From the brutal horrors of Jamaican plantations to the teeming streets of 19th century London, through lavish manor houses and across dangerous seas, escaped enslaved siblings survive the American War of Independence and arrive in London to seek their fortune in this page-turning, immersive story of survival, betrayal, secrets, and the quest for true freedom.
On a terrifying night in 1768, Daniel and his young sister, Pearl, narrowly escape their brutal life of slavery when a Jamaican sugarcane plantation is torched in a violent uprising. In the ashes, Daniel leaves behind the rest of his family—and one powerful love.
More than a decade later in New York City, Daniel anticipates sailing with Pearl, now 15, to a new life promised by Britain’s king to former slaves who fought for the Crown in America’s War of Independence. For saving a Major’s life in battle, Daniel is doubly rewarded with the man’s inheritance, to be claimed on the other side of the ocean.
But a king’s promises can be forgotten, and fortunes snatched away by the cruel prejudices of strangers in a new land . . .
Hopeless and homeless, Daniel and Pearl are lured into a dank maze of passageways roiling beneath London’s teeming streets, under the famed Covent Garden, and far below the crypts of St. Giles church. A world of unimaginable poverty, where the desperate live as outcasts—the blackbirds of St. Giles.
Reigning over the scene is Elias, a ruthless, violent “boss” who sells protection for a price. To shield Pearl, Daniel must literally fight for their survival, stepping into the ring with a monstrous opponent.
Dazzling and poignant, The Blackbirds of St. Giles propels us into an extraordinary, too long overlooked community and period in history, when the threat of servitude is ever-present, and some ghosts of the past can never be escaped . . .
Release date:
May 27, 2025
Publisher:
Kensington Books
Print pages:
480
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Daniel stared into the flames dancing in the hearth. Unlike most, he found it hard to take pleasure from a warming fire. The flickers of red and gold brought back too many memories and a pain that still, after all these years, twisted his heart. If he had kept his promise and Adanna had lived, she would be thirty. Older than him by a year, she was always one step ahead until . . . until . . .
He closed his eyes and tried to listen to the music. What would she make of him now? Would she be here with him and with scores of British army officers and their wives? On balance, he thought not.
The pitted road to freedom from the charred remains of the Garnett Plantation had led him and Pearl to a place that even Adanna’s girlish sorceries could never have predicted. Opening his eyes, he reached to the mantel for his wine glass. Catching the firelight, the silver buttons on the white cuff of his uniform glittered.
During the long and bitter struggle to retain America, the British had invited formerly enslaved men – those who had escaped from sugar estates on the islands and from the cotton fields of the south – to join the ranks of their army. The King himself had promised freedom in return for their loyalty. Five years ago, Daniel had answered that call and had proved himself worthy both on the battlefield and as a shrewd advisor. But now the time was coming when the King would have to honour his part of the bargain.
The buttons on Daniel’s cuff seemed to wink mockingly.
The final notes of the country song lingered for a moment and then the cheerful group gathered around the harpsichord applauded the young officer. Acknowledging their appreciation with a shallow bow that combined both pleasure and embarrassment, he swapped places with a plump, pretty young woman, who began a lively tune.
From his place by the hearth Daniel studied the guests invited to celebrate the turning of the year at Major Fitzallen’s temporary residence. Every man present was in dress uniform, their scarlet jackets and buttons glowing in the candlelight. The women – the handful of wives who had insisted on accompanying their husbands across the ocean when they were sent on the King’s business – had put on their finest gowns. Jewels twinkled in their hair, from their ears and at their throats. Later there would be dancing in the large but sparsely furnished space. The Fitzallen’s New York townhouse had been requisitioned by the army and in consequence had more of the camp about it than a home.
Tonight’s merriment was a diversion. In the coming days difficult decisions would have to be made. Some of those present would return to England, others would fight on to an uncertain, untidy end.
