Deception? Yes. But smuggling? Not if he ended his ventures now that he’d broken even from his losses—his stolen losses. He stared at the small woman, so unwavering in her beliefs that she didn’t flinch beneath his assessment. Was this petite beauty God’s answer to his earlier prayer for guidance? A smile lifted the corner of his mouth. If so, a very pretty reply.
“I do not deny your charge of deception, madam, and for that I freely repent. But I am no smuggler.”
Her nostrils flared. “I saw you!”
Ahh, but his fingers itched to smooth that angry furrow on her brow. How soft the skin? How warm and—
He clasped his hands behind his back, lest they touch her without permission. “Sometimes what we see, Miss Fletcher, and what is truth are two different things. The world is not as black and white as you seem to believe. More often it is grey.”
“Then you are no God-fearing man, Mr. Seaton.”
“On the contrary, I acknowledge God as the Creator of all colours.”
A small snort blew from her lips. “You play with words as easily as you disregard the law.”
“Come with me and my sister tomorrow, and I will show you grey.” He pressed his mouth shut. What was it about this woman that made him issue such an invitation? He ought keep his distance from this parson’s daughter, for her convictions did strange things to his conscience.
She shook her head. “I cannot leave my father for long periods. In truth, I should stay here no longer tonight.”
“Then I will provide a maid to sit with him.”
Her brow creased, not much, but enough to hint she considered his offer. “Have you an answer for everything?” she asked.
“Usually.”
But not for her. She neither feared nor revered him. What kind of woman was Miss Helen Fletcher?
Chapter Four
Sunshine dappled light through a canopy of elms. Helen grasped the side of the pony cart and angled her face upward, closing her eyes. Esther was a competent driver, and the steady plod of Mr. Seaton’s horse ahead of theirs set an easy pace. Yet the pattern of dark and light against her lids was as splotchy as her thoughts.
Each of the families they’d called on this morning had widened the crack in her heart, until she feared visiting any more would bleed out the last dregs of emotion. And then what? Was it possible to sympathize so thoroughly that no feelings would remain? These people were in dire need—and there was nothing she could do about it.
Could she?
“Nearly there.” Esther’s voice ended the debate.
Helen opened her eyes to a small cottage built into a rise of grassy earth. Mr. Seaton dismounted and offered her his hand as Esther set the cart’s brake.
He leaned toward Helen as he helped her to the ground. “Are you starting to understand the plight of these people, Miss Fletcher?”
“I believe that I am, yet I fail to understand what any of this has to do with your …” She glanced to where Esther retrieved a basket from the cart, then lowered her voice. “Other diversion, shall I call it?”
“No, not a diversion. A necessity.” He flashed a roguish grin. “One I will no longer pursue, thanks to you.”
Her brows shot skyward. “Me? Why?”
“Master Isaac!” The screech of his name upset a swoop of martins from the neighboring elms.
The three of them turned toward the cottage door.
Out flew a grey-haired lady, mobcap askew and apron strings flapping like an extra pair of legs. If she could move this spritely now, what kind of whirlwind had this woman been in former years? She plowed into Mr. Seaton. “How I’ve missed ye, lad.”
He wrapped his arms around her and chuckled. “Good to see you also, Mrs. Garren.”
Esther set the basket down by the lady’s door, beaming at the sight.
Helen pursed her lips. The man was a paradox: one day brandishing a pistol at a captain and another embracing an elder half his size.
Isaac set the lady from him then bent on one knee. Taking her hand into his, he kissed her fingers. “My deepest apologies for my absence, madam. Forgive me?”
“Posh!” She swatted him on the head. “Who can stay angry with you, lad? Now then, who is it ye’ve brought?”
The lady’s gaze landed on Helen. Her eyes were like two tiny coals, deep and dark, and entirely warm and cozy. Hopefully this woman had many grandbabes to dandle on her knee, for such was the love in her scrutiny.
“Annah, I present to you the parson’s daughter, Miss Helen Fletcher.” Esther joined Helen’s side. “Helen, this is Mrs. Annah Garren.”
