by Kruger, Mary
“Now, then, Miss Carrick,” Castlereagh began, sitting behind his desk. “I understand you have some information that may help us?”
“I’m not sure about that, sir, but I’ll try to answer any questions you have,” she said, her hands folded primly in her lap.
“Very good. Tell me about your home, then.”
“Certainly. I lived in Tarrytown for the first years of my life. That’s in New York state,” she began, and as she told him of her life there, it began to unfold before her. She saw again the tidy Dutch farmhouse where she had been born, and Grootmoeder and Grootvader and their neatly plowed acres. Again she saw her mother’s face, with a clarity she hadn’t experienced in years. She felt again the desolation of losing her mother and the joy of finding her father, and she saw, again, Sparta. It rose up before her in her mind: Papa’s shop, dark, dusty, and yet welcoming; the small cottages perched precariously on the steep hillside; and the magnificent North River, rolling serenely by, with the northern end of the Palisades beyond. Then she blinked, and it was gone.
Castlereagh had taken few notes while she had spoken, and now he smiled at her encouragingly. “It is a rural area, then? Most of the people farm?”
Sabrina hesitated, and then nodded. “Yes. There are still some of the old manors nearby, but, yes, most people work their own farms. English and Dutch, for the most part.”
“Indians?”
“Not recently, sir, no.” She glanced over at Oliver, who was leaning forward, his hands clasped between his knees and his expression intent. “Our area has been settled for quite some time.”
“I see.” That, he did note, which puzzled her a bit. “I understand you used to hear discussions concerning politics.”
“Yes. I worked in my father’s shop, and we were always the first to receive any newspapers. The village men used to gather there and talk about the news.”
“I see. How did they feel about the possibility of war?”
“I think, sir, that most of them felt that if we go to war, it should be against the French.”
“Really.” Castlereagh leaned back in his chair, looking at Oliver. “I was under the impression most Americans favored the French.”
“Oh, no, sir. But we’ve no love for the British, either.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“We are a sovereign nation, sir, and yet repeatedly your country has refused to recognize that fact!”
“Sabrina,” Oliver said, warningly, and Castlereagh held up his hand.
“No, Bainbridge, let her speak. You would fight then, if it came to that?”
“Yes, sir. We don’t seek the quarrel, but if it’s forced on us, we will fight.”
“It is a matter of opinion who is forcing the quarrel, Miss Carrick,” he said, his long fingers toying with his pen.
“Is it?” She regarded him steadily, no longer in awe of him. “There was a boy in my village named Billy Thatcher. He came from a farming family but he always wanted to go to sea. One day he ran away and took ship on a merchant vessel. That vessel was eventually boarded by your navy, sir, and they impressed several men, including Billy. It didn’t matter that he was American, they took him anyway. His parents didn’t hear of him for years, and when they did, it was to learn that he was dead. He died in the service of a navy not even his own. He was seventeen.” They stared at her. “And that, sir, is why we will fight.”
Castlereagh and Oliver stared at each other for a long moment, and then Castlereagh sat back, letting out his breath. “Impressment will have to be stopped, sir,” Oliver said quietly.
Castlereagh nodded. “Yes, I begin to agree with you. Thank you, Miss Carrick,” he said abruptly, rising, and Sabrina rose also, recognizing her dismissal. “You have been most helpful.”
Sabrina made him a curtsy. “Good day, sir,” she said, and taking Oliver’s arm, walked out.
“And how much of that was true?” he asked, as they walked along the corridors.
Sabrina looked up at him in surprise. “Why, all of it, sir. You didn’t think I’d lie to him, did you?”
“Good morning, Guthrie,” Oliver said in answer to a man who had passed them, before turning back to her. “No, but I have my doubts about that last tale you told.”
“Who was that, sir?” she asked, turning around and looking at the man, who had stopped but who went on his way when he realized she was watching him.
“What? Oh, Guthrie. Lord Woodley’s aide.”
“Oh.” She turned back, wondering why Guthrie had stared at her so intently. “I told only the truth, sir.”
