Echo in the Wind Page 11

  Joanna chided herself for the sadness she felt as he strode away. She had never before encountered a more exciting man and yet, at times, for no good reason, he could infuriate her. All the same, there was something about him that inexorably drew her. But at least with his going, Tillie would be safe from his advances. Though, as she thought of it, he had not approached her sister all evening. Could she have been wrong about the object of his intentions?

  Might that object be her?

  Chapter 10

  In his cabin, Jean looked up from the chart, feeling the ship surge against its moorings as it responded to the rising tide. Setting aside the chart, he headed for the weather deck.

  A blast of cold wet wind hit him as he emerged from the aft hatch. Above him, dark clouds hovered over the Thames, the same gray color as the waters of the river.

  He scanned the deck for his quartermaster and found Émile amidships, his back to Jean, watching the crew preparing to set sail.

  Jean acknowledged Lucien Ricard’s salute from the helm and strode to meet his second in command. “Tide’s turned, mon ami,” he said to Émile. “Have the crew clear the moorings and take her out.”

  “Oui, Capitaine,” came Émile’s rough voice. “The men are anxious to exchange the stink of London for the flowers of Guernsey and the agréable harbor of St. Peter Port.”

  Guernsey was a favorite place of Jean’s. Neither English nor French, the island had been an entrepôt for goods, particularly smuggled goods, for a very long time. While not as warm as Lorient, Guernsey was pleasantly mild, bringing to mind cliffs blanketed in flowers.

  It might be a dependency of the English Crown, but Guernsey was independently governed with its own laws and its own way of looking at things. Being a free port, the British Parliament had no right to levy taxes there. Which made it home to many privateers. Not surprisingly, much of the island’s businesses were French. After all, the island was closer to France than to England.

  In short, Guernsey was an ideal spot for his warehouse.

  Émile relayed the commands and the crew cast off the lines.

  M’sieur Ricard maneuvered the ship through the sluggish traffic on the Thames to ride the outgoing tide to the Channel.

  Jean watched the quay fall away, wondering what he would do when next he encountered the fetching auburn-haired smuggler, who by then would have exchanged her silk gowns for a man’s breeches. He looked forward to that sight.

  Cornelia had refused to say much about their destination to Joanna, telling her only to “dress simply for town.” So, to account for all contingencies, Joanna had chosen a modest skirt of indigo linen paired with a white shirt and cravat like a man’s. Over the shirt, she donned a close fitting jacket of the same blue fabric as her skirt. Dressed thusly, she could go most anywhere.

  “Where are you off to?” Tillie asked from where she leaned against the doorpost of Joanna’s bedchamber.

  “Cornelia gave no particulars. She said only that I would find the excursion most interesting.”

  “You had best take a cloak. ’Tis a gray day, windy and cold.”

  Observing Tillie’s chiffon gown of Celadonite green, Joanna asked, “And where might you be off to?”

  Her sister’s eyes grew bright. “Aunt Hetty is taking me to my first garden party. The event is being given by the young Countess of Claremont, who Aunt Hetty tells me is a most gracious hostess.”

  “Oh yes, she is. You will like her. Everyone likes Muriel. And, if the weather fails to improve, I imagine you will be inside. She and the earl have a large orangery which is quite suitable for such a party.”

  “That is not all,” Tillie said. “Afterward, Aunt Hetty and I are paying a call on Claire Powell at the Adelphi Terraces. I am anxious to see Claire’s home. She has promised to introduce me to her neighbor, the widow of the famous actor, Mr. Garrick. And tonight, another ball—”

  “A busy day, indeed, but then such is the Season.”

  Joanna bid her sister a good day and reached for her dark blue woolen cloak before heading downstairs.

  The Danvers’ carriage was waiting for her when she stepped outside.

  The footman opened the door. Inside, Cornelia beamed at Joanna, her eyes alight with excitement. “Hurry, Jo, we must not be late!”

  Drawing her cloak around her, Joanna climbed in and took a seat next to Cornelia. Beneath the baroness’ brown cloak, she had donned a simple peach-colored gown.

