The Money Ship

By Joan Druett

Money ships were wrecks of treasure-galleons belched up from the bottom of the sea after tremendous storms, yielding doubloons and all kinds of precious treasure ... gold bars and bullion, chests of brilliant gems...

Oriental adventurer Captain Rochester spun an entrancing tale to Jerusha, seafaring daughter of Captain Michael Gardiner -- a story of a money ship, hidden in the turquoise waters of the South China Sea, which was nothing less than the lost trove of the pirate Hochman. As Jerusha was to find, though, the clues that pointed the way to fabled riches were strange indeed -- a haunted islet on an estuary in Borneo, an obelisk with a carving of a rampant dragons, and legends of kings and native priests at war, and of magically triggered tempests that swept warriors upriver.  And, even if the clues were solved, the route to riches was tortuous, involving treachery, adultery, murder, labyrinthine Malayan politics ... and Jerusha's own arranged marriage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Old Salt Press
• Release date: Jan 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9780994124630

Joan Druett

Joan Druett's previous books have won many awards, including a New York Public Library Book to Remember citation, a John Lyman Award for Best Book of American Maritime History, and the Kendall Whaling Museum's L. Byrne Waterman Award.

Book preview

The Money Ship

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Book One

The Launching of the Huntress

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1

Jerusha scuttled along the cobbles on cold bare feet, dragging her little cart behind her. Its wooden wheels clattered, and her shoes jumped up and down inside it. The strings of her muslin cap slapped back and forth across her sweaty face, along with flaxen strands of hair.

It was very early in the morning, but the street was crowded already, as this was the morning of November Fifth, the most important night of the year in Lewes, Sussex. For more than two hundred years now, the wild young men of Lewes had staged a great procession on the night of November Five. Disguised in strange costumes, wearing fantastic gaudy masks that glittered with the reflections of their flaring fires, the Bonfire Boys — for so the young men in the pageant were called by the people of Lewes — paraded through the streets and alleys and twittens as soon as full dark had fallen, accompanied by drummers and bands of musicians, holding flaming crosses high into the smoky night.

Jerusha guessed she had seen every procession since the year she’d been born, but her only vivid memories were of last year’s, because her father had come to Lewes from East Grinstead last year, and had carried her on his shoulders. She remembered how the Bonfire Boys chanted as they swung their fiery staffs through the sharp-smelling smoke, while their younger brothers and cousins dragged blazing tar barrels through the gutters alongside the procession, yelling and clanging and making a terrible din.

Still, though, she didn’t know how the pageant finished. Last year, in a long drawn-out finale, the Bonfire Boys had ceremoniously paraded into the distant hills, where great bonfires were lying ready to be lit, followed by giggling crowds of girls. Jerusha had wondered about that, for she had noticed that the young men and women stayed up there all night. Next morning, as they straggled down at dawn, all languorous and sleepy-eyed, she had wondered how they could dance so long, but people had only laughed when she asked. People did say, however, that this year’s procession promised to be wilder and more magical than ever, all the young men having trickled back home, the Wars with General Boney being over at last. 

Women sweeping pavements straightened to cry out, Jess! as she clattered by, but she ignored them all, dashing on regardless with her cart leaping behind her, more often than not with two wheels in the air. Then she was on School Hill, and the cart surged forward, dealing a vicious nip to her heels. Jerusha muttered a word her father occasionally used, but limped on down to the bridge and the docks beyond, where the masts of the incoming hoggies progressed grandly up the river.

The first two-masted boat was mooring as she arrived. Jerusha could hear the guttural calls of the two fishermen as they counted out their fish — "One and twenty, two and twenty and so on up to sixty, and then — one-two-three-four in a rhythm that was all their own. The fish were so fresh that some were still alive, flopping hopelessly about in the tubs with their blank eyes staring up at Jerusha in panic, blundering out a smell of the sea. Housewives were jostling each other, calling the fishermen by name, and Jerusha joined the crush, digging in sharp elbows to get to the front, jumping up and down in her determination not to be overlooked. Doan git yerself so excited, mairt, said one of the fishermen sourly. Ye’ll do yer viscery a mischief." But he gave in, and sold to her first.

