Flight of the Earls Page 8

  Clare didn’t like the idea of being separated from her brother again. “Do you think this wise?”

  “Seamus is right.” Pierce’s eyes widened as he gazed at the activity of the bustling street, noisy with the trots of horse buggies and the shouts of vendors. “The longer we stay in the city, the more we’ll spend what little we don’t have.”

  Pierce reached into his pack and pulled out a wallet. After fumbling through it, he pulled out several bills and extended them to Seamus. “My father said it should cost about ten quid per passage. Here’s ten for me and a few more.”

  “Well?” Seamus held out his hand to Clare.

  She hesitated for a moment and then reached into her pack as well. Liam had given her the full treasury and made her promise not to leave it with her brother. But her father was not here and Seamus would need to be trusted at some point on the journey. It might as well start now.

  She carefully counted out twenty-five pounds and handed it to Seamus, feeling as if she had just given him the air they would need to breathe. She looked back into her purse. There would be little for supplies, let alone something to hold them over when they landed in America.

  “We’ll need to be prudent,” she said to Pierce.

  “We won’t starve. My father gave me enough for there and back.”

  “What’s yours is yours,” Clare said.

  “And what’s mine is mine to do what I want with it,” Pierce said sternly.

  “All right you two.” Seamus folded the bills in his leather pouch, which he tucked away in his tunic. “Pierce, you have my blessing to spend all of your pa’s money on me. My sister’s portion of your generosity as well. Now, where to meet?” He panned the marketplace. “There. Let’s gather at the tavern across the way before sunset. Perhaps your dear father will pay for a pint while he’s in the mood of generosity.”

  With that, Seamus tipped his cap to them and then scurried into the crowd.

  “Hey, you left your pack,” Pierce shouted after him. He turned to Clare. “Can you believe your brother?”

  Clare smiled. “Ah. It’s well he’s traveling light.”

  Pierce stumbled as he tried to hoist the two packs over his shoulder. “It’s a fine thing for him, I’ll say.”

  Clare looked back in the direction where Seamus had disappeared, and her eyes sought out one last glimpse of her brother among the throbbing of disquieted humanity.

  But he was gone and Clare’s brows bent.

  Chapter 9

  Shamrock’s Lair

  In her entire life, Clare had never stepped into a tavern. An unusual feat considering how her father considered the pub an extension of home. But Grandma Ella always told her a lady shouldn’t enter a place where drink eroded the character and restraint of men.

  For Clare, it reminded her of all she detested in her father: his anger, his drowning in bitterness, and his cruelty to her mother and siblings. She found nothing amusing nor admirable in Seamus’s antics, even though he wore his patronage of stout as a badge.

  Yet upon entering the Shamrock’s Lair, Clair was surprised to experience a surging spirit of adventure. There was something about being away from home in an establishment full of lost souls, villainous characters, and treasure-eyed travelers that gave her an odd sense of merry fellowship.

  This brief euphoria was stunted as a wave of warm, moist air met her nostrils, the musty smells of spilled beer, spoiled seafood, and body odor.

  Clare felt as if every gnarled face was ogling her as she entered, and she clung to Pierce’s arm for protection. He escorted her to the back of the room, close to a fire that vibrated with voluptuous dances.

  Pierce flopped his two packs against the brick wall. “Ah. I’ll never feel me shoulders again.” They sat on two tall, knotty oak stools. “Your brother done me good this time.”

  Clare was preoccupied. “Did we spend foolishly? We’re nearly drained.” Clare rubbed the muscles on her back where the straps of her bag had pressed.

  The redhead pulled up another stool and used it to prop his feet to tie his muddy boots. “The passage requires two months of supplies. We may be short, in fact.”

  “Isn’t that part of our passage? Don’t they feed us properly?” Clare’s scalp burned and she dug at it with her nails.

  Pierce waved at the matron, who seemed too pleased to ignore him. “Some moldy bread and perhaps a taste of briny, old cod. My father said to bring our own or starve.”