“Even about the boy from your village?”
“Billy? Of course.” Billy Thatcher had been kind to her, unlike most of the young people, who had tended to shun her. “He used to talk about the places he’d go and the sights he’d see. I hope he did have a chance to see some of them.”
“You sound as if you knew him well.”
“Oh, yes, I did, before he ran off.” They had come out into a blustery day, cool for this late in spring, and Oliver handed her up into his curricle. “He was my friend. And the first boy I ever loved.”
He looked at her sharply as he jumped in beside her and took up the ribbons. “Excuse me?” he said, his tone frosty, and she burst into laughter.
“Oh, Oliver, he’s not a rival, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”
“I’m not—”
“Besides, I was only twelve at the time. So you see, you’ve nothing to worry about.”
“I’m not worried,” he muttered, and sat hunched over the ribbons for a time, while Sabrina regarded him, her eyes brimming with mirth. He was jealous, the dear man! There was hope for her yet.
“I had no idea your life was like that,” Oliver said, when they had been riding in silence for some time.
Sabrina looked up at him. “Like what, sir?”
“Like—” He waved a hand as he tried to find the right word. “Hard,” he finally said.
“But it wasn’t so bad. Oh, of course it doesn’t compare to this, but I was never in want.”
“Mm. But knowing what I do of your father, I suspect he led you a merry dance.”
“Oh, he did, sir.” Her smile was wry. “I think the last thing in the world he wanted to be was a shopkeeper, but he didn’t mind when I started running the shop.”
“He could have come home.”
“Could he, sir? Would my grandfather have forgiven him?”
Oliver hesitated, and then shook his head. “No. But Grandmama would have been glad to see him.”
“And he would have gone to perdition faster.”
“Perhaps.” He paused. “He didn’t want to take up farming, I gather? You spoke as if he lived in a different town from you and your mother.”
Oh, dear, had it been that obvious? She’d tried to gloss that aspect of her life over, but apparently she hadn’t succeeded. “Yes, sir. Would it upset you if I told you they were estranged for years before my mother died?”
“No, Sabrina,” he said, after a moment. He had hoped she would take this opportunity to confide in him, and it was disappointing that she hadn’t. “It’s been known to happen.”
“Yes,” she said, breathing a bit easier.
“I expect your father wasn’t easy to live with.”
“Oh, he had his moments.”
“Did he?” He glanced at her quickly and saw that her eyes were shining with mischief.
“Yes. He taught me how to play cards.”
“Planning to turn to gambling, are you, Sabrina?” he said, pulling the curricle up in Mount Street
“No, I didn’t inherit the gambling fever from him. But I’m quite good.”
“We shall see about that, infant.” He escorted her inside, and into the morning room. “We should get a game up some evening, you, Grandmama, and I.”
“Grandmama?”
“Yes. Who do you think taught your father how to play?”
“Grandmama did?”
“Y
es. You surely didn’t think it was Uncle Everett, did you?”
“No!” Mirth bubbled up inside her. “No, that is the one thing I didn’t think. Sir,” she said, suddenly going serious, and Oliver, who had picked up his walking stick preparatory to leaving, turned to her. “Grandmama is looking better, don’t you think?”
“Yes, Sabrina.” He sat beside her on the sofa, and his voice was gentle. “But she’s old, infant. I think we’d best face that fact.”
Sabrina looked away, blinking furiously. “And she still believes we are really betrothed.”
“Aren’t we?” Oliver said, sounding surprised.
She whipped around to face him, equally surprised. “But, sir, we said—”
“Yes, I know. We said we’d give it time.”
“And?” Her voice was breathless.
He took her hand in his. “Do you feel we’ve had enough time?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, and now her voice was bitter, as she pulled her hand away. “I see what you’re saying. Time enough to break off the engagement without causing a scandal, that was what we agreed to. But, Grandmama has yet to release us. She’s the one you’ll have to convince.”
“You misunderstand me, Sabrina.” He grasped her hand again, and, this time she did not try to get free. “I’m not talking about ending the engagement.”
