Chapter Six

 

As it turned out, Rosalyn never could explain Grant’s remark to her uncle’s satisfaction. Her defense, that her business partner merely spoke in jest, met with stone-faced disbelief. Already determined to find her own place in London, this latest debacle sent her scurrying back to the Duchess of Marlboro. To her dismay, this noble lady, though most desirous to help, was unable to fulfill her promise of a paying position until well into September.

Faced with this unexpected delay and knowing the Fair Winds wouldn’t provide any monetary relief for months, Rosalyn cast about in desperation for a solution to her dilemma.

She wasn’t sure how much longer she could live peacefully under her aunt and uncle's disapproving shadow. And even though she knew Grant might come up with an advance, she disliked having to admit the severity of her need, especially to him, since by far the worst complication to all her plans was Grant himself.

If only she could get through the summer months! Once Grant left in early May, her only contact with him would be through the London barrister who was handling his business affairs. Soon he would sail away and be lost to her forever. What trick of fate was this—to have fallen madly, passionately, desperately in love with such a man? she asked herself. Grant gave her no reason not to think he was still a philanderer and a barely reformed rogue pirate. Yet his slightest smile or sensual glance made her go weak in the knees. Sometimes Rosalyn wished she could follow the promptings of her heart, yet that was tantamount to playing with fire and could only spell disaster, emotionally and economically.

Wisely, she chose to let caution govern, and thus she kept a tight rein on her desires.

Rosalyn was still turning over in her mind how best to find employment when she ran into Mercy shopping at a stall near Covent Gardens. It was an overcast, cheerless morning toward the end of April, and she and Mercy had been out of touch for several days.

“What good fortune!” she exclaimed, hugging her friend. “I went to call on you at the Hills’ residence Tuesday, but they said you had moved out.”

“Yes,” Mercy said, blushing. “Count Bronislau has engaged a suite of rooms for me in the hotel where he lives.”

Rosalyn’s jaw dropped. “Mercy—no! How could you?”

Mercy hung her head, embarrassed. “I know everyone expected me to marry Charles, but I’ve had to struggle all my life, and—" she shrugged, “—the Count can give me everything I ever dreamed of.”

At this point, Rosalyn noticed Mercy’s expensive new clothes. “I see,” she said slowly.

“After that night at the theatre, I sent Charles Lamb a note, calling off the wedding,” Mercy revealed, her eyes downcast.

“He must be devastated!” Rosalyn didn’t try to hide her shock.

“It wasn’t an easy decision for me to make, Rosalyn,” she said. “I felt so guilty! But I just couldn’t help myself. Alexei is so romantic—”

“Mercy Wallins! You should feel guilty—” Oh, how she wanted to shake Mercy! But when she looked more closely, she realized that Mercy needed a friend now more than ever before. “So what happens now?” She led her friend into a quiet tea shop where they could be more private.

“Alexei leaves the second of May with the Russians,” Mercy revealed. “He wants me to go with him, but I confess I’m a little nervous. I don’t know the language, for one thing, and what if he should grow tired of me? I’d be all alone in a strange country.”

“You had better think it through carefully, before you get any more deeply involved,” Rosalyn warned. At least her friend still had some common sense! “Has he asked you to marry him?”

“No, he already has a wife and . . . f-five children!” Mercy’s face crumpled, and she buried her face in her lace handkerchief.

Rosalyn put her arms around Mercy and tried to console her. “It’s best you found out now, so you can break it off.”

“That’s just it, Rosalyn. I don’t want to break it off! I-I think I’m in love!” Mercy sobbed, dabbing furiously at her eyes.

“I don’t think you know what you are, Mercy,” said Rosalyn. “You thought you loved Charles, too—remember?”

“Maybe I was just lonely,” she rationalized. “Charles is a really kind, decent person, and yet— Oh, Rosalyn! If I had married him, I’d have been stuck all my life, scratching out a living.”

“But together—”

“Alexei says he will set me up in my own house, with servants and new clothes and everything I could possibly want.” Mercy smiled, her blue eyes starry-eyed with hope.

“Can any of that be more important than love?” Rosalyn asked, in a quandary how to advise her friend.

