Secrets of the Fearless

by Elizabeth Laird

  But inside Jalignac’s enchanted park it was easy to forget the road and its reminders of the world of war outside. The chateau itself took days to explore. John and Kit investigated every corner. They ran from room to room, startling nesting pigeons in the chimneys, climbing grand staircases and small winding ones too, emerging on to the roof with its forest of chimneys and dormer windows, delving into cellars with their broken wine racks.

  And then, one morning, when August was nearly at an end and the last ripe plums had been gathered in, they found themselves once more in the ballroom. Kit hummed the tune of a minuet and danced a few steps under the great chandelier which, though dull with dust, still hung from the gilded ceiling on its massive chain. John caught her round the waist and twirled her round and round. He had never danced more than a few Scottish reels and a sailor’s jig in his life, and he was clumsy, catching his feet in the hem of her dress. She fell against him, laughing. He looked down into her face.

  Something shifted in his chest. His heart began to hammer inside his ribcage. Abruptly he let her go and turned away to hide the scarlet flood that was rising in his face.

  Kit had turned away too, but he could see that her cheeks were red as well. He wanted to catch her again, and hold her for longer, to feel her soft hair against his chin and her slim waist between his hands. But she had already darted away from him and had disappeared from the room.

  ‘I’m up here, John,’ she called out.

  He looked up. She was leaning over the carved balustrade of a small gallery that ran along one end of the ballroom, grinning down at him. ‘Did I make you jump? There’s a little staircase. Come on up.’

  Her smile was doing strange things to his breathing.

  ‘I’ve had enough,’ he said crossly. ‘I’m tired of all this.’ And he stumped out of the ballroom and took refuge in the library, where he sat down on a window seat and leafed unseeingly through one of the torn, dusty books which the mob, unable to read, had left scattered on the floor.

  I must have been mad just now, he told himself, flinging the book down again. I’m not going to think about her like that. She’s Kit to me, not a girl at all. I hope she didn’t see what I was feeling. If she did, she’d think I was an oaf. A stupid, stupid oaf.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The next day, for the first time in weeks, it rained. Clouds boiled up out of the west, thunder rolled round the chateau’s turrets and violent gusts of wind rattled the windows. Betsy sent John off to sift through the mangers in the old stables, where the hens liked to roost. The next heavy squall of rain caught him as he ran back across the stable yard, clutching two precious eggs in his hands. As if the touch of water had broken an enchantment, he stopped in his tracks, letting the sparkling drops dash against his cheeks and soak through his shirt. The last time he’d felt the rain on him he’d been aboard the Fearless. He’d been aloft, up the foremast, taking in a reef. The great warship had heaved beneath him on the swell, the men had worked in perfect unison, singing ‘Come all you valiant seamen, and each jolly tar’, as they struggled to haul in the soaked canvas. Later, there’d been a round of grog. He’d stripped off his wet clothes and fished dry ones out of Kit’s chest. That night there’d been fiddle music, and the men had danced jigs on the gun deck.

  He felt an unexpected pang of longing for that masculine, ordered world, with all its hardship and danger. He felt ashamed too.

  I shouldn’t be here, he told himself disgustedly. What use am I here? It’s my duty to get back to sea and report what I know to Mr Erskine.

  The shell of the egg in his right hand cracked in his tightened fist, and its slimy raw contents oozed through his fingers. Irritated, he shook the dripping hair back out of his eyes, missing the feeling of his sailor’s pigtail, which Betsy had cut off while he’d been ill. He felt as if he’d been sleepwalking and had woken up. He snuffed up into his nostrils the scent of rain on the dry baked earth. It was nothing like the salt tang of the sea, but it was the smell of water, nonetheless.

  He took a deep breath and splashed across the yard into the kitchen.

  ‘Kit, Betsy,’ he began. ‘Listen, I must . . .’

  He stopped in surprise. A stranger was sitting by the fire, holding his sodden boots out towards the blaze. In a glance, John took in the man’s massive forearms, his unkempt black hair and weather-beaten face. He felt an immediate alarm. Was this another gendarme, come to arrest him? Then he saw that the man was looking anxious too.

