The Honorable Imposter (House of Winslow Book #1)

by Gilbert, Morris

  “And his daughter?”

  “Why, she’s one of the loveliest women I’ve ever seen.”

  “Is that all?”

  “I—I don’t understand you.”

  “I think you do.”

  Stung by the man’s calm assurance, Gilbert bit his lip, then said, “Well—I will admit, sir—it was more than admiration.”

  “I see. How much more?”

  Gilbert shrugged. “I was very much attracted to her—but you know how little that means, Mr. Wellington. I was a poor man, with no name and no fortune.”

  “There have been matches of that sort, I believe.”

  Gilbert struck the windowsill with his fist, and cried out, “Yes! and what is your opinion of poor young men who marry wealthy women?”

  “I would have no general opinion,” Wellington said, giving Gilbert a straight glance. “I know there are some scoundrels who have married women for their fortune; I know some men of impeccable honor who have married women of wealth for love. I am asking you, Mr. Winslow, what was your feeling for Cecily North?”

  Gilbert sat down in the chair, poured himself a glass of wine, drank it down. Then he asked quietly, “Did you ever go through a bad time in your life, Mr. Wellington?”

  “Yes.”

  Gilbert smiled and said, “You’re no lawyer, as I thought at first. No lawyer ever spoke so certainly and so shortly. But—during that difficult time, did you ever dream of earlier days when things were better?”

  “Yes, many times.”

  “Well, how accurate were those dreams, in all honesty? Weren’t they shaped by the agony of the present trial?”

  “I believe that’s very accurate,” Wellington nodded. “And that is, I take it, your answer as to how you felt about the young woman at that time.”

  “I was intoxicated by her—who wouldn’t be?” Gilbert murmured. “Those brief times we shared—I’ve dreamed about them over and over during this past year. When death was at my right hand every day, those memories kept me sane, I think.”

  Wellington let the silence run on, then he said, “I have one more question. It has to do with the tragedy of Lord Roth.”

  Gilbert said evenly, “I thought we’d get to that!”

  “Yes, now, Mr. Winslow, think carefully before you answer my question.” Wellington put his paper down and leaned forward holding Gilbert’s eyes with his own.

  “You left Leyden with the intention of being faithful to the task you’d committed yourself to?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then when the moment came for you to do that, you did just the opposite.”

  “Yes.”

  “My question is this: why did you change your mind? I have heard Johnson’s story—I warn you of that—and he indicates that Lord Roth threatened to have you charged with being derelict in your duty. He was not correct, was he?” Wellington’s eyes narrowed and Gilbert knew that the answer to this question was the one that could lead him to the gallows.

  He looked straight at Wellington, saying, “Lord Roth was quite correct in believing that I intended to help William Brewster escape.”

  “But—you did not feel that way when you left Leyden, by your own statement. Why did you change your mind?”

  Gilbert paused, searching for the right words, but nothing he thought of sounded like the sort of thing that would satisfy this man. Finally he looked Wellington in the eye and said simply, “I found out I couldn’t be a traitor. It was a matter of honor.”

  “I see.” Clearly that answer was a problem for the big man, but Gilbert could not find another way to put it.

  “I suggest, Mr. Winslow, that it is possible that you did this for the young woman? That you had fallen in love with her and could not bear to betray her. Am I correct?”

  “No, sir, you are not!” Gilbert spoke crisply, and got to his feet. “I would have done the same if she had been ninety years old, or if William Brewster had been the only one involved.”

  Wellington’s large eyes narrowed. Letting the silence run on until it grew uncomfortable, finally he nodded and said, “Very well, I think that will do.”

  “Now perhaps you can tell me who you are.”

  “You have been most cooperative, Mr. Winslow.” Wellington rose to his feet, walked to the door, and turned to face Gilbert with the suggestion of a smile on his lips. “If you will remain in this room for just a short while, you will receive your reward.”

