“Probably yours,” the tutor said. “Then why did you ask how much I wanted?”
“Because even though I’m innocent, if you go about raising questions, people will naturally assume the worst. Ten pounds to stay away from the shops and forget about all of this.”
“Not enough.”
“Twenty-five.” Ethan glared at him. “And I pegged you for a scoundrel the first time we met.”
“It takes one to know one, Mr. Knight. And I would prefer fifty.”
Clinching his fists again, Ethan thought about how he would like to wipe that maddening little smile off the man’s face. But he was backed against a wall at the moment. “Very well. But you’ll have to wait until Monday.”
“Dipping into the tithes, eh?”
“That’s none of your business.” An idea occurred to him, so clever that he had to force himself not to smile. “Prove yourself a patient man, and you’ll get ten times that. Just as soon as I’ve married Miss Matthews.”
“Five hundred pounds?”
Mr. Rayborn seemed to consider this, while Ethan held his breath. But at length the man shook his head. “I’d rather not. I have a feeling once you’ve married her, you’ll not be so concerned about your pristine reputation.”
He left after Ethan reluctantly agreed to meet him at the statue of Archilles in Hyde Park on Monday afternoon. It was with heroic effort that Ethan participated in conversation at the vicar’s table ten minutes later. Forkfuls of boiled brisket of beef, carrots, potatoes, and suet dumplings went down his throat like they were made of pasteboard, tasting all the same. He could only force down a bite of the black-currant pudding and was about to plead a headache and ask to be excused when the vicar looked up from spooning cream liberally on his own dessert.
“Have you stopped by the Blake house lately, Mr. Knight?”
“Not since Sunday,” Ethan replied.
“I’m just wondering how the Russell infant is.”
“Russell?”
“The groomsman . . . Stanley Russell. I happened upon Doctor Raine this afternoon, and he said the child might have died a couple of nights ago had Mr. Russell not gone out for medicine.”
****
“You see, it’d be like takin’ a stroll of about seven thousand steps,” Mr. Duffy said to Trudy over bowls of chicken soup, trying to explain the 2,310-yard length of most rowing races in the Henley Regatta currently taking place at Henley-on-Thames near Oxford. “Providing you had big feet such as mine, that is.”
“And provided you could walk on water,” Stanley added. Next to him Penny divided her attention between the conversation and little Guy, who sat upon a rug near the bare hearth and droolingly chewed on the tail of a toy wooden horse.
“I don’t like boats,” Avis said with a shudder. “Was in one that tipped over when I was a girl. I don’t even like to look at ’em.”
“Then it’s good you’re marryin’ a soldier and not a sailor,” Susan told her with eyes wide.
“Ain’t it, though?” Avis agreed. “I’ve said to Edwin many a time—”
“Pardon me . . .”
Naomi turned toward the corridor doorway at the sound of the familiar voice. She was not surprised to see Daniel. You knew I would be wondering.
“Miss Prewitt let me in,” he explained.
“Will you join us, Mr. Rayborn?” Mrs. Bacon asked while Naomi rose from her chair.
“No, thank you. I can stay but a minute and would like to speak with Naomi, if I may.”
Three minutes later Naomi sat with him outside on the darkened steps to the service entrance. She was glad she had insisted on bringing out a bowl of soup, for he took in five spoonfuls before sighing contentedly and thanking her. “Stanley was right, Naomi.”
“Oh dear. Mr. Knight admitted it?”
“Never. But he agreed to pay me fifty pounds not to say anything to anybody else.”
With sinking heart she listened to his account of their meeting. In spite of her prayers for God’s will, she had not been able to surrender a tiny hope that William would be the one to win Sarah’s heart. But she still did not want to believe that Mr. Knight could have feet of clay.
“But what if it’s so, his wanting to guard himself against false rumors?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Innocent people fight against lies, Naomi. They don’t pay to have them silenced. And they especially don’t steal money with which to do it.”
“What will you do?”
“I’ll meet him as agreed and bring the money to Vicar Sharp right away.”
“Shouldn’t you involve the police?”
