Page 8 of The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

The “Gentleman Pirate”... a retired British

army major with a large sugar plantation in Barbados,

abandoned his wife, children, land and fortune; bought

a ship; and turned to piracy on the high seas.

— Amy Crawford, Smithsonian magazine

Chapter 4

N athaniel Aaron Upchurch spent two restless nights in his family’s London residence after his appearance at the ball.

He did not see his brother at all the first day.

Lewis slept in very late and then had left for his club while Nathaniel met with the family’s London banker.

He supposed his brother was avoiding him after their fight.

In Lewis’s absence, Nathaniel began taking stock of the situation—gathering unpaid bills and paying the permanent staff as well as the valet and coachman who had come up from Maidstone to help run the place.

All the while his sister remained in Fairbourne Hall, necessitating the upkeep of both houses simultaneously, further compounding their expenses.

Lewis sauntered down for breakfast late the second morning, sporting a black eye and bruised cheek. “I say, Nate ol’ boy, you made quite an entrance the other night.”

Nathaniel regarded his brother warily, but Lewis’s tone held no rancor. Nathaniel regretted losing his temper, overtired from the journey as he was. He was determined not to do so again.

Lewis sized him up, surveying him from head to toe. Nathaniel became conscious of the fact that he had yet to shave his beard or cut his hair.

“My, my,” Lewis drawled. “Who, I wonder, is this rogue before me and what has happened to my young pup of a brother?”

“Two years in Barbados happened.”

“The island did not have such an effect on me.”

Unfortunately , Nathaniel thought. But he said, “I am sorry we came to blows at the ball.”

“I am not.” Lewis smirked. “We shall be the talk of town for a week.”

Nathaniel said dryly, “Or until the next scandal erupts.”

Lewis helped himself to coffee with several lumps of sugar—sugar grown in Barbados, though refined there in England.

Nathaniel took his coffee—without sugar—and settled himself at the small desk in the breakfast room.

He placed his spectacles on his nose and continued inscribing the outstanding debts into a ledger.

He ought to have brought Hudson to do this, but the man had insisted on staying aboard the Ecclesia to keep watch, since Nathaniel had given the crew three-days leave.

Lewis turned from the sideboard and laughed. “Now there is the brother I remember. Nose in a book and wearing unfashionable spectacles.”

Nathaniel ignored the jab. “Were you ever going to pay these bills?”

“Me? Is that not why we have staff?”

Nathaniel clenched his jaw. “You tell me. I see that you have hired another French chef but no clerk or secretary.”

Lewis popped a hunk of sausage into his mouth and spoke around the bite. “Monsieur Fournier preferred to stay at Fairbourne Hall, and I could not leave Helen in the lurch, could I?”

“That is exactly what you have done.”

“The season is almost over, ol’ boy,” Lewis soothed.

“Then I shall tuck tail and go home like a dutiful spaniel, ey? But to insist I leave London now? Especially now that you are returned? You cannot be so cruel.” Lewis rubbed his bruised jaw.

“Though after meeting with your fists, I am not so certain.”

Nathaniel noticed that Lewis did not bring up the reasons for his return. He knew their father had written to Lewis about it, but he was relieved not to have to rehash it all again.

After breakfast Nathaniel spent several more hours meeting with tradesmen and bringing accounts up to snuff.

Then he allowed Lewis’s valet to cut his hair and give him a better shave than he’d had in months.

Finally, Nathaniel felt ready to return to his ship, collect Hudson and the rest of his belongings, and set off for Maidstone.

Nathaniel left the coachman and fashionable barouche with Lewis and insisted on driving the old traveling chariot himself—to the coachman’s horror.

Nathaniel would have settled for horseback or a small curricle, but he had quite a bit of cargo to unload and transport to Fairbourne Hall before the captain and crew departed for Barbados without him.

He enjoyed handling the reins, though the boxy enclosed carriage and team did not handle as well as the small trap and spirited mare he had driven around the island.

He pulled up the collar of his greatcoat and pulled down his hat, ignoring the disapproving look of an old dowager-neighbor, stunned to see him playing coachman. No doubt he had just given the gossips more reason to denounce him as uncivilized.

He drove his customary route to the Port of London and, when he arrived, hopped down and tied the horses near the Legal Quays. He turned toward the river and stopped, staring in disbelief. Flames shot up from the Ecclesia and smoke billowed. God have mercy. What next?

