A Desperate Fortune (35 page)

Frisque sighed, and stirred, and snuggled deeper in the blankets next to Mary as the ship rolled to the rhythm of the midnight tides.

She kept her voice low as she said, “I do not know your name.”

The Scotsman stirred as well against the far wall, and she knew he was listening.

“If I am meant to be your wife, I ought to know your Christian name. What is it?”

“Hugh.”

It fit him well, she thought. A simple name, and solid: Hugh MacPherson.

“And how many languages
do
you speak?”

There was a pause, and his tone held a thread of indulgence that seemed to acknowledge the reason she’d asked. “Counting English? Four.”

“So, French, English, Spanish, and…what do you call your own language?”

“The Gaelic.”

“The Gaelic,” she echoed. “And nothing else?”

“Not really. No.”

Mary let that one pass. “And how did you learn to fix timepieces?”

Once more the pause, and then, “It was my trade.”

Surprised by that, she turned her head towards him even though she could not see him in the dark. “You were a clock maker?”

“A watchmaker’s apprentice.”

“Truly?”

“Aye.”

Her first thought was to ask him what had happened, why he hadn’t carried on to become master of that trade, but she was checked by her remembrance that the late rebellion more than sixteen years ago had happened when MacPherson would have been about the age of an apprentice. She’d been sheltered, first at Saint-Germain-en-Laye and then at Chanteloup-les-Vignes, as were many of the second generation exiles who lived insulated from the brutal fighting in their homeland, but MacPherson, with the war in Scotland, clearly had been made too soon a man, as Effie had observed, and Mary wondered what things had been lost to him because of it.

Instead she asked, after a pause of her own, “Why did you not take the letter away from me?”

“What letter?”

“You know what letter. The one I intended to post from Lyon.”

If a silence could shrug, Mary thought, this one did. He told her simply, “Who was I to come between yourself and the Chevalier de Vilbray?”

She wasn’t fooled. With his sharpness of mind, he would easily have figured out, from what she’d said while he was present, what she had been planning. And from his dry voice, she knew
he
had not been fooled by all her stories about the chevalier. So what she said next was a matter of fact to them both: “You knew I meant to leave.”

When no reply came, Mary asked, “Would you have stopped me, for fear I’d expose Mr. Thomson? Or would you have let me go?”

“Which is the answer that makes ye stop talking?”

“I believe you would have kept me from leaving. I think you’d have killed me,” she said, “if you’d needed to. Wouldn’t you?”

The silence lasted so long this time Mary thought for certain he had gone to sleep. But then she heard him move, his voice less clear as though he’d rolled to face away from her. “The letter’s burnt, and I’ve not killed ye. Let the past be past.”

An easy thing to say, thought Mary. Far less easy to accomplish.

But she tried, and she was drifting with the peaceful, lulling rocking of the ship when one last question struck her.

“Hugh?” she asked him, softly. “What’s a broken man?”

No answer came except his steady breathing; but she had the sense that he, like her, was not yet sleeping, only lying silently and staring at the dark.

“Come thou,” I said, “from the roar of ocean, thou rider of the storm. Partake the feast within my hall. It is the house of strangers.”

—Macpherson, “Fingal,” Book Three

The Mediterranean

April 1, 1732

She counted twelve knives at the table. Eight pistols. A sword at the hip of each seated man; two on MacPherson, which made five in all. And the wickedly pointed gilt handle of the heavy walking stick held by the ship’s first mate could have quite easily cracked a man’s skull, so the whole party gathered for dinner looked dangerous.

Mary smiled faintly as she raised her cup of wine, thinking of her brother Nicolas telling her back in Chatou there was no danger in her assignment, and that he would never consent to a scheme that would place her in harm’s way. And yet, here she was, having traveled these past weeks from Paris with danger her constant companion, and sitting down now to a meal with a pirate.

“Pirate
hunter
,” was Captain del Rio’s correction of Thomson’s remark as they started their first course, a rich fish stew served with brown bread. “It is true, in my younger days I was more reckless, maybe less discriminating in the ships I took for prizes, but my government like yours has learned there’s nothing better than a thief to trap another thief, and so now I protect the
flota
—all our ships that cross together every year from the Americas—and in the other seasons I hunt the corsairs of the Barbary Coast.
They
are pirates,” he added, and pointed with his knife at Thomson to emphasize. “It’s a good thing you are with me, they do not dare to attack the
Princesa
Maria
.”

He’d been very gracious, inviting a man who he thought was a servant to join them at table, but Mary had already noticed that Captain del Rio did not keep to social conventions. When she’d asked him earlier if Emiliana—the pretty young woman who’d been so attentive to Effie—was his wife, he’d grinned and said, “Yes, all right. Why not? My wife.” And the young woman sat near the top of the table now, at his left hand, although she wore no ring on her own.

Mary, realizing she herself had no ring either, tried keeping her hand out of sight, finding frequent occasion to feed scraps to Frisque, who lay under her chair, but the captain had sharp eyes. “Your husband does not like to part with his money, I see, Mrs. Symonds. He gave you no wedding ring.”

