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  “Not going to be this lovely weather much longer. What do you say we go off for a sail today, girls? Are you up for that?” he asked. “Probably the last chance we’ll have this summer.”

  “Yes!” the girls both quickly agreed.

  “May I invite Harry Fletcher, Papa?” Bess asked. “I don’t see why not.” Despite Elsie’s opinion, her father rather liked Harry Fletcher, who was spending more and more time at Attwood.

  Elsie moved her food around her plate with little enthusiasm. She was subject to seasickness and never joined them on the boat.

  “Would you like to give it another try, Elsie?” the duke asked.

  “You know the answer already,” she mumbled into her eggs and toast.

  “Very well.” The duke cleared his throat and waited while the maid poured him another cup of tea before making an announcement.

  “I was in touch with the Royal Geographical Society when I last visited London,” he began. “They have asked me to head up an important mission for the Crown.”

  “What is it, Papa? You’re not going to India again, are you?” Sarah asked, practically popping up out of her chair.

  “No, darling, not India. I have been asked to go to Africa. It is an enormous honor and an adventure. Perhaps the last great mystery on earth is to discover the source of the Nile River. Men have tried for centuries.”

  Elsie’s spoon dropped into the middle of her plate. “Have you said yes?”

  “Indeed. Yes, I have,” he said firmly.

  “Without even consulting me? Am I to be here alone with all the responsibility for your children and this home?”

  “The staff is well equipped to take care of Attwood Manor. I leave next week from Portsmouth,” he said. “We sail to Zanzibar off the east coast of Africa. It is imperative that we go now before the rains come. I’m told that when it floods it is impossible to travel there.”

  “How long will you be gone, Papa?” Bess missed him already, and the thought of more long weeks alone with Elsie gave her no comfort. “Oh, Papa, won’t you please at least consider taking me? I forgot to tell you that I have been reading all about Africa and India in Merry’s Museum Magazine at the library. I’ve read that tigers are far fiercer than lions. I would be safe with you. Oh, please?”

  “No, Bess, don’t even make such a request. It is no place for a young lady. I’ll be gone six months, I’m afraid. After we reach the island of Zanzibar, we’ll gather up more supplies and hire on guides. From there we will ferry to the mainland and head west into the country looking to see if there is a specific river or mountain stream or lake that feeds the river.

  “But I will write when I’m able. I’m told that porters carry messages back and forth from the bush when they can. Imagine the wonderful stories I will come back with,” he said. Bess noticed that his eyes gleamed at the thought.

  “Perhaps you’ll bring back a stuffed lion to keep your stuffed tiger company! Can you imagine the maids, Papa?” Sarah threw her head back and laughed.

  The girls were caught up in the reverie. Elsie sighed loudly and looked away, out the window.

  “Well,” the duke said, trying to break the tension. “Why don’t you girls get dressed for the sail. I think Mother just isn’t feeling well today.”

  “She doesn’t seem to feel well most days,” Sarah said under her breath.

  “You girls go along and have Gertrude pack up a lunch, will you?” The duke nodded toward the doorway, and both girls, eager to avoid Elsie’s sulking, quickly left.

  “Gertrude will ask what Papa wants to drink,” Sarah said as soon as they left the room.

  “I’ll go back and pop my head in to ask. You go ahead and have Gertrude start with the food.” Bess turned back toward the dining room.

  “Careful that you-know-who doesn’t pop your head right off,” Sarah said, disappearing down the stairs to the kitchen.

  Bess stopped short outside the double dining room doors when she heard Elsie’s voice trembling with rage.

  “And what shall I do for money? You have me on such a budget that I can barely buy decent clothes!” Bess heard her stepmother whine. “Why, I am the talk of the village. Imagine a duke’s wife who dresses no better than a common tavern maid.”

  “The accounts will all be taken care of and paid in my absence.” Bess’s father’s voice had an edge to it that made her stomach clench. “As for your clothing allowance, Elsie, there simply is no extra money in the budget to cover any more.”

