"It's good of you to see me at such short notice." William Wickham, head of espionage and counterintelligence, shook hands with Henry Gordon, private secretary to Admiral Lord Nelson. He crossed the plush, green carpet of the office of Admiralty House and shook Gordon's hand, who smiled wryly. It had taken much shorter time than expected to gain an appointment but, Wickham supposed, what he was to discuss with the man was hardly usual.

Nor was it discreet – it appeared that Magistrate Benjamin Wigg had friends in high places and was using his influence to track down Miss Cicely Hollum by any means possible and the implications of this were starting to encroach on security. Questions were being asked which he neither needed nor wanted and had far-ranging implications.

"Please sit." Gordon, closed the door behind Wickham and gestured towards the mahogany chair situated on the other side of his desk. "You made it clear that national security was at stake." The man waited until Wickham had descended onto the red velvet plush before sitting himself, tall and still as if, Wickham concluded, his shoulders were being held up by strings from the ceiling.

"You had better begin. My Lord will need a full and frank account from your position." As the right-hand man of one of the most powerful men in the land Gordon's outward appearance was indescribably ordinary. The epitome of discretion the man was clearly intelligent, and probably as strategically adept as his superior; he operated in a seamless manner so that to the outside observer the mechanisms of the Admiral's day to day life would appear self-governing.

"Indeed," replied Wickham, leaning forward and swallowing a few times. "I believe the Admiral has been privy to information regarding the daughter of Sir Hollum?"

In all his long years as a spy never had he had to jump so many layers of hierarchy in such a short time and Wickham had used every contact he could and had called in many favours. Gordon nodded stiffly. Not, Wickham noticed, because the man was ill at ease with the question, more that it was his manner: efficiency in action and deed with nothing wasted on the unnecessary.

"I'll get straight to the point." Gordon lifted his arms and placed his elbows on his large, solid mahogany desk, its understated elegance silently trumpeting its quality. "Sir Richard Hollum has his influence at Westminster and Benjamin Wigg influence at court. Should Sir Hollum's daughter be amongst the crew of a naval vessel my Lord is obliged both morally and legally to command his captains to put her under wardship until such time she is returned to her father, or indeed her intended husband."

Wickham found himself nodding. Clearly Gordon was aware of the scandal which had pervaded social circles. Practically half of London knew that Cicely Hollum had run from her father and again from Wigg but very little else and stories abounded to fill the void. But that had been yesterday's news and this had been superseded by the threat of French invasion. Pushed through by both men's influence.

Wickham thought back to a conversation to which he had been unofficially privy just under a week ago involving his superior, Toby Hamilton, and Benjamin Wigg himself. In his mind's eye Wickham replayed the events of that night where the suilline Wigg had stamped heavily across the floor of Hamilton's office and Wickham had seen a side to his blustering boss quickly become a stammering fool. It was he, of course, who would have been coerced into approaching Gordon with the damning evidence.

"Yes," agreed Wickham, nodding in agreement. "And – "

" - and, from my own investigations she was married under a captain of my Lord's fleet to one of your men." Gordon fixed Wickham with a stare and the Wickham swallowed down his previous sentence. He was good, mused Wickham to himself. To have discovered this, the very news he was going to impart himself, all without Wickham discovering that he had found this out. Under different circumstances the spymaster would have very much liked to have recruited Gordon into his own practice.

"Indeed." Wickham agreed. "However there are complications, not least for the security of the country."

"Go on. I will need more information before I can propose anything to my Lord. The marriage between Miss Hollum and your man is clearly void under the laws of the land and while I can put things in place to delay my Lord's orders that is the extent of my influence." The private secretary stopped, unused to explanations not being forthcoming. He smiled, which appeared and disappeared so quickly William Wickham wondered whether he had imagined it.

"Can you tell me, for example, of the role of your man? Or where, perhaps, Miss Hollum may be at present?" Wickham swallowed again. He had anticipated both questions and for the latter he had very little.

