Fort Frederick, Albany, August 1760
“Captain Stanlake to see Colonel Harper.”
The clerk in Harper’s outer office looked up as Jack spoke, and laid a ruler across the ledger he was examining before getting to his feet.
“I think the colonel is available, sir. I will go and check.”
Jack dropped his saddlebags over a chair as the clerk left through a door at the back of the office. He’d sent Booth ahead with his trunks to find rooms in the town and get settled in, and he was looking forward to a bath after days in the saddle.
Rather than take one of the seats against the wall, he paced the room, impatient to know why he’d been ordered here while his battalion was still stationed in Fort Niagara. He’d only had time to take in some framed prints of what appeared to be a mansion in England before the clerk returned to show him through to the inner office.
Colonel Harper was somewhere in his mid-forties, running a little to fat—unsurprising for someone who spent most of his days behind a desk. He stood as Jack entered, holding out a hand in greeting.
“Pleased to see you here, Captain,” he said, shaking hands then indicating a chair beside the desk.
“I was ordered to report to you, sir,” Jack said, dispensing with the formalities. He’d never met Harper and had heard of him only as a man who knew a great deal about their native allies.
“Indeed.” Appearing unoffended, Harper resumed his seat and took a sealed letter from a drawer. “This was forwarded to me from the Secretary at War’s office, with instructions to hand it to you in person. You are to return to England with all despatch—I understand that this letter will explain why.”
Jack maintained a neutral expression during this explanation, as was usually wise when listening to unknown superior officers.
“Perhaps you should read it before I explain the travel arrangements I have taken the liberty of making for you,” Harper went on.
Jack frowned—the direction was in his brother’s hand. Breaking the seal, he scanned the contents—Father was ill, and wished him to return before he died.
“Bad news?” Harper’s expression showed sympathy, and Jack wondered how much the man knew.
“On the face of it, yes. My father is unwell.”
Harper leaned forward. “Forgive me for prying, Stanlake, but you appear to be annoyed rather than distressed by it.”
“I received a letter like this two years ago,” Jack explained. “When I reached home, Father had fully recovered.”
“Two years…?”
“At least I missed Abercrombie’s fiasco at Carillon.” He shouldn’t complain too much—the French were just about beaten now, and his regiment was only manning a fort, not taking part in Amherst’s attack on Montreal. If this letter had come last year he’d have missed the taking of Quebec. “You said I’d been ordered home?” That wasn’t usual—last time he’d had to ask his commanding officer for leave.
“Your father’s an earl. Connections in high places, I expect.” Harper shrugged.
That was the way the world worked—it was a pity, though, that Father had never used his influence, or his money, to get Jack promoted further than captain. Particularly in view of the incompetence of some of his senior colleagues.
“I’ve arranged a berth on the Pegasus, a packet ship sailing from Boston in a week. Lucky, really—I’d arranged for Lieutenant Ffynes to escort my family on the voyage, but he’s—”
Family? Escort?
“—been taken ill and won’t get there before the Pegasus is due to sail. You’ve got his cabin, and you will make an excellent replacement for him.”
“Family, sir?”
Harper nodded with a fond smile. “Yes. My wife and daughters are returning to London, to stay with my wife’s brother. Time for the two girls to find husbands; more choice there. They’re all eagerly anticipating access to better mantua-makers and so on. Women’s things.” He waved a dismissive hand.
Good grief—it was bad enough being dragged away from his duty on what would probably be another false alarm. But accompanying three women…?
Harper pushed a packet of papers towards Jack. “Here are the details. I’ve recompensed Ffynes for the ticket.”
Damn—he hadn’t enough cash to pay his way across the Atlantic.
“I’m afraid—”
“No, no,” Harper interrupted. “Pay my bankers in London, Captain. All the details are there.”
Well, Father would have to give him the money first. Most of his meagre allowance for this quarter was already spent, and he needed to keep something back to pay for the rest of his journey.
“If that is all, sir…?”
“Yes, Captain. I hope you do not return to bad news. Enjoy your voyage.”
“Thank you, sir.”
As Jack strode back into town, his feelings veered between worry that his father really was dying this time, and irritation at the escort duty Harper had just foisted upon him. It could have been worse, he supposed—there was less chance of foul weather at this time of year, so he might not spend too much of the voyage being sick.
