For such a rough-and-tumble looking fellow — the shock of dark curls, broad, capable shoulders, that infernal glow of one who spends a deal of time out in the elements — Delaney had a remarkably gentle touch. Kit might have remarked on it, were he not holding his breath in suspense as Delaney's fingertips feathered whisper-soft along the side of his broken nose, testing the setting. Rarely had Kit ever been caressed with such a light touch. The last time had been in this very room, two weeks ago, when he'd been drenched in blood and outrage, and Delaney's patient skill had brought him so much comfort. How Kit admired a man who was clever with his hands.
"Does it hurt?" Delaney asked, gazing critically at his own handiwork.
"Not in the least." Anyway, it was worth an occasional small throbbing for an excuse to come visit Delaney again in the middle of the day. Kit slid up his own forefinger to trace the now somewhat divergent line of his nose, out of its bandages for the first time in a fortnight. "How does it look?"
“’T’would take more than a few broken bones to spoil your looks, Mr. Bell."
Kit glanced into the other man's face, wounded to be suspected of fishing for compliments, but Delaney's easy grin disarmed him.
"Well, Jack will be glad to hear it," said Kit. "He'll need all the resources he can lay claim to, now that we're off again."
Delaney's grin dimmed a bit; he pushed back his chair and began collecting the bits of used tape and plaster. Kit stayed where he was, perched at the edge of the bed; that and the one chair were the only seating to be had in Delaney's Spartan one-room lodging near the Heathpoole waterfront. Uncertain what to say in the sudden silence, Kit busied himself gazing about the room. It was scantily furnished with a washstand, basin and ewer in one corner, a small, square table under the one window with the view toward the docks, and a battered wardrobe against the far wall—although a peek through one sagging-open door revealed that such clothing as Delaney possessed were hung rather grudgingly above a deflated canvas sea-bag on the wardrobe floor which was their usual residence.
Yet, as utilitarian as it was, the room was graced with a few small, domestic touches that Kit found charming. Two or three sea-polished stones from the harbor were arranged in the middle of the table on a little square of white linen with beautifully embroidered edges. The small, cracked leather kit bag to which Delaney returned his instruments bespoke of some ancient, sentimental vintage. And as Delaney carried the bag back to its place on the washstand, Kit noticed a small, framed watercolor portrait propped up against the glass. The subject was a Negro woman with a friendly, humorous face, her black hair tortured up into a style that had been fashionable perhaps twenty years earlier.
"And who is that handsome creature?" Kit asked, nodding to the picture.
Delaney turned from the washstand to smile at him again. "My mother. She was an African laundress employed by the dockyard at Plymouth. Me dad was an Irishman, second surgeon's mate on a man-of-war."
"Oho," said Kit.
"After the war, they kept a dry goods shop in Plymouth, which is how I come to be the vagabond you see before you," Delaney grinned again. "Bit of a waterfront mongrel, as you might say. Born to roam."
"Like me." Kit smiled. "I was whelped among boothers, myself."
"There is nothing mongrel about you, Mr. Bell."
"Nor you, my dear, if we are to speak of the inner man." Kit was instantly shocked to hear something so unadorned and honest escape his lips. But Delaney's only response was a glow of pleasure in his dark hazel eyes as he came back to his chair, which Kit was very pleased in turn to have caused. He decided to let the comment linger in the air between them a moment longer while he buttoned up his collar and reached for the stock he'd unwound and set aside to escape whatever fallout of plaster or blood might be forthcoming. But of course, Delaney was too skilled for that.
"Look here, Delaney, since you have been intimate with my nose, I believe we may be informal," Kit went on, wrapping the stock round his neck. "Haven't you a given name I ought to know about?"
Delaney sat back in his chair. "Albert Aloysius," he replied with a sardonic twist of his mouth.
"Oh dear. Well, I suppose I might call you Bertie."
"I've pounded men for less," Delaney assured him.
Kit grinned, stood, and sauntered over to the little glass above the washstand to finish tying his stock in its elaborate knot. Glancing again at the little watercolor, he could see a lot of the mother in the son, a certain lively warmth about the eyes.
"How soon do you leave, then?"
In the glass, Kit could see that Delaney had turned sideways in his chair to watch him, his arm draped over the back.
"Jack has managed to secure the lease on our old playhouse in Kelsingham for one month," said Kit, attending to his stock. "Drowsy little hamlet about six miles out of Bristol. News has got out about the Fairweathers taking themselves off to Italy, it seems, and some other company has grabbed up the place for the winter season. But they do not take possession until the end of October, so we've a one-month reprieve before we are all cast homeless into the world once more." He finished off his bow with a flourish and turned again to his friend. "We've two final performances this weekend, and then we're off."
Delaney stood too. "Oh, aye, I sense a chill about to come over Heathpoole soon. Best be moving on myself."
Kit started for his coat, a most flattering shade of Delft blue, laid carefully across the bed, and Delaney picked it up and held it open for him.
