The great-hall/ballroom/dining room of the governor’s house was airy and clean, but sparsely furnished. The foods and drinks were quite predictable, but the plenitude of rum on this evening either dulled the sensibilities of the attendees or simply induced them not to give a damn. It was a party, there was music, and best of all, it was a new year and they were still alive. Just a month ago, that last fact had remained very much in doubt.
The ratio of men to women was actually much better than usual. No more than five to one, this night. But that had been achieved through a variety of careful machinations. First, many of Warner’s English ladies had been invited up to St. Eustatia. Which was to say, they had been furnished with a gratis yacht ride to-and-fro, and gifts beside. And even some of the island’s French women had made the journey as well, most of them having been unceremoniously abandoned when d’Esnambuc was forced to flee on his one remaining ship without returning to Dieppe Town. Many of the ladies were widows, many had been abandoned years ago, many more were mixed race orphans whose situation in the French colony had always been delicate.
The English governor Warner had accepted the invitation as well, and had brought his wife, children, and several influential members of his now-expanded colony. For the first time in years, it was relatively safe for many of the leaders of the English colony to be absent, in large part due to the repulse of the ships and soldiers of its French neighbors. The troops that the captured French bark had already put ashore near Bloody Point had been tracked down swiftly enough in the nearby hills. Most of the other French forces in the colony had been aboard d’Esnambuc’s own bark, the Bretagne, which had withdrawn. Once free of pursuit, she had swept around the southern end of St. Christopher’s to head up along the island’s windward side and so get news of the attack upon St. Eustatia. What d’Esnambuc got instead was a view of du Plessis’ ship, the Main Argent, fleeing southward toward him, flanked by native piraguas . In the distance, several Dutch jachts, along with the Orthros, had been in hot pursuit or landing their ship’s troops along the French colony’s strands. Seeing that, d’Esnambuc and du Plessis had turned their bowsprits southward and vanished into the gathering night.
On the dance floor, almost a third of the men in semi-finery—Tromp’s command staff, a few troopers from the Wild Geese, and officers of various ships of the USE flotilla—made regretful bows and were ushered out the door by an honor-guard led by Cuthbert Pudsey. That bandaged worthy then admitted an equal number of men of similar rank, and in similar partial finery. Eddie smiled. This had been the other method of ensuring that the male to female ratio remained beneath the testosterone-alert levels. The men attended in shifts, while the ladies were allowed—indeed, encouraged—to stay for the duration of the evening. Or, now, morning.
Anne Cathrine surveyed the beginning of the next dance with a high-necked and utterly regal expression of immense satisfaction. “It is a fine celebration.”
“It sure is.” Eddie craned his neck. “But where are your ladies-in-waiting?”
Anne Cathrine swatted his arm lightly. “I am but a king’s daughter. I do not have ‘ladies-in-waiting,’ or are you implying that I am taking on airs?”
“You? Absolutely not, your Royal Exalted Highness of the Universe and Empress of Supreme and Sultry Sexiness.”
“Sshhh, Eddie! People will hear!”
“Let ’em. I’m a truth-telling man, by nature,” he half-lied. “But seriously, where are Sophie and Sis?”
Anne Cathrine suddenly looked as coy as a debutante and crafty as a cat. “Well, Sophie chose to forego the festivities.”
“What? Why?”
“She’s in the infirmary.”
“Now? Couldn’t they get someone else to cover it?”
“Actually, no. And she was quite willing to make the sacrifice.”
Eddie was impressed. “Well, that’s a hell of a noble gesture.”
“Oh, yes. Most certainly.” She actually hid the lower half of her face behind her fan and tittered. “Quite noble indeed!”
“What—? Oh, wait a minute.”
“Ah, has my war-wizard genius-hero from the future figured it out at last?”
“The earl of Tyrconnell is still recovering in the infirmary, isn’t he?”
Anne Cathrine nodded. “Yes, although his wounds seem almost fully healed to me. Except where he lost the last joint on his little finger; that still requires some care. Which Sophie takes every opportunity to provide, you understand. And when I say she takes every opportunity, I mean she seizes it violently, if need be. She almost pushed poor Dr. Brand&aTilde;o aside yesterday, in order to get to Lord O’Donnell first.”