Peter hesitated. His wallet was in his pocket and contained his letters of recommendation and the money Washburn had advanced him for his trip to Quebec, Montreal, and Toronto. “Will I get a receipt?”
The guard laughed and called to the other man, “You hear that, Jack? He wants a receipt.”
“You should be so blessed,” Jack replied.
Peter felt ill, but he could see no alternative to obeying the guard’s orders. Reluctantly, he took off his jacket, folded it, and laid it on the small table provided. He began to undo his onyx cuff links. They were his last Christmas gift from the earl. What would become of them?
Ten minutes later he was thrown unceremoniously into a cell. He caught himself against the end of a double-tiered bunk and slowly lifted his head. Three other men stared at him.
One of them grinned through a beard resembling a rat’s pelt. “Well, now, we got us a gent.”
“Doesn’t look drunk,” said the one lying on the bunk above him. He was leaning up on his elbow to look over the newcomer. Peter couldn’t judge his size very well, but the prisoner’s broad shoulders and large, shaggy head gave him no reassurance that he’d spend a peaceful night.
Papa lumbered, yawning, into the kitchen when Molly and Nathan entered through the back door. He wore an undervest and a pair of workaday trousers, and his light hair was tousled.
“Well, well, there’s our Molly back from the ball. Look at you!”
Molly glanced down at the skirt she’d had to crush to get through the door. She hoped she hadn’t damaged Thompson’s crinoline.
“Oh. Well, you see, I left my things at—oh, Papa!” She hadn’t meant to cry. In fact, she’d hoped she and Nathan could sneak in without awakening their parents. But the storm of tears burst so suddenly she couldn’t hold it back. She dashed across the floor and threw herself into her father’s baffled embrace.
“There now, what’s the fuss about?” His words were gentle, but she felt the tension as he swung his head toward Nathan.
Molly tried to curb her sobs.
“She had a bit of trouble,” Nathan said.
“What kind of trouble?”
Nathan didn’t answer right away. He stepped to the table and turned up the lamp that was burning low.
Molly raised her head and wiped her face with the back of her hand. “It’s Peter, Papa. He’s been arrested.”
“What?”
“It’s true—the prince’s orders. And he’s our cousin, Papa!”
Her father stared at her. “The prince is your cousin? What on earth are you saying?”
Nathan let out a guffaw, and Molly threw daggers at him with her eyes. “No, no. Peter Stark is our cousin, and the prince claims that Peter hit him, which he didn’t, and now who knows what will happen to poor Peter, and we haven’t even gotten to know him.”
Her father held her at arm’s length during this torrent, watching her lips and nodding mechanically. When she’d finished, he swiveled his gaze toward Nathan again. “Is she talking nonsense?”
“No, Papa.” Nathan walked over to the stove and lifted the coffeepot that simmered there. “Maybe you’d better sit down. There seems to be some coffee.” He patted the side of the pot experimentally. “Though it’s not very hot.”
“I don’t want coffee. I want to know what happened tonight and what all this is about Stark.”
“David,” Mum chided from the doorway to their bedroom, “what’s the trouble? You’ll wake Da and the children with all this noise.” Her gaze settled on Molly, and her expression softened. “Look at you in that dress! Sweet Molly, how beautiful you are.” She stepped forward, clutching her dressing gown together over her nightgown, and circled around Molly’s voluminous skirt. “It’s the prettiest dress I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“Thank you, Mum.” Molly felt fresh tears prickle her eyes, but the wild, incoherent feeling was gone. She was glad that in this turmoil her mother had found a moment’s delight before the force of the storm hit.
Mum smiled at her and touched her cheek. “I’ll have to help you out of that gown, unless I’m mistaken.” She sobered abruptly and shot a glance at her husband. “Now, what’s all the commotion about?”
Nathan lifted the lid of the firebox on the cookstove and set it aside. He pulled a few sticks of kindling from the wood box. “Why don’t you all sit down? I’ll build up the fire and heat the coffee and teakettle.”
