CHAPTER 44: Old Shipmates

 "Nothing," sighed Kit's friend, Mr. Delaney. "Not a trace of her anywhere. I searched all day."

Jenny could well believe it. Normally, the fellow fairly oozed robust health and good cheer, but this morning he looked as if he hadn't slept all night. No more had Kit, she supposed, nor any of them in the three days since Tory had disappeared.

Delaney took a long, grateful draught from the coffee mug Kit had pushed across the table to him, when he'd found them all here at the Blue Fox; Lord only knew what method of transport he'd found to carry him up from Bristol an hour before noon. Kit was already washing his down with a glass of brandy, to steel himself for whatever else Fate had in store for them today.
    
"I inquired at one or two lodging houses I know in Bristol," Delaney went on. "A few chop houses, lest she come in looking for a meal. Or employment. And, uh —your pardon, Mrs. Kennett — a house of ill repute of my acquaintance — "

"Oh, I can't believe it!" Jenny exclaimed.

"Just in case she was taken off against her will," Delaney apologized. "Such things do happen, I'm afraid. But no one answering her description has been seen."

"Of course, we must try every avenue," Kit agreed. Jenny knew it distressed him to see his friend so tired and drawn, just as Delaney was shocked to see Kit's permanently furrowed and anxious expression. Under better circumstances, they would be comforting each other in private, but there was no comfort for any of them any more.

She'd even given up going to the paint room at night, out of guilt, she supposed, or just in case Tory suddenly returned to their lodgings as she had left them, in the dead of night. Poor Tom was all but camping out on her doorstep overnight, for fear the same fate might befall her. Now he sat across the little table from her, having moved over one chair to make way for Mr. Delaney. Tom's wheatstraw hair was even more disordered than usual; eyes tired behind his spectacles, he was toying idly with his own small tankard. None of them had thought to order food, after a fruitless morning trying to figure out how to stage The Tempest without Prospero and Ariel, and Pizarro without Cora or Rolla.

They had resurrected a moldering old Gothic melodrama for Mr. Foyle, and a couple of society farces whose parts their reduced company could be stretched to fill, but they couldn't expect to draw much of a house. Kit's only hope now was to eke out the final four performances in their contract with funds enough to pay off the company before it inevitably disbanded. There had been no further instructions from Mr. Belair since he'd written to tell Kit that he and Jack were detained in the capitol, and while they were all glad of Jack's success, they could not pay their creditors with it.

"I stopped in at the Theatre Royal as well, gave the name of Mrs. Lightfoot. But no such person has applied to the management for employment." Delaney fortified himself with more coffee. "Reckon I'm off to the Theatre Royal in Bath next — "

"My dear, spare yourself," sighed Kit. "I was there yesterday, and with the same result, I'm afraid."

The fragile possibility that Tory had been unhappy enough to seek employment elsewhere seemed increasingly remote. Had she been despondent enough to seek a more drastic, more permanent release? No, Jenny would never believe it. There were other ways to react to a disappointing husband, as Jenny well knew, and even though Mr. Belair had written that Jack had somehow been prevented from writing all that time, Tory had not known that, poor girl. Jenny had only to remember Tory's careworn face on the last night she saw her, all but chasing Jenny out of their lodgings. What had been going through her mind? What would Jenny herself have done?

Jenny had imagined Jack's homecoming so often, and how eager she would be to give him the benefit of her opinion, that when a familiar tall, dark figure came suddenly striding into the Blue Fox, she might have conjured him up out of the ether. It was only the speed with which Tom and Delaney and Kit all leapt to their feet, upsetting chairs and table linens in all directions, that convinced Jenny it really was Jack rushing over to their table, with Mr. Belair at his side.

"Jack!" "Lord God, man!" "What the devil . . ?" the others were crying. But Jenny sprang up to plow through the confusion and throw her arms around Jack.

"Where have you been?" she demanded.

He returned her embrace fiercely for an instant, then held her out again at arm's length, but all he said was, "Has she come back?"

And Jenny could only shake her head.

"Sit!" Kit commanded, hauling over another chair for Jack, while Delaney secured one for Belair.

But Jack was too agitated, hovering above their table as they all recovered their seats. "We've been sitting in that blasted carriage for hours," he told them. "I can't . . . I must . . . " He could not even articulate what he wanted, but it was plain on his face.

"Jack, sit," said Kit, more gently. "We have been searching for three days. Another five minutes won't make any difference."

So Jack sat, wrapped up in his old redingote, holding it to himself as if to ward off any more distress, while Alphonse apologized for their delay in returning to Kelsingham. They should have come the moment they received Kit's letter, he told them, but that Jack had been obliged to perform last night for the King of England.

