“Even if this proves to be a useless journey,” Honore declared, “we are returning with food and blankets.”
Blankets that others had apparently brought to the prison now served as cloaks against the damp chill in the air inside the high stone walls.
Miss Morrow’s apple tart, as large as she had made it, looked ridiculously inadequate. It served as a lure. The men ranging around the edges of the market square, carefully watched over by guards, stared at it with hungry, hollow eyes. One man close to the entrance dared to reach out toward the confection.
Honore danced away and spoke in her schoolgirl French. “I am buying information.”
“I don’t have none,” he said in an accent similar to Ashmoor’s.
“You are an American.” Honore flinched back. “You cannot help.”
“If you want a Frenchman, you have to go over there.” He pointed across the yard. “But I’d pay a pretty penny for even a bite of that pie.”
He even had hazel eyes like Ashmoor’s, and the longing look chopped a hole in her heart.
Miss Morrow tugged on her arm. “We must be going.”
“Wait.” The man stepped forward and lowered his voice. “What sort of information?”
“Who is helping the Frenchmen escape?” No sense in dissembling. That would take too long.
The man sighed and looked away. “Nobody willing to help us Americans. To some, we’re the greater enemy.”
“But you are not—” Honore clenched her teeth from further words.
Of course he was the enemy. Ashmoor could be the enemy. Just because they both spoke English—sort of—did not make them friends and loyal to the Crown. Yet he was a man, and if nothing else, she could at least honor the Lord through helping her fellow man with something trifling. Next week she would do more.
“You—you may break off a chunk of the tart,” Honore said.
Miss Morrow jabbed her elbow into Honore’s ribs.
The man looked at her as though she had sprouted wings and a halo, then broke off a chunk. His contained no silver, yet his action brought such a swarm of prisoners sweeping toward Honore and Miss Morrow, two of the militia had to leap forward and raise their muskets as a barricade.
“Move along, ladies,” a lieutenant commanded.
Miss Morrow walking close behind her, Honore spun on her heel and headed for the French side of the prison. Not wanting to make a spectacle again, she handed the tart to the first man they encountered, a sailor as short as Honore with twinkling blue eyes and a gap-toothed smile. He thanked her in a guttural French she did not comprehend and darted away, weaving and bobbing beneath the outstretched arms of his countrymen.
Trembling from the cold now, as well as from sadness and fatigue, Honore headed for the gate.
“This was as bad an idea as I feared it would be.” She rubbed her temples through her veil. “Could we ever make enough pies for them all?”
“Not big ones, but perhaps small pies and cakes.” Two tears dropped from beneath Miss Morrow’s veil.
Neither of them spoke until they were nearly to Bainbridge, then Honore sighed and glanced at her companion. “It is rather useless. We could go for weeks and learn nothing. Going back seems like a waste of time unless it will possibly help my standing with the Lord.”
“Your good works aren’t necessary for that, child. He likes us to do good things, but we need not earn grace. It is freely given if we repent.”
“Then why,” Honore demanded, “am I not forgiven even though I have repented? I have even given up pursuing Ashmoor until I am certain he is innocent, in the event he is not. Yet nothing changes for the better in my life.”
“That is not the Lord’s doing, Miss Bainbridge. That is people. We are commanded to forgive as we have been forgiven. You know that.”
“I do, but it has been difficult to accept as truth these past few months.”
Yet was not all that the Bible said truth? She could not pick and choose what she believed like delicacies on a buffet table. Either she accepted the entire Word of God or she rejected it all.
She could not do the latter. Faith had been too ingrained in her heart. And yet, what good was faith if all believed she was beyond the pale of associating with others calling themselves Christians?
“What good is God’s forgiveness if others still shun me?” Honore’s voice emerged tight from a constricted throat. “I can do no good as an outcast.”
“Miss Bainbridge—Honore, how can you say you can do no good? You have brought so much joy and comfort to those around you these past weeks, including me. All these people”—Miss Morrow waved her arm to encompass the countryside—“they love you. And above any humans, God loves you.”
