"Do you not know that most females being brought into this room would have simply swooned away and not thrown Lord Grenville's priceless Egyptian sculpture through his window and then tried to strangle one of his men? No, Miss, you are a rare find—a girl raised as a feral beast in the slums of London and then educated and turned into one who can pass for the grandest of ladies. You speak French fluently, with just a touch of an American accent. You are a girl who is as comfortable wearing silken stockings as she is concealing a wicked knife in a sheath up her sleeve. A girl who, though quite small, has a talent—may I call it a knack?—for bending men three times her height and weight to her will. A girl who has been in command of three ships—"
"Four ships."
"I stand corrected. Four ships, and who has exhibited very credible survival skills. There are many male intelligence operatives—'spies' is such an ugly word—abroad in the world, but there are virtually no female ones. Since no one will suspect a female spy, especially one as diminutive and charming as yourself, you should be able to worm your way into the confidence of any male whose acquaintance you might make."
"Ah. Back to my becoming a whore again."
"Another ugly word, Miss. I'm sure you could come up with a better term—'adventuress,' perhaps?...maybe, 'woman of the world'?...'courtesan'?...'femme fatale'? All much prettier titles, you will agree."
I seethe, I fume, but I know there is nothing for me to do except to agree. "All right, I will do it, but if you want me to enter into this thing with any sort of spirit, I must insist that you order the following. I want Lieutenant James Fletcher exchanged and brought back to London to be placed in the care of his family. His attending physician, Dr. Stephen Sebastian, must accompany him as he is the one most acquainted with Mr. Fletcher's case. And a warrant officer, Joseph Jared, as well as a Seaman David Jones, confined in the same prison, must also be released. And I shall want to see Mr. Fletcher when he arrives here. I'll need new clothes and fine ones at that. And money—lots of money if I am to go into enemy territory. If you do all that, then I will do my best for you, without reluctance. I will do my duty."
Mr. Peel nods. "Well, certainly money is no object—we have plenty of that. There is an exchange coming up and Lieutenant James Fletcher, if he is still alive, will be exchanged. Perhaps Mr. Jared as well. As for Dr. Sebastian ... He is, ah, shall we say, known to us. We'll do what we can for Seaman Jones. We are agreed then?"
"Fine, but one other thing."
"Yes?"
"I want a bath. And I want it right now."
Chapter 16
I lie in my bath, ah, yes, my good hot bath, which feels ... ahhhh ... oh, so fine. They had delivered on this lovely bath, which I knew would not be easy for them—finding the tub, then hauling the pails of hot water—but they did it and I am glad. It is the first real bath I've had since Dovecote, and I am enjoying it to the fullest. That and still being alive to enjoy it.
I sink down farther into the tub and think back to Dovecote, the estate of Family Trevelyne. I had taken to staying there with my dear friend Amy Trevelyne between voyages on the Nancy B, so as to avoid being nabbed by British agents in Boston—a lot of good it did me in the end, though, as here I am, very well and completely nabbed. The end of summer was lovely at Dovecote, but, sadly, I was denied the company of Randall Trevelyne, which I would have much enjoyed. He had a ferocious argument with his father and stormed out of the house and has not been seen or heard from since. Amy is very worried about him, and I, too, hope he is all right, as he is a rash and a roving blade, and not at all temperate in his ways.
Oh, Randall, I ... I hear the door open and I cross my arms on my chest as a woman comes into the room. She did not bother to knock, but I suppose I must get used to the fact that I am the Admiralty's property now, body and soul, to use as they see fit.
"Stand up, girl," she orders. She's a small, very tightly wound woman of some age, dressed all in black, which seems to be the color of choice around here. She has an accent of some kind, which I can't quite place, along with an authoritative air of someone who is not used to having her orders disobeyed. Oh, well, I was about done with the bath, anyway.
I stand up.
She regards me with an appraising eye as I step out dripping and reach for a towel to dry myself. What is this, then?
