Echo in the Wind by Regan Walker

 

 

Chapter 1

Bognor, West Sussex, England, April 1784

Except for the small waves rushing to shore, hissing as they raced over the shingles, Bognor’s coast was eerily bereft of sound. Lady Joanna West hated the disquiet she always experienced before a smuggling run. Tonight, the blood throbbed in her veins with the anxious pounding of her heart, for this time, she would be dealing with a total stranger.

Would he be fair, this new partner in free trade? Or might he be a feared revenue agent in disguise, ready to cinch a hangman’s noose around her slender neck?

The answer lay just offshore, silhouetted against a cobalt blue sky streaked with gold from the setting sun: a black-sided ship, her sails lifted like a lady gathering up her skirts, poised to flee, waited for a signal.

Crouched behind a rock with her younger brother, Joanna hesitated, studying the ship. Eight gun ports marched across the side of the brig, making her wonder at the battles the captain anticipated that he should carry sixteen guns.

She and her men were unarmed. They would be helpless should he decide to cheat them, his barrels full of water instead of brandy, his tea no more than dried weeds.

It had been tried before.

“You are certain Zack speaks for this captain?” she asked Freddie whose dark auburn curls beneath his slouched hat made his boyish face appear younger than his seventeen years. But to one who knew him well, the set of his jaw hinted at the man he would one day become.

“I’ll fetch him,” Freddie said in a hushed tone, “and you can ask him yourself.” He disappeared into the shadows where her men waited among the trees.

Zack appeared, squatting beside her, a giant of a man with a scar on the left side of his face from the war. Like the mastiffs that guarded the grounds of her family’s estate, he was big and ugly, fierce with enemies, but gentle with those he was charged to protect.

“Young Frederick here says ye want to know about this ship, m’lady.” At her nod, Zack gazed toward the brig. “He used to come here regular with nary a con nor a cheat. He’s been gone awhile now. I heard he might have worked up some other business—royal business.” He rolled his massive shoulders in a shrug. “In my experience, a tiger doesn’t change his stripes. He’s a Frog, aye, but I trust the Frenchie’s one of us, a free trader still.”

She took in a deep breath of the salted air blowing onshore and let it out. “Good.” Zack’s assurance had been some comfort but not enough to end her concerns. What royal business? For tonight, she need not know. “Give the signal,” she directed her brother, “but I intend to see for myself if the cargo is what we ordered.”

Without seeking the position, Joanna had become the smugglers’ master of the beach, responsible for getting the cargo ashore and away to inland routes and London markets with no revenue man the wiser. She took seriously her role to assure the villagers got what they paid for. Their survival depended upon it.

“Zack, will you row me to the ship?”

“O’ course, if ’tis what ye want.” The frown over his hazel eyes revealed his displeasure, but Zack knew an order when he heard one, no matter how politely it had been phrased. He would never question her authority in front of the men.

Freddie lifted the lantern from the pebbled beach and slid open the metal cover on one side. A small flame flickered into the Channel, alerting the ship the coast was clear of the Riding Officer. The dying rays of the sun still danced on the rippling water, but the lantern’s light would tell the ship’s captain all was well.

Joanna got to her feet, tugging her felt hat over her ears and tucking strands of her long red hair beneath the brim. The hat and Freddie’s borrowed shirt and breeches rendered her one of the men. Even though his jacket was a bit short, she dare not borrow clothes belonging to her older brother, Richard. He knew nothing of her nightly pursuits and would not approve.

“I’m going with you,” said Freddie.

“All right, but stay in the boat.” When she’d decided to help the villagers in smuggling goods that kept brandy and tea flowing to England’s wealthy and food on the tables of Chichester’s poor, her younger brother had insisted on becoming her partner. Still, she tried to keep him from danger.

Out on the water, the ship’s crew lowered three longboats into the water, then scurried down manropes slung over the side. Dropping into the boats, they began to accept barrels and chests lowered from the deck.

With a word to her men, Joanna climbed into the small rowing boat at the water’s edge. Her two companions followed, and Zack pressed his strength to the oars.