“That will be the vicar’s decision. I would imagine he would want to look at his tithe records. My major concern is keeping Mr. Knight away from Sarah.”
“Should we tell her beforehand? He’ll be here Sunday, you know.”
“I thought about that on the way over. It’s important that he isn’t frightened away from meeting me the next day. He’s a clever fellow and would sense any change in her attitude. Besides, I won’t have proof until we meet.”
“She’ll take this hard,” Naomi said.
He nodded agreement. “Better for her to be disappointed now than for the rest of her life.”
Chapter Forty-Four
“A curate?” Disdain mingled with disbelief in Myra’s angular face. “I don’t even go to church. Why would I wish to keep company with some milksop preacher?”
Across the counter from her, Ethan nodded. He was careful not to act too familiar, as he still could not afford to present a suspicious picture to anyone passing by. “And who were you with Monday evening, Miss Rose?”
She lifted her chin, as haughty as a dowager. “My beau’s name is Robert. He’s a carpenter, and we plan to marry next year. And that’s all you’re getting, sir, because my personal life is none of your affair.”
Ethan smiled. “I knew you could act.”
On his way to the mews behind Berkeley Street, he thanked whatever fate caused the vicar to mention the Russell infant last night, for it had set his thoughts down the path leading to a solution to his predicament. Well worth the sleepless hours it took to explore it from every possible angle. His steps were light now upon the pavement in spite of the fog in his head.
In his inebriated condition Monday evening, the horse had looked like any other. But he knew now that Stanley Russell had been in the chemist’s shop. And since Ethan never saw him, that meant that Stanley never looked him fully in the face. Hence, the beau named Robert. After all, a man worried about his child would not be in total command of his senses.
As to Mr. Rayborn’s threat to query shopkeepers . . . Ethan had realized some time in the wee hours that no shopkeeper would be offering information to a stranger about someone who was always an agreeable customer. And what would anyone have to say? He seldom ever went inside W & J SANGSTER in the daytime. As to being seen in the vicinity, he couldn’t be expected to circle around the street of shops in the course of paying calls to the sick.
All Mr. Rayborn had against him was a panicked groomsman’s dubious recollection. And he had proved himself to be a blackmailer, a far more serious offense in the eyes of the law than courting a shopgirl. Not that Ethan intended to turn Mr. Rayborn in. The sooner this blew over the better, and he could ill afford too many questions about his own activities. But he would certainly see that the man paid for his threats and had no more opportunity to influence Sarah against him.
And then you’re due a long nap, young man, he told himself, covering a yawn. The headache excuse would come in handy after all.
He looked through the wide doors of the coachroom of the stable behind the Blake house. The groomsman was squatted to grease a wheel axis of the coach. Ethan cleared his throat. “Good morning, Mr. Russell.”
Stanley Russell stood. His hands were black and shining, as was the rag he held. “Mr. Knight.”
“You’ll understand if I don’t offer to shake hands,” Ethan jested, stepping on in
side. “But I just learned your little son had some trouble Monday night and wanted to see how he’s faring.”
“Ah . . . he’s almost recovered.” The man’s shirt-sleeves were rolled up. He passed a bare arm across his sweating forehead. “Thank you for asking.”
“I’m so relieved. But now I have to scold you.”
The groomsman blinked. “Sir?”
Folding his arms, Ethan said, “Neither Vicar Sharp nor I would have minded getting out of our beds that night to come here and pray.”
“Ah . . . thank you, sir.” Uncertainty was as thick on his face as the grease on his hands.
“Well, what’s past is past. At least the little fellow’s well. But it must have given you quite a fright.”
The groomsman’s eyes shone. “I thought he’d die, Mr. Knight. I love the boy.”
“But of course you do.” Stepping closer, Ethan risked a little grease to squeeze the man’s shoulder. “Any man who’d ride bareback to save his child is a hero in my book. But do remember what I said if you ever need us again, Mr. Russell. We’re not only servants of God, but servants to our congregation as well.”
* * *
“It seems the French paid a heavier price for the war than we did,” Sarah said to her tutor in the library. “What with their own revolution following on its heels.”