“I do not feel loved.”
At that moment, her heart felt as bleak as the moorland rising behind them, as useless as the scrub vegetation clinging to the rocks.
But of course she was loved. She knew it. Her sisters, Miss Morrow, and the local people around Bainbridge and Clovelly loved her. She knew God loved her too. She knew it. She must not doubt it just because the one person she wanted to love her refused to give in to his feelings for her.
I have a solution to this, my girl—do not love him, she told herself. He might belong in that prison with those Americans.
Except no one deserved to be in that prison.
Honore, as usual, shoved aside thoughts of her relationship with the Lord and, of lesser importance, her relationship with Ashmoor, and began to plan how they could get back to the prison with cakes and pies and other necessities. Perhaps Deborah could be of use. Honore resolved to tell her brother’s fiancé about the prison and the poor conditions.
“But why should we help these men?” was Deborah’s first response to Honore’s suggestion. “They are enemies of England.”
“They are human beings being treated worse than swine,” Honore responded. “But ask Beau if we can do anything to help. I would not want to go against his wishes in this.”
Deborah gave her a skeptical glance and agreed to do so.
Sunday after church, she arrived at the dower house with Beau in tow and announced they had decided to help.
“The sermon was on loving our enemies,” Deborah explained, then she winked at Honore. “And the vicar asked where you have been. He said he misses your pretty smile in the pew.”
Honore wrinkled her nose. “He needs to recover from his tendre for me. If I am not good enough for a wealthy earl, I am most certainly not good enough for a godly vicar.”
“Saw Ashmoor today,” Beau said. “He says he needs to talk to me about Father. Something about the night he died.”
Honore’s stomach clenched. “That was the night Ashmoor was supposed to—” She compressed her lips against allowing the rest of that information out. Ashmoor did not wish to talk about signing the marriage contract, after all. Likely he wanted to ensure that Beau would not hold him to its terms. “Father was a great help to him,” Honore concluded instead. “Now then, shall we go to the prison this week? We have to ride. Getting a carriage over the moor is too difficult and probably dangerous.”
They made plans for taking supplies to the prison. Miss Morrow expressed a wish for Bibles in French. These being impossible to obtain, they wrote out cards that said simply, Le bon dieu vous aimez. The good Lord loves you.
Unable to wholly accept the truth of God’s unconditional love, Honore felt like a hypocrite with each sentence she penned. She comforted herself with her novel in between times. She had nearly finished writing the tale full of adventure and romance. If only she knew how to make the ending happy and not one of those terrible books where the heroine died of a broken heart because she had behaved badly, like Clarissa Harlow or Charlotte Temple. Her happy ending would come when she found someone to publish the story for her and make her independent, or at least possessed of some money beyond her quarterly allowance, much of which she had already spent helping a man who had not so much as sent her a note for a week an
d a half.
If she learned anything at the prison, she would contact him.
But of course she would not, not for weeks. Too many men swarmed through the marketplace and beyond the inner gates to where they lived in stark, ugly buildings. Meanwhile, she took comfort from having her brother treat her with more warmth than he had shown her in a year.
She watched his and Deborah’s faces as they entered the prison. They too stared with pinched mouths and tight eyes. Deborah blinked her pale lashes several times but failed to always hold back her tears. With a guard following them, they gave food and clothing to as many men as they could before their supplies ran out. Most of the men thanked them, blessed them. One American insisted that he pray for them. A handful cursed them as filthy English, for which Honore did not blame them. She did not know how her countrymen could call themselves civilized and herd men into these pens. Nor did she approve of an Englishman helping them escape. They might deserve to be treated better, but they were still the enemy.
Her arms lighter but her heart heavier, Honore turned toward the gates. She had been right the week before. Learning anything inside the prison was as unlikely as learning anything on the coast without watching along the shoreline every night.
