Silver Lady, page 9
She lifted the soap and inhaled the sweet tang of lavender, then knotted her hair on top of her head to keep it out of the way. Settling into the deliciously warm water was pure delight. She couldn’t remember any other baths, but knew beyond doubt that she had always loved them. This one was particularly welcome, since a day of riding had left her with sore muscles that she hadn’t used in too long.
She leaned back in the hip bath, glad that she was small enough to submerge herself well. Then she relaxed, her eyes closed.
Her mind didn’t still, though. She kept thinking of that kiss and Bran’s initial pleasure, then retreat. She’d enjoyed touching him. Kissing him. But he’d said they shouldn’t do that now. Why not?
With a snap of insight, she realized why. He was strong and she was weak, in some ways little more than a child. A good person would not use strength to control a weak person, and Bran was a very good man; she knew that.
The answer was clear: She must become a strong woman if she wished to become someone he could honorably kiss. She must work on that.
She dozed a little until the water cooled. Then she regretfully climbed from the hip bath and dried herself with the towels and donned the dressing gown. It was warm, soft wool, so long the hem dragged on the floor. The feel of it was almost as delicious as the warm water.
As she combed her hair loose around her shoulders, she realized that she was hungry. They’d stopped for a midday picnic and to rest the horses, but that had been hours ago. Time to ask Bran when their dinner would arrive.
Thinking that she must practice being strong, she opened the door to his room.
Chapter 17
Pencil and notebook in hand, Bran did his best to clear his mind and try to find a pattern in the scraps of intuition and possibilities that had brought him to Cornwall. To begin with, danger was looming, and it must be related to the inevitable resumption of hostilities between Britain and France.
Smuggling was one element. There was no doubt that French agents in Britain were sending information to France, just as British agents in France sent intelligence back to Britain. But that had been going on for centuries. This looming problem seemed much larger and more dangerous.
His first look at the Royal Navy Shipyard had felt ominous, and Merryn’s vision of fire and death supported his intuition. The Royal Navy was Britain’s most vital defense, and it was logical that the French might want to attack, but surely the yard would be well defended; a raid would be suicidal for the French. He made a note to learn more about the naval yard’s defenses. What else?
His ruminations were interrupted by a firm knock on the door. Wondering who that might be, he rose and unlatched the door to find Davey standing in the corridor.
“Matthew!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t expect to see you before tomorrow at the earliest.”
“When I got your note letting me know you were here, I hoped you’d have a message from Glynis,” his friend explained.
“Yes, she did send a letter for you.” Bran turned and moved to the small desk as Davey followed him into the room.
The sealed letter was on the desk, so Bran retrieved it and handed it to the lawyer. “It seems rather substantial.”
“Do you mind if I look at it now?” Not waiting for an answer, Davey broke the seal and opened the letter. “Sorry to be so impatient,” he said wryly, “but since Lord Penhaligon sees every letter that leaves the house when he franks it, Glynis and I haven’t been able to exchange private messages.”
Wanting Davey to leave, Bran suggested, “Why not go down to the coffee room so you can read in private? I’ll join you in a few minutes after you’ve had time to properly enjoy your letter.”
Davey glanced up, his expression sheepish. “I’m behaving like a lovestruck swain, aren’t I?”
“Yes, but there’s nothing wrong with that.” Bran was trying to usher Davey into the corridor, when the door to the connecting room swung open and Merryn entered. In the blue dressing gown and with her damp blond hair falling around her shoulders, she looked delectable and wickedly improper.
All three of them froze. Merryn looked horrified and ready to bolt, while Davey stared, shocked. Wincing as he shut the door to the corridor, Bran said, “This isn’t what you think, Matthew.”
“What am I thinking?” Davey asked blankly.
“That she’s my mistress or a local lass whom I invited in for amusement. Merryn is neither.” Bran did a quick check of his intuition. It was time to explain the situation to Davey. “As a lawyer and a gentleman, will you keep silent about everything I’m about to say?”
