“’Tis past time, Miss,” she whispered.
I bit my lip and looked out the window, craning my neck to see the wagon rattling over the road stones behind us. We were moving past buildings on both sides of the carriage now, almost military in their sameness and precision, and then the last remnants of haze lifted from my mind, burned away by the significance of the gate, the guard’s uniform, and the port we were entering. We were driving through a Royal Navy base. I sat back against the seat cushion, the burning knot in my stomach twisting tight. Mr. Babcock had failed to mention this particular complication, but then again, what difference would it have made if he had? Devonport was the closest harbor, and everything depended on our speed.
I kept my eyes on the dark rows of naval barracks, waiting irrationally for armed marines to come pouring out after us in the fog, but then the barracks were gone and the street became more like a small city, lined with churches and taverns and other public buildings, most sleeping and dark. We were stopped by another set of gates, again produced Mr. Babcock’s paper, and at last the carriage was rattling onto the docks. I sat forward, competing with Mary for the view.
Air blew soft from the still-open window, and with it came the smell of fish and the odor of something else, different from what I remembered of the Thames, not pleasant or unpleasant, but powerful. A bell tolled, and I could hear chains clink and the creak of stretching rope, while farther out, bobbing against the dark horizon, were huge, hulking silhouettes, spiderwebs of rope and mast lit by a quarter moon. Waves were out there in the spray of light, glinting beneath the thin, hovering mist, but beyond them was nothing but a vast expanse of water, melting black into the night.
“Lord,” said Mary under her breath, sitting back to click open the pocket watch, but I had eyes only for the sea. Lane had always wanted to see the ocean. I wondered what he had thought of it. I half stood, sticking my head out the window.
“Wait …” I began.
“That ain’t such a good idea, Miss, if you don’t mind me saying,” said Mary, frowning at the pocket watch.
“No, I mean, there’s someone coming.”
A shape was running toward us down the dock, short, squat legs pumping an uneven beat, arms flapping against the restraint of a long-tailed coat. It was Mr. Babcock.
“This way, this way!” he called, panting and, after a concurring nod from me, the driver slapped the reins and I pulled my head back through the window. We followed Mr. Babcock’s frenzied gait down the dock, the wagon creeping behind us, Mary tapping a finger on the watch case. Mr. Babcock slowed, waving us repeatedly toward a boat slip.
A small vessel rose and fell gently behind him, its sails furled, a British flag ruffling in a slight gust of breeze, smoke billowing from a single stack. I could hear the steam engine thrumming, water slapping the sides of the boat. I leapt out of the carriage, heart hammering as I looked over my shoulder for the wagon. We truly were behind time. Mary scrambled out after me with her carpetbag, Mr. Babcock pecked my cheek and grabbed my arm, his other hand directing a pair of barefooted sailors toward our luggage as we hurried to the gangplank.
It took three trips to get our things unloaded, two straining men alone to carry the steamer trunk belowdecks. They set it with our other boxes in a dim, clammy room that stank of fish and the smoking oil lamp that swung from the ceiling, making their way out again while I fidgeted with impatience. There were no chairs here, only crates and our boxes, and I wondered if it was possible that any of this boat’s cargo was legal, and if not, by which officer’s underhanded arrangement it had come to be here in the first place.
Mary had the watch out, her freckles scrunched as she attempted to see its hands in the wavering light. As soon as the door was shut, I took several purposeful steps toward my trunk, but Mr. Babcock held up a hand.
“We are expecting a visit from our captain, my dears, such as he is. Tact was indeed part of our arrangement, but I am not at all certain how far his discretion might go.”
“But we are behind time!” I said, voice rising. An uncharacteristic panic was taking hold of me. This entire idea had been madness, a crime against my own common sense. What had made any of us think it should be attempted? I felt Mary’s hand on my shoulder.
“Mr. Babcock’s right, Miss. What’s done is done. Only a little time more. Sit on this now, Miss, but mind you don’t dirty your dress, ’cause there’s no knowing when the next cleaning might be, or how often them French people are even doing such things, if you know what I mean, and we wouldn’t want you knocking on the door of your new house looking less than a lady, would we now? How would I be holding my head up in France if you was seen walking down the street with dirt on your dress, Miss?”
I sat, Mary’s nonsense lashing me to reality just as firmly as the crate I was sitting on was tied to the floor. Mr. Babcock plopped down onto a similar perch, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief.
“That was a near thing, my dears, a near thing! The captain has a deadline that will brook no delay, a deadline that seems to involve tides and when the most recently bribed agent is scheduled for the customs shed. They are saying the wind will be against us in the Channel, and that we shan’t make good time, and so the boat would have to sail by …”
As if to emphasize Mr. Babcock’s words, I felt a jerk, and another, and then a pull, a smooth sense of movement more akin to rolling on skates than the trains and carriages to which I was accustomed. The floor dipped and rose back up again, the humming in the air increased to a vibration beneath my feet. I crossed my arms against the clench in my stomach.
“Lord!” exclaimed Mary. “Would you look at that?” Her nose was pressed against a small round window, the glass smeared by the smack of an occasional wave. “Who’d ever be thinking that much water could go and be getting so filthy, Miss!”
“In any case,” Mr. Babcock continued, taking no notice of Mary, “our captain said he was leaving within the half hour, with or without you, which caused considerable unpleasantness all around.” He sighed heavily. “And our packages? I assume they had a safe trip?”
I nodded, hanging on to the crate as the floor tilted, anxiety eating hot at my insides. “Mr. Wickersham came early,” I told him, “just at the end of the funeral. I dealt with it, but it put us behind schedule.”
Mr. Babcock’s eyes went shrewd. “And how much did he guess?”
Before I could answer, knuckles rapped sharply on the door, and two men entered our fetid little room with a pomp more fitting to a grand hotel. The first had a dirty face, fraying cuffs, and a hat that managed to look both official and disreputable all at once; the second had the oily sort of smile that made me think instantly of a snake.
“Coo!” Mary said, whispering in my ear. “There’s a pair of ne’er-do-wells if I ever saw them. Better be staying close to me, Miss.” I would have comforted Mary, had her tone not been positively dripping with glee.
The official hat made a sweeping arc through the air, showing a balding pate as the captain bowed and began to speak rapidly in French. The reptilian man translated right on top of the words, his accent thick.
“If it pleases the guests,” he said, “we leave Devonport and Plymouth, sail the coast, and with God’s help will cross the Channel and stand in Le Havre before the noon. The captain asks …”