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An Exchange of Favours

Jody Lynn Nye

England

April, 1634

Margaret de Beauchamp, eldest surviving child of Baronet Sir Timothy de Beauchamp of Churnet and Trent, waited patiently on a bench in the outer court of the Palace of Whitehall, nervous to see the king or Lord Cork. Such exalted personages were so far above her station that she trembled inwardly, but recalled the import of why she had come all the way to London from Staffordshire. She kept her back straight, not that her stiff, tight-waisted bodice would allow her to slouch, and arranged her voluminous woolen skirts so they didn't weigh too heavily on her knees. She hoped her long brown hair hadn't escaped from its array of sausage-like tresses. Courtiers and court ladies in their gorgeous silken clothes and shining coiled hair passed in and out of the enormous double doors, careful not to cause the portals to make a sound as pleas were being heard within.

No question but it was going to be a long wait. She had been lucky to secure a spot on one of the plain wooden benches against the deep brown linenfold wall. Others milled around.

Lovely clothing the men and ladies of the court wore. The men's clothes were as bright and showy as peacocks, in blossoming tunics with slashed sleeves, knee-length trousers, and hose made of Ottoman silk and Venetian velvets. The ladies looked no less brilliant, with touches of embroidery and lace enlivening their oversized, starched white collars, perhaps in defiance of the enemy French making an edict against lace trim on one's clothing only this year. Hair was scraped severely back from the face except for a few curls allowed to dance impishly upon the forehead and fastened at the back with many pins. The side locks were curled in sausages close to the cheeks, not unlike the cylindrical hair-stalls of three centuries past. She envied those whose station and wealth allowed them to wear silk and eastern fabrics, then chided herself.

Why should she be ashamed of who she was? Her station was nothing of which she ought to be ashamed. The eldest daughter of a landed baronet—and a fine estate it was, too!—had as much place here as any of those with loftier titles. She had been taught to walk in the fashionable French mode by their neighbor Lady Pierce with her back straight and her hips thrust forward. Still, to be able to gleam as reflected fire like the enveloping russet gown of the chestnut-haired lady just going by would have suited her so well and lit up her plain brown hair and ruddy cheeks, making her seem more than a country girl.

She had to settle for the best and finest worsted cloth that the Staffordshire guilds could devise, dyed a deep rare blue, every panel subtly different. Would any of the passersby know the difference? Even her maid, who waited on a bench outwith the anteroom, wore goods of outstanding quality. And even the brightest of silk no doubt concealed wool petticoats to keep out the chill of the palace. Finery was only the surface. It was the spirit underneath that gave one character.

Vanity! she thought, with a shake of her head. Her confessor would chide her when she next attended services at the family chapel.

She smiled wryly at herself. No need to go to the confessor when she could hear his lectures in her own mind.

The tall woman sitting next to her on the backless bench touched the fabric of her skirt.

"Tha's a beauty," she said, in a burring accent Margaret couldn't place. "What's it made out o'?

"Wool," Margaret said, with a kind smile. She hadn't paid much attention to the others waiting for their turn beyond the doors, including her neighbors. This lady, for lady she must be, wore black velvet shot with silver thread, and her thick ruddy hair was wound into the fashionable sausage curls.

"So fine," the woman said wonderingly. "It doesn'a feel itchy at all. Wool's usually itchy, nae matter how long it's fulled or treaded. I ought to know. It's plentiful enow in our demesne, but warm as it is, it's a trial to wear without ye use thick linens beneath."

"Ours is not. My father's flocks are famous for their long-staple wool. The longer the staple, the fewer the cut ends in the cloth, and the less irritating it is to the skin." Margaret sighed. That was exactly why she was there.

"What ails ye?" the young woman said, with an almost motherly look. Margaret realized that they were close to an age, around nineteen years. At their age, though, the other could indeed have been a mother.

"Flocks," Margaret said, with a rueful expression, "are expensive to maintain. One would think that all one needs is clean, open grassland and shepherds to keep away the wolves, but there's so much more."

"Tell me all abou't," her companion said, raising her hands and letting them drop to her lap. "I've naught in the world but time." "World" seemed to have ten or twelve R's the way the redheaded woman pronounced it.

"I hope . . . I hope to see Lord Cork," Margaret said.

"And I, as well," the young woman said, forthrightly. "But forbye what else would we be doing here? We've all been waiting these many days for the wee man to grant us an audience. It seems the king himself, in all his grievin', is no' hearing petitions, leaving it all in Lord Cork's lap. How d'ye call yersel'? I am Ann de Sutherland. My father is Earl Sutherland."

Margaret rose and curtseyed. "It's my honor to meet you, Lady Ann."

Ann grinned, showing a bit of mischief behind her smooth cameo of a face. "Sit down, won't ye? Ye'll lose your place on the bench. There's no' enow spots to perch."

