laced the heavy rope through the brass handles on its side and recorked the cask.
“Come here. Good boy,” Jeremy said, lashing the rope around the boy’s waist and trying to tie a knot. “If it is wreckers and the boat comes apart, try to hold on. And if you make it to the shore safely, hide!”
“Can you swim?” the boy suddenly asked.
“No.”
The boy stared and then with a violent sound clawed at Jeremy’s hands. “Then you must tie yourself to the barrel!
“Don’t be a fool, lad,” Jeremy said, hating the sob that broke his voice. “You have to survive. I have a sacred trust from your mother. I said I would do everything in my power to see you safely to Scotland and, by God, I shall.”
“No!” the boy shouted, fighting him furiously and Jeremy, God help him, slapped his small face hard, grabbing his narrow shoulders and shaking him violently as the ship listed and lurched drunkenly.
“Listen to me!” he shouted. “I count myself a man of honor. What honor would I have if you died and I survived? No, do not ask me to forfeit that thing that makes me worthy in my own eyes. I would not ask it of you!” he said fiercely.
“But, sir—” The boy’s face was terrible with conflict, with pride, and with terror. And honest devotion. Until that moment, Jeremy had never realized that the boy had feelings for him.
Jeremy’s heart lurched. He tried valiantly for a smile, softening his grip on the tight, shuddering little shoulders. “Besides, lad, this is but a precaution. Even if it is wreckers, I might find my way to shore yet. So do this for me.”
The boy’s eyes pressed closed a second and when he opened them he fixed his gaze on the rope Jeremy was trying to tie, swatting aside his hands and doing the knot himself, his lips quivering, tears spilling from his downcast eyes.
Crack!
The ship rolled and pitched, the prow shooting up as it hit something, sending the pair of them plummeting down the cabin amid a hail of tumbling furniture and luggage and books. The sound of splintering wood and screaming men blended with the howling wind.
So that was it, then. A great calm overtook Jeremy. Silently, he hauled up the boy strapped to the empty cask and stumbled with him up the steep inclined floor of the cabin while the ship groaned and screamed. He clambered atop the overturned desk and shoved open the hatch, grabbing the slight boy round the waist and pitching him up into the darkness outside amidst a torrent of rain and wind. He seized the boy’s hand as a wave washed over the shattered hull and a sudden realization caught him by the throat. He had not given the boy his mother’s purse or the letter to those who were to receive him. There was no time and the boy didn’t even know to whom he was going!
He tried to scream above the din and screech of shattering timbers. “Find Ros—”
A monstrous wave broke over the sinking ship, sending torrents of bitterly cold water streaming down the open hatch. For a precious few seconds he held the boy’s hand against the mighty force.
A second later the hatch collapsed.
4
The Haymarket Theatre, London
July 17, 1806
“W HAT A CRUSH. Such a terrible bore, don’t you agree, Miss Nash?” Some young Pink of the Ton whose name escaped Charlotte stood posed at the railing of the Weltons’ private box, his drawl matching his well-practiced ennui.
Charlotte nodded, her mouth curving coquettishly, though in truth, she barely heard him. All evening she’d been distracted by the fact that on his visit to her three nights ago Dand hadn’t given her a message to pass to Toussaint. Since that was his sole reason for being in London, he would be coming back to do so and soon. Tonight?
A crowded box at a popular opera would be an excellent place to do so. He might appear at any second, as an attendant, an usher, or even a raggedy beggar on the steps to the opera house. She would give him a penny, she thought, if this last proved the case. She smiled at
“Come here. Good boy,” Jeremy said, lashing the rope around the boy’s waist and trying to tie a knot. “If it is wreckers and the boat comes apart, try to hold on. And if you make it to the shore safely, hide!”
“Can you swim?” the boy suddenly asked.
“No.”
The boy stared and then with a violent sound clawed at Jeremy’s hands. “Then you must tie yourself to the barrel!
“Don’t be a fool, lad,” Jeremy said, hating the sob that broke his voice. “You have to survive. I have a sacred trust from your mother. I said I would do everything in my power to see you safely to Scotland and, by God, I shall.”
“No!” the boy shouted, fighting him furiously and Jeremy, God help him, slapped his small face hard, grabbing his narrow shoulders and shaking him violently as the ship listed and lurched drunkenly.
“Listen to me!” he shouted. “I count myself a man of honor. What honor would I have if you died and I survived? No, do not ask me to forfeit that thing that makes me worthy in my own eyes. I would not ask it of you!” he said fiercely.
“But, sir—” The boy’s face was terrible with conflict, with pride, and with terror. And honest devotion. Until that moment, Jeremy had never realized that the boy had feelings for him.
Jeremy’s heart lurched. He tried valiantly for a smile, softening his grip on the tight, shuddering little shoulders. “Besides, lad, this is but a precaution. Even if it is wreckers, I might find my way to shore yet. So do this for me.”
The boy’s eyes pressed closed a second and when he opened them he fixed his gaze on the rope Jeremy was trying to tie, swatting aside his hands and doing the knot himself, his lips quivering, tears spilling from his downcast eyes.
Crack!
The ship rolled and pitched, the prow shooting up as it hit something, sending the pair of them plummeting down the cabin amid a hail of tumbling furniture and luggage and books. The sound of splintering wood and screaming men blended with the howling wind.
So that was it, then. A great calm overtook Jeremy. Silently, he hauled up the boy strapped to the empty cask and stumbled with him up the steep inclined floor of the cabin while the ship groaned and screamed. He clambered atop the overturned desk and shoved open the hatch, grabbing the slight boy round the waist and pitching him up into the darkness outside amidst a torrent of rain and wind. He seized the boy’s hand as a wave washed over the shattered hull and a sudden realization caught him by the throat. He had not given the boy his mother’s purse or the letter to those who were to receive him. There was no time and the boy didn’t even know to whom he was going!
He tried to scream above the din and screech of shattering timbers. “Find Ros—”
A monstrous wave broke over the sinking ship, sending torrents of bitterly cold water streaming down the open hatch. For a precious few seconds he held the boy’s hand against the mighty force.
A second later the hatch collapsed.
4
The Haymarket Theatre, London
July 17, 1806
“W HAT A CRUSH. Such a terrible bore, don’t you agree, Miss Nash?” Some young Pink of the Ton whose name escaped Charlotte stood posed at the railing of the Weltons’ private box, his drawl matching his well-practiced ennui.
Charlotte nodded, her mouth curving coquettishly, though in truth, she barely heard him. All evening she’d been distracted by the fact that on his visit to her three nights ago Dand hadn’t given her a message to pass to Toussaint. Since that was his sole reason for being in London, he would be coming back to do so and soon. Tonight?
A crowded box at a popular opera would be an excellent place to do so. He might appear at any second, as an attendant, an usher, or even a raggedy beggar on the steps to the opera house. She would give him a penny, she thought, if this last proved the case. She smiled at
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