  “With the cost of those tickets, you’d expect meals served on silver.”

  “Expectations. Hah! You better shake those.” Pierce shot up his hand. “Miss, do you think we could get some attending?”

  The haggard woman approached with a rising fury and a bosom bursting from the seams of her apron. “Well, aren’t you a chappy, young fellow? And supposing you mend your manners, or you can get your attending elsewhere.”

  “There’s no hurry,” Clare said.

  “We’ll have two of the house stews, a couple of dark pints, and a cup of tea for the lady.” Pierce canted his head. “Could you bring some crackers as well?”

  “Oh. You’ll get your crackers.” The woman spun and weaved away through the crowd.

  Placing her arms on the table, Clare felt stickiness and retreated. In a spill of some prior patron’s beer, a flying insect flailed in an effort to free itself. She used her finger to slide the pool and its unfortunate swimmer off the side of the table.

  There was a holler from the other end of the bar, and two rogues began to shove one another as a half-clad woman, the evident target of their dispute, pleaded for peace with drunken shrills.

  Clare shuddered, silently thanking Grandma Ella for her counsel. “Is this how they all are?”

  “What?”

  “You know?” She waved her eyes across the room.

  Pierce laughed. “These taverns? Oh. The night’s early. Just coming to life. It gets much better.”

  “Lovely. Something to look forward to.”

  The stout and tea arrived shortly, and between sips they entertained themselves by observing the theater of the room. Soon, their waitress slammed down two overflowing bowls of mackerel stew, which was rich and flavorful.

  All the while Clare sensed Pierce had serious conversation to broach, and she parried it with light commentary as long as possible, hoping her brother would arrive to claim his stool and drink.

  “What about you?” he finally said, his voice cracking.

  “What about me?”

  “What we’re doing. This voyage. What are you hoping for?”

  This was a question Clare hadn’t thought much of until now. She knew there was an answer more complex and truthful but instead replied, “I hope my journey brings me home soon. Back to family. Isn’t that your desire as well?”

  Pierce gazed at her deeply, then laughed quietly, looking into his mug for strength.

  “It’s dusk,” Clare spurted. “Where’s my brother?”

  “You remember the day. You know. Little Kevan.”

  A flush spread across her body, the one she experienced every time she thought of her brother’s drowning.

  “Seamus—”

  She broke in. “That’s not kind remembering.”

  “Wait,” Pierce said, with eyes watering. “It’s been years for me to mention. To tell you this.”

  Clare nodded.

  Pierce ran his finger around the lid of his glass. “The way you covered for Seamus. I’ll never forget that day.”

  “I wish you would. It was no favor to Seamus. My father would have killed him had he known Seamus was supposed to be minding Kevan for me.” Clare felt the turgid emotions of her past surfacing. “I knew my father would merely hate me for it.”

  Pierce handed her a handkerchief, and she snat
ched it and wiped her tears away.

  “Only you know this, Pierce Brady, and if you care for me, for Seamus, you won’t mention this again.”

  “Yes,” Pierce breathed. “I was there.” He took a drink of his stout, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, which was shaking. “I saw courage in you that day. A kindness. Far beyond your beauty. That’s when I knew.”

  A sinking came over Clare’s stomach and she felt trapped at the table. What was it about Pierce that made her feel so uncomfortable? He was strong and kind enough in spirit and wasn’t the only one who fancied her. Was she destined to be a spinster due to her own obstinacy?

  “I have strong feelings for you, Clare, that I can’t deny. I don’t wish to deny any longer.”

  Some commotion and a braying of laughter emanated from the front of the tavern and Clare was grateful for the distraction. She strained her neck to see above the thickening crowd.

  Above the tangled fray of arms heavy in conversations, a man leapt onto the bar and waved and clamored for attention. He was short enough to stand erect without hitting his graying head on the ceiling, but when he spoke, his voice bellowed through the cacophony.

