Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [4]
“Excuse me, Madame,” the chambermaid apologized, “but an important dispatch has been delivered for Captain Jones.”
“From whence? And why do you come to tell me?” Therese demanded in the haughty voice she reserved for the servants.
“From the Minister of Marine, Madame. The captain is not to be found in either the hotel or the grounds. I thought perhaps Madame might know his whereabouts.” The implication was plain enough as she paused, and Paul Jones thought he detected a hint of conspiratorial amusement in the girl’s voice as she continued. “But of course, Madame, I did not know you were in be…resting. Excuse my interruption. I will look elsewhere.” She turned to leave but halted at a wave of Therese’s hand.
“Did I excuse you?”
“No, Madame.”
“Where is this dispatch?”
“An officer of the American Navy brought it. He is in the lobby downstairs. What shall I tell him?”
“Tell him he is to wait until the captain is found. Very well, you may go.”
Paul Jones heard the door close as he tucked his shirt into his breeches. He stepped into his shoes and after a glance to make sure his stockings were straight, he ventured back into the bedroom. He couldn’t help thinking how perfect Therese looked, naked to the waist, dominating the room from the center of the vast bed.
“You heard, Cheri?”
He nodded, examining his profile in the mirror over her dressing table. His hazel eyes picked out the long strands of chestnut hair that had escaped his queue to lie ruffled along a cheek. “I must see what news has come.” He fussed with the vagrant locks, catching, then impressing them into captivity. Satisfied, he pulled on his blue uniform jacket, cursorily brushing at the gold piping and epaulets lest any more of his hair had escaped. When the last button was fastened he belted on his sword scabbard before picking up his tricorn hat.
“I told you my husband would make you happy today,” she cooed from the bed as though her earlier promise had been magically fulfilled.
“As happy as his wife makes me,” he flattered, thinking only of the dispatch. He took one last look at his high cheekbones in the mirror, searching for traces of her powder but found nothing. He strode quickly to the bed where she put up her cheek to be kissed, a hand playfully tickling his thigh. “I must go.”
“I hope you have your ship, Captain, but I hope she is not as pretty as me,” she sulked.
Always needing compliments. “Nothing could equal your rigging,” he smiled, hiding the lie. She accepted his words at face value, no doubt reluctant to believe otherwise. Her pout softened into a smile to match his own.
“Go quickly, before I refuse to let you leave.”
“Adieu,” he said.
Her smile disappeared as she shook her head. “Your French. That means goodbye. I prefer Au revoir, till I see you again.”
“Yes,” he said, closing the door behind him. His French wasn’t that bad. And he did not think she had missed the point.
***
A young man in an American uniform rose from a chair to meet him as he strode into the lobby. The midshipman was stockily built, his long sideburns giving the impression of a wealthy farmer. Only his threadbare uniform and badly scuffed shoes destroyed the illusion. He looked only a few years junior to John Paul Jones’s own thirty years. An honest looking young man, Jones liked him instinctively. That hopefully he was the bearer of good news led him to ignore the scruffy uniform as he eyed him expectantly.
“Midshipman Dale, sir, with a dispatch from the Minister of Marine.” He stood stiffly to attention, the package offered.
The captain raised an eyebrow. “I may not be whoever you seek.”
For a moment Dale looked flustered. “The dispatch is for Captain Jones, and