Page 67 of The Scot Who Loved Me
Aunt Flora’s cheeks puckered. “You could try dressing up like a mon. If you put your hair under a cap, bind your bosom, and keep your face smudged... it could work.”
“The imprint of a Wilkes Lock key in wax is too unique. People would ask questions. It would give me—us—away.”
Will stepped up to the table. He was back in the fold. “I know a forge you can use, and keep your skirt on. It will help.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
A week gone and he’d already forgotten about the smells, tar on the boil and sea-damp wood. They’d slipped from memory under the heady fragrance of lavender on Anne’s skin, an intoxicating scent. Whale blubber was another story. When it sat in barrels the month of August, it was a whispered scent, harmless as beeswax, as was nature’s way. Getting it was another story.
Grubb Street presses did their best to seduce readers with tales of bold whalers and floating ice vaster than the king’s palace. The men of Howland Great Wet Dock knew the truth. It was written on the gaunt, feral faces of returning sailors. The arctic was a cold, cruel woman. Everyone knew she preferred the Dutch to the English. The English she spit out, killed, or simply denied them her bounty.
London’s criminals weren’t fooled by Grubb Street either. Upon release from prison, whaling couldn’t entice them, though some had worked the Howland Great Wet Dock, a few withT-branded thumbs. None stayed long. The criminals whoworked the yard eventually skulked away from West and Sons Shipping, singing a common refrain: “There has to be an easier way to earn my coin.”
If a man wasn’t ready to put his back into a day’s work, West and Sons Shipping was not the place to be. There were barnacles to scrape, tar to spread, damaged hulls to piece back together. If unloading rotting whale parts in barrels didn’t flatten a man, the brute strength needed to careen ships did. Backbreaking labor, it was, because the sea reminded all who crossed it: they were guests, and no more.
If capricious seas didn’t devour the whalers, the Royal Navy might. Press gangs hovered, an ever-present threat, to sailors and dock workers alike. The King’s Yard was downriver where work thrived apace. Storied ships needed hearty sailors. Will’s first summer at West and Sons Shipping showed him that. Pressmen had slinked past Mr. West’s office, sharks on the hunt.
He and Mr. Thomas West had beat the shite out of those turds—the genesis of true friendship.
Five years ago, Mr. West had waited while a prison hulk dumped Jacobite rebels back onto dry land. None accepted his employment offer. A year later, after suffocating in Ancilla’s perfumed prison, Will gathered what remained of his pride and left. With a highlander’s brogue and no letters of reference, he had one chance at honest work. His dignity in scraps, he’d sought the stoic Englishman who had to be either desperate or mad.
To his credit, Mr. West was neither.
West now stood on the selfsame dock. Coatless, hatless, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a large paper held wide in both hands. A ship’s diagram, no doubt.
Will smiled, the familiar jump of friendship running in his veins. Men like Thomas West were rare, their blood two-parts honor and one-part grit, and West was the only Englishman he deeply, deeply respected. He wished his father could know him.
When Mr. Baines scraped his wherry along the dock stairs, the friendship would be tested.
Desertion had its price.
Mr. West squinted over his plans. He hailed no greeting, save slowly rolling up those plans. Mary Fletcher and Anne took the stairs with grace. Will followed. Anne slipped coins into Mr. Baines’s outstretched palm, and the friendly wherryman scurried off to find more custom.
A grim Mr. West tucked rolled-up papers under his arm and waited. The sun on his face couldn’t hide the skeptical glare in his eyes.
Guilt and dread took turns with each footstep. He should’ve sent word the first day in Anne’s house that he was alive and well. While his absence might be overlooked, his request might not. It was a big one.
Will you let us forge a Wilkes Lock key?
He hadn’t figured out how to broach the subject.
Thomas West was a good man. His reputation was golden in a city fat with greed and slim on honesty. Memory of the South Sea Company, a failed merchant partnership and whaling concern, still hung in people’s minds. Stock criers selling shares in the streets followed by families stripped of home and hearth when the bubble burst. A man with ships who courted investors must be scrupulously honest.
The South Sea Company had been rife with money-lust and lies, its lines drawn directly to the crown. Mr. West’s father had labored hard to keep his reputation spotless. His son carried the same banner. Will had been proud to be a part of that for five years.
Now he walked the sun-bleached docks, swallowing his resistance. Introductions were made. Anne and Miss Fletcher curtseyed, while pinching wind-buffeted straw hats to keep them in place. Mr. West, well-bred despite tanned forearms and a crooked scar on his cheek, tipped a fine bow.
“A pleasure to meet you, ladies. It’s a rare day the fair sex steps foot on my docks.” His eyes lifted to Will, sharp as a file. “A rare day indeed.”
A healthy breeze fluttered lace on Miss Fletcher’s gown. Near her heart, she, too, wore a tiny rosette of Clanranald MacDonald tartan pinned to her gown.
Emboldened, Will said, “We’re here because I’ve a favor to ask. A grave one.”
West’s sharp eyes narrowed a fraction. “Then let us seek the privacy of my office.”
“That is very kind of you, Mr. West.” Miss Fletcher smoothed river-mussed hair as they made their way toward a two-story building.
Faded white letters,West and Sons Shipping, emblazoned the riverside wall. The ground floorhoused barrels of hooks and harpoons and the slanted desk of Mr. Anstruther, company clerk. Sun-warped stairs angled outside the building, the entrance to Mr. West’s office.