With the first of the longboats loaded, the French crew pulled away from the ship, rowing hard toward the beach. Their boat passed her smaller vessel and she gave them a studying perusal.

Their bright neck scarfs and knitted jerseys, coupled with the set of their caps, rendered them decidedly French.

To a man, their hair was long and loose rather than plaited in pigtails as an English sailor might wear. The knives at their belts, their narrowed eyes and sneers made them appear cutthroats. Of course, to them, she and her brother were no more than young English “rosbifs” who had no understanding of a ship like the one on which the Frenchmen served. In that, they would be right.

She shivered and turned away from their harsh glares to fix her eyes on the ship and her mind on the task ahead.

The French brig loomed large as they drew close. A frisson of fear snaked down her spine when she looked up to see an ominous figure standing at the rail.

Like an apparition, he was dressed all in black, his features lost in the shadows beneath his tricorne. Even his hair, tied back at his nape, was black. One side of his coat was pulled back to reveal his hand resting on a pistol. From his waist hung a sword with a golden hilt.

She could not see his eyes, but she felt his penetrating gaze and shuddered. He appeared more pirate than merchant.

Joanna did not like dealing with an unfamiliar captain, but often she had no choice as they contracted for goods through agents. This one’s frightening appearance gave her pause, but at least she no longer feared he might be a revenue agent.

Most of England was buying free traded goods but, rich or poor, noble or common, she never forgot smuggling was a hanging offense. It wasn’t the typical pastime of an earl’s sister, but she had decided long ago to ignore her qualms about her part in the illegal activities.

As soon as they arrived at the ship, Zack steadied their small boat and she reached for the rope ladder. “Stay with the boat,” she reminded Freddie.

The climb was mercifully short. A moment later, she stepped onto the deck with Zack right behind her.

A quick glance told her the wood planks of the deck were clean and everything neatly stowed. The ship’s crew were busy shifting casks, folding sails and coiling lines. Their wary glances told her the Frenchmen did not trust her and her men. Curious covert glances came her way over a shoulder or around a mast, and just as quickly were turned away.

A thick-chested man approached her. He had swarthy skin and dark russet hair, long to his shoulders.

“Is there a problem, M’sieur?” His voice was rough with a deep French accent. Though his tricorne shadowed most of his face, his downturned mouth exuded suspicion.

Thankful for her deep voice, she summoned her resolve and cast a glance toward the barrels and chests yet to be loaded. “Before I pay, I would see the goods.”

“As you wish,” the man replied, too politely for his harsh demeanor. He gestured to the casks and chests waiting to be loaded. She turned toward them but did not miss the look of disdain he gave his captain, as if to question a demand for inspection by what appeared to him a beardless youth.

It would not be the first time her authority had been questioned by the crew of a smuggler’s ship.

Shrugging in what she intended as a very male gesture, she returned her attention to the goods cast in dim relief against the hull of the ship, for no lantern on deck had been lit.

Zack strode to the chests and lifted one of the lids. Unwrapping an oilskin bag, he pinched a bit of tea between his fingers, first sniffing, then tasting the dried leaves. Nodding his acceptance to her, he moved on to the casks. Drawing his knife, he was about to pry open the lid when the swarthy Frenchman went to the cask and deftly opened it.

Taking a tin cup from the nearby water cask, the Frenchman dipped the cup into the cask and handed it to Zack. “Ye’ll find none better in all of France.”

Zack sipped the liquid, carefully tasting. It would be clear, because the French did not color their brandy, nor did they dilute it. Only cognac, aged in oak barrels, had the rich cinnamon color.

“Ah,” Zack breathed out, licking his lips. “Ye speak the truth. ’Tis fine.”

As the examination of the cargo proceeded, the ship’s captain never moved from the rail, but kept his attention focused on her. Now that she knew he did not mean to cheat her, that his goods were of fine quality, she ignored his intense perusal.

Nodding to the captain’s swarthy mate, she reached into her pocket, lifted out a leather pouch and handed it to him. “We accept the cargo. Thank you for your courtesy.” If her tone carried a hint of sarcasm, she did not mind. She hated being underestimated.