Triumphantly, Jerusha set to hauling her fish-heavy cart back up the hill. Behind her, she could hear Way ho! as yet another lugger came pulling into port. Then, as she crested School Hill, she suddenly had to force her way along the street. The air was full of shouting, cursing, the crack of whips, and laughter. All of Sussex was coming to town, it seemed, grand gentry in their carriages up from Brighton, shepherds in half-high hats painted gray, prim and priddy housewives in their red cloaks and fanciest aprons. It was a noisy confusion, punctuated with slamming as carpenters covered street-facing windows with boards. The procession of the Bonfire Boys might be twelve hours off, but the people were excited already.

Jerusha pushed on doggedly, dragging her load through the arch of the White Hart Inn, where the tall walls enclosed a huge cobbled yard. She kept her head down, concentrating on hauling her cart through steaming piles of muck, intent on reaching the kitchen step before her grandfather could catch sight of her, but the loud rumble of her little cart betrayed her. Suddenly two dung-smeared bootleg-gaiters loomed up in front, and she came to an unwilling stop.

Grandfather Hook had a wizened-up face, and he bore a carping grudge against the world. Jerusha often thought that no one could be more different from her jovial sea-captain father. He said, Bin a-fishin’, mairt?

He didn’t laugh and neither did Jerusha. She waited, eyes cast down, her heart thumping as she heard his knees creak. Herring for dinner, a tidy fresh mess and thankee kindly, he grunted, poking around.

"Please, Granfer — please, no. They’re for the feast. Ma trusted me to bring them to her."

Did she indeed? he said, his fingers nipping about in the fish. Grief and mayhem all abroad in there. Yer Ma has a job and a half.

Yes! cried Jerusha, hopping from one cold foot to the other. And she...

And all on account of the mistus having threw the vapors, on account of the gent in number six throwing hisself out the winder yistiddy morn, he being summat half-a-pint otherwhile.

Window? echoed Jerusha, ghoulishly distracted. The mistus, she knew, was Master Ryder’s second wife, a fat, cooing, silly woman with a baby, who had fascinated and embarrassed Jerusha by feeding the infant on one huge, wobbling, naked breast in public. She also knew that summat half-a-pint otherwhile meant drunk, in tactful Lewes fashion, and thought nothing of it. But the window business was a novelty.

Is he dead? she asked.

Wa-al, I dunno of that, bein’ as what he were a-groanin’ when they a-carried him off on an unhinged door, but the mistus saw it all with her very own e’en. And then she got the vapors and lost what wits God gave her, and she held high words with the cook. Which cook gave her a flea in her ear, along with her notice, and so off she went, and on the eve of November Five and all. Not, the sour old man added ruminatively, that she weren’t the merest fire-spannel.

Oh! said Jerusha. Oh, I see!

While much of this had gone over her head, she did understand now why Innkeeper Ryder had sent such an urgent message to the Crown tavern in East Grinstead, begging her mother’s assistance. But for such a shocking reason! Young as she was, Jess knew how bone-headed it was for any tavern-keeper’s wife to upset the cook on the eve of a feast, and on such a poor excuse as seeing a guest drop drunk from a window!

And on the eve of November Five, too!  It was little wonder that her mother had been desperate enough to send her off on the fish-errand, thought Jerusha. She returned her anxious gaze to her grandfather’s dirty fingers a-rummaging, and cried, "Please don’t take my fish, Granfer! Ma will notice that they’re not all there. But she was forced to watch as four warps of herring — sixteen fish! — disappeared two by two into his capacious pockets. Fambly comes first," he said, and then his mouth snapped shut tight as a trap.

Trembling with outrage, Jerusha set her cart to rolling again, knowing bitterly that those sixteen fish would never end up on the table in her grandparents narrow little house in St. Mary’s Lane, for there were only three of them — her grandfather, her grandmother and her maiden aunt, both women so frail with the consumption that they leaned on each other like thin columns of smoke. Granfer Hook would sell them for money instead, and Jerusha knew that she would be the one who was blamed for this blatant piece of piracy. And then she reached the kitchen stoop.

