Easton's Gold Page 5

  Gabrielle shrinks from his words, as though receiving a blow. He’s surely not really going to go through with this! She looks hopefully at Fleet, who catches her eye then stares at the floor.

  “I would say it is a most ambitious plan for any man of advanced years,” he says carefully. “As far as the particular extent of the danger to yourself is concerned, I can only tell that once I have observed you for a length of time.”

  “Time is something I cannot afford, Mr. Fleet,” the Marquis replies. Now he glances at Gabrielle. Gabrielle feels her lip tremble.

  “Well,” Fleet replies, “I should do a thorough examination anyway. I should listen to your heart—”

  “—No examinations,” the Marquis interrupts, slapping the desk. “You will draw your conclusions based on what I tell you. No doctor, barber-surgeon, or apothecary worth his salt needs to prod and peer at his patient. Only tricksters require such evasions, and I know you are not a trickster.”

  Fleet is silent for a moment. Then he sighs once more. “Well perhaps you could give me some background in addition to that which I have already heard.” He dips his shoulders and nods toward Gabrielle. “The young lady has told me some of the history of your malady, but I should like to hear more before forming any conclusion.”

  “Certainly,” the Marquis says. He stares down at his outstretched fingers as though counting his symptoms. “I have been confined to bed for six weeks. In that time I have been unable to move more than a few inches by myself, that is until I took your first draft.” The Marquis looks up at Fleet, who in turn nods as though accepting the compliment. “I have been unable to eat. My joints seized up. I’ve had strange dreams. That is all.”

  Fleet looks up at the ceiling, as though considering something. “And was there some fever or special exertion that brought this on?”

  Gabrielle takes a step forward and between them; she cannot help herself. “A voyage, my lord! A voyage from southern France to England. That’s what brought on your ague! Please, Mr. Fleet, advise him not to make the same mistake again!”

  Gabrielle’s face burns. In her plea she has outstretched her arms toward the apothecary, holding out her palms as though wishing for nails to be driven through; she realizes it must give her outburst an odd kind of pathos, and she feels ashamed. But the Marquis smiles at her in a kindly fashion.

  “You see how she worries for me?” says the Marquis. “Am I not a lucky man to have such faithfulness in my household?”

  “Indeed, sir, you are,” Fleet replies with a tight smile.

  “You must tell me, Mr. Fleet, what are my chances of surviving such a journey as I describe without daily physic?”

  “I would say, my lord, your chances of survival are fair at best.”

  “I thank you for your honesty,” says the Marquis, giving Fleet a quick bow. “And were I to have a hundred-day supply of physic, what then?”

  “Well then, you would likely survive quite well for a hundred days. But as you have no doctor with you to observe your condition and adjust your medicine accordingly, I fear that, even for that time, your health will be severely compromised.”

  “Ah!” the Marquis exclaims. “It is as I feared.”

  The Marquis sighs and looks from Fleet to Gabrielle then back again to Fleet. “So what am I to do, Mr. Fleet? I must go, that much is decided.”

  Gabrielle feels a tug in her chest that almost pulls her off her feet.

  “No, my lord! You do not have to go!”

  The Marquis looks at her sadly.

  “I must go,” he continues more quietly, “but if I go without someone with knowledge of cures, someone with proved abilities to treat my own ague, then I may well die.”

  Gabrielle looks between the Marquis and Fleet. The Marquis is staring at the young apothecary, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. Fleet’s expression gradually changes; his brow knits and his mouth opens.

  “You can’t mean?” Fleet whispers.

  The Marquis nods.

  “Where is this voyage bound?” Fleet asks hoarsely.

  “Newfoundland.”

  He flinches at the word as though it were a stone hurled at him through the air. Then he straightens himself and coughs. “May I ask,” he says slowly, “why this voyage is so imperative?”

  “That I prefer to keep to myself, at least for the while.”

  Fleet glances across at Gabrielle.

  Is he testing whether I know the reason? Gabrielle wonders.

  The young man’s face has become moist with sweat.