  With the crack of a whip, the carriage lurched forward.

  “Why, pray tell, are we in such a hurry?”

  Cornelia looked smug. “Prepare yourself. No shopping today. No ride in the park. No calling on friends. We are off to see a trial at the Old Bailey!”

  The vehicle bumped along over London’s streets as Joanna considered Cornelia’s words. This was something she had only heard described. She had always been curious to see a trial in the great Justice Hall and now she would. “Another adventure?”

  “Most assuredly and, I imagine, one we will not soon forget.” Cornelia gave Joanna a sidelong glance, for they had shared many adventures.

  “I have not forgotten any of our excursions,” said Joanna. “Without you, my trips to London would be dull, indeed.”

  Cornelia laughed, owning the remark. “Well, I have no children and you have no husband so we have the time when you are here. How long are you in London?”

  “Only tomorrow. The day after I must return to The Harrows.”

  “I will miss your company but I am glad we have this day. I did not get a chance to ask you at the concert or the soiree after, did you enjoy the christening?”

  “I did. And the breakfast you gave was incredible, as are all your parties.”

  “What did you think of Claire’s father, the comte de Saintonge? You have seen him a few times, yes?”

  Joanna took a deep breath and let it out, turning to look into Cornelia’s dark brown eyes, twinkling with anticipation. “Actually, more times than that. Tillie and I encountered him in the silversmith’s when we were selecting a gift for your godson. I know you expect me to say that Donet is a most handsome man and elegant of manner. A bit dangerous, too, perhaps.”

  “And? Is it not so?”

  “I suppose.” Joanna looked down at her hands. “But Richard says it is only a rumor he was a pirate.”

  “’Tis no rumor, Jo. He was a pirate, or at least a privateer without letter of marque, which is the same thing. But once he gained his letter of marque from Benjamin Franklin, the American statesman in Paris, with France’s blessing, Donet entered the war on America’s side. He became famous for eluding English frigates in the Channel and capturing many prizes. He was decorated by both America and France. Of course, that did not please my husband, but it did please me. I wanted America to be free.”

  Joanna tried to match the description with the man. Yes, she could see the comte doing all that. His manners were elegant, yet his eyes spoke of daring and danger.

  “That is how Claire met her husband, you know,” Cornelia went on. “Monsieur Donet captured Simon Powell’s schooner. To regain his ship, Simon abducted Claire from the convent near Paris where she was a student.”

  “Mr. Powell told us the story after the christening.” Joanna did not find it surprising Donet had taken to the seas without sanction of any country or that he had seized Simon Powell’s ship. That he had become a decorated hero in the process did. “I find the comte to be rather mysterious. I am unable to decipher him as I am most men.” Recalling the incident in the silver shop when he rejected her advice and then at the soiree when he insisted she dance with him, she added, “And he is stubborn.”

  Cornelia raised her brows. “O ho! ‘Said the pot to the kettle, you are black!’”

  Joanna felt her cheeks heat and lowered her eyes. “You have caught me.”

  “Do not fret, Jo. You know I love that you are not a weak sister. I am well aware of my own faults, for which my gracious husband forgives me, thank the Good Lord.”


  “You and Danvers have an exceptional marriage, like my own parents. Not many women in the ton are so fortunate.”

  Cornelia took Joanna’s hand. “I know you think never to wed because of the bad matches you have witnessed, but do not lose hope. The man you will love, Joanna—and I am certain there will be one—will not be like those men. He will love you for the strong woman of character you are. And he will be faithful.”

  “Or I will kill him?”

  Cornelia laughed. “Indeed.”

  Joanna allowed herself a smile. “I am fortunate to have you for a friend, Cornelia.” She sat back on the tufted velvet seat, amused. “One who shares with me her many interests.”

  Her friend’s eyes twinkled. “You are the only one who will follow me anywhere.”

  “I enjoy your company.” She thought of the question she’d been meaning to ask. “Tell me, how did Monsieur Donet lose his wife? I assume he is not married or he would not have come alone to the christening.”

