Julia tilted her chin. She narrowed her glorious eyes at him, giving her face a subtle cast of viciousness. "I knew you hadn't changed. All this talk of heroics—it's nothing but gammon," she said softly. Walking to the window, she stroked her finger down the green silk shutters of the snob-screen that shielded the room from the street outside. "You were a slinking little coward in your father's day, and you're a poltroon still."
"And pish to you!" he snapped, slamming the drained glass back on its silver tray. He picked up his hat. "Good day, Mrs. Plumb. I've certainly enjoyed renewing our acquaintance, but I'm afraid I've urgent business elsewhere."
He didn't wait for the butler, but swung out the front door and threw it shut behind him, still yanking his cloak around his shoulders when he reached the bottom step. He had no need to call for his horse from the stables. He was too broke to buy a horse; he'd walked the four muddy miles to Wisbeach, and now he had to walk back again.
The wrought-iron gate clanged shut behind him. He stalked through the street beside the slow-moving river, scowling at the prickle of cold sleet on his hot cheeks. He was furious with himself for letting Julia's sophomoric spite needle him. Oh, he was a poltroon, right enough; he never fought if he could gracefully run; but it stuck in his throat to hear it from the lips of an insolent jade who'd probably never stirred out of her boudoir if it looked like rain.
He'd noticed, in the course of his life, that it was the dregs of humankind who were the most eager to judge everyone else and be pleased to find them wanting. Why he cared what Julia thought, why he'd ever given a moment's contemplation to his father's opinion even as a ten-year-old boy, Sheridan could not fathom. But the sordid truth was that he had, and he did—and if he hated himself for one single, fatal flaw in his character, it was that.
The freezing air had chilled the heat out of his skin long before he reached the Rose and Crown. Sheridan commandeered a booth in the darkest corner by rousting out an apple-cheeked schoolmaster and advising him to go cane a few of his pupils, who no doubt deserved it. The teacher at first seemed reluctant to gather up his books and remove himself, but educated puffings were no match for a naval officer in full-dress uniform and a foul mood, complete with sword and savage frown. Sheridan sat in the murk and nursed a pint, brooding over his situation and gloomily pondering the fastest way out of town, while the locals whispered about him and cast dubious looks toward his corner.
He'd have to run for it, of course, Not that it would trouble him much—he had no love for that stone monstrosity his father had built, or for the flat, marshy countryside he'd seen only through a sleeting rain—but he wouldn't get far on the change in his pocket.
He briefly considered proceeding with the sale of Her Revolutionary Highness's diamond, which was presently burning a golden hole in the lining of his coat where he'd split it open and sewn the gem inside. It took only an instant for him to discard that idea. Bamboozling the princess was one thing, plain theft was another, and far too risky a proceeding for his peace-loving soul. He'd long since abandoned the idea of selling it anyway, having reckoned that fencing somebody's crown jewels in an isolated rural town was a pretty glaringly stupid idea, for all it had seemed rather charming under the queer influence of a certain pair of hopeful green eyes.
A transient wish crossed his mind: that he could have stayed around and introduced her to the innocent pleasures of…
But the devil with innocent pleasures. He dropped his head back against the wooden settle, closing his eyes. His feelings about Princess Field Mouse were as guilty as sin. He wasted a few moments in imagining a warm bed and his head pillowed on her delightfully plump breasts.
His lust for her was the most peculiar emotion, unlike anything a female had ever before inspired in him: a sort of passion for peace, a ferocious itch to have her and the bizarre impression that he'd somehow gain serenity from the act, that he could lose himself in her as if she were some primal element: a pathless forest or an endless plain instead of a chubby girl. He opened his eyes and stared at a low black timber in the ceiling above him, then blew a long breath of self-disgust from his lower lip and downed a pull of ale.
