“M–mama’s. G–g—”
“Gates.” Certain dread made the word fall like lead. “Do you know why?”
The river of tears hit a bank of rocks within her, making rapids. Gasps. She could only shake her head and bury her face in his chest, letting the floodwaters empty her. Letting them spill out until there was nothing left within. Not a torrent, not a trickle, not a tear. No horror, no hope. Nothing.
Nothing but the soothing brush of fingertips through her hair and the drifting scent of sandalwood. “You are safe now, sweet. I’ll not let him harm you, so help me God. You can start anew here.”
But there was nothing new to start.
The tan of his frock coat faded to the black of her eyelids, and she held tight to whatever fabric was under her fingers now. “Don’t let go.”
“I won’t. Not ever.”
Not ever. Never. The only hope she had left…and it was a promise for nothing.
Thirteen
Thad lowered Gwyneth’s still form to the divan in the drawing room, where the breeze could whisper its way over her from the nearby window. Though her head rested on the pillow, her fingers still gripped his jacket. Perhaps another day, it would have made him smile.
Today, his breath shook as he dragged it in. He pried her fingers loose but then held them tightly.
“Thaddeus.” Rosie bustled in, setting a pitcher down on the end table with an angry thump, her scowl directed at his chest. “She got paint all over you both.”
“Don’t fuss, Rosie. Not now.” His voice felt strained, a perfect match to the tension pulling his insides tight. With his free hand, he brushed the burnished curls from Gwyneth’s cheek.
Rosie stepped close and went still. “Something wrong?”
“Very wrong.” The curls wrapped themselves around his hand. Of their own will, surely. No fault of his. “She saw her father murdered. That is what has been haunting her so.”
Rosie’s breath hissed out through her teeth. “Lord, bless her. No wonder, then. So she has no one? No one left in England?”
No one she could trust, it seemed. He let the hair weave itself through his fingers. A tapestry of flame and gold. “She thinks his killer will follow her here.”
Rosie pressed a hand to her damp forehead and adjusted the turban holding back her midnight hair. “As if a war ain’t enough to worry about. You promise to keep her safe?”
“Of course.”
“Good. She trusts you. Guess that’s why she can only sleep when you’re home.”
“What?” His head jerked up, and he frowned into Rosie’s exasperated sigh.
“You haven’t noticed that?” She clucked her tongue and planted her hands on her slight hips. “She’s even worse than Emmy when Henry’s gone a-piloting. Soon as the door closes on you, she wakes up. Never until you get home that she can rest sound again.”
“I…” What was he to do? Nights were when the soldiers and sailors gathered and talked. But if he could actually help Gwyneth recover simply by staying home a few days…
Rosie shook her head and held out her hand. “Give me that jacket and let me see if I can get the paint out before it sets. We should get her up to her room so Mrs. Wesley can help her out of her dress.”
“Let her rest a few minutes first.” He pulled his hands away from Gwyneth’s just long enough to shrug out of his frock coat and pass it to Rosie. He marveled out how cold his fingers seemed without Gwyneth’s laced through them, how right it felt to slide his palm under hers again a moment later as Rosie left the room.
God of my end, show me what I am to do. How I can help her. Please, help me understand why You sent her to me, to comprehend the wheels of Your orchestration so I do not foul them up by jumping in the way. Show me, my Providence and Guide. Please, show me.
Sometimes the Lord answered with an image in his mind. A place he ought to go or a person for whom he ought to watch. Sometimes He gave him a peace that meant be still and wait.
Never before had He sent a crushing wave over Thad’s spirit, so forceful it pushed him to his knees on the wide-planked floor. Never before had he felt a hand press like this on his head, warm and welcoming, yet without compromise.
Never before had he felt his soul be bound to another’s. But when his fingers tightened around Gwyneth’s, fire touched his heart. Branded him. So bright it eclipsed all else, so fast it was gone before he could lay hold of it.
Yet in its wake a few simple words echoed in his mind. I called you beloved.