Booth was in the room he’d arranged for Jack, removing clothing from one of his trunks.
“Don’t unpack too much, Booth. We’re off to Boston tomorrow, taking ship within the week.”
“Back to England, sir?” Booth scowled.
“Is there a problem?” Jack was surprised at this reaction from his usually imperturbable batman.
“No, sir.” Booth’s expression was wooden.
“Out with it, man!” Jack said, then suppressed a smile as he noticed a dull redness creeping up Booth’s neck. “A woman?”
Booth cleared his throat. “Yes, sir. Was hoping to get permission to marry, sir.”
They’d be away for three months, most likely, even if Jack didn’t linger at home. And if there was one thing worse than no servant, it was a servant in the sulks. He wouldn’t have much need of Booth on board ship, and leaving him behind would conserve some of his meagre funds.
“Just unpack what I need for tonight,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
A note to Harper might help. If the colonel was going to impose his wife and daughters on Jack, the least he could do would be to put in a word with Jack’s commanding officer to give his servant leave to marry.
***
Jack watched the wharves and warehouses grow smaller as the oarsmen pulled out into the choppy water of Boston harbour, and resentment swelled again at being ordered home in this way. He suppressed the feeling—if his father really was so seriously ill, he hoped he would be home in time to see him once more.
He turned his attention to the Pegasus, moored out in the bay, and squinted as the wind blew drops of water from the oars into his face. To his landlubberly eyes, the ship looked more like a wallowing whale than a flying horse. They reached the lee of the ship and the oarsmen grabbed the trailing ropes. Jack stood and accepted a steadying hand from above as he scrambled up the ladder and onto the deck.
“Welcome aboard, sir.” The greeting was from a young man with a weather-beaten complexion. “I’m Sessions, the first mate. You must be Captain Stanlake?”
“I am.” Jack shook hands and turned to watch his trunks being hauled up.
“Jenkins is the steward; he’ll show you to your cabin.” Sessions indicated a short, round man waiting several paces behind him. “We do not carry many passengers, but we generally manage to keep you comfortable. The last few passengers haven’t arrived yet, I’m afraid. We will be ready to sail within the hour, if they are aboard by then.” He cast a glance at the overcast sky. “We’ve a fair wind; it would be a shame to waste it.”
As the mate moved away to speak to the boat’s crew, Jenkins stepped forward. “The cabins are not very big, sir. Which of your trunks do you require on the voyage?”
“The small one,” Jack said. He’d arrived yesterday in time to buy a few volumes from a bookshop and the latest newspapers from England—nearly a month out of date. He’d packed everything he needed for the next few weeks into the smaller of his two trunks.
“If you will come this way, sir?”
Jenkins led the way below, into a dining saloon with a large central table, lit at present by a large skylight above, and a few comfortable chairs bolted to the floor at one end. The passenger cabins opened off the saloon—the one he’d been allocated was tiny, and there was barely room to stand beside the bunk while the seaman carrying his trunk squeezed in behind him and placed it on the floor, then brought him a lantern. A table at one end of the narrow space held a bowl and ewer—empty—and had a small chair tucked under it. There were hooks on the wall, and a couple of shelves with bars across the fronts.
Jack threw his hat on the blankets and scrubbed a hand through his hair. Unpacking took only a few minutes—his new books on the shelves, together with a pack of cards and his shaving things and comb, his coat and spare jacket on the hooks. The rest would stay in the trunk, which just fitted beneath the bunk.
What to do now? Not wanting to get through his books too quickly, he settled on finding a place on deck to watch the preparations for their departure. He should enjoy a surface that stayed in one place beneath his feet while he could. There was no sign of the women he was supposed to be escorting, but they were probably settling in to their cabins.
He hadn’t been above decks long when Sessions approached him. “I’m sorry to bother you, Captain, but I understand from Jenkins that you have the cabin originally allocated to a Lieutenant Ffynes, who was to be travelling with Mrs Harper and her daughters.”
“I believe so.” Jack suppressed rising irritation—he could guess what was coming. “Colonel Harper asked me to look out for them. I take it they are the missing passengers?”
A look of relief crossed Sessions’ face. “Yes. They were to stay at the Royal George.”
“They set off from Albany well ahead of me, I think, and I came across no ladies in distress on the way. Do you wish me to go and enquire?”
