by Candace Camp
He closed his eyes. On a wave of such thoughts, he drifted into a troubled sleep.
THOUGH SHE WOULD never have admitted it to him, her guest’s vehement warnings made Priscilla glance cautiously around her when she and Miss Pennybaker walked out of the house. Everything looked the same, from the garden well to the unstirring lilac bushes to the trees down the lane from their house. She could see no sign of anyone lurking, watching their house.
Still, she gripped the handle of her umbrella tightly as they set off down the lane, and her eyes flitted from one side of the road to the other, on watch for the flutter of a garment behind a bush or a glimpse of a head peering out from around a tree. No matter how much she had argued against her visitor’s admonitions, she could see their wisdom, and she knew that if his predictions proved true, she would have to fight for Miss Pennybaker, as well. Priscilla wanted to be prepared for whatever might happen. Indeed, deep in her soul of souls, where some strange part of her craved excitement, she was almost hoping that something would happen.
It did not. Her walk into the village was entirely uneventful. And after fifteen minutes of chatter from the vicar’s wife about this person’s liver complaint and that one’s runaway pig, she was sorry that she had ever had the idea of calling on her. It was obvious that no one in the whole town had spoken about a visitor from America, either seen or expected, for such an event would have taken precedence at least over the pig.
The only bright spot was that her friend Anne Chalcomb also chanced to visit Mrs. Whiting that afternoon, and she and Penny walked home with her. Anne was quite a bit older than Priscilla, but she did not think or talk like a middle-aged woman. She was interested in women’s suffrage, as was Priscilla, and she was well-read and able to talk on a variety of subjects. Though Priscilla knew that Anne must be fifty years old, she did not look it. Her figure was still quite trim, and her face was lovely, despite the lines that had begun to form around her eyes and mouth.
It seemed to Priscilla that an indefinable air of sadness clung to Anne, even when she smiled or laughed. She supposed it must be that Anne still mourned her husband, who had died almost ten years earlier. Priscilla could not imagine why Anne would be sad over his being gone. She remembered Squire Chalcomb as a large, sour-faced creature with a terrible temper, and she had heard more than one of the older ladies say that Anne was far better off without him. However, there was no accounting for love, Priscilla knew; perhaps there had been something in the man that only Anne could see.
They walked to Priscilla’s cottage, chatting about a letter that Priscilla had received from Mrs. Pankhurst, describing some of her travails while in prison for the cause of women’s suffrage. At the gate to Evermere Cottage, Priscilla stopped and turned to say goodbye to her friend while Miss Pennybaker went on up the path to the cottage. However, Priscilla found to her surprise that Anne had turned off the road with her, as if to follow her into the yard.
“I thought I would pop in and get Mrs. Smithson’s recipe for elderberry wine,” Anne explained. “She promised to give it to me last time I visited you.”
“Oh.” Priscilla thought of the man in the room off the kitchen. She did not want anyone to know about him, not even her good friend, but she could hardly refuse to let Anne come in, either. So she smiled, thinking that she would simply have to make sure that the door to his room was closed. “Of course. I’m sure Mrs. Smithson was quite pleased that you asked.”
Anne followed her around the house to the kitchen door at the rear. Priscilla opened the door and stepped in quickly, but she stopped short, brought up abruptly by the sight of “Mr. Wolfe,” sitting at the table, taking tea with Mrs. Smithson.
“What are you doing here?” she snapped without thinking.
His eyebrows rose lazily at her words. “Well, good day to you, too. I knew you would be glad to see me so improved. Mrs. Smithson’s soup has worked wonders.”
The cook beamed at him.
Anne came around to stand beside Priscilla. She stopped and gazed at the man in amazement. He was, Priscilla had to admit, a sight to stare at. Mrs. Smithson had evidently dragged out some old clothes of one of her brothers’ for him to wear. Priscilla supposed it accomplished the purpose of keeping him decently covered—but only barely. The muscles of his arms bulged against the lawn sleeves, and the shirt could not be buttoned for several buttons down, leaving a fair expanse of his chest exposed. Both trousers and sleeves were too short, and his thighs filled the legs of the trousers in a way that was almost obscene. Priscilla wondered that he could sit in them without cutting off his breath.