The Frenchman accepted the pouch, heavy with coin, and escorted her and Zack to the side of the ship. Zack climbed down the manrope and dropped into the small rowboat. Joanna quickly followed.

A last look up at the deck told her the captain still watched her. But with his face in shadows, she could not tell if his expression was hostile or benign.

“Well?” asked Freddie, looking to Zack as he reached for the oars.

“The cargo is sound.” Then, shooting her a glance, Zack added, “’Twas still good we checked.”

The ship’s crew soon had the remaining barrels and chests loaded into the last of the longboats. They followed Joanna’s small boat to shore.

With the end of her task in sight, Joanna’s anxiety began to dissipate. Zack pulled the rowing boat up on the beach. Freddie jumped out and went to consult with the men.

By the time the French longboat made it to shore and the crew handed off their cargo, Joanna’s men were already loading goods into the two wagons.

Freddie came back to her. “That’s all of it, Jo. The wagons are nearly ready.”

With a wave to Zack, who would drive one of the wagons, Joanna and Freddie went to where they had left their horses. Mounting up, she looked over her shoulder to see the French crew taking up their boats and preparing to set sail.

The lone figure in black standing at the rail turned to his crew.

Minutes later, the black brig slanted away into the gathering darkness.

Joanna and her men headed up the narrow road leading to Chichester, seven miles north. Tonight they would color and thin the brandy and parcel the tea into smaller pouches. Soon, the storerooms of The Harrows would be bulging with stock.

It had been her idea to use her family’s estate near Chichester as a place of temporary storage for the smuggled goods. Wagons and carts frequently came and went unnoticed and Richard’s business in the House of Lords often kept him in London.

What had begun with Joanna’s baskets of food for the village poor had blossomed into a full-fledged venture in ill-gotten gain. Dangerous though it may be, she was at the center of it all. The need to help the people she cared for compelled her to accept the risks.

She urged her mare to a canter, mindful of the tasks awaiting her. Tomorrow, Richard would host a reception for the Prime Minister and she must be ready. William Pitt’s Tories had won the general election, a cause for great celebration. Many in London’s nobility would attend. Her brother, the Earl of Torrington, would not be pleased if his hostess were ill prepared.

“Make ready to sail!” Jean Donet shouted, giving Émile a look that spoke of the need for haste. Jean would not linger offshore of Bognor with revenue cutters prowling the waters of the Channel.

“To Chichester Harbor, Capitaine?” asked Émile, raising a thick russet brow.

At Jean’s curt nod, Émile bellowed over the heads of the crew, “Cross the headsails! On the fore, wear ’round and brace sharp!”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the lines surged and the sails flew to their new positions on the port side. Billowing and snapping taut, they emerged into the perfect white curves of a well-trimmed rig.

Jean shared a pleased look with his quartermaster as la Reine Noire turned her head and swiftly gathered way, white foam flowing out from under the carved queen on her bow. There was nothing Jean liked so much as being free of the land.

Now that they were under way, he turned to his second mate, Lucien Ricard. The tall sailor was easily identified by his red knit cap and the stray white hairs trying to be free of it. “M’sieur Ricard, take the helm, s’il vous plaît, and set a course to Chichester Harbor.”

“Oui, Capitaine.” Lucien acknowledged the order in a clipped tone as he headed to the quarterdeck. “South around Selsey Bill, then due west till we fetch Hayling Light.”

Jean turned to Émile. “Join me for a drink? Our English friends did not get all the brandy we carry. I’ve a cask of cognac held in reserve.”

Émile grinned and followed Jean down the aft companionway to his cabin, his home when he was at sea. He had named his ship the Black Queen for Marie Antoinette’s spendthrift ways. But no matter her name, Jean loved his brig and knew well every creak emanating from her timbered decks, every sound whispered from the shrouds. Lorient might claim the place as his home, but his ship had his heart.

The captain’s cabin was not so elegantly appointed as his hillside home in Lorient or his townhouse in Paris, but it contained all he needed: his charts, his nautical instruments, his books, his weapons and a fine mahogany shelf bed with a velvet cover the same blue as the French royal flag.

