The Indigo Pheasant: Volume Two of Longing for Yount: 2 (25 page)

“Very well,” continued Sir John. “I see from your faces and the scraping of your feet that this is exactly what you would have me understand. Gentlemen, I trust you understand in turn the gravity of the circumstances, to wit, that our government has invested a full ten thousand pounds sterling—and is presumably being asked now to invest further sums—on the basis of this girl’s alleged and purported capabilities. A girl born enslaved on a tobacco plantation in Maryland, a pauper’s daughter educated at the whim of charity, until very recently a servant!”

No one spoke.

“Within the confines of this room, we may acknowledge that our sovereign is mad, and our prince-regent a wastrel,” Sir John plowed ahead. “Yet their government is neither. We will not be played for fools or spendthrifts. We did not beat Napoleon being either. We are not building the greatest empire since the Romans, based on projects of dubious outcome. Do I make myself clear?”

The meeting lasted exactly one hour. Sir John asked all the questions and issued all the orders.

“The Chinese have not declared themselves to His Majesty’s Government,” he intoned. “But they are here in London and we must view them as a
de facto
embassy. Lt.-Col. Salmond, please have the E.I.C. extend all courtesies and receive the Chinese as soon as can be arranged, with all due protocol and circumstance. In the meantime, what is their purpose in being here? They have come a very great distance at great expense—the Emperor of China does not send us even his semi-official ambassadors on any regular basis; in fact, he has never sent us any ambassadors at all. Do they know aught of Lord Amherst’s embassy to Peking?”

He looked directly at Sanford and Barnabas, and said, “How very strange a coincidence—if coincidence it be—that both you and these Chinese are connected with that funny Dutch couple at the Cape.”

“The Termuydens,” ventured Barnabas.

“Yes, yes. I knew them rather well, actually, when I lived at the Cape. Rum pair, the both of them. Marvellously sociable, to be sure, quick with the most comical and far-fetched stories, but I always felt that there was a secret or two lurking behind that gay façade of theirs. Now I am very certain they have been hiding something. I think you know what that something is, and my two associates here indicate the same.”

Mr. I. and Mr. Z. bowed slightly.

“Of McDoon & Co. we know a fair amount,” continued Sir John. “Respectable house—no, do not bow, I simply state facts—long tied to the India trade, especially on the Malabar coast, and to the North and East Seas in Europe, Hamburg and all that. Known for wise dealing, honourable and, above all, profitable. Yet now, the house of McDoon is—again, I simply state facts—on the verge of ruin, having overextended itself trying to build a ship called the
Indigo Pheasant
. So, I ask myself, what has caused this sudden and unforeseen reversal in fortune? Standing before me, neither of you appears to have lost your wits or qualities since you returned from your long stint abroad, so what might be the reason for such a downturn, . . . unless something happened on that sojourn overseas that could possibly be the threat or challenge, hmmm?”

Sir John proceeded in his shrewd way. As the clock rang the three-quarter hour, he said: “The ineluctable conclusion thus far is that McDoon & Co. will lose the
Indigo Pheasant
, see it acquired in whole by the firm of Coppelius, Prinn & Goethals (Widow), in the very near future unless you receive a significant infusion of fresh capital. Capital, which equally inescapable, can only at this juncture come from His Majesty’s Government in one form or guise or the other. Is that how you read this at Cannery Row?”

Mr. Cummings nodded in agreement.

“And at Leadenhall?”

The lieutenant-colonel and Mr. M’Culloch said “yes” in unison.

“Most unfortunately, the government can not snap its fingers and produce funds willy-nilly. In fact, the hounds from Treasury are already barking hard about the initial investment. What funds His Majesty’s Government do possess are claimed by the Foreign Office and the Office of War for various initiatives necessary to protect the Crown and expand the Empire—I am certain that you have read in the papers about some of those undertakings, yes? Nevertheless, the affair of the
Indigo Pheasant
seems bound up in our imperial policies, like as not. The Prime Minister himself has taken an interest. Your little ship and whatever project is additionally linked to it have become matters of some importance at Whitehall and at St. James.”

