Currents (14 page)

“No, Bess, don't even make such a request. It is no place for a young lady. I'll be gone six months, I'm afraid. After we reach the island of Zanzibar, we'll gather up more supplies and hire on guides. From there we will ferry to the mainland and head west into the country looking to see if there is a specific river or mountain stream or lake that feeds the river.

“But I will write when I'm able. I'm told that porters carry messages back and forth from the bush when they can. Imagine the wonderful stories I will come back with,” he said. Bess noticed that his eyes gleamed at the thought.

“Perhaps you'll bring back a stuffed lion to keep your stuffed tiger company! Can you imagine the maids, Papa?” Sarah threw her head back and laughed.

The girls were caught up in the reverie. Elsie sighed loudly and looked away, out the window.

“Well,” the duke said, trying to break the tension. “Why don't you girls get dressed for the sail. I think Mother just isn't feeling well today.”

“She doesn't seem to feel well most days,” Sarah said under her breath.

“You girls go along and have Gertrude pack up a lunch, will you?” The duke nodded toward the doorway, and both girls, eager to avoid Elsie's sulking, quickly left.

“Gertrude will ask what Papa wants to drink,” Sarah said as soon as they left the room.

“I'll go back and pop my head in to ask. You go ahead and have Gertrude start with the food.” Bess turned back toward the dining room.

“Careful that you-know-who doesn't pop your head right off,” Sarah said, disappearing down the stairs to the kitchen.

Bess stopped short outside the double dining room doors when she heard Elsie's voice trembling with rage.

“And what shall I do for money? You have me on such a budget that I can barely buy decent clothes!” Bess heard her stepmother whine. “Why, I am the talk of the village. Imagine a duke's wife who dresses no better than a common tavern maid.”

“The accounts will all be taken care of and paid in my absence.” Bess's father's voice had an edge to it that made her stomach clench. “As for your clothing allowance, Elsie, there simply is no extra money in the budget to cover any more.”

“I thought when I married a duke . . .” Elsie's voice trailed off.

“My dear, there are many royals who are wealthy in land and title but must be frugal with their expenditures. I'm sorry that you are disappointed.”

“Bitterly, I'm afraid,” she said. Bess would listen no more. She couldn't bear to hear her father further humiliated by Elsie the Shrew. She picked up her skirts and quietly hurried away.

“And what does your father want me to pack for him to drink?” Gertrude inquired when Bess, pale faced, appeared in the kitchen.

“Please pack some sherry for him,” Bess said quietly.

They spent the rest of the day sailing around the westernmost point of the island. Bess was pleased Harry had been able to join them. They took their time, and when they finally headed back to shore and Attwood the nightingales were singing by the light of the moon.

On the morning of the duke's departure the following week, Attwood's staff stood in a row next to the front door, waiting to say good-bye to the master of the estate. Gertrude nervously twisted her apron. Bess figured she must be thinking about having to deal with Elsie in the duke's six-month absence. Sarah looked glum.

While the duke oversaw his valises being packed into the carriage, Elsie eyed Bess critically. “Oh, Mrs. Dow,” Elsie said with a scowl. “Can't you do something with Bess's hair? She needs to start presenting herself better. It reflects poorly on me if she is running about the island with her hair loose. And she's always gnawing away at her nails.” Elsie flipped up a lock of Bess's hair and then turned Bess's hands over, frowning at her nails.

“Well, I've taken to using a worry stone lately, and I find it very useful. I don't bite my nails nearly as much,” Bess announced.

“A what?” Elsie asked.

“A worry stone,” Bess stated. “People have used them since ancient times. You rub a small object that feels pleasing between your thumb and your index finger, and it helps to calm you and relieves stress and worry.”

Bess was grateful when Mrs. Dow interrupted. “I think Bess has lovely hair, Your Grace. She just needs to remember to brush it up neatly more often. We'll work on that, won't we, Bess?”

“I suppose so,” Bess reluctantly agreed. She was willing to say almost anything to get Elsie to leave her alone.

“Well, I believe everything is in good order.” The duke stood back, looking at the carriage stuffed with valises and crates packed with maps and charts.

“Are you certain it will take six whole months to find the silly headwaters of the Nile River, Papa?” Bess asked, eager to change the subject from her appearance. “Study your maps carefully, and I think you can succeed in less time.” She tenderly patted the sleeve of his jacket. “Sarah and I shall miss you so awfully.”

“It's quite a task, but I'll try,” he vowed. “I shall write you the minute the ship reaches Zanzibar.”

“I have borrowed books from the library about it. Zanzibar seems to be a colorful place,” Bess said, before blowing her nose into a hankie. “And watch out for lions, Papa. If you should see one, stare it down bravely.”

“Good advice, my dear. I will heed it.” With one daughter clinging to each side of him, he reached out for Elsie, but she stood frozen in her spot.

“Well, then,” he said to her. “Take care of yourself, my dear.”

She nodded and said, “We'll look for your correspondence.”

With that, the duke climbed into the carriage driven by Eldridge. Bess ran and waved behind him, and watched glumly as he disappeared down the driveway toward the docks and the ship that would take her dear papa first to Portsmouth and then to the darkest corners of the world.

