Sabrina

by Kruger, Mary

  “None.” Oliver turned to Sabrina. “Shall we go?”

  “Yes, oh please, Oliver, let’s leave here,” she said, and Oliver reached toward her, alarmed by the hysteria he heard underlying her words.

  “Oh, and Bainbridge,” Reginald said. Oliver studied Sabrina for a moment longer and then turned. “Be so good as to pour me a brandy. I have need of it.”

  Eyebrows raised, Oliver crossed the room to a table where a crystal decanter, cloudy from long use and little washing, held a small amount of liquid. Pouring a measure into an equally cloudy glass, he brought the drink over. Reginald raised it in a mock salute to Oliver before draining it, a touch of gallantry that made Oliver study him more closely. The man, even now, seems not totally beyond redemption. Perhaps if he had the right guidance?

  Oliver shrugged. Much too late to think of that now. Sabrina’s well-being was much more important. “Come,” he said to her and, with a hand at her back, at last led her out, to safety.

  Reginald raised his glass, staring resentfully at the door, and then with a shrug of his own sat back. “Fitch! He roared, and Fitch, who had recently retired to the pantry while his master entertained his lady friend, came out.

  “Ye called, sir?” he said, and Reginald looked up at him. “Devil take you, ma’am, why aren’t you ever around when I need you?”

  “The gentlemen had a gun, sir.”

  “So he did.” Reginald stared up at Fitch for a moment. “Start packing, Fitch. I have a sudden urge to travel.”

  “Yes, sir,” Fitch said, and turned away.

  Reginald leaned back, his eyes closed, and tried to ignore his throbbing discomfort. It might be good to travel, perhaps to the Continent. Yes, and leave behind all his debts. And somewhere, perhaps, there was a wealthy widow just waiting to meet a debonair English gentleman with noble connections. Yes, Reginald thought, falling into a light doze. He wasn’t done yet. Somehow, he would get his share.

  The door of the hackney closed behind them, and then started off with a jolt. Sabrina collapsed against the squabs, shaking with reaction, now that she was safe. “Oliver, thank God—”

  “We will not talk of it here,” Oliver said.

  “But, Oliver—”

  “Sabrina, at the moment I don’t know whether to hug you are beat you,” he said wearily. “I suggest you keep still.”

  “Yes, sir.” She cast him a look out of the corner of her eyes, and then looked away, biting her lip to hold back the tears that were very close. It would not do to cry now, not in front of Oliver. She would receive scant sympathy from him.

  Both were relieved when, after a tense, silent drive, the hackney pulled up in Mount Street. Sabrina pulled the hood of her cloak closer about her as she climbed the stairs, walking past Hastings and the footman without acknowledging them. “Sabrina,” Oliver called as she started up to her room. She turned looking down at him warily. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, and then shook his head. “It can keep. Go to your room and changed more suitable clothes.”

  “Yes, sir,” she murmured, and fled. Oliver watched her until she reached the landing was lost the sight. Then he made his own escape to his study and the decanter of brandy that awaited him there.

  The truth was, he didn’t know what to say to her, he thought a few minutes later. He was sunk deep in a chair in his study with a glass of brandy balanced on his chest. He had tried her on a base of innuendo and jealousy and found her guilty, never stopping to think that perhaps things weren’t what they seemed, that perhaps he was wrong about her. Much as he had wanted to be wrong, everything had seemed to point to one conclusion, the wrong one. Sabrina had not been a spy, at least, not against England. He wished with all his heart that he had never doubted her. Perhaps if he hadn’t, she would have told him of her background, and none of this sordid mess would have occurred.

  He groaned and drained the glass. To make matters worse, he had behaved like an absolute cad. He had taken her innocent kisses, all the love she had to give, and then had thrown that love back at her, retreating into hurt pride and anger. No woman could ever forget that. He had lost her. She was the only woman he would ever love, and through his pride and clumsiness, he had lost her.

