to the elder Gladdens.
At dinner that evening, Sir Ralph-perhaps in preparation for the announcement he intended to make-encouraged Hoare to expound on his adventures. Hoare felt himself carried away, inspired. As he spoke, he remembered the jape he had inflicted upon Sir Thomas Frobisher when they first met; he had discoursed to the Knight-Baronet about bats. Hoare really did not like Sir Thomas.
"I am not sure," he said, "that it has come to the attention of our natural philosophers, but the icebergs of the North Atlantic harbor a special population of creatures that are to be found nowhere else."
"Polar bears," came a voice as he caught his breath.
"Walruses," came another.
"Yes, those," Hoare said. "But the most interesting, I think, are the petsters."
"Pesters, Hoare?" That was Sir Thomas. Ha! The fish had struck.
"No, Sir Thomas, petsters. The iceberg environment is so cold, you see, that even the lobsters must grow coats of fur in order to survive… The ladies of the Halifax ton seek them out and tame them. Of a summer evening, they parade about on the walls of the fortress, leading the creatures on leashes… They claim that a well-trained petster is a necessity to defend them from encroaching boors fresh from the old country."
After a puzzled pause, one of the guests gave a crack of laughter. A few others followed suit. The jape, as Hoare had known it would, had fallen flat.
Sir Ralph now called for the company's glasses to be filled and made his announcement. His beloved daughter Anne, he told the table, was to be wed to Captain Bartholomew Hoare. On Sir Ralph's words, congratulatory applause burst out. Miss Austen smiled like the Serpent of Eden. Sir Thomas Frobisher, however, turned black with rage, leaped from his chair, and marched out of the room without a word, slamming the great door behind him. What must have enhanced his wrath was the fact that the door was too weighty and well fitted to slam properly. Instead, it swung closed with a gentle hiss.
"What I do not understand, Miss Gladden-"
Sir Thomas had not tarried to break his fast at Broadmead but had taken an early, hungry departure. Hoare was making his farewells to his hosts and, especially, to his "betrothed."
"Anne, please, Captain… Bartholomew. After all, if we are engaged to marry, we must behave accordingly."
"Anne let it be, then. Terms of affection…," Hoare began, but then stopped, feeling unutterably pompous. "… would be in bad taste, wouldn't they? Although I do hold you in high esteem."
Miss Gladden's easy blush came and went.
"But, as I was about to say," Hoare continued, "I do not understand why your father did not take this whole matter up with me, instead of leaving it to you."
She hung her head.
"I fear, Bartholomew, that Fate gave all the courage in our family to my brother, Peter."
"Not so, Miss… Anne. She gave a large packet of it to Peter's sister, Anne, as well."
Hoare rode into Dorchester on the heels of another high wind. He had left Miss Felicia Hardcastle under the trustworthy supervision of her abigail, aunt, and coachman. All his work with her was ended; joyfully he sang, soundlessly, to himself. He knew that, by having undertaken this side jaunt among the ton and its intrigues, he had neglected his principal duty, so he was quite ready for the effect Thoday and Rabbett had on his inflamed conscience.
His two investigators, he learned, had made much of their stay in Dorchester. Thoday would not deliver his report in the comfort of the inn but insisted upon their proceeding to an open field nearby for their conference.
"The entire town is alive with listeners, sir," he explained. "It was wise of me to make that arrangement with Rabbett's mother."
Not only had the missing head been recovered-the event that had so disturbed Rabbett's digestion. A swineherd had also discovered their Admiralty chaise overturned in a coppice near the hamlet of Abbotsbury, just inshore and only a few miles away. Its seat was heavily bloodstained, as Thoday had predicted.
"And," Thoday continued, "Mr. Spurrier, who disappeared for two days last week, informed me upon his return that his people had found two additional bodies which he thought might be those of the drivers. He offered to show them to us.