He turned his mind to considering whether Julia was right and he'd be in no real danger from this Claude Nicolas if he happened to wed the man's niece. There was nothing but the girl's word that her uncle was a murderer—obviously he'd not been hung, or whatever they did to execute malefactors in a place like Oriens—and the princess was clearly inclined to some rather romantic notions, not the least of which was her unquestioning faith in Sheridan himself. But he'd learned to trust his own spine when it gave that telltale prickle, and what he knew of Prince Claude Nicolas made it fairly sizzle with wary suspicion.
On the other hand, there was the message from the War Office, delivered in person by an officer on Palmerston's staff, polite enough but damned grave and insistent that Sir Sheridan Drake would be doing his country yet another powerful service by shackling himself to a stray princess. The letter was full of backhanded implications that Sheridan had sold out awkwardly early in his career. "There comes a time when a man feels he must lay down his sword and rest on his well-earned honors, and yet it is still given him to strive to serve his country along the peaceful byways of law and diplomacy…" among other drivel, which mainly convinced Sheridan that the War Office thought he was a congenital idiot.
Beneath the sap, though, lay an undertone of steel, quickly confirmed when Julia had followed up the message with her financial threats. Sheridan suspected this fellow Palmerston was about on a par with wicked old Prince Claude as far as political ruthlessness went.
It looked like a damned foul wind on a lee shore—between moneylenders and Claude Nicolas and His Majesty's government, with no immediate wherewithal for escape and a princess who didn't seem overly enthusiastic about marrying him anyway. He felt vaguely sorry for his little Highness, who knew what it was like to be bullied by greater powers. She, at least, had expressed some concern for his life span, which was more than anyone else had done.
Absently he fingered the hard shape of the diamond concealed in the seam of his coat. He stared moodily at the open door to the corridor, where a pair of solemn, bearded Jews filed past in traditional long-skirted black coats. One after the other, they glanced into the taproom under the wide brims of their low-crowned hats and passed on.
Sheridan finally abandoned his gloomy musing and set himself to being convivial. It wasn't hard. The local patrons had long since reckoned who he was, and in short order he was answering avid questions about his career, earning a free dinner of excellent mutton chops and a basket of scraps for Mustafa. By the time dusk fell, he was riding home in a gig that belonged to the schoolmaster Sheridan had thrown out of his seat—sharing the young man's drunken renditions of sailors' ditties and handing out sage advice on how to seduce women in foreign ports. He got down from the gig at the steps of Hatherleigh Hall and shook the other man's hand. When the gig had rattled cheerfully off into the twilight, he turned and looked up at the black, somber bulk of his father's house, where no light shone in welcome and no hand threw open the entry to receive him.
The front door shut behind him with a wail like a lost soul. He groped his way into the little study near the entryway and built up the fire.
Mustafa wasn't in evidence, probably curled up already in the only harmless bed upstairs, appropriating all the blankets. By the coal grate's feeble red glow, Sheridan checked the potted fuchsia on the windowsill for the stubborn signs of renewed life. They were still there, two bright green sprouts amid the withered blooms. He warmed the kettle for a while, tested the temperature and then carefully added a measure of water to the plant.
He thought of lying down on the divan to sleep. But he might have one of his dreams; one of the really bad ones. He sometimes did when he got rattled and moody. Staying awake all night was preferable to that particular curse.
He lit a candle and sat down at the desk. After rummaging in the drawers for pa
per and ink, he rested his chin on his fist and thought a few moments.
His mouth curved in a twisted smile. Taking up the pen, he sharpened the goose quill and began to write.
Five
* * *
To The Right Honorable Viscount Palmerston, Secretary at War
My Lord Secretary,
I scribble this in haste, praying it will reach you. In a few moments Her Highness and I embark from King's Lynn. The plan you suggested was rejected by the princess, and it is by God's grace alone that I intercepted her wild attempt to slip away and make a solitary journey to Rome to plead her cause with the pope. She is remarkably intrepid. (In point of fact, I suspect she'd give a reasonable account of herself in the 11th Light Dragoons.) However, I would certainly have returned her instantly to the care of her guardians, but others were apparently aware of her plans. An attempt was made on her person. Whether it was meant to be an abduction or worse, I am not certain, but I managed to bear her to temporary safety.
