The Courtesan’s Daughter

By Livia Ellis

Maude Whitlock is consigned to a life of servitude in Barbados after the death of her mother, a notorious courtesan. As she plans her escape to London, a chance encounter awakens hope for a different life.

Henry Crane, gentleman spy, wealthy widower, handsome charmer, places his mission above all other concerns—until he meets Maude, a frazzled chaperone at his niece's engagement ball.

Cross purposes will soon put an ocean between them. She refuses to follow her mother's path into the oldest profession, and he is duty bound to see his mission through. How will they find a path to the future before circumstances pull them apart?

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Dec 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9781509228041

Book preview

resolute

Chapter One

Barbados, New Year’s Eve 1799

Maude

The problem with being a woman and the poor relation was that I was a woman and the poor relation. In my sheltered world of women hemmed about by social rules, few lived in such a tenuous and changeable position. No man would be so vulnerable. At his best, he would have an inheritance. At his worst, he could strike out into the world and find his way. We poor women shouldered the dual encumbrances of few avenues for employment and the need to remain respectable. We poor women must entrust ourselves to the kindness of family. The insubstantial ties of watered-down blood combined with promises extracted from our caretakers by our dead parents were all the assurances we had. This was where the world put us when we had no parents and we were just a couple of years too young to be left at the mercy of our own means. It was a fragile place indeed.

The problem with these arrangements was the constant cloud of uncertainty. So desperate did we become to keep the roof over our heads, the regular meals in our bellies, and the bed to call our own, that even when the moment came and went in which we could claim our independence, we didn’t. We stayed out of fear of losing what little we had. If the path to my future weren’t shrouded in uncertainty, I could love my life as governess to my cousins in Barbados. If I were my cousin Eulalie, constantly bombarded with compliments and praise for both her notable beauty and arguably admirable vocal talent, I would show a bit more kindness to the poor woman who taught me to read, write, and sing. But neither praise nor petting nor even kindness in any recognizable form was guaranteed in the home of my maternal Aunt Albina and her husband Uncle Felton.

This was me being unkind and more than a little petty. It was not that cousin Eulalie was unpretty. In truth, she was exquisite as a statue or painting or any unfeeling thing. It was the meanness disguised as unshakable honesty that made her unpretty and unwanted by her cohort. The only people who did not seem to grasp this were Aunt Albina, Uncle Felton, and Eulalie herself. I got it. I understood why Eulalie, who still received invitations to the parties and was never snubbed, was not welcome where she went. They had to invite her by virtue of who her father was, but they didn’t have to like her.

Was I bitter? Perhaps just a touch. The bitterness squeezed when it grabbed my heart, creating a pain that never fully relented. Shaking off the hurt became increasingly difficult as the years rolled on. To compound the hurt was the constant reminder that I was expendable.

As the poor relation thrust upon the mercy of my betters, I constantly was aware of my place in the home. My bitterness was my secret. Any emotion other than joy at being rescued from what they characterized as a much worse life than the one I currently lived or placid acceptance of my lot in life equaled a stern rebuke. The always underlying threat that one day I would no longer be useful kept me in check. Not to be useful was not to be needed. Not to be needed was to be discarded. To be discarded left me without a home or options.

As I remained in the role of unpaid governess to my younger cousins Eulalie, Patience, and Jemima, I continued to live off Uncle Felton’s largess. Largess being food, third-hand clothing, and shelter. The thing that made me useful was he did not have to pay me to be the governess. No governess that was not a poor relation and reliant on his generosity would work for free. I worked for free.

Uncle Felton was not usually a nice man to anyone other than his wife and daughters. Being a nice man was not required to make him a wealthy man. Being a horrible human being likely contributed to his fortune more than any amount of decency would. On an island like Barbados, being a person willing to make one’s livelihood through government-sanctioned piracy was a path lined with gold.

A pinch to my arm woke me from daydreams as I stared out at the window of Eulalie’s dressing room at the blue sea bordered by white sands. A ship on the horizon crept below the curve of the earth. I wanted to know who was on it and where they were going. And perhaps, would they like to bring a twenty-five-year-old impoverished spinster governess with them? If so, I could not imagine a greater joy than to sail away, live life at sea, and maybe find unknown lands or passionate lovers.

Wake up, Maude, Eulalie scolded me.