Jean stepped over the threshold, his eyes alighting on his cabin boy, Gabriel Chastain, who was busy freshening the finery Jean would don tomorrow. Then he must appear the nobleman he had been forced to become.

“Gabe, two glasses of cognac.”

The lad dipped his head. “Oui, Capitaine.” Brushing dark curls from his plump cheeks, Gabe darted to where the glasses and a flat-bottomed flagon of cognac rested on a fenced tray in the center of the pedestal table.

Gabe had joined the ship during the years Jean had been a privateer in the American War. To his great pleasure, the lad had the instincts of a gentleman’s valet de chambre and catered to Jean’s standards.

Along with the rest of his crew, Gabe had stayed on after the end of the war. A little smuggling on the side in defiance of the English authorities allowed the ship’s company the excitement they once knew, and the extra coin kept them content.

When they were not on the ship, many of them lived in Lorient, la Reine Noire’s home port in Brittany.

Jean pulled his pistol from his waist and took off his sword. Setting both on the table, he accepted the glass Gabe handed him.

The cat that had been lounging on Jean’s bed jumped to the deck, sauntered to Jean’s chair and leapt into his lap. He idly stroked the animal’s black fur. Franklin began to purr.

Émile dropped into the chair beside him. “Ye’ve a way with cats, Capitaine.”

Jean gazed down at the cat whose golden eyes were now closed. “Why, I cannot imagine. I do nothing to encourage them.” The feline’s purr became loud and rhythmic, ebbing and flowing like the tide.

“I remember the day he followed ye through the streets of Lorient and back to the ship as if ye had summoned him.” Émile’s mouth twitched up on one side. “Are ye sure ye do not carry a magical pipe?”

Jean chuckled. “The Pied Piper called rats, mon ami, not cats.”

“Eventually he called children, non?”

“So he did. But only for revenge on those who refused to pay him his due. I can hardly blame him. In Franklin’s case, I am certain it was cream he wanted when he followed me. He manipulates Cook to get his daily ration as surely as Benjamin Franklin manipulated France into giving him millions. The cat is clever, which is why I gave him the name. Even the most ruthless of my men save the animal bits of fish. He’s well on his way to becoming as rotund as his namesake.”

The cat pressed his ear into Jean’s hand. He obliged the animal by giving it a scratch.

Émile took a draw on his brandy. “Yer mention of Dr. Franklin reminds me. I heard the American has become a champion of that huge air balloon we saw floating over the Tuileries.”

Jean remembered the giant balloon from the last time he was in Paris. It was all anyone talked about.

“M’sieur Charles manned that one himself. ’Twas a courageous act. Now that America has her freedom, Dr. Franklin will be looking for things to occupy his mind. I can understand why the inventor would have great interest in M’sieur Montgolfier’s curious balloons.”

The faint moonlight coming through the stern windows drew Jean’s attention as it often did. He tossed the cat from his lap and crossed the cabin, barely noticing the rolling of the ship beneath his feet.

For a moment, he stared out the windows at the moonlight dancing on the waters in the ship’s wake. Then looking to the shore they’d just left, his thoughts wandered back to the English smugglers. Something niggled at the back of his mind.

“What did you think of the English smuggler who insisted on seeing our goods?”

“Young and mebbe a trifle arrogant,” came Émile’s reply, “but I respect him for his caution. Ye would have done the same.”

“Probably…” In his mind, Jean pictured the slender form, the well-turned calves and the smooth skin of the young man’s cheek revealed beneath the brim of his hat. The voice had been low enough to be a young man, but the more Jean considered what he had seen, the more he became certain this “he” was a “she”.

Women sometimes participated in smuggling. Perhaps she was one of the village women aiding her husband, most likely the tall Englishman with the scarred face. But her speech, though terse, sounded genteel. Moreover, English countrywomen did not usually do the talking in smuggling transactions. A mystery he might solve if he decided to make another run on his way to France. He still had a wealth of goods in his warehouse on Guernsey Island to unload.

Gabe came to stand beside him at the window. “Sir, your clothes are ready for the reception. With your leave, I would see Cook about your supper.”

