by Amy Corwin
He studied her, noting how her hands played with the objects on her desk. She picked up a stubby pencil, put it down, and then picked up a quill before discarding that, as well.
His perceptions had changed. In the past, he would have assumed from her tone of voice and the handling of her writing utensils that she was annoyed and impatient with him. Now, he saw those things as revealing her anxiety. She had a lonely and precarious life at Ormsby. She never knew if he might decide he had had enough of her and demand she leave the only home she knew.
“It will not take long.” He scratched the tender spot where his jaw met his neck. “I think I understand what happened. However, you could do me the favor of confirming it. If you would.”
Her nervous hands stilled, but she did not raise her head. Her eyes remained fixed on her desk.
When she said nothing, he continued. “That jacket and cap …. They were not yours, were they? You never wore them.”
She stiffened and her shoulders straightened. The hostile expression on her face slowly ebbed like the tide, uncovering a vulnerable hesitancy that aged her terribly. She passed a shaking hand over her lined forehead.
Then her chin rose. “No. I never wore them.”
“But you know who did, do you not?”
“I — I'm not sure what you mean.”
“You saw Lionel when he returned home, did you not? The night before we went out on the Twilight. And when you found out what had happened, you took the jacket and cap. You hid them.”
“I have nothing more to say to you.”
“Just tell me if I am wrong. About any of it,” he said, as gently as he could.
Again she ran her hands over her forehead. The silence lasted so long that he almost gave up hope of an answer.
“You are not wrong. Now get out. I have nothing more to say to you.”
For once, he was glad to obey. When he closed the door, he heard the sounds of her muffled sobs: raw, terrible cries torn out of her.
He walked away quickly, feeling hollow and numb with grief. His aunt had been the intelligent and kind one in this drama. She had known what had happened ever since she learned the fate of the Twilight. And she had chosen the best — the only — reasonable course.
The butler hailed him as he entered the foyer. Hugh was so wrapped in his miserable thoughts that he nearly stepped on Mr. Symes’ highly polished toes.
“Mr. Caswell,” the butler repeated, stepping adroitly out of Hugh's path. “There is someone waiting for you. In your office.”
“Thank you.” Hugh turned on his heel and strode back the way he had come. The sooner he got this over with, the better.
His office door was open. Inside, Gaunt stood staring out of the window with his hands clasped behind his back. His sharp ears must have heard Hugh's tread, for he turned as Hugh stepped over the threshold.
“My lord.” Gaunt inclined his head and moved away from Hugh's desk. His dark eyes flicked over Hugh's face. He frowned. “Has something happened?”
“A sudden return of rational thought, perhaps.” Hugh hesitated. Thanks to his decision to hire an agent, matters were now … delicate.
“I see.” Gaunt appeared as awkward as Hugh felt, shifting from one foot to the other. “I enquired about your brother's loss of the Twilight. I'm afraid there is no possibility that the individual involved with the debt was anywhere near the shipyard at any time preceding the accident.”
“I suspected as much.”
Gaunt nodded.
“You suspected it as well, did you not?” Hugh asked.
“A … different set of circumstances had occurred to me. I was hesitant to raise the possibility ….”
“The possibility that it was my brother who sabotaged the Twilight, rather than lose it?” Hugh stared at his desk. “He was in such a strange mood that morning. Subdued and yet jumpy. Nervous. I put it down to his visit to the vicar and his pending entry to university. He did not want me to go out on the boat. I insisted.” He paused before he continued in a raw voice, “I would have gladly paid his debt. Nothing was worth this.”
“Pride,” Mr. Gaunt said. “He did not want you to know about his weakness. The vicar said he loathed his frailty and tried to stop, but he just could not stay away from the betting book at White's.”
Hugh hands shook. He shoved them into his pockets and faced Gaunt. “My God, he's already buried. On hallowed ground in the churchyard.”
Suicides were buried at crossroads with a stake through the heart.
