The Peacock Throne (24 page)

Legacy
picked up speed perceptibly. Danbury broke off in mid-sentence. He and Marcus exchanged a look. Standing in concert, they went out on deck. Miss Garrett joined them, worry writ plain on her face. She eyed the captain as if awaiting judgment.

Campbell said something further to his pilot then left the helm, making his way to where his passengers stood. He came directly to the point. “I've good reason to think that ship off our beam is a French corvette.”

Dread cinched Marcus's gut tighter than the Prince of Wales's corset. What if this mission failed?

“Do you think we're in danger?” As ever, Danbury cut to the heart of the concern.

“We've pulled away smartly and may be able to shake her, but I'm wary. We've sighted the same ship twice before. She never seems to draw nearer, but neither does she lose sight of us for long. Her captain is sly enough to keep out of sight for the most part, and a good enough sailor to pull it off. I'd lay odds she's stalking us. Any normal privateer would make a dash and swarm aboard like a plague of infernal locusts.” Campbell pushed back his hat and scratched his head. “This is something different.”

“What do you suggest?” Marcus asked.

“I say we pack on sail and try to outrun her.
Legacy
hasn't nearly reached the limit of what she can do. I thought you gentlemen might have reasons for wanting to draw the sloop on, though, so I wanted to consult you.”

“Could she simply be another ship using this same route? This is a trade route, isn't it?” Marcus asked. He wouldn't be one of those agents who leapt to conclusions. They invariably blundered and cost lives.

“Aye, it is, but that ship is no merchantman, nor is she escorting one. She is alone, and like I said, a normal privateer would be on us like lice—if you'll pardon the expression, Miss.”

“Is it possible that
Angélique
had a consort?” Danbury said.

The captain shrugged. “There could have been a dozen ships hidden away in some cove, or coming around from the other side of the island.”

Closing his eyes, Marcus rubbed them lightly. After a moment he looked up. “Then the traitor may be on this ship rather than
Angélique
. This unknown sloop may even have stopped to pick him up from their disabled counterpart.”

A spark lit Danbury's eyes for the first time in days. He took to pacing. “With our masts and rigging damaged, it was slow going for a while. They'd have had plenty of time to catch us up.”

Miss Garrett took one small step forward. “It would seem, Captain, that the answer depends on their intentions. If they mean to take us, we should run; if they intend to follow us, then perhaps we ought to let them. We could allow them to think we remain unaware of them, and set a trap.”

Lord Danbury turned and stared at her from under lowering brows.

“I apologize, my Lord. I spoke out of turn.”

“No, please. You make a good point. The trick is to discern what they intend.”

The captain shrugged. “It seems to me that if they meant to overtake us they would have already done so. They have had ample opportunity, with all the advantages of surprise and even the darkness of night to mask their approach, yet they have not.”

“If their spy is aboard that ship, I should dearly like another opportunity to bring him to justice,” Danbury said.

Marcus voiced his agreement with this sentiment. Raising his spyglass, Marcus peered at the tiny fleck of white on the far edge of the horizon. If the spy were truly on board, he might have one more chance at redemption. The traitor would not escape again.

“Doctor, have you prepared the physic for Sophie?”

Marshall's hands were busy changing a bandage and he gestured with his chin towards the medicine cabinet. “The one marked with a bit of tar on the stopper.”

Lydia pulled out the small brown bottle and lifted the stopper. It smelled of all things foul, but if it would aid the girl, she would make sure Sophie took her dose faithfully.

Offering a nod of thanks as she passed, she hurried back to the sun and air.

She opened the door to her cabin cautiously for fear of waking her last remaining patient. It had been wasted worry. Sophie was already awake, though she remained in her hammock.

Lydia took the girl's hand in her own. It was hot and dry, as fragile as a meadowlark. “How are you, Sophie?”

“I'm better. Thank you.”

“I brought you a concoction that Dr Marshall prepared. It will ease your pain, and put you to rights in no time.”

The girl attempted to raise herself, but Lydia placed a hand on her shoulder. “Stay yourself. You still need rest.” She poured a dollop into a small cup and handed it to the girl. Sophie wrinkled her nose at the stench, but dutifully swallowed the lot, though it left her gasping. Lydia quickly handed her a cup of water to wash away the taste.

“Has Dr Marshall come to see you at all?”

“No, Miss.”

Lydia frowned, but then pushed aside her irritation. He had had his hands full with all his patients. “I shall remind him to look in.”

“You are very good, Miss.”