She swatted me with her skirts. Mrs. Smith the dressmaker was caught in the tsunami of fabric. The ship was almost below the horizon. I couldn’t stop tracking its progress. I needed to send it off on its voyage with my eyes.

Stop dreaming, and do what you’re told, Eulalie snipped.

The ship slipped away. I watched for one final moment.

Don’t pinch me. I swatted at Eulalie. We had an understanding when it came to boundaries. She swatted, pinched, poked, and harassed me. I let her do these things. To a degree. It was understood I pitied her as one pities the pretty bird in a cage, and she envied me as that caged bird envies the trash-scavenging rat. Although my poverty restricted my liberty, she was a prisoner of her upbringing. If I decided to do so, I could leave. In theory. The strength of my psychological shackles remained untested. The unknown repercussions of failure were too great for me to risk losing the known. My life was awful, but not so awful that I couldn’t imagine what worse might look like.

Or what? Eulalie swatted me again.

The pressure upon her was great. She was of an age when a husband should be on the horizon. Were she in London, her second season would be fast approaching. That she remained unhitched was a bone of contention between her and her mother. I ignored her striking out. Were I her, I too would punish the world. That the lighthouse beam of Aunt Albina’s attention was on her made me want to be kind.

I want my other wig. Go fetch it.

Please? I looked at Eulalie. The sight of her in all her finery was something to behold. Maypoles envied Eulalie the number of ribbons she wore. Years of experience stifled the snicker. A conspiratorial wink from Mrs. Smith made me smile. I envied Mrs. Smith. I suspected there was not now nor had there ever been a Mr. Smith. Her business thrived, and there were rumors of a pirate lover. A woman who owned her own destiny and had a pirate lover. A pirate lover. Just the idea of it made me shiver. I envied her so.

Please what? Eulalie only had eyes for herself in the looking glass.

Never mind.

Mrs. Smith gave me a sympathetic smile. The embroidered ribbon I produced for her was my sole source of coin. Each small piece was a chink in the brick wall of the garden where I resided. That bit of income guaranteed a road out of Uncle Felton’s plantation of human misery.

We all knew what happened on this island. There was no pretending we didn’t. That this paradise was one of the transit points between Africa and the ports of Charleston and Jamestown was known to all. Their story was not mine, so I could not begin to pretend I understood their lives or their suffering. I could only feel empathy and helplessness as I prepared my own escape. One length of ribbon dressed up with violets and pansies at a time, I funded my way to freedom.

I went for the wig. The new one. Just arrived from London. No one wore wigs anymore. I had this on excellent authority from overheard gossip at the musical evenings, teas, cards nights, and parties I was expected to attend to watch the children and mind the elderly and where I went largely unnoticed except when someone needed help with a fastening or a quick stitch to a hem. What did women on an island far from home discuss? Home. Or what they thought of as home regardless of the number of years they’d been away. What everyone wore and how it was worn was a favorite topic. The fashions had completely changed with the ascendancy of Prince George. Gone were panniers. The Empire line ruled.

I held up the wig for inspection. How many poor women with no other choice sacrificed their locks to make the monstrosity fit only for Eulalie’s head? How many? Too many was the only answer I heard in my thoughts.

The hairdresser took the wig from me. She fussed and flattered Eulalie something outrageous. Were I Eulalie, I’d make her stop. However, I was not her, and she enjoyed the flattery.

The door to the dressing room opened. Aunt Albina entered, ready to depart. The sides of her skirts wedged her momentarily in the doorframe. When a woman must turn to enter a room because her skirts couldn’t fit through the door, then fashion had reached a tipping point. Or, as in this case, it had become obsolete. Nobody wore those petticoats these days.

Terrible news, she boomed like a town crier announcing the barbarians were at the gate.

If she were anyone else, I would brace my beating heart for true tragedy. But she was my aunt. I knew what counted as tragedy in her world. My mother might have been an actress, but Aunt Albina took drama to a whole new level.

We cannot go to the party, Aunt Albina intoned with regret.

This had my attention. The Crane family New Year’s fête was the event of the year. Everyone was invited. Something terrible would have had to happen to keep my aunt Albina away from a Crane invitation.

At the announcement, Eulalie screamed. Not a delicate ladylike ack, but a loud, blood-chilling, murderous scream. Birds flew from the trees outside the windows. A baby began to cry in the distance. Dogs barked and howled. The moon’s orbit shifted slightly.