He gazed blandly at the two women with his clear green eyes. It irritated Priscilla even further that he hadn’t even the grace to look abashed at being caught here, and in such attire. Anne turned curiously toward Priscilla, and Priscilla grappled for some explanation.
“Uh, Anne, I—I forgot to tell you. My cousin is visiting us.”
“Your cousin?”
“Actually, a quite distant cousin. From America,” Priscilla improvised wildly. “His grandfather was related to mine, but he sailed to the United States when he was a child. Cousin John was kind enough to look us up while he was visiting Britain.”
“How nice,” Anne murmured in their visitor’s direction, but Priscilla could see the faint puzzlement in her friend’s eyes. Nothing she had said explained what he was doing here in this condition.
“Unfortunately,” she went on rapidly, “Cousin John had a slight accident on his way here. He, uh, got sick, and his luggage was, uh, lost.”
“Yes, I arrived on their doorstep in a fever, and without a bag in sight,” the man added easily. “I am most fortunate that my cousins were willing to take me in.”
Anne smiled. “Priscilla is the soul of kindness.”
A devilish glint sparked his eyes, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Yes, I have found her to be so. A veritable…saint among women.”
“No. Please.” Priscilla shot him a dark look. “You are flattering me. Anyone would have done the same. But I am rather surprised to see you up so soon. I think you should have stayed in bed. You must not overdo.”
“I can feel my energy returning. I have a sound constitution, you know.”
“No, actually, I don’t,” Priscilla retorted dryly. “There are so many things about you I don’t know.”
“I feel the same way.” Now a full-fledged grin curved his mouth. “About you, dear cousin.”
Priscilla glared at him. He gazed blandly back.
“I am glad you find your situation so amusing,” Priscilla told him sourly.
“Come, come, Cousin Priscilla,” he said, slightly emphasizing the familiar name in a way she found vastly irritating. “You are too serious. One must look at oneself with some sense of humor. Otherwise, things become far too bleak.”
He rose and walked toward them, his careful steps betraying the fact that his muscles were still somewhat weak and shaky from his illness. “Pardon me, madam,” he said, addressing Anne. “I am afraid that my cousin was so surprised by my improvement that she forgot to introduce us.”
“Oh.” Priscilla colored. “I’m sorry. Anne, this is John Wolfe. Cousin John—” she had to force the name out “—this is my dear friend and neighbor, Lady Anne Chalcomb.”
“I am pleased to meet you,” Anne said warmly, and moved forward to meet the stranger, holding out her hand. She stopped abruptly, suppressing a gasp. Suddenly the color fled her face.
“Anne?” Priscilla looked at her, startled, and started forward to take her arm. “What’s the matter? Are you all right?”
“What?” Anne looked at her vaguely. “Oh.” She glanced back at John, who had stopped a foot away and was looking at her with some uneasiness. “I—I’m sorry. It was silly. For a moment there, I—But no, it’s impossible. Ridiculous.”
She forced a smile and held out her hand to John. “Pardon me. You will think I am a befuddled old woman.”
“Never that, my lady,” he
answered smoothly, taking her hand and bowing over it.
“You are very kind.” She smiled at him and turned toward Priscilla. “But now I must be on my way. I want to reach Chalcomb Hall before the sun sets.”
“Of course. But what about your recipe?”
“What? Oh.” Anne colored, embarrassed. “You’re right. I am sorry.” She turned toward the table, where the cook still sat. “Mrs. Smithson, you had promised me your delicious recipe for elderberry wine.”
“Right you are, my lady,” Mrs. Smithson said, promptly getting up and bustling across the kitchen.