“Actually,” Mary said, “I had a lovely ring, but it was lost in our journey through France.”

“Ah. I see. A shame.” He seemed amused. “My wife’s was also lost.” Looking to Hugh he advised, “You must buy her a new one in Rome, Mr. Symonds. They have many goldsmiths. This is your first visit to Rome? Then I envy you. It is a beautiful city—the river, the bits of antiquity, and the pope’s palace—to see it all for the first time is a thing to remember.”

His first mate, the man in the brown coat who yesterday had come to fetch them and then drawn his pistol upon them, said, “All things considered, I find Rome too crowded. I much prefer Genoa.”

Del Rio agreed it was also a beautiful place. “But at this time we Spanish are not so well liked in Genoa, since our great Admiral Don Blas de Lezo threatened to bombard that republic with our fleet if they did not return the money they had taken from us. Two million pesos, they held in their bank, that was rightfully ours, so he was justified in making threats, but it is not my way, the bombardment. So messy.” He dipped his fingers in the bowl of water set beside his plate, and wiped them.

Thomson took an interest in the talk of things financial. “How would you have got the money back, then?”

“There are always ways to take back what belongs to you.” The Spaniard shrugged. “Take this affair now of the London corporation that is causing all the panic, all the bankruptcies—this, what do you call it? The Charity…the Charitall…”

“The Charitable Corporation.” Thomson supplied the name casually, but he shifted slightly in his chair and Mary saw the movement draw del Rio’s eyes although the captain did not pause before continuing,

“Yes, that’s the one. The men who are behind that, it is said they are Jacobites.” He looked at Hugh. “That they stole all this money to give to the king who’s in exile at Rome. But the money they stole, if you look at it one way, it’s not really stolen, I think.”

Thomson asked him, “And why do you think that?”

“I’m not good with stocks,” said del Rio, “and things like that. Those are for bankers. But my understanding, this money they stole, they first raised it on shares in the York Buildings Company, yes?”

Mary could see the bold gleam of intelligence lying behind the apparently guileless dark gaze of del Rio, and guessed he knew more than he cared to reveal, but he waited for Thomson to verify what he’d just said before carrying on,

“And the York Buildings Company holds all the lands that were seized from the Jacobites, after the last war. This is how it makes its profits, selling off estates that have been stolen from their owners. So I think it is not such an evil thing these men have done in London.” Leaning back, he took his wine cup in his hand and held it lightly. “All they did was steal back what the English stole from them. It isn’t theft, when you steal something that belongs to you already.”

“That’s certainly one way of looking at it,” Thomson said. He lifted his own cup and took a drink.

“No,” del Rio countered with a smile, “it is the right way. I am always right about such things.”

His first mate drily said, “And always very modest.”

“Naturally.” The captain looked across at Mary. “But what were we speaking of before? Ah yes, Rome. You will enjoy it, Mrs. Symonds. It is an enchanting place for lovers—it perhaps will be an inspiration to your husband to show you more affection, yes?”

Mary had briefly considered what role she should play with this man. She had wondered if she should be lively and just a bit foolish, like the younger sister who’d been in the diligence with them, or maybe more confident like Mistress Jamieson, but having just watched him closely now dealing with Thomson, she judged that her best defense would be to play no role, for he would surely be able to spot that she wore a disguise, and it would do no more than increase his suspicions. So when she replied to him now she was none but herself. Only Mary.

“Affection,” she said, “need not be on display to be deeply and honestly felt, and sometimes it is all the more honest for being held privately.”

He raised one shoulder slightly in a gallantly amused shrug that permitted her to score the point. “This may be true. It’s certain Emiliana and myself hold many things in private.” Reaching out, he stroked the Spanish woman’s forearm where it rested on the table, let his fingers linger on her skin beneath the lacy ruffle at her elbow, and his touch seemed genuinely loving. “She knows all my secrets, yes?” He shared the smile Emiliana turned to him, and then looked back at Mary. “As I am sure you know your husband’s.”

Sitting back, he waited while one of his servants took their plates away and served the main course of what looked like chicken pieces drowning in a dark-red sauce with vegetables and rice. And as the servant made the rounds to fill their cups with wine, del Rio said, “For instance, you would know this scar your husband has just here.” He touched his own neck briefly at the back, above his collar. “You would know where he acquired it.”

Mary felt the warning pressure of Hugh’s leg against her own beneath the table, and she knew del Rio was now testing her and this would be the first of who knew how many attempts to trap her into saying something that would show they could not possibly be married. She’d seen the scar, of course she had, but she had never asked about it, and although she could have very probably devised a story on the spot explaining it, she could not know for certain whether Hugh himself had told del Rio yesterday, while they were drinking, how he had received the wound. She felt Hugh’s deep frustration at not being able to advise her, guide her, keep her safe, and Mary knew a sudden rise of anger, not on her behalf, but his.

