Chapter Three

Thunder rumbled in the distance, rolling forward with dark low clouds. A late summer storm was well on its way when Gabriel, looking out the window of a side parlor, saw a chaise and four cantering up the road. He didn’t recognize the chaise, nor the horses, and he knew the transportation of all their neighbors down to the intricate details on their carriages. If someone were to visit, he or she would almost always send a servant ahead with a letter or note of some kind. Nothing of the kind had been sent recently. Which made the chaise and four coming up the drive very suspicious. Very suspicious.

Gabriel moved away from the window and walked down to his father’s study. He knocked, then entered. Frederick looked up from a ledger, silently asking him what the problem was.

“There’s someone coming who didn’t send word ahead,” Gabriel stated. “The chaise and horses are very…northern.”

Frederick set down his quill. “Just because someone comes from Scotland does not automatically make him bad, Gabriel,” he said. Rising he headed downstairs, curious more than anything else. Surprise visitors weren’t always a bad thing – after all, he wasn’t really in the Navy anymore. Gabriel passively followed his father, not particularly caring abut the remark on Scotsmen. He had always thought his father disliked Scotsmen, but given the influx of foreigners, Gabriel supposed his father had become more liberal in his feelings towards their northern brethren.

The chaise was pulling to a smooth stop as Frederick motioned to a footman to open the front door. He stepped out, looking quite stern and imposing with a semi-clenched brown and tight mouth, his frame drawn up to its full height of 6’3”. Usually this would make any visitor submissive and timid, fully aware of the sort of man he or she was dealing with.

The man who stepped out of the chaise made Frederick’s throat tighten, a reaction unusual for him. But he remained composed as Josiah Nightingale came up the steps, dressed in a silver waistcoat and jacket, with black breeches, cane in hand. Gabriel came up behind his father, eyes wavering between the two men. Both had changed, from what he remembered of Nightingale, but now…Nightingale was more sinister.

Frederick inclined his head slightly. “Mr. Nightingale,” he said flatly. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”

Nightingale returned the gesture, hands resting on the head of his cane. “Lord Alexius,” he replied. “I simply came to visit. I was in the area and thought I’d pay a visit to old haunts.”

“Old haunts?” echoed Frederick. “Odd way to refer to the place where you met your wife. And subsequently disappeared from without a word.” He arched an eyebrow. “I might consider such behavior traitorous if I were still in the active employ of the Navy.”

“I apologize for that. I was young, as was Carlotta, and we did not have the sense to consider others.” Frederick resisted the urge to snort with contempt.

“You’ve had a quarter of a century to alert us to your whereabouts,” he replied calmly. “Why come back now? There must be some reason.” Frederick knew the reason, but he had people to protect, and that included Aidan. Fortunately, he had sent Aidan to Witch Hazel with Siobhan, as a precaution, in case this very situation arose. That did not prevent him from worrying that Nightingale would try telepathy on him, or on other residents, to discover his son’s whereabouts.

Gabriel leaned forward and murmured in Frederick’s ear, lips barely moving. “I’m going in to take care of some business, call if you need anything.” Frederick gave a small nod, eyes never leaving Nightingale. Gabriel sedately went inside, and as soon as the door closed behind him he picked up his speed, going to Celestine’s room first.

“Celestine,” he whispered, sticking his head through the door, “Nightingale’s here. I’m informing the others. Keep everyone out of the front of the house, especially the children. We can’t hide everyone from Nightingale, but we can try. Those who do stay in the front of the house, keep them from talking to him.” Celestine, sitting stitching with a few young ladies, rose, ushering the young ladies into a passage before silently going to work. People softly entered the passages, moving into the wings of the expansive house or going to Witch Hazel to inform of the goings on.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Nightingale asked. “Or will you be impolite and leave us standing out on the front step?”

Frederick’s acute hearing listened for movement inside, and once he was sure 90% of the house had moved back, he stepped aside, motioning for Nightingale to enter. The two men went in, Nightingale waltzing with relaxation, while Frederick was erect and firm. Gabriel was coming downstairs as they exited the main hall into the private study Frederick used for his guests. Celestine heard him pause on the stairs and came down, pulling her shawl more closely around her shoulders.

