“You know my name.”
“Thou gave it to me. And I gave thee mine. Clive Bickley.”
The fact came to me that Quakers never used titles, preferring to address each other by first names. I had probably told him I was Captain Gabriel Lacey. Any other Englishman would refer to me asCaptain,orLaceyif we were friends. It felt odd to hear my Christian name from the lips of a man I didn’t remember meeting.
Odder still was the way the man looked at me, as though he knew everything that was in my heart when I did not.
“This question may sound strange to you, sir,” I said. “But why did I come here with you? Did you ask me to walk you home?” It was safe enough in these parts, but perhaps I’d worried that a soft man, alone at night, might come to harm.
“Thou wert quite troubled, as I say,” Mr. Bickley answered, his expression serious. “Thou told me of a momentous decision before thee and that though had much confusion about it. I begged thee to come to this place and rest until thou wert calm—we keep the cottage open for any friends who need a place to sit quietly. Thou came inside with me but stayed only a few minutes before rushing off again.”
I was no stranger to losing hours or a night to drink, though I had not done so in a long time. In the army, after victorious battle—or after a disastrous one—I had joined fellow officers in becoming insensibly drunk, rising in the morning with an aching head and very little memory or what had happened the night before.
The problem was, I could not recall drinking much at all last night, save the wine I’d taken at supper at the Pavilion and the port afterward, which I’d not finished.
“I beg pardon if I was rude to you,” I said.
“Not at all.” Mr. Bickley gave me a warm smile. “If thou cannot find an answer to your worries, Gabriel, thou art always free to seek a quiet space here.” He turned his gaze to Brewster. “Thou as well, Friend Thomas.”
I came alert at the same time Brewster said, “’Ere. ’Ow’d ye know my name?”
Mr. Bickley reddened. Brewster began to close in on Bickley with his pugilist belligerence, but I held up my hand.
“Tell us,” I said. “He was not with me last night, he says.”
Mr. Bickley looked abashed. “He was not. We were curious about thee, Gabriel. We have seen thee walking through Brighton with thy wife and children. We sought gossip and learned thy names.” The thorough shame with which he said the words would have been amusing any other time.
“In that case,” I said, “I would be foolish not to take advantage of your knowledge. Did you see me speaking to anyone last night?”
“I do not believe so. Thou walked away into the darkness when thou left us, and we did not follow thee.”
“You saywe.” I glanced at the house. “Do you mean other, er, friends?” I was not certain what Quakers called members of their congregation.
As though she’d been awaiting a cue, a woman left the house and approached us. Though her gown had a fashionably high waist and flowing skirt, the fabric was gray worsted, and the frock bore no ribbons, lace, or any other adornment. She wore a bonnet of plain linen, and beneath its shade I saw that her brown hair held threads of gray, but her face, surprisingly pretty, was unwrinkled except for a few lines about her eyes.
“Welcome, Gabriel,” she said. She neither curtsied nor held out a hand for greeting. “As Clive hast told thee, we formed an interest in thee. Perhaps not polite or even wise, but thou interested us. Thou art not the same as most London men who travel to Brighton for the waters.”
“’Struth,” Brewster muttered.
“Indeed, Friend Thomas, it is God’s truth,” the woman said giving him a gentle look. “I am Matilda Farrow. Has Clive not spoken to thee of why we had such an interest?”
Mr. Bickley, flustered and embarrassed, took a small step back as though letting Mrs.—or perhaps Miss—Farrow commandeer the discussion.
The trouble with a person being introduced with only their given names was that I could not tell what status they were—married, unmarried, gentleman or gentlewoman, aristocrat, of military rank, or anything else about them.
That was the idea, I gathered. From what little I knew of Quakers, I understood they considered all people to be of equal station, with no class demarcations. Their leaders, called elders, were chosen from among themselves, regardless of their status in the rest of the world. Quakers, like many other Dissenters, wanted to rid themselves of the grandeur and hierarchy of the more formal Church of England.
While I could not blame them—I’d met too many pompous bishops for my taste, including an overly arrogant one at supper last night—it currently made things difficult for me. I tried to be as polite as possible to everyone, but to do so, I had to know what to call them.
“Madam.” I settled for this honorific as I bowed to her. “I am flattered by the interest of you and your colleagues.”
Matilda smiled. “No, thou art not, Friend Lacey. Thou art unnerved, as thou ought to be, and most curious in return.” She sobered. “We learned about thee, and spoke about it. We have heard that thou hast knowledge of men of law. And that thou has brought bad men to justice.”
I acknowledged this cautiously. My exploits were generally not looked upon with benevolence. The opinion of most was that I should keep my long nose out of others’ business.
“I will speak bluntly with thee, Friend Lacey,” Matilda continued. “A few of our members have vanished. Perhapsvanishedis too strong a term, but we do not know where they are. As thou art skilled in these matters, we thought perhaps thou might find them for us? Not to drag them back into the fold—if our Friends wish to leave us, that is for them to decide. We will naturally be disappointed and sorrowful, but what we most want is to make certain they are well.”
I understood. I read worry in Miss Farrow’s eyes, and in Bickley’s as well.