Anne followed her and took the slip of paper Mrs. Smithson gave her, then turned to Priscilla and John and gave them a perfunctory smile. “I must go now. I—If you’d like, I could bring over a few of Henry’s clothes for you, Mr. Wolfe. He was a large man, also. It would do better than Gid’s things, I am sure, until you recover your own trunks.”
“Yes, my lady.” He smiled engagingly. “I am sure it would be a good deal better. As it is, I am hardly fit to be seen.”
Anne took her leave of them quickly. Priscilla watched her friend go, puzzled by her behavior, then abruptly decided to run after her.
“Anne!”
Anne was through the rear yard and almost to the path leading to Chalcomb Hall, but she stopped and turned at Priscilla’s cry.
“Anne, did you—did you recognize Mr. Wolfe?” Priscilla asked when she drew even with Anne.
Her friend looked startled. “Recognize him? Why, no, how could I? I have never met him before.”
“But you—when he came closer to you, you reacted oddly.”
Anne shook her head, looking embarrassed. “Please, no, it was nothing, really. It was just that for a moment he looked…rather like someone I used to know. But it’s impossible. It was long ago, before your cousin was even born, I imagine. And he wasn’t an American, anyway.”
“Who was it?” Priscilla pressed on, intrigued.
“No one. I mean, well, no one that you would know. It was merely a trick of the mind, anyway. My—my friend hadn’t the same coloring, even. It was just an expression, something about his eyes. It was only for an instant, then it was gone. ‘Tis of no consequence, anyway.”
“Oh. Well, I wanted to ask…that is, it would be better perhaps if you did not mention that you had met Mr. Wolfe. He is, uh, still not well enough to see visitors, and you know how everyone would come at the mention of a stranger.”
“Of course.” Anne smiled. “I shan’t say a word.”
Priscilla let Anne go on her way and turned her steps back to the house, still a little confused by Anne’s behavior. Mrs. Smithson was back at work at the stove, but “John Wolfe” was sitting at the table again, waiting for her.
“Well?” he asked. “What did you find out?”
Priscilla shrugged. “Little enough. Other than what you are not. The vicar’s wife mentioned no one who was expecting a visitor, nor any sighting of a stranger passing through town.”
“No. I meant with your friend just then. Lady Chalcomb. I thought you had gone after her to question her about the odd look she got when she saw my face up close.”
“Oh. That. Yes, I did. But that was no use, either. She said that for an instant you reminded her of someone. But it was much too long ago to have been you, and he was not an American.”
He tilted his head to one side, considering. “And do you believe her?”
Priscilla looked astonished. “Of course I do. Anne Chalcomb is a good woman, honest and kind. Why would she lie? If she had recognized you, I am sure she would have said who you were.”
“Not if she had something to do with my disappearance.”
Priscilla grimaced. “You can’t be serious. Anne would never have anything to do with such a crime. I know her—she is my friend. And you could not find a more decent human being.”
“Miss Pris is right about that,” Mrs. Smithson chimed in from the stove, not bothering to hide her eavesdropping. She turned around and spoke to them again, waving her spoon for emphasis. “She hasn’t a bad bone in her body. Only a saint would have put up with that husband of hers. Most women would have shoved him down the stairs when he was drunk—which was most of the time, so I’ve heard.”
Priscilla suppressed a smile. Mrs. Smithson was free with her opinions, and unfailingly blunt. It was one reason why she had come to work for the Hamiltons and stayed there so many years. She could have gotten more money from another, wealthier household, but she had never been able to hold her tongue and had been dismissed from every other house in which she worked. Only the amiable, freethinking Hamilton family was willing to put up with a servant such as she.
John did not bother to hide his smile. He grinned and leaned forward, propping his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand, clearly delighted with the cook’s speech. “Sounds like a rounder to me,” he said encouragingly.
“That he was. The best thing that ever happened to her was him dying. It’s just too bad that she never found another husband after he died.”
“Maybe Squire Chalcomb soured her on all men,” Priscilla suggested.
