Secrets in the Mist

by Anna Lee Huber

  I inhaled swiftly, deciding it was time to stop brooding and turn my mind to the details. “When do you think the Longshore will reach port?”

  “Not for a few more days, at least. Perhaps a fortnight. Which gives us plenty of time to prepare.”

  “Good,” I replied, knowing it was inane, but how else was I to respond? I was completely out of my depth.

  “You understand what attire is needed?” His eyes remained steady on me, even as he rocked back and forth with his rowing. “You can manage finding appropriate clothing?”

  “I’ll make something work.” Altering a gown to suit our purposes was the least of my worries.

  His head tilted to the side. “You might also consider modifying one of your bonnets. Aren’t tall crowns all the rage now?”

  Perhaps they were, but I hadn’t purchased a new hat in more than three years. However, I couldn’t tell him that. Or I refused to, at any rate. “I’ll see what I can manage,” I choked out.

  I turned away from his too-perceptive gaze to stare out at the night-shrouded marshes. “What sort of man is the captain of the Longshore?” I asked, trying to decide which dress would be best. “What type of woman would his sister be?”

  “Respectable. A merchant’s wife, I should guess.”

  I nodded.

  “Although, you understand the ship is not named the Longshore…”

  I turned to him with a frown. “Oh. But…isn’t that what you called it?”

  “Yes, but it’s not her name.” He glanced over his shoulder, studying the reeds at the edge of the waterway. “That’s what we call a ship laden with goods too delicate to be sunk in tubs in the Yarmouth Roads for us to retrieve later.”

  I watched as he expertly turned the boat into the channel that ran behind Penleaf Cottage. When he resumed his steady pace at the oars, I ventured a question I’d already guessed the answer to. “So am I allowed to know the name of the ship I’ll be boarding?”

  “Not yet.”

  I waited for him to elaborate.

  “Himself doesn’t want you to know until we’re on our way to meet it.”

  “In case I should decide to inform the Board of Customs of these plans,” I finished for him in a flat voice.

  His silence was answer enough.

  “I suppose that means you won’t tell me who the man you refer to as Himself is either?”

  “No.”

  His tone was not apologetic, but it wasn’t without sympathy, and I felt encouraged I might be able to wheedle some more information from him eventually.

  Our dilapidated dock emerged from the darkness over Jack’s shoulder, a weathered pile of wood that seemed to be sinking into the marsh. I wondered how much longer before it was too dangerous to use. Would it outlast my father, or was his body already more rotted than the pocked and pitted wood and rusty nails before me?

  Fortunately, Jack was not privy to these thoughts. He fastened the boat’s moorings to the dock post and helped me to the ladder before following me up. I pulled the fabric of my summer cloak tighter around me and turned to face him. We had already agreed to meet under the trellis in the garden at Greenlaws tomorrow afternoon to prepare me for my role when the Longshore made port. I wasn’t sure what more there was to say. Or was speaking not what he had in mind?

  Jack clearly sensed my hesitancy, for he did not approach. Not immediately anyway. He waited a handful of seconds before he slowly inched forward.

  “Are you worried? Do you think you were missed?” he asked after tossing a glance toward the shore.

  I scoffed. “It’s doubtful.”

  His dark eyes softened and I looked away, uncomfortable I’d revealed so much.

  “Then they won’t miss you a few moments more.”

  I lifted my gaze to meet his, awareness of his intentions spreading through every inch of me. It prickled across my skin and flooded my veins with warmth, the effect growing ever more potent because he hesitated, giving me the chance to stop him. I felt his hands lift to my waist, their heat penetrating through my clothing, and watched as his mouth descended toward mine, but in the end all I could do was close my eyes and wait for his lips to touch mine.

  The kiss was over all too swiftly and I was soon staring up into his eyes again, still unable to understand my reaction to him. His proximity did something to me I’d never experienced before, not even with Robert. It was half the reason I’d believed he might actually be fae or some other superstitious being when he’d masqueraded as a Lantern Man.

