Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Sheila Walsh
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Copyright
Bath Intrigue
About the Book
In Cordelia Darcy, Shelia Walsh has created one of her most delightful heroines ever. From a modest colonial background in America, she arrives in Regency London during the autumn of 1811 and makes it her stage.
Before ever she steps foot in London though, Cordelia has already become part of a dangerous diplomatic intrigue as the result of her shipboard encounter with a fellow American: Drew Harvey. Working to secure peace between England and America, Mr Harvey enlists Cordelia’s help as a courier – thereby drawing her into the sights of his own very determined enemies.
Despite these shadows playing around her, Cordelia Darcy’s first London Season is a resounding success – as if in tribute to the godmother whose bequest made it possible. And for all that she stands at the heart of a conspiracy that gathers force daily, Cordelia’s story is also one of a beautiful young girl entering Society, falling in love for the first time and learning to identify her own feelings.
With her use of period detail providing a sumptuous Regency backcloth throughout, Shelia Walsh combines each separate thread of Lady Aurelia's Bequest into a first class romantic thriller.
About the Author
Shelia Walsh lives in Southport with her family. She is the established and popular author of many novels of Regency romance including the 1984 winner of the Romantic Novelists’ Association Major Award: A Highly Respectable Marriage.
SUNSET HAD FADED to a few watery streaks on the horizon, and the mist of Fall was melting all too quickly into darkness, heralding the end of yet another heartbreakingly beautiful day. With unsheddable tears constricting her throat, Cordelia Darcy strained tautly against the ship’s rail, longing to cry halt so that she might savour the moment a little longer; might somehow distil the memory and hold it safe against her return. For return she surely must.
Cordelia stole a glance at Aunt Hetty whose profile was grim and unreadable as she too stared unwaveringly towards the shore, her glance directed not at the wharf but way beyond. All along the Williamsburg Neck lights were springing up, winking and waning as people began closing their curtains against the night. By now their friends back in the little town would be busy preparing supper, tables laid before cheerfully burning fires in cosy parlours. No dockside leave-takings, she had implored, knowing Aunt Hetty’s dislike of fuss and tears, and her wishes had been respected. Goodbyes had been said earlier and blessings given – blessings tempered with all kinds of last-minute pleas against the folly of attempting the perilous Atlantic crossing in this autumn of 1811. The very air was rife with stories of American shipping being harassed by British naval vessels seeking out sailors of British nationality, to impress them into service and, so it was said, being none too scrupulous in their dealings, while talk of war between the two countries grew daily.
But Cordelia had resolutely refused to let silly rumour ruin this, her one chance of breaking out of the rather sedate mould in which she had seemed destined to spend her life. Only now, when it was too late to turn back, did her resolve falter slightly. Ashore, the outlines were blurring, and just for an instant she experienced the oddest sensation – as though everything beyond the narrow gangplank which linked them to the shore was already retreating to the insubstantiality of a dream. She shivered and scolded herself. The shiver had not gone unnoticed by her keen-eyed aunt. ‘Not taking a chill, I trust?’ said Miss Ryan, gathering the topmost of several shawls closer about her own neck.
‘In this cloak?’ Cordelia returned cheerfully. ‘I should hope not.’
The cloak had belonged to her father and was all-enveloping rather than fashionable, but it had a snug sable collar, and their dressmaker, Miss Perry, had contrived its excellent hood from the elegant sable-edged shoulder cape that had once embellished its stylish folds.
It seemed incredible that it was less than two months since the package destined to change her life had arrived from London. She had gone running across the green to Mr Logan’s fine house on England Street, and had sat across the desk from him, stemming her impatience while he perused the documents with tedious thoroughness and made the curious little humming noises that always seemed to accompany his deliberations. Finally he had laid aside his spectacles, his bony nose twitching.
‘Yes indeed, a most singular document, Miss Cordelia. The – ahem, will itself seems to be quite straightforward, though I shall need time to study it more fully, of course. However, the conditions imposed by the late Lady Aurelia Arlington . . . your godmother, I understand? . . . do present a number of complications. I fear she did not fully comprehend the exceedingly delicate nature of relations between our two countries at this present time.’
Mr Logan shuffled the papers with nervous fingers and peered at her again. ‘You said, I believe, that there was a letter from her ladyship enclosed with the will. Naturally, if it is private, I would not presume . . . but if there should be anything in its contents which might perhaps throw some light upon her reason for acting as she has . . . ?’
Cordelia could have quoted the letter to him by heart, so often had she read it.