"And where will you go?" asked Kit, trying not to sound bereft as he turned his back on Delaney to slide his arms into the sleeves.
"Why, I fancy the bustle of a city again," said Delaney, behind him, settling the coat over Kit's shoulders. "Things are about to become very quiet round here, I'm afraid. But there's always boat work to be found in Bristol."
The coach route out of Bristol had been a bone-shattering exercise in torture. Matthew Forrester had found his land legs faster after two months at sea than after a day and a half zig-zagging about on English coaching roads. It was all he could do not to sway on his feet as he left the coaching inn and walked away from the harbor toward the principal district of the town. Damned bother it was, coming all the way down here; everything to do with his connection to Charles Crowder was turning into a damned bother.
But what could he do about it now? He was already in too deep with the fellow to refuse him this service. Hotspur was highly strung, and Crowder liked his captains fast and daring, to keep up with the competition. Was it Forrester's fault his ship always needed extra attention after a transatlantic crossing for Crowder Mills? Well, you could never say the old fellow was not forthcoming with the funds; it was wonderful how much he was willing to pay to get his way.
It occurred to Matty — and not for the first time, of late — to wonder if he'd been mistaken in allowing himself to become so indebted to Charles Crowder in a financial way. And — not for the first time — he could see no other way around it. Too often, he found himself financially embarrassed, yet he must keep up appearances, mostly for the sake of gentleman clients like Crowder. There could be nothing perceived to be shabby about the Hotspur, nor her service, nor indeed, himself, to give potential consignees any sort of troubling doubts. That was how reputations were made.
Matty turned a corner onto Prospect Avenue and followed the traffic for the public square. Here were ladies and gentlemen in evening dress, a carriage or two, and parties of merrymakers laughing and gossiping together, all making the same heading as himself, toward a large, square box of a building at the far end of Prospect Square, by which he knew he'd found the road to the theatre. Glancing at his reflection in a shop window, he tipped up his hat slightly, gave a surreptitious pat to the navy blue tailcoat he wore over light tan-colored trousers. He cared little for fashion, indeed, he grieved that it was no longer considered fashionable for a gentleman to sport his sword in public. He kept his concealed in his ebony walking stick, of course; didn't feel dressed without it. That had cost him dearly, as well, but appearances must be kept up. As his father never tired of telling him.
He fell into step a respectable few paces behind a quartet of ladies and gentlemen and permitted himself a momentary brood over his father. If Matty could just lay claim to the rest of his inheritance, he would not be obliged to participate in Crowder's clandestine schemes, a damned waste of his talents and time. But no, his late mother's portion, which by every right ought to have come to him at her death, was still held in trust. A codicil, the damned lawyers called it, a provision by which he could not claim what was rightfully his until the occasion of his marriage. And his father, who might certainly have weighed in on his son's behalf, had he any parental feeling at all, did nothing to alter the situation. Indeed, Matty was convinced his pater had been behind the scheme from the start.
Matthew Forrester had much to achieve in his future: his reputation as a seafaring man of no little bravery, acumen, and experience. A gentleman of substance in his own right, apart from his father's fortune. And a posting — not too far in the future, he hoped — to a diplomatic situation in some important foreign embassy. He was fluent in Spanish, of course, after his time in the Indies, and diplomatic overtures were being made to South America, although Spain would be the more fortunate posting. Ambassador Forrester — that was the way to make his mark on the world.
But nowhere on the list of his immediate ambitions was the word "wife." Women he had aplenty; he had never been at a loss to charm the ladies. Dewy debutantes, neglected wives, lusty widows, and every category of the female sex in between, they all threw themselves at Matty Forrester. Even those who feigned indifference in public could always be persuaded behind closed doors; the chase, the hunt, the victory, that was often the most enjoyable part. So what should he do with a wife?
Women were fine sport, but a wife required the sort of attention and affection he could ill afford to pay, especially at this stage of life, still young and in his prime. Wives were for old men, men like his father. Perhaps when Matty was old and settled, and a fortunate match came along, he would agree, but until then, he had far too much to do.
But the blasted codicil weighed him down like a fouled anchor, blighting all his plans. That's why he'd had to agree to Crowder's business proposition, why he was obliged to run this errand so far out of his way. He wanted to have a look at his victim beforehand, so there could be no mistake later. Laying a charge of piracy was a deadly serious business, and he wanted to make sure he knew what he was about. What could this fellow possibly have done to Crowder, Matty wondered, to earn such a brutal revenge? But Matty couldn't concern himself with that; likely some miserable vagabond, as all players were, who'd hardly be missed.
It was fortunate for Crowder that Matty was known to have been lost at sea in the Indies for a period in his youth, so Matty's word would carry some weight. To say nothing of the considerable weight of his family name. But at least he'd seen to it that he'd be well paid for the crime of perjuring himself on Crowder's behalf. And since Crowder was paying so handsomely, he might as well give the tedious old Puritan his money's worth.