Daniel knew the veterans were uneasy. He searched the room for Major Fitzallen and found him seated in a high-backed chair beyond the fire, deep in conversation with three of his fellow commanders. The serious set of the men’s faces told him everything.
He watched the Major, alert to any sign of pain. The crippling leg wound that confined his friend to a chair had been sustained four years ago on the eve of the disastrous second Battle of Saratoga.
Under cover of darkness, Major Fitzallen had ridden with Daniel to a ridge high above the Hudson River to spy upon the massing Patriot forces. The lights of the camp fires that twinkled across the plains below were numerous as stars fallen from the sky. It was obvious that the day would go against them; the British were outnumbered and outflanked but there was still time to warn the commanding officers and avoid a bloody massacre.
In desperate haste, they had abandoned caution and taken the most direct route back to the lines. In a moonlit glade of gnarled white oaks shots had rung out. The Major’s horse had reared, throwing its rider into the twisted roots of a tree. Daniel’s skill as a marksman ensured that the Patriot scout who had ambushed them would never rejoin the rebel forces, but Fitzallen lay trapped, his legs crushed by the weight of his dying horse.
After freeing the Major’s mangled body, Daniel had strapped him to his back and then, lashed together, they had returned to the British lines on one sweating, panting mare. The perilous journey took them through four miles of dense, Patriot-infested woodland, but most dangerous of all was the arrogance and obstinacy of the British generals who refused to accept Daniel’s warning of inevitable defeat.
Edward Fitzallen never forgot Daniel’s bravery that night – both in the face of danger and in the face of his sneering superiors. But although Daniel saved Fitzallen’s life, he could not save the thousands who fell or were terribly injured in a battle that proved to be the turning point in the war.
As for the Major, the encounter left him a changed man. His left leg was broken so badly in the fall that part of the shattered bone had burst through the skin. Even now, he wore a bandage and walked with a cane. He tried to disguise the pain, but Daniel knew him too well to be deceived.
As he watched him now through the New Year crush, he hoped Mr Jessop was right about London. The regiment’s gloomy doctor maintained that the Major’s last hope lay on the far side of the Atlantic.
‘Do you think Edward looks tired?’
Daniel turned at the softly spoken question. Elizabeth Fitzallen had dressed with great care. The blue gown suited her pale complexion and her hair had been curled and powdered by an expert hand.
Most people in the room would not have noticed the shadows beneath her eyes, the rouge applied to her cheeks, the gape of the dress at her shoulders or the fact that the carefully arranged lace fichu could not disguise a throat strung like a violin.
Daniel pointed to the Major. ‘He’s talking to General Cley. That would exhaust anyone.’
Elizabeth laughed. ‘You are quite right. My husband has introduced me to many dull creatures, but Cley is the most tedious man I have ever known. Poor Edward. Come, sit with me.’
Leading Daniel to a couch set before a tall window, she watched her husband fondly. A mischievous smile crept to her lips.
‘I must tell you about the time when . . . Oh!’ Whatever she was about to add about General Cley was instantly forgotten. Instead, she pointed her fan over his shoulder at the misted glass.
‘Snow!’
In the islands it never snowed. In fact, Daniel had never known true cold – the sort that made your bones feel as if they might shatter – until he came north. Winters here were hard, brittle and long. Despite the heat of the room, he shivered and pulled at the braided collar of his uniform.
‘Go back to the fire, Daniel. You do not have to sit with me.’ Elizabeth smiled. ‘I am quite well.’
It wasn’t true. Elizabeth Fitzallen was as frail as her husband. In the last weeks the flesh had melted from her body like wax from a candle. Daniel knew that Pearl feared for her mistress. He smiled and hoped his eyes did not betray him. ‘I am very comfortable where I am and happy to watch this fine celebration with you.’
‘Forgive me for asking, but I imagine this . . .’ Elizabeth gestured at the room with her fan, ‘. . . must be . . .’ She frowned and began again. ‘That is to say, I imagine that you and your sister never . . .’ She stopped, embarrassed. ‘I am sorry. I did not mean to be gauche or impolite and I did not mean to pry.’