‘The years pass all too quickly, my dear child,’ the shaky but still elegant hand had penned. ‘Once there seemed to be so many tomorrows in which to right one’s wrongs, and now time has all but run out and I must do what I can to mend matters in the only way left to me. You must know that I held your father in great affection, for all that he was a sad scamp, but I should never have introduced him to your gentle mama, knowing him as I did. Guilt presses in upon me – guilt for what followed, and guilt that I did not make a greater push to bring you to England while time was on my side, to recompense you for your enforced exile from the land of your birth and your rightful heritage. It is with this thought at the forefront of my mind that I have decided to make it possible for you to choose for yourself the course your life should henceforth follow by making you my main beneficiary – my only stipulation being that you must come to England and reside here for a twelvemonth. If at the end of that period you cannot see your way clear to remaining, I place no further obligation upon you. It saddens me that we shall not meet again in this life, but I am sure that my family and friends will receive you kindly for my sake, and, when they know you, for your own . . .’
Cordelia saw that the elderly attorney was waiting for her to speak. ‘I am not sure how familiar you are with my father’s background, sir?’ she began obliquely.
Mr Logan looked surprised, and she thought a little embarrassed. He contrived a somewhat shaky steeple with his fingers and rested his chin on their tips, frowning slightly. ‘We never did meet, but I well remember the stir created here on the day that your grandmother, the late Mrs Randolph Ryan, returned alone from a visit to England she had made with your mama, bearing the news that her young daughter had married herself a lord.’ A brief smile flickered in his eyes and as quickly died. ‘It was with comparable sadness that I learned only a few years later that Lord Darcy had been – ahem, obliged to quit England under something of a cloud . . .’
But this tactful euphemism did not sit well with Cordelia. ‘He killed a man in a duel,’ she stated unequivocally, a shade defiantly, even. ‘I was barely five at the time, but I remember vividly how we were spirited away at the dead of night by Lady Aurelia’s husband, and hurried aboard a ship just leaving for America.’ Oh, how she remembered it – the endless journey, the heaving deck where Papa paced, grey-faced, his arm supported by a folded square of linen, exhorting her not to disturb Mama who lay moaning quietly in a tiny stuffy cabin full of noxious smells.
‘Eventually,’ she continued, ‘we came to Williamsburg and made our home here with Grandmother Ryan and Aunt Hetty, while Papa – well, Papa found interests to pursue which took him away from home a great deal, until . . .’
‘Quite so.’ Mr Logan had uttered his dry little cough, followed by several sympathetic hums. ‘A distressing business.’
Cordelia knew that he was remembering as she was the second duel in which her father had been engaged, some eight years ago down in South Carolina, when his luck finally ran out, and adroitly she changed the trend of the conversation.
‘Lady Aurelia had invited me to stay with her many times, both before and after Mama’s death, but clearly my circumstances rendered any such visit wildly impractical. And in any case –’ she stopped, a little embarrassed, before concluding lightly, ‘It was her ladyship who brought Mama and Papa together, you see, and I believe that she cherished notions of re-writing history, inasmuch as she thought to make matters right by sponsoring me in the hope that I might “take”, and in so doing, catch myself a wealthy husband.’ A sudden flash of wry humour lit her eloquent green eyes. ‘It would seem that some people never learn from their mistakes! At least, now, if I do decide to accept the terms of the will, I shall be spared that embarrassment.’
She rather thought she had shocked Mr Logan, for he became very busy again, arranging his papers. ‘Yes – ahem, your acceptance would also make you financially secure, which must be a consideration.’ He lowered his gaze hurriedly to refer to the documents once more. ‘A house in London, off Park Lane – an excellent address – and a handsome annuity, more than sufficient to keep you and your aunt in comfort for the foreseeable future. And should you decide to dispose of the property at the end of the allotted period, as is your right, it would undoubtedly fetch an additional substantial sum.’
‘An offer, in fact, that I would have to be mad to refuse?’ Cordelia suggested, to spare him the embarrassment of spelling out the delicate financial state in which she and Aunt Hetty presently existed. But he turned a little pink, nonetheless.
Since the death of Mr Randolph Ryan and later, of her father Lord Darcy – though parental duties had never, so far as he could ascertain, troubled his lordship over much – Mr Logan had endeavoured to assume the guise of a father figure where Miss Cordelia was concerned. Yet those green eyes, regarding him with kindly amusement from beneath their dark winging brows, frequently disconcerted him. They did so now, though a strong sense of commitment compelled him to persevere.