Margaret followed her gaze. Indeed, a couple of the languid personages standing nearby had begun to sidle toward them. She plopped herself down on the hard wood. The others stopped and pivoted on well-shod heels, pretending to be interested in something across the room from her. She smiled, too.

"Thank you for the warning. I'd not noticed the crowd has grown."

"Ye mentioned the wolves, but there's more kinds than the one that chases yer sheep. Then what's yer name, fine lass? We shall be friends."

"Margaret de Beauchamp," she said, extending a hand tentatively. Ann took it in both of her own and pressed it warmly. "My father Sir Timothy runs our flocks on our estate in Staffordshire. But you've come much farther!"

"Well, my honorable Margaret, that may be true, yet it's to the same dead end that we've come," Ann said, with a graceful upturned palm. "Me mam sent me to become one of the queen's ladies-in-waitin'. I've letters of introduction from past dames of my acquaintance who have served her majesty, but a'er th' tragedy o' Her Majesty's passing, I must sit here until Lord Cork gives me leave to depart, or brings me into service in court. I've proof enow I'm the best there is at waiting!" The girls laughed. "But what ails your sheep that you must ask the king for a favor?"

Margaret lowered her voice so their neighbor on Ann's other side couldn't hear.

"Tax," she said. "Wool attracts so much duty on every step of the way from the sheep's back to the finished cloth, it's scarcely worth the trouble to shear the poor mites. When we only take a pound and a half of good fleece from a single beast, only a few shillings are left from a finished bolt of cloth after we pay the spinners, dyers, fullers, sayers, and weavers. Every piece of good woolen is inspected to see if it fits the standard, and that's another cost. We can't raise prices far enough, or those bringing in cheaper cloth from the Low Countries and farther away will steal all our business. We make every economy possible, but Father will fall short this year in what he owes to the Crown. I am here to ask for mercy. Even a small respite would hearten Father. We'll do what we can to pay the full share in the next year."

"No' the next quarter?"

Margaret shook her head. "Impossible. We had a hard winter, lost a mort of lambs in the heavy snow. So, you see, it's a large favor I must ask. Hundreds, I'm afraid."

"I'll pray to the Good Lord for him to open his heart to you," Lady Ann said, kindly. "I've heard he is a sensible man." She studied Margaret's face and shook her head. "Let's no' dwell upon it, or we'll both be weeping. Have ye any good gossip from home?"

"Nothing much happens in Barlaston," Margaret said, with a rueful smile. "How is it in Sutherland?"

Ann chuckled. "Much the same, I fear. But so much is afoot here in London! Hae ye heard of the Americans?"

"Only a bit, and half of that is rumor," Margaret admitted. "They appeared like magic in the midst of the Germanies and stopped an army with but a few men. My brother is a ship's captain." She paused, waiting for Ann's disapproval and was grateful when it didn't come. Her mother found it to be a terrible disgrace that the gentry would even think of resorting to a trade. How she felt about Margaret stepping into the estate's wool trade had been the subject of many a heated argument, even though others of their class had been ennobled for becoming successful merchants. "His ship stopped to deliver cargo in the Netherlands when Grantville . . . arrived? He has not seen the Displaced Lands himself, but he heard many wild tales. Beyond that, I have heard little more than they speak a crude form of English. But how can that be?"

Ann looked pleased. "Well, I would say ye can ask them yersel', for there are some who are here as guests of His Majesty." The word "guests" bore a cynical emphasis. "They came on a diplomatic visit from the President of this Grantville, and since then have inhabited rooms in the Tower, never meeting the king at all. I had just come to London then, and saw a peep o' them before they were swept up and shown His Majesty's hospitality. They looked ordinary enough, though I have heard they wield wonders, the likes of which no one has ever seen, and tidings of things yet to come for centuries. They say they come from the future. Hundreds of years on!"

"Never!" Margaret said, fascinated. She crossed herself with an absent gesture. "If it's so, such a miracle must have been vouchsafed by God for a good reason."

"I'm sure it has that," Ann agreed, "though poor mortals such as we can only guess at it." She shook her head, and her curls danced.

Margaret's curiosity began to get the better of her. Such amazing creatures were only steps away. "But the Tower is under heavy guard!"

Ann smiled. "A few shillings make a good key to that lock. A few of the gentlemen here have gone to have a gawk. I must admit I'm dyin' to do it mysel', but I dare not. A queen's lady must not show unseemly curiosity. But we dinna hae to turn away and stop up our ears if someone we know and trust happens to tell us all about it." Her chestnut-colored eyebrows rose with clear meaning.

Margaret sat back on the bench. What a marvel! If indeed people had come from the future, the world was even more wondrous than she could conceive. Her mind spun with all the things she could ask them. What would the world become? Whom would she marry? (The very question made her blush.) What were they doing here in their past, and what did they think about it? Surely centuries in the future people would be living among the clouds like angels, not on the muddy Earth, and wearing clothes made of sunbeams that never got cold, no matter what the weather.

Or, would they? Mayhap they would still make use of the natural resources that folks now employed—like wool, perhaps?