  “But—!” Gilbert started to protest, but the big man stepped through the door and shut it firmly. The key turned, and Gilbert said under his breath angrily, “Remain in this room—where in the name of heaven could I go?”

  He paced about the room, pausing at the desk to open a drawer and look through the contents thoroughly. There was nothing to indicate the profession of Wellington—only a few small books on the New World, well-thumbed, with his name on the inside cover.

  He moved toward the windows to look outside, and as he passed the colorful hanging on the inner wall, his eye caught a faint movement of the fabric. He was within arm’s reach, and when he stopped to face it, he heard a small sound—very much like an intake of breath.

  It was a trap! he thought at once, assuming that whoever was behind the drapery had been put there so he might serve as a witness at a murder trial. Anger swept him, and he plucked up one of the heavy chairs, intending to drive it through the colorful fabric; then a thought came, and he put it down softly.

  He crouched slightly in front of the hanging, his knees bent, his arms outstretched, and uncoiled his body in an explosive drive that sent him through the thin material like a cannon shot. His outstretched arms wrapped around a figure, as he had expected, but he was surprised at the small size of Wellington’s man—more like a boy than an adult, and the strength of his powerful arms wrapping around his prey cut off all resistance.

  The hanging ripped from its fastenings made a shroud of sorts, and when he fell on the helpless body, there was a cry of pain as the breath was driven out.

  Gilbert rolled off, and cast a quick look around, noting that the room was furnished in a much more elaborate fashion than the adjoining room. But it was empty save for whoever was squirming wildly beneath the folds of the covering at his feet.

  He reached down and plucking up the figure, ripped the thin fabric away from the head, saying, “All right, if you’re so interested in me, take a good . . . !”

  Gilbert stopped abruptly as the emblazoned cloth fell away, and he found himself face-to-face with Cecily North!

  He stood there in total disbelief, his mind reeling, but it was no other. He licked his lips, and said finally, “Cecily! I can’t believe it!”

  Cecily had a slight redness on her right cheek—accentuated, no doubt, by the pallor brought on by the shock of Gilbert’s charge. But the sleek black hair still framed a face that had haunted Gilbert for months. The bold black eyes opened wide, only inches away from his own, and she said breathlessly, “Are you going to hold me like this forever, Gilbert?”

  He realized that he was holding her tightly, and there was a light of laughter in her eyes as her smooth lips turned upward in a smile. “Well, since you evidently refuse to let me go—what are your intentions?”

  The pressure of her body against his suddenly awakened all the old hungers, and the past and the future faded like mist—there was only this time and this place and her full red lips.

  Finally she leaned back, then whispered huskily, “It’s been a long time!”

  She pulled away, her hands going up to her hair—they were not steady, Gilbert noted. His thoughts were confused, and the kiss had brought back many memories.

  “I remember that dress,” he said, more to gain time than for any other reason. “You wore it the night we went to the Duke’s ball in Bath.”

  She was wearing a gown with vertical stripes of silver set off by sky blue trim. Suddenly she laughed and her black eyes danced. “I love that! Here we meet for the first time in months—you’re running from
a hangman—and you pay compliments on my dress!”

  Her laughter forced him to smile, and he shrugged, “I still think I’m having a dream.”

  She sobered, and pulled him to a small sofa covered with green embroidery. “Sit down—we have a lot to talk about.”

  Gilbert shook his head, and asked, “First, what are you doing here?”

  She lay back against the thick cushion, her lips curving upward. “You can’t guess?” she asked.

  “Well, surely not for a holiday!” he answered with a frown and a wave toward the land. “This isn’t exactly the land of Eden the travel books make it out to be.”

  “But it has one feature that interests me—Gilbert Winslow!”

  He kissed her hand, and that simple gesture stirred him so that he shifted uncomfortably and shook his head. “Does any mental problem run in the North family, Cecily?”

  “Why, no!”

  “Then you are the first to lose your mind,” he said, and a grim line etched itself between his eyes. He got up suddenly, walked to the window, and stared out blindly at the coast. “It’s all very romantic, Cecily, but so hopeless!”