The door slammed open as she arrived, letting out a gush of redolent, charcoal-tinged steam, framing the round-bosomed, round-hipped, tight-waisted figure of her mother. She looked her daughter up and down with open disgust, and snapped, Look at you — how did you get into this state? You’re a disgrace. Where are your shoes? And there’s not half the fish I trusted you to fetch. Can’t I rely on you for anything?

Jerusha said nothing, looking down miserably at her cold bare feet. Oh, get inside, and bring the fish, her mother snapped then. I need all the help I can get.

––––––––

The kitchen was a sprawling stone-walled room, set on the outside of the hostelry so that it wouldn’t turn the inn into an oven in summer. Fires flickered and spat in pits, imprisoned by black and glowing grilles. Cauldrons seethed, sending out savory gusts. Jess stood by her cart uncertainly, and then heard her mother snap, You’re not touching food that will be eat by gentry with those filthy paws, my girl, so you can just put your mind to cleaning pots and pans instead.

Hours later, when the innkeeper came to see how the feast was progressing, Jess was still standing on a stool at a sink, laboring away with soap and sand and hot water. Jerusha smiled up at him, for Master Ryder was an old friend. She had lived here for the first two years of her life, because her mother was the cook, and even after her father had left the sea, and they had all moved to the tavern in East Grinstead, she and her mother had come often, her mother having been asked to help out. When she was a baby she had even mistaken Master Ryder for her father, which had made her mother very cross. And, indeed, it had been a bone-headed mistake, for Master Ryder had been married to an invalid woman who stayed upstairs all the time, until she had passed away.

Despite all this, he reminded her much of her father, Michael Gardiner.  He was just as tall, and had the same hay-colored hair, ruddy face, and loud laughter, though his eyes were a warm dark brown instead of twinkling blue. As always, he patted Jerusha on the head, and inquired to know why she wore such a dirty dress. And, as always, he did not wait for an answer, saying to her mother instead, Eliza, my angel, Eliza, how well you look.

And indeed, Jerusha thought her mother looked very well in her spotless white apron, with claret bodice and petticoats underneath.  Indeed, she was wonderfully pretty when she smiled, but then the smile vanished, for a fat old woman had suddenly entered the kitchen, shouting at Uncle Ryder, Do this be the new cook?

This female had a demanding kind of voice, and her whole appearance was arresting. Her broadly striped gown emphasized her whale-like size, while her tight girdle made her wheeze in a kind of puffing noise that fascinated Jerusha, for it sounded so exactly like a steam engine. Hey? she shouted, and Jess suddenly realized she was deaf.  And who be this child, hey? she demanded. Have I met her before? You look familiar, girl — who are you? What’s yer name?

Mrs. Hopkins is my mother-in-law, said Uncle Ryder to Eliza, before Jerusha could find the courage to speak. The revered parent of my dear wife, who has recently removed to live with us here in Lewes.

Mrs. Hopkins ignored him, yelling rudely, Are you sure this woman be a cook, Ryder? How can a mortal be sure that she cooks, when she dresses up so dainty?

Let me explain, bellowed Master Ryder at the very top of his voice, and took the dreadful creature by the elbow, leading her firmly back through the kitchen and out the passageway door.

And after that Jerusha’s mother was more ill-tempered than ever.

––––––––

By four in the afternoon the unmistakable sounds of a well-run feast swelled down the steps in the wake of the sweating maids who carried platters, tureens, gros entrees and entremets back and forth between the Great Room and the kitchen, and the excitement was infectious. About five o’clock Jerusha had a chance to take a peep at the goings-on, for her mother left the kitchen, headed for the wine cellars.

