Turmoil on the Thames, page 3
“Yes, aren’t they?” Annabel replied. It felt decidedly odd to be discussing Freddy with him.
“I suspect, however, that they have their mother’s brains. Your late husband may have been the best of good fellows, but he could be thick as a plank at times, regrettably.”
Annabel glanced up at him, but there was no ironical quirk to his expression. How was she supposed to respond to such a statement, especially as she was in complete accord with it? “His intentions were good,” was all she could think of to say.
“You are kind enough to not speak ill of the dead. I have fewer such compunctions. I don’t know that I can ever forgive him—” He stopped speaking, instead staring into the distance across the river, his lips compressed.
Annabel blinked at the bitterness in his voice. Forgive what? What could Freddy have ever done to him? She waited for him to finish, but he remained unwontedly silent, so she sighed and tried to think of something else to say. “I do hope the boys will be careful. Those boats look so fragile.”
“The river should be past its spring spate by now,” Lord Quinceton said in a much more normal tone. “Nothing to be concerned about.” He smiled reminiscently. “I remember being out in one when it wasn’t. Fortunately, my mother was not there to see me.”
“Why am I not surprised to learn that you were an incorrigible child?”
“I beg your pardon, madam, but I was no such thing. In that particular instance, in fact, I was victim rather than perpetrator—and a fortunate one. The river was in a forgiving mood that day, and we made it to shore unharmed if in a damper condition than when we were launched by a group of fourth form boys who thought it would be a capital joke to send a group of first years out without oars.”
“Good heavens. I hope that sort of behavior is no longer permitted.” Annabel shuddered as she gazed out at the river. Although Will and Martin might not mind such japes—they were, in that respect, very much their father’s sons—she certainly found them alarming. She looked again at Will’s boat and frowned; was the water flowing a little faster than it had been moments before? But no, that could not be.
“It wasn’t permitted then, either. If it makes you feel better, I am under the impression that that sort of tomfoolery has lessened somewhat since my day.”
“I should hope so! Well, Gus, and how are you?” she said kindly as Augustus Blackburn hurried over to them, his eyes fastened on her worshipfully.
“I’m very well, Lady Fellbridge.” He bowed. “Is Martin with you?”
“I’m afraid Martin decided to go to the picnic field in my carriage.”
“Oh.” His face fell, and she wondered if he and the boys had had a falling out. Was that why Martin had insisted on leaving without him? But Gus straightened his shoulders and said, “Then I ought to get started.” He started to turn away, then hesitated. “Will—will you be there, ma’am?”
“Yes, Gus, and I hope you’ll join our picnic. Will and Martin’s grandparents are here as well.”
“Oh, thank you!” For a moment she thought he would fling his arms around her. Poor creature, he probably did not receive many hugs. Then he bowed again, grinning happily, and joined the surge of boys streaming toward the river path.
“A friend, I take it?” Lord Quinceton said.
“My sons’ friend, Gus Blackburn.” She didn’t elaborate, hoping he would not recall Maria’s rashly blurted explanation about Gus’s being the culprit in the voucher-forging incident several weeks ago. The boy had already grown since April; Annabel remembered their conversation about affording new coats and was glad that for a few years at least his basic wants would be met. Perhaps his father could be recalled to his responsibilities before the money Gus had accumulated ran out.
“Ah. So that’s Master Blackburn,” Lord Quinceton said. “I trust the child has avoided further criminal activity?”
Drat it, he remembered. “He didn’t commit a crime. Well, not an actionable one anyway,” she amended. “And what he did was understandable under the circumstances.”
Just then, a shouted “Oy!” made her look up—and gasp. The boats already on the river (some were still drawn up to the bank awaiting guest passengers) were rocking and heaving as if under a heavy swell. Boys frantically worked their oars, trying to keep the narrow craft from capsizing in the sudden waves rolling down the river.