  “Here ye, ladies and kind sirs.” When few minded him, he raised the sound a level and slapped his palm on the ceiling. “Your attention for a wee moment. May we converse? I’ll keep it ever so brief.”

  A shout came from the back of the room. “Sit down, you old beggar.”

  Unmoved, the man continued. “A few tender words and I’ll be gone. I am here to present to you the great Captain James Starkey . . .”

  Feral laughter splattered the room as fingers pointed at the captain, an ancient man who stood beside his presenter, dressed sharply in all of Her Majesty’s full naval regalia.

  “Skipper. Has the sea given you back your wits?”

  Eruptions of heckling ensued.

  Clare’s heart sank for the old man, who looked like a character pulled from the pages of so many perilous books she devoured. In his stoicism, with the medals on his jacket preening, he appeared undamaged by the insults. Either he was shielded by the kindness of senility or perhaps had fought too many greater battles against tempests, whales, and pirates.

  The barker pounded on the ceiling again. The crowd silenced itself, possibly seeking more fodder for their cruel mockery. “We are most pleased to announce the fortuitous availability of nearly a dozen places on the Sea Mist, leaving dock for open waters in the morning. She’s a sound brigantine, this one, with a proud history as a once-esteemed member of the royal fleet.”

  “It should be called the Sea Bottom,” someone shouted.

  “Make sure you go down with ’er, old man.”

  The patrons grumbled and waved arms at them in disinterest, returning to their own conversations.

  Fighting obscurity in the clatter, the barker shouted, “We break at dawn, to a land of opportunity. Wealth, jobs, and a better life awaits you!”

  “Get down, you old blowhard!” was heard as a few wrestled the man down from the counter to the floor.

  Clare felt for the man and his captain, but something shifting toward her in the crowd stole her attention. Straining to see around the mass of bodies, she saw a familiar green jacket, tall hat, and unmistakably bouncy gait. Pence. And after meeting her gaze, he burrowed his way through with even more determination.

  “Well. Look who’s here to collect his due,” Clare said, and turned to see Pierce shifting from doleful contemplations.

  “I’ll square up with the boy for you,” Pierce said in a defeated tone.

  “Miss Clare, Miss Clare,” Pence burst out as he approached.

  She reached into her purse and started to sift through her coins. “I know, Pence. My brother treated you shamefully . . .”

  “No, Miss Clare.” He took off his hat, pulled a dirty handkerchief from his coat pocket, and wiped the sweat off his brow. His breathing was heavy. “I’m not here to settle. It’s the other man. Your brother, right?”

  Clare’s pulse soared. “What about my brother?”

  He lofted her pack on his shoulder. “Come, Miss Clare. We shan’t tarry. He’s in the thickets, he is.”

  Chapter 10

  Game of Chance

  Out of the dank warmth of the Shamrock’s Lair, they splashed into the coolness of a moonless night. As Pence sped through the dimly lit roads like a jackrabbit through a country field, Clare labored behind under the burden of Seamus’s pack, which was much heavier than hers.

  Racing through the city toward the harbor, Clare worried for a moment that Pence might be misleading them toward a retaliatory ambush. She saw justice in this possibility but didn’t believe it to be in the boy’s character.

  “Where are you taking us?” Pierce appeared less convinced of the purity of their guide’s motives.

  “Come,” Pence pleaded. “There is no time for gabbery. Miss Clare, tell your friend. We may be too late as it ’tis.”

  The seriousness of his tone convicted Clare and apparently Pierce as well as they trailed without further protest the remainder of the way. They dodged horse carriages, late-night romancers, and a scattered army of miscreants who swaggered, peered from alleyways, and ogled them conspiratorially as the three scurried by them.

  As they went deeper in their journey, Clare smelled the fishy odors of the approaching shores, and the lonely echoes of night gulls increased in intensity. Pence banked off the main road, sifting through darker, decrepit alleyways, prompting her suspicions to return.