The clothes I was wearing when I had been brought here were sent out for cleaning, and I pity the poor washerwoman who's got that job. In the meantime, a nightshirt has been scrounged up for me to wear until tomorrow when I shall go shopping for new, very fashionable clothes. And believe me, I do not intend to spare the expense. If I'm to be a courtesan, then I intend to be a fine one. The fact that King George's treasury is paying for it makes it ever so much better.
Somewhat dry, I reach for the nightshirt, but she says, "No. Do not put that on. Walk over there. I must examine the muscles, the tone." Mystified, I do it. I mean, everybody knows that I've never been particularly shy in that regard, especially when it's only in front of an old woman, so what the hell.
"Put the arms over the head. Now out to the side. Turn around. Make an effort to be graceful. Um ... They tell me you are accomplished in country dances?"
"I have been told that," I say through my teeth, growing a bit resentful. If she asks me to demonstrate, I shan't do it. I mean, in my present state of undress, my dignity and all.
"Um. That might help. Stand on your tiptoes. Now extend the right leg back. Um. Now the left. All right, girl, you may put on your clothing." And with that she goes over to rap on the door. I pull on my nightshirt just in time, as the door opens and Mr. Peel comes into the room.
"Well?"
"I vill do it," says this woman. "She is fit and trim. Give me two weeks and she vill be suitable for the back rank of the corps de ballet, nothing more, but she vill not be a disgrace. Four hundred pounds sterling. Have her in my studio Monday morning at eight. With the money. Goot evening."
And with that she sweeps out.
Mr. Peel nods with obvious satisfaction. "Madame Petrova has agreed to take you on as a student. That is good."
"May I pronounce myself less than overjoyed?" I ask.
Two workmen come in to lift up the tub and take it to the window and pour it out. I hear curses from some unfortunate passersby below. Then the men carry out the tub and leave me alone with Mr. Peel. I perch on the edge of what will prove to be my bed for the next several weeks.
"You may pronounce yourself anything you want. However, you will go there and you will do your best."
"I have always tried to do my best, Sir, in any kind of performance. You will find that to be true."
"That is all very well. Now here is my cloak. Wrap yourself in it, as we are going to meet with the First Lord again."
I wrap the thing about my shoulders and pad out of the room and into the hall in my bare feet. The team of Carr and Boyd are there, of course, and soon I discover that they will always be there. Almost always.
Down the hall we go, then it's into the office.
The First Lord of the Admiralty is back at his desk, looking over some papers.
"Ah, Miss Faber. I assume you have refreshed yourself?"
"Yes, my Lord. I am now quite fresh." I seat my newly refreshed bottom in his chair before him without being asked. It has been a long day, and I do not give a tinker's damn about the propriety.
"Well. We must go over some of the conditions of your ... employment. I take it we will see no more exhibitions of violent behavior from you?"
"No, Sir, I have given my word in this matter, and I always keep my word," I say, "as opposed to others I have met in this room." I glance over at Mr. Peel.
He comes over and asks, "And just what is that supposed to mean?"
"It was in this very room that I was given a Letter of Marque, I thought, in good faith. It proved not so. Why should I believe anything you say now?"
"That was a different set of circumstances. And you must admit you contravened the
terms of that agreement by your taking of the Emerald without any permission whatsoever."
"Well, that is all water under the bridge, and since you are holding all the cards, I will sit back and listen." I fold my hands on my lap and look attentive as any schoolgirl.
"Harummph ... You are to take lessons in the French form of dancing from Madame Petrova. You will receive further instructions from Mr. Peel on how you are to conduct yourself when you get to Paris. He is expert in such matters. Messrs. Carr and Boyd will accompany you wherever you go in the city. You have a strict six o'clock curfew. If you are in public, you will wear a veil—it is a common thing with some of the finer ladies here and will not cause undue comment."
I nod in understanding of the unspoken reasons for the veil.
"When you get on French soil, there will be a gentleman there who will be your contact. He will make himself known to you and will direct you in your actions and you shall communicate to him the information you have gathered."
"And that information will be...?"
"We must know what Boney is up to. When he begins to form up and to move his army. We must know where they are going and what they intend to do. Do you understand that?"
