Brazier came back to an invitation from Admiral Braddock asking him to dine the next day, and quickly accepted. With the aim of renting a house now decided upon, he turned his mind to the need for a servant. Of the several men who had acted in that capacity aboard HMS Diomede, Joe Lascelles stood highest in his estimation. The son of a slave he was rated free, this after the judgement of Lord Mansfield that no man in England could own the body of another. His father had been brought to England, with John in tow, by a West Indian customs official and slave trader, from whom he took his surname.
He had joined the navy as a volunteer to get away from, as he had it, a life like that of his sire, as a household servant albeit free, only to end up fulfilling that role in the great cabin of Brazier’s frigate. His one problem being in the West Indies was his inability to go ashore; it was too risky despite him carrying written proof of his free status. If he had ended up on a plantation, there would be scant chance of getting him back.
What marked him in Brazier’s mind was his unfailing good humour and saint-like patience, an attitude severely dented on the day they came across that Dutch slaver. It was the only time his captain, who described to him the things witnessed, had seen him shed a tear. Had the Lord Chancellor’s judgement not become law, John could have shared the fate of those being transported.
The slaver, it had transpired, was on course for the Dutch colony of St Maarten, but the conditions for Joe would have been the same, only he would have been forced to work in the fields of a British colonial possession, at the mercy of an overseer whose income was decided on a good crop yield. Brazier asked him once why he never complained. The response was simple: fate had been too kind.
His normal demeanour was a wide, white-teeth smile or a deep-throated laugh, easily invoked, which made him of inestimable value to a commander who, generally good-humoured himself, disliked having misery in his orbit. There were a couple of others to whom he sent letters, men who had acted as servants and whom he trusted, all with a promise to bear the cost of a reply, but he had high hopes that John would respond positively.
The temptation to ask Garlick for advice on the renting of a suitable house did not last; the man would look to personal advantage in the matter, either by seeking to profit from any transaction or finding him an abode designed to drive him back to the Three Kings.
It duly struck him the only person he could seek aid from was Vincent Flaherty, simply because he might know whom to ask, so, having had his dinner early, Bonnie was taken out again for a ride to the Irishman’s paddock.
‘That would be best asked of Saoirse, for sure, Edward. Not much going on in the town she don’t know about.’
Brazier, having sent Ben and his mount back to the stables once more, decided to call upon the lady prior to the start of the evening trade; it would be too busy later. So he made for the Old Playhouse determined to arrive before any torches were required to be lit, completely unaware that he was being followed. John Hawker had been well placed to see who entered and left the Three Kings and he had with him a couple of true hard bargains, men who would be guaranteed to avoid gentility in the task set for them.
‘Listen for the St George’s bells,’ was the instruction, as Brazier entered the doorway, for Hawker and these two were needed elsewhere in the hours of darkness. ‘If it counts past seven of the clock, we’ll have to let it slumber for tonight. An’ keep them cudgels out of sight.’
John Hawker had allowed cudgels only in case matters went awry and they were required to both defend themselves and get clear; this was to be a beating with fists, not one to maim or kill.
‘Wait till he’s down an’ out afore you go for his purse too.’
Brazier was welcomed by Saoirse Riorden, who remarked on his being in uniform and, with the tilt of her head and a droll look, how it was suited to him. This was taken to be the normal manner in which a tavern-cum-playhouse owner talked to a potential customer, especially one who appeared to have deep pockets. For the coming evening she was dressed in red velvet, which set off her hair and skin, making of the whole a warmer hue than the green in which he had seen her previously.
He followed her to a place in which they could converse, which turned out to be the very room she had entered with the fellow called Hawker. It was a small space lined with shelves groaning with bound ledgers, and a tiny desk with ink and quills. Following behind her, he could not but eye the grace with which she moved, as well as the gentle sway of her hips. Her air of confidence was attractive too, a trait very necessary given her occupation.
‘You’ll be looking for something grand, I suppose, to fit your wondrous prosperity?’
That got a questioning look, quickly responded to, only to be told his good fortune in the Caribbean was no secret.
‘Sure, it does not take much to find out about a new arrival in this place, especially one well found and with the rank you enjoy. If we are overrun with sailors, few are captains in the King’s Navy.’
Edward Brazier, a bit piqued, wondered where such knowledge came from; he also knew he would whistle for an answer if he enquired. A post captain would have been remarked upon at the Naval Yard as soon as he visited Braddock, while Garlick looked to be a stranger to discretion. Then there was his open generosity to Flaherty in the article of his wine bill. Whatever, it was out and there was nothing to be done about it.
‘I need to accommodate myself, an occasional guest in comfort, and at least one servant, while it has to have the means to lay and maintain a good table.’
‘Would close to the Naval Yard serve?’
