Nell Gwynne's On Land and At Sea (12 page)

Herbertina, likewise no novice, continued her own roll and came up on her feet: just in time to see the pistol extended as the fellow on the ground leaned up on one arm. He grinned maliciously, and discharged the pistol directly at Herbertina’s breast.

The ball struck her like a—well, like a ball, like a cricket ball, to be precise; or one of the champagne corks more usually wielded by Nell Gwynne’s rowdier patrons. It also stung like the dickens and knocked her flat on her arse. What it did not do, however, was split her breastbone, penetrate her heart, or impart any other deadly force to her person.

Herbertina was as startled as her assailant, but quicker of thought. She scrambled to her feet and leaped at him. Darting round to his side, she kicked him smartly just above his left ear, sending him at full-length on the ground with the interesting sound of a melon being flung at a garden wall. He lay utterly still.

Not pausing, Herbertina caught up the dropped rod (prosaically, it proved to be a broom) and the pistol, and strode off herself with assurance, trusting to the brevity of the encounter to lend her retreating figure a similarity to her downed opponent’s. And indeed, as she sped toward the trees, a voice behind her shouted—with annoyance, but no real alarm—for “Dick” to leave off potting at the damned rabbits and get his arse back to work. Herbertina waved the broom in a universal gesture of disdainful acknowledgment, and made for cover.

By this time her little copse of hawthorn trees was also spreading a nice deep shadow to the west, and she was confident she was out of sight before the direction of her retreat was clear from the cottages. No alarms disturbed the bustle of activity behind her, but it was only a matter of time before the dog-kicking Dick either awoke or was found. Herbertina wasted no further time in observation, but discarded the broom, and ducked into the shelter of the hawthorns.

She took a moment to examine her shirtfront, in some awe. While there was a decided ache there, she felt in no way damaged. However, there was a neat hole through her waistcoat. It had evidently lodged itself against the strange new stays in her corset:
and not gone a fraction more into her chest
.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Felmouth!” she whispered. She wheeled the dandy horse out of the bushes and prepared to speed away.

The smooth path along the cliff tops ran downhill from this vantage point, and she anticipated a swift ride down. Just before she mounted, though, she heard a soft whine, and the masked fox terrier came hesitantly out from under a bush. Herbertina paused, indecisive—then knelt and offered her hand. The bitch came forward and nosed her fingers, then sat down and grinned up at her. Herbertina patted her and rose, looking back along the cliffs one last time.

No pursuit. The crowd of men was quieter now, massing together, and it appeared a bonfire was being lit. Along the moon’s road shining on the waves, a black serpentine wake was moving east.

“Well, if you can keep up, you can come with me, little lady,” whispered Herbertina. She vaulted on to the dandy horse, pushing off and pumping down hard on the pedals, and coasted silently away down the path. The little fox terrier raced happily after her.

Pickett lay still now, head resting on Lady Beatrice’s bosom. Lady Beatrice was rehearsing a rather complicated cable pattern in her head, while running her fingers through Pickett’s hair in the hopes he would thus be soothed into staying silent just a little longer. Both of them still gazed out to sea where the moon struck a widening path across the waves.

Suddenly, a dark wake was visible speeding straight along that path, at right angles to the glowing lines of waves incoming. On the headland to the North which seemed to be its origin, a bonfire blazed up in the night.

Pickett lurched upright on his elbows, face alight with renewed excitement. Lady Beatrice caught her breath, startled, as other, more intimate indications were made immediately obvious to her—Pickett, fortunately, took her indrawn breath for a rekindling of passion equal to his own and set to above her with renewed vigor.

He tore his gaze from the sea long enough for a deep kiss.

“Dearest Beatrice,” he panted exultantly, “do you see it? Is it not fine? Is it not inspiring?”

It was certainly inspiring him. Though Lady Beatrice took no personal pleasure from their acrobatics, she was still a refined judge of both quality and quantity—and the sight of the mysterious vessel on the ocean below was clearly a spur to Mr. Pickett’s efforts. She fixed her eyes on his, widening them so the moon seemed to light her grey gaze to silver, and simply clung to his shoulders in adoring silence. He took this for the sign of swooning ecstasy he expected, and stared out in triumph once more at the sea.

To Lady Beatrice’s astonishment, Pickett was suddenly so enthused at what he saw that he sat up, withdrawing from their congress with unexpected speed. He pointed and cried out in triumph.

The second mast, the cannon, had risen into the air: with a low thundering concussion, it jetted a spray that gleamed like pearls and opals in the moonlight.

Mr. Pickett followed suit.

“You are most certainly not coming into our rooms,” said Miss Rendlesham severely. Her gaze had apparently paralyzed their importunate visitor; without releasing him from the pinpoint glare, she waved one hand at Dora and ordered, “Fetch our shawls, and tell the others we will be on the smoking deck.”

Dora slipped in and out the doorway with alacrity, returning wrapped in her shawl and with another to slip round Miss Rendlesham’s shoulders. Miss Rendlesham took Dora’s arm and pointed to the outside door.