"Yes, Sir, I do."
"Do you further understand what you must do, what we all must do, is anything to keep Napoléon Bonaparte from ever setting his foot on this island we call England? Anything."
Heavy sigh. "Ah, yes. This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England. Yes, I get it."
That little speech raises a lordly eyebrow. He gives a small cough and continues. "Good. Now as to the conditions. You will be conducted to Madame Petrova's studio each day except Sunday, when you may attend—"
"May I meet with my grandfather, the Reverend Alsop, and others at my Home for Little Wanderers and take part in services there?" I already know the answer.
Lord Grenville looks to Mr. Peel and, even though I can't see him behind me, I know he shakes his head.
"No, I'm afraid not," says the First Lord. "Secrecy and all, you know."
"Then it would be my greatest hope to worship at Saint Paul's Cathedral. That was the church of my youth and it would give me great comfort to go there again, considering the danger into which I am very shortly going to be put."
"Well, I'm sure that can be arranged under proper supervision," says Lord Grenville. I'm certain he again looks to Mr. Peel for confirmation. Whether he gets it or not, I cannot see, for he is behind me.
Ha! Church of my youth, right! Saint Paul's, which wouldn't let the likes of my filthy street-urchin self in the front door on any kind of bet. No, the only way I ever got into that place was in the winter with Rooster Charlie and our gang burrowing in through the catacombs to gain a bit of warmth—and maybe a shot at what might be in the poor box, which wasn't much, the cheap buggers...
"Well, maybe, under proper supervision," says Mr. Peel, coming around to face me. "But be warned..."
"I know the deal. I know what happens. If I escape, you will hurt the ones I love, so therefore I will not escape. Besides, as I have said, I have given my word and I know the terms of the agreement."
"All right then. Tomorrow you will be taken out and new clothing will be bought for you."
"And tomorrow, if it please you, Sirs, I would like to inform Mr. James Fletcher's family of his impending repatriation and arrival, as it would give them a measure of joy. You did say you would let me see him before I go off to France."
The First Lord again looks to Mr. Peel, and the younger man puts his hand to his chin to ponder this for a while. Then he answers, "Very well. But you must go veiled and not tell them who you are. When Mr. Fletcher arrives, if he is still alive, then as a Royal Navy Officer, he can be sworn to secrecy and can be expected to swear his family to the same, but not till then will you reveal yourself to the family. Understood?"
"I understand and I thank you," I say with a slight bow of my head. Then I look to Sir Grenville and put on the big eyes. "My Lord, the six o'clock curfew will confine me to many long hours in my room alone, and if I might have some books and some pens and paper, it would give me great comfort." Just a little flutter of the eyelashes, not too much.
He is interested, as I knew he would be, from what Mr. Peel had said of him earlier, about his being more involved with his library than in torturing prisoners.
"Why, yes," he says. "What would you like?"
"Well, I have not yet been able to obtain a copy of Izaak Walton's The Compleat Angler, and I do desire to read that, for both its practical advice on the science of fishing, as well as for its philosophical asides. Boswell's Life of Johnson has also eluded me since I've been away from my country for so long. And Mr. Pope's poetry..." Here I manage a blush. "I hear it is quite scandalous. I don't know if I dare, Sir..."
"Why, my dear, I have all those titles! Have you read Swift's Gulliver's Travels?"
I reply that I have not, even though I have. "I hope to name you my literary guide, my Lord, during these last weeks that I will spend here in my native land."
"Well! I do have some books near at hand, and I will get them for you." With that Sir Thomas Grenville, First Lord of the Admiralty, and Leader of the British Royal Navy, a man who has the ear of King George, Himself, rushes from the room to get Jacky Faber some books.
When the door closes behind him, Mr. Peel looks at me, again with a very appraising eye. "You are a piece of work, aren't you?"
"Well," I shrug, all innocent, "we all ride our little hobbyhorses, don't we, Mr. Peel?"