“William!” She pulled away from Lord Quinceton. What had happened to roil the river so suddenly? A moment ago it had been calm and sparkling gently in the sun—
A hand closed on her shoulder, halting her. “Be still, Fellbridge,” Lord Quinceton said in her ear.
“My son is out there!”
“And just what do you think you can do for him?”
Her breath caught in her throat. Oh, a pox on him for being right!
But as she watched, straining despite herself against Lord Quinceton’s iron grip on her arm, the river quickly subsided, looking once more like a river and not like the Channel in a tempest, and the boats stopped threatening to capsize. She anxiously scanned them until she spotted Will, still safely seated if a little scared looking. “I thought you said the river was past its spring spate?” she said, her voice shaky.
Lord Quinceton released her arm. He was watching the surface of the river closely. “It is. What did you see?”
“Wasn’t it obvious?”
“I have a reason for asking. Be precise, please.”
She restrained an impulse to argue and reviewed the images in her mind. “I…don’t know. It—it’s foolish, but…it looked almost as if the surface of the water was trying to shake the boats off as a horse does a fly. But that’s—” She shook her head. “What did you see?”
He was still watching the river. “More or less what you did.”
“I didn’t know rivers did that sort of thing.”
“They don’t, usually.”
“Then what—”
“I don’t know. Unless…” A frown drew his brows down. “No. They couldn’t have forgotten,” he muttered.
“Who?” Again, perhaps it was being a Lady Patroness, but she had the distinct impression that there was something odd going on here…and that he knew something about it. “Forgotten what?”
He stared out at the river for a moment longer, then seemed to come to a decision. “Are you up to a brisk walk?”
“What, immediately? Can’t we watch the start of the procession?”
“I think it would be best if we leave now, so that we may keep the boats in view.”
Ah. So there was something going on. She looked again at the boats full of laughing boys, already recovered from their scare a moment before. “I am, if you will tell me what is concerning you about the river.”
He smiled as he led her toward the path Gus had taken. “But my dear Fellbridge, you have not been very forthcoming when I have asked similar questions recently.”
“I—I have not always been at liberty to answer questions that concern other people’s affairs.”
He looked down at her and raised an eyebrow. “Nor am I.”
She took a breath. “Lord Quinceton, I must ask you to tell me if there something amiss with the river. If there is, I think I deserve to know about it. My elder son is in a boat upon it as we speak.”
They had overtaken a rowdy knot of fifth formers on the path, a couple of them on what looked like borrowed cart-horses. The marquis steered them past the boisterous, incongruously flower-bedecked group without speaking. When they were no longer in earshot, he said quietly, “I fear that there’s something amiss with the Tamesian Potamides.”
“The what?”
“Tamesian Potamides.” He looked at her sideways. “Also known as the river nymphs of the Thames.”
Annabel was careful not to allow her expression to change. River nymphs? Was he hoaxing her?
But no: she had always been truthful with him, even if she hadn’t always been forthcoming with all of the truth. She somehow knew that he was according her the same courtesy. And if he believed—no, if he knew that there were river nymphs in the Thames, it would explain why he’d been so accepting of the book demons and Sirens she’d discussed with him. How he knew about these river nymphs—now that would be an interesting topic for discussion.
“I was not aware that the Thames had resident nymphs,” she said—remarkably calmly, she thought.
“All of Britain’s rivers have them. They only become of concern when the river is navigable. There is a crown officer whose duty it is to”—he paused—“to maintain cordial relations with the inhabitants of rivers upon which human commerce takes place, most specifically the Thames. If the Thames nymphs are happy, it seems their sisters in other rivers are as well. With the occasional exception, of course.”
“Really? Which officer is that?” She examined him carefully; from the lack of a certain look in his eye, she was reasonably certain he was not hoaxing her. Did the Lady Patronesses know about this? There were a number of crown officials whose duties and titles went back hundreds of years, the reasons for their existence now almost lost in history. Perhaps this was one of those.
