Chapter 8 #2
“Emma!” Suddenly, her cousin was upon her, lifting her in his arms and embracing her fully.
He twirled her around until her head spun then set her gently back on her feet.
Unsteady, she latched onto him for leverage, trying to get her heartbeat under control.
Could it be that he’d found Sir Christmas? “It’s been an age,” he exclaimed.
“It has been a fortnight,” she reminded him with a smile.
“Aye. Too long, cousin.” He grinned wickedly and gave her a wink. “Too long.”
How I adore you, Ansell! But curiosity outweighed her adoration. “Any chance—”
“No,” Ansell belted out with frustration.
He stepped back and removed his hat, taking time to look back over his shoulder at the smugglers helping two frail men out of the galley.
He’d sailed in poorer conditions than this, escaped naval patrols from both sides.
What disturbed him? Was it more than fatigue?
Was it— “We brought you two dragoons from Dunkirk. Poor souls. Nearly starved to death.”
“And Sir Christmas?” she asked despite promising herself not to seem overanxious about the man she and her cousin sought. Sir Christmas had already been a French captive longer than most. “Any word of him?”
“Aye.” He pointed at the two starving, emaciated-looking men, as they were guided across the shale shore to the cart that would take them home to Claverfield.
“These men have been transported from Trafalgar to Mauritius and forced to march from Salamanca to Madrid and Dunkirk over the years.” He curled his lip in disgust. “Frenchies don’t keep British prisoners in one place long. ”
The men passed by, gaunt and downtrodden, their uniforms in tatters beneath the greatcoats they’d been supplied. They bobbed their heads in her direction like the gentlemen they’d been born, and she inclined her head to acknowledge them.
“Do they recognize the name? Have they seen him?” she asked.
“No,” Ansell said reaching out to console her with the touch of his hand. It was wet and cold, a testament to what he’d put himself through to cross the English Channel. “But I swear to ye, if he is alive, I will not stop lookin’ until I find him.”
If he is alive. Those four words rocked her, spinning her like a top. Cruel, haunting words that had plagued her for too long, terrifying her to the bone.
He is alive. He must be alive. She couldn’t bear the alternative.
A wintry mix began to fall from the sky, delicate wet snowflakes alighting on her lashes, making it difficult to see, her preoccupied mind blocking out everything, including her cousin’s voice.
Ansell’s swift chase to inform her servants on the runaways’ injuries prohibited her from asking him to repeat himself.
Her cousin meant well. He had a good heart, even if he employed the slyness of a fox to evade customs officers and gaol.
His Cornish wife, Cassia Beaugre Ransome, was just as crafty as he.
They were two of a kind, Ansell and Cassia, their courage and cheerful selflessness providing a wonderful example to anyone they met.
And it was through Emma’s cousin, and his dogged attempts to break tariffs and run contraband from Whitstable to Deal, that she had gained the wherewithal to smuggle her countrymen rather than waiting out the war like a normal female with less fretful thoughts occupying her musings.
If only I were a man. Then I would—
What would she do? She wasn’t a man by God’s design.
She knew that well enough. Nevertheless, there were things she’d learned she could and should provide.
Humane conveniences like medical care, fresh clothing, funds, and sustenance, with enough extra blunt to aid prisoners on their journeys home.
She’d seen to it. Had sworn to finance the rescues of as many captive sailors and soldiers as she could.
Ansell returned to her, his crunching footsteps lively on the shingle beach, his expression tight. The surf crashed like the world around her, its impact penetrating her soul.
“Will you join me for supper?” she asked, hoping he and his men would accept her offer. From the looks of them, they were frozen through and through, and it was almost Christmas Eve. Surely— But Ansell and his crew wouldn’t accept. They never had. That wasn’t their way.
“No time.” He angled his head back to the galley.
“I’ve got a delivery to make in Whitstable and must put in another trip to France before Twelfth Night.
When this storm passes, I intend to sail back to Gravelines.
I’ve got an order for lace, gloves, playin’ cards, silk, leather, brandy, and gin, the usual.
