by Jane Feather
Matty put a finger to her lips and shook her head. “Now, now, Mistress Alex, you know we don’t talk of such things.”
Alex chuckled and sipped her drink. The smuggling trade was a lively one in the villages and towns along the south coast. Christchurch was a particular stronghold, as the entrance to the harbor was narrow, guarded by Hengistbury Head, and difficult for the coast-guard cutters to penetrate. The locals enjoyed the fruits of the trade and kept their mouths shut. Bottles of wine and brandy, bales of delicate lace and French muslins appeared mysteriously in barns overnight, and not a word was spoken.
Sylvia was sitting on a low cushioned stool beside Alex and sipped her own posset appreciatively. “I did see them pass one night, when I couldn’t sleep. But I hid behind the curtain. You always said ’twas bad luck to see the Gentlemen, Matty.”
“Aye, and so ’tis.” Matty tutted. “But I should have spared my breath to cool my porridge, all the notice you girls ever took.”
Alex felt the last threads of tension leave her. If she closed her eyes, she could be back in the nursery, which Matty had continued to occupy even when her charges had graduated to their own bedchambers downstairs. Alex and Sylvia would spend many hours there, particularly when their mother was away on one of her frolics and Sir Arthur had retreated to his library. The atmosphere in the house then was so oppressive, and Matty’s domain was one spot of warmth in a frigid land, where the servants crept around, whispering behind their hands. Matty would have no gossip in her haven, and whatever she thought of her employer’s errant wife, no one ever discovered.
Sylvia yawned and drank the last drop of her posset. “Come to bed, Alex. You’ve been on the road since dawn. Matty’s right, you look dead on your feet.”
Alex couldn’t remember when she had last been able to sleep without anxiety. The prospect of the morning had haunted her nights, so that she frequently woke at Combe Abbey feeling as if she hadn’t closed her eyes at all. But the wonderful relaxation she felt now was going to ensure that she fell into a black pit of unconsciousness.
Her own nightgown lay on the bed that she and Sylvia would share, and she picked it up, inhaling the scent of lavender in the soft cambric folds. Her nightgowns at Combe Abbey these days were of thick linen, all stiff, voluminous folds. The laundry maids would consider soft silks and lace-edged cambrics inappropriate for an impoverished librarian of indeterminate age.
She undressed quickly, dropped the nightgown over her head, and climbed into the high feather bed beside her sister. “Oh, what bliss.” She slipped down in the bed and turned on her side, pillowing her cheek on her hand. “Good night, Sylvia.”
“Good night, dearest.” Sylvia tucked the sheet around her sister’s shoulders and smiled as she realized that Alex was already asleep. She lay back against the pillows in the flickering candlelight, wishing there was some way she could relieve Alex of some of the heavy burden she carried for them both.
Peregrine awoke in the Angel soon after dawn. He rang for hot water and coffee and dressed rapidly, filled with a sense of urgency and anticipation. He consumed a large breakfast in the private parlor, served by a rather sleepy maid, then went to the yard to fetch the livery’s hack, who had spent the night in one of the inn’s stalls. He decided to take the horse back to the livery stable himself, where the man he had spoken to the previous evening took his money with a laconic nod and led the horse away.
“A question for you?” Perry called after the man. “In the village, Barton, that is, d’you know who lives in the end cottage? ’Tis a little larger than the rest.”
“Reckon so.” The man nodded, still holding the horse’s bridle above the bit. “That’ll be Mistress Matty. Been ’ere for close on six years now, wi’ that poor invalid lady she takes care of. Mistress Sylvia, I believe. We don’t see much of ’er out an’ about. Weak ’eart, they say. But Mistress Matty’s a good woman. One of us, she is.” He nodded in decisive punctuation and led the horse into the stall.
Sylvia? Peregrine remembered Alexandra’s slip the previous evening. She had started a word but cut herself off. Perhaps this Sylvia was the sister she didn’t want to name. He returned to the Angel to collect Sam.