‘In the ordinary way, I would have to agree with you, ma’am, but these are parlous times, and even if you are able to locate a sea captain still trading with Great Britain who would be willing to take you, every instinct must urge against your attempting so hazardous a crossing at present.’
‘Oh, fiddle to that!’ Cordelia exclaimed as her initial excitement came bubbling back. ‘We are not at war yet, and I do not believe it will come to that.’
‘I sincerely hope that you may be proved right.’ The attorney’s primness indicated his disapproval of such light-mindedness. ‘Alternatively I could, if you wish, write to,’ here he paused to peruse the appropriate paper, ‘Mr Gibb, of Brattiscom and Gibb, to see if some compromise agreement may not be reached in the circumstances.’
But Cordelia’s mind was quite made up. ‘Thank you, but that sounds incredibly dull, and I have a fancy for a little adventure.’
All she had to do was convince Aunt Hetty – and find herself a ship.
The wind was freshening. A tendril of rich tawny hair, escaping the confines of her hood was caught and blown across her face. Cordelia tucked it back and lifted her head. The tide was turning. Captain Hibbard would be wanting to make sail, and there was a passenger still to come.
‘Fellow name of Harvey, Drew Harvey,’ Captain Hibbard had told her earlier. ‘You’ll like him, I believe, Miss Darcy – knows London like a native, so you’ll be able to pick his brains, if you’ve a mind to. Comes from Philadelphia.’
It would be a pity if Mr Harvey failed to appear. Another passenger on such a long voyage would be most agreeable. She turned to say as much to her aunt, but before she could speak there was a stir at the far end of the wharf. A lightly sprung chaise and pair rounded the corner at a spanking trot, threaded its way nimbly between the toiling stevedores, and came to a halt at the foot of the gangplank. An elegantly dressed young gentleman relinquished the ribbons to his pretty companion, kissed her shamelessly on the mouth and sprang lightly down.
Captain Hibbard saw him and bawled for his first officer Bart Stannard, who came running from the after-deck where he had been supervising the battening down of the hatches. Mr Stannard detailed a sailor to carry the baggage on board and hurried forward to greet the young man who was already taking the gangplank in a few long easy strides.
At the top Mr Harvey saw the two ladies, checked his stride and bowed, doffing his beaver hat. Cordelia noted with approval his humorous blue eyes, pleasant features and a fine stylish head of hair several shades lighter than her own which curled most engagingly round the gentleman’s ears.
‘Sorry to cut it fine,’ he said with a lazy rueful smile. ‘Quite unavoidable, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s all right, sir. Glad you could make it.’ Mr Stannard performed hasty introductions and begged to be excused. ‘Captain’s in a fret to be away.’ A stentorian bellow from somewhere amidships gave added point to his words and brought a swift apologetic grin. ‘Ladies – Mr Harvey, if you will forgive me. I believe the captain is endeavouring to attract my attention.’ He was gone at a run.
Mr Harvey blew a kiss to the waiting chaise, and a handkerchief clasped in a neatly gloved hand fluttered in answer. He bowed again to the two ladies ‘Miss Ryan – Miss Darcy’ and disappeared down the companionway in the wake of his baggage.
Cordelia, who had watched the intimate little charade that marked his arrival with an unaccountable twinge of envy, wished just for a moment that Mr Harvey might have found her own charms sufficiently marked as to persuade him to remain on deck. However there was nothing but good humour in her voice as she observed that Mr Harvey did indeed seem a most handsome and agreeable gentleman. Her aunt grunted noncommittally.
‘Hm. I don’t care to make snap judgements as you well know. I’ll tell you what I think later.’
Cordelia smiled, but said no more, as all else was forgotten in the stir of getting under way. The gangplank had already been dragged ashore, the mooring lines were hauled in and the deck thudded to the sound of running feet as the hands began to scramble aloft, stringing themselves out along the footropes of the fore topsail yards. The gap between schooner and shore quickly widened, and as the topsails rattled down and the sails began to fill, Cordelia felt the ship shudder and lift beneath her feet like a great bird stirring its wings before taking to the air. The experience filled her with a sense of exultation, the sudden lurch in her stomach only part of a much greater excitement.
‘Oh, Aunt Hetty!’ she exclaimed, turning with shining eyes. ‘We’re on our way at last.’
‘So we are, child,’ agreed Miss Ryan quietly. ‘So we are.’ And then, with a sudden terseness salting her soft Virginian drawl, ‘Time I went below.’