  At last, as they neared a corner, Pence halted, motioned them to a stop, and signaled for silence.

  “Pence saw your brother in that building,” whispered the boy. “Don’t be seen or they’ll skin us all.”

  Clare processed the severity of his words as she peered around the corner, gasping to recover her breath. Filtering through walls, into the streets, was the cruel waggery of drunken rogues. The two-story building was a brooding residence, with ragged fabric flapping from the windows. It leaned like a hunchback in pain, needing only a strong gust to topple it to ruins. A flickering light shone mutely through filthy glass, causing the figures inside to appear as distorted apparitions.

  “Where is Seamus?” Clare asked.

  “Not certain. Been following your brother. Yes. Sorry, Miss Clare. Looking for the chance to take what he owed Pence.”

  “That’s not to blame,” she said.

  “Not long when he came to port, Pence saw ’em being met by the O’Donnell brothers.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Thieves of the worst sort,” Pence said. “Swindling the farmies is sport to ’em. Cruel as you can imagine.”

  “What was Seamus doing here?” Pierce said.

  “Cards. Bones. Games of chance. Doesn’t matter. Just a cat toying with the mouse. Not sure why they don’t rob ’em and be done with it.”

  Pierce put his hand on his forehead. “He had all of our passage fare.”

  “Don’t even whisper that,” Clare said. “The trip will be ruined.”

  “We’ll be finished. We got to take it back.”

  The boy grabbed him by the arm. “You didn’t hear Pence. He might be dead, and you’ll be too. As well as Miss Clare.”

  Just then the wooden door of the building creaked open, and two men with lanterns argued as they headed toward them.

  “Hide!” Pence whispered urgently. “They’re coming.”

  Pierce ushered Clare toward a crevice in the alleyway, which offered barely enough space for them to tuck in with their packs. Once settled, Clare was horrified to see Pence reclining against the wall with his arms folded, the pack he was carrying for her beside him.

  The rancor approached.

  “You’re a liar and you always have been. There was no less than twen
ty quid on the table the other day, and if Billy knew you pinched him, he’d run you through and pull out your guts. I’m inclining to tell ’em meself.”

  The two figures rounded the corner into view, illuminated by the lantern held by the man who was speaking; who was stocky, bald, and raven faced.

  “Who goes there?” he said, startled by Pence. “Why are you lurking about?”

  “It’s just the orphan boy,” said the other man, whose face was scarred from eye to lip.

  “It’s just Pence, Mr. O’Donnell,” the boy said to the bald man while stepping into their light.

  Mr. O’Donnell grasped Pence by the collar and put a knife to his neck. “Wanna join your mam and pa?”

  Clare could feel Pierce’s muscles tensing, and she held him back with all her strength while fighting her own instinct to leap to the boy’s defense.

  “I’m just here to collect what’s due,” the boy said with surprising calm.

  Mr. O’Donnell spat out a hacking laugh at Pence’s gravitas. “Due to you? We owe you something, laddie?”

  “No sir.” Pence edged his neck away from the blade. “It’s the farmie. The man named Seamus. He owes five pence, he does.”

  “Is that so?” Mr. O’Donnell grinned as he put his knife in his pocket. “What’s in the pack?”

  “It belongs to the farmie. Pence is keeping it ’til he pays.”

  Mr. O’Donnell snickered and with a wave the scarred man grabbed the pack. “We’ll help you keep him honest, laddie.”

  Clare sighed deeply. Her entire life was in that bag. But it was the least of her worries.

  “Would you mind tellin’ me where Pence can find him then?”

  The scarred man knocked Pence’s hat off. “We’ll ask the questions.”

  “Ah. We’ll give you that, orphan,” Mr. O’Donnell said. “For a few pence, ’tis all.”

  “That’s what he owes me.” Pence seemed conflicted but relented, pulling out a leather pouch and beginning to count out some coins before it was yanked from his grasp.