Chapter Seven
The Cake House, near the Serpentine, Hyde Park, London
Half-past ten in the morning
Timothy stood on the bank of the Serpentine, near the Cake House, and stared into the dark water.
“That looks cold.” Behind him, Luke stood, with two towels draped over one arm.
“It is April. It will not be warm.” The very thought of how the stinging sensation of dropping into cold water made Timothy shudder, even though his great coat kept him moderately warm at the moment.
Underneath the coat, he wore only his woolen britches and shirt, which was tucked into them.
For many men, ocean swimming happened in the nude, less so with a lake or river.
Since this was a highly public event—to the point of humiliation—Mrs. Dove-Lyon had allowed for some discretion.
Timothy, looking at the water, felt grateful he had worn wool this morning.
Luke shifted the towels, mumbling, “I should have brought a footman. That great coat is a monster.”
Timothy continued to watch the water lapping at the bank. “Just put all of them on the ground. The dew has dried, and they will be a mess when this is over anyway.”
Luke paused, looking around at the gathering crowd.
From the moment the contest had been announced, cheers and jeers had followed the brothers—along with Livingstone and a friend—as they headed out, first in Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s carriage and now as the men waited on the bank.
In the carriage, the four men had remained silent, each looking everywhere and anywhere but at each other.
Now they all stared at the Serpentine, wondering how cold the water was.
Not far from where they waited, the Cake House—a large, white, multi-gabled timber-and-plaster house—loomed over them, a steady stream of customers flowing in and out of its doors, consuming the cheesecakes and other goods sold inside. This added to the raucous atmosphere.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon certainly knows how to entertain a crowd.
Timothy glanced at Livingstone, whose pale face and shuddering shoulders made him appear to be a man about to enter hell.
He fought the urge to encourage the man, in the same way Gordon had encouraged him through the years, but reminded himself that he had threatened to kill Livingstone less than twenty-four hours ago.
A soft splashing sound drew Timothy’s attention as a rowboat eased closer to the bank. On the middle seat, his hands on the oars, sat Titan, who greeted both men with one booming voice.
“Gentlemen! You will board the boat, and I will row you to a deeper section of the river where you will enter the water.
You will tread as long as you can but no longer than an hour.
If you both complete the hour, you will both be returned to shore.
If either of you wishes to stop before that time, lift your arm and I will extend an oar to you and pull you back into the boat.
Do not risk your lives. If you develop a cramp, become too cold, or have any other reason to discontinue, signal me.
“If one of you abdicates, the other must stay in the water another two minutes to complete the task. After this is finished, you will have until noon to return home, dry, change, and return to the Lyon’s Den. Is all this understood?”
Both men nodded.
“Very well,” Titan called. “Let us begin.”
As Timothy and Livingstone doffed their great coats and boots and handed them off, Titan maneuvered the boat closer to the bank, where two more employees of Mrs. Dove-Lyon helped steady it and guide the men aboard.
Timothy sat on the bow seat while Livingstone scrambled to perch on the stern bench.
Using one oar, Titan pushed away from the bank and rowed closer to the middle of the river, a few dozen yards from the Cake House.
He lifted the oars, bracing them inside the hull near a stack of blankets, letting the boat drift slowly.
His voice lower, he spoke to the two men.
“The easiest way to get off a rowboat without tipping us all over is to roll out backwards, each on one side. The water will be cold, so take a deep breath before you go in, so you do not gasp and suck in water when you hit. If at any point you feel as if you are in danger, wave me over. There are two more tasks to follow. You do not have to win this one.” He looked from one man to the other.
“Slowly ease your buttocks up on the gunwales. Rydell to port. Livingstone to starboard.” He paused, then whispered to Livingstone, “Here,” as he patted the starboard gunwale.
“I will count down from three. Remember to take a deep breath on one.”
Timothy slid his rear onto the edge of the boat and waited, taking a long deep breath . . . then over.
A thousand needle pricks stung his exposed skin, and he fought to hold his breath—not to gasp or flail—as he sank.
