Secrets in the Mist

by Anna Lee Huber

  There was also the matter of Greybar twenty-three. What did it mean? And what had so upset Reynard about it that he had lashed out at me, demanding to know who I had shared that information with? Or had it simply been a test, an excuse to intimidate me?

  When I felt I had myself more in hand and I could stand without Kate’s assistance, I stepped back from her embrace. Her hands loosely clasped my upper arms, offering me comfort as I dabbed my eyes with a handkerchief I’d pulled from my sleeve. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. She must have guessed what had happened.

  Her eyes crinkled with a lassitude I’d never seen in her before, and it tore at something inside me to see her that way, to know that her brother had perhaps failed her in ways that cut deeper than even my own betrayals. My father had been devoured by his grief and his need for the forgetfulness contained in a bottle. What was Robert’s excuse?

  As for Jack and Harry, I supposed they’d been happy to take whatever they could get from us. And though I knew Jack had only stolen kisses from me, I suspected Harry may have taken a bit more from Kate. I didn’t ask her. If she wanted to share that with me she would. But I felt indignant on her behalf all the same.

  I crushed my sodden handkerchief in my fist, welcoming the anger that began to fill me as it pushed the fear and pain aside. “We cannot let him do this,” I told Kate.

  Her hands fell away from my arms. “But how can we stop him? If we say anything, we’ll be charged with treason.”

  “Maybe,” I murmured. An idea had begun to form in my mind, as yet insubstantial.

  “There’s no maybe about it. We will go to prison, Ella. Or worse. Dance the hempen jig.”

  Her words startled a smile out of me. “The hempen jig?”

  “Yes. Be turned-off.” She huffed when I didn’t respond. “We’ll be hanged.”

  “I understood what you meant. I’m just surprised to hear you using the smugglers’ slang.”

  She frowned. “Yes, well. It does have a certain ring to it.”

  “That it does.”

  “Be serious, Ella.” She inhaled a shaky breath. “I’m not ready to die. Not yet. I’ve barely left Norfolk.”

  I reached out to take hold of her hand. “I’m not ready to die either.”

  She studied my face as if to be sure I was somber again and then nodded.

  “But do you truly wish to live the rest of your life this way, under Reynard’s thumb? Always looking over your shoulder, always worried what he’ll ask of you next, and whether your conscience can bear it? Wouldn’t it be worth the risk to at least try?”

  Kate considered my words. “I suppose that’s not much of a life, is it?”

  “Neither of us will ever be able to leave Thurlton, or marry, or have children, unless it’s at Reynard’s bidding.” I grimaced. “Personally, I think I’d rather be transported to a penal colony on the other side of the world than face such a fate.”

  Kate’s gaze drifted past my shoulder, staring out over the tall beds of reeds that surrounded us. “He’s so cruel.” The anguish in her voice made my breath catch.

  “He quite possibly may be mad.”

  Her eyes flew to mine. “Do you think so?”

  “How else do you explain his quicksilver changes of mood, or his merciless behavior?” I shook my head. “He feels no shame.”

  “But I don’t know that that makes him mad. Evil, perhaps.”

  “Either way, I’m not remaining under his thrall.” I paused, wondering how I could convince her that we needed to do something to stop him, because none of the men were going to. Blackmail or not, they were content to reap the financial benefits of working in Reynard’s business. Kate had been living with this far longer than I had. She had been trapped into silence by her devotion to me. Maybe it was time I proved worthy of that dedication.

  I squeezed her hand where I still held it. “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes,” she replied, and the fact that she did not even hesitate nearly brought tears back into my eyes.

  Instead, I lifted my other hand to press her palm between my own. “Then continue on as if I’ve said nothing. Do as you’re instructed. I will send word if your help is required. But rely on me to find us a way out of this tangle.” I tightened my grip. “I will not fail you.”

  She closed her eyes against a wave of emotion that washed over her face only to escape through her mouth in a short gasp. She inhaled swiftly and nodded. “I’m not sure I deserve you.”

