Pirates of the Caribbean:The Spanish Prisoner (Book 2 King's Messenger Series)

A Simple Task

Whether I was fatigued from my long journey or still reeling from all that had happened in London, I could hardly grasp my situation: that a well-known author, reportedly deceased, should be standing before me in excellent health.

"Daniel Defoe!" I could only echo his name.

Mr Defoe allowed himself a slight smile. "I see you've heard of me."

Quickly recollecting myself, I tried to salvage the idiotic impression I must have made. "I beg your pardon, sir --- I'm honoured to meet you! I never imagined you knew my family."

"Your uncle would not have jeopardised my incognito by speaking of it."

"No, of course not." My gaze wandered past him to the rooms my uncle had occupied.

Defoe cast a sympathetic eye over my bedraggled appearance. "I shall take my leave of you now, Mistress Bitter. You have travelled far, and courtesy dictates that I abstain from small talk until you are rested." He handed me the door key and stepped into the hallway. "My quarters are just above – please call upon me for any assistance that you need."

"Thank you, sir --- oh! Might I first borrow a bottle of ink and a quill? I must send a letter at once."

The abruptness of my request might have surprised Defoe, but Hector had been uppermost in my mind from the moment I set foot on the Whitehall Stairs.

He stepped closer and lowered his voice. "You're aware, are you not, that London is full of spies employed by various patrons? If you are connected with the court or government, they are sure to intercept your letters."

I recalled my uncle's wry jokes regarding letters that came from London. "You'd think spies could learn to open them without tearing everything to shreds," he would say.

But my letters would be particularly dangerous. They could disclose my relationship with a certain pirate and put us all at risk. "What do you suggest?"

Defoe cleared his throat. "My alias can be of use to you," he said. "No one opens Mr Singleton's letters --- he is a person of no importance. He can address your letters in his own hand, and send them by regular post, undetected." He laid a finger beside his long, thin nose for a moment, then added, "And Mr Singleton collects his correspondence from the Golden Lion, should anyone need to know."

I looked sharply at his face, but saw none of the clever, catlike dissembling that marked Lord Hervey's expressions. Defoe's words conveyed the sincere offer of an honest man. I smiled. "Thank you, sir. You have taken a great weight off my mind."

A short while later, I sat at my uncle's writing table. Hector and I had agreed on what could be allowed in our letters, and I tried to keep to our accord:

My dear friend,

At last I have arrived, but my employer must think lightly of the effort it cost me, since I am now constrained to wait – for how long I know not – until it pleases him to command me.

Your letters will reach me unmolested if you direct them to Mr Singleton at the Golden Lion, Goodman's Yard, The Little Minories.

There I paused, quill in hand. I contended with myself for a time, then quickly wrote:

All the wonders of London are nothing to me without you.

The sudden tightness in my throat made me swallow, and I stopped. One more sentence in this vein, and the floodgates of my emotions would surely burst. With a sigh, I reluctantly closed as Hector had directed:

Affectionately,

Your own friend.

After taking the letter upstairs, I returned to the cluttered rooms below. My tumultuous journey had ended at last, but it was solitude I sought, far more than rest.