I devoutly hope you will approve my actions. I deem it imperative to remove her instantly from this area to a place of greater security, though I dare not communicate the location in this vulnerable dispatch. Given the unavoidable circumstances of our situation in traveling together, I shall of course insist upon implementing your original plan. Be assured that her person and her honor will be guarded with my life. I await anxiously the moment you can remove the danger which threatens her. Until then, I will contact you as I can.
Yr servant,
Sheridan Drake
Princess,
Since leaving you, I have come to realize that you were entirely correct. The plan Palmerston offered is insufficient to your purposes and could only delay the day of reckoning in Oriens. Therefore I propose that we proceed forthwith in our original design.
Tomorrow morning take your walk as early as will seem reasonable to your household. Go directly to your usual meeting place. Stovall will know where to convey you from there.
Bring no baggage, except as we agreed, nothing to arouse early suspicion. It is imperative that we gain a full day's start. The only thing you must do is compose a letter to be sent ahead of us to the pope. In it, describe everything you have told me. It is crucial that you be as complete and persuasive as possible—we may be delayed somehow, and your letter must reach Rome before a decision is made on the matter of your marriage. Do not post the letter yourself. I will take it in hand the instant I meet you and dispatch it through appropriate means.
If we wish to win through, you must follow my directions to the inch from here on. And dress warmly, mouse.
Yr servant and friend,
S. Drake
P.S. Destroy this letter instantly.
To His Serene Highness the Prince Claude Nicolas of Oriens
Sir,
Being, as I am convinced, most solicitous of the welfare of your family, and holding in particular affection Her Highness the Princess Olympia, you will, I humbly beg, excuse my impertinence in addressing you. I write in strictest confidence on a matter of utmost urgency.
Enclosed you will find a letter from the princess's hand, fortunately intercepted before it could reach its destination. As you will see, she is quite untutored in matters of policy and displays a regrettable impulsiveness, which she will undoubtedly curb as she matures. Until that time, it is clearly in the interest of all concerned to keep her under close supervision and delay her assumption of the throne.
As a sincere friend of your country, I have taken it upon myself to remove Her Highness to a safe location during this period of instability in the political situation. Be assured that I will impress upon her the strict necessity of inaction. In spite of her youthful impetuosity, she is a very good girl, and I am sure she can be convinced to listen to the wise counsel of her uncle in the future.
I am sure you will wish your niece to live in comfort appropriate to her station. A general letter of credit would be sufficient for this purpose, made out in the name of Mustafa Effendi Murad and conveyed to Belgrade to be deposited in the care of the Turkish garrison.
You must not allow the location to cause you any undue concern that the princess herself will be allowed to cross the frontier to Belgrade and enter Plague territory; most assuredly neither of us will come near the city at all.
A Supporter
Olympia left the fens at first light, along with the wheeling curtains of water birds that rose from the shining water around. As the punt moved in silence beneath those great, reverberating masses of sound and life, the moving flocks were silhouetted against a brilliant dawn, almost blocking out the sun itself as they spiraled and spread and intertwined, heading toward the open sea.
Her breath sparkled in the morning transparency of a hard frost. She huddled in the boat, dressed in a set of heavy trousers and a thick blue jersey that Fish had given her years before. With wool wrappings around her palms for warmth, the trousers stuffed into a pair of thigh boots and an oversized sou'wester whose brim flopped down over her shoulders to hide her hair, Fish pronounced her "a proper fen tiger, then."
At that moment, she would have been happy to be a wildfowler, in fact, and spend the rest of her life in the immense bleak beauty of the washes rather than leave the only place she'd ever known for a notorious and uncertain future. She loved the fens. Fish had taught her that, schooled her to watch the birds and know their flight patterns. She could clean the punt gun and load it, and knew how to lie flat on her stomach in the bottom of the punt and move it along with the stalking sticks until the ducks were within range of the gun. She knew how to set a trap for eels and net plovers, wading far out in the flooded washes to retrieve the birds and slogging back again.