  “Of course you do. We deserve each other.”

  Chapter 31

  O

  ver the next few days, I followed the same advice I’d given Kate. I appeared when and where I was told. I listened to the proposed plan to smuggle Colonel Junot out of England and I learned my part. I helped design our wardrobes—when they would allow my input—and endured Reynard’s barbed comments and insufferably arrogant demeanor. In short, I did exactly as I was told, and nothing more. However, I was careful not to seem too complacent. I suspected that would only draw unwanted attention, something I wished to avoid at all costs.

  When my tasks each day were finished, I returned home to Penleaf Cottage, refusing to dawdle either at Greenlaws or in the marshes, where Jack might find me. I was not yet ready to face him alone. I was still hurt by his behavior the day I had met the colonel, and too afraid he would somehow make me forget that pain. I was well aware of his effect on me, and how easily I seemed to abandon my good sense where he was concerned.

  I also had other reasons for lingering near the cottage whenever I could, but as the days passed and no visitors or letters appeared, I began to suspect something had gone awry. The letter I had sent Mr. Fulton immediately upon my return home after my conversation with Kate in the marsh should have reached its intended destination days ago. Our conscientious solicitor would not have failed to follow my instructions or at least send me a reply if he found he could not carry them out. Of course, there was every possibility that one of our missives had been intercepted. After all, Mr. Ingles acted as the local postmaster, and it was clear he was intimidated by Reynard’s gang of smugglers. If they had instructed him to seize my correspondence, he would have complied.

  I chafed at the thought I was already being isolated from outside assistance. My note to Mr. Fulton had been deliberately vague, but that did not mean Reynard would not suspect my intentions to expose him should it fall into his hands. Thus far he had not indicated he suspected anything, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t biding his time, allowing me to think my deception had gone undetected as he considered how best to punish me. Whatever the consequences, I knew I would not like them. His threatening to strangle me had been horrifying enough, and as easily as it had been done it was clear Reynard was capable of worse.

  Regardless, as the week stretched on, so did my nerves, until I spent much of the night pacing around my room or sorting useless clutter in the drafty attic by candlelight. Only once had I ventured downstairs. I’d found my father standing in the middle of the drawing room, surveying the mostly bare walls with unseeing eyes. The furrows on his brow and the lines of discomfort radiating from the corners of his mouth told me he must not yet be inebriated, but I did not allow myself to wonder why. It was certain to be temporary. Not eager to converse, I’d backed away before he saw me, and closed my heart to the suffering etched across his features.

  After his appalling accusations about my playing mistress to Lord Waveney, I had been avoiding Father even more than usual. So when one evening sought me out, I expected more complaints. I placed my marker in the book I had been unsuccessfully attempting to read, spending more time staring at the walls than the pages, and steeled myself to confront whatever charges he would lay at my feet.

  “Come in,” I called after reaching up to adjust the silk scarf borrowed from Kate I’d taken to draping around my neck to hide the fading bruises left by Reynard.

  Father opened the door, but at first he did not enter. He simply stood gripping the door handle, h
is gaze fastened on the floor several feet in front of him. He looked horrible, with sunken cheeks and eyes, and a waxy pallor to his skin. I wondered when he’d last taken a drink of his beloved brandy. It was true I hadn’t found any empty bottles in the cottage for nearly a week, but I’d assumed Mrs. Brittle had disposed of them. I hadn’t wanted to note Father’s level of soberness. Doing so only made me sad, or angry, or gave me false hope. I couldn’t afford to be distracted by it. Not now.

  But seeing him like this, so terribly pale and weak, I couldn’t help but feel alarmed. Especially when he remained silent for so long, as if he’d forgotten where he was and what he was doing.

  “Father,” I murmured, rising to go to him. “Perhaps you should sit down.”

  He nodded almost dazedly and allowed me to escort him to the chair I’d vacated. I could feel now that he was shaking, but was it from cold or weakness or want of brandy?