Mr. Rayborn nodded. “Quite so. Trade actually increased between Britain and the new country. Our industrial and trading expansion marched hand in hand with the American expansion westward.”
“I beg your pardon?”
They both looked to the door where Mrs. Bacon stood wearing an apologetic expression. “Mrs. Blake would like to speak with you, Mr. Rayborn.”
“Now?” Sarah asked.
“That’s what she said, Miss Matthews.”
As Mr. Rayborn pushed out his chair, Sarah noticed an odd resignation on his face. “Do you know what this is about, Mr. Rayborn?”
“I may. But why don’t you go ahead and read the Coleridge ballad?”
“You’re not leaving, are you?” she said when he picked up his satchel from where it leaned against a table leg.
The green eyes were still sober, but he smiled. “Everything will be all right, Miss Matthews. Sooner or later, you’ll understand. Please remember that.”
“Understand what?” But he gave her a nod and turned for the door, where the housekeeper waited self-consciously as if to escort him. Or was it to see that she didn’t come along?
After staring at the empty doorway for a full minute, Sarah pushed out her chair. Mrs. Bacon stood in the corridor near the landing. “Oh, but Mrs. Blake wishes to see him alone, Miss Matthews.”
Sarah could still hear her tutor’s footsteps on the stairs. “I’ll tell her you warned me,” she said, passing her on by. The door to the sitting room was just clicking shut when she reached the ground floor landing. She hastened over to open it again. Mr. Rayborn, halfway between the door and a chair near Grandmother’s, turned toward her. Grandmother and Marie looked at her from their chairs, and Ethan from the divan.
“Mrs. Bacon gave me your message,” Sarah said before anyone could speak. “But I would like to know what is going on.”
Ethan shook his head and got to his feet. “I’m sorry, Sarah, but this is not an appropriate subject for a young lady.”
“She is eighteen, Madame,” Marie said. “Madame cannot shield her forever.”
Still looking at Sarah, Grandmother nodded. “Very well.”
While Mr. Rayborn went on to the chair to Grandmother’s left, Ethan hurried over to take Sarah by the arm. “Come, Sarah, sit with me.”
“What is this about?” she asked, allowing herself to be guided across the room.
“It concerns Mr. Rayborn,” Grandmother said. “Avis is wiring Mr. Mitchell, but I will have some answers right away.”
Mr. Rayborn nodded. “Very well, Mrs. Blake.”
While Ethan held her right hand, Sarah sat in mute bewilderment. The anger in Grandmother’s expression caused her to appear less frail and more like the woman who had so intimidated Sarah in the parlor five years ago.
“Mr. Knight here has brought us an incredible story, Mr. Rayborn.” Grandmother’s stare was unwavering. “Drunkenness? Attempted blackmail?”
“Grandmother—”
“The only reason I didn’t go to the police,” Ethan interrupted, squeezing Sarah’s hand, “is that you and Sarah have suffered enough from local gossips. But I couldn’t bear the thought of this man spending one more day under your roof.”
“What have you to say for yourself, Mr. Rayborn?” Marie demanded, as if she herself were the lady of the house.
“I would ask Mr. Knight why he agreed to pay me fifty pounds, if I were you,” Mr. Rayborn replied, crossing one knee over the other. He did not seem frightened of the accusations slung his way.
And he had practically admitted being a blackmailer. But it couldn’t be so! Sarah knew him, and Naomi loved him. Heart pounding against her ribs, Sarah said, “Will someone please tell me what’s going on? Why on earth would Mr. Rayborn blackmail you, Ethan?”
“I’m afraid that part isn’t fit for tender ears.” Ethan gave her a regretful frown. “Mrs. Blake, I do implore you to send Sarah from the room.”
“Mr. Knight says that Mr. Rayborn went to his apartment in a drunken state last night,” Marie said with an impatient roll of the eyes. “He threatened to spread rumor that Mr. Knight has a paramour if he does not pay fifty pounds. You do know what a paramour is, yes?”
