Elizabeth Powell (8 page)

A
manda trudged up the tenement stairs as though weights hobbled her ankles. She was tired, very tired. After Harry brought her home, she stayed up for hours trying to restore her dress; she had used all the ingenuity at her command to remove the water and mud from the skirt. In fact, she had not gone to sleep at all. She needed to return the dress before Madame Molyneux discovered it missing, which meant getting to the shop before Madame—and Madame was always early. Three days later, she was still exhausted.

Amanda paused on the landing to rub her aching shoulder. She had nearly fallen asleep over her work this afternoon, and Madame had rapped her across the back with a cane. There was sure to be a bruise, but at least the pain had helped keep her awake. She must not be so careless again; Madame was a harsh taskmistress. At least she was still employed; she was fortunate that the mantua-maker had not noticed anything amiss with the green silk.

Amanda’s eyes lost focus as she stared up into the dim stairwell. Had all that effort been worth the results? She thought about the feel of silk against her skin, about the delight she took in dancing, about the discovering of the drawer in Locke’s desk, about her narrow escape from the house … and about Captain Sir Jonathan Everly.

She shook her head. Although these vivid memories still tantalized her, the little cinder girl had gone back to the ashes. Amanda sighed and resumed her upward journey. Somewhere nearby a baby wailed; its cries pierced the thin walls like grapeshot through paper. The Browns’
youngest was teething, and would likely keep everyone on the second floor up all night. And Mrs. Kennedy had cooked cabbage for supper again. Amanda wrinkled her nose. Her stomach was pinched as a miser’s purse, but one whiff of cabbage was enough to spoil her appetite.

She could not help but contrast the drab lodging house, with its pungent smells and dusty halls, to her family’s bright, airy home in Dorset. Her father had been a gentleman, and her mother a knight’s daughter. They had lived a comfortable life at Bridford House. Comfortable and happy, that is, until their world fell apart over a year ago. Had it been so long since they received word of her father’s arrest, trial, and execution, since agents of the Crown seized their house and lands? The nightmarish memories made Amanda shudder. She, her mother, and her grandmother had been forced to rent rooms in a neighboring town; no one of their acquaintance, even distant relations, would take them in.

Even as they had tried to cope, the Charybdis-like whirlpool of circumstance kept pulling them under. Amanda’s mother, who had never been strong, died of shame and grief six months after her husband. The
coup de grace
came when the townsfolk found out who they were—traitor’s kin—and nearly stoned them in the streets, forcing them to flee. At least London afforded them anonymity, and a way to support themselves. And an opportunity for vengeance.

In her dreams—real dreams, not nightmares—she stood on the cliffs at Lyme Regis, looking out over the rocky coastline, the smell of the sea all around her. But she hadn’t seen the sea in months, and had to make do with the brackish water of the Thames. Amanda’s spirits were as leaden as her feet by the time she arrived at their rooms.

“There you are, dearest,” said her grandmother. The small, elderly woman bustled to greet her granddaughter. “I was worried about you. You are seldom home this late.”

“Hello, Grandmama,” Amanda replied with a weary smile. She returned her grandmother’s embrace. “I almost
fell asleep at the worktable today, so Madame Molyneux kept me late as punishment.”

“As if that will make you any more alert,” the older woman grumbled. “Makes no sense at all, but she’s French, so what else can you expect? Here, dearest, let me hang that up for you. You’re burnt to the socket.”

Amanda’s bruised shoulder protested as she shrugged out of her heavy wool cloak. “Madame is no more French than you or I. When she gets angry her accent slips, and you can hear a definite Yorkshire brogue underneath. She has a head for fashion, though, and none of the ladies of the
beau monde
can tell the difference between a real Frenchwoman and a false one.”

“Well, she may know what is
au courant
, but she doesn’t know how to treat her employees. Look at you—you’re exhausted, your fingers are nearly raw, and I’ll wager you haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast. Go and wash up, and I will dish up some supper for you.”

“But, Grandmama—” Amanda began.

The older woman waved her granddaughter’s protests aside. “You have made such a point of caring for me, Amanda, but I am not in my dotage. At least, not yet. I am certainly not so infirm that I can’t manage supper. Go on with you now.”

