11 March 1812
My dearest Chance and Julia,
Warmest greetings from Becket Hall, my children.
It seems so long since your visit at Christmas-time, but
we understand how occupied you must be at the War Office,
Chance, what with our new Lord Wellington so busily
preparing to storm Badajoz now that he has at last
dispensed with opposition from Ciudad Rodrigo. Wellesley
now an English duke, and even Duque de Ciudad Rodrigo into
the bargain? ยกMadre de Dios! How we reward men for the
efficient killing of other men in this upside-down world.
I wonder, do the honors change him, or will his good
common sense prevail? With the rumblings we hear about
Bonaparte possibly setting his sights on Russia,Wellington
would be wise to let the Little Corsican have his head,
and concentrate on the Peninsula, as I have a great
respect for the Russian spirit. No one, as we both know,
fights with more determination than a man with his back to
the wall.
But that is a discussion for another time. There continue
to be no red skies at morning, and only clear black
nights, all of them without incident, and we rejoice in
the fair weather. Courtland keeps himself busy about the
countryside.
All else remains quiet here, or will be as soon as Morgan
is dispatched to you on Friday. She'll be heavily
accompanied until well into civilization, and should be
with you by dinnertime on Sunday, unless she bedevils
Jacob into some mischief along the way. I have
commissioned Jacob to guard her because the poor besotted
boy would die for her.
I have, however, yet to decide whether this makes the lad
eminently suited for the position, or fatally flawed.
Cassandra, of course, is exceedingly jealous of her
sister, and has demanded I remind you that she will be
needing a Season of her own in a few years, a truth this
father greatly wishes to ignore.
Fanny has not asked for the same consideration, as she
remains more invested with her horse and Romney Marsh, and
you know that Eleanor has made it quite plain she has no
intentions of traveling to London, much less considering
marriage.
I say this only in the hope you will not envision the
whole of the thing at once, this continuing sponsoring of
your sisters, and decide to pack your bags in the middle
of the night as you and Julia flee to America.
As to America. Forgive this recluse his interest in the
world. What hear you at the War Office about the
possibility of war between our countries? Someone here has
heard rumblings, although you, of course, cannot mention
your most unreliable source if you speak to your superiors.
Were I a betting man, however, I would place my wager on
the rumor becoming fact before summer.
Spencer and Rian keep themselves busy, with Jacko and some
others beating in their heads with knowledge that should
have been theirs years ago, while I have, as you know,
made Courtland my special project for the nonce. So I
suppose I should correct myself. All is not quiet here at
Becket Hall, and I must say, life grows more enjoyable by
the day.
MonsieurAubert, the dancing master you were so kind to
dispatch, has left here a fortnight past, contemplating
the pursuit of another calling, and with the protective
gad a sympathetic Odette fashioned for him. But Morgan has
learned her steps, if she does tend to move with a bit
more flamboyance than the good monsieur felt he could
countenance. Mon Dieu, but that Frenchman could weep!
I do feel I also must tell you that I have just yesterday
received a rather impassioned note from the good monsieur,
apologizing most profusely for allowing Morgan to tease
him (the man said tease, and I shudder to consider the
implications!) into teaching her the steps to the Viennese
waltz, supposedly considered quite acceptable in Paris,
yet, mourns Monsieur Aubert, totally offensive to London
society.
Yes, son, this all comes to you in the way of a warning.
If, at a ball, you hear the strains of anything you
believe even vaguely Bavarian or German in tone, you might
wish to grab Morgan by the ear and drag her to the nearest
refreshment table, so that she cannot disgrace you in
public.
Although I must tell you that Eleanor and I are pleased
with the modiste that accompanied the monsieur, and
Morgan's wardrobe should be most fitting for a London
debutante with aspirations to set the ton on its
collective ear.
It is Morgan herself, as you know, who is not quite so
demure, as she is, physically, her mother's daughter. Clad
in fine silks or sackcloth and ashes, our Morgan remains
impossible to overlook.
But I need not tell you any of this. I know Morgan is in
good hands, thanks to my dearest Julia, who could most
probably whistle a herd of stampeding elephants to heel.
You will see us all soon enough, God willing, and your
siblings send their love, with Courtland adding a special
message that he fully expects you to pop Morgan off on
some unsuspecting Romeo before the man has a chance to see
her with both eyes open.
Keeping you both to your promise to accompany Morgan back
to her family at the end of the Season, I look forward to
regular reports of the girl's progress. Do think to spare
this old man's blushes, however, and don't tell me
everything my dear daughter might do. My imagination is
terrifying enough. I shall hold out only faint hope there
exists a man in London who will be up to the challenge she
presents.
A grateful parent's thanks, blessings, and prayers on you
both.
