What could she do but lower her head and study the bricks paving the walk?
His hand covered hers again. “Seeing Whittier made it worse, did it not?”
The mere name brought the image back, that gaping wound in the same place Papa had been run through. That same agony on his face, that same desperation to convey one last message.
Run!
It had taken all her will to keep from obeying that silent command again, from running pell-mell into the street and not stopping until her legs gave out, until she outran the monsters behind her.
“Gwyn?”
But no command to flee had been on Mr. Whittier’s lips. She drew in a breath, measuring it out into a careful inhale—exhale. Nay, the fallen sailor had spoken far different words. Which made far less sense. “How is his family?”
“They are grieving, of course. And they are proud of his service. Otherwise, they are maintaining a very stoic facade.”
She risked a blinding from the sun in order to look up into his face. He appeared stoic himself but for his eyes. Those churned with contemplation. “Have they need of any aid? Will they be able to get on?”
A blink, and his eyes cleared and brightened as he smiled down at her. “They are well enough situated, what with his father’s shop supporting them.”
Her nod did little to quell the questions that had been niggling at the corners of her mind for the past week. Still they pushed their way forward, following the route the bilious words had earlier. “Why did he not go home in his final moments? Why did he come to you?”
Thad’s only response was a delayed, unamused breath of a laugh.
They turned at the corner, the same one she had watched Thad round last evening, and headed down the same street on which Rosie had told her the Whittiers resided. The street the man had ridden directly past, though home had been no farther away than Thad’s house, so far as she could discern.
“He obviously knew he hadn’t much time left. And he obviously loved his family. Why, then, would he choose to give you that message of affection for them rather than see them a final time and leave with them the message for you about the pending attack?”
Something shifted in the man beside her. Subtle, but with an undeniable effect. ’Twas as if he stood even taller, broader, just by tilting his chin.
Confound it, she would have to do another sketch.
“Perhaps,” he said so quietly she could scarcely hear him over the rumble of a passing carriage, “his thinking was muddled with pain. Perhaps he thought he had time enough to see us both.”
“He did not.” She had heard him insisting his time was short.
His gaze tugged until hers met it, and then he held her captive. “Perhaps it was because he knew I could be trusted to give them his message, but was not so certain they would remember to give me mine.”
“But—”
“Is it so beyond reckoning that a family struck by sudden loss would forget to relay something to a mere acquaintance?”
Gwyneth struggled for a breath and tore her gaze away. If she let him look any longer into her eyes, surely he would see within her the answer to that rhetorical question. That so many clouds obscured parts of her mind, so many holes gaped. So many simple answers escaped her, while some details stood out in stark relief.
Had she forgotten anything important from her father’s last moments? She didn’t know. Couldn’t know. And she hated it.
So then, she would focus on those details still so clear. “Are you in the military, Thad?”
His gait hitched. “Pardon?”
“You certainly do not seem to be, and that is something about which I can boast a bit of knowledge. So why, then, did he come to you to pass along this information about the target of the fleet’s next attack?” She did her best to look at him as Mama would have, with an arched brow and pursed lips that said I know something is amiss.
Except he was not supposed to smile in the face of it. “I am a member of one of the local militias.”
“A militia.”
Now he turned the look around on her. “You needn’t say it with such disdain. It was our militias as well as our general army that sent you Redcoats packing once before.”
Of all the… “But a mere ‘member of one of the local militias’ is by no means the authority one runs to when one overhears sensitive information, Thaddeus.”
He came to a halt, forcing her to one as well. He regarded her for a long moment in utter stillness before sighing and pulling her onward again, past a line of elegant town houses. “Alain likes to say I know everyone in these United States. An obvious exaggeration, but he says it because I do know most of the leading families. Between my parents’ connections with them and the ones I have made myself…I make friends, Miss Fairchild, ’tis my best gift. And so when one friend has a need to let some other friend with whom he is not acquainted know something, he comes to me. There is no mystery. I simply have friends in Washington City that Whittier did not.”