"Miss Hollum left the company of Dr. and Mrs Darwin of the Mount, Shrewsbury, in mid-July. It is understood that Benjamin Wigg had discovered she was residing there, as a guest of Mrs Sophie Aubrey, under her husband's instructions." Wickham watched as Gordon began making notes with his expensive quill pen on pages in a large leather notebook open on his desk.

"As annoyed with Shrewsbury as the Wrekin giant," added Gordon, without looking up. William Wickham said nothing, glad that the secretary had not caught his eye, and wondered privately if this was the man's attempt at humour.

"As to her whereabouts since then, and for the last six weeks, I really could not say. She has an uncle, maternal, a cabinet maker from Ely – "

" – she could have fled to him?"

"No," replied Wickham, shifting in his seat. He had spent many long hours in preparation for such questions from the Admiral's secretary and though necessary, he knew, it was, nonetheless a diversion from his main employ. "This man has long since emigrated to the Americas and it appears Miss Hollum had very little to do with him. Her mother died at a young age and Sir Hollum kept both her and her brother from his wife's family. As to Maturin – " Wickham paused as Henry Gordon looked up.

"Ah yes, Stephen Maturin. His name appears in the record of Captain Aubrey of his marriage to Miss Hollum aboard his ship. He is recorded as being the ship's surgeon." Wickham found himself nodding. To reveal anything of his men to others was not done, not least for security reasons, and he was grateful to the private secretary for setting the context.

"This is where the complications lie," Wickham conceded. "And were his role not to change so significantly in the very near future I believe I could be a little more frank."

"And you can tell me nothing more?" Wickham shook his head.

"Only that the man can do what we require, that he is the best and that he is loyal to me."

Silence reigned, punctuated only by the ticking of a Cox longcase clock in the corner of the office. Eventually Gordon put down his quill and sat back stiffly. Or, Wickham concluded, even more stiffly than usual.

"I can delay my Lord's orders, though the time frame is small. I can do what is necessary within the hour, BUT – " Spitting out the rebuttal sharply Gordon clearly sensed Wickham's interjection and was determined to have the final say and co-ordinator of British espionage decided it was wise not to pursue any last minute appeals. His tone changing to mark the distinction between their ranks Henry Gordon continued.

"But that can be done. The recovery of Miss Hollum to her father will be in both our interests. It is the right and proper thing. Within the week, Wickham, mark my words, every captain in the fleet will be clear that if they are colluding in offering Miss Hollum passage, or indeed – " the private secretary took a sharp intake of breath through his teeth, " – employment, will be immediately disengaged."

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A cool autumn breeze tickled Cicely's face as she made her way with the company men from their rooms in Hanwell to the proto-basin of the Grand Union Canal. She was in London and, more than that, she had a plan.

Her luck had seemed to change since she had left Shropshire and, with those other brave, desperate or foolish men, walked the long miles to the site where they were to work with the new company. Without money, or assets of the equine variety, Cicely could never have hoped to get to the capital at such a speed but, of course, for the improvement in their lot, those men who worked from the Grand Union would, ultimately, pay a high price, that of their lives.

Cicely knew this, of course. Following their arrival at the wide, flat land in which they dug a fortnight before, not less than half of those who had gone with Cicely were still alive and many more were maimed.

The first time she had witnessed this, Cicely had been horrified. The men, in the same vein as for the Shropshire Union, dug out and banked up the earth on either side to create the cut. However, far from the soft, sandstone-based humus that was native to the Midlands: here, near the capital of the country, hard chalk pervaded which could not be shifted by shovel or spade. This was, of course, the reason for explosives.

However, the contrast between the treatment of the men by the canal company's management in terms of their accommodation, food and pay, which was generous, and their working conditions couldn't have been starker.

The cost of fuse line was taken from the men's pay. This was expected: navvies for any canal company expected stoppages in their wages for the equipment and materials they used. Men, therefore, cut the fuses far shorter than was safe to save money and as a result some navvies did not have a second chance to rethink such a dangerous strategy.

