Fic: 'Harry & the Pirate VI: Blood and Treasure' (13/20)

[dwgm]

Chapter Thirteen: Settling In

Father Aloysius’s housekeeper, Martha, put in an appearance before the Sparrows left his cottage, scolding her charge for his profligate consumption of cakes as predicted and, when it was explained to her precisely who Jack and Harry were, protesting that if she’d only had an inkling they’d planned to call that day she would have had a tea fit for royalty all ready for them. “To think that your ladyship was forced to lower herself in such a way, and in a strange kitchen at that. Oh dear, oh dear.” She would not be comforted, and was still shaking her head over it when they gave it up and took their leave, though not before promising to send warning before they should return to introduce Tom and Daisy to the good Father.

Harry watched Jack with a concerned eye on the way back to Fleet Hall, for she knew he had been deeply affected by the strange tale of his parents’ marriage. However, he seemed cheerful enough at supper that evening, surrounded by family and friends, and took great pleasure in beating James two out of three at chess afterwards (a somewhat unusual occurrence) while the rest of the company played a lively game of Speculation, Cousin Sera having produced playing cards and a whole basket of the mother-of-pearl fishes that served as counters.

The following day, Jack and Harry took a long walk over to the far edge of the property and just beyond, to the small house where Jack had been born and raised. Sera had told them that another family, a lieutenant in the Royal Navy and his wife and three young children now inhabited the house, though she thought the gentleman was at sea just now. She proved to be in error, however. Lieutenant Barker had recently returned on leave, and answered the door himself when they knocked. As with Martha on the previous day, the lieutenant was quite bowled over by the honor of receiving one who was not only the new lord of the manor but, more importantly, one of the most famous and successful of England’s privateers.

“I’ve heard of your exploits forever, sir!” Barker said in the friendliest manner. “Why, it was one of my reasons for choosing a naval career. And it’s served me well: a month ago my ship took an enormous prize which will set us up like nabobs here, or pretty close at least.”

Barker’s enthusiasm was mirrored by his wife’s, a lady whose fearsome skills in managing a home were much in evidence. Knowing her domain to be spotless, including her three sons’ bedchamber (“…for they know what’ll come to them if I find they’ve neglected their duty, I can tell you!”), she insisted that Jack and Harry look over the house as much as they liked, and begged they should also take their pot luck with their family, which kept naval hours when her husband was at home and so dined at two. Since the Sparrows had risen early and breakfasted with the rest of their household that morning (the previous evening’s “revenge” having been postponed in favor of a brief, but very tender interlude followed by deep, peaceful sleep), Jack was feeling peckish after their walk and readily acquiesced to this scheme. He and Harry rambled all over the house for nearly an hour, pursued by the delicious scents of roasting beef and other hearty, homely dishes, and Harry encouraged her husband to share stories of his boyhood with her as they came to mind, unsettling for him, but of great benefit as well, she thought.

But the melancholic mood this exercise produced could not withstand dinner with the Barkers. The three children were at table, too, and joined their father in peppering Jack with questions about his many adventures at sea. Jack shook his head, lamenting the absence of Mr. Gibbs – “Now there’s a gent as can tell a tale!” In the event, however, he had no difficulty in recalling a number of exciting and, in some cases, bloodcurdling tales of varying veracity. The little boys were spellbound, their parents hardly less so, and by the time the meal culminated with a plum-studded pudding with lemon sauce and cream, along with brandy for the gentlemen and elderberry wine for the ladies, the Barkers were ready to declare the meal and the company absolutely unparalleled in their experience.

*

The respect and regard for the new baron, as exemplified by the hospitality of Father Aloysius and the Barker family, proved to be the rule rather than the exception as the days passed. Jack’s father had been liked well enough, but he’d certainly been dull work beside his son, whose picaresque and sometimes truly heroic life fascinated, and whose current change in fortune seemed the stuff of fairy tales. Jack was briefly startled, then amused by this acceptance, though he was secretly rather gratified. It was not something he had anticipated experiencing in visiting the home of his youth.

“Of course they love you,” Harry told him. “How could they not?”

“Silly chit,” he said, fondly, and kissed her.

And it was not only he and Harry who enjoyed the approbation of the populace, but their entire party of family and friends. That very first week they were all invited to attend an assembly hosted by the mayor of the nearby town of Spilby, and though Daisy and young Will stayed behind at Fleet Hall in the charge of Alphonse and Amelie, the rest, including Cousin Sera and Alfred Locke, drove off in a big open carriage, the weather being warm and dry and the green, rolling hills quite lovely. They were not sure what to expect when they arrived, but the locals’ awestruck bows and curtsies soon gave way to music and dancing punctuated with a great deal of friendly conversation and laughter.

