They made landfall south of Eastchurch, on the Isle of Sheppey, at twenty minutes past eleven o'clock by Gibbon's watch.
It was a tedious journey down the Thames, in a trim little steamer Fitzgerald kept moored at Paul's Wharf: past the looming ships of Her Majesty's fleet anchored off Greenwich, past Gravesend and through the mouth of the Thames Estuary, Fitzgerald shoveling coal into the raging gullet of the boiler while Gibbon steered and Georgiana shivered and dozed.
“Why a steamer, Patrick?” she murmured.
“Because the trains'll be watched.”
“You regard von Stühlen as clairvoyant, then?”
“I regard him, love, as deadly.”
From the estuary they might have turned north, toward Sheerness, the great naval port that sat at the northwestern end of Sheppey; but Gibbon knew his master's mind, and pulled the Dauntless's wheel hard to starboard, sending the little boat into the Swale, a brackish channel that ran between the island and the northern coast of Kent. A slight chop, and sand banks numerous—Sheppey being famous for its wrecks—so that Fitzgerald sent Gibbon aft and took the wheel himself. He had known the Swale well in happier times.
Five miles along the winding coast they turned to port. They entered a creek that cut through the marshes, moving so slowly now they might as well have cut the engine entirely. Georgiana woke and took up a position on the starboard side, alert to snagging weeds and the narrowing of the creek bed.
“Black as Satan's bottom,” Gibbon snorted, “and miasmic as only the sheep marshes can be. You'll have to walk a bit, miss, and the ground's boggy underfoot. But there will be a fire at the end of it, and hot soup if we're blessed.”
“I must look dreadful,” she said wearily. “To think that I should be presented to Mrs. Fitzgerald in such a case! And how will I explain—?”
Gibbon glanced at her, then at the governor's back. Unlikely that Fitzgerald could hear them over the throb of the engine, and his attention was claimed entirely by the black water in front of him. “It's not likely she'll be awake at this hour,” he answered, “so don't give it no mind. The companion as lives with her is French—with no cause to look askance at any lady's dress or manner, if you take my meaning.”
Hard to judge from Georgiana's expression whether she was comforted or not. Gibbon was uneasy. He disliked the Isle of Sheppey and everyone on it. He would have shielded Miss if he could—urged Mr. Fitz to seek an inn at Queenborough, or turn toward Margate and avoid the island altogether. But worse trials than Shurland Hall lay before them in the coming days, and Lady Maude would hardly betray them. Shurland was the one place on the Channel coast they could be certain of refuge.
Except for young Theo, Gibbon thought grimly. He wondered if Mr. Fitz had considered that sprig of fashion when he made his plans. Then the boat squelched on the marshy bottom and the chug of the engine died. Fitzgerald drew a shuddering sigh—whether from relief or dread of the coming encounter, Gibbon could not say. In either case, it was time to abandon the Dauntless.
More ruts had settled in the gravel drive in the past six months, Fitzgerald noted, and the dilapidation of the Hall—which could be charming in high summer, raffish and open-handed—was rudely apparent in mid-December. Broken, sightless windows in the unused wing where Anne Boleyn once slept; and the encircling walls in such poor repair that Gibbon stumbled over a chunk of granite. It was Maude who leased Shurland, not Fitzgerald; but he determined now that he must find a way to shift funds to her agent—undertake to order repairs, though she would fight his meddling if she learned of it.
It was then he remembered that the usual world was cut off as completely as this island. He could not consult his London bankers or send letters of instruction to anyone. Only Shurland stood between himself and all the hounds of Hell.
The great house rose from its pastures like a time-scarred monolith, unsoftened by trees; the profound island darkness could not diminish the severity of its haphazard outline. Fluid shapes blundered across the drive—sheep, always sheep. The animals milled through the darkened courtyard like mourners before a tomb.
And yet Fitzgerald had loved Shurland once.
“Hallo the house,” he called out, as though he still commanded there, and trotted up the broken pavers of the stairs. “Madame duFief! Coultrip!”
He lifted the heavy iron knocker and let it fall. The thud echoed through a vastness beyond.
“Twelfth-century,” Gibbon whispered to Georgiana, “and not much been done to it in the past seven hundert years. I wonder if even Mrs. Fitz has given up, and gone back to England?”
But a light, faint and wavering, was growing in one of the leaded front windows. As they watched, it steadied and was set down, as the massive front door swung open.
“Brandy, sir? Or a glass of wine for the lady?”
Coultrip was a local name on Sheppey, and the family could be found in all the towns that dotted the island—sailors, most of them, dedicated to the Royal Navy. Samuel Coultrip had chosen merchant ships, and lost a leg during a fracas with Barbary pirates off the coast of Malay in 1836. Fitzgerald had hired him as a rough butler and footman twelve years ago, when he still spent several months a year at Shurland; now the old man ran the household.
“Mrs. Coultrip will shift to set a light supper before the company,” he offered. “Bread and cheese and some cold ham—her la'ship having dined at five, and long since retired.”
“Sure, and that'd be welcome,” Fitzgerald said. “My compliments to Mrs. Coultrip, and beg her to prepare a room for Miss Armistead. Gibbon will shift with me—on the cot in my dressing room.”
“Mr. Theo has taken your old apartment,” Coultrip said steadily, “so as to be closer to my lady—but I will have the Yellow Bedchamber prepared for you, sir.”
“Thank you.” Fitzgerald betrayed no emotion—how could he expect his rooms to be kept in readiness, against a chance arrival?—yet the knowledge of his inconsequence stung. He reached for the brandy decanter. “Mr. Theo is here, then?”
“He arrived on Friday, sir.” Coultrip bowed, and limped toward the door; Gibbon made to follow him.
“Wait,” Fitzgerald ordered, and poured out a glass. “Take a dram, Gibbon. Medicinal purposes. The good Lord knows you've earned it.”
“That's good of you, Mr. Fitz,” the valet replied, on his dignity; Fitzgerald's offer had undoubtedly shocked him—“but I should prefer a tankard of ale what Coultrip keeps in the cellar.” He bowed, and followed the old man out of the room.
“Will you defy me, too?” Fitzgerald demanded of Georgiana. He heard the belligerence in his tone: And me still the master of this house, by God. He was feeling the strain of the day and night, biting down hard on a consuming fury.
She took the proffered brandy and drank it down in a single draught. “For medicinal purposes. As though you had the slightest idea what those might be!”
An antique settee commanded the middle of the room, its silk rotted like everything else at Shurland. Georgie lingered near the hearth, drinking in the warmth, firelight glinting on her dark hair. Her French twill gown was wretchedly spotted with marsh mud and seawater, and torn from the scuffle on the tenement roof; but Georgie never gave her appearance much thought. She was more interested in the flames at her feet.
“Why is the fire coloured, Patrick?” she asked, always the scientist. “I've never seen such a thing.”
“Driftwood, love. The sea leaves its mark, and the flames remember.”
“I suspect it's some sort of chemical reaction. And the smoke smells of salt.” She glanced around suddenly. “What is this place? How do you come to . . . to . . .”