Another pause in the scrubbing. “Why?”
Why indeed? Why should Arthur worry with one boy separated from his family when so many the world over suffered far worse plights? Scrubs, at least, earned a living aboard Yorrick’s vessel, which he could send home to his mother—assuming any pound notes made it through the post. He sighed. “Gates has requested that Yorrick remain at the open port in Annapolis until our business is concluded. Perhaps that would afford you time enough to visit them.”
Scrubs snorted. “We could be there a year, sir, and the captain would still never let me out of his sight.”
“I would take responsibility for you.” The offer slipped out before Arthur could stop his lips. Wisdom called him a fool, but some other part of him whispered that this young man was one of integrity. “Assuming, of course, you gave me your word that you would return to the Falcon.”
Not meeting his gaze, Scrubs grabbed his rag, stood, and hefted the tray. “I appreciate the offer, Sir Arthur. And I respect the kind of man who would make it.” He strode to the door, paused with a hand on the latch, and turned his stoic face toward Arthur. “Which is why I couldn’t give you that word.”
Arthur grunted as the boy slipped out. No doubt that was for the best. Taking charge of Scrubs would only distract him from his real purpose anyway. Finding Gwyneth must remain his foremost, his only priority.
And with Gates’s help, surely he could manage it.
For a long moment Gwyneth stared at the painted face of her father. She gazed into his canvas eyes and willed life into his ever-still lips. “Oh, Papa. What are you trying to tell me?” Were she not aware that some of the paint was still tacky—even a week had been insufficient for it to dry in this damp air—she would have reached out and touched the familiar shoulder.
No comfort was to be found there, though. No wisdom from his mouth or affection from his eyes.
She had never once had to question that he loved her, but as she stared at the face she knew so well, she wondered how well she had really known her sire. And why, when she needed it most, he had left her no words to guide her.
She turned from the painting she’d so carefully carried up to her room last night and studied the rest of the chamber again to try to divine where Mrs. Wesley might have stashed a random piece of paper. Where she herself might have slipped one in a stupor. Where amid her things Papa might have folded one.
She had searched her three books, her trunk, even the spaces under the furniture in case a page had fallen and fluttered there. If only she could ask Mrs. Wesley—if only Rosie had been able to offer some insight—if only Papa had left it somewhere prominent—but no.
She was alone with her questions and her fears. Alone with her future.
A shout of laughter from below made her catch her breath. Perhaps not alone, but how wise was it to become attached to the Lanes? They were on opposite sides of a war.
Though Papa had been the one to send her here.
They were spies.
Though arguably the only ones who could help her evade or outsmart Uncle Gates.
They would not want her here forever.
Though her mind conjured up Thad’s voice, his whispered bid that she promise to stay. Had it been a jest? Dare she trust her perception of the gleam in his eyes? Or was he just doing as he always did—saying exactly what he knew she needed to hear, giving what she needed to receive? As he did with absolutely everyone?
And why did her heart twist? Why did it hope she was more to him than that? Why did her feet even now pull her toward the door, toward that laughter? Toward him. Always toward him, it seemed.
Foolishness. She knew it even as she gave in to the tug and exited her room.
The family had already made their way to the breakfast table, and it was young Jack eliciting the laughter. His face liberally smeared with oatmeal, he held a slice of apple in front of his mouth and said, “Look, Grandmama! I have a smile.”
Gwyneth couldn’t help but put on one of her own, though she meant to keep it aimed at the boy and not to direct it toward Thad. Somehow, though, her gaze swung his way. His was already on her, and it twinkled with good humor.
Mrs. Lane laughed at Jack. “And what a handsome smile it is.”
Thad stood and pulled out Gwyneth’s usual chair for her. “My lady.”
“Oh, I am not a…” She trailed off at his mischievous little grin and slid into her chair. Of course he knew she was no titled lady to deserve such a greeting. American he may be, but he was no fool. “Are you being deliberately gauche, Captain Lane?”