  Some impulse to apologize and comfort her set him on his feet. Before he quite knew what he was doing he was standing before Sabrina’s door, knocking quietly. Letty opened the door, and he stepped in. From the window Sabrina turned, and they gazed at each other, serious and sober. “Sabrina, I’d like a word with you.”

  “Yes. Letty, please leave us.” Letty looked from one to the other and then went out, curtsying.

  There was silence after she had left. Oliver, unable to meet her eyes any longer, prowled restlessly about the room, and Sabrina watched him. Whatever they had once had was over, destroyed by lies and innuendo and lack of trust, hers as well as his. If she had trusted him with the truth, none of this would ever have happened.

  “Tenbroeck knew, didn’t he?” Oliver asked abruptly.

  Sabrina glanced at him, startled. “About what?”

  “About your background. And that is why you did what you did.”

  She looked down at her hands. “Yes.”

  “And Reginald?”

  “Oh, you heard him,” she said bitterly. “He only said what everyone else has been saying for years. ‘Poor Sabrina. She’s such a nice girl. Too bad she’s a bastard.’”

  “Stop it.” He strode to her and grasped her shoulders. She flinched, and so he gentled his grip. “Don’t ever say such an ugly thing about yourself again.”

  “’Tis the truth.” She looked up into his face. “You don’t seem surprised.” He looked away. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew about it.”

  “Did you think I’d accept you on your word alone? I made it my business to investigate you.”

  “Oh, God!” She jerked away from him, her hands at her face. “All this time, all I went through, and you knew?”

  “I was waiting for you to come to me with it.”

  “I wanted to.” She faced him from across the room. “I wanted to, oh, so many times! The time was never right, and then, once Tenbroeck started threatening me, I couldn’t.” She put her hands to her face again. “It was such a mess.”

  “Sabrina—”

  “And after a while, it didn’t matter that I was a bastard, but how could I tell you I was a spy? I knew you’d be furious, that you want to turn me out, and—”

  “Oh, God.” He ran a hand through his hair. “And I did just what you thought I would. I wouldn’t even to listen to you. Sabrina, I’m sorry.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Oliver. I should never have done it, no matter what.”

  “The damage was not so very great.” She stared at him, uncomprehending. “I know that you passed inaccurate information to Tenbroeck.”

  “Oh, God!” She turned abruptly, standing with her back to him. “And you know what I did,” she said, her voice very low. “I betrayed my country.”

  “You did the best you could, under the circumstances.” He paused. “Why did you not come to me when Tenbroeck started threatening you?”

  Tears filled her eyes. “I wanted to! But I was so scared, and you were so intent on thinking the worst of me—”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “—And the longer I stayed here, the worse it got. I couldn’t give up this life, Oliver! Oh, not the money, never the money, but the love, the acceptance. I couldn’t go back to being the little bastard girl, Sabrina Van Schuyler, a shame to her mother and a disgrace to her father.”

  “Sabrina—”

  “And I’m just like her, just like my mother!” she wailed. “No, don’t touch me!” She fell back from the hand he held out to her, her eyes wide and frightened. “I cannot bear it—”

  “Sabrina—”

  “Please!” She gasped.

  “Sabrina.” Oliver stared at her for a moment and then dropped his hand, wondering if it was from him she flinched, or al
l men. His heart was heavy as he turned away. What a mess. The damage had been done, by Reginald, by Tenbroeck, by him, and it could not easily be repaired. There was nothing he could do for her, save to relieve her of his miserable presence. “It would probably be best if you left town for a time.”

  Sabrina wiped her face with her fingers. “Yes.”

  “As soon as you feel up to traveling, you and Grandmama will be going down to the Abbey.”

  “Will you be coming, too?”

  “No. I’ve things to do here.” He stared at her bent head. “Get some rest now, Sabrina,” he said, his voice gentle, and she nodded.

  He took one last look at her, and then left. She was his dearest love, but there was nothing he could do for her. He would leave her to heal in peace, as best she could, no matter what it meant to him. Even if it meant he had lost her.

  Sabrina had no tears left to cry. They had all been shed, over her predicament, over her fears, over Oliver. Now she was done with crying. She had to face the future, bleak though it was. For she knew what she had to do. She had to leave.

