Authors: Elin Gregory
Kit seated himself, his anger fading. Sir William was getting stocky now he was sailing a desk, but his sharp blue eyes set in creases under bristling brows hadn’t changed. He was Kit’s godfather and had been his hero ever since Kit could remember. Sir William had been Kit’s father’s commanding officer at the time of Captain Penrose’s death, and due to the proximity of their houses, Kit’s mother and Sir William’s wife had become as firm friends as the disparity in their status could allow. Sir William’s brief and infrequent visits home had been things of wonder for Kit. It was on Sir William’s account as well as family tradition that there had never been any question about what Kit would do with his life. He would spend it at sea and still hoped to do so if the Malvern and what had occurred upon her could be forgotten.
“Fully recovered?” Sir William demanded.
“Fully, sir,” Kit replied. “I understand that the fever may return, but it is unlikely to be as severe. I am fit for service.”
Sir William grunted and gestured to the clerk who placed a tray on the table and began to pour the port. Once both were provided and the tray removed, Sir William sat back in his seat and fixed Kit with a not unkindly glare.
“Fit for service is one thing. Finding you a ship is another,” he said. “Have you given any thought about what to do should it prove to be impossible?”
“My options are limited,” Kit said. “This is the only life I’ve known. I have neither the ability nor the desire to be anything other than a seaman.”
Sir William set his glass down with a click. “Fact is,” he said, “one of our ships was lost and you, my boy, were the only officer left for us to hold accountable. Now, if I’d known what was happening on the Malvern, I’d have sunk the damn ship myself. I know that you were exonerated on account of your health at the time of the wreck but people talk. They are saying that as an officer you must have known what the captain was getting up to?”
The barely there question couldn’t be ignored.
“I did,” Kit said, shamefaced. “Eventually. But there was nobody to report it to. Lieutenant Alford was a foolish, weak man who drank, whored, and gambled beyond his limits. He could not stand up to the captain. Captain Gasson, frankly sir, was a monster and a bully as well as—his other crimes.”
“Did Gasson bother you much, Kit?” Sir William demanded and flapped a hand as Kit started in his chair. “Sit down, boy! I’m only voicing the question that a lot of people have been asking themselves. Gasson was well known to hand pick his crew, for looks as well as ability, and he did not have to choose you. I would like an honest answer, if you please.”
“No, sir,” Kit said, his voice cold. “He did not!”
“Not once you’d shown him the error of his ways, one suspects,” Sir William said and raised the glass to Kit. “I talked to the Malvern’s carpenter after the court martial—he’d served with me on the Great Anne, was there when I got this peg—he told me some of what happened. I believe you behaved creditably under the circumstances, and it’s unfair that Captain Gasson’s behavior should cast a shadow on your career, but even so I have no power to get you a ship.”
Kit looked down at his hands, linked again, knuckles pale. “I understand, sir,” he said. “I expected as much. I’ve made some enquiries and believe it would be possible to get a master’s berth on a trading vessel. Now the war is over, there is a demand for experienced men in the merchant fleet.”
“Rubbish,” Sir William said. “You’re what—twenty six? Master’s mate is the best you could hope for, and before the mast is no place for a Penrose. That name still counts for something in some circles.”
“In a radius about five miles around Helston,” Kit said bitterly, adding an apologetic, “Sorry, sir,” when Sir William snorted.
“Damn well should be. You, my boy, need to be away from England for a while. Some other fool will cause a scandal soon enough and you’ll be forgotten. But in the meantime, you may as well make yourself useful in a quiet way.”
“The prospect delights me, sir,” Kit said.
“Impertinence!” Sir William crowed. “At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor. That may be of considerable help to you in the months ahead.”
“Thank you, sir,” Kit said and watched with mingled excitement and apprehension as the clerk placed a sheaf of papers in front of Sir William.
* * *
“He wants you to what?” Tristan’s question was followed by a gurgle of laughter. “Oh Kit, my poor dear, that’s priceless.”
The Dog wasn’t the most respectable tavern in London, but its raucous mood pleased Tristan even if they did have to shout to make themselves heard.
Kit leaned on the scarred tabletop. “At least it means time on board ship, and from what I’ve heard there could be action, in a small way. You may laugh, but my function is as much bodyguard as…”
“Valet.” Tristan whooped and collapsed laughing again.