Davey drew a deep breath. “I give my word as a lawyer, a gentleman, and as your friend.”
“Thank you. Have a seat—these explanations are going to take time,” Bran said. “Merryn, do you want to change into your regular clothing?”
She made a face, then settled into a chair, pulling the dressing gown around her until nothing was showing but her head and her hands.
When they were all seated, Bran continued, “Matthew, remember how at the dower house, I kept looking toward the woods and couldn’t explain why?”
Davey’s gaze flicked to Merryn and back. “Did you find her in the woods?”
The tone was satiric, but Bran said flatly, “Yes. She was being chased by several men and a pack of foxhounds. After I took her back to the dower house, I learned that she had been held prisoner by a man called Crowley. She didn’t know her own name, and could speak or understand almost nothing.”
Davey gasped and stared at Merryn. “How is she now?”
“Better,” she said.
“She’s not one to waste words,” Bran observed. “But I think she understands most conversation now?” His voice raised in question.
She considered, then said, “Yes.”
“Merryn has some interesting abilities, including the fact that she was able to call her horse from wherever it had been kept. She’s a very fine rider. I didn’t want to leave her alone while I came to Plymouth, so she found some boy’s clothing in the dower house attic and accompanied me in disguise.” Bran smiled. “She’s officially a young cousin of mine named Martin Tremayne.”
“Do you have any idea why she was imprisoned?”
Bran caught Matthew’s gaze. “She’s gifted with foretelling ability. She saw several events that might happen, including her need to escape the dower house when Crowley broke in. Earlier today when we looked across the river and saw the naval shipyard, she saw fire and destruction and war. I think those dangers are why I felt compelled to come down to Cornwall.”
Davey’s brows furrowed. “I’ve been feeling uneasy myself. I thought it was a general sense that war was coming, but this is rather more specific and right here on our own doorstep.”
“Though the shape of what’s to come is unclear, potential disaster is looming. I can feel it,” Bran said grimly. “Do you know any Crowleys?”
“There are a number of them down around Fowey, but none I know personally.” Davey frowned. “You said in your note that you wanted to tour the shipyard. Is that because you’re concerned about what might happen there?”
“Yes, I’d like a thorough tour so I understand the work and the danger points. How can I arrange this?”
“All you need is for a resident of the town, like me, to get permission from the commissioner who is in charge of the yard,” Davey said. “That’s currently Captain Robert Fanshaw. I believe he’s in London at the moment, but I should be able to get permission from his secretary, particularly since you’re from the Home Office. A warder will be appointed to give the tour and answer your questions.”
“Perhaps tomorrow or the day after tomorrow?” Bran asked. “The sooner, the better.”
“That should be possible,” Davey replied.
Merryn sat up straight in her chair. “Take me.”
Bran studied her. “That’s not a good idea. It’s apt to be noisy and overwhelming.”
“I must go with you!” she said with unaccustomed intensity.
“Are you seeing something important?” Bran asked. When Merryn nodded, he said, “You won’t be able to pass as a boy at close quarters.”
“Take me as a girl.”
Bran’s brow furrowed. “That would work. It’s fortunate that you found female garments in the attic, though the fit and style are imperfect. We’ll have to find you better female clothing. Matthew, there’s not enough time to have garments made for Merryn. Do you know of a good-quality used-clothing shop where she could get a basic wardrobe?”
Davey thought a moment. “Yes, but it would be best for her to go there dressed as a female in the first place. If she goes in dressed as a boy and buys only female clothing, she’ll be remembered and talked about.”
“You’re right. Merryn, will you mind giving up your boy’s clothing for a gown that doesn’t fit well?”
She made a face, but nodded.
“Then you can become my young cousin Mary Tremayne.”
She nodded again. “Now dinner?”
Bran laughed. “Dinner indeed. I’ll order now. Matthew, will you join us?”
