Marriage of Mercy

by Carla Kelly

‘Please don’t return him to Dartmoor,’ she pleaded.

  He smirked at her. ‘Ask me nicely.’

  ‘I’m begging you,’ she said softly as she sank to her knees. ‘I’m on my knees. Put him in the gaol in Exeter, if you must. Peace has been declared! How long can it be? But don’t send him back to Dartmoor.’

  She was speaking to Lord Thomson’s back now. He laughed, but did not turn around.

  ‘What makes you think for even one second that I care what happens to this prisoner, who has been impersonating my bastard cousin? For that matter, that I care what happens to you?’

  He did look at her then and she recoiled from the unkindness in his eyes. ‘All you are to me is an unnecessary expense, thirty pounds per annum of annoyance and money that is rightly mine.’

  ‘Thirty pounds? Judas money,’ Rob said, his voice filled with contempt.

  Lord Thomson brought his cane down on Rob’s shoulder again and again. Grace shrieked at him to stop, looking around for help. Emery sat like a stump. She twisted around to see Smathers’s face, so inscrutable.

  ‘Stop him, stop him,’ she whispered. In ten years of feeling powerless, she had never felt as helpless as right now, with the marquis’s blows raining down on the man she loved, a man she could not defend.

  With what seemed like incredible slowness, Smathers sauntered to Lord Thomson, who continued to beat Rob Inman, lying on his side now, his eyes closed. Smathers grabbed the cane.

  ‘Temper, temper, my lord,’ he said, his voice light and teasing.

  Or was it? Grace raised her head to look at Ugly Butler. For the smallest moment, she thought she saw great contempt of his own. The moment passed; all she saw was Lord Thomson’s thug, the butler who had found the damning miniature in the first place.

  Gently, so gently, Smathers tugged the marquis away. In a moment, the cane was in his hand and Lord Thomson was breathing heavily, but sitting down by Emery, who leaned away from him. She rushed to Rob’s side, helping him upright as he shook his head to clear it. The cane had opened a cut above his ear. Grace bunched up her apron and dabbed at it, stopping the blood.

  Whatever you do, don’t let on how much you care, she told herself, letting pragmatism trump emotion. It would be infinitely worse for him.

  She offered no objection when Smathers hauled her to her feet, as if she were of no more consequence than ashes in a dustbin. She was no fool. There was every possibility that Rob would never survive the march to Dartmoor, not in the cold and the dark, and in pain. Any further protestation on her part would only bring down more torment on Rob’s head.

  Smathers gave her a push towards the stairs. ‘Gather your belongings and go back to the bakery. Do it now.’

  Grace looked at Smathers, searching his face for some kindness. Nothing. She started for the stairs, after the smallest brush of her hand against Rob’s face. She hoped the marquis hadn’t noticed; she didn’t care what Smathers thought.

  What happened next happened fast. Grace was halfway up the stairs when she heard a shout. Every nerve tingling, she whirled around to see Rob suddenly jerk away from the black-coated man, shove his wounded shoulder at Emery, who appeared to be trying to grab him, and bolt for the open front door.

  But there was Smathers, still holding Lord Thomson’s cane, but as a club now. ‘No!’ she screamed, as Rob Inman, wounded but on his feet, staggered towards the door, Ugly Butler behind him, with Reilly close on his heels.

  Mouth open, she watched Smathers swing the cane over his head, managing to clip Reilly and send him crashing to the floor. Unaware of the damage he was doing, Smathers blundered forwards, knocking down Emery again, who also seemed intent on reaching Rob. Shrieking like a girl, Lord Thomson backed into a corner.

  Grace stared at the carnage in front of her, the result of Smathers’s spectacular mismanagement, then at the door. She held up her hand as Rob stumbled through it, took a last look at her and vanished into the blackness. She sank down on the step and put her head in her hands, even as Lord Thomson came to life and screamed at her to do something for Reilly, bleeding and unconscious.

  ‘You told me to leave,’ she said. Calmly, she got to her feet and continued up the stairs. She stuffed her few possessions into a bag. The only thing of value in her room was the deed to Rob’s Nantucket home. Rob had nothing of value.

  On second thought, she pushed the deed down the front of her dress. Her apron was bloody where she had bunched it to staunch the wound on Rob’s head. The gory streaks would probably not deter Smathers from searching her, but she did not think Lord Thomson, unstable man that he was, would be inclined to touch her.