  But as unsettling and confusing as my reaction was to him, what baffled me more was his wish to trifle with me at all. How could I possibly hold any appeal to someone like him? Or was I merely convenient?

  “Why do you kiss me?” I murmured before I could think better of it.

  His eyes gleamed in the darkness as he considered his answer. “Because I want to.”

  I watched as he backed down the ladder—that twinkle still in his eyes—and dropped down into the boat. With a swift tug and a push, he floated out of view. Only the splash of his oars entering the water told me where he was. I stood still, listening to the sound of his rowing recede until it was only an echo in my mind. It was a long time before I turned my feet toward shore, and the fitful night I expected.

  Chapter 20

  T

  he next week was spent in preparation for my first smuggling operation. Every afternoon I met with Jack and often one or more of the other smugglers to practice for the Longshore’s arrival. At first I was shocked and dismayed by their crude and threatening behavior, until I realized it was all part of my training. If I was to accomplish my part of the ruse, I could not blush and stammer when faced with a sailor’s rough manners, or cower under the eyes of the revenue men. The captain’s sister would certainly be familiar with such conduct, even if she behaved gently herself.

  As Jack had said, I was not accustomed to hiding my feelings from anyone but my father, and I knew full well he usually wasn’t the keenest observer. For this to work I had to be as calm and unmoved as stone, and ready for anything. I still had my doubts about the plan, but I devoted myself to it wholeheartedly nonetheless. There simply wasn’t any other option.

  Most of the time we met somewhere on the grounds of Greenlaws, away from the manor house and all its prying eyes. I would visit with Robert or Kate before excusing myself and sneaking off to the outbuildings or the orchards or one of the farthest fields bordering its property. That way if I was discovered later, I would have some semblance of an excuse for being there.

  However such a precaution proved unnecessary, just as my attempted visits often proved futile. As often as not, Robert and Kate were both preoccupied with other matters. Matters they seemed hesitant to share with me. I did not press them. After all, I was being quite deceitful, and to expect them to divulge their concerns when I refused to speak of mine was hypocritical. But all the same, their increasingly strange behavior bothered me.

  Robert acted either warm and welcoming or cold and distant—there was no in-between—and his mood would sometimes shift quite suddenly. I’d never known him to be so mercurial, and this new inconstancy confused and startled me. Twice he had excused himself abruptly, abandoning me to the hollow stillness of the drawing room or Reynard’s dubious company.

  If I’d had to guess at his frustrating behavior, I suspected it had something to do with my continued silence on the matter of his proposal. He had not asked me for my answer, had not even broached the topic, but I knew he must be thinking of it. Was he angry I had not accepted him yet? Had he expected me to jump at the chance, even after all that had happened?

  Though every bit as maddening as Robert’s changeability, Kate’s conduct was more distressing. She did not avoid me or abuse my friendship. In truth, she seemed pleased to receive me—when she was there to do so.

  She’d taken to disappearing at odd times, and no one seemed to know where she’d gone. When I attempted to ask her about it, she countered that she’d merel
y gone for a stroll or a long ride on her horse. But I knew she generally hated to walk—she found the task too mundane—and in the past she’d always taken a groom with her on her rambling rides.

  There was no doubt she was being quite secretive, and Kate had never been one to keep her thoughts to herself. In fact, her mother had forever despaired of Kate’s lack of circumspection. She reminded me of Marianne from the book Sense and Sensibility. All passion and fire with little restraint. For her to suddenly mince her words, especially with me, was worrying.

  In contrast, little had changed at home in our solemn cottage. I returned each evening to find that Father had already retreated to his study while Mrs. Brittle finished preparing dinner. Sometimes there would be an empty bottle or two sitting on the table and I would carefully sink the evidence of my father’s continued imbibing in the marsh before washing up and joining a scowling Mrs. Brittle at the scarred kitchen table. Father had stopped taking most of his meals altogether, and I had finally tired of cajoling him into dining with me. He rarely ate anything anyway, and the entire endeavor only upset me. If he preferred to drink his supper, so be it.