  ‘There’s nothing to fear, John,’ said Kit, running forward to take the remaining whole egg from him. ‘This is Jem. He’s Betsy’s cousin. He’s English.’

  Something stirred in John’s memory. Hadn’t Kit talked about Betsy’s cousin that morning in the captain’s great cabin, when he’d first learned that she was a girl? Something about a smuggler, who’d taken her off in his boat from the French coast.

  He strode forward and held out his hand to grasp Jem’s, then remembered it was still dripping with raw egg. He bent over the pail of water set by the hearth and quickly washed the mess off.

  ‘Have you come from the coast?’ he asked eagerly. ‘Do you have news of the Fearless?’

  Jem smiled.

  ‘You’re John, then. The tales these women tell about you! Glad to see you in the pink, as they say. Nasty wound them villains gave you, so I hear.’

  John pulled up a chair beside Jem’s. In spite of the coolness the rain had brought outside, it was stiflingly hot in the kitchen, where Betsy had built up the fire to dry off Jem’s clothes. She was hovering over him now, trying to put a glass of something in his hands.

  ‘Yes, I’m John.’ He tried to hide his impatience. ‘The Fearless, is she still on blockade?’

  Jem took the glass from Betsy’s hands and sipped, smacking his lips with enthusiasm.

  ‘Not that I know of. We came ashore last night, slipped in to the deserted stretch of coast north of Arcachon on this westerly. We’ve been waiting out at sea for weeks. Flat calm, it’s been. Water still as a farmer’s duck pond. First chance we had we came ashore. There’s been no sign of a British ship for days. One’ll still be out there, though. No saying if she’ll be the Fearless herself, but it’s more than likely, unless they’ve swapped her for another damned naval busybody. Lurking out of sight of the river mouth, she’ll be, hoping to lure out another French ship, like the cunning old sea wolf she is.’

  John was barely listening.

  ‘I’ve got to get back to her,’ he burst out. ‘Can you help me? Please, can you take me out to sea when you go, and get me back on board her?’

  Jem laughed.

  ‘Want to get back to sea, do you? Pining for salt beef and weevily ship’s biscuit? Strange lad you must be. Nice snug berth you’ve got yourself into here, among the petticoats. Wouldn’t mind casting anchor myself here, given half the chance.’

  ‘As to that, Jem,’ said Betsy gruffly, and John was amazed to see a brick-red flush suffuse her face, ‘you know that any time you like . . .’

  He stood up, put his arm round her waist and gave it a squeeze.

  ‘I know, my girl. I know. But a man has a living to earn, inside the law or without it. I come as often as I can.’

  He planted a smacking kiss on her lips.

  John and Kit looked at each other. Kit let out a giggle of embarrassment. John felt an answering one bubble up inside him, and knew that if he gave way to it he’d soon be laughing uncontrollably. He dragged his eyes away from Kit’s face.

  Jem’s the real reason why Betsy stays here, he thought, in a moment of revelation.

  Betsy pushed the smuggler away with a reproving frown, and he released her.

  ‘Please, Jem,’ John persisted. ‘When are you weighing anchor? Couldn’t you take me with you?’

  A crease split the leathery skin between Jem’s heavy brows.

  ‘I could take you off with us,’ he said. ‘But then again, I don’t know as how it would help you. The best I could do would be to take you
back to England, and put you off on a quiet little beach I knows of, on the Kent coast, but to go anywhere near a man-o’-war – why, it would be mortal folly, and my men would mutiny at the very idea. Pressed into the navy again we’d all be before we could take in our sails. Our brig would be taken, and all our wine and brandy, that we’re paying good money for, would go glugging down the throats of your captain and his thirsty officers.’

  ‘Then never mind the Fearless. I’ll come with you to Kent,’ John said. He couldn’t understand why he was suddenly so desperate to leave Jalignac. ‘When do we leave?’