Silent as a mouse, Jerusha sidled up the stairway towards the billowing noise. She was in luck, she found. Just within the Great Hall a vast wing-chair had been put aside to make room for tables, its seat facing the wall and hard up against it. Jerusha slid over one of the arms and onto the slippery leather cushion, wriggling round to kneel up and spy.

It was a famous scene, fully worthy of what she considered to be the grandest room in the world. Ranked windows ran all along the outside wall, glittering back reflections of a thousand candles, glass doors within the array opening and closing and letting in wafts of icy flame-bending air as guests carried their glasses out onto the balcony to view the processions and merrymaking in the High Street below. Each of the four grand tables had twenty-four chairs set about, where men sat and stood and clapped and roared applause, bowed and invited each other to get merrier still, shouting, A glass of wine with you, sir!

And there was food everywhere, the result of her mother’s exertions in the kitchen, plates carried in with a flourish, partridges in wild celery sauce, roast capons with ragout mellée, quivering rumps of beef in sauce hachée, lambs’ ears all twisted up in sorrel, and yes, Jerusha’s fish, all turned around with their tails in their mouths. There were no servants to wait at table, for the maids were busy enough carrying in entrées and carrying dirtied plates out. Everyone helped himself and carved for his friends, and any gentleman who wished to be waited on brought along his own servant.

Then Jerusha saw one of the maids wink warningly as she passed by with the torn-about skeleton of a goose on a greasy platter, and so she quit the chair, and whisked down the stairs. Another maid was progressing up the passage with a great dish of potted wheatears, the tiny birds pathetic in their shimmering coats of jelly. Jerusha side-stepped into the narrow corridor that led to the wine cellars. Then, to her horror, she heard footsteps coming her way. Her mother!  Jerusha panicked.

She looked around. To one side there was a dumb waiter that carried bottles and decanters to the Great Hall above, its door open. She slithered inside, pulling the sliding door and hoping fervently that no one above would think to haul the ropes to find what the dumb waiter contained.

The slide would not shut completely, but she had to stop grappling with it because her mother was so close. Jerusha stilled, scarcely daring to breathe. It was odd. Every time she had seen her mother before, it was with the consciousness that her mother could look back at her. Now, spying, it seemed to Jerusha that her mother looked different. Eliza Gardiner’s flushed face was tired but resolute. What she had accomplished was great, Jerusha knew. Uncle Ryder had asked a vast favor, and her mother had done well by her old employer.

A shrill voice suddenly echoed through the wall behind Jess, apparently just inches away from her ear, giving her a jump of fright. She saw her mother stop short. Then Jess realized that the voice came from the innkeeper’s private quarters, for, unmistakably, it belonged to the steam-engine woman.

Mrs. Hopkins bawled, Millie, I declare you have a deal to learn in the managing way, to do right by Master Ryder!

So, Jerusha realized, the fat woman was talking to her daughter, Uncle Ryder’s second wife, the one he had married last December. This woman’s voice now said petulantly, I insist I am perfectly capable, Mother.

"You have to watch the servants more narrowly than you do — that cook in particular. For a start, you have to make a reckoning about the stuff for that there banquet. How can a man make a decent profit from a feast if the most expensive makings are employed?"

Jerusha, remembering how she had battled to get the best fish for the money her mother had given her, was instantly furious. Her mother was standing as if frozen, the familiar flush of anger on her face.

Did you note the way she squanders butter? the old biddy shrieked on. That cook, I tell you, is going to be a big problem if you don’t do naught about it. Splashes good wines and brandies into the pot as if the great Day of Judgment has come. I could smell it, I tell you — without, of course, she drinks.

Jerusha heard a pettish, Oh really, Mama. Then, she heard a step, and glimpsed Master Ryder at the end of the corridor. Sighting Jerusha’s mother, he started to speak, but then stilled as he heard his mother-in-law’s voice too.

Did you see that grubby urchin in the kitchen? the deaf old woman shouted to her invisible daughter. Children eat food — victuals that don’t rightly belong to them.

Mother, you don’t know what you’re saying, said Mistus Ryder, her voice snappish. The cook’s here to help, owing us favors the way she do, and the child’s hers.