  Mrs. Brittle had also retreated into quiet, though in her case I suspected this was because she knew I was not being forthright with her. Her hearing might be poor and her eyesight failing, but she was not dull-witted or imperceptive. She had always known when Erik and I were up to mischief, and in many ways this was no different.

  I had not asked for her help in altering one of my gowns, preferring not to have to explain myself and suffer one of her scolds. So instead I sat up into the wee hours of the morning with needle and thread, straining my eyes in the candlelight and trying not to stain the fabric with blood as I repeatedly pricked my fingers. I’d never been particularly skilled at sewing, and I knew Mrs. Brittle would have finished the task in a quarter of the time but I stubbornly resisted involving her.

  So on the sixth day of my training, I did not protest when she shooed me out of her kitchen after the strained silence of our meal. I thought I might even have become accustomed to her icy glares. At least they hadn’t soured my appetite for once, but perhaps that was the result of the number of miles I’d walked that day since we’d met out at Hardley Mill instead of Greenlaws.

  I was halfway up the stairs when I heard a loud thud coming from inside Father’s study. Lifting my skirts, I pivoted and raced back down the steps, berating myself for not stopping to at least look in on him.

  I didn’t knock, but simply threw open the door and rushed inside. My eyes darted around the room. “Father! Father, where are you?”

  At the sound of his groan, I dashed around the sofa. His legs were splayed out across the floor near his heavy oak desk. I was relieved to see he’d pushed his torso to a mostly upright position, but my calm quickly fled when I spied the blood trickling over the hand he pressed to his head.

  “Father,” I gasped, dropping to my knees beside him. “What have you done?”

  “I haven’t done a dashed bloody thing,” he snapped. “’Tis that desk.” He lifted the hand that propped him up to gesture at it and almost toppled backward.

  I helped to keep him upright, and then threw a glance over my shoulder. Mrs. Brittle had rounded the sofa to observe us.

  “Towels,” I ordered. “And some warm water.”

  She hobbled away as fast as she could move, no doubt knowing better than I what was needed.

  “Why don’t you lie down,” I turned back to tell Father.

  He gritted his teeth. “I don’t need to lie down. I’m no’ some frippy wastlin’.” His words were slurring now, but I didn’t know if that was from the drink or from his head wound. The desk was old and scratched but built from solid oak. It was perhaps the only thing left in the cottage harder than my father’s head. Had it not been bigger than the doorway, I would have sold it long ago.

  Since he would not lie down, I helped him to shift closer to the desk so his back rested against its side. I tried to get him to move his hand so I could examine the wound to discern how serious it was, but he refused to budge, flapping his other hand at me. I sat back on my heels and studied him.

  His clothes were askew, his cravat abandoned. That is if he’d even donned one that day. His skin was a pale, sickly hue—a sharp contrast to his bloodshot eyes. I didn’t immediately spot the inevitable bottle of brandy, but I was sure it wasn’t far away. With any luck the remainder had spilled out onto the floor when he bashed his head.

  “So what happened?” I persisted. “Did you trip?”

  He scowled at me. “I told ye. It was the dashed desk.”

  “Father, desks don’t move about striking people on the head.”

  “Well, this’n did! It’s not where it’s s’posed to be. You an’ that harridan musta moved it.”

  “Neither Mrs. Brittle nor I moved it,” I replied impatiently. “It’s too heavy to do so even if we wanted to.”

  “It moved!” he protested more loudly. “Are ye callin’ me a liar?”

  “No, but I am questioning your eyesight.”

  Mrs. Brittle returned then, pushing me out of the way as she slowly knelt down with her stack of supplies. I stood over them and watched as she tried to peel Father’s hand away from the wound. Blood had dripped down his arm, staining his shirt sleeve.

  “Move yer hand, Mr. Winterton,” Mrs. Brittle ordered firmly. “Or I’ll douse ye on the other side and be done wi’ ye.”