Julia was beautiful and sophisticated and charming. She was well read and well traveled; she'd seen London and Paris and Rome. Fish Stovall could not read or write, and he'd never been beyond the edge of the fens at Lynn. He lived alone in the middle of a wash, in a house that flooded every third winter.
Julia was Olympia's governess, but Fish was her family.
He said nothing beyond necessary instructions about the punt and the sluices for all the long trip down the canals to Lynn. The canal gave way to the straight, wide channel of the River Ouse, and Fish had to row as the water deepened. The punt glided past gangs of flat-bottomed coal lighters towed by patient horses on the bank. When Olympia saw the steeples and towers of Lynn in the distance, she bit her lip.
"Where are you to leave me?" she asked, breaking the silence at last.
"Greenland public house."
He said no more. Olympia worked her cold fingers, watching the river widen and the traffic grow heavy. Fish's punt began to seem very small amid the boats and busy lighters and the heavy smell of the sea. When she saw the tall masts of the collier brigs and commercial shipping, she pressed her hands tightly together.
"He won't be here," she said with conviction. "How will I find him?"
"If he ain't here, I'll take you home."
She turned and looked at Fish, at his wind-roughened cheeks and graying beard in the shadow of his hat brim. He squinted at her and nodded once, then stood up and began poling them into one of the canal streets of the city. Olympia jumped out onto the quay and helped secure the punt alongside the customhouse.
No one took any note of them: a nondescript fenman with three sacks of plovers slung over his shoulder, and a short, stout young lad, muffled to his ears by a moth-eaten scarf, carrying the excess.
Fish sold the plovers to a butcher in King Street. They walked together to the whalers' public house, The Greenland Fishery. Olympia's feet slowed as her heartbeat increased. She kept her face down. If she hadn't been following at Fish's heels, forced to keep up in order not to lose him, her pace would have dwindled to a complete halt.
At the door of The Greenland, she looked up for a moment at the ancient half-timbered inn with its red tile roof and tipsy lean. This side of the door, she was still uncommitted; she could still tug at Fish's sleeve
and nod back toward the river, and know that he would turn around without a word and take her back. On the other side…
She looked at Fish. He only looked back at her, awaiting her decision. She wondered if he felt the same grief at parting, if his heart lay like hers, lonely and aching already for the hours spent in silent companionship out on the empty washes.
His dark gaze moved over her face in the keen, subtle way it moved across the marsh. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a small canvas bag. "There," he said. "That's yours, boy."
Olympia's fingers closed over the hard little rectangle of Fish's well-used harmonica. She opened her mouth to protest. Then she clutched it harder, unwilling to surrender one last tie with her friend. Tears threatened sharply. She wrinkled her nose, and remembered to wipe at it with her sleeve like a peasant boy.
She gave Fish one quick nod, hoping he saw all she could not say. He pushed open the old plank door.
Inside, he sat down in a chair near the fire. Olympia started to sit down next to him, but he jerked his head. "Over there, boy."
It startled her at first, the gruff note in his voice. But it dawned on her that in her part as a boy, she was due no special attention. It was Fish's courtesy to the house to relegate her to the coldest, least desirable seat. She sat down where he indicated, at the end of a table that suffered a draft from the door.
She'd never been in a public house before—most certainly not in one like this, filled with seamen and greasy smoke, the dim light tinged with green by the leaded glass window at her back. The air was thick with wet wool and fish and sweat and odors she could not even identify.
As often as she dared, she lifted her head from contemplating the table and snatched looks around at the booths and tables. She could not imagine Sir Sheridan in a place like this. The last time she'd seen him, he would have graced a palace. With a rise of panic, she wondered if Fish could have got the instructions wrong.