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Our lost, but now found Comrade.

Mrs. Barstow’s faith in her cousin proved justified, for not only did the baron willingly pay Sarah and Frances’ coach fare, but he insisted on accompanying them, something Mrs. Barstow hoped for but had not dared ask.

“He must have done battle with Mrs. Dere over this,” whispered Frances when Harker and Ogle the Perryfield coachmen drew the landau up at the cottage gate.

“She, for one, wanted never to hear the name of Horace Langworthy again. Only imagine if she learned of Mama’s proposal that he come regularly to Iffley! ”

The two young ladies were handed in beside Lord Dere, their portmanteaux stowed in the trunk-boot, and the door about to be shut upon them when a now-familiar voice screeched, “Mrs. Sebastian! Mrs. Sebastian!”

Peering out, Sarah’s heart sank to see Mrs. Barbary galloping up the lane to slide to a halt beside them.

The woman made an awkward curtsey when she saw the baron within before hissing (as if then only Sarah could hear her), “Just one thing, Mrs. Sebastian. I have given more thought to this, and my Harry being how he is…”

“Yes?”

“Yes. That is—if, when you get there—you find he will not obey you and come back, I will understand. That is—supposing everyone thinks he would make a good cabin boy and will pay him for it, and Harry can’t be persuaded to give it up, I will understand.”

“But, Mrs. Barbary, are you saying I—we need not go?” Sarah asked. “Because I suspect if I even told Harry you would consider letting him stay, there would be an end of it. We would have to kidnap him indeed, to get him to return to Iffley.”

“You don’t know that,” Harry’s mother returned contrarily. “And I said he would have to be paid as well. And some of that pay would have to be sent home—because what would such a young boy need with it anyway, all that prize money?”

“Er—Mrs. Barbary,” interposed Lord Dere, leaning forward to address her, “forgive me, but I could not help overhearing, and I think it imperative upon me to say the taking of ships and winning of prize money is no certainty.”

“What? Are you saying it is or it isn’t certain?” she demanded. “I don’t follow your lordship.”

“Isn’t,” he replied meekly. “Isn’t certain.”

“Well!” she sniffed, sounding rather put out. Perhaps she thought one so fortunate as Lord Dere of Perryfield begrudged those at the bottom of the ladder trying to hoist themselves up. “Well! That may be, sir. Only God knows.”

Having put him in his place, she returned her attention to Sarah. “Mind you remember, Mrs. Sebastian.” Giving her own forehead a tap and raising her eyebrows, Mrs. Barbary stepped back and let the mission proceed.

After a night spent in Newbury, they were off again following an early breakfast, the miles lurching and rattling away beneath them.

The roads were dry; the weather was fair; no axles broke; no passengers caused undue delay at the successive stages; and they reached the outskirts of Portsmouth before sunset.

The town had grown since Sarah last visited, but that had been before Bash was born, and the new construction amazed her.

Only when they had passed the drawbridge and entered the older town did she see more familiar sights, and drawing up to the George Inn was like seeing an old friend.

They had already decided it would be too late to call at Mr. Langworthy’s uncle’s home, even if they were not weary with the journey. Had Mrs. Barbary continued frantic, they might have made the effort, however tired they were, but as it was they came down the following morning, refreshed.

“That’s better,” said the baron, smiling. “I like to see the roses in your cheeks, my dear Barstows. I need not ask if you slept well. Come. Let us see if the George’s breakfast is as comfortable as their suppers.”

It was, but with the departures and bustle of the morning coaches, it was some time before they could be served.

Sarah had put especial care into her appearance. There could be no flowers or curled hair, but she wore the dark blue dress which made her eyes almost violet and used Sebastian’s cameo brooch to pin her linen fichu.

Frances looked well herself, her dark blonde hair and brown eyes complemented by a dress the color of wheat, and they drew admiring looks as they set out on either side of the baron up the High Street, Frances’ head on a swivel trying to take in the sights.

“Perhaps after we see to this Harry Barbary business there will be time for a walk to the dockyard,” Lord Dere suggested.

“Unless the sight of the ships and sailors makes Harry the less willing to go,” said Sarah ruefully. “If he escapes us there, there will be no catching him.”

There was hardly time for more, Nobbs Lane being a mere five minutes’ walk from the George.

The home of Mr. Langworthy’s namesake uncle was a narrow building halfway along the street, with even narrower steps leading up to the door.