"Tell me, how were their clothes?" she asked.

"Oh, nothin' out o' the ordinary," Ann said. Her eyes twinkled. "Yer bound to do it, aren't ye?"

Margaret blushed again. "I shouldn't."

"Why not? Who ailse will tell me what they're like?"

The big doors opened. Everyone in the anteroom fell silent. A couple of men-at-law in their long black gowns gathered up their satchels with an expectant air. A narrow-faced man in modest though good black wool breeches and a tunic emerged.

"My lords and ladies, his lordship will hear no more cases today," he said. His eyes told Margaret he hated to be the bearer of disappointment, but his set jaw showed he had no choice. "Pray return at eleven of the clock tomorrow."

"Now's your chance," Ann whispered, gathering her full silk skirts in both hands. "I must return to my auntie in our rooms. I'll hold a place for ye on the morrow. Go now!"

Margaret needed no further spur. "Tomorrow," she promised.

* * *

From the boat that had brought them along the Thames to the Tower, Margaret's maidservant cast worried eyes at the deep stone archway under which they passed. It had to be nine or ten ells thick. Margaret thought the Tower's walls must be able to withstand musket and cannon fire for weeks of bombardment, and the mighty keep that rose foursquare above them was also powerfully constructed. Those within were safe as a chick in the egg, though so many of them had no choice in the matter.

"Your destination is here, my lady." The Yeoman Warder stopped beside a low doorway with a pointed stone arch. He had a kind face, and the humor in his eyes told Margaret he had heard everything that she and Hettie had said. His voice was thick with a Lancastrian accent, not miles from where the two of them had come. "I shall inquire if the guests within wish to receive you."

His free hand, the one not holding the halberd, turned up slightly to reveal the palm. Margaret took his meaning at once and reached for her purse. The Warder glanced away as she put a coin into his hand. He ducked under the archway and mounted the narrow stone stairs beyond.

Margaret waited with stretched nerves until he returned.

"All right, then," the Warder said. He tilted his head toward the stone stairs. Margaret grasped Hettie's hand and pulled her forward.

They mounted to the first floor, where the Warder stood to one side next to a heavy wooden door bounded by iron straps.

"I'll be searching your reticules and pockets on the way out again," he said, solemn-faced. "In case you want to smuggle one of them out."

Hettie looked horrified, but Margaret stifled a giggle. The man was kind and had a sense of humor. She liked him despite his fearsome appearance.

"Well, come in already!" A tall, narrow-faced woman opened the door. She had a strangely nasal voice, albeit not unpleasant.

"Lady Mailey, this is the Honorable Miss Margaret de Beauchamp," the Warder announced in formal tones.

Lady Mailey took Margaret by the hand and pumped it warmly.

"Very nice to meet you. Thank you, Andrew."

The uniformed man touched the brim of his black hat. "My lady." He stumped down the narrow spiral staircase, leaving Margaret standing shyly on the threshold.

Lady Mailey gave her a sharp look.

"Well, don't stand there letting the flies in. Come in! You, too," she said, when Hettie held back. "Where are you from?"

"We come from Barlaston, near Stoke on Trent," Margaret said, following her hostess into a small sitting room, rendered even smaller by the large number of cases and boxes that crowded the furniture. A woman dressed in blue, who appeared just a few years older than Margaret, rose and smiled when she entered. She was of a surprising height, and her teeth were marvelously white and straight, like an angel's. Through a door to the right, a big man crouched over a table, his hands busy. She couldn't really see what he was doing, but as soon as he noticed her scrutiny, he rose and closed the door between them. Before it shut, Margaret thought she saw two or three other people in the room. "My father's estate lies to the south of town."

The young woman smiled and extended her hand to both Margaret and Hettie. She had a firm, friendly grip.

"It must have taken you days to get here!" she said.

"Only four," Margaret said, proudly. "We came by fast coach most of the way, to the eternal detriment of my spine. A barge brought us the rest of the way east along the Thames. The tolls cost more than the road journey, alas. Four pounds! But our coaches made good time. The roads were not too wet. I thought that we might come afoul a few times when we struck some deep ruts, but good folk nearby helped us out."

"I noticed that the English roads are pretty poor anywhere but the city here," the young woman said. "We've been used to better in Grantville. Oh, I'm Rita Stearns Simpson. My brother Mike is President of the New United States. I'm the ambassador from the NUS to England."

"Your Excellency!" Margaret hastily dropped into a curtsey, spreading her skirts out with both hands. Hettie followed suit, crouching deeper than her mistress.

"Oh, stop it!" Rita said with a laugh, taking Margaret by the arm again and escorting her to one of the settees. She gestured Hettie to a stool beside the small table. The servant perched herself on the seat with her back as straight as a rail. "I'm not noble at all. I'm just a girl from a small town in West Virginia. It's Melissa who's the important one here."

