Fair Weather Enemies Page 3

  “Oh, Auntie. You must not. The journey may be long and arduous.”

  “Nonsense, dear. I promised my brother to look after you, and I will not abandon you now. I will hear no more of your refusals.”

  Relief swept Miss Hancock’s features. “Thank you, Auntie.”

  Before Adam could determine whom to drag along as a second, Rutley interceded.

  “Mr. Barlow. You will accompany the party as my legal representative to ensure a fair and earnest search. In the event of success, you will toss the coin and apportion the gold to the winner.”

  Umbrage overcame Barlow’s features. “Ridiculous. As the most highly regarded solicitor in London, I am quite above traipsing the countryside in search of pots of gold at the ends of rainbows.”

  “You will go,” growled Rutley, “or I will be done with your services.”

  Barlow appeared ready to accept termination when Mrs. Byrd lightly touched his arm. He glanced down at her in seeming surprise. She smiled at him warmly.

  “Mr. Barlow, I know you are an important man with immense responsibilities and little time for a young girl and an aging widow. However, I witnessed your enthusiasm as we addressed the puzzle of the letters. I, for one, would gratefully welcome your mature and wise presence on the coming journey. We would be forever in your debt.”

  Barlow’s eyes softened as he regarded her in silence for several seconds. Then he chuckled quietly. “Why not? I enjoyed rambling the dusty corners of this kingdom in my youth. Perhaps the journey will do me good.”

  She squeezed his arm before releasing it. “We have a traveling party, it seems.”

  Miss Hancock nodded before shaking her head. “But I have no funds. I cannot afford a journey north to the border. I am afraid I must ask for another loan from Mr. Rutley to cover the costs.”

  Defiance toward his future father-in-law rose in Adam. “Absolutely not. You need not borrow another pence from Mr. Rutley. I still possess one hundred pounds. I will pay expenses.”

  She seemed again relieved. “I will repay you when I can.”

  He snorted. “Repaying me should be the least of your concerns.”

  She dipped her head, but then a spark lit her eyes. “We must begin immediately. But how will we afford coach fare to Carlisle? How will we afford the time on rain-soaked roads?”

  Adam pondered her question, lost for answers. When Barlow tapped his shoulder, he looked up.

  “Leave it to me, Mr. Ashford. Meet me at the West India docks at first light. Pack only what you can carry, but plan for a long journey. We do not know what lies ahead.”

  Adam nodded and looked to Miss Hancock. How would she fare on the uncertain odyssey ahead with her very freedom in peril? A sympathetic smile tugged at his lips. She caught his eyes and frowned.

  “As first light may be foreign to you, then let me explain. It is the time of day when the sun first rises in the east. Do not be late.”

  Adam’s sympathy evaporated. The journey ahead promised to be long and arduous indeed.

  Chapter Four

  Jane huddled beside Hester in the predawn twilight of the West India docks where, all around them, bodies hauled heavy bundles bound for far shores. Snatches of commentary just beyond hearing conveyed the tenuous nature of their safety. The aroma of three hundred unwashed men seeped into her nasal cavity, despite a gloved hand covering her nose.

  “Hey, missy,” said one passing sailor with a leering wink. The rest of his commentary nearly buckled Jane’s knees. To her credit, Aunt Hester stared the man down until he moved onward. Jane cursed her own naïve judgment. For Hester and her to have come to the docks alone in torch-lit darkness had been utterly foolish. In her fright, she gripped her aunt tightly and fixed her eyes on the road where the innkeeper had reluctantly dropped them minutes earlier. Perhaps he would return.

  “I am sorry, Aunt Hester. This was a poor—”

  The apology died on her lips as she spied a man approaching in a direct line toward them. Despite his tall frame, his double-flapped leather coat swept his shins as he walked. It flared open with each stride to reveal long legs tucked into rugged pantaloons and a pair of beaten hessian boots. A white cotton shirt, simple neckcloth, and an outdated tricorne hat completed the ensemble. He carried a large bag easily over one shoulder. Jane began to lean toward the man, overcome by an instinctual sense that he could help. Her tentative first step faltered when she recognized him.