And accordin’ to our two companions, Gravelines was the last place a man meetin’ Astley-Milne’s description was seen. ”
She gasped, ignoring the cold sensation shooting down her throat. “Gravelines?”
“Aye, Emma. Gravelines.” He tilted her face to his, a smattering of snowflakes adhering to his nose and dark eyelashes. His brown eyes bore into her. “This will be me last trip before winter sets in.”
The news sank inside her like a hastily dispatched anchor.
This was the time of year she dreaded most. It was nonsensical leaving Sir Christmas to the French’s whim, and her desire to free him stagnated.
Oh, how she longed to sail a galley to France.
But the English Channel could be deadly at any time of the year, more predictably so during winter months.
“I bet my next load we’re in for a heavy snowfall.
That’s why I’m pressed for time. I would love to stay, Emma, but I must go.
I’ve got a delivery to make by Christmas Eve.
If the Stour River freezes, I’ll be forced inland.
Silt is always a problem. And the Canterbury trail is riddled with traps.
Customs and revenue officers are pressin’ in at an alarmin’ rate.
That is one route I’d prefer to avoid because I’ll woefully regret it if I don’t reach Cassia—”
“And Frau Klaus,” she finished for him, knowing the madam meant the world to Ansell and his wife.
They’d found the ideal hidey hole at Klaus Haus, the brothel the frau had built and operated since she’d arrived from Germany.
“I know how much Klaus Haus means to you and your wife.” She prodded him forward.
“Pray don’t delay. Only . . . do be careful. ”
He winked. “Careful is me middle name.”
“No. It isn’t. It should be ‘reckless.’ I think even Cassia would agree to that.”
Cringing, he said, “If I were reckless, I wouldn’t be in Kent.
Customs officers are closin’ in.” Revenue men were a constant source of worry to those who smuggled in French wares.
“Ye, my sweet cousin, have adopted reckless notions in openin’ yer home to smugglers and aidin’ prisoners of war, not carin’ for yer future or—”
“You have made your point.”
He hugged her close, which was his way. Next, he whispered into her ear, his warm breath tickling her neck. “I knew ye of all people would understand.”
Being held by Ansell invoked memories of her childhood, her mother and uncle, always laughing in each other’s presence.
Good times she would never forget, happy memories that frequented her still.
She hugged him back, holding on as long as possible before Ansell relinquished her to depart.
“Do not give up hope,” he said reassuringly.
“If Astley-Milne is at Gravelines, I’ll bring him home. ”
“Shhh.” She placed her finger over his lips. “You mustn’t promise me this. It’s been so long since his capture.”
“Ye would wait a lifetime if that were what it took, would ye not?”
His question took her aback. She clasped his hands, bursting to clarify her intentions, feeling the stares of his men who were eager to be off. “Whatever it takes, that I will do.”
“Very well,” he said. “Continue to hold on to hope. Have I failed ye yet?”
“No.” She shook her head, smiling even though joy was too far out of reach.
“Thank you, Ansell.” She dropped his hands, sensing the pull of the sea wrapping itself around him.
Before he left, however, she touched his cheek, desiring him to know how much she admired and loved him for all that he’d done for her and the people of Kent.
His skin was cold and wet, but his eyes held a kindling warmth that fortified her spirits.
“Until I return.” He always said this, leaving her feeling more forlorn than she did at her parents’ funerals, the separation of family burning like a hot coal.
Knowing he was sailing off to adventure and dangerous waters made her envious.
Oh, to be a man! Having to stay in Kent made her feel ineffective.
She had a part to play—how, she knew that well—just as Ansell and Cassia did in Canterbury.
“You are the only one who understands I want to make a difference in this world.”
“Ye are. Every. Day.” He caressed her cheek. “Keep the faith. Do what ye can now. Leave the rest to me.” He turned and motioned to his men as he waded out to the galley. His movements lithe and confident, he hopped into the boat and picked up an oar, before bellowing the order, “Heave to.”
As the ship dipped in one swell after another to clear the bay, Emma felt her hopes and dreams merging into one extended nightmare.