The statement resonated, crystalline. And he understood. He must love as he was loved. Whatever she needed, that was what he must be. Brother, friend, champion, guardian. Confidant and confider. Trustworthy and trusting. Beloved.
A caress on his cheek brought his eyes open. His face was mere inches from hers, their noses nearly touching, and her fingers had found him. He could see the faint smudge of ultramarine at her temple, a few swipes of blue caught in the roots of her hair. The fan of red-gold lashes that swept up and then down onto the cream of her cheek again.
And in that brief, half-second glimpse into her sleep-filled eyes, the silken ropes pulled taut. Only three weeks ago had she entered his life, but he knew in that moment she would not leave it again. Must not. She was his, and loving her would be the easiest thing the Lord had ever asked of him.
But that was not all He asked, was it? He also demanded Thad be hers. That he trust her and lean upon her, even though she looked too fragile to survive it. Even though she could not possibly believe in his cause. Even though it made no sense. He must need her. Let her love him.
Beloved.
“Thad.” His name was a sigh upon her lips, her fingers a sigh upon his face. She opened her eyes again, though they were clouded. “Stay.”
“I will.” Unable to resist, he traced the contour of her cheek too. So soft, like the petal of a rose.
“Do you promise?”
His smile felt strange—slow and secret. “I promise. So long as you do too.”
Her brows drew down into a delicate V. “Do what too?”
“Stay.”
“Oh.” If her cheek felt like a rose, the curve of her lips looked like one unfurling in the first light of morning. “I promise.”
“Good.” Were he a rake, he would lean over now, close that breath of a gap between them, and claim her lips as she had claimed his heart. But he knew he mustn’t. Not when tragedy still tormented her so.
So he pressed his lips only to her forehead and caught her fingers in his once more. “I am sorry, sweet. So sorry about your father.”
She squeezed his fingers tight and didn’t loose them again. “I am glad you know. I think…I think he would have wanted you to. He trusted you.”
And so she, because she trusted her father, trusted him too. Thad closed his eyes and rested his head on their joined hands. Why did the man trust him, when they hadn’t met but once fifteen years ago? “I am glad he sent you here.”
“Are you?” Her eyelids fluttered down again. “I did not understand why he would.”
Nor, truth be told, did Thad. “Perhaps he knew something we do not.”
“He often did.” She drew in a long breath and eased it back out. “I wish I knew…knew why…what it was. Uncle Gates was looking for something. Papa said he had sent it away.”
Could it be? He closed his eyes too and called to mind the image of that letter. Gates. The name was in it, just past the middle of the first page, but Mother had declared it a nonsensical line. He had said something about Gates being like a son to him. But they were brothers-in-law, of an age. Friends.
Was this murderous uncle of Gwyneth’s the same Gates rumored to be set on the destruction of America? Who, through his position in the Home Office, had been gathering information on U.S. soil ever since the Revolution ended? What, exactly, would that mean?
A chill raced down his spine. If he was that man…then for what, as Gwyneth said, had he been looking?
All Thad knew was ther
e were two things Fairchild had “sent away” that had come to him. A letter, mysterious and full of blatantly wrong facts.
And the sleeping woman before him.
For the first time since she fled Hanover Square, Gwyneth opened her eyes lazily. She yawned, stretched, and relaxed against the pillow.
Morning light touched the pane of glass, inched over the floor, and reflected off the mirror. It made her sigh in wonder.
Light. No horrific monsters, no creeping puddles of darkness. No terror stalking her. She had simply slept. Slept and dreamed of idyllic things. Thad had been in them, smiling and laughing. Swinging little Jack high above his head. Teasing Philly and her husband.
Taking Gwyneth’s hand, touching her cheek, toying with her hair.
She settled a hand over her thudding heart and felt the soft cotton of her nightdress under her fingers. Part of that had been no dream. At least she thought she remembered opening her eyes down on the divan and seeing his face so close, feeling his touch. Glimpsing that light in his eyes that had made her feel…safe. Treasured.