Through the panes of the window Daniel saw the lights of a carriage travelling along the street below. Flurries of snow seemed to be pulled in its wake. The frond-like flakes reminded him of cane flowers battered by the wind. Elizabeth Fitzallen was a good woman, but she could never understand what he and Pearl had endured. He shook his head.
‘Our lives were very different.’
The Fitzallens had shown them nothing but kindness, respect and gratitude. But they were unusual. Daniel knew he was a subject of gossip among many of the officers and their wives. Some were jealous of his relationship with the Fitzallens, others thought it preposterous that a black man should be allowed to move among them as an equal. He could count the number of his friends in the room tonight on one hand: the Fitzallens and Lieutenants Crawshaw and Murray who had fought alongside him at Saratoga and during the long and chaotic retreat to New York.
Once here, he had chosen to live by the docks because it was where other Black Loyalists who fought for the British were quartered. But it was not right for Pearl and he had been glad when the Fitzallens offered to employ her as a companion to Elizabeth. In truth, they treated her more like their child. Pearl was safe in their house and in their company.
Daniel envied her ease. The Black Loyalists regarded him with suspicion. He looked like one of them, but they knew he was different. Caught between worlds, he no longer belonged to his own past. At night, he muffled his ears to their songs because the ghosts they raised were too cruel and too bitter. Like him, the Black Loyalists all dreamed of sailing to England where the King would reward them. Unlike him, they were not officers.
Elizabeth spoke again. ‘Does Pearl ever speak of the past?’
‘Thankfully she remembers very little of the estate. She was so young.’ Daniel shook his head. ‘I am not so lucky. Our lives were harsh and the regime was brutal. Many thousands still suffer.’
Unable to find an answer, Elizabeth put down her fan and rested a hand on his. She looked back to the window. Snow was falling more heavily now and the street beyond the glass was obliterated.
‘I was born here in New York. Did Edward ever tell you that?’
‘I thought you came from England, with Edward . . .’ Daniel corrected himself, ‘. . . with Major Fitzallen.’
‘It was such a long time ago.’ Elizabeth reached to a low table for her wine glass, but her face creased with pain.
‘Here, let me.’ He passed her the wine, trying to blank anxiety from his expression. She took a sip and closed her eyes.
‘My father was originally from the county of Buckinghamshire, but he came here as a young man, married and established a trading company. The house where I grew up was not far from this street. When he and my mother returned to England on family business, I went with them.’ She opened her eyes and smiled. ‘I had never met my English relatives and I thought them very grand. I was seventeen when I met Edward at a country dance. He was in his uniform. I’d never met anyone like him. My parents disapproved of his calling, but he is my first and only love.’
Her eyes strayed again to the Major. There was such an aching tenderness in her gaze that Daniel felt like an intruder. Embarrassed, he turned away. Unbidden, his own first love came into his thoughts – Adanna, bold, brilliant, beautiful; buried with his heart in the ashes of The Salutation.
‘We were married soon after and vowed never to be parted.’
Daniel was grateful to focus on Elizabeth’s story.
‘At first, I missed this city and my friends, but now I yearn to leave. It has been too long.’ She winced and altered her position. ‘Moving with the army has been a trial. I have lived in so many places since I returned to America with Edward that I cannot remember their names.’ She smoothed the fabric of her dress. ‘When I was a girl the size of this land excited me, but now I have seen too much of it. Recently I have often dreamed of the rose garden I planted in Windsor. There is safety and a little world in those old brick walls and narrow paths. I fear that . . .’
Her eyes glassed with tears. Instinctively, Daniel reached for her hand to stop her naming that dread.
‘You will see your garden again soon.’
Elizabeth’s skin was cold and paper-like. He squeezed gently and her bones seemed to fold in his grasp.
He tried again. ‘We sail in a few weeks. It won’t be long.’