Amanda nodded wearily and shuffled toward the bedroom she shared with her grandmother. She pulled the hated muslin cap from her hair and tossed it on the dresser, then poured cold water into the basin. How much of this affair could she hide from her grandmother? At three-and-seventy years, Mrs. Albert Tremayne was as spry and as sharp-eyed as ever. Amanda had gone to great lengths to conceal her quest for justice for fear it would upset her grandmother, but now matters had gotten even more complicated. Amanda sighed into the towel as she blotted her damp skin. Just now Grandmama had regarded her with questions in her dark eyes, but she had said nothing. Perhaps she knew already.

Her grandmother was ladling soup into dishes when Amanda emerged. The bread and cheese were already
on the table. Amanda’s stomach growled, her appetite renewed.

“Sit down, dearest, and eat. I can all but see through you.” Mrs. Tremayne poured her granddaughter a cup of hot tea. Steam curled from its surface.

Amanda settled herself at the table and wrapped her chilled fingers around the chipped porcelain cup. “You should have eaten already, and not waited for me.”

“Rubbish,” declared the older lady. She sat down across from Amanda and laid her napkin across her lap. “We are not so uncivilized as all that. Besides, this is quite the proper hour for supper.”

“Thank you, Grandmama.” Amanda sipped her bohea, and tried to swallow her tears along with it. Throughout their entire ordeal, her grandmother had never complained about their circumstances, about the hardships, about economizing.

Mrs. Tremayne lifted her spoon and stirred her soup. She glanced up at Amanda. “I’ve never seen you so exhausted, dearest.”

Amanda stared into the dark depths of her tea and didn’t answer.

At length her grandmother set down the spoon. “Does it have anything to do with why you went out with Harry Morgan three nights ago?”

Amanda’s cup nearly slipped from her fingers. A few drops of tea splashed onto her dress; she dabbed them with her napkin. Anything to avoid her grandmother’s eyes, eyes so like Amanda’s own.

“Ah, I see it does.” Mrs. Tremayne nodded. “If you would like to talk about it, I would be willing to listen.” She picked up her spoon and resumed her meal.

The tea turned to ditch water on Amanda’s tongue. She had underestimated her grandmother, and she despised herself for it.

“I didn’t know you were awake …” she faltered.

“So it seems.” Mrs. Tremayne did not accuse or reproach. She merely waited.

Amanda took a deep, steadying breath, and set down her cup. She wondered if she looked as miserable as she
felt. “I didn’t tell you because I feared this business would upset you.”

“Perhaps you should let me be the judge of that.” Mrs. Tremayne fixed her with a direct, even gaze.

Well, this was it. Despite her best intentions, everything was coming out. “It all began when I received Papa’s letters, shortly before his … his death.”

“Letters? What letters?” Mrs. Tremayne leaned forward, attentive.

“He wrote me several letters, detailing his suspicions about his commanding officer, Admiral William Locke. He thought that Locke was involved in treasonous activity, but he couldn’t prove it. He wanted to make sure there was a record of his doubts, should anything happen to him.”

Now her grandmother frowned. “But why did he send these letters to you, dearest? What could he have expected you to do with this information?”

“I’m certain that he didn’t tell Mama for fear she would worry, and that her health would suffer. Papa said he trusted me to do what was right.”

“And what did you take that to mean?” Mrs. Tremayne asked in a gentle tone.

Amanda did not bother to hide her feelings. “Avenge him,” she replied heatedly. “Avenge him and right the wrongs done to our family.”

Mrs. Tremayne’s dark eyes went wide. “Amanda, you can’t … This is a job for our family solicitor, or for the Admiralty, not for a young girl!”

“I wrote to our solicitor, Grandmama. Mr. Cosgrove said there wasn’t enough evidence, that the letters were nothing more than hearsay. Then I wrote to the Admiralty, but they did not even respond.”

“This is why you wanted to come to London, dearest, isn’t it?” Mrs. Tremayne reached out a hand and covered Amanda’s. “You wanted to exonerate your father.”

Amanda gave her grandmother’s fingers a gentle squeeze. “We had to leave Dorset. After the posters proclaiming Papa’s sentence went up, too many people knew who we were. We needed to move to a large city, to
hide ourselves from prying eyes. With the Admiralty in London, it seemed the logical choice. I hope … I hope you don’t think less of me for bringing you here.”

“Oh, my dearest child.” Tears shone in Mrs. Tremayne’s eyes. “I would never think that. Do not reproach yourself. Indeed, we are very comfortable here.”

Amanda made a moue of distaste as she surveyed the threadbare carpets and battered furniture that graced their dim, cramped quarters. “You have a talent for exaggeration, Grandmama.”

The elderly woman smiled slightly. “Perhaps. But you must finish your story. Where does Harry Morgan fit into all this?”

