Page 2 of A Taste of Miss Honey

“Your grandfather?” Izzy looked at her in surprise. Angel had never said her grandfather had come to stay.

Angel nodded. “This is the secret. No one must know he’s here. The servants think he’s father’s old uncle, and that he’s quite mad, which is why they must stay away. But it’s all a hum. Mama is his daughter, and this is his house, you see. He built it and lives in it, and all the money we have came from him, but you must never tell.”

Rather stunned by this odd explanation, Izzy followed as Angel ran to the front door and pushed it open, letting them inside. Izzy blinked as her eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight outside to the cool shadows of the elegant entrance hall. It smelled of lemon polish and vinegar, and she could hear the faint ticking of a clock coming from somewhere.

“Why?” she whispered, finding the sophistication of the fashionable furnishings and décor rather intimidating. It wasn’t cosy like the vicarage, with all its worn rugs and overstuffed furniture. Her home always smelled of cakes and, in the summer, a pleasantly sooty smell drifted from the unused chimneys.

Angel stepped closer, cupping her hand about Izzy’s ear. Her breath tickled Izzy’s neck as she spoke, the words low and intense. “Because my grandpapa is Black Jack Baxter, the most notorious pirate that ever lived, and there’s still a warrant for his arrest.”

Izzy squealed, clapping a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. When she could trust herself not to scream with delight, she removed her hand. “A real-life pirate?” Her voice trembled with excitement and Angel nodded, her eyes alight with pride.

“But if you tell, they’ll take him to Execution Dock and hang him with a shortened rope. It’s called the Marshal’s Dance, and he won’t die quickly. It will take a long, long time.”

Izzy’s hand circled her throat as Angel spoke, the horrifying words making her stomach churn.

Angel carried on, her voice oddly intent, making the hair on the back of Izzy’s neck stand on end. “They do it just beyond the low tide mark and wait until at least three tides have washed over the bodies. Black Jack was so notorious they’d probably tar his body and leave it hanging in chains for years and years.”

By now, Angel’s eyes were wet with emotion, her thick black lashes spiky with tears.

Izzy swallowed, awed by the enormity of the trust Angel had put in her. “I won’t ever tell, Angel. No matter what.”

Angel let out an uneven breath and grasped Izzy’s hand, heading for the stairs. “Come along, then, Izzy. Come and meet my pops.”

Black Jack Baxter had once been a large, handsome man. His face was heavily lined, the skin weathered and hardened by decades at sea in all climates. Yet even now, with his hands gnarled and twisted with arthritis and shoulders bent with age, there was a magnetic quality to him. His eyes, like those of his granddaughters, were dark, almost black, and sparkled with interest as they settled upon Izzy. Angel hurried up to him, giving Izzy a silent instruction to stay where she was.

“Pops, this is the girl I told you about, Miss Isabelle Honeywell. Izzy, this is my pops.”

Izzy, a little uncertain of the protocol required for an introduction to a notorious pirate, bobbed a curtsey. “I am very glad to meet you, sir.”

The old man regarded her, his expression serious. “Reckon ye can trust her, Angel? She won’t be wantin’ to get old Jack strung up and collect the reward?”

“Oh, no, Pops!” Angel reached out, resting her slender hand upon her grandfather’s shoulder. “I trust Izzy more than anyone else in the world, except you.”

He sat back, an expression of satisfaction settling upon his hard mouth. He regarded Izzy with interest.

“Know how to play cards, do ye?”

Izzy nodded eagerly, her salt stiff curls brushing against her sunburned cheeks. “Oh, of course, sir.”

He slid a glance at Angel, who shook her head. “She knows how, Pops, but… but not properly. Not like we play.”

Izzy bit back the desire to refute this claim. After all, a pirate probably knew many interesting things she did not. Black Jack regarded her still, his expression considering.

“And can she load and fire a pistol?”

Izzy gaped, her heart thudding. Load and fire a pistol? “No, sir, but I should like to learn above all things.”

The old man gave a bark of laughter, throwing his head back and guffawing until he coughed and coughed, and Angel was obliged to hand him a glass of water.

“Reckon you was right, Angel, my sweet. She’s a good ’un. Not some prissy milk-and-water miss like your mama.”

“Oh, no, sir, indeed I am not,” Izzy said, swelling with pride at his estimation of her character. She had always known she was destined for adventure, that life must hold more for her than growing up, marrying, and having babies. Not that she didn’t want that too, she liked babies, but she wanted to do something marvellous and worthy of a heroine in a scandalous novel, like the kind her sisters hid under their pillows.

The old man grinned, devilry shining in his eyes. “Call me Jack. Now, missy, sit yourself down there, and old Black Jack and my pretty Angel will teach ye a trick or two.”