Whispers from the Shadows

by Roseanna M. White

  But if he had secrets like this, it could be tied to his murder. Arthur studied out the French text.

  My dearest Isaac, how I yearn for you. How much longer until you return to me? This dreadful weakness is seeping more and more through my limbs. I fear, my love. I fear I will not live to see your homecoming. I fear leaving Gwyneth alone.

  Gwyneth. Arthur’s gaze went to the end of the letter, where Julienne was written. Mrs. Fairchild, not some secret mistress. He had forgotten she was half French. This would not help him determine who could have killed the man or why. It could not lead him to Gwyneth. He set the letter on top of the row of books.

  “Ah!”

  Gates’s exclamation brought Arthur around. The older man knelt by the window seat, the lower paneling of which had been removed. He maneuvered a strongbox from within the hidden cubbyhole.

  Though a skitter of unease swept up his spine, as Arthur hurried to his companion he told himself that if it would save Gwyneth it was not prying. “How will we open it?”

  From within a pocket Gates produced a large metal key. “I procured it from the Bow Street runners. ’Twas in the general’s boot.” He set it at the lock but then paused to shoot Arthur one of his serious looks. “Do be aware, sir, that you are not to poke into any military-related articles that may be within.”

  Again his hand flexed, craving the surety that came with his trusted sidearms. “Mr. Gates, I was a military man for a decade, sent home because of injury and for no other reason. You need not lecture me on such things.”

  This time Gates offered no apology. He turned back to the box, inserted the key, and gave it a hard quarter turn.

  Clank.

  Another quarter turn.

  Clank.

  Once more.

  Clank.

  And a final twist, a final release, a final metal-on-metal clank. Arthur strained forward, leaned in, and frowned.

  Gates withdrew the single sheet of paper and held it so they could both read it.

  You are too late. The game, as they say, is up. You have lost.

  Pushing to his feet, Gates tossed the paper to the window seat. “It seems our hunch was correct, Sir Arthur. Fairchild’s death could not be a result of a random burglary, given this.”

  “Indeed.” Still frowning, he looked from the safe to the page. Speculation flew through his mind, but he focused again upon the facts.

  One—Fairchild had expected someone to look in this strongbox.

  Two—he therefore knew he had an enemy closing in upon him.

  Three—if Fairchild expected someone to look in here, then he expected them to have the key. The key which he wore in his boot. It therefore stood to reason that he suspected his enemy capable of murder.

  He had taken steps to counteract this enemy, though, clearly. Likely with the removal of whatever had been in the safe at one point. Just as likely with the removal of his daughter from harm’s way.

  “Where does that leave us?”

  A muscle in Gates’s jaw pulsed, as if he clenched his teeth too tightly. “I know not. I have already canvassed every stop along the post roads from London, the shipyard, everything. No one recalled seeing her, and if they did not recall it two months ago, they will not now.”

  “She can’t have disappeared.” Yet she seemed to have. Arthur walked over to the window, pushed aside the drapes, and looked out into the garden. Heavy with blooms and lustrous with life, but empty. So very empty. “I asked after her in all the likely places too during that first week. I even followed several false leads. The only one I could not track down was at the shipping office.”

  “What?” Gates had been turning away but halted. “I checked there. No one saw any young ladies the days in question.”

  “None of the officials, but a young lad searching for odd jobs thought he’d seen her.”

  “Interesting.”

  Arthur shook his head. “It could not have been Gwyneth. She would not have been boarding a ship bound for America.”

  “America.” A spark ignited in Gates’s eyes, blazed, and then went cool. Controlled. “What ship? To where was it headed?”

  Did he really think any potential chance of finding her lay in that direction? “Somewhere in Maryland, I believe. I cannot recall its name.”

  A smile curled the corners of Gates’s mouth, though his eyes remained devoid of feeling. “I thought to check my sister’s distant relatives on the Continent, the friends we have abroad. That is where most of the general’s contacts still are.”