  “I thought when I married a duke . . .” Elsie’s voice trailed off.

  “My dear, there are many royals who are wealthy in land and title but must be frugal with their expenditures. I’m sorry that you are disappointed.”

  “Bitterly, I’m afraid,” she said. Bess would listen no more. She couldn’t bear to hear her father further humiliated by Elsie the Shrew. She picked up her skirts and quietly hurried away.

  “And what does your father want me to pack for him to drink?” Gertrude inquired when Bess, pale faced, appeared in the kitchen.

  “Please pack some sherry for him,” Bess said quietly.

  They spent the rest of the day sailing around the westernmost point of the island. Bess was pleased Harry had been able to join them. They took their time, and when they finally headed back to shore and Attwood the nightingales were singing by the light of the moon.

  On the morning of the duke’s departure the following week, Attwood’s staff stood in a row next to the front door, waiting to say good-bye to the master of the estate. Gertrude nervously twisted her apron. Bess figured she must be thinking about having to deal with Elsie in the duke’s six-month absence. Sarah looked glum.

  While the duke oversaw his valises being packed into the carriage, Elsie eyed Bess critically. “Oh, Mrs. Dow,” Elsie said with a scowl. “Can’t you do something with Bess’s hair? She needs to start presenting herself better. It reflects poorly on me if she is running about the island with her hair loose. And she’s always gnawing away at her nails.” Elsie flipped up a lock of Bess’s hair and then turned Bess’s hands over, frowning at her nails.

  “Well, I’ve taken to using a worry stone lately, and I find it very useful. I don’t bite my nails nearly as much,” Bess announced.

  “A what?” Elsie asked.

  “A worry stone,” Bess stated. “People have used them since ancient times. You rub a small object that feels pleasing between your thumb and your index finger, and it helps to calm you and relieves stress and worry.”

  Bess was grateful when Mrs. Dow interrupted. “I think Bess has lovely hair, Your Grace. She just needs to remember to brush it up neatly more often. We’ll work on that, won’t we, Bess?”

  “I suppose so,” Bess reluctantly agreed. She was willing to say almost anything to get Elsie to leave her alone.

  “Well, I believe everything is in good order.” The duke stood back, looking at the carriage stuffed with valises and crates packed with maps and charts.

  “Are you certain it will take six whole months to find the silly headwaters of the Nile River, Papa?” Bess asked, eager to change the subject from her appearance. “Study your maps carefully, and I think you can succeed in less time.” She tenderly patted the sleeve of his jacket. “Sarah and I shall miss you so awfully.”

  “It’s quite a task, but I’ll try,” he vowed. “I shall write you the minute the ship reaches Zanzibar.”

  “I have borrowed books from the library about it. Zanzibar seems to be a colorful place,” Bess said, before blowing her nose into a hankie. “And watch out for lions, Papa. If you should see one, stare it down bravely.”

  “Good advice, my dear. I will heed it.” With one daughter clinging to each side of him, he reached out for Elsie, but she stood frozen in her spot.

  “Well, then,” he said to her. “Take care of yourself, my dear.”

  She nodded and said, “We’ll look for your correspondence.”

  With that, the duke climbed into the carriage driven by El
dridge. Bess ran and waved behind him, and watched glumly as he disappeared down the driveway toward the docks and the ship that would take her dear papa first to Portsmouth and then to the darkest corners of the world.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Whenever Chap told Bess and Harry tales of his worldly adventures, Harry would, in turn, regale them with the stories his uncle Alfie had told him. Alfie Fletcher had been a constable in London’s seamy East End for twenty years, and his stories would raise the hair on a bald man’s head. Gruesome murders to solve, wretched thieves with knives at the ready, even abandoned street children who roamed the alleys and garbage piles. Bess, who had only been off the island once with her papa, was spellbound. She secretly resolved to do what she could to help people when she was older—in between her exploring. She was determined to be good for something, as Marcus Aurelius advised.

