The Stillwater Conspiracy (The Neville Burton 'Worlds Apart' Series Book 4) Page 30

  The smoke of the cannons, fired in salute to Fort Charles, hung around the ship as it drifted slowly before the gentle zephyr wafting into Port Royal Harbor.

  “Drop anchor in that open area between those brigs, if you please, Lt. Towers,” he said, “Have my gig ready to take me in once the anchor’s been dropped, if you please. I’m going to stretch my legs ashore and take a look at this new wharf. You may begin to arrange limited shore leave, also.”

  “Aye, Sir, and thank you. That will be well received.”

  “What’s Cap’n doing, Mr. Foyle?” asked Lt. Miller. Out of a combined curiosity and ennui, Foyle was watching Neville through a long glass.

  “Just pacing the wharf, much as he does the quarterdeck here aboard,” said Foyle. “Here. See for yourself.” He handed the glass to Miller and walked off.

  Neville’s purpose in pacing the wharf was far less the exercise than it was waiting for a message boy to return from the Pig’s Tale. Neville had sent his note there, writing simply that he had missed Marion terribly and was looking forward to seeing her at the earliest possible time. He continued pacing until the urchin returned - much sooner than Neville had expected, and far sooner than he had instructed his gig crew to return. He had been right that Marion would know his ship was in and write him. He had it in hand now, and looked for a place in the shade to read it.

  Stillwater Rum Trading Co.

  The Happy 12th of January, 1806

  I’ll fetch you from the New Wharf at half eight on the morrow. That is when I am normally in my carriage and on my way to work.

  Oh, how I long to see the blue of your eyes.

  With all my love,

  Marion

  The carriage-driver reined his horse in at the juncture of street and wharf. Marion hopped to the street while Neville crossed the last few steps to her. She opened her arms wide as he approached. She is very much home, he thought. The plumeria is in her hair; I can smell her from here.

  When they embraced, Neville cried out in pain, “Ow, you’ll have to watch that spot, Marion!”

  He bent over, nonetheless, and they kissed, refraining in the public setting from any more than a polite welcome-home buss. “What’s happened to your side?”

  “Trafalgar. There was a great battle off Spain. I’m sure you’ve heard.”

  “Yes, of course I’ve heard. This is Jamaica, not a cave. Were you there? Were you injured?”

  “Yes to both. The mizzen course yard-arm fell across my chest and a great brute of a Frenchman stuck me with a sword through here,” he pointed to his abdomen, “right where you squeezed me. I’ll tell you the whole thing, but not now. You are just so beautiful, Marion. It seems over a year since I’ve seen you. The whole thing is quite a story. I recuperated from the Trafalgar bashing at my Mum’s house in Bury St Edmunds and I’ve had another month and more aboard ship on the way here.”

  They clambered into the carriage and sat beside each other, holding hands. Marion said, “Driver; to the Rum Company, please.”

  “Marion, could we talk some before we go there? Drive around a bit, perhaps, or maybe take a walk on the common?”

  “To the park, please, driver.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “There’s something I want to discuss with you privately, but I’ll start with just asking about your trip to France and the passage home. There is so much I must catch up on.”

  “It went surprisingly well, she said. There were a few little problems, but all together…” She summarized her travels in the five minutes it took riding to the park, but left out the part when Stearns appeared in Paris and anything about her actual business there. Neville helped her down from the carriage when they reached their destination, and after commanding the driver to wait, they began a stroll.

  “I was touched by your note, Marion,” Neville began. “I’ve never before received a letter from you that ended with ‘All my love’. Do you really mean it?” He turned and looked into her eyes.

  “I do, Neville, but I haven’t told Father a thing about it.”

  “Speaking of your father, then,” he said, “If he agrees, will you marry me?”

  She said not a word, but her smile and the twinkle in her eye gave him his answer.

  After a moment of just gazing into his bright blue eyes, she said, “He’s not been pleased about me even seeing you.”

  “That’s not what I asked, you know.”

  “I can’t just say ‘yes’. It’s not lady-like.”

  “All right then, let me tell you about my godfather.”

  “Does this have anything to do with your question?”

  “Not at all, but it seems you aren’t going to answer that now, so I’ll change the subject. He’s not really my godfather; that’s sort of a put-on, really. He’s a fellow I’ve known all my life, though. He lives in the same town as me Mum now; helped my family when Dad died and set me up a false muster before I went in the Navy as a midshipman.”

  “He sounds like a very benevolent friend, Neville, You should be glad of him.”

  “I am, but you can tell me what you think. I understand you went to see him last September.”

  “How could I know your godfather? Besides, I was in France in September.”

  “Yes you were, but then England, and you visited Whitehall, where he has an office.”

  “How could you know all this? Are you having me followed?” Marion’s adoring tone grew swiftly chilly.

  “I don’t have to have you followed when you visit my godfather.”

  “Sir Mulholland at the British Admiralty?”

  “Yes, Miss Stillwater,” Neville said, and then he whispered, “And that will be ‘Sir William’ to you, if you marry me.”

  “Oh, we’re back to that?”

  “No, no; we can go on. When I was recovering at home, Sir William...”