At last, Matty gained the Heathpoole Playhouse and paid his five shillings for a front-row seat in the first row of boxes, to the right of the pit — close enough to the stage to get a good view without being as observable himself as he would have been on a bench in the pit. It would not do to be seen before Crowder's plan could be put in motion. Glancing at the playbill, he saw that the first piece was a nautical melodrama, The Lure of the Indies (having its "Farewell Performance!"), to be followed by some interludes and a farce; he hoped he wouldn't have to stay for the whole dreary business before he found what he was looking for.
He was in luck. The quarry he sought, Mr. Dance, was the first player onstage, in the role of a waterfront tavern-keeper. A tall fellow in a mop of greying hair, sporting an apron, he seemed completely ordinary, although something familiar about him that Matty couldn't quite place nagged at him. The barman had a pretty young niece, an orphan, and he worried over her future until a handsome young sea captain came on the scene — called "Starhawke," of all damn fool names. The uncle disapproved of Starhawke, and something in their fencing and baiting each other again struck Matty as familiar. Could he have seen this play before? But he wasn't much of a playgoer, not if he could possibly help it.
The captain fell ill with fever and the niece nursed him back to health amid a great load of romantic seawash. The uncle came around and handed her over in marriage, and then the young couple were off to the Indies — not a moment too soon, for Matty's taste. And things perked up considerably when pirates came on in the last act, commanded by a black-bearded villain played by one Mr. Foyle. Matty was surprised at how realistically the pirate crew boarded the ship — clambering up over the wales while their fellows made a hellish noise offstage — and the quality of the climactic battle scene, as if it were staged by someone who actually knew something about swordfighting. Starhawke dealt a death blow to the pirate captain, which sent the rest of the pirates scurrying over the side like dogs, but later died of his wounds in the arms of his bride — among many long-winded professions of love.
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By the time it was over, Matty hadn't even noticed that the Dance fellow had completely disappeared from the action. Cursing his inattention, Matty saw that he was due back in the first interlude, and so resolved to watch a little longer. But he had to check his playbill again when a Harlequin shot out of the wings and began tumbling around the stage in double time. Could this be the same person? He was the same lanky build, but his hair was dark (the grey must have been a wig), and the black mask across his eyes left the rest of his face exposed.
As soon as he rolled upright again, Dance began to juggle three, no, four oranges, while strolling to the front of the stage. Again, that uneasy sense of something familiar prickled the back of Matty's neck, and he leaned forward surreptitiously in the shadows of his box, just as the Harlequin began to speak. He was reciting some sort of comic doggerel, but Matty lost all track of the meaning of the words as it all suddenly clicked into place in his mind — the careless posture, the acrobatics, that voice . . .
"Danzador," Matty breathed into the shadows.
Hellfire, wasn't he supposed to be dead? Marooned with the fever on a deserted island in the Virgins, two, maybe three years ago now. But even shorn of his beard, there could be no mistaking Jack Danzador. Matty had seen him tumbling across the deck of the Blessed Providence and vaulting up and down in the rigging thousands of times; they had boarded dozens of prizes together, Jack armed with nothing but a tumbler's staff, dodging blades and disarming opponents like a dervish.
Bloody Goddamn, Matty was bound to lay a charge of piracy against the one man in England who could lay the same charge against him!
He had not even begun to comprehend all the ways his involvement in this business might blow up in his face when another figure appeared onstage. A woman this time, in a bouncy, motley-patterned skirt that exposed her ankles, and a low-cut bodice. She skipped out of the wings, tumbled up to Dance, and they began tossing the oranges back and forth. And although Matty had rarely seen her in female rig before, and never with her dark hair done up in back with ringlets down the side, as she wore it now, her face was not masked, and it was only an afterthought when he glanced again at the playbill and saw the name "Lightfoot."
Jack and Tory, alive, and here in England — how had they managed it? Somehow, she had kept her damned acrobat from dying of the fever. Was she part witch after all? And look at them now, cavorting on a public stage together, as easy as you please, moving and laughing and juggling together as if they owned the world, while the ship of all of Matty's dreams and future plans sank into ruin.
Or did it? Although he had shrunk himself deep into the darkest shadows of his box, Matty was still scrutinizing the figures onstage with all his attention, the easy way they moved together, the way they looked at each other. Women were simple in matters of love, Matty knew that much. If Tory still cared so much for her acrobat, then Matty thought there might yet be a way to turn this to his advantage, after all. It would take all of his charm, and cunning, and nerve, but Tory Lightfoot bounding back into his life so unexpectedly might well be the answer to all of his problems.
Top: Harbour Life (Bristol) by Ken Petts (1907 - 1992)
Above right: A Captain in the Navy from A book explaining the ranks and dignities
of British Society by C Lamb (1809) Above left: Harlequinade (detail), by Clarke Hutton, 1946
Above left: Harlequinade (detail), by Clarke Hutton, 1946
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