Lisbon: Richard and Rose, Book 8 (9 page)

On our tour of the house I discovered a music room, and while it didn’t contain a pianoforte, a new instrument I was learning to use, it did have a harpsichord, and by some miracle it was in tune. With a brief thought to the tuner, who must have his job cut out as the air in Lisbon was relatively humid, I sat at the keys and looked through the music laid out on the instrument.

Someone had prepared for my coming. With a secret smile, I selected one of my favourite Bach pieces, something with measure and pace, and placed my fingers on the keys.

The first few bars I let pass. Mechanical playing, some errors and a mistake in timing rendered them horrendous, but by the time I reached the end of the page, I was involved in the piece. Before I could pause to turn the page, a hand appeared over my shoulder and performed the task for me.

I didn’t need the sight of the rings on his fingers or that citrus scent to tell me that my husband had entered the room. Only my concentration had blocked out my usual sense that told me when he was nearby.

I continued playing the piece, and he moved to stand by me, so I could see him in the corner of my vision. He turned the page once more for me, then I was done.

He rewarded me with a sigh of satisfaction, and when I turned around to face him directly, I saw he was smiling. “Thank you,” he said.

I raised a brow. “I didn’t know you were there until you turned the page for me.”

He grinned. “I know. I’m thanking you for any number of things, but right now I’m thanking you for giving me a respite from thinking.”

He’d always said that about my music. I played well, but rather than assigning that to vanity, I can claim numerous hours of practice. Hard-earned skill was worth a little pride. I kept up my pastime, and I had sometimes played on bedsheets, books or flat surfaces while I was ill. I could hear the music in my head, and it had helped in the long, tedious hours of rest and recovery I had endured.

My attendants might have considered my playing eccentric but wouldn’t say anything for fear I might hear them. My exalted position in society sometimes meant I could get away with activities that, if I had still been an unimportant member of the gentry, would have been remarked and laughed at.

I had a dummy keyboard brought on board the yacht, when I discovered that such an item existed, and spent hours working in silence. I wouldn’t have a harpsichord on the ship, although Richard offered it, because the tuning would have been a nightmare. And I doubted at that time that I could get a decent amount of practice in.

I’d missed hearing what I was playing, missed the solace of making music. And it seemed that Richard had missed the solace of listening to it.

Another way in. I could reach so far inside him with the music because he loved it so much. I wouldn’t abuse it—it had to remain something he could come to without feeling under stress—so it was yet another place where he had to approach me instead of the other way about.

“I can continue to give you that respite,” I told him. “Moments out of time, just for us.”

“I’d love that. Thank you.” He held out his hand to help me up. This time he didn’t let go as soon as I was up, but drew me closer and brushed a kiss against my lips. “Slowly, my sweet. We’ll get there.”

I knew we would. We had to. He was willing to meet me now instead of closing himself off from me. Suddenly, I didn’t want him with such desperation. The edge of fear was dissipating, though it wouldn’t go completely for some time. I would always remember it. And although he was willing to try, he still wouldn’t meet me all the way.

I wasn’t working in such an empty space any longer. Gentle warmth filled me when I realised he wouldn’t avoid me anymore, that he was willing to work with me to regain some of what we’d lost. I had a feeling it wouldn’t be an easy recovery, even if my body was healing well. I quelled the part of me that demanded more, until we could share our passion all night without stint. Images of our past life, our bodies entwined, Richard introducing me to new and different positions, me delighting him with my inventiveness and my willingness to try something new. He taught me that lovemaking didn’t mean the same thing. It felt different, could be achingly tender or furiously physical. And everything was wonderful, at least it was with him. Had been.

He drew me into his arms, and I went with alacrity. We didn’t kiss, but held each other, taking comfort and solace. His body surrounded me in a benison of humanity, and I wanted to stay there all day. Eventually he released me with what I hoped was a happy sigh. “Thank you. You’re everything to me.”

