Chapter 25

25

Courtney Farrow adjusted the hood of her cloak to keep her face in shadow as she stepped from the coach to the boardwalk. She thanked the driver and settled a coin in his hand, then hurried the few steps into the cozy warmth of the waterfront teashop. A tiny bell on the door announced her arrival to the homely-looking man behind the counter and he hastened over, wiping his hands on a snow-white apron as he ushered her to a small table near the window. From there, she had an excellent view of the harbor, the docks, the frenzied activity on the wharfs as one ship docked and another was being loaded with last-minute provisions.

"Aye, Miss? How can I serve ye?"

She could have used a strong measure of rum, but she forced a smile and nodded. "Just tea, please."

"Aye, a luv'ly cuppa should warm the cockles of yer ‘art. Mayn't I ask if ye're just comin' or just goin'?"

"Going."

"Ahh. On the Sirius, then?" He glanced out the window and nodded toward the activity on the wharf. "Bound for America?"

"Yes."

"Luv'ly place, that. Luv'ly place. The wife and I visited near ten year back when our son wed himsel' to a planter's daughter and brought a luv'ly pair of twins into the family. Boys, they was; real charmers. But we've three daughters here who've wed themselves to Spaniards and my Bess is dead against leavin' them alone too long surrounded by Papists. So we runs the teashop, and we hears the gossip comin' and goin'. Travelin' all alone, are ye?"

"Yes. Yes, my ... husband went on ahead."

"Ahh. Well, ye've picked the proper ship to book on. Captain Pettigrew's a fine gen'leman, a fine sailor. Runs a clean, fair ship, he does. Here now, an' I'd best be after ye're tea or the flag's'll be up before ye're half done. Won't be but a minute."

He beamed and hurried away, his portly body constructed in such a way that most of the movement was done from the knees down. Courtney sighed and pushed the hood back, using the opportunity to glance surreptitiously at the other patrons. The teashop was small, crammed between two towering warehouses, but it smelled deliciously of fresh scones and aromatic teas. There were three couples sharing the English atmosphere and talking among themselves in low, relaxed tones. None of them looked her way but briefly; no one stared or raised a brow in curiosity.

She felt as though they should. She felt stiff and unnatural in the prim, high-collared travelling suit she had purchased for the occasion. Her feet were sweating and itching inside tight leather shoes, and the cloak, though lightweight, felt like a wooden yoke around her shoulders. She had sold the emerald ring for enough to buy the suit, the cloak, and a small trunk of clothing, as well as to book passage on the merchantman Sirius, bound for Boston and Norfolk. She had money left over to find a comfortable hotel once she was in Norfolk, and to maintain her disguise as a refugee from France. To that end she had assumed the name of de Villiers and practised long and hard in front of a mirror until she felt reasonably sure she could pass muster.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a man smiling at her from across the teashop. She raised a hand nervously and patted the bottom row of auburn curls that lay softly against the nape of her neck. The salon she had visited earlier in the day had trimmed and styled her ragged cap of curls into something she was assured was most fashionable. Since then she had noticed several passers-by on the streets turning to cast an approving eye along her newly garbed figure—a consequence she had been forewarned about by the enthusiastic dressmaker who had laboured over her transformation.

"Here ye be, m'dear." The proprietor returned to the table, his wide, flat hands balancing a tray laden with a cup and saucer, a teapot, and a plate of dainty cakes and scones. "Eat hearty whilst ye have the chance, ‘at's what I always tell my guests. First day out the ship's likely not to follow any regular schedules fer victuals, so goodness only knows when ye'll be served a proper meal—although Captain Pettigrew is a bit of a toff when it comes to his food. He likes to dine with his passengers when he can, an' he likes to put out a hearty spread. Ever sailed afore, Miss?"

"Some," she admitted with a wry smile.

"Best thing for ye is a dry biscuit with a spot o' jam if ye start feelin' queasy. Not too heavy in the belly, if ye knows what I mean."

"Thank you. I will try to remember."

His brow folded like an accordion as he fussed with the plates and cutlery. "Odd, an' I can't seem to place yer accent. It's a luv'ly lilt ye have—mayn't I ask?"

"I am from Paris originally, but I have spent time in Italy and Spain recently."

"Ahh," he smiled knowingly. "Turrible troubles yer country's had, Miss. Turrible. And this here Bonypart's a mite cocky for his own good ‘ealth. He's due for a comeuppance, ye ask me. Our Admiral Nelson tromped him a good one in Egypt already; ye'd think the pompous sod'd take a lesson, but no. Seems we'll have to do it all over again. Ahh me, well ... Whup! There she is! Flags goin' up on the Sirius. Ye've an hour before she sails, Miss, an' if I don't have a chance to speak at ye again, luck on yer voyage. And don't you take no never mind about portents and old wives' tales about storms bodin' ill luck for a sea voyage—yer very own face has enough sunshine in it to light up the whole Mediterranean."