“I had wondered,” Gaunt said. “You realize this is sheer speculation.”
“He wore the jacket and cap — my aunt saw him. She guessed the truth days ago and hid the garments, though she should have destroyed them.”
“He may have been checking on the Twilight, knowing he had to give it up in payment for his wager. And he wanted one last sail.”
Hugh stared at him, understanding at last what he was offering. A gracious way out for all of them. And Lionel could remain in the churchyard next to all the past generations of Castles.
“Are you suggesting an accident, then?” Hugh asked.
“Yes. An act of God.” Gaunt nodded once with finality. “That is what will be in the report. You will receive it by the end of the week. The Twilight went down in a storm, taking the life of Mr. Lionel Castle in a tragic accident. We can only be grateful the earl’s life was spared.”
“So he can pay you?” Hugh asked with a chuckle.
“Of course. I'm always grateful for business.”
“Then the matter is settled.” Hugh shook hands with Gaunt and walked with him to the front door, bemused and relieved. No one need ever know. Lionel could rest in peace.
By the end of the day, Hugh would be the earl again. Everything would fall back into dreary routine.
Except now he had no escape. The Twilight was gone, and Lionel was dead. And Helen would disappear as soon as he gave her the necklace weighing down his jacket pocket.
It almost made him want to throw the cursed thing into the ocean.
Chapter Forty-Three
“The virtue of silence is highly commendable ….” —The Complete Servant
Hugh turned and faced the stairway. It was time to become the earl once more. With heavy limbs that weighed more with each step, he climbed the stairs and went down the hall to his bedroom.
The huge chamber had not changed since he had left. The book he had been reading still rested on his bedside table with a piece of notepaper sticking out, marking his place. His brush lay neatly on the small table next to his washstand. A chessboard with the game he and Lionel had started still stood at the ready between two wing chairs. Despite the small indications of his occupancy, the room seemed cold and foreign now. The air smelled as stale as a mausoleum.
He shrugged aside his fancies and went to his chest, pulling out his scissors, shaving cup, soap and razor. Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he hesitated. For one wild moment, he wished he were an inquiry agent, free to live his life as he chose without the duties of an earldom — and the expectations of everyone who depended upon him.
He had enjoyed a few weeks of freedom. Slipping back into the traces and fastening the harness again was more difficult than he imagined.
Nonetheless, it was time.
With slow, measured snips, he removed the worst of his beard before starting to work with the razor. When he was done, a stranger stared back at him. His face had changed. He was neither the earl nor the inquiry agent. An aged stranger with a battered nose and sad eyes hovered in the mirror.
He threw the shaving implements down on the table and turned away. With methodical gestures, he pulled off his sober garments and exchanged them for a fine woolen jacket and long black pants, suitable for an earl to wear on a leisurely afternoon at his country estate.
Then, when he could delay no longer, he pulled the door open.
And came face to face with his aunt.
Her eyes grew huge as her face paled.
“Aunt Eloise!' he exclaimed, almost as surprised as she appeared. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” She pushed him inside and shut the door behind both of them. “Never mind. Stay in your room until I come to fetch you.”
“I beg your pardon?” he replied curtly.
“I should have expected this. Everything else has gone wrong. Well, never mind. Just stay here. I shall not be above an hour.”
Then she left.
Hugh stared at the door, nonplussed. He had expected surprise and shock at his reappearance, but nothing like his aunt's inexplicable reaction. He took a step forward, hand outstretched to grip the doorknob. Then he stopped. It would not hurt to wait an hour. In truth, he would like to be able to stave off the inevitable for a few years.
With a sigh, he picked up the book beside his table and deepened his acquaintance with Mr. Gulliver, who seemed to have almost as many issues with the Lilliputians as Hugh had with his relatives.