Taking the road to Barton in broad daylight was rather different from his previous journey. The heath didn’t seem so menacing when bathed in sunlight, and he passed donkey carts, riders, and men carrying pitchforks on the lane. The village itself was quiet. He passed a woman hanging washing under an apple tree in one of the front gardens and a group of small children carrying buckets from the well in the center of the village. The children stared in wide-eyed curiosity at the stranger on his handsome gray horse, rather as if he were some circus freak, Peregrine thought, smiling at them with what he hoped was reassurance. He doffed his hat to the woman hanging washing and pressed on down the lane to the last house.
A young woman was cutting big orange and yellow chrysanthemums in the front garden, laying them carefully in the trug she carried over her arm. When Peregrine drew rein at the gate, she straightened and turned, shading her eyes, although the sun was not that bright. A frown crossed her pale, pretty face, and she walked up the path towards him.
Peregrine decided on the direct approach. “Ma’am.” He bowed from the saddle, holding his hat to his chest. “Is Mistress Alexandra still abed?”
The young woman looked him over with an air of disdain. “The Honorable Peregrine Sullivan, I assume.” Her voice was cold.
“You have the advantage of me, ma’am.”
“Indeed?” She raised her eyebrows. “An unusual experience, I daresay.”
“You’re as sharp-tongued as your sister,” he observed. Even without his earlier suspicion, the family resemblance was unmistakable, although this young woman somehow lacked Alexandra’s rich vibrancy; everything about her was a shade paler, it seemed. But nevertheless, they could almost be twins.
The eyebrows remained raised. “Do you have business in the village, sir?” The question conveyed a degree of incredulity.
Peregrine grimaced. “My business lies with Mistress Alexandra, ma’am.”
“Does it, indeed? Well, I doubt she would agree with you.”
Perry sighed. “I am paying a courtesy call, ma’am, on a lady to whom I have already been presented. I fail to see what is objectionable in that.”
Sylvia laughed with genuine amusement. “Alex was right, you really are incorrigible. Well, sir, since the lady in question has decided she is not at home for your call, I fear you must take your leave. Perhaps you would like to leave your card?”
“No, ma’am, I would not.” Peregrine dismounted and laid a hand on the gate. “Would you be good enough to inform Mistress Alexandra that I await without?”
“I’m sure she knows perfectly well that you’re here, sir. I daresay she’s been watching from the window.” Sylvia was intrigued, despite her indignation on behalf of her sister. There was something about the man that commanded attention. And for some reason, she didn’t sense that his interest in Alexandra was threatening. He was in a position to do her a great deal of harm, but nothing in his manner gave the impression that he had such an intention. Indeed, it felt quite the opposite. There was a directness about his steady gaze and a most appealing touch of humor to his mouth.
“If you’ll wait here, I’ll ask her if she’s willing to see you,” she temporized, seeing that he had every intention of entering the garden, whether she barred the gate or not.
He bowed his acceptance. “I will await your return most eagerly, ma’am.”
Sylvia turned and walked slowly into the house. Alex was hovering on the bottom step in the hall. “Has he gone?”
“No, he is a most persistent gentleman.” Sylvia set her basket of chrysanthemums on the hall table, continuing thoughtfully, “I think you had better see him, Alex. I have a feeling it will be sensible to give him a little information, just enough to satisfy his curiosity. We don’t have to tell him everything.” She busied herself arranging the f
lowers in a copper jug, not looking at her sister. Alex had to come to the decision herself.
She considered. Sylvia had always been the practical one. She herself was much more impulsive, the one with the ideas, always the instigator and the planner, but she relied on Sylvia to point out the realities when she got carried away by her enthusiasms. Reluctantly, she came to the conclusion that Sylvia was probably right. The wolf was at the door, and he wasn’t leaving without a morsel of something. And we don’t have to tell him everything. She just needed a convincing enough version of the truth to send him on his way.
“Perhaps you’re right. But I don’t know what to tell him. We can’t tell him who we really are, Sylvia.”
“No, of course not,” Sylvia agreed, inserting a yellow chrysanthemum into the jug.
Alex picked up a deep orange flower and thoughtfully set it in the jug. “I do love the rich lusciousness of these colors.”
