To be an agent of the French would act like an aphrodisiac on Fitzraven: secrecy, knowledge, money, power-revenge perhaps on all those such as Sandwich who would not be his friend. Harriet could imagine that, if she had been in the position of an agent of the French, she would have thought him an excellent character to put to work. He would also be able to carry instructions and money from France to those already in place in London without arousing suspicion.
She looked again at Isabella’s handwriting. It was graceful and flowing and used a great quantity of very fine paper. Then back in London, Fitzraven perhaps could not resist still spying for old reasons, his personal strategies, and, already having to step around Morgan, found in the affection between Isabella and Bywater another frustration. It would have been another opportunity to feel himself at first hard done by, then superior, controlling.
Stephen sat up a little straighter and Harriet realized the carriage had turned into Trevelyan’s driveway. The little boy looked at her with an air of slight nervousness. She put her hand on his knee and, meeting his blue eyes with her own emerald gaze, said, “Stephen, remember, if Papa still seems strange it is only because of his illness. He loves us. Be brave, as he would be.”
The carriage door opened and one of the footmen let down the step. Harriet was handed down first, then Stephen was lifted out, still clutching his model. The footman ruffled Stephen’s hair and winked at him. The boy smiled. Harriet thought it best not to see the exchange, but was grateful, then stepped smartly forward as Dr. Trevelyan emerged from the portico to greet them.
Ripley was quiet for a space. Jocasta sat opposite him in the back of the chophouse and Sam was frisking with Boyo under the table.
“It’s a list.”
“That, Ripley, I can see, even with no reading-but of what?”
Ripley put his hand up to his chin as if to try and find the bit of fluff that was starting to sprout, and twisted the paper around so it sat between them.
“These are names of boats, I think. I recognize one or two from reports of battles with the Frenchies. They’re some of them written out full, some of them noted quick, like. This here at the top. . and here. .” his finger drifted farther down the page and jabbed at another word on its ownsome “. . these are places. Spithead and Portsmouth. Then under each are the boats and each name has a note or two. Like here-says Pegasus, six months provisioned, ready for sea, and here says Repulse 64 will be ready in fourteen days.”
Jocasta frowned. “What’s the sixty-four?”
“Number of guns on the boat, I think, Mrs. Bligh. And on it goes-both these pages are covered with names like that. Here’s one arrived from Ireland, here’s another they say on a cruise.”
“What’s that then?”
Ripley shrugged and turned the paper back to her. “When they go out and find another fella’s boat and take the stuff on it. Or so I think. Naval types all go to Maisie’s chophouse farther up the Strand when they’re about. Her husband was in the service till he died of it, see. So I don’t hear a lot of naval talk.”
“Fred comes here, mind,” Jocasta said, as she folded up the paper and put it back in her pocket.
Ripley sat back and stretched his arms. “That’s clerks not sailors. We get a fair few of them, all inky and thin and gnawing on the bones past where your dog’d leave them.”
“You did us a good turn with that Fred last night, Ripley.”
“Always glad to do you a favor, Mrs. Bligh. Not that it was much of a trial. He was in here with two others and they were glowing before they sat down.” He curled his lip. “All mighty pleased with themselves and trying to grab Sally’s arse, though his wife’s only been in her grave a day. I’d call him a dog but that would be an insult to your Boyo.”
“He turned mournful by time he got home.”
“Sally got sick of it and gave him a slap and an earful. He was so pissed by then he turned from up to down like a hoop.”
They paused, both examining the grain on the rough table between them. Ripley spoke up again first.
“Were there lots of papers like that, Mrs. Bligh?”
“Aye. Plenty.”
Ripley scratched slowly at the back of his neck. “It’s treason, isn’t it? They don’t just hang you for that. If that list was meant for the French or Americans, that’s cause to cut a man’s guts out while he’s still breathing. Legal. Have an eye to it. I heard about Finn and Clayton.”
Jocasta stood heavily and beckoned Sam over. “You’re getting awful wise as you grow, Ripley, ain’t you?”
He folded his arms. “Don’t have no choice in the matter, Mrs. Bligh. Anyways, I’m saying you need a sailor, one you can trust, and a high-up.”
“I know. And higher than I can reach so we’d better find a way to climb.”
4
Captain James Westerman got up very quickly when they entered the room. He had been reading in his armchair in the large room that was currently his home. For a moment he seemed confused about what to do with the book that he now held in his hands, then, having laid it very carefully on the side table, he came toward them with a swift, awkward stride.
Harriet moved forward and said his name. His face brightened as she did so. She held her face to one side to be kissed but found herself instead folded hard in his arms. The strength of the embrace drove the air out of her lungs. “Harry, Harry, Harry. .” he said. His stubble was rough against her skin. “You are my wife.”
She made her body as soft as possible, her voice steady, closing her hands behind his back as best as she could. “I am, James.” His hand swam down her spine and pulled her firmly against him, pressing his mouth against her throat. Then he suddenly released her, and stepping back, took her shoulders in his hands and studied her. He was smiling widely, his eyes glittering like the water on a fair day.
“My beautiful wife.”
He then turned toward his son. Stephen had set down his model by the door and now approached slowly with his hand extended in front of him. “. . And my boy!” Ignoring the hand, James picked Stephen up under his arms and swung him around. Harriet saw a moment of fear in the child’s eyes and began to step forward, but before the thought could catch into form, she heard her son’s fierce high laugh. James gathered the boy to his chest and bent over till the lad was almost upside down, giggling and struggling. James tipped him back up and threw him in the air again before setting him down on his heels and crouching down so they were eye to eye.
“And what will you be when you grow up, Stephen?”
“A sailor, sir.”
James roared with laughter. “That’s my lad! That’s my good boy!” Stephen flung his arms around his father’s neck and James patted his back. “That’s my good boy! And you shall have fair winds and fine battles and a pretty wife and a clever son just like me.”
Harriet lowered herself carefully into the chair James had vacated and glanced at the book he had been puzzling over. It was a child’s book of simple rhymes and stories. On one of the blank pages she saw that someone had tried to write a word, then, troubled by it, had fiercely scrubbed it out and filled the page instead with angry black lines. It took her a moment to recognize the hand as James’s.
He and Stephen were now examining the model of the Splendor. Stephen was explaining how part of the side planking came away to expose the gun decks. Each battery was in position with its crew. Stephen introduced each of the tiny figures and James nodded slowly over them.