  After dealing with the murdering thieves that inhabited the dark side of London, Harry told them that his uncle Alfie had jumped at the offer to move himself and his missus to the Isle of Wight to become chief constable of the quiet island. It was like a holiday compared to London, Harry said his uncle claimed. These days, Alfie rarely had to deal with more than an occasional misdemeanor or incident of rowdiness.

  “Other than that,” Harry told them, “the worst Uncle Alfie has to handle now is the occasional escape from Parkhurst Prison. About once a month, one of the young prisoners finds a way to escape. But there’s no easy way to get off the island without a boat, and Uncle Alfie always manages to capture and return the poor fellow within twenty-four hours.

  “He always feels a little sorry,” Harry said, “because he knows that their punishment is a week down in the dark cells. They’re not all bad, you know. Some of the boys are there for pickpocketing or public fighting, and some just because they have no family and no money.”

  So the morning that Mrs. Dow answered the rap at the front door, and Bess heard the visitor introduce himself as Constable Alfie Fletcher, she flew down the hall to meet him. Elsie followed closely behind.

  “Good morning, Your Grace,” he began. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Chief Constable Alfie Fletcher.”

  “Yes? What is your business here, sir?” Elsie asked, waving both Bess and Mrs. Dow away. Mrs. Dow quietly disappeared down the hall, but Bess didn’t move. He doesn’t look as fearsome as I had imagined, she thought, examining him up and down.

  “I have here a letter I received from the police in Westminster Borough in London,” Alfie explained. “They have arrested a fellow running a pawn shop there who was selling stolen goods.”

  “Whatever would that have to do with us?” the duchess asked.

  “Well, they inventoried a list of items that they believe might have been stolen, and there were some pieces that have been traced back to the Kent family. For instance, a sterling silver tea service has been identified by the Kent family coat of arms engraved on the back. And there was an oil painting of this house, identified by an art dealer as having come from your collection. Have any of these things been stolen?” Alfie closed his notebook and leaned one hand against the column. Bess wished Elsie would ask him in out of the sun. Maybe offer him a cup of tea. She had several questions she wanted to ask him about his days on London’s police force.

  “Stolen? Oh, my, why, I don’t know. My husband has a vast amount of things in the attics here.” She waved her arm toward the ceiling.

  “Well, perhaps I should wait and speak to him when he returns,” Alfie suggested.

  “You will have to wait a long time for that,” Bess interrupted. “My papa will be gone six months or more. He is off on an African expedition for the Queen.”

  “Ah, yes, I see, then,” he said. Bess was surprised that Alfie was a heavy man. She figured he had probably gained weight since he had stopped rushing around London chasing down all kinds of riffraff. Bess could see beads of sweat gathering between the rolls of fat on his neck.

  “Well, is there an inventory of the family’s valuables?” he asked.

  “You know,” Elsie said, “now that you mention it, I have noticed a few things missing. I thought perhaps they were misplaced, but now I wonder.”

  “Really?” Bess interjected. “You have? What? I haven’t noticed anything, Mother.”

  Elsie glared at her stepdaughter. “Bess, dear,” she said, “why don’t you go to your room and make sure nothing is missing there.” When Bess didn’t move, Elsie leaned down, grasped her shoulders, turned her around, and hissed, “Shoo! Go on upstairs now.”

  Elsie waited while Bess slowly climbed the stairs. She went to her bedroom and opened and closed the door. But instead of going in, she crept along the wall to the top of the stairs where she could hear the conversation below. Elsie would make a terrible explorer, she thought, I would never fall for something so transparent as this!

  “Has there been anyone around who isn’t ordinarily here? Anyone new in your employ who you might suspect?” Alfie picked up his questioning where he’d left off.

  “No, no one in our employ. But . . .” Elsie hesitated.

  “Ma’am, please speak freely to me,” he urged.

  “Well, there is one person . . . .” Her voice got quieter, and Bess had to strain to hear her.

  “Yes? Go on,” he said. Despite Elsie’s attempt to keep the conversation discreet, Alfie’s voice was deep and loud and carried quite nicely up to where Bess crouched.

