Chapter Twenty-Five
Today marked a red letter day.
The plans that had been laid out across the long dining table for the past week had now been rolled up. Today, Adam was being spared the endless questions about the Artemis.
He’d been dancing on the edge of a blade as he answered the questions he rehearsed with Ridgeway in a dozen different ways. Adam made up answers to some questions they had not anticipated because he felt he’d be expected to know.
It was those answers that worried him. How many lies can a man keep straight in his head? The fewer the better was the only honest answer.
Adam looked at each man in turn. There was no one new here. All who sat around this table had also been at their first meeting in the house on Packet Quays. Of the half-dozen men, he only knew two by name – Wilkinson, who sat at the head of the table, and that violent little thug, Dunbar, who had left after bringing him downstairs.
Adam had given the rest nicknames based on a physical feature. If nothing else, it would give Ridgeway some way of identifying them.
There was Scar, a man in his forties about Adam’s build with brown hair and a large scar across his cheek. It ran up into his temple.
Red was a gingery man, tall and lean with a sharp nose and a chin to match. He never said a word.
Black Angus was the very model of every angry Scotsman Adam had ever come across – black hair, permanent scowl, and nose bent from having been broken too often in fighting.
The fourth man, he’d dubbed Pockmark. He was a stocky man with a pockmarked face. He was always the one to draw the short straw and end up in the kitchen fetching food for the others. Adam considered him a bit of a tuss, all things considered.
“You did well, Hardacre,” Wilkinson conceded. “However, according to our contact, who is very highly connected in Westminster, there has been no discussion of appropriating funds to build such a ship.”
“I don’t care if they’ve got the money for it or not,” said Adam. “I got these plans at considerable risk. Either I’m trusted and I’m in, or I’m not. And if I’m not trusted, I’ll be on my way right now with my thousand pounds in gold. That was the bargain.”
Wilkinson glanced around at his colleagues, looking for consensus. Adam, too, looked at each face to see if he could divine their thoughts.
“It seems we have a few things to discuss, Hardacre. If it would ease your mind, you now have the liberty of the house.”
“That’s something, I suppose.”
Adam turned on his heel and left the dining room. He closed the door behind himself and stood waiting for the discussion to begin, but it did not. Instead, he heard the sound of a chair leg scraping on the floor and footfalls approaching the door.
He managed to round the corner into a small anteroom before the door opened and then, a moment later, close again.
Well, since he had the liberty of the house, he should use it. Adam turned the knob of a door before him. It turned out to be the smaller of two internal entrances into the library. He entered and made a beeline to the main double doors. They, too, were unlocked. He kept them in mind for a quick exit if he needed it.
The library appeared to be used as a storeroom. A dozen trunks in various sizes were piled neatly into four pyramids of three each. Tempting though it was to examine them, Adam decided his wisest course was to look elsewhere.
A desk in the center of the room was covered in papers. He scanned the documents quickly. They were in French – and he didn’t read it. He tugged loose one of the densely scribed sheets from under the pile without examining it too closely. Whoever was working here might remember the papers on top, but may not miss one buried beneath. He folded it and slipped it into the top of his boot.
It would serve Ridgeway right if it was nothing more than a shopping list for produce.
Adam left the library and made his way across the passage to the drawing room where he opened a pair of French doors that led out into the garden.
Let’s see if the “liberty of the house,” also extended to the garden and the stables.
The carriage house was his first stop. The unmarked brougham was not the only vehicle being stored. A much larger landau was beside it, dusty from months of disuse. The doors featured a cartouche and monogram with the letters D and V in a foliate script.
He returned to the stable by the tack room. This time, he rummaged through satchels and found in one part of a crumpled newspaper that had been used as wrapping paper. The only thing of note was on the inside flap of another satchel – a hand inked mark that looked like clubs from a playing card.
Knowing his time was limited, Adam pulled down one of the brushes and approached the stalls. He found his horse in good condition, treated as well as the other five. The horse whickered and nodded at his approach.
He patted the horse on his neck and got to work, singing as he groomed the horse.
All in a garden green, two lovers sat at ease,
As they could scarce be seen above the leafy trees.
They lovèd lofty full, and no wronger than truly,
In the time of the year cam betwixt May and July.
Quoth he, “Most lovely maid, my troth shall ay endure,
And be not thou afraid, but rest thee still secure
That I will love thee, long as life in me shall last—
“Where the hell ye been, Hardacre?” said Pockmark.
Adam, brush in hand, looked at him. “I came here to check on my horse. I haven’t broken any rules, have I?”
To the best of Adam’s judgment, Pockmark was the mildest mannered of all Wilkinson’s henchman. The man looked uncomfortable. Adam could use that to his advantage.