She waved aside Cordelia’s offer to accompany her, and stomped away, an endearing, bulky figure draped in the tatterdemalion array of garments and shawls which she considered essential for withstanding the rigours of an Atlantic crossing. Subdued by a recurring sensation of guilt, Cordelia watched her out of sight before turning back to the rail and her solitary vigil. The land was receding with frightening speed; the buildings, the slender masts and spars of the ships riding at anchor, all were being swallowed up in the vast encroaching darkness. Soon even the lights would be but stars glimmering low on the horizon.
For an instant she felt as Aunt Hetty must be feeling. It was a little like dying, this tearing up of one’s roots. Snatches of the past flashed across her mind with blinding clarity – her first glimpse of the long low house which had for so long now been her home, loving on sight its neat picket fence, not seeing the shabby white paint outside, or the patched upholstery within; aware only of the warmth of its welcome and of plump Delilah, her eyes bright in a face black as coal, who had clasped her to a pillowy bosom and declared her to be ‘the purtiest chil’ you ever did see!’ And with a further inconsequential leap of time she remembered Mama laid out in the best front bedroom – where Grandma had lain some years before, serene amid clouds of white muslin, and the drenching scent of lilies – worn out, so Aunt Hetty had declared in her unequivocal way, by Papa’s philandering ways. Cordelia had been old enough by then to know what her aunt meant and to see the truth of it, yet her own memory of Papa was of the vitality he brought into that house of women on his infrequent visits; how Mama had instantly come to life, and how she herself had been intrigued by the unfamiliar aroma of tobacco, and what she now knew to have been brandy, surrounding him as he caught her up in his arms, his bewhiskered mouth brushing hers. Poor Papa – he had courted excitement and danger to the end.
Cordelia sighed. Was it incredibly selfish of her to uproot Aunt Hetty from her comfortable settled life and drag her halfway across the world, chasing rainbows? No, not rainbows. Something much more substantial. To be fair to herself, she had tried to discourage the old lady. At this point in her reflections her wide generous mouth that had been made for laughter curved suddenly and irrepressibly upwards, for how anyone could have prevented Aunt Hetty from accompanying her lone, lorn charge to Hell and back, if need be, was something Cordelia had tried and quite failed to solve.
‘And how will I ever face your mother, God rest her sainted bones, when my time comes to join her, letting you go off to that hotbed of iniquity which was the ruin of her, with no one at all to keep you from harm?’
‘That is a nonsense, Aunt, and you know it,’ Cordelia had said on a vexed laugh. ‘We are talking about England, not some primitive backwoods town. Besides which Mama was an innocent, whereas I am well able to fend for myself and have been anytime these past few years.’
But Miss Ryan was not about to be swayed. ‘Maybe so, but it is not proper. Not respectable. Oh, you can call me an old-fashioned fuddy-duddy if you like –’
‘My dear, I wouldn’t dare!’
‘But if you have set your heart on taking up Lady Aurelia’s odd bequest,’ her aunt swept on, ‘then you will have to learn to abide by society’s rules. First impressions are all-important, and the daughter of a viscount, no matter how ramshackle he may have been, does not go gallivanting halfway across the world unchaperoned. Take my word for it, child. It may be close on fifty years since I was last in London, but some things don’t change.’
‘Then I shall advertise for a suitable companion when I arrive,’ declared Cordelia, digging in her heels. ‘I am sure there will be many ladies of genteel background only too willing to fill such a post, and according to Mr Logan, there will be money enough to pay for her services.’
‘That’s as maybe, but it would be nothing short of contrariness to be throwing money away on strangers when you have me.’
Cordelia heard the reproach in her aunt’s voice and stifled her own impatience. ‘But my dear, you haven’t been outside of Virginia more than half a dozen times in I don’t know how many years, let alone visited England. Besides which, the only time you did cross the Atlantic, you hated every moment of the journey. “Never again!” I have heard you say it over and over whenever the subject is broached.’
‘Well, I have changed my mind. I hope I may still do that without being accused of being difficult – or worse – senile.’
Cordelia was silent for a few moments. Then: ‘You don’t really want me to go at all, do you?’ she said quietly.
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘No, you didn’t. But some things don’t have to be said. I suspect that you would much rather I remained here in Williamsburg and married Pelham Carew.’
‘That I would not!’ declared Miss Ryan, indignation in every line of her angular frame. ‘Furthermore, I cannot imagine how you ever came to suppose any such thing.’
‘Well, I expect it is because Pelham has been courting me assiduously over the past two years, and has proposed at least four times – though I can’t for the life of me think why for I’m no great catch – and not once in that time have you shown him the door.’