"You stop it," Lady Mailey said, with a look that shut both Rita's and Margaret's lips at once. "Don't scare the poor girl. We get few enough visitors as it is. What brings you here, Margaret?"

The visitors' expressions were so friendly that Margaret felt she could be frank.

"Curiosity, madam," she admitted. "I had heard you were from . . . from the future. I wanted . . . I expected . . . ?"

"That we'd have two heads apiece and spoke in tongues?" Lady Mailey retorted, but her eyes were full of humor.

"Perhaps that you would look different than we do," Margaret said.

"And do we?"

Margaret studied the two women. "You look . . . healthier than most. I believe that you might be of an age with my mother, Lady Mailey, but time's been kinder to you."

"Superior nutrition," Lady Mailey said at once, ignoring Rita's broad grin. "Hygiene, childhood vaccinations, and nutrition. We've been trying to educate people to improve conditions in Thuringia, where our town landed, during what more sensationalistic people have named the Ring of Fire. It's appalling the way people in this era feed and care for themselves. Even the wealthy waste their resources, as scanty as they are. I believe that we are already making a difference in the lives of ordinary people."

"In education, too," Rita added. "Melissa has been spearheading that. People are hungry to learn."

Margaret found herself delighted by the energy and intelligence of her new acquaintances. Such a difference from the plodding folk who minded the estate's sheep and produced wares from their backs.

"I had a tutor, but I wished that I could have attended university," Margaret said. Before she knew it, she had burst out with her history and that of her siblings. How, now that her brother had become a merchant, she had been groomed to take over the wool production from her father, carrying on a tradition that had been in her family for centuries.

Her two hostesses listened attentively. She realized after she paused to take a deep breath that she had been filling their ears for a solid quarter of an hour without stopping. "I apologize, truly. I've been talking about myself when I want to know all about you! Is it true that a thousand of you have arrived from the future by magic, bringing astonishing philosophical devices with you?"

Rita laughed. "That's true," she said. "We don't have much in the way of those with us here, but over in Grantville you'd see things that you've never seen before. We're trying to better the lives of the people around us. It's something that we can offer other countries. I'm here to establish friendly relations with the king of England." Her expression turned rueful. "He doesn't seem in a big hurry to meet us."

"He is no doubt in mourning for Her Majesty," Margaret said, sadly. "I regret having to make the journey during this tragic time, but I had no choice. My father needs respite from all of the taxes due this year, or we may have to sell assets that have been in our families for centuries. Fields, manors, flocks, the wherewithal of the shearers, spinners, weavers, and dyers, all are required. If one must be sacrificed, the whole may collapse with its lack. I . . ." Margaret fell quiet. She didn't want to criticize the rapaciousness of the crown, taking all it could from those who were not in a position to argue, because their chief customer was also their liege lord. She raised her hands and noticed they were shaking. She put them down again in her lap. ". . . I hope Lord Cork will hear my appeal and be generous."

Lady Mailey patted her shoulder.

"I haven't had the pleasure of the man's acquaintance, but a few friends of ours have had some run-ins with him. Since what you do benefits the crown directly and doesn't challenge his authority, I hope he'll be better to you than he was to them."

Margaret felt oddly cheered by her kind words. She liked these Americans a great deal, and regretted that their acquaintance would be so brief. Lady Ann would like them, too.

"Thank you, madam," Margaret said. "I . . . suppose that you shall be departing as soon as you may, once you have your audience with His Majesty?"

"We're prisoners, actually," Rita said. At Margaret's horrified look, the girl waved a casual hand. "Detained at His Majesty's pleasure. It almost sounds nice when they say it like that. And you know, they have been mighty nice to us. The rooms are kind of small here in the Tower, but they're pretty comfortable. And warm. I live in the mountains—or I did—but our houses are a lot better insulated than yours. Castles are cold!"

"You will hear no argument from my quarter," Margaret said fervently. "Our manor house is as cold and creaky as a dotard, with leaks and squeaks, letting in every gust that passes."

The girl laughed with delight. "And they said Shakespeare's dead! You're a poet."

Margaret felt her cheeks burn.

"Nay. Just the mistress of shepherds, weavers, and potters, hoping the king's ear and heart are open." She glanced through the window at the diminishing sunlight. "Forgive me, but we have taken too much of your time. We had best go." She rose.

Hettie, who had listened in silence with wide eyes all that time, cleared her throat meaningfully. Margaret shot her a look of reproach.

Her hosts noticed the maidservant's expression.

"What do you need, child?" Lady Mailey asked. At Hettie's hesitation, she turned the half-stern look upon her. "Speak up! We're not going to eat your entrails."

Instead of replying to her directly, Hettie turned to her employer. "They're well-spoken enough, madam, but they could be anybody!"

Margaret felt her cheeks burn even more fiercely. Over the course of their brief acquaintance, she had come to believe wholeheartedly in the Americans, but Hettie was right: they were wonderful spinners of tales, but hadn't produced anything that would prove their claims to have come from the future. Fortunately, Rita Simpson understood.