  It was a mess, all of it, from her background to her spying. Perhaps she had been coerced, but surely she could have found courage enough to refuse. Yes, and give everything up? But wasn’t that what she would have to do, anyway? She doubted Oliver would want to marry her; she doubted he loved her anymore. If she were in his situation, she wouldn’t. What she felt for him, though, remained true and steady, and that was why she had made her decision.

  She should never have come to England, she thought, digging through her wardrobe for the bag she had brought with her, so very long ago. When she had left America, she had been in search of family. What she had found was Oliver, high-handed, infuriating, and the love of her life. And because she loved him, she couldn’t stay. She couldn’t taint him with her background, or ruin his work with her activities. She’d done enough damage as it was. The best thing, the only thing she could do for him, was to leave.

  Quickly she set out the things she would need on her bed. From her wardrobe she selected a comfortable walking costume and sturdy half-boots, because she would be traveling a long way. The rest of her clothes she would leave behind, except for a gown or two. Though she had her pin money, it wouldn’t be enough; she could sell the gowns if she needed to. She certainly wouldn’t need them where she was going.

  Very early the next morning Sabrina tiptoed down the stairs. The big front door was locked, and so she slipped out the side door Letty had shown her. Quickly, before anyone could see her, she walked down the alleyway and into the street. She felt frightfully exposed as she hurried away from the house, certain that someone would see her from one of the windows. Only when she had reached the corner did she turn, to take one last look at what had been her home. The sun was just beginning to rise. It had to be the brightness of its rays that made her eyes sting and water. Sabrina blinked and then turned. Time to go.

  At Oxford Street she hailed a hackney to bring her to the Castle Inn, where she would get the stage. Another phase of her life was starting. Who knew where it would lead her this time? Someplace wonderful, perhaps, she told herself, though she could imagine no better place than the shelter of Oliver’s arms. The future wasn’t entirely bleak. She would survive. She had to.

  Chapter 33

  “Oliver!” Gwendolyn, attired in her dressing gown and with her gray hair falling in long locks down her back, burst into his study. “She’s gone!”

  “Grandmama.” He came around his desk, alarmed by her pallor. “Sit down. Breathe. Now.” He pulled a chair over and sat in front of her. “What has happened to overset you?”

  “There’s no time for this, boy!” She glared at him. “Didn’t you hear me? She’s gone.”

  “Who? Sabrina?”

  “Yes, Sabrina. Who else?”

  He swore, something he never did in her presence. “Where?”

  “I don’t know. She left a note on her pillow and her maid just brought it to me.”

  “Let me see it.” He took the note and rose, pacing away from Gwendolyn as he read it. It told him little. Sabrina had thanked Grandmama for her kindness, and said that she wouldn’t impose anymore. She was sorry for any hurt she’d caused them. It would be best for everyone if she left. “When did she leave?”

  “I don’t know, Oliver, but it had to be hours ago. You know she’s been sleeping in these days past. Why would we think today would be any different?”

  “Why, indeed.” Leaning on his desk, he tapped the note against his teeth. “Do you think she planned it that way?”

  “I don’t know. But after yesterday...”

  “Yes.” He looked at the note again. Not a word to him. After all they had meant to each other, all that had happened, she hadn’t left so much as a word for him. “Where could she have—”

  “Liverpool,” Gwendolyn said at the same moment.

  “What?”

  “When she came here from America, she landed in Liverpool.”

  “Grandmama, you don’t think—”

  “Where else would she go, Oliver? She knows no one else here. No, she’s going back to America.”

  “Liverpool.” He went back around his desk and pulled out a road almanac. “The stage leaves from—damn it.”

  “What?”

  “There are two inns. The King’s Head and the Castle. Hastings!” he roared, making her jump.

  “Your Grace?” Hastings said from the door, so quickly that Oliver wondered if he’d been standing there, eavesdropping.

  “Tell Rawlings I’ll need my curricle. And him, too.”

  “Yes, Your Grace. And when shall I say?”