“Look, I’m not going to cause you any trouble,” he said, keeping his hands where they could be seen and hanging the brush back on its nail. “I didn’t think there’d by any harm in it.”
“Maybe ye shouldn’t have, but come back to the house and I won’t mention it,” said Pockmark almost apologetically.
Adam nodded and followed Pockmark onto the lawn between the stables and the house, but his attention was caught by a man riding at full gallop toward the house. He exchanged a glance with Pockmark who looked alarmed.
“It’s Dunbar,” the man muttered.
“Come on,” said Adam and led a jog back to the house.
They slipped in at a side door and entered the hallway in time to see Dunbar barrel through the front doors.
“Get Wilkinson,” he bellowed. “There’s been a change of plans.”
Everyone gathered in the dining room. Dunbar glared in his direction. Adam glared back and joined the men at the table, a lot more cheered than he had been in days.
“What about him?” said Dunbar to Wilkinson, jerking his thumb in Adam’s direction.
“You can speak in front of Hardacre.” Wilkinson replied.
Dunbar grunted. “Well, I got word from another chapter of the Society. There’s goin’ to be a large movement of ships within the next two weeks, but our friend doesn’t know where or when. But he has managed to get us somethin’ of interest.”
He pulled out a slim volume from a jacket pocket and laid it on the table with great ceremony.
“The current semaphore code book used by the Royal Navy.”
Adam stiffened in his chair.
“How do you know it’s the latest?” Scar asked.
“Only one way to find out,” said Dunbar, giving him a level stare, “ask the man who was in the Navy most recently.”
Exuding a confidence he didn’t feel, Adam leaned back in his chair and gave a condescending smirk. “I was a bosun, not part of the signal corps.”
Nonetheless, Adam signaled with a wave of his hand to pass the book down to him. Dunbar slid it across the polished surface of the table without grace.
After flicking through a few pages, it was as he feared – the genuine article. Just like the one Ridgeway had given him; exactly like the one. So, what was he to say? If he lied and said it was not, it would be too easy to check. If he said it was, what then?
Adam slid the book back up the table and rolled the dice.
“Aye, I’ve seen one like that in use on the Andromeda. But as I said, I wasn’t a signaler, and I didn’t sit there studying it. I couldn’t say if it’s latest.”
“Well, it is,” Dunbar responded.
“Excellent,” Wilkinson announced, “then we move forward with our next assignment. The Collector has instructed us to monitor English semaphore communications for the next several weeks, and we need to do it somewhere where we can be unobtrusive. We also need sufficient elevation and privacy to send signals of our own. The Collector has advised us of a suitable location. You know it, Hardacre.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It’s Kenstec House.”
Adam covered his alarm. How much did they know about his association with the manor – especially recently? “What would I know about that place?” he said.
Wilkinson smiled. “Aside from the fact you grew up within walking distance of it? I understand you didn’t exactly endear yourself to the late owner when you were a lad. Local gossip has it he encouraged your decision to join the Navy.”
Adam thought it best to acknowledge it. “You might say that,” he offered.
Wilkinson paid the matter no further mind and pulled out two sheets of paper from a folded folio at his left hand. The first was a sketch of the west facing elevation of Kenstec, complete with an inset view of the tower turret. The second was a floor plan showing all three levels. A cold chill spread across the top of his head and down his spine.
He knew the hand of the artist. Even if he had not, the signature on the bottom right of the sketches sealed it.
In her neat governess’ hand was her name – Olivia Collins.
*
“Foskett, have you seen my sketchbook?”
Olivia rummaged across the table, assembling her notes on Kenstec House. Two days ago, she decided to finish the history of Kenstec after all, and started writing its history interspersing the text with pen and ink vignettes based on her larger views. Now she was ready to chronicle the construction of the tower.
The red-mopped clerk stuck his head around the door. “Your sketchbook, Miss Collins? I saw it on the desk when I left the office late on Thursday.”
Fitzgerald appeared behind him. “I’m afraid its disappearance is my doing, my dear.”
He explained, “I thought your sketches of Kenstec House were excellent, so I’ve taken the liberty of having a selection of them framed.”
“Framed? They’re hardly as good as all that,” she said.
The solicitor looked crestfallen. “I was hoping you would be pleased with the gift. I meant to surprise you with it.”
Foskett bid a discreet retreat. Olivia wished he hadn’t.
Fitzgerald entered the room instead. She stood to eliminate the disadvantage of him towering over her. Somehow the thought of it made her ill at ease.
“I’m sorry to have spoiled your surprise,” she said. “You are a very thoughtful man and have been very kind.”
