Portia shook her head. “She’s our friend, Phoebe. First and foremost.”
Olivia wrote her message to the pirate. It was succinct.
If you wish for a return match, I will be available either this evening or tomorrow evening. I will look for you outside the front gate at precisely six o ‘clock.
She sanded the ink to dry it and smiled to herself. It struck the right decisive, uncompromising note. It was time Anthony learned that his opponent in this tournament had a mind of her own. She could imagine his shock when he discovered she knew how to contact him.
He was also about to discover that she had a few pointed questions to ask him and she wouldn’t be satisfied with his usual evasive answers.
Throwing a shawl around her shoulders, Olivia left her chamber and hurried out of the house. It was a steep climb up St. Catherine’s Hill, but the wind was behind her, coming off the sea. At the top of the hill she turned and looked out across the glittering expanse. Was Wind Dancer out there at the moment? Would someone be looking out for a sign from the island?
She turned to the oratory, little more than a small, loosely formed pillar of stones that crowned the summit. She could see why the master had chosen it as a contact point. It was a very prominent spot that would be visible for miles around, both on the island and from the sea.
Olivia knelt to examine the stones. There was a small space between the two bottom layers. It formed a square box, almost like a cupboard. She slipped her hand in and found a white flag closely furled on a stick. She took it out, slid her message into the space in its place, and stuck the flag at the top of the oratory, pushing the stick hard down into the stones.
The white flag flew out jauntily in the brisk breeze. Now all that was needed was a watcher.
Olivia nodded to herself and set off back down the steep hill against the wind to await developments.
Anthony was sitting with his back to the mast, sketching a pair of gulls squabbling over a fish head, when Mike rowed his dinghy into the chine and came alongside Wind Dancer later that afternoon.
Mike climbed up the rope ladder and swung himself over the side of the ship. “There’s a message, master… at the oratory. I can’t read the writin‘. It’s joined up.” He handed the folded paper to Anthony with a worried frown.
Anthony opened it. He whistled softly. “How the hell.. .?” He looked up at Mike, eyebrows arched in question.
“The flag was flyin‘, master. I thought you wanted me. Thought maybe we was puttin’ to sea or summat. But when I saw the writin‘, like, I knew it wasn’t from you.” He pulled anxiously at his earlobe. “You know what it’s about, sir?”
“Oh, yes,” Anthony said softly, “I know exactly what it’s about. What I don’t know is how the hell she learned about the oratory.” He leaned his head back against the mast, closing his eyes to the sun’s rays as it shone directly overhead into the cool green depths of the chine. “Somebody let something slip, Mike.”
Mike tugged even more fiercely on his earlobe. “Weren’t me, master.”
“No, I didn’t imagine it was.” Anthony’s eyes opened and his gray gaze was uncomfortably penetrating. “But someone did.” He stood up in one easy, graceful movement. “So I have some preparations to make. And I have a task for you, Mike.”
“Britches,” Olivia said. “I would like to borrow a pair of your britches, Portia. Skirts blow about in the wind and get tangled up in things.”
“Anything you like, duckie,” Portia said obligingly. “I’ll go and fetch a pair. You’ll need a doublet too.” She left Olivia’s bedchamber with her usual quick stride.
“How long will you be?” Phoebe asked. “You’ll be back by morning, won’t you?”
Olivia stepped out of her petticoat before answering. “I imagine so… but things could delay me,” she responded in a somewhat vague, musing tone. “Wind and tide for instance.”
“I suppose, if you don’t get back by morning, I can just tell Mistress Bisset that you’re staying in bed, or studying, and don’t wish to be disturbed,” Phoebe said reluctantly. She was still not resigned to this plan of Olivia’s, but since she had no choice but to acquiesce, she might as well do what she could to facilitate matters.
Olivia kissed her. “Don’t worry, Phoebe. Everything will be perfectly all right. My father’s not here, so you don’t have to make up lies for his benefit. If I’m not back, just say that I’m staying in bed to work on a particularly difficult text and I don’t wish to be disturbed. Everyone will believe you.”
“I suppose so,” Phoebe said, returning the kiss. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I wonder what your pirate will think of his lady in britches,” Portia remarked as she came back into the chamber, laying a pair of serviceable dark gray woolen britches and a doublet on the bed.
“I don’t suppose he’ll think anything of it.” Olivia pulled on the britches and tucked her chemise into the waistband. “Not that his opinion is of much importance,” she added a shade tartly. She put on the jacket and buttoned it. “These do feel strange.”
“They may feel strange.” Portia examined her critically. “But they certainly do suit you.”
“It’s because of her long legs,” Phoebe said somewhat gloomily. Her own shortcomings in this area were a frequent source of grievance. “You’ve both got such long ones. I could never wear britches. My legs are just stumpy little things.”
“But you don’t need to wear them,” Olivia pointed out. “My father would have a fit.”
Olivia pirouetted in front of the long glass. Portia was thinner than she was, but the britches were still a comfortable fit. She tugged at the bottom of the doublet. It reached her hips but did nothing to disguise their curves. Anthony would probably reach for pencil and paper, she thought, her eyes darting involuntarily to the book on the bedside table.
“What should I do about my hair? Should I wear a cap?”
“You’re not pretending to be a man, so I wouldn’t worry,” Portia said. “Just braid it and twist it up.”
Olivia followed the suggestion, pinning the two thick braids into a coronet on top of her head. The effect was rather austere and she decided she liked it.
“How are you going to leave the house in those clothes without being noticed?” Phoebe asked.
“Same way Anthony c-came in. Through the window and down the magnolia.”
“Oh, you’ll make a soldier yet.” Portia applauded.
“A sailor,” Olivia corrected. “I’ll leave the soldiering to you. I find navigation much more to my taste.”
“I suppose the mathematics appeal.”
“Exactly so.” She went to the window and surveyed the magnolia somewhat doubtfully. “Of course, if it’s not to be tonight, I’ll have to c-climb back this way. It might be more difficult.”
“Stay out until dark and I’ll make sure the side door is left open tonight. Even if you do go, if you get back before dawn you can come in through the door,” Phoebe said, sounding hopeful. “I mean, how long can a chess game take?”
Portia chuckled but said nothing.
Olivia glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It’s a quarter to six. I’m going now.”
“Be safe,” Phoebe said.
“Good luck,” Portia said.
Olivia gave them a quick smile, then took a deep breath and launched herself into the topmost branches of the magnolia.
She had to jump from the bottom branch, but the ground was soft and her landing was concealed by the overarching branches. She slipped across the lawn, darting from bush to bush, thinking with some astonishment that for someone who’d never had to practice concealment before, she was really rather adept at it.
Anthony had come and gone in darkness, but the early summer evening was still sun-bright and Olivia nearly ran into two gardeners watering the flowerbeds. She ducked behind the thick trunk of a copper beech and waited until her heart had slowed and the men had moved a little further away. They had their backs to her now, and with crossed fingers she darted across the small patch of open ground and into the concealment of a box hedge. From there it was easy. She was out of sight of the house now, and the driveway was lined with oak trees.