"Not Prinney himself!" cried Kit.  "Good God, the man is practically a recluse! Did he —"

But Jack waved off any further inquiry after his illustrious patron. "Has there been no word?" he begged them. "When was she last seen?"

All eyes turned to Jenny, but it was Tom, now sitting beside her, who spoke.

"It was the night after Kit's ben," he told Jack. "I went to meet Jenny at the lodging house and escort her back to the playhouse. Tory came downstairs to see us off. As usual."

"Usual?" echoed Belair, who turned to frown at Kit. "Did you know this was going on?"

"Forgive me, Mr. Belair, but yes, I did." Kit sighed. "Well, I couldn't see the harm. Jenny was never unescorted, not one step of the way. And no one had made any threats against Tory, not as far as anybody knew."

"And now?" asked Jack.

"No threats," said Kit distinctly. "No ransom demands, no communication of any kind. When Jenny returned — "

"I can speak for myself," Jenny broke in at last, and the men exchanged sheepish glances around the table. As much as she loved them all, it was clear they didn't even realize how their zeal to protect their women, herself and Tory, to shield them from any kind of unpleasantness, robbed them of the power, much less the wit, to think and act for themselves.

"Yes, I had been spending my nights in the playhouse," she told them, without further elaboration; they all understood why. "Tory came downstairs to see me off every evening and let me in at the door in the morning. I wasn't even going to go out that last night, Tory had been so miserable, but she wouldn't hear of me staying in. When we came back in the morning, the door was unlatched, but Tory wasn't downstairs. Or upstairs, either. Her bed had not been slept in." Jenny shook her head. "There was absolutely no sign of any sort of struggle. She'd taken her cloak. She was simply gone."

Jack was staring at her. "She was miserable?" he whispered.

"We none of us knew where you were," Jenny told him gently. "It had been more than a week."

Now the other men chimed in about the searches they had made through Kelsingham, Bath and Bristol, and bandied about their theories like so many dandelion puffs on the breeze.

"And she never said anything?" Jack asked. "To anyone?"

"Well," said Jenny reluctantly, "only one time when she said she feared you'd gone off to your mistress —"

"What?"

"She meant the theatre!" Jenny explained quickly. "She wasn't serious."

Jack shook his head. "But she said it. She must have believed it. And who could blame her?"

Jenny saw Kit looking at her pointedly now. Jack was sharp enough to see it too. "What else?" he prompted her.

With an inward sigh, Jenny plunged in. "I saw a gentleman speaking to Tory outside the playhouse on the night of Kit's ben. Not someone I recognized, I should have remembered; good-looking young fellow, fair-haired, when he doffed his hat, rather attractive. She didn't come out with us that evening, and she seemed distracted all the next day. And that night . . . " Jenny ended with a shrug.

Jack frowned. "Did no one else see him?"

"I did," Kit spoke up, "or someone similar, when I took Tory out for a glass at the coaching inn the previous evening. Hearty-looking young buck, favored a lot of brass. I shouldn't have thought twice about him, but for the way Tory seemed to turn to stone at the sight of him."    

Something indescribable jolted across Jack's expression. The power of speech appeared to have deserted him entirely until Mr. Belair leaned in beside him at the table and put a steadying hand on Jack's arm.

"You cannot imagine, after all this time that this person was . . . what was his name? Forrester —"

"Not Captain Forrester!" Mr. Delaney piped up. "Of Forrester and Clemmons Shipping?"

"You know him?" Jack stared at Delaney.
    
"I know his ship, Hotspur. She's taking on lading in Bristol Harbor. I've been rowing cargo out to her for days."

Jack was on his feet. "She's there now?"

"Aye, she was this morning," said Delaney. "But she's due to set off on the evening tide. For America."



 

"Boat approaching, sir!"

Matty crossed to the port side of Hotspur's quarterdeck to look in the direction his second officer indicated. He tried to keep the trepidation out of his face as he peered over the side at the low boat threading its way among the large commercial ships rising like a thicket of proud, gaudy trees in the middle of Bristol's Floating Harbor. But Hotspur stood further out than most of the others, toward the center of the channel, away from the quays on either side, and there was little doubt the boat was heading for them.

His plan was going splendidly so far. He would drag Tory Lightfoot to the altar in chains if need be, and there would finally be an end to it. Yes, it had been a damned bother to have to idle here for the seven days required by law to establish his residency, but even Reverend Kirkwell, as indebted as he was to the Forresters, was unwilling to waive all the formalities. Fellow told him seven days was the legal minimum; in most cases, it required two to four weeks to claim residency in the parish, and Matty certainly didn't have that kind of time to spare. Kirkwell had implied that the match might not stand up in a court of law otherwise, so Matty had to agree to a seven-day wait, beginning last week when he'd first sailed Hotspur into port, and a ceremony in the church. But all would come right as soon as the tide shifted this evening and they could finally be away from here.