  She took a deep breath and went down the stairs. Smathers was sitting by the wounded man, holding a cloth to his head. Emery was speaking to Lord Thomson. He glanced at her and frowned, shaking his head. Her heart went out to Emery. He had tried so hard to keep Rob Inman safe. She sighed and looked away. No one had reckoned on a miniature of the real Captain Duncan.

  The still-open door looked far away. Grace forced herself to walk slowly towards it. In one of his rare moments of concern for others, Papa had told her once never to run from menacing dogs. ‘They will consider you fair game,’ he had said. ‘Walk slowly.’

  She did that now, passing Lord Thomson, who said filthy things at her, and Smathers, who narrowed his eyes and stared at her. Her heart thudded in her breast, but she moved gracefully through the foyer, slippery now with Reilly’s blood. She calmly plucked Rob’s pea coat from the statue and made for the open door.

  Grace was almost there when Smathers grabbed her arm. She jumped in terror, but knew better than to struggle.

  At first he did nothing more than look at her, his dark, expressionless eyes reminding her of that big fish. The sight had provided her with a summer’s worth of nightmares when she was younger.

  ‘If you have any inkling where he is, tell me.’

  He almost seemed to care; she felt only scorn. ‘You are the last person I would tell,’ she said matching him calm for calm, ‘if I knew, and I don’t.’

  ‘It will go bad for him,’ he told her, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘He is subject now to being shot on sight.’

  ‘Not if he can get to Plymouth and ship out,’ she said.

  ‘Not in his condition. You’re a fool if you think Lord Thomson or his butler will not block that avenue of escape!’

  Her contempt overflowed. The despicable man was speaking of himself in the third person, much like royalty. Good Lord, she thought, disgusted and finally beyond fear. What a bumbler he was.

  ‘Mr Smathers, I will hate you until I die,’ she said.

  ‘That’s a damned long time,’ he said. ‘Better rethink it, if you ever hope to see Rob Inman again—oh, God, Rob Inman, a sailing master! You two have diddled me and I don’t like it.’

  ‘I don’t care what you like or don’t like,’ she told him, standing outside the door now. Snow was falling more heavily now. She felt tears start in her eyes, thinking of Rob stumbling about in the snow, wounded, with nowhere to go. ‘Mr Selway told me to trust no one.’

  ‘Selway, eh? Is he that solicitor you thought to find in

  Exeter when I followed you?’

  ‘You did not!’ she declared, chilled at his abilities, if it was true.

  ‘Of course I did. Didn’t find Selway, did you? I doubt he exists.’

  ‘Of course he does and he’s a far better man than you,’ she snapped back.

  He only shrugged. ‘What fools we are.’

  She slammed the door, but she heard his laughter through it. Grace put her hands over her ears.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Upstairs in the Wilsons’ rooms, Grace cried in Mrs Wilson’s arms. When she could speak, she told the Wilsons everything.

  ‘I have no idea where he is!’ she lamented. ‘How far can he go? Lord Thomson struck him so many times.’ She pounded the pea coat in her lap in her frustration. ‘He will freeze!’

  ‘Now, Gracie,’ Mr Wilson sa
id, obviously mulling over the matter, ‘you would think Lord Thomson would be glad to know that Captain Duncan is long dead. Why does it matter to him if Rob Inman is captured or not? The captain is dead and the war is over. The Americans will leave soon. Why?’

  Why indeed? Grace wondered, as she came downstairs into the dark bakery, still carrying Rob’s coat and her bag. She took out Rob’s handwritten deed of sale to his Nantucket house. Looking around, Grace lifted the day-old bread bin from its compartment and slid the deed underneath.

  ‘You tell me to trust no one, Mr Selway,’ she said quietly. ‘I believe you, but that is all I believe of you now, because you have been no help to me.’

  The deed was between her and Rob Inman, a tangible link to a better life. She got up once to retrieve it—just to hold it again—then changed her mind and left it there. She couldn’t help herself, sobbing out loud as she remembered Christmas morning and his calm desire to give her a home, even if something happened to him. And now it had.

  * * *

  Grace finally slept, but woke with a start at the sound of banging on the front door and angry voices. Heart in her throat, she listened as Mr Wilson lumbered down the stairs and unlocked the door.