Barnabas and Sanford shook their heads, half in relief, half in disbelief.

With five minutes left on the clock, Sir John said: “Finally, we come to the most peculiar piece to this entire peculiar business. Are you aware that several of your associates, including a member of your own family, have applied for patents relating to the equipment to be installed on the
Indigo Pheasant
?”

Barnabas and Sanford were stunned.

“Oh my, I see this comes entirely as news, and not happy news either. Yes, last month the lawyer Sedgewick—very well known to you, and also to us—applied for six patents at the Six Clerks Office at the Court of Chancery, all done in good and proper order.”

“Sedgewick?!”

“Yes, on behalf of one James Kidlington, also well known to us, and—I hesitate to say it—the Miss Sarah McLeish. Your niece, Mr. McDoon.”

“Kidlington! But he has nothing to do with making the technology aboard the
Pheasant
! Sally?
Sally
?!”

“Yes, she is presented as the chief author on all six patents. What most intrigues us is the nature of the devices and technologies for which patents are sought.”

Mr. I. handed Sir John a paper dense with writing in a fine hand.

“‘Intent to apply for an engine, partly powered by steam, to be known hereafter as a Fulginator,’” read Sir John. “The preliminary specification is—mildly put—cloudy, vague, a taunt to real comprehension. We flatter ourselves at Admiralty in being very well-informed on most matters, particularly as they relate to novel technologies, yet we have never heard of a science called ‘fulgination.’ Trust me when I say that we have burrowed through our extensive library and archive this past month searching for so much as the whisper of a suggestion as to what ‘fulgination’ might be, and have found . . . absolutely nothing. But I see from your faces—do not deny it!—that the art is not unknown to you.”

The clock chimed the top of the hour. Sir John handed the paper back to Mr. I., and stood up.

“Another group of people sits two rooms away awaiting my presence,” he said. “Involving the bold young Raffles and his plans to create a city he calls Singapore on the Straits of Malacca. There, some advance notice on a trading opportunity, I presume—perhaps a chance for McDoon & Co. to earn some of the capital it needs for its
Pheasant
. In the meantime, we will continue to monitor your difficult and—for the Crown—potentially unfortunate set of circumstances. Mr. McDoon, Mr. Sanford: you will hear from us again soon.”

With that, Sir John strode out of the room, followed by all the E.I.C. and Admiralty officials, leaving Sanford and Barnabas to find their own way out.

“Oh, beans and bacon, Sanford, I don’t know what to say!”

Sanford said nothing, but he left thinking many thoughts, each thought possessing the clarity of very cold, still water, and the sharpness of air breathed at a mountain-top.

At the very moment that Barnabas and Sanford were leaving the Admiralty, Sally was drinking tea with James Kidlington at Hatchards on Piccadilly. Hatchards was one of their favourite rendez-vous spots, a decorous haven to which they repaired two and even three times a week. One of London’s leading bookshops, Hatchards had instituted the practice of serving tea in their private reading room (Hatchards deftly met all the proprieties: its white-gloved stewards brought out the tea to customers, but respectfully understood that the ladies must be allowed to pour and offer the tea themselves). Delicate society widely regarded Hatchards as one of the few places a single young lady could, without danger to her respectability, venture on her own; being seen there with a gentleman was likewise accepted, or at least did not start too many tongues into the courseways of gossip.

The reading room had been refreshed after the wars ended, setting the tone for shops and places of restoration throughout the West End (the bookshops at Paternoster Row and elsewhere in the City, once frequented by an eager Sally, remained dour, strictly mercantile places). The wallpaper was broad stripes, a crimsony claret bordered by pale gold alternating with
bleue celeste
. The wainscoting was made of a mellow rufous mahogany, with steadily darkening undertones. Hatchards had just put in gaslights, casting a gentle glow from brass sconces, making diffused shadows across the wallpaper and along the dado, seeping down into the mahogany below. On one wall was an elegantly understated black clock with a white face and gold numbers and hands. It announced each hour with a low, lingering, deep-bellied note, reminding visitors that time was in fact passing but reinforcing in them the complacent conviction that here in Hatchards they were insulated from the pressure of that passage.

