Willing Love

by Mary Jean Adams

  “He told me to tell you this is not a social call. He is here on business.” Gil held out a silver platter containing a small, white rectangle.

  Prudence picked it up, and her heart sank when she read the script on the front.

  Simon Manley, Rhode Island Customs Officer.

  If ever she needed Evan, it was now.

  “Show him to the study. I will be with him in a moment.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Gil shut the parlor door, his face revealing nothing of what he thought of a visit from a customs officer.

  Prudence surveyed her appearance in the mirror over the fireplace. Her sunken eyes and wan face suggested she hadn’t had much sleep. She hadn’t, of course, but it mortified her to think Simon might spend his time imagining what she had been up to. Or even worse, read the distress in her eyes.

  With a trembling hand, she pinched some color into her cheeks and tucked a few stray curls into her chignon. She still looked tired, but at least she no longer looked like she had just crawled from her bed.

  Prudence entered the study to find Simon leaning against the desk much as Richard had, an open ledger in his hand. Unlike Richard, Simon’s legs barely reached the floor. The toe of one cardinal-red shoe rested lightly against the carpet while his other foot swung back and forth, his heel clicking against the wooden desk like a metronome.

  If he scratched the mahogany, she would send the repair bill to his office this very afternoon.

  “Mr. Manley, how nice of you to visit us this morning.”

  Prudence congratulated herself on sounding gracious even though she longed to lecture her odious classmate on the propriety of a visit the day after her wedding and the ill-mannered behavior of rummaging through one’s belongings uninvited.

  Simon looked up at her with thin eyes. He shut the ledger but did not return it to the stack.

  Prudence gritted her teeth. Not that there was anything in the ledger to incriminate Ashcroft. An ingenious bookkeeping system developed by her grandfather kept all but those who were part of the Ashcroft inner circle in the dark. A customs officer might look at the ledger until the end of time; he would not find a single record that implicated her family or their business associates in any wrongdoing. Of course, that wouldn’t stop the new breed of customs officials from making insinuations until they got what they wanted. Many of them lived in a far grander style than their meager salary or circumstances accounted for.

  Simon Manley would not get a penny from her.

  “Unfortunately, mine is not a social call, Mrs. Foster.” He cocked his head as though he expected her to correct his use of her husband’s name.

  “Is that so?” Her voice lost some of its controlled civility.

  “Is Captain Foster at home?”

  “He is not.” She folded her hands at her waist.

  It wasn’t fear that had them trembling, but anger. That surprised her. For years she had lived in fear of the taunts and bullying of her classmates. Somehow having Evan on her side had given her courage even in his absence.

  “Ah.” Simon tugged at his mustache, a pitiful thing that bore a striking resemblance to the one worn by Mrs. Fitzgerald, the manor’s head laundress. “Is he away on business?”

  “I know not, Mr. Manley. We are newly married, and I’m not yet familiar with my husband’s routines.”

  “He left without telling you where he was going?” Simon gave her a look of disbelief through heavily lidded eyes. “When do you expect him to return?”

  “I’m not certain.” She would be damned if she would tell him anything, even if she did know.

  “Well, I suppose you will have to do.” He came off the desk with a little hop. “As you may have heard, I have been appointed the new head of customs by the governor.”

  He eyed Prudence as though he expected some sort of response to the news. She said nothing.

  “I wanted to speak with Captain Foster to see what he knew of smuggling in the area.” His pink tongue shot out and swept across his thin lips. “As former head of Ashcroft & Sons, perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

  Former head of Ashcroft? Prudence stiffened, then reminded herself that this was Simon Manley she dealt with. She would not take the bait he so obviously dangled in front of her.

  “I have heard rumors, but I know no details.” There, she had managed to capture a polite, almost conversational tone again.

  “Yes,” Simon said, drawing out the word into a hiss. “I assumed as much. After all, a family as loyal as the Ashcrofts would never make a move against the crown, would they?” His eyebrow ticked up.

  Her grandmother had always cautioned her that when in doubt don’t do or say anything that would reveal your position. This seemed a good time to heed her advice. Prudence stood silently and waited to see what he would do next.

  Simon scanned the books on the shelves that lined the study. “You know, Mrs. Foster, I like to read. Of course, you probably know that since we went to school together some years ago. Still, there is one thing you may not know about me.” He walked along the shelves. He appeared to be scanning the titles along the spines even though he kept speaking. “Of all the books I have in my library, do you know which one I love to read the most? The almanac. Can you believe that? I’ve had the finest education money can buy, and I still enjoy reading the almanac. Do you read the almanac, Mrs. Foster?” He gave her an expectant look.

  Prudence shook her head, wondering if Simon’s mind might have slipped a little since she had seen him last.

  “No, I didn’t think you would. Women, especially women of consequence”—he gave a little nod in her direction—“have little need for the almanac. It’s more useful to men who earn a living with their hands. Farmers, for example, swear by the almanac for knowing when to plant their crops. It gives them insights into the weather.”

  “I suppose that would be useful,” she said when his pause lasted just a little too long.

