‘George is not a slave, Thomas,’ interrupted Hannah sharply. ‘He is a sailor who has decided he would rather have a life ashore.’
‘And what happens when it is not “in vogue” to employ a black footman?’ Chaloner was unappeased by her reply. ‘Shall we exchange him for one of a different colour?’
‘You know we will do nothing of the kind — I abhor the traffic in human beings as much as you do. However, George is not a slave.’
‘But by following this repellent fashion of hiring black retainers, we are encouraging the trade. I want no part of it, Hannah.’
Hannah was silent for a moment, then nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I see your point, and you are right. But what can we do about it now? We cannot turn him out — he needs employment.’
Chaloner could see no answer, and left the bedroom wishing Hannah had thought through the consequences of her actions before following such an objectionable fad.
Another change that had taken place when Chaloner had been in Tangier was Hannah renting a larger house. He would have dissuaded her had he been home, because it and the servants took too much of their income. However, by the time he returned she had been in residence for weeks, and her move from the pretty little cottage three doors down was a fait accompli. The two maids slept in the attic, while the kitchen and its adjoining parlour, sculleries and pantries were the domain of the formidable Joan. That left Chaloner and Hannah with a bedchamber, a drawing room and a hall-like space for eating. All three were large, chilly places with a marked paucity of furniture — they had not owned much when they had lived in the cottage, and there was certainly not enough to fill the cavernous rooms of a much larger house.
Although it was early, the servants were up. Joan was a stooped, pinched woman with a large nose and a penchant for loosely fitting black clothes. She had reminded Chaloner of a crow when he had first met her, and her grim visage and sharp little eyes had done nothing to dispel the illusion since.
Susan was sitting in a corner, darning a stocking, while Nan was stirring something in a pot over the fire. Chaloner had trouble telling them apart, because they were both disagreeable young women with bad complexions, whom Joan dressed in identical uniforms. They stood as he entered, and he nodded to indicate that they should return to their duties.
‘May I help you?’ asked Joan coolly. ‘If so, perhaps you would wait in the drawing room.’
It was her way of informing him that he should confine himself to those parts of the house that she considered his. He was tempted to retort that he would go where he pleased in his own home, but he had already learned that arguing with her was more trouble than it was worth. He forced himself to smile as he explained.
‘Hannah asked me to speak to George.’
Nan and Susan exchanged a glance that Chaloner found difficult to interpret.
‘He is in the scullery,’ said Joan. She scowled. ‘You should have told me you wanted a footman. It was thoughtless to have gone out and hired one yourself without consulting me or the mistress.’
So there it was, thought Chaloner. Hannah had sensed Joan’s disapproval, and rather than admit that it was her idea, she had decided to let Joan assume it was his. He was tempted to tell her the truth, but suspected it would not be believed: Joan was nothing if not loyal to the family she had served all her life.
‘You have created a very welcoming atmosphere here,’ he said, unable to resist toying with her. ‘I am sure he will soon feel at home.’
‘Have I?’ asked Joan, clearly thinking something would have to be done about it. She eyed him beadily. ‘Will you be wanting something to eat? You do not usually bother us with demands, but Nan can whisk you up a raw egg. Or there are cold kidneys left over from last night’s dinner.’
‘It is a tempting offer,’ said Chaloner, perfectly aware that she would not be starting her day with raw eggs and cold kidneys. ‘But I shall speak to George instead.’
All three women watched him leave. Joan’s expression was openly hostile, while Nan and Susan exchanged a smirk. They had understood his sarcasm, even if Joan had not.
He walked along the tiled corridor to the scullery, and pushed open the door. A man sat there, polishing boots. He stood abruptly, making Chaloner take an involuntary step backwards. He was huge, with muscular arms and powerful legs. His face was smooth and chestnut brown, and his hair so dark as to be almost blue. His eyes were black, and carefully devoid of expression.
Chaloner closed the door behind him, not because he planned to say anything that should not be overheard, but to deprive Joan of a chance to eavesdrop. He heard her sigh of annoyance just before it clicked shut, which gave him no small sense of satisfaction.
‘Good morning.’ George spoke in a sour, resentful way that said servitude did not come readily to him.
Chaloner nodded acknowledgement of the greeting, for the first time wondering what Hannah expected him to say. He was not going to give George a list of duties for three reasons. First, because there was nothing he wanted done; second because it would imply that she had been right to hire a footman; and third because any instructions he gave would be circumvented by Joan anyway, and then George would be in the unenviable position of choosing which of them to obey.
‘Where were you before you came here, George?’ he asked pleasantly.
‘I spent the last ten years with Colonel Fitzgerald. At sea, mostly.’
‘Ten years is a long time. Why did you leave?’
‘Because he was obliged to reduce the size of his staff, to save money,’ replied George tightly, giving the impression that he resented finding himself unemployed in a city so far from home. ‘My testimonials are excellent, though, if you would care to see them.’
Chaloner shook his head. ‘I do not know Colonel Fitzgerald.’
George raised his eyebrows. ‘But you have heard of him?’
‘No,’ replied Chaloner shortly, piqued by the fact that now even foreigners showed themselves to be unimpressed by his knowledge of London and its inhabitants.
George did not seem discomfited by the curt tone. He met his new master’s gaze with a steadiness that bordered on insolence. ‘He is a pirate.’
Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘You think I will be impressed by testimonials from a pirate?’
‘Perhaps privateer would be a better word. He made his fortune by attacking Parliament-owned ships during the Commonwealth. I was his steward.’
‘I assume he lost this fortune, or he would not have been obliged to reduce the size of his household,’ said Chaloner, supposing that the maids had not yet had a chance to gossip to George about their employer’s past allegiances, or the footman would have found another way to describe how he had spent the past decade.
George nodded. ‘His biggest and best ship sank, which bankrupted him. It was fortunate that he and I were ashore at the time, or we would have drowned.’
‘So you are actually a sailor,’ said Chaloner. ‘Not a footman.’
George shrugged. ‘A steward’s duties at sea are not so different from a footman’s on land.’
‘Where is your home?’ asked Chaloner, not sure he agreed.
The ghost of a smile crossed George’s face. ‘Somewhere you have been — Tangier. A fine place, do you not agree?’
‘It has its advantages,’ hedged Chaloner, struggling to think of one. His abiding memories of the place were of uncomfortable heat, dust, flies and a locust jumping on his dinner plate one night.
‘Indeed it does,’ said George softly.
Chapter 3
Chaloner’s most pressing duty that day was to begin his investigation into the Tangier massacre by questioning the three scouts. He did not know where they lived, but the Crown in Piccadilly was as good a place as any to start making enquiries, given that he had seen them leaving it the previous morning. But the tavern was closed, and rather than waste time waiting for it to open, he decided to visit Clarendon House first, to see whether any more bricks had been stolen.