“Is he really here?” she whispered; she was too afraid to try to sense him, afraid of what he might try in return to do to her.

Gabriel nodded. “They just went into Father’s study.” He sat down on the steps, clasping his hands. He’d gotten his father’s height, his knees sticking up. Celestine sat beside him, linking an arm through his and also clasping her hands as she put her head on his shoulder.

“In all our years together you’ve never been like this,” Gabriel said. “Do you want me to fetch Nathaniel?”

“No, it’s alright, I’m just afraid of Nightingale, and it’s a bit of a shock to have him back here so suddenly,” she said. Gabriel let his cheek land on her head.

“I know. I want him to leave. I don’t know why Father let him in.”

“Maybe to shake him off.”

“Maybe.” They both sighed heavily. Celestine had not aged much, but with the arrival of Nightingale, the entire house had gone still and silent. Everyone had been informed of his presence and that he might pose a threat to the community. In a community so vocal and so energized with emotions, it was strange and eerie to have absolutely no activity or talking.

“Will your father be able to get him out expediently?”

“I don’t know, Celestine. Father…will deal with him as he sees fit and tell us how to act accordingly. I imagine he doesn’t want Nightingale here, but there isn’t much he can do immediately, because he does still have some of the aristocrat in him.” He glanced at her. “Which can be problematic. But if you’re asking if he’ll let Nightingale harm us, then the answer is no. You know that.” He put an arm around her comfortingly. “He’d kill Nightingale before he’d let Nightingale hurt any of us, including Aidan, I think, even if Aidan’s new.” He unwound his arms and rose, helping Celestine up. “Come on, let’s go sweep the house, make sure we have everyone where they should be.”

The study had only one sound in it, the ticking of a clock on the mantel. Frederick, legs crossed and arms resting on the chair’s arms, was watching Nightingale without blinking, breathing evenly. Minutes ticked past. Quiet crept into the ears, making its own noise once it got far enough in. Nightingale finally shifted under Frederick’s gaze, much to Frederick’s inner delight.

“So, how can I help you?” Frederick said. “You’ve acted unassumingly enough thus far, but a man like you does not simply show up for a visit.” A finger stroked the chair’s arm distractedly, giving the impression that Frederick had better things to do than talk to Nightingale.

“I’m trying to find someone,” Nightingale replied.

“Someone?”

“A friend. I thought perhaps he might have come here.”

“Why would he have come here? No one knows about us, unless you told him where we are, which I’m not inclined to believe you would.”

“Why wouldn’t I tell a friend where you were? I may not like it here, but that does not mean someone else will not either.”

Frederick shrugged. “It seems you keep company that holds similar opinions to yours. Speaking of which, how is Carlotta?” Nightingale flinched; Frederick’s chin lifted slightly. “Is she unwell?”

“She’s dead,” Nightingale clipped.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. My condolences, of course.” Nightingale mutely nodded, but deepening lines curled around his mouth and eyes. “Back to your friend. We have not had any new arrivals for years. Perhaps you could give us his name, in case he comes after you leave?” A pause. “You are not going to tell me? If I do not know his name, how will I know he is an acquaintance of yours?”

“You must not receive many new members, so I’d say it would be fairly easy to discover my friend - he should be the next to arrive.” The evasiveness was obvious and Nightingale knew it. He had no desire to admit he had a son, not to Frederick – that would be an admission of weakness, to a degree.

Frederick was not convinced, yet. “Well, should your said ‘friend’ arrive, we shall certainly let you know. Will you leave an address to write you at?” He pushed forward a sheet of paper, an ink well, and a quill, concealing his anxious hope that Nightingale would give away his residence in Scotland, but his instincts telling him better.

Nightingale reluctantly picked up the quill and wrote down his London address. He would, of course, vacate should people begin poking around, and he had no doubt that Frederick might send someone to investigate. That was his style, when someone was considered an adversary, even in the smallest degree.