  “Yes, it would.” A satisfied twitch crossed his lips. “I wonder if sailors also use the almanac. Knowing the weather could be useful for one who plies the seas, especially those around our rocky coastline, don’t you think?” Simon cocked his head again in that sharp quick way he had, so lizard-like that she wanted to laugh despite the tension in the room. “The almanac will even tell them when the moon rises and sets.”

  Simon strode to the window and looked out at the still bright sky as though searching for the ephemeral daytime moon. “Tonight, for example will be an interesting night. It’s a waning moon, and it sets early. By midnight, it will be dark as pitch.”

  The locals called it a Smuggler’s Moon. Did Simon know that? Probably. If he had been a customs official for more than a week, surely someone would have told him about the best time for smuggling—or catching smugglers.

  With a dry laugh reminiscent of a bird choking on a seed, Simon turned from the window. “It would be an interesting night to go smuggler hunting, don’t you think, Mrs. Foster?”

  Prudence’s stomach did its best to tie itself into a knot. Did Simon know where Evan was? Or was he trying to bait her to see how much she would reveal?

  For the first time all day, Prudence was glad Evan hadn’t told her where he had gone. It allowed her to lie to herself, at least for as long as it took to get rid of Simon. After all, Evan might simply be running a load of pots and pans to Boston. In which case, she had no need to worry.

  “I’m sure I could find better things to do with my time, Mr. Manley.”

  “I’m sure you could.” He drew closer to Prudence, his sweet, rather feminine cologne filled the dwindling gap between them, and she had to fight the urge to shrink from him. “Frankly, I am surprised to find Captain Foster away. Were I newly married, I should not leave my young wife alone the day after the ceremony.”

  The abrupt turn in the conversation toward the intimate left her feeling as though she were on the heaving deck of a ship. When Simon laid a hand on her arm, Prudence’s skin quivered in revulsion, and she thought s
he might be sick.

  “Mr. Manley, I think it’s time you leave. I shall send word when my husband returns.” Prudence snatched the ledger Simon still held.

  “Gil,” she called in a voice just shy of a bellow.

  “Yes, ma’am?” Gil appeared as though he had been waiting outside the door.

  “Show Mr. Manley out, please.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Gil ushered the reluctant customs officer toward the door.

  Simon said nothing, but over his shoulder he gave Prudence a smug look that said he’d be back.

  The rumbling of Simon’s carriage wheels had long since died away, and yet Prudence still stared at the door to the library. If only Evan would return. Their personal arrangement aside, she had more urgent matters to discuss with him now.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Come in,” Prudence called from her seat at the window when a knock sounded at the library door.

  Mrs. Hatcher stepped into the room, a silver tray in her hands.

  “Would you like some dinner, ma’am?” She didn’t wait for an answer before setting the tray on a side table. She lifted the cover. “I brought you tea, biscuits, boiled potatoes, and a bit of cold beef.” She pointed to each of the items as she named them just as she had when Prudence was a child.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hatcher. I will eat in a moment.”

  Mrs. Hatcher returned the cover to the tray with the stern expression of a governess who had heard it all before. “See that you do. You’ve been locked in this room all day, staring out that window. He’ll be home soon. Starving yourself won’t bring him back any faster.”

  “Mmmm…” Prudence gave an appreciative sniff as though the smell of dinner had brought back her appetite.

  The less Mrs. Hatcher knew of her plans, the better. She settled a starched, linen napkin across her lap. The moment the door clicked shut behind her housekeeper, Prudence turned back to the window to watch the setting sun stain the sky with streaks of fuchsia and violet.

  Somewhere in the dusk, her husband readied his ship and crew. But where? What could be so important that he would leave her the day after their wedding? Or was she so unimportant to him that she couldn’t entice him to stay.

  Prudence’s lips drew tight. She was no mere heiress to be married and discarded the day after the ceremony was performed, the marriage consummated, and the fortune secured. No sir! She was an Ashcroft, and she wouldn’t have it.

  Prudence strangled the little voice inside her when it tried to remind her this was exactly the sort of arrangement she had proposed.

  She turned back to the tray Mrs. Hatcher had prepared and lifted the cover. Her appetite had not returned, but she had eaten little all day. There could be no telling what the night entailed, and she needed her strength. She picked up a buttermilk biscuit and nibbled at it while churning the day’s events over and over in her mind as though they might eventually congeal into an explanation that made sense.

  Her gut insisted that Evan had not simply run a load of household goods up to Boston. But if not Boston, where? The questions had become distressingly familiar, but she ran through them one more time. Where could Evan have gone that would only take a day? One by one she picked through the possibilities and found satisfaction with none of them. Except, possibly, one.

  And what was Richard’s role in Evan’s disappearance? Richard had the final say in which ships were dispatched and to where. It was highly unlikely Richard would not know where Evan had gone if he had indeed taken an Ashcroft vessel.

  She would also lay odds that Richard’s borrowing of the ledger had been a ruse. The way he searched the stack made it look as though he wanted a certain one, but something in the way he searched didn’t sit right with her. It had been casual, too casual.

  Richard’s surprise at not finding Evan at home hadn’t been feigned. He had come to speak to Evan, not to her. Considering the way he left so soon after discovering her alone only furthered her suspicions. In all the years she had known him, Richard had never been in a hurry to leave her side.