  “Which would make sense, especially given that Napoleon has been defeated. But General Fairchild would never have sent his daughter into the escalating war in America.”

  Something snapped to life in Gates’s eyes, quickly rising and quickly gone. “Exactly. No one would expect it, which would make it safe.”

  For lack of anything useful to do with his hands, Arthur clasped them behind his back. He shook his head again. “Safe? Nay. Not with those blasted American privateers on the loose, even in British waters—and he would not send his daughter into a war without a protector.”

  Gates’s face was stoic once more. “Ah, but what if he was sending her to a protector? To trusted friends?”

  “Trusted friends in America?”

  “He was stationed in the City of New York during much of the Revolution. He made friends among the Colonists, who have since moved to Maryland, if I recall correctly.”

  “But that is…” Realization sent Arthur back to the bookcase behind the desk. He lifted out the tome of Lavoisier, extracted the letter, and looked at the address. “Bennet Lane of Annapolis?”

  Gates snapped his fingers. “That is he. I know they were in regular correspondence.”

  “Perhaps. But still, I cannot fathom the general sending her there.”

  The laugh that shuffled its way past Gates’s lips sounded more resigned than amused. “You did not know him.”

  Arthur’s shoulders snapped back, his spine in perfect alignment. “I know he was a noble man, sir, and an admirable one. I know he achieved his rank through honor and bravery. And I know that he loved his country. He would not send his daughter to England’s enemy.”

  “He defined that last word differently than we do, Sir Arthur.” He bent over and lifted the strongbox enough to wiggle it back into place. “Perhaps it is this friendship that blinded him, I cannot say. But he failed to see that America is our enemy. And I fear—I truly fear—that his inability to identify them as such may have been what allowed one close enough to kill him.”

  Arthur’s throat tightened, wanted to close off, but he swallowed and lifted his chin a notch. Was Gates seriously implying that General Fairchild was the victim of espionage?

  His fingers fisted around the letter from the American. His uncle, Viscount Hart, was a difficult man to please, one who had given only begrudging approval of Arthur’s choice of bride. Gwyneth’s blood was beyond reproach, but the viscount had wanted his nephew to choose a nobleman’s daughter. Or at least a gentlewoman of resounding wealth that could be added to the viscountcy when Arthur inherited. If he got a whiff of anything as unsavory as espionage surrounding the Fairchilds…

  There was only one thing to do. He must find Gwyneth and marry her as soon as he did before anything could besmirch the Fairchild name.

  He smoothed out the missive, tucked it into his pocket in case it contained any information that would aid him in his search, and then reached for the one from Mrs. Fairchild too. When he found his lady, she would appreciate the connection to her parents.

  He pivoted to face Gates, who was raising the paneling back into its place under the seat. “It seems we have a voyage for which to pack. I trust with your connections that you can attain us passage to Maryland?”

  The older man straightened and smoothed his great coat back into place. “There is a supply ship sailing to the Chesapeake with tomorrow’s tide. Meet me at the Black Cauldron Inn at dawn.”

  Eight

  Gwyn
eth stood immobile upon the step, shielding her eyes against the merciless sun overhead. Midday. But which day? The same one she had seen briefly at the secretaire after her night of drawing? The next? The next week? She could remember only snatches after Thad smoothed back her hair. Voices echoing, a gentle touch that felt like Mama. The familiar clucking of Mrs. Wesley.

  The nightmares. Cruel and dark, with vicious teeth and hurtful words.

  She shuddered, wishing for a shawl to wrap around herself in spite of the heat that hung heavy and damp.

  A bath had done wonders for Gwyneth’s mental clarity, but she hadn’t wanted to ask Rosie what day it was. Not when the woman already looked at her as if she might shatter with one wrong move. No, better to find those answers herself without alarming anyone.

  Hanging from one of the tree’s limbs was a swing, no doubt there for Captain Arnaud’s little boy. What was his name? She strolled along the path toward the large maple. Jack, that was it.