  Grace shrieked when the door to her room crashed open. It was Reilly, the black-coated man, followed by Mr Smathers.

  ‘Turn out now!’ Reilly shouted. ‘We’re searching the premises. Outside!’

  He used his cudgel to raise the blankets, as Grace glared at him and tugged on her chemise. The man grabbed Grace and pulled her from the bed.

  ‘Just a minute!’ Mr Wilson roared. Reilly whirled around and raised his cudgel as Grace threw herself in front of him, pushing against his arms.

  ‘I am moving as fast as I can!’ she implored. ‘Please don’t hurt these good people.’

  He lowered the weapon as Grace dragged on her dress. Not looking at the Runner, Grace buttoned her dress, tied on her apron and scuffed her bare feet into her shoes. She reached for Rob’s pea coat, but he stopped her.

  ‘Leave it here. That bag, too. We’re going through everything you took away from the house.’ He leered at her. ‘And if I feel like it, I might search you, too.’ He started to reach under her dress and she backed away, to come up against Mr Smathers, who stood in the doorway.

  ‘You watched her get dressed!’ Smathers roared. ‘That’s enough! Grace, why did you get mixed up with an imposter?’

  There was no point in appealing to his better nature; he had none. ‘I chose him, Mr Smathers,’ she said, her voice brittle. ‘I doubt you would understand.’

  Smathers shrugged. He glared at the Runner, then spoke in a lower voice to Grace. ‘Reilly’s tightly wound.’

  She left her room, flinching as she heard the sound of a knife ripping into her mattress. She turned around, surprised to find Ugly Butler right behind her, his face as set as hers. Furious, she gave him a shove with both hands.

  ‘Why destroy my room?’ she raged, shoving him again. ‘I didn’t sew Rob into the mattress!’

  Lips tight, she waited for Smathers to strike her. Instead, he grabbed her wrists and held them, backing her towards the outside door, where the Wilsons stood in the snow.

  ‘Behave yourself, Grace Curtis, if you can.’ Smathers held her until she looked away, then gave her a little push towards Mrs Wilson, who enveloped her in her cloak.

  ‘I despise him,’ Grace said, when Smathers re-entered the bakery. ‘He has spied on us at every turn.’ She turned bleak eyes on the Wilsons. ‘I pray he has not harmed Emery.’

  Silent, they stood in the snow, listening, as Reilly and Smathers, joined by the town’s less-than-enthusiastic constable, worked their way through the bakery. Lights came on all along the road and others in their nightclothes came to stand beside them and watch.

  ‘I thought an Englishman’s home was his castle,’ the tinsmith said, loud enough to be heard by Reilly and Smathers, when they finally left the store as dawn approached.

  ‘Not in Quimby, apparently,’ Lady Tutt offered. She was dressed in her nightclothes, but had taken the time to attach a purple turban to her head.

  ‘The show is over,’ Reilly said, waving his cudgel in a shooing motion as the sun began to rise. ‘Anybody with news of the fugitive had better let me know. He’s a danger to the community.’

  ‘So’s my pet rabbit,’ someone yelled. Everybody laughed as they straggled away.

  ‘Miss?’

  Grace turned around to see Bobby Gentry, the little boy whose coin and dignity Rob had rescued from the mud last summer. He had wrapped a thin blanket around his nightshirt.

  ‘Bobby, it’s too cold!’

  He plucked at her sleeve. ‘Please miss, will you have the day-old bread out soon?’

  ‘Soon as we clean up the bakery,’ she told him. ‘Cross my heart. Are you hungry?’

  He nodded. ‘There’s something more, miss.’

  ‘Yes, my dear?’ she asked, wishing him indoors.

  Bobby leaned closer. ‘He’s with us.’

  She hoped Smathers, his back to her, had not heard her sudden intake of breath. She took Bobby’s hand and led him towards the bakery. It gave her considerable satisfaction to close the door on Smathers and Reilly, who started arguing with each other right there on the High Street.

  Grace crouched by Bobby again. ‘Is he all right? He was hurt.’

  Bobby nodded. ‘Mama fixed him. She fixes a lot of stuff with vinegar.’

  Grace laughed, more out of relief than anything else. She went to the pastry keeper, taking out all of yesterday’s remaining sticky buns. Bobby’s eyes widened.