“Maybe not to some people. But look what happened to my first husband,” Mercy said. “I couldn’t have loved anyone more! Yet Todd died in debtors’ prison, and I got shipped to the colonies as an indentured servant. Why shouldn’t I want something better in life?” She blew her nose defiantly.

Rosalyn gave Mercy’s arm a little shake. “Forgive me, if I hurt your feelings, but I feel I must speak my mind. I dearly love you, and I want you to be happy, but this is a very bad idea.”

Mercy smiled bravely through her tears. “Rosalyn, please don’t be mad at me. No matter what happens, let’s always be friends.”

“Agreed.”

Across the tea table, they hugged as if they'd lose each other forever, if they ever let go.

Finally Mercy wiped her tear-streaked face, and Rosalyn realized with a shock that her friend had begun to wear rouge and powder on a regular basis. “Oh, Rosalyn, how selfish of me! I forgot to ask how you are doing. Have you found a paid position yet?”

“No openings until fall, I fear, but something will turn up. The worst part is living with my aunt and uncle till I can move out,” Rosalyn said with a guilty laugh.

Mercy’s face brightened. “Why not come with me, then?” she said impulsively.

“No, I couldn’t possibly! Besides, you and the Count—" She shook her head. "It wouldn’t be proper.”

“Oh, do come. Just for the summer, Rosalyn!" she begged. "It won’t cost anything to travel as my friend and companion, and you can see Europe with me!”

Rosalyn laughed. “Are you saying it’s my turn to be your traveling companion? Why, Mercy Wallins, how sly you are! You have managed to turn the tables on me!”

“Then you’ll come?” she asked eagerly.

“No, of course not. The idea is preposterous!”

Mercy looked at her with a minx-like smile. “Would you change your mind, if I spoke to the Count, and he was in favor of it?” And in the next breath, she proceeded to list all the cities they would be visiting, and the sights along the way.

“Mercy, you are incorrigible!” Rosalyn laughed. Mercy’s enthusiasm was so contagious. Besides, she would probably never get another chance to see Europe. “Oh, all right,” she agreed, and threw her hands in the air. “I suppose I might consider it, but only with the understanding that I must return to London no later than September first.”

Mercy and Rosalyn hugged again, barely able to contain their joy. “What an adventure we shall have!" Mercy exclaimed. "We shall travel by coach from Amsterdam. Alexei lives in Rawa, where the Polish ruler Augustus spends most of his time.”

“And where, no doubt, the Count’s wife and five children also live,” Rosalyn couldn’t resist reminding her friend.

“Yes, but Alexei assures me it’s only a marriage of convenience. She means nothing to him! Don’t you see, Rosalyn? He doesn’t love her. He couldn’t. He loves me!” Mercy laughed gaily.

“So he says.” Cynically Rosalyn wondered if there weren’t as many definitions of love as there were people in the world. No matter how she felt about Grant, she would never plunge into a foolhardy affair with him. It would be much too risky.

“Anyway, we shall all have a grand time!” Mercy chattered on. “Alexei and Augustus are great friends with Peter, and we shall be stopping off in Prague and Leipzig, and Vienna, too. Please say you’ll come!”

Rosalyn was amazed at her friend’s ability to gloss over the Count’s unfeeling decision to reduce Mercy to the status of a high priced— She refused to name it! Still, if she went along, Mercy might come to her senses faster and return to England with her. “All right, I’ll come,” she decided, her mind made up. “But I still have serious reservations about your friend, the Count.”

“Oh, thank you, Rosalyn. Thank you!” Mercy flung her arms around Rosalyn’s neck and kissed her.

“Enough, enough!” laughed Rosalyn, dodging. “Now let’s put our heads together and decide what to pack!”

“Oh, Rosalyn, this will be such fun! I can hardly wait.” Adjourning to Mercy’s hotel, they made plans over a light nuncheon for an extended holiday on the Continent. As they talked, Rosalyn had to admit it was the chance of a lifetime.