“Never.” He scooted the seat in, and his hand rested for a moment on her shoulder.
Jack had flipped the apple slice over and now held it above his lip. “And now I have a moustache!”
It was all Gwyneth could do to swallow past the catch in her throat. Her shoulder felt warm long after Thad regained his own seat.
She could only imagine the scolding Aunt Gates would give her each time he touched her unnecessarily. And given that warm feeling, ’twas a scolding she needed. The Lanes may have accepted her into their family for the time being, but she ought not be getting any ideas about Thad. No matter how bright were his eyes. No matter how compelling was his smile. No matter how her heart trilled at his every touch…or the fact that she felt completely safe when in his company. The point still remained that when all this was over—the war and her uncle’s schemes—she would have no place here.
And that was assuming she lived through it.
Mr. Lane passed her the plate of biscuits, soon followed by the eggs and sausage. Though they no doubt thought they were being discreet, each of the Lanes watched to see how much food she ladled onto her plate. She had already learned that if she didn’t choose for herself what they deemed “enough,” someone would slip on more when her attention was elsewhere. Except for Rosie, who didn’t bother with subtlety and added more overtly.
And because she was beginning to look more like her old self and less like a half-starved, sickly waif from the streets, she could thank them for their efforts.
“Have you plans to paint today, Gwyneth?” Thad’s voice came under the next laugh from Jack, quiet and warm.
The desire swelled, moving from mind to heart to hands. In her ears crashed a symphony of waves on the hull of Masquerade, the waters gleamed turquoise before her mind’s eye, and the sky… She cast a dubious gaze at the window, where dark clouds brewed overhead, and let go the fingers of the muse. “I daresay not today. Even if the rain holds off, the light is not good.”
“You are welcome to come with me then.” Mrs. Lane set her cup of steaming coffee down, smiling. “I plan to fit in a quick trip to the shops before it rains. Amelia mentioned a pressing need for salt and a few medicinals.”
Jack bounced in his chair. “May I come, Grandmama? May I?”
Mrs. Lane leveled a stern gaze on him, though Gwyneth had no trouble detecting the sparkle in her eye. “Only, my darling boy, if you give me your word that you will beg for neither a sweet nor a trinket.”
Jack’s face scrunched up, but at length he heaved a sigh worthy of a man ten times his age and picked up another apple slice. “All right. I shall still go.”
“Gracious of you.” The woman lifted her cup again and smiled into it.
Gwyneth slathered some strawberry preserves onto her biscuit. “I shall join you as well, Mrs. Lane, thank you.” She darted a glance to Thad, hoping he would volunteer to accompany them. But he said nothing.
Ignoring the vague pulse of disappointment, she focused on her food.
“Bennet darling, will you come too?” Mrs. Lane reached over to wipe the oatmeal from Jack’s cheeks.
The elder Mr. Lane scarcely glanced up from the Baltimore Patriot and Evening Advertiser before him. “Hmm? Oh, not today, my love. I have some correspondence to which I must respond, and I promised Philly I would read her latest treatise on vacuums.”
She grinned. “You have not read it yet? She has some
very interesting addendums to Monsieur Pascal’s essays confirming Torricelli’s theory on why nature does not, in fact, abhor a vacuum.”
Mr. Lane grinned right back. “Well, don’t spoil it for me.”
Strange how the banter made that aching pulse intensify. Forget that she had no idea who Mr. Torricelli was or why nature might be offended by space devoid of air. The thud inside her was not from being outside of that, but rather from being outside of this. The comfort, the tease, the intimate knowing of another.
She selected a bite of egg with more care than it required. Who was left who knew her so well?
“I peeked into the drawing room at your easel yesterday, Gwyn.” Thad sliced off a bite of sausage, his eyes bright. “The Masquerade is coming along beautifully. Are you sure you do not want to work more on it today? Father could get clever with lanterns and mirrors and canopies to give you adequate illumination.”
The tension eased. A bit. “I thank you. But I am afraid there is no substitute for natural morning light.”