“This address is in London – I had no idea you were so close,” Frederick noted lightly. “Well, perhaps we shall keep in touch outside of this situation with you friend.” The paper was folded and slipped under the inkwell, as though to remind its owner to write, though both men probably had an inkling that no correspondence would take place and that asking for the address was a mere formality. “Thank you for visiting. I shall of course alert you if your friend should arrive.” The tone was bordering on insincerity, even for someone like Frederick who insisted on the truth. But the thought had crossed his mind that he was dealing with an insincere man – why not return the favor?

“Thank you for your hospitality,” returned Nightingale, rising. Frederick slowly rose to see Nightingale out. This couldn’t possibly be so easy, he reflected. If Nightingale was indeed intent on getting his son back, surely he would have been more demanding, more assertive, more…forthcoming with information. Yet he was being subtle, evasive. Like a traitor who knows more than he’s willing to let on about his contact with the enemy to keep the trust of his superiors.

“You’re welcome.” Frederick smiled tightly but with a hint of benign anger that clearly told Nightingale to leave. He showed Nightingale to the door and did not leave the front steps until he was sure Nightingale wouldn’t be turning around.

“Alright!” he called. He was surprised at how well the house had reacted to disappearing without notice. Slowly, people started reappearing, reassured by his presence and the sight of the chaise disappearing. “Anyone seen Gabriel or know the status of the other house?” Negative murmurs. “Gabriel!”

“I’m here, I’m here,” Gabriel said in minor aggravation. “Celestine and I were sweeping the house, just to make sure we had everyone. What do you need?”

“I want someone to go over to the other house to keep them on alert, make sure Nightingale has made any attempt to contact Aidan and thus discover the location of the second house. As I recall, Nightingale knew we were discussing the possibility of another house, so he may have tried to find it even if he does not know Aidan is there.” He rubbed his brow, trying to think of how to handle the situation. He should have asked Nightingale if he had any contact with Alphaios, but then again, that might have warned Nightingale away from them and made cracking his solid exterior even more difficult. Why Alphaios having contact with Nightingale popped into Frederick’s head, the admiral had no idea, but stranger things had happened.

Gabriel intently tried to see his father’s face completely. “Anything else?” he asked gently.

“Why haven’t you gotten married?” Frederick asked. The question was sudden, as though it had just occurred to him.

“Well,” Gabriel started. What an odd question to ask at such a time, and he was having a hard time not looking utterly baffled. “Father, I hardly think this is the time to discuss my marital disposition.”

“You’re 41 years old, Gabriel. A man at your age ought to be married!” Gabriel snorted and turned on his heel, stalking towards the back of the house. Why his father would suddenly be so concerned with his son’s dispositions towards marrying and seeming lack of interest, but it made him feel awkward.

“Celestine!” he called.

Celestine stepped out of a bedroom, urging some children down the hall to their bedrooms. “What? Something else happen?”

“My father just asked me why I have not married yet,” Gabriel said; Celestine saw he was bothered by it.

“And? What did you say?”

“I told him that this was hardly a time to discuss such a thing.” Celestine’s eyebrows flickered up with a bit of doubt.

“Well, I suppose going from Nightingale to marriage would be odd. I suppose you want me talk to him.”

Gabriel shrugged. “It just seemed a little strange, coming from him so suddenly. Why ask me about marriage now?”

Celestine shrugged. “Maybe he’s afraid his line will die out? I don’t know, Gabriel. Your father isn’t exactly open about his feelings to anyone, least of all me. Maybe he thinks you shall be happy if you are married.” She rubbed his shoulder kindly. “Don’t let it weigh too much on your mind. We have other things to deal with. If it happens, it happens.” Gabriel sighed and slouched off, knowing that the issue would weigh on his mind now that his father had made it into an issue.

Nightingale returned to London late that night, knowing he had fouled his own plans by simply dancing around the issue at hand and trying to stay well clear of Frederick Alexius. He mused, as the coach pulled through the filthy, dark, whore-infested streets of south London before he crossed the Thames into the West End, that he and Frederick would never speak openly with each other, and only really provide ambiguous answers to questions that were of vital importance to one of the two men.

