Joy V. Sheridan writes

Charity Amour

PART TWO

EARLY WINTER 1788 ENGLAND to FRANCE

CHAPTER FOURTEEN part 1

Fortune, so the saying goes, favours the brave. It also favours those less noble in spirit. 

Accordingly, when Fitzroy, Lord Rispian embarked on his crossing of the English Channel, it could not have been fairer. He had the fortune to catch a thirty or so hours, good weather period, missing the tempests which had accompanied his man Mellors and Charity Cottrell and also avoiding the equally furious storms which had witnessed Lord Seyton Clover and his party’s navigation of the same channel. Not that, with regard to the former lordship, fierce weather conditions held any fear for him. Fair or foul, he was a natural sailor and nothing would have served to dampen his spirits! 

A boyhood’s youthful enthusiasm had given him the scope to sail as well as any Navy captain and this attribute occasioned awe in many who gained their daily sustenance by tilling the sea’s rich soil. Thus it was that Lord Rispian, during the crossing to Dieppe, enjoyed a perfect idyll, sitting for the greater part of the voyage, jawing with his two cronies - whose exact purpose was known only to themselves and his lordship - but suffice it to say that they were engaged in the capacity of guarding this noble personage. 

Considering the elemental dastardliness of the previous few days, they were blessed verily, for the sun fair sparkled upon the white filigree of the wave caps and an excellent fair blow saw that the spirit in the pluming sails never became too much for comfort, or too little. A different tale it was for His Lordship Seyton Clover. He had the misfortune to be unable to locate a suitable berthing upon a vessel willing to convey the threesome to France immediately, and by the time such had been procured, the fine weather had deteriorated to a par with the gales which had swept land and sea some days before. Though no sailor in the sense that his cousin was, Lord Seyton Clover had rusty childhood memories of his own time – spent down on the Dorsetshire coast – and he fought extremely keenly to recoup those memories. 

Not that his brain was much capable of accepting the messages which his tongue argued in complete antithesis. Alas, the poor deaf and dumb girl fared little better and was tossed and turned upon her berth in the small cabin kept aside for paying fares. Fibbins, however, appeared to be in his element, there being a history of maritime predecessors in his background (Molly was his half-sister, both of them having had the same father), on his mother’s side. 

He relished the keen cutting sea air and the screams of sea birds following, storm-tossed and exuberant, in the vessel’s wake (it being a trawling craft). This proved pure harmony to his ears. He turned, perhaps a little cock on the snook, and raised his eyes in jingoistic salute to the fast disappearing harbour of Dover. 

His sister, mayhap feeling some rallying kinship with her brother, began to gain her own sea legs after a while: so that it remained singularly His Lordship’s domain of mal de mer.

What rough seasoning he found this malady to be! At last, for even storms can become wearying of themselves eventually: their goal was sighted, the dawn flooding in a garish green light and Lord Seyton Clover clung on hard to the handrails of the erstwhile converted fishing craft. 

Certain assured bliss when his feet found the solid earth again. Fibbins, however, was not to escape unscathed with the change in terrain and after resting up and eating over-well in the only pension in the port of Dieppe, he could be viewed sorrowfully clutching his stomach with a contrite expression convulsing his features. This gut ache stayed with him as the heavy chaise they were ensconced in carried them on their longish journey overland to Paris. 

“Tut, tut,” remonstrated His Lordship, “if you would stuff yourself full of strange victuals, what else can you expect?” 

For this had been the cause of his present indisposition. Which fact did not help John Fibbins. Lord Seyton Clover, glad to see that the boot was upon the other foot, had smiled across at the dumb girl, who was nonetheless looking extremely perturbed at the state that her brother was in. 

She, for her part, groped a small vial filled with white fluid which she had withdrawn from the depths of her indispensable and pressed a quantity upon her brother. He took this medicine with an aching, low groan and, not questioning its value or quality, dispensed with the vial’s contents in one full swallow. 

After a few minutes, Fibbins settled more comfortably into his seat and a little later it was obvious that he was soundly asleep. For he was snoring fit to wake the dead. Lord Seyton Clover had half a mind to wake him but desisted. No need, for the chaise gave a terrific jolt and Fibbins was all but thrown onto the vacant space opposite his own seat. Blinking rapidly and again clutching his stomach, he went to open the door. The coach was slowing to a halt and, oblivious of warnings either in the French or English tongue, John Fibbins all but threw himself clear of the vehicle. He was upon his feet and behind a clump of bushes before either Lord Seyton Clover or Molly knew what was happening. 

The coach ground to a stop. Lord Seyton Clover, perturbed at John Fibbins’s sudden exit and the coach’s now stationary position, made to question the driver. Fortunately, the man's English was passable and he explained that they had a slight problem with one of the wheels. “Oh no, Monsieur: it will be no more than an hour or so.”

So, that was that. His Lordship was beginning to become anxious that they should never catch up with his cousin: for he had heard of Lord Rispian’s unexplained absence from the London scene and that he had crossed the Channel only a few days prior. 

In the background could be heard the noises of a man being violently sick. The dumb girl sensed this and looked up from her seat, indicating by movements of her fingers that this had been the quality peculiar to the mixture she had administered to her brother. “Ah,” concluded His Lordship, “A purgative to rid him of the poison in his guts.” 

Presently a pale and slightly trembling Fibbins appeared at the open entrance to the coach. He looked as though he were about to castigate all and sundry. The interior was empty. His sister’s bag was inclined at an angle on the seat and Lord Seyton Clover’s swordstick lay propped up in one corner. 

His companions, for their part, had joined the coachman for a sit down upon some fallen logs: the coach’s wheel even then being taken from its bearings by the postilion – who was setting to work to mend it. Fibbins walked painfully and a little angrily over to the group, still retching sporadically, his nostrils tingling with that sharply bitter inhalation which accompanies billiousness.

It was in his mind to chastise His Lordship, for safety indicated that truly the swordstick should have accompanied him. Really he wanted to vent his spleen on someone, and his sister would never hear his complaints. Lord Seyton Clover glanced up at his approach: “Ah, John. I trust that you are feeling somewhat recovered from your indisposition?” 

There appeared a slightly sardonic smile upon Lord Seyton Clover's face. Biting his tongue, he took a seat beside his sister and, with angry movements of fingers and thumbs, demanded an explanation from the girl. His Lordship, guessing the nature of this silent communication, intervened. 

“Fibbins, I am sure that your sister has done the best thing for you. That was a purgative you consumed and probably the best result has ensued. If you hadn't vomited the contents of your stomach up - and shell fish can be notoriously dangerous - I am sure that worse would have been in store for you! Now, the poison is out of your system and you should be thanking Molly, not blowing up on her!” 

Fibbins twiddled with his finger and thumb, then, acknowledging His Lordship’s words, came round to their way of thinking. "You know, Your Lordship, ‘tis not up to me to chastise you, but that was your swordstick you left in yonder coach?” Lord Seyton Clover nodded affirmatively. “Then, Your Lordship, perhaps I should fetch it here for you. There’d be no protecting yourself should the unexpected happen.” “No,” thought Lord Seyton Clover, “apart from your fists and whatever else the Fibbins family may have by way of a surprise to fend off the odd villain or three. Fetch it then, John, if you must.” In a little under an hour, the chaise was mended and they were on their way again. Towards Paris. Towards the Château des Amourettes.