She nodded. ‘We will be the first to leave, but not the last. The war is lost. Edward never speaks of it to me, but I know him too well. Freedom is a genie – once the bottle is unstoppered it can never be forced back.’ She paused. ‘You of all people know that better than anyone.’
Daniel took both her hands in his and rubbed gently. ‘You are cold; perhaps we should go nearer to the fire.’
‘You saved his life.’ Elizabeth’s voice rose a little. ‘For that alone you will always have my gratitude, but in these last few years you and Pearl have become very important to us. Edward values your advice beyond all others.’
‘Then I must be grateful too.’ He held her hands a little tighter. ‘If it hadn’t been for the Major, we would not be sailing to England and to a new life.’
‘And I pray it treats you well, Daniel.’ He felt her body stiffen next to him at a new wave of pain. When it subsided, she took a square of embroidered cotton from her sleeve. She coughed into it, folded it quickly and tucked it away, but not fast enough to prevent Daniel seeing dark spatters of blood on the cloth. She turned to face him, her sad eyes searching his face for signs of discovery.
‘I am so glad you are to sail with him . . . with us,’ she corrected herself. ‘My parents were Quakers. Some of our servants were black, but they were not slaves. My father thought it an abomination. There are many in England who feel the same, although I cannot pretend that your new life will be easy. Edward and I have always believed that men – and women too – should be equals. The colour of your skin means nothing to him. He sees your heart, Daniel, but there will always be those who are blind.’
She watched her husband and the men beyond the hearth.
‘I fear for him. The journey will be hard. He is not a young man and six weeks at sea . . .’ A new coughing fit stopped her. She produced the cotton square again, not troubling to hide it this time. Daniel knew she was dying, but he marvelled that her thoughts at such a time were all for her husband.
‘My first and only love.’
Masking his sadness, he spoke firmly. ‘We will all be with him on the voyage.’
Elizabeth nodded. ‘Good Dr Jessop has assured me that by March I will be . . . quite ready.’ She shivered. ‘No. It is Edward I must think of. The wound never healed properly.’
Daniel recalled a recent conversation with Jessop who feared that amputation would be the Major’s best and last option. He wondered if Fitzallen knew that. He tried a positive reply. ‘Jessop is confident that a surgeon in London will be able to help. He says he trained with someone who is very skilled – a Scotsman, I believe.’
The only thing Daniel knew about Scotland was that it was north of England and that it produced brave and sensible men. His friend Lieutenant Murray was a proud Scot.
‘Mackintyre, is it?’ Elizabeth cast for the right name. ‘No, Mackintosh. That’s the man. I believe he has served the royal household, so I am quite sure . . .’ Her words were choked by another spasm, the most violent yet. As she struggled to fill her lungs, Daniel sprang up to shield her from the room until it passed. At last, she sat back, a fine sheen of perspiration on her chalk-white face. The circles of rouge on her cheeks now looked strange, grotesque almost. A parody of health.
A look passed between them and Elizabeth smiled sadly.
‘I am very much afraid that you will have to remember that surgeon, Daniel. Edward is so bad at names.’ She moved the cushion at her back and sat straighter. ‘Now, could I trouble you to bring me a glass of lemon water?’
Daniel made a small bow and turned quickly away, glad that she could not see his face. He picked a path through knots of chattering guests and waited for two officers to fill their wine glasses. The food laid out on the long mahogany buffet was simple, but plentiful. The Fitzallens were always generous hosts.
He reached for a jug and was about to fill a glass when he became aware of the conversation taking place next to him. It was obvious that the officers at the buffet had already helped themselves to many glasses of the Fitzallens’ wine. The taller of the pair had discarded his wig and stuffed it into a pocket. The trailing ends hung grey and a little frayed over the golden braid and now his scalp glowed through thinning sandy hair. He spilled wine on the cloth as he filled his glass.