“Just tell me you’re not hurt, Molly,” her father said.
“I’m not, but my heart is breaking for Peter.”
She sat on the edge of a chair, fighting with the crinoline. Her parents sat down in the places they always sat for meals. As Nathan worked at the stove, Molly took a deep breath and blinked back her tears.
“Everything was going well at the ball—so beautiful, and the music was lovely. We danced and danced.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” her father demanded. “Oh, everyone,” Molly said.
“Hush, David.” Mum reached over and took his hand. “Let her tell it.”
Peter woke in the fetid cell. The high, barred window showed a gray sky. He rolled over on the upper bunk, setting the frame to swaying.
The man below him kicked the bottom of Peter’s bunk. “Quit.”
Peter tried to lie still. His three cellmates had cuffed him about last night, not so badly that he needed a doctor, but they’d threatened to do worse if he didn’t behave as they told him. So far that entailed promising to help them if he was released before they were and keeping quiet while they played cards. Peter was content to stay out of their business—one boasted that he was confined because he’d slashed a man’s face with a knife, and another had been caught stealing from the ship’s cargo he’d been hired to help unload. The third man didn’t volunteer to tell his offense, leaving Peter to imagine the worst.
When did they feed the prisoners here? His hunger surprised him. He wanted to get up and wash, but that would probably draw the other men’s displeasure.
He lay on his bed, close to the ceiling, alternately praying and fretting about Molly. Where had she gone? Had she escaped the grounds of the Colonial Building and fled for home? Had she met up with Nathan outside? He hoped she had made it back to the farmhouse and was there with her loving family. In the haze of his memories of the night before, he clung to the earl’s promise to take care of her.
He thought back over everything that had happened—how he’d spotted Molly and the prince from the portico moving into the shadows near the edge of the garden, and how he’d sensed that Molly held back, unwilling to go farther from the building with the prince. Peter had told himself he would only go close enough to determine that she was not uncomfortable with the situation and then retreat silently. But he couldn’t do that when he heard her protests and then her demand that the prince let her go.
He gritted his teeth. He could not have acted otherwise. Even though he’d been unjustly accused and thrown in this awful place, he could not regret confronting the prince for his vulgar actions.
Steps in the passageway between the cells drew his attention. A guard appeared, accompanying another man who wheeled a cart with trays on it.
“Breakfast,” the guard said.
Peter sat up and swung down from his bunk while his three cellmates groaned. Two of them began to rise, while the last only pulled his gray wool blanket higher over his ears.
“Are you Stark?” the guard asked.
“Yes.”
“Clean up after you eat.”
The guard walked away. Peter hurried to the door and peered out, but the man had gone on down the row.
He claimed his bowl of grayish porridge and tin cup of milk. No use in thinking of the lavish breakfasts at Fanning Bank. The city jail wasn’t serving kippers or hot biscuits and jam. He forced himself to eat the bland porridge. The two men who had risen scraped their bowls and eyed the fourth dish still sitting on the tray.
“Hey, Blackie, you going to eat your swill?” one of them ca
lled.
The man still in bed didn’t move.
“Well, then, let’s have it.”
“Give me half,” said the other man.
Blackie sat up with a roar.
“All right, all right,” said the first prisoner. “Take it, then.” He retreated to his bunk.
Peter limped to the corner where the tin washbasin sat on an upended crate. His muscles ached more than he’d realized, both from the light beating he’d received and the hard bunk he’d slept on. His ankles itched—his bedding no doubt harbored assorted insects. His face throbbed, and he suspected it was bruised and his left eye blackened, but he had no way to relieve the pain or cover the marks.
He poured water in the basin, being careful not to take more than the others might construe as his share. There didn’t seem to be any soap, so he made a meager ablution, carefully cleansing the swollen skin around his left eye. He dumped the wash water into the slop pail and put on his shoes.