Your loving father,
Ainsley G. B. Becket
"YOU'LL BE DELIGHTED to know that my father remains the
master of understatement," Chance Becket said, then handed
the two-page letter to his wife before heading to the
drinks table in the drawing room of their Upper Brook
Street town house, to pour himself a glass of wine. "Would
you care for some lemonade?"
"No, thank you, dearest," Julia said, quickly scanning
both pages, then putting them down beside her. "Ainsley
never worries about the cost of postage, does he? I'll
read this later. Why don't you tell me what he has to say โ
and what you believe he was really saying."
Chance sat down beside his bride of nearly a year and took
her hand, raised it to his lips. There was no sense in
lying to her. "I believe, sweetings, he was warning us
that Morgan could present a problem."
Julia rested her head against her husband's shoulder and
sighed, for she knew Morgan, and believed Chance's words
also to be in the way of a gross under-statement. "Oh, is
that all. I'm already expecting problems, and I'm certain
the last thing Morgan would want to do is to disappoint
me. What else did he say?"
"The Red Men Gang is still happily absent from Romney
Marsh, Court's still in charge as the Black Ghost, and
everything continues to run smoothly on that head."
Julia straightened, thoughts of their time spent at Becket
Hall rising to the surface, bringing back old memories,
old fears. She'd first met Chance, met the Beckets, when
she'd answered an advertisement and became nanny to
Chance's young daughter, Alice. And her life had never
been the same. "He actually said that?"
"No, not in so many words. But he did say it." Chance put
down his wineglass and became occupied in twirling a lock
of his wife's blond hair around his finger. "He also sees
a defeat in Bonaparte's future and an English war with
America. Why a man who never leaves Romney Marsh is still
so interested in the rest of the world amuses me. That he
can know so much, analyze and deduce so much, amazes me. I
wish he'd come to London, join me in the War Office."
Julia squeezed Chance's hand, the secrets they shared
about Ainsley Becket, all of the Beckets, already holding
them fast. "But he won't. He doesn't dare be recognized,
or else everything he's so carefully built will come
tumbling down."
"I'm not sure even he believes that anymore. He's been
safe for more than a dozen years. Well, we'll soon have
Morgan, at least. That's a start. Then possibly Spence and
Rian will come for a visit, and I can chase them out of
every gambling hell and whorehouse in the city."
"They wouldn't do that," Julia said, then bit her bottom
lip for a moment. "Yes, they would, wouldn't they? I think
I'll allow you to be in charge of your brothers when they
visit, and I'll watch over the girls. Do we have a
bargain, sir?"
Chance grinned, then kissed her cheek. "If I'd known how
easily I could be shed of responsibility for Morgan,
madam, I would have been a happier man these past months.
So it's a promise? You're in charge of bearleading Morgan,
and any of my sisters who want to cut a dash in society,
and I'm in charge of my brothers?"
Julia saw her husband's smile and reached for Ainsley's
letter. "Before I agree to that, I think perhaps I ought
to read your father's warnings for myself."
Chance rolled his eyes dramatically and picked up his
wineglass again. "So much for my hopes. Did I tell you,
dearest, that I'll be needed at the War Office almost
continuously for the next three months?"
Julia's eyes had already widened as she read about
Monsieur Aubert. "Oh, I doubt that, Chance. I doubt that
very much. The waltz? She wouldn't dare. I may be new to
society myself, but I know the waltz is frowned on โ why,
even Lord Byron condemns it."
"As being unchaste.Yes, I know.While Byron himself, of
course, is virgin as a new-fallen snow." Chance took a sip
of wine. "Ainsley seems to want Morgan married off
quickly. I think that's fairly clear. Do you think we
should be drawing up a list of eligible bachelors?"
"And then steer her toward them? Oh, I don't think so,
darling. It's the one we'd steer her away from that she'd
most likely find interesting. That said, yes, I believe
I've reconsidered, and will join you in a glass. And not
lemonade."
JACOB WHITING WAS SO upset he could barely keep from
wringing his hands like some fretful old lady as visions
of disaster evilly danced in his head. He'd thought this
would be such a grand adventure.
Just once before in his twenty years had he been anywhere
interesting, when he'd been taken to Dym-church to have a
tooth drawn. Traveling up to London-town had come to him
unexpectedly, like a special treat from Father Christmas,
and traveling there with Morgan Becket was like all of
Christmas and his birthday combined.
And now, not even two days into his grand adventure,
Morgie was ruining everything and he wished himself back
at Becket Hall, or snug in his bed above The Last Voyage
in the small village Ainsley had built for everyone,
listening to the old sailors telling tall tales as they
drank their rum in the tap room below him.
"Morgie โ that is, Miss Morgan, please. Your papa will
have my head on a pike if anything happens to you."
Morgan Becket frowned at Jacob, who was proving unusually
uncooperative, not to mention melodramatic. She was much
more used to having him twisted neatly around her finger,
as he had been from the first day he'd laid eyes on her,
more than a dozen years ago.
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