“Good lad. Some food would be most welcome.” Jean watched the boy as he made his way to the cabin door. Gabe was about the same height as the young English smuggler, but he had a masculine swagger unlike the leader of the smugglers. The difference made him think his suspicion had been correct.

“After Chichester, we sail to London?” inquired Émile from where he sat at the table.

Jean turned from the window, his half-filled glass in hand. “That is still my plan. It has been over a year since my daughter wed the English captain. There have been letters, of course, but tomorrow’s reception for their Prime Minister will be the first time I will have the chance to see for myself if Claire is happy.”

“Does she know of yer elevation to the title?”

“I sent her a message as soon as I received word.”

Émile’s smile softened his harsh countenance. “I would like to see the little one.” Jean’s daughter, whom Émile fondly called “little one”, always brought a smile to the quartermaster’s craggy face.

Jean took a sip of his cognac. “I thought to accept her invitation to travel with her and her husband to London while you sail la Reine Noire to meet me there. You should arrive in time to attend the christening for my namesake.”

“Oui, I remember the promise her husband made ye.”

“The very one.” Jean was inwardly pleased the son his daughter had given her English husband would bear Jean’s name. Though he had reached the age of forty, he would hardly be a doddering grand-père and could teach the lad much about the sea. “The crew might enjoy some time in London.”

Émile nodded. “As long as they can eat on the ship, the crew will not complain. Ye do not serve ordinary seamen’s fare, Capitaine. They have grown used to brioche for breakfast and French cooking for dinner. The English eat very little bread and call themselves economical because they have no soup or dessert.”

“The English dinner is like eternity,” Jean remarked. “It has no beginning and no end. And nowhere save England do people drink worse coffee. How they endure such a prodigious quantity of brown water, I shall never know. But we need have no concern when we dine at Claire’s table. She wrote to tell me she has finally hired a French cook.”

Émile laughed. “I shall look forward to that. And after London, what then?”

Jean patted the pocket of his coat, reminded of the letter from his father’s lawyer that had arrived just as they sailed from Lorient. J’ai le regret de vous informer…

He let out a breath. “I must return to Saintonge. The funeral for my father and brother will have occurred by then, which is just as well. My father would not have wanted me to attend.”

He thought for a moment. “If the maître du château is still the same one, he is a capable estate manager. And the servants under him will see all is done as it should be.” He smiled to himself. “I wonder how they will react to the disowned younger son becoming the master.”

Jean twisted his glass in his hand, brooding over the other matter.

“Something troubles ye?”

His gaze met the deep-set brown eyes of his quartermaster, the man to whom he owed a life debt and his friend for many years. “You know me too well, Émile. Oui, there is more. It seems my brother left a child and named me her guardian.”

“A child?” Émile asked incredulous. “Was there no wife?”

“There was, but she died some years ago. There is only the young daughter, Zoé. Given our strained relationship and my rather dangerous pursuits these last years, I am surprised Henri would place her in my hands.”

Émile shook his head. “Likely he did not expect to die as young as he did. A carriage accident is a bad way to go. Struck down in the road like a stray dog—no valor, no honor, not even a chance to confess.”

“But to charge me with seeing to his daughter…”

“Ye have been a good father to Claire, Capitaine. He might have remembered that. And now the estate, the vineyards and the wealth of the Saintonges are yers.” Émile pursed his lips and lifted his heavy shoulders in a shrug. “Not that ye need ’em.”

“I do not even want them,” Jean said dismissively. With the richesse he had built in the decades since his father had cast him out, he no longer resented the loss of his heritage. “But I cannot refuse to care for my own flesh and blood.”

He attributed Claire’s good upbringing to her early years with her mother and, after Ariane’s death, the teaching of the Ursuline Sisters of Saint-Denis, not to anything he had done.

“There must be something more behind Henri’s bequest. My father ordered Henri to break contact with me and he complied, though not happily. A decade ago, he sent me a letter expressing his regret for the family lost to me and telling me his wife had finally conceived.” He paused, reflecting. “Still, entrusting me with his only child is more than I could have foreseen.”

Émile raised a brow. “So, now that he has, ye’re to be a father once again.”

Jean gave his quartermaster a sharp glance. “We will see.”