"They were in poor repair, I must say. Both were naked. One, like Captain Francis Getchell, had had his throat cut. The other had died of the entry of a pistol ball into the right side of his chest. His right arm must have been extended when the bullet struck him. That, of course, further confirms my deductions at the scene of the crime."
Thoday's voice sounded self-satisfied.
"And I suppose you have identified them?"
"I did, sir," Rabbett said with some pride. "I knew the one with the throat myself. It was Jones, whom Mr. Patterson at Admiralty House retains-retained, I should say- to keep him and his chaise at the Admiralty's disposal."
Evidently, Rabbett had learned to overcome his squeamishness.
"As to the other, sir," he went on, "a cousin of my father's sister-in-law had been bewailing the disappearance of Amos Swithin, her betrothed. 'Twas no great loss, from all I have heard, for the man had no good reputation in the neighborhood.
"I persuaded her to view the deceased, and she did not hesitate at all to identify him. By certain marks upon his privities," he added with some relish. "They had been preserved."
"That is not amusing, Rabbett," Hoare whispered coldly.
The clerk shrank into himself.
"What conclusions have you two drawn from these discoveries?" Hoare asked the two.
Rabbett looked blank, but Thoday's eyes brightened. "From the chaise and Jones's body, sir, nothing," Thoday said. "Their condition was what I-we-expected. From Swithin's body, little was to be learned, although his identification made stronger the likelihood that the crime was planned, or at least executed, locally."
"Because Swithin was a local man?" Hoare asked.
"Precisely. Very good."
This tone would not do.
"Step this way, Thoday," Hoare said. "No, Rabbett, remain where you are."
When he judged them out of Rabbett's sharp hearing, Hoare turned on Thoday.
"You were a schoolmaster at one time, I observe," he said.
As Hoare had intended, his observation took Titus Thoday aback.
"Why, yes," he said. "How did you know?"
"Because of the supercilious and patronizing tone you habitually take to your interlocutors, including me-your commanding officer."
Hoare drew breath and went on, using his command voice, feeble though it was.
"Mr. Thoday," he grated, "I am senior to you in years as well as in rank, and you shall not address me as though I were merely a promising pupil."
His command whisper took all his strength. He paused again for breath, then continued at a tolerable level.
"This is not the first time I have had to caution you. I shall consider continued… disrespect of this kind as nothing short of insolence. If it does continue, I assure you, I shall not hesitate to deal with you accordingly. Do you understand?"
Thoday grew white about the lips.
"Answer me, man. Do you understand me?"
"Sir."
"Again."
"Aye aye, sir."
"Very good. Now, let us proceed."
"I believe, sir," Tho
day said as they strolled back to the waiting clerk, "that Rabbett and I must focus more closely on the doings of Captain Spurrier."
"Why?"
Hoare had to give Thoday credit. He did not sulk at his Commander's reprimand but instead adopted an attitude toward him that suggested he viewed Bartholomew Hoare as an equal instead of his promising pupil. Hoare hoped the change would be permanent, for the vision of having this dignified, proud, gentlemanly, clever, meticulous King's bad bargain of a sailor flogged at a grating aboard Royal Duke was simply absurd.
"Because Mr. Spurrier lords it in Dorchester," Thoday said. "Not a leaf blows in the wind, I discover, but Walter Spurrier knows of it. I could even suspect him of believing he gave the leaf permission to blow, if not having made it blow himself. In that, he is much like his master. The question, however, is not, sir, one of Spurrier's power in the district, but of his true master. For from whom does his power derive?"
"Why, from Sir Thomas Frobisher, of course," Hoare whispered. "Who else?"
"That is what must be determined, sir. You see, I hear nothing of Sir Thomas, nor does Rabbett."
"That's so, sir," said Rabbett. "It used to be that folk hereabouts walked in fear of Sir Thomas. Why, in the inns of an evening, it was a common thing for a man to start a complaint-oh, about the latest enclosure of part of the commons hereabouts or about someone else's midnight catch of rabbits, for example-and then stop himself with a glance around the company and make some remark to the effect that one of Sir Thomas's people might be listening.