  “Mr. Ashford!” With equal parts surprise, relief, and disdain, the name emerged as a choked exclamation. He closed the remaining distance between them before halting.

  “Miss Hancock. I should have suspected you would arrive early and appear well-rested, despite the circumstances. This only reinforces my suspicion that you are a witch.”

  Jane huffed. To cover her relief, she resorted to what she did best in his presence. Insult him. “What did you say, sir? I could not hear you over the incessant braying.”

  He dropped his bag and clapped twice in mock applause. “Very good. I see you visited the blacksmith recently to sharpen that tongue. Did he also fashion for you a pitchfork?”

  “If I have need for a pitchfork, sir, I will simply borrow yours. Although, I do admit surprise.”

  He cocked his head. “Surprise? Over what?”

  “Your attire. I did not believe you capable of owning clothing so common.”

  He shook his head. “What you do not know of me could fill libraries.”

  “I see. Then I am doubly surprised.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Dare I ask?”

  “I am surprised you know about libraries.”

  When he growled, she knew they were in for yet another row. However, a familiar voice stifled the budding conflict.

  “Mrs. Byrd. Miss Hancock. Mr. Ashford.”

  They turned to find Mr. Barlow approaching alongside a stranger who appeared to be constructed of leather stretched over powder kegs.

  “Mr. Barlow,” Jane greeted him.

  Barlow motioned to his companion. “This is Mr. Pugh of the Wayfarer docked just there.”

  Jane peered at Mr. Pugh. He eyed her as if he’d just scraped her off his boot. She gulped. “Is the Wayfarer our means of passage north?”

  “Indeed. It belongs to a client who owes me a small fortune in unpaid legal fees. In consideration for an extension, he granted me this small favor.”

  “Is Mr. Pugh our steward, then?”

  Barlow laughed. “No, ma’am. You misunderstand. The favor is not free. You are not a passenger on this vessel, but rather a hand. As Mr. Pugh is bosun of the Wayfarer, he is your lord and master for the duration of the voyage.”

  Jane glanced at the bosun to find him glaring with annoyance. His patience seemed stretched as tight as his leathery skin.

  “We are to perform physical labor?” Her question burst forth with more hostility than she had hoped.

  “Well, yes.” Barlow seemed hurt by her animus. “You said you wished to save time and money. If you work, passage and meals are free, and we will arrive at Newcastle in two days. Little time, no money.”

  Jane breathed deeply and offered a reassuring nod to Aunt Hester. This was not what they had expected, but neither were they strangers to menial work. “What tasks will be required of us, Mr. Pugh?”

  “Whatever I ask of you, short of murder.” His gravel voice reverberated with irritation.

  “However,” said Barlow, “if you find this arrangement unacceptable, I will cancel it and let Mr. Ashford book passage.”

  She shook her head, knowing the steep cost of the alternative. “That will not be necessary. Aunt Hester and I will strive to be of use. Although I fear for Mr. Ashford’s gentle hands, unaccustomed as he is to manual labor.”

  Ashford folded his arms. “You need not fear for me, Miss Hancock. You should concern yourself instead with the voyage a
head, as you will be casting up your accounts in no time.”

  She glared at him coolly. “I never vomit, sir.”

  “No? Are you above such human frailties, then?”

  “I merely possess a highly resilient stomach.”

  His features grew a wicked grin. “I can hardly wait for this.”

  Aunt Hester stepped between them and addressed the solicitor. “Mr. Barlow. Speaking of gentility, I find it surprising that a man of your station would stoop to physical labor in exchange for passage.”

  He laughed again. “Now you misunderstand. I paid for my berth. I am a passenger, not a hand.”

  Ashford frowned. “As I am funding the rest of us, perhaps I should pay for a berth as well.”

  Jane’s hands instinctively found her hips as she shot him a scathing glare that would have burned a lesser man to the ground. He winced visibly, and his nostrils flared. Having apparently received her message, he looked to Barlow.

  “However, it might be more prudent to work and save the money for later.”

  “More prudent, yes,” said Barlow with a glance toward Jane, “and less dangerous to your health.”