With his weight and bulk, he had no buoyancy, and he slid down in the water like a cannon ball dropped overboard.
He opened his eyes—the water stinging them as well—to get his bearing.
The water surprised him with its clarity, probably the result of a light current that flowed near the bottom.
Timothy knew the maximum depth of the Serpentine was no more than seventeen feet but here it seemed shallower, as he hit the bottom quickly.
He braced his feet on the silt, bent his legs, looked up to find the shadowy bottom of the rowboat, and pushed off hard, launching himself through the surface in mere seconds. As his head burst free, he shook it, gasped for air, and kicked hard, finding his balance in the water.
Cheers erupted on the bank, as money began changing hands fast and furiously.
As the stings of the first exposure to the cold eased, Timothy felt the chill moving through his muscles, straight into his bones.
He would have to work hard to stay warm and afloat, and he set a rhythm with his kicks—up, out, down, again—with a speed that he knew he could not maintain, especially not for an hour.
He looked around for Livingstone but could not spot him, and he grinned, realizing that sending them off opposite sides of the boat had not just been for balance.
Timothy lay back in the water, his kicks moving him toward the front of the rowboat, then around to the other side. Near the boat’s middle, Livingston struggled, his head dropping below water. He would push up, spitting, his hands slapping the water instead of skimming beneath it.
“No!” Timothy called. “Stop hitting the water! Lay back, float for a moment, until you get your bearings!”
Livingstone stared at him, then nodded, pushing his torso backward. Slowly his feet came to the surface and the man stretched out, panting.
Timothy kicked closer to him. “Catch your breath. You know how to swim?”
Livingstone nodded.
“Then do not panic. You will exhaust yourself. Rest and float for a moment.”
“It’s too cold!” Livingstone’s teeth chattered.
“Catch your breath, then lower your legs. You will have to work to keep from getting too cold. And don’t slap the water. Skim with your hands. Slapping just sends spray for you to choke on.”
Livingstone nodded and appeared to calm his breathing, then let his legs sink as he started to tread.
The cheers on the bank had quieted. Timothy did not care. He had spent too many years on ships to allow another man in the water to swim alone.
He leaned his head back, resting it in the water, as he continued his rhythmic kicks.
His body had slowly adjusted to the temperature, and the constant motion helped keep him warmer than if he were just floating.
Speaking the rhythm would help pass the time and help maintain his focus.
He had been through this before, although in the much warmer coastal waters of South Carolina.
An unexpected wave had caught him unaware and washed him over the rail, the ship leaving him in its wake.
It turned around, of course, to rescue him, but that took time.
He had spent almost an hour in the water, repeating his rhythm, watching for sharks, and saying prayers of gratitude that Gordon had insisted he learn to swim after their first voyage.
At least today no sharks would be lingering nearby.
Time passed. The noise from the riverbank quelled to quieter conversations and random calls to someone on the far bank.
Watching people tread water, Timothy thought, has to be one of the more boring ways to spend a morning.
He let his mind drift, his thoughts wandering over past voyages, his conversations with Luke and their mother.
He had managed to conduct some business yesterday, including a visit with the managers of the gaming hall At Wheel’s End.
Lady Elspeth and how much he wished he could unpin those remarkable locks of red hair.
Run his hands through the tresses. Slowly unlacing her stays. He could almost feel—
An errant splash drew his attention, and Timothy opened his eyes to see Livingstone slip beneath the water. He waited a moment to see if the man would push back to the service, but he did not.
Timothy bellowed, “Titan!” He broke into a swim, reaching Livingstone’s position in seconds. Dropping beneath the service, he spotted Livingstone about five feet down, no longer fighting. Timothy dove below the water, grabbed Livingstone’s arm and kicked for the surface.
He came up directly beside the rowboat, and Titan was there, reaching down to haul Livingstone into the boat. With a quick action, Titan draped Livingstone over the center seat and whacked him hard on the back.
Silence. Timothy hung in the water, fighting to control his own breathing.