Well, he thought, I suppose he’s repaying mistrust in kind, as is his prerogative, though I do wish he’d answer a damn honest question! Nightingale knew he didn’t have the tact to ask an honest-sounding question, so dismissed his thoughts for the moment.

As was customary, Nightingale had his coachman pull around into the alley behind his residence, and he went in through the back door, stepping over refuse dumped by dogs and out windows, along with a few rain puddles. He was a suspicious man, and did not want people to know he was home – visitors were not welcome at any time unless specifically summoned.

“Sir,” the butler appeared. Nightingale slipped off his jacket into the butler’s waiting hands, then handed over his hat. “Sir, you have a visitor in the parlor,” the butler continued as Nightingale made to go upstairs. Nightingale iced over a bit, hard eyes landing questioningly and accusingly on the butler.

“It’s almost midnight,” he said. “Who is it?”

“A foreign gentleman, sir.”

“I’m not at home.” Nightingale started to ascend the stairs.

“He says that he knows you from Rome, sir, and is acquainted with an Admiral Frederick Alexius.”

Nightingale paused. He tapped a finger on the banister.

“Bring up a small meal, for us both,” he instructed flatly. “Have his carriage ready to depart at any moment.” He was unsure who the gentleman actually was, since it could hypothetically be just about anyone Frederick Alexius had come into contact with during his naval career, although that same person also knowing a merchant was rare. Nevertheless, Nightingale was wary of anyone from his past. Rome had been an odd occurrence, and those who had been there could go either way in their allegiances. Last he knew, they were all still at Foxglove.

Straightening, his composure unchanged and disarmingly calm, Nightingale went to the front of the house and the well-lit parlor.

His eyes arched lightly, curious.

“Mr. Haides,” he said flatly. The man was sitting in the chair nearest the fire, and Nightingale had a hard time not smirking at the man’s frailty.

The sickly Greek coolly smiled, squinting his watery eyes. “Captain Nightingale,” he wheezed. “Forgive my state, the trip from Brest has severely weakened me, and the fact that Europe is fighting England does not really help.” He coughed harshly into an already dirtied handkerchief, which was splattered with black, grey, and light red mucus. Nightingale’s face twitched – the only sign of a deep inward grimace. Such hygiene was horrendous, he thought.

“I’m retired. What can I do for you?” He remained standing for the time being, not wanting to come any closer to the germ-infested Greek.

Alphaios Haides blinked flatly at him through tired red-rimmed eyes: he looked like a man who, shortly after being born, had been given some facial characteristics of a frog or some amphibious species. Nightingale didn’t remember him looking so ill before. Nightingale finally slowly edged into a chair, not wanting to appear to be rude. The two men eyed each other warily in the tense silence that occurs after years of no contact and which must naturally arise when both are of suspicious natures.

“I have a proposition for you,” the Greek spoke. “I am recently in the good graces and inner circle of Napoleon Bonaparte.”

“Of what use is that to me? I have no need of the French tyrant. I could care less about the events in France. As I have told you, I am no longer a merchant, and thusly have no further vested interest in Europe generally or even allegiance there. You are Greek, so I could conceivably see you needing to be in his circles for protection, but me. . . .” He shrugged.

Alphaios sniffed a little painfully. The butler appeared with a tray in hand, followed by a servant with the second tray. Nightingale motioned them to the table silently, and the trays were set down methodically with barely a sound, the butler then shoving the servant out.

“A light meal, if you would like it,” Nightingale offered. “I have not eaten yet, so please excuse me.” He tucked in eagerly, cutting and chewing methodically. Hesitantly Alphaios nibbled.