Her fingers twirled through the ribbon at her neckline. She knew she had stirred long enough to eat with Thad last night, but that was only a hazy recollection. Perhaps her mind had blurred it deliberately, as dinner conversation had been her reliving those horrific moments—hurrying into the house, hearing the argument, seeing the blade, and watching the life extinguished from Papa’s eyes.
Then came Thad’s promise not to leave again until after breakfast, and he had called Mrs. Wesley to help her up to bed. Darkness had been falling by then.
She had slept the night through. The whole, entire night. Without any nightmares.
More memories filtered in from the night before. Her begging Thad not to tell anyone else about her father, him insisting that the household needed to know. His tone had been soft but unyielding, and he had sworn she would not have to be the one to recount it again.
Her hand fell to the mattress, and she pushed herself up. Had he told them after she retired? His parents, who counted Papa one of their dearest friends? The Wesleys?
Mrs. Wesley entered with only a cursory knock on the door. Her feet shuffled rather than bustled as usual. Her shoulders were hunched, her eyes red and puffy.
Gwyneth had her answer. “Good morning, Mrs. Wesley.”
The woman trudged over to the window and pulled back the drapes. “You should have told us. You should have let us share the grief and heartache.”
It wasn’t the words that pierced. It was the tone, dull and full of censure. Gwyneth slid to the edge of the bed and put her feet upon the floor. “I am sorry. I was too frightened.”
“Frightened?” Mrs. Wesley faced her, the wrinkles made all the deeper and fiercer by the sunshine behind her. “How could you be too frightened to have the sense to run for the authorities rather than across the ocean? He was your father, and you let his murderer go free.”
Though Gwyneth tried to stand, her knees buckled, and she sank back onto the mattress. “You are right.” Why had she not considered that? She squeezed her eyes shut, but the accusation still wagged its gruesome finger at her, shouting that she was an idiot, had made a mull of everything. “They would have caught him. Then Uncle Gates would be in Newgate and I—”
“Mr. Gates?” Claws dug into her shoulders and shook until she opened her eyes, looking straight into Mrs. Wesley’s blazing ones. “What do you mean by such slanderous rubbish? Your uncle is a good, God-fearing man, and I’ll not suffer you speaking so of him.”
Gwyneth recoiled and shoved her hands into the mattress to keep them from shaking. “I saw him, Mrs. Wesley. I saw him run Papa through with a sword.”
“I am to trust what you’ve seen? Like the monsters on the ship, the teeth you cried out where gnashing at you?” A derisive snort fouled the air. “More ravings of a madwoman.”
“It isn’t.” Her voice emerged as naught but a squeak. If Mrs. Wesley, who had known her all her life, did not believe her, then perhaps she had been wise not to go to the authorities after all. “They were arguing, Papa accused him of greed, Uncle demanded something, and when Papa refused, he…he—”
She was cut off by the connection of Mrs. Wesley’s bony hand with her face. The slap was not hard; it scarcely stung her flush. But the shock of it stole her breath, her words, her will to recover from it.
The woman’s brown eyes threw sparks. “Your sainted father deserves justice that you have denied him. And your uncle—he is a man of heart and purpose. He is the one who recommended us to your father when he and your precious mother set up house. He always, always took the time to speak with us, to ask after John as well as your family. But you.”
Gwyneth drew her knees to her chest and buried her face in them, but could not stop her ears against the words. Nor insulate her mind from the new pounding of fear. What had he asked the Wesleys about them? What had they told him, never suspecting him to be an enemy? What did he know from their lips that could be her undoing?
“You are a stranger. Not the child I knew all these years, and I don’t much like the creature I see in her place. Selfish and cruel and...and unhinged.” A sob interrupted, though Gwyneth daren’t look up. “To think of how I’ve served you these months, with you lying about everything. Snapping and biting at me—and now this? You have betrayed your family. Your country.”
She wrapped her arms tighter around her knees, squeezed her eyes shut.
