Corisande glanced at her father, his voice despondent. “Knew what, Papa?”
“That Louis had done those terrible things. He came here at night, sometimes during the day at my window. He would tell me—ah, but there was nothing I could do! He swore he would kill you if I said a word to anyone!”
“The window,” Corisande murmured, recalling the day she had brought Donovan to meet her family, and a window in the study had been open for the first time in years. Her father had been in the garden, looking so distressed, and then at her wedding, after the barrels, she’d never seen him so upset—oh, God. Heartsick that she hadn’t recognized his torment, she prodded gently, “You said Louis, Papa. Who is he? Why would he be doing this to us? If you know, you must tell—”
“He’s one of the devil’s own. A murderer!” Joseph turned from her to stare into the cold hearth, his face ashen beneath the bruises. “I knew nothing of him until he came here—two weeks ago, no more! He knew your mother when she was a girl—he knew your grandmother Véronique, too, and hated her. Hated her for the wealth his father, the Marquis de LaCroix, had squandered upon his mistress—”
“His mistress, Papa?” Corisande blurted out, as stunned by what he had just said as that his hoarse words had spilled forth in a lucid flood she’d only heard before in his sermons. She glanced at Donovan, who stood listening silently, then back to her father when he gave a broken sigh.
“Adele told me about her mother before we were wed—how she escaped from Paris at the height of the Revolution, de LaCroix already imprisoned and facing execution, and fled to Brittany to the country house that he had provided for Adele no matter she was not his child. Ah, God, she wept so when she told me how a wild mob set upon the house, screaming that they were going to kill the monarchist’s whore. Véronique made Adele change into a servant’s clothes and entrusted her care to their beloved maid Laurette, then she secreted them both from the house just as the mob shattered the front door. That was the last time Adele saw her mother; the house was in flames by the time she and Laurette reached the hills.”
A heavy silence fell in the kitchen, but it did not last long as Joseph went on, rocking himself forward and back as tears began to stream down his battered face.
“She didn’t tell me about the jewelry until a week after you were born, Corisande. I think she’d known it might cause an impasse between us, and said nothing until Laurette decided she wished to return home out of concern for her parents. The woman would take no payment for all her pains, but Adele insisted she have one of her mother’s rings, a ring such as I’d never seen before, gold with a heart-shaped blue sapphire surrounded by diamonds. And there was more, too, rings and necklaces and brooches and pearls and…and I demanded it all be thrown into the sea.”
“The sea, Papa? But why?”
“Because I was a fool and didn’t understand how much it meant to your mother! A leather packet filled with those things had been pressed into her hands just before she and Laurette had fled. Because Véronique had been a man’s mistress, not his wife! It was the only time we ever raised our voices to each other, your mother crying that the jewelry should one day belong to our children while I wanted nothing more than to be rid of it. But when she swore she would leave me, I said no more. We never spoke about it again until she fell sick—”
Joseph’s voice broke, and Corisande jumped up to sit beside him. He seemed determined to continue, turning his ravaged face to hers.
“She was dying, she knew it, and she made me promise that I keep the jewelry safe for you and your sisters. I found a small chest, and the night she…she left us, I remember walking outside and digging a hole, but nothing after that—nothing! God help me, I tried to find it—while Louis came here almost every day telling me what he would do to you and your sisters if I didn’t. He murdered Laurette! He showed me the ring! He’s been an émigré in Germany all these years until he finally went back to France to see if there was anything left of his father’s estate. That’s how he found us! He came upon poor Laurette in the village where Véronique’s country house…”
His voice had grown so choked that he clearly couldn’t go on while Corisande sat there stunned, feeling as if the blood had drained from her face.
“Corie?”
She met Donovan’s gaze, her voice no more than a whisper. “I think I know where my father buried that chest.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Incredulous, Donovan had already been planning what they might be able to do to help Corisande’s sisters—had been since he’d seen the letter—but now he stared at her while her father appeared dumbstruck as well.
