Six
By mid-afternoon, Anna swore she’d polished every piece of silver in the house.
The punch ladle made Anna’s face look like a warped ghost with a pointed chin and very tired eyes. She set it down on the table and stopped using it as a mirror.
“I think you missed a spot,” Mercy said, peering over her shoulder.
Anna rolled her eyes and handed her the ladle. “It’s clean enough to show me how much I dislike polishing it.”
Mercy leaned closer and studied her own reflection. “Good heavens, I look like a turnip.”
Anna smiled and went back to polishing another piece of silver.
Across the dining room, Mrs. Fenwick counted wineglasses, which apparently was not going the way she liked. She kept starting over with a huff. No doubt she had other things on her mind. Who didn’t?
The Whitby ball was tomorrow, and all the servants were in a flurry of activity.
Rugs had been beaten, floors waxed, curtains shaken and rehung, and then criticized by Mrs. Fenwick.
Anna lost count of how many times Elias carried chairs from one room to another until Mrs. Pembroke decided they looked better where they’d started.
Poor Elias.
Unfortunately for Anna, she didn’t escape Mrs. Pembroke’s ridiculous instructions either.
She’d been sent from the dining room to the pantry, to the storeroom, to the sewing room, and back so many times she suspected Mrs. Pembroke wasn’t preparing for a ball, but trying to wear a path through the house.
And through it all, the brown cloak had not reappeared. If it had, would the locket still be in it?
Anna told herself the missing cloak was good. It meant that if Mrs. Pembroke had removed it, whatever task she’d set in motion had likely been completed. The locket was no longer Anna’s concern. None of it should occupy her thoughts while she polished spoons and counted glassware.
Unfortunately, the locket seemed to be lodged in her mind. So did Nathaniel Reed, of all things. The man was so annoying, and he wasn’t even in the house.
“You’re doing it again,” Mercy sang.
Anna looked up. “Doing what?”
“Thinking.”
“Thinking is not a crime, Mercy.”
“I don’t know,” Mercy said. “In this house, I’m beginning to think it is.”
Mrs. Fenwick lifted her head. “Less chattering, you two, and more polishing. If Captain Whitby is determined to blind his guests with our silver, I intend the glare to be so strong it damages his eyesight. Not that it will work.”
“Yes, Mrs. Fenwick,” Mercy said sweetly, trying not to laugh.
The front bell jangled. Everyone in the room went still.
Mrs. Fenwick closed her eyes. “If that is more officers, I shall put arsenic in the custard and call it a mercy.”
“You will do no such thing,” Anna said.
Mrs. Fenwick smiled. “No, but it pleases me to imagine it.” She pointed toward the front hall. “Anna, see who it is. Mercy, stop breathing on the punch glasses.”
Mercy took a step back from the glasses and clasped her hands behind her back.
Anna smiled and hurried toward the entry hall. Elias had reached the door and was opening it to two men in rough-looking coats carrying a wooden crate between them. A third man stood behind them with a folded paper in his hands.
“Delivery from Mr. Sloane,” the man said. “For Captain Whitby’s gathering.”
Elias glanced at the crate, then at Anna. She’d no more authority over deliveries than he did. “What is it?” she asked.
“Wine, candles, lamp oil, and a few other things ordered this morning,” the man said.
Lamp oil. It made her think of barrels marked as oil.
“Set it in the hall,” Elias ordered.
The two men carried the crate inside and set it down with a heavy thud.
Anna tried to remain expressionless. It sounded too heavy for candles. Perhaps not for wine, but it was only one crate, and one crate was not enough for thirty-five guests.
The man with the paper held it out. “This requires a signature.”
“Mrs. Pembroke signs for the household,” Elias said.
“Captain Whitby signs for the order,” the man shot back.
Anna sighed. “Captain Whitby is in the parlor.”
The man’s eyes flicked to her. “Then fetch him,” he snapped.
Anna didn’t like his tone. She liked it even less when he glanced down the hall as if trying to see how the house was arranged.
“I’ll tell him,” Elias said.
“No need,” a voice called from the staircase.
Lieutenant Rothborne descended the stairs with the pale-haired officer, whose name Anna still didn’t know. The man’s mouth was pinched as usual as he followed Rothborne.
Rothborne looked at the crate. “From Mr. Sloane?”
“Yes, sir,” the delivery man said.
Rothborne took the paper, scanned it, and gave a curt nod. “Leave it.”
“I still need the captain’s signature, sir,” the man said.
Rothborne gave him a cold stare. “And do you require Captain Whitby’s hand to tell you what my mouth already has?”
The delivery man stiffened. “No, sir.”
“Then go,” Rothborne barked.
The man left with more speed than politeness allowed. Elias closed the door and looked at Rothborne. “Where would you like it taken, sir?”
“The storeroom for now,” Rothborne said. “Not the kitchen.”
