Lord Grenville looks to Mr. Peel and, even though I can't see him behind me, I know he shakes his head.
"No, I'm afraid not," says the First Lord. "Secrecy and all, you know."
"Then it would be my greatest hope to worship at Saint Paul's Cathedral. That was the church of my youth and it would give me great comfort to go there again, considering the danger into which I am very shortly going to be put."
"Well, I'm sure that can be arranged under proper supervision," says Lord Grenville. I'm certain he again looks to Mr. Peel for confirmation. Whether he gets it or not, I cannot see, for he is behind me.
Ha! Church of my youth, right! Saint Paul's, which wouldn't let the likes of my filthy street-urchin self in the front door on any kind of bet. No, the only way I ever got into that place was in the winter with Rooster Charlie and our gang burrowing in through the catacombs to gain a bit of warmth—and maybe a shot at what might be in the poor box, which wasn't much, the cheap buggers...
"Well, maybe, under proper supervision," says Mr. Peel, coming around to face me. "But be warned..."
"I know the deal. I know what happens. If I escape, you will hurt the ones I love, so therefore I will not escape. Besides, as I have said, I have given my word and I know the terms of the agreement."
"All right then. Tomorrow you will be taken out and new clothing will be bought for you."
"And tomorrow, if it please you, Sirs, I would like to inform Mr. James Fletcher's family of his impending repatriation and arrival, as it would give them a measure of joy. You did say you would let me see him before I go off to France."
The First Lord again looks to Mr. Peel, and the younger man puts his hand to his chin to ponder this for a while. Then he answers, "Very well. But you must go veiled and not tell them who you are. When Mr. Fletcher arrives, if he is still alive, then as a Royal Navy Officer, he can be sworn to secrecy and can be expected to swear his family to the same, but not till then will you reveal yourself to the family. Understood?"
"I understand and I thank you," I say with a slight bow of my head. Then I look to Sir Grenville and put on the big eyes. "My Lord, the six o'clock curfew will confine me to many long hours in my room alone, and if I might have some books and some pens and paper, it would give me great comfort." Just a little flutter of the eyelashes, not too much.
He is interested, as I knew he would be, from what Mr. Peel had said of him earlier, about his being more involved with his library than in torturing prisoners.
"Why, yes," he says. "What would you like?"
"Well, I have not yet been able to obtain a copy of Izaak Walton's The Compleat Angler, and I do desire to read that, for both its practical advice on the science of fishing, as well as for its philosophical asides. Boswell's Life of Johnson has also eluded me since I've been away from my country for so long. And Mr. Pope's poetry..." Here I manage a blush. "I hear it is quite scandalous. I don't know if I dare, Sir..."
"Why, my dear, I have all those titles! Have you read Swift's Gulliver's Travels?"
I reply that I have not, even though I have. "I hope to name you my literary guide, my Lord, during these last weeks that I will spend here in my native land."
"Well! I do have some books near at hand, and I will get them for you." With that Sir Thomas Grenville, First Lord of the Admiralty, and Leader of the British Royal Navy, a man who has the ear of King George, Himself, rushes from the room to get Jacky Faber some books.
When the door closes behind him, Mr. Peel looks at me, again with a very appraising eye. "You are a piece of work, aren't you?"
"Well," I shrug, all innocent, "we all ride our little hobbyhorses, don't we, Mr. Peel?"
When at last in bed, curled up, knees to chest, in my usual ball of anxiety, fear, and doubt, I reflect that at least this bed is more comfortable than that coffin in which I spent last night, and for that I am glad. I am also glad to still be alive. I do miss having Joseph Jared at my side to calm me when I start screaming at the phantoms that come to visit me in the night, though. Oh, I know they will come tonight, too, but only the guard outside my door will hear as I thrash about and shriek out my terrors.
Before I fall asleep and surrender to the night dreads, I think of my mates still back in that prison, and I fear for them. I cannot imagine what they must have felt when that executioner, next to the guillotine, held up a head for them to behold ... a head they had to believe was mine.
Davy ... Joseph ... I hope you didn't do anything rash, I hope ... Oh, God, I am so very hard on my friends...
Chapter 17
The next day, which is Saturday, I am taken out, wrapped in Mr. Peel's cloak, and put in a coach. We rattle off to Regent Street in the fashionable part of London and I am bought new clothes, clothing appropriate to wear in Paris. I am fitted in the new Empire style, long pleated dresses gathered up under the low bodice, with short, puffy sleeves. I am given several of those, in white and pink and mauve. Dressy hats are bought, along with a number of fine scarves and shawls. New hairpieces, neat shoes, and silk stockings, too, in addition to delicate underclothing and frilly garters. And cosmetics—oh yes, cosmetics and perfumes, definitely. The tailors and shop mistresses are plainly overjoyed with my visits, and I wish them all the joy of their unexpected windfall.
I must confess that I do not find this at all unpleasant, being fussed over and measured and fitted with the finest of attire.