Lydia waved aside the comment. “What would you like to do in London? I mean if you could have your heart's desire.”

“I—” Sophie's gaze grew dreamy and she shook her head.

Lydia cocked her head, inviting further comment.

“I would like to—” A flush darkened her cheeks. She sighed and spoke again. “You said the ladies of London would like my gowns. I would most love to work as a mantua maker.”

Lydia blinked. “You do beautiful work. I'm sure it will not be long before you have a line of clients at the door.”

Lydia lifted the water to the girl's mouth again and she gulped it.

“Careful, slow down.” She smoothed the girl's hair back from her face. “How do you keep track of your ideas?”

“I draw them. I get papers and charcoals, and I get them out, 'fore I forget.” Fumbling at the pocket of her dress, Sophie removed a ragged little sheaf of folded pages and offered it to Lydia.

Lydia took the stack and paused in her ministrations long enough to leaf through the pages. The paper had obviously come from several sources. Many of the pieces had four or five drawings crowded onto each side. The quick sketches described graceful lines and an elegant sense of proportion.

“You're an artist with your pen as well as your needle.”

Sophie ducked her head shyly. Lydia carried on as if she had not noticed Sophie's discomfort. “You've embraced the new French style.”

“Monsieur liked to keep in touch with what goes on in his homeland.”

“I find that I like this new fashion very much.”

“It suits you.”

“I think your gowns will be in great demand. Lord Danbury will ensure you get a good start.”

“Miss—”

“Yes?”

“I'm sorry, Miss. I made some—guesses? No. I don't know de right word, but I thought wicked things 'bout you when you come to the house. I beg pardon.”

Lydia could not feign ignorance. Patting her hand, she smiled. “Do not give it another thought. I'm well aware people may misunderstand my—circumstances. I am not unprepared for it. I do appreciate that you have revised your opinion of me.”

Sophie refused to meet her eyes.

Lydia changed the subject to ease the girl's embarrassment. “Would you like something to eat?”

“I could not eat.”

“It will help you to regain your strength. Just a little?”

“I don't think so, Miss.”

“Then I shall fetch Emmanuel; perhaps he can convince you to eat.”

Lydia stared up at the dome of the sky. The stars shone large and vibrant against the deepest indigo of night, bigger and brighter than any she had glimpsed in London. Dr Marshall joined her at the rail.

“As you requested, I looked in on the slave girl. I fear her condition is grave.”

Lydia's mouth dropped open. “I have been with her most of the day. She seemed to be improving.”

“That is often the way with gunshot wounds.” He turned from his perusal of the sea to offer her a half-smile. “I have attended my share of duelists.”

Lydia turned her face away. How could she have misunderstood Sophie's condition so drastically?

Marshall placed a hand on her shoulder. “Do not fault yourself, child. Patients often seem to rally, and just when we begin to hope, they falter.” He cleared his throat. “I made her as comfortable as I could, and bled her to bring down her fever. But… perhaps you ought to say farewell and call her brother. I don't think she will last the night.”

Numbly, Lydia fled to her cabin. Tears pooled in her eyes as she fell to her knees beside Sophie's hammock. Dr Marshall was right behind her and she heard him rustling about the cabin.

“Oh, Sophie. I'm so sorry,” she whispered. She wanted to say more, but couldn't force the words past her heartbreak.

Sweat beaded on Sophie's forehead and she moaned softly. Fingers shaking, Lydia bathed the girl's face with cool water.

“Miss Garrett.” The sharpness of the tone made her head snap up as if she had been slapped.

“Did I not tell you the stopper marked with tar?”

Her brow furrowed in confusion. “I'd…”

He held up the vial, its dark glass unmarred by a daub of tar or any other kind.

Lydia balled her hands into fists. Her nails dug into her palms. This was her fault. Negligence and foolish pride had kept her from taking greater care in selecting the appropriate bottle. She had never even thought to check it again before administering it. Who was she to be playing physician and surgeon? The tears spilled over, scalding her cheeks.

“Please leave us, Miss Garrett. Her brother must be informed of her condition.”

Dumbly she nodded and stumbled from the cabin.

Dry-eyed at last, Lydia stared as Sophie's body was sewn into a canvas bag with a cannonball for company. The ceremony was mercifully brief. Lydia wanted to hide away in her cabin. She fingered the pitiful scraps of paper she had salvaged. They were all that remained of a gifted artist's dreams. Lydia swallowed, pushing back against the regret that threatened to throttle her.

Emmanuel stood, a towering figure though his head was bowed in sorrow.