"And it might well have been so, too. I know of two men transported because they talked out of turn and someone carried the word back to Sir Thomas. But now, sir, if the common folk still walk in fear of Sir Thomas, they do so in silence. I hear nothing of him these days. His doings are quite another thing, perhaps.
"No, sir, the word may still pass to Mr. Spurrier, but it may go no further. Or it may go to another, as Mr. Thoday suggests."
"This needs some thinking, then," Hoare said, and at last, "I agree. Your aim must be the disclosure of Spurrier's true master-Sir Thomas or another."
Hoare paced up and down the field for a few more minutes, collecting his thoughts. If Spurrier was such a "power in the district," it would be disastrous if he were to discover that Hoare's men were on his scent. Thoday and Rabbett were, after all, mere seamen in a toy man-o'-war. In a turn-up, Spurrier could squash them like a pair of black beetles. In fact, Hoare felt doubts that he himself would have the weight to overbear the man in his own district.
"This is what I suggest," Hoare said at last. "Redirect your inquiries toward Spurrier, but under some pretext. You might revisit the Nine Stones Circle, for instance, letting it be known that you are on the track of a smuggling gang… No, that hardly rings true. The excisemen would be here instead of you. Think of a better excuse for remaining hereabouts, and proceed. For the present, that is the best advice I can give you."
Advice? From a Commander to his men? Not "orders"? Hoare wondered at his own choice of words. He caught his breath, made his excuses to his two men, clambered into the saddle, and departed for his ship.
Chapter XII
"Are you married, Mr. Clay?" Hoare asked his Lieutenant as the two dried themselves off after their morning bout.
Until de Barsac, the emigre swordsman, had taken command of the Vendee frigate, Hoare had frequented the salon d'escrime of the Chevalier Marc-Antoine de Chatillon de Barsac. But then the Vicomte's wife had taken over as manager. As such, she was competent, but she could hardly teach swordsmanship herself. Moreover, the hirelings she had offered as opponents had been depressingly inept, and Hoare had largely abandoned the place. Now he was more than displeased at his lackluster performance as a swordsman in the recent duel, and every morning when he fastened the waistband of his breeches, he knew himself to be going flabby. So when, some days ago, he had learned that Clay prided himself on his swordsmanship, even though on his small frame the officer's sword resembled a two-handed broadsword, he had suggested they indulge themselves in a bout. The first passage at arms had taken place the next morning, the deck being clear and most of the crew at work below.
Clay had stripped well, though pale-skinned, displaying the wiry muscles of a gymnast. His performance had not belied his physique. It had been raining lightly in that gray dawning. After the two had exchanged salutes, Clay had stalked into the eyes of Royal Duke and Hoare to her taffrail. At Hoare's piercing whistle, the two ran at each other, meeting with a sharp clack of weapons to one side of the mainmast, between it and the upturned longboat.
When Clay charged, he moved in an irregular, unpredictable forward dance, his blade flickering before him, his footwork unimpeded by the slippery deck. For Hoare to predict where the Lieutenant would be at any fraction of a second was beyond him. Bewildered, he felt that he might as well never have spent those hours.
Up and down the length of Royal Duke they had ranged, leaping and parrying, up to the cat-head, back to the binnacle, first one taking the offensive and then the other. Clay bounded like a ball. In his lunges, his muscular arm seemed to double in length, as though he had borrowed it magically from the gibbon-topman, Iggleden. Coming on deck, Iggleden himself and Stone had stood agape, as idle as the rest of the gathering watch on deck, until Clay feigned a slip in a spot the watch's mops had missed, let Hoare overstretch, disarmed him with a powerful flip of his blade, and took his surrender.
Every possible morning thereafter, they had met again, whatever the weather. It saved Hoare time and money spent ashore in the de Barsac salon and was quite as effective. Now, day by day, he felt his wind improve; day by day, it took Clay longer to make his touch.
