Page 24 of A Fierce Wind

“Good Lord,” said Richard. “Then ’tis true.” Annie reached out and patted his hand.

“Lord Moira,” continued Pitt, “who has been very helpful in our war with France in his role as major general, has told me he expects an assault on the Isle of Wight.”

“Why, that’s just west of here,” muttered Richard. “As to the reports of French naval activity on the Channel,” he said shooting Donet a knowing look, “I believe my brother-in-law can provide a fresh account.”

Pitt’s gaze shifted to Donet. “You have observed this?”

“More than observed,” said Donet. “On our way here, Mr. West and I did battle with the Trajan, a seventy-four gun French ship of the line.”

Zoé turned to Freddie with curious eyes. He had not told her of his role in the skirmish, content to let her believe he was a mere spectator. “The Trajan was pursuing the new packet out of Weymouth,” he offered to Pitt. “We intervened to see her safely on her way to Jersey.”

“’Twas fortunate your ship was near,” said the Prime Minister, glancing at Richard. “We have identified the most likely landing area for a French invasion to be somewhere between Brighton and Southampton. I don’t have to remind you that your lands are in the center of that stretch of coast, which brings me to my purpose in coming. It is imperative that we raise a voluntary militia to guard the southern coast.”

“A voluntary militia?” Richard inquired.

Picking up his glass of port, Pitt explained, “If every county adds two volunteer companies to its regular militia reserves, thousands could be added to the National Guard. Of course, we will move regular forces into the areas on the southern coast as well.

Richard pursed his lips. “You want me to raise two volunteer companies in West Sussex?”

“I do, indeed, old boy. Only gentlemen of weight and property can fund and equip the men needed to see the job done.”

Richard nodded. “Very well, you may count upon me to do all I can to deliver them.”

The rest of their conversation was taken up with news of the war on the Continent.

It wasn’t until dinner that the subject of the Vendée came up.

Zoé’s aunt and the princesse joined them a bit later. Once they had changed for dinner, Annie and Richard invited everyone into The Harrows’ dining room. As Freddie escorted Zoé from the parlor, she leaned in to whisper to him, “You might have told me you were in the thick of it on the Channel!”

Freddie shrugged dismissively, which only added to her irritation. “Your uncle required a master gunner and I know the position well.”

“Master gunner!” she said, incredulous. “I can see it now: you pacing the deck, your arm in a sling, shouting orders with guns firing all around you. You dolt! You might have been killed!”

He had the nerve to smirk. “‘Might have’ are the operative words, Pigeon. As you can see, I stand before you hale and hearty.”

Indeed, he did. The sling was gone and his broad shoulders were now encased in a black frock coat of superfine wool. Peeking from under his coat was a waistcoat of crimson velvet he wore over black trousers. His cravat was impeccably tied. Visions of his naked chest rose in her mind making it difficult to argue with him. Try as she might to carry her own, he was too handsome, too charming and, dare she admit it even to herself, too often right.

“As long as you are taking me to task for putting myself in danger,” he began, “how about—”

“Oh, very well,” she interrupted, not wishing to hear him scold her for the risks she had taken. “Let us hope you remain hale and hearty.” When he arrived at her chair, she took a seat and he went around the table to sit across from her.

Candles set in silver branched candlesticks stood in the center of the table over which hung a brilliant crystal chandelier. Gilded porcelain dishes painted with a Chinoiserie scene of flowers in blue and white were set upon the linen tablecloth. Like Guernsey, it all seemed a bit unreal to Zoé and far from the Terror she had witnessed in France.

The meal the Torringtons served the Prime Minister was an elaborate one. It began with turtle soup—thanks to her uncle’s gift of the turtle—followed by trout, stuffed partridges and platters of sliced roast veal. Asparagus and peas comprised the side dishes. The rich scent of the stuffed partridges made Zoé’s mouth water. She had eaten nothing since the gingerbread at the Barlows’ cottage.

Annie, as hostess, sat at one end of the long table, the Prime Minister on her right. Across from him was Madame de Montconseil, looking very much the French aristocrat in her pale peach silk gown with her dark hair drawn back from her face in an elaborate coiffure.

Zoé was only half-listening to their conversation in which Annie recounted for the princesse the activities engaged in by the émigrés in London when the discussion turned to the country the princesse had left behind.

Zoé’s ears perked up when the subject of the Vendée intruded into the conversation.

“It seems to me, madame,” remarked Pitt, “the royalists in the Vendée serve with more fervor than some of our allies. Prussia is a shaky partner at best and the Dutch and the Austrians contribute less than they might, whereas the Vendéens fight with few weapons. For that, they have my admiration.”

The princesse shook her head as if in dismay. “The word in Paris when I left was that Robespierre and his Committee of Public Safety had given orders to destroy the Vendée, even the women and children. A nasty, terrible man with no honor and no pity.”

Pitt laid aside his fork. “I grant you the reports from there are troubling. And any success the republicans have in the Vendée will make Paris less likely to yield to Britain and her allies.”

“Though I am loathe to speak of it,” said Zoé’s uncle, “I can confirm that thousands of Vendéens have been slain and the killing goes on.”