Did he really take her for such a simpleton? There was more to Thaddeus Lane than a friendly demeanor. A plethora of acquaintances alone did not give one’s chin that angle. Though she couldn’t think what did.
“Paper.”
“Pardon?”
Thad motioned toward a shop at the next corner. “We shall need more for you at the rate you have been drawing. I would have already purchased some, but I thought you may like to select it yourself.”
Gwyneth tried her hand at lifting her chin, though she suspected it would lend her no air of mysterious authority. “Are you trying to distract me?”
The gleam of amusement in his eyes rivaled the sun. “Is it working?”
What, row upon row of creamy, decadent paper, all blank and pure and waiting for the whisper of her muse? “All too well.”
He laughed, a sound she had heard often enough in his house. Still, it tickled out a smile to think that she was the one bringing joy. A feat far too rare these past months.
For a moment she breathed it in, holding all other thoughts at bay. And then she let the smile bloom. “I have noticed a sad lack of art upon your walls, Thad.”
“Have you now?” He pulled her closer to his side to lead her around a sunken spot in the sidewalk. “Well, I suppose that is because until now I hadn’t an artist friend to fill them.”
“Are you unacquainted with the practice of purchasing art? Much as you did those rugs you so love?”
He made a dismissive sound. “Why would I do that? ’Twas inevitable that eventually I would make friends with an artist to give me a picture or two. But now, rugs—what were the chances I could charm a Turk into gifting me one?”
A light laugh surprised its way from her throat. “So that is where your powers of friend making end?”
“Of course not.” He pronounced it with exaggerated bluster and then ruined it with a boyish grin. “But I did not dare assume anything with them.”
“Oh, but you will with me?” Her nose in the air, Gwyneth sniffed much like her friend Eliza Gregory was wont to do. “And who is to say I will not charge you a fee? Perhaps I have been inspired by this capitalist land of yours.”
He chuckled and held out a hand to indicate they ought to cross the street before the stationer’s. “And who is to say you are the artist whose work I would like?”
How long had it been since someone had jested with her? Emitting a huff of exaggerated offense felt like pure bliss. “You would be lucky to have one of my pieces, Captain Lane.”
His sigh was long, the roll of his eyes slow, his gesture indulgent. “Fine, fine. Give me one, then. I will suffer it.” The grin winked out again. “Make it of the sea, will you? Something with frothing waves and glistening sun and a storm on the horizon.”
Were she not dodging the unsavory leavings of a horse in the middle of the road, she would have closed her eyes in delectation. ’Twas as if he looked into her very soul and saw the image she had already imagined. “And your ship. What is her
name?”
“Masquerade.” His tone was the very one Papa had used when speaking of Mama. Pure, selfless love. “She is a brig.”
Gwyneth had never pretended to be an expert on things naval, to know the difference between a brig and any other type of ship, but the name she could appreciate. “My parents first met at a masquerade.”
“Did they?” Thad led the way onto the opposite sidewalk and reached for the door of the shop. “I suppose you thought that terribly romantic.”
“It was, by their telling.” She stepped inside, her breath catching in delight at the shelves of heaven. “Though I confess the one I attended did not live up to my expectations.”
“Ah, Captain Lane! Good day!”
He relaxed his arm, freeing her hand. “Mr. Hatcher, good day to you too. How is Susan this week?”
The proprietor made some reply, but Gwyneth took a step in the opposite direction. Her gaze had already latched onto a stack of creamy stock.
Thad caught her fingers and gave them a squeeze as he grinned down at her. “Look your fill and select whatever you please. I have some canvas at home we can stretch whenever you need.”
The kindness made her eyes sting. “Thank you.” After a smile at him, she headed toward the shelves and trailed her fingers over the different weights and shades. The parchments and vellums and linen-cotton blends.