Today, for only the second time, Hoare was the first to score upon his opponent, with a crippling cut to Clay's left leg. It was this success that emboldened Hoare to pose his impertinent question.
"Married, sir? Hardly," Clay answered, rubbing the stricken leg. "I shall be black-and-blue in the morning. No, with my lack of stature, the only ladies who would have me have remained single themselves for good and generally obvious reasons. I do not consider myself overparticular, but if you were to see the kinds of antidote-even crone- that have set their caps at me on account of my fortune, you would shudder.
"Why, even that friendly, pink Susan Hackins at the Swallowed Anchor as much as told me I could have her, but only in exchange for my name. I respect her for her candor as well as her virtue, but… to be brief, what I lack in inches I fear I more than make up in pride. No, sir, I am quite unattached. May I ask why you inquire?"
"I would not wish to interfere in your personal affairs, Mr. Clay, were it not that I recently made the acquaintance of Miss Anne Gladden, daughter of Sir Ralph Gladden of Broadmead, near Frome, in the Mendips."
Hoare paused to await Clay's reaction. There was none.
"She is a charming young lady of poise and presence who impresses me as both sensible and gifted," Hoare continued.
Silence.
"However, she does not go into society as a general rule."
Silence. Clay's expression was closed.
"She is also exceedingly small."
This is hard going, Hoare thought. I would far rather be Heracles to Admiral Hardcastle's Eurystheus than Cupid, or Pandarus, between Miss Anne Gladden and this cool little officer.
"Come to my cabin when you have refreshed yourself, Mr. Clay," Hoare concluded, "and I will lay out my thought for your consideration." This would dish Miss Jane Austen, he thought viciously, and her own schemes for interfering in his pursuit of his own particular partridge.
Soon Hoare was to discover that he might well attend to the affairs of his own heart, not those of his Lieutenant. Only through the scuttlebutt did word reach him that Eleanor Graves had arrived in Portsmouth. Indeed, scuttlebutt whispered in his ear that she had put up at the Swallowed Anchor, his erstwhile quarters ashore. Why had she not let him know she was coming? Nonetheless, he would hasten ashore to find out, salving his c
onscience by telling it that he was simply picking up the day's post. He forbore to remember that an Admiralty wherry had already delivered it.
Besides the anticipated refusal of the Admiralty to increase Royal Duke's ink allowance, today's daily message from Dorchester came heavy today. It comprised several pages of clerkly script and a number of enclosures in the same hand.
The Mitre, Dorchester Wednesday
Sir:
Last night I succeeded in making use (primo) of Mr. Spurrier's absence from the town and (secundo) of the skills taught me by our shipmate, James Bly, to go a-burgling. I picked the lock of Mr. S.'s office door with ease and conducted an extensive search of the place.
This search disclosed the following items of interest:
A. In a carved blackwood cabinet:
1. The cope which I called to your attention after our first encounter with Mr. S. Its decorations were as obscene and sacrilegious as I had thought to observe at that time.
2. A book, in which what appeared to be several rituals were set forth in fine calligraphy. The book was bound in a fine soft leather, which my oversensible imagination suggested was human skin.
3. A chalice of bronze, into which human and animal figures had been chased. Their activities are best left to the imagination.
4. Several black candles.
B. In the right-hand lower drawer of the escritoire:
1. Two sets of Admiralty orders, one addressed to Captain Francis Getchell and the other to Captain Benjamin Getchell.
2. Two gold watches, identical in appearance except for the monograms engraved into their covers. I did not take the time to decipher the monograms, but one might assume they belonged to the Captains Getchell.
3. Two empty purses.
C. On the top of the escritoire:
1. Numerous items of correspondence, of a personal nature.
2. Several ribbons and similar gewgaws.
3. The usual writing paraphernalia.
D. In a readily detected secret drawer behind the middle drawer of the escritoire:
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