  “Needless to say,” the Marquis continues, “you will be paid handsomely. I will see to it you are the richest apothecary to sail from the shores of England. What do you say to ten gold sovereigns a day?”

  “It is most generous,” the young man stammers. Yet he does not smile.

  “May I then count on you to join my household on this voyage?”

  “Give me until tonight to think about it, my lord. I will give you my answer then.”

  “We will await you,” says the Marquis. He nods at the young apothecary. Fleet nods back.

  The apothecary turns and walks out of the room. Gabrielle glances back at the Marquis and then follows Fleet through the doorway.

  __________

  GABRIELLE CATCHES UP WITH Fleet at the front door, as he hoped she would.

  “Sir,” she says. “You must help him!”

  He says nothing but steps outside and gestures for her to follow. The breeze is mild now and the street crowded. Fleet walks slowly, dodging merchants, tradespeople, and children. Gabrielle’s need is delicious to him; he can almost taste it in her hesitant movements, in the way she keeps glancing at him while they walk.

  “He wouldn’t tell me why this voyage is necessary,” Fleet says at last, pausing as two fighting boys come scuffling across their path. He takes Gabrielle’s elbow gently in his hand and steers her toward the cover of the buildings on the right. “Without knowledge of what drives him,” he says, “how can I advise against it?”

  Gabrielle turns toward him and takes a step closer. “Have you quite decided then not to come along on the voyage?” she asks. She does not look directly into his eyes; it’s as though she is afraid his expression will confirm her fear.

  “I have decided nothing,” he says. “I have not been given any information from which I can decide.”

  She glances into his eyes now, then she looks away, struggling it seems. Fleet watches her face—her high, rounded cheeks and her dark lips, the eyes in constant movement even when fixed upon a point—and wishes she would be as vulnerable and open to him but for some cause other than Easton. He feels he is gazing from a distance upon the ideal of devotion, and he wants to trap the moment like a specimen in one of his jars.

  “I know why he wants to go to Newfoundland,” she says at last. “He wants to try and find his son.” A chaise wheel grates on the cobbles nearby, and they both take a step sideways. “A half-caste, he said. He tortures himself with the past, imagining he has committed the most terrible of crimes.”

  Fleet stares at the gravel beneath his feet. He had not expected this. He can sense that her eyes are upon him, darting around his face. He knows the kind of assurance Gabrielle wants from him, but he is torn between the wish to comfort and some darker, ill-defined urge. The latter wins.

  “How do you know he hasn’t?” Fleet asks quietly. “How do you know he hasn’t committed the most terrible of crimes?”

  He watches her face break into a smile. “I had thought you a better judge of character, Mr. Fleet,” she replies with some passion. “I know him. I know his fears and his dreams. He’s incapable of cruelty.”

  Fleet bows his head, glances down the street—a chaise driver is lashing his horse mercilessly—then looks back at her. “He was a pirate though, that much is common knowledge in the neighbourhood.”

  “He sailed without the King’s seal, but so did many in those days. I believe he was a monarch of the seas, dispensing true justice a
nd mercy to those in need.” Gabrielle’s eyes sparkle now in happy defiance. Fleet smiles weakly in response. “Please, Mr. Fleet,” she continues, encouraged. “If you cannot dissuade him then please join us just for the voyage, just to keep him well.” She comes a little closer and her twitching fingers come into contact with his tunic. “There are so many ships there, you can buy passage back and still have a handsome profit for your trouble.” She withdraws her hands quickly and blushes a little.

  Fleet sighs. “Your devotion to the Marquis is a powerful argument,” he says, “and I fear it will wear me down eventually. Let me see to my own business first, and then I will send my answer.”

  He takes a step back and gives her a low bow. When he looks up, he sees her face fill with worry. “Gabrielle,” he adds gently, “I promise the state of your master’s health will remain my highest priority.”

  He holds her gaze until he sees relief sweep across her features. She gives him a long smile then turns and begins to make her way back to the house.

  __________

  “FIVE PRIVATE CABINS, MY LORD? It is not possible.”

  I have become increasingly accustomed in old age to the patronizing tone and the superior smile I now encounter in Captain Henley. He is quite certain I am losing my reason, and his pale blue eyes convey some sympathy as he shifts on the little chair in front of my desk.