Kit might have been annoyed, but Tristan’s laughter was infectious and, after all, he hadn’t been there to hear Sir William’s earnest instructions. “It’s a good compromise,” he insisted. “And I believe the man himself is a decent sort. That side of the work will be easily accomplished. He’s not a—a—diamond like you.”
Tristan saw the sense of this. “Kit, I love you dearly,” he said, “but you wouldn’t last a week in my employ. You are far, far, too rough and ready. When do you sail?”
“On the twelfth,” Kit said. “On the Hypatia, out of Portsmouth. I’m meeting my ‘master’ on the tenth.”
“You said ‘my master’ very convincingly,” Tristan said.
“I hope to do him and myself credit.” Kit smiled as he raised his mug. “Sir George Wilberforce has quite a reputation. I just hope he’ll be fun to work for.”
“I know him. He’s nobody’s idea of fun, so we’d better make the most of the opportunity!” Tristan summoned the pot boy with a bellow.
A couple of hours later, somewhat light-headed, Kit followed Tristan through yet another tavern and out into a small court sharp with the scent of recently emptied cesspits. Beyond was a house where Tristan assured him he would find something to his taste. Kit rather doubted it, and not just because his taste right at that moment was for a quart of small beer to wash the taint of cheap claret away and a comfortable bedchamber all to himself. However, Tristan seemed inclined to make a night of it, and Kit felt it would be churlish to spoil his fun.
“Mother Carey has some new chickens,” Tristan said with a bright grin as he laid his hand on the latch. “Let’s see what kind of flesh or fowl they are.”
Inside the room was dim, but it smelled fragrant in comparison with the courtyard. Someone was singing with more enthusiasm than facility, and the room, while crowded, wasn’t packed. Kit could see the usual clerks and shopkeepers, naval uniforms, and several men as elaborately dressed as Tristan. The whores kept themselves covered and were serving drinks or sitting and talking with their customers. In all, it wasn’t as bad as Kit had feared, and he began to relax and anticipate a little careful fun.
Tristan was obviously a valued customer. Not only did he merit the attention of the Madame herself, but she whisked around finding them a place to sit. A moment later two young ladies brought them glasses and a carafe of Bordeaux.
Kit had no intention of getting any more drunk than he already was but allowed himself to be coaxed into accepting a glass. His girl said she was from Paris. Kit didn’t believe a word of it, because the twang underlying her French accent put her place of birth somewhere just south of the river, but he complimented her on her English and offered her a sip of wine.
By the time Mother Carey came back to guide them to their room, Kit had decided to indulge himself a little. His first trip to a brothel had been mortifying and had confirmed his suspicion that he had no taste for cunny, but there were ways around every problem.
“My dear,” he said, “it has been a long day for me, and you have an even longer night ahead of you. Your hand and a napkin will suffice.”
She seemed relieved not to have to wriggle out of her gown and teased him with a good will. She had strong, slightly calloused fingers and no hesitation; it was pretty much perfect. Kit assisted by closing his eyes and using his imagination, so the job was soon done, and they parted on the stairs with a kiss on the cheek and a shilling tip slipped into her cleavage.
Kit was left in a quandary. Should he wait for Tristan or should he go home? It was the sight of a quart of small beer being passed to another customer that decided him, and he got his beer and found a quiet spot to sit and drink it.
At this hour most of the quiet souls had gone home to their wives. Now more of the customers were drunk, the uniforms were more disheveled, and there were more men obviously up from the docks. A group of the girls were squealing over the antics of a tiny monkey sitting on the shoulder of a rakishly attired fellow with a pigtail, and Mother Carey was talking to another whose gloriously embroidered coat hung on him like a blanket. Kit blinked sleepily and reached for his mug only to draw back his hand as someone brushed past.
“Excuse me,” he said.
“Ah.” The man turned his head and looked down at him. “Bless you, lad, I didn’t see you there,” he said. “I should ask you to excuse me.”
He passed by, leaving Kit with only the impression of height and breadth of shoulder and the glint of gold at one ear, but the voice had had something of home in it, reminding Kit of the windswept coasts and moors of Cornwall.