Even so, she couldn’t shake off an ominous feeling that Mercy’s madcap affair with the Count might prove to be the least of their problems abroad.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The second day of May 1698 dawned with clear skies and a fair breeze, which everyone took as a good omen. The king had held a royal banquet the night before to celebrate the new trade agreements and the sharing of technology between the two nations. Unspoken but profoundly felt was William’s—and indeed the entire English court’s—relief that Peter and his entourage were at last leaving their shores. It seemed a small price for England to pay, that sailing with the Tsar would be fifty Englishmen of exceptional knowledge and skills.

After lengthy speeches, King William’s gift to Tsar Peter, The Royal Transport, sailed down the Thames. Peregrine Osborne on his own yacht and Admiral Mitchell accompanied their royal protegé as far as Amsterdam. Also traveling on The Royal Transport were the rest of Peter’s closest friends and trusted subjects. Count Alexei Bronislau, his new English mistress Mercy Wallins, the new English ambassador to Russia, and other diplomats were also aboard.

Amid all the fanfares, flourishes and farewells, Mercy found time to speak privately with Rosalyn, who had decided at the last minute to cross the Channel on the Fair Winds.

After last night’s going away party, it was a relief not to be traveling with a boatload of wild Russian and English diplomats. Excusing herself on the grounds that she wanted to escape the loud booming cannon salutes that heralded the exodus of The Royal Transport, Rosalyn returned to the carriage where William and Prudence Morgan waited to take her to the Fair Winds. Already she had butterflies at the prospect of sailing with Grant again—alone this time.

Reaching the quieter wharf, she tearfully kissed her uncle and aunt goodbye.

“Go with God,” said her uncle, scowling at the handsome young Captain standing on the quarterdeck. Grant, spotting Rosalyn below, raised his hand in a casual salute, then jubilantly called orders for his men to prepare to set sail.

“Write us often, child,” said Aunt Prudence, dabbing her eyes.

Rosalyn smiled and patted her aunt’s shoulder. “I will, and thank you both, for everything. I shall see you in September!” Walking quickly up the gangplank, she paused at the railing to give them a brave smile and a wave farewell

Grant Watermann strolled over and touched his cap in greeting. There was a disconcerting gleam in his eye, and his dark wind-blown hair lent an air of excitement to his sharply chiseled features.

“So, Mrs. Watermann. Ready to get under way?”

She nodded, suddenly excited about the adventure that lay ahead. “Ready when you are, Captain!”

“All right, men!” he roared, making Rosalyn jump at his hearty volume. “Haul away. Shake those sails loose up there. Let’s make those canvases crackle!”

Working in unison, his men called out another of their rousing chanties:

 

“Farewell, London dollies, we’re bound across the sea,

A grand time you gave us, but now our money’s spent,

And we’re out to sea once more.

Oh, fine girls you are!”

 

Bawdy. Would the man never change? Smiling, Rosalyn shook her head and glanced up to watch the sails catch that first great luff of wind. What more could she want? Favorable skies, a familiar, sturdy deck beneath her feet, and a man beside her who could only break her heart. She supposed two out of three was about what she could reasonably expect, even with God on her side.

“Nothing’s changed,” Grant informed her, as they tacked down the Thames to the sea. “You take the Captain’s cabin, and I’ll make do with the First Mate’s cubbyhole,”

She chuckled, remembering all their go-rounds on board ship.

“But this is the last time you commandeer my cabin,” he warned, breaking into her thoughts with a wicked grin. “Next time you’ll have to fight me for it, or share it.”

Feeling her heart quicken, Rosalyn refused to rise to the challenge. “You never will stop trying to provoke me, will you, Captain?”

His tiger’s eyes gleamed with the wickedest of smiles, and the dimples in his tanned cheeks leapt out at her. “What did you expect, Miss Prim, coming aboard without a chaperone?” He doffed his cap with a bow.

“Even without a chaperone, I am more than a match for you, sir!” She turned up her nose pertly.

“Aye, that you are.” Laughing, he excused himself to take the wheel.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Less than twenty-four hours later, the Fair Winds, the Peregrine, The Royal Transport, and the British naval fleet escorting the Tsar under Admiral Mitchell’s command were battling treacherous seas. Second day out, listening to Grant Watermann curse the weather as long as she could stand it, Rosalyn staggered into the galley and pinched a handful of crackers for her queasy stomach. Halfway across the slippery deck, she overheard him remark to his first mate, “Damn it, Garrison, having a beautiful woman aboard is a damned jinx!”

