The odors of fried fish, eggs, and strong coffee floated into the house, and after a short time the voices of the reverend and his niece could be heard, his subdued, hers cheerful. Occasionally a third person spoke, too, and the two Negroes looked at each other questioningly, then shrugged. The guest was plainly a woman and young; she had a faint foreign accent and she seemed angry. But the men were disinterested, for they were hungry and the breadfruit was rich and heavy.
At last the reverend appeared in the back door, wearing his usual clerical garb with the addition of a broad-brimmed straw hat which sat squarely on his head. In one hand he carried a long bamboo fishing pole and in the other was a packet of hooks and bait. He blinked in the strong sunlight, then waved cheerily to the Negroes.
"Good morning, Gabriel, Michael," he called. "It's very good of you to give me this day's holiday."
The men rose, stretched, and grinned pleasantly. They did not cower as the blacks of the island usually did in the presence of white men, nor were they in any way servile. Not only did Reverend Pennywell's attitude indicate that he considered them as equals, but they themselves behaved with dignity and a lack of self-consciousness. The man addressed as Gabriel replied for the pair.
"Not so good of us. Master Preacher," he said in a rumbling bass. "Michael and me, we like to fish. And maybe you tell us de story of dat Daniel who didn't git et by de lions, and de story 'bout dose free boys who went into de fiery furnace and come out alive."
The cleric beamed. "Nothing would give me more pleasure, Gabriel," he said. " Tt is written in the prophets, And they shall be all taught of God.' John, 6. It will be my joy to instruct you in the Word of the Lord."
"Michael, we git de boat now." The Negro turned away from Reverend Pennywell and started for the shed, his companion at his heels.
A few moments later they emerged, the upturned boat between them as they carried it by prow and stem on their sturdy shoulders. With the minister leading the way they proceeded at a leisurely pace to the harbor, their progress impeded by the popularity of Reverend Pennywell. Virtually everyone whom he passed called a greeting to him, and three or four times he stopped for a brief chat with a seaman, a merchant's apprentice, or a tavernkeeper. When they arrived at the docks, the Negroes righted the boat, untied the oars that were secured to the locks with ropes, and dropped the cumbersome craft into the water. Michael jumped in and steadied the craft while Reverend Pennywell stepped in gingerly and made himself as comfortable as possible in the stem seat. Then he removed a large pack of sandwiches from one pocket and flask of water from another and, after placing them carefully under his seat to protect them from the sun, nodded bristly.
Gabriel leaped into the boat, and a few seconds later the two Negroes were bending rhythmically over the oars. A warm, moist sea breeze was blowing, and from the direction of the Citadel the sloop of war, Duke of York, approached under full sail. A dozen soldiers in scarlet jackets and white shakos lounged in attitudes of boredom at the rail on the tiny deck while the seamen busied themselves in the cockpit. Gabriel grunted under his breath and Michael's black eyes became slightly glazed, deliberately expressionless.
But Reverend Pennywell did not lose his smile, and as the sloop passed close by he cheerily returned the wave of Lieutenant Commander Hardy, the captain of the ship. Hardy shouted some pleasantry, but his words were lost across the water. A few seconds later the Duke of York was on her way out to open sea. No one in the rowboat said anything, and there was no sound save the creaking of the oars in their locks and the gentle lapping of wooden blades cutting through the clear, warm water of the Caribbean.
Sir Arthur Bartlett sipped a glass of wine and smiled. Looking at the Duchess of Glasgow and her chamberlain as they sat across from him in his well-appointed study, he thought that although he disapproved of their high-flown manners and their artifice they were pleasant companions. Only this morning his wife had commented that Caroline and her party had brought so much gaiety to King's House that she would be sorry to see them leave. However, there had been no mention as yet of a departure date, and Sir Arthur felt it would be bad manners as well as a gross abuse of protocol to speak of the matter until the Duchess herself broached it. He sipped again and leaned back in the damask-covered chair, relaxing.
Glancing at Caroline, he remembered his wife's description of her and thought it was perfect. The Duchess was exactly what every British subject thought a member of the royal family should be. Gracious, charming, yet never forward, she invariably conducted herself with decorum. What was more, she was probably the handsomest of the Stuarts. The simple white linen dress she wore now was a masterpiece of simplicity, and although she undoubtedly knew she was startlingly attractive, she modestly gave no indication of it.
Sir Ian was speaking, and the governor general coughed politely behind his hand. "You'll forgive me," he said, "but I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to repeat yourself, Sir Ian. To be truthful with you, my mind was wandering."
"I find myself often afflicted in the same way," the Scotsman replied smoothly. "We who have lived our lives in a temperate climate have our difficulties in adjusting to this heat. Ordy the slaves seem to thrive here. . . . But to return to what I was saying. Her Grace and I asked for these few minutes before luncheon because of a matter that we call to your attention with considerable reluctance."
Caroline fingered a necklace of matched pearls, and a faint frown wrinkled her brow. "We all want to forget the misguided young man who masqueraded as your nephew, Sir Arthur, but I am afraid we cannot."
The governor general sipped his wine. "I can well understand the hurt Your Grace is suffering. Your naturally delicate and tender nature shrinks at the thought of the punishment that has been meted out to him. But there was no choice, you will recall. As Sir Ian so rightfully said after I explained the principle of the administration of justice to you both, it is the King and the Commons who make the laws, and we who serve Their Majesties must enforce those laws. It is sometimes unfortunate, as in the case of a young man who seemed both personable and efficient, but there was no choice." His jaw line was firm and his voice uncompromising. "It was even more difficult for me than for you. I had grown fond of him."
"You and Lady Bartlett have had my sympathies," Caroline replied gently. "And I would not bring up such a sore subject again if it were not necessary."
"However," Sir Ian interposed, '*we are not concerned over our young impostor. And when we receive the report in the next day or so that he has died, I'm sure we shall drop him out of our minds."
"That is true, Ian." The Duchess nodded her agreement, then turned the full power of her deep blue eyes on the governor general. "I am vastly concerned over my lady in waiting, Your Excellency."
"Mademoiselle Groliere?" Sir Arthur was vastly surprised. "I hope she has not become involved in this matter. She seems such a quiet and sensible little person "
"She is a woman." Caroline smiled wryly. "And with all due respect to my sex, I fear that most of us allow our hearts to rule our heads. Especially when we are as young and impressionable as Janine Groliere. I have learned from various members of my entourage that she was in love with the pretender who called himself Terence Bartlett."
"Very much in love with him," Sir Ian chimed in.
"And I fear she is foolishly trying to help him in some way, for she has disappeared."
"Disappeared?" Sir Arthur was shocked. "But that is impossible. We are on the threshold of the eighteenth century. We are decidedly not living in the Middle Ages. And people do not simply disappear, Your Grace."