“Now, you watch your tongue, young Anthony,” Ellen scolded. “And open that burgundy.”
Anthony laughed and did as he was told. They ate and drank with the companionable ease of people who had sat at table together over many years. On board Wind Dancer, Adam would not have considered it appropriate to eat with the master, but in this kitchen there were no social distinctions.
Ellen waited until they’d finished before broaching the subject uppermost in her mind. “So, Anthony, have you seen the king?”
“Aye, last even.” He rested his forearms on the now cleared table, tapping his fingers lightly on the surface. “I managed to slip him the nitric acid so that he can cut through the window bars.”
Ellen nodded. The second time the king had tried to escape, no one had thought to check whether he could squeeze through the bars on his window. The bungled attempt had been a mortifying failure. On his third attempt, he had been given nitric acid to cut the bars, but so many people were part of the plan that all its details had inevitably come to the ears of Colonel Hammond.
This fourth attempt was being organized by a master. Anthony left nothing to chance. At Ellen’s behest he had been serving the king’s cause since the beginning of the war. He did what he did for Ellen and not for the king, for whom he had little regard. But Ellen’s loyalty to King Charles was all consuming, so for the last six years most of Anthony’s profits had gone to funding the Royalist armies, and now all the formidable skills he had acquired in planning his piracy and smuggling ventures were devoted to organizing the king’s escape to France.
“How did His Majesty seem?” Ellen asked anxiously. “Is he very dispirited?”
“Less than one might imagine.” Anthony took a sip of wine. “He’s still negotiating with the Scots through Livesay.” He shrugged. “And he still seems to think those negotiations are concealed from Parliament.”
“But you don’t think that’s so?”
“No. Forgive me, Ellen, but the king is deluded in this as in so many other areas.”
Ellen’s mouth tightened. “If you don’t wish to do this, Anthony, I’ll not blame you.”
He smiled then, absently moving his cup around the table. “Yes, you would. My feelings are irrelevant, Ellen. I do this for you. I have no particular interest in the outcome of this war, except that the sooner it’s over, the sooner a man will be able to resume the life that suits him.”
Ellen got up and went out to the scullery, returning in a few minutes with a bowl of stewed gooseberries and a jug of thick yellow cream. “I picked these this morning.”
Anthony accepted that his indifferent attitude troubled Ellen and that she had no desire to continue the conversation. He helped himself to fruit and cream. “Before we go back, I’ll nail the loose door on the goat shed. The next strong wind will tear it right off.”
“Thank you.” Ellen pushed the bowl across to Adam, who had taken little part in the discussion. He was accustomed to being an observer rather than a participant in such matters.
Anthony finished his gooseberries and with a word of excuse took himself outside. Soon the sounds of the hammer reached the kitchen.
“He’s so like his father in so many ways,” Ellen said. “I don’t understand how he can be so different in this one particular. Edward was full of passion and ideals, misplaced many of them, but he believed in so much. Anthony doesn’t seem to believe strongly in anything… Oh, nobody could be more loyal or a better friend,” she added, seeing Adam’s frown. “But in terms of conviction… he doesn’t seem to have any.”
“Reckon ‘e saw what conviction did fer ’is father,” Adam said. “And ‘twas conviction that led the Caxtons to cast off both Sir Edward an’ his son. A mere innocent babe, their own flesh and blood, cast out to die fer all they cared. A cruel thing is conviction if’n ye looks at it in a certain light.”
Ellen sighed. “I suppose that’s true. But sometimes when I look at him I see Edward so clearly it hurts. The same rakehell charm.” She sighed again.
“Aye, well that charm’s goin‘ to get ’im in trouble one o‘ these days. Shouldn’t wonder if it ’asn’t already done so,” Adam said darkly.
Ellen’s eyes sharpened. “Tell me.”
Adam told her in a very few words.
“Lord Granville’s daughter!” Ellen looked at him in horror. “But Granville’s utterly committed to Parliament. Anthony can’t possibly be involved with his daughter. She’ll betray him to her father.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions.” Adam waved a forefinger. “First off, Anthony’ll never let ‘er in on ’is secrets. He’s far too canny an‘ careful.” He paused, frowning, then said, “Besides, this one’s not like ’is usual sport, Ellen.”
“How so?”
“Spirited kind of a lass,” Adam said. “I doubt she’ll fall fer ‘is line some’ow. One minute they’re all over each other, next she’s off with ’er nose in the air an‘ Anthony’s lookin’ black as a wet Monday.”
“Oh dear,” said Ellen helplessly. But she turned brightly at the sound of Anthony’s step in the scullery. “Thank you, my dear.”
“My pleasure.” Anthony stood in the doorway, hands on his hips, regarding them with a quizzical gleam. “I trust you’ve both enjoyed your little chat. Dissected the situation thoroughly, have you?”
“Oh dear,” said Ellen again. “Couldn’t you… well, couldn’t you find someone more suitable, Anthony?”
At that he laughed. “Suitability doesn’t come into it, dearest Ellen. But don’t fret, the lady’s not exactly falling over herself to get into my bed.” A shadow crossed his eyes as he said this, a shadow not missed by his companions.
He took his jacket off the hook where he’d hung it when they’d arrived and slung it over one shoulder. “Come, Adam, it’s time we were on our way.”
Ellen walked with them to the gate.
Anthony bent to kiss her and then came to the main point of this visit. “I’ve a considerable consignment of luxury goods to dispose of. Can you get word to our contact in Portsmouth? Wind Dancer will be in Portsmouth harbor the day after tomorrow and I’ll hold the auction the next day.”
“I’ll send the message this evening. Just have a care, my dear.”
Ellen watched them stroll off down the lane towards the river, then she hurried inside for her cloak and made her way to the vicarage to deliver her message.
“Beggin‘ yer pardon, m’lord.”
Cato looked up from his breakfast the following morning at Giles Crampton’s familiar portentous tones from the doorway. “What is it, Giles?”
“A letter from the colonel, m’lord.” Giles came into the room, dropping his head in the gesture of a bow to the three ladies at the table. “I think summat’s up,” he confided.
“Sit down, break your fast.” Cato waved to a chair as he took the letter.
Giles offered another nod of his head to the ladies as he took a seat at the table. He had known the three women for a long time, in Olivia’s case from early childhood, and while he offered a degree of social deference, he was perfectly at home in their company.
“Ham, Giles?” Olivia pushed the wooden carving board towards him.
“Thankee, Lady Olivia.” He speared ham, cut bread, helped himself to eggs, and settled into his meal.
Phoebe gestured to a servant to fill a tankard for the sergeant from the ale pitcher on the sideboard.
“Damn,” Cato muttered, his eyes on the letter.
“What is it?” Phoebe asked.
“A summons to London. I’m afraid your husband is needed too, Portia.” Cato glanced at his niece as he refolded the letter.
“Well, I shall stay here, if I’m welcome,” Portia said with a smile.
“You and your tribe.” Cato returned the smile. “We’ll be away a few days, not too long.” He pushed back his carved armchair.