“Where you going, gov?” The sleepy man, Blackie, had risen at last and sat on the edge of his bunk wolfing his porridge.
“I’m not sure,” Peter said. “The guard told me to clean myself up.”
“Expect the worst,” muttered one of the men.
“No, that ain’t right. Expect the best,” said another.
“Do that and you’re sure to be disappointed.” Blackie tipped up his bowl and licked it out.
“Tha’s right,” said the one who’d predicted the “worst.” “They’re like to hang you this morning.”
“That’s all you know about it,” Blackie sneered. “They don’t hang folks with money. More like, they’ll try to squeeze a bribe out of ’im.”
Peter climbed to his upper berth and sat, out of their immediate reach, waiting to be summoned. At last the guard returned and put the key in the cell door’s lock.
“Come on, Stark. Time to meet your fate.”
Peter gulped. Maybe they would string him up…but he hardly dared think it. Deport him, more likely. Put him on the next ship to Australia. What would become of his mother? His mother! The thought of her grief when she’d hear the news pierced his heart. For her sake, he should have restrained his impulse last night. But no. He couldn’t sacrifice Molly for the sake of his mother’s comfort.
“The rest of you, stand back.” The guard swung open the door.
Peter stepped out and walked before the guard. Men in the other cells called out insults as he passed. Another uniformed man opened the door at the end of the passageway. They went up some stairs, and the guard ushered him into a small, bare room.
“Peter!” The Earl of Washburn rose from one of the two stools in the room and stepped toward him. His face was drawn, and dark smudges showed beneath his eyes.
“My lord!” Peter’s relief was so strong his knees wobbled. “Thank you for coming.”
Washburn rested his hand on Peter’s shoulder for a moment as he studied his face. “My boy.” His voice cracked. “Did the police beat you?”
“No, my new friends in the cell. But it’s nothing, really. I’m fine.”
Washburn nodded, though his face was still drawn. “Sit down. We have but a few minutes.”
“What has happened?” Peter took one stool, and the earl settled on the other.
“The prince has reached a decision.”
“Oh?” Peter dared not let his hopes rise too high.
“His Royal Highness does not wish to embarrass the governor or to cast a pall over his tour—and even more than that, he has no desire for his parents to hear of this incident.”
“I should think not.”
Washburn nodded. “After Bertie had danced his fill at the ball, Bruce and Newcastle tried to persuade him to drop the charges he’d insisted on. He refused, but after lengthy discussion, he finally agreed to hush it up. I think it helped that Miss Orland stated you hadn’t touched the prince’s person, and that I believed her and adamantly took her side.”
“Molly wasn’t dragged any further into this sordidness, was she?” Peter eyed his face anxiously.
“Nothing beyond the regrettable scene you were witness to. Her brother appeared shortly after you were taken away, and he escorted her home.”
Peter exhaled and closed his eyes for a moment. “That brings me comfort.”
“I think we managed to keep the business from Mrs. Dundas’s ears as well. Her husband was most anxious that she not hear of it. So unless some of the soldiers talk, no one should be the wiser. The governor agreed to let the prince pronounce sentence and avoid having you prosecuted through the colonial judicial system.”
Peter frowned, trying to follow him. “So…what is to become of me, my lord?”
“We debated that until dawn.”
“I’m sorry you were up all night on my behalf.”
“Think nothing of it. The others are sleeping now, and I hope they have no regrets over the decision that Bertie reached an hour ago.”
Peter waited, nearly mad with dread.
“You can’t go home, lad.”
“I…” Peter’s chest tightened. “You mean, they’ll keep me here in prison? Or will they ship me to a penal colony?”
“Neither. You shall be released this afternoon, provided you never set foot in England again. And I…” Washburn’s face crumpled, and tears formed in his eyes. “I must discharge you from my employ at once. I’m sorry, Peter. He wanted me to declare your disgrace publicly, but Bruce pointed out that all the islanders, including Mrs. Dundas, would hear of it then and the papers would make hay with it. So the prince agreed to keep silent to save his own dignity.”