“It’s not one you’ll have heard of. The office of the King’s Maintenancer of the Tamesian Potamides is not frequently discussed, for obvious reasons.”
The King’s—heavens, that was a mouthful. “How do you know about it, then?”
“My grandfather held it under George II. It’s not a sinecure as are some of the other old offices. The King’s Maintenancer is an envoy. He is supposed to meet with the Thames nymphs sometime in early spring and negotiate an annual tribute to avert excessive spring flooding and guarantee human safety on the rivers for the year. Within reason, of course. If some drunken lout falls off a bridge on his way home from the pub and drowns, that’s his affair. But the nymphs promise not to prey on humans who happen to be on or near a river, minding their own business.” His eyes grew distant. “Grandfather took me to a meeting with them on one occasion when I was a boy.”
Annabel tried not to think of nymphs preying on people on the river. “That must have been interesting.”
“Quite, as they took a fancy to me and wanted to keep me as part of the annual settlement.”
They were passing another group of boys at that moment, or Annabel would have demanded a further account of that meeting. But just now there were more immediate matters to discuss. “And you think that what the river did just now is a sign that something is upsetting the river nymphs?”
“I don’t know. I worry that it might be.”
“Might the present, er, Maintenancer not be fulfilling his office properly? Who is he, anyway? Or are you allowed to know?”
“The House of Lords is aware of the King’s Maintenancer and what he does, since he’s traditionally drawn from our ranks. The present incumbent is Lord Rossing.”
Rossing…when had she run across that name recently? Then she remembered. “I saw him recently—at the Summer Exhibition with Lord Glenrick.” And he’d not looked pleased at her and Eliza’s interruption of their tête-à-tête. “What can be done if he’s not properly fulfilling his duties?”
“I don’t know. It’s never happened before.” His voice had gone oddly flat.
“Why should a crown officer not do his job, anyway?”
Lord Quinceton did not reply for a long moment. At last he said, “That is a very good question.”
They hurried along the path, overtaking several groups of boys and other holiday makers, including her parents. Approaching them from behind, Annabel was struck by how content they looked. Mama’s face, just visible past the edge of her parasol as she turned her head to say something to Papa, wore a sunny smile; Papa’s responding laugh as he patted her hand resting on his arm was warm and happy. It had always been so between them, no matter how much Papa pretended to bluster and Mama to tease him in return, and below it was a bedrock of affection and devotion that Annabel couldn’t help envying. Perhaps it was because they were closer in age than she and Freddy had been and had more in common…or perhaps it was simply that Freddy had not wanted such a relationship with her.
She touched Papa’s sleeve as she and Lord Quinceton drew even with them. “Dawdlers,” she said, wrinkling her nose at him.
“Slow and steady wins the race, minx,” he said cheerfully.
“The race is to the swift,” Mama intoned.
Papa frowned. “I don’t think that’s how that one originally goes, m’dear, although I can’t help suspecting you’ve got the right end of it. Do you see how it goes with me, sir?” he said to Lord Quinceton. “I am beleaguered from all sides. Beleaguered, I say!”
Lord Quinceton inclined his head. “I have heard it said, sir, that what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.”
Annabel was startled into laughing out loud. “Oh, Papa, he has you there!”
“Hmmph. So much for masculine solidarity,” Papa replied in a grumpy tone, but his eyes were twinkling. “Why are you two in such a hurry?” he added as Lord Quinceton led her past them.
“Oh—we, er, need to keep Martin from eating all the food before we get there. We’ll see you shortly,” Annabel called over her shoulder.
“Leave them be, George,” Mama said. “Four would definitely be a crowd.”
“Oh ho! Sits the wind in that corner?” Papa said, and then they were too far behind for any further conversation to be heard, thank heavens. Oh, Mama—was she so eager to see her younger daughter remarried that she saw potential suitors in every man Annabel chanced to speak with? If only she could convince herself that Lord Quinceton had not heard that bit of conversation…but she knew too well how observant he was—
A glance to the side quickly banished any thoughts of Mama and suitors: the river had grown darker, the water grayer and more turbulent even in the golden light of late afternoon. “Look,” she said quietly to Lord Quinceton.
