Blown Off Course (16 page)

Ralph Barclay nodded as he pulled out his Hunter and looked at the time. ‘We will put that venture in Devenow’s name, then. If it goes wrong he will not mind a debtor’s jail and I will get a power of attorney to look after his profits, if they materialise. Now, Gherson, I must be away or I will miss the bargains.’

Ralph Barclay was en route to the auction sale rooms to find the furniture and carpets he needed to furnish his great cabin, the goods of one-time wealthy folk fallen on hard times, of which there were always a number. To have them made, with waiting times of up to a year or more, would take too long.

Rosie’s husband hated the idea of waiting till Sunday to travel, though that was tempered somewhat by the free labour he was given over the two days the Pelicans were resident on his property, their presence a curiosity to his normal workers, one he was brusquely disinclined to satisfy. Come the day, he also drew the line at using his coach to transport them to London: for a man like him, such a conveyance was his pride and joy, a measure of his standing and he would not have it sullied by men he still saw as thieves.

From Rosie, more in hints and winks than words, it seemed the farmer had not told his friends and neighbours of the nature of her previous life, while he would hope none of the upright souls who would wonder why he was not at church on this day had even been in the Liberties of the Savoy; if they had, their silence was assured for the sake of their own reputation.
Whatever legend he had concocted to explain her arrival Rosie would stick to, but it did provide for her a very strong lever over Mr Pointer’s behaviour.

Thus he found himself driving one of his carts through Dorking and taking, as well as paying to use, the turnpike road that led to London, with Michael O’Hagan laying in the back, not actually hiding completely but keeping his large frame out of view, while Charlie sat up front with Pointer, more by habit than inclination seeking fruitlessly to engage him in conversation, his comments met with grunts, not replies.

‘You’ve got yourself a stalwart there, Mr Pointer. Old Rosie is a right brick.’

That got more than a grunt. ‘You would oblige me by not speaking of my wife in that fashion.’

‘Suit yourself.’

The words Charlie had used must have played on his mind, for Pointer, when they were well past the turnpike toll, eventually asked in a gruff tone how long Charlie had known Rosie, a question which got Charlie a warning knock on the back from Michael.

‘Why, I have known her for an age, sir, and never have I met a gentler soul to a man in need.’ That got a look that Charlie understood very well. ‘When I says that, Mr Pointer, I means a man in need of a shoulder, for the likes of me, well, I’ve had a hard life. Never knew my birth mother and I ain’t alone in having no idea of who was my sire, my only good fortune bein’ that when I was put into the ballot at the Foundling Hospital I was admitted.’

Rufus dug Michael in the ribs and grinned, for
Charlie was spinning a right tale. He had hated both his parents, which he was wont to say often, them being drunks and wastrels, and had known and been raised by them, if being left to fend for himself and needing to steal to eat could be called an upbringing.

‘Now I don’t know if you is aware of it, sir, but when a little ’un is left for a foundling the hospital takes a token from the poor mother, something by which to identify her child if she should come back one day to claim him.’

The snort that got told all three that Pointer thought any foundling, and their mother for that matter, did not deserve consideration.

‘Now, I found out, and you will not mind me refusing to say how, that my token was of value, not just a piece of flotsam, which is the usual. That led me to suspect that I might be the child of a well-born lady.’ Charlie’s voice dropped a notch, to become conspiratorial. ‘Further nosing about, ’cause I is skilled at that, Your Honour, led me to believe that I stood in the way to inherit a goodly estate.’ The tone changed again – he became guarded. ‘You must not ask how I came by this knowledge, sir, no, that would never do, for other, innocent folk, would be put in jeopardy by disclosure, but I am sure that I am heir to a proper fortune, only I lack the means to make my case.’ Now the voice took on a note of well-practised ire. ‘I hope you never had to deal with a lawyer, Your Honour, for never was there a more rapacious set of folk than they.’

Michael and Rufus were enjoying listening to this nonsense, thinking Pointer should have known by Charlie’s tone that he was being joshed, yet he responded
as if what he was hearing was the literal truth, and gruffly. ‘I have dealt with attorneys and I agree.’

‘Great shame, not having the small amount I need to get my case heard. No more’n ten guineas would do to start a hunt.’ Charlie sighed, as deep and heartfelt as it was false, for this was a tale he had told many times, to fools who had been sucked into belief and a share of this mythical money. ‘But it is not to be, for the Almighty has never fixed me up with the means. I got close, many a time, but never there, always short by a head.’