Tom and Anne were much in demand as dance partners that evening, but contrived to take to the floor together more often than was perhaps proper in a couple who were merely good friends. A great deal of the easy camaraderie the two had enjoyed of old had returned over the course of the week and was now strengthened by an informal alliance. They found themselves catching each others’ eyes at various times in silent communication: amusement at some jest, or admiration for a particularly fine dress, or merely enjoyment of their parents’ or friends’ dancing. And when Anne grew tired or thirsty, Tom was there by her side, waving away other young men with a proprietary air and providing her with company while she sipped a cup of punch.

The gaity of the company and the wonderful music so enthralled their party that, when it was over, they sang nearly the whole way back to Fleet Hall, song after song that they knew and loved. It was an hour before dawn when they reached home again, but everyone agreed it had been a truly charming evening as they went off to bed.

Invitations began to arrive in abundance after that, every family in the vicinity vying for the privilege of entertaining some or all of them. There were picnics, an impromptu dance practice one rainy afternoon, expeditions on horseback to visit the local sights, card parties, even a Venetian breakfast at the home of one pretender to fashion, and they could have dined away from the Hall every evening of the week if they’d wished.

Yet most of the time they preferred convivial evenings at Fleet Hall, occasionally inviting neighbors, but for the most part content to keep to themselves. Anatole and Louise were most impressed with the variety and quality of goods available at the local markets, and their creations were so irresistible that the Turners and Norringtons demanded to know how Jack and Harry had managed to keep their figures all these years. Dinner was inevitably followed by cards or other games, or music (Anne had a pretty voice, and Harry had now grown so proficient on the harpsichord and the pianoforte that Jack had left off teasing her, most of the time), or a reading from Fielding’s new novel, The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling.

Daisy and young Will didn’t lack for entertainment either, though their activities were confined to earlier hours and generally didn’t range far afield. They liked each other very well, though their differing personalities inspired occasional conflict. The most serious instance was toward the end of their second week at Fleet Hall, on a day when Harry, Elizabeth and Maggie had gone off to Lincoln on a shopping and sightseeing expedition, with Admiral James along to serve as protector. Will senior was helping Jack go through a pile of old documents, which they’d spread out on the table in the smaller dining room as Jack couldn’t abide the book-lined study that long ago had served as the venue of several extremely painful post-transgression encounters with his father, and Anne and Tom were just coming in from a morning’s ride with a group of young friends, when a shrieking and a great deal of shouting came from the direction of the wilderness that lay beyond the rose garden. The tone of the noise alerted them to the serious nature of the situation, and the four were on their way out the French doors to investigate when the Barker lads and another neighbor, a plump little girl named Kitty Chandler, all burst from the distant trees and came pelting hell-for-leather up the neat gravel walk.

“Daisy’s killed!”

“Oh, sir! Come at once, there’s blood everywhere!”

“It’s Wilby! He’s cut her to bits!”

“Oh! Oh dear! Oh dear!”

Jack, electrified, lit out running, closely followed by Tom and Will, with Anne, hampered by her skirts, bringing up the rear.

As Jack had hoped, the situation was not quite as dreadful as the children had implied, though it was certainly bad enough. A few feet from where two hastily discarded old-fashioned dress swords lay on the grass, Daisy was sitting, scared and pale, while William Weatherby frantically endeavored to staunch the flow of blood from a deep cut on her inner arm, in spite of the inadequacy of his handkerchief. As the elder Master Barker had indicated, blood was everywhere—or at least all over the front and side of Daisy’s pretty new muslin frock as it was dripping steadily from her elbow.

Wilby backed away precipitately when Jack, growling profanities, dropped to his knees beside his daughter. The boy blurted, “I didn’t mean to do it, we were playing! I mean—”

“Playing? With these?” Will picked up the swords, one of which was stained with gore. “Haven’t you learned anything from me?”

Daisy said in a shaky but determined voice, “I found them in the attic and challenged him to a duel. It was all my idea to – ow! ”

“Silence, brat,” said Jack, grimly. He was using his own much larger handkerchief to wipe away the blood and assess the wound. Daisy closed her lips firmly and watched for a moment, then turned her head away with a hiss of pain, tears starting.

Tom was crouched beside his father and winced in sympathy. “Lord, I’m glad mother’s away. Shall I ride for the doctor, that one we had dinner with last week, Fitzsimmons, over by Bolingbroke?”

“Aye, go.” There was an edge to Jack’s voice as he said to Daisy, “It’ll have to be cleaned and stitched up, love, nothing for it. Gets you out of that thrashing you deserve, though, eh?” Tom was already running off, shooing the Barkers and Miss Chandler before him, and Jack turned to Will, whose expression and grip on his son’s arm boded ill for Daisy’s hapless minion. In an effort to placate Will’s wrath, Jack said, “She’ll do. And it was her idea.”

