Steell took the paper, promising to post it up straightaway, and asked the captain, “Will ye take a room tonight?”

“Aye. Thank you. And, if you please, some supper for the sergeant and myself.”

The room, a floor above and at the far end of the house, was vastly quieter. The noise of talk was muted to a constant, raucous murmuring that rose and fell beneath our feet.

Steell knew his clientele. The room was made for men. The walls were lined with dark wood panels, warmly lit by plain brass candle sconces. At the window, simple draperies of striped fabric matched the hangings on the tester bed that dominated the back wall, and by the modest hearth two elbow chairs faced one another over a square table, ready for a meal or conversation or, in our case, both.

The supper sent up to us was a good and simple one—cold chicken and a dish of peas, with bread and butter and a quart of wine to share.

I studied Gordon while I poured my wine. “A shame about your sailors and the mutiny.”

“Aye. Although they’re not entirely to blame. They somehow got it in their heads that we’d be bound for the West Indies next, and that did frighten them.”

“I wonder who began that rumor?”

“I cannot imagine.” He said it with such innocence I knew it had been him.

I told him, “Now you’ll have to spend a week or longer rounding those men up again, and hiring new ones.”

“Definitely longer than a week. I’d be surprised if we were heading north before the middle of the month.”

“And while you wait, our eastern coast sits unprotected,” I said, “at the very moment young King James and his French allies are reportedly preparing their invasion force.”

“Are they?” Gordon raised his eyebrows as he poured his own wine. “That, then, is unfortunate in terms of timing.” With a smile he lifted up his glass and made a toast. “To absent friends. May we be reunited soon.”

I drank, and would have eased into the conversation but he cut straight to the heart of it with, “Tell me about this inquiry of yours.”

While we ate, I summarized, and Gordon nodded.

Then he studied me in turn. “I understood from Henry that you had an interest in one talk I had with Lily Aitcheson.”

“Aye.”

“That you wish to know what we discussed.”

“Aye.”

With another nod, he pushed his plate aside. “In life, you understand, we always say things that we later would take back—a careless insult, or a sharp word thrown in anger. We are none of us immune.” He took his glass in hand and told me, “But in all my life, there are no words I wish to take back more than those I spoke to Lily on that morning.” When his eyes met mine, they held a deep regret. “They caused more harm than I will ever know.”

Chapter 29

Tuesday, 30 November, 1697