My fault. My fault.
The aching knowledge drummed through her.

She approached him tentatively. “I am so very sorry.” The words she marshalled with such effort emerged as little more than a whisper.

His gaze met hers and though she found anguish there she read no condemnation.

“I meant only to care for her.”

“I know.” His deep voice held no reproach, but neither did it offer any warmth.

“I… please.” Her voice fractured. She breathed deeply of the salt air that stung her reddened eyes. “I have no right to approach you, but I beg you to forgive me.”

He really looked at her then for the first time, his gaze searing into her until he seemed to have read her soul.

“You're a kind lady. You show us regard, though you know we are just slaves. But, I—” He looked away, out to the sea that surrounded
them, or perhaps to something both nearer and infinitely further. “I will ask God to help me forgive. It will take time. I am not so strong all at once.”

She bowed her head in acknowledgment, a defendant in the dock accepting the verdict. There would be no absolution. “I will trouble you no longer. Only, these were Sophie's. I think she would want you to have them.” She extended to him the scraps of paper that held his sister's heart.

He accepted them with trembling hands and began to page through them. Unabashed tears dripped and spattered off his chin.

Lydia turned to catch Lord Danbury eyeing her. As much as she wanted to, she could not find it in herself to summon a reassuring smile. She needed to get away from all the watchful eyes and helpful hands. She hated the adoration from the seamen. Couldn't they see she was not worthy of their regard?

“Well, gentlemen. We've kept a close watch on that sloop and we've proved your theory. Their sails appear on the horizon once or twice a day, but then fall back almost as quickly. They've made no effort to draw nearer.”

Anthony grinned and looked at Harting. They had another chance to get their hands on the killer. His fingers tightened experimentally. Once he got hold of him…

From the satisfied look on Harting's face, he had obviously already reached the same conclusion. “It has become a sort of game among the crew, to see who can spot the sloop on any given day.”

Captain Campbell harrumphed. He was clearly not amused by the cat-and-mouse game. “I suppose you want me to keep to our course and string these fellows along.”

“Doggedly, sir. Doggedly,” Harting said.

“All right then.” Campbell shook his head. “If you'll excuse me, gentlemen.” Anthony had the distinct impression that the captain
would have liked to sigh. Not that he blamed the poor fellow. If Anthony were skipper he wouldn't like risking his vessel either.

A flash of pale green muslin caught his eye, and Anthony looked down to see Miss Garrett staring out at the horizon. She seemed oblivious to her surroundings and her posture lacked the graceful assurance he associated with her.

The slave girl's death had hit her unaccountably hard. Miss Garrett had a compassionate nature, but why should she grieve so deeply for someone she had known only a few days? And yet the sorrow was there. It darkened her eyes and flattened the animation of her features. It was as if she had died with the slave girl and the figure at the bow was a mere ghost haunting the ship.

She was so pale. Had she been eating properly? Anthony took a step towards her, but then reversed his course. Perhaps Dr Marshall could take a look at her. No doubt she would accept his solicitude better.

The mouth of the Hooghly River yawned before them, a serpent ready to swallow them whole. Only a little further. Lydia stepped away from the gentlemen and peered back past the stern of the ship.

Yesterday, the white sails that had dogged them for weeks had grown larger and larger until they were the size of her hand when she extended it to the horizon. But then they had sighted a convoy of Indiamen with their Royal Navy escorts, and the sloop had melted away.

Now
Legacy
was surrounded by everything from great trading ships to navy frigates, junks to one-man rowboats. As if the river were a funnel, the vessels came together in a sudden rush, each vying for position as they waited for a pilot who could guide them through the treacherous sandbars that littered the waterway.

Danbury's liberal funding had procured a pilot more quickly than they might have expected, and
Legacy
wove her way among lesser ships like the stately lady she was.

Transfixed, Lydia stood at the rail and watched as the land glided past. Danbury paced along the rail in the waist of the ship, his hands clasped behind his back, his attention fixed on the exotic scene. Harting had his glass to his eye, and his free hand plucked at his cravat.

A fantastical Hindu temple nearly groaned beneath the weight of a surfeit of decoration. Lydia could not spy an inch that was not carved, painted or moulded. Ancient decay had worn other shrines into little more than moulded mounds of stone. Dilapidated hovels stood cheek by jowl with ostentatious new buildings painted in lurid colours.

Mr Cabot appeared at her side. “I've been to India twice before. It is difficult to take in all at once.”

Mutely she nodded.

Legacy
slowed as they neared Calcutta and the river traffic grew even heavier.