But the boy cried, “Was not! It was—“

“Let’s go,” Will snapped, having seen and heard enough.

As William Weatherby was marched off toward the house, Daisy grabbed at her father’s sleeve. “Papa, can’t you do something?” she begged, her voice breaking. “It was my fault!”

“I don’t doubt it, but there’s naught to be done for him, now. Best recruit your own fortitude, love, you’re going to need it.”

*

In the event, it was Jack’s fortitude that failed.

Tom, riding through Mavis Enderby, had recognized Dr. Fitzsimmons’ gig tied up in front of the Golden Lion Inn, where the man had been enjoying a late breakfast after attending the birth of the local cleric’s son, an uncomplicated though distressingly lengthy proceeding. Tom persuaded Fitzsimmons to gulp his coffee and leave the rest of his meal half finished in order to proceed directly to Fleet Hall. On examining Daisy’s wound, the doctor was most encouraging, telling Jack she would “heal like a young dog”, and assuring them all that there would barely be a scar as he was known far and wide for his skill with a needle. He dosed Daisy with laudanum, which began to make her drowsy but not entirely oblivious to what was going forth. The mere cleaning of the wound tried both her and her father sorely, and then Fitzsimmons began to lay out his needles and other paraphernalia. The blood drained from Jack’s face.

Tom saw and said gently, “Da, let me and Annie have her. She’ll be all right with us, and you’ll be better for a tot of rum, eh?”

Jack only nodded, and passed his beloved burden over to his son. He’d been through too much himself over the years not to be excruciatingly aware of what was in store for his darling, and though he could endure his own pain in stoic silence, to watch her writhe under the prick of the needle was more than he could bear.

Tom found both Jack and Will in the drawing room afterwards, commiserating with each other over a bottle of St. Claire’s finest rum, Jack’s father having fortuitously laid in several cases of this excellent and well-remembered libation some time before his passing. Tom told them, “It wasn’t so bad, once the laudanum took hold, and the doctor’s left more in case she has much pain later. He says he’ll be back to check on her tomorrow. Anne’s with her now.”

“Thanks, Tom.” Jack nodded heavily, then shook a finger at his son. “Just you wait. Someday you’ll have one. Then you’ll know.” He reached over and patted Will’s hand, but Will only sighed and took another sip of his drink.

*

It was either very late or very early when Harry woke to blackness and Jack’s low but persistent snoring. She shoved at his shoulder a bit and was successful in encouraging him to turn onto his side. Yet sleep remained elusive, for now that she was awake, the tale of the infamous “duel” and its painful aftermath once again reared its head. She could just hear her brother now: Trust a Sparrow to lead my innocent grandson astray! William Weatherby’s behavior and the subsequent consequences he had suffered were apparently unprecedented in the poor boy’s experience, to judge from Will’s bleak demeanor and Elizabeth’s set expression as she’d hurried up the stairs to see her son.

And then there was Daisy. The pretty face had been pale and still against the pillows, when Harry had finally seen her – long after dark as the three ladies and their swain had been delayed in starting back from Lincoln and had elected to break their journey at a post-house famous for the excellence of its dinners. Daisy had been deep asleep, the result of the physick Jack had tipped down her throat at bedtime, overriding her tearful objections when he’d seen the signs of inflammation along the line of neat stitches – not excessive, he’d assured Harry, and certainly he should know. But Harry could not help worrying, and wondering: did her naughty, darling girl still sleep, or were her cheeks now flushed with fever and distress in this dark hour before dawn?

Jack barely stirred when Harry slipped from the bed to don her dressing gown and slippers, nor when the bedroom door creaked slightly as she left the room.

To her surprise and pleasure, she met Anne coming down the hall from the other direction.

“Were you worried, too, ma’am?” Anne whispered.

“Yes, the effects of the laudanum may be fading by now. Come, we’ll go together and see.”

But when they quietly entered the room, the small lamp that had been left aglow revealed that Daisy was not in the bed – or anywhere in the room!

“Where could she be?” Harry asked, dismayed.

“I wonder…” Anne said, and led Harry out again and down the shadowed hall.

The door to William Weatherby’s room was ajar, and when they pushed it open the faint light revealed the two forms. The boy was sprawled face down on the bed, sound asleep, and Daisy was dozing, too, sitting on the floor next to him, curled against the bed, her left hand clasping his, her bandaged right arm propped on a cushioned chair she’d dragged over for the purpose.

Anne whispered, “I visited Tom in similar circumstances, you see. When we were in Barbados that time.”

Harry smiled. “That was kind of you.”

But Anne shook her head. “I loved him,” she said, simply. “I always did.”



Continued in Chapter Fourteen: The Christiana