by Cheryl Holt
As he reached the road, a young woman was approaching. He watched her come, and he was swamped by the certainty that he’d found the person he’d been seeking. She was the right age, twenty-four or so, and she was very pretty as the man at the inn had said she was: auburn hair, big green eyes.
She was slender and petite, as if her ordeal as a child had altered her physique so she would never garner the height or weight another adult female might have.
“Miss James?” he called. “Joanna James?”
She halted and studied him, her magnificent eyes calculating whether he was friend or foe, and he couldn’t blame her. They were in the middle of nowhere, and she was a tiny thing. He was harmless though, and she realized it.
“Yes, I’m Miss James.”
He went over to her, removed his cap, and bowed. “I am Mr. Howard Periwinkle. I’m a newspaper reporter for the London Times.”
“My goodness, what a thrilling remark. I always thought it would be so exciting to write for a living. You love your work, don’t you? I can see that you do.”
“Well, yes. Yes, I do love it.”
“You’re quite a distance from the city, but you’re not lost. What brings you to my neighborhood?”
“I was looking for you.”
“For me! My goodness again. I’m flattered. What is it you need from me?”
“I’ve been searching for you,” he told her. “Aren’t you a Mystery Girl of the Caribbean? You were in a shipwreck when you were little. You survived with your two companions, Libby and Caroline.”
She smiled a weary smile, and he couldn’t determine if he’d jogged a sad memory or a dear one.
“Yes, I was a Mystery Girl. You sought me out over that? How very odd.”
“The three of you are famous.”
She chuckled, her voice sweet and enchanting, and he was reminded again of princesses and fairies. “We are famous? I find that very hard to believe.”
“No one has ever stopped talking about you.”
She scowled. “You’re pulling my leg. I’m convinced of it.”
“No, no, it’s true! Why, Libby is in London right now, appearing on the stage to gushing audiences. She regales them with stories about the tragedy.”
Her jaw dropped with surprise. “You’re joking.”
“No. People were agog when you were returned to England years ago, and they still are.”
“I had no idea.”
“It’s the reason I’m here—because it’s the twentieth anniversary.”
“So it is,” she murmured. “The time has passed so quickly.”
“My newspaper would like to print a retrospective about the three of you.”
“What kind of retrospective?”
“We’d like to draft a few articles about how your lives unfolded after you were claimed by your relatives.”
“Who would be interested in that?”
“Everyone?”
“I doubt that very much.”
“I guess I’ve failed to explain how popular you’ve been.”
“Mr. . . Periwinkle, is it? I can’t think that popular is a word I would use to describe my life.”
“How was it then? Was it scary? Was it horrid? Were your relatives cruel? Did they mistreat you? Our readers are eager to know how you’ve fared.”
“Again, sir, I doubt that very much.”
She was about to walk on, so he hastily added, “We’d like to arrange a reunion too.” He hadn’t posited the possibility to his boss or received permission, but it sounded grand. “For you, Libby, and Caroline. Would you like that? Would you like to see them?”
Her weary smile became radiant. “I would like that, and if you could arrange it, I would be happy to participate. I’ve missed them so much.”
“I’ve heard that you were closer than sisters.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true.”
“And that you were ripped apart, without having a chance to say goodbye.”
“It was a trying situation. The authorities weren’t sure of what was best for us. They had difficult decisions to make, and I shouldn’t judge them.”
“Would you like to confide in me about those terrible days? How was it difficult?”
She sighed. “That, Mr. Periwinkle, is none of your business at all.”
She circled around him and kept on toward her quaint, isolated cottage, where she lived alone and probably communicated with elves and had only fairies for friends.
“I’ll write you,” he called to her. “As soon as I’ve conferred with Libby and Caroline, I’ll contact you about the plans for the reunion.”
“I shall be waiting on pins and needles until then,” she called back.
He blinked, and in that brief instant, she vanished. Or was it a trick of the light? It had to be. A woman couldn’t vanish before a man’s eyes. Yet she’d seemed to be part of the forest, a sprite with magical powers who could appear and disappear at will.
He stood very still, struggling to hear her footsteps retreating, but the sole noises were the beating of his heart and the air whooshing through his lungs as he inhaled and exhaled.
He spun and dashed off, being in a frightful hurry to get out of the dark, eerie woods. Once the trees thinned, and the road widened, he saw the village’s church steeple up ahead. He slowed and laughed at his foolishness, suddenly feeling like a dunce.
He should be celebrating. His journey had been a success! He’d tracked down a Mystery Girl! He’d done his research and had found her! She’d agreed to a reunion!
It was an idea Howard would present to his boss at the newspaper. Initially, he’d scoff and declare it silly, but then, Libby Carstairs had arrived in London, and the whole city was drooling over her performances. She’d tantalized everyone anew with their fascinating tale of survival. People couldn’t talk about anything else, and they were anxious for more stories to be shared.
And he, Howard Periwinkle, would be the man to tell them to the world.
