Nicola Cornick, Margaret McPhee, et al (19 page)

‘Lieutenant Davies and Sergeant Wilcox will finish what has been
started, sir.’ The captain stood by Jack’s side, scanning the shoreline. Yells
and screams and the deafening bangs of musket fire sounded, and small flashes
of gunfire speckled the black night like fireworks. Over it all the captain
continued to speak. ‘When Davies returns with the cutter we’ll move to
Lannacombe village, in case any of the landers have escaped our shore party.
Hawk
’s
too big for the harbour there, but I’ll have Miss Linden and her brother rowed
over in the jolly boat.’

Jack gave a nod, and although he continued to look landward the
action upon the shore now barely registered with him. What occupied Jack’s mind
was not that Edmund Grosely had been stopped and a traitor caught, nor that a
gang of villains had been arrested. Instead he thought of Francesca Linden…and
of why he had told her the truth of himself.

Francesca awoke at her usual time in the bed that she shared with
two of her sisters. Across the room she could hear the muffled snores and
sleepy breathing of her mother and her youngest sister in the second bed. Lydia
and Anne lay warm and unmoving beside her.

A week had passed since her misadventure on the
Swift
and,
as she and Tom had been fortunate enough that night to sneak back into the
cottage undetected, her family remained blissfully unaware of the truth,
believing the heavily edited version of events that they’d heard the next day.
Francesca’s life had gone on just as before, as if that night had never been.
And there had not even been the chance to discuss the matter with Tom. Indeed,
she was beginning to wonder if she really had been present upon the
Swift
at all.

She did not wonder for long. There were grates to be cleaned and
fires to be lit, water to be boiled and porridge to be cooked. She crept from
beneath the cosy nest of covers out into the coldness of the room, pulling the
curtain back that she might lighten the darkness without waking the others.

Through the window night was beginning to fade, watering down the
sky from an inky black to a deep blue. There was just enough light for
Francesca to find her way across to the basin of water on the chest of drawers
in the corner. Without pausing, she broke the thin layer of ice on top of the
water and, stripping off her nightdress, quickly washed. The coldness of the
water made her gasp, but soon she was dry and slipping into her dress. She
combed her hair, twisted it up and pinned it into place just above the nape of
her neck. Then she pulled her shawl about her and moved towards the stairs.
From Tom’s room came the sound of snoring. Francesca made her way downstairs to
begin the day’s chores.

By the time the first of her sisters arrived it was to find the
candles lit, a fire burning on the hearth, the water cistern filled and
heating, a pot of porridge cooking nicely and coffee being brewed. Outside,
daylight had not yet crept fully across the sky.

‘Morning, Francesca.’

‘Morning, Anne.’

‘I swear it is cold enough to snow today.’

‘Then perhaps we’ll have a white Christmas after all,’ said
Francesca with a smile.

‘I hope so.’ Anne went to fill the log basket from the pile
stacked outside the back door.

Sophy came bounding down the stairs. ‘It’s Christmas Eve. It’s
Christmas Eve!’ She was the baby of the family and much indulged—as far as that
was possible in the Linden household.

Eventually everyone arrived to take their place at the breakfast
table before the work of the day began. Mrs Linden sat at the head of the table
and Tom at the foot, with the girls in between. The porridge was warming and
nourishing, and chased the cold from their bones. They needed it, for although
the fire had been lit, the night chill had not yet left the little cottage. Mrs
Linden sipped at her coffee, her face pale and fatigued despite her night’s
sleep. She set the cup down while a coughing fit seized her. The deep hacking
sound made Francesca’s blood run cold, and her eyes met Tom’s across the table.
She knew that he was as worried as she.

When the bulk of the chores had been completed, Francesca, Tom,
Lydia and Sophy set off for the Portlemouth ferry, leaving Anne and their
mother reading by the fire. Francesca and Tom walked together, while Lydia and
Sophy rushed in front, impatient to reach the ferry that would take them to
Salcombe and the Christmas market.

Francesca glanced ahead to where Lydia and Sophy were walking arm
in arm. ‘I have been trying to get you alone all week. I wish to speak to you
of last week, Tom, and I do not want the girls to overhear.’

