Dark Before the Rising Sun (10 page)

Forever, Fortune, wilt thou prove

An unrelenting foe to love,

And, when we meet a mutual heart,

Come in and bid us part?

—James Thomson

Houston Kirby cleared his throat, hesitating before he knocked. Even though the countless bells of the City had been chiming in a cacophony of sound since first light, he hated to disturb Lady Rhea Claire. She might have slept through the din, Kirby thought with a grimace, for he was no lover of bells since his own slumber had been so rudely interrupted. But he did have to post that letter for the captain, who had left Hawke's Bell Inn several hours earlier.

Readjusting his plain tiewig and straightening his neatly folded stock, the little steward started to raise his hand to knock again but the door swung open and he found himself staring at the lady herself.

“M'lady!” Kirby said, flustered by her sudden appearance and by the manner in which she was dressed. “Oh, m'lady, ye shouldn't be lettin' people see ye dressed that way. What will people be sayin'?” he demanded, glancing over his shoulder worriedly while trying to stretch himself a few inches taller in order to shield Lady Rhea from any prying eyes in the corridor.

Rhea grinned, unconcerned. “They would surely comment on the fine fit, and perhaps even ask my dressmaker's name,” she said as she smoothed her hands over the soft buckskin of her skirt.

“Oh, m'lady, please,” Kirby said nervously, although secretly pleased, for they both knew it had been his nimble fingers that had neatly sewn together the many patches. “Ye shouldn't be makin' jest here in the corridor. 'Twouldn't be good for your reputation, m'lady, for anyone to be seein' ye. 'Twas all right aboard the
Sea Dragon
, but I shouldn't care to have anybody else seein' ye dressed in so—so,” he paused awkwardly, staring up at her as he sought the proper word.

“In so improper a manner,” Rhea kindly supplied.

“Beggin' your pardon, m'lady, but indeed so.” He stiffened as they heard footsteps approaching along the corridor.

Relenting, Rhea allowed him to enter the room, then smiled when she heard the door shutting almost on his heels.

“Perhaps then, since you do not approve of my attire, you would be so kind as to select the gown you think I should be wearing,” she invited while pointing to the two gowns she'd spread out across the bed.

“M'lady, I could never be disapprovin' of ye,” Kirby quickly disabused her of that idea. “Indeed, I rather fancy ye in that, but that was when we was in the Indies,” he said, a wistful expression lightening his customary frown.

Rhea understood. She herself had felt something akin to longing when she remembered those vivid blue skies and waters, and the balmy breezes warming her. Perhaps that was why she had suddenly felt like wearing the clothes she had worn while on board the
Sea Dragon
, for she knew she would never have need of them again.

“'Twas nice, wasn't it, Kirby?” she said softly.

“Aye, m'lady. Reckon I wish we was still sailin' in them waters. Strange how safe and untroubled they seem now that we're back in England.” He sighed, then shook his head to free himself of those thoughts. Forgetting about his wig, it inched backward to perch at a precarious angle.

“Well,” he said briskly, “'twill be a hard choice, m'lady, but I'm thinkin' the primrose would be lookin' mighty nice on ye. Reminds me of that Indies sunshine, something we sure don't see much of here, what with all of the soot and fog.”

“Then the primrose it will be, Kirby,” Rhea decided, thinking that she had forgotten how cold and gloomy England could be in autumn.

“Ah, here 'tis,” Kirby muttered as he picked up the letter which was still propped against the inkstand. “Reckon I oughta be gettin' this posted,” he said, his frown returning as he eyed the address. “Well then, is there anythin' I can be doin' for ye, m'lady? If not, I'll be off. Got to meet the cap'n,” he told her, the letter tucked safely away in his coat pocket.

“Will you be meeting Dante on board the
Sea Dragon
? He said when he left this morning that he had some banking to see to, and he also wanted to inspect the ship.”

“Aye, m'lady. We was seein' to that earlier. The cap'n thinks she'll be needin' the weeds and barnacles burned off, then have to be re-tarred. He's seein' to the bankin' now. Reckon he'll be back shortly. 'Bout time for luncheon,” he guessed.

“I see. And Conny? Have you seen him this morning?”