Davey stood. “I’d like to, but must decline. I need to send a note to the commissioner’s office so we can get permission for the tour.”
“Again, my thanks for your help,” Bran said.
Davey tucked Glynis’s letter inside his coat. “And I thank you for yours. Until tomorrow.”
After the lawyer left, Bran asked Merryn, “Do you have an idea of why you need to go with me to the shipyard?”
She frowned and shook her head.
“Then we’ll find out when it happens.” Bran had learned early that intuition was just a general road map. Details came only when one was in the middle of things.
Chapter 18
Merryn found that she didn’t mind dressing like a girl, now that she had nicer garments that fit. After her trip to the secondhand shop, she had her male clothing plus a decent female wardrobe that included two gowns for daytime wear, a riding habit, shifts and other underthings, a cloak, boots, and a very nice bonnet, which allowed her to duck her head and conceal her face.
The shipyard tour would surely be interesting, but as the carriage transporting her and Bran and Mr. Davey left them off at the gatehouse, she saw that the yard was a dizzying jumble of noise and people. A heavy wagon laden with timbers and barrels rattled by next to them, and the space inside the walls was filled with people moving about purposefully. In the distance there was a deep clamor of metal, which sounded like hammers on forges. A village smithy multiplied dozens of times, she guessed, and wondered when she’d known a village smithy.
Unnerved, Merryn edged closer to Bran. He said quietly, his expression concerned, “You don’t have to do this if you’d rather not, Merryn.”
She scowled at him. “I must.” She had learned that sometimes she had very clear visions of what might happen, but other times she only felt uneasy and not sure why. Today was like that. There would be some sort of danger, and it could come from many directions in this place.
She drew a deep breath and told herself that she must learn how to be strong if she would ever be worthy of Bran.
A sturdy, middle-aged man in a naval uniform came out of the porter’s lodge by the main gate. Davey said, “Bran, this is Mr. Burford, the chief warder of Plymouth Dock.”
The warder nodded respectfully. “Good to see you again, Mr. Davey.” His shrewd gaze went to Bran. “You’d be Mr. Tremayne, from the Home Office?”
“Yes, but this isn’t an official visit.” Bran offered a hand to the warder. “I’ve been visiting family down here and I thought it would be interesting to tour Plymouth Dock. I was impressed as soon as I looked over the water from Cornwall. My thanks for your agreeing to escort us around the yard.”
After releasing the warder’s hand, he added, “This is my young cousin Miss Tremayne. She insisted on coming.”
Merryn peered up from under the brim of her bonnet, looking about fifteen years old and very innocent. The warder frowned. “Keep a close eye on her. The yard is a busy place. Over two thousand people work here in dangerous trades, and accidents can happen.” Returning his attention to Bran, he asked, “What would you particularly like to see?”
“I’ve heard that Mr. Dummer, the naval surveyor who designed Plymouth Dock, was devoted to improving efficiency. Surely, what he did here can be applied to other sorts of facilities,” Bran said smoothly. “Also, with war on the horizon, I’m interested in the shipyard’s defenses. We must be certain there are no weaknesses the French might exploit.”
Looking pained by the comment, Burford said firmly, “We’ve held the French off for a good long time, sir, and that’s not about to change!”
He motioned for them to follow him as he strode into the yard, neatly avoiding a pile of dung left by one of the cart mules. “The Devonport Lines are earthworks constructed on the land side and they circle the whole of the town, as well as the yard. Troops are garrisoned inside to man the defenses if needed. There are multiple batteries of guns on both sides of the harbor, as well as within the yard proper. Any Frenchman who tries to attack will be blown to pieces!”
“It sounds like the defenses have been well thought out,” Bran agreed. “But I recall that there was a tragic ship explosion here several years ago, the frigate Amphion. What happened?”