The quadroon maid, Dorothea, dropped the sewing basket. Spools of thread zipped across the floor. We scrambled for the skittering mess before it became a secondary issue. Catching mice with brightly colored tails would have been an easier task.

Whyyyyy! Eulalie screamed a hysterical operatic shriek that would turn any soprano into a green-eyed monster. Why? Why? Who is trying to ruin my life? Why do you hate me? Why? Why? Then came the sobs. That there could be a genuinely good reason for the party to be cancelled or simply a case of Eulalie not being able to attend, we didn’t know. All we knew was that our ears rung ever so slightly as Eulalie rapidly undid no less than four hours of preparation with all the screaming and rending at her hair and garments.

Calm down! Aunt Albina shouted. Papa has word that pirates have been seen along the coast. He thinks it’s unsafe to leave the estate this evening. He prefers to stay here and guard the property.

He wants to stay home, which means I have to stay home? Eulalie shouted. No. I’m not staying home. If he wants to stay home and be boring and dull and old, fine. I am going to the party, and you’re going with me.

You know how Papa hates to have me go anywhere without him, Aunt Albina said. I looked at Dorothea out of the corner of my eye. The topic of the unfathomable affection between my aunt and uncle had been discussed at length. We both knew he had been relegated to sleeping in the bungalow where his offices were situated since a falling out several months earlier. Before then there was a love between them that I could not reconcile. I supposed every pot had a lid, and for my aunt and uncle they were each other’s perfect fit.

I’ll take Maude, Eulalie said. Maude will do it.

I jumped at the sound of my name. Immediately I was on guard.

Aunt Albina looked at me. Her eyes narrowed. Her lips pursed. The wheels in her head spun. The scent of a coming storm filled the air. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled. Yesss, she murmured, lengthening the S until she started sounding like the snake she could become on occasion. Yes, in fact I think that could work nicely. Maude would make an acceptable chaperone. She is family. She is a woman. She’s hardly competition.

I looked down at the blue and white striped dress covered in an apron that was my standard attire. I owned one better dress for Sunday and company that required me to mind children, and one shabbier dress for days when the deep cleaning needed to be done. Nothing worthy of a ball at the major-general’s home. I have nothing to wear. I also had plans for the evening that didn’t involve chaperoning the unruliest young woman on the island. Besides, it is my birthday. Normally, I’m free to spend this evening as I like. Which, in this instance was supper with Dorothea on the terrace followed by a cake I knew Cook had prepared in advance. Then I had another thought. If I was obedient and pleasing, I might get out of the house. For my birthday, I might go to the party of the season.

Aunt Albina sniffed. You will do as you are told, not as you will. Birthday or not, if my needs require your service, then you will bow to them.

So, this was the mood she was in. I remained silent. Aunt Albina examined me much the same way she inspected one of her pugs for flaws. I so dearly wanted to remind her that I was her older, only sister’s only child, but I didn’t. It was not the moment.

Do… Aunt Albina waved a hand about me. …something with her. But not too much. Just enough to make her presentable. Yes. This could work out nicely. Now I never have to leave Papa, and you can go to all the parties you like.

Parties. Out of the house. Men. Eligible men. Men seeking a wife. Men who did not live under the thumb of Aunt Albina and Uncle Felton. A second path existed off the plantation that didn’t involve saving up one penny at a time from selling embroidered ribbon to Mrs. Smith the dressmaker. My delusions didn’t lead me to the fantasy of a man waiting for me at the major-general’s home or even that a man was the ticket out of my life, but I was in no position to argue with fate intervening a bit from time to time. If the right man were to present himself, I wouldn’t turn him away because of some misguided belief that I must make my own way in the world or that true love was waiting to find me. Besides, it was both my birthday and the eve of a new century.

I’ll go, I chirped. Happy to go. Will be the model of a chaperone.

Aunt Albina and Eulalie stared at me as though a cat had just spoken.

You’ll go if you’re told to go whether you want to or not, Aunt Albina said as Eulalie nodded. You live under my roof by my good grace and for no other reason. Do not forget that.

Yes, Aunt Albina. I lowered my eyes and tried to look both sad and penitent. One night of freedom was too close to risk being clever. You’re very good to me. I forgot myself.

Her hand patted my cheek ever so slightly too sharp. Not at all, she cooed. You’re headstrong and willful like your mother. I consider it my duty to muffle the qualities in you I found so distressful in her. You’ll never be rid of her sinful nature, but perhaps you can be useful. And in that usefulness, you can atone for your mother’s sins.