The sky was indeed growing darker by the minute. A thick gray ceiling of cloud was rolling over the harbor. Courtney's attention was drawn to the Sirius, a privately owned three-masted barkentine, smaller than either the Falconer or the Eagle, with cramped quarters for half a dozen passengers. Most of the space belowdecks would be occupied by cargo, and there was nary a cannon or gunport in sight. The ticketing agent had looked at her strangely when she had booked passage, for the Sirius was not a vessel geared for luxury travel. But Courtney had insisted the tiny, spartan cabin was all she needed and that speed was her priority, not comfort. The next available berth on a larger ship was not for three weeks.

The flags were up, yet the wharf was still crowded with cartloads of provisions, wicker cages filled with chickens, barrels of salted beef and fish. Men were already up in the rigging, swinging from yard to yard to ready the sails and do a final check on the tackles and lines. Crewmen were streaming up and down her gangway plank to herd the supplies on board. A tall, dark-haired man in a navy peacoat stood on the foredeck, overseeing the operations and shouting orders through a hailing trumpet. Farther out in the bay, the tugs were making ready to attach their two cables to guide the heavily laden bark out to the open sea lane. Courtney's dark green eyes wandered over the forest of masts and rigging, reluctantly finding and settling on the naval cutter, Carolina.

Courtney had, over the past two weeks, heard a great deal about the newest hero to emerge from the Barbary wars—Captain Adrian Ballantine. Stories made him out to be godlike and indestructible; some even made it sound as if he had met the entire crew of blood-thirsty, fire-breathing corsairs single-handedly. He had been released several days ago from the hospital and was due to ship out of Gibraltar on the Carolina. A royal send-off was planned for the morrow, and Courtney was thankful she would miss it. She had spent four days and nights by his side at the hospital after the Argus brought them to port. She had relived every second they had spent together ... the good and the bad ... and she knew she was taking the only wise and prudent measure available by slipping quietly and quickly out of his life.

Stirring herself, Courtney drained the last of her cooling tea from the cup and left the appropriate number of coins on the table. The proprietor, busy with another customer, looked over and waved.

"Luck again, Miss. ‘Ope ye find ‘appiness and good fortune in America."

She said something banal then stepped out into the busy mainstream of traffic. The smell of fish and floating garbage instantly replaced the comforting teashop aromas, and she pulled her cloak tighter against the chilly breeze. She was pushed and jostled the hundred yards or so to the end of the wharf and needed a few moments of respite beside some tall, stacked crates before she could bolster the nerve to walk down the pier and climb the gangway to the Sirius. Gulls screamed in endless flapping circles overhead. Hawkers pitched their wares to the departing crewmen and passengers. Merchants and bankers conducted last minute business in hurried, arm-waving sessions the full length of the dock.

Courtney took firm hold of her courage and walked toward the gangway. She breathed deeply of the familiar scents of wet canvas and pitch, and took some small comfort in the shaking out of sails as the topmost royals were let loose and drawn taut into their braces. She had deliberately timed her boarding, hoping to blend in with the last-minute confusion. She had her papers out and clutched in her gloveless hand; her eyes were locked on the dark-haired man she had seen earlier, who now stood at the head of the gangway.

She had one foot on the wide plank and was well into her second step when she noticed a man partially hidden from view by a stack of wooden crates. He had his broad back to the gangway and was conversing with the dark-haired man. Courtney's breath caught in her throat as she forced another step. His hair was sun-bleached gold, neatly clubbed into a tail at the back of his neck. Another hesitant step earned her the attention of the first man who had a plain, square face which verged on being handsome when he smiled. He did so now, and extended a hand to Courtney to assist her the final few steps.

The blond head turned, and Courtney gasped. At the same time, the hem of her cloak was whipped by a sharp gust of wind and tangled around her ankles, causing her to stumble forward into the quickly outstretched hands of both men.

"Hup! Watch your step, ma'am," the darker of the two said after he had steadied her. "The roll takes a bit of getting used to after you have been on land. First Mate Lansing, ma'am, at your service ... and if I may, this is Captain Jeffrey Pettigrew."

The captain smiled and steered her toward a less cluttered square on the deck. On a closer inspection his hair was more gray than blond, and his features were those of a kindly uncle or older cousin. It was his height and the breadth of his shoulders that had sent Courtney's heart up into her throat, and she blamed her own foolishness for having had thoughts of Ballantine so recently in her mind.

"Y'all will have to excuse the confusion, ma'am, but we are about to set sail."

"Miss de Villiers is travelling with us to Norfolk," the first mate said, handing Courtney back her papers with a courteous nod. "She is the last one to check off against the passenger manifest, Captain."