In addition, the use of copper rods to force down the explosives into hand-drilled holes into the chalk was commonplace and just as deadly as short fuse line. When the rods were removed from their holes, having been used to compact the explosives firmly, they rubbed and struck against the chalk surface causing sparks, igniting the explosives prematurely and finishing off any man unlucky enough to have been in the vicinity.

These, in short, was the main reasons why the Grand Union were always in need of navvies and why such a boy as Cicely Maturin was pretending to be should have been in fear of their life, or at least, seeking a change of employment quickly.

Barring a couple of near misses Cicely didn't feel worried or anxious about her work for the Grand Union, far from it. She wouldn't be with the company long and, with a fuller belly than Cicely was used, meant she could pray that her luck would hold long enough until she could put her plan into action.

It went something like this: Cicely would discover the movements of the naval ships through the local newspapers. Although a matter of national security the publication of pamphlets was commonplace in the locality of the docks of the ships anticipated and the demand from those who were interested in the traffic at the local docks (loved ones, debt collectors, jilted lovers). A few were always diverted to London and Cicely could then determine if any needed crew. By being aboard she could then ascertain the location of "Surprise" and make further plans to reach her.

But there was a down side. She needed money quickly if she were to get herself in a fit state for a naval captain to be interested in her skills aboard his ship. Those docking on the Thames were mainly those ships which had been diverted off course from Portsmouth and were yet to be engaged in warfare. As such they would have plenty of crew and so Cicely would have to look, and be prepared to act, her best in order to be taken on to mizzen.

Money for food and board to see her through till she had found employment; money to clothe her in loose-fitting garb, rather than the heavier clothing she had bought in Shrewsbury following her flight; money in case she needed to get across to France, or if she discovered "Surprise" was anchored in a particular port. Getting herself clean, too, after so many months living as a navvy.

She didn't regret her decision to try to make amends to Mrs Aubrey and Mrs Darwin but Cicely had to admit that the money she had taken from "The Mount" would have been more than useful. She did have another means of cash however. That, and some scraps of paper from Dr. Darwin's original copy of Zoonomia which she had written on the back of Stephen's old notes were the only things of value Cicely had on her person. She kept them close in her bindings not least so she would not be robbed of them and it was the other, her mother's silver locket which was her last, and only, means of raising it.

That was where the complications arose. It was made by Castellani, and as such was highly distinguishable. Cicely knew that it was worth about ten guineas, but that she would probably only be able to get ten shillings for it in the back street pubs that the navvies frequented. She would have to sell the locket only when she knew she would be able to board a ship, or at least be out of the vicinity of where she had sold it: at a starting price of ten shillings someone was bound to recognise its true worth and within days it would be in the hands of someone who knew about fine jewellery and eventually someone would start asking questions.

Could she have reached a ship without selling her mother's necklace? Cicely knew she could but it would take far longer. Would she do without it? That was another question. At times when she was feeling particularly low Cicely would hold the necklace and remember; not her mother, for she had died when Cicely was very young. She would remember how dear it had been to Edward, her dear brother.

But what was true in her heart was her love for Stephen. Cicely knew she could not bring her brother back from his watery grave, neither her mother, she reasoned. Neither, she believed, would care for her keeping the necklace if it meant she were to have an unhappy life otherwise.

The wind blew again and Cicely was roused from her thoughts. Around her the navvies began to form their shift-groups and she fell into line with five other men. They were heading for the chalk face, as they had done for the past week. Her work would finish at sundown and, with a bit of luck, Cicely would be able to look upon the necklace's engraved surface once more and remember her time aboard "Surprise"; of the wind in her hair; of her pair, James, who had been assigned to mirror her tasks; of Captain Aubrey, his generosity and commitment to the Navy; of being so close to her brother…and of course, falling in love with the ship's surgeon…

…it was expensive…it was valuable…but so was her love. What use was it as a formed trinket? She could travel across the continent if necessary: she had done it before. The decision came down to the best chance of being reunited with Dr. Maturin, and being as far away from her father and Wigg as she could.

She would be there again, Cicely knew, aboard "Surprise", with her husband. Of that she was determined.

