Free Easton's Gold by Paul Butler

children. A commotion erupted, and a couple of ragged, grim-faced strangers were escorted down the gangplank by a few of the crew. Gabrielle looked all around, scanning the unfamiliar faces milling around the dockside below. She searched each huddled group that seemed to approach the ship, their shoulders laden with sacks, their carts crammed with barrels. Most passed, making their way to other ships. No Fleet.
    A new urgency overtook the deck. She saw the captain make a signal. Some barrels resting on the wharf were quickly secured on rope hoops then heaved up the side; a young red-haired man in a blue tunic untied a goat from a post and led it up the gangplank. As the goat trotted up, women and children began to walk down. One or two wives were crying now. Some began to wave at the ship. Sailors waved back.
    Fleet was nowhere in sight. Gabrielle could barely breathe with the worry. She went to the Marquis, who stood indomitable, hands behind his back, surveying crew and visitors as though he himself were captain. She tugged at his shoulder.
    â€œMy lord,” she called above the hubbub on deck. “He is not here. Please let us not sail without him.”
    The Marquis looked down at her and smiled. “My course is fixed,” he said, “I cannot control the actions of other men.”
    â€œBut let us get the captain to delay, and I will fetch Mr. Fleet.”
    Just then there was a holler, and Gabrielle turned to see that down on the wharf some way distant was a cart with two barrels drawn by a sturdy grey horse. The man beside the horse, signalling the crew, was Fleet. Secured around his neck was a sling holding some round object that bounced against his chest as he walked.
    The moment held instant relief, yet now she realizes the episode has made her question the man’s character for the first time. Gabrielle stares at the bloated sun and thinks about Fleet, about the curious whiff of mystery that hangs about him along with the scents of powders and roots through which he affects his cures. Why did he leave turning up for such a vital mission until the last second? Is he someone to whom she can safely entrust the health and well-being of the Marquis? She feels ungrateful for even thinking this way. He has, after all, done all she has ever asked of him. And she has more than once felt warmth for him, something that went quite beyond his looks, which are pleasing enough. She wonders how well she will get to know Fleet over the voyage. She imagines how he would look standing in her cabin now, the golden sunlight upon his too-pale skin.
    A sharp rap comes at the door. Gabrielle turns from the porthole.
    â€œCome in,” she says quickly.
    The door opens and Captain Henley enters.
    Gabrielle takes a step back toward the bed and smiles uncertainly.
    The captain smooths his palm over his lank hair and then stands motionless, holding his hat like a shield in front of his chest. His pale blue eyes dart around the room, avoiding Gabrielle, it seems.
    â€œIs everything quite comfortable for you?” he asks at last.
    Gabrielle sees his feet are restless. Now a thought strikes her.
It is a mistake. I am not supposed to be in this cabin, but he doesn’t know how to tell me
!
    â€œThe Marquis was quite insistent that your accommodations should be appropriate,” he says, still perplexed. His twitching fingers turn his hat as though it were the ship’s wheel. “And I too,” he continues hurriedly. “I too wish to make sure everything is to your best comfort.”
    â€œIt is most kind,” Gabrielle replies quietly. “But are you rather not in danger of making me too comfortable? I require and expect very little.”
    The captain looks at her strangely for a moment, his brow furrowing. Then he breaks into a smile and nods. “Of course, of course, the Marquis told me about that. Your natural modesty does you credit, if I may say so.”
    Gabrielle opens her mouth, but no