by Anne Gracie
“I wasna trying to steal them,” Kirk began with asperity. “I was checking to see—”
“I watered ’em, din’t I? Just like the man tole me to. And I rubbed ’em down with a bit of straw.”
Thomas repressed a grin. “Thank you. You did a fine job. You may hand responsibility over to Kirk now.”
“You know ’im?” said the urchin suspiciously.
“I do. Here’s your money. You did a splendid job.” He handed the boy a gold sovereign.
Kirk blinked. “A yellow boy, just for minding your horses?”
“He prevented you from stealing them, didn’t he?” Thomas said mildly, and walked over to the curricle. He placed the small trunk on the floor and turned to Rose. “You drove the curricle?”
“If you tell me it’s not a vehicle for a lady, Thomas, I’ll scream. First Saul and then Kirk—he insisted on coming with me—”
“For which I’ll thank him later.” He lifted her into the curricle and climbed in after her. He called to Kirk, “We’ll spend the night at the White Hart in Broad Street. There’s a livery stables close by. If you don’t know the way, I’m sure our friend here will guide you for a small fee.”
“Half a crown,” the urchin said immediately.
Leaving Kirk and the boy haggling over the price, Thomas picked up the reins and moved off at a walk—the horses were very tired.
Rose slipped her arm through his. “You don’t mind, do you, that I hit your cousin? I just couldn’t let him leave without giving him a piece of my mind.”
“I know.” They left the docks area and headed into town. Thomas wasn’t sure that he could explain his decision to let Ambrose leave, unpunished. It had been an impulse of the moment, but the more he thought about it the more he felt it was the right thing to do. Even though it went against everything he believed. Or thought he believed.
The man had tried to kill him three times at least, by poison, shooting and tree branch. He’d forged Uncle Walter’s signature and sentenced Thomas to a life in slavery. He’d embezzled money from the estate he was employed to administer. On all these counts he deserved to be imprisoned, if not hanged.
“I hadn’t planned to let him go. I was all ready to drag him back and make him face justice. But there’s no evidence that it was him who tried to kill me, and shot you and poisoned Peter.”
“Didn’t he admit it?”
“Freely—to me, in the dark, with no witnesses. But that won’t hold up in court. We could get him for the embezzlement—that was the reason for it all—to cover up the fact that he’s been stealing from the estate—and me—for the past four years.”
“And the bank account mystery?”
“Yes, that was him, too.”
They turned into Broad Street and made their way toward the White Hart Hotel. “He’d be jailed, or most likely transported for the forgery and embezzlement, but that’s all.”
“Better than nothing.” She looked at him thoughtfully. “But you’re saying that it’s not worth pursuing him for the sake of justice?”
Thomas didn’t respond. They consigned the horses to the care of the hotel ostlers, booked rooms for themselves and for Kirk, ordered dinner for three to be served in their respective rooms, and went upstairs.
Rose didn’t pursue the matter. Thomas was disturbed enough by what had happened with Ambrose. And they were both tired. A good night’s sleep was what was called for.
The next morning they made their way back to Brierdon, a much more leisurely drive, sparing the horses who had performed so valiantly the day before. It being a fine, clear morning, Rose and Thomas decided to take the curricle with Bucephalus tied on behind—a position the horse made clear he did not like. Kirk followed with the chaise and four.
“Now,” Rose said when they were out on the road and clear of traffic, “tell me the real reason you let Ambrose escape.”
He glanced at her. “I don’t know if it will make any sense to you. It barely makes sense to me.” He drove on for a few minutes, then started to speak. “It occurred to me, as we were talking last night on that dark wharf, that Ambrose had been a slave, or as good as one. Bred by my uncle on one of his servants—he raped a maidservant, who then bore him a son. My uncle took that son in and trained him, almost from birth, to serve the family.
“I never realized it until now, but Ambrose was never given a choice, never given the freedom to decide his future. And right up until my uncle’s death, he was kept dependent on my uncle in order to do his job.” He looked at her. “That’s how slaves in other countries are treated. I saw it. I lived it.”
“And you think it’s the same thing?” Rose couldn’t see it. Ambrose didn’t have any whip scars. He’d lived a fine life as far as she could see.
“He wasn’t treated with the kind of brutality I experienced, no. And I don’t think my uncle would have recognized it as a kind of slavery, and neither did Ambrose, though from his bitterness about his life, I’m sure he felt it. But when you’ve lived slavery, even for a short time as I did, you recognize it.”
“And so you let him get off scot-free?” She wasn’t as good a person as Thomas. She wanted Ambrose to pay.
“I let him leave with his life. He doesn’t get to keep the money he stole. He can start a new life. Jailing him would have been—well, it might have been justice by some people’s lights, but I couldn’t have lived comfortably with it.”
That was all that mattered, Rose decided. If Thomas was satisfied she would try to be.
* * *
* * *
“I’ll tell you something funny about this place up ahead,” Thomas said as they approached a small village. “It’s where Jemmy Pendell comes from. His wife was the hardest one to track down. We knew he was from Newport, but as it turns out there are quite a few places in England called Newport.” He broke off, frowning. “Is that horse trotting oddly?”