‘Apparently, he’s taking the black with him. Old Fitzy made him a lieutenant to bend the rules. Only officers are eligible, but that still doesn’t mean we’ll be out of here before summer and that’s if we’re lucky.’ The man swayed and drawled again. ‘Lucky bastard! I’d give my sister’s virtue in exchange for a passage home.’
The other officer, smaller with thick dark hair made greasy by pomade, reached for a pie. ‘There’s the irony. It’s not even his home.’ The man crushed the pie into his mouth before continuing through a crumbling cascade of pastry and meat. ‘I hear he comes sniffing around this house every day like he owns it.’
The fair man nodded, spilling even more wine. ‘Washington had the right idea at the beginning of this. He didn’t want negroes in the ranks, so why did we take them in?’
Daniel concentrated on the dark wine stain spreading through the cloth. The aroma of the cloves scattered on the hearth suddenly came sharp and strong along with the other scents of the room: sweat beneath perfumed oils, the mustiness of fabric stored in camphor chests, brandy fumes.
‘Because we were scraping the barrel, my friend.’ The smaller man belched and carried on. ‘Did I ever tell you about my grandfather? He inherited a cotton plantation in the south of this Godforsaken land and he even went over to see it once. Do you know what he said?’
‘I do not, sir.’ The other man shook his balding head slowly and stupidly. Propping himself against the table, his companion grinned.
‘He said they were sly, lazy and thick as horse shit.’ Reaching for his glass, he raised it with a wink. ‘And that, my friend, is why Washington didn’t want them in his army. Besides, Master George needs slaves to work his own estates.’
His attention wandered as three young women entered the room.
‘Now what do we have here?’
Over the man’s oily head, Daniel saw that Pearl was one of the neatly dressed girls making their way to the harpsichord. She was notable among them because her skin contrasted so strongly with the pallor of her simple muslin gown and the white cloth turban that bound her hair. He recognised the other girls as Dora and Susannah, two of Elizabeth’s maids.
Dora sat at the instrument and glanced shyly round the room. Then she lowered her head and set to work. She was an unexceptional player but once her hesitant fingers established the melody Pearl and Susannah began to sing.
Immediately the babble of conversation died away. Both girls sang beautifully, but it was Pearl’s clear soaring voice that brought a shiver of joy to everyone present. Surprised, Daniel almost forgot the conversation he had just overheard until the taller of the men in front of him nudged his oily companion and whispered loudly, ‘And now the sister. Christ! What next, a talking dog?’
The small man shrugged. ‘’Tis a pleasant sight. Don’t they say brown meat is sweetest? I’d give her a try – in the dark, mind.’ He swung his glass at the pretty tableau and wine splashed everywhere. Swaying, the man tried to dab at the mess, but as he flailed about, he realised that Daniel was standing close by.
‘Ah.’ His eyes slid to his companion.
Placing the jug back on the table, Daniel drew himself to his full height, which was not inconsiderable.
‘I believe you have been discussing me, gentlemen. And my sister.’
His voice was constricted by fury. The words a hiss of menace. He had always been aware of the insults that followed him, but they were never spoken openly to his face. It was shocking to hear these officers discuss him with such casual, arrogant contempt.
From the far side of the room, Pearl’s crystalline voice rose and fell with the harpsichord. The purity of it served to stoke his anger. How dare these men insult her? He clenched his fist ready to strike, but instantly felt a restraining hand on his arm. Leaning heavily on a stick, Elizabeth moved to position herself between Daniel and the drunken officers. At the same moment, he was aware that Lieutenants Crawshaw and Murray had come to stand at his side.
Elizabeth studied the men’s flushed faces. When she spoke, there was no trace of frailty in her voice. She was, once again, the wife of their commanding officer.
‘My husband will hear of this, Bannister.’ She turned to the small dark man who seemed to have shrivelled in her presence. ‘You too, Turner. I will not allow our friends to be slighted under our roof. I suggest you leave now and go somewhere more suited to your low company. I have asked Crawshaw and Murray to escort you down to the hall.’