‘It would indeed, given I must entertain Admiral Braddock and what officers he has on station.’
‘Not many these days, as I remarked. There’s a property, Quebec House, near the gentile southern part of Middle Street, not free from all noise, but quieter than the North End. It was home to a marine officer until recently, is spacious and comfortable and, as of this moment, not occupied.’
‘Quebec House sounds very grand.’
‘It is, enough to impress.’
‘Do I want to impress?’
The smile was enchanting as well as impish. ‘That would depend on what you seek at Cottington Court.’
‘I sense someone has been talking too much.’
‘Captain Brazier, everyone in this town talks too much.’
‘Everyone? How well do you know Garlick of the Three Kings?’
Her expression was made mischievous by her look of false innocence. ‘A fellow purveyor of hospitality is someone I meet from time to time and one it pays to be friendly with, as it is with all the tavern keepers.’
The air of confidence now rankled: he knew he was being teased and also suspected it was a habit she had with the men she met. With her being comely and unwed, they would tolerate it. The thought of him being sharp in his response was held in check for it would not serve his needs.
‘I would need to add,’ she continued, ‘that we do not live in a place where a great amount of interest occurs, which means that every event assumes proportions it far from warrants.’
‘Does it extend to common knowledge?’ She shook her head slowly. ‘And would it be possible to maintain that?’
‘I will not gossip, if it brings concern.’
Brazier was silent for a moment, contemplating the notion of a grand dwelling instead of one more in the utility line. He did not require such a house for himself, but one thought did surface: it might impress and temper the animosity of Henry Tulkington, while the effect on Betsey – a house which, if she chose could become her own – could not be other than positive.
‘I need to look it over and talk with the owner.’
That caused her to emit a chuckle. ‘Captain, you are talking to the very person.’
‘Why do I feel I have been made to look a dupe?’
‘Have you?’
‘I would reckon so.’
‘Men react like that when they are bested by one of my sex.’ Seeing him frown, she added, ‘Allow me my games, in which I mean to do no harm, other than redress the balance between men and women.’
‘By playing on the former.’
‘Who prey on the latter by habit and expect praise for it.’
‘Not a tag I am willing to wear.’ The expression he adopted was one he hoped hinted at humour, but the words were unforgiving – they had to be if he was going to pay her back in kind for her disdain. ‘I admit I found myself surprised when Flaherty told me you ran this place without a man to aid you, a husband perhaps. Now I am less so. It takes more than physical charms to snare one.’
‘The first thing it requires is the desire to do so.’
Her look had switched from amused playfulness to outright resentment and it was a telling change; the skin was now tight on her cheeks, while the narrowed eyes held something akin to scorn. Brazier was being told that Saoirse Riorden was not a plaything of any man.
‘I think we have perhaps got off on the wrong foot, which I have already had experience of this very day.’
‘Vincent will tell you I’m not one to be trifled with.’
‘I doubt I need his validation.’ A hand was held up palm forward. ‘Pax?’
‘Pax, indeed. If you want to look at Quebec House, I will take you there now, or on the morrow.’
‘Soonest done.’
‘I will fetch my cloak but it will be of short duration, for I am not gifted with much time till I must open my doors to custom.’
‘I would not wish to inconvenience you.’
‘Do I not owe you some consideration, Captain, for the way I have teased you?’ She held up a hand to kill off his reply, which in politeness would have been negative. ‘It is a habit of mine, and I admit a far from attractive one, as Flaherty is ever reminding me.’
‘Manifested for protection, perhaps?’
‘A sharp observation, though not from him, for he is a sweet man in a world not over-gifted with such. If you wait at the door, I will join you once I’m sure all is prepared.’
It was beginning to get dark outside now and as he stood under freshly lit torches, he found himself being examined by the pair of squat, wide-shouldered toughs who minded the Playhouse doorway. Their long clubs, attached to their wrists by leather straps, swung menacingly from their hands. Typical of their breed, they eyed him as they did everyone, those passing by included, as persons on the very edge of committing unwarranted violence; in their occupation, the notion of peaceful contemplation was alien.
With deliberate irony, rating them miserable sods, he raised his hat and moved away; he would be able to spot Saoirse as soon as she exited the building. So ferocious was the way he was grabbed, his hat flew off and he was dragged backwards into some kind of dark recess devoid of overhead light, the first blow of a fist taking him on the side of the head, immediately followed by one to wind him and bend him double. Having been in many fights in his career, he knew he had to retaliate and he also had to keep his feet, which could only be achieved by the wild flailing of his own fists in order to seek to gain some room, his fear that if he went down he would never get up again.
His knuckles connected with bone, which hurt his hand as much as it did whoever the punch landed on, that followed by more blows traded, this while he was trying to make sense of the spittle-flecked words he was hearing. The foul cursing he could comprehend, but what in the name of creation was the meaning of ‘Daisy sends you love’, or ‘Learn where to park your arse, polite, mate’? And finally, ‘Best you leave Deal behind, or Daisy reckons this will rate mild’?
