The Peacock Throne (12 page)

The short caravan reached Portsmouth as twilight claimed the city. Lydia welcomed the bustle of Portsmouth after the isolation of the road. They found a good inn and ate a hearty supper before retiring early to their rooms. Though the inn's proprietor grumbled over the arrangement, footmen were again placed on guard duty in the hall.

Lydia woke early. With the assistance of one of the footmen, whom Lord Danbury insisted accompany her at all times, she headed out to the apothecary's for a few supplies, including bandages and a healing salve for Lord Danbury's shoulder. She had changed the dressing the night before and it appeared to be mending well. Still, she refused to allow gangrene an opportunity to take root.

The briney scent of the air communicated clearly that they were near the sea. She inhaled deeply, a sense of excitement beginning to press out against her chest. The salt-scoured shops, with their peeling paint and exotic mix of clientele, held an unaccountable charm. Even the overflow of rowdy, landlocked sailors lounging in the streets due to the peace did little to quash her spirits. Still, despite her sense of expectation, she remained on guard. Everywhere she looked there were dark blue pea jackets and it seemed that an unaccountably high number were missing buttons.

She scarcely saw Danbury and Harting. They were off and away, each on business of his own. It would be a relief to climb aboard the ship. They all needed a reprieve from the fear of attack.

And then the time was upon her, with the last-moment breathlessness that always seemed to accompany highly anticipated moments. As eager as schoolboys on an outing, they piled into the carriage and drove down to the quay.

Lydia accepted the help of a stout oarsman as she climbed gingerly down into a teetery skiff. Waves slapped against the side of the small boat pushing it up against the dock and then sucking it back. Her stomach lurched. Why hadn't she ever paused to consider that travelling by ship meant being surrounded by water? And why, oh why, hadn't she ever learned to swim?

Lord Danbury skipped down into the boat as nimbly as if he were a mountain goat, and with as much subtlety. Lydia clutched the side as the boat bobbed and weaved drunkenly. They were going to capsize, and she was going to drown right there in the harbour.

Only slightly slower, Harting joined them. Lydia closed her eyes and swallowed hard. In a moment, the oarsmen were pulling with sure, swift strokes for the ship.

A spray of evil-smelling water splashed into Lydia's face. She released one white-knuckled hand from the seat to dash it away. These were not the sea waters physicians encouraged patients to bathe in. The harbour of Portsmouth was befouled by the waste of the city's inhabitants and the many ships at anchor. Every sort of effluvia floated on the insalubrious liquid. Unable to keep her nose from wrinkling, Lydia peeked into the rippling brown waves. It was worse than the Thames.

With an expert hand, the coxswain guided the skiff right up to the ship. The gentlemen latched onto the net and began their ascent with fluid dexterity. Even Danbury's injured arm didn't seem to give him pause, while Lydia looked on in consternation. She could make the climb, but not with the sailors leering up from below. And first she'd have to release her hold on the plank that served as her seat. She bit her lip.

One of the sailors took pity on her. “It's all right, Miss. They're lowerin' a boatswain's chair for you.”

Lydia looked up to find an odd contraption descending towards the skiff like an angel from on high. The men helped her into it as if it were a swing and she a playful shepherdess posing for a portrait. The seamen let go as their friends from above hauled her up with a sickening lurch. Lydia's stomach contracted. The ship rolled, and she slammed into the hull with a resounding thud. A chorus of apologies rained from above. If she ever made it aboard alive, she would spend the rest of her days there. Anything to avoid this torturous process again.

At last the sailors restored her to her feet, and she stood on
Legacy
's deck, gazing in awe at the cobweb of ropes and cables, the rush of coordinated activity, and the gleaming brass. She had already entered foreign territory.

“Miss Garrett, are you quite all right?”

“Hmm?” Bemused, she turned to Lord Danbury. “Oh, yes. Thank you, I'm perfectly fine.”

Harting clapped Danbury on the back. “How did you manage to hire such a fine craft on such short notice?”

“She's a beautiful little frigate, isn't she?” He was positively smug. “Fact is, I didn't hire her. My father bought her after she had been retired from naval service and began to fit her out as a private man o' war, complete with a letter of marque.”

“You own a privateer?” Lydia shook her head.

Danbury grinned. “She was scheduled for completion in a month, but the dockyard was able to move up the date, with the persuasion of a bonus for quick work.”

Captain Campbell hurried to meet them. A short, stout man with a barrel-chest and a fringe of red hair encircling a bald pate, he led them to the quarterdeck with the air of a bridegroom introducing his bride.

“My
Legacy
here is a beautiful ship. That she is. Well built, sound, and weatherly, you couldn't ask for better, my Lord.”

“She will do well, then?” Danbury asked. His tone conveyed confidence that the answer would be in the affirmative.

“Better than well.” He ran a rough hand over the smooth wood of the rail, caressing the ship with a lover's ardour. “Your father, God rest him, spent a great deal on her refitting, but it was money put to good use.”

Lydia turned her eyes upward, examining the complex web of ropes and sails. Some were drawn in close to the yardarms. Some were full and billowing, and filling the air with an audible sense of the wind's movement. The cloth flapped and the rigging creaked in pace with the lapping waves. She looked to the nearest ship in the harbour, an East Indiaman, for comparison. By her account,
Legacy
was smaller and sleeker, though she still had vast yardage in her sails.

Campbell caught the direction of Lydia's gaze. “
Legacy
's more heavily armed than an Indiaman, and has an advantage in her speed. She can lead any merchant ship she comes upon in a merry dance.” He rubbed his hands together in contained glee. “Lord Danbury's father ensured she should.”

When she looked at Danbury, she noticed that he, too, had a kind of barely controlled excitement. If time and tide had been right he would have ordered them to sea immediately.