Helen dipped a bow. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Garren.”
“Oh posh! Only Master Isaac gets away with such formalities. Call me Annah.” Her right eye winked—or was it a tic? “Come in, come in! Take a cup o’ nettle tea.”
Esther placed a hand on the lady’s shawl. “I am sorry, Annah, but we must be off.”
“So soon?”
“I’ve yet to see to the village children. And Miss Fletcher’s father is very ill. We shouldn’t keep her from him for too long.” Without so much as a goodbye, the old lady pivoted and darted into her house. Mr. Seaton swung back into his saddle, and Esther crossed to the pony cart. Was that it? Helen frowned. Not a very fond farewell after such an intimate welcome.
Annah reappeared before Helen could climb back up on the cart. She dashed toward them, her speed once again belying her age. Drawing close, the old lady pressed a stained piece of fabric into her hands. “For your father, child.”
“Thank you for …” She turned the small piece over in her fingers. It was too small to be a kerchief, though clearly the scrap was a gift of some kind. She smiled at the old lady. “Thank you.”
“Posh!” Annah waved her off then lifted her face to Mr. Seaton. “Hie yerself back here more often, Master Isaac. Take care of our lad, Esther.”
Then Annah vanished back into her cottage.
Helen climbed up on the cart and sat next to Esther, puzzling over the odd encounter. “That was … interesting. What is this?” She held out the scrap for inspection.
Esther glanced at it and urged the pony to walk on. “Except for the shawl from her shoulders, I suspect it’s all Annah had to give you. Since her husband died, my brother has provided as best he can for her and all the tenants you’ve seen today. Isaac is a generous soul—overmuch at times. Often he goes without sleep or meals to come up with a way to continue providing.”
Continue providing? The cart juddered over a rock in the road, and Helen grabbed hold of the side while also trying to grasp Esther’s information. Thinking back on the sparse decor at Seaton Hall, it all started to make sense. “So, I take it finances are an issue, then?”
“Well … Mr. Farris did mention the Brannigans last evening, so I don’t suppose Isaac would mind me telling you.” Though her brother rode ahead of them, well out of earshot, she dipped her head closer to Helen. “My father owned a successful enterprise, shipping over the finest Irish blasting powder for the copper and tin mines hereabouts. When he died, the business went to Isaac.”
Helen’s gaze shot to Mr. Seaton. The fabric of his suit coat stretched across his shoulders like a mantle of power. “He seems well suited for such a venture.”
“Indeed—were it not for Richard Brannigan. There’s bad blood between the two. When Richard heard of my father’s death, it’s rumoured he put into play a smuggling scheme to relieve all incoming ships of Isaac’s cargo.”
“But wouldn’t whoever had insured those loads pay your brother for his losses?”
Esther sighed. “Not if the insurance company is so heavily burdened by payouts that they are driven out of business. Such was the case.”
“Why not simply employ a different company?”
“Brannigan’s is the only remaining insurance provider in these parts.” She jutted her chin toward her brother. “And he can’t bear the name, so please, hold in confidence what I’ve told you.”
“Of
course.”
Esther fell into a silence, and while she drove on, Helen tried to reconcile the ill-treated gentleman trotting in front of them against the bold thief who’d accosted her only days before. She tapped a faint pattern against the square of cloth on her knee as they rattled along, yet could not solve the mystery of the fellow even by the time they slowed near the outskirts of Treporth.
A salty breeze welcomed them. They stopped in front of a collection of row houses, leaning against one another like sailors after a night of ale. Mr. Seaton had barely assisted her and Esther down before a mob of children burst out the doors, one after the other, like a tumbling chain of dominoes falling all over themselves. Eventually they huddled around Esther.
Helen peeked up at Mr. Seaton. “What’s this about?”
He grinned. “Not a day goes by Esther doesn’t come to tell Bible stories to the children. As you can see, they love her for it.”