  “Mulholland,” she muttered again, as if still in disbelief.

  “Yes, him. He asked me over to his house to say ‘Happy New Year’, and there…”

  “Just has you over for a cup of tea, does he? To his own home…”

  “Yes, Marion, Can we get on? There was your friend Georges. Georges thinks…”

  “Georges Cadoudal? That man from France? And I suppose you’ve known him for years.”

  “Well, yes I have. We go way back, but that’s another very long story, and it has nothing to do with this latest affair.”

  “Now I’m beginning to wonder if being recruited by the British attaché in Washington was a mere accident. Did you put ‘Sir William’ up to finding you a bride?”

  “Oh, no, Marion. I would never… meeting you is the luckiest thing that has ever happened to me.” He continued, although she was now looking quite dubious, “Georges believes your Mr. Stearns is acting as a double agent of some sort… There’s something about rifles, Marion. Do you know anything?”

  “First, Sir,” she said quickly, her voice now truly cold, “He is not my Mr. Stearns!”

  She hesitated before answering the question, and had obviously warmed quickly with her next thought. “Ellen suspects something, and that there might be some connection to Father. She saw something in his office…”

  “Ellen Aughton? Joseph’s Ellen? It seems an age since I saw her. What has she to do with this? Sir William didn’t tell me about Ellen. Georges knows Ellen? And where is she?”

  “She stopped in Boston on the way home. Maybe I shouldn’t have spoken, but she was there to see Georges.”

  “Oh, ho!” laughed Neville, “What a bunch we are. Marion, my real job here is not Ellen’s business, I’m sure, but I am to make an arrest – or cause one to be made - if I’m convinced we have a guilty party. I’m to put together a case against Michael.” Or Chester! That might finish me with Marion. “Is he a real private arms dealer, just trying to become one, or is he a simple bungler?”

  “He’s a simple bungler, say I,” said Marion, “I took the attempt on Michael’s life…”

  “Attempt o
n his life?”

  “Yes, only a few weeks ago four big men attacked him just after work. One had a peg leg. Michael broke it off and used it against the others, but he was stabbed in the shoulder again, just where… where you… Hmmpf ... men…”

  “Did your father know that Mr. Stearns knew about the guns?”

  “I’m fairly sure I asked about it.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I think the attempt on his life is evidence that he is mixed up in something suspicious,” Marion continued, “but there’s nothing I could do except write a letter to Sir Mulholland to advise him that I think Stearns is spying on, or at least working against, the British. I asked Michael about the guns, too, but his answers were lame indeed.

  “You mentioned that Ellen saw something in your father’s office… the little glass award? I’ve seen it.”

  Marion put her head down and appeared to gulp. “I went and looked, too, and it’s still there.”

  “Marion, we both know Mr. Stearns was in Paris, but I don’t know why. Was he there to sell rifles, or was he really just chasing after you?”

  “Ellen only guesses about the rifles, which might mean Father sent him, but I don’t believe that. Michael is truly deluded. I know he was following me. He followed me to Washington when Father sent him to New York, and then he followed me to Paris. I’ve talked to Father about it, and I’ve told him that I will not have Michael, no matter what he says. And I’ve told Michael, too, by the way. Even with that I think the fool still believes he has a chance with me. You saw his letter in London. He was thinking it would be a romantic getaway, the silly sod. When he saw Georges, though, he panicked and ran off.”

  “Yes, I saw Mr. Stearns’ letter. It bothered me for months. I thought you were running out on me.”

  “Oh, Neville, I will never.”

  “And then I got a tiny note from George in France that said ‘M.S. has run’, and I thought it meant you, because I didn’t know for sure that Stearns was even there – didn’t think of him at all. I was crushed; ready to lead a different life. And then I met Georges at Sir William’s and the sun began to rise again.”

  Their carriage clattered to a halt in front of the Stillwater Rum Trading Company. Neville handed the driver a half crown, and the carriage rattled away, leaving the young couple standing nervously in the street by the big wooden doors.

  “Shall we, Miss Stillwater?”

  “Yes, let’s,” she said. Neville pulled one of the doors open and Marion entered. When Neville stepped inside, she clamped herself to his left arm like a limpet. They saw Chester’s head rise to see who disturbed their door. It was a busy day. Stearns was in one of the sales booths with three men, and six more were in the waiting area. All of those heads turned their way as well. If nothing else, they were a far more handsome couple than was normally seen in those offices. Marion was dressed to greet Neville rather than for work, and Neville, of course, wore his captain’s uniform. He would certainly outrank any man from the navy.

  Chester, behind his glass windows, stood, but did not come out. Michael continued to sit, and the expression on his face was stoic. Neville chuckled to himself, thinking the man’s expression showed more of doom or disaster.

  They walked past the receptionist – Neville for the first time receiving no challenge – into the office hallway and thence into Chester’s office. Marion was not letting go.

  “Mr. Stillwater,” said Neville in the cheeriest tone he could muster, “It is good to see you again.” He extended his right hand. To his surprise, Chester shook it.

  “We have some things we need to speak with you privately about, Father,” said Marion. “It might be better at home.”

