Nell Gwynne's On Land and At Sea (17 page)

The bottom of the draw widened out to a tiny beach, where the brook lost itself amid rocks and coarse sand. Just beyond, Herbertina stopped; the others unloaded their packs and headed down to the water’s edge, while Herbertina dismounted and carefully led the horse around to face back up the draw. She knotted the reins loosely and chocked the wagon with stones, where the horse could reach both the brook and some scrubby willow.

Down by the water, the others were stripping off their boots and outer clothing; Herbertina joined them, shedding her boy’s clothes. All the garments were bundled into their packs. Ultimately, each of the Ladies was down to her corset, pantaloons and long, thick stockings.

“Bathing costumes would be have been warmer,” complained Maude.

“But bulkier. One cannot really swim in those things,” said Miss Rendlesham practically. “We will be doing rather more than splashing about in the shallows.”

“How will you keep the clicker dry?” asked Dora. She began to rub wool wax over her arms, as the others were doing. “Eeeww, this sheep grease does stink!”

Maude wrinkled her nose at the jar in her hand. “I am using a French letter, and then covering it all with the stuff—it will be waterproof, then.” So saying, she fitted a condom, a length of sheep intestine neatly stitched, over the clicker and greased the assemblage well with the wool wax.

“This is what the fishermen use for their hands, when the nets are rough. And to grease the tillers and such on their boats. And to waterproof canvas,” observed Mrs. Otley. She made an effort to sound objective about it, but was making a very wry face as she anointed her face and throat. “Though it does have an awful smell, we will appreciate it when we are in the cold water. And we may contemplate how very useful sheep are, too.”

“Sheep grease may be useful. So are French letters. I would rather contemplate the usefulness of sheep over a grilled chop and some warm wool stockings, though!” returned Dora. “Here, Erato—I’ll do the backs of your arms and legs, then you do mine.”

One by one, the Ladies prepared themselves and one another. At length they were all ready—clad in corsets and stockings and slicked head to toe with wool wax. Their corsets were armored, they all had various weapons concealed about their persons, and a mood of high endeavor prevailed.

Just before they took to the waves, Maude sent the pre-arranged code that would inform Mrs. Corvey they were doing so. If Mrs. Corvey had any new intelligence on the location or schedule of the submarine, she would send a specific chirp; then they could exchange Morse code to elucidate the situation. If not, a second, different chirp would order them on as planned.

There were no changes.

The moon would not be up until near dawn. The waves were quiet and dark. There was a concerted gasp as the waves surged up over waist-level, but after a moment the chill was bearable; at least, so long as one kept moving. A few moments’ determined swimming and they were beyond the waves, in water that surged up and down vigorously but did not break over their heads. They struck out paralleling the beach.

With the Daddyhole cliffs on the left to guide them, it was simply a matter of following the coastline. Per their plan, the Ladies kept as close inshore as they could—twice actually coming ashore at small beaches along the cliff-edge to rest, huddled together under the towels each had brought. The distance was short, but the night was chill; the starlight on the sea was very lonely.

“This would never work in winter,” said Jane rather mournfully at the second stop. “Not even in Torquay!”

“And yet the fishermen assured me that the water is
practically tropical this time of year,” said Dora.

“They were hoping you would decide to bathe nude,” said Miss Rendlesham. She laughed. “Think what we could charge for this tableaux in the way of business!”

“Bath salts, then. And hot water,” said Dora firmly. “And no sheep grease.”

“It does help, though. Come on, girls, we need to get round one more curve in the cliffs,” said Herbertina.

“Scuttling boats ought to work up some heat, at least,” muttered Dora.

Her sister Jane sang a line or two of
The Lowland Sea,
very softly, as they slipped away back into the sea like so many mermaids.

When the
Sceptre
seemed officially put to sea—the roll to her movement now being much more regular and deeper—one of the yacht’s young men came knocking on the cabin door. In an even more honeyed drawl than Mr. Pickett’s own, he invited Lady Beatrice to come above and join “the Cap’n.”