I knew it. And sometimes it frightened me to death.

Before we left Lisbon for the country, we paid a visit to the man who’d been injured aboard ship. When I say man, in fact he was barely fifteen years old, but he had built a remarkable level of physical fitness for one so young.

Carier had found lodgings for him in a respectable house a mile or so from the one we had hired. The area appeared reasonably prosperous, and Carier, who accompanied us on this visit, assured us it had a good reputation. Otherwise Richard wouldn’t have brought me. In previous times I would have insisted, but at this stage in our recovery, I didn’t want to upset the apple cart too much.

But I was glad to go along. The landlady spoke no English, so Richard communicated with her using the Spanish he had refused to use with the Magistrate of Health. He apologised that he knew no Portuguese and had to speak slowly.

Luckily the landlady’s Spanish was adequate. She told us that the boy, one Simon Crantock, was a good tenant and seemed to be recovering well. He had risen that day and dressed, with only a little help from another tenant, an English merchant called Barber with whom he was making fast friends. They played chess every day, and the merchant had decided to teach the sailor to read. I was glad to hear it. Maybe some good would come of the calamity.

“Barber,” Richard mused. “I know that name.” He glanced at the landlady. “Is he at home, by any chance?”

He was, and he entered with a glad smile and a bow. “I am honoured to meet you, my lord.” He was a strapping man of perhaps forty, with a powerful frame and energy positively bursting from him. “The boy told me he was from your ship.”

Only when he relaxed did I catch up with what Richard was thinking. The young man who’d escaped from the ship, the one who had been in the rigging with poor Crantock, could have followed him here and gained ingress, if he wanted to make good on his attempt and kill the boy. But this was not the man. Much taller, stronger and older. Even the small glimpse I’d had of the other man told me that.

Barber drew a paper from his pocket. “I have the honour of being acquainted with your brother, Mr. Gervase Kerre. We have entered several ventures together.” He handed the letter over.

I peeped over Richard’s shoulder. It was a standard letter of introduction, saying the bearer, one Christopher Barber, was a reputable merchant. I recognised Gervase’s flourishing hand. It was undoubtedly his work.

Richard returned the letter to him. “I remember Gervase speaking of you now. I knew I’d heard your name somewhere.”

“I’ve been in Lisbon for a month. If I can be of service to you, my lord, please don’t hesitate to call on me.”

“You’ve already been of service by taking care of the boy. Please contact me if anything happens, anything untoward.”

Barber cocked his head to one side, a little like a bird. “You expect trouble?”

Richard shook his head. “Not really. Just a precaution.”

Barber nodded. “Yes, of course.” He bowed. “I’ll leave you to talk to him. He’s upstairs, first door on the right. Would you care for me to show you?”

“I’m sure we’ll find our way,” Richard said.

The boy tried to stand when we entered the room, grabbing the sturdy cane someone had provided for him, but Richard waved him down. “You are well?”

“Indeed I am, my lord.” Like all the crew of the yacht, he’d been well schooled in how to address his illustrious owners, if they deigned to speak to him. “Thank you, my lady, for helping to care for me. I was too far gone when you helped, but I’ll never forget it.”

“Think nothing of it.” I brushed his thanks aside, but not as brusquely as I would have done once, before I learned gracious manners.

“Perhaps you may help us in return.” Richard broke off when Carier brought in another chair, this one for my use. He inspected it and glanced at Carier, who did everything but shrug to indicate it was the only one he could find. But I didn’t mind. It seemed a sturdy piece of furniture. I sat down and faced the boy directly, although he seemed loath to meet my gaze.

“I’ll do anything I can, my lord.”

“The man who tipped you off the rigging. Did you know him?”

Crantock glanced away then back again before he shook his head. “No, my lord. I did not.” He was lying, I was almost sure of it, or maybe his discomfort came from the fact that he was being visited by a lord.

“Did he push you?”

Crantock stammered and flushed. “I—I do not know, my lord.”