The only thing that might stand in his way now was Crowder. Matty knew the crusty old lubber kept an office here in Bristol, so he had taken great pains not to be seen about town, nor anywhere in the neighborhood of Queen Square, when he was supposed to be in London, laying an information against Jack. According to his informants, Jack was still in the capitol, playing at Drury Lane, so Crowder should have no reason to suspect his plan was not still brewing.

But if Crowder had got wind somehow that Matty was in fact in Bristol, there would be hell to pay. It was one thing for Hotspur to be seen in the harbor; it was perfectly normal for her to take on lading here while her captain was off about other business. But if it was brought to Crowder's attention that Hotspur was departing tonight, and her captain aboard her . . . well, it might be a sticky situation all around. And here he had only an hour or two left in port, and then he'd never have to do Crowder's bidding again.

Matty had never seen Crowder in any kind of vessel on the water, he doubted the fellow was the nautical type, but he took the spyglass from his second to train on the boat. All he saw at first were the backs of two oarsmen, and perhaps another couple of fellows in the bows, but none had Crowder's solid, imposing bulk, so Matty breathed a little easier. Then the stern-most oarsmen turned his head partway around to see the way before him, and Matty recognized him: that curly-haired mulatto from one of the cargo boats he'd been using this week.

Matty shut the spyglass and gave it back to his second. He wasn't expecting any more lading; the hold was secured and his men were locking down the hatches. But it occurred to him that one of his other merchant suppliers might have sent him a message regarding his cargo, and he thought he'd better find out what it was. So when the boat hailed Hotspur, he told his officer to allow the messenger to board, then he turned away for the ladder.

By the time he'd trotted down to the deck, and spoken to a couple of his men about their preparations to depart, Matty turned to find the messenger, or whatever he was, had already come aboard amidships. He was mariner enough to have climbed the chains on his own and hopped over the rail, although he was dressed in civilian clothes, a plain, dark waistcoat and trousers, shirtsleeves, no jacket or hat. Far too tall and lanky for Crowder, Matty was glad to see, or that insufferable little solicitor who was always hovering at his elbow.

Still, after a moment of peering around the ship to get his bearings, there was something familiar about the way the fellow came striding down the deck toward Matty. The nimble way he sidestepped all obstructions and kept his balance. No, this was not Crowder.

It was Jack.

For someone who'd been hauled off the Blesséd Providence like a corpse the last time they'd met, Jack looked alarmingly substantial to Matty. His clothing looked like it had been slept in, and there was a shadow of beard on his cheek, but the unsettling focus in those dark eyes was exactly as Matty remembered. He decided in a heartbeat it would be useless to pretend not to know why Jack was there. And what could Jack do about it, anyway? This was Matty's own ship and crew, with a small company of Marines at his command. He was captain here.

Even if Jack were foolhardy enough to draw against him — not that he appeared to be armed — Matty knew he was by far the better swordsman. Jack's weapon had always been the agility with which he avoided combat, and the staff with which he disarmed their foes. Danzador, they called him; he didn't fight, he danced. So Matty squared his shoulders and faced his old shipmate.

"Where is she?" said Jack, without preamble.

"Safe," Matty replied.

"Of course, you know about it," Jack muttered. "I suppose she's on this ship."

Matty felt somehow that he had given ground, but he'd soon set things to rights. "I assure you, my crew will allow no misfortune whatsoever to befall my bride."

Matty was keen to see the effect of these words, but Jack gazed coolly back at him, eyes dark and flinty as volcanic rock.

"I want to see her."

"But perhaps she does not want to see you." Matty suggested.

"Why don't we ask her?" said Jack.

"I could have you thrown off this ship," Matty pointed out quietly. He was suddenly very aware that activity had stilled all around them, that he and Jack were suddenly the focus of everyone's attention, no matter how much his crew were trying to pretend otherwise.

"But why would you?" Jack fenced back. "If you are telling the truth."

Damn the fellow! Now it was a question of Matty's honor, not merely his power to run his ship any way he pleased. Attempting to stare down this troublesome acrobat would be fruitless, Matty knew, and yet it occurred to him there might still be a way to turn this intrusion to his advantage. He was running short on time, and this might be the perfect, perhaps the only way to insure that his plans could continue unimpeded. If Tory's appearance was needed to get rid of Jack, once and for all time, he would see to it that she played her part well.

"As you wish." Matty smiled.

 

 

Top: Jack is in no mood for any more delays. Federico eagle vision, by WisesnailArt, Deviant Art, 2013.
https://www.deviantart.com/wisesnailart/art/Federico-eagle-vision-369464625

Above: Bristol Docks . . . Quayside, William Matthew Hale, ca. 1880