Within a few minutes she had put together a fair pile of paper in various sizes and thicknesses and textures, fingers twitching already. She would need new pencils too. And perhaps some charcoal sticks. And—
A shadow crossed her path when she turned toward the writing implements, one that nearly made her lose her grip on the paper. One that sent a bolt through her, fear so brilliant she could not move an inch.
Uncle Gates.
No, it couldn’t be! Not here in some random shop in a random neighborhood in a city she had never intended to visit.
But yet… Her stomach twisting, she turned her eyes to follow the man who had just entered the store. He strode toward Thad and Mr. Hatcher, calling out a greeting.
Not her uncle’s voice. Just similar to his build, his way of moving. But dark hair instead of gray. Too young. Too American an accent. Too extravagant in his clothing.
Not her uncle. But still his image overtook her, that sneering voice ringing in her ears. The flash of a blade, the stain of blood, a dying sailor on the table before her, a stranger who stood in that coiled way of her uncle, ready to pounce.
A monster’s mouth stretched wide before her, teeth sharp as blades. And the darkness, the too-familiar darkness yawned wide as it swallowed her whole.
Eleven
Blast!” Thad shoved Nathaniel Mercer out of the way and leaped forward, managing to catch Gwyneth the moment her knees buckled and before the ream of mismatched paper could spill onto the floor. He had looked over at her in time to see her pupils dilate just before her face went blank.
When he had uttered a silent prayer for an escape from Mercer, this had not been the one he had in mind. Mother always said he ought to be careful what he prayed for.
Her head landed against his shoulder as he knelt, and her fingers knotted in his shirt. She must be struggling her way back to consciousness, but thus far there was no flutter of her lashes. So he loosened her bonnet and cradled her against him, the sweet scent of lilac teasing his nose.
A grating whistle sounded, and a moment later Mercer’s shadow fell over them. “How did I walk past that tempting armful without noticing her?”
Thad gritted his teeth for only a moment. Surely he received some divine credit for dredging up a smile before he turned toward the man. “She is unwell. Hatch, will you see what we have here and put it on my account?” He eased the paper from between him and Gwyneth and handed it over.
“Of course, of course.” Hatcher patted his considerable girth with one hand as he flipped through the sheets with the other.
Mercer clasped his hands behind his back in that too-still way of his, but, as always, calculation clicked away in his cold blue eyes. “Do you know her?”
“I ought to, as she is staying with my family.” Not that he was yet sure he did, but he had enjoyed the glimpse he had gotten on the walk here. She was a keen one, observant. Sharp, witty. With a quicker tongue than her exhaustion had thus far let her prove.
Even if that did mean she saw more than she ought and had no qualms about calling him on it.
“What is her name?”
He shot a glance at Mercer, who still studied Gwyneth with too much interest. In public he got on with the man as well as anyone, but always he was left with a skin-crawling distaste when they parted. Before, he had chalked it up to his hatred for the man’s chosen living, but now he might have to add his way of perusing Gwyneth to his list. As if she were naught to him but another slave to be traded.
No matter what Mother had promised her, he wasn’t about to declare who she was for all of Baltimore to learn by sundown, not with that whisper in his mind that advised caution. “Gwyn Hampton. A distant relation on my mother’s side, apparently.”
“Lucky you. Would that I could boast such lovely relations. Will she be in town for the summer, then?”
Her fingers twisted his shirt and her jaw went tight, as if she clenched her teeth. Thad held her closer. “Her plans are not firm. Hatch, could I take her into your back room until she recovers?”
The proprietor looked up from his tallying with a gentle smile. “You know you may, Captain Lane. I shall get this wrapped up for you in the meantime, hmm?”
Thad stood with her, frowning. When he turned toward the storeroom, he found Mercer blocking his way. “I could fetch her something to drink.”
“There is a pot of fresh tea in the back,” Hatcher said without looking up again. “And a plate of cookies. Help yourself.”