  “Why do you say that?” Cecily asked. She got up and went to him, turning him with a hand on his arm. “It’s not very complimentary to me, Gilbert, is it? Here I sail thousands of miles to see you, and all you can say is that it’s hopeless.”

  He looked down at her and smiled. “You are the same,” he said.

  “Yes. Are you the same, too?”

  He bit his lip, and then said quietly, “No, I’m not. A year ago I didn’t have name or fortune, and I still don’t. But no man can kill another as I have—and spend a year in this place—without being changed.”

  She nodded, her face still, then said, “You’ve struggled with thoughts of the future—about Roth, I mean.”

  “Why, of course,” he said in surprise.

  She looked down at the floor, and her hand toyed with a small silver chain around her neck. Then she looked up with a strange light in her dark eyes. “Suppose all that were settled, what would you do then, Gilbert?”

  He smiled grimly, his jaw tense and his lips thin. “Why even think about it? It’s not going to disappear.”

  She stood there, and then said slowly, “I’ve thought about you a great deal this year. For a long time I didn’t do anything. I stayed at home, went to France—anything to fill the time. All the time I was trying to forget you.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you? I doubt it!” Her eyes flashed then, and she was sober. “I was sure that you’d fallen in love with that woman you were mixed up with in Leyden. I think I would have killed both of you if I’d had the chance!”

  “Cecily—!”

  “Wait, I want this to be very clear,” she said, putting her fingers over his lips to cut off his protest. “I hated you both, and when it didn’t pass away—as some said it would—I knew I had to find out the truth about us. That’s why I came to this new Eden.”

  He stared at her blankly. “But—don’t you realize it doesn’t matter how I feel about you! No matter how much I loved you, I could never speak, for what could I offer you except an invitation to watch me hang!”

  She kept her eyes fixed on his for a long moment, then walked to the door. Before she opened it, she said, “We’ll have the truth about us in a few moments.”

  She opened the door, and said, “Come in, sir.”

  Caleb Wellington must have been less than a foot from the door, for he came in at once, planted his feet and said, “Now, Mr. Winslow, it is your turn to interrogate me!”

  “Who are you?” Gilbert threw the question at him sharply, and got an instant answer.

  “A lawyer in the service of Lord North.” He laughed quietly, adding, “Not an agent for the King looking for wayward theological students, as you have supposed.”

  “And what is your purpose, sir?”

  “To bring you back to England with me.”

  Shock ran along Gilbert’s nerves, but he only asked mildly, “And the charges against me?”

  “There are no charges, Mr. Winslow.”

  “It is no longer against English law to slay a peer of the realm?”

  Wellington did not rise to meet Gilbert’s ironic manner. He said evenly, “Certainly it is—or any other man in the English kingdom.”

  Gilbert stared at him, then asked directly, “What about Lord Roth?”

  “Lord Simon Roth was slain approximately one year ago. His assailant remains at large, but the authorities have little hope that he will be found after all this time, and with no witnesses.”

  “But there was a witness,” Gilbert said at once. “What about the man named Johnson? Surely he must have had something to say to the law.”

  “There was a certain Johnson who was alleged to be in the company of Lord Roth during the time of his death—but he cannot testify.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he is dead.” Wellington did not blink as he said this, but he went on to explain. “I will tell you two facts about Johnson, and no more. First of all, you may know that Johnson did talk not long after Lord Roth’s death to Mr. Lucas Tiddle, a gentleman in Lord North’s service.”

  “What did he tell Tiddle?”

  “Ah, that is between the two of them!” Wellington said with a frown. “And I have not found Mr. Tiddle a man who takes his calling lightly. It is highly unlikely that you will ever know what passed between the two. All I can say is that Johnson talked to Mr. Tiddle, then immediately left England on a ship—the Defiant, bound for Australia.”

  Tiddle bought him off! Gilbert knew instantly. “And he died—how?”