He was already looking. “Damnation. We should have taken my curricle after all.”
Annabel did not care for the sound of that in the least. “Would it not be better to wait for the boats to come into view? At least we could watch for them and help in case the nymphs—in case something happens.”
“And help how, with no boat of our own? Can you swim, Fellbridge?”
“I wish I could!”
He smiled. “Perhaps I shall teach you one day. But in the meanwhile, I think it behooves us to hurry to the field. If there is to be a contretemps with the Potamides over their missing tribute, I expect they’ll want to hold it where it will likely have the largest audience.” His step quickened; Annabel grimly clung to his arm and resolved to keep up with him if it killed her.
She had not had time to become more than a little out of breath when the sound of thudding hooves could be heard from behind them. To her surprise, rather than withdrawing to the side to allow the approaching horsemen to pass, Lord Quinceton turned and stood firm in the middle of the path.
A pair of horses so large and broad that their usual occupation must have involved drawing a plow soon cantered into view, their gait majestic if no faster than a trot would have been in a lesser beast. One of their riders, a husky Eton sixth-former, shouted “Whoa, then,” when he saw them standing in the path, and drew rein.
“I say,” his red-haired companion began, as his lumbering steed finally halted just a few feet away. “It’s really rather bad form to be blocking the path in such a fashion.”
“My apologies for troubling you, but I should be greatly obliged if you would lend me your horse,” Lord Quinceton replied calmly.
“What?” The boy goggled at him.
“Your horse. It is vital that I get to the field without delay. Quite possibly a matter of life and death.”
Annabel gasped.
The red-haired boy sneered. “Oh, really? And why, precisely, should I believe that? What do you think this is, Montem—only you’re demanding people’s cattle instead of their money?”
“No. I always thought Montem was a silly custom.”
But the husky boy prodded his friend. “The lady seems to think it’s serious,” he said, gesturing at Annabel. “Who are you, sir, and what guarantee can you give us that you won’t, er, steal our horses? They’re not ours, you see, and perhaps we were a trifle out-of-hand to have borrowed them without the farmer saying in so many words that we could—”
Lord Quinceton reached into a pocket. “I am Quinceton,” he said, and handed his card up to the boy. “And I have no intention of making off with your horse. You shall ride with me and reclaim it at the field as soon as we both arrive there.”
The boy looked at the card and whistled. “Beg pardon, my lord. If it’s as you say—you can take Diablo here, and I’ll go with Gerrold. There’s no saddle, I’m afraid.” He slid off the horse—it was a long way down—adjusted the blanket, and handed over the reins. “Here, I’ll give you a leg up.”
“A plow horse named Diablo. Why am I not surprised?” Lord Quinceton said, making use of the boy’s offered hands as a step and heaving himself astride the enormous animal. Diablo turned its head and surveyed them with an air of gentle surprise. “What’s his friend’s name?”
“Lucifer. The farmer has a sense of humor.” The boy grinned.
“See here, Watts!” The red-haired boy’s complexion was fast rivaling his locks in hue. “You can’t just hand over one of our—”
“Stow it, Gerrold. If it would help, sir, we can ride ahead and clear the path for you—although how I’ll get up on Lucifer without a mounting block is an interesting ques—”
“Excuse me.” Annabel stepped forward.
“Er, ma’am?” The husky boy started, as if he’d forgotten she was there.
“Lord Quinceton, do you actually intend to leave me here while you ride off to rescue my son?” Annabel demanded.
Lord Quinceton looked down at her, one eyebrow raised. “Can’t stand to miss the action, Fellbridge?”
“Why, you—you—”
“Mr. Watts, would you be so kind as to assist Lady Fellbridge? Between us we can probably hoist her up onto this block of marble you call a horse.”