“Outside, at once,” she commanded. Mr. Ponsonby blanched and went meekly before them, wringing his hands.

Out on the deck, Miss Rendlesham seated herself on a wrought-iron bench, Dora perching solemnly beside her, and looked at Mr. Ponsonby with a frigid contempt.

“Explain yourself, sir,” she said. “Why are you here at this hour? Are you about some mischief to my cousin Miss Corvey?”

“Oh, no, ma’am, I am here to be of service to you!” cried Mr. Ponsonby. “Mr. Pickett is a dangerously deranged man, and he has utterly despicable villains in his employ—”

“Yes, we know,” said Miss Rendlesham. “We know it was
your
joke to teach Mr. Pickett that appalling accent, and that he understandably dismissed you for it. And now you invade our privacy to further traduce your former employer. Perhaps you are some sort of blackmailer? I wonder if we would do better to simply send for the constable.”

Mr. Ponsonby appeared about to bolt for the stairs at this suggestion. Dora moved to block the way; and despite her wide-eyed kitten looks, her very posture suggested that attempting to pass her would be a serious error. Miss Rendlesham could see that her victim was ready to capitulate (although he was not enjoying his helplessness as much as her patrons usually did). She therefore sharpened her tone, and ordered him brusquely to tell her all.

Which he did not do—it being obvious very quickly that he did not know as much as they on many fronts—but what he did have to say was a useful corroboration of details. Some of it was quite enlightening. His eagerness (and fear) combined to make his tale both brief and somewhat incoherent; but Miss Rendlesham was used to that sort of response. She frowned at him severely as he finally ran down.

“Is that all, Ponsonby?” she asked, contemptuously. “You claim Mr. Pickett has engineered some underwater juggernaut, and means to attack coastal vessels? I suppose he is threatening the anchovy fleet. And he has hired man-servants whom you find objectionable! And this intelligence you bring not to the police nor the harbor authorities, but to Miss Corvey? I suggest, Ponsonby, that you are a poor judge of the qualities wanted in a gentleman’s servant.”

“But it’s all true! He is a dangerous villain!” cried the wretched Mr. Ponsonby.

“Be off with you now, you horrid little man.” Miss Rendlesham rose to her feet, waving her hand in dismissal. “You shall find no blackmail opportunities here. I refrain from summoning the constable only to spare my aunt and our hostess the embarrassment of having you publicly removed; but I
shall
have you taken up for Conduct Likely to Lead to an Affray if I see you here again.”

Ponsonby gaped at her. Miss Rendlesham smiled—a small, cruel, smile—and suddenly strode toward him with a stamp of her foot, like a saber fighter. Ponsonby squeaked and fled down the outside stairs, from in front of which Dora had prudently removed herself.

From the sound of his departure, he missed the last two or three steps, and thumped down into the courtyard with a small cry of pain. In only a moment, though, they could here him pattering away in terror.

“That looked like fun,” said Dora as they went back indoors.

“You know, it rather was,” admitted Miss Rendlesham. “So many things are tedious when performed as duty, that become a decided pleasure when one does them for one’s own enjoyment.”

“That’s why I never do anything I don’t really like,” said Dora seriously.

“Well, Dora, your tastes are rather more catholic than mine, I fear,” Miss Rendlesham said. “But here we are—now let us go in and tell the others, and decide what must be done next. And I think it might be a good idea to check in with Mr. Felmouth, as well.”

“Do you think it is actually a matter of life and death?”

“Not to
our
Ladies,” said Miss Rendlesham confidently.

“Oh, I hope Beatrice and Mrs. Corvey come home soon…”

They returned then to the parlor for a council of war.

Mr. Pickett was markedly reserved as he and Lady Beatrice walked slowly home along the cliff path. His mood had initially threatened sulkiness, but she would have none of that—a post-coitally downcast Mr. Pickett was of no use to her, whereas a triumphant one could be manipulated into spilling his heart to her. As it were.

By dint of a little clinging, a few tremulously smiling tears, and the loan of her silk handkerchief, Lady Beatrice had Mr. Pickett considerably cheered up by the time they were in sight of the lighted windows of his house. They walked slowly, his arm about her waist and her whole frame swaying against his from shoulder to knee. Whenever Mr. Pickett made sounds indicating a resumption of speech, Lady Beatrice sighed and pressed a little closer, which served to keep him admirably silent until they came to the garden gate.

He stopped their progress there.

“And so we return to the mortal world,” he said, a little wistfully. “And if my passion overcame me too forcefully, dearest Beatrice, I hope you know it was the madness of a man transported for a blessed time to the company of a goddess! Will you take my marital avowal as spoken aloud?”

Lady Beatrice smiled at him serenely. “Of course, Tredway. We are adults, after all. And I accept.”

Pickett’s face lit with slightly stunned delight. “You will be my wife—my helpmeet—my partner in this great enterprise?”

“Have I not said so?” said Lady Beatrice (who had said nothing of the sort). “But let us not surprise Mamma with the happy news tonight, I pray you. Allow me to tell her in my own time.”