Shocked that he blamed her for a typhoon, Rosalyn careened unsteadily back to her cabin, fighting nausea all the way. Suddenly she was glad she wasn’t going all the way to Russia with such a superstitious man. Most definitely, taking the overland route would be less hazardous.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The English fleet limped into Amsterdam on the fifteenth of May, 1698, where they found the Fair Winds lying peacefully at anchor, having beaten the other ships by two days. While harbor waters swelled gently under cloudy skies, a few miles out the storm in the North Sea raged on.

The sweet smell of land and sea quickly revived the flagging spirits of Peter’s entourage, as they boarded long boats and made for the wharf. Ordering his carriage to wait on the quay, Peter had his oarsmen pull alongside the Fair Winds. Coming aboard with a junior officer acting as translator, the young Tsar stuck out his enormous paw and shook Grant’s hand.

“One hell of a storm, Your Majesty,” Grant grinned, as he surrendered himself to Peter’s bearlike embrace.

“I love every minute! No place for green sailors, but—” Peter threw out his chest with a guffaw, “—for men like us, it was a magnificent crossing!”

“No casualties?”

“Nyet—no! And you?” Peter’s huge hands gripped the mainmast a few feet above the deck, as if testing its strength.

“As sturdy as the day she was launched,” Grant affirmed.

“Good, good!” Surveying the group of English diplomats struggling to debark from Mitchell’s and Osborne’s ships in the harbor, Peter broached the real reason for his impromptu visit. “If only my English friends were as sturdy as their boats.” He lowered his voice, taking Grant into his full confidence: “I received very bad news before I left The Royal Transport: Ambassador Stewart’s personal secretary has taken ill.”

“He'll be fine after a few days on dry land,” Grant said with a dismissive shrug.

“Nyet. I fear it’s more serious than that, Captain. The Ambassador is talking of returning to England, unless he can find someone to help with his correspondence and appointments.” Peter impatiently raked his fingers through his unruly black hair. “If the Ambassador goes, some of my key advisors may also return to England.”

“Why’s that?” asked Grant, concerned.

“The language barrier.” Peter turned melancholy eyes on Grant. “It might keep me from putting into effect the reforms I plan for my country.” Finally he came to the point of his visit: “I need to borrow Mrs. Watermann to handle the Ambassador’s correspondence. Only for a time,” he added quickly. “As you say, temporary.”

Though it seemed odd that the Tsar would involve himself in trying to solve a problem that primarily concerned the English diplomatic corps, Grant felt uneasy. What if Rosalyn found herself in an awkward position, then what? "I suppose you could ask her,” he said cautiously. He and Rosalyn had been sparring throughout the trip, and he didn’t want her jumping all over him about this, when it had nothing to do with him. She got a bee down her busk every time she thought he was sticking his nose in her business. This she must decide on her own, he decided, and be damned to her!

Peter looked puzzled. “But have you no say in such matters?”

He shook his head. “Mrs. Watermann is a free agent. Why should she seek my advice?”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up, reflecting his surprise. “Are women so independent in England? I would not dream of letting my sister exercise such autonomy! I admire much in England, comrade, but not such liberality toward women.”

“Like it or not, I have no authority where she is concerned.”

“But you share the same last name!” Baffled, Peter stood beside Grant and scanned the deck, seeking out the lady in question. “Very well. I shall speak to her directly.”

Ready to disembark, Rosalyn emerged at that very moment from her cabin, wearing a deep maroon gown that emphasized her clear alabaster skin and deep blue eyes.

After two days spent avoiding Grant since their last clash of wills while they lay to in the harbor, Rosalyn swept past Grant as if he didn’t exist, and extended her hand in friendship to the Tsar. Standing on the sidelines, Grant saw right through her: A royal pain she was, stubborn as always, and twice as beautiful, damn her eyes!

