“I say no. You and the boys will not plunder this shipment. It’s too dangerous with that revenue man sniffing about.”
“Danger don’t mean nothin’ when I’ve a wife and five littles at home. We be fine now, but winter comes the same time every year. I won’t be list’nin’ to their cryin’, not when I’ve a chance to set something by.”
Reaching out, Isaac rested a hand on the man’s shoulder, the bone of which cut into his heart. “I understand, Billy. Truly. Just be patient. I’m near to striking a deal that will benefit us all—for years to come.”
“I’m glad for it. I am. But the thought o’ Grimlox and his lot gettin’ the whole load …” He shook his head. “Don’t seem right.”
“I’m coming to believe neither was it right for us to engage in the same dubious activities as Grimlox in the first place.” He let go of the fellow. “We must put our trust in God alone, not in our own feeble attempts to enact justice. Let them have it, Hawker. All of it.”
For a moment, the man stood there, his grey eyes agleam with a strange light. Then slowly it faded to a hollowness seen usually in the gazes of fisherfolk after a bad pilchard season. Hawker sniffed, and after a last swipe of his nose, stalked away.
Yanking out a handkerchief, Isaac pressed the cloth against his knuckles. Would Billy Hawker do as he said? Lord knew. And Isaac wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t. Only a month ago, he’d have done the same.
Balling up the cloth, he shoved it back into his pocket. Funny how a small governess could change his whole world.
Chapter Eight
Three sleepless nights. Three never-ending days. Helen lived and died in jerky starts and stops, and it seemed Father did too. He rarely opened his eyes anymore, let alone consumed any food or drink. On the chair next to his bedside, she planted her elbows on her thighs and her chin in her hands. Fatigue barged in like an unwelcome guest, and this time, she opened the door. Closing her eyes, she matched her prayers to Father’s breaths, which wheezed in then slowly bled away.
Oh God, please. Heal this man. The world needs him. I need him. You can do this, for nothing is too hard for You.
“Helen.”
She tensed. Her name was little more than a sigh in the afternoon quiet. Or was it a vain imagining? Not that she didn’t believe God could answer in an audible voice, but here? Now?
Yes, Lord. I am listening.
“Helen.”
Her eyelids flew open, and she lurched upright. “Father?”
Cloudy brown eyes stared at her—or did they? Father gazed as if he looked right through her. She shivered, recalling Saint Stephen peering into heaven itself, moments before he died.
She shifted from her chair to his bed, reaching out to press her palm against his cheek. Cool skin met her touch, parchment thin and far too fragile. “You’re awake. I am glad of it.”
His lips worked, the left side lagging behind the right, but nevertheless working. “Let,” he said.
Let? What on earth did he need her permission for? She bent, leaning close. “Let what?”
His face moved almost imperceptibly beneath her hand, but this time his voice was a sail catching wind, stronger and with more force. “Letter.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “Oh, a letter. You want to write a letter?”
“Nay, already written. For you.”
Her throat tightened. “You’ve written a letter to me?”
“No. God did.” His gaze strayed to his Bible on the bed stand. “His Word is a letter to you.”
Reaching for it, she retrieved the book, running her hand over the cracked leather cover. How many messages had he prepared from this text? How many words of wisdom gleaned? She shook her head. “Oh Father, I cannot take this. You are getting better. You shall need it.”
“It is yours now.” His withered hand crept atop the counterpane, inching toward her own. “This isn’t …” His fingers met hers, resting like the last leaf of autumn fallen to the ground. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he sucked in a breath. “This isn’t the day I would have chosen to die, but it is not of my choosing.”
She shook her head, over and over, as if the movement could prevent his words from reaching her ears. Hugging the Bible to her chest, she drew what strength she could from the feel of it then laid it back where it belonged. “This is the most you’ve spoken in a fortnight. You are on the mend.”
“I love you, child.”
“Oh Father … I love you too.” She pressed her lips shut, lest sorrow suddenly break loose.
“Now.” She stood. “How about some broth? Gwen made a pot of stock before she left at noontide. She even made biscuits to hold us over until her return on the morrow. Would you like some?”