“That night…that night my mother died, I followed Papa onto the heath. It was raining, a terrible storm like last night’s, and he was weeping so hard, I feared he might become lost. So I followed him and watched as he buried a small wooden box, but I never thought to ask him what had been inside. It seemed a private thing—”
“Good God, woman, then let’s not sit here!” Donovan shouted vehemently. “We’ve got to find that chest and get ourselves a ship, though with that revenue cruiser in the bay it might be difficult…hell, we’ll think of that later. Do you have shovels?”
“Yes, in the stable.” Corisande was astonished at how quickly Donovan had taken charge. Yet she was nearly knocked to the floor as her father lunged to his feet so suddenly that the wooden settle tipped forward. Donovan reached out to catch it just in time. Breathing her thanks, she rushed after her father, grabbing his arm as he headed down the hall.
“Papa, Donovan and I can do this! You’re hurt—you should lie down—”
“No, I will help!”
Her father’s tone as determined as she’d ever heard it, she said no more. Instead she ran back to the kitchen to grab one of the oil lamps while Donovan went after her father.
“I’ll meet you in the garden!” Corisande started to the kitchen door, but then decided she should check on Frances. She took the steps two at a time, holding the lamp high as she went into the housekeeper’s room.
“Corie?”
Scarcely recognizing the weak-sounding voice, Frances’s face so pale, Corisande sank down onto the bed. “Yes, it’s me.”
“My girls, Corie, my poor girls. I heard them weepen, so scared—”
“They’ll be fine, Frances, I promise. Donovan and I will find them. He knows what to do. We’ll find them.”
The words were out before she realized she’d said them, but Corisande didn’t linger to dwell upon how much she was depending on Donovan. She pressed a kiss to the housekeeper’s forehead and then left the room, almost ready to head down the stairs when a faint whimpering made her move to the room shared by Estelle and Linette.
Tears burned her eyes at the signs of struggle, bedclothes twisted and lying upon the floor, a lost slipper, Linette’s collection of seashells that she kept beside her bed crushed into fragments beneath a heavy foot. Lying forlornly across Estelle’s pillow was Luther, his scruffy head tucked between his tiny paws; his tail wagged halfheartedly for an instant before it fell still altogether as he began again to whimper.
“I know, Luther, I know,” Corisande murmured as she went to him and gently patted his head. Then she swiped at her eyes, her tears nearly blinding her. “I want Estelle home too.”
Swallowing hard, she fled from the girls’ room and down the stairs. She rushed outside to find her father and Donovan waiting for her by the garden wall.
“I’m sorry. I had to check on Frances.” She lifted her lamp and led the way through the metal gate and out onto the heath. “Careful, there are holes dug everywhere.”
“So I discovered,” came Donovan’s wry reply, though his expression was deadly sober.
Corisande felt somber, too, as she searched around her for landmarks, not wanting to recall that terrible night eight years ago but forcing herself to remember, forcing herself to retrace painful steps taken when she was only twelve years old. When her father had wept so wretchedly sh
e thought he might become ill. She had feared for him then, and followed him outside into the pouring rain.
She had almost gone to him when he stumbled, her own silent sobs tearing at her as she watched him pull himself to his feet though he was nearly doubled over with grief. Finally he had stopped only a few yards from an old stunted tree she’d used to climb and begun to shovel…
“Over here! By the tree, but not too close.”
Donovan was there first and immediately threw off his coat to begin digging at the spot where Corisande had shoved the toe of her shoe into the damp earth. The hole was soon several feet deep before she realized from studying the positioning of the tree that she’d misguided them.
“Donovan, Papa, I’m sorry, but I think it was closer over this way.” She was grateful that neither complained. Donovan’s strong steady strokes with the shovel more than overshadowed her father’s efforts, who did his best to keep up.
Even when her father had to pause to catch his breath, Donovan continued on, sweat soaking him, his white shirt becoming almost transparent and clinging to his powerful body. She swallowed and looked down instead at the deepening hole, and gasped when Donovan’s shovel suddenly scraped against something hard.