“Good morning, Sergeant Mikhailov. Have you come to bid the Captain Godspeed?”

“Actually I come on a matter of some urgency,” Peter confessed. “It concerns you, dear lady.”

Rosalyn’s first thought was of her friend. “I hope Miss Wallins isn't ill?” she asked.

The Tsar shook his head. “She fares well. But the English diplomatic corps is talking of turning back, because the Ambassador’s personal secretary has become ill. Near death, they say.” Peter flashed her a royal smile. “Mrs. Watermann, dear lady! I hope I can count on your help?”

“If I can,” she said, looking puzzled. “Is a nurse required?”

“The gentleman returns to England with Admiral Mitchell on the outgoing tide.” Tucking her slender hand under his arm, he lowered his head confidingly. “I must not lose all the fine Englishmen traveling with me to Moscow on account of one man. They are vital to helping me bring about the changes I plan for my people.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand, Sergeant,” said Rosalyn.

“Ambassador Steward has agreed to continue the journey to Moscow, if you will serve as his secretary.” Feeling her draw back, Peter hastily added, “Until a substitute can be found to fill the position.” He gave her an imploring look.

She hesitated, torn between accepting his offer and talking it over in private with Grant. Even though they didn’t always see eye-to-eye, she did need an opinion she could trust.

Peter raised her hand to his lips, and his black eyes gazed imploringly into hers. “Please, as a personal favor to me, dear lady. Can you find it in your heart to accept this temporary post? The Ambassador would consider it a great service to your country, as well.”

“Since you put it that way—” Rosalyn glanced at Grant for his reaction, but he remained silent. Disappointed by his indifference, she nodded. “Yes, I accept. Please tell the Ambassador I shall be honored to assist him in any way I can.” She spread her skirts and curtsied low.

Above her bowed head Peter cast a triumphant look at Grant. “This I like! A woman with a submissive spirit,” he crowed.

Grant coughed behind his fist to disguise his amusement, and Rosalyn felt her temper flare. “Since I plan to travel with Miss Wallins,” she said, “I might as well make myself useful.”

Grant raised an eyebrow at her. “How reassuring to know you will be properly occupied. Perhaps you can manage to stay out of mischief, unlike your friend?”

“And I shall be in such congenial company,” said the Tsar, pouring on the charm.

She smiled, clearly annoyed with her nemesis. “Alas, it seems we part company once again, Captain. May I wish you a safe and prosperous voyage?”

He touched his cap. “And you, Mrs. Watermann. But don’t forget: The Fair Winds returns to England in early September.”

“I shan’t forget our arrangement.”

“Be on time,” he reminded her. “If the Gulf of Riga freezes over, we could be stuck there all winter.”

“Comrade, you and Mrs. Watermann must be my guests during your stay in Moscow,” Peter broke in, and gave Grant another embarrassing bear hug. “I shall throw a party in honor of all my new English friends, so that my nobles can meet you.”

Grant shook the Tsar’s hand. “I look forward to our next meeting.” Turning to Rosalyn, he again held out his hand. “Until we meet again, Rosalyn.”

Mischief flashed in her sparkling blue eyes, as she daringly tilted her chin at him. “What? Is a handshake all I get?”

The corners of Grant’s mouth twitched. “Afraid so. Wouldn’t want things to get out of control, now would we?”

“I’ll miss you,” she admitted.

“Take care of yourself,” he said gruffly. He touched her lightly on the shoulder and stepped back.

His mission accomplished, Peter was suddenly in a hurry to depart. “Come, Mrs. Watermann. We must tell Ambassador Stewart the good news! I shall have your bags collected within the hour. We leave at noon for Dresden.” He held out his hand imperiously, and reluctantly Rosalyn accepted his escort down the gangplank.

As she stepped ashore, she couldn’t resist one final lingering look at her strong, dark-haired business partner, outlined against the scudding clouds on the main deck. Seeing her hesitate, he braced his hands on the railing, and his eyes met hers in an unspoken message that sent a pang of regret straight to her heart.

Then, recalled to her duty by an impatient tug, she turned to the giant beside her. The Tsar gestured to his waiting carriage, and she had no choice but to go forward.