The French Admiral Read Free Page A

they had left. They found the house.
    â€œI don’t know, Alan,” David said, mopping his streaming face with a handkerchief. The house was far away from the main town environs on the banks of the Cooper River, a planter’s mansion gone to seed from the early days of the colony, now surrounded by ramshackle warehouses, empty piers, and scabrous cottages and shacks crammed together any old how. The yard was overgrown with weeds and once-trimmed plantings gone riot in the sultry climate. The house itself needed some porch repairs and a good coat of paint.
    â€œWell, it’s not Drury Lane,” Alan said, noticing how commercial the neighborhood looked, and also how quiet and abandoned in the worst heat of the day. “But then it’s not Seven Dials, either. It’s your birthday, David. Mayhap there’s other places further back in town, but the closer we get to the port, the more the chance for the pox.”
    â€œWell, we could knock,” David said, “and if we don’t like what we see, we can leave.”
    â€œAmen to that,” Alan said. “If nothing else, we can get something cool to drink. I feel ruddy as a roasting pan.”
    They went up onto the porch, plied the heavy door knocker, and half a minute later the door was opened by a large black houseservant.
    â€œLady Jane’s?” Alan asked, when it was evident that Avery’s tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth at the sight of the man and his bulk.
    â€œIt is, suhs. Yo early. Come on in, why doncha?” the black servant said in a menacing deep voice. “Ah’ll fetch the miz’ress.”
    â€œWell . . .” David said, hesitating still.
    â€œY’all kin have sumpun’ cool whal ya waits, suhs,” the man offered, opening the door fully and waving an arm toward the interior.
    That decided Alan, at any rate. He stepped through the doors into the dim coolness of the house, shut up against the searing heat of the day. It had a musty smell, as all closed houses do, overlaid with a redolence of perfume and drinks spilled in the dim past, the faint scent of bedchambers used for sport so long that the sweat and the juices had clung to the wallpaper and drapes. Smells like a bawdy house, alright, he told himself.
    David followed him in, and they were steered into a receiving salon to the right, a room of more than usual seediness. The furnishings were worn and rickety, the walls stained by rain or seepage, and the paint peeling in places. The thread-bare velvet drapes were closed tight against the light of day, and a table candelabra burned, livening the gloom and attempting to hide the shabbiness with a romantic aura.
    â€œAh ’spec yo young gemmuns cayah fo some wine whal yo waits,” the black man said from the doors, and disappeared into the hallway, leaving them to their own thoughts.
    â€œWhat will the tariff be, do you expect?” David asked, removing his cocked hat and fanning himself with it, eyeing a place to sit but not trusting the snowy whiteness of his breeches seat to the dubious condition of the upholstery.
    â€œNothing near a duke’s ransom, I’d expect.” Alan laughed. “Still, we have six candles burning in midday, and good beeswax, too, not country-made tallow dips. Must do a damned good trade here.”
    â€œBut not over a crown?” David asked, fingering his purse.
    â€œI sincerely doubt it. Here now, we split our meal, but it is your birthday after all. Let this be my treat,” Alan offered.
    â€œDone,” David said quickly, which dispelled all his doubts of the establishment. “Like Tom Jones of fiction, you show a generosity of spirit.”
    â€œBut get into more mischief,” Alan said.
    Their hostess appeared at that moment, an older woman crowned by a pale blue wig adorned with false flowers and effigies of songbirds, her face boldly painted white, as was fashionable in years past. One cheek sported a