  ‘Listen to him, the fire-eater!’ marvelled Jem. ‘I thought he was bold enough sitting here as cool as you please in the heart of the enemy’s country. Now it turns out he can’t wait to get back to the navy so’s he can take another pop at them. We’ll not leave for a fortnight at least, young John. I’ve my new cargo to purchase and load, and business to complete in Bordeaux. Takes time when all must be done in secrecy. And now that the wind has turned to the west, it might be long enough before it changes back to give us a favourable course. I’ll take you with me, if you’re that set on it, but you must bide your time and wait for word that we’re ready to slip our moorings.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you! I’ll be ready. I’ll be waiting for you every day.’

  He was extraordinarily elated at the thought of action, and impatient at the delay. He turned to Kit, expecting her to mirror his own feelings, as she had always done in the past, but she had turned her back and was staring at the rivulets of rain sluicing down the window.

  He went up to her and touched her arm.

  ‘Just think! To be at sea again . . . !’ he began.

  ‘Oh, leave me alone!’ she interrupted and ran out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.

  The rain had cleared by early afternoon. John had gone off in search of Kit, but though he had hunted in all her usual haunts he hadn’t been able to find her. The sun came out, steaming the water off the terrace. Once the storm had passed, his excitement began to die down. What would he do when he was back in Britain? He knew nobody south of the border. Even if Jem kept his word, and landed him on the coast of Kent, the chances were that he’d be caught up quickly by the press gangs that operated everywhere on the south coast and sent to an entirely different ship. How would he get to London? How would he find the right people and tell them about the nest of spies operating out of Edinburgh? He would never make them believe him. And how would he find his father and put right the fraud that had taken Luckstone from them?

  I’ll talk it through with Kit, he thought. Where is she, anyway?

  As he walked up the dusty grand staircase, searching through the chateau for the second time, he remembered how she’d shaken his hand off her arm and refused to speak to him.

  Maybe she thought I wanted to get away from her, he thought. Perhaps I hurt her feelings. He was on unfamiliar ground and felt uneasy. The memory of that moment in the ballroom came rushing back. He pushed it away.

  She probably doesn’t care if I’m here or if I go, though she might miss me a little. She just feels restless, I expect, like I do, and wants to go back to sea.

  He kicked aside a piece of plaster that had fallen from the decaying ceiling.

  She couldn’t go back to the Fearless now though. Not any more. She’s become too much of a girl. Even though she’s such a great actress, she couldn’t take everyone in again. She’s changed too much. Yes, that’s what the matter must be. She’s jealous at the thought that I can get away, while she has to stay.

  This conclusion made him smile with relief. He’d reached the long gallery now, with bare patches along the walls showing where portraits had once hung. He walked along its vast length slowly, thinking hard.

  ‘But then again,’ he said out loud, ‘I could be wrong, after all. Maybe she could turn back into Kit again. If she could do it before, why couldn’t she do it again?’

  It would be the best thing of all, if they could just slip back into their old lives, dress in their sailors’ rig, sling their hammocks side by side, share all the privations, the triumphs, the camaraderie, the hardships and the glory of life on the man-o’-war – go back, in fact, to how things were before.

  I’ll persuade her, he told himself. She’ll come with me, I know she will. I need her, anyway. I couldn’t bear life on the Fearless without Kit.

  A sound from outside caught his attention. He went to the window at the end of the gallery and looked down on the avenue that led to the main gates. Jean-Baptiste, in his ancient green coat, was slowly dragging shut one of the heavy wrought–iron gates. It must have been the protesting shriek of its rusting hinges as it opened that he had heard.

  A man had ridden through the gates on a big chestnut horse. He was now trotting serenely up the avenue as if he had been there a hundred times before.

  John caught his breath and moved out of sight behind the ragged curtain.

  The stranger was no smuggler, like Jem. His horse was glossy with good grooming, his blue riding coat smartly cut, the cravat at his throat a pure, sharp white. He was French. An official of some kind. He’d been here before.