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The "Surprise" had departed Genova almost three weeks ago with the orders to meet with the aforenamed Acheron in Portsmouth. Here, Jack Aubrey intended to do more than just brief the captain, his former lieutenant, Tom Pullings, indeed: Aubrey's planned to welcome Tom aboard and, if time allowed, spend time indulging in their respective stories following their departure from the South Pacific.

Jack had been looking forward to meeting his equal, who he had recommended to the Admiralty to the rank of Captain and whose commission had surely been granted now upon their spoils of war. However, it was upon his arrival at Portsmouth harbour that he had received further word to make only the provision necessary and to sail towards Vlissingen, in Holland, and wait further.

Wait further. Aubrey had sighed when he had received that instruction. In the service you never knew how long the wait would be. It could be hours, or days, or even weeks and there was no mention whether he was to meet with the "Charlotte".

At least, Jack thought, he could make the ship ready and he had set about the crew making "Surprise" be in as good condition as possible. Vlissingen, he reasoned, was close to France and he suspected the Admiralty wouldn't wish one of their own ships to linger long by Britain's enemy, but Jack suspected he would be better at ease with the whole situation if he had his friend aboard, with whom he could talk, and in whom he could confide. He could only wonder where Stephen Maturin was now and what he might be doing.

And then, that morning, as they anchored in the western quay of Vlissingen harbour, mail from another frigate, the "Thorn" was exchanged between bo's'uns and distributed. Both the officers and the seamen alike were delighted; they had been away from loved ones for such a long time and it had disappointed them, Aubrey knew, that they had not had the opportunity for at least night ashore in Portsmouth.

The first was from his wife. Jack had saved the bulky letter until he had cleared his mind completely to read of the society and domestic news which his beloved Sophie always divulged to him in her exquisite hand. It had come as a shock, therefore, when the ragged appendix to the missive fell out from between the neat, crisp pages on which his wife had written. Aubrey had read it, before pacing around his cabin deep in thought.

Sophie Aubrey said that she had taken Cicely with her to visit her friend Susannah Darwin, that there had been a subsequent letter from her, which she had taken the liberty to enclose for him, but she had heard nothing since. Aubrey had then turned to the other paper which Sophie had folded inside her own letter. The beautiful script depicting his wife's name looked very much like that of his ex-mizzenlad and he unfolded it, holding it up to the light from the window before gazing past it and out into the harbour.

Now, Jack Aubrey sat in his chair, watching the bustle of the Dutch quay with his eye as he contemplated the consequences of the information he had received from Sophie. Even if he did know where Stephen was it would be nigh on impossible to find him with this news. That was, even if he wanted to. He knew his friend's work ashore was not only secret but lengthy; he could be anywhere on the continent by now…anywhere in the world, in fact.

Aubrey watched the crew of the "Thorn" go about the maintenance of their vessel before reaching round to his desk and pulling out the parchment note which his former surgeon had left him. Wickham. William Wickham. Jack knew that this person, whoever he was, would be able to field an urgent message for Maturin. He – Jack – needed only to mark the message "classified" and it would be delivered directly to Admiralty House. What could be more important than this?

Privately at least, Jack mused. Stephen and Cicely's marriage had been called into question by her father and, Jack noted, a Magistrate Wigg. Jack looked out of the window again. His authority had been brought into question, which was always a possibility with naval marriages - he had said as much to Maturin.

Where would she go, he wondered? Her brother Edward had committed suicide two years before. It had been his position aboard which had drawn Cicely to the Surprise in the first place. Cicely. Why did you go? Where did you go?

He turned to his desk. Regardless of where Stephen was he needed to know. Pausing every so often to structure carefully appropriately-chosen words Jack Aubrey began to write but when none came he folded up his wife's letter and that of Cicely and put them into an envelope. Sealing it with the crest of "Surprise", Jack waited a few minutes before dipping his quill in the inkwell on his desk then wrote "Wickham – Classified" on the other side.