The clouds billowed back over his gaze, thick and milky. Nevertheless, he nodded, and while only once, the movement was sure and strong.
She darted out to the main room. A bit of broth and watered ale, both would surely feed this sudden strength he’d shown. She dipped some soup into a bowl, letting it cool as she gathered a mug—but then a rap on the door pulled her from filling it.
Isaac’s broad shoulders crowded the doorframe, his presence a brilliant light in the grey afternoon. He doffed his hat, and his dark hair glistened at the edges where mist had snuck beneath. “Good day, Miss Fletcher.”
“Good day, Mr. Seaton.” She swept out her hand. “Will you come in?”
“No, I was merely on my way home and thought I’d check on your father.” His gaze held her in place. “And on you.”
Despite the chill moisture seeping in the open door, warmth spread from her tummy to her chest. “My father seems to be rallying. I think he is finally and truly on the mend.”
“I hope it, for his sake and yours.” He cocked his head, his eyes narrowing as he searched her face. He reached, slowly, as if she might skitter away, and his thumb traced the curve beneath her eyes. “You look weary. How are you faring?”
She bit her lip. Besides her father, was there ever a more thoughtful soul?
“Bearing up,” she murmured.
“You’re a brave one.” His hand dropped, and he grinned. “You know, I think you’d make a fine smuggler.”
“An offer I heartily refuse, sir … Oh, but that does remind me, has Mr. Farris caught up with you yet?”
“No.” His smile faded. “Why?”
She tensed. Would it be spreading gossip, since clearly the man hadn’t tried very hard to find Isaac? “Well, perhaps Mr. Farris has changed his mind, but he did mention to me and Esther that there’s some shipment coming in he intends to use as a lure for smugglers.”
Isaac grunted. “What has that to do with me?”
“Nothing—I hope?” Holding her breath, she studied his eyes, first one then the other, fearing yet needing to read the truth.
His gaze bored into hers, steady and sure. “I give you my word, I am well and truly finished with such a trade.”
She blew out her relief. “I am glad of it.”
“Yet …” His voice lowered to a gentle command. “There is something I should like your word on as well.”
It took everything within her not to gape. What could he possibly want from her? “Such as?”
“While your independent spirit does you credit, when the time comes for your father to …” Sorrow creased his brow. That he cared so deeply was a testament to the compassion of this man.
He stepped closer. “I would not see you grieving alone. Know that I am always available for you, no matter the time of day. Promise that you will lean on me for support.”
Her pulse quickened. Surely he meant that not in a literal sense, yet she couldn’t help but remember when he’d held her the week before, so strong, so compassionate. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “You are very kind.”
“I am glad your opinion of me has altered since we first met.”
“And I am glad your occupation has changed.”
“Touché, Miss Fletcher.” He donned his hat, his rogue g
rin returning. “Good day to you.”
“Good day.” She watched him stride away then slowly pressed the door shut behind him. How wicked was it to wish her father well, yet not so well that she would have to leave Seaton lands? With a sigh, she filled her father’s mug, collected the broth bowl, and returned to his chamber.
As soon as she crossed the threshold, she stopped. The bowl hit the floorboards, soup splattering against her hem. The cup cracked like a broken bone. Father stared at her wide-eyed.
And dead.
Isaac hunched his shoulders against the unrelenting mist, clicking his tongue to urge Duchess onward. The coming evening would not be kind to man or beast caught unawares. Thankfully he’d be pulling off his boots in front of a warm hearth and drinking a glass of Madeira by the time a thick fog rolled in with the tide. Leaning forward, he patted his mount’s neck. “And you’ll be glad of a warm stall, eh girl?”
Despite the threat of poor weather, he whistled an old folk tune as he rode from the parsonage to Seaton Hall. Life hadn’t been this good since Father’s death. His shoulder bag bounced against his back, containing the signed contract for a new mine. The sweet smile of Helen lingered in his thoughts. Life was very good.