  “He was widowed when Claire was quite young. The man was devoted to his wife, or so Claire tells me. He was born the son of a comte, but his father disowned him when he insisted on marrying the woman he loved. Since her death, Donet has taken no wife. Not even a mistress that I know of.”

  “A man still in love with his dead wife?”

  “Possibly. I have known such men.”

  “Most interesting,” muttered Joanna, as she stared out the window. A man who would give up his noble birth for a woman was not a shallow man. In London Society where marriages were often arranged and women forced into loveless unions, Donet’s behavior appealed to her woman’s heart.

  A half-hour later, the carriage stopped before the Old Bailey.

  “Wait for us,” Cornelia told her driver.

  Joanna looked up at the three-story edifice that included the main Justice Hall and an attached wing on either side. She shuddered. Made of stone blocks, it appeared formidable. To one accused by the Crown of a hanging offense it would be frightening. She had ridden by it many times but had never been inside.

  “An imposing structure. I can almost hear the wheels of justice grinding.”

  Cornelia nodded. “I agree ’tis a somber place. Come, let us go in. We will sit in the gallery above the court where we can see all.”

  Joanna followed Cornelia through a narrow opening and up the stairs to the main floor where they were directed up more stairs to the spectators’ gallery. Others were already there, seated on long benches looking into the huge courtroom below.

  She and Cornelia found seats on one end of a bench just as the proceedings were getting underway. The others on the bench were all women, save for one young man. From their anxious faces, she thought they might be the family of the accused.

  On one side of the court, to their right, the judge sat on an elevated platform, his high seat reminding all of his authority. His white wig of curls hung long to his shoulders, and his face was round and his cheeks reddened. Over his ponderous girth, he wore a black robe and white bands.

  Beneath the judge’s raised platform was a long table with bewigged men in black robes. “Those are the barristers who will argue the case,” whispered Cornelia. Clearly, these men were not in awe of the proceedings as she was. They shuffled through papers and flipped pages of open books, occasionally commenting to each other about something or other.

  The twelve men of the jury were in a closed off section on the floor below the gallery where Joanna and Cornelia sat. Joanna could look down upon their heads. The jurymen wore gentlemen’s clothing, which did not surprise her, for she knew they had to meet a property qualification in order to serve. All would be from the middling ranks of society, unlike most of those whose guilt or innocence they decided.

  Facing the judge in an elevated box stood the prisoner, a man of middle years. His brown coat and black waistcoat were not so neat as those worn by the jury and his shirt appeared soiled. But then, like other prisoners awaiting trial, he would most likely have been in Newgate for months. His dark hair was loose and fell just short of his shoulders. With his hands gripping the edge of the railing in front of him, he looked anxiously about the large courtroom. Whatever charge he faced, it must be grave.

  With a word from the judge, a clerk at the end of the counsel table stood and began to read from a paper.

  “The prisoner, one John Shelley, is accused of disturbing of the peace of our Lord the King on the nineteenth of November last. With firearms and other weapons, including bludgeons, a blunderbuss, a pistol and a sword called a cutlass, he did unlawfully, riotously and feloniously assault officers of the king. He and ten other persons took away three hundred pounds weight of tea, being unaccustomed goods liable to pay duties, and which duties had not been paid.”

  “A smuggling case!” Cornelia exclaimed in a whisper to Joanna. At the mention of “unaccustomed goods” Joanna had known the nature of the case they were to hear. Her stomach was already tied in knots at the thought of what lay ahead.

  The clerk paused and then began again. “The prisoner is charged with another count for forcibly assaulting, hindering, obstructing and opposing said officers.”

  Looking up from the paper he held, he asked the accused, “How do you plead?”

  The man responded from where he cowered behind the wooden railing. “Not guilty.” By the look on his face, Mr. Shelley well understood he faced the possibility of execution.

  A man Cornelia identified as Mr. Wilson, Counsel for the Crown, opened the case. He explained the offense had been made a capital felony and described in some detail what had occurred.