“As I was saying,” said Alphaios, deciding he was undaunted by Nightingale’s words. “A proposition. I am told that your son has recently become involved with Lord Alexius.” Nightingale choked on chunks of meat and potato. “Ah, you don’t know yet. Yet you went there this afternoon to see if he was there.” A pause. “You wonder how I know.” Nightingale was loosening his collar, mildly hacking and guzzling down any liquid in reach to dislodge the food in his windpipe. “Not everyone in that in that estate is protected by nature. If you send in a bird, they will not be suspicious. I sent in several such birds to do scouting for me on several occasions in the past few weeks, and discovered these pieces of information through my messengers. I knew that if I were to go there myself, suspicions would be aroused.” He sipped a bit of wine. “Bonaparte wishes to obtain the gifts of the residents of Foxglve and Witch Hazel to further his campaign in Europe. He is aware that such gifts would also allow him to make Russia submit to his authority. In exchange for our help we shall be granted immunity as well as being allowed to access to their powers as necessary, have control over Alexius and his cohorts, and you shall have you son back under your wing. Of course, not all details have been discussed, but I thought I would come back and talk to you first before giving your ‘French tyrant’ an answer.” He was winded, sweating profusely with the effort, and he took the water glass this time. There was no guarantee, he knew, that Nightingale would accept his proposition; he was aware that Nightingale possibly had his own methods of getting his son back, and for a split second wondered if it was a good thing he had alerted the ex-merchant to Aidan’s whereabouts. “Do you wish to fight these people who have your son?”

“You’re putting words in my mouth by assuming that I wish to fight,” Nightingale said. He knocked back a glass of wine. “I have no desire to fight against Frederick Alexius, and do not think we would win even with Bonaparte behind us. I know alone I won’t win. Sending in birds won’t win either. Bonaparte may not wish us to be independent of him once he has what he wants. In fact, given his record in Europe, I seriously believe that we shall become political and military pawns. Besides, do you honestly believe Bonaparte will be able to communicate with us? There is no possibility of him being able to invade, so communication will be slim to none. Unless you’re planning on making frequent trips between the Continent and London, either by boat or by teleportation, or by sending more of those birds you talk of. In any of those circumstances you will undoubtedly draw attention to yourself. “What also does not seem to have occurred to you is that most of the population of Foxglove and Witch Hazel comes from Europe, where, before they came here, were driven into hiding due to their very natures and characters, and if they hadn’t, they would have faced persecution. The British and Irish population probably have no love for Bonaparte. Do you honestly believe they will all be so easily persuaded to return to Europe, given what Bonaparte is up to?” The ex-merchant was slightly flushed, more now from drink and the rush of words than from anger. It was spoken with such fluidity, however, that Alphaios flattered himself by thinking Nightingale might still be reasoned with.

“In an effort to gain our good will, Bonaparte will sign whatever terms we draw up, provided he gets the gifts he requires and the proper talent to use them with force,” Alphaios said. Nightingale remained placidly unconvinced. A clock chimed 12.30. “As to communication, I was planning on using nature to our advantage in this matter. One of us would remain in England to monitor Alexius, while the other would return to Europe. Plenty of merchant ships run covert trading operations around Bonaparte for it to be successful. It would be time consuming, but effective, I think.”

“And what if Alexius finds out what we’re up to? He’s not a stupid man, nor are his friends, and he has plenty of mind-readers.”

“Let’s get them to the Continent first, shall we? Once they’re there, I have no doubt that Bonaparte’s army will have little trouble in subduing them. As you said – and quite rightly – there’s no chance of an invasion.”

Nightingale leaned forward onto the table, lacing his fingers, and speakly very evenly as though explaining something quite obvious to a child. “Mr. Haides, Frederick Alexius has friends in every corner of the Admiralty, and probably is acquainted with ever single active Admiral and where he’s stationed. He has friends in high places. Besides that, there are privateers, the Spanish Navy, and the Dutch to consider. What you and Bonaparte are suggesting is lunacy.” He wiped his mouth, putting his napkin on the table. “Let the French fight their own war. If they want Alexius and his gifts, they can bloody well come get them. I won’t be apart of your scheme, because I don’t think it will succeed.” Her pushed back his chair and rose in a graceful, single movement. “If you will excuse me. Good night.” He marched out, leaving Alphaios alone and surprised at such a dismissal.

Passing his butler, Nightingale snapped his fingers angrily and pointed at the front parlor. “Get rid of him!” he hissed. “You ever allow him back into this house, or any one of his like, I shall have you thrown into Newgate instantly!” The butler bowed, fear covering his face.

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