  Jack surely wouldn’t mind if she borrowed his toy for a few minutes since he was nowhere in sight. She brushed a few stray twigs and leaves from the wooden seat, mindful of the fact that her dress was her usual white muslin, easily soiled. Sitting down, she squeezed her eyes shut.

  She ought to be in black. These last weeks ought to have been spent agonizing over whether to expend the cost on a specially made mourning gown or to dye an old one and broaden the hem. She ought to have been surrounded by the uncles and aunts who would be grieving her father, perhaps disappearing to Fairmonte for a respite with Papa’s brother and his family.

  But thoughts of uncles sent a shiver up her spine and made her throat close off. She had thought them so close, her father and Uncle Gates. He was the one who most often visited, whose wife had seemed the most affected by Mama’s passing. And with no children of his own…

  A sob heaved up and was caught. She swallowed it down. He did not care for them as she had thought. Not her, perhaps not even Mama. Certainly not Papa…

  “Papa. Oh, Papa. I love you so.”

  The wind snatched her whisper and took it over the roof, over the city. Perhaps all the way up to heaven.

  With one toe on the ground, her hands wrapped around the rough rope, she gave herself a little push. She closed her eyes as the air caressed her hot cheeks and pretended she was a child again at Grandpapa’s country house. That the whiff of roses was Mama strolling her way.

  “Oh, good. You are awake.”

  The voice, feminine and melodic, brought her eyes open. Only when she spotted the strikingly beautiful woman coming through the back gate did she recognize it as belonging to Philly. Though dressed more casually than when in the library, she looked no less lovely now in simple pale yellow. And absent that panic in her eyes that came from a bubbling beaker.

  Gwyneth offered a smile and put her foot down to stop herself so she might stand to greet the newcomer properly.

  Philly waved her on. “No need to halt for my sake. I often sneak back here myself.” She leaned against the maple, not seeming the slightest bit concerned for how the rough bark might affect her fine dress. “Have you settled in?”

  The very word seemed foreign. Her world had begun rocking long before she stepped foot on the Scribe, and she didn’t anticipate it settling any time soon. How could it, when her anchors were gone? Her smile no doubt went feeble. “Everyone has been very welcoming.”

  “Ah.” The way the woman blinked gave Gwyneth the impression that she heard far more than her answer. She raised her arm and took a book from the basket dangling from it. “I brought you something.”

  Gwyneth reached for it. From the wear on the binding, it seemed to be a well-loved tome. “Charlotte Temple. Why was I expecting some scientific treatise?”

  Philly laughed. And no dainty society laugh for her, nay. She tossed her head back and let it come from deep within. “I learned long ago not to foist those on unsuspecting guests. Have you read Mrs. Rowson’s work?”

  “I have not. A cautionary tale, correct?”

  Philly laughed again. “If you ask those who enjoy it, yes. If you ask its critics, it is naught but a seduction novel.”

  Chuckling, Gwyneth flipped open the cover and then drew in a startled breath at the familiar script on the endpaper. Mama’s hand, wishing Philly a felicitous birthday. “I did not realize…”

  “Mmm.” Philly moved behind her and gripped the ropes of the swing. She pulled Gwyneth back and let her go. “Strange, is it not, to consider how people from such different places can be connected? Both my parents came from largely Loyalist families, and my uncle inherited an estate in England after serving in the British army during the Revolution. We have been working to reconcile the rift all my life, yet here we are at war again.”

  Gwyneth traced a finger over the inscription, its ink faded to brown. She scarcely noticed the gentle forward-and-back motion of the swing. “I had forgotten that. But it is how my father came to know your parents, is it not? In New York.”

  “Indeed. Mama and your father…” Philly cleared her throat.

  Half a smile found its way onto her lips. “I know the story. He was courting her until your father won her away, but they remained friends, all of them, even when it came out that your parents were Patriots.”

  “They say it is a testament to your father’s noble heart.”

  Gwyneth’s eyes shut again as she felt the earth sway. “I miss him.”