Oh yes? shouted the fat old woman, every word as clear as a bell. Oh yes? And who’s the father, hey? That’s what I’d like to know!

Jerusha, peering through the narrow crack in the door of her hiding place, saw her mother’s face blanch. She was staring rigidly at Master Ryder, who did not move an inch. Then she heard the other voice say more quietly, What do you mean?

I asked questions about that cook — questions you should’ve asked after taking a good look at that child, the way I did and the way you oughter done. They say she was a-working here while his first wife was constant sick-abed, and that her child arrived while her husband had been on voyage two months too long for the arithmetic to add!

Jerusha, sick with a terror that she did not understand, felt her heart jerk in her chest. The voice had stopped abruptly, interrupted by the demanding wail of an infant, and then her whole attention was taken up with Uncle Ryder’s face. Even through her crack, from a distance, Jess could see how white he had gone, how his dark eyes stared.

He said with low intensity, "Eliza..."

Jerusha’s mother said very quickly, A fine feast, do you think?

Eliza. He put out his hand, reaching out for her even though Jerusha could see they were ten feet apart.

I did my best for you, her mother said angrily.

Another silence, while Jerusha listened to the thudding echo of her heart in her straining ears. Then, distinctly, she heard Uncle Ryder’s deep sigh. You did us proud, he agreed, his tone flat. Great praises have run from plate to plate. Never has there been such a feast, and I assure you we’re vastly indebted.

2

Outside the tavern the night was dark, and flaring torches and flaming crosses filled the air with orange smoke. Jerusha pushed through the crush, chilled to the bone in her damp frock and pinafore, her feet still bare, but feeling hot and flushed inside, almost as if she were burning up herself. She had scrambled out of the dumb waiter as soon as her mother and Uncle Ryder had gone, and had run outside, feeling queasily certain that she would disgrace herself and her mother by being sick if she returned to the kitchen.

Concertinas squealed and fiddles sawed, and drummers beat out a slow rhythm, while lines of Bonfire Boys marched two steps forward, one step back, unrecognizable in their fanciful dress. In front of Jerusha a group of Vikings in furs with horns in their shining helmets paced forward, forward, back, forward, followed by Inquisitors in white habits and tall white pointed hats with black eye-holes, while a shouting cluster of boys dragged a fire-spurting tar barrel up the gutter. A spark hit her ankle, and she hopped in pain, muttering a word her father sometimes used as she slapped the ember out.

Then, to her disgust, she heard a familiar voice just above her ear, and looked up to see the twelve-year-old tap-boy, Tom Windermere. He smelled highly of the fish he had gutted, and looked so furtive that she guessed he had run away from the kitchen too.

I warrant yer Ma doan know you’re here, he said.

Of course she do, Jerusha lied, scrubbing the remains of tears away from her face with a grubby hand. And I bet she don’t know that you’re here, neither.

Tom made a long upper lip, rolling his eyes in elaborate innocence, but she could see that her guess had hit home. Then he said, Did she give you any dinner?

Jerusha shrugged. She had been looking forward to some kind of meal, but ever since her heart had given that great bump in the dumb waiter, it had felt as if her stomach had closed up too much to ever want food again. Tom looked hungry enough, but from what she knew of his family, he probably felt starved all the time.

Why don’t you go and ask her? she said, feeling irritated and unhappy, wishing he would go away. But he didn’t, so she did her best to ignore him, paying attention to the parade instead. The barrel was past, along with the Inquisitors, and then, all at once, every discomfort was forgotten, for a new fiery emblem was marching up School Hill towards her, a ship of fire, broad sails outlined against the black sky.

Oh look, cried Jerusha with delighted recognition. Oh look, Tom — a money ship!

It looks like an ordinary old ship to me, he said in a dampening tone.

Well, it isn’t. Can’t you see it’s a galleon, stupid? Look at the high poop — and the huge sails. I tell you it’s a treasure-ship, a-coming to make us immeasurable’ rich, with her holds stuffed full of gold.

