Sarah allowed herself to be led into the drawing room. “But it isn’t a tale. Oh Abby, what shall I do?”
* * *
Slightly breathless, St. John arrived at the handsome stone vicarage just steps behind Sarah, who had not turned to look behind her, almost as if she feared the devil was on her heels. He paused inside the archway that sheltered the front door, inhaling the sweet scent of late summer roses and grateful for the breeze that stirred the air.
To either side of the doorway, latticed windows stood open to catch that same breeze, and gauzy curtains fluttered behind them, shielding the rooms’ contents from his gaze. But voices could be heard quite clearly coming from the room to his left, which overlooked the footpath that meandered toward the church.
“Oh Abby, what shall I do?” Sarah’s tremulous voice revealed all the emotions he had suspected her of hiding the night before.
“Your husband’s miraculous return is not something to be celebrated, I take it.” An unfamiliar voice, with an accent that did not match that of most of the citizens of Haverhythe: the vicar’s wife, he presumed.
If Sarah replied to her question, she did not do so in words. “Mrs. Kittery said—”
“Ah,” Mrs. Norris interrupted, her tone knowing. “It’s not like you to let Fanny Kittery get under your skin, Sarah. Let me fetch you a cup of tea and we’ll talk. Make yourself at home. Play if you like. That always makes you feel better.”
He heard the sound of a door opening and closing, followed by the squeak of a hinge and the rustle of papers, then the air around him filled with sound. The pianoforte was obviously of good quality, producing notes as round and mellow as the season, but the person playing it—well, she was exceptional.
He closed his eyes to shut out everything but the music, an unfamiliar piece as complex and rich as typical drawing room fare was tedious and flat. He had not even known she played. Well, that was not entirely true. He had assumed she would. Every young lady played a little—sometimes a very little—if she expected to be considered suitably accomplished to catch a husband. But this was talent of a different order, the kind of skill that might grace a concert hall. How could it have escaped his notice before?
That was, in truth, rather an easy question to answer. He had spent his brief courtship of Sarah Pevensey determined to notice as little about her as possible, and therefore he knew almost nothing of her beyond her dowry.
He tried to imagine how she would look as she played, her long fingers dancing over the keys, her spine straight but leaning into the notes from time to time to give them their power. But what would be her expression? Were her eyes focused intently on a sheet of music, or did she play with eyes closed, calling up those strains from somewhere deep within? Was she somber, or did a smile of pleasure quirk the corner of her mouth? Was she cool and pale, or had that becoming flush begun to steal along her throat?
So intent was he on realizing his vision, he had lifted his hand to knock for admittance before he caught himself, and lowered it once again. He allowed himself another moment to listen furtively at the door, but the concert was cut short by the return of Mrs. Norris with the tea tray.
“Here we are. Now, come and tell me what’s happened.”
The matter-of-fact tone in which the vicar’s wife addressed Sarah suggested she was gifted by such performances so often they had become commonplace. For her part, Sarah seemed unperturbed by the interruption. She stopped mid-run, and he listened to her rise and cross the room. “Bless you, Abby.” Despite the passion of the music, she sounded calmer, more in control of herself.
Control. Self-control. St. John pushed himself away from the doorjamb. He certainly did not need to descend to eavesdropping at the vicarage to learn the information he required. Besides, he wanted no affecting story to blunt the force of his determination.
Mostly, though, he wanted nothing to drown out the sound of the music that still pulsed in his veins. He turned and started back the way he had come, grateful that the position of the window afforded the women no view of his departure.
Then a movement in the window to the right caught his eye. Golden-brown curls and bright eyes peeped through a gap in the curtain. Clarissa was watching him.
He froze. Would she cry out? Run and fetch her mother?
Instead, she grinned.
He pressed a finger to his lips, which curved in an answering smile. He did not think a child so young could be sworn to secrecy. But the pact might give him a moment to get away.
She giggled and pressed one finger to her own mouth in imitation. Finding it covered with the remnant of some sweet treat, she began to suck on it, and St. John did not hesitate to use her distraction to take his leave.
As he entered the street and was once again immersed in the sights and sounds and smells of Haverhythe, he wondered why on earth Sarah had chosen such a place to hide away. He did not believe her story about his stepmother’s involvement, so how had she made her way here? More important, why had she stayed? She would almost certainly have been better able to disappear in London, where one could very nearly get away with anything under cover of anonymity. But in a fishing village of a few hundred souls, her arrival would have been remarked upon by all.
“You must be Mr. Fairfax.”
The feminine voice startled St. John from his musings, and he looked about him to discover that he was halfway down the street once again, in front of the apothecary’s shop.
“I’m Mrs. Kittery,” the woman said as she made a little curtsy.
The people of Haverhythe did not seem to stand on ceremony when they wanted information. St. John tipped his hat. “Good morning, ma’am. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Mrs. Fairfax and Clarissa went by not half an hour ago,” she said, her dark, close-set eyes taking in every detail of his appearance as if storing away the information for later.
“Yes,” he agreed. “On their way to meet Mrs. Norris. I hoped to overtake them, but they had the start of me and I did not want to interrupt Mrs. Fairfax’s visit.”