“Stop calling me ‘my lord’. Sir will do.” Richard never stood on ceremony unless it was to his advantage to do so. Not above using his dignities, but not above dropping them altogether, either. “And don’t prevaricate.” He paused when Crantock’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Dissemble. Play-act. I will have an answer. You’ve been climbing that rigging for weeks without accident. I’ve seen you, and you’ve always been sure and nimble. You’re an experienced sailor, for all your relative youth, and the climate was good for such activities. No strong winds, no chill. You would not have fallen were you not helped. So tell us. I repeat, did you know the man?”

Crantock shook his head, swallowing. “No, sir. He wasn’t a member of the crew.” That last was true. He met Richard’s gaze without a qualm when he said that. “What happened to him after the—the accident?”

“When I ordered him brought to me, he escaped and dived over the side. I presume he arrived with the mob who boarded the ship with the officials.”

Crantock closed his eyes and breathed out in what looked like exasperation or frustration, but I couldn’t be sure about that. “So he got away?”

“He did.” Richard paused. “As far as I know. I am searching for him. I want answers. Did you speak to him before he pushed you?”

“No, sir. He—he had a gun, and I hadn’t seen him before, so I challenged him. As I made my way across the rigging to him, he caught me off balance and pushed me.”

My blood ran cold. A moment’s inattention and the attacker could have shot either of us. If Crantock was telling the truth, and I still had my doubts about that.

“What did he look like?” Richard rapped out.

Crantock frowned, as if recalling the scene. “Dark hair, grey eyes. About my age, or maybe a bit older. Yes, older. Not very brown.”

Crantock was considerably tanned, due to spending so much time in the open. Even October in Lisbon was mild. But not tanned probably meant Crantock’s attacker wasn’t a regular sailor, or one who hadn’t been at sea for a while. But the hair—Crantock was definitely lying about that, unless the attacker had been wearing a wig that was lost in the struggle. I saw the hair of the man glinting in the sun before he jumped. It was blond, as fair as Richard’s.

The description meant little, but when Crantock recovered, he could help us further.

I glanced at Richard, and he nodded. “We will undertake to settle your account here. I would ask you, if you agree, to identify the man should we find him.”

Crantock grinned. “Yes, sir.”

One question remained. Crantock was right to have concerns for his life. The push had been, at the least, careless of whether he’d lived or died. After falling fifteen feet, the boy had been extremely fortunate to escape with bruises and a broken leg.

Richard sighed. “We shall take you into the country with us. The air will do you good.” And we could keep him safe so that he could identify the man for us and so we could ask him more questions. “Be ready tomorrow, at about ten.”

Crantock nodded. “Yes, sir.”

But he didn’t come with us, after all. Richard arranged that he would join our small procession of coaches the next day. He’d allotted a space for Crantock in the servants’ coach, with the story that the boy had done us a service.

We called at his lodging to discover Crantock in the throes of a heavy fever.

I wanted to go upstairs to verify the fever myself, but I was content for Carier to go after Richard demurred. I had to see sense. The fever could have been contagious, but if it had been so, we’d have it already, since we’d seen him the day before. Still, Carier could verify the report as well as I could.

Carier returned and confirmed the truth of the story. Our coach rocked into movement as he told us, “It’s a fever, sure enough, my lord. I’d have said it was infection, but the wounds are still clean. I took a look at the broken leg as best I could, but it’s heavily swathed. There aren’t any marks on the bandages, though, and no sign of swelling. It’s not the pox or anything of that nature, I’m sure of it.”

I could trust Carier. “What do you think caused it?”

“I’m not entirely sure, my lady. It could be influenza, or a local fever, or even malaria. There’s always a lot of fever about, and I don’t think it looks too serious, if it’s treated properly. No signs of markings that I’d expect to see in ordinary illnesses. His face is red, but then that’s only to be expected. He is in no shape to travel today, though we’ll send for him when he recovers.”