‘Only because I knew you had sense enough to do it for yourself when the time came. And as for his wanting to marry you – well, why wouldn’t he, for goodness sake? Nothing he’d like better than to be able to brag to all and sundry that his wife was the daughter of a lord!’
Cordelia kept her gravity with difficulty. ‘And there was I thinking it was my beauty and charm he found irresistible.’
Henrietta Ryan uttered an unladylike snort of derision. ‘Lord, child – he wouldn’t account that a good enough reason! The Carews are social climbers – always were and always will be, though they could never hold a candle to the Ryans. Why, way back before the war, when your grandfather was in the Legislature and Williamsburg was still the capital of Virginia, young Arthur Carew was nothing more than the manager of a second-rate corner store. But when the English soldiers came, he saw his opportunity, and while most of us were just about getting by, he was doing himself some fancy dealing – cheating them and his own kind with marvellous impartiality, which is how he came by that rundown plantation up-river and later the house on the Duke of Gloucester Street, and we and many like us ended up church poor.’ Aunt Hetty’s voice was scornful. ‘Of course, Arthur is a highly respected citizen of Williamsburg now, but it doesn’t change anything – once a social climber, always a social climber, and his son, Pelham, is no different for all his fancy manners.’
And his pomposity, reflected Cordelia, pulling her cloak more tightly around her against the wind. Perhaps if Pelham had been less patronizing, had not gone out of his way to make her aware of the immense privilege he was bestowing upon her in offering for her, she might have been tempted. But at the back of her mind she cherished the silliest daydream that somewhere – oh, surely somewhere, there must be a man with warmth and humour and, most of all, a modicum of romance in his soul, just waiting to sweep her off her feet!
At that very moment, as if summoned up by her impassioned yearnings, Mr Harvey appeared at her side, a faint smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. ‘I trust the old lady is not unwell, Miss Darcy?’
Cordelia was temporarily robbed of speech as she stared up at him, feeling the blood rush to her face, her mind scrambling for coherence as she prayed that he had not divined the all-too-recent trend of her thoughts. But there was only kindness in his smile, a pleasing concern in that lazy drawl as he again expressed the hope that her aunt was not a poor traveller.
Cordelia relaxed. ‘To tell the truth, I don’t believe she is.’ Her own mouth curved spontaneously upwards as she wondered how Aunt Hetty would respond to being described as ‘an old lady’. ‘My aunt went below because she hates farewells.’
‘I see. Very understandable. But you have no such qualms?’
Her head turned towards land, only to find that even the lights had now vanished into the fast-encroaching night. There was a sudden tightness in her throat. She gripped the rail and shifted her gaze downwards. The Monmouth was cleaving through the water with increasing sureness, the bows pushing out great curling waves which regenerated themselves in ever-widening, ever-undulating smaller waves, rising and turning, a pearly gleam in each hollow, each foaming crest edged with dull silver.
She tried to find something flippant to say by way of answer, but no words came, and Mr Harvey, as though sensing her predicament, simply turned to lean his slim capable hands upon the rail beside her. ‘You don’t mind if I share your vigil?’
‘Not in the least,’ she said a little huskily.
A surprisingly comfortable silence ensued, and Cordelia presently found herself eyeing him covertly. He really was a very personable young man, quite the most personable she had encountered in all of her twenty-one years. Not handsome precisely – his features were not quite regular and a quantity of freckles dusted his cheeks – but he did have a decided air about him, and she suspected that the fashionable greatcoat was London cut. Pelham would totally disapprove of him, she decided gleefully, which instantly set him even higher in her esteem.
It was at this point that her eyes met his, and she discovered that Mr Harvey was scrutinizing her with every bit as keen an interest. The gloaming hid her blushes, but his mouth quirked in quiet delight at her obvious confusion.
‘D’you know,’ he said. ‘When Captain Hibbard first told me that his only other passengers were to be a maiden lady and her elderly aunt, I had a vision of two monstrous Friday-faced creatures who would stare me out of countenance throughout the voyage. Conceive then of my delight upon being presented to you.’
Cordelia was a stranger to the art of flirtation, but although the commonsense side of her nature mocked at its absurdity, she could not deny that she found it a most pleasurable experience. She said, half-laughing, ‘You have a very pretty way with a compliment, Mr Harvey, but I am persuaded I should not pay you too much heed.’
He regarded her pensively. ‘You wound me, ma’am. Surely you cannot mean to doubt my sincerity?’