  “Now, man! There’s no time to waste.”

  “Do you think you can find her?” Gwendolyn asked.

  “She has a head start on us, but if we can find out where she started from, we should be able to catch her up.” He took a piece of paper from his desk, folded it, and tucked it inside his coat. “The curricle can go faster than a coach.” He bent to kiss her forehead. “Don’t worry if I’m not home tonight.”

  “I won’t. Find her, Oliver, and bring her back here.”

  “I will, ma’am. I promise.”

  Soon Oliver was driving along London’s crowded streets at a smart pace, with Rawlings, his groom, next to him holding on for dear life. The King’s Arms first, he decided, because they had to start somewhere. But when they reached the inn, they had no luck. No, no one of that description had taken a stage for Liverpool or anywhere else, the innkeeper told him. He’d have remembered her. Maybe they should try at the Castle.

  Oliver forbore swearing, and instead turned the curricle toward the other inn. Once there, he surveyed the scene with dismay. The innyard was a teeming, noisy place, with coaches arriving and departing, and well-populated with people from the lower classes. Oliver’s worry increased. Sabrina was so young, so pretty, and so alone. How could she fail to come to harm?

  His urgent questions again met with no luck. At the mail office, no one remembered seeing a particular young lady buying a ticket for a stage leaving for anywhere. This time Oliver did swear. Damn, if he had to chase all over England in search of her, he would find her, and when he did he would hold her in his arms and never let her go. After beating her, of course.

  “Your Grace! Over here!” Rawlings call, and Oliver turned. “This man said he seen a girl looked like Miss—like the one we wants,” Rawlings said.

  Oliver, striding across the cobblestones, eyed the supposed informant askance. He was very old, sitting on an upended barrel and watching the world through rheumy eyes that looked half-blind. His long hair was lank, yellow, and dirty, and his grin exposed a nearly toothless mouth. At Oliver’s dubious look, he cackled.

  “well?” Oliver said impatiently. “What can you tell me?”

  “I’m powerfully hungry, guv’nor,” the man whined.

  “That’s no way to talk to His Grace!” Rawlings said, and would have cuffed the man across the head, a
t Oliver not stopped him.

  “Here,” he said, handing the man a guinea. “Well?”

  The man bit the coin with his remaining teeth, and then made a great to-do of secreting it in a pocket. “Must want her powerful bad,” he muttered.

  “Tell His Grace what you told me,” Rawlings said.

  “I’m a poor man,” the man whined.

  “Yes, yes,” Oliver said. “If you’ll tell me what you saw, there’s another guinea in it for you. Did you see the girl we want?”

  He cackled. “Saw her, all right. Mighty pretty thing. Reckon I knows what you want with her.”

  Oliver held back his temper by great force. “Did she say where she was going?”

  “She din’t talk to the likes o’ me,” he said, cackling again. “Heard her ask someone where she could sell clothes.”

  “Clothes!”

  “Had a pretty dress, pink, I think. Nell bought it straight off.”

  “Who the devil is Nell?”

  “Mean to tell me you don’t know Nell, guv’nor?” he said slyly. “Thought all the gennulman knew Nell.”

  “Never mind that,” Oliver said impatiently. “Where can I find her?”

  “Nell? Ain’t here now. Won’t do you no good, neither. She’s gone, your girl. Liverpool.”

  “She didn’t buy a ticket here.”

  “She did, guv’nor. Are you saying I’m lying?”

  “No, nothing of the sort,” Oliver said, feeling as if he’d stepped into a madhouse.

  “Insulting an old man.”

  Oliver held out another coin. As the man reached out for it, he pulled it back. “I am running out of patience. How did she buy her ticket?”

  “Why, she asked someone to do it for her,” he said.

  “I’ll go ask,” Rawlings said, and ran off.

  Oliver briefly closed his eyes. Oh, she was resourceful. She didn’t want anyone finding her. But she’d reckoned without his own panic-stricken determination, and the alertness of this observant, repulsive old man. “Here,” he said, holding the coin out.