Read Online At the Queen's Command by Michael A. Stackpole - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael A. Stackpole
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all,” Dr. Frost’s smile wavered for the first time, “if your reason for coming here, Captain Strake, is true, the least pleasant of man’s inventions will be coming to our shores. And, I suspect, it is an immigrant which will be most reluctant to leave.”
----
Chapter Seven
April 28, 1763
The Frost Residence, Temperance
Temperance Bay, Mystria
O wen awoke with a start, reaching out for his wife. His dream had been vivid enough that he sought warmth in the emptiness where she should have lain. Her absence disoriented him. It was several hours past dawn, marking this as the latest he’d slept in months, and it likewise confused him.
He tried to sit upright, but the soft mattress resisted his effort. He surrendered, the feather pillow molding itself to mute bird-calls from outside. He smiled and tried to capture the dream’s fleeting images.
Catherine had joined him in Mystria. They attended a ball at the Prince’s home. The center of his laboratory had been cleared and the bear and the jeopard took part in the dance. The moose appeared also. Well-mannered, all the animals, enjoying themselves while a regimental band played. The Prince danced with Catherine and she smiled as broadly as ever he had seen. And then she came to him and clung to him and they found themselves in his bed, making love.
Owen might have been tempted to put the dream down to nothing at all, save that Catherine believed fervently in dreams. He had no idea what the presence of the animals meant. He forced himself to remember what he could, so he could write it all down for his next letter home. She could make of it what she wanted.
He closed his eyes again just for another moment, and then remembered nothing until the light tapping on the door presaged its opening.
An elderly valet entered bearing his coat, vest, and breeches freshly washed. Owen pulled himself up against the headboard as the man hung his clothes in the wardrobe. Wordlessly the servant stepped into the hallway again, then returned with freshly polished boots.
Owen smiled. “Thank you.”
“It is our pleasure to serve.” The old man returned the smile with sincerity. “Doctor Frost awaits your pleasure, Captain.”
“Please convey my thanks. I shall be with him shortly.”
The valet nodded and retreated, drawing the door closed behind him.
Owen rose and stretched, then washed his face and hands in the bowl on the side table. He dried them with a towel, then pulled on his clothes. The trunk he’d brought from Norisle had been opened and the clothing stored in wardrobe and dresser. Instead of his boots, however, he chose hose and low shoes with big silver buckles.
He descended the stairs and exited out through the kitchen to use the privy. He much preferred the outhouse, despite its being stuffy, to hanging his arse over the heads on the ship. Though the scent of salt air was more refreshing, getting splashed with cold sea spray was not.
Upon exiting he discovered Bethany working a pump to fill a bucket. “Good morning, Miss. May I help?”
She smiled. “Most kind, sir, and far better a greeting than I deserve.”
Owen frowned, working the squeaky pump. “You have me at a disadvantage, Miss.”
Bethany wiped wet hands on an apron. “You will please forgive my conduct last evening, Captain Strake. Though it has been three years, I find myself still wanting to know of Ira. To discover that you had been there with him… it brought up many memories I had hoped I had put away.”
Owen stopped pumping. “Please, Miss, I am the one to apologize. I meant to cause you no upset.”
“Nor did you.” Her smile shrank. “You were truthful and honest. And kind.”
Her implication that some men had lied about knowing Ian—presumably to get to know her better—did not surprise him. Nor did word that many men embraced Lord Rivendell’s lies about Mystrians. He’d seen such dishonorable behavior in the ranks, among the highborn and low. More among
----
Chapter Seven
April 28, 1763
The Frost Residence, Temperance
Temperance Bay, Mystria
O wen awoke with a start, reaching out for his wife. His dream had been vivid enough that he sought warmth in the emptiness where she should have lain. Her absence disoriented him. It was several hours past dawn, marking this as the latest he’d slept in months, and it likewise confused him.
He tried to sit upright, but the soft mattress resisted his effort. He surrendered, the feather pillow molding itself to mute bird-calls from outside. He smiled and tried to capture the dream’s fleeting images.
Catherine had joined him in Mystria. They attended a ball at the Prince’s home. The center of his laboratory had been cleared and the bear and the jeopard took part in the dance. The moose appeared also. Well-mannered, all the animals, enjoying themselves while a regimental band played. The Prince danced with Catherine and she smiled as broadly as ever he had seen. And then she came to him and clung to him and they found themselves in his bed, making love.
Owen might have been tempted to put the dream down to nothing at all, save that Catherine believed fervently in dreams. He had no idea what the presence of the animals meant. He forced himself to remember what he could, so he could write it all down for his next letter home. She could make of it what she wanted.
He closed his eyes again just for another moment, and then remembered nothing until the light tapping on the door presaged its opening.
An elderly valet entered bearing his coat, vest, and breeches freshly washed. Owen pulled himself up against the headboard as the man hung his clothes in the wardrobe. Wordlessly the servant stepped into the hallway again, then returned with freshly polished boots.
Owen smiled. “Thank you.”
“It is our pleasure to serve.” The old man returned the smile with sincerity. “Doctor Frost awaits your pleasure, Captain.”
“Please convey my thanks. I shall be with him shortly.”
The valet nodded and retreated, drawing the door closed behind him.
Owen rose and stretched, then washed his face and hands in the bowl on the side table. He dried them with a towel, then pulled on his clothes. The trunk he’d brought from Norisle had been opened and the clothing stored in wardrobe and dresser. Instead of his boots, however, he chose hose and low shoes with big silver buckles.
He descended the stairs and exited out through the kitchen to use the privy. He much preferred the outhouse, despite its being stuffy, to hanging his arse over the heads on the ship. Though the scent of salt air was more refreshing, getting splashed with cold sea spray was not.
Upon exiting he discovered Bethany working a pump to fill a bucket. “Good morning, Miss. May I help?”
She smiled. “Most kind, sir, and far better a greeting than I deserve.”
Owen frowned, working the squeaky pump. “You have me at a disadvantage, Miss.”
Bethany wiped wet hands on an apron. “You will please forgive my conduct last evening, Captain Strake. Though it has been three years, I find myself still wanting to know of Ira. To discover that you had been there with him… it brought up many memories I had hoped I had put away.”
Owen stopped pumping. “Please, Miss, I am the one to apologize. I meant to cause you no upset.”
“Nor did you.” Her smile shrank. “You were truthful and honest. And kind.”
Her implication that some men had lied about knowing Ian—presumably to get to know her better—did not surprise him. Nor did word that many men embraced Lord Rivendell’s lies about Mystrians. He’d seen such dishonorable behavior in the ranks, among the highborn and low. More among
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