The old man nodded, but seemed hardly reassured. He asked who was known down that way, and if Sam was likely to be safe. Will made light of the danger, claiming jocularly to be in tighter straits himself in Hampshire, viz. poor John Hardman at the oak-tree crossroads but realised quickly that Sir A feared equally for both of them, so tried to bite it off. In the midst of the embarrassment, Sir A came to a decision as if unconsciously to render it complete and brought up Deborah.
"Sir," he said. "There is something I must tell you. It was in my mind when you and Samuel left, I hoped you would ... well, never mind for that. That maiden, sir. That Deborah. I have some news of her."
His face was tortured, and Will had a reflection of it, in his guts. He caught his breath, waited, as if on tenterhooks. For a long while, Sir A did not go on.
"Yes?" said Will. "Please, sir?"
"She is ... she has left the magistrate's No, all I can say for certain, is that she is well. She ..."
"Left?" cried William, in a burst of hope. "How mean you, sir? Run away? Blood, but she's She is not here, Sir A!? No. But -where is she, sir?"
Sir Arthur's face was a picture of regret, so clearly did he wish he had not spoken. William, ashamed of his reaction, had stood, fists clenched at his sides, and now stood with his face towards the window. Across the park, the trees bowed to the wind.
"Will," said Sir Arthur, quietly. "I should not raise these hopes in you. I had forgot how much affection you had invested in this maid. In honesty I cannot tell you where she's gone, save that it is to a place of safety and she has protection. For the moment, do not ask me any more."
"But Sir A!" Will fought to keep the anguish from his voice. Good God, if only nothing had been said! "How safe? How did she get away? I need to I feel I He ended in confusion. But I am helpless, he thought passionately, just like her. Men guide our actions, push us, never give an explanation. Where is she now? Where is she?
Sir Arthur, flustered, stood to ring a bell. He muttered, "She is safe, I give my word on that," but would not be further drawn. When Mrs. Houghton entered Will pulled himself together to give a smile, and dragged his mind back to the task in hand. The woman, realising they were both upset, was motherly, and touched Will gently on the hand. However, from then until he left an hour later, the atmosphere was strained. Sir A sat with him at table, then came with him to his fresh horse, and watched while Tony adjusted straps and stirrups. When Will was set, he raised one hand in salutation.
"Farewell, my boy. God will be with you I am sure, for you deserve it more than my words can say. On that other matter ... well, try to return here on your way back to London, if you have time. I will try ... I will endeavour to have some proper news for you. Some explanation."
By riding hard, despite soreness and exhaustion, William was on the top of Portsdown Hill two hours before midnight, on a clear full-moonlit night. He paused for a long two minutes at the vista, which still took his breath away however many times he saw it. The Solent was glowing like silver plate, the Wight behind it, brooding and crouched. High water springs, with Portsmouth harbour and its lakes joined in one expanse, with moored craft, royal and merchant, clustered down the Portsea side, at Portchester, and down the Forton and Gosport shores. From his vantage point, the hill dropped sharply to the heath and marshland, with villages and hamlets like small herds of waiting animals. Will breathed in deeply, through his open mouth, and loved it all. Then he peeled off left to trot through Stakes and down the hill to Bedhampton. In twenty minutes he could make Langstone.
At what o'clock? He was not certain. But as he walked up to Mary's door he knew that he could knock and not be unexpected, at whatever hour. He had dismounted at the hamlet's edge, tethered his horse, long rein, on a grassy patch quite hidden from the road, and walked the last two hundred yards extremely cautiously, shying at every noise and shadow. But all was still, the causeway being under many feet of sea. Few of the cottages had lights on, either. It was like the grave.
Within two knocks the door had opened and he was drawn inside. Mary, all alone save for sleeping Jem upstairs, embraced him as she had before, and bade him truly welcome. He looked so pale and drained, she laughed, that he could haunt churchyards for a living, but she was pleased to see him well, and pleased to see him come so very timely. If he would sit if he could sit! she would make him tea, or would he prefer a brandy? Duty free ... She was elated, it emerged, because had he not turned up this night, it is likely that the day would have been missed. Isa's confirmation, obtained not far after dark, was shocking close not six days or more, but four. There had been a conference as to what to do, how to contact them, but finally, at Kate's insistence, two boats had gone to make a rendezvous of long standing way off St. Catherine's with French 'colleagues'. Kate had had two reasons, she added, both good: had Isa tried to get to London to track them down his chance of failure would have been enormous; and had the crews not sailed to meet the Cherbourgers, spies might have noted it, and shadows wondered why.
But Will, still standing, could hardly take it in. In four days' time, four days'? His back ached horribly, every bone and muscle could be counted, his head buzzed with fatigue. He could not remember when he'd last slept a proper night, or had his clothes off and scrubbed himself with soap and water, all the cracks and crevices. He was sore, and tired to his marrow. A plume of steam burst from the kettle spout, and he wanted hot sweet tea.
"But I must ride," he said. "Mary, four days? I must ride. Our ship is scarcely ready, and even if she were ... Heavens, is this for definite?"
It was, and Mary did not try to stay him, or suggest his anxiousness was in any way misplaced. This was a one-chance thing, the only opportunity, and both had an equal longing it would be carried off. As she explained exact locations and a time, with tide details and a hand-drawn chart and map, Will drank tea and ate cold ham and cheese, and then as he was forcing his mind to quit the house he fell asleep beside the fireplace. Mary considered waking him, but then brought a blanket to drape him with. She sat for two hours opposite, and watched his grey, strained face but would not sleep herself. At some time after three o'clock she gently woke him, and he had more tea, a wash, and went out to the privy. She did not make him up a saddlebag of food, because at some stage he would have to stop for another horse most likely, and would eat there. The night was cold and clear the hour that he left; the moon had set.
"God speed you, Will," said Mary. "And ... and let us meet again."
Biter was still at Deptford, Will discovered at the receiving hulk, and when he got to her was positively aswarm with dockyard hands. Both masts, from a distance, were well set up, but as his water men hauled nearer he could make out tasks still to do with fore topmast rigging and the bowsprit furniture. Alongside was a variety of yard tenders, but astern of them, rather to his surprise, was the captain's skiff. Anxious though he was to see him, Will had half expected him to be away in London's fleshpots. In half a day or less, as he computed, the vessel would be fit to sail. All she needed was a captain and a master.
Gunning was present, too. Will paid the wherry men and scrambled over side to see the bulky form quite clearly stone-cold sober working at the binnacle with a Deptford man in overseer's beaver hat. Gunning gave a double look at the pale-faced landsman in the much-travelled clothes, but did not stoop to smiling when he recognised him. Some of the men did though, and let out jovial shouts, which Will ignored. He headed for the cabin. Despite the chill breeze down the river, its door was ajar. Will rapped, heard the command, went in.