Captain Campbell waved a hand at the hive of activity around them. “I've manned her with experienced seamen. Most of them are old navy hands what got landlocked when the peace was declared. If we ever have a need, I guarantee that
Legacy
will make a fine showing for herself.”

A young man in a neat, dark navy coat climbed onto the quarterdeck and approached the captain. The buttons matched the one Harting had found at the inn, and one of his buttons seemed to have been replaced. The thread used to sew it in place was a lighter blue that showed up against the ebony of the button. But that was hardly conclusive. During her foray through Portsmouth's shops she'd found more than one establishment that seemed to be doing a roaring trade in buttons of the same design.

She stepped closer to the young man. A head taller than his captain, he held himself with stiff formality that made him appear
older. She tried to imagine him in a powdered wig and he easily fit the scullery maid's description.

“The buttons on your coat are quite unique.”

He looked down at his chest as if surprised to find any buttons there at all. “Not at all. Every port in England carries them, or similar. Shopkeepers seem to think all sailors wish to emblazon their profession across their wardrobe.”

“True enough. Even I have buttons like that.” Captain Campbell patted his ample belly. “Your Lordship, Mr Harting, Miss Garrett.” He nodded to each in turn. “Allow me to introduce Dan Cabot, my first mate. If I were still in the service he would be my first lieutenant, and a fine one at that.”

Lydia watched the fellow closely. “Were you in the navy then, Mr Cabot?”

“Briefly.” He did not elaborate.

Captain Campbell rushed to fill the social void. “Let me give you a tour of the ship. She's just as beautiful within as without, I can tell you that much.”

Lord Danbury had been all over
Legacy
the day before, but he joined them on their rounds, pointing out with all the pride of ownership what he felt to be the most interesting features of the ship. Lydia's mind whirled with capstans, and mizzen masts and fore jeer bitts abaft. It was an alien world, full of strange objects and foreign notions. Even the floor beneath her feet moved. She would take a step only to find the deck meeting her too soon or too late. More than once she staggered. Perhaps it was this phenomenon that gave sailors their legendary reputation for being drunkards?

Captain Campbell assured her that she would grow accustomed to the sway of the deck and learn to move with the ship. He was a kind man and she smiled her thanks.

Lydia could not have said what she had expected, but she was pleasantly surprised at the accommodations below decks. Mr Wolfe's tales of life at sea had prepared her for far worse.

“This here's the greater cabin.” Captain Campbell made an
expansive gesture. Every bit of the space had been put to economical use. And there was no doubt that
Legacy
was a fighting ship. Two cannon punctuated the outer wall on either side, their bulk taking up most of what might otherwise have been large, sunny windows. A dining table and chairs occupied the centre of the space, and a great sideboard rested against the bulkhead.

“This will serve as a fine command post.” Lord Danbury nodded his approval.

“Aye, sir. On an Indiaman, I think they calls it a saloon,” Captain Campbell said.

Danbury clapped him on the back. “None of that civilian twaddle for us. This is by rights the greater cabin, and that's what we'll call it.”

The captain beamed his approval and continued the tour.

Beyond lay a simple private space with a hammock and washstand, writing desk and stool, as well as one of the seemingly ubiquitous cannon. The room's best feature was easily the stern gallery windows, which let in a good deal of light and could be opened to air the cabin. Adjacent to this was the quarter gallery and a private seat of ease. Lydia had been hanging back, but a glimpse of her bags piled beneath the hammock made her start forward.

She approached Mr Cabot. “Have I been given the captain's quarters?”

His manner was as rigidly correct as if they were aboard a ship of the line. “Yes, Miss.”

“That wasn't necessary. I would happily accept something else.”

“As owner, Lord Danbury had the right to claim these quarters, but he insisted that you should have them. And if I may say so,” Mr Cabot rubbed his nose delicately and looked away, “the quarters below are quite
close
.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I suggest that you accept the arrangement graciously.”

Accepting the censure, Lydia subsided and allowed him to proceed with the tour.

On the deck below, cabins for the gentlemen and ship's officers lined either side of the long wardroom. Seeing the accommodations, Lydia conceded that Lord Danbury had likely made the proper decision, but a bit of her still felt unworthy of the consideration.

The sun rose with the change in tide, bringing with it a clean salty breeze. With a barked command, Captain Campbell had the crew hopping to their duty. The sails captured the breeze and flapped to life, sounding as if the ship were clapping her hands in her excitement to be underway.

Lydia closed her eyes and raised her face to the breeze. Exhilaration swept through her. They were on their way. It seemed scarcely credible.

Legacy
picked up speed until she fairly skimmed along the waves, putting crew and passengers alike in high spirits.

Captain Campbell left the quarterdeck to Mr Cabot's command and took his passengers down to the greater cabin. He unfurled a large map and showed them the charted course. With wide eyes and a racing pulse, Lydia leaned close. The captain's strong, knotty hands described their ports of call as he ran a long finger along the route. As he pronounced the exotic names, a thrill shot through her. She put a hand to her stomach to calm its roiling. This adventure was no carefree lark. They hoped to capture a murderer.

Captain Campbell and the other gentlemen stood as Lydia entered the dining room. “Miss Garrett, you've met Mr Cabot. May I also present Dr Marshall?” He extended a hand towards the gentleman who offered a small bow in her direction. “Dr Marshall isn't some wheedling surgeon, as most ships have. He is a real Harley Street physician, a credit to the ship. He has lords aplenty among his patients.”

The doctor was a thin man, almost to the point of gauntness, the skin stretched tight over his cheekbones. His middling brown hair was pulled back in a neat queue. Everything about him spoke of meticulous care, right down to his clean and trimmed fingernails.