Tom, she could see, was unwillingly impressed, for all that he was doing his best to hide it. And how would a girl know about galleons and money ships?

They have money ships all the time, in America, Jerusha informed him. Her father had being telling her yarns about a money ship since as long back as she could remember. Money ships were wrecks of treasure-galleons that were belched up from the bottom of the sea after tremendous storms, yielding doubloons and all other kinds of precious treasure ... gold bars and bullion, chests of brilliant gems.

America? I doan believe thee. There ain’t no treasure in America.

"I don’t care if you believe it or not, but I tell you it’s true. In Mass-a-chu-setts in America, the farmers plough the beaches and bring up doubloons as thick as spuds."

Thee’s nabbling.

"I am not, indeed. In Mass-a-chu-setts in America they build houses out of wrecks, and every time a man knocks out his pipe a coin falls down the chimney."

Then why ain’t your father rich? demanded Tom — though when compared to the Windermere family of Lewes, Sussex, Captain Gardiner was a rich man indeed.

Well, he would be rich, truly, but the press-gang took him away.

The fiery ship was almost upon them. Jerusha, gazing raptly, could see the squad of boys that followed, all dressed as sailors in striped frocks, round varnished hats on their heads, complete with fluttering ribbons. And behind them came drums, thump-thump, and then a strutting band of real red-jacket marines, headed by an officer with a broadsheet.

He shouted out words as he came, words that Jerusha realized must be printed on the sheet—

Prizes, PRIZES, famous great prizes in the Chinese seas, doubloons, bullion and gold, GOD SAVE THE KING, doubloons, dollars, bullion and gold, all a-stolen by the Sooloo pirates, good hands needed for a naval expedition, only smart seamen need apply.

Thump, thump, stamp and drum. Gor, said Tom, his voice hushed for once, his eyes like diamonds. Jerusha stared too, equally enthralled by the rhythm and the words. The Chinese seas. That was where her father had sailed his ships, while hunting for the spermaceti whale. He had told her many a tale of the Chinese seas. Some of the stories had been entrancing, yarns of treasure-troves and spices and statues made of solid gold, but others had been strange and horrible.

After Captain Gardiner had stopped going to sea, he had removed the family to the Crown Inn, which was an East Grinstead tavern that had been promised him as a leg-a-cy by an English-Gardiner uncle. Which meant, Jerusha knew, that her father would get the Crown Inn for all his own once Old Uncle George Gardiner dropped dead, and her father often said that the only thing that kept the old goat alive was his lun-a-cy. And so her father had sworn never to return to the Chinese seas, never ever.

I’d ship, stated Tom, his dirty face eager.

Your ma wouldn’t let you.

Oh aye she would, if I asked her.

But you’ll die. The savages hunt for heads there, and use the heads for money. And there’s a terrible lot of disease. Don’t forget Nathaniel Marr.

She knew he understood her. A spot under the old yew in St. Mary’s graveyard was a favorite meeting spot for Lewes children, because of Nathaniel Marr’s grave. Instead of a stone it had a thick plank at the head, much weathered and leaning over at an angle. The upper corners of the thick plank were strangely carved, into spools that spun freely, and when the children tied ribbons to the spinning spools they fluttered out like a prayer to some pagan god. Small boys dared each other to visit the grave in the dead of night, and when they had done it they swaggered.

Though only poker-drawn, the words on the old plank were readable, and the children chanted them ritualistically as they played:

Here lieth the corpse of Nathaniel Marr

Who sought a fortune on seas afar

And journeyed home in a Chinese jar.

But my ma could do mighty fine with some of them doubloons, said Tom.

Well, everyone knows that, derided Jerusha, and Tom’s face screwed up as if he wanted to hit her.

Bonfire Boys dressed as American pioneers were slouching up the high hill now, skunk hats upon their heads with the tails hanging over their noses, long fringes on their rustic coats and trousers, and six-foot-tall muskets in their hands. Pipes tweeted shrilly while boys in the crowd yelled and jeered, Brother Jonathan! — which Jess knew from mortifying experience was a rude nickname for Americans.