Peter drew a careful breath. “He doesn’t want it known in England.”
“Not on your life. His father would go mad, and his mother—well, the queen would be vastly disappointed.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“And so we’re all going to forget that last night’s unpleasantness ever happened. The prince never insulted Miss Orland, you never came to her aid, and no charges were ever brought. You simply…left our entourage and disappeared. If anyone asks me, I shall let it be known that you took a fancy to Prince Edward Island and decided to try your hand as a colonist, with my blessing.”
“Thank you.” Peter looked deep into his uncle’s eyes and saw pain, regret, and love there. This parting would be as difficult for the earl as it was for him. “And so I shall live the same fate as my grandmother’s brother.”
“Yes.”
“But what shall I do?”
Washburn shrugged. “You can do whatever you wish, once we are gone. You can remain here or travel on into Canada or down into the States. But you can never set foot on Great Britain again.”
Peter nodded slowly. “All right. I can bear that. It’s better than hanging. But what about my mother?”
Washburn pursed his lips for a moment. “If you wish to write a letter, I will carry it to her myself and visit her as soon as I return home. I’ll explain everything to her. And I suppose that, if you wish, once you’ve settled somewhere, you could send for her.”
Overwhelmed, Peter dropped to his knees and grasped the earl’s hand. “Thank you so much. I don’t care what becomes of me, so long as I know that Mother will be all right and that Molly’s name hasn’t been besmirched by my actions.”
“I shall see to your mother’s comfort—have no fear. After all, she is my sister. I think it’s time I invited her to live in my home if she wishes.”
“My lord, if you do that, I can cheerfully accept any punishment.”
Washburn hauled him to his feet and hugged him. “Peter, my boy, it grieves me that you’re receiving any punishment at all, though some would call this a light sentence. I know you did no wrong.”
“Thank you.”
“And you must call me ‘Uncle’ from now on. Can you do that?”
“I—I shall try. I know I would like to, very much.”
“Good, because you have made me proud. I am not ashamed of you, nor of Cat
herine. If I could, I would leave my estate and even my title to you. You know that, don’t you?”
Peter’s throat constricted. “I don’t know what to say.”
Tears gleamed in the earl’s eyes. “The Lord saw fit to take my wife and little boy away, but later He gave me you. I’ll always be grateful that we had each other’s company for a while.”
“I feel the same. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me and for Mother.”
Washburn reached into his pocket and took out a pouch. “Take this.”
Peter caught his breath. “My lord—I mean, Uncle—the money you gave me for the voyage, and my letters of reference. They took them from me with my clothing and all I had on me last night. Will you be able to get those back? Whoever goes in my place will need them.”
“We’ve already sent Captain Grey on ahead, so put your mind at ease. And I spoke to the police sergeant when I came in. I told him you’d best have every penny and every stitch of clothing returned to you. He blustered a bit about how his men were trustworthy, but I assured him I’d make him regret it if any of your things had been pilfered.”
“But I won’t need the money now—”
“Won’t you?” The earl looked somberly into his eyes. “Peter, the amount I’m giving you now isn’t half what you had on you for the trip. You’ll need to live until you either establish yourself here or get to some other place to do that.”
“You mean…I should keep it and use it, as well as this—if they give it back to me?”
“It will be little enough for all you’ve done on this journey and the pain you’re suffering now. The prince may say what he likes, but I shall make sure that every man among our party knows you are innocent.”
“Thank you.”
The earl rose. “Very well, then. I have enough cash left so that I can get by until we land in the next sizable town, and there I can draw on a bank draft for more money. I only wish I had a larger amount on hand so that I could do more for you. They won’t release you until we sail after luncheon. I don’t suppose you want to take that money to your cell with you?”
Love Finds You in Prince Edward Island Page 22