"We haven't vouchsafed you a miracle, is that it?" she asked. She rummaged around in a nearby chest and came up with a tiny, rectangular black box with what looked like a shining sequin on the end. "Here, take this. Don't use it too often, because the battery will wear out, and we don't have replacements. Yet. And don't show it to anyone you don't absolutely trust, because we're not the most popular people in these parts."

She held out the device and pressed on it with her thumb.

A beam of light shot out of the sequin, like a bolt of sunlight from heaven in the dim room, and drew a perfect circle of white on the far wall. Hettie let out a little scream and covered her eyes. Margaret just stared in growing delight.

"It's an LED flashlight," Rita said. "I think I got it as a gift from our insurance agent."

"It must be worth a fortune!" Margaret exclaimed.

"Nope, it was free. He wanted our business." She dangled it from a sinuous metal tether and dropped it into Margaret's palm.

"Thank you, my lady!" Margaret said, clutching the prize in both hands.

"Tuck it away," Lady Mailey said, as shuffling and clanking erupted from beyond the door. "I think I hear the warder coming up the stairs. He always makes plenty of noise so we can greet him without embarrassing ourselves."

Margaret obeyed, putting the small square in her reticule. She couldn't wait to get back to the privacy of their rooms and experiment with the "flashlight."

"Come along, Hettie," she said, and offered a curtsey to her hosts. "Lady Mailey, Lady Rita, it has been a true pleasure to make your acquaintance. Thank you for the gift. I promise I will keep it a secret."

"Come again soon," Rita said. "We're not going anywhere. For a while."

Margaret beamed as the warder appeared on the threshold. "It would be my honor."

"The pleasure is all ours," Lady Mailey said, with a smile.

* * *

"It's all a marvel, to be sairtain," Lady Ann whispered, her blue eyes filled with delight. "To talk w' people who come from the future! Did they tell your fortune?"

She and Margaret huddled together in the anteroom on the extreme end of a wooden bench the day after the visit to the Tower. Margaret had been able to relate her experience of meeting the Americans without worry of being overheard, as long as she didn't mention the flashlight. This she had demonstrated to her friend very privately in the garderobe with Hettie guarding the door. The small device now reposed in her innermost pocket, slid around on an internal tie like her money purse so it could not be reached between plackets.

"Nothing like that. They are very kind," Margaret pitched her whisper so it could be heard by others in the waiting room who were frankly eavesdropping. They could all have done the same, and visited the Americans, if they had chosen. "They invited me to call again."

"And shall ye do it?" Lady Ann squeezed Margaret's hands. "O' course ye will! And ye shall take me w' ye. I've a passion to go and see them for mesel'."

The gentleman in apple-green silk only a step away looked as though he was going to ask to be a third in the party, but looked hastily away when Margaret glanced over at him. Lady Ann chuckled.

"Mistress de Beauchamp?" A page in gorgeous satin livery approached. As Margaret made to rise, he held up a hand. "No, mistress, no need to rise. Lord Cork regrets that he has no time to see you today."

"Shall I return on the morrow, then?"

He shook his head with a practiced little smile that wore sorrow on its corners, and lowered his voice to a murmur. "I am afraid not, mistress. He sends his deepest apologies, but His Majesty requires all taxes and tariffs to be paid this year without fail. He salutes your father's adherence to the crown, and is grateful for centuries of service, but requires the sums due. The crown's expenses must be paid. He will give you a month's grace past the coming quarter-day, but that is all."

"Oh, but if I may make a personal appeal to His Majesty?" Margaret pleaded, shocked to her core. Her father would be devastated! She had watched her brother bargaining enough times to hope that his tactics would work here. "Please, I have come such a long way. Perhaps if I may ask him myself? We would be pleased to offer bolts of fine cloth as a gift in thanks to him . . . and anyone else who aids us. Our woolens are renowned, as you might already know."

The official's expression didn't change, and Margaret's heart sank. The bribe wasn't good enough. "I am very sorry, mistress. The king is receiving no visitors. Lord Cork wishes you a safe journey home and looks forward to receiving the statutory funds."

* * *

"So, all Father's investment in me as his agent was for naught," Margaret wrung her handkerchief in her hands. It was already wet through with tears, but she had no other.

Hettie clucked over her like a hen, rubbing her shoulder. The Americans sat beside her on the settee with sympathetic looks.

"I have failed his trust in me. We will probably have to sell some of the smaller estates. Baronet Macy to the east has always been interested in the pastures in the curve of the river. It's some of our best grazing land, but he's willing to buy. Father will be beside himself with woe. He counts on every asset."

"I'm so sorry," Rita said, patting her knee. "I know that's hard news to take."

