“Bring the cask.” The general was beginning to show a tinge of color and, at this point, began to be cognizant of his surroundings. “You were packing to leave?”
“I am packing to leave, yes,” John said, the feeling of wariness developing small, prickling feet inside his stomach. “I’m meant to sail tonight, for Charles Town.”
“Thank God. I was afraid I shouldn’t make it in time.” The general breathed audibly for a moment, then gathered himself. “It’s your mother.”
“What’s my mother?” The wariness turned instantly to a flare of alarm. “What’s happened to her?”
“Nothing, yet. Or at least I sincerely hope not.” The general patted the air in a vague gesture of reassurance that failed singularly to reassure.
“Where the devil is she? And what in God’s name is she up to now?” Grey spoke with more heat than filial respect, but panic made him edgy.
“She’s in Havana,” General Stanley said. “Minding your cousin Olivia.”
This seemed like a moderately respectable thing for an elderly lady to be doing, and Grey relaxed slightly. But only slightly.
“Is she ill?” he asked.
“I hope not. She said in her last letter that there was an outbreak of some sort of ague in the city, but she herself was in good health.”
“Fine.” Tom had come back with the brandy bottle, and John poured himself a small glass. “I trust she’s enjoying the weather.” He raised an eyebrow at his stepfather, who sighed deeply and put his hands on his knees.
“I’m sure she is. The problem, my boy, is that the British Navy is on its way to lay siege to the city of Havana, and I really think it would be a good idea if your mother wasn’t in the city when they get there.”
* * *
—
For a moment, John stood frozen, glass in hand, mouth open, and his brain so congested with questions that he was unable to articulate any of them. At last, he gulped the remains of his drink, coughed, and said mildly, “Oh, I see. How does my mother come to be in Havana to start with?”
The general leaned back and let out a long breath.
“It’s all the fault of that Stubbs fellow.”
“Stubbs…?” It sounded vaguely familiar, but stunned as he was, Grey couldn’t think why.
“You know, chap who married your cousin Olivia. Looks like a builder’s brick. What’s his Christian name…Matthew? No, Malcolm, that’s it. Malcolm Stubbs.”
Grey reached for the brandy bottle, but Tom was already pouring a fresh glass, which he thrust into his employer’s hand. He carefully avoided meeting Grey’s eye.
“Malcolm Stubbs.” Grey sipped brandy, to give himself time to think. “Yes, of course. I…take it that he’s quite recovered, then?” On one level, this was good news; Malcolm Stubbs had lost a foot and part of the adjoining leg to a cannonball at the Battle of Quebec, more than two years before. By good luck, Grey had fallen over him on the field and had the presence of mind to use his belt as a tourniquet, thus preventing Stubbs from bleeding to death. He vividly recalled the splintered bone protruding from the remnants of Malcolm’s shin, and the hot, wet smell of blood and shit, steaming in the cold air. He took a deeper swallow of brandy.
“Yes, quite. Got an artificial foot, gets around quite well—even rides.”
“Good for him,” Grey said, rather shortly. There were a few other things he recalled about Malcolm Stubbs. “Is he in Havana?”
The general looked surprised.
“Yes, didn’t I say? He’s a diplomat of some kind now—sent to Havana last September.”
“A diplomat,” Grey repeated. “Well, well.” Stubbs probably did diplomacy well—given his demonstrated skills at lying, deceit, and dishonor….
“He wanted his wife and children to join him in Havana, once he had a suitable establishment, so—”
“Children? He had only the one son when I last saw him.” Only the one legitimate son, he added silently.
“Two, now—Olivia gave birth to a daughter two years ago; lovely child called Charlotte.”
“How nice.” His memory of the birth of Olivia’s first child, Cromwell, was nearly as horrifyingly vivid as his memories of the Battle of Quebec, if for somewhat different reasons. Both had involved blood and shit, though. “But Mother—”
“Your mother offered to accompany Olivia, to help with the children. Olivia’s expecting again, and a long sea voyage…”
“Again?” Well, it wasn’t as though Grey didn’t know what Stubbs’s attitude toward sex was…and at least the man was doing it with his wife. John kept his temper with some difficulty, but the general didn’t notice, continuing with his explanations.
“You see, I was meant to be sailing to Savannah in the spring—now, I mean—to advise a Colonel Folliott, who’s raising a local militia to assist the governor, and your mother was going to come with me. So it seemed reasonable that she go ahead with Olivia and help her to get settled, and I would arrange for her to join me when I came.”
“Very sensible,” John said. “That’s Mother, then. And where does the British Navy come into it?”
“Admiral Holmes, me lord,” Tom said, with a faint air of reproach. “He told you last week, when you had him to dinner. He said the Duke of Albemarle was a-coming to take Martinique away from the frogs and then see to Cuba.”
“Oh. Ah.”
Grey recalled the dinner, which had featured a remarkable dish that he had realized—too late—was the innards of pickled sea urchins, mixed with bits of raw fish and sea lettuce that had been cured with orange juice. In his desire to keep his guests—all recently arrived from London, and all lamenting the dearth of roast beef and potatoes in the Indies—from sharing his realization, he had called for lavish and repeated applications of a native palm liquor. This had been very effective; by the second glass, they wouldn’t have known they were eating whale turds, should his adventurous cook have taken it into his head to serve that as a second course. Consequently, though, his own memories of the occasion were somewhat dim.
“He didn’t say Albemarle was proposing to lay siege to the place, did he?”
“No, me lord, but that must’ve been his meaning, don’t you think?”
“God knows,” said John, who knew nothing about Cuba, Havana, or the Duke of Albemarle. “Or possibly you do, sir?” He turned politely to General Stanley, who was beginning to look better, under the influence of relief and brandy. The general nodded.