On a large table upfront, the kind with massive lion’s paws carved as the feet, lay neatly arranged all the day’s serious newspapers and all the important journals and reviews. Just beyond was the main room, its walls lined floor to ceiling with books. Patrons conversed in a hushed mood of reverence, votaries at the temple. The noise of Piccadilly and the streets beyond receded to a swash of muted sound, as if those fortunate enough to be on Hatchards’ premises were enclosed and protected within an ornate whelk.

Sally needed the refuge of Hatchards especially badly that day. She had had even less sleep than usual; her tossing and fretting had driven Isaak away long before dawn. That bird with the ridiculous name had been the culprit, his endless nocturnal whistling and gurgling the source of her insomnia. It was not right that everyone loved the intruder so, and made such a fuss about it coming with them on the return-journey to Yount. She—Sally—had named the ship. The ship was the
Indigo Pheasant
; it was emphatically not named for a ragged, party-coloured grackle. Why would not the others see that? Because they were enthralled by Maggie, whose chief talents (so it seemed to Sally) were to unearth unhappinesses and to traffic in arrogance and pride, and whose only beliefs were in herself alone and in the unchallenged supremacy of her plans and designs, as opposed to those of anyone else.

Thus she pinned all her hopes for the day on James; seeing James was to be the antidote for her trickling anger and growing frustration. At Hatchards, she could escape the conglomerated contempt for James shown by the rest of the McDoon household. Alone with James, Sally felt free of their criticism, and could see again each day for herself the depth of feeling, the cleverness, the adroit and caring little gestures that James embodied, and that James so quickly and willingly shared with her.

Upon ensconcement in the soothing surround of the Hatchards tea room, and aglow in febrile anticipation of sweetly murmured confidences, Sally was quickly dashed into near-despair. James ignored her special needs of the day. Instead, he launched into a serious discussion of the patents applications. Heedless of the present’s demands (specifically those of Sally seated directly across from him), James galloped far into the future: how they would gain their fortune by licensing or selling the patents, the manner in which they would do so (his mind fairly buzzed with plans about this), the importance of her maintaining her claim no matter what blandishments her family might bring to bear, and the equally important concept of ownership of the patents when they were . . . married.

Marriage! James spoke of it frequently, yet had not made any formal proposal, let alone declared himself openly to Barnabas or any other person. He merely assumed their eventual marriage to be a fact as real already as the giants on the Guildhall Clock or the statue of St. Macrina by the East India House on Leadenhall Street. For all his cleverness, James was purblind in regard to Sally’s desires for the formalities. Or perhaps it was precisely his cleverness that guided his behavior in this very regard. Sally could not tell which it was. Some days she was convinced James was a rogue trifling with her heart (with aims on those cursed patents? On her dowry otherwise?), other days she was reconciled to his being merely an oblivious gournard, which is what she believed most men were, even the ones whose hearts were true.

James began to notice that Sally’s responses were desultory trending towards peevish and soon to become sullen. He realized she was fatigued beyond even her usual weariness, that she was tired of talk about the
Indigo Pheasant
and patents and the rest of it. He moved away from that topic, essayed gentle jokes and
les petits gestes capricants
, but to little avail. He composed himself (the patents could wait), then lapsed into silence.

Sally and James were sharing an amber tea, the
Keemun
, with its tightly rolled black leaves and fruity aroma. They had chosen for their service genuine Meissenware, the cups and saucers, tea pot and waste bowl of which were in a smoothly powdered puce framing gilt-edged panels painted in a wide palette with quay scenes and images of travellers on a river. Their cups had similar scenes within, which disappeared every time they were drowned and which became visible again as the tea was drunk.