“How—thoughtful,” she purred. As with Mrs. Norris, something in Fanny Kittery’s speech set her apart from the other village residents he had met, although the quality of Mrs. Kittery’s voice was far less pleasant. “You know, we were given to understand you had died. Your miraculous appearance has nearly overset us all.”
“None more than Mrs. Fairfax, I do assure you.”
His admission seemed to please her. “I for one am glad you are here. Your wife’s arrival in Haverhythe raised more than a few eyebrows, you should know. Her story was so—incredible. There were those who found it quite impossible to believe.”
It was easy to see that Mrs. Kittery had been among them. And as her husband was likely the only medical man in the village, he had probably been among the first to learn that the supposed widow was expecting. The apothecary’s wife looked to be the type who would be only too glad to pass along a private diagnosis to her neighbors.
Her obvious delight in spreading gossip ought to have made her an ally to his cause, but something about Fanny Kittery did not sit well with St. John. He schooled his face to impassivity. What did it matter, really, what the strangers in this village had said or done to the woman with whom he intended to sever all ties?
But now he could guess on whom Sarah had been practicing the firmly set jaw and cold eyes that had greeted him yesterday afternoon.
He suddenly recalled a detail from his earlier conversation with Beals. “Mrs. Fairfax gives your daughter lessons on the pianoforte, does she not?”
“Er, yes. Indeed she does.” His knowledge seemed to startle her. “In fact, it was I who suggested the lessons as a means for Mrs. Fairfax to earn her keep, rather than relying on charity—it pained her to have to do so, I know,” she added, the words only serving to underscore her contempt. “I came here a dozen years ago, Mr. Fairfax. From Plymouth, you see,” she said, the name of her birthplace falling from her tongue as if it had been Paris. “S
o I have always felt it my duty to set the tone of life in Haverhythe somewhat higher.”
Probably she hoped to see her daughter one day restored to the more refined circles from which she herself had come, circles in which musical accomplishments would be held in high regard. Despite the pleasure afforded by shunning someone like Sarah, how often did one come across a competent teacher of that particular skill in a fishing village on the northern coast of Devonshire?
But then, Sarah was rather more than competent.
“Then you were instrumental in helping Mrs. Fairfax achieve some measure of acceptance here.”
The supposed compliment did not sit well with Mrs. Kittery. “Oh, I can’t take credit, Mr. Fairfax. It’s Mr. and Mrs. Norris who did that, along with Beals, the baker. And people seem to dote on the little girl, Clarissa. Of course, folks do say you oughtn’t to blame a child for the parents’ sins,” she acknowledged reluctantly. “In any case, over the years, people have proved willing to forgive Mrs. Fairfax for any—irregularities that might have been hidden in her past.”
Against Fanny Kittery’s better judgment, it was clear to see.
“I’m sure you underestimate your influence, Mrs. Kittery. I’ll bid you good day,” he said with a nod and walked back toward the pub, reflecting on everything he’d learned that morning.
Had everyone else in this trusting little village been duped by a jewel thief and lightskirt?
He could not afford to be taken in himself.
Chapter 7
Although St. John had slept in some strange places, Mackey’s Pub in Haverhythe did not seem fated to be among them. Sheer fatigue should have robbed him of the ability to keep his eyes open, but he found himself in his room, lying on his back, staring up at the smoke-stained ceiling. It wasn’t the lumpy tick mattress or the damp sheets that kept sleep at bay. It wasn’t even the sounds of Saturday night carousing that erupted at intervals from the taproom.
It was the memory of Clarissa’s eyes.
He could still see them peeping over the stone window ledge, bright and merry and a remarkable shade of violet.
He could not say, even now, what color he had expected, what color he had wanted to see. Her mother’s eyes, a gray that shifted and changed like a sky threatening storm? No, those eyes gave him trouble enough already.
Sutliffe blue? Well, that would have answered one question. But it would hardly have made his task easier. What was it Fanny Kittery had said? You oughtn’t to blame a child for the parents’ sins. If he could prove Sarah was a thief, it would rob a child—perhaps his child—of her mother. That was a loss he understood too well. Despite his determination to rid himself of the woman he had never wanted to wed, was he hard-hearted enough to inflict such pain on an innocent little girl?
If he were honest with himself, he had expected brown eyes. It would have been fitting, somehow, if they had been the same dark eyes that haunted his nightmares, eyes glassy and unseeing as they stared up from David Brice’s pale face where it lay in the dewy green grass.
St. John shuddered at the memory and looked down, half-expecting to see in his trembling hands a sword dripping with another man’s blood. Accepting that sleep was not going to come, and in some ways not sorry for it given the path his thoughts seemed intent on taking, he hoisted himself from the uncomfortable bed and dressed. The passageway was dark, but he made his way along it and down the stairs, following the noise of the taproom.
The smell of fish and sweat and ale was almost as much an assault on his senses as the light and the noise that burst upon him as he opened the door. The pub was crowded. A few women could even be seen among the tables tonight. The eldest Mackey boy was behind the bar, while his father danced grudging attendance on his patrons. Gerald Beals was seated in his regular spot, talking with a man St. John did not know.