Daniel watched the men slink through the room, his friends herding them to the doorway. Only when they had gone, did Elizabeth loosen her grip. She opened her fan and batted it about.
‘In truth, I am finding it a little hard to breathe in here. Perhaps it is because the air has become foul?’
Glancing at Pearl, she smiled.
‘Your sister has been blessed with an extraordinary talent. When she has finished, will you bring her to me in the parlour? We must discuss her needs for the voyage and for London.’
As the lantern swayed, the pool of light rolled around the cabin slicking the curved wooden panels with an oscillating glow. Experience had taught Daniel that ginger root was a remedy for seasickness, but in this confined, airless space where the walls shifted with both the swell of the ocean and the swing of the candles overhead, his stomach churned.
It was not only the movement that sickened him.
A stench of decay filled the tarry air as Mr Doyle unwrapped the bandage from Edward Fitzallen’s leg. The Major groaned in the narrow bunk as the ship’s surgeon carefully freed the last of the fabric.
Doyle shook his head a little too vigorously, dislodging the black ribbon that tied his neat sandy queue. Steadying himself against the roll of the ship, Daniel bent to retrieve it from the boards and in doing so caught sight of the Major’s leg. Immediately he wished he hadn’t. Chronic disease had eaten the dry shrivelled flesh to the bone, but now a raw and pus-weeping sore had opened over the knee. Even worse, the blackened skin above the lesion was fringed with livid purple veins. The mottling disappeared upward beneath a crumpled linen shirt hemmed with Elizabeth’s neat sad stitches.
Daniel had seen gangrene many times before. It took the lives of nearly as many soldiers as bullets fired in battle. He looked away. The Major’s grey cloak swayed from a hook on the cabin door like the ghost of the man who had worn it.
The surgeon tutted and dropped the soiled bandage into a bucket beside the low wooden bunk. More a shelf than a bed, it was suspended from chains attached to the wall. Fitzallen’s only comfort was the thin, straw-packed mattress to which he had retreated two weeks into the voyage.
Doyle looked up and studied the Major’s visitor with pale, watery eyes. Even though he was just a little older than Daniel, his freckled skin was already lined by salt.
‘I’m sorry.’
Accepting the black ribbon, he retied the stub of hair. ‘This should have been dealt with weeks ago, months even.’ He glanced back at Fitzallen, whose face was sheened with perspiration, eyes moving fitfully beneath closed lids.
‘It is good that he sleeps. A mercy.’ Doyle frowned. ‘It’s a wonder to me that he walked aboard.’ Turning from the bunk, he opened the large brass-bound box he had brought into the cabin. He lifted a tray of stoppered glass phials and sifted beneath it through rolls of bandage.
‘This, I think.’
He selected a thick white clump and, bracing himself against the roll of the ship, cut a strip to length with a thin silver blade. ‘It’s clean at least. I’ll try this, too.’ Replacing the knife, he took a glass bottle from the tray and splashed clear liquid on the fabric.
‘Alcohol.’ Doyle replaced the stopper. ‘Although at this stage it would probably be better to pour it down his throat.’
‘Is there nothing else you can do?’ Daniel watched the surgeon begin to bind the wound, seemingly oblivious to the moans of his patient.
‘Beyond prayer, no. The leg should have been amputated. No point in that now, the disease has spread too far and his blood is poisoned. There.’ He tied a final knot. ‘I fear the Major will be dead long before we reach London.’
Daniel glanced anxiously at the bunk. Had Fitzallen heard that? Like all the medical men he had known in the army, Mr Doyle was curiously detached from his work.
The ship’s surgeon studied his patient and reached into the box again. ‘If he wakes, I can offer something for the pain, but that is the best I can do now.’