“Mmm,” Sylvia agreed, standing back from the arrangement with a critical frown.
Alexandra pursed her lips, then declared, “Ah, I have it . . . I know exactly what to do. We need to keep it very simple.”
“Are we still arranging flowers?” Sylvia inquired with a smile.
“No, we’re arranging Sullivans,” her sister responded. “Just follow my lead.” Alex went to the door and walked up the path to Peregrine, who still stood by the gate. Sylvia followed a few steps behind, unabashedly curious to see these two meet.
Peregrine swept off his hat with a deep bow as he took in Alexandra’s appearance. “Ma’am, my congratulations. Dare I imagine that this incarnation is the true image of Mistress Whoever-you-are?”
“My name, sir, is Alexandra Hathaway, as you know full well. Allow me to present my younger sister, Mistress Sylvia Hathaway.”
“Mistress Sylvia and I have already met,” he said with a smile. “The sisterly resemblance is quite striking.”
“Yes, so we have been told,” Alex responded rather briskly. “If you would care to tether Sam and step inside, I’m sure we can offer you some refreshment after your ride from Lymington.” She couldn’t resist adding, “Such an unnecessary journey, after all.”
“Oh, far from it, ma’am,” Peregrine returned, knotting Sam’s reins and looping them over the gatepost, giving him sufficient leeway to crop the grass verge. “A most enlightening journey, I’m finding.”
Alex exchanged a quick knowing glance with her sister, then preceded Perry into the house, showing him into the front parlor. “I’ll just go and see what Matty can provide.”
Sylvia forestalled her. “No, Alex, let me go.” She whisked herself out of the parlor, leaving the door open so that she could hear their conversation.
“Pray, sit down, sir.” Alex indicated a chair and herself sat on the window seat. “I suppose there’s no point asking how you found me.”
“That, my dear, was a matter of simplicity. I saw you in that ridiculous, although I must confess rather enticing, garb on the High Street last evening when you left the livery stable. A few inquiries of the liveryman told me your destination, and I followed you.”
Enticing? What did he mean by that? Alex shied away from a question that could only prove a distraction. She said tartly, “I would have known if I was being followed. I came over the heath.”
“I guessed as much. But I saw you with your sister in that window, where you’re sitting now. And I found your pony tethered in the kitchen garden.” He tapped his whip against his riding boots. “My dear girl, why won’t you confide in me? I know you must be in some kind of trouble. Why else would a lovely young woman enter into such an elaborate charade? As I’ve told you before, I am willing to help, if you’ll let me.”
His voice was warm and sincere, and he got to his feet suddenly, coming over to her. Reaching down, he took her hands and drew her to her feet. “Alexandra, trust me.”
She looked at him, her eyes meeting his, and the world seemed to swing off course. Always before, apart from that one moment on the cliff, she had had her disguise to protect her, to give her distance, but now there was nothing between them, no barrier to the strange confusion of sensations that swept through her once again. His hands were warm and firm around hers, and she could feel his breath warm on her cheek, lifting little tendrils of chestnut hair from her forehead. Her heart seemed to be beating very fast against the muslin bodice of her gown, and the air around them was redolent of his own particular scent, leather and horseflesh and lavender from his linen. His eyes had taken on an intensity that deepened the blue, and his mouth was both serious and smiling.
“Trust me,” he repeated softly. “What has happened to force you into this?”
Sylvia stood listening in the hall, aware suddenly that she was holding her breath. She took a step to the open door. The pair were framed in the window, and the rush of emotion in the room was so powerful as to be almost palpable. She thought Alex looked confused, frightened almost, and then she abruptly pulled her hands free of Peregrine’s and stepped to one side away from him. Her eye fell on Sylvia, standing in the doorway.
“Oh, Sylvia. Is Matty bringing refreshment?” Her voice sounded odd to both herself and her sister.
“Yes, a jug of cider. We press our own apples here, Mr. Sullivan,” Sylvia said, perfectly composed as she entered the room. “But I should warn you, ’tis almost as strong as real Somerset scrumpy.”