Margaret shook her head. "All that wool that we've been sending to the warehouses in Liverpool and here in London, waiting for the merchants to take abroad is not enough to make up the shortfall. I've been to see our storesmaster, Robert Bywell. The hauliers and carters have had less to do than we like, and the boatmen have been taking jobs from other companies on the side to make ends meet. The markets have been as tight as a cork in a bottle. It feels like casting what pennies we have into the bottom of a deep sea, and no mermaids bringing us pearls in exchange. We need three hundred pounds now, and as much by the end of the year. It's hopeless."

The Americans had been more than cordial to receive Margaret once again. They had welcomed Lady Ann with alacrity. Lady Mailey had immediately taken to her, as Margaret knew she would. They were two wise souls, who immediately found common ground on which to converse. Margaret wished that intelligent perspective would rub off on her and give her some wisdom to bring back to her father.

"I wish I had a fortune to give to ye." Lady Ann lifted her hands. "I've no' that much of gold in my purse that I could lend to thee, and I've my journey home to pay for. I'd give ye what I could, but accidents happen, and I may need every coin at hand." She slapped her knee. "I'll have ma father send ye the sum when I return home. He'd do it readily for a true friend of mine. Ye can pay it back over years, I promise. There'll be no hurry in th' world."

Though she was touched deeply. Margaret shook her head. "It might take you a month or more to get home, and the tariffs need to be paid sooner than that. Beside that, my father would rather die of the pox than incur more indebtedness. I mean no offense. He could countenance asking the king for mercy, or sell assets to our neighbors, but he would prefer to have the fewest possible know of our need. And with the shortfall likely to amass further in quarters to come—well, there's no end to it that I can see. But I thank you for your kind offer with all my heart."

Rita raised her eyebrows to Lady Mailey and the other women in the room, and seemed to gather some consensus. "What if we could lay our hands on the money here in London?" she asked.

"I can't ask you, either," Margaret said. "As with Lady Ann, you'll likely need all the funds at your disposal because of . . ." She stopped, realizing she almost committed a terrible error of tact.

But, dismayingly, Lady Mailey picked up at once on her thought.

"Because of our unjust incarceration?" she asked, with that acerbic tone. "Don't worry about us. On the other hand, your father might be worried about knowing that the funds came from strangers the king has clapped in the Tower."

So, selling the family assets it would have to be. Hundreds of years they had managed the gift from the Duchy of Lancaster, and it would all be lost in one generation. Margaret rose and signed to Hettie to gather their outer garments.

"Thank you all for giving thought to aiding my family," she said. "It comforts me greatly to have made such warm friends. Allow us to take our leave. I must prepare to return home, too. I must speak to our boatmen about taking us upstream to meet the northern coaches."

"Don't lose hope," Rita said, giving her a warm hug.

"Hope we have in plenty," Margaret said, as Andrew Short arrived on the doorstep to escort her and Lady Ann to the gate. "I thank you all."

* * *

"Did you hear that?" Tom said, as the door closed behind the visitors. He had to force himself to keep his voice low. "She knows boatmen. And hauliers has to be the same as teamsters. Harry is looking for a large boat and wagons. She could hire them for us!"

"No!" Melissa declared flatly. "We don't want her involved. This is going to be a massive and dangerous operation, and one that will be considered treason. Everyone who is helping us already risks torture or hanging. The least that Cork would do would be to confiscate her father's estates. Those are already at stake because of the tax burden. The king's a terrible money manager. It's in our history books. I don't want that poor girl thrown in prison. It won't be as comfortable as we've had it. Don't ask her!"

"You're right, Tom." Rita cut off Melissa's protest. "Have her make the connection to the right people, and Harry will do the rest." She smiled brightly. "I think that's worth three hundred pounds, don't you?"

"Harry won't like shelling out that kind of money," Tom said.

"He made plenty on his illicit art sale," Melissa said, with some asperity. "He can spare a share for a good cause."

* * *

On her last day in London before traveling home to Scotland, Lady Ann asked Margaret to dine with her. She had ordered food brought to her rooms in her sumptuous residence in which she resided, a far cry from the modest lodgings Margaret occupied. Her servants, a white-haired older couple in neat white linen and plaid woolens, fussed over both of them like children. The table was laid with monogrammed cloths, all of the finest quality. Crystal glowed in the light of a silver candelabrum heavy with an enameled coat of arms. Margaret felt honored to sit at such a table.

"At the least, we can empty a bottle of wine togaither," her friend insisted.

Late that evening, they made warm farewells, with promises of letters every month, or as often as possible. With the warmth of the wine and the company raising her spirits more than a little, Margaret, with Hettie and Percy, set out again for their rooms. Lady Ann insisted on calling a sedan chair for them, "to spare ye the mud," as the spring rains had indeed begun, and insisted on paying for it. The enclosed conveyance, borne between two horses fore and aft, with lanterns swinging like the lights on a ship, was painted with a coat of arms that she didn't recognize. Percy hopped up behind and held on.

Margaret and Hattie rode in silence, consumed by their thoughts.

"Here, now, this is no' the way to me lady's lodgings!" Percy protested suddenly. "Ye should'a turned at that corner there! Wheel around, man!"