‘Oh, I have no quarrel with your sincerity, sir. If I were to doubt anything, it would be your constancy. There is, for example, the trifling complication of the young lady who accompanied you in the chaise, and who, from where I was watching, certainly seemed to be the far from unwilling object of your affections.’
Cordelia thought he choked a little.
‘I guess you wouldn’t believe me if I told you she was my sister?’
A gurgle of laughter escaped her. ‘I fear not, sir. True, I was never blessed with a brother, but I have had ample opportunity to observe those of my friends, and can assure you that they are not in the general way given to blowing kisses to their sisters.’
‘Ah well.’ Mr Harvey echoed her laughter, not one whit disconcerted. ‘Then let us say that the fair Justine was merely . . . a friend and as such need not concern us.’
SUPPER THAT EVENING was the first of many happy meals. Cordelia had prepared for it with more than usual care – a circumstance that did not escape her aunt’s notice.
‘Your best gown,’ she said, eyeing the pale green silk with some surprise. ‘I hope you are not expecting me to change. It’s difficult enough for the two of us to move about in this cabin with any degree of comfort with our boxes taking up what little space there is, let alone try to keep one’s footing whilst struggling out of one dress and into another.’
Cordelia assured her that she looked very well as she was, which brought only a grunt of disbelief. Unruffled by her aunt’s deliberate perverseness, she delved among the already disturbed layers of an open box and soon emerged triumphant. ‘There! I thought I had packed your best lace collar near the top. It will take but a moment to fix it in place of the linen one you are wearing. You can fasten it with your little gold brooch and wear the silk shawl Mrs Hetherington gave you last Christmas draped across your arms. I shouldn’t wonder if you don’t outshine me.’
‘There is no call to humour me, child,’ grumbled Miss Ryan as Cordelia’s nimble fingers arranged and patted and pinned. ‘Such a fuss over nothing.’ But when they presently entered the captain’s cabin to be met by four gentlemen – Captain Hibbard, his first and second officers, Mr Stannard and Mr Douglas, (the latter looking little more than a boy) and Mr Harvey, very point-de-vice in black tailcoat and inexpressibles and gleaming white cravat tied with all the style and skill of a man of fashion – all became plain to her.
The conversation was spasmodic and awkward at first as the gentlemen, very conscious of having two ladies at table, strove to mind their language and their manners. But before long, the combination of Cordelia’s open friendliness and Miss Ryan’s forthright tongue persuaded them to discard their inhibitions. And as opinions began to flow spontaneously across the board, it was not long before the talk came round to politics and the possibility of war.
Cordelia propped her arms comfortably on the raised brass rim of the oval mahogany table. ‘Will it really come to that, Mr Harvey?’
‘I pray not, Miss Darcy, for there never was a war less looked for on either side of the Atlantic.’
‘Well, we surely don’t want any part of it,’ Captain Hibbard said forcefully. ‘Why, our most profitable markets are in Europe, even if we do have to pay a levy to one country for the privilege of trading with another. And the plain fact is that in spite of past differences and present aggravations, which heaven knows are enough to try even the good Lord’s patience, our natural ties are still with Britain. We’re rooted in the same stock, we speak a common tongue, and I for one would be sorely grieved to come to blows with those I am pleased to call friend.’
Drew Harvey nodded. ‘Then take heart, captain, for I have heard those very sentiments expressed across the tables in many of the coffee houses in London.’
‘So why,’ asked Cordelia, looking from one to the other, ‘if nobody wants to fight anybody, must there be this constant talk of war?’
‘Because we’ve had enough of forced searches and impressments . . .’ said Bart Stannard.
‘Because Britain is dragging her feet over reaching an agreement . . .’ Robin Douglas put in with youthful zeal.
‘And is aiding and abetting the Indians up north, arming them from over the border,’ Bart finished grimly.
‘You see how it is, Miss Darcy?’ Drew spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness, but though his voice was droll, his eyes were serious. ‘You could ask a dozen men and get a dozen different answers, all of them with a grain of truth, and none with sufficient justification for war. But in the end, you see, wars are waged by politicians, not by ordinary folk – and as a breed, politicians are not in general renowned for such qualities as far-sightedness and impartiality.’
‘Oh, come now, Mr Harvey.’ Miss Ryan swooped on his words with all the fierceness of a mother hen defending her chicks from a marauding fox. ‘You’re being a mite hard on our Congressmen. Seems to me they have shown a great deal of restraint of recent times in the face of extreme provocation. Were my brother still alive, he would be one of them, and a fairer man you couldn’t hope to meet anywhere.’
