Page 166 of The King's Man
‘The Secretary of State. The letter is from the Governor of Barbados.’
Margaret read the missive aloud. Frances gave a strangled cry and sank into the nearest chair, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders wracked with sobs.
Margaret let the letter drop to the floor and looked at Kit, her mouth working. Kit lowered his head, unable to meet her accusing eyes. He had given her hope only to snatch it away. Daniel would never be coming home.
Kit shook his head and turned away. ‘Everything I did… was for nothing.’
Thamsine laid a hand on his arm. There had been some dark days after the letter had arrived from Thurloe. Days when he had considered finished the job the hangman had begun. Only Thamsine’s unwavering devotion and patience had brought him back from that brink.
He took a deep breath, regaining his composure, and turned to face his stepmother.
She slumped in the chair, all her defiance leeched from her, and she looked old and frail. Her son had died not once but twice, and he could not even begin to imagine what that meant.
‘I have thought hard on this, Margaret,’ he continued. ‘I’ve been through too much to believe it was all for naught. I refuse to accept he is dead until I hold some evidence in my hand or stand beside his grave.’
Margaret looked up and Kit took her hand, meeting no resistance.
‘Margaret, I couldn’t have stopped Daniel from coming with me that day. If I had locked him in his room he would have found some way to follow. If I’d not been wounded … ’ He trailed off and went down on one knee before her. ‘Please believe me when I say not a day goes by when I don’t think of him. I will make you this promise here and now. I am going to Barbados and I will find out what happened to him.’
His stepmother nodded. ‘I need to know, Kit,’ she said.
‘So do I,’ he replied.
Chapter 61
Holetown, Barbados January 1655
Kit Lovell, now calling himself the Comte d’Anvers paused in the doorway looking, he hoped, like all aristocratic Frenchman when faced with an Englishman; slightly contemptuous and vaguely disapproving.
The Governor of Barbados, Lord Willoughby, mopped his face with a large kerchief and rose to his feet to meet his visitor, acknowledging Kit’s florid bow with an inclination of his head before gesturing to a chair.
Kit took the proffered seat as Willoughby seated himself behind his large table and considered his visitor from over his steepled fingers.
‘And what is it that I can do for you, Monsieur?’ he enquired.
Kit settled the ruffles of his shirt sleeves and began, ‘I come on behalf of friends in England who seek news of a member of their family.’ He spoke with an exaggerated French accent. ‘The boy was taken prisoner after that foolishness some years ago at …,’ Kit paused. ‘… Worcester, was it not?’
‘Ah, yes!’ Willoughby agreed. ‘Most unfortunate. We had a great many prisoners sent here at that time.’
Kit produced the letter from Thurloe with the order for Daniel’s release. ‘I have here with me an order for the boy’s release, but word has reached the family that the boy is now dead. I have been sent to verify the truth of this claim.’
The Governor picked up the papers that Kit pushed across the table at him. The man’s gaze lingered momentarily on the twisted fingers of his right hand. Politeness forbade comment and Willoughby sat back to read the letter. ‘Lovell? Oh, yes. Daniel Lovell. I remember.’ He pushed the papers back again. ‘Well, my dear sir, I can add nothing to what is written here. As I wrote to my Lord Thurloe after I received a missive from him directly, the man died of fever at the Pritchard Plantation last year. You have had a wasted trip. My condolences to the family.’
Kit struggled to control the veneer of the Comte D’Anvers’ poise as he collected the papers and carefully refolded them.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘I … they … the family hoped that there had been some error, but before I report back to my friends, I shall satisfy myself by paying a visit to this … Pritchard Plantation.’
Willoughby spread his hands. ‘Of course. It’s a good day’s ride to the south, but I must warn you that you will find little to shed any light on the boy’s death. John Pritchard was smitten by palsy and the estate has gone to wrack and ruin. Pity,’ the Governor added, ‘he was a good man and, if it is of any assurance to your friends, I can say with certainty that he looked after the boy well. I remember young Daniel. He could read and write, so Pritchard used him as the plantation clerk. We often saw him here in Holetown.’
Kit rose to his feet. ‘Thank you,monsieur,’ he said. ‘You have been most helpful.’
The Governor rose. ‘Is there anything else I can assist you with? Are you staying in Barbados for long? Perhaps you and the, errr, Comtesse may like to dine one night.’
‘Thank you, but I am anxious to resolve this business with the Pritchard Plantation. Perhaps when we have returned. Good day to you, Lord Willoughby.’
With one last florid bow, Kit left the room. He returned to the comparative cool of the finest hostelry in Holetown. Taking the stairs two at a time he threw open the door to his bed-chamber.
Thamsine, reclined on the bed, dressed in nothing but her shift and fanning herself with a copy of the town broadsheet.