“Thank you.” Though his baser man wanted to sneer at Mercer, Thad instead smiled and nodded. “Do give your mother my regards when next you see her, Mr. Mercer.”
“I will.” If reluctantly, he nevertheless stepped aside. “I hope to see you and your lovely guest again soon.”
Of course he did, at least when it came to said lovely guest. With another nod, Thad carried her past the shelves and through the partially open door at the rear of the shop, easing it closed with a toe.
Gwyneth’s breath caught, and her eyes fluttered open. Thad used a foot to pull a chair away from the table and sat upon it with her in his lap. Not exactly what a London miss would deem a proper arrangement, but he doubted she would be able to stay upright in one of the armless chairs. “Gwyn, sweetheart, you must choose more appropriate times to take your naps.”
He caught only a glimpse of a small smile before she turned her face into his chest. “I am sorry for being so weak.” The words came out quiet and muffled against him.
“No need for that.” His gaze fastened on the careful styling of her hair. How long would it take her in front of that new paper or a canvas before she would pull out every pin and set it tumbling again? And why did he have to battle the urge to assist her with that? By thunder, he would scare her off to parts unknown.
Inhaling, she shook her head. “I hate that I have become this way. It is not who I am, not how I am.”
“You cannot help being ill.”
She turned her eyes to his, revealing those sparkling, churning, tempestuous blue-green depths. Yes, every bit as alluring as the fathomless ocean. “’Tis not seasickness, Thad.”
He couldn’t help but smile. “I have known that from the start, Gwyn. And when you are ready to share what is plaguing you, I am happy to listen.”
Though she didn’t greet his invitation with an immediate confidence, he read acknowledgment in her eyes. Perhaps one day she would share her burden.
In the meantime she glanced down as if just realizing she was perched upon his lap and shot upward. A wise move on her part. Indelicate as the phrase might be, Mercer had been right when he called her a tempting armful.
She pulled out the second chair and sat before he could rise to assist her. But when she reached for the china teapot with shaking hands, he stayed her with an upheld palm. “Please, allow me. You are not quite steady yet.” He took up one of Mrs. Hatcher’s famed cinnamon cookies and handed it to her. “This will restore you in a blink.”
Her fingers closed around the treat, but her eyes strayed to the door. “That man out there. Who was he?”
Thad poured her a cup of tea and added a generous dollop of honey. “Mercer?”
“I suppose.” She picked up the lone spoon and stirred.
He poured himself a cup and let the scent fill his nose. “He is too far beneath you for you to worry about.”
When she sipped, he was reminded of a hummingbird, so delicate yet with a mysterious strength. “I thought you Americans had risen above the trappings of rank or some such nonsense.”
Thad snorted a laugh and took a small drink from his unsweetened cup. “Perhaps we have risen above titles, but there are still lines not to be crossed. And you, my friend, will have nothing to do with the likes of him.”
“Is he in trade?” The twitch of her lips indicated she knew well that was an objection that applied to him as well as Mercer. The imp.
He narrowed his eyes and put another cookie before her. “It is his particular trade. Slaves.”
“Oh.” Her cup clattered against its saucer. “That is…”
“Exactly.” Though he knew a few gentlemen with interests in the slave trade, they never dirtied their hands with it directly. The fact that Mercer did… He had made a fortune, but to Thad’s mind, ’twas no better than blood money. And Mercer no better than the Barbary pirates who had left Arnaud for dead and then, when they discovered he still lived, sold him in Istanbul as though he were nothing more than a rug.
Only when small fingers touched his hand did he realize he gripped his cup so tightly it was in danger of fracturing. He looked up and saw Gwyneth’s frown. “Are you all right?”
His face must have worn a dark cloud indeed for her to ask such a thing in her own upset state. “Well enough. There are just few things in this world I detest as much as slavery.”
Whispers from the Shadows Page 10