  “The Defiant went down in a storm in May—broke up on the Great Barrier Reef, with all hands lost.”

  “I see.” Gilbert stared at Wellington, trying to see past the smooth face and the hooded eyes. Finally he asked slowly, “Then—I can go back to England a free man?”

  A trace of humor broke the expression of Wellington. “I doubt that any of us are completely free, Mr. Winslow—but the answer to your question is—’yes’!”

  The suddenness of it caught Gilbert unprepared. He covered his confusion by saying, “I—I’m grateful to you, Mr. Wellington—”

  “I am very well paid, Mr. Winslow, for carrying out Lord North’s wishes. In this case, his wishes were that I accompany his daughter on a voyage and give you an item of information.” He reached into his inside pocket and took out a thin envelope which he handed to Gilbert. “This is from Lord North.”

  Gilbert stared at the envelope, then opened it.

  Winslow, if you have finished making a fool of yourself, you may come home and pick up your duties where you left off with Tiddle. If you have not, I will attempt to carry on without you.

  Gilbert looked at Cecily. She did not speak, but her eyes met his with reckless invitation.

  Folding the paper carefully and tucking it away into his pocket, he said softly, “Not many men get a second chance, do they? Thank God I’ve been given one!”

  Wellington gave him a careful stare. “I was afraid that you might have changed your views, Winslow. I mean, these people are rather unworldly, aren’t they? Denying the flesh and all that sort of thing? The way Deacon Cushman put it, it would be difficult to be a pilgrim and at the same time keep both feet planted in this world—as any man of Lord North’s will surely have to do.”

  This was no idle remark, Gilbert sensed instantly. North told him to check me out, he thought. And Tiddle will have had something to say about my sense of “honor.”

  He looked at Cecily, then back to Wellington. Finally he laughed and said, “You know, I once told Brewster that I’d never be able to trust God completely—that if I were ever to be a pilgrim, why, I’d be a pilgrim with a sword.” His eyes narrowed and he took a deep breath and looked straight toward Cecily.

  “There are only two swords for a man to carry in this world—his own blade to cut his way to the top against all odds—or t
he Sword of the Lord.” He paused and there was regret in his face as he dropped his head and said, “I have had some hope of being the kind of man who would love God with all his heart—but I am not that man.” Gilbert smiled grimly, then went over to stand beside the window. From deep within rose the words, You will love me with all your heart, and he began very rapidly to drown them out.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “WITH ALL YOUR HEART!”

  The arrival of the Fortune stirred every member of the small settlement, and for two days there was joy and sorrow over the letters and reports that Deacon Cushman brought from Leyden. Death had come for some that had remained behind as well as for the firstcomers. Cushman was so shocked over the decimation among the ranks through the sickness that he was past comfort for a time, but when he saw that the faith of the others remained unshaken, he plunged into action with zeal.

  On Wednesday, November 13, two days after the arrival of the ship, Bradford assembled the men for a meeting in the Common House, saying, “Our brother, Mr. Cushman, has news for us,” and then sat down with the others.

  Cushman smiled and held a parchment high for them to see; it was tan with a bright red ribbon around it. Unrolling it, and spreading it so that all present could see, he said, “This is the most important document our colony could have, brethren. As you all know, New Plymouth does not lie within the territory of our original charter. This could be very serious—we could be ordered to leave by the Crown.”

  “They’ll not push me off my land!” Stephen Hopkins cried out, red-faced and angry.

  As several others began to take up the cry, Cushman raised his hand for silence and said, “We have been in the hands of God; this document that I hold in my hand is a patent signed by Sir Ferdinando Gorges and the other members of the Council for New England.”

  “What is that?” Samuel Fuller demanded.

  “It is a reorganized form of the Plymouth Company.”

  “I hope it’s better than the old one!” Billington snapped.

  “You will think so, Mr. Billington, when you hear that under this patent every one of you will receive 100 acres of land at the end of seven years!”