Rufus was the first to laugh; both he and Michael had been shaking with silent mirth and he could not contain himself and, of course, that made the Irishman follow suit. Then Charlie could not hold himself back and his tone was larded with humour as he insisted on the need to keep his hand in.

‘’Cause,’ he insisted. ‘I won’t get nowhere depending on you two for fodder.’

‘Spare me this,’ Pointer barked. ‘I asked about my wife.’

It was Michael who answered. ‘Sure, you must take her for what she is and I will wager from the look in her eye and my memory of her, Rosie will never give you cause to doubt her.’

‘I am curious as to how you know her so well.’

‘And, sir,’ the Irishman said emphatically, as it was Charlie Taverner’s turn to grunt, he never having reconciled himself to losing out to Michael, ‘curious you will stay.’

Rufus got a dig in the ribs: he was still laughing.

The rest of their journey was undertaken in silence, the only words spoken Pointer’s insistence that he would not pay the high toll to cross the London bridges; they would have to walk or boat across the river. Being Sunday they were safe from arrest: the tipstaffs who looked out for felons were obliged to observe the Sabbath Day, and having walked too much since leaving HMS
Fury
they elected for a boat, using some of the coin taken from those crimps to pay for their passage, which given the tide was incoming, was swift.

Landing on the northern bank induced strange feelings: for Charlie and Rufus, it was a kind of homecoming, even if it was to a cold hearth. For Michael it was no longer to be a place from which he could come and go, he too would be stuck here now and that was not a thought to cheer his soul. Just as strange was the sensation of once more entering the Pelican on the only day it was quiet, for those forced to reside in the Liberties took full advantage of the day of worship. There were one or two nods as they made their way to the very seats two of them had occupied the night they were pressed, using more of the money they had to buy some food and porter.

That was where John Pearce found them, sitting in a row and it was Charlie who spoke first.

‘I do believe that it’s your turn to stand us a drink.’

Pearce grinned. ‘It was ever so, was it not, brother?’

‘There’s no future in staying here in the Liberties,
John-boy
,’ Michael O’Hagan insisted, ‘and that goes double for you.’

Both tales had been told, of the trio’s adventures, Rosie’s good fortune included, and what John Pearce had been about in their absence – excepting what had happened with Pitt and Dundas – raising the hopes of Rufus and Charlie for a pardon was unwise given there was still no response to his letter and a journey to the Mediterranean for Pearce, should it ever come about, would lead to questions of how it affected his friends.

The problem with the prizes caused dismay, while the Irishman was only partly reassured by the knowledge that his name was unknown and likely to remain so on the south coast. The discussion had moved on to what course to follow next. Pearce knew from previous conversations of how hard life had been for the men from the Liberties before their impressment – eking out a living was hard and sometimes near to impossible, and he also knew that placed a burden on him of support, an added charge on prospects already strained.

‘But there is the problem of keeping you all safe.’

If he had expected some suggestions from the likes of Charlie Taverner, Pearce was disappointed, a lack of any from Rufus being more usual. If they could not stay in the Liberties, and barring Sundays they could not move out of them, then some form of escape must be found. Wild flights of fancy, like a journey to the Americas, he kept to himself, but that did bring on the thought that they would be safer on a boat than on land, with the caveat that the notion would not include the King’s Navy: each now had his protection. Pearce still had Arthur Winston’s card and that might promise two things: a method to get his friends away
from the clutches of the law, while also providing him with income.

‘There’s a fellow I met that I will go and see on the morrow.’ Then he looked at Charlie, he being the most likely. ‘You might know him since he uses the Pelican, a man called Arthur Winston?’ That got a negative shake from all three. ‘Well, he knows you, Michael.’

‘Big bugger like him is hard to miss,’ Charlie responded, smiling.

Michael’s answer was equally good-humoured. ‘Need to look behind the wainscoting to find you, Charlie, you bein’ a mouse.’

The exchange pleased John Pearce: these two had always had a slightly abrasive relationship; shared danger seemed to have eased that. ‘Can you find a place to rest your heads?’

‘We can if we can pay,’ said Charlie, ‘and we ain’t got much coin left.’

‘I will see to that,’ Pearce replied, reaching for his purse, the immediate thought on feeling it that it was not the bulging appendage it had so recently been: it was too damned light now and he had serious doubts if, under the circumstances, Davidson would advance him more.

‘Who is this fellow?’ Rufus asked.

‘A man of business that I encountered in this very place, who might be able to put something our way.’

