Black Gold (15 page)

“I see,” murmured Roach thoughtfully. He stirred as if about to add his opinion.

Sir Harry cut him off. “From his hiding place last night, Critchley saw the captain threaten the colonel with a pistol.”

Roach gasped loudly.

Rogers leaned over the table and shook a menacing finger in Roach's face. “I want you to find out if indeed Fitzroy was behind the attack on the coach. Report to me any future conspiracy he might aim at the colonel.”

***

Hidden in the closet, Georges mulled over what he was hearing. He had thought Rogers had called Roach to the training room to account for a failed attempt to kill little Charlie. Now it appeared that Rogers didn't suspect that the attack might have been aimed at his son and was unaware of Scarface's note, which Colonel Saint-Martin had kept secret. Nor did Rogers indicate in any other way that he was behind the attack. He blamed it on Fitzroy, who had been out riding in the country at the time and had not yet returned.

Sir Harry's version seemed plausible to Georges. By abducting Anne and Charlie, the bandits intended to spare them from the slaughter—Anne, in order that Roach might have revenge on her; Charlie, in order to allow him later to escape or to set him free for a ransom. Fitzroy wanted the boy to live. He would eventually inherit Sir Harry's wealth for Lady Margaret to hold in trust and the captain to exploit.

Georges listened carefully. The men were leaving. He waited a few minutes, then cautiously stepped out of the closet. His mind was spinning, but slowly a sequence of events fell into place. Saturday afternoon, Fitzroy had been in the parlor and heard about Sunday's trip to Bristol. He must have then contracted with Roach. Overnight, Roach and Scarface assembled a band of six. On Sunday afternoon, Tarleton and Corbett in disguise led the band to the site of the ambush, hid behind the hedge, and directed the attack. It was most likely Fitzroy himself who rode in the Bath coach, identified the target, and sent a messenger, a big man, perhaps Roach, galloping off to the band.

The more Georges considered this view of Fitzroy's role, the more convinced he felt it might be true. He'd think about it again after a good night's sleep and tell the colonel.

Sir Harry and Roach had long gone when Georges shook the cold out of his bones, felt his way through the dark building, and hastened back to the house.

Chapter 13

Fancy Ball

Monday, April 2

Early in the morning, half-awake, Anne left her bed and padded over to the window. The sun had just begun to climb above the brow of Combe Down. The sky had cleared to the south. She opened the window and breathed in fragrant spring air. In the eaves above her, doves cooed softly. A perfect hour for a ride.

She washed with cold water and brushed her hair, then reached into her wardrobe for the riding outfit she often wore in Hampstead. Black cap, light brown wool coat, tan breeches, black boots. Paul wouldn't be shocked; he had seen her astride a horse before in Wimbledon, shortly after they had first met. He had seemed surprised but pleased.

A few minutes later, she met Paul in the servants' hall. “This is the ride we promised each other many months ago,” he said as he embraced her. Mrs. Powell had laid out a breakfast of coffee, bread, and butter at a table where they could be alone. While they ate, Paul shared with her what Georges had overheard last night in the training room.

“I now believe Fitzroy and Roach arranged the ambush on Bristol Road,” Paul remarked. “Of course, Roach could have acted on his own.”

Anne felt relieved to hear that Charlie had not been a target, but she was reminded of the threat to Paul. For a moment she stared at him, suddenly aware that she could have lost him yesterday. Her throat tightened. When she tried to speak, she thought she would choke. Finally, she stammered, “Fitzroy will try again. He'll find some other way. What shall we do?”

“We'll be ready,” he answered calmly. “But, since we have no proof of his complicity, we must behave as though we don't even suspect him.”

The stable was bustling when they walked in. Stableboys stopped to stare at Anne, then returned to cleaning the floor. At the far end of the building, Peter Hyde was instructing a young groom to prepare coaches for the day. He turned and waved. Georges came out of the stalls, leading two thoroughbreds, saddled and eager to go, a black mare for Anne and a chestnut hunter for Paul.

They mounted their horses and trotted on paths through the estate to a country road south of Combe Park. Its packed dirt surface was in good condition, and they had it to themselves. When they came to a long straight stretch, they urged their horses to a gallop. The mare was eager to run. The wind soon whistled in Anne's ears. Paul's hunter took up the challenge and the horses raced neck and neck.

At Ralph Allen's stone quarry they reined in their mounts, tethered them to a tree at the edge of a grassy clearing, and walked toward the works. Decades of cutting had gouged a large amphitheater out of a steep hillside, exposing thick layers of limestone. Great blocks of cut stone littered the quarry's floor as if giants at play had tossed them helterskelter.