  Chester looked around the room, and particularly at Stearns, and finally said, “Give me ten minutes to clear up here. You might wait in your office?” he said to Marion.

  Before her door closed, they heard Chester tell the receptionist to call for his carriage. He then walked across to where Stearns was meeting and rapped politely on the door. Michael could see them from where he stood in Marion’s office. They passed only a few words, in deference to their customers, and Chester began to give each of the men sitting in the waiting room a short greeting.

  “I have brought some papers with me, Marion. It is important to me that you know that they are not of my doing. They are from Sir Mulholland, whom I – we – cannot name as anything but ‘Whitehall’. I will show them to you both at Independence Hall.” He could tell that didn’t make her any less nervous. “I’m sure he thinks our conversation is to be about the two of us,” he added.

  “I expect so. That’s one reason I wasn’t letting go of you,” she said. “And I certainly wanted Mr. Stearns to see it. Ha!”

  The carriage ride home was awkward, with Chester sitting beside his daughter facing forward, and Neville sitting opposite, facing to the rear. They passed a little small talk about the year’s rainfall and Neville’s participation at the Battle of Trafalgar. They all expressed their dismay over the death of Admiral Nelson, although the Americans obviously did not share quite the same concern as the British.

  When they arrived at Independence Hall they filed into Chester’s office. He waved his butler away and poured them each a glass of rum himself.

  “What have you two done, then?” Chester asked.

  “It’s not about us, Sir,” said Neville. “It’s about this.” He placed his valise on the table, removed a sheaf of papers and spread them on the table like a deck of cards. “I have these letters from Whitehall,” he said. They are all from you, it appears… except maybe this one.”

  He showed it to Marion. Now that he knew her, her flowing hand was obvious. The signature was ‘M. Stillwater’. “This first one I picked up in Toulon. It is obviously not the same hand…” He looked at Marion.

  “That’s mine,” she said. “It was about rum sales. Father didn’t even want me to take on the rum sales trip. And you got it where? What were you doing in Toulon, Neville?”

  “I’m in the navy - I get around. But not now, please; that’s another long story.”

  While Chester was picking up the letters one at a time and looking at them, Neville sauntered across the room to Chester’s trophy shelf and came back with a small glass object. He set it down by the letters.

  “Mr. and Miss Stillwater, I am dismayed to have to remind you that this is a British Island. Britain considers any trading with the enemy to be unlawful… but this is far worse. Do you have a hand in trying to get something going with the French, or is your guilt only in local dealings? I know you have local dealings, so don’t deny that.”

  “These do look like your writing Father, and all signed by you.”

  “But they aren’t. I didn’t write them. This is nothing short of incredible.” He was still looking at each letter. “Who could be doing this? And what are all these?” He asked after paging through the letters. At the bottom of the stack he found a large number of pages of tabulated material. “They look like the reports we get from Michael’s subordinates about ships that come and go, but they are not identical. They have been re-tabulated.”

  Marion’s mood changed from trembling concern to trembling with anger in moments, “Neville, how could you insult my father this way and still ask for my hand?”

  Chester stopped looking at the letters and glared at Neville. “You did what?” he demanded.

  “It has nothing to do with this,” replied Neville, and fired back, “And you did try to shoot me, didn’t you, Mr. Stillwater? Remember that night in the alley – with the same four big men that attacked Michael the other day? That was you, wasn’t it – with one of the dueling pistols you sent north with Stearns two years ago. Am I wrong?”

  “Father, what have you done?”

  “I can’t answer that, or he would see me hanged,” he said to Marion…

  “And I didn’t have to put Michael up to anything, Captain Burton. That was all his own doing…

  “Did you answer Captai
n Burton, Marion?”

  “No, Father. It isn’t lady-like just to blurt out ‘yes’. And now I wonder if I should.” Neville thought she looked as if she might actually pout. Both father and daughter glared at Neville.

  I must keep this calm, Neville thought. “Could it not be Mr. Stearns?”

  “That chuckle-head isn’t smart enough,” declared Marion.

  “He just works for me,” said Chester. “He does a fair job. He could do well enough to provide for my daughter,” he said, sending another mean-spirited glance at Marion.

  “Let me see those letters,” Marion said. “It may be that…” she said … “Yes. These are all written with that silly little travel quill and purple-ish ink he has in that little kit of his… and this date…” She picked up another letter, “And this one. And this, and this. These more recent dates are all when he was traveling. Father, Michael was trading on the company name and incriminating you so that he might escape if things went badly…

  “And these tables of ships… they show arrival and departure times, and the navy ships are in different tables. They go back quite a way. Here’s your ship Superieure in and out, Neville.”

  “Yes, I saw that… So?”

  “There is no doubt of the hand here. It’s all Michael’s. See here? He makes that thing with all the number twos… and this with the eights.”

  “So much for Whitehall’s theory,” mumbled Neville.

  “Sir Mmm… Whitehall suspected my father and involved me to… to…”

  “That’s the sort of job it is, Marion,” said Neville.

  “What job?” demanded Chester.

  Neville took a deep breath. “Mr. Stillwater,” asked Neville, “May I have your daughter’s hand in marriage?”