In the end, the case had been settled on the woman's terms. And, while Melissa had been angry at the time, in retrospect she wasn't sure the lout of a handyman wouldn't have been better off spending a few years in an American prison-with time off for good behavior-than being stripped of every penny and possibly locked into what amounted to a condition of involuntary servitude for two decades.
Remembering that episode as she watched Julie's kiss turn into something very demonstrative-Alex's face was almost beet red, now, but he was returning the kiss with enthusiasm-Melissa found herself fighting down a laugh again. O brave new world, that hath such people in it! There were things she detested about 17 th -century society; others, which she had found herself coming to treasure, almost despite herself.
Disease, however, was not one of them. And the fact was that Julie was taking a real risk in bringing her child on this voyage. As a rule, people of the time left their children behind-especially infants-whenever they traveled anywhere beyond their immediate vicinity. Rebecca and Gretchen hadn't even considered bringing their babies along on their own mission. Leaving aside the very real danger of piracy and highway robbery, there was the ever-present risk of disease whenever a child was exposed to strange populations. Even without travel and unnecessary exposure, a third of all children born alive did not survive their first year; fully half died before the age of five.
Hearing a clatter of hooves, Melissa turned away from Alex and Julie. A small party of cavalrymen was trotting onto the quays, some fifty yards away. They were using the weight of their mounts to brush aside the stevedores and sailors, exhibiting all the arrogance of soldiers toward civilians that was another of the characteristics of the time which Melissa despised. Move or be trampled, damn you.
Her lips tightened. The officer at the head of the troop was scanning the area, obviously looking for someone. Which, she had little doubt, was Melissa herself. Or her party, rather. Although the cavalrymen weren't wearing uniforms as such-which were still uncommon in this day and age-the similar buff coats and knee boots and gauntlets and plumed hats amounted to the same thing. Only royal troops would be so accoutered in this area.
An official escort. I'm not sure whether to be pleased or not.
She felt a looming presence behind her. She didn't have to turn her head to know that was Tom Simpson. Rita's husband had a personality which was diametrically opposite that of the haughty officer coming toward her. Melissa had seen Tom Simpson step aside for almost everyone he encountered. But the man's sheer size was enough to make him "loom" just by being in the vicinity. That wasn't due to any great height-Tom was not much over six feet tall-but simply to his bulk. All of which, she knew, was bone and muscle. Tom Simpson hadn't been out of shape as a nose guard for West Virginia University's varsity football team. The time since, most of it spent as an officer in the army of the new little United States, had kept him in even better shape.
She found that presence comforting, the more so as the officer and his cavalrymen approached. Melissa had learned, in the two years since the Ring of Fire, to dismiss her long-standing prejudice against soldiers for what it was: prejudice. But if there were Alex Mackays and Tom Simpsons and Heinrich Schmidts in the world's armies, there were also officers she wouldn't have trusted any more than she would a rattlesnake. Quite a bit less, in fact-no one had ever accused a rattlesnake of committing "atrocities."
The officer in charge of this party… didn't look promising. Plumed like a peacock, staring at everyone in a haughty manner which was almost a parody from a movie, his long nose tight with what seemed a perpetual sniff.
Not, I admit, that this place doesn't stink. Whatever else Melissa liked about the 17 th century, the smell of its cities and towns was not one of them.
"That's got to be for us," murmured Tom. "I'll get Rita."
Melissa nodded. Rita Simpson was the official ambassador to King Charles I. To all the Americans in Grantville-including the woman herself, all of twenty-three years old-that seemed a little ridiculous. But, following the advice of Balthazar and Rebecca, and Francisco Nasi-and Gustav's chancellor Oxenstierna, for that matter-Mike had given his kid sister the assignment. For 17 th -century Europeans, "diplomacy"-in the sense of crucial, binding, negotiations rather than routine matters-was not something conducted by professional ambassadors. The distances involved were simply too great, and transport and communications too poorly developed, for nations to oversee closely their own envoys. As a result, it was the common practice for ambassadors to be relatives of the rulers involved, because only they could be presumed to speak with real authority.
Granted, Mike Stearns was not a king. But he was the closest thing the United States had; and so, willy-nilly, the embassies to France and Holland and England were being officially headed up by his wife and his sister.
In the case of Rebecca's mission, formality and reality matched. Everyone, except possibly herself, had full confidence in Rebecca's ability to handle the task. Indeed, she had been given the more difficult and critical mission-to make peace with France, if at all possible, and forge an alliance with Holland.
With the mission to England, the situation was different. There was nothing wrong with Rita. Melissa thought she was a splendid example of an American young woman, sane of mind and sound in body. But nobody, certainly not Rita herself, thought she had the same brilliance which Rebecca had demonstrated many times over.
Thus, despite her own wishes, Melissa Mailey had been dragooned into serving as Rita's "adviser"-in truth, the real head of the delegation.
Damn it, I'm closing in on sixty! I'm too old and decrepit for these adventures. And I miss my bed at home, with James in it. And my little creature comforts and habits. I even miss the squeaky hinge on the kitchen door that James swears he'll get fixed some day.
The oncoming officer still hadn't spotted them. Moved by an impulse, Melissa turned back to Alex and Julie.
"We should part company. Now. There's no reason to think…" She hesitated. "Still-"
Alex nodded. "In case of trouble, best there be no known connection between us." He put his arm around Julie's shoulders and began to turn her away. Then, with a little smile: "Of course, there will be spies. But by the time they finish squabbling with Charles' tight-fisted paymasters over the price for the information, we'll be halfway to Edinburgh."
Melissa could see Julie starting to rebel, a bit. The young woman obviously wanted to give her a parting hug. But Julie was stubborn, not stupid. So, after a moment, she satisfied herself with a warm smile and a whisper: "Don't forget to stay in touch with the radio. I'll listen every day, just like we planned."
Melissa nodded. Since her head was turned away from the officer, she blew Julie a kiss. Then, firmly-and not easily; Julie had become something of an adopted daughter to her, since the Ring of Fire-she turned her back on them.
Turned her back, straightened her shoulders, reared her head as high as her long neck allowed; then, bestowed upon the approaching officer a nose which-truth be told-was every bit as aristocratic as his and a gaze whose haughtiness would have graced an empress. Not for nothing had Melissa Mailey spent years as a schoolteacher staring down youthful insolence.