  And yet he is here. If he had no interest at all in me or my proposition, he would have sent a letter in reply to my own note. He suspects there is some opportunity for him, and I am picking up clues every second as to what he wants. Though seated, his manner is alert. He has to stop himself from glancing around when he hears footsteps in the hall. His fingers are restive upon his lap. I noticed he had much curiosity in Gabrielle when she showed him into my room, then he lost interest in his surroundings just as quickly when she bowed at me and left.

  He may patronize me as much as he likes, but I can turn the pages of his mind at will. He has come in the hope he will catch sight of some well-dowered daughter, either for himself—he is only forty or so, and some sea captains are late to marry—or perhaps for a son.

  I return his smile and get ready to use this to my advantage. I give myself five minutes to turn this boat one hundred and eighty degrees.

  “I am disappointed, Captain. I have three servants: one man and two women. I treat them with dignity and divide the sexes. Then there is myself; my apothecary, who is doing me a great favour in joining me; and a young girl, Gabrielle—I believe you noticed her when you entered—who I plan to make my ward.”

  Henley hesitates, turns and looks through the open door behind him.

  “The dark, pretty one. I’m sure I saw you exchange glances.”

  Henley adjusts his collar, which seems to have become tighter all of a sudden. “I thought she was your servant,” he says.

  “That’s just her fancy, Captain. She likes to dress like the others and go around the house doing odd jobs. It’s time she married, of course, but I want it to be a man more like myself than those merchants, lawyers, and government men I see around me. Too many Londoners prefer dry land. She was born for the life of the sea.”

  I laugh, and Henley politely joins in. But for him there is an edge to it, I can tell. His eyes are glistening.

  “Still, my lord,” he says repositioning himself, “five cabins.” He is condescending no more, I notice. Rather, he is deadly serious. “I am commissioned to bring livestock and sundry supplies to the various fishing colonies, as well as wines and spirits to the new landlords of the plantations. Since you are proposing to purchase some of our supplies and bring them with you, I must procure more and find room to store them too. It’s simple science, sir. There is too much to fit.”

  I lean back and sigh.

  “I can see you are an honest and honourable man,” I say. “And I understand your position better than you imagine. Many times we captains are forced against our natures to be creative with supplies and numbers, to drop so many pounds from these sacks or those barrels, to count twenty when we have eighteen.”

  Henley’s pale eyes are working their way through the problem.

  Ninety degree turn; ninety more and we’re there.

  “It isn’t safe to play games anymore,” Henley says, crossing his legs, his fingers covering his mouth. “Some London merchants will board a ship and check supplies the night before they sail.”

  “Then we go a day early.”

  Henley gazes at the floor, scratching his ear and pondering.

  “Gabrielle!” I call. Captain Henley stiffens and takes his hand from his ear.

  I know Gabrielle is not far away. In a few moments I hear the swish-swish of her dress. She appears in the doorway and enters. Henley gazes at me, a little intimidated. He shifts sideways in his chair then stands.

  Gabrielle backs off a little as he turns to her.

  “Gabrielle,” I say calmly, “this is Captain Henley. He will be taking us to Newfoundland in four days.

  Captain Henley bows rather stiffly. Gabrielle’s eyes dart from Henley’s to mine then back again.

  “Would Captain Henley like me to fetch him something?” she asks softly.

  I laugh and slap the desk. Henley laughs as I hoped he would, but Gabrielle just looks confused.

  “Only yourself, my dear,” I say at last. “Only your company when you can spare it.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The lantern’s halo skims the laurel bush. Fleet scans the green flesh, leaf by leaf.

  It’s almost too soon, he thinks. Four days, the reply said. That’s three by sunrise.

  Fleet crouches, peering below the lowest branch. The light catches something, and he pulls the sack closer to the bush. He reaches in below the foliage, his fingers skimming the moist grass. Gasping, his face close to the earth, he feels for the shell, secures it under his fingernails then carefully lifts the creature from the bark. He puts the snail into the sack and hears the gentle tap of shell against shell. He will need dozens more before the night is over. It will be difficult as there has been no rain for days.