  “Of course you know all of the members of the Fletcher family?” the duchess asked.

  “Yes, yes. Andrew Fletcher is my brother.”

  “And Harry is your nephew, then,” she replied coyly.

  “We are a fine family, I can assure you of that! Good grief, what would any of us have to do with anything from Attwood, Your Grace?”

  “It’s the boy. Harry.” Elsie said. Bess stifled a gasp. Could she be serious? It took all Bess had not to fly down the stairs to defend her friend.

  “He has been coming here a good deal lately to visit with my stepdaughter. Now that I think of it, I caught him one day coming down the stairs from the attic. I asked him what he was doing there, and he simply ignored me, brushed past, and rushed out the door.”

  “Was he carrying anything with him?” Alfie asked.

  “It took me quite by surprise, Constable, so I can’t really say. It’s possible,” Elsie said.

  “I just can’t believe this, Your Grace. He’s a fine boy. Is there anyone else—anyone at all—who you might suspect?”

  “No,” she said coolly. “Only Harry Fletcher.”

  Bess’s pulse thumped in her throat, and she covered her mouth with her hands as her breathing grew louder.

  “Well, I’ll stop by and have a word with my brother. In the meantime, please check to see if anything else is missing from the attic, and let me know if you discover something. It’s possible that the items were sold off or given away years ago and just now are turning up,” he said nervously. “Perhaps nothing to get ruffled about.”

  “When my husband returns, I don’t want him bothered with all this. Now will that be all, sir?”

  “Ah. Yes, then. I won’t be bothering you again. Good day.”

  Bess well knew that a scandal of this magnitude would not only ruin Harry, but it was unlikely that the island would keep Alfie on as constable if his family was associated with something like this. She couldn’t imagine Harry locked up in Parkhurst Prison, its dismal gray walls broken only by small grated windows. She was certain that Alfie Fletcher left Attwood that day wanting the whole matter dropped.

  Oh, what an evil devil you are, Elsie, Bess thought as she inched quietly away from the top of the stairs.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  On a clear, warm October day, Bess and Sarah watched as the postman pedaled his bike up Attwood’s drive to deliver the mail. The staff gathered, and the girls ran in from outside. Finally, thought Bess, a letter from Papa. Elsie slit open the envelope and read her husband’s careful hand out loud to the g
roup.

  September 21, 1855

  My dear Elsie, Bess, and Sarah,

  We sailed around the great Horn of Africa last week and arrived yesterday on the island of Zanzibar, located just off the east coast of this great Dark Continent.

  The view as we approached was quite extraordinary. Minarets of Zanzibar’s mosques stood out against the sky above the Sultan’s palace. A sea breeze carried the scent of cloves and the beaches shimmered with white coral sands.

  After registering with the British Consul here we quickly pulled together a fine caravan of twenty native porters, two buffaloes, a camel, five mules, and five donkeys.

  While we were disembarking from our ship, we were dismayed to see traders loading up their ships with the bounty they had gathered here. Humans. Black African human beings. Captured, chained together, and loaded like cargo to be taken to America and sold at the slave markets. It raises my fury as the international slave trade was supposed to end in 1808. Yet here in East Africa, the traders ignore the laws and continue to trade in human beings with little concern for any consequences. I watched as they also loaded huge ivory elephant tusks on their ships. There is a great demand for the material so we Europeans can have ivory piano keys, knife handles, and cameo broaches. One of the slaves, a very young boy, accidentally dropped one of the heavy tusks as he carried it up the gangplank. A burly man pulled back his whip and lashed the lad until he fell into the water.

  “Let that be a warning to the savages to take care with our ivory,” the man said while he laughed. Words fail me to describe how disturbing it is to see how, in pursuit of money, these traders have virtually no regard for life.

  I shall be glad to leave this island behind and travel into the country. I look forward to the unspoiled beauty of the land.

  We are almost finished loading up our supplies and will engage an additional six porters just to carry the beads and colorful cloth that we will trade with the natives for fresh food or for the ability to pass through their territories.