W
henever Chap told Bess and Harry tales of his worldly adventures, Harry would, in turn, regale them with the stories his uncle Alfie had told him. Alfie Fletcher had been a constable in London's seamy East End for twenty years, and his stories would raise the hair on a bald man's head. Gruesome murders to solve, wretched thieves with knives at the ready, even abandoned street children who roamed the alleys and garbage piles. Bess, who had only been off the island once with her papa, was spellbound. She secretly resolved to do what she could to help people when she was older—in between her exploring. She was determined to be good for something, as Marcus Aurelius advised.

After dealing with the murdering thieves that inhabited the dark side of London, Harry told them that his uncle Alfie had jumped at the offer to move himself and his missus to the Isle of Wight to become chief constable of the quiet island. It was like a holiday compared to London, Harry said his uncle claimed. These days, Alfie rarely had to deal with more than an occasional misdemeanor or incident of rowdiness.

“Other than that,” Harry told them, “the worst Uncle Alfie has to handle now is the occasional escape from Parkhurst Prison. About once a month, one of the young prisoners finds a way to escape. But there's no easy way to get off the island without a boat, and Uncle Alfie always manages to capture and return the poor fellow within twenty-four hours.

“He always feels a little sorry,” Harry said, “because he knows that their punishment is a week down in the dark cells. They're not all bad, you know. Some of the boys are there for pickpocketing or public fighting, and some just because they have no family and no money.”

So the morning that Mrs. Dow answered the rap at the front door, and Bess heard the visitor introduce himself as Constable Alfie Fletcher, she flew down the hall to meet him. Elsie followed closely behind.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” he began. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Chief Constable Alfie Fletcher.”

“Yes? What is your business here, sir?” Elsie asked, waving both Bess and Mrs. Dow away. Mrs. Dow quietly disappeared down the hall, but Bess didn't move.
He doesn't look as fearsome as I had imagined
, she thought, examining him up and down.

“I have here a letter I received from the police in Westminster Borough in London,” Alfie explained. “They have arrested a fellow running a pawn shop there who was selling stolen goods.”

“Whatever would that have to do with us?” the duchess asked.

“Well, they inventoried a list of items that they believe might have been stolen, and there were some pieces that have been traced back to the Kent family. For instance, a sterling silver tea service has been identified by the Kent family coat of arms engraved on the back. And there was an oil painting of this house, identified by an art dealer as having come from your collection. Have any of these things been stolen?” Alfie closed his notebook and leaned one hand against the column. Bess wished Elsie would ask him in out of the sun. Maybe offer him a cup of tea. She had several questions she wanted to ask him about his days on London's police force.

“Stolen? Oh, my, why, I don't know. My husband has a vast amount of things in the attics here.” She waved her arm toward the ceiling.

“Well, perhaps I should wait and speak to him when he returns,” Alfie suggested.

“You will have to wait a long time for that,” Bess interrupted. “My papa will be gone six months or more. He is off on an African expedition for the Queen.”

“Ah, yes, I see, then,” he said. Bess was surprised that Alfie was a heavy man. She figured he had probably gained weight since he had stopped rushing around London chasing down all kinds of riffraff. Bess could see beads of sweat gathering between the rolls of fat on his neck.

“Well, is there an inventory of the family's valuables?” he asked.

“You know,” Elsie said, “now that you mention it, I have noticed a few things missing. I thought perhaps they were misplaced, but now I wonder.”

“Really?” Bess interjected. “You have? What? I haven't noticed anything, Mother.”

Elsie glared at her stepdaughter. “Bess, dear,” she said, “why don't you go to your room and make sure nothing is missing there.” When Bess didn't move, Elsie leaned down, grasped her shoulders, turned her around, and hissed, “Shoo! Go on upstairs now.”

Elsie waited while Bess slowly climbed the stairs. She went to her bedroom and opened and closed the door. But instead of going in, she crept along the wall to the top of the stairs where she could hear the conversation below.
Elsie would make a terrible explorer
, she thought,
I would never fall for something so transparent as this!

“Has there been anyone around who isn't ordinarily here? Anyone new in your employ who you might suspect?” Alfie picked up his questioning where he'd left off.

“No, no one in our employ. But . . .” Elsie hesitated.

“Ma'am, please speak freely to me,” he urged.

“Well, there is one person . . . .” Her voice got quieter, and Bess had to strain to hear her.

“Yes? Go on,” he said. Despite Elsie's attempt to keep the conversation discreet, Alfie's voice was deep and loud and carried quite nicely up to where Bess crouched.

“Of course you know all of the members of the Fletcher family?” the duchess asked.

“Yes, yes. Andrew Fletcher is my brother.”

“And Harry is your nephew, then,” she replied coyly.

“We are a fine family, I can assure you of that! Good grief, what would any of us have to do with anything from Attwood, Your Grace?”

“It's the boy. Harry.” Elsie said. Bess stifled a gasp. Could she be serious? It took all Bess had not to fly down the stairs to defend her friend.

“He has been coming here a good deal lately to visit with my stepdaughter. Now that I think of it, I caught him one day coming down the stairs from the attic. I asked him what he was doing there, and he simply ignored me, brushed past, and rushed out the door.”