‘Aunt Hetty!’ Cordelia murmured, knowing only too well how difficult it would be to stop her, once launched upon the subject of Grandfather Ryan.
But Drew’s swift smile was reassuring. ‘No, Miss Ryan is right. They have done well, with a few notable exceptions. And I hope they will continue to stand firm against those who are shouting for war, because patience more than anything else is what is needed right now.’ He glanced around the table with an intensity so at odds with his apparent indolence that Cordelia found herself leaning forward with increasing eagerness. ‘War with Britain might salve our pride a little, always supposing we could win, but it isn’t going to produce any kind of magic formula that will end all our problems. Some, like the Indian trouble, are of our own making, and if we are to continue to grow in status as a nation, we’ll have to find a way to solve them for ourselves.’
‘Oh, well said!’ cried Cordelia, spurred by his enthusiasm, and then blushing as everyone turned to look at her.
She was saved by the elements. As the ship lurched suddenly and the twin lamps above the table began to swing in a slow ominous arc on their gimbals, her aunt looked apprehensive.
‘Are we in for rough weather, Captain Hibbard?’ she demanded.
In his eagerness to get back to the discussion, the captain was reassuringly hearty. ‘No, no, ma’am. It will maybe blow a trifle, but nothing to cause you the least alarm. Allow me to give you a little more wine.’
Miss Ryan sniffed her disbelief, but accepted the wine.
‘B-but surely,’ Robin Douglas, warmed by the wine and the company, felt emboldened to add his own opinion, ‘in the present situation the onus is on the British? Napoleon has already agreed to revoke his Decrees which have curtailed our trading for so long, if only the British government will also cancel their Orders in Council . . .’
His words evoked grunts of derision; the captain’s shaggy eyebrows quirked as he exchanged glances with Drew. ‘And you believe “Boney”, do you, lad?’
Robin blushed scarlet with confusion. ‘D-don’t you, sir?’
‘Not while our ships are still prey to every French privateer who fancies his chance, I don’t!’
‘Well I’m with young Robin on this,’ said Bart Stannard angrily. ‘I know the French are slippery as a conjurer’s bag of tricks, but if we don’t get some satisfaction soon, I’m for a little action. We’ve been “pig in the middle” for far too long!’
‘Which is exactly the reaction Bonaparte is hoping for,’ said Drew quietly, sitting back.
They all stared, but Captain Hibbard was nodding agreement. ‘Nothing Boney’d like better than to catch us into a war with the British. It’d suit him just fine to get them off his back for a while.’ He drummed an authoritative forefinger on the table. ‘And I’ll tell you this much, Madison’s a bigger fool that I take him for if he lets himself get talked round by war-hawks like that young hothead, Clay, out of Kentucky, and his friend, Calhoun.’
At this moment the ship gave a mighty heave as though to give point to the argument. The china and cutlery clattered against the table’s protective brass rail, and the flames leapt protestingly in the lamps. ‘Mercy on us!’ exclaimed Miss Ryan as Bart, intercepting a glance from the captain, unobtrusively rose and murmured his excuses.
‘That does it for me also, gentlemen,’ she said, coming unsteadily to her feet. ‘If you will forgive me, I shall retire to my cabin.’
Cordelia also rose to go to her aunt’s side, but Drew was there first, his steadying arm firmly beneath the old lady’s. It was the signal for them all to disperse.
At the cabin door Cordelia turned to thank Mr Harvey and found him reluctant to part company.
‘Will you not come for a turn on deck before the weather grows too rough?’ he asked, low-voiced.
Cordelia hesitated, half-glanced back towards her aunt who had sunk on to her bunk and was lying with eyes tight closed in a manner which suggested that she had already surrendered herself to the will of the Almighty. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said quietly. ‘If Aunt Hetty has no objection, I will meet you up there as soon as I am sure she is comfortable.’
‘You needn’t talk about me as though I were in my dotage,’ came a complaining voice from the bunk, and the two young people exchanged a rueful smile.
Their meeting that particular evening was of short duration, but there was a pleasing intimacy in the way they staggered determinedly around the bucking deck, trying not to get in the crew’s way, and holding on to one another out of sheer necessity.
Cordelia learned that Mr Harvey senior was a lawyer with a busy practice in Philadelphia. ‘I see. So that is where you get it.’ She had to shout the words into the wind that was beginning to tear at them.
‘Get what?’
