Mollifying Adam’s worries about my stubborn refusal to relinquish my plans by agreeing to be chaperoned when I went to the Hanse was no hardship, and Will was delighted to escape his usual tasks.
The next morning, Adam harnessed Shelby to the cart, so instead of walking through town and along the estuary to the bay, Will and I rode, joining other folk on their way to market and going about their daily business.
The mornings were getting colder, tacit reminders of the winter fast approaching. Though the sun was climbing over the horizon, it battled its way through a thick mist, beams of tepid light striking the damp road and gently melting the frost. Grateful for my fur-lined coat and woolen gloves, I nonetheless enjoyed the crispness of the air and noted how it turned Will’s cheeks and the end of his nose bright pink. I imagined mine looked the same.
Merchants and market vendors doffed their caps to me as we passed. Those who’d also lost loved ones aboard the Cathaline met my eyes sadly. It was distressing to see the depth of anguish among the townsfolk, the constant reminders of loss. Melancholy, I stared out to sea, surprised I felt no resentment, no anger toward the element that had claimed so many.
Both the bay and the river were filled with traffic. Now the storms had called a truce, ships that had been confined to the North and Baltic Seas were able to make their way into port and unload men and cargoes before reloading and returning to the Cinque Ports, Calais, Germany, and Flanders. The Wash was crammed with galleys and barges navigating the inland waterways. Even at this time of the morning, the air rang with shouts, whistles, and the hum of activity. A few ships were in dry dock, held tightly in wooden scaffolding so their hulls could be caulked. The smells of tar and pitch joined those of fish, smoke, spices, and cooking, all mingling with the ever-present tang of the sea and the musty odor of old seagull nests.
Leaving Will and the cart at the end of the track before it surrendered to the pier, I gave him coin so he could purchase some breakfast from one of the vendors that catered to sailors and shipwrights.
My step quickened as I passed warehouses filled with salt, wool, silks, yarns, tin, and other produce. Up ahead, a familiar figure stepped onto the dock. Captain Hatto Stoyan stood outside the Kontor, arms folded, legs apart, as if he was riding a canting deck, and watched me approach. Short and stout with the broadest of shoulders, he had an unruly thatch of graying chestnut hair, a neat, trimmed beard, and the face of a man who’d spent most of his life squinting into the sun. Lines crisscrossed his darkened skin, which only threw the clarity of his pale blue eyes into stark relief. They were the kind of eyes dishonest men could not hold for long.
“Guten Morgen, Fräulein Sheldrake,” he said as I joined him, giving me a small bow. “Es tut mir leid um ihren Vater.”
Unlike the words proffered by Lord Rainford and others, the captain’s sympathy sounded sincere. Captain Stoyan may not have liked my father, but he had respected him—at one time, at least.
“Danke schön,” I replied.
Glancing pointedly at the smaller boats and barges floating in the water outside the warehouse and the crews working on them, the captain lowered his voice. “Wir unterhalten uns später in Ruhe.”
It suited me to wait till we were inside to talk. I didn’t want what I was about to say overheard. Indicating I should go ahead, Captain Stoyan shouted some orders then followed me into the Kontor.
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dark interior. Beneath the pitched roof and wooden walls of the warehouse men rolled huge barrels, clambered over enormous bales of wool, sorted crates of metal, hammered nails into chests, and, using ropes and pulleys, moved enormous loads in and out of the building. Spools of fabric were checked by well-dressed merchants, while clerks stood nearby with counting boards and portable desks, ready to record any transactions that might take place. Livestock was quarantined to one side: chickens, sheep, and cattle. In one corner, the floor was being swept vigorously by two lads with straw brooms. In another, crates were being stacked on top of each other. There was a sense of order in the work around me. As I walked beside Captain Stoyan, I caught snatches of conversation in different languages, including the singsong purr of Flemish and my mother’s native Dutch, as familiar to me as English.
The captain and I entered a large quiet room at the back of the warehouse. It had been years since I’d been inside this room, and yet, it was as if time had stood still. The aging map featuring England, Scotland, and Wales was nailed to a wall. France, the Netherlands, the German Empire, the kingdoms of Denmark, Sweden, and all the small countries, duchies, and provinces that lined the North and Baltic Seas were captured in pastels. I used to stare at this map for hours when I came to Father’s meetings with the captain, imagining traveling to such marvelously named and shaped places. The rusting iron holders still clutched their melting pillar candles, which the captain lit as I waited. Everything was exactly as I remembered. Boxes were still stacked against one wall; the tattered rug from Persia, with its ruby and sapphire boldness, was the same. Even the cobwebs appeared unchanged, shimmering in the corners. A fire burned in the grate, making the place warm enough for me to ask permission to remove my cloak.
“Of course,” said the captain, and he came to take it from my shoulders. “I ask that we speak in English, Mistress Anneke. If we’re overheard, we’re less likely to be understood. My men are many things, but fluent in that, they’re not.”
“Very well.”
Hanging my cloak on a hook that jutted out of the wall behind his desk, he gestured to the comfortable chair opposite his own. Gathering my skirts, I sat.
“It’s been too long,” he said, and, going to a huge old sea chest in the corner, pulled out a jug and two silver mazers. Knocking the top off the jug, he first poured a drink for me, then himself, and sat, pushing aside the clutter on his desk with his forearm. His voice was almost a growl. “The last time I saw you, you were but a kind, a child. Now, you’re a woman grown and, if I may be so bold, a very lovely one.”
My cheeks reddened as I thanked him.
“I’m sorry about your father. His loss will be felt by many in very different ways.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“To old acquaintances,” he said and raised his drink.
“Old acquaintances.” I sipped the ale slowly, noting the foam on top and the rich honey color of the fluid. It had a mild, slightly bitter taste. “Where’s this from?” I knew the captain imported wines and ales from across Europe.
“That’s from Bruges. I thought you might like it. Reminds me of what you and your mother used to brew.”
It was a perfect introduction to what I wanted to discuss, but before I could say anything, he resumed. “Forgive me, Mistress Anneke, but when I heard the news of your father’s death and received your note, I made some quick inquiries.” He drained his mazer. “Mein Gott!” He thumped the table hard, the empty mazer tipping over. “What was your father thinking? To not look to his children’s future, to leave you in such a position?”
He wasn’t thinking. He was hurting.
I examined my hands, twisted together for strength.
“Do you know the story of when I first met your mother?” the captain said softly.
My head flew up. “Please, tell it to me.”