  “I imagine.” Soft hands settled on her back when she swung back and pushed her forward again. “I miss my parents when I do not see them often, and Annapolis is near enough that I can visit them whenever I please. It must be much worse for you, being an ocean away.”

  An eternity away. Gwyneth gripped the book until her knuckles ached. “And you have your brother here. That is surely a comfort.”

  Philly chuckled. “For most of the last decade he was at sea far more than he was home. A regular swashbuckler was our Thad, able to find adventure where a sane person would see none.”

  An image took shape behind her eyes of Thaddeus Lane with his boots planted on a ship’s deck, his hands gripping the wheel, an adventurous smile upon his lips. Strange how quickly the picture formed, and how it made her fingers itch for a pencil.

  She flexed them, and the cloth cover of the book stole her attention again, reminding her of her mother. Papa had not been a sailor, but he too had been gone frequently on campaign. The separations had never been easy. “How long was he married?”

  Perhaps it was too personal a question, but she would rather ask it of his sister than of him.

  Philly sighed and gave her another soft push. “Only eight months, and he did not leave her side during it except for a week now and then on a quick run up the coast. Peggy was dying already when they wed. It was, in fact, largely why they wed, so he could care for her. She had no one else and no income.”

  A noble act…and yet so very sad. “They obviously had no children, then.”

  Philly cleared her throat. “She was with child when she died. ’Tis a topic still quite sore, so we avoid mentioning it.”

  “Did it happen recently?”

  “Two years ago.” A blustery sigh sounded from behind her. “It was a difficult time all round. Alain was thought to be dead, we lost Peggy, one of Reggie’s cousins was impressed, stolen right from the Virginia shore, I lost another babe…and then the war.”

  Gwyneth nodded. Two years ago had been difficult for them too, what with Mama’s sickness coming upon her and Papa still in France.

  “But there was good too. Grandmama Caro finally agreed to come live with me and Reggie.”

  The smile was so bright in Philly’s voice that Gwyneth felt her lips tug upward in response. “You are close with your grandmother?”

  “Very. I ought to have been named after her, but when Papa told her their intentions, she insisted they name me after my mother’s grandmother instead, in an attempt to heal the relationship there.” Something in her voice as she said it…
>
  “Did it work?”

  Philly emitted an unamused laugh. “Not a whit. Grandmother Phillippa never would have anything to do with us. But we tried.”

  A hum filled Gwyneth’s throat. Her family had had its breaks too, but the biggest rifts had already been healed by the time she was born.

  Her eyes became unfocused, her vision doubled, and she had to clutch at the rope to keep from toppling off the swing. Perhaps her grandparents’ separation hadn’t been the biggest rift. There was obviously hidden strife between Papa and Uncle Gates. Hidden, vicious strife. Devouring hatred.

  “Speaking of Grandmama Caro, she mentioned a craving for an apple pie, and I have already used the last of my apples. I thought perhaps Thad has some stashed in the cellar.”

  Gwyneth drew in a long breath and blinked until her vision returned to normal. Apples. Pie. Normal, everyday life. Strange how it could continue on an upside-down world. “Your brother is out, and Rosie mentioned needing to run a few errands as well. I am not certain if she has left yet.”

  Philly chuckled. “That man is never at home when I come by.”

  Gwyneth frowned and fastened her gaze upon the swaying house, searching her mind for more information on where Thad had gone. All she came up with was the question of how she even knew he was out. To be sure, she hadn’t seen him since she rose an hour ago, but she had come straight from her room to the garden. She hadn’t searched for him. Still, she was certain he was away. As certain as she was of anything else these days.

  “Well, I will see if I can catch Rosie. Or else I shall check the cellar myself.”

  Philly stepped away from the swing, and Gwyneth let her toes drag until she slowed to a halt. Perhaps she would read Charlotte Temple for a while. Or, better still, get out her paints. She had wanted to paint, hadn’t she? Something niggled in the back of her mind. Something particular. Something…perhaps a more complete version of something she had already sketched?