Avoiding every eye, St. John crossed the room and walked out the door, forgoing both hat and greatcoat. The cobbled street of Haverhythe was cool and blessedly quiet in comparison to the raucous pub. The sea breeze lifted his hair, and he turned to watch the play of a waxing moon across the water.
Without conscious thought, he was drawn to the massive quay that curled out into the bay, sheltering a shoreline now littered with boats of all sizes. Climbing its wide, worn steps, he found the stone walkway along its top slick with spray where the heavier waves of the incoming tide crashed against the solid pier only to fall back impotently into the sea.
To his surprise, he was not alone, despite the lateness of the hour. A figure stood at the far end of the quay looking out to sea—a woman, her skirts whipped by the wind. His first thought was that it might be Mad Martha, come to commune with her dead husband’s ghost. But this woman was taller, almost certainly younger. Some other fisherman’s wife, then, waiting for a boat that had not come in. What must it be like to go on, day by day, worrying and wondering what the next tide would bring?
As if trying to shed just such fears, the woman arched her back and lifted her face to the moonlight, and with a sudden and unwelcome quickening of his pulse St. John recognized Sarah.
He hesitated. He did not think she had seen him. He might turn and walk away. Of course, walking away got him no closer to his goal. It answered no questions and solved no mysteries.
So far, however, his encounters with Sarah tended to raise more questions than they answered.
When he was perhaps three steps away, she turned to face him. He had thought the sound of the waves had masked his approach. But she did not look startled to see him, merely angry.
“Have you come to make more threats, then? Come to remind me once again that you have the power to ruin me—to set my friends against me—to rip my daughter away?” With her loose hair and her wide, searching eyes, she looked as wild as her surroundings.
He had regretted his parting whisper in the baker’s shop almost as soon as it had passed his lips. If the tip of a blade had not forced Brice to confess, how likely was it that mere words would intimidate Sarah into revealing her own perfidy, or the whereabouts of the stolen gems?
In the hours since, he had given much thought to Beals’s counsel to woo Sarah. If he wanted to be free of her in the end, he must do whatever it took to find that necklace, and the search would go more smoothly if he gained some measure of her trust. He would have to worm his way into her house, her bedchamber, even—if necessary—her bed.
Here, under the moonlight, seemed the proper place to take the first steps in that direction.
“Threats?” He shook his head sadly. “Ah, Sarah. You misunderstand me.”
“Oh, I think not, my lord,” she ground out with mock courtesy. “Why else would you be here?”
“In Haverhythe?”
“On the quay. At this time of night.” She pulled her shawl more snugly about her shoulders. Although they stood in the most open and public place in the village, everything about her posture proclaimed that she felt he had violated her private sanctuary.
So he stepped closer still, until they were standing shoulder to shoulder. “I was merely looking for a place to clear my head.”
“Mackey’s can be a bit rowdy on a Saturday night.” She sounded anything but sympathetic.
“Mm,” he agreed absently. “And I have had trouble enough sleeping since I went to Antigua.”
“Have you?” she scoffed.
“Yes.”
She gasped as she twisted around to face him. “Do you—do you mean to say that you really have been in the West Indies? But I thought—that is, Mrs. Potts said you told her—” Sarah frowned and began again. “You told Mrs. Potts that you had been there, I know. But I assumed you did so because you knew that I had told everyone my husband had died abroad—that it was just part of the tale you had concocted to amuse Mr. Mackey and the rest.”
St. John managed a wry smile. “Your husband very nearly did die—in an open field just outside London.”
Sarah’s brow wrinkled in confusion.
“I met Brice. Did you
know?”
“No.” Her eyes darted to his scar. “I cannot believe you would challenge a man over a slight to my reputation.”
St. John cut his gaze away, studying the glossy reflection of the moon on the slick stones beneath their feet. In the intervening years, he had almost persuaded himself that he had not dueled for her honor, but rather for his own—such as it was. Denial had become second nature. But he could hardly deny the duel’s importance to the woman he was meant to be wooing. “More than a slight, ma’am,” he said at last. “And then, believing I had killed him, I fled.”
“Captain Brice is dead?” she asked hesitantly.
He tried to analyze the tone of her question. Regret? Relief? “No,” he answered finally. “He survived—was sent on a mission to France, in fact. He returned a hero.”
Another pause. “But you have been in Antigua all this time? That is why you have come for me only now?”
Had she honestly thought that he had simply let her go? That if circumstances had not prevented him, he would have made no effort to find her? But the answer, apparently, was yes. She had tossed aside her marriage vows, created a new life for herself, imagined she was safely out of his reach—that much was clear to him.
He nodded.
“Three years. What did you do there?”
“This and that. Mostly I worked as a sort of clerk for a planter’s agent.”
“A clerk,” she repeated, raising one skeptical eyebrow. “Your father’s name could not secure you something better?”
“Perhaps,” St. John acknowledged. “If I had given it.”
He could not be sure it was not a trick of the moonlight, but he thought he saw her swallow a smile. “Such a dangerous voyage—and destination. I cannot think that Lord Estley took well to the notion of his son and heir putting himself in harm’s way.”
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