“No?” A hope she hardly dared to acknowledge rose within her.
“No. You once said we might find that we suit. Do you think we would?”
“I don’t know. Do you?”
“Oh, I think we might rub along together tolerably well. Sabrina.” He grasped her other hand. “Will you be my duchess?”
His duchess, not his wife, but it would do. “Yes, Oliver,” she said, softly, filled with a joy so intense it dizzied her. She could not look away from him, try though she might, and his eyes were locked with hers, serious, intent, yet glowing with a warmth that she had never seen there before. The warmth spread through her, and as his head bent she raised hers, her lips slightly parted, her eyes almost closed. It was almost as it had been in the book-room, the night she had made her bow at Almack’s, except that this time, she was not going to panic. Oh, Oliver, she thought, and at that moment, Melanie walked in.
“Oh!” She stopped for a moment, and then came in. Oliver straightened, clearing his throat. “I did not know you were home, Rina,” she went on, “but I’m glad you are. I need to go shopping for ribbon to match the gown I’m to wear tonight and Mama has the headache. Will you go with me?”
“What?” Sabrina finally tore her eyes away from Oliver and looked at her, dazed.
“Will you come shopping with me?”
“I—I suppose so.” She looked back up at Oliver as he rose. “Do you dine at home tonight, sir?” she asked, shyly, rising also and standing before him.
A smile played across his lips. “Yes, tonight I do,” he said, investing the words with more significance than they usually warranted. “We will—talk—more tonight.”
“Yes.” Her voice was breathless. “Tonight.”
He smiled at her and then walked out, tipping his curly-brimmed beaver hat at a jaunty angle. Sabrina watched him, her heart somewhere in the region of her throat. Her dearest wish was coming true. They were to be married, after all, and it seemed he wasn’t quite indifferent to her.
“...and so I shall just tell Mama we are going, unless you wish to change. Rina? Are you listening to me?” Melanie demanded.
“Hm?” Sabrina looked at her, dazed, and then came back to earth. “What? Oh, no, Melly, I’ll just go like this.”
“I should hope so, I always have liked that gown. What was Bainbridge talking about so seriously?”
Sabrina smiled, slowly. “Oh, nothing in particular. Shall we go?”
“Yes, yes, just let me speak to Mama and I shall be right down.”
“Fine.” Sabrina watched her go without seeing her. She was to be married to the man she loved. No matter the problems she faced. Just now, it seemed as if she could surmount any obstacle.
It was during his usual morning visit the next day that Reginald learned that a date had finally been set for the wedding of the Duke of Bainbridge to Miss Sabrina Carrick.
“Isn’t it wonderful, Reggie?” Fanny trilled. “A June wedding! Oh, my, Sabrina will be a June bride. If only Melanie would set the date with Bevin, I would be so happy!”
“Yes.” Reginald looked from his mother to Gwendolyn. “They have finally set a date?”
Gwendolyn smiled. This morning’s visits had amused her. She had noted that Sabrina’s admirers, while still numerous, were somewhat less ardent than they had been, since the date had been announced in this morning’s Gazette. One of the young men had even gone pale and excused himself early when Oliver had briefly stopped in to smile at his intended bride. “Yes, finally. It will be at St. George’s, of course. She will be a lovely bride, but then, she is a lovely girl. And, we will begin planning a come-out ball for her and Melanie, even though they’re both already out, of course. It should be the success of the season.”
“I am sure, ma’am, but—”
“And Fanny is right.” She reached over and tapped his hand. “‘Tis high time Melanie and Bevin set a date.”
“I agree, ma’am,” he said, through gritted teeth. “So. That is that.”
Gwendolyn looked at him for a moment. “Fanny, I wish to do my embroidery. Fetch it for me, please.”
“Of course, Auntie,” Fanny, said, jumping up and leaving the room, in spite of the number of servants who could easily run the errand.
“What is this, then, Reginald?” Gwendolyn said when they were alone. “Have you a tendre for Sabrina?”
“And if I have?”