Mrs. Corvey bade her
Watch her step most carefully
, and Lady Beatrice followed the American boy back up to the deck.

Mr. Pickett was at the stern with the tiller handle held easily against his broad chest. When Lady Beatrice approached, he put out his arm and pulled her in to his other side.

“I see you use a tiller, not a wheel, sir,” Lady Beatrice said breathlessly.

“Can’t get a proper feel for a ship unless you get your arm round her!” Pickett had to shout above the rush of wind and water, the myriad sounds of the sails and rigging. “Just like a beautiful woman, my darling Beatrice!”

Lady Beatrice put her hand on his, neatly displaying the ruby troth ring on her hand, and smiled up at him.

“Shall I be jealous, dear…Treadway?” and then dropped her eyes, as if flustered at using his Christian name.

“Never!” he bellowed tenderly. “Dearly as I hold the good old
Sceptre,
she is out here tonight for your sake—not the other way around! You shall stand in for Britannia, my Beatrice, as I strike an unparalleled blow for her imperial honor!”

And he proceeded to enlighten her in full as to their errand and intentions. To Lady Beatrice’s relief, his plan was nearly precisely as they had supposed; in fact, Mrs. Corvey may have over-anticipated his cunning in setting it up. It was much more direct, more smash-and-grab than the Ladies had expected. Pickett had taken no security precautions at all—not entirely unreasonably, he expected the isolation of his sea-cave lair and the darkness of tonight to hide his activities from the residents of Torquay. But it did mean that should anyone discover him and take objection, he had left the submersible with little defense.

However, he had not overlooked the matter of publicizing his exploits. In fact, he appeared to have a better grasp of that necessity than the sanity of his plans in general. He confided to Lady Beatrice that he had written a letter to the London
Times
, detailing the entire affair and setting out his noble goals—he confessed to her that he would have mailed it already, (having no doubt as to his success) but had held it back in order to discuss it with her first.

“For I have not forgotten what a dire stroke that vile Ponsonby played against me,” said Pickett. “Why, he might have cost me all! Especially you, my Beatrice…how could you ever have discerned my quality behind that ridiculous accent?”

“Dearest, I have been in no doubt as to your quality at any time. I am certain your letter needs no advice from me, but I would be honored to be allowed to see it,” said Lady Beatrice, her eyes fixed on his.

She had found that a close focus on a man’s eyes had a salubrious effect on his attention; in that, when she did it, his internal compass swung to her and would not be altered. Pickett had proven especially susceptible…now the red flush occasioned by mention of Ponsonby faded, and a foolish smile spread across his face.

He drew a folded paper from his coat breast and handed it to her.

In Lady Beatrice’s opinion—which was considerably better informed than most young women in England, due to her past education and present occupation—Mr. Pickett’s letter was actually a well-written statement of his ideals and designs. Unfortunately, it was also, she judged, practically guaranteed to start a war between England and France, should it become public—even if he failed to sink
Le Cygne Impériale.
It managed to be both belligerent and condescending, and to imply that the failure to agree with Mr. Pickett’s own national ideals (whatever he thought he was at the moment) was symptomatic both of an incurable mental disease and a moral failure. Further, she judged the letter would also serve to promote a profound state of hostilities between both France and England, and Mr. Pickett’s native America.

“Oh, splendid, Treadway,” she murmured. “I am no judge of politics, of course, but you do seem to have hit upon every possible point of importance.”

“I hoped you would like it,” said Mr. Pickett, and blushed as though she were critiquing a love sonnet. Lady Beatrice concluded that Americans’ passions seemed very intimately wound up in their politics.

“It is profoundly—
imperial
,” she said by way of experiment, and was gratified at the way his arm tightened about her waist in passion.

In that very moment, the young man reappeared, a tray with two wine glasses in hand and a white towel about his forearm, and advised them that the meal was about to be served.