‘In case they realise that you were present that night?’

‘We agreed that no one should know.’

‘Relax, Fran. I’m not about to start shouting it from the
rooftops. What was it that you wished to speak of?’

‘Of you, Tom, and how you came to be in with Lord Holberton and
the
Swift
.’

‘I knew what I was doing.’

‘Acting as Lord Holberton’s inside man? Spying on the Buckleys
for him? I doubt that most sincerely. You could have been killed—and for what?’

‘To help catch a traitor, Francesca, and clear our shore of the
Buckleys. With those villains transported maybe there will be a living to be
had here for the rest of us again.’

‘Even so, you should never have put yourself at such risk. I take
it that it was through Lord Holberton that you became involved?’

‘He sought me out—said I was the best man for the job.’

‘The Marquess of Flete’s son?’

‘Don’t look so surprised, Francesca. I may be only a fisherman,
but I have some worth.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘There’s nothing to be gained by this discussion,’ he said,
somewhat sourly. ‘We should forget about the
Swift
and Lord Jack
Holberton as surely as he has forgotten about us.’

His words stirred a disquiet in her. They were easily enough
said, and the most sensible of advice, yet Francesca knew in her heart that she
could never do as he advised. What had happened that night was imprinted upon
her brain. She could not forget it. It haunted her dreams, and even during the
day it seemed that the memory was never far away. And the strangest thing of
all was that she felt more affected now than she had been during the actual
experience.

‘I have not given them a second thought.’ She did not meet his
eye.

‘Then that, at least, is well. Here.’

She looked up to find him thrusting a purse of coins in her
direction.

‘We’ll celebrate Christmas properly for once. I’ve already
ordered the coal, and this should buy more than enough food.’

Francesca peered suspiciously at the bulging purse.

‘It’s my share of the reward money for catching Grosely,’ Tom
said. ‘Take it. Lord knows, you earned it as much as me.’

Slowly she reached out her hand and took the purse. They walked
on in silence towards Portlemouth.

The Christmas market in Salcombe comprised brightly coloured
stalls set up in the main street of the town. The crowd was so thick that it
was difficult to negotiate from one side of the road to the other. There were
pie sellers and jugglers, freshly baked loaves and wooden carved toys.

Francesca left her sisters admiring a stall of pretty baubles
while she visited the apothecary to purchase a bottle of cough linctus for her
mother. The purse weighed heavy in the pocket of her cloak as she threaded her
way through the bustle of people, and turned her thoughts all the more to what
had happened aboard the
Swift
…and Lord Holberton.

She passed a stall on which great handfuls of silk and satin
ribbons fluttered like rainbow pennants in the wind. She paused and touched a
hand to the shiny lengths, thinking that her sisters would dearly love such a
gift. Tom’s money would have to last, she knew that, but it
was
Christmas and the girls deserved a treat. So Francesca bought the ribbons, and
a pretty new cap for her mother, and a scarf for Tom. She paused to admire a
fine silver chain to which was attached a tiny silver ship that had the look of
the
Swift
about it. Her fingers lingered over the necklace, and she
wondered whether it was more than chance that had led her to it. But the
necklace was as costly as it was beautiful. One last look, and then she set the
little ship back in its box and continued on her way through the market to the
place she had left her sisters.

All around delicious aromas wafted, filling her nostrils with
roasted chestnuts, baked potatoes and mince pies. The day might be grey and
cold and windy, but the busy Christmas market seemed filled with cheer.

Sophy bounded over to her. ‘Look, Fran, they’re selling chestnuts
over there. They smell wonderful, don’t they?’ Sophy looked over at the
chestnut-seller’s brazier with longing, but the experience of hardship had
taught the thirteen-year-old better than to ask for what she knew they could
not afford.

Francesca thought of the purse and the coins within it. ‘Would
you like some?’

‘Can we really?’ Sophy’s eyes sparkled and her face lit up.

Francesca felt her heart well that so small a thing could bring
such delight. She dropped the necessary coins into Sophy’s hand. Sophy and
Lydia ran off and returned with bags of piping hot chestnuts that burned their
fingers and brought billows of steam from their mouths.