Of course, Aunt Albina. Sinful nature indeed. So said the woman who wore my mother’s pilfered amethyst jewels in her ears and around her throat. Thieving wretch.

Aunt Albina snapped fingers and clapped hands. Make the girl ready. You have less than an hour.

She left turning to the side, so her skirts could make it through the door.

Mrs. Smith, the hairdresser, Dorothea, and Eulalie stared at me.

You’ll all be very happy to know I bathed just yesterday, I said.

It’s a start. Mrs. Smith nodded.

Eulalie stared at me. You’re not getting anything of mine. Just wear that usual bit of tat you have as an excuse for best.

What about the yellow? Dorothea said. It’s pretty. You never wear it.

My mother’s dress. One of the few things of hers that remained in my possession. That I had it at all was nothing short of a miracle. Upon my arrival, what I had brought with me was confiscated. Her sinful ways and all of that was the excuse. That my Aunt Albina took possession of my mother’s mahogany jewel box and frequently wore the treasures that once belonged to my mother either indicated that she believed herself to be above the temptation of sin or that she was just a thief and a liar.

The dress that was once my mother’s was given to me along with a basket filled with castoffs for Dorothea and me to remake into clothes for ourselves.

I’ll wear the yellow, I said. Dorothea and I had laundered and mended the yellow gown during a dozen free Sunday afternoons. It waited in my closet for the magical moment when destiny intervened, and I just might need a pretty gown for a magnificent party. It was a dream. The dress was more a wish than a promise. Yet it would seem the moment for a wish had arrived.

Chapter Two

Maude

The gown was old-fashioned, but pretty. The box pleats at the back showed off the beauty of the embroidery. Large blooms of fuchsia and violet mixed with green creeping vines, and there was even a tiny bird hidden on the sleeve against the background of jonquil silk. The simplicity of the dress was its true beauty. Something Eulalie or Aunt Albina would never understand, which was why neither of them were particularly fond of the dress and could painlessly pass it along to me as scrap cloth.

My mother, with her crown of sable hair and her skin of alabaster, wore the gown like a queen. It came from her time with the kind count in Saint Petersburg, when we lived in the apartments that overlooked the Neva. He was old, decent, childless, and brought caramels for me and rubies for my mother. He would pat me on the head and pay for my flute lessons. We were happy being adored by this old count. For the first time that I knew of, my mother believed his promises about her security. When he died, along with him went the apartment and the steady stream of caramels and coin. He kept his promise and left her a modest income. But it wasn’t enough for my mother. Nothing was ever enough for her.

Then came Antwerp with the man with all the ships, followed by a stint in London at the theater, and then Constantinople with the man with all the riches who wanted to make my mother his fourth wife, and then back to London for more time at the theater, then on to Lisbon, Cairo, Paris, London again, then Boston and all those new Americans with their big voices and their grand ideas, and finally then came the man from Philadelphia. That man looked at me as if my being fifteen was more of an obstacle than a deterrent. She sent me back to London without her because her new patron, the man from New York with his wealth won from the war, would take her on only if she came unencumbered.

I was sent to London to be delivered to our friends at the theater. My mother went to New York. I lived with Wallace and Carol, the caretakers behind the curtain. My mother wrote as often as she could and sent what money she had. I worked sewing costumes, sweeping floors, and wishing I could make myself good enough for my father. I wanted my father to take ownership of me. I wanted him to find me a good husband and make me respectable. I wanted to matter to him as much as his other daughters did. He refused. He left me in poverty at the mercy of the world. But I had the theater. I sewed costumes, saved my coin, and made my plans on the sly to find my first patron.

The new nation was my mother’s undoing. When she returned to me in London, I was sixteen going on seventeen and she was heavily pregnant and broken. She’d forgotten her own rules and was ruined. Her beauty gone. What was left after she died with my brother was contained in the trunks. My father came when I no longer needed him. He was old and fat and grown complacent in the new money that bought his daughters respectable husbands and his sons careers. He buried my mother and my brother. I wanted to stay in London. I was sixteen. Almost seventeen. I neither needed nor wanted his interference. I wanted freedom to make choices. That was not to happen. Instead he sent me to Barbados. My father’s emissary greeted me, then deposited me at my new home. Landing on my aunt Albina’s doorstep felt punitive. The yellow dress was taken from me along with my other possessions. I was left with nothing I’d come with and given two simple dresses and a reprimand to live humbly and to put my grand ideas out of my head. Dorothea was kind when I was confused. My mother was the mistress of games. I learned from her that everyone had a game. Learn their game, my mother once told me, and you can learn to play them. Dorothea taught me Uncle Felton and Aunt Albina’s game.