He pushed a tiny green glass phial into Daniel’s hand. Catching the brass rings set into the ends of the box, he straightened up and squeezed awkwardly to the narrow doorway. ‘I’ll leave you now. I have others to see. Two of the ladies have complained of a persistent headache, although it is my belief that if they took a little more air above deck and a little less ratafia below they might cure themselves.’ Doyle nodded at the phial. ‘Laudanum, if he needs it. No more than five drops. Give him water if he thirsts, but hold his head high; you don’t want to drown him.’
When the surgeon had gone, Daniel took a candle from a box on the panelled wall and lit it from the lantern swaying overhead. He blew out the lantern and, reaching to the railed shelf above the bunk, he retrieved a broad-based pewter chamber stick into which he pushed the single candle.
The light in the room was kinder now. He slipped the phial into a pocket and sat cross-legged on the boards. Waves pounded against the hull beyond the bunk, the steady beat reminding him of drumming from many years ago. The rhythm and the memory led him to words his mother had taught him, a prayer in her own tongue. An ancient appeal to the gods to accept the soul of a warrior had been quietly murmured by the men and women on the Garnett Plantation when one of their number died. Daniel’s mother had been born far from the islands and that whispered entreaty had been an act of defiance and remembrance. Although he didn’t understand all the words, he had felt their meaning.
He rested his head in his hands, fingers raking through his cropped dark hair. Unlike the other officers on board the Audentior, he never wore powder or a wig.
If Doyle was right, and Daniel had no reason to disagree with the surgeon’s blunt prognosis, the future was uncertain. He knew no one in London.
At a rasping cough, he looked up and was surprised to find Fitzallen staring at him. He was mistaken about the cough. The throttled laugh came again. ‘I swear that man’s breath will kill me before my blood does the job.’ Fitzallen’s voice was surprisingly firm as he continued. ‘Bloody leech. Army, navy – they’re all butchers.’
Daniel smiled, but then he realised Fitzallen might have been awake throughout the surgeon’s visit.
‘You heard what he said?’
‘Of course I did.’ A sudden heel of the ship filled the cabin with the alarming groan of massive timbers. The bunk swung heavily on its chains and bumped back against the wall where trickles of water seeped through the lime-washed planking. Fitzallen gasped. He tried to sit up, but the effort defeated him. Grey with pain, he fell back on the coarse striped pillow.
‘I’m not a fool and neither are you. We both know this is a battle I cannot win.’
‘Doyle gave me something.’ Daniel pulled the phial from his pocket. ‘Laudanum. It will ease the pain.’
Fitzallen shook his head. ‘I have something I need to tell you and for that I need my wits.’
‘Water then?’ Daniel reached for the pitcher stowed beneath the bunk. Pouring a stream of brackish liquid into a tin mug, he held it to the man’s cracked lips. Fitzallen gulped greedily, draining it to the bottom. His skin was cold and clammy to the touch, but when Daniel tried to pull up the rumpled blanket, Fitzallen stopped him.
‘I’m burning. Molten lead is running in my veins.’ He pushed the blanket away. ‘Where’s Pearl?’
‘She’s sewing in the women’s cabin.’ Daniel was relieved that the four English women on board had made Pearl something of a pet. He suspected it was as much for poor Elizabeth’s sake as her own goodness. The army wives of New York had known how much Elizabeth doted on her pretty companion.
‘Does she sing for them?’ Fitzallen grimaced as the vessel lunged forward.
Daniel nodded. ‘They enjoy listening to her and she is content in their company.’ He didn’t add that he was glad Pearl had found a circle of protectors. A ship was no place for a fifteen-year-old just coming into her beauty. He had seen the sly looks of the crew when they took air together on deck and he had heard the muttered obscenities.
‘She brought my dear Lizzie such comfort in those last days.’ Fitzallen smiled sadly. ‘I wish I could hear her.’
‘I’ll bring her to you now. I know she would be happy to see you.’
Daniel made to stand up, but Fitzallen caught his arm. ‘Stay. I need to discuss your future and there’s little time left. We’ve both seen what happens at the end to the minds of men when . . .’
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