Amanda sighed. Yes, Harry. Harry, who had quarreled with her in the carriage all the way home. He had not been flattered when she told him he’d make a better fishwife than a lieutenant. “I went to the Admiralty several months ago, to make an appointment to see the First Lord, or any member of the Navy Board. Once they knew who I was the clerks wouldn’t let me in, and one of them ordered the marines at the door to escort me from the building, and never permit me to enter it again.”

“Never!” exclaimed Mrs. Tremayne. “What infamous treatment!”

Amanda’s jaw tightened, and for a moment all she could do was nod. “And that is when I dragged Harry into this mess. Do you remember when he called on us, and said that he would do anything in his power to help us?”

Mrs. Tremayne’s concerned demeanor evolved into guardedness. “Yes. Harry has always been a dear boy, if a trifle … ah, shall we say, obvious about his affection for you.”

“For me?” Amanda’s vision blurred at the edges. “What are you talking about, Grandmama? Harry and I have been friends forever, but affection? We grew up together, rough and tumble like two puppies. He thinks of me as nothing more than an incorrigible younger sister.”

“Mmm.” Mrs. Tremayne measured Amanda with inscrutable eyes. “I might be mistaken. Go on, dearest.”

“Well, I learned that Admiral Locke had arrived in Town—to a hero’s welcome. To think, that blackguard receiving a hero’s welcome, after what he did to us! It is beyond imagining.” Amanda reined in her mounting fury. “Then, a few days later, the
Morning Post
said that the admiral would host a grand ball at his town house.”

“A ball? Dearest, why should that concern you?”

“I thought that if I could see Locke in person, I could find out if Papa’s suspicions were true. And if they were”—she swallowed around her guilt—“I hoped to find some evidence of his crimes.”

Mrs. Tremayne closed her eyes and shook her head; the lappets on her cap swayed to and fro with the movement. “You are as headstrong as your father ever was. Or worse. What happened?”

“I borrowed a dress from Madame Molyneux and went as Mrs. Seagrave.” She pretended not to notice her grandmother’s disapproval and continued. “When I got to the house, I went to Locke’s study and found a secret compartment in his desk. Before I could find what was in it, I heard someone coming and had to leave.” She didn’t want to tell her grandmother about Captain Everly, and the part he played that evening. She didn’t want to think about it too much herself.

A sigh of relief escaped her grandmother’s lips. “Thank goodness you were not discovered. And was Harry involved in this plan of yours?”

“No,” Amanda answered. “Not really. I asked him to get me in to the party, and to see me safely home afterward. I had to tell him everything, though.”

“Oh, dearest, do you realize the risk you took? This is not a childish lark, Amanda. If you had been caught, the penalties would have been severe. And if Madame Molyneux,
faux
Frenchwoman that she is, had discovered your ruse, it would have cost you your position.”

“I know, Grandmama, but I thought it worth the chance. Papa was innocent, and Locke is to blame. He is neck-deep in treason, I know it.”

“You cannot be certain, dearest.”

“Someone has to have a record of those orders,” insisted Amanda. “Everything points back to Admiral Locke.”

Confusion hovered in Mrs. Tremayne’s eyes. “If Locke is a traitor, dearest, why would he keep a record of his crimes? Wouldn’t that incriminate him if he were caught?”

Amanda paused. “I don’t know. But there was something in that secret drawer, something Locke doesn’t want anyone to see.”

“Well, whatever it is, dearest, you will never know now.” Mrs. Tremayne picked up her spoon and stirred her cooling soup.

Amanda contemplated her own dish. Her grandmother was right. There was no way she could return to Locke’s house.

“So what will you do now?” Mrs. Tremayne’s voice echoed the one in Amanda’s head.

Misery closed in a tight fist around Amanda’s throat. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “To have come so far, only to fall short …”

Mrs. Tremayne cut a slice of bread, added a meager slice of cheese, and handed it to Amanda. “Early in your father’s naval career, his letters home were rife with tales of derring-do, of battles fought and prizes won. I suspected at the time that he wanted to impress the young lady he wanted to marry—your mother.” She smiled knowingly at Amanda. “Of course, he also mentioned a number of his commanders, men who impressed your father with their skills and intelligence and dedication to duty. Men like Nelson, Adam Duncan, and Sir John Jervis, who later became Admiral Lord St. Vincent. As a matter of fact, I believe Lord St. Vincent is here in town, to be close to the Admiralty.”