The warder’s face turned rigid. “A dreadful, dreadful day. The Amphion had returned from patrolling the North Sea after a storm damaged the foremast. She put in here for repairs. The work was finished promptly, and she was preparing to set sail again the next day. For that reason the ship was swarming with women and children who’d come to say goodbye to their menfolk . . .”
After a long silence he continued, “I was walking toward the frigate on my usual patrol, and there was an almighty explosion. The ground shook and the sky turned red and the Amphion shot up into the air so high, I could see the keel before she crashed back into the water and began to sink straightaway. Flames to the sky and mangled bodies everywhere.”
He stopped and looked apologetically at Merryn. “Sorry, Miss Tremayne. I shouldn’t speak of such things in front of you.”
“It is good that the lost be remembered,” she said in a soft voice.
“None of us here will ever forget,” the warder said grimly as they resumed walking.
“Indeed not,” Davey said. “I was in the town, and even there the explosion was stunning. Like many others, I ran to the yard to see if I could help, but there was so little we could do.”
“It was God’s own mercy that there wasn’t much damage to any of the nearby ships,” the warder said heavily. “But only a bare handful of people on the Amphion survived.”
From Burford’s expression Bran guessed that friends of his had been among the casualties. “What caused the explosion?” he asked. “Was it sabotage by a French agent?”
The warder’s face twisted. “Nay. It’s not entirely sure, but some weeks later when the wreck was dragged around to another jetty to be broken up, a sack of gunpowder topped with biscuits was pulled up from between decks. The theory is that a gunner known for drunkenness was stealing gunpowder to sell and disguising the sack with biscuits when he left the ship. Being drunk, and with the ship so busy that day, he got careless and accidentally set off an explosion in the fore magazine.”
Bran gave a low whistle. “So not the enemy, but criminal greed and stupidity by one of our own men caused the Amphion tragedy.”
“No number of earthworks and artillery batteries are proof against human weaknesses,” Davey said dryly.
Merryn laid a hand on Bran’s arm, her grip tight. He glanced down and saw the haunted pain in her eyes. Fire. Explosions. Death! Had her vision the day before been of the past or a possible future?
“Do you want to leave?” he asked again.
She gave a sharp shake of her head and released his arm, her narrowed eyes scanning their surroundings. Davey noticed the interchange and looked concerned, but he didn’t speak. They continued forward behind the warder, who waved a hand to the right. “This is the rope house, where rope is both spun and laid, one of those efficiencies you asked about, Mr. Tremayne. The floor above is dedicated to sail repairs. That smaller building just beyond is the rigging house.”
Bran whistled. “The rope house is the longest building I’ve ever seen!”
“Ropes need to be long so they don’t need splicing, which means the longer the rope house, the better,” the warder explained. “Setting rope manufacture, sails, and rigging close together is part of Dummer’s efficiency.”
As Bran glanced around at the buildings full of workshops, some of them glowed a dark, dangerous iron gray to his inner eye. They were locations of potential danger, he guessed. Likely the rope house was full of combustible materials, such as bales of sisal, so there was a danger of fire. Other shops had their own hazards.
The dry docks ahead of them were a forest of masts. Bran guessed there were at least four ships under repair or construction, perhaps more.
“The smithery is to the north of the main yard,” the warder said. “A good distance from other buildings because of the risk of fire. There are forty-eight forges for making anchors and metal braces and every other metal object that a ship needs.”
Even through the general racket of the yard, it was possible to hear the ominous hammering of the forges, and there was a dark silvery warning in that noise.
“Up ahead is the number one basin and dock, the first one designed by Mr. Dummer,” Burford said, raising his voice because the noise increased as they neared the basin. “His design was revolutionary, and the stone stepped sides are still the best dry-dock idea ever, because the slant makes it easy for carpenters to work on the keel. As you can see, a frigate is under construction. The steam crane is lifting the masts into place today.”
“The best steam crane in Britain and possibly in the world,” Davey said, pitching his voice to be heard above the clamor. “I always enjoy watching it in action.”