She set her cup down on the table. Met del Rio’s eyes. “My husband carries many scars,” she said, “as all men who have lived a life like his must do. There are some scars that show, and there are many, many more that he keeps hidden, and when you’ve discovered all of
those
, then you may try to test me on how well I know my husband. But until that day comes, Captain, I have little time for games.” Her tone was calm, but even she could hear the tremor of her righteous anger running underneath the words. “My husband is a private man, as is his right, and I’ll not take his secrets and expose them for the sake of proving something that his word alone should be the proof of. I’ll not do it. He’s a better man than any I have met in all my life, and if you choose to doubt the truth of our attachment you will have to doubt it, Captain, and be done with it, as I am done with answering your questions. He has told you what we are.”

The captain’s dark eyes slowly warmed with admiration. Gently he said, “And now you have told me also. Thank you, Mrs. Symonds.”

* * *

There were no more questions. No more tests.

They did not meet the dreaded Barbary corsairs, but on the second night the winds had changed and so the ship was held there wind-bound for above a week, with little they could do but find new ways to pass the hours and days, though Mary did not mind.

She found she liked this woman she had chosen now to be—this Mary Dundas, who had traveled and seen trouble and been changed by it; who had no longer any need to feign or borrow confidence but only sprinkle water on her own and pull the weeds that had been choking it and watch it grow each day a little more towards the sun. One evening at the captain’s table Mr. Thomson prompted Mary to retell one of her tales of the Chevalier de Vilbray, which she obliged him with, and then she offered, “Shall I tell a new tale? One entirely imaginary?”

And del Rio had thought this a splendid entertainment. “But the hero,” he had said, “must be a pirate hunter.”

“Quite the best of pirate hunters,” Mary had agreed.

“And you must name him…” He’d paused a moment in pretended thought, his dark eyes smiling in his very handsome face.

Mary had played along. “Marcos María del Rio Cuerda?”

“An excellent name,” he had told her, and settled back into his chair with his wine cup in hand while she’d started her story.

So that had been woven then into the pattern of all of their days on the ship, and each evening she’d told a new part of the tale of brave Captain del Rio outwitting corsairs and a Genoese bank and the whole British navy. The captain had greatly enjoyed this, except on the one night she’d tried to end one of his many romantic adventures in tragedy.

“No,” said the captain, “he never would leave the
condesa
like that. You must make a new ending.”

Mary had found that amusing. “What, just like that?”

“Why not? You are the one who is telling the story, the ending is yours to choose.”

“I choose the sad ending.”

“No one,” the captain had told her, with certainty, “would choose to leave the
condesa
. She’s very appealing. Now, tell that part over again, but this time let the captain find someone to cure her incurable fever. It will be much better this way.”

She had done as he’d asked.

“But,” she’d said to Hugh later that evening, while she’d played with Frisque in the cabin, “it really was better the first time I told it.”

He hadn’t replied. He’d been sitting at one of the chairs of their small table, with all three candles together before him, head bent above some little nautical instrument he’d found the day before that was not working. She’d looked at the gleam of the brass pieces held in his hands, and the small parts scattered over the top of the table, and she’d asked for interest’s sake, “Would you have chosen to stay with the countess?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“She fainted too much.”

“So you like a strong woman, then?”

He had glanced up very briefly, then down again. “Aye.”

And that glance had made Mary feel warm inside.

They had not touched since the night he had kissed her. He’d kept to his side of the cabin, and stepped out when needed to give her the privacy that she required, and behaved in all ways like an honorable man. But there were times she wished…well, she wished…

He’d distracted her thoughts by beginning to fit the brass pieces together again, turning screws with the point of his small knife and assembling the instrument till it was all as it ought to be, tidy and whole in his capable fingers. He’d set it down neatly upon the scarred wood of the table.

She’d said, “I would ask you a question.”

“Now, there’s a surprise.”

“How do you go from
that
,” she had said, nodding towards the small instrument, “fixing things, making things work, to—”

He’d finished the thought for her. “Killing them?”

“Yes.”

In the light of the candles she’d watched his mouth twist in the ghost of a smile, deep with bitterness. She had expected his words to be bitter as well, but instead she had heard resignation in his level voice as he’d answered her, low, “Step by step.”

She had thought about that. “But surely, if you marked the steps as you made them, you could then turn round and retrace them and find your way back to the place you began,” she had reasoned. “Like taking the road that you left by, and letting it lead you back home.”

He had looked at her quietly. “Home is not always,” he’d said, “where ye left it.”

And that had been all he had said on the subject.

* * *

“A broken man,” Effie had said, “is a man who has left his clan, or been cast out of it. An outlaw.”

She had looked comfortable early the next morning, bundled in her hammock in the tiny cabin fitted in the ship’s prow. There was color in her cheeks again, and she’d had energy enough to make a thorough explanation of the system of the clans within the Scottish Highlands, each belonging to its lands and bound by ties of loyalty and blood, with a chief who looked after the whole of the clan and could claim all its members’ allegiance, the chieftains of various branches below him, and all of the other clan members arranged below that. “But a broken man,” she had concluded, “is shunned by his kin and no longer belongs to the land he was bred upon, and has no shelter or comfort but that he can scrape for himself.”