He turned onto the gravel road leading to home. Ahead, just in front of the manor, a blur of red poked a hole in the grey afternoon. His blood ran cold.
Redcoats. Four of them. Mounted and at the ready.
Oh God. Was this it? Had his past sins come to haunt in a way that would choke the breath from him at the end of a noose? What would happen to Esther? What of Helen?
The four men said nothing as he rode by, their stoic faces impossible to read—even when he tipped his hat to them. But they let him pass without hindrance, so surely that meant something. It had to mean something.
God, please.
He dismounted in front of the stairs, fully aware of the men at his back, just as a scarlet-faced Mr. Farris erupted out the manor’s door, hat in hand.
Farris took the steps two at a time. “About time you show your face, Seaton!”
Isaac grabbed onto Duchess’s headstall, calming the animal from the revenue man’s advance. “Were you looking for me, Mr. Farris?”
Farris spit out a curse. “I’ve been looking for you these past three days, sir!”
“And so you’ve found me. But surely I am not the cause for your friends here”—he hitched his thumb over his shoulder—“or for your hasty departure from Seaton Hall.”
“No. I have your sister to thank for that.”
He frowned. What was he to make of that? Men generally ran toward Esther, not away from her.
“My sister?” he asked.
Ruddy splotches bloomed on Farris’s face. “I suggest you spend more time at home, Mr. Seaton, schooling her in the proper arts of decorum and etiquette. I’ve never been so insulted.”
“What’s she done?”
“She cast me out, sir!” Tiny flecks of spittle flew from the man’s mouth. “A finer catch she couldn’t have found, nor will she. Her loss, though, not to mention yours.”
An enraged child couldn’t have looked more petulant. Tempted to laugh at the man, Isaac settled for clearing his throat instead. “I’m sorry, but did you say you were looking for me, not my sister?”
“Indeed.” Farris yanked on his hat, his heaving chest slowly coming to rest. “I need your assistance in navigating the coastline hereabouts. You’d know it better than any since it’s your land.”
“What are you looking …”
Beyond Farris, a dark shape peeked out from around the corner of the manor, then immediately jerked back. Had Isaac not recognized that thin collection of bones, he’d have tallied it up to imagination. Blast it! Why would Billy Hawker show up here? Now? The redcoats at Isaac’s back would need no encouragement to string Hawker up if they caught sight of him.
Farris narrowed his eyes at Isaac’s sudden silence.
Immediately Isaac forced a cough, pulling out his handkerchief for extra measure. “Sorry. Been fighting a raw throat the better part of the day. Now then, what is it exactly that you’re looking for?”
“You’d know if you weren’t so deuced hard to track down.” Farris stomped over to where his horse was tethered to a post, mercifully opposite where Hawker hid. “There was a ship to arrive this morn, yet it’s now nearing dark. I suspect it was waylaid by smugglers last night, or worse, wreckers. I need you to mount up and help us find them.” Farris swung into his saddle.
Isaac planted his feet. “Smugglers there may be, but you’ll find no wreckers in Treporth. The people here are not that kind of folk.”
“So …” Farris’s eyelids tightened to slits. “You admit to smugglers, eh?”
Isaac shook his head. “I admit to nothing.”
“Then mount your horse and let’s be off.”
“In this weather?” He threw out his hands. “It’s a fool’s errand. That ship is likely hunkered down in Galwyn Bay, not sailing through in a fog sure to come.”
“Are you refusing to do your duty, Mr. Seaton?” The man’s voice was a growl. One of the redcoat’s horses stamped the gravel. Both indicted in a way that augured violence.
“Consider the possibilities.” Isaac spread his words out slow, like a soothing balm. “If you make any headway, you won’t get very far before you’ll have to turn back. The tide rises in a few hours, and along with it a fog so thick, you’ll be hard-pressed to find your way home.”
“Then we’ll move from shore to higher ground—as the smugglers must.” Farris flipped aside the hem of his coat, revealing the handle of a pistol tucked into his belt. “Now, mount up.”