  Father transferred his glare to her, but he was no match for her gimlet stare. He slowly lowered his hand and she pressed a towel to his head in its place. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth as she began to dab at it, trying to sop up the blood and get a better look at the wound. Perhaps it was wrong of me, but I felt no compassion for him. Whatever pain he was feeling he deserved, and I silently hoped Mrs. Brittle would not be gentle with him.

  “Do we need to fetch a surgeon?” I asked, worried the gash might require stitches. How we would pay for it I didn’t know, but if it had to be done I supposed I would find something to barter.

  “Nay. Head wounds always bleed somethin’ fierce. Looks worse ’n ’tis. Dinna fret. I’ll fix ’im up.”

  “I’m right here,” Father growled. “Don’t speak about me like I’m a child.”

  “Then stop actin’ like one,” Mrs. Brittle retorted, pressing the towel harder to his head.

  “Ow! Stop tha’!”

  “I have to stop the bleedin’. Or would ye rather I let ye run dry?”

  His scowl darkened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he lifted his gaze to where I stood. “I s’pose ye think this is my fault. That if I were sober this wouldn’a happened.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” I replied as calmly as I could, knowing that arguing with him when he was in this state would only make it worse. But apparently he was past placating.

  “I know that! I’m not deaf nor stupid.”

  When I didn’t reply, he tossed up his hands, lolling his head back against the desk. “Why can’t ye all leave me in peace?” he moaned.

  Mrs. Brittle took a firmer grip on his scalp, forcing him to hold still.

  “Is that too much to ask? Ye don’t see me pesterin’ ye.” He threw a sharp glance my way. “Orderin’ ye to stay home ’stead o’ danglin’ after Rockland as ye do. Spendin’ all yer time at Greenlaws. Hopin’ he’ll finally marry ye.”

  I felt sick to my stomach. Was that what he thought? That I was some weak, lovesick fool trailing after Robert, begging for a small portion of his attention? I gritted my teeth, swallowing down the hot retort that sprang to my lips. Words that were useless, because he would never understand, let alone remember come morning.

  But apparently he wasn’t finished.

  “’Tis pathetic, that’s what ’tis.” His face screwed up in distaste. “Followin’ him ’round. Waitin’ for him to make good on his promises. If yer mother were here—”

  “I wish to God she was,” I snapped, at the end of my patience. “Pathe
tic! That’s what you call me? I’m not the one drowning myself in brandy night after night, too weak, too pitiful to do anything else. Pathetic?” My voice rose to a shriek. “What right do you have to criticize me? Our house is falling down around our ears, you’re in danger of being thrown into the Marshalsea, and you dare to censure me. You know nothing!”

  Father’s waxy skin had paled further and Mrs. Brittle stared up at me in shock, but I didn’t care. I was sick unto death of his selfishness and her self-righteous behavior.

  I inhaled sharply. “If you only knew the things I’ve been forced to do to keep this roof over our heads, to keep your hands from being clapped in irons.” I narrowed my eyes on my father. “And you’re tired of people pestering you to leave your study, to eat a decent meal? So be it!” I declared. “Do what you wish. Starve yourself. Stumble into the fire. Trip down the stairs and break your fool neck. I’m done caring.”

  And with that, I turned on my heel and stomped out of the room, down the hall, and out the kitchen door. I halted at the old sycamore, pressing my hand to the rough bark as I stared out at the sky painted yellow and pink with the rays of the setting sun. I breathed deep of the evening air, letting it cool my temper as it cooled my brow.

  Truth be told, I was a bit shaken by my own outburst. I’d never spoken to my father like that. I would never have dared to. But his careless words and accusations had struck at me like nothing he had ever said before. For me to risk so much, compromising my morals and jeopardizing my life, my freedom, and worst of all my integrity, and then face his cruel criticism was simply too much.

  But as freeing as it had felt to say those words to him, they also stung my conscience. I had been bitter and spiteful. And I had lied. I was not done caring. I never would be. He was my father.

  I watched the light drain from the sky, too ashamed to return to the house until the last tinge of color had faded from the horizon and the stars had begun to poke holes in the darkness.