  Then a tall bewigged man sprang up from his chair. “’Tis Mr. Garrow, the prisoner’s counsel,” said Cornelia. “I’ve heard he is a very clever barrister.”

  Mr. Garrow asked that the witnesses might go out of the court until they were called, which they did.

  Mr. Wilson then gave a more detailed description of the crime. He explained the tea had been seized in Apperton and the officers were transporting it in a cart to London. On the way, the prisoner and a group of men attacked them, bludgeoning one of the king’s officers.

  William Fillery, a witness, was called and sworn, taking the stand at the opposite end of the room facing the jury. Joanna looked directly at the slight man dressed in well-fitting clothes.

  The courtroom grew quiet as Mr. Silvester, identified as one of the prosecutors, rose to question the witness. He asked about the man’s identity and his purpose on the day of the crime.

  “I am an officer of the Excise,” Mr. Fillery explained. “I went with the other officers to a place called Apperton, at the sign of the Fox and Goose. Our purpose was to seize some smuggled tea.”

  “When you came there what did you find?”

  “We looked into the outbuildings. In one of them we found twelve bags of tea hidden beneath some boards.”

  The judge leaned over his desk. “Were they all in the same sort of packages?”

  Mr. Fillery said, “All in similar packages, yes. A paper bag, a canvas bag, an oilskin bag and a sailcloth bag sewed up. But they were different sorts of tea.”

  Mr. Silvester asked, “How far is Apperton from London?”

  “About seven miles and a half. We had hired a cart for the purpose. On our way to London we met two men on horseback. One is that gentleman.” He pointed to the prisoner. “He was on horseback and turned to look at us.”

  “Was anything said?”

  “Not a word,” replied Mr. Fillery. “We proceeded on farther till we came to Broad Street in St. Giles. I was walking along the pavement when somebody knocked me down.”

  At this point, the courtroom erupted in chaos and loud protests sounded from the jury, appalled at what they had heard. Joanna had known juries frequently expressed their opinion of the proceedings but to witness such an outburst given the crime at issue made her uncomfortable. She suspected the further testimony would only tell a worse tale.

  The women sitting on the b
ench next to Joanna nervously twisted their handkerchiefs in their hands. Looking at them, she felt a sudden dread for the fate of the prisoner, a fate that could one day be her own and that of her brother and Zack.

  When order was restored, the witness continued. “I tried to get up but somebody knocked me down again. When I finally got up, I leaned against a post. I saw the prisoner among the group of people, fifteen or twenty.”

  “Had he anything in his hand?”

  “I cannot say; the people that were with him had sticks. He might have had one, but I cannot say. Three of them tried to take my weapon from me.”

  “What weapon had you?”

  “A small cutlass. Two men took hold of the blade and swore if I did not give it to them they would shoot me. One of the men, who held a blunderbuss, said, ‘Damn your eyes, take care, or I will blow your brains out.’”

  “How were these men armed?”

  “All with sticks, good sized walking sticks with knobs on them. They snapped the blunderbuss, but it did not fire. I made an attempt to strike at the man with my cutlass, but several of them prevented me. Then they beat me.”

  The jury broke out in loud cries of anger at hearing this, their feelings made clear to all. One raised his fist in the air, shouting, “He beat an Excise Officer!”

  The women sitting on the bench covered their mouths with their hands. The young man pressed his face into the shoulder of the woman sitting next to him.

  Joanna, too, was grieved at the actions of the smugglers and wondered what they could have been thinking to have attacked the revenue officers.

  The judge slammed his gavel down, restoring order.

  Mr. Fillery proceeded to speak. “Somebody struck at me with a stick, but he missed me and hit the doorpost of the house where I had run to. I had not been in the house more than a minute when three men with their sticks took the cart and horse. They beat the horse.”

  Again, the jury went wild. Most of them owned horses, Joanna was sure. The idea of beating a defenseless horse repulsed Joanna, too, especially since horses at The Harrows were pampered.