Aubrey got to his feet, intending to place the letter straight into the hands of Mr. Hollar to give to his opposite number aboard "Thorn". Before he got to the door to call his bo's'un, the captain of the Surprise remembered his other letter, the one which had accompanied the orders. The one directly from Admiralty House itself. Jack Aubrey sat back down, and opened both.

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The public house was one which the navvies frequented regularly. Its situation, squeezed between a butchers shop and a bakery made for a less disreputable locale and Cicely had found herself accompanying the other Grand Union men as they spent their relatively copious wages on ale. Sadly, the outer appearance did not disguise the dark, grimy, oil-lamp-smoke-suffused interior. An ideal place, Cicely had concluded, for the sale of her locket, which would take her away from the canal and, with any luck, one step closer to the Navy and her Stephen.

She had seen similar trades being carried out between the navvies and other men who frequented the "Crown" – soldiers, shop-workers, ne'er-do-wells. It appeared that the landlady was involved at various stages of the transactions and Cicely had decided to approach her.

As usual, the smoke from the oil lamps blew into the street as one of the older navvies opened the door. Six of them, including Cicely, stepped over the threshold and looked for a suitable area where they could all sit together, mull over their lot and drink ale and liquor. Cicely, who abhorred alcohol, compromised by drinking ale, which she made last most of the evening, and which reinforced the façade that she was a young, weak adolescent who could not tolerate anything stronger.

The older navvies began to talk about the amount of chalk which had been shifted that week and the others debated how long it would be to cut the whole length, one, a man about her own age, estimated months but another, older, navvy proffered the figure of a year and a half.

"What's yer guessin'?" Over the rim of her ale-jug Cicely looked at the older of the navvies, one whose luck had clearly lasted longer than most, though only just. Peter Tregadon, a navvy from the West Country, gave her an engaging stare and she withdrew the jug from her lips. Any excuse not to drink, Cicely thought.

"Er," she began. "I don't know. Perhaps two years?" Both Peter and the younger man, Joe Brewer, who had come with the navvies from Stourport, laughed. As the rest of the men contributed their guesses Cicely's gaze was drawn towards the other group of men in the pub, a group of rather raggedly dressed soldiers, who were clearly enjoying their time there. A couple of other men, labourers by their dress, sat in corners, their manner far more reserved than that of the soldiers. And then there was the navvies: several drinks and a good old song because you never knew what tomorrow might bring.

"I 'eard the bosses plan to take us up to the North again." Tregadon, his age and experience coming to the fore as it usually did held the group in rapt anticipation as he engaged the navvies in tales of work. "Not that I wouldn't mind goin', though, but I'd miss the money…"

This group of men, on the canal work involving explosives were very much alike in their manner to the sailing crews she had met in her time. Perhaps, Cicely had mused on evenings in the alehouse before, it was because their work was tough and it held them together through their shared experience.

As Peter Tregadon's story about his time digging Cheshire's canals began to flow, Cicely began to search out the landlady who she had seen other customers approach in order to sell their belongings. As the story reached the point where Tregadon had met the Marquis of Bridgwater himself, she crept away, and over to the bar.

Other customers were being held vertical by it, some talking, some bragging. One man Cicely recognised as someone she had seen talking to the landlady before and she was sure he had given her a watch, or something of that kind.

"…and what'll we do when we get to Flanders?" The shout came loudly from the tables of carousing soldiers, holding their pewter tankards aloft and making merry amongst them. The shout was loud and sharp and Cicely nearly fell over across a man dressed in labourers attire. Apologising, Cicely made her way to the other side of the bar, nearer to the soldiers, nearer a door through which she had seen the landlady go ten or so minutes before and, glancing back to the navvies, who were clearly engrossed in the story Tregadon was still recounting, peered nervously towards it.

"Waitin' for Meg?" The voice came close to her ear and Cicely turned quickly to see a soldier, in rather shabby uniform, grinning at her. Before she could reply, he continued to leer and added, "I'm sure whatever you have to sell you'd get a better price for from me."

"No thank you," Cicely said firmly, and turned away from the soldier just as Meg the landlady reappeared. She looked Cicely up and down before smiling.