His face softened.
“I would be kinder still if you allowed it.”
She couldn’t help the flush rise up her face. Olivia knew she was misleading the poor man and felt ashamed of herself. But her heart lay elsewhere, and she had even begun to allow herself a tiny scintilla of hope that she could break their agreement honorably should the rather odd Lady Ridgeway be serious about offering her a position.
Now, Fitzgerald smiled hopefully and she felt even worse. She didn’t like the way he looked at her with some kind of affection, as if he might be falling in love with her. Even if she never saw Adam Hardacre again, she knew her heart had gone with him. And in time, Fitzgerald would know it, too, and he would hate her for it.
With a deep breath, she fixed a smile and found that part of herself that could tease.
“Are you getting sentimental on me, Peter? That most certainly will not do.”
Now it was his turn to color.
“Does the framer have all of my sketches?”
“No, I have most of the folio on my desk. I’ll return it now, if it is so important to you.”
She felt the mild censure in his voice and remained rooted in place as he turned on his heel and stalked back to his own office.
When he handed her the loose-leaf folio, there was a look in his eye that told her he suspected secrets were being kept. Or perhaps it was her own guilty conscience. She accepted the book and let her eyes fall away from his, keeping them downcast until she heard him leave the room.
She thought again of Lady Ridgeway. She was the type who’d play a game like this with ease.
Olivia Collins was a novice at it.
For the rest of the morning, Olivia listened keenly to the sounds beyond her own small room in Fitzgerald’s offices, dreading the idea of being alone with him. So when he announced he was going to visit a client and should not be expected to return for the rest of the day, she cursed herself for breathing a small sigh of relief.
How on earth was she to agree to the formalizing of an engagement next month if the very thought of spending time alone with her would-be fiancé filled her with unease? How could she bear to have him touch her with any intimacy when all she could think about was the desire she experienced in Adam’s arms?
Her thoughts turned to the strange Lady Ridgeway. Did her salvation lie there? It certainly wasn’t to be found at the post office where the letters contained only regrets that the position had already been filled. What if Lady Ridgeway made no offer of work? What was she to do then?
Olivia put down her pen, feeling the beginning of a headache building at her temples.
Since there was little more she could do on her history of Kenstec without one of the missing sketches, she decided to make a hopeful visit to the post office once again on the way to join the early afternoon coach back to Ponsnowyth.
As the coach rounded the bend past the woods and into the hedgerows that marked the border of Kenstec House, Olivia shouted out for the coachman to stop.
She disembarked and remained on the side of the road until she could no longer see the coach and the plumes of dust kicked up in its wake began to settle. It was hot in the sun. She felt a bead of perspiration tickle the nape of her neck. Grasshoppers, bees, and dragonflies filled the air with sound.
The ruin in the middle of the woods beckoned her. She determined to go there and say a final goodbye to Constance, and to the tragedy which bound them together. She would pray that the poor girl’s soul would find peace, and that her lost and dispossessed son had somehow made a good life for himself.
She found the overgrown path from the road without much difficulty and picked her way through, brushing past ferns and hardy wildflowers. The dappled light through the trees illuminated one of the grey stones ahead. The sound of the stream drew her on also. She was thirsty and the thought of its cold sweetness spurred her forward.
Only a few yards from the clearing, she heard male voices.
“No one comes through here, only the occasional poacher.”
She knew that voice! It was Adam. But there was an edge to his tone, a harshness she’d never before heard.
“Well, they’d better be keepin’ away if they know what’s good for ’em.” The threat by a second man was unmistakable.
Olivia moved off the path, away from them, toward the back corner of the ancient ruin. She could hide there.
At a distance, she could see Adam’s face. The man he spoke to had his back to her, but the barrel of the musket he carried in his hand was more than ample proof that his threat was not an idle one.
“Why don’t you go tell Wilkinson the northern boundary is clear?” said Adam. “I’ll be back.” He began to walk away across her line of sight. She ducked behind a half-wall in case he glanced in her direction.
“Where are ye goin’?” the other man called.
“I’m taking a piss.”
Olivia heard the man grumble and the sounds of him walking away swiftly followed. Then she only heard the sound of her own breathing while she counted down a minute, hoping it was enough time for Adam to have left the clearing.
Squatters at Kenstec House? Why was Adam with them? Olivia swallowed bitterness, she could think of quite a few reasons and none of them good. She rose to her feet slowly and peered toward the clearing by the stream. There was no one to be seen.
The afternoon sun was low in the sky, blinding her retreat back to the road, but she ran for it. She would tell Jory and the others in the village.
Before another thought formed, Olivia was wrenched backwards, a large hand clamped over her mouth.