Then, suddenly, a fit of coughing exploded from the boat, and cheers went up on the riverbank.
Relief flooded Timothy as Titan urged Livingstone into an upright position, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders.
He looked haunted, his face a pale gray with dark shadows around his eyes.
His gaze remained unfocused, as if he were staring into an unknown future.
Timothy pushed away from the boat, continuing to tread water, as Titan tended to Livingstone, giving him another blanket and producing a tin cup of water from somewhere. After a few minutes, Titan, apparently assured that Livingstone was no longer about to keel over, motioned to Timothy.
“Rydell. Let us get you back in the boat. Come in at the stern, center, and I’ll balance the boat.”
They achieved this with little effort, and Timothy had seldom felt so relieved for the comfort of a seat and a blanket.
Back at the riverbank, the same men who had helped them in also helped them out, and Timothy exchanged his blanket for a good scrubbing with the towels and a return to his great coat and boots.
As he fastened the last button on his coat, he looked around, draping one of the towels over his shoulder. “Where is Lady Elspeth?”
Luke snatched the towel back. “That is wet, fool.”
“Everything about me is wet. Where is Lady Elspeth?”
“I did not see her. I heard that she watched the competition from one of the windows in the Cake House.”
Timothy glanced at the Cake House, at the many windows that overlooked the Serpentine. Of course. The perfect place to watch the competition in a bit of privacy and peace.
Titan joined them. “We must return to Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s carriage. It will take you home. Your instructions are to reconvene at the Lyon’s Den precisely at noon.”
He walked behind them as the four men trudged to the waiting carriage. Livingstone still looked wan, and he needed help to get in. He sat heavily across from Timothy, his shoulders sagging. After a moment, he took a shuddering breath.
“Rydell. Thank you.” His scratchy, hoarse words hung in the air.
Nothing Timothy could think of seemed adequate. Or appropriate.
Luke, apparently, did not have the same qualms. “The water was far too cold for such a competition. It should not have happened.”
Timothy glared at Luke, but Livingstone actually chuckled. “I am a strong swimmer. In summer. In Brighton. My pride convinced me it would not matter.”
Timothy nodded. “Cramp?”
Livingstone ran his hand along his abdomen. “I expected my legs to cramp. Instead, it happened here, and faster than I would have believe. It hit, and I went under.”
“I have seen that happen. There is no recovery from it.”
Luke snarled again. “The water was too bloody cold.”
The carriage rolled to a stop and one of the footmen opened the door. “Mr. Livingstone.”
With a sigh, Livingstone left the carriage, glancing back once at Timothy. Then the door closed and rolled forward again.
Timothy peered at Luke, studying him, an interesting suspicion crossing his mind.
Luke noticed the stare. “What?”
“Did this frighten you?”
His brother exploded. “Fucking bloody Christ on the cross, you maniacal rotter! When I saw you go under, I almost lost my fucking mind! I almost went in after you! When you left here, you could barely stay afloat, flopping about on your back like a beached seal! What were you thinking!”
“Ah. Did I forget to tell you that Gordon taught me how to swim?”
“I will run you through with a bloody saber.”
“You just do not wish to explain to Mother how and why I drowned.”
“Also that.” Luke crossed his arms and pushed back into the corner of the cushion in a magnificent pout.
Timothy grinned. “I apologize for not telling you sooner. But we were not in the water that long.”
Luke’s eyebrows arched. “Is that a joke?”
Timothy smile vanished. “No. It did not seem—”
“More than thirty minutes.”
Timothy stared at him. “Not possible.”
“Oh, yes, brother, very possible. The betting on the bank had shifted from ‘who would last longest’ to ‘how long could they possibly last.’ You were a favorite, but people had gotten bored and wandered off. You looked enthralled.”
“I was just dwelling on things. Business. The last voyages.”
“Lady Elspeth?”
Timothy felt his cheeks heat. “Perhaps.”
Luke gave a long sigh. “Well, let us hope the next test to not send us all into apoplexy.”