She looked. “I think it is.”
“Blast, I think it’s lost a shoe.” He slowed the horses to a walk. “I hope this place has a blacksmith.”
“You were saying, about Newport,” she prompted. “Jemmy Pendell’s wife lives here?”
“Yes, we searched the country far and wide, through several towns called Newport, and it turned out she was right on my doorstep. I never even realized this little place was called Newport, and yet I’ve driven through it a dozen times heading to Bristol from Brierdon.”
There was a coaching inn ahead and he pulled in. An ostler ran up and Thomas stepped down to consult with him.
“I’ll just stretch my legs,” Rose said. Mrs. Pendell lived here.
When Thomas had told her about his men, she’d felt for all the wives who had, like Rose, for the last four years believed themselves to be widows. She felt especially for Mrs. Pendell, who, if her husband was only nineteen, must be even younger. And she’d had a baby on the way when he left.
She wandered into the taproom and found a woman mopping the floor. “Do you know a Jemmy Pendell?”
“Aye, used to,” she said. “Went to sea and drownded, he did.”
“I’m looking for his wife.”
“His widow, you mean. Lives up there with Jemmy’s old granfer. House at the end of the lane.” The woman ushered her through the yard and pointed to a small stone cottage.
Rose strolled up the lane and found a neat, plain cottage in a garden bursting with vegetables, fruit and flowers, mainly roses. Not an inch of space was free of something either productive or pretty. It was both practical and charming.
Rose knocked. A pretty young woman answered the door. “Yes? Can I help you?” A small piquant face peeped out from behind her skirts. A little girl, about three years old, with wide blue eyes.
Something caught in Rose’s throat. If her baby had lived it would be about this little girl’s age.
“I . . . I was just admiring
your roses,” she said, because of course she couldn’t admit her real reason for coming.
Mrs. Pendell looked heartbreakingly young to be a widow, and wore a drab, faded purplish gray dress that washed all the color from her face. Poor people couldn’t afford to buy new clothes in black when they were bereaved; they simply dyed all their clothes black. And after a few washings, the black turned into this drab purplish-gray. The little girl was dressed in the same dreary gray.
“I’m sorry, I should introduce myself, Lady Rose Brierdon. And I wondered, could I buy some of your beautiful roses?”
Mrs. Pendell’s eyes widened. She bobbed an awkward curtsey. “Oh, m’lady, I couldn’t sell them. You’re welcome to have them for nothing.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Rose said firmly. “But I would love some.” She waited. Dreadful manners, but she’d had an idea.
“Well, if you insist . . .” the young woman said uncertainly. She produced a pair of shears from inside and walked around the garden, cutting roses. The little girl followed, picking daisies from the grass verge and handing them to Rose.
“My grandfather-in-law grows the roses and he’ll be right sorry he missed you. His pride and joy, them roses.” She gave a little laugh. “He’ll be cross with me for selling them. He says roses come from God and should be given away for love, not money.”
“A lovely thought but not very practical,” Rose said. “I couldn’t help but notice, are you a widow?”
She nodded. “Four years now we lost my Jemmy at sea.” She indicated the little girl. “Suzy never knew her da.”
“She’s a lovely child.”
“That she is.” Mrs. Pendell rumpled her daughter’s curls fondly. The lump in Rose’s throat grew.
“That’s perfect,” Rose said when a dozen roses had been picked. She gave the young woman a ten-pound note.
“Oh, no, m’lady, I couldn’t accept that—it’s far too much.”
“Nonsense. They’d charge more than that in London. Besides I don’t have anything smaller.”
“Then take them for nothing, please, I couldn’t—”
“I have an idea,” Rose said briskly. “I was once a widow too, and I cannot bear to see a pretty young woman such as yourself—nor a dear little girl like yours—dressed in widow’s weeds, especially as your mourning period is well and truly over. It would please me greatly if you used some of this money to make yourself and Suzy a pretty dress in your favorite color. You do sew, don’t you?”
“Of course, m’lady, but I really couldn’t accept—”
“Please,” Rose said. “It would make me so happy.” She put her hand on Mrs. Pendell’s arm and added in a coaxing voice, “Wouldn’t you like to see this little darling in something pretty for a change?”
The young woman’s eyes filled with tears. “I would. Thank you, m’lady,” she whispered.
“Good. Next time I come through here I’ll expect to see you both wearing something pretty. Promise?”
Mrs. Pendell gave her a misty smile. “I promise.”
* * *
* * *
“I had a nice little walk,” Rose said to Thomas as they drove out of Newport, her arms full of roses. “Horseshoe all fixed?”
“Yes. Where did you get those?” His eyes grew dark with suspicion. “Rose, you didn’t go looking for Mrs. Pendell, did you? It would be cruel to get her hopes up.”
“As if I would do any such thing, Thomas.” She lifted the roses and inhaled the scent. They really were superb.
She glanced at him. He was back to worrying about his men, she could tell. She hoped there would be some good news soon.
* * *
* * *
The letter from Wilmott came two weeks later. Thomas seized it with trepidation, scanned it rapidly and gave a shout of joy and relief. “He’s done it! He’s tracked them down. My men are coming home.”