They reached home. With a firmness that said Honore was still not allowed in polite company, her brother bade her good night at the gate to the dower house garden.
“No wandering about,” Beau concluded before following Deborah to the house.
“What could you possibly mean by that?” Honore posed her question to Beau’s back.
He either did not hear her or chose to ignore her. Grinding her teeth, she began to stalk toward her own door and shoved her hands into the pockets of her cloak.
Where she found a folded scrap of paper that had not been there when she left for the prison.
24
The last person Meric expected to see standing in the entryway of Poole House was Miss Morrow. The sight of her shot his heart into his throat, thoughts racing through his head of Honore falling into another disaster.
Yet calm and dry-eyed, Miss Morrow balanced on the balls of her tiny slippers as though ready to rock forward onto her toes and bolt or throw a right hook at the least provocation. In front of her, Wooland appeared ready to present her with that provocation. His long face had been drawn down to abnormal proportions with a frown as deep as an upside-down smile, and he had narrowed his eyes.
Meric paused in the shadow of the staircase to watch the show unfold. That Miss Morrow didn’t appear distressed left him more curious than concerned. If something had happened to Honore, Miss Morrow would surely be distraught.
“We do not receive females of your sort here. Milord is a Christian gentleman for all he is a foreigner.”
“And what sort of female do you think I am, sirrah?” Miss Morrow, half a head taller than the butler, looked down her long, thin nose at him from her own narrowed eyes.
“It is night, and you are a lady at a gentleman’s establishment.” Wooland’s nostrils pinched. “Does that answer your question?”
“I believe”—Meric stepped forward into the pool of light cast by two branches of candles—“it answers my question, Mr. Wooland, as to whether or not I should dismiss you.”
“Milord.” Wooland jumped back as though Miss Morrow had struck him. “I am merely protecting your interests.”
“You have just insulted a fine lady. If she is here, there must be some emergency.” Meric held out his hand to Miss Morrow. “Do come into the parlor, ma’am. My housekeeper will come to act as your chaperone.”
“My lord, I would rather ruin my reputation than have another hear what I have to say.”
“I see.”
He saw more than he wished. More than likely Honore was in some sort of trouble from which he must extract her. He never should have agreed to let her help seek out the men smuggling prisoners from Dartmoor. He never should have let her go to the prison.
As if he could have stopped her.
Guts twisting, he turned to Wooland. “Bring some coffee and have the fire built up in the parlor.”
“Milord, you do not seem to understand.” Wooland wrung his hands.
“Even though I am a foreigner, man, I understand that you are required to take my orders and enact them.”
“Yes, milord.” Head high, shoulders stiff, Wooland stalked through the swinging door into the kitchen area.
Meric opened the door to the parlor. “I was just about to come in here with Mr. Chilcott, as my brother has taken over the library with a few young men of his acquaintance.”
To emphasize this explanation, a burst of laughter rang from the library.
Miss Morrow started, then took a deep breath and preceded Meric into the parlor. “I do not wish anyone to hear, my lord.”
“I gathered that. May we wait for Chilcott?”
“I, um—” Now she was wringing her hands.
He smiled at her. “We’ll wait for him.”
She turned the color of a boiled lobster.
Meric stepped out of the doorway so a maid could pass and build up the fire. He could have easily done so himself and probably more efficiently, but employing servants was so little money out of his pocket, he hired as many as he reasonably could and, according to Chilcott, a few more, considering he rarely stayed at Ashmoor.
Once the maid left, Meric strode to the hearth and stood with one booted foot on the fender, his elbow on the mantel. He didn’t want her giving her news before Chilcott heard it, nor before the coffee arrived with Wooland’s excuse to be outside the door and possibly overhearing something, but he could wait no longer to ask the question burning on his lips. “Is all well at Bainbridge?”
“All? Yes.” She held his gaze. “Miss Bainbridge has completed her Gothic novel and sent it off in the hope that someone will publish it.”