“Caroline, wait!”
Gregory called to Caroline, but she didn’t halt. He was in the front foyer, and she was climbing the stairs and headed for her bedchamber.
He’d just escorted the vicar and his wife out to their carriage. They’d driven away, clearly bewildered and a tad aggrieved. The dreary pair had obviously been dying to ask what was wrong with Caroline, but hadn’t known how to inquire.
The meeting with them had been incredibly awkward. The vicar had bloviated about the wedding service, and his wife had waxed on about the type and placement of decorations that were allowed in the church.
It had been a perfectly ordinary nuptial appointment, one Caroline had reminded him about a dozen times so he wouldn’t miss it. But once it had begun, she’d acted so strangely that he couldn’t figure out what had happened to her.
Caroline was a very pleasant person. She was never unhappy or discourteous. She exuded a composure and contentment that was constantly praised by others, but she’d sat like a bump on a log. A rude, disinterested bump on a log.
She hadn’t replied to any comments or suggestions. She hadn’t had any questions. Mostly, she’d stared at the floor, with them having to speak her name over and over in order to get her attention.
Every so often, she would glance up and gape at Gregory as if she couldn’t remember who he was. Was she sick? Or maybe she was weary from having a house full of company. Or maybe she was exhausted by the wedding preparations. Perhaps it was a combination of all three.
She had to have heard him summon her, but she didn’t pause, didn’t ask what he wanted, didn’t stop so he could catch up to her. She was in a sort of trance, and she blindly continued on.
For a moment, it dawned on him that she might be suffering an episode of madness. Their grandfather had claimed her father, Winston, was mad as a hatter,
and lunacy was an inherited trait.
An appalling notion occurred to him: If she was growing deranged, she’d have to be committed to an asylum. It was a common fate for women. They had a habit of being disobedient and incorrigible, and the laws were written so male family members could keep them in line.
If she was locked away, he and his father wouldn’t have to worry about the trust fund. She would be judged incompetent to manage her own affairs, and she’d never be able to gain her release unless they decided she’d improved, which few women could ever demonstrate. She would never learn about her money.
But that was an awful, awful thought, and he was disgusted with himself for letting it take root. Shame on him!
He dashed up the stairs, reaching her in the hall.
“Caroline!” he said.
She braced her shoulders and staggered on, so he grabbed her arm and pulled her around to face him. They froze, both of them realizing how odd it was for him to manhandle her. He drew away at the same instant she jerked back.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked. “Didn’t you hear me?”
“Yes, I heard.”
She looked young and vulnerable, like a mongrel puppy that had been kicked to the curb, and he wondered what was ailing her. It was likely one of those mysterious female problems they never discussed with men, so he supposed he should find Janet and have her deal with it.
“Would you like to explain yourself?” he said. “You were horrid to the vicar and his wife, and they were extremely perplexed by your behavior.”
“Were they?” she vaguely responded, as if she didn’t care about their pique.
“You’ve been nagging about the appointment ever since I arrived from town, and I feel you were hardly present. You were lost in the clouds. Are you all right?”
She studied him as if he were a peculiar insect. Then she asked the most outlandish question. “Why are you marrying me?”
He hadn’t expected the unusual query, and he’d never mentally debated the issue. It just was, so he had no answer for her. “Well, I guess. . . ah. . . because we’re engaged? We have been for years, and it’s time we get on with it.”
“That’s it?”
“What more could there be? We’re kin. We’re cousins. It’s what families do.”
“What if we didn’t marry?”
A wave of fear clutched at his innards. “What a ridiculous comment.”
“I only mean that you’ve resided in London for over a decade. Haven’t you crossed paths with any women who tickle your fancy? You’re bound to me, but what if there are better choices out there? Haven’t you been curious?”
“I stumble on all kinds of women in the city, but none of them are you.” He forced a laugh. “You’re Caroline, my dearest cousin, and you’ve always been the one for me.”
“Have I?”
She assessed him so meticulously that he had to tamp down a shudder. Had she listened to gossip she shouldn’t have? Was she about to unleash another diatribe about his gambling? His hangover hadn’t completely vanished, and he was still angry over the money Ralston had won from him the prior night. He really, really wasn’t in the mood to be scolded.
“What’s come over you?” he asked. “Should I send for Janet?”
“Why would I need Janet?”
“You’re acting so strangely. I’m not sure you’re well.”
Footsteps sounded behind them, and when they glanced over, Lucretia was approaching.
“Oh, look.” Caroline’s tone was a tad snotty. “It’s Mrs. Starling.”
“Gregory,” Lucretia said, “there are lawn games starting out in the garden. Would you like to join in the fun?”
Caroline glared at Lucretia, and Lucretia glared back, and there was a vicious undercurrent swirling, one he didn’t understand at all.
Then Caroline yanked her furious gaze to Gregory and said, “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”
“No, except that I think you ought to lie down for awhile.”
“I will do that—right after I talk to Uncle Samson. Is he here yet?”