She looked from one Seaton to the other. In all the fine homes she’d served, all the gentlefolk she’d encountered, none compared to the heart she’d witnessed in these two.
Behind them, horse hooves thundered. Esther ushered the children forward, while Helen and Mr. Seaton turned toward the sound.
The rider reined his mount to a stop in front of them. “Mr. Seaton, sir.” The man tugged the brim of his hat in respect. “I’m looking for a Miss Fletcher. I was told you’d know her whereabouts.”
Mr. Seaton looked from the rider to her. “You have found her.”
“This be for you, miss.” Bending, the man handed over a folded slip of paper.
Her heart thumped hard as she opened the note.
Pretend it is good news.
But as she scanned the words, her world tipped sideways.
Isaac studied Miss Fletcher’s face as her gaze dropped to the note. The more she read, the more her lips flattened, until eventually her whole countenance deflated. He stood at the ready should she hit the ground.
“What is it?” he asked.
“My father.” Big brown eyes peered into his. “He’s taken a turn for the worse.”
“Then we must leave. Now.”
After a word with Esther to explain their haste, he left his sister in care of the children and retrieved Duchess. Miss Fletcher allowed him to lift her, and he waited a moment for her to straighten her skirts as she sat sidesaddle. He swung up behind her, feeling like a beast stationed behind such a small woman.
“What of your sister?” she asked.
“She’ll return shortly.” He jabbed his heels, and Duchess took off, though he held her to a canter. The set of the woman’s shoulders in front of him, the quietness of her small frame caused an ache in his belly. Would that he could protect her from the inevitable end of her father.
“Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Seaton.”
He’d been thanked before, and often, but coming from this lady, the gratitude sank low, filling him like the pleasantness of a fine meal. He leaned closer, breathing in her sweet scent, then immediately drew back. What the deuce was he thinking? The woman rode toward a father who might be dying and here he was, playing the lovesick schoolboy.
He cleared his throat. “Tell me, what did you think of the people you met today?”
She turned toward him, a small smile curving her lips. “I understand your affection for them—and theirs for you.”
“Really? A miscreant such as myself?”
“Well …” Her smile spread. “I suppose I was a bit harsh in my first assessment.”
“So, you’ve grown to appreciate my charms, hmm?”
Her grin twisted into a smirk. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
The road forked, and he urged Duchess eastward, onto Seaton lands, though he needn’t have. The mare could travel this route with a hood on her head.
Miss Fletcher faced him once again, yet she said nothing. What went on behind those brown eyes?
“Go on,” he encouraged. “I see by the quirk of your brow you have more to say.”
“I am wondering … what did you mean when you said you had me to thank for your decision to stop smuggling?”
“Just that. You voiced aloud concerns I’ve often thought. If one cannot trust in God’s provision, then perhaps one has no business professing a faith at all.”
“Then why did you not stop sooner?”
Her question struck harder than a well-aimed right hook. How did one explain the loss a man feels when income, inheritance, even justice were ripped from his grasp? “It’s … complicated.”
“I suppose you have a point, somewhat. Stealing is wrong—but so are the miserable lives of your tenants. Why is it that good things do not always happen to good people?”
“You have no idea how often I’ve wrestled with that very question.”
She angled her head, like a sparrow considering a worm to be devoured. “And the outcome?”
“My only conclusion is that we are not in control, and we never were.” He reined Duchess to a halt in front of the parsonage and leapt down, then reached up to aid Miss Fletcher.
“I don’t know whether to thank or condemn you for such frank conversation.” Her breath warmed his cheek as he lowered her to the ground.
“Neither. The gratitude is all mine.”
For a moment their gazes locked, and the space between them rippled, like the charge in the air just before lightning struck earth. Was he addled—or did she feel it too?
Without a word, she pulled from his hands and dashed into the cottage.
He hesitated long after she disappeared. For the first time in a long time, he dared hope that God not only would answer his prayers—but in fact, already had.