  Jean-Baptiste knows him, John thought, registering the points one by one. This could be dangerous. I must hide. Before he had time to move, a door at the far end of the gallery opened and Kit appeared.

  ‘Where have you been?’ John said self-consciously. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

  He thought, though he couldn’t be sure, that her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying.

  She shook her head.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Listen, you must hide. The man outside, he’s M. Fouchet, my father’s agent. The family’s man of business. He must have heard from the gendarme that I’d returned. He’s a good man. He’s looked after all our affairs for years, but he mustn’t know you’re here. I must go and warn Betsy to get Jem out of the kitchen. Go into the ballroom and up to the gallery. It’s out of the way. Even if he wants to go round the house, he’ll never look up there. Don’t make a sound, and don’t worry. I’ll get rid of him as soon as I can.’

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  It was dusty and dull in the ballroom gallery. After five minutes of watching a spider weave a web between two pillars, rebellion stirred in John. Who was Kit, to tell him where to hide? He wasn’t her servant. He wouldn’t be packed off to skulk in secret like some low criminal.

  He crept down the balcony steps and stood in the middle of the ballroom. He listened. No sound echoed through the great empty rooms of the chateau. If the agent was doing an inspection, he was either unnaturally silent or he was in another part of the building entirely.

  I can easily keep ahead of them if they come this way. I’ll hear them long before they reach me, John told himself. He opened the high double doors at the end of the ballroom that led out to the head of the grand staircase. He stopped, and listened again. Nothing. More boldly, he ran lightly down to the stone-flagged hall below.

  Feet crunched cautiously on the gravel outside. A short stocky figure stole past the window. Jem, his bundle in his hand, was on his way from the kitchen to the stables, where he was no doubt planning to hide himself.

  The kitchen! That’s where the fellow will be, John thought triumphantly. Betsy will be feeding him one of her pies in the kitchen.

  Long corridors, several dusty rooms and a flight of steps separated the hall from the kitchen. John went quietly, ears pricked, slipping from one doorway to the next.

  He heard the murmur of a man’s voice as he reached the top of the kitchen stairs. He’d been right, then. They were still in the kitchen.

  This is folly, he thought. If I’m caught I could find myself in prison, or worse. But he couldn’t help going on. He’d been idle, lazy, tied to women’s apron strings for long enough. He needed excitement. Risk. Danger.

  He reached the bottom of the stairs. From here, he could see in through the half-open kitchen door. M. Fouchet stood facing th
e table at which Betsy and Kit were sitting. He was haranguing Kit in rapid French, the material of his blue serge coat creasing and uncreasing across his shoulders as he waved his arms in expressive gestures.

  Moving cautiously, John edged round the end of the staircase. There was a cavity underneath it, a dark place where Betsy stored old barrels and preserving jars. He could easily dart in there to hide, if he had to.

  He wished again, as he’d often wished before, that he’d applied himself more diligently to learning French during these last slow months. He could understand a little, and say a few words and phrases, mimicking Jean-Baptiste’s broad accent to make Kit smile. But the French agent’s rapid speech was lost on him. He could barely make out a word.

  He began to wonder if it was worth standing here, in this dark musty corridor, listening to a tirade he couldn’t understand. He was about to start creeping back up the stairs, when Betsy’s voice rang out, in sharp, clear English.

  ‘What’s the man saying, Miss Catherine? What is all this about? I can’t follow no more than half of it. He speaks all in a rush.’

  M. Fouchet coughed politely.

  ‘Pardon, madame. I can of course converse in English if it would convenience you. You ’ave lived in France so long you are to me as a Frenchwoman. I thought you spoke so good French.’

  ‘I speak French well enough,’ Betsy said crossly, ‘but you’re getting in too deep, jabbering away too fast for any mortal soul. Have my ears being playing tricks, or was you talking about that woman Josephine just now?’

  ‘He was, Betsy.’ Kit’s voice was nervous. ‘The Empress Josephine is coming to Bordeaux next week.’

  ‘Is she now? And will that monster Bonaparte – will His Majesty the Emperor be accompanying her royalship?’