“Masden!” bellowed Pickett, and surrendered the tiller to the man who stepped promptly up.

Pickett and Lacy Beatrice toasted one another and drained their glasses; then at Pickett’s instigation, tossed them over the side rather than break them on the deck. The men on deck cheered as they then withdrew.

“Does not Mr. Felan assist you?” asked Lady Beatrice as they moved carefully across the desk.

“Ha! Good fellow, but a landsman through and through,” said Pickett. He swung Lady Beatrice effortlessly over the companionway’s raised sill, setting her on the steep stairway-ladder there. “No, all my hands have been with me since we left the States; Mr. Felan serves in other capacities. Tonight, he’s running the gun crew.”

“Ah, I see.”

Mr. Pickett bestowed a long kiss on Lady Beatrice at the closed cabin door.

“I will join you shortly, my love,” he said. “You just go in and get comfy. No need to trouble your dear mamma with all our plans, though.”

“Of course not,” and Lady Beatrice cast him a last long look up through her lashes. He might have been reeling as went back down the corridor; it may have been the motion of the ship. Still, she was satisfied he was left in a continuing state of smitten lust.

Mrs. Corvey was alone in the cabin, looking out the window with her back to the door. Her dark glasses were in place when she turned to the door, but she had obviously been studying the sea outside via one of her specialty lenses.

“So far, so good,” she told Lady Beatrice. “At least, we are headed the direction Mr. Felmouth said we should to catch the Frenchie. How is Captain Kidd, eh?”

Lady Beatrice actually rolled her eyes briefly as she recounted what she had most lately learned. She emphasized the letter to the
Times,
and also the lax security surrounding the gun platform.

“Essentially, he has left his treasure in a deserted place and left but one vicious dog and the isolation to guard it,” she said. “Perhaps you should inform the others?”

“I shouldn’t like them to let their guard down, thinking it’ll be easy,” said Mrs. Corvey; but she already had the clicker in hand. Her fingers flew over the bead-buttons, sending a brief cautionary comment to Maude. She repeated it, and to their combined relief a confirming chirp came back in a few moments. Maude relayed no questions, though.

“Now all we need to do is get that letter before he can send it,” said Mrs. Corvey, putting the clicker back. In response, Lady Beatrice drew from her own bosom the folded paper she had removed from Pickett’s coat while pressed ardently to his chest. Mrs. Corvey smiled contentedly and tucked it away inside the bodice of her gown.

“For he won’t be checking
my
bosom for anything he needs,” she commented with a dry laugh.

When Mr. Pickett entered boisterously, rubbing his hands together in anticipatory glee, they were both seated at the table while Lady Beatrice described the table settings to Mrs. Corvey.

Dinner began with oysters, seethed in champagne and then served cold. There were miniature vegetable terrines as well, that looked like petit fours but tasted of herbs and mushrooms. Then a clear pale green soup with marigold petals floating in it; upon asking—and being told by a beaming Mrs. Drumm that it was a broth of eels—Mr. Picket was seen to hastily lay his spoon down. However, Lady Beatrice and Mrs. Corvey thought it enchanting.

The theme of a picnic at sea was evidently addressed by Mrs. Drumm by making portions small, rich and easily eaten with the fingers. At least by Lady Beatrice and Pickett: Mrs. Corvey plied her knife and fork in a lady-like manner, while appearing utterly unaware of the play going on between the other two diners.

There were very small fish fillets in a cream sauce—easily fed in a single mouthful, easily eaten with consummate grace by Lady Beatrice. The poultry course was exclusively pigeon wings, arranged across the plate like waves in a savory sauce—it was revealed that Lady Beatrice’s white teeth could crack a wing bone for its marrow with no vulgar noise whatsoever; unless one counted the muted lustful whimpers from her dining partner. When the meat course came and she proceeded to feed stamp-sized pieces of braised foie gras to Pickett, it did appear that the gentleman might choke on his own tongue; if he did not simply faint from an excess of sensual stimulation.