Chapter Five
The loamy scent of earth washed fresh by rain would make a fine cologne. Helen breathed deeply as she tread the road into town, pondering such a fragrance. She’d label it hope and purchase a bottle to keep in her pocket. The past several days at her father’s bedside had drained her reserves.
Rounding a bend, she stepped to the side of the thoroughfare, happy to see Esther’s pony cart drawing near—and happier still to see her new friend smiling back at her.
“Good afternoon, Helen.” Esther halted her horse. “What an exotic sight you are, my dear. Your blue skirts are so vibrant against a backdrop of dampened wildwood. You are a picture.”
Helen laughed. “Someone’s been reading novels, hmm?”
“I wish it, but no time.” Her smile faded. “Is your father faring any better since his attack?”
For three days now, her father had mumbled nothing but gibberish—but at least he still breathed. She straightened her shoulders. Pretend that you are strong. “As of yet, he’s unable to move the left side of his body, but with effort, he manages to smile, albeit crookedly. I thank you for the care you and your brother have provided—oh, and especially for Gwen. I hope by lending her to us, you are not short staffed at the hall.”
“It’s the least we can do. Isaac and I are both truly sorry. Your father is a fine man.” Leftover drops from the earlier rain dripped like tears from the canopy of trees, adding a gloomy encore to Esther’s lament.
Helen forced lightness into her tone. “I trust he will recover with sufficient rest. Even now, I am on my way to the apothecary for a sleeping draught.”
“I could use the opposite.” Esther glanced at the bundles heaped atop the seat next to her and at her feet.
Helen peered at the piles of fabric. “What is all this?”
“A boon and a load of work. Old Mrs. Turner headed up a charity drive for the poor of the parish.”
“What has that to do with you?”
Esther sighed, the force of which distracted her pony—who stamped a hoof, eager to be off. “I offered to mend and reissue any garments she collected. I had no idea she’d meet with such success. With this much sewing, I’m afraid I’ll have to cut short my story time with the children.” For a moment, a shadow darkened her lovely face, like the flash of a spring st
orm, then surprisingly cleared away. “But on the bright side, it’s a ready excuse should Mr. Farris come to call. Which he does. Far too much for my liking.”
If nothing else, the man was persistent, for Helen had seen his mount passing by her own cottage several times on his way to Seaton Hall. Thankfully, he’d been too focused on Esther to pay her any mind.
“I have plenty of time to sew while sitting with my father. If you wouldn’t mind stopping by the cottage, you may drop off some of your load.” Helen stepped closer and smiled. “Not so much as to take away your excuse, though.”
“You are a dear—and so I’ve told my brother on many occasions.”
Her cheeks heated. But such warmth ought be blamed on the ray of sun breaking through the branches, not on the mention of Esther’s brother.
Esther’s brow rose, her brown eyes twinkling almost golden. “Good day, Helen. Godspeed.”
“Good day.” Grasping her skirts to keep clear of mud, she whirled about and hastened her step. Though Gwen sat with her father, it wouldn’t do to dawdle.
The road to Treporth truly was a lovely walk, from flatlands higher inland down to the more wooded stretch just before town. Despite the chore of keeping her hem from the dirty road, she relished the break from sitting indoors.
Closer to town, pounding hooves rumbled, and a horse appeared, the rider dressed in the official coat of a revenue officer. Once again, Helen stepped to the side of the thoroughfare.
Mr. Farris reined in his horse and tipped his hat. “Miss Fletcher. Delighted.”
“Mr. Farris.” She dipped a bow. “On the hunt for more smugglers?”
“Actually, I’m on my way to see Miss Seaton.”
Helen stifled a frown. If he caught up to Esther on the road, her friend would have a hard time avoiding the man. “I am afraid you will not find her at home.”
“Oh?” His lips folded into a pout. “Do you know when she will return?”
“I do not. She is a very busy young lady. Good day, sir.” She strode away before he could needle her with further questions. It would be wrong to lie—but just as devious to reveal Esther’s whereabouts.
Ladies of Intrigue Page 3