  ‘Miss, I don’t have…’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said, putting the pastries in a box. ‘They’re a day old. No arguments, young man.’ Grace knelt by him again. ‘Tell Rob Inman I will find a way to get to your place.’

  Bobby shook his head. ‘He said you would say that and told me to tell you not to take a chance.’ He glanced at the two men in the street, alone now because Quimby’s residents had returned to their homes. Even the constable had vanished. ‘Gor, miss!’ he whispered. ‘That bald man has been standing in front of the candlemaker’s for months now! How can you get up the stairs?’

  ‘I’ll think of something,’ she whispered back, with no idea at all. She opened the door and gave him a gentle smack on the seat of his trousers. ‘Go on home, Bobby. I’ll have the day-old bread soon. Just come at your usual time.’

  After the boy left, Grace just stood in the centre of the room and let out a huge sigh, closing her eyes in relief that at least she knew where Rob was. She had heard Reilly trying to convince the sceptical constable to organise a house-by-house search of Quimby, to find one prisoner of war from a war that was over, and who wasn’t even the man they thought. It made no sense to her.

  When she opened her eyes, Nahum Smathers was standing in front of her. She couldn’t help her involuntary step backwards, which made him narrow his eyes.

  ‘Between you and me, Rob Inman would be better served if I returned him to Dartmoor.’ Smathers held up his hand when she started to speak. ‘Patience, Grace! Hear me out. Better I find him than Lord Thomson or Reilly. He’s a Bow Street Runner and I can tell you they have no compunctions.’

  ‘I can’t see a particle of difference between you and the Runner,’ Grace replied. ‘Didn’t Lord Thomson look right at you and say his butler had found the incriminating miniature?’

  He had a temper no longer than hers. Smathers took her by the shoulders, but seemed just to want her attention and not her fear.

  ‘You’re so certain he was looking at me?’ was all Smathers said. He turned on his heel and left her alone.

  * * *

  Smathers watched all day from his customary post across the street and Grace knew he was watching her this time. Grace went about her business, trying not to look at the candlemaker’s shop, trying to keep her eyes from the dusty windows upstairs that constituted the Gentrys’ two rooms over the shop
. Once, during the afternoon that seemed to stretch on for ever, she thought she saw Rob standing at one of the windows.

  ‘I swear I will smack you, if you do that again,’ she grumbled under her breath.

  ‘I beg your pardon!’ Lady Tutt exclaimed, as she yanked her hand back from the loaf of bread she was pinching.

  ‘Not you, my lady,’ Grace said, hard put to keep the exhaustion from her voice. She was tired of worry, weary of wondering if the constable would make good Lord Thomson’s threat to turn out the whole village. She glanced at Smathers across the street. Did the dratted man not blink? Did he honestly think she would lead him to Rob? Why was Lord Thomson so determined to trip up first Captain Duncan, and now Rob Inman? Was this much turmoil worth thirty pounds a year?

  She had no answers; neither did the Wilsons. To make it worse, the Runner had taken up his own post inside the bakery. He sat by the door, watching everyone who came and went. Leave! Leave! Grace wanted to scream at him, but she remained silent, thinking instead of Mr Smathers’s own admonition that she remain patient.

  To her relief, Emery strolled into Quimby later, making none of his attempts to skulk around and hide from Mr Smathers. He winked at her and took up his usual post under the elm tree, so bare in winter.

  * * *

  Even an endless day comes to an end and it came to a quicker one for the Runner. As the shadows started to lengthen, Mrs Wilson came out of the back room with a pan of biscuits. Surprised, Grace watched her. Why had Mrs Wilson baked at the end of the day?

  Mrs Wilson held the pan in the centre of the room, her only audience the Bow Street Runner. Mystified at Mrs Wilson, Grace watched him sniff and then swallow.

  ‘Grace, what was I thinking?’ she said finally. ‘I waited too long to bake these and now there is no one in the store! They’ll be day-old tomorrow.’ Mrs Wilson pressed one hand against her chest. ‘What folly!’

  ‘I couldn’t say,’ Grace replied, wondering what strange creature had suddenly invaded Mrs Wilson’s practical body.

  ‘It’s too late,’ Mrs Wilson insisted with a sigh, her eyes raised in despair. She went to Reilly, his eyes on the chocolate biscuits. ‘You have them. I’ll not be able to save them.’