“Aye, that it is, sir,” Matty affirmed as she followed Sylvia with a stone jug and a plate of apple cakes. “Don’t often get gentlemen visitors around here,” she observed, setting her burdens on a gate-legged table. She reached up to a shelf on an oak dresser against the far wall and took down three pewter tankards.
She filled the tankards, talking all the while. “Mistress Sylvia, you go easy, now. And you, too, Mistress Alex. Don’t want it goin’ to your heads. Such little bitty things you are.” She handed a tankard to Peregrine. “Don’t get much call for fine wines, I’m afraid, sir. Village life isn’t as refined as I daresay you’re used to. But I trust this’ll hit the spot.”
“I’m sure it will. Thank you.” He took the tankard with a smile.
Matty nodded and glanced significantly at the girls. “Go easy, remember,” and left them to it.
Sylvia took a small sip and set her tankard aside. She sat down in a low chair by the fire and took up a tambour frame, prepared to leave the conversation to her sister while she observed these two in her own time. There was more to this situation than met the eye. Much more.
“So,” Peregrine invited. “Will you tell me your story?”
“Why, ’tis simple enough.” Alex chose her words carefully. “Our father gambled away his fortune, and we were left almost destitute. One of us needed employment, and when I saw Sir Stephen’s advertisement for a librarian to catalogue his collection, I applied. But I didn’t think he would take me seriously as I am. So young and seemingly inexperienced.” She opened her hands in an expressive gesture. “I don’t look as if I would know one rare volume from another, do I?”
Peregrine inclined his head in acknowledgment. “I can see your point.”
“So, Sylvia and I created my disguise, and it worked so well that Sir Stephen employed me on the spot. The rest you know.” She shrugged and took a sip of cider.
“And where did St. Catherine’s Seminary for Young Ladies come into it?” He hazarded the question, watching her closely.
She shot a startled look at her sister, who also looked up sharply from her tambour frame. “What do you know of St. Catherine’s?”
“Nothing, really. The liveryman mentioned it, and I rather put two and two together. Did I make four?”
There was no point in prevaricating, Alexandra thought. And she had to keep him away from making inquiries at the seminary. The only way to do that was to give him some of the truth. “Yes, you did. I spent several years there, until there was no more money for the fees.”
“You seem to have received a most unusual education,” he commented
. She was giving him something, but he was as sure that he was not getting the full truth as he was that dawn would break tomorrow.
“Only because I happened to enjoy it,” she responded. “But it was fortunate, since it’s now standing me in good stead.”
“Why a librarian?” he asked. “Why such an elaborate charade? You could have earned your living as a governess, surely.”
The look she gave him was so full of scorn he almost laughed aloud. “And waste my time and my brain in some schoolroom on spoiled, runny-nosed brats with no interest in learning anything . . . I would rather die.”
He laughed then; he couldn’t help it. “Oh, Alexandra, yes, indeed, you would make a dreadful governess. I wouldn’t condemn the children of my worst enemy to your impatient mercies.”
“Oh, that is unjust, sir.” It was Sylvia who spoke indignantly. “Alexandra is wonderful with children.”
“No, I’m not, darling. Although ’tis very sweet of you to defend me,” Alex said, chuckling. “As it happens, I don’t really have any experience with them. So, sir, have we satisfied your curiosity? Are you willing to leave me alone now?”
He smiled slowly, setting down his tankard. “I won’t press for further information for the moment, but no, Alexandra, I will not leave you alone. I shall escort you and your precious books to London in the morning, and then we shall see. For now, I will take my leave, and I will expect to dine with you,” he stressed with significance, “at the Angel this evening. Oh, and I took the liberty to inform mine host that you were keeping to your chamber today as you were feeling the effects of yesterday’s long coach journey. The chambermaid didn’t know what to make of your locked door.”
He raised an eyebrow as he rose to his feet. “I confess I was surprised you hadn’t thought to quell the inevitable curiosity yourself. It seemed unusually careless of you.” He took up his hat, noting Alexandra’s chagrin with a degree of satisfaction. “Mistress Sylvia . . . Mistress Hathaway.” He bowed to them in turn. “I’ll see myself out.”