A sigh emptied the last of his fight. There’d be no reasoning with this madman. “Very well, but my horse is done for. I’ve ridden her hard to Truro and back. Be on your way while I see to her and gear up a fresh mount.”
Mist gathered like a shroud on Farris’s shoulders, nature proclaiming this fool was on a death ride. Nevertheless, the man lifted his arrogant nose. “Do I have your word, sir?”
He’d have to give it or Farris would never leave. “You do,” he said simply.
The pack of men heeled their horses about and rode down the road. Isaac waited until the last hint of red blended into grey.
Leaving Duchess where she stood, he took off at a sprint and rounded the corner of the manor. “Hawker! What the devil are you doing here?”
A sack of dark clothing rose from the shrubbery like a ghoul. Dark eyes drilled into his. “There’s been a rockslide. Tegwyn and Rook are trapped.”
“Blast!” Though the redcoats were long gone, he lowered his tone. “Where?”
“Blackpool Cove.”
“The cove?” Growling, he yanked off his hat and slapped it against his thigh. It was either that or pummel the man in front of him. “You boarded that ship and pulled off goods, did you not?”
Hawker’s thin shoulders shrugged. “She were fair picked over by the time we reached her.”
“No doubt by Grimlox and his gang.” He blew out a breath, long and low, and crammed his hat back atop his head. “You’ll be the ones to hang if Farris finds you with the goods—and you know that’s where he’s headed.”
Fear darkened the man’s face like a thundercloud. “Then we must hurry.”
Isaac’s gut clenched. This was wrong. A trap. Certain death.
But did he even have a choice?
Chapter Nine
Death was no stranger to Helen Fletcher. As a young girl, she’d held hands with the black specter while weeping at her mother’s bedside. But here in a Cornwall parsonage as she knelt beside her father, tears spent, grief already unpacked and settled into the cavern of her heart, she knew instinctively this was different. She was alone in the world now. An unmoored ghost. Deserted. The fear she’d tried to ignore all her life suddenly rushed at her, stealing the breath from her lungs. Pretending wouldn’t work this time.
And never would again.
She
closed her eyes. Oh God, how am I to bear this?
Prickles tingled in her feet from her cramped position, heaping pain upon pain. It was all too much. She rose and fled from her father’s chamber. Wild to be among the living, she grabbed her spencer and buttoned it haphazardly, then tied on her bonnet. Shoving her hands into her gloves, she escaped out the door into a world seeping with tears.
The mist followed her to the shed where Jenny stood, and though it took her several tries, she managed to saddle the horse. She dragged over an upturned bucket and mounted. Hopefully Isaac had meant his offer of support.
She straightened her skirts then urged the horse out into the monochrome afternoon. Fitting, really, that colour should die the same day as her father. She gave Jenny free rein, prepared for speed and heedless of the danger should she fall. So be it.
Fine rain needled her cheeks. The world smeared by. In no time, she rounded the bend to Seaton Hall—only to see a black horse taking off across a nearby field, heading toward the woods. Slowing, she squinted in the fuzzy light. The horse was definitely not Duchess, but the man astride? Wide shoulders. As animal as his mount. A silhouette of strength. It had to be Isaac.
She frowned. As the gap widened between her and the master of Seaton Hall, panic welled until something inside her broke. Something only he could fix. She needed his arms around her more than anything.
“Isaac!” she shouted, as stunned by the passion in her voice as by the use of his Christian name.
But he was too far ahead to hear. And once he entered the copse, she’d lose sight of him as well. Should she let him go? Turn back and seek some measure of comfort from Esther’s company? She glanced over her shoulder at the manor as she rode. Small comfort was not the same as leaning on someone, and she’d promised to lean on Isaac.
With a crack of the crop, she plunged after him. The field was easy enough to cross, but once she entered the trees, she was forced to slow. She had to settle for simply keeping him in sight, and even that was a stretch, for he rode with far more experience. By the time she navigated to the end of the woods, her skirt hem was ripped, her bonnet dangled by the ribbons at her neck, and Isaac had already crossed the grassy ridge leading to the coastal cliffs.
Ladies of Intrigue Page 6