  I poured him a glass of water from the chipped ewer on my washstand and pressed it into his hands, urging him to drink. The cool liquid seemed to revive him somewhat, for his eyes lifted to mine as he set the glass aside.

  “I’m sorry. I…” He shook his head, as if discarding what he was about to say. “I suppose I’ve had a bit of a shock.”

  I pulled my dressing table stool closer and perched on the edge of it. “What happened?”

  Had he left the cottage? Or had someone paid us a visit? Someone I would rather stay far away from my father?

  He swallowed and lifted his gaze to meet mine again. “I went to Thurlton.” He licked his lips. “To the White Horse.”

  I nodded slowly, understanding what that meant. Perhaps Father had been sober. Perhaps he had been trying to stop drinking. But tonight the cravings had been too much for him and he’d given in, seeking succor.

  I searched his bright but lucid eyes. Apparently, he had not found it.

  “When I got there, that Watkins fellow was yelling and kicking up quite a fuss.”

  I stiffened. “What did he say?”

  “Something about someone snitching on him.” He shook his head again. “I don’t know. I’d only just arrived, was but standing in the doorway watching, when a scraggly, stout fellow pulled out a pistol and…shot him. Right there. In the middle of the pub.”

  I pressed a hand to my mouth, feeling ill. I probably knew the man Father was describing. It was most likely Dibs, part of Reynard’s gang of smugglers.

  What had Watkins been doing there? Was it my fault? I’d written to tell Mr. Fulton to contact the Customs House in Yarmouth and tell them what we knew about the bribes their riding officers were taking. Not in those exact words, but the solicitor should have understood what I hinted at. In any case, it was clear Watkins had been confronted with his corruption. But why had he been allowed to return here? Why hadn’t they sent a different group of riding officers in his place, as I’d hoped?

  “He started bleeding all over the floor and cursing us all.”

  I looked up to find Father staring into nothingness again. His face was contorted, clearly remembering the sight of the wounded revenue man.

  “Little flecks of blood-tinted spittle kept flying out of his mouth onto his lips. And then he crumpled to his knees, and to the floor, and then he was quiet.”

  I shivered at the image he’d painted of the dying man. “What did they do with him?”

  “I don’t know. They said something about him being too corpulent to sink in the marshes. That he would never stay submerged. But I didn’t wait around to find out what they decided.”

  “They just let you leave?” I asked in some surprise.

  I didn’t think it possible, but his face paled even further.

  “After telling us they would do the same thing to us that they’d done to Watkins if we breathed a word of this to anyone.”

  I pressed my hands to my abdomen, stunned by their audacity. To kill a revenue man in the middle of a pub at the White Horse’s busiest time of day, and then brush it off as nothing but an inconvenience… Reynard and his crew truly would have no qualms about killing me if I crossed them.

  Jack had tried to warn me. He’d insisted I didn’t know what I was getting myself into, and at every step of the way he’d been proven right. I felt my heart soften toward him, remembering his frustration when I wouldn’t listen.

  Suddenly realizing what I was doing, I scowled, shaking aside those tender emotions. Just because he possessed a sliver of a conscience did not mean he was a good man. Nor did it mean I was any safer with him. He was still a member of Reynard’s crew, and if he could work for a man like that, blackmail or not, then he was not to be trusted.

  Father’s large hand stole onto mine, surprising me with his gentle touch. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d touched me so. Certainly as a girl I’d spent hours curled up on his lap, and even as a young woman he’d easily offered me hugs or quick kisses against my brow. But that seemed so very long ago.

  “I’m sorry.” His voice was broken and raspy, but this time I knew it wasn’t because of drink. “I have been the worst of fathers. Not only have I abandoned you to care for everything, I’ve also failed to protect you.” His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed. “I’ve done nothing a father should have. And I can’t even promise things will change in the future.” He hiccupped a short pained breath. “Look at me. I can’t even last a week before running off to the White Horse for more of that cursed brandy.”