“Is—is that what’s been occupying her time? That is—”
What was it? If he wasn’t going to court her, he had no business asking for more details.
Miss Morrow’s cold glance told him that was her thought too.
He ducked his head, felt his hair slide across his brow, and thought how he needed a haircut. He had also scuffed his boots, and the knees of his buckskin breeches bulged. An unkempt Yankee. He knew the epithets the Londoners had used against him before they knew who he was, and even the men afterward, his peers in the House of Lords. They held him in such low regard for his American upbringing and three months in prison, he doubted they would give him a fair trial if suspicion grew strong enough to see him brought up on charges of aiding and abetting the enemy. That someone had tried to kill him made no matter. He had survived. Some might make the claim he had engineered the entire incident.
Chilcott said he needed a wife with connections, that he was quite likely setting his sights too low with Miss Devenish, only a generation removed from the shop.
Higher than Miss Devenish meant higher than a disgraced lady. That meant going back to London before everyone retired to their country estates for the Christmas and winter seasons. That meant leaving soon and accomplishing nothing toward clearing his father’s name or his own.
It meant giving up on Honore.
“If I need to flee the country,” he said aloud, “I will have to leave her too.”
“Are you attempting to convince yourself of that or me, my lord?”
Wooland’s entrance with a tray of coffee and cups and cream cakes prevented Meric from the need to answer. Chilcott followed on the butler’s heels. The former departed, still cowing. The latter leaned against the parlor door with his arms crossed.
“In the event someone tries to eavesdrop,” he said by way of greeting, “I will be here to notice and prevent them. Now tell us, Miss Morrow, to what we owe this unprecedented visit. An unwise visit, I might add, though apparently employment with Miss Bainbridge has damaged your ability to adhere to propriety.”
“As has employment to his lordship robbed yo
u of a sense of human feeling.” Miss Morrow looked straight at Chilcott as she spoke.
She may as well have shot a crossbow bolt through Meric’s chest. Or maybe his throat, since he choked on a sharp inhalation of breath.
“Miss Bainbridge has risked her safety and health going to Dartmoor Prison on your behalf, my lord, and you have done naught so much as send her a missive of enquiry after her well-being in nearly two weeks.” Miss Morrow rose and began to pace around the room, surely a habit she had learned from her employer. “I only came so she would not damage her circumstances further, nor suffer the humiliation of this sort of treatment. She is distraught at the moment, to say the least, and will do something terribly foolish if you do not assist her.”
“She is likely to do something terribly foolish regardless of whether or not we assist her,” Chilcott murmured.
Miss Morrow stopped her pacing long enough to glare at him.
Meric did much the same. “That is enough, Nigel.”
Chilcott flinched at the use of his Christian name. “I only attempt to protect the two of you from destroying any hope either of you has of being fully respectable. Miss Bainbridge has such a reputation for choosing her gentlemen unwisely, you will appear guilty of a crime simply by associating with her, my lord.”
“Precisely what she thinks.” Miss Morrow returned to the table and began to pour cream and coffee into the thin china cups. “Which is the only reason why she is trying to help—she needs to know she has not chosen unwisely yet again.”
“The only reason?” Chilcott curled his upper lip.
Meric seated himself adjacent to Miss Morrow and studied her calm, pretty face. “What has she learned, Miss Morrow?”
“Wait.” Chilcott yanked open the parlor door. Philo’s upraised fist barely missed punching him in the nose.
“Sorry, Chilly.” Philo strolled into the room and took the third cup of coffee. “My friends have departed for more convivial company than I provide. They don’t seem to understand that I like watching racing horses without gambling, playing chess rather than games of chance, and drinking coffee over distilled spirits. Drunkenness, to me, is not entertainment.” He quaffed the coffee and poured himself more—black this time. “But the three of you look anything but entertaining. What gives you all such somber faces?”
A Reluctant Courtship Page 24