Hoare was not at all sure he had heard the lady correctly. 'Ma'am?' he asked.
'Oh. I recall now; you do not play chess, do you? We shall have to remedy that in due course. Well, Bartholomew, the 'fork' is a move in chess-a truly wicked move- to a spot from whence a player can take either of two of his opponent's major pieces without risking more than the loss of his threatening lesser piece. Often a knight will threaten a queen and a castle or even put the other player's king into an ignominious check.
'You have done that to Sir Thomas. With one inspired move, you have deprived the poor knight, at one time, of two possible captures-wives, that is. For when he rushed to tell me how you had snatched little Miss Gladden out from under his nose, he did not think of how I would react to his disclosure that, while vowing undying love for me, he had been hot after another. Well done, Bartholomew, well done!' Her chortle broke into a full-throated, unladylike belly laugh.
Miss Austen, who did not laugh, had a sudden headache, begged to be excused, and withdrew.
'But you would not have accepted Sir Thomas in any case, would you?' Hoare asked anxiously.
'Sir Thomas? At this point, I should play the flirt, if only in revenge for the shock you gave me,' she said. 'But-no, Bartholomew, no. I would not. I am no Princess, so I need kiss me no frogs. Besides, my heart is bestowed elsewhere.
'Now, Miss Austen and I have calls to make and a visit to pay to Madame LaFarge, the mantua maker in the High Street. So go, and examine Miss Jenny's prowess with her pen. Come, Jane!' she called upstairs, merciless as Admiral Sir George Hardcastle.
Once Jenny Jaggery had proudly displayed her sampler and her calligraphy to Hoare, returned into her mouth the tongue that had helped her perform, and obtained Hoare's confirmation that she was properly and permanently entitled to the kitten, Order, she demanded to accompany him to Royal Duke's gig.
'Can you find your own way back to the inn?' Hoare asked.
'Oh, yes, sir.' Jenny's voice was earnest. 'Susan lets me go everywhere with her. She even lets me carry her market basket sometimes.'
'Good. Come along, then. You may carry my packet.'
Having bade farewell to Order and told him to keep a sharp lookout for the Frogs, Jenny took Hoare's packet of correspondence in her little paw. She put her other hand in his and stepped off at his side, swinging their linked hands and skipping occasionally to keep up with her guardian as he strode.
'The fat lady who gave me my kitten. She's nice. Is she your doxy, then?' Jenny looked up at him with wide black eyes. They widened still farther when she felt Hoare's reaction. He stopped in the middle of Weymouth's esplanade and glared down at her in a way he had never thought to use upon her before.
'Fat lady? Doxy? Are you speaking of Mrs. Eleanor Graves, you young vixen?'
'Me famble, sir!' Jenny squeaked, slipping back into the cant she had heard her father use. 'Yer 'urtin' me dab!'
Realizing he was crushing the hand he had been holding so gently before she spoke, Hoare brought himself under control. He crouched down so as to look the child in the eyes. They were full of tears.
'I'm s-sorry, sir! Did I say summat what made ye parky? I'll never do it again, sir, truly. But she is fat, sir; ain't she?' Jenny asked timidly.
'The more for us to love, lass, if so. But I would be far more pleased if you were to speak of her as 'well endowed.' '
'Well endowed then, sir. But… what about t'other?'
'The other, Jenny?'
'Wot I called her.'
'Oh. No, Mrs. Graves isn't my doxy. I hope she will do me the honor of becoming my wife.'
'Ooh,' Jenny said.
Looking down at the little person beside him, Hoare realized she was a person, indeed, a cheerful, determined person who deserved far more attention-love, in fact- than a toy or a pet casually picked up in some foreign port like a monkey. 'Cause me to remember thy loving kindness in the morning,' he said, dredging the words from some part of his unconscious.
'And… if we are both good,' he added, 'your stepmother. And Order, the kitten's, as well. Now, come along. We mustn't keep Royal Duke waiting, must we? There isn't a moment to lose.'
'Ooh,' Jenny said again. In her astonishment, all her new, precarious, proper pronunciation fled once more. 'I never really 'ad, had, a muwer, mother, before. Orta be nice.'
On deck in the light October mizzle, Hoare placed himself where, without interfering, he could observe the attempts of Royal Duke's starboard gun crews to complete the mock reloading of their pieces. While they were still agonizingly maladroit, the men no longer tripped each other up as a matter of course. Nonetheless, if the Royal Dukes did not soon better their current four minutes between broadsides, Mr. Clay and Stone would join in an apoplexy. Two minutes would rate as only fair for a broadside of eighteen-pounders, so one minute should have sufficed for Royal Duke's popguns.
Stone, the borrowed gunner, was at least visibly suppressing the stream of oaths with which he would have accompanied his teaching had he been dealing with experienced hands. Instead, Hoare was glad to see, Stone had the judgment to know that these people, inept though they might still be, had come to their task more than willing already. They needed no tongue-lashing to do their best.
Meanwhile, Mr. Clay was exercising another gun crew.
'Hand me your handspike for a minute, Burkitt,' he said. 'Now, watch the way I use it to move the piece.'
With the handspike, Clay shifted the aim of the piece, from as far aft as the port allowed to a point well forward of the beam.
'Now try doing it my way,' he said, handing the implement back to the burly Burkitt. 'It took me two hands. With your size, you should even be able to do it with one hand and handle the outhaul with the other.'
Burkitt did so. 'I'll be swiggled,' he said.
Coming alongside, a waterman hailed Royal Duke's quarterdeck. He had to reach up to grasp the brig's rail with only one hand while extending an envelope with the other.
'For Captain 'Oare,' he said to the ship at large. 'There'll be a shillin' for me, messenger sez.'
The man snatched the envelope out of reach as Hoare reached for it.
'Not till I sees the color of yer money, mister. No shillin', no letter.'
Hoare dug into his pocket for the ransom. It was outrageous, but, after all, the man had rowed out to the yacht just to deliver one letter, a trip that was no shorter than it would have been had he been bringing Hoare himself aboard.
'Thanky, guv'nor,' the wherry man said, and shoved off. Hoare examined the letter where he stood. The seal's sapphire blue wax marked its sender for him instantly; of his acquaintance, only Selene Prettyman had the audacity to use such a color. He broke the seal without further thought, however, and tore open the envelope.
The communication within was brief, but it brought all Hoare's senses to the alert.
Plymouth, 23 October
Mr. Hoare:
I return from Dorchester, where H. R. H. and his cronies-including your humble servant-have been rehearsing a Black Mass or similar pagan rite of an orgiastic nature. The ceremony itself, I am told, is to take place on the night of 31 October, at that Nine Stones Circle, which is of such interest to you. I am to play a major part in it, such as Hecate, Baubo, or some other equally naughty deity.
I have taken the liberty of informing Sir George to that effect. You will know what to do about it, if anything.
Yr. obedient, etc.
SP
Now, perhaps, Hoare's training of the seamen and Marines in Royal Duke would bear fruit. He ducked below into his shrunken cabin, lit now only by the skylight, to write ashore on a slip of tissue for permission from Admiralty