  “But you didn’t drink any,” I replied weakly, unable to help myself.

  His eyes saddened further at my inane attempt to encourage him. “Only because a man was killed right in front of me!” He squeezed my hand. “You don’t have to make excuses for me anymore. You never should have needed to in the first place.” He sat straighter, inhaling and then exhaling. “The truth is, I am a drunkard.”

  Hearing him admit those words after so long made my heart ache, but it also felt oddly like a release. This dark secret I’d helped him hide from himself and everyone else was now out in the open, exposed to the light and the air, and consequently it no longer seemed to press down on me with so much weight. I knew there was no miraculous cure for this need that consumed my father. I’d seen and experienced too much to ever believe it would simply vanish. But hearing him admit his weakness and apologize for it in such a considered manner was more than I’d ever expected to witness.

  “I don’t like these smugglers. I don’t like them one bit. And I hate knowing it’s my fault you were forced to get involved with them.” His grip on my hand tightened as he pleaded. “What can I do to get you out? How can I extricate you from them?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  His eyes shone with earnestness. “I will go to prison if that is what is necessary. I will find a way to pay my debt.”

  “But how, Father? Once inside the Marshalsea, you’ll have no way to obtain money. And what about me? What am I to do while you’re locked away?”

  His features tightened as if finally comprehending how impossible, how untenable a situation he’d forced us into. He slowly reached into the inner pocket of his frockcoat and pulled out what appeared to be a letter. “This might help.”

  I looked at him in question before lifting my hand to take it from him. I didn’t recognize the seal pressed into the wax, but the graceful handwriting on the inside left no doubt it was from a woman.

  Dear Miss Winterton,

  I received your letter and I cannot tell you how pleased I am that you took the initiative to write to me. I have been scolding your grandfather for years that his ridiculous edict and his insistence on your family’s estrangement has gone on long enough. Because he could not move beyond his wounded pride he never had the opportunity to reconcile with his daughter before she passed.

  You must forgive me for being a foolish old woman. I loved your mother like she was my own. But although we kept up a correspondence, I was never brave enough to defy my brother completely and travel to Norfolk to visit her. I
regret that now with all my heart.

  Your mother wrote of you often in her letters, and I’ve longed to meet the lovely young woman she was so proud you had become. I would be delighted to accept you into my home and introduce you to society. Perhaps I can even do what your father should have done long ago, and help you find a husband.

  I know I can never change what is past, just as I can never bring your mother back from the grave, no matter how much I might wish it. But I hope you will allow me the opportunity to know you in the present. I think it might be the greatest gift I could give your mother now that she is passed, and I so long to offer it.

  I am certain you have also written to your grandfather, and I urge you to forget whatever nonsense he has written you in return. He is not a bad man, just an intractable one. I should have used my prerogative as a meddling older sister to defy him long ago.

  I impatiently await your response.

  With affection,

  Laura, Lady Bramford

  I stared at the signature for a long time before I was able to speak. “How long have you had this?”

  “A little over a week. I…I told Ingles to hold all of our mail for me.”

  Which explained why I’d not received a response from Mr. Fulton since Father had been avoiding the White Horse Inn until tonight. I didn’t know what to say. After so much time had passed, and Grandfather’s less than warm reply, I’d expected animosity or dismissal. My great-aunt’s kindness and her admission of guilt quite honestly astounded me.

  But it seemed Father assumed my silence indicated anger. “I know I should have given it to you sooner,” he hastened to explain. “But I couldn’t bear the thought of your leaving. Like your mother. Like your brother. Though it seems I’ve done everything possible to make you want to go.” He raked a trembling hand though his unkempt hair. “I was going to prove to you I could be a good father again. I was going to make you want to stay.” He inhaled a shaky breath. “But then that smuggler shot Watkins and I knew I was being selfish. Foolishly so.”