“Aye, m'lady,” Kirby responded with a wide grin. “Had breakfast with me, he did. I'm wonderin' how someone so small can be puttin' away so much. Left me feelin' as queasy as I did the first time I stepped aboard the
Sea Dragon
. And from what I was hearin' from that puffed-up landlord, young Master Brady was puttin' away quite a bit of gooseberry pie the night before. 'Twas all that Parkham bloke could talk about, that and puttin' some female's nose out of joint because of it. Reckon I'm not understandin' these city folk much anymore,” Kirby grumbled, shaking his wig back even farther.

“I suspect that you and Canfield, my mother's maid, would get along famously. She dislikes city folk,” Rhea told him, thinking that the ever-proper Canfield would certainly not approve of the clothes Kirby had gone to so much trouble to make for her.

“Would ye be wantin' me to send up one of them servin' girls to help ye dress, m'lady?” he inquired solicitously, his former valet's training never far away.

“No, I'll be able to manage. And I can always wait and have Dante assist me,” Rhea said, thinking Dante would be far more efficient than the giggling and gawking serving girls if they could even get one to enter the room after their scare of the night before.

“Very well, m'lady. But if ye be needin' anythin' at all, just send one of them servin' girls to fetch me. After I post this letter, I'll be downstairs in the taproom. The cap'n wanted the crew to meet there and begin discussions on the dividin' of our riches. Good thing the cap'n's an honest man, for with the groggy heads from the night before, he could swindle us out of our breeches. Beggin' your pardon, m'lady,” Kirby said gruffly, mortified at his slip. “Well, guess I really had better get goin',” he added, sounding as if he'd rather be dangling by two fingers from a yardarm than meeting downstairs with his mates. He even looked as if he were walking the plank as he made his way to the door.

“Thank you, Kirby,” Rhea called after his departing figure.

“I don't s'pose that no-good, flea-bitten tom is around here anywhere? Maybe masqueradin' as m'lady's slipper or her fur muff?” he asked casually as he lingered in the doorway, his glance suspicious as he peered beneath the bed.

Rhea laughed. “So you heard about that?”

“Aye, m'lady, talk of the taproom, 'tis,” he said with a grin of appreciation.

“Jamaica disappeared earlier, but I suspect he'll return in time for luncheon,” Rhea told the little steward, who didn't seem a bit surprised at the news.

“Aye, reckon so, m'lady. A blind man would know we was havin' fish for luncheon, so figure ol' Jamaica will be hotfootin' it this way before long,” Kirby agreed with a sniff that attempted to discount any appearance of concern for the cat.

Then bowing elegantly, he left the room.

Rhea continued to stare at the closed door for a moment longer, her thoughts concerned with something which had happened earlier that morning, soon after Dante had left. She had already begun to suspect as much, and now she was almost certain that she was with child. Rhea wrapped her arms around herself protectively. She prayed that she was right, for she wanted Dante's child. But as suddenly as a cloud drifting across the sun, her mood darkened as she wondered if Dante would be pleased. There were still too many things they did not know about one another. Their time together had been so brief.

A few more minutes passed while Rhea stood there deep in thought, but since nothing could come of speculation, she turned away and put her mind to more practical things. The thought that Madame Lambere might have to let out the seams in the newly purchased gowns was uppermost in Rhea's mind as she held the primrose gown against her waist and speculated a little sadly on how rotund she soon would be. But then came an even more disturbing thought. What would be Dante's reaction to that? Soon he would not be able to hold her, Rhea realized, her spirits plummeting.

An imperative, staccato knocking intruded on Rhea's thoughts and she hurried to answer the door.

With a welcoming smile, she swung the door wide. Only Jamaica, who sailed through the opening, heard her cry out.

Downstairs, in the crowded taproom of Hawke's Bell Inn, the sound of voices raised in song was drawing a deepening frown from the innkeeper, who was afraid that the exuberance of his guests would lead to trouble. And he certainly did not want any confrontations between the boisterous colonials and any Redcoats who might happen by and take exception to what they overheard. It did not lessen Mr. Parkham's worry any when he heard the out-of-tune voices chorusing yet another stanza of that unfortunate song:

Yankee Doodle came to town

Upon a little pony,

He stuck a feather in his hat

And called it macaroni.