Tom appeared, carrying a huge turkey in a sack upon his shoulder.
A grin spread across his face. ‘Do you think this bird is big enough?’

Sophy and Lydia squealed in surprised delight, and Francesca
smiled.

‘And I think I spotted a mulled wine stall just over there.’ He
pointed back in the direction from which he had come.

They made their way through the crowd, smelling the mulled wine
stall before they could see it. The air was ripe with the spicy aroma.
Francesca slipped some more coins from the purse and bought them all some of
the warm red wine. They stood sipping from the edge of their cups, trying not
to burn their mouths, tasting the cloves and cinnamon and oranges.

Tom, Lydia and Sophy wandered off to watch a man taking bets on
finding the nut beneath the cups. Francesca adjusted the basket against her hip
and checked that the purse was secure. She was just about to follow her brother
and sisters when something made her glance to the right, to where a gap had
opened up. Francesca’s heart jumped. She gasped and stared in shock. For there
across the street was Jack Holberton, and he was looking right at her.

A
CROWD
of bodies passed between them,
obscuring Francesca’s view. And by the time the street had cleared enough for
her to see again, the place where Lord Holberton had stood was occupied by a
small rotund man and his lady wife. Francesca peered all around, but of the man
she had seen—or rather thought she had seen—there was no sign. She blinked
several times and touched her gloved fingers to her forehead, feeling suddenly
afraid that she was so affected by that night upon the
Swift
she was
imagining Lord Holberton at every turn.

‘Are you feeling unwell, Francesca? You look like you’ve just
seen a ghost.’ Lydia came over and took her arm, looking at her with a worried
expression.

‘No, no,’ said Francesca reassuringly. ‘I’m very well. I was just
fixing my basket.’

‘You’re very pale all of a sudden.’

‘I’m cold, that’s all.’ Francesca forced a smile. ‘It’s getting
late. We should leave now if we’re to be home before it’s dark.’

‘But it’s only half past two,’ protested Lydia.

‘And it will be dark by four,’ said Francesca.

‘Very well.’ Lydia smiled. ‘Tom guessed the wrong cup four times
and lost his money. Sophy and I were just as bad. That conjurer is very good at
making the nut disappear.’

‘Then we had best fetch Tom and Sophy before they lose
all
of their money.’ Francesca took Lydia’s arm within her own, and together they
made their way through the crowd towards the conjurer’s stall.

They had almost reached the table with the three wooden cups set
upside down upon it when Lydia said, ‘He’s talking to someone—a gentleman.’

Francesca stopped suddenly. She raised her eyes and looked ahead.
There, standing beside her brother, was Lord Holberton. His eyes met hers. She
forgot to breathe.

Tom glanced round and saw Francesca. He looked slightly
embarrassed. ‘Lord Holberton, may I introduce you to my sisters?’

Francesca did not want to look. All she could think of was lying
beside Jack Holberton, the caress of his hands and the heat of his kiss. Her
heart was thumping too fast in her chest, she suddenly felt too warm, and there
was the distinct suggestion of a tremble in her legs.

Her sisters were staring eagerly at the gentleman.

She had the urge to run away. But Francesca did not give in to
urges. She took a deep breath and, squaring her shoulders, faced Lord
Holberton.

‘Miss Linden, Miss Lydia Linden, and Miss Sophy Linden,’ said
Tom. ‘Anne is at home with our mother.’

Jack Holberton removed his hat and bowed. ‘I’m pleased to meet
you, Miss Linden,’ he said, as if they were strangers meeting for the first
time.

Francesca’s cheeks heated. ‘Likewise, sir,’ she said, and was
relieved to hear that at least her voice sounded normal.

‘Miss Lydia, Miss Sophy,’ he said politely, and made a bow that
encompassed them both.

‘My lord.’ The girls were all wide-eyed surprise. They did not
meet many gentlemen—especially gentlemen of Jack Holberton’s ilk. They stared
at his coat of dark blue superfine, at the way it fitted so snugly across the
breadth of his shoulders and his back. Their eyes did not miss his expensive
buff-coloured breeches, or the high polish of his fine leather riding boots. Or
the neckcloth that was tied as they had never seen.