After that all he wanted was to go. He was getting up to leave when he saw Tristan coming downstairs with his arm around his doxy. He scanned the room and Kit raised his hand, but Tristan smiled in another direction. He hurried down the stairs and across to the tall man who had recently spoken to Kit. They greeted each other, laughing, and Tristan sent his girl for more wine. Kit sighed, tucked his hat under his arm, and made his way to the door.
Kit had been aware of the clock chiming when he left Mother Carey’s. He had not caught the hour, but he knew it was late—not perhaps midnight but certainly eleven. The streets were busy. Night soil carts and delivery drays headed out against the tide of incomers bringing goods from the countryside to the city. Men pushed barrows, horses and oxen strained against their harnesses. Lanterns flickering above doorways and on corners and torches carried by linkboys accompanying chairs, coaches, and pedestrians, made great leaping shadows in which anything could lurk. Kit walked quickly and with care. It was important to stay alert. Too many of his acquaintance had been robbed after such a night out. He kept to the broadest roads and had climbed most of Gracechurch Street before he was approached.
“Call you a chair, sir?” The linkboy was a dirty scrap of a youth with bony wrists showing at the cuffs of his jacket. He bounded along at Kit’s side, torch bobbing. “Or I could light your way. On’y a farthing, sir. I’ll see you right.”
Contemplating shoes soaked in horse piss or worse, Kit gave the boy a short nod. “I’m bound for close to Moorgate. If that is too far, best say now.”
“Ha’penny if you want me to take you past the Wall, sir.”
“Fair enough.” Kit agreed and placed the boy on the inside of the pavement. A half penny wasn’t cheap, but the light was welcome.
“You a soldier, sir?” the boy asked after a moment.
“No, I’m a naval man,” Kit replied. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, you have an—an air, sir, that’s all.”
“I don’t pay extra for flattery,” Kit warned and grinned as the boy gave him a reproachful glare.
“I was just askin’.” The boy scowled up the road. “There’s been folks robbed hereabouts.
“I can protect us both,” Kit said. “What’s your name?”
“Will, sir.”
“Well, Will, maybe you should be giving me a farthing?”
That earned him a scornful sniff, and he smiled again as they hurried on their way.
At the corner of Gracechurch and Lombard Street two draymen had come to blows, and the traffic had backed up in a raucous shouting mob.
“We could cut through White Hart Court, sir,” Will suggested, but after taking a look at the fetid darkness of the alleyway, Kit shook his head.
“Let’s go by Cornhill,” he said. “Yes, I know it’s farther, but I’ll buy you a pie. There’s usually a pie man by St. Peter’s.”
Will agreed to that readily enough, and they stepped out toward the watchman’s fire by the church. Where Gracechurch met Cornhill the press of vehicles was a little less, but there were more people about. As they walked west toward the Royal Exchange, Kit and the boy had to take to the street to avoid a hallooing group of toughs and their wenches and again when a knot of men proved to be gathered around two girls who were trying to gouge each other’s eyes out. Will gave another of his scornful sniffs and nodded up the road.
“It’s no better over there,” he said, gesturing with what remained of his pie. “Over by ’Change.”
Kit looked up at the clock tower and sighed. The rumors about the place made him feel a little light-headed. “No, we’ll just pick our way. Careful boy, you’ll not get all that pie crust in your mouth in one go.”
“Betcha a penny,” Will said. They marched on along the road, Will wheezing around his mouthful of pastry and Kit trying to ignore the people around him. The area around the Royal Exchange was notorious. Stalls and vendors had set up under the eaves of the huge building, and they were still serving customers even at this hour. But there were other sorts of trade. Even a glance could show that many of the figures chatting or moving from stall to stall were men. Groups flowed together, broke apart, couples would stand to talk then move away from the press at arm’s length from each other, or one of them might walk away and the other follow. It was discreetly done, unless one knew what one was looking for.
Not that Kit was looking. He glanced down at Will, who was still munching and speeded his pace a little.
Will swallowed and coughed up a crumb. “Slow down,” he said. “I’m s’posed to be lighting your way, remember.”
“Yes, you are,” Kit said. “Not too much farther now. Another half mile or so.”
“Easy,” Will said. “That pie was good. Can I have some eels?”