He began running while these thoughts still echoed in his mind, his boots thumping against the wooden planking in time with his heart.

Beside the three-masted merchantman, a dinghy floated.

Several men waited at the oars, ready to make their escape.

This was no accident, then, but an intentional attack.

Where was Hudson? Almighty God, please spare Hudson.

Nathaniel ran up the gangplank, heedless of the flames and smoke. If only he had retained a skeleton crew. Where were the river police? They were supposed to patrol against cargo theft and vandalism. Had a port worker—or even a member of the river police—been bribed to look the other way?

Fire licked up the mizzenmast. Nathaniel ran to the larboard rail and looked down at the dinghy. Still there. Nate was torn between the desire for revenge and the desire to try to save his ship. The ragged crew smirked up at him. What were they waiting for?

He had his answer soon enough, for a man leapt down from the quarter deck and sprinted across the main. He wore the clothes of a gentleman. His face was tanned, distinguished, and... familiar. Nathaniel’s gut clenched. Thunder and turf. Not him. Not here.

Nathaniel drew his pistol.

Abel Preston skidded to a halt, an infuriating grin on his handsome face. “A pistol? Not very sportsmanlike.” He glanced down at the fine sword sheathed at his side.

“But effective,” Nathaniel said. “Where is Hudson?”

Preston jerked his head toward the stern. “Fast asleep, poor lamb. Better drag him off before he’s overcome with smoke.”

Nathaniel gestured with the gun tip. “You lead the way.”

“Very well.” Preston stepped forward as though to comply but then whirled and slashed out with his sword, knocking Nathaniel’s gun to the deck, where it went skidding beneath a pallet of sugar-syrup casks.

Nathaniel drew his sword and struck. The former army major coolly met him thrust for thrust for several minutes. Then Preston stepped back and the two men circled each other warily.

Struggling to catch his breath, Nathaniel scoffed, “This is the career you left Barbados to pursue?”

Preston smiled. “Yes, and I am making quite a name for myself.”

“I must have missed it. For I’ve not heard your name mentioned since you left.”

“That is because I’ve acquired a new name.” Preston gave a mock bow and recited, “They call me the Pirate Poet. And some the Poet Pirate. How fickle is Lady Fame, when she cannot settle upon a name.”

Nathaniel cringed, remembering several island socials this man had attended—without his wife—during which he had attempted to impress the ladies with his long-winded recitations.

Nathaniel had heard tales of a poetry-spouting “pirate” but assumed them mere legend.

He had never imagined Preston might be that man.

He supposed it made sense. The fop always did love poetry.

Preston had spent more time composing rhymes than overseeing his plantation—when he wasn’t tormenting his slaves. No wonder he’d failed as a planter.

But the man had always been good at one thing—he was highly skilled with the blade.

Once again Preston advanced, striking with startling speed.

Nathaniel countered, but his every strike was parried with ease.

He fought back hard but with the growing realization that he was the inferior swordsman.

Barring aid from Hudson, or heaven, he would be beaten.

Sweat ran down Nathaniel’s face. Fear threatened, but he refused to cower before this man. Almighty God, help me.

Preston knocked Nathaniel’s sword from his grasp and kicked his feet out from under him in a blinding blur of motion. Nathaniel landed on the deck with a thump, his breath knocked out of him, his sword out of reach. Preston pinned him to the deck with a sword tip to his throat.

I commit my soul into your care, Nathaniel thought. Please forgive my many sins, for Jesus’ sake. He said, “Take what you want and kill me if you will, but let Hudson go. This is my ship. He only works for me.”

Preston’s lip curled. “Do you suppose I’d forgotten how you lured Hudson away—stole my best clerk? Not to mention the other problems you caused me.”

Nathaniel’s calls for reform had not made him many friends in Barbados. Preston had been chief among his detractors, especially after Nathaniel reported his continuing involvement in the slave trade after it was outlawed.

Still pinning Nathaniel to the deck, Preston called over his shoulder, “Turtle, bring me the master’s chest.” He looked down at Nate once more. “This year’s profits, I assume?”

“As well you know,” Nathaniel snapped, though he’d taken half the money to their London town house to begin paying bills.

The remainder was even now hidden in the coach’s lockbox.

“I see how it is. Why live off the meager profits from your own ill-managed plantation, when you can live off the profits of others?”