  The thought of Newfoundland makes Fleet breathless. It will be his first return, and the full-circle pattern sends shivers through him. He wonders if those turbulent shores will smell only of blood or whether happier memories will flood upon him too. It was the last place he experienced true joy, yet it’s also the land of his deadliest recollections. He feels like a mortal recalled to the haven of the gods, where everything—joy, hope, love, despair—is felt on a Promethean scale.

  He thinks of the settlement he once knew, the rickety planks set up against the rush of winter, the stone walls nestled more stoically into the side of a hill. Despite the cold, the storms, and the toil, he remembers laughter as fresh as the virgin north wind.

  A breeze rises, bobbing the laurel leaves and causing his lantern flame to flicker; a momentary panic sweeps through him. Do I have the courage to go through with it? Everything he is will be swept away forever. No more “Fleet the apothecary.” No more London. The truth of his past will annihilate it all. And what will he be left with?

  Fleet’s heart beats faster. I will go. I will go, but perhaps I will return here later. He knows it is a foolish compromise, that there is no point if he does not commit himself. Going to Newfoundland with Easton and remaining “Fleet the apothecary” who can return to London without revealing himself is a betrayal of himself and his parents.

  He remembers being held high between the shoulders of the two men from the ship as they marched side by side back up the hill toward his burning house. He can feel again the vice-like grip of their hands and the sudden wrenching of his hair from behind as he tried to look away. “There’s your father!” one said as they came to a halt. His voice was neither loud nor angry, merely impatient at the boy’s struggling and eager to get on. “Stop calling for him. He was no good to us. But you and your mother are.” Though his vision became filled with tears, he could see that the body lying face up was no lo
nger his father. The eyes were open but no more alive than the pebbles around him.

  The child knew for certain that the strange numbness he felt now was his new reality. He knew that the scene around him—punctured bodies; burning houses; a neighbour’s girl, young Elizabeth, staring out through a doorway now, destined to starve—would stay with him always. Commonplace things—cool pond water lapping against his skin; the warm breeze of August; laughter as he and his friends learned steps to a dance—would never again bring the same intensity of feeling. The house of his senses was burning along with the village; he was entering a place of darkness.

  Fleet remembers the chains that bound his mother’s wrists, how blood mingled with sweat when she struggled, and how one day, months after their capture, he met the desolate stare of her eye—a look so near death it was a premonition. She had given up on everything and would eat and drink no more.

  Fleet reaches for another snail, pulls it from a leaf and drops it into his sack. The shells clink against each other again, and he feels a tremor beneath his feet. He knows this comes not from the earth but from himself. He has become too comfortable with Fleet the apothecary; he must get ready for the great change.

  __________

  IT IS NOT YET DAWN AND Gabrielle still cannot sleep. She watches the strip of moonlight on the plaster ceiling and imagines the sway of a hull and the creaking of timbers. Philippa snores loudly as, no doubt, she will upon the ship.

  Travelling again so soon makes little sense. It isn’t just the voyage that worries her, or even her master’s health anymore. The Marquis’s words have teased away a scab she thought long healed. “Only your company when you can spare it,” he had said. Why should the captain want her company? Why should she feel obliged to give it?

  There was a hint of mockery in the situation, something out of place in the Marquis’s treatment of her. She turns onto her side and closes her eyes. She imagines stones whistling past her ears and grazing the back of her legs, and she remembers running up the chalky path from the village to the château. Gabrielle was very thin then and a fine runner. The taunting gang did not follow her all the way, and when she turned up in the cobbled courtyard, breathless and bloodied, Françoise, the Marquis’s housekeeper, swooped upon her with an intensity Gabrielle at first mistook for sternness. Françoise, as short as a child but as strong as a bull, had just returned from picking mushrooms; she grabbed Gabrielle’s forearm like it was a chicken’s neck and hauled her inside the château, shouting orders to the servants on the way. Jacques was there, younger and less certain of himself in those days. Maria and Philippa were scrubbing clothes by a large tub.