And Tom Windermere retaliated cruelly, Look you Jess, regular cud-chewin’ Yankee boys! Jonathans like your dad! — and chanted with the rest:

Yankee Doodle came to town

A-ridin’ on a donkey

He stuck a feather in ’is ’at

An’ gibbered like a monkey

Don’t you dare call my father a Jonathan! she cried. My father might be American, but he’s better’n yours!

And that, indeed, was true, for her father Captain Gardiner had served in English navy ships just as Tom Windermere’s father had done. The only difference was that Tom Windermere’s father had been seized by a press-gang on land, while Michael Gardiner had been stolen off an American ship at sea. He had fought under the British flag until he had made his escape to Sussex, to be sheltered by his English cousins, and had shipped with them on an English whaler to avoid the press — though that hadn’t done him much good, for the press-gang had picked him up again anyway, as soon as he’d got back to port. But he had ended up in command of London ships — which was something Tom Windermere’s father had certainly never managed.

"My father is a captain, she said. All your father is good for is making babies."

Which was something she had often heard, though she was not too certain what it meant, but everyone knew that Tom Windermere’s father was a black-tempered wastrel who had come back from the Wars with an unquenchable thirst for liquor and a grudge against the world. Mrs. Windermere was the one who kept the body and soul of the family together, despite an ever-growing family.

You shut your mouth, cried Tom. Folks doan just talk about my dad, you know, they talk about your pa too, and how you was born while he was at sea, after he’d stopped a-counting.

Counting? Jerusha did not have a notion what Tom meant, but she was too scared to ask. Somehow, it was an echo of the nasty nabbling words she had overheard while hidden in the dumb waiter. She sniffed hard, struggling not to cry, furious with herself and Tom. Go away! she shouted, so loud that people in the crowd looked at her, and began to ask what was the matter.

And Tom, to do him justice, looked alarmed and then contrite. Doan take on so, he wheedled, and put his hand on her arm. It’s only a silly thing, and both of us are sorry. C’mon, Jess, let’s get back and find summat to eat in the kitchen. I bet you’re as clemmed as I am.

––––––––

Eliza hadn’t missed the child, for if she thought of her at all, she took it for granted that Jerusha was in the Hook house in St. Mary’s Lane. Though the feast was over, her work had not been finished, for three gents had arrived, shouting for a supper.

Feeling very much put-upon, Eliza somehow contrived a meal, sending up a rump of beef, delicately trembling in a gravy made with finely shredded carrots, along with a dish of leftover calves-head hash, and a dozen herrings for a centre-piece. The gentlemen had not asked for a pudding, but nonetheless Eliza made one, determined that Mistus Ryder and her slandering bitch of a mother should have not the slightest grounds for complaint. It was a common sore-leg pudding of flour dough and jam, fashioned into a roll and then curled into a tremendous knot, set steaming onto a great round platter and sprinkled with lemon and dredged with sugar, but it made a comely dish. She had done well, she thought.

It came as a surprise, however, when the gentlemen sent down for the cook, being desirous of presenting their compliments. Eliza rummaged out a clean apron, washed her hands, rearranged her hair, and mounted the stairs.

The table for three had been set in the otherwise empty Great Room where the feast had been served, hard up against the high ranked windows that ran along the outside wall. It was lit with only one candelabra, so that the diners could watch the lights of the procession if they wished, and as Eliza walked slowly towards the windows she could glimpse distant lines of fiery crucifixes as they wound up the hills to the bonfires, a reminder of past years.

The men were deep in conversation, so she stood waiting for them to notice her arrival. Master Ryder stood in attendance on the other side of the table, which surprised her, but he said nothing, so Eliza studied the diners.

The talk was about the previous night’s gambling — in Brighton, she supposed.  According to what she heard, it had gone badly for one of the party, a broad-shouldered fellow in silk finery who sat with his back to her.  The others must have done better, because the banter was malicious, jests being made that the silk-clad cove was not taking very well. Losing at cards was a bad habit with him, it seemed, though he protested that it was only an unlucky streak, which inspired more derisive laughter, and another angry retort.  A few more glasses of wine, she thought, and the atmosphere around the table would grow nasty. 