She went down on her knees beside him, all of them digging with their hands to clear away the dirt from what she could see as her breath caught was a sturdy wooden chest. She nearly fell forward face first in her haste to retrieve it from the hole, but Donovan caught her shoulder and threw her a glance that clearly said he was the one to try.
While she and her father looked on, he leaned into the crater and hauled out the chest. Corisande thought that it appeared much smaller than she remembered, no bigger than Donovan could clutch easily under his arm. Yet she had been a child when last she’d seen it. She held up the lamp when he set the dirt-caked chest in front of her father, whose hands shook as he slowly opened the lid.
For a moment Corisande felt as if she could hardly focus her eyes for the sparkle and glitter that seemed to burst forth from the chest. Her breath snagged again as she gazed down upon a dazzling tumble of pearls and brilliant jewels, silver, and gold. But what caught her attention lay half buried in one corner, and she glanced up at her father.
“May I, Papa?”
“It’s yours, Corie. Yours and your sisters’—”
He choked on the words, and Corisande’s heart went out to him; she knew they couldn’t tarry, Donovan already having risen to his feet and thrown on his coat. But she had to see…it looked like a portrait…
She slowly drew in her breath as she lifted with trembling fingers a diamond-framed miniature of a woman wearing large pearl-drop earrings—the same lustrous earrings she could see gleaming in the chest—and with rich auburn hair…a gently smiling young woman who looked much like her.
“Véronique,” came her father’s hoarse voice. “Your mother was holding that medallion when she died.”
“She was lovely,” Corisande murmured almost to herself, tracing a finger over the portrait.
“Like you, Corie. Just as I’ve always said.”
She glanced up to find Donovan staring at her with such intensity that she quickly dropped her gaze again, her hands trembling even worse now as she replaced the miniature and closed the lid. “We—we should go…see about a ship, I mean.”
She rose to her feet, ignoring Donovan’s proffered hand and hoping her father hadn’t noticed. He was occupied with the chest, although it was clear he barely had the strength left to lift it. As Donovan went at once to help him, irrational anger filled her to see that her father could trust him so.
The man was a bloody informer! she fumed to herself as they walked back to the house, Donovan carrying the chest tucked under one arm while supporting her father with the other. He’d brought the king’s excisemen down upon Oliver and the Fair Betty, she was certain of it!
Yet even as she nursed her mutinous thoughts, she knew they rang as false as the glaring lie she’d told herself earlier, which only made her hold on to them all the more desperately.
Donovan helped her father to a chair and then set the chest upon the kitchen table. Her father broke down and began to sob, the strain of the past two weeks, the strain of painful memories aroused, finally proving too much for him. She could only kneel beside him and clutch his hands.
Her father had become once again the wretched shell he had been since her mother died…his misery making her throat tighten and cold, paralyzing fear burrow all the deeper into her heart.
“I’ll fetch the doctor and see what we can do about finding a ship,” Donovan told her, but she refused to look at him, his low curse lost to the anguished sobs echoing in the room.
“Ais, Corie, ‘ee can imagine my Rebecca was none too pleased to see me heading back to sea. But when Lord Donovan found me at the inn an’ told me what had happened to your poor family, I was ready to sail in a blink. Now all we must do is keep a good look out for that damned revenue cruiser, but it’s so dark I’d wager a pocketful of guineas they’ve gone home to their fires. Ais, gone home to their fires and to cry into their beer that the Fair Betty was clean as virgin snow, not a barrel of brandy on her!”
As Oliver Trelawny’s delighted laughter swelled around her, Corisande couldn’t help smiling either, more than relieved that he and his ship had survived their close call. Survived it and triumphed, apparently, in only ten minutes’ time, the disgruntled excisemen heading back to their cruiser after a fruitless search that was done before darkness had fully fallen.