Pearce did not want to elaborate on what any gainful employment might entail, his reason being he had no desire to hear objections until he had something concrete to propose. If it meant going back to sea, albeit on a
merchant not a naval vessel, he might find they were reluctant, not that they could truly baulk, given the alternatives.

Having passed over some money, more than enough for bed and board, Pearce stood up. ‘I will be back tomorrow, once I have seen this fellow.’

‘Where are you off to now?’

‘I’m off to see the queer fish, Rufus.’

‘Then give him a hail from us, the creature,’ cried Michael, for if Lutyens had the soubriquet of ‘queer fish’, and was known for his strange ways, he was nevertheless well liked.

What Pearce did not say was who else was going to be present.

Having sat drinking tea for nearly an hour and indulging in polite conversation, Heinrich Lutyens had had enough. With John Pearce in a chair on his left and Emily Barclay sat on a settle to his right he felt like some sort of games net with the inconsequential sallies lobbing over him, back and forth, to no conclusion. He had watched this pair for a long time and knew well what they would not openly act upon: that there was a high degree of mutual attraction between them which had foundered on the twin rocks of Pearce’s endemic levity and the upright stance of the well-brought-up and slightly prudish Emily.

John had apologised for his previous behaviour, which got a nodded acceptance. Talking, since then, the avoidance of anything contentious could have been amusing if it had not been so fraught with a fear of a gaffe by either party: thus any mention of acts or places in which they had both been involved, like being on
board HMS
Brilliant
, the events off Brittany or the siege of Toulon, or people that might spark a disagreement, brought on sharp changes of subject.

The problem was compounded by a lack of directness from John Pearce, to Lutyens his most endearing trait. He was behaving like the worst kind of supplicant bumpkin, fearful when he spoke lest anything he said should give rise to dispute or engender a low opinion. If anything, the atmosphere and mode of conversation suited Emily more than he: this was a game she had played many times in her life as a growing girl of some beauty, attractive to a reasonable list of local suitors who had come to take tea in her parlour and pay her court, with the surgeon deputing for the parents who had many times overseen such visits and ensured proprieties were observed.

The only thing which had kept him amused, and that was an imagining rapidly running out of steam, was the vision of Ralph Barclay in such a setting. He could imagine the room in which he would have made his opening moves to gain Emily’s hand, a
well-furnished
and comfortable Somerset parlour, with the sunlight shining in though the large sash windows on a group that in its formality was like a quadrille. Emily’s mother would be an older version of her daughter, a woman who had herself been wooed in like fashion and knew the game in its entirety. Her husband was probably a bluff country fellow, who would huff and puff while wondering when the suitor would get to the only point on which he had concerns: was he in search of a dowry?

Also present, perhaps jealous, would be the main player’s female siblings, younger than she but sure they were the better person, seeking to engage the eye of this gruff naval captain while slipping in barbed comments to diminish their sister, asides which would be sat on by a mother who had already made her mind up as to the suitability of the match: Ralph Barclay, on tenterhooks lest he let slip some gaffe which would scupper his chances, would have already been weighed up and assessed as to whether he was an acceptable husband, and that before he even came through the front door. What a farce it was this marriage game!

‘What do you think, Heinrich?’

The question caught him off guard, for lost in his visualisation of Ralph Barclay seeking to woo Emily’s parents he had not been listening. ‘About what, my dear?’

‘Why, the suspension of habeas corpus.’

‘Is it to be suspended?’

‘No,’ Pearce responded, ‘but it is much talked about and I would not put it past Pitt to recommend it to the king.’

‘You, I take it, John, would not approve.’

‘Of course not, it’s the basis of the citizen’s individual liberty. Without it we are at the mercy of tyranny.’

‘John,’ Lutyens observed, ‘we are subjects in this country, not citizens.’

‘Which I, for one,’ Emily stated, ‘am perfectly happy with.’

Lutyens looked at Pearce in anticipation of the
objection, one which should have been automatic; he looked in vain, though his observant eye informed him that his radical friend was having some difficulty in keeping his views to himself. If anyone else had mouthed such an opinion they would have been treated to a discourse on the difference between a polity subject to the whims of a monarch and the serious advantages of a republic.

‘Everyone is, of course, entitled to their own view.’

‘Dammit, John, say what you believe and stop this pussyfooting around!’

Because of the unbecoming language, that demand got Lutyens a look of shock from Emily and one of surprise from Pearce, who knew the surgeon to be a man who rarely swore, even in exclusively male company.

