Free Rondo Allegro by Sherwood Smith

replacement had done to the
capable crew that he had left behind.
    He did not have time to think about it long. He had exactly
two days of liberty, one of which he spent in a fruitless journey to London.
There, he set about finding where the Hamiltons were living, just to discover
that no Mrs. Duncannon was numbered among the company.
    He obtained an interview with Nelson himself, who professed
surprise and concern. “Did I not issue specific instructions? But Keith has
been my determined enemy, I fear. That must explain it. You must put your
question to the Admiralty,” he said, peering earnestly at Duncannon through his
one good eye. “There you will no doubt be put in possession of the intelligence
that no one has seen fit to report to me.”
    Duncannon thanked him profusely, refused another glass of
canary, and took a hackney to the Admiralty, where he was kept waiting among a
parcel of lieutenants and beached captains hoping for placement.
    There, he discovered not only was there no communication,
but nothing known of his missing wife, much less news of the progress of his
annulment. “That sounds like Whitehall,” he was told by a senior clerk. “That
has their stamp all over it. You must put your questions there.”
    By now Duncannon suspected what he would hear at Whitehall,
but he was determined to carry through the business until it was honorably
resolved. He had turned his back on everything connected to his life before the
navy, except his good name.
    He took another hackney to Whitehall, just to find himself
balked, and by so junior a clerk that he knew his efforts were for naught. But
he wrote out the facts as directed, was assured that his question would be sent
up the chain of command, and he walked out into the frigid air. Darkness had
closed in early. He was forced to admit defeat.
    He returned to his hotel in a disgusted mood. The next
morning, the prospect of quitting London for Portsmouth in order to read
himself aboard his new command improved his spirits. He penned a letter to the
new legate in Naples asking the whereabouts of his wife, posted it, and then
mounted his horse.
    By Christmas he was beating futilely against gales as the
fleet fought to gain westing enough to round Ushant.
    o0o
    The rest of Europe celebrated Christmas, but in France,
this was the month of Nivôse.
    The calendar at first confused Anna. This one talked about
the Year Eight, that one referred to the year 1801, a third scrupulously
recorded the ten-day weeks of the republican calendar. Most, however, betrayed
the habit of a lifetime, more frequently reverting to naming the days of the
week from the Gregorian calendar, as the mobs likely to string you up from a
lamppost for such errors had largely vanished.
    Many theater managers insisted on the very latest fashions,
which actresses were expected to find themselves. It was easiest when the
wealthy leaders of Paris donated their gowns, but there were never enough to go
around even if you were able to wangle a way to find out when some might be
coming.
    Parrette, having foreseen this, had assured Anna’s success
at select concerts with her gowns modeled on those she had seen Madame
Bonaparte wearing.
    By mid-winter, Anna had sung thrice in the chorus at the
Lyri-Comique, without being invited into the company. She was content, as that
was the agreement.
    She had also performed at private concerts given by several
other high-ranking individuals in the Consulate government, culminating in a
spectacular evening at the Chateau de Neuilly at a soiree hosted by Madame
Grand, who (it was rumored) would soon marry the Foreign Minister Talleyrand.
    Anna was sent back to Madame’s in a sumptuous carriage, her
arms full of flowers, her ears full of praise. But when she reached her room,
Parrette took the flowers to find vases, saying, “Was there any money in it?”
    “No,” Anna said.
    “This is the third such,” Parrette said, arms crossed in the
way that Anna had learned meant