"No, lad, we're goin' that way," the footman said. "Sit tight, lad. I know a better way."

Margaret lowered the blind. A wave of stench redolent with urine and rotten fish washed in over them. The buildings around them, ill lit by yellow flames coming from filthy lanterns, were not of even the modest quality of the street near the castle. They were heading east, well away from Whitehall.

"Hold on!" she called to the footman. "This isn't the way to our lodgings! You must have been given the wrong directions. Take us to Great George Street, sir!"

The man frowned down at her.

"Sorry for the ruse, Miss, but there's someone who has to talk with you. Won't take but a moment."

Margaret was shocked.

"Am I being kidnapped?" she demanded. "Let me tell you, sir, I have very little money, and my father is heavily indebted. I will be worth nothing to you as a hostage. Or . . ." Her resolve wavered. Worse things could happen to a couple of lone women in the alleys of London, or so she had heard. She drew the knife from her garter and held it before her. "We'll sell our honor dear, sir. That I assure you!"

The man grinned. "You have spirit, no doubt about it. Your virtue is safe, Miss. Bide a moment, and all will be revealed."

* * *

Harry Lefferts sat at a table in the rear of the inn, his long legs stretched out and crossed nonchalantly at the ankle, a sword in easy reach. The innkeeper had kept the pitchers of beer coming to the rough-hewn table of four men. The barmaid, an attractive, plump girl with thick blonde hair and pink cheeks, hovered close, sending him longing glances. She was worth a good leer, so Harry obliged her, but kept his hand on his mug. Gerd Fuhrmann did take a grab at the girl's buttocks. She danced away with a coy, "Oh, sir!" Juliet Sutherland would have scored her a seven out of ten for delivery. Felix Kasza grinned and flipped the girl a small coin, which she ostentatiously put down between a pair of splendid breasts. Harry had no doubt that action had earned her many other coins, for either a quick fondle or a more extended session in one of the rooms at the top of the dark stairs. George Sutherland had said this place was just on the low edge of respectability, but suited to their needs of the moment.

He glanced surreptitiously at his watch, which he kept hidden most of the time under his ruffled cuff. Getting two of his men to keep an eye on Lady Ann's quarters hadn't been difficult. George Sutherland also knew a couple of grooms who would lend him a carriage or another light vehicle, and Tony Leebrick looked like a trustworthy senior servant. The lady's elderly servant had confided to the guy delivering a cooked roast to the apartment that Lady Ann was leaving in the morning, so he knew Melissa's prospect wouldn't be staying late. What was taking so long?

At last, Tony's face appeared over the heads of the other patrons in the smoky room. After a quick scan, his eyes met Harry's and he pushed forward, a small group in tow. As they got closer, Harry eyed the three people. The tall, lanky boy he dismissed immediately as the necessary male escort for women traveling alone. The girl in plain clothes and a good but not fashionable green cloak was obviously the maid. He started to study the brown-haired woman in blue whose arm Tony held fast, but his eyes were caught by a pair of intelligent hazel eyes. They were sizing him up as much as he was appraising their owner. He grinned.

"Mistress de Beauchamp? I'm Harry Lefferts. Have a seat and let's talk. I think we can do each other some good."

"No, thank you. I prefer to stand. I will not be staying long." She shook Tony's hand off. "I do not wish to deal with strangers who abduct me."

"I'm not a stranger," Harry said, with his most winning smile. "I'm a friend of a friend. Rita Simpson. Have a drink, Miss de Beauchamp. The beer's not too bad."

The girl tossed her head. "Anyone can know a name. I am going. Come, Hettie. Percy!" She turned and took a couple of steps toward the innkeeper, probably to ask him to supply her with an escort.

Harry smiled. She had all the guts Melissa had told him about. "Show me your flashlight, Miss de Beauchamp." In spite of herself, she glanced back at him, her mouth agape. "How would I know about that unless I knew her?"

"But she's imprisoned in the Tower," Margaret said, lowering her voice to a whisper. "How could she tell you?"

"How did you get to meet her?" the elegantly-dressed man countered. "It's not sealed up like a drum. A lot of people come and go every day. The right price greases a lot of palms. Maybe I swept in like the wind and out again. Anyhow, prove you're the right person."

The hazel eyes narrowed with annoyance.

"I'm not the one who has a favor to ask!"

"Don't you? I hear you came to town to get help from the crown and got the bum's rush. That's what my old grampaw used to say. I'd say we have the grounds for bargaining." He beckoned with one long hand. "Come on, let's see it."

His accent did sound like the peculiar English that Rita and Lady Mailey spoke. Unnerved, Margaret felt for the bench. The big man clad in black shifted over to give her room. Hettie helped her to sit.