Tonight. On this night of all nights, I would play their game and go to the party. I had a dress. There was no question of putting me in a wig. Eulalie wouldn’t let me wear one of her wigs, which saved me the bother of politely refusing. Dorothea curled my hair, piled it on top, placed a bit of rose oil behind my ears. I had no jewels that I could lay my hands on, but she tucked rosebuds into my hair and bodice.

My feet were shoehorned into Eulalie’s oldest and least loved slippers. Say what I would about Eulalie, she did have the daintier foot.

I followed Eulalie down the stairs. Aunt Albina waited for us. Her look mixed fear, anger, curiosity, and pain. Uncle Felton, who exited the library as I set a final foot onto the marbled foyer, stopped and stared.

That’s eerie, he said without explanation. What say you, Albina? Do you not find the resemblance uncanny?

Yes, she said. But I think we’ve crushed the worst of my sister’s influence.

Perhaps, Uncle Felton said.

Aunt Albina gave me my instructions. I was to make my presence known, but not to be disruptive. I was not to make a fool out of myself. I was not welcome to participate in the dancing. I was to find the other chaperones and spend the evening in their circle. I was not to announce that it was my birthday. My first and only priority was to see to Eulalie’s needs. Act at every moment as if she watched over my shoulder.

She could tell me to walk out the door in my skin, and I’d do it just to be able to get in that carriage and away from the confines of the plantation for one night. To experience some sort of freedom, even if it was for one night, was still a taste of freedom.

The sun slipping in the sky turned the heavens into a swirl of pink, orange, and gold, touched with blue at the top. Before I stepped into the carriage, I paused and took in the world around me. The feeling that I may never return was only so much wistful thinking. I would return. But there was always hope that the person who stepped off the carriage would not be the same person who stepped into it. I longed for a change.

Eulalie’s skirts required constant fussing and adjusting. Her ego required constant massaging. The horses clomped along the line of the sea as we traveled to our destination. Our departure was timed to coincide with our arrival after the sunset. By her own admission, Eulalie looked better by candlelight.

Don’t do anything foolish, Eulalie admonished me.

Like what? I was free to be more of me with Eulalie than I could with Aunt Albina or Uncle Felton. There was no chance she would see to my future, so being genuine with her put nothing in jeopardy. You’re going to have to be specific because I’m not certain how you define ‘foolish’ after that business with Thomas.

Mr. Hancock, Eulalie corrected, and I have an understanding. One he has assured me he will have made clear to all concerned parties by this evening’s festivities.

When did you speak with him? You know you’re forbidden from going near him. Getting caught by a half dozen of the island’s biggest gossips in what only an idiot wouldn’t recognize as a compromising position wasn’t going to change the fact Thomas Hancock was set to marry Lady Priscilla Crane. That his character was unimpeachable by virtue of the fact his family insisted his character was unimpeachable and that Eulalie was generally cast in the role of villain helped smooth over what otherwise would have been the sort of thing to destroy both their reputations. As it was, he was unscarred by the incident while Eulalie bore the brunt of one small indiscretion that could be interpreted in multiple ways.

Those old gossips don’t know anything. He confessed his love to me.

When did this happen?

None of your business. He loves me. He surely does.

My mistake, I muttered. We had a problem if Eulalie was speaking to Thomas again.

The carriage stopped, and the door opened. Eulalie exited before me. I took the footman’s offered hand and stepped off the carriage. If I hadn’t alighted almost on top of her, I would have missed the looks from over lace-trimmed fans and the change in the flow of voices. Based on the narrowed eyes aimed at our carriage, the very worst was believed of Eulalie. There was a sinister quality to the stares. A sharp whispery quality to the conversations occurring through tight-lipped smiles.