A slight breeze moved over her exposed wrists and toes, and footfalls moved to the door. No longer shuffling, nay. Now heavy and brisk. Furious. The door whooshed as it opened, but the expected slam didn’t immediately follow.
“Mr. Wesley has a cousin in Canada. We will make our way to him, and from there go home whenever we may. Rest assured we will take no more coin than is rightfully ours. We want nothing of yours.”
She winced as if the door had slammed—directly onto her fingers. She had thought yesterday’s bout would be all she could possibly cry in the span of a few hours, but no. The tears rolled down her cheeks, scalding and sticky. Filled her throat so that it was all she could do to keep them silent.
They were the only link she had to home, and they were abandoning her.
Of course they were. Why would they stay when they realized she had lied to them for months? About something as important as her father’s murder? They wouldn’t trust her anymore, couldn’t. They ought to leave. Go home and see their son, their friends, find employment elsewhere and…and…
And they would likely go straight to Uncle Gates and tell him what she had said. Where she was. Everything. He would laugh with them, shake his head, call her a madwoman, and promise to look into an asylum for her.
Then he would come.
Fire licked at her nerves and sent her scrabbling for the edge of the bed, her brine-filled eyes focused upon her trunk. She must leave, must escape before he could find her. Before he could kill the Lanes for harboring her.
Her feet tangled in the hem of her nightgown, and rather than leap to the floor, she fell to it. Pain bit at the rap of her knees, but what did it matter? She rolled onto them and fought her nightgown into place. And then she swallowed another sob when a brown skirt filled her vision and a brown hand reached to wipe away her tears.
“Don’t you fret none about the Wesleys.” Rosie put a finger under her chin, bidding her to look up. Where Mrs. Wesley’s eyes had shown a dark eruption, Rosie’s were as calm and gray as a morning fog. “Folks deal with loss in their own way. Hers is getting angry, with you the only one she has to blame. You just let her go. Let them go home, or at least make a start for it before they come to their senses. We’ll take care of you.”
Perhaps that advice edged out the panic. Yet when emptied of that, ’twas just a return to yawning nothingness. She pulled her chin away. “They will tell my uncle, the man who killed my father, where I am. He will come for me.”
“Not today he won’t.” Rosie lifted her apron and used the material, wo
rn soft and thin, to clean Gwyneth’s face. “I have been helping Thaddeus long enough to know how long it takes to cross the Atlantic and come back again. We got four months at the least before he could get here. More likely six or seven, taking into account that they won’t have an easy time of finding a ship home, ’specially if they mean to go to Canada first.”
Six months. Half a year. Gwyneth’s shoulders sagged. Far better, then, to let them get well on their way before she devised any plans. Plans they couldn’t be privy to. Time to prepare. Time to pray they would change their minds and not go to England yet. Stay in Canada. Return to Baltimore.
Forgive her.
Fourteen
Thad let his horse have her head over the last open stretch between Washington and Baltimore and wished he were the one pounding the ground until he made thunder rumble beneath him. Happy as Electra may have been with the gallop, it did nothing to relieve the frustration boiling up inside him.
Nothing new upon a return from Washington. But worse than usual.
“Whoa.” He reined her to a halt when his city appeared over the rise. So many familiar streets and well-known buildings. All the avenues and alleys he had prowled with Arnaud, hunting up any tidbit of information that could prove useful. The Chesapeake’s harbor glistening in the sun, Fort McHenry looming in the distance.
Exposed. Ill-prepared. All because the blasted politicians would take no action. Thunder and turf, a more pigheaded lot he had never encountered. He had thought for sure the news from the ambassador in Belgium would have convinced them, but no. The cabinet had all dismissed the president’s concerns this morning when he demanded action.
The British care only for Canada, they had said. There’s no tactical reason for them to attack us.
“You are all a bunch of dunderheads,” Thad muttered under his breath, hoping the wind would carry the sentiment back to the capital. Had they a lick of sense, they would realize this was neither about military tactics nor logic. This was about revenge for the Revolution. It was about men now admirals whose fathers had been killed here a generation before. It was about hatred.
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