“It wouldn’t surprise me.” Mrs. Smithson nodded her head. “I wouldn’t think it’s for lack of interest on men’s part.”
“No. I think Mr. Rutherford is quite fond of Lady Chalcomb. I have always been a little surprised that she did not encourage him more.”
John yawned and rubbed a hand across his face tiredly, distracting Priscilla from her gossip. “I think it’s time for you to get back in bed,” she told him. “You are not nearly as strong as you would like everyone to believe.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied with mock meekness. He rose and started back to his room, then stopped and turned to Priscilla. “I was glad to see you return this afternoon.”
His words made Priscilla feel unaccountably warm. She had been planning to point out to him how wrong he had been about her being seized, but she found that she no longer wanted to.
“I looked all around as we walked to the vicar’s,” she told him. “But I didn’t see anyone. Don’t you think they might have left the area?”
He shrugged. “It’s possible. I hope not, though. I should like to find one of them when I’m back to myself again. Then we might get some answers.” His face tightened, and he clenched his fists unconsciously.
“I imagine we might,” Priscilla murmured. She would not want to have to face this man when he was feeling well—and was bent on revenge.
He returned to his bed, and Priscilla went upstairs. She spent the rest of the evening, except for a brief break for supper, trying to write. She had gotten little work done today, what with caring for John Wolfe all night, and she wanted to get her book finished soon. They were always in need of the money she earned with her writing, even though it was scarcely a massive sum. It was her writing money that had put Philip at Eton and allowed Gid to pursue his dream of being an officer rather than spending his life as a clerk. Her father’s small inheritance and occasional fees for lectures or scholarly articles were barely enough to maintain their house and two servants.
However, try as she might, the words would not come this evening. Her mind kept straying to their visitor and the puzzle he presented. It seemed far more intriguing than her novel, and just as fantastical. For once, instead of writing or dreaming about it, she was living an adventure, and Priscilla found that much more interesting.
Finally she gave up and went downstairs, where she found John Wolfe sleeping soundly in his room. Miss Pennybaker, darning socks in the kitchen, informed her that he had awakened once and eaten, then gone back to sleep. It was her opinion that he was healing rapidly, and the tone of her voice indicated that she felt this fact was an indication of a lack of gentility.
Priscilla suppressed a flicker of disappointment at not finding Mr. Wolfe up and able to bandy words with her. It was, she reminded herself, more important that he get well.
Miss Pennybaker put up her darning and walked up
the stairs with Priscilla to her room. She warned Priscilla darkly that she would be better off locking her door, then went into her own bedroom and shut the door, driving home the bolt with a resounding click. Priscilla, smiling faintly, went into her own room and dressed for bed, but when she retired, she did not lock her door. Instead, she opened it partway, so that she might hear more clearly. She was not foolish enough to dismiss John’s warnings about his captors breaking into the house to get him. Miss Pennybaker might think they needed protection from Mr. Wolfe, but Priscilla was more inclined to think that he was the one who needed protection.
She was not sure how long she had been asleep when she awakened with a start. She lay still, her heart pounding, listening to the quiet night and wondering what had awakened her. She heard a creak, then the scrape of a chair leg upon the floor.
Priscilla sat bolt upright and flung aside her covers. She moved with instinctive silence to the fireplace and snatched up a poker, then glided out of the room. She paused at the top of the stairs, but she could see and hear nothing below. After a moment, she started cautiously down the stairs, gripping the handle of the poker tightly.
She was almost to the bottom when a movement to the right caught her eye. She stopped dead still and peered into the darkness below her. A large shape was gliding along the wall with a caution to equal hers. It walked in darkness and silence; she could make out nothing except the bulk and the stealthy movement. Her heart thudded in her chest, and for a moment she was frozen with fear.
There was a rattle from the direction of the kitchen, and the shape jumped forward. Its movement seemed to release Priscilla from her paralysis. She thought of John Wolfe and the fact that he lay asleep in a room off the kitchen, precisely where the ominous shadow was going.