Anne took off her cap, shook her hair. The sun had risen high enough to throw its rays against the western wall of the quarry, drawing out the honey color so characteristic of Bath's buildings. Black martins darted in and out of crevices in the stone, swooping swiftly from wall to wall. Their twittering echoed like a fairy band of tiny flutes. She and Paul gazed quietly at the scene until workmen began arriving—insects measured against the walls of stone towering above them.

“Anne, with you at my side I could stay here forever.”

She stared fondly into his eyes. The magic of this place had joined her spirit to Paul's in a kind of sacred communion. His voice resonated with yearning to seize, to celebrate this tender miracle, lest it vanish without a trace, like the echo of birdsong against the rock. A keen desire stirred deeply within her. She wanted to hold on to this moment and share it with him. They turned to each other. His lips met hers in a long, fervent kiss.

Even gripped by passion they were still aware they were out in the open, exposed to public view. They drew apart.

“Another time, Anne.”

“Another place, Paul.”

***

At Combe Park's gate, they encountered Jeffery in old clothes, trotting toward them, breathing easily. He had run down to the river and back, Anne thought. When he saw them, he waved and joined them on the road into the estate, keeping pace with the horses. He glanced with interest at Anne, then stared. She didn't take offence. The footman might never have seen a woman astride a horse. But she noticed Paul seemed startled and annoyed. Jeffery averted his eyes and veered off toward the house.

***

Late that morning, Anne wanted some aids for her lessons with Charlie. A few puppets or picture books would do. Critchley was the person most likely to know where to look. She didn't like to deal with him, especially since he had betrayed her to Roach, but she decided to approach him anyway. He was at his desk in the classroom, dictating Latin passages to William. As she entered, he looked up at her with cold, hostile eyes. William snickered. But Anne managed to maintain her civility. She asked if the tutor knew where she could find toys. “Try the attic above the ballroom,” he said curtly and resumed dictation.

Anne found the door to the attic unlocked and stepped into a large chamber above the ballroom. To the left stood a harpsichord. She carefully lifted the cover but raised little dust. Someone must have recently uncovered the instrument. Its veneer was badly cracked and stained. Water damage, she guessed. She began to play a tune her mother had taught her, but several keys didn't work. She replaced the cover and looked around.

Shelves lined the walls; trunks and storage boxes littered the floor. At the far end of the room, yet another door opened to a space over the former chancel. Inside she heard a low intermittent sound. She stopped, listened. The sound came again, very low.

To her left she noticed a small puppet theater. On a shelf straight ahead were hand puppets, dolls, painted lead soldiers, and other toys. To her right stood a wall of freestanding bookcases that enclosed the southwest corner of the room. The sound came from behind the books.

She edged through an opening between the cases. Suddenly, to her left, she saw a very large man in crimson livery sitting in a dormer window space. Light poured on him. It was Jeffery, bent over a small table, his head resting on an opened book. He was snoring. She gasped and stepped back, bumping into a case and rattling its contents. The footman raised his head and looked around, his eyes half-closed, as if he didn't know where he was.

“I'm sorry for disturbing you,” Anne stammered.

He glanced down at the book, then leaped to his feet, sending the chair tumbling behind him.

Mouth agape, Anne backed into the case again. She gulped, “I'm so sorry…I'll go away.” She turned to leave.

“Please, Miss. Don't go…Let me explain.” He raised his hands, palms out. “I didn't steal it….”

His entreaty was so earnest that she stopped, her heart thudding with visceral fear. She was alone with this huge, strange, powerful black man! Yet he didn't threaten her, he was pleading. She froze, speechless, staring at him.

He lifted the book from the table and handed it to her. It was a collection of stories from the Bible in very simple English. He must have found it in one of the cases behind her.

“I never thought you stole it,” she said quietly, returning the book to him. “But why do you come up here to read?”

He held the book in his hands like a treasure. “The law doesn't allow slaves to read or write. That's what the master says. If I disobey, he says, I'll go back to Jamaica on the next boat and cut sugar cane the rest of my life.”

“I surely will not tell anyone you are reading unless you want me to.” She was about to excuse herself again and leave, when she noticed a profound sadness in his face, an unfulfilled yearning. She asked him, “What's the matter?”

“I read poorly. No matter how hard I try. I come here after training, like now. I come often at night. I learn the words but not what they mean. There's no one here to teach me.” He caressed the book with his fingers, then put it on a shelf and picked up the chair.

A surge of pity flooded Anne's heart. No one in the household would defy the master's orders. They might report an infraction by the slave. Outside the house this huge black man attracted instant attention. Even if he were free, he wouldn't have the time or money to go to a school or hire a tutor.

Could she teach him, she wondered. She'd have only a month to do it. How much could she accomplish in a few furtive hours? And if they were discovered? She'd be ridiculed. And, she shuddered, glancing up at the man, she'd be suspected of something far more scandalous than teaching him to read! Paul would not doubt her virtue, but he would think she was thoughtless and reckless. Teaching Jeffery had nothing to do with apprehending Fitzroy, he would say. And, it might seriously complicate relations with Sir Harry.