‘Forgive me, both of you,’ he continued, ‘but I cannot bear this sparring.’

Emily’s nose went up and she looked away. ‘I cannot think what you mean.’

‘You know precisely what I mean, both of you.’

‘And,’ Emily spluttered, ‘I am surprised at your use of language.’

John Pearce was trying to look as shocked as she, but he could not hold it and his shoulders began to shake with suppressed mirth, which rendered the words he spoke a touch breathless.

‘For a man who never blasphemes, to do so in such a setting argues he is serious.’

‘I am serious, John,’ Lutyens replied, his face assuming the same level of dudgeon as Emily Barclay. ‘I cannot conceive of what you hope to gain by a total denial of
everything you believe in. Tell Emily what you really think.’

That stopped his mirth. ‘I fear if I do so I will end up talking to myself.’

‘Sir, you make it sound as if I cannot accept a contrary opinion.’

‘Emily, will you stop being so arch.’

That got Lutyens a withering look from her
half-closed
green eyes. ‘I look to you for support, not complaint.’

‘Support in what, my dear?’ was the soft reply. ‘Do you wish me to remain silent while you behave foolishly?’

‘I was not aware—’

She got no chance to finish, for Lutyens cut right across her, not in a louder tone of voice, but one which was very direct. ‘My dear, you are very aware. The only problem you have is in acknowledging what you know to be true.’

‘Which is?’

‘That you are as attracted to John here as he is to you.’

‘There am I,’ Pearce said, ‘having a care to say nothing contentious, and along comes a fellow known for his circumspection—’

That, too, was interrupted, and more sharply. ‘To bring matters to a head! You said, Emily, that I did not see the look John gave you the day he first clapped eyes on you, but I have seen such looks since.’ About to speak his upheld hand silenced her. ‘And I have seen you, too, look at him in a certain way.’

‘Never.’

‘Many times.’

‘Are you seeking to play Cupid, Heinrich?’ Pearce asked.

‘Lord,’ Lutyens replied, with deep feeling, ‘what a tedious time that child of the Gods must have had, if he had to deal with the likes of you two.’ He stood up abruptly. ‘I am going to leave you alone, and please do me the favour of talking to each other like real people instead of two characters in a badly written play about manners.’

‘Were we so?’

‘Yes, John, you were.’

Then he was gone, leaving them both silent for a while, until Pearce asked, ‘Does he have the right of it?’

‘The right of what?’ came the soft reply, delivered into her own lap.

‘I think it behoves me to make a declaration.’

She looked up then, her face a picture of misery. ‘I am not sure that I want to hear it.’

Pearce responded with a wry smile. ‘You must, I fear, for Heinrich will settle for nothing less. I am about to speak and I would like to do so without interruption, is that acceptable?’ The response was a short nod. ‘I will not seek to deceive you; when I invited you to Nerot’s Hotel there was, in my mind, albeit without any real hope of success, an attempt at seduction.’

‘That, sir, was very obvious.’

‘I do not apologise, nor will I do so, for the kind of man I have been, for that would be hypocrisy, to which
I am not given, I hope. I do not think you can doubt that I am attracted to you—’

‘Just as I do not feel singular in that regard.’ She looked at him then and bit her lip before adding, ‘Apologies, you said without interruption.’

‘There’s no need and you are, of course, correct in your observation, for I can hardly deny being a man. What I hope is that you can – though I admit I did not fully do so myself at that time – see the depth of that interest, something which only came to me on that night. Experience tells me …’ That got a flash of irritation: it was his experience that damned him in her eyes and he was forced to repeat himself. ‘Experience tells me that the upset I caused you was not because I had insulted you by my actions, but that you feared what might occur if you stayed. That, I think, is what our friend is driving at.’

‘I have no notion of how to deal with this.’

‘It might please you to know, Emily, neither have I.’ Since she did not object to the familiarity, Pearce stood up and moved over to the settle. ‘May I sit beside you?’ She agreed, but moved so they would not be touching. ‘I confess that I am smitten.’

‘And I confess that I have no idea how to respond. The way you speak, and what you speak of, is anathema to everything I have ever been brought up to believe. Heinrich asked me on my last visit here if I was happy and I lied, for I am not, locked as I am in a relationship with a man I have come to actively dislike.’

Pearce reached out and gently took her hand, feeling, as he had previously, that buzz of electricity
up his arm. ‘Tell me how it came about.’