They weren’t tittering about me. No one tittered about me from behind their fingers. At least not anymore. I was just Maude. Plain. Boring. Unspectacular. Maude. Maude who served the tea. Maude who minded the children in the garden, so the adults could gossip. Maude who was always so pleasingly invisible. Maude who’d made a spectacle of herself when she arrived then completely reformed. If only every family could have a poor relation à la Maude, life would be so much simpler. They weren’t talking about me. That was for certain. Eulalie arrived like a comet in the skies. An omen of approaching tidings.

Do you want to leave? I whispered between my teeth. Lady Priscilla Crane stood with her mother Lady Bess. Both wore the latest fashions from London and looked predictably exquisite. Both stared at Eulalie like they might rip the wig right off her head if they weren’t too ladylike to be bothered. Behind the two women stood Major-General George Crane and Thomas Hancock. There would be more Cranes in the party. Barbados was Major-General George Crane’s island, and everyone knew it.

Eulalie was intermittently awful, but she was still family. A little goodwill could go a long way with Eulalie. When she was in a good mood and the world turned just as she liked it, Eulalie was different. Neither kind nor pleasing, but the edges were rounded, and the daggers blunted. Once earned, Eulalie’s loyalty never wavered. She would never hesitate to call me a fool to my face, but if anyone else dared call me a fool then they would have to contend with her wrath.

Whyever would I want to leave? she responded lightly.

The colors must be pretty in her world. She could never foresee the clouds.

Chapter Three

Henry

The problem with being a man with both wealth and a long-buried wife was that every woman in my family looked upon me as a problem to resolve. Being a young widower with money and no heir posed no end of trouble. A debutante with a determined mother was enough to make my heart race and my blood run cold. As the women in my family enjoyed reminding me, I was a catch. No one seemed to care that I had precisely zero interest in ever marrying again.

Every argument presented for why I should marry was just as easily dismissed. Loneliness was a state I embraced. Without someone to love, I had no one to lose. As for my estate, I had a nephew I adored who could have the whole lot and nieces that never objected to the constant stream of gifts I presented to them. The first time he married, my brother George picked a Bostonian woman he’d been happy with until the politics of the revolution drove them apart and her death set him free. His second time around George married for love, which fortunately came with enough money to prop us up for generations. The desire in me to marry was nonexistent. So I wrapped myself in my twelve-year-old tragedy and refused to let anyone knock a crack in my shell.

Not that they didn’t try. There were always parties. This was the constant in my world. Someone, somewhere, was guaranteed to be hosting an event. Not even in Barbados, where my brother George was the vanguard against pirates and Spaniards, was I free from the never-ending round of routs and balls. The only way to avoid this deluge of enforced merriment was to remove myself completely from society. Which I couldn’t do. When I divorced myself from the world of invitations and dance cards that the women in my life ruled like tiny empresses, they became concerned about my well-being. When they became concerned about my well-being, they dragged George into the fussing and the hand-wringing. Involving George in what he termed their incessant yammering and meddling meant he needed to take steps. When George took steps, no one was spared. Especially me. If he suffered, I suffered.

Twelve years of widowerhood taught me that if I wished to enjoy my solitude, the women required humoring. Seven parties through the Season were enough to hold the women off. It took no fewer than six seasons after I returned from my nine-year self-imposed exile in the subcontinent to arrive at this perfect number. Seven parties. Eight encouraged the belief I had found a young miss I was interested in courting. Six implied I had backslid into the sort of behavior that induced the women to involve George in my mental well-being. The one year I tried to get out of my obligation by being chased by a bunch of angry Spaniards through the Río de la Plata ended with the women sitting me down for a firmly worded conversation about my need to rethink my professional trajectory and how my life would be greatly improved by taking a wife.

Seven invitations which I allowed my sister Anne and my niece Martha, both doyennes of the ton, to choose as they so desired. This current season would begin early while I was in Barbados visiting George, his wife Bess, their pack of daughters, and their youngest, my favorite nephew and presumed heir, Arthur. Arthur was the son I would never have. George indulged, and Bess pitied when it came to my devotion to the boy. I got to be the best uncle ever when it came to Arthur. Which included visits as frequently as I could make them to the island paradise the boy knew as home.

Do you have to go to that stupid party tonight? Arthur asked as we sat on the sand counting the waves as they broke. Improving his swimming technique was the focus of this visit. Being a sound swimmer saved my life on more than one occasion. Not that I wanted my nephew to follow in my footsteps and into the darker services of Whitehall. The life I lived was not the life I would choose for someone I loved.

Yes. I rose and gave myself a good dusting.