"In that case, ma'am, your arrival is most timely," Captain Pettigrew drawled. "Ah trust the young lady's belongings are aboard? Thank you, Mr. Lansing; then if so, perhaps you could spare a moment and show Miss de Villiers to a prime spot by the rail—that is if y'all wish to see the casting-off?"

"Yes, thank you, but there is no need to trouble yourself. I can find my own way."

The captain looked around, then frowned. "Y'all are travelling on your own, Miss?"

Courtney was prepared for the question. "Yes. Unfortunately my maid took ill ... deathly ill ... and while she has recovered some of her strength, the doctor said it would be ill-advised for her to travel at this time. I would have delayed my passage as well, but my dear sister has suffered a dreadful accident and I must get home with all haste."

Pettigrew's frown turned to one of concern. "Well you just never you mind, Miss de Villiers. Ah have a daughter your age and you'll be as safe on board mah ship as she would be. There are three other ladies on board, as well, so you will be in fair company. Now then perhaps you will allow Mr. Lansing, to show you up onto the fo'c'sle bridge while we get underway. Ah trust y'all will be able to join mah officers and your fellow passengers tonight for suppah? Ah'm a little fussed at the moment, as you can see, but we can all have a chance to get acquainted then. Eight bells?"

"Thank you, yes."

The captain inclined his head and discharged her into the care of First Mate Lansing. He, in turn, guided her around a stack of crated, cackling chickens and up onto the forward bridge before excusing himself to rejoin the captain.

Courtney rested her hands on the rail, her emotions still in turmoil as she let her gaze sweep over the bustling waterfront, along the crowded shore, then higher to the dominating bulk of the gigantic rock that had guarded the exit to the Atlantic since the beginning of time. The town, the ships, the people were dwarfed in its mighty shadow; and Courtney found herself wondering if she would ever see the likes of its majesty again. She was setting sail for the unknown. She was leaving her two lifetimes behind her and embarking on a third. Would it be her last? Would she ever see a familiar face again?

"Courtney?"

It was just a gasp. A breath snatched by the wind.

"Courtney, is that you?"

She whirled about, her eyes searching frantically for the source of the shocked whisper. He was there. Less than two feet away, very real, very alive.

"Davey?" she cried softly. "Davey Dunn! What are you doing here?"

She took a step toward the short, gruff figure but his hand shot up in a abrupt warning. "Nay lass, nay! Ye mustn't let on ye know me—for yer sake as well as mine!"

Courtney swallowed hard and blinked in an effort to keep a very real flood of tears out of her eyes. He was standing by the shrouds, pretending to adjust the tension in a rigging line, and her mind raced through a thousand questions she was burning to ask. The best she could manage and the most inadequate, was a hoarsely whispered: "You got away?"

"Aye, but only by the skin o' my arse." He grunted and his eyes darted along the deck. "I were luckier ‘n the Falconer."

"She is gone?"

"Burned the bloody night an' day through. How the piss we made it as far as we did, I'll never know, but Shaw threw everythin' overboard that weren't tied ner bolted down an' we managed to limp up the coast to Marrakech. Damn near threw me off fer dead too, along with the others, but fer a little un-corpse-like ass wind. But you, girl ... I thought ye were gone! I thought whatever bleedin' thunderclap caught me on the brain-box caught you too!"

"Oh, Davey, I ... it was all just a big blur." How could she tell him? How could she begin to explain?

"No mind, lass. Ye're alive and that be all what matters. An' ye're usin' ye're noggin too, doin' what yer father wanted ye to do. Good. Good! We'll catch the bastard sure!"

"Catch the bastard? Catch who?"

"Shaw, o' course. Who else would I be willin' to follow halfway to hell just for the pleasure of slittin' his eyelids an' stakin' him to an anthill? Him an' his tart were the first ashore when the Falconer grounded, an' the first to offer gold to the local thieves to carry them to Gibraltar."

"They are here?" She glanced sharply over the rail at the crowded wharf. "Garrett and Miranda are here?"

"Whsht! Damn an' blast, girl, ye'll have the clappers on us yet! Aye, here is where I follered ‘em an' lost ‘em again, God rot their souls." The red froth of beard, sadly reduced to a quarter-inch of stubble, shifted and a stream of tobacco juice spurted out over the rail with a vehement pftt. "But I know where they be bound. Where I be bound, an' now you."

"Norfolk?" she whispered, her thoughts reeling. It had not even occurred to her that one or both of them could have disguised themselves as she had done and fled the Mediterranean.

"Norfolk is where they think yer father's gold is at," Dunn said, as if explaining something to a very thick-headed child. "I tole ye he was sniffin' after it, an' if he thinks ye're dead— which he does—then there ain't nothin' to stop him from takin' that whore-bitch to Norfolk— which he is doin—and usin' her to claim Duncan's fortune—which I would wager my left ballock is what they plan to do."