When at last in bed, curled up, knees to chest, in my usual ball of anxiety, fear, and doubt, I reflect that at least this bed is more comfortable than that coffin in which I spent last night, and for that I am glad. I am also glad to still be alive. I do miss having Joseph Jared at my side to calm me when I start screaming at the phantoms that come to visit me in the night, though. Oh, I know they will come tonight, too, but only the guard outside my door will hear as I thrash about and shriek out my terrors.
Before I fall asleep and surrender to the night dreads, I think of my mates still back in that prison, and I fear for them. I cannot imagine what they must have felt when that executioner, next to the guillotine, held up a head for them to behold ... a head they had to believe was mine.
Davy ... Joseph ... I hope you didn't do anything rash, I hope ... Oh, God, I am so very hard on my friends...
Chapter 17
The next day, which is Saturday, I am taken out, wrapped in Mr. Peel's cloak, and put in a coach. We rattle off to Regent Street in the fashionable part of London and I am bought new clothes, clothing appropriate to wear in Paris. I am fitted in the new Empire style, long pleated dresses gathered up under the low bodice, with short, puffy sleeves. I am given several of those, in white and pink and mauve. Dressy hats are bought, along with a number of fine scarves and shawls. New hairpieces, neat shoes, and silk stockings, too, in addition to delicate underclothing and frilly garters. And cosmetics—oh yes, cosmetics and perfumes, definitely. The tailors and shop mistresses are plainly overjoyed with my visits, and I wish them all the joy of their unexpected windfall.
I must confess that I do not find this at all unpleasant, being fussed over and measured and fitted with the finest of attire.
Oh, and a riding habit, of course, I must have one of those—the jacket deep blue this time, with matching bonnet and skirt. I must confess I have a certain affection for this style of rig—I like the tight clutch of the jacket about my ribs and the feel of the soft white lace about my throat and wrists. I wanted to get a jacket made of red cloth, but I am going to France, after all, and they tend to view wearers of that color with some suspicion just as the Americans do when they see the scarlet coats of the British. It's funny, ain't it, I muse, as I pick out half a dozen fancy embroidered handkerchiefs to the extreme delight of the shop owner, that these three countries, Britain, France, and America—sometimes friends but most often enemies—all use red, white, and blue for their colors?
Funny, that. Ironic, even.
The skirt of the riding habit is cut in such as way as to give the legs of the wearer some freedom to move—I mean sometimes you have to get on a horse and all—and that is good, because tomorrow I intend to do some moving ... some quick moving ... as in running.
I wear my spanking new riding habit out of the last shop, my veil now attached to my bonnet, only my eyes showing above it, making me look, I think, quite the lady of the manor. I grandly say to Carr and Boyd, "Brattle Lane, please. The offices of H. M. Fletcher & Sons, Wine Merchants. It is close to Saint Paul's Wharf."
"We know where it is, Miss," says a weary Carr, uttering a rare complete sentence as he pushes aside the mountain of packages that now occupy the carriage in order to sit across from me. Boyd issues instructions to the coachman, and then he, too, crams himself inside. I know that both clearly wish they had other duties—like maybe picking lice off nasty monkeys at the London Zoological Institute. Some men just do not like to shop.
I have been guarded in the past, generally against my will, by any number of soldiers and Marines, and I've always been able to use whatever charms I may have to gain at least their sympathy if not their affection. But not these two, oh, no. All my little ventures into their histories, or accounts of their wives or sweethearts, have been met with stony silence. Never a glimmer of humor, nor even a response except for a terse "yes" or "no" or a grunt. Well, we shall see, lads...
As we rattle along, I reflect on how close Jaimy might have been to me during that time I was growing up and running with the Rooster Charlie Gang and living under Black-friars Bridge. I mean, the warehouses of H. M. Fletcher & Sons were not half a mile from our kip, in fact, there they are right over there, and I'm sure he must have been there sometimes. Oh, I know he'd have been in school most of the time, while I was in the streets, but then, we might have met. Who knows?
I jerk myself back into the present. Back to business, girl. The carriage pulls up in front of the offices of H. M. Fletcher & Sons, Brattle Lane, London. I get out and walk in, followed very closely by Carr and Boyd.