  Mr. Pugh literally stepped into the middle of the conversation. “I’ve a mind to endanger the health of the lot of you if you don’t stop gabbin’. Follow me before I toss your pampered hides into the Thames.”

  Without another word, Mr. Pugh strode toward the Wayfarer. Jane hoisted her heavy bag and labored to keep pace. Aunt Hester struggled similarly. When Ashford spared them a glance, he rolled his eyes and snatched Jane’s bag beneath one long arm. “Help your aunt with hers. Mr. Pugh seems disinclined to wait.”

  Though peeved by his forwardness and patronizing tone, Jane did as he suggested. Sharing the burden of Hester’s bag allowed them to catch Mr. Pugh by the time he climbed the gangplank. Once they arrived on deck, the bosun wheeled on them.

  “My eyes have witnessed the scum of the empire wash across the decks of a dozen ships, dressing like men, walking like men, and talking like men. But I know different. Every sailor is a shameless scoundrel, a shipwreck of a soul, the underbelly of a shiftless society. Myself included. However.” He swept them all with a judging finger. “I wouldn’t trade the lowest of the low for the likes of you. On this ship, you are less than the barnacles we scrape from the hull. You are beneath what the gulls deposit on our decks. As such, you will do as I say, when I say, and not cease your labors until I say. Am I clear?”

  Shocked by the brutal diatribe, Jane could only nod. A sidelong glance at Aunt Hester and Ashford revealed similarly cowed expressions. Even Barlow seemed taken aback. Mr. Pugh only growled.

  “Do not nod your fool head at me, missy. You say, ‘Yes, Mr. Pugh,’ and nothing else. Savvy?”

  “Yes, Mr. Pugh.”

  “Better. Beyond demanding your absolute obedience and unrelenting effort, I possess only one rule. I allow no idle chatter from anyone aboard my ship while they are on duty. As you know nothing about anything, shut your bone boxes and keep them so. Understand?”

  “Yes, Mr. Pugh,” they said in chorus.

  He grunted. His hand flew out to waylay a passing sailor. “Grubbs. Show this worthless gentleman where to stow his bag and then put him on the chain. You women. Follow me. Your presence on deck has already caused bad luck enough not to risk another moment of it.”

  Jane and Aunt Hester wrangled their bags again as Mr. Pugh led them belowdecks to what passed for a galley. The cook, a sleepy-eyed older man, seemed startled by their presence.

  “This is Chops,” said Mr. Pugh. “Obey him as you would me.”

  Jane wondered if the cook derived his name from the impressive muttonchops swaddling his jowls or from his skill with a blade. She hoped the former.

  “Where will we sleep, then?” she said.

  Mr. Pugh glared death at her, his jaw locked in granite dismissal. She dipped a slight curtsy and tried again.

  “Mr. Pugh, sir. If it pleases you, and only if it pleases you, would you kindly assign us a humble place to sleep? Although we will work the entire two days if you require, I fear we may need a few hours of rest during that time.”

  She curtsied again. Mr. Pugh’s left eye twitched three times before the knot of his jaw relaxed. He stabbed a finger toward the corner of the galley adjacent the hull. “You may sleep there, when and if Chops allows.”

  “On the floor?”

  A vein began pulsing on Mr. Pugh’s temple.

  “Of course, Mr. Pugh,” she added quickly. “As you wish, Mr. Pugh.”

  He grunted and left them to the cook. Jane and Hester faced Chops. He eyed them as if a pair of fairies had suddenly graced his galley.

  “Do ya’ know how to scrub pots?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And swab floors?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And peel potatoes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then we’ll get along right fine.”

  She eyed the mountain of potatoes and wondered if the blackened floor had ever been swabbed. At least she would not suffer the indignity of toiling above deck as Mr. Ashford must. The vision of him languishing beneath Mr. Pugh’s iron rule brought a wry smile to her lips. She hoped he would suffer. If not a lot, then a little. He was an Ashford, after all. Whatever suffering he endured was merely deserved.