Anna lowered her gaze. Mrs. Fenwick saw everything that went on in her kitchen, and Mercy asked questions without meaning to.
The pale-haired officer crouched beside the crate and tapped it with one finger. “Be careful with it, won’t you? We wouldn’t want any of the wine bottles broken.”
Anna reached for one of the side handles. “Elias, I’ll help you.”
“No.” Rothborne’s voice cut through the hall. His gaze locked onto her. “Leave it.”
She straightened and folded her hands in front of her. “Yes, sir.”
Elias looked torn between relief and fear.
The pale-haired officer bent closer to Rothborne and lowered his voice. “If the case goes with the rest after the ball, it must be marked before dark.”
“Careful,” Rothborne murmured.
Anna stared at the floorboards and didn’t dare move.
The pale-haired officer’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The packet names the vessel. If it is misplaced, Major Ellis will have our hides.”
Rothborne made a growling sound. “It will not be misplaced.”
“They say the captain should have burned it after reading.”
Rothborne’s voice dropped further, but she was still standing close enough to hear bits and pieces.
Kingfisher. South Wharf. Friday. After the tide turns.
Anna fought the urge to twist the end of her apron while memorizing the words.
“And the barrels,” the pale-haired officer said. “Marked as oil, as planned.”
“Now hold your tongue before I cut it out,” Rothborne hissed.
Anna’s stomach tightened.
Rothborne turned to Elias. “You. Fetch one of the footmen.”
“We have no footmen, sir,” Elias reminded him.
Rothborne glared daggers at him.
Elias cleared his throat. “I mean, I shall fetch help at once, sir.”
“Do so,” Rothborne growled.
Elias hurried away.
Anna remained where she was, hoping to be dismissed and trying very hard not to repeat the words she’d heard aloud.
Kingfisher. South Wharf. Friday. After the tide turns...
The pale-haired officer glanced her way. “Why are you still here?”
Thank goodness! She curtsied. “Waiting to know if I am needed, sir.”
“You are not.”
“Yes, sir.” She turned and walked back toward the dining room, careful not to hurry. She made it as far as the turn in the hall before Mrs. Pembroke appeared. So much for hanging onto her composure. Mrs. Pembroke was sure to crack it.
“There you are, Anna. I’ve been searching for you.”
Anna glanced over her shoulder. “Ma’am?”
Mrs. Pembroke shifted past her toward the entry hall. “Try not to look like a rabbit in a fox’s parlor. It encourages pursuit.”
Anna swallowed hard. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Pembroke took her by the elbow and steered her into the small morning room. Once inside, she closed the door.
“Ma’am, there was a delivery from Mr. Sloane,” Anna told her.
“So I heard.”
“A crate,” she offered.
Mrs. Pembroke took on a thoughtful look. “Yes, yes, I know.”
“Lieutenant Rothborne said it was not to go to the kitchen,” Anna added.
Mrs. Pembroke pinched the bridge of her nose. “Which is how I know it contains something more interesting than wine, my dear.”
She stared at her as Mrs. Pembroke crossed to a small writing table near the window. “All right, dear. Out with it. What did you hear?”
The question was so direct, Anna forgot to pretend she’d heard nothing.
Before she knew it, she was spouting off the words.
“The ship is called Kingfisher. South Wharf. Friday after the tide turns. Barrels marked as oil. There’s a packet in the crate that names the vessel, or perhaps came with the vessel’s name. I am not certain which.”
To her surprise, Mrs. Pembroke opened a drawer and removed a tiny square of thin parchment. “Excellent.”
Anna blinked. “Excellent, ma’am?”
“Useful intelligence is rarely comfortable, dear. If it were, men would share it over breakfast and save us all a great deal of trouble.”
Anna’s gaze dropped to the parchment. “What are you doing?”
Mrs. Pembroke looked almost affronted. “What do you think I am doing?”
Anna straightened. “I don’t know, ma’am, but I’m fairly certain I shall dislike it.”
Mrs. Pembroke’s expression warmed with approval. “Your instincts, Anna child, are improving.” She reached into the drawer again and removed the locket.
Anna’s breath caught.
The silver lay against Mrs. Pembroke’s palm, just as beautiful as before and far more dangerous than any pistol Anna had ever seen. “You said it was gone.”
“I said nothing of the kind.”
Anna swallowed hard. “You implied it.”
“You assumed,” Mrs. Pembroke said accusingly, “and as assumptions are private little catastrophes, I cannot be held responsible for yours.” Mrs. Pembroke placed the locket on the writing table. “Sit, Anna.”
Anna did.
Mrs. Pembroke handed her the parchment and a quill. “Make your letters very small.”
Anna stared at the blank scrap of paper. “Ma’am?”
“Kingfisher, South Wharf, Friday, tide, oil barrels. That should do, dear.”
Anna’s heart pounded. “You want me to write a message?”