“Yes,” Sarah replied. Since I was nine years old. “But why would—”
“And to think that I trusted you with my granddaughter!” Grandmother said to Mr. Rayborn, her chalk white cheeks flush with color. “And poor Naomi!”
“Perhaps we should wait and allow Mr. Mitchell to handle this, Madame.” Marie got up to stand beside Grandmother’s chair. “It is not good that you overtax yourself.”
“I’m fine, Marie. And you have not explained your actions, Mr. Rayborn. Gossip or no, you are in grave danger of being turned over to the police.”
“Very well, Mrs. Blake.” He was staring back at her with a curious tenderness in his expression. Then he reached down for the satchel at his feet. “I didn’t want it to come to this. But I’m positive you’ll agree that Sarah’s well-being is more important than any of our wishes or notions.”
“You will address her as ‘Miss Matthews’ . . . especially now. And what do you mean by wishes and notions?”
He took a flat wooden box from his satchel and stood. But it was Sarah he approached. “I had a feeling I should keep this at hand this week.”
“That’s close enough, Mr. Rayborn,” Ethan said, squeezing Sarah’s hand so hard that it hurt.
Mr. Rayborn glanced at him but kept coming. Sarah pulled her hand from Ethan’s. As she reached up for the box, her eyes met her tutor’s. His seemed to be saying, Everything will be all right, as he had assured her upstairs. But how?
“What have you there, Mr. Rayborn?” Grandmother demanded while Sarah raised the lid.
“Her past, Mrs. Blake.”
A tintype in a silver frame lay on top of some yellowed newspaper clippings. Sarah picked it up and recognized a younger Mr. Rayborn, even without the beard. The woman beside him stared up at her, seeming so familiar that Sarah’s breath caught. “My past?” she asked as Ethan leaned closer.
“She’s your mother. Her name is Deborah. That was taken on our wedding day.”
Sarah looked up at him again. “But that can’t be.”
“Please read the clippings.”
“Mr. Rayborn . . .” Grandmother began.
The voices around Sarah faded as she read the first clipping, then the next. She looked at the portrait again. She then remembered the disquiet she had experienced on London Bridge and the face of the older girl who told her how she was brought to Saint Matthew’s in the arms of a drunk man. Mr. Rayborn, in his chair again, was watching her. Sarah asked,
“You’re suggesting the child your wife jumped with is me?”
“You were that child.”
“Impossible,” Marie said, shaking her head. “She is Madame’s grandchild.”
Mr. Rayborn turned to her. “Mrs. Blake is aware that she isn’t. And Mr. Mitchell will confirm my story.”
“But Jeremy Blake was my father,” Sarah said. “Isn’t that right, Grandmother?” She looked to the elderly woman for confirmation, but something disturbingly like fear was in the blue eyes staring back at her.
“Grandmother?”
The door opened, and Mr. Mitchell strode into the room smelling heavily of pipe tobacco. He stopped just outside the circle of chairs to give Mr. Rayborn a questioning look. Receiving a nod for a reply, Mr. Mitchell pulled a straight-back chair over to Grandmother’s side. “I believe I have some explaining to do.”
“You may begin by telling me who this man is,” Grandmother said.
Mr. Mitchell blew out his cheeks. “He’s Sarah’s father, Mrs. Blake.”
Time seemed to freeze in that moment, and it was as though every person in the room dared not breathe. When Ethan broke the silence it was to insist, “That doesn’t prove he’s not a blackmailer. Why didn’t he tell anyone who he was?”
“At the time it seemed the best thing to do,” Mr. Rayborn told him, not unkindly.
“What you mean to say is . . . you’ve been waiting for Mrs. Blake to die so you can leach money from Sarah. It’s only to save your own skin now that you identify yourself.”
Mr. Mitchell turned to stare curiously at Ethan. “I’ve not made your acquaintance, young man, and I’m not sure what’s going on here. But I assure you Mr. Rayborn’s character is above reproach.”
Ethan’s eyes threatened to bulge from their sockets. “I’ll have you know I’m a minister of the Church, sir. So if you wish to discuss character . . .”
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