  Lost in thought, Prudence chewed her biscuit, not really tasting it, barely remembering to swallow.

  Then there was Simon’s visit. It, too, seemed rather well timed. Had he really come to question Evan, or had he suspected Evan would be absent?

  She threw the half-eaten biscuit back on the tray.

  No, he couldn’t possibly have known Evan would be gone. More likely, his visit had been intended to irritate her.

  She considered her husband’s first reaction to Simon. Evidently, his new position as customs official had granted Mr. Manley boldness, if not wisdom.

  Her convoluted thoughts came back to Evan. If Richard hadn’t sent him, where could he have gone?

  She forced herself to consider the unthinkable. Did he have a lover in Boston? Had he found his wife so unsatisfactory in the marriage bed that he sought the comforts of another woman?

  No, that would be impossible. Not that he didn’t have a lover in Boston. He might have several for all she knew about him.

  However, as a ship’s captain, he had to know it was more than a day’s journey to Boston and back, regardless of how one traveled.

  Prudence snorted. Besides, if she were his lover, she would insist on more than just a few hours of his time.

  Of course, there was always the possibility of a lady friend in Newport.

  Prudence’s stomach clenched around what little she had eaten, until she reminded herself that within the small community of Newport very little went on that she didn’t hear about one way or another. From the moment they announced their engagement, Evan’s every move would be assessed, with the society matrons looking for the slightest hint of impropriety—and the scandalmongers hunting for something juicier.

  Having taken a tortuous route to a final destination, Prudence could reach only one conclusion. Her husband hadn’t gone anywhere.

  A sliver of a moon, a Smuggler’s Moon, blanketed the landscape in a soft glow. Although the light cast long shadows from the maple trees in the yard, Simon had been correct. The moon would set again in a few hours, and by midnight, it would be as black as pitch and nearly as difficult to see through.

  Prudence popped the last bit of biscuit into her mouth and poured herself a cup of lukewarm tea. The night was perfect. Now, all she had to do was be patient a while longer. How she hated being patient!

  In the hallway outside her door, she could hear the maids, their duties complete for the day, heading toward their chambers on the third floor of the manor. She urged them onward with her thoughts.

  A sharp rap sounded at the door.

  Prudence snatched another biscuit and pretended to be in the act of buttering it. “Come in.”

  Netty poked her head in the door. “Do you need anything, ma’am?”

  “No, thank you, Netty. I shall be retiring soon and will ready myself for bed.”

  “Very well, then. Good night, ma’am.” There was an unmistakable note of relief in the girl’s voice.

  Prudence couldn’t blame her. The maids were up before dawn, so naturally they went to bed as soon as their evening chores were done.

  Gil, on the other hand, could be up for several more hours. However, right about now he would be retiring to his room with a bottle of brandy. It had been his way for years, and in return for his loyalty, Rachel Ashcroft had always pretended not to notice. She also made certain her monthly shopping list included two bottles of the same brandy, which she conveniently stored in an unlocked cabinet in the back hall.

  Prudence kept the practice going, never knowing when she might need to avail herself of her butler’s loyalty. Tonight might be just such an occasion.

  Slowly, the sounds of the household died away, and the trilling of crickets drifted through the open window. An owl gave a soft hoot. Prudence rose as if on cue. Without bothering to take a light, she entered the now still hallway and climbed the darkened stairs to her own chambers.

  Once in her room, she
shed her gown of sprigged muslin, shift and corset, then pulled a chest from beneath her bed. Holding her breath, she opened the lid, cringing when the creak of ancient hinges threatened to wake the household.

  “I knew you would come in handy someday,” she whispered, pulling out a pair of boy’s breeches and a tunic.

  They had belonged to one of her schoolmates, a short, wiry fellow who always reminded her of a weasel. What he lacked in brawn, he made up for in pure nastiness.

  After enduring a particularly scathing and public rebuke centered on her lack of feminine charms, she chose her method of revenge. While the boy swam in the pond, she stole his clothes. As expected, he had been punished for swimming naked on school grounds when he—and she—were supposed to have been studying their Latin.

  She had meant to return the clothes. After all, what was the fun if the object of revenge never knew who had bested him? But when she saw his anger fully unleashed and his determination to discover who was to blame, her courage failed her. His clothes had resided in her chest since that day although she took them out from time to time when she thought she might have reason to climb the cliffs around the cove. Had she worn the tunic and breeches the other night, Evan might not have noticed her clinging to the cliffs. Unfortunately, she hadn’t anticipated the arrival of the patrols and the sudden need to flee.

  Prudence donned the breeches and tunic. The clothes weren’t overly large, but she had to tie a belt around her waist to keep the breeches from slipping to her ankles. Once she was certain her clothing wouldn’t abandon her at an inopportune moment, she crept down the back stairs of the manor and stole into the night.

  Over years of walking when something troubled her, Prudence had worn a path from the back door of the manor to the steep cliffs that overlooked the rocky beach. She kept up a brisk pace in the dark, slowing only when the path drew near the golden light flowing through the open door of the stables.