"What can I get yer?"

"Nothing to drink, thank you," Cicely said politely and she heard the floorboards creak next to her. The soldier was clearly not going to press his enquiries now.

"Summat to sell, then?" Meg looked along the line of customers, perusing the drinks before them as Cicely had watched her do before. Anticipating, Cicely concluded, an empty glass which was an opportunity for another sale. As Meg returned her glance to Cicely, she nodded hurriedly, before opening her palm. Inside sat her mother's locket, gleaming a little in the lamplight.

"It was my mother's," Cicely added, answering the landlady's unspoken question. That was true enough, of course, and Meg grinned toothily.

"Yer mother's." she repeated. "What're you drinkin'?" Cicely shook her head.

"Nothing, thank you." She looked back towards the table of navvies, and at her half-consumed ale. "I have one."

"And what do yer have in mind?" Meg inspected the locket with interest, and Cicely proffered her hand further forward, aware that other customers were moving around them. "It's a fine piece, and no mistake. Very fine."

"A guinea?" The landlady dropped the locket back into Cicely's palm and threw her head back, laughing. "I can give you four bob."

"But I'm sure it's worth at least a guinea," insisted Cicely, imploringly.

"Not here," Meg laughed, shaking her head. "Where did you say you got it?" Her last question was quite direct and she gave Cicely a glassy stare.

"It was my mother's. I, er…" Cicely swallowed. She knew the woman would probably require a convincing story to go with the value of the locket and she added, "…it's all I have of her. She died when I was very young."

"What's yer name, lad?" Meg's tone had softened again and she smiled at Cicely.

"Young. Robert Young."

"Listen, Robert," Meg continued, taking the locket back out of her hand. "I can give yer somethin' for it, but not as much as a guinea, even if it was dear to yer – "

" – whatever she offers, I'll give yer two bob more – " The soldier who had waylaid her as she had waited for Meg just before leaned between them and made a grab for the locket. Cicely withdrew her hand quickly and shot a look at him and then past him, towards where the navvies were – had been – sitting...none of the half-dozen who she had accompanied to the alehouse were there.

"I was goin' to say five bob," said Meg, her tone firm. "An' I can give it to yer now…"

Five shillings. Just a quarter of what she knew she probably could have expected, but Cicely wasn't in the mood to hand around.

"So have I," insisted the soldier, leaning further towards Cicely, his breath foul with liquor. "And it is a very pretty thing..." Cicely took a step back as the soldier lunged towards her and she trod heavily on someone else.

"Oi, you!" Meg shouted at the soldier. "The lad wanted to sell to me…" But Cicely wasn't listening now and she pushed past the other solder who she had just trodden on.

"Robert!" yelled the landlady as Cicely began to head towards the door "Come 'ere! We 'aint finished yet!" Cicely could feel her heart in her mouth now as she flung the alehouse door almost off its hinges, the cold September air hitting her face as her feet met the uneven pavement.

She could hear quickening footsteps behind her and, resisting the urge to look behind her, Cicely headed in the direction of the canal. The men couldn't have got too far, she reasoned and she held the locket tighter as she quickened her pace as the hubbub behind her got louder and louder, with shouts above a growing commotion.

Turning a corner, Cicely stopped dead. In front of her was the soldier who had accosted her, with another man. She looked behind her quickly and saw that the rest of the soldiers, and a few of the other customers who had been in the alehouse with them, lingering together, waiting.

" – lad!"

" – 'e's 'ere!"

Looking side to side for a way out, Cicely saw a soldier emerge from group and move towards her.

"Robert Young!" he called. In panic, Cicely turned back to where the first soldier was. Take it, her inner voice screamed. Take it!

Raising her arm Cicely made to throw the locket to the soldier, hoping it would confuse and she could run away.

"Robert Young!" She heard her alias shouted this time and, in the hope that it was one of the navvies she turned back, catching her foot on the pavement. As she stumbled, the people surged around her and she felt a thump on the back of her head.

The upsurge in noise faded in Cicely's ears as all around her she succumbed to blackness.

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