“Not that I know of. He’s been out all day.”
“I can see the road from my room. I’ll wait for him there.”
“Aren’t you coming down to the party?” Gregory asked. “Shouldn’t you supervise the staff and put in an appearance for our guests?”
“I’d rather watch for Uncle Samson. It seems like a more productive use of my time.”
She whipped away and stomped off, then Lucretia slipped her arm into his.
“She’s a bit out of sorts,” Lucretia said. “What’s wrong with her?”
“I have no bloody idea,” Gregory replied, “but she’s behaving so oddly.”
“Don’t concern yourself. Whatever it is, I’m certain she’ll get over it shortly. Let’s go down to the garden.”
“Is there brandy on any of the tables? I need a little hair of the dog.”
“There’s plenty. I already checked for you.”
Lucretia smirked toward the corner around which Caroline had fled, then she led him off in the other direction.
“I have to talk to you.”
“About what?”
Caroline had finally tracked down her uncle. They were in his library, and he was seated behind the desk, while she hovered in the doorway like a supplicant. He waved her over, and she slid into the chair across from him, trying to ignore his impatient glare.
He didn’t like to be bothered when he was in the ostentatious room. It was his private enclave, where he could escape the chaos of the manor. The interruption aggravated him, and he couldn’t completely conceal his irritation.
He was having a brandy, which was one of his secret vices. When her grandfather had been alive, no drinking had been permitted, but after he’d died, her uncle had made up for lost time. Gregory too. They both imbibed to excess, although Gregory was the worst of the two.
“I can see you wish I’d have delayed,” she said, “but this can’t wait. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t look sorry.”
“I’d have cornered you earlier, but you weren’t home.”
He harrumphed in a way that might have meant anything. “Well, you’ve barged in, even though you understand you shouldn’t have, so your mission must be dire. What is it? And before you start, let me beg you not to raise a horrid issue. It’s too late in the afternoon to deal with a calamity.”
“I’ll get right to the point. I’ve been engaged to Gregory for seven years, but I don’t really know him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you know him. He’s your cousin.”
“He left when he was sixteen and I was ten. Initially, he attended university, then he abandoned his studies and moved to town. He stayed there. Please don’t tell me I know him. I really, really don’t.”
He blew out a heavy breath, as if she was being a nuisance. “From your dour expression, it’s clear you’re about to launch into a diatribe about his faults. You don’t seem to realize that marriages are a mystery. A wife can live with a husband for decades, and he’ll still be a stranger to her. If you’re feeling anxious, it’s only natural. Every bride suffers qualms before her big day.”
“They’re not mere qualms,” she said with uncharacteristic vehemence, “and I would appreciate it if you would actually listen to me for once.”
“I constantly listen to you, Caroline, but you’re young and you’re a female. You’re not always the best judge of a situation.”
“Don’t patronize me. I’m not stupid, and I’m not a fool. I most especially am not blind or deaf.”
“No, you are not blind or deaf, so what precisely are you so eager to confide? I’m sure, whatever your comment, I’m already aware of the problem.”
“Gregory is here so rarely that we just catch
glimpses of his bad habits. Yet each occasion he’s back, they’ve grown more entrenched.”
“I guess that’s an accurate assessment.”
“He’s a drunkard.”
“That accusation is a little harsh. Every man drinks.” He lifted his glass and snidely toasted her with it. “It’s an enjoyable hobby.”
“He gambles to excess.”
“Again, Caroline, all gentlemen gamble.”
“It’s more than that, Uncle Samson. He’s holding parties in a rear parlor, with his London friends, after you and I go to bed. He can’t bear for a night to pass where he’s not wagering. He’s that addicted.”
“I’ll speak to him about it.”
“He’s heavily in debt, to an amount that could imperil our ownership of Grey’s Corner. He could fritter it away with a roll of the dice or a fall of the cards! Who could stop him?”
Samson scoffed. “He wouldn’t jeopardize the property. He can be frivolous, but he’s never reckless. I must inquire as to where you heard this rumor about his debts. I hate to think you’re gossiping about our private family business.”
“It doesn’t matter where I heard it,” she said.
“It matters to me. Who was it? Who would spread such a foul lie?”
“It was Mr. Ralston. Gregory is a member at his club. I assume he would have a valid idea of how much money Gregory has lost—since it sounds as if he’s lost most of it to Mr. Ralston.”
“First off, you shouldn’t be so cordial with Mr. Ralston. I have it on good authority that he was kicked out of the navy for being a thief.”
“He was not.”
“Second of all, if he’s told you this sort of privileged information, you’re spending entirely too much time with him. He’s a handsome, dashing scoundrel, and you’ve been very sheltered in your life, Caroline. You shouldn’t be socializing with a fiend of his status and low repute.”
She bristled with annoyance. “Don’t change the subject by placing the blame on Mr. Ralston. We’re discussing Gregory and his conduct. Mr. Ralston is an innocent bystander.”