In a fight the brain becomes remarkably clear, while what was being inflicted upon him hurt less than it would subsequently. Edward Brazier had noted such facts from his early years in the navy and it mattered little if the contest was with or without weapons. As blows rained down on his head and body, he managed to fend away enough to raise his eyeline and see his assailants silhouetted against the buildings opposite, those already lit by lanterns in the first-storey windows to provide light to the street.
Staying upright he decided would not serve after all, for he had to get out into the twilight. It took all his strength to push one man back enough to create the space to dive under him and, once on the ground, to roll away, though he was taken by a telling boot in the process, which thudded into his back. He kept rolling until he felt the earth of the road under his hand, then yelled for help.
Saoirse Riorden had come out, cloak round her shoulders, to wonder where her prospective tenant had got to, the look she got from her doorman a smile rather than a glare. Her question as to the whereabouts of a naval officer was answered by a finger pointing up the road and she moved in that direction, just in time to see a figure tumble out onto the street.
She knew it was him by the white facing on his waistcoat, though it took a second to realise he was in extremis, as two black-clad fellows came out behind him and started to wildly kick at his body. Brazier was on his back now, using his feet as he had previously used his hands, to deflect as many of those boots as he could, shouting loudly for assistance, which was not forthcoming from those passing locals who moved away from danger, not towards it.
He was aware of a female scream, then the sound of those boots, which had been seeking to do him serious damage, pounding off on the hard ground and diminishing. It was not just those he heard, for if he could not identify them, the two Playhouse doormen were rushing past his inert body, while the woman who employed them knelt beside him, asking what he reckoned was a senseless question.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph are you hurt?’ Her next words were aimed at others, her returning retainers. ‘Help him up and take him indoors, where we can see what harm has been done.’
The stab of real pain across his back, as he was lifted, came out as a moan. He could taste blood in his mouth and, when a run of the tongue followed, it told of a split lip. Brazier tried to say he could walk, and to brush off support, only to begin to fall as soon as he was obeyed.
‘Will you for the love of God be quiet now,’ Saoirse insisted.
Her face became visible as, despite the pain in his back, he lifted his head, the whole quartet now illuminated by the flaring overhead torches. So was her horrified expression, quickly modified, one which told him he had a badly battered face.
‘Upstairs with him, Tally. Proctor, find someone to go and get the doctor, then fetch hot water and cloths. If he’s sober they’re to get him here, in fact drunk as well, and with no excuses.’
The stairs were a trial, too narrow for him to be supported, so a hand on the wall and a lengthy pause was required more than once to steady himself. At the top he was eased into a room, before being helped to lay back on a long settle and that was when the pain really began to kick in, all over his upper body, this while his head began to throb.
His eyes were closed when the damp cloth was applied to one of his injuries, which brought forth a curse as the pain of contact stabbed into him. Then came the really hard part, as she and the fellow who had fetched the hot water tried to get his coat off, even more painful when it came to his long white waistcoat.
The slow thud of feet on the stairs brought the doctor, this heard by Brazier rather than seen, for he had his eyes closed, one through his own volition, the other because it was so swollen he could not see out of it. The smell of drink, on the breath of the man who bent over him, was strong and it was upsetting to hear him ask for that very commodity; was he planning to drink even more!
The assumption was not entirely correct; there was another purpose and one that brought torment as his various afflictions were dabbed with the spirit, to then be washed with water, he assumed to clear away blood or the grime he had gathered in his attempt to roll to safety. The worst point of pain was when he was raised so his back could be examined and, once inspected, it was announced he might have a cracked rib.
‘We’ll need the shirt off as well. Saoirse. Send someone to the apothecary for bandages, enough to encase his torso. And happen we should allow your fellow here some of this brandy to ease his distress.’
The bottle was put to his lips, to sting the split lip before any of the liquid made it on to his tongue, still less his throat. When it got there it made him gasp, even as he realised it was far from being a rough spirit.
‘Would I be permitted, Saoirse?’
‘Jesus, how could I stop you, without I drag the bottle out of your hand?’
‘Not often I get to drink such quality.’ That he had done so was established by a satisfied gasp, followed by, ‘’Tis a pity to waste it on a wound, is it not?’
Brazier opened his one good eye to find the face of Saoirse Riorden looking into his with a concerned expression.
‘We will have to lift you when the bandages come, will that be withstood?’ The nod was slow. ‘You rest here tonight. There’s no way to get you back to the Three Kings without you passing out.’
‘Which,’ he hissed, trying to make a joke, and regretting it for the pain, ‘will give your gossips something real to talk about.’