He speared the piece of sausage and lifted the fork straight up, motioning with it. “You have painted from dawn to dusk before.”
“I made do. But it was no substitute.” She reached for a smile, found one, and produced it. “That painting was for me, so if the light and shadows were a bit off, only I would care. This new one is for you to hang on these shamefully bare walls of yours, so it must be perfect.”
Something flickered through his eyes when she mentioned light and shadow, but it soon vanished behind his fresh grin. “I suppose so. Since you insist on foisting it upon me.”
“Will you come with us, Uncle Thad?”
He turned his smile on Jack. “Not today, my little mate, though I will also be out and about. I had a note that one of my partner ships made it through the blockade, which means I have business to attend.”
Business. Gwyneth sank her teeth into the biscuit and tried not to wonder if this business was goods smuggled to port or information.
Most likely both. The bread stuck in her throat. A sip of tea washed it down but did little to erase the feeling of it there.
Jack’s eyes went big and bright. “Can I come with you instead?”
Thad seemed to consider it, which she found surprising. What man wanted a child underfoot as he attended his business? But then he set down his fork with obvious contemplation. “I think it would be too dull for you, Jack.” At the pout of the boy’s lip, he added, “But perhaps you could go with Grandmama now, and then she could walk you down to me. That will give me some time to clear out the requisite legalities, and then we can explore the goods together.”
Jack bounced again and looked as though he would have leaped upon his chair and shouted for joy had a warning glance from Mrs. Lane not quelled him. “Thank you, Uncle Thad, thank you!”
Thad went back to his breakfast with a grin.
Gwyneth focused on hers as well, giving only half an ear to the renewed chatter of the little one and the answering laughter of the Lanes.
Having Jack around had no doubt been a balm when Thad lost his babe along with his wife. What a terrible blow that would have been. What, she wondered, had Peggy been like? She took a sip of her tea and tried to remember if she had seen a likeness of her anywhere. Certainly no portraits graced the walls. She had not noted any drawings that could have been of her. Nor so much as a silhouette like she and Mama had done for each other when they had only a lamp and paper for company.
And now that she gave it thought, she had never heard the Lanes speak of Peggy but for when Gwyneth had questioned Philly. ’Tis a topic still quite sore, she had said about the death of her sister-in-law and niece or nephew. A topic that was therefore avoided.
Odd. She set her teacup down and lifted her fork again. This family did not seem to avoid other difficult subjects. They spoke so freely of their concerns for the war underway, for Captain Arnaud and Jack, for Gwyneth. And, in recent days, even their worries for the responsibilities of what they referred to as the Culper Ring—their groups of intelligencers, as Thad had requested they be called.
The Culper Ring. The name made her shiver as she took a bite of sausage, though she was unsure why. Certainly the words themselves had no great meaning to her. But the fact that they had a group that needed a name…
Her fingers tightened around the fork. They seemed such a normal family. Loving and open and…and…knowable. Like Papa had always seemed. Well admired, well respected, trustworthy.
Why must it all be marred by secrets?
“Are you ready, dear?”
Gwyneth blinked away the rumination and realized everyone had finished eating, herself included. She could scarcely recall what anything had tasted like, but only a few scraps remained on her plate. She summoned a smile. “Certainly. I will go fetch my bonnet and reticule.”
Minutes later she came back downstairs to find Mrs. Lane and Thad standing on the porch examining the sky.
“I think it will hold off another few hours,” he said.
Mrs. Lane nodded. “Excellent. I should like a bit of exercise if that suits you, Gwyneth dear.”
“It suits me well, ma’am, thank you.” And it would without question suit Jack, who was even then dashing about the lawn outside.
“I had better take a carriage, though, as I daresay I will not beat the weather home. And you two had better not dawdle.” Thad’s gaze moved to include Gwyneth, and he held out a hand toward her.
She had no reason to put hers in it. None whatsoever. She certainly needed no help walking down the two steps off the porch, and as he would have to repair to the carriage house, he would not be seeing them to the street. But he invited. And before she could control her wayward limbs, she had stepped forward and rested her fingers in his.