A frescoed building with a long colonnade sat at the edge of the river. A series of stairs as wide as the building led all the way into the water. Among jumbles of crates and boxes, men, women and children thronged the stairs. Others stood in the muddy brown water.

“What is that?” she asked.

Mr Cabot smiled broadly. “It's a bathing ghat. The Indians try to bathe at least once a day in running water, and since the Hooghly is the main tributary of the Ganges, they consider this water holy.”

Lydia looked over the side at the brackish water. “It smells foul.”

“Yes, well, they also use it for a variety of other purposes, including the disposal of diseased corpses.” A glimmer of nearly sly humour flickered in his eyes at her horrified gasp.

Stonily she turned back to the river and watched in silence. Mr Cabot seemed not to notice her pique and remained by her side.

A flood of irrational panic churned her stomach. What if they failed to convince the Governor-General to go along with their plan? Swallowing hard, she placed a hand flat against her abdomen. She took a deep breath and immediately wished she hadn't.

They sailed past Fort William, its battery bristling with the snouts of long black cannon. At last, Captain Campbell anchored near a dozen or so other ships.

Calcutta gleamed in the afternoon sun. The entire city seemed to be made of white marble.

“It looks almost… European?” Lydia said.

Cabot nodded. “Calcutta was really built by the East India Company. The northern areas where the company officials live are airy—palatial even.”

“Since we speak of palaces, what is that building there?” Lydia pointed to an immense building some distance away.

Cabot leaned forward and squinted. After a moment he leaned back. “It must be the new Government House. I left the company not long after the foundation was laid. Wellesley meant to build a palace better befitting his dignity from nearly the moment he stepped ashore.”

“You do not care for him then?”

Cabot shrugged. “He's a competent leader, but with his gifts he could have been great. He'll never achieve that though—he's too fussy. Too set on formality and too intent on making sure everyone knows he's in charge. No. People respect him, but they don't like him much and he doesn't like them.”

Lydia's gaze strayed back to the massive white building. Would such a man champion their cause, or prove another hindrance?

Once ashore, Anthony hired a carriage for their use. A native man perched in the driver's seat, his head wrapped in a snowy turban, but bare-chested. A piece of cloth that extended to his ankles was wound around his body like a skirt.

Dr Marshall paused next to the cart. With a tug at his earlobe he addressed Anthony. “I understand you're going to Government House?”

“Yes, sir. Are you going that way? You're welcome to join us.”

“I am. Thank you.” The doctor climbed up.

Miss Garrett slid closer to Anthony to make room. The nearness of her body made his throat tighten. He stared at the passing scenery, studiously trying to ignore the warmth spreading from her thigh to his.

People teemed through the streets. Some were shabby, but more were dressed in brilliant colours that vied for attention. Most of the native men wore long, narrow-chested jackets that reached to their knees, and a sort of loose pantaloon beneath, secured tightly at the ankle. Each head was crowned with a turban. Most of the women wore garments not much different from the men's, but a few wore tight, short blouses and separate skirts, leaving their abdomens scandalously bare. Matching headscarves rested lightly, covering their hair. Gold glinted from earlobes, necks, wrists, and fingers.

Anthony's mouth dropped open as an ornate barouche crossed their path. It was pulled by a matched pair of zebras and driven by an Indian man in European livery. If ever there were a city built on excess they had found it.

They passed under a white marble archway surmounted by lions. Brackets were in place which indicated it would be a gate one day, but for the moment it offered no impediment to visitors. Scaffolding still shrouded portions of the east wing. But the enormous building managed to retain an air of cool detachment.

A dome sat centred over a rotunda and columned wings spread out on either side: it was a palace befitting imperial goals.

British soldiers in brilliant red dress coats guarded the main entrance. They stood unmoving as the visitors—led by Harting—approached. He presented his request to see the Governor-General and within a few moments a clerk appeared. Harting once more offered his compliments and credentials. They were whisked through halls and corridors, down colonnades, and up stairs. Everything gleamed with newness, from the black-and-white, tiled marble floor to the wall hangings.

At last they were deposited in a small, comfortably furnished antechamber. “If you could oblige us by waiting, gentlemen, miss.” He inclined his head towards Miss Garrett. “His Lordship will attend you shortly.”

“You are very kind,” Harting murmured.

In a matter of moments, the impeccably mannered staff produced refreshments and then discreetly withdrew. Miss Garrett poured them each a draught of iced lemon water.

Harting lounged in his seat. “It isn't as hot as I feared.”