Which she did, in a soft voice devoid of animation, and it was a story that was familiar in the society in which she had been raised, a match driven by that very English disease called ‘property’, rather than affection or love. In telling her tale she had to, perforce, admit of the reasons her parents had been so keen on the match, his only response to take a tighter grip on her hand. A few gentle enquiries led Emily on to a more open explanation of her previous life, as well as the attributes she had seen in her husband, which she now knew to be drawbacks, with an admission that the caused of her lack of discernment came from being too provincial.

‘For you, John Pearce, have seen much of the world, and I have seen so little.’

‘Not true, Emily. You have seen more than most and I am obliged to tell you that you have seen it with rare clarity. Your bravery, for instance, astounds me.’

‘I do not think of myself as brave.’

‘People with courage never do, but you have had the pluck to challenge your brute of a husband, which I know was not easy. I cannot think, having listened to you, how your upbringing could have prepared you to act that way, given repression of feeling seems its abiding rule.’

She looked at him for the first time in an age. ‘It was not you that brought on my dispute with him, it was the sheer injustice of his actions.’

‘For which I will happily settle.’

‘Did you think it was for you?’

Pearce laughed gently. ‘I have, as you know, a degree
of conceit, but not even I thought you were acting solely on my behalf. Yet I did hope you might have done so, and the real question is, Emily, if that act were repeated, would it be for me now?’

‘I am in a state of utter confusion, so I cannot tell you.’

‘Which is only to be expected.’

‘No! I should know my mind, I should know what it is I want and what I am prepared to do to get it.’

‘That flies in the face of the human condition. As creatures we are all confused, with so many varied pressures pulling on our emotions. It does not do for you to berate yourself.’

John Pearce was in a quandary: he had on the tip of his tongue words that would explain the solution to Emily’s dilemma, yet he was also unsure if it would be wise to employ them. He wanted to tell her about Amelie Labordiére, high-born, beautiful and married, with whom he had enjoyed a wonderful
affaire
in Paris, tell her of how a French woman would have approached her problem, really with indifference. In France, the fact that she despised her husband would have raised not a single eyebrow, nor would his indifference to their liaison, given that he had his own mistress. Given ‘mutual attraction’, as Heinrich had termed it, there would have been no doubt as to which way matters would have proceeded.

It was, he knew, not so very different in London, if you took account of the behaviour of the upper social orders: had he not enjoyed a brief fling with Lady Annabel Fitzgerald just after receiving his commission?
It was the attitude of her middling class which prevented Emily from moving naturally on to the next stage of their relationship and Pearce feared to be too open in broaching that such a conclusion, such intimacy, was inevitable if they were to remain in each other’s company for any length of time, and in thinking on that, he wondered how that, with all the other problems he faced, was going to be achieved.

Lost in his own thoughts, Pearce had failed to see the tears that began to well in her eyes and she had gone quite rigid in an attempt to prevent them. It was only when a very suppressed sob escaped her lips that he became aware and that, sad as it was, it allowed him to pull her gently towards him and put his arms around her shoulder, feeling, as her body came into contact with his, the jerking of her dismay. Pearce could smell her: not her scent but the actual musk of her body, and that produced in him an unbearable depth of desire, one which, with any other woman, he would have turned into action. Yet he could not and it was fear that stopped him: fear of acting too swiftly, fear of giving offence, as an emotion one which was entirely novel to him.

‘It is such a sin,’ she sobbed.

‘What is?’

‘To contemplate loving a man other than my husband.’

‘I am happy that you can contemplate such a thing, Emily, but it is far from a sin and also it is far from uncommon.’ Those words, too, had required restraint. ‘How can anyone term tender feelings for another as “sin”?’

‘It is in the eyes of God.’

‘Dry your tears and imagine that God cannot see you.’

‘He sees everything.’

Pearce sighed, for in saying those words Emily had informed him of the height of the hurdles he had to overcome. She had been brought up in awe of a doctrine in which he did not believe and for a short period he was back with his father, listening to him as he ticked off his objections to the teachings of the Church, the calm way they were expressed rendering them absurd: God made the world in six days and rested on the seventh, he also made man and woman. His own son was the product of a virgin birth created by a visiting angel to a woman who was married – what about poor Joseph, had he been debarred by divine instruction from consummating his marriage? Death and resurrection and a Holy Trinity of three beings in one were what the worshipers were supposed to believe, never seeing or suffering from the outrageous venality of those who were supposed to carry out his ministry!