Feeling as if she was even less in control of the situation than she had waiting for Lord Cork, she reached into the pocket around her waist and brought out the little black square. Harry clapped a hand on top of it before it could be seen by anyone nearby and drew it to him across the tabletop. He cradled it in his palm and glanced at it as though reading a card. He smiled, and Margaret suddenly realized he was a very attractive man, very certainly used to getting his own way by force or by charm. Well, she had plenty of charming men in her family, and didn't let them get away with liberties. She extended her palm to get her treasure back, but Harry put it into his own belt pouch.

"Trade you," he said. "I have to prove to Rita I saw you. Here's mine in exchange."

Instead of a black box, he offered her a small golden cylinder the length of her forefinger with a button on one end and the same kind of glass sequin on the other. Words were printed upon it, but she didn't take the time to read them. Flashlights must come in many shapes and sizes in this marvelous, faraway United States. She didn't dare try it out in the common room of the inn or ask him all the questions knocking at her lips, but tucked it away.

"So, you're an . . ." Margaret stopped when Harry put his finger to his lips. "So, you come from there, too. But what do you want from me? If you spoke to . . . to her, you must know all. I have nothing that I can offer . . . people like you."

"You have connections," Harry leaned over the tabletop and stared deeply into her eyes. "We need help."

"What kind of connections?" Margaret asked, bewildered. "My father owns sheep and employs shepherds, weavers, and dyers."

"Men who can keep their lips zipped," Harry said, his voice very low.

"I . . ." Margaret stared at him. "I don't know what that means."

The muscular man with the scarred face at Harry's right let out a guffaw. "The madchen is right to tell you to speak plainly! Tell her your needs, and no more of your movie-gangster talk."

Harry seemed abashed.

"All right! Miss de Beauchamp, I need a wagon and horses, maybe two wagons. Not flashy, just sturdy. I need two river boats that can carry a lot of weight, and I need them pretty soon. I mean really soon. Like tomorrow. I'll pay good money, more than fair exchange for them. But more important is that I need people who will take the money and not talk about it before or afterwards. Do you know anyone you can trust around here?"

Margaret stared at him. "Is that all? A barge and a couple of wagons? I can easily find you a captain who will take your goods from Tilmouth. What kind of cargo will you be carrying?"

Harry hesitated. Margaret peered at him, summing up his expression with a practiced eye. He wasn't lying to her, but he was afraid to say too much. The confidence he wore like armor concealed genuine fear. That puzzled her.

"Rita sent you to me for a reason. You're trusting me now with these questions. Why the need for secrecy?"

"The less you know about it, the better," the tall man said, his expression serious.

"No," she said firmly. "If it's contraband, you had better let me go now. I swear I will say nothing, but I can't be involved in anything illegal. I have nothing of my own, but my father's lands could be confiscated if I am accused of abetting a crime. But I will help you to a noble goal."

"It's noble, all right," Harry assured her. "The noblest. Rita and Melissa'll be very grateful. I will, too. I really can't say anymore here. Lives are at stake. Will you help us?"

Margaret made up her mind and nodded once. She would toll over her regrets later.

"You're one of a kind with Rita and Melissa," Harry said. "And Rebecca Stearns. You don't know what kind of a compliment that is."

"I understand other people's secrets," Margaret assured him. She hesitated, knowing what shape such negotiations might take. "I may have to offer coin in advance to those I approach. And . . ."

Harry needs must have been on the sharp end of a bargain or three himself, for he smiled.

"You'll be taken care of," he promised. "You're giving me a shortcut I don't have the means to take myself. And here's an advance for your connections." He leaned forward and pushed the hammered pewter pitcher toward her. Almost like a magician's trick, a small cloth bag appeared alongside it. Margaret accepted the pitcher and urged the bag over the table until it fell into her lap. "When's the soonest you can you talk to your people?"

"Is dawn soon enough?" Margaret asked. Keeping her hand low, she guided the purse into her pocket. It felt heavy. Even if it was full of coppers, it would do as a goodly bribe. "You said the matter is urgent, but I believe that I would cause a stir if I went to the docks at this hour. They'll be up and working at the crest of the sun."

Harry sat back, clearly relieved. "Dawn's soon enough, for sure. I don't want anyone else seeing us together, so I'm sending a guy tomorrow. He'll be waiting outside your lodgings. I'll vouch for him. You make sure your connections are worth trusting. George will drive you home now. Thanks for listening, Mistress de Beauchamp."

"I am glad to have done so, sir, though I may regret my impulsiveness later." Margaret extended her hand. He clasped it.

"Soft but strong," Harry said, running a thumb over her fingertips.

Margaret felt a frisson run up her body. Such an intense, intimate touch. She wanted to pull her hand back, but at the same time, she didn't.

"Calluses on your fingers and palm. You do work back there in Staffordshire, don't you? Not snooty at all. You probably won't see me again, Mistress de Beauchamp, but I'll see you're rewarded. And don't go back to the Tower, got it?"

Margaret was glad to get her first American slang. "I . . . got it, sir. Tell them it was my pleasure to make their acquaintance. And yours."

Harry grinned at her. "Likewise."

* * *

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