He seized Rose around the waist and whirled her off her feet. “They’re coming home!” He set her down, dizzy and laughing, and picked up the letter again. “Wilmott says, ‘By the time you read this they’ll be on their way, making for Southampton on a ship called the Aurelia. I’m sending this letter by an earlier ship in the hopes that you’ll get it in time to meet them when they arrive.’”
Rose had never seen him quite so elated. The unfettered relief in his eyes was an indicator of just what a weight he’d carried all this time, as if he didn’t deserve true happiness while the men he’d promised to bring home remained in captivity. “I’m going, Rose. I’ll leave today.”
He rang the bell for Holden and ordered the traveling chaise to be prepared.
He made no mention of taking Rose with him, and though she would have loved to go, to witness the men’s reaction when they reached their native shores at long last, after years of hopelessness she recognized that this would be a private moment, a bonding experience that only they should share. To have a stranger there, however well intentioned, would only inhibit them.
So she helped Thomas pack his bag and sent him on his way with a kiss and a smile and a heart full of love.
Chapter Fifteen
It isn’t what we say or think that defines us, but what we do.
—JANE AUSTEN, SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
The Aurelia docked at Southampton on a cool, gray, drizzly morning. Thomas stood in the rain, waiting, staring out over the water as if he could speed them ashore by concentration alone.
He was as tense as a bowstring. What condition would they be in?
They came ashore in a jolly boat. The oars dipped and pulled. The little boat skimmed so slowly across the water, it was agonizing. Half a dozen men in the boat, apart from the rowers, all head down against the rain—no, there was one tanned young face turned up to it, receiving the rain full on his face as if it were a miracle, a blessing.
And so it is, Jemmy Pendell, so it is, Thomas thought, his own sight blurring. He recalled his own reaction to rain after years under a scorching, pitiless sun.
The boat came on in an eerie silence, the only sound the dip and creak of the oars, the slap of the waves against the pilings, and overhead the mournful screech of gulls. Usually when sailors returned home there was much laughter and talk, men eager to get home.
But nobody was laughing, nobody was smiling. And nobody was talking at all.
The silence and the stillness were disturbing.
Thomas’s chest was hollow. Why so silent? He peered through the drizzle, trying to make out their expressions.
And then he realized: Jones was not among them. Only four of the five men were coming home.
But Wilmott’s letter had said that he’d found them all. So where was Jones? Had he died on the voyage home?
Thomas felt sick at the thought.
The boat drew closer, their faces became clearer and he realized why everyone was so silent and why there was no laughter or talking.
They were trying not to cry. The men’s faces were working silently, their lips pressed tightly together. Their eyes were wet, and not just from the rain.
The jolly boat reached the wharf. Dyson climbed up first. He looked thinner and browner, but otherwise much the same. He looked around him in wonder, as if unable to believe his eyes.
O’Brien was next, agile, brown and wiry. He took two steps ashore, sank to his knees and kissed the ground dramatically, half joking, half sincere.
Jemmy Pendell climbed the ladder, still skinny, but not as scrawny as the last time Thomas had seen him, on the auction block. He stood staring around him, like Dyson, in wonder and faint disbelief.
Thomas remembered how that felt.
Dodds came last, his bald head shining in the rain. He stepped ashore, looked up at the sky, held out his hands, rolled his eyes and said, “So here I am, back in England after all these years and it’s still bloody raining, wouldn’t you know it?
”
It broke the ice. The men all burst out laughing. They hugged each other and danced around in the rain. “We’re home, we’re really home!”
“England!”
“Never thought I’d see the old country again.”
And then they saw Thomas. “Commander, Mr. Beresford, sir—you came!” They crowded around him, a little awkward, then Jemmy stepped forward and hugged him. Thomas hugged him back, tears streaming down his face and he didn’t care who saw it. They each hugged him in turn, even O’Brien, who finished it with a light playful punch to the shoulder. His eyes were wet with tears as well.
Dyson hugged him, thumped his back and then shook his hand. “I dunno how you managed this sir, but I’ll owe you for the rest of—”
“Nobody owes anyone anything,” Thomas said gruffly.
“But the ransom—we know it weren’t the navy. It was you, wasn’t it, sir?”
“It was a gentleman who wishes to remain anonymous,” Thomas said. “He was leaving the country and decided to do something worthwhile with his money.” Ambrose’s little leather-bound trunk proved to contain very close to the sum that he’d sent Wilmott off with. He’d paid it back into Rose’s account.
“Well, whoever paid the money,” Dyson said, clearly not believing Thomas’s tale, “we know it was you who brought us back, sir. I didn’t believe you could. I heard where you got sent and well, it’s a life sentence ain’t it, the galleys? I figured that was the end of that and I’d spend the rest of my life in that place.”
“You promised you’d bring us home and you did,” Jemmy said, fighting his tears. “Dunno how, but you did.”
“I didn’t bring you all home, though, did I?” he said. “What happened to Jones?” He braced himself for the bad news.
Instead they laughed. “After all the girls Jones played fast and loose with, he got himself caught by a pretty little Arab girl,” Dodds said.