Yet her smile quickly faded as she thought of Donovan below deck in Oliver’s cabin, where the captain had told him he could help himself to a bracing bit of rum brought aboard to bolster them all during the long Channel crossing. And she had no plans whatsoever to go near that cabin but to stay aft with Oliver—
“Lord, Corie, I’m sorry to be laughing at such a terrible time for ‘ee.” The captain’s gruff apology broke into her thoughts. “You say Dr. Philcup had a good look at your father an’ Frances?”
“Yes, they’ll be fine. It was hard to make my father stay in bed—he wanted to come with us to Roscoff—but the doctor said it would be too much of a strain for him. He’ll be staying there through the night to keep an eye on them both.”
“Ais, good man, Philcup. Charges a mite too high a price if ‘ee ask me, but a competent fellow all the same.” Oliver gave a grunt, searching Corisande’s face in the lantern light. “As for feeling well or not feeling well, why don’t you go join your husband? You’re looking pale, Corie, agitated, jumpy as a cat—”
“I’m not jumpy!”
Oliver grunted again, louder this time. “No? Then what was that testy outburst? A hiccough? I don’t blame ‘ee now, given ‘ee must be worried sick for your sisters, but you’d best get some rest an’ maybe help yourself to a dram of rum too. I’ve offered my cabin to ‘ee, it’s yours and your husband’s for the night—”
“And what of you?”
“Ha! If I get tired, I’ll sleep up here under the stars. An’ I’ve a crew taking shifts who’ll help me, so don’t think ‘ee have to stay here to keep me awake. Now go below an’ join that fine husband of yours! He’s as worried about the girls as you, Corie, in case ‘ee haven’t noticed.”
“Of course I know he’s worried!” Corisande blurted out, not liking the censure in Oliver’s tone. “Why would you say—”
“Just popped to my tongue, is all. He offered to pay me a king’s ransom to sail back to Roscoff, did ‘ee know that too?”
Corisande shook her head, chewing her lower lip.
“I thanked him kindly an’ turned down his money. You’re like family to me after all, but oh, ais, he’s worried just the same as you—”
“All right, all right!” Corisande left him, not because she wanted to join Donovan but because she’d had quite enough of Oliver’s lecturing.
There wasn’t anything left to see anyway; the lights of Porthleven were already swallowed up by darkness as th
e Fair Betty headed out of Mount’s Bay and southward into the Channel on a journey that would get them to the Brittany port well before dawn.
Yet as she stormed below deck, she swore she could hear a faint chuckle trailing after her. Her face growing red, she burst into Oliver’s cabin, coming up short at the sight of Donovan sitting on the bed with his back against the wall, one arm resting on a raised knee and a near-empty glass of rum in his hand.
“Ah, so gracious of you to join me finally, wife.”
As much stung as startled by his sarcasm—she hadn’t heard it in days—Corisande wondered nervously if she should maybe leave the door open. Donovan took that decision out of her hands as he rose and came toward her. Corisande sidestepped him and then whirled around with a gasp as he slammed the door shut.
Yet when he turned upon her, his expression to her surprise wasn’t angry or sarcastic, just very serious. That unnerved her even more than she would have thought, and she edged backward, coming up with a start against the bed.
“Sit down.”
She did, his low voice brooking no argument, although she bristled, glaring at him. He seemed not to notice, moving to Oliver’s mahogany desk to pour himself another glass of rum; the ship’s rolling motion apparently wasn’t bothering him either, for he stood so squarely, his lean, muscled legs planted so firmly, that he looked as if he had been born to the sea.
“Captain Trelawny has done quite well for himself—I’ve seen few cabins so well appointed. A crystal decanter, glasses, brass fittings, polished wood—”
“Yes, he’s done well, and I’m grateful it wasn’t all lost to him today, no thanks to you.”
Corisande heard the glancing ring of the decanter hitting a glass, but Donovan didn’t look at her although she could see that he had visibly stiffened. He seemed so tense that she began to feel quite unsettled again; the cabin suddenly felt quite small and close around her as she quickly sought to change the subject.
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