Oh, and a riding habit, of course, I must have one of those—the jacket deep blue this time, with matching bonnet and skirt. I must confess I have a certain affection for this style of rig—I like the tight clutch of the jacket about my ribs and the feel of the soft white lace about my throat and wrists. I wanted to get a jacket made of red cloth, but I am going to France, after all, and they tend to view wearers of that color with some suspicion just as the Americans do when they see the scarlet coats of the British. It's funny, ain't it, I muse, as I pick out half a dozen fancy embroidered handkerchiefs to the extreme delight of the shop owner, that these three countries, Britain, France, and America—sometimes friends but most often enemies—all use red, white, and blue for their colors? Funny, that. Ironic, even.
The skirt of the riding habit is cut in such as way as to give the legs of the wearer some freedom to move—I mean sometimes you have to get on a horse and all—and that is good, because tomorrow I intend to do some moving ... some quick moving ... as in running.
I wear my spanking new riding habit out of the last shop, my veil now attached to my bonnet, only my eyes showing above it, making me look, I think, quite the lady of the manor. I grandly say to Carr and Boyd, "Brattle Lane, please. The offices of H. M. Fletcher & Sons, Wine Merchants. It is close to Saint Paul's Wharf."
"We know where it is, Miss," says a weary Carr, uttering a rare complete sentence as he pushes aside the mountain of packages that now occupy the carriage in order to sit across from me. Boyd issues instructions to the coachman, and then he, too, crams himself inside. I know that both clearly wish they had other duties—like maybe picking lice off nasty monkeys at the London Zoological Institute. Some men just do not like to shop.
I have been guarded in the past, generally against my will, by any number of soldiers and Marines, and I've always been able to use whatever charms I may have to gain at least their sympathy if not their affection. But not these two, oh, no. All my little ventures into their histories, or accounts of their wives or sweethearts, have been met with stony silence. Never a glimmer of humor, nor even a response except for a terse "yes" or "no" or a grunt. Well, we shall see, lads...
As we rattle along, I reflect on how close Jaimy might have been to me during that time I was growing up and running with the Rooster Charlie Gang and living under Black-friars Bridge. I mean, the warehouses of H. M. Fletcher & Sons were not half a mile from our kip, in fact, there they are right over there, and I'm sure he must have been there sometimes. Oh, I know he'd have been in school most of the time, while I was in the streets, but then, we might have met. Who knows?
I jerk myself back into the present. Back to business, girl. The carriage pulls up in front of the offices of H. M. Fletcher & Sons, Brattle Lane, London. I get out and walk in, followed very closely by Carr and Boyd.
There is a young man sitting behind a desk who looks up as I enter.
"Yes, Miss?"
"I wish to see Mr. H. M. Fletcher," I say, from behind my veil, as I glance about the room. The young man looks so much like Jaimy that I must assume that he is his brother George.
"In what regard?" the young man asks, rising. So much like Jaimy! Calm, now, you!
"I ... I have information concerning a certain James Emerson Fletcher, with whom I believe you are acquainted. I have seen him recently."
The young man's eyes go wide. "James? You have seen him. What...?"
"Please get your father, Sir, and I will go on."
He leaves the room and I hear Dad! Dad! Come here! News of Jimmy! In an outer office.
An older man comes into the front office. He is the same man I saw four years ago standing on the dock as the Dolphin prepared to get under way and he sent Jaimy off to be a ship's boy with the likes of me. He and his family have certainly paid for that move. He has aged a bit, but not by much, and he looks at me with expectation and not a little suspicion upon seeing me behind my veil.
"You have seen my son, James?" he demands. "We have not heard anything of him since he stepped off the dock last spring. Who are you? What...?"
"Father," says young George, "I think we both know who this is."
"Oh. Oh, yes, of course. That's Ja—"
"If you do think you know my name, Sirs," says I, looking back at Carr and Boyd, "please do not speak it, as it will not go well for any of us." I put as much warning into my eyes as I can. "Before I begin, let me say that I saw Jaimy a week ago, and though he was severely wounded, he was alive, and I have arranged that he will be delivered to your house within a fortnight."
"Thank God he yet lives!" cries Mr. Fletcher, grabbing the back of a chair for support. "How badly is he wounded? Where is he? How do you know about it?"
"He received a head wound during a fight at sea that left him with a severe concussion. He goes in and out of his senses, but is otherwise healthy, although right now he is in a French prison. That is where I left him, under the care of an excellent doctor. Both Jaimy and Dr. Sebastian will be exchanged next week, and he will be brought here to recover, which is, of course, my fondest hope."
"We should send for your mother, George, she will want to hear this!" says Mr. Fletcher. "Go get her..."
George shakes his head and looks at me. "I don't think it would be wise right now, Dad..."
Ah, so the old witch still hates me ... Good to know.
"Let's hear the story and we'll tell it to Mother later," suggests the very wise George.
I give a sniff and put on the Lawson Peabody Look, even though they can't see enough of it to fully appreciate its grandeur, and say, "I am glad to tell you that the head wound was not disfiguring, not that I would allow that to in any way diminish my great affection for your son. I have been given permission..." Here I dart my eyes to Carr and Boyd, "...by my, ah ... associates ... to visit with Jaimy when he arrives, if you could see it in your heart to allow me into your house, Sir. I would greatly appreciate it. I know I am not welcome here, so I will now bid you adieu. Rest assured I will be praying both night and day for Jaimy's full recovery. Good-bye."