Yankee Doodle, keep it up,

Yankee Doodle dandy,

Mind the music and the step,

And with the girls be handy.

Mr. Parkham shook his head. Pity it had such a catchy tune. He had caught himself humming it, even after severely scolding the serving girls for singing it. He could have sworn he caught that damned Irishman's tenor drowning out the other voices. It was bad enough that the man was a handsome and glib Irishman, but to be a colonial, and a rich bastard as well. It was a damned shame to waste good English sterling on one of them misfits talking revolution.

With another shake of his head lest anyone mistakenly think he approved of such tomfoolery, Mr. Parkham returned to the kitchen, determined to advance luncheon before this bunch drank him out of all his ale. Of course, thought Mr. Parkham while slowing his pace considerably, at least the rowdies did have plenty of money to pay for it, and a hardworking fellow like himself couldn't always be too choosy about where his profits came from.

For the past few days, the profits for Hawke's Bell Inn had been coming out of the deep pockets of the thirsty crew of the
Sea Dragon
. Gathered together in the taproom, where an almost visible air of expectancy hung over the noisy group, the exulting sailors were celebrating what had turned out to be a most providential end to their association.

“And here's to sailin' before the wind!”

“And to fair weather!”

“And to havin' yer sails rappin' full!”

“Aye, and here's to every wee bonny lass who ever bid a sad farewell to her laddie buck! And here's fair warnin' to any landlubber who's been holdin' her hand—I be back in town!”

“Aye, and here's to every hell-raisin' jack-tar here, may your course always run smooth, at least till ye've got three sheets in the wind like meself,” Seumus Fitzsimmons toasted his mates before sitting abruptly back down as his legs crumpled beneath him.

“And here's a toast to that fine, upstandin' gent, Bertie Mackay, and his scurvy crew of loose fish aboard the
Annie Jeanne
, may they all end up in—” But the rest of the toast was drowned in laughter as several interesting destinations for the rival smugglers were voiced.

Kirby, sitting a little apart so he could keep an eye out for the captain's arrival, pushed his wig off his brow, where it had slipped while he'd tried to see his way clear of the milling crowd.

Aye, they were all here, he thought glumly, wondering if any of them would be able to come to their senses once they got their hands on their fortunes. How many would find happiness, the little steward worried, still feeling responsible for their well-being.

Some of them would do all right, Kirby decided as he glanced over the room, spotting familiar faces. Longacres was once again holding court near the fire, where he was surrounded by the usual spellbound listeners. Kirby figured that the old sea dog had been around so long that not much more could happen to him that hadn't already. He was planning to sail back to the Indies where, on St. Thomas, he would open a tavern. It would be the perfect setting for the wizened buccaneer and his hair-raising tales of piracy. Cobbs, the bos'n, had been dreaming of returning to Norfolk ever since he had left as a boy. Now he could return as a wealthy man and become the country gentleman of his dreams. Most of the mates were already referring to him as Squire Nabobs.

Kirby spied Alec MacDonald, the Scotsman, by the bluish haze hanging over his head from the pipe that was never far from his lips. He planned to open a shipyard along the banks of the Chesapeake. His future was in the colonies. And with war always on the horizon, he would probably become even wealthier. Certainly a far cry from his fellow clansmen who continued to live a hand-to-mouth existence in the Highlands of Scotland.

Kirby reckoned the jack-a-dandy, Barnaby Clarke, would play the London gentleman for a while and then return to Jamaica where, no doubt, he would live out his life as an indolent planter. Trevelawny, the ship's carpenter, who never said much and smiled even less, was going to invest in mining in his native Cornwall. And if he kept as tight a rein on his purse strings as he did his tongue, he would most likely own half of the West Country by the turn of the century.

And, of course, there was Seumus Fitzsimmons. Houston Kirby eyed the flushed face of the dark Irishman whose jokes and ready wit kept his mates laughing. Kirby suspected that the facetious Irishman was looking forward to war between the colonials and the Crown, for he intended to purchase a schooner and carry on the fine tradition of the
Sea Dragon
. Aye, Fitzsimmons might be the one to set the table roaring, but once he had a crew and a ship of his own, he would make a fine captain. And, just maybe, he would turn into a fairly decent gentleman.