It was much more than an hour later when his aunt knocked at his door. When he opened it, she stood there, red-faced, cap askew, and her gray hair straggling around her head, coming loose in heavy sections from its pins. Before he could speak, a pin fell out of her hair, bounced off her shoulder and clattered to the floor.
He bent to pick it up. She snatched it from his fingers and thrust it back into her hair, giving it a curiously rakish air.
“May I leave my rooms now?” he asked in dulcet tones.
“Yes, and thank me as well.”
His brows rose. “May I ask why?”
“Did you want my sisters to stay indefinitely?”
“I'm afraid the thought had not occurred to me.”
“Of course not,” she replied rather impatiently. “I gathered as much when you strode out of your room as if you had not a care in the world. But unless you wished for them to see you and decide you required their immediate assistance after your ordeal, I had to get rid of them. They would never have left if they had seen you.”
“I see,” he replied, although in truth he did not. He failed to understand why Miss Elvira and Miss Esther Leigh would feel the necessity to stay if they realized he was alive. However, he had to assume his aunt knew her sisters better than he did.
“I am grateful, then,” he replied. In fact, he was amazed at her ability to take his reappearance in her stride without resorting to screams and babbling about ghosts returning from the dead.
He was not so sure he could have matched her sangfroid if the circumstances had been reversed.
“As well you should be,” she replied, as tart as ever. She studied his face with a frown. “What did you do to your nose?”
“Broke it. The mast hit me square in the face.”
“Landlubber.” She turned partially away and clasped her hands at her waist, twisting her fingers together. “I'm sorry about Lionel.”
He grasped her shoulder and squeezed it. The pain sharpening her words echoed in his heart. “I am too — I wish he had — well, I wish he had come to me.”
“He was too proud.”
“Not a good trait for a vicar-in-training.”
Her eyes flashed with angry denial before she caught herself. She threw him a tight smile. “He would have been a fine vicar.”
“Yes.”
She turned her back to him and walked to the window, her body stiff with agitation. “There’s that blue jacket and cap —”
“Gone. Lionel is buried in the churchyard next to our sister and mother. That's where he'll stay.”
She turned, her face wet with tears. “Thank God. I was so afraid if it was suicide —”
“Not another word. The matter is closed.”
“And you now have other things to consider,” she replied, wiping her face with a handkerchief. When she glanced up, her gaze grew sharp with mischief. “There is a young woman who insists upon staying in the maid's closest in my room. And an orphaned boy in Lionel's bed. Pray tell, what are you going to do about them?”
“Throw them both in the dungeons and chain them to the wall, I suppose.”
“What a shame you don't actually have a dungeon. You will have to make do with the wine cellar.”
“As long as neither of them can escape, that will do nicely.”
Chapter Forty-Four
“A reserved modesty is the best safeguard of virtue.” —The Complete Servant
Rubbing a honey and rosemary salve over the sore on her collarbone, Helen tried not to think about the future. Within the next day or so, she would have to say goodbye to Edward, Mr. Caswell and Miss Leigh. Her hands slowed and stopped, feeling too heavy to continue. What did it matter if her cuts and scrapes turned putrid?
Nothing seemed important. Despite a good night's sleep, she had to fight the urge to slide under the thin blanket covering her cot and stay there.
“Helen? Miss Archer?” Miss Leigh called from the doorway.
Helen hurriedly stood, rearranging her clothing and smoothing her hair back. “I am here,” she replied, stepping out of her cubbyhole.
“Good.” Miss Leigh waved her forward. “Come with me.”
Helen's heart sank, however she dutifully followed her. Despite the realization that she no longer had to play the role of lady's maid, she could not find the energy to break out of her recent habit of meek compliance. Miss Leigh walked along the hallway and down the grand stairway, her leather soles clacking against the wooden steps like little slaps.