Growing impatient, she shifted from one foot to the other, but the rustle of her skirts went unheard. The sore-leg creation was the reason she had been summoned, she deduced, for two of the guests were seamen, and thus naturally devoted to good solid puddings. One of them had his lank hair drawn back in an old-fashioned queue, and was wearing the undress blue coat with black velvet lapels, cuffs and collar of an East Indiaman captain. The other sailor was an admiral whom Eliza knew by sight — Lord Laughton, who had recently been given the Java command at the age of seventy-six, and had immediately become notorious. His first measure had been to forbid all shore leave, for the simple reason that sailors had enjoyed no liberty in his day. Then he had sent officers with drawn swords below decks to quell the mutiny.

Then the man with his back to the room turned to look at her, and she recognized him with a palpable jolt. He was another lord, but only a quarter Laughton’s age, an unpleasant creature named Vaughan. Eliza understood now why Master Ryder had remained in the room, and why one of the maids who had carried the dishes to the table had returned to the kitchen in tears. Vaughan was notorious for casual cruelty towards women, particularly female servants.

Eliza wondered if it was possible for him to recognize her, as she had once been employed by his father’s mistress. It was unlikely, luckily, as she had been confined to the kitchen, being apprenticed to the famous French chef who ruled the stove and the pantry, and had never served at table. And it had been a long time ago, before she had met Captain Gardiner, when young Vaughan had only been about sixteen. But, despite the passage of time and circumstance, she knew him at once. 

His father, the old Lord Vaughan — known to the whole household as Milord — had been a spectacularly handsome rake, and this man took after him, though only to a certain extent. Milord had been a noted Corinthian, but, while this man had the same muscular physique, it was without the elegance or style of his father. There was the same dark, compelling look, though smallpox scars marred his face, but the blue eyes were cruel, with no trace of Milord’s mischievous twinkle.

Then Eliza abruptly realized that Lord Laughton was holding a quizzing glass in an unsteady hand, and peering at her through it with one bloodshot eye.

He shouted, Who be this woman?

The East Indiaman captain, who was evidently the host, raised a limp, jaundiced hand, flicked two fingers and said to the admiral, The cook, I presume. You sent down for her, don’t you remember? You declared you had a vast compliment to pay.

"Cook? Ha! Yes, yes, now I remember, the pudding, that capital sore-leg pudding! Have not relished a sore-leg pudding like ’un since my last feast in the wardroom of the Victory, back in year five."

Eliza bobbed, and he bawled at her, I will commend this place for certain, Cook, strap me if I won’t. And I am willing to wager that I’m not the first. You’re an asset to your husband, Mistress!

Eliza stuttered, H-Husband, my lord?

Husband, madam!  Mine host Ryder. Be you deaf?

Eliza looked quickly at Ryder and then looked just as quickly away, feeling her face go red. Joseph Ryder, however, said nothing, nor did he move an inch. It was as if he was so lost in thought that he hadn’t heard.

Or perhaps he had decided to let the mistake pass uncorrected, not being wishful to take the risk of offending a titled guest. Eliza turned back to Lord Laughton, bobbed again, and muttered, Most honored, my lord.

Mine host is the cove what’s honored, corrected Laughton, and turned his scarlet face to Master Ryder, roaring with loud laughter. Newly married, ha? — for that be what I’ve heard.

He took highly eccentric pleasure in gossip about servants, it seemed. If he had been closer to Ryder, he might even have jogged him with a meaningful elbow. By God, mine host, you choose wiser than most, sir, and I sure by hell don’t exclude kings. How’s that, Douglas, a tavern-keeper of discernment, ha?

And Captain Douglas, the East Indiaman commander, did receive a powerful nudge in the ribs, albeit with the merest attempt at a smile. He then exhibited the grace and understanding