He flung his other arm around her and steered her into the lee of the bridge where he wedged her into a sheltered corner, bracing himself to shield her from the worst of the weather. She might have told him that she could manage very well for herself, but the feeling of being protected was a new and altogether pleasing sensation, so she gave herself up to it.
‘Your eloquence,’ she explained breathlessly. ‘You make a formidable advocate, Mr Harvey.’
‘I did go on a bit, didn’t I? Sorry about that.’ As he bent closer, she was very conscious of the flash of his teeth in the darkness and his face sheening with the flung spray. ‘Could you make it Drew, do you think, or would that cause eyebrows to be raised?’
At that moment Cordelia didn’t give a fig for what anyone else might think. Black clouds were racing across the sky to mass in earnest above them, the wind was shrieking through the rigging and all around them was a rushing of feet as the crew mustered to haul down the sheets. It wouldn’t be possible to stay on deck for much longer, but she had never felt so happy or so alive – and she didn’t want the moment to end. So she agreed demurely that she would like to call him Drew, if he would call her Cordelia.
‘Cordelia – I like that. It suits you.’
The deck gave a mighty heave and he was flung against her, and with her face buried in the damp folds of his greatcoat, she became very much aware of the strong steady beating of his heart. For a moment more they were flung together, and then ‘Come on,’ he gasped, laughing, almost lifting her off her feet. ‘Time to go.’
The squalls continued throughout the night and most of the following day. Miss Ryan lay on her narrow bed, racked with sickness and, though Cordelia did all she could, was soon past caring whether she lived or died, desiring little even by way of company.
‘I should never have allowed myself to be talked into letting her come,’ Cordelia exclaimed passionately. ‘She is too old to withstand such treatment. And it only makes matters worse that I suffer no ill effects whatsoever!’
Drew was sympathetic, but assured her that her aunt would soon recover once the weather eased. ‘And as you have already said, there was no way you could have prevented her from accompanying you.’
With the captain and crew kept fully occupied, it was inevitable that Cordelia and Drew should spend a great deal of their time together and that she should tell him all about Lady Aurelia’s odd bequest – and in turn learn something of his own background.
‘I suppose it was ordained from the first,’ he said, ‘that I should study law and join the family firm, but in truth I was soon finding life deadly dull – a fact that did not long escape my father.’ Cordelia could hear the very real affection in his voice. ‘In due course I was approached by my Uncle Giles, a merchant with interests in many parts of the world. One of his agents was retiring, he explained, and he needed someone trustworthy to take his place. Of course, the job would entail a fair amount of travelling . . .’ Drew laughed softly. ‘A man of rare subtlety, my uncle!’
‘So that is why you spend so much of your time going back and forth across the Atlantic. I realized of course that you were no stranger to Captain Hibbard from the way he spoke of you.’
The laughter still lingered in his eyes, yet Cordelia had the oddest feeling that he was vaguely displeased. How awful if he should think she had been quizzing the captain for information about him! It was an enormous relief therefore to hear him say lightly, ‘I have been to a great many places in the last few years. East, West, wherever Uncle Giles sends me, but I suppose it is fair to say that England in particular ranks among my most frequent ports of call.’
‘I think gentlemen have all the luck,’ she exclaimed. ‘No ties and restrictions, no one to tell them what they may and may not do.’
‘No chaperone,’ he teased.
‘No chaperone,’ she agreed, and they both laughed a little ruefully, for with an end to the rough weather, Miss Ryan had decided she was not yet ready to quit the world, and had announced her intention of rising on the morrow to resume her normal routine – or as normal as life on board ship would permit. And Robin Douglas, with rather more time on his hands, was already talking of arranging some entertainment for the ladies.
‘Looks as though I’m going to have to share you with other people more from now on,’ Drew said, during their evening stroll that had already become established as something of a ritual.
There was a flattering note of regret in the observation that caused Cordelia’s traitorous pulse to flutter unevenly in spite of a small voice within warning her not to take him too seriously – a task that was becoming more difficult with every hour that passed. Perhaps it was as well that Aunt Hetty would soon be around to diffuse the situation, thought Cordelia, and was ashamed to admit that she could not view the imminence of her aunt’s return with quite the enthusiasm she ought. For as she and Drew leaned against the taffrail in perfect accord, watching the curious phosphorescent wake churned up by the moving ship, while a new moon trailed a silver ribbon of light across the black undulating lustre of the water, it was not easy to be sensible.
‘I think,’ she said dreamily, ‘that I would like this moment to go on forever.’