Sarah and Frances waited on the pavement while the baron went up to knock, and after a long pause, the door was opened by a wizened servant with silver hair tied back in a queue.

“Good morning. I am Lord Dere of Perryfield with Mrs. Sebastian Barstow and Miss Barstow, here to call upon Mr. Langworthy.”

Squinting at them, the servant retreated into the passage to admit them and led them into the nearest parlor. “I’ll fetch him.” When the door shut behind him, they heard his slow footfalls recede down the passage’s creaking floorboards.

One thing was certain, Sarah thought as she inspected the austere room with its worn furniture and single framed picture of a ship under all sail. Whatever Mr. Langworthy’s feelings toward the Barstows or Iffley in general, Iffley Cottage at least looked more home-like.

“It’s so quiet in here,” ventured Frances. “I feel I have to whisper. I see why Mr. Langworthy chose to keep Harry at his friend’s house, rather than here.”

“Although the atmosphere might have succeeded in silencing even Harry,” murmured Sarah.

Presently they heard heavy steps in the passage—not the servant’s because they were quicker—and Sarah had only time to sit straighter and ball her fists before the door opened.

It was not Mr. Langworthy.

That is, it was indeed a Mr. Langworthy, but it was Mr. Horatio Langworthy, their friend’s uncle, a long, dour man as narrow as his house. He paused in the doorway before making a rickety bow.

“You must be acquaintances of my nephew, Mr. Horace Langworthy. I myself am Horatio Langworthy.”

“We are,” agreed the baron. He repeated their names for the elder Langworthy. More courtesies followed, but then, before Frances could fidget with impatience, Lord Dere asked, “Is your nephew not at home? We hoped to speak with him about the boy Harry Barbary.”

“Boy who?”

Sarah thought possibly he was hard of hearing, but he added the next moment, “Never heard of any Harry Barbary. But I can tell you where Horace is. If he’s not at the Dolphin or the George with fellow naval officers, he’s at the Pences’ in Highbury Street, not three minutes from here.”

Hardly feeling Frances’ elbow nudge her, Sarah required all her efforts to keep her face impassive. She must have succeeded, for when the baron turned to consult her, she saw no alarm there.

“Would you like to leave a note, Sarah?”

But the thought of sitting under Mr. Horatio Langworthy’s cold eye while she wrote out Mrs. Barstow’s kindly, heartfelt plea was too much for Sarah, and she shook her head.

“Time presses, sir. We had better go and find Harry.” Although her voice did not falter, her heart did.

For was it not likely, then, that the friends with whom Mr. Langworthy entrusted Harry must be the Pences?

Had his good footing with them been restored?

It was impossible to ask the uncle, however, if his nephew was again engaged to Miss Pence, and as quickly as it could be managed, Lord Dere and the Barstows took their leave.

“At the Pences’!” exclaimed Frances when they were again in the street. “Sarah, wasn’t that the surname of the girl who jilted him?”

“It was.”

“Do you think that means…?”

“Possibly.”

“Mm…I don’t suppose poor Mama will see him very often then, if ever again. Unless we can manage to charm this Miss Pence when we see her. Then he might persuade her to come to Iffley once or twice.”

“You will certainly charm her,” Lord Dere assured them. “And because Highbury Street is nearer than the Dolphin (and we know he is not at the George), shall we call there first?”

The walk might have been only the three minutes Mr. Horatio Langworthy predicted, but Sarah was glad of the baron’s arm, for she felt a little unsteady.

What would meet them in Highbury Street?

The “sprightly, lively, mischievous” Mary Pence, glowing with triumph as Mr. Langworthy looked on, lost in adoration?

Oh, mercy—then they must take Harry and go at once.

No—no—there was Mrs. Barstow’s message to be delivered!

I will tell Frances I feel faint, and she will deliver it , she decided. If that was cowardly, then, well, she was a coward.

She was also petty and jealous, Sarah realized, when they stood before the Pence home.

A home as charming as Mr. Langworthy’s had been uninviting.

Despite being almost as narrow, the Pence home boasted bright curtains at the windows, drawn back on the ground floor to display vases of flowers on candlestands.

Of course a sprightly and lively girl would hail from such a place!

It was not that Iffley Cottage was less charming—it was that what Sarah hoped might be an advantage was here equaled and nullified.

This time the steps were wide enough to allow the trio to ascend, and therefore it was all three of them who were thunderstruck by the servant who answered their knock.

Tall and stooped and ancient with a square, slack face—