“I would be in your debt, sir. The captain… Well, suffice it to say he is irascible enough at the start of a voyage, without, er…”
“I understand perfectly.” Even the best of superior officers could be trying at times.
***
“Mama, we were supposed to board the ship this morning!” Clara tried hard to keep the exasperation from her voice as her mother removed a gown from one of the large trunks yet again.
“I know, dear, but they will not leave without us,” Mrs Harper said, her gaze not moving from the garment she was holding. “Kitty, do you think this will become Clara better than her blue—?”
“Mama, it’s a packet boat,” Clara said. “They have sailing dates to keep to!”
“Yes, dear, but we are not yet late, are we? Kitty, what about this one?”
Clara rolled her eyes, hoping her sister could talk some sense into Mama. She’d packed her own trunks for the voyage this morning. The small one held her lap desk and books, and Papa’s manuscript; the larger one contained the few garments she would need at sea. They didn’t have time for Mama to repack everything.
“You must both look your best on the ship,” Mama said, for what must be the fifth time today. “I trust Kitty to have chosen her best gowns, but you take so little trouble with your appearance—”
“Mama, I helped Clara to choose,” Kitty said, her fingers crossed behind her back at the lie. “What she has packed will do perfectly well. And it is only a small vessel—there will not be many people to see what we wear.”
“But this is the most becoming one.” Mama held up Clara’s burgundy silk brocade embroidered with ivory flowers.
“Then it should not be exposed to the damp, and possibly salt spray,” Kitty said, taking the garment from their mother’s hands and carefully folding it back into one of the trunks that would be stowed in the hold. “Besides, you do not want us to marry sailors, do you?”
“No, of course not dear. But Clara has got out of the habit of associating with young gentlemen, and—”
“Mama,” Clara interrupted ruthlessly. “We have not even sent a message to the ship. For all they know, we have been delayed on the journey and may not arrive for days.”
“Don’t be silly, Clara. Captain Stanlake will not let them go without us. How lucky that Lieutenant Ffynes was ill; a captain is—”
“When we left Albany, Papa had only just sent for the captain. He may not get here in time.” Clara wished she felt her mother’s confidence that things would turn out for the best. But Mama had always been like that, despite frequent evidence to the contrary.
“I’m nearly ready,” Mama protested. “You must tidy your hair, Clara. For heaven’s sake, why do you insist on wearing it in such a plain knot? Mary did Kitty’s very nicely this morning. Why aren’t you more like your sister?”
Clara glanced at Kitty’s glossy black curls dressed around her head, with a few long ringlets draped over one shoulder. Kitty mouthed ‘sorry’ with a quick grimace.
“Where is Mary?”
“You sent her to ask for tea, Mama.” Kitty had far more patience with her mother than Clara had at the moment, but then Kitty was happy to be on her way to London.
Clara bit her lips against the temptation to ask why, if her mother was so concerned about the choice of gowns to wear on board, she hadn’t decided during the week or more they’d been travelling. She had, of course, but then changed her mind numerous times.
“Well, never mind now. But Clara, this captain is the son of an earl. It would be a good connection for either of you—”
“I thought we were returning to England for us to make titled matches?” Clara said. The captain must be a second or third son, otherwise he’d be Captain Lord something-or-other. She had hoped she’d have the weeks at sea to herself before having to be polite to a succession of undoubtedly tedious and self-important young men. Men, moreover, who would be attracted to her only in the hope of her uncle giving her a large dowry. A little like the young officers in Albany, many of whom seemed to be motivated more by her father’s rank than her appearance or personality. Only Ensign Blake had seemed to have a genuine liking for her company, and he had been killed three years ago.
“You can never have too many suitors, Clara.” Mrs Harper finally shut the trunk, leaving the straps for their maid to fasten when she returned from ordering tea. “Your father was quite the catch at the time; it’s a pity…”
Her voice trailed off, and she shrugged.
A pity that he was a good administrator who the higher command had the sense to keep well away from action, Clara thought. Marriage to the third son of a baron had been a step upwards, socially, for a woman from the merchant classes, but Anne Morton’s hope that her future husband would go on to achieve fame and glory, and possibly a title of his own, had come to nothing.
And now she had transferred her ambitions to her daughters.
“Well, we’ll see,” Mama said. “We’ll go to the ship as soon as we’ve had our tea.”
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