Gwendolyn let out a bark of laughter. “You forget, boy. I know you, and the only person you’re capable of loving is yourself.”
“Nevertheless, ma’am, I do care for her, and I believe she cares for me, too.”
“No, Reginald. She loves Oliver.” She laid her hand on his arm, and he stared at it. “You’ll find someone else. And there will be compensations.”
“I hope so, ma’am.” He was unsmiling as he rose and bowed, first to her, and then to his mother, who had just come in. “I do hope so.”
Gwendolyn watched him leave, her brow puckered. That had sounded oddly like a threat, but why he should say such a thing was beyond her. Spoiled and selfish, she thought, and sighed. He could have turned out so much better. “No, no, Fanny, I don’t want that,” she said, waving away the embroidery frame Fanny timidly proffered her.
“But, Auntie, you said—”
“I know what I said. I changed my mind.” Fanny looked so woebegone that she softened her voice. “Never mind, Fanny, and thank you, anyway.”
Reginald strode away from Bainbridge House, his face dark with anger and his mind seething. By the time he reached his lodgings some of his temper had cooled, and his brain was beginning to work, calmly and coldly. So, he was not to be allowed to court Sabrina anymore? It was not the disaster it could have been; there were still ways to achieve his goal. Of course, he would still see her in society. The problem was going to be seeing her alone, to press his suit. He thought, though, that he had a solution to his problem. After all, he had an ally.
Reginald sat at his desk and pulled a piece of paper toward him. “My dear Lady Marshfield,” he wrote.
Sabrina watched from the window of her room that afternoon as Oliver jumped up into his curricle, took up the ribbons, and drove away. When he had gone out of sight she jumped up, took a nail file from her dressing table and put it in her pocket, and quietly flew down the stairs. It was almost routine to her, now, slipping first into the book-room and then into Oliver’s study. The nail file worked admirably on the locked desk drawer, and Sabrina quickly drew out the paper she found inside, without stopping to study the contents. Tucking it into her book, she went back up to her room, her step light.
Some moments later, Oliver drew up in
front of the house again. “Hold ‘em,” he called to the groom who came to take the horses’ heads. “I shouldn’t be long, but walk them if I take above ten minutes.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the groom said, as Oliver bounded up the stairs to the house. He had spent most of yesterday, and this morning, devising an exquisite document, designed to entice the most careful of spies into the trap he and Woodley planned to set. It listed, in careful detail, a number of places where America might be invaded in time of war, and was so complete in its description that anyone could be pardoned for believing in the authenticity of it. There was just one problem. It was a complete and utter fraud.
Oliver strode into his study and crossed to his desk. He had been so preoccupied when he left the house that he had forgotten to bring the document with him. Can’t have a trap without bait, he thought, sitting behind the desk and reaching into an inner pocket for his keys. He was about to fit the proper key into the lock when something about the appearance of the drawer stopped him. Reaching out, he tugged gently at the handle, and, to his astonishment, the drawer opened.
For a moment, he stared at it, not wanting to believe the conclusion his mind had reached, and then, reluctantly, pulled the drawer open all the way. He looked inside, and his worst fears were confirmed. The document was gone.
Chapter 22
“Damn!” Oliver exploded, jumping up and pacing the room. Damn, damn, damn, the trap had been sprung, and he hadn’t even realized it had been set. He could make only one conclusion. The spy was in his household.
Oliver let out a few more choice oaths, and went back behind his desk, sinking into his chair and raking his fingers through his hair. No good looking through the desk for the paper; he knew where he had put it, and he remembered, quite distinctly, locking the drawer. No, the paper was gone, taken by someone who had access to the study and who had taken advantage of his absence. He should have put the paper in his safe, of course, but he had not expected this. Thank God the document was false, which was something the spy did not know.
And who had access to this room? Not his family. Though they could of course enter, he was certain none of them would do such a thing. That left only the servants. They came in to clean, to open curtains and light fires, to serve his needs on his request when he was working in here. The servants, those necessary, but almost invisible, people who populated the house. It had to be one of them. The question was, who?