“Miss Cartier!” Critchley's high, reedy voice called out. Anne heard foot steps from the servants' stairwell. They stopped. He had reached the attic landing. She grabbed Jeffery by the arm, pulled him between the cases and out into the room, then pointed to the puppet stage. “Quick, pick it up and follow me.” She dashed to the shelf, seized an armful of hand puppets, and raced into the large storage room, the footman after her. They were half-way through the room when Critchley entered, wheezing heavily.

“Thank you so much for coming to help me,” Anne exclaimed, her voice carrying far more concern than she felt. “You really shouldn't have climbed the stairs.” The man stood bent and breathless but staring with gimlet eye at Anne and the black man. As she passed by, she smiled to Critchley and glanced back at Jeffery. “I asked the footman to help me with the puppet stage. It would have been too much for a woman to carry down the stairs.” Once out of earshot of the clerk, she thought she heard a sigh of relief from Jeffery.

***

After introducing Charlie to the little puppet theater, Anne returned to her room. She felt sad and helpless. There was little she could do for Jeffery. She gave a shrug and decided to deal with another problem that had been festering in the back of her mind. Harriet! Sweet, foolish girl! Had she encouraged Sir Harry's infatuation? Was she even aware of it?

Anne leaned back against the door and let her mind range freely. The pieces of a puzzle were falling into place: Harriet's fine clothes; her familiarity with Combe Park and its master; the remarkable progress of her career, from dancing in the chorus at Sadler's Wells to singing solo at the Royal Bath Theatre. A powerful, hidden hand must be working for Harriet.

Anne found it hard to imagine Harriet as Sir Harry's mistress. She had too much self-respect and integrity to exploit a man or to allow herself to be exploited by him. She also came from a devoutly religious family. But she had left home for the theater. She was also only human. Perhaps she had been charmed by Sir Harry. At the very least, she might well be Sir Harry's protégé, and unaware of the risks involved. For all his charm, he was a brutal and self-serving man, not likely to respect any woman for long, whether as beautiful as Lady Margaret or as personable and talented as Harriet.

She had invited Anne to tea at her apartment at two o'clock, following a rehearsal. Since Anne's arrival in Bath, she and Harriet had little time for a serious talk. Now Anne saw an opportunity. She paced back and forth. Should she ignore Harriet's predicament or warn her? With a deep breath, Anne chose the latter, fully aware that even the best of friends might not appreciate uninvited counsel.

A little before two, Anne reached Queen Square, a grassy park enclosed by a wrought iron railing. A tall, slim pyramid stood in the middle. Rows of stately buildings with uniform facades gave the square a dignified, well-mannered aspect. She had just begun searching for Harriet's residence, when she recognized a crimson carriage parked on Gay Street at her friend's address. Alarmed, Anne stopped to consider what to do. Had Harriet invited Sir Harry to join them at tea? There would be no chance then for sisterly advice!

She happened to notice a couple walking on a graveled path near the sharply tapered pyramid. Their conversation seemed strained. The man was leaning toward the woman, chopping the air with his hand. She was looking ahead, keeping a polite distance between them. She recognized Anne and waved. It was Harriet, together with Sir Harry. Anne walked into the park to meet them.

He bowed stiffly to Anne, as if she were intruding. Harriet seemed relieved to see her. They had come from the Upper Assembly Rooms, where Harriet had rehearsed for the evening's musical entertainment. He had watched, since he would otherwise miss her performance. He was supposed to meet his sporting friends to discuss Wednesday's boxing match.

“Sir Harry, would you please excuse us,” Harriet said as they reached the entrance to her building. “Anne and I have much to talk about. We've been out of touch for over a year.” Her tone was soft and gentle, her manner mollifying. He seemed assuaged. She extended her hand and he kissed it, looking up boldly into her eyes. He bowed politely to Anne, then strode to his carriage and drove off.

While Harriet hunted for her key, Anne studied the building's simple, elegant facade of Bath stone. This was a much too fashionable address for a young singer and dancer. Who paid the rent? A plausible answer immediately came to her mind, but she withheld judgment. There had to be a better explanation.

The two women walked up to Harriet's apartment on the first floor. A young maid let them into the parlor and took their coats. Anne surveyed the room, increasingly disconcerted by the level of refinement and comfort she was discovering. A tea table was set for two near windows offering a lovely view of Queen Square. In one corner stood a harpsichord. On the walls were many scenes of Bath—including the same view of Queen Square she had just enjoyed. Over the fireplace hung a masterful painting of a beggar girl and a boy, depicted in half-figure. They stood in a clear golden light against a dark woodland background.