Eyes sparkling with mischief and something far warmer she daren’t name, he raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “I shall see you at the Masquerade.”
Images blurred together in her mind, the words conjuring up a different setting, a different man. Hyde Park before her instead of a Baltimore lawn, Sir Arthur Hart’s gaze lingering on her, a short quarter hour after their introduction. I shall see you at the masquerade. They had just established they had both accepted the same invitation, and he had requested she save him a dance. Oh, how excited she had been.
She blinked, and the memory faded to a fog. The masquerade had been naught but a crush of bodies, the rooms overcrowded. No real mystery as she had wanted there to be. And though she had danced that reel with Sir Arthur, they had barely exchanged a score of words. It had been nothing. Nothing.
Drawing in a deep breath, she gripped Thad’s fingers and gave him a small smile. “You shall indeed.” His Masquerade was built of solider stuff than expectation. And his face was one that evoked in her something far more than the giddy thrill of Sir Arthur’s.
She was no fool, though. Given the way her emotions had been swinging like a pendulum these months, she would not put too much weight on them. Even if they overwhelmed her as she stepped away and followed his mother to intercept Jack. When Mrs. Lane shot her a knowing grin, heat stained Gwyneth’s cheeks.
They walked a goodly ways with only Jack’s impromptu song about the birds to break the silence. When his serenade lapsed into an enthusiastic hum, Mrs. Lane turned warm green eyes on Gwyneth. “Are you happy with us, my dear? Your grief aside.”
A small laugh slipped out. When had she last considered something so transient as happiness? Perhaps, fleetingly, during that bit of the Season. But in general, not since Mama fell ill. And yet…was there anywhere else she would rather be now than with the Lanes? Nay. “I…I suppose I am, as much as I can be at this juncture. Though there is so much to worry over, not the least of which is what I might be bringing upon you by being here.”
Mrs. Lane laughed, a beautiful sound as vivacious as her daughter’s. “Gwyn, you have brought nothing to our door we did not first invite. You surely realize that.”
A truth she couldn’t deny, much as she wished she could. She looked from her hostess to Jack and to the city, so young compared to those she knew. And then beyond, to the glimpse of treetops and churning gray sky. What wilds lay that way? Frontiers as yet untouched, filled with dangers unknown? Were the roads between here and Canada safe or wrought with peril? “I do hope the Wesleys write and let me know they are well. To think of them traveling so far without so much as a pass—”
“Ah, you needn’t worry about that part.” Mrs. Lane looped their arms together and gave her a comforting smile. “Thaddeus gave them his.”
Had Jack not been tugging them forward, Gwyneth would have come to a halt. “His…he had a pass? But wh—”
“One never knows.” Her smile turning mischievous, the lady patted her arm. “But I can tell you he gave it to them so that the knowledge might bring you peace. Did you know your father gave Bennet and me passes that allowed us to escape the City of New York with our lives during the Revolution?”
Had she known? Nay. Did it surprise her? Yes…no. Given what she knew of them, Gwyneth could infer that such a gift could have caused her father trouble at the time. And Papa had been a firm believer in rules, in honor, in duty.
But he was also a firmer believer in the bonds of love and friendship. She summoned up a smile and hoped it had even a fraction of the light Mrs. Lane’s held. “I did not, but I am glad he did if it resulted in your survival.”
Mrs. Lane chuckled but then fell solemn. “He was a good man. One of the best I have ever known. One who always did what was right no matter what politics told him was expedient. Men like that are rare in this world.”
“And rarer now.” The words slipped out before she could stop them and brought a burning to her eyes. “I am sorry.”
“We are all sorry.” But Mrs. Lane visibly bolstered herself, squaring her shoulders and producing another smile. “Thaddeus tells me he lent you our book of prayers. My father copied them himself from sermons and manuscripts his grandfather left him. I hope they bring you comfort.”
Whispers from the Shadows Page 16