  Chapter Five

  Adam was suffering. A lot. He rose from the anchor chain to examine his formerly gentle hands, now raw from three hours of scrubbing corroded metal. A trail of rust along the deck beneath the anchor chain gave evidence of his limited progress. He shook his head again, understanding now the amusement of the sailor who had left him to the task. Despite aching fingers and palms, he was determined to work doggedly and without complaint. The driving force behind his determination was Miss Hancock’s certainty of his impending failure. He intended to prove her utterly wrong, even if it killed him.

  A rapid thumping of light footsteps caught his attention. He pivoted to find Miss Hancock erupting onto the deck. When she hurried toward the gunwale, he became concerned she might fling herself into the sea. As he mounted to his feet, though, she stopped at the rail and promptly expelled the contents of her stomach over the side. Mrs. Byrd slipped up behind her to drape a comforting arm over her niece’s shoulders. Miss Hancock displayed her thanks by retching a second time.

  “There, there, Jane. This will soon pass.”

  By the time Adam reached the pair, Miss Hancock lay limply against the rail, moaning. He smirked at her discomfort. “Care to amend your earlier claim about your stomach’s resiliency?”

  She turned her head without lifting from the rail and impaled him with the same withering glare that had nearly buckled him earlier. “You are hardly in a position to cast aspersions. You look as if death vomited you forth. Have you come, then, to lord my misery over me?”

  “Yes, partly. I am also investigating the accuracy of the proverb that misery loves company.”

  “Your company is misery enough.”

  “Would you have me leave, then?”

  She remained silent for a moment. “No. You may do as you wish. I am too miserable to care.”

  “Take courage, my dear,” said her aunt. “I am sure he means well, despite his bumbling attempts at courtesy.”

  Hester shot him a challenging glance over her niece’s head. He picked at his scarf and cleared his parched throat. “So… How hellish is life belowdecks?”

  Her head rolled again, and she perused him. “Apparently, not as hellish as above decks. Your roasted appearance leads me to believe Cook might serve you to the crew.”

  Despite his best efforts to take offense, he could not help but smile at her acerbic wit. In a sudden fit of illogic and shared misery, he spoke without thinking.

  “See here, Miss Hancock. I realize our families remain devoted e
nemies. I understand that the voices of our ancestors cry out from the grave for us to carry forth this everlasting feud. However, we have known each other for twelve years now. You were seven, if I recall, and I was ten when first we met.”

  “I remember well the shoe incident.” Her tone grew particularly grim. “A dark day indeed.”

  He ignored the jab, primarily because he deserved it. “As we will be in each other’s company daily for the indefinite future, I must make a request of you.”

  “And what is that, Mr. Ashford?”

  “That you call me Adam and not Mr. Ashford.”

  She rose from the railing, and her brow creased. Clearly, she had not expected that. “Why do you suggest such a thing?”

  “Because every utterance of ‘Ashford’ from your lips sounds more like a curse to the heavens than the calling of my name. I wonder if the use of my Christian name might allow for a less caustic tone.”

  As she stared at him, a range of mercurial emotions played across her intriguing features. Surprise. Suspicion. Realization. Resistance. Her expression finally settled on something resembling acquiescence.

  “Very well, Mr. Ashford. I will call you by your Christian name. However, you must return the favor by calling me Jane. Every time you say ‘Miss Hancock’…” She spoke her name with dramatic dread and a comically deep frown. “I feel the weight of four generations of Ashfords condemning me to purgatory.”

  Adam nodded. “Very well, Miss Hancock.”

  “There it is once more. The condemnation. Please try again.”

  He inhaled a mockingly exasperated breath and rolled his eyes. “Very well, Jane. Now, your turn.”

  She gritted her jaw briefly. “As you wish, Adam.”

  After speaking his name, she immediately collapsed onto the rail and retched again into the sea. Hester patted her niece’s back.

  “There, now. Is not civil conversation much better than open conflict?”

  Jane remained draped over the rail, groaning. “I believe I shall die soon.”

  “Nonsense, dear. Your stomach can hold only so much. I warned you at supper last evening, did I not?” Jane’s aunt shifted her regard to Adam. “Mr. Ashford, as we are practicing a new civility, then you may call me Hester, or Aunt Hester, if you prefer.”