“Yes.” Olivia returned Phoebe’s hug with sudden urgency. She wanted everything to be the way it used to be, and for a moment as they embraced she could almost imagine that it could be.
Phoebe went out and Olivia sat on the bed, sipping the sack posset. It was nursery comfort. She set the empty cup down and stood up to undress herself. As she took off the ruined dress she felt the bulge in the pocket. She took out the pirate’s kerchief and almost without thinking pushed it beneath her pillow, then she fell into bed and sought oblivion.
Godfrey, Lord Channing, entered the taproom of the Anchor in the little village of Niton, just above Puckaster Cove. He peered through the blue wreaths of pipe smoke at the taproom’s inhabitants and could see only locals nursing tankards, puffing pipes, for the most part in a silence that could have been morose, except that the island folk were not in general gregarious and spoke only when they had something they considered worth saying. This Friday evening it appeared that no one had anything of moment to impart.
Godfrey approached the bar counter. He leaned back against it on his elbows with the appearance of a man taking his ease and surveyed the room again. Was one of these taciturn villagers the man who would buy his culling? They all looked unlikely, not a man among them with the wherewithal to be a customer for Godfrey’s ill-gotten gains.
“Yes, sir?” The landlord spoke behind him and Godfrey jumped. He turned to front the bar counter.
George regarded him with a malicious eye. “What can I get ye, sir?”
“Who’s the man I’ve come to see?”
“Don’t know as yet,” the landlord said. “What can I get ye?”
“Porter.” Seemingly he had no choice but to play the man’s game.
The landlord reached for the leather flagon and filled a tankard. “Threepence.”
“Since when?” Godfrey demanded. “It’s always a penny three farthings.”
“Price ‘as gone up, sir. Supplies is short,” the landlord said meaningfully.
“You don’t order porter from me,” Godfrey snapped.
The landlord shrugged indifferently. “Supplies is powerful short when it comes to cognac.”
With difficulty Godfrey controlled a surge of rage. The man’s insolence was intolerable and yet Godfrey knew he had no suitable comeback. “I’m waiting for the ship,” he said, burying his nose in his tankard.
“A bit overdue, is it, then?”
“You know damn well it is!” His knuckles whitened around the tankard. The man knew he was desperate, knew he could needle him all he wanted. But Godfrey could see a way out now, a permanent solution to his financial needs. And then, oh, and then the landlord of the Anchor and his ilk would watch their manners.
“Then per’aps I should be lookin‘ to place me orders elsewhere, sir,” the landlord said. “But I’d need me earnest money back, o’ course.”
Godfrey ignored this. Deliberately he turned away again and resumed his examination of the taproom’s inhabitants. He was damned if he was going to ask for George’s help again.
“The one ye wants is sittin‘ in the corner, by the inglenook.”
George finally spoke into the studied silence. “Been waitin‘ fer ye close on an hour, I’d say.”
Godfrey shrugged with apparent indifference. He knew he’d have to pay for the information; George would have his price. But if tonight’s business went well, the price would be easy to find. He looked closely at the man George had indicated and was immediately disappointed. A villainous-looking customer in the rough garb of a fisherman with a lank, greasy mustache and a raddled countenance.
“Over there?” he demanded incredulously, finally stung into a response. The man didn’t look as if he had the price of his drink.
“Aye.”
“What’s his name? I’ll pay for his name.”
“ ‘Tis not one he gives to all who asks,” the landlord replied.
Godfrey pushed himself away from the counter, took up his tankard, and approached his would-be customer.
“Can I buy you another?” he offered.
The man looked up. His eyes were bloodshot and he grinned, revealing foully blackened teeth. “Lord bless ye, sir. That’s kind o‘ you. I’ll ’ave a drop o‘ brandy. Jest tell George to make sure it’s from the special cask. None of that thin piss he passes off to those what don’t know any better. You an’ me does, o‘ course.” He leered and offered a conspiratorial wink.
Godfrey shuddered but held his tongue. He could only guess what George would charge him for a drop of the best. However, with every appearance of good cheer, he called over to the counter, “Two cognacs, George. The best.”
“Well, sit ye down, sir.” The man gestured to a stool. “Can’t do business on yer feet.”
Godfrey hooked the stool over with his foot and sat down. The sawdust on the floor at his feet was clotted with spilled ale and other things that Godfrey didn’t want to consider. A mangy hound chewed a marrow bone and growled at him, hackles raised, when he inched his stool away from something particularly noxious-looking and came a little too close to the bone for the beast’s liking.
The landlord gave the animal a kick as he put the two pewter cups of cognac on the table between the two men. The hound sloped off, the bone gripped in his jaws.
“That’ll be a shillin‘ apiece, sir.”
“That’s daylight robbery!” Godfrey couldn’t contain himself.
“ ‘Tis in short supply, sir.” The landlord sung his tune again.
“Here, George.” Godfrey’s companion dug in his pocket and tossed a pair of silver coins on the table. “But we’ll ‘ave a free fill-up fer that.”
The landlord scooped up the coins and grinned. It was a genial grin, not an expression Godfrey had ever seen on his face.
“Right y’are, my friend.”
The other man nodded and tasted the cognac. It met with his approval and he gave another nod. The landlord returned to his counter.
“Now, young sir, to business. What d’ye ‘ave?”
Godfrey took a gulp of cognac, trying to think what it was about this unsavory character that was so unsettling. There was the most unlikely air of authority about him, and even though he sat slumped in his torn and grimy jerkin, he gave the impression of being completely in charge of the proceedings.
“Silks… some of them painted,” he said, tapping a finger on the stained table. “Velvets and lace from the Low Countries.”
“Silk and salt water don’t mix. As I understand it, they came from a wreck.” Something flickered in the deep-set gray eyes. Something cold and unpleasant.
“They were in chests,” Godfrey said, despising the defensive note and yet unable to prevent it. “Protected.”
The other man nodded. “An‘ pulled out in double quick time, I daresay.” Again there was that flicker in his eye and a note in his voice that sounded almost sardonic.
Once again Godfrey controlled his rage. For the moment, he was powerless, obliged to take what insults this disgusting, low-bred creature tossed at him. But that would change. “It’s the business,” he said coldly. “One you know yourself, I imagine.”
His companion made no reply. He drank again from his cognac and glanced towards the bar counter, raising a hand at George, who nodded and came over with the brandy bottle to refill the cups.
When he’d departed, Godfrey’s companion asked coolly, “So, what else beside stuff? D’ye have tea? Silver? Glassware? China? She was a merchantman, wasn’t she?”
“Aye.” Godfrey’s eyes sharpened. “Very rich. We had great good fortune.”
“That ye did,” the other man murmured. “Pity ‘tis that what’s good fortune for some should be the devil’s own luck fer others.”
It was almost too much. Godfrey half rose from his stool at this taunt. Then he sat back and shrugged. “I’m willing to share my good fortune, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
“True enough, true enough, young sir,” the man said, his tone suddenly placatory, almost wheedling, so that Godfrey began to feel confused and as if he stood on shifting sands.