To Helen's surprise, Miss Leigh escorted her to the huge library, a room Helen had never entered. Stepping over the threshold, Helen glanced around, awed. Bookcases stretched up two stories along the wall directly across from the door. An elaborately carved railing and wooden walkway ran around the circumference of the room, halfway up the wall, providing access to the rows of leather-bound books ringing the second storey. Several ladders on wheels allowed eager patrons to obtain volumes from the upper shelves.
A huge oriole window dominated the top of the right-hand wall, set to catch the evening sun. Large windows to the left opened onto a terrace and manicured garden. The room was so large that small islands of couches and chairs, anchored by lush oriental carpets, were strewn about, strategically placed to provide the illusion of comfortable places in which to curl up with a book.
Stepping forward hesitantly, Helen noted a huge desk by the windows opening out to the garden. A man stood nearby, gazing at the garden, his hands clasped behind his back. Her heart leapt as she recognized Hugh.
Then he turned, and she jerked to a halt. His beard was gone. However, despite his smooth jaw, she could never mistake him for anyone else.
And she realized with a sense of helplessness that he was handsome without his beard — very handsome — despite his slightly twisted nose, or perhaps because of it. When he smiled, she blushed and fastened her gaze on the desk, embarrassed to be caught staring.
“Come in, Miss Archer,” he said, gesturing to a deep green wing chair positioned in front of the desk.
When Miss Leigh stayed by the door, Helen hung back, too.
“Go on, Helen — Miss Archer,” Miss Eloise said. “While I unfortunately feel obliged to stay, I have a book to find.”
“A book? What book?” Helen suddenly found it extremely important — if not urgent — to assist Miss Leigh.
Hugh's firm gaze, combined with the alarming twinkle in his eyes, made her nervous.
“I have not yet decided on the book, therefore I suspect it may take me quite some time to find it.” With that, Miss Leigh drifted off to the shelves in the most distant corner of the room.
“Miss Archer?” Hugh held out his hand to her.
She sighed and walked towards him, wishing she would become violently ill. If she were unconscious like Edward, she could avoid the pending conversation. It might even be possible to remain so for months, if not years. As she drew near, he gestured to the chair again. She seated herself gingerly on the edge of the cushion. To her sur
prise, instead of sitting on the opposite side of the desk, he took a seat in the chair next to hers. He was so close she could feel the heat from his knee, just a few inches from her own.
“I'm afraid I owe you an apology,” he said. A warm smile curved his mouth, but a shadow of sadness hung in his eyes as he caught her gaze.
“No, don’t be ridiculous. I am sure you could not possibly owe me an apology. I fully realized that you were only here pursuing your inquiry. I suppose it was related to the missing earl and his brother. It is unfortunate that they were both lost at sea, but that is not your fault.” She tried to smile brightly, but her lips trembled. “You are ready to return to London now?”
“No. You are under a misapprehension that I cruelly fostered. I am not an inquiry agent.”
Her heart sank. He was some sort of aristocrat amusing himself with a wager. She glanced away, wanting to cry. He had seemed so ordinary and comfortable, just the sort of man she had always admired.
And she had been completely wrong. She had jumped to an unwarranted conclusion when she saw him at Second Sons. “I understand.”
His smile twisted into a grimace. “Actually, I'm the Earl of Monnow, Hugh Gerard Castle, at your service.”
“The earl?” Her heart fluttered with relief for Miss Leigh. Helen looked across the library, searching for the older lady.
“Miss Leigh knows,” he said, as she started to rise. “My brother, unfortunately, did not survive.”
“I'm so sorry. But I'm afraid I don’t understand. Why would you return to your home pretending to be an inquiry agent, masquerading as a steward?”
He shook his head. “I feared the Twilight had been sabotaged. But it was merely … bad luck. I was not as good a sailor as I thought I was.”
“It was not your fault. I am sure you did everything you could to save your brother.” She reached out and gave his broad hand a squeeze. “You must have been beside yourself with grief to have thought such a dreadful thing.”
“That is as good an explanation as any for my behavior,” he replied heavily.