Courtney's face paled as she stared at Davey Dunn. Conversely, his darkened as his keen blue eyes darted past her shoulder. A curse sent him swinging around to the outside of the shrouds and he began to climb.

Pftt! "That first mate has eyes in the back o' his head," he scowled. "We can't talk no more, girl. I'll have to think on a signal or the like, what we can use to arrange a meetin'. I've signed on this bucket o' bilge for the crossin'. Used the name ‘McCutcheon' after the nose-picking sod what fathered me. Fer now ye look good ... all prim an' proper." He straightened suddenly and grinned. "Jest don't slip up an' tell these lubbers how to set the riggin' lines. Jaysus! It's a wonder this bucket even floats!"

With a last scowl at the first mate, Davey climbed hand over hand to the tops, where he was lost to Courtney's view behind a billowing sheet of canvas. She lowered the hand that had been holding her hood in place and pressed cold, trembling fingers to her lips.

It was somewhat of a relief to know she was not totally alone. Yet the mere thought of having to face Garrett Shaw and Miranda again in Norfolk raised a tiny spray of fine hairs across the nape of her neck. Since morning she had not been able to shake a feeling of dread and now she knew why.

A pipe shrilled and her composure was further fragmented as the gangway was hauled aboard and the rail closed and bolted into place. Men on shore let loose the mooring cables, and the dock began to slide past. The activity on the wharf ground to a standstill as the workers stopped and planted their hands on their hips, or dragged cloths across their sweating brows while they watched the Sirius glide into the harbor. The wind gusted gently, snapping her canvas sheets as they were unfurled, and within minutes the tugs peeled away, leaving the Sirius to cross the harbor under her own sails.

Courtney's gaze went one last time to the cutter Carolina. The decks were draped in bunting and men were hanging colored lanterns off her lines in preparation for the festivities that were slated to begin at noon the next day.

Courtney turned away from the rail, away from the salty breeze that brought a veil of fresh tears glimmering into her eyes.

Courtney's cabin was indeed tiny. The furnishings consisted of a berth, a washstand, and a small writing table that was little more than a board jutting out from the bulkhead. First Mate Lansing had escorted Courtney personally to her cabin, and had filled in details of the six other guests she could expect to meet at dinner: two American merchants returning home, a middle-aged couple who he thought had made a pilgrimage to Rome, and a young Spanish woman journeying in the care of her duenna.

In an attempt to make conversation, and perhaps set her mind at ease, he had assured her the sea lanes were safe. Despite fierce fighting taking place along the Barbary Coast, the corsairs were trapped inside blockade lines and it was only a matter of time before they were all rounded up and hung. The most dangerous of the pirates, the Farrow brothers, had been caught weeks ago and there was not another band of chicken thieves foolish enough or powerful enough to attack Atlantic shipping.

Chicken thieves!

Courtney had clutched her locket in a savage grip. A ship such as the Sirius would have been frightened into chicken fodder on a single shot from the Wild Goose. The taking of her cargo and crew would have been little more than a boring exercise.

She spent most of the afternoon in her cabin. The promised storm had arrived with heavy rains that kept the passengers below. While she dressed for dinner, her emerald eyes kept straying to the small oval mirror over the nightstand. The stranger who looked back at her was not even faintly reminiscent of the Court Farrow who had felt so confident, so secure a scant month ago. Seeing herself now, in a pale amber frock and short green bolero jacket, she could hardly believe she had run barefoot and bedraggled along the sands of Snake Island, had laughed and worked alongside burly men in the rigging of the Wild Goose, had fought with sword and musket and had been as familiar with the intricacies of breaking down and cleaning a flintlock pistol as she had been with skinning a quail and eating it raw.

Court Farrow. Courtney de Villiers. Were they two people or were they one? Could she don a mask and take it off again at will? Could she see this masquerade through regardless of what she might find at the end? Was Duncan alive? Was Garrett Shaw really the traitor?

Courtney massaged her temples and debated avoiding dinner altogether. In the distance she heard the hollow tolling of the ship's bell advising the crew of the hour: eight bells. Her stomach rumbled to remind her she had not eaten since the previous evening, and, well, she was already rigged out in the foolish dress and slippers. She could eat and excuse herself as soon as prudently possible.

"Right, Courtney my girl," she muttered aloud, tugging the velvet bolero jacket into order. "You have chosen to travel like a lady; I guess you will have to act like one."

A last quick clutch at her locket for luck, and she stepped out into the corridor. All five passenger compartments were located in the stern, all five doors faced a sturdy flight of wooden steps leading to the maindeck. Courtney heard a second door opening just as she finished setting her own latch. When she turned, half-expecting to see the dark-eyed Spanish girl she had briefly caught a glimpse of earlier, she was shocked into utter and complete frozen horror when she looked up into the equally startled gaze of Adrian Ballantine.