by C. J. Chase
“I have shocked you.”
The countess—so peaceful, so sympathetic, so … perfect. Or not.
“We committed grievous sins against one another, each offense escalating to something worse than the previous. Only when we sought God’s mercy—and offered pardon to each other—did we end our destructive behavior and begin to heal our marriage. It has been neither fast nor easy—such changes never are—but thanks be to God we are no longer the people we were then.” Lady Chambelston’s gaze wavered, darkened. “Alas, our actions had far-reaching consequences—and innocent people suffered because of our transgressions. We deeply injured our children. Our oldest daughter removed us from her life and has not spoken to us since. Julian joined the navy, and we have scarcely seen him these two decades. There is a reason why vengeance is to belong to God.”
“But what about justice?”
“Justice demands we turn you over to the magistrate for a punishment of either transportation or death. But mercy allows me to forgive you.” The pain-shadowed eyes stared levelly at Mattie, as if reading her soul. “I forgive you, Mattie.”
“But …” That was all? Mattie slumped in her chair, rebellion and regret and … relief warring in her mind, in her very being. She dropped her gaze to the forlorn slice of toast still in her hand. “Are you suggesting I should have forgiven your son?”
“I am only telling you what God does for all those who repent. Are you greater than God?” Lady Chambelston’s fingers relaxed, though the sheets remained crumpled from her grip. “Tell me, Mattie. Did you truly seek justice? Or revenge?”
“Can’t they be the same? And—and, besides, why should I offer forgiveness to someone who isn’t even sorry?”
The sheets rose and fell with the countess’s steady breathing. “We are no longer talking about Julian, no?”
“I …” Mattie bit her lip and looked away. Outside the window autumn had begun to paint the leaves of a nearby tree. Soon their colors would darken to lifeless brown as they dried up and blew away. Dead, like her father and brother, forever beyond remorse and leaving her only with the guilt and pain of failure.
“Clinging to your anger warps you and injures others. I discovered so—as have you.” Lady Chambelston placed her frail hand on Mattie’s and gave her a weak squeeze. “Ask for forgiveness of those you wronged, beginning with God. Offer mercy to those who ask it of you. And turn the rest of your hurts over to God to deal with in His time.”
A gentle breeze caused the leaves on the tree to dance. Deep inside, Mattie felt a similar stirring that shook off the darkness in her soul. “Your son and I, we’ve made our peace.”
“I did not mean Julian, either. You have other hurts you need to give to God, yes? But I am glad your healing has begun.” The hand on Mattie’s relaxed, and then went limp. The countess’s lashes drifted down to rest on wan cheeks.
Mattie’s heart clenched in the seconds before she registered the pulse yet beating in Lady Chambelston’s neck—weak but steady, like the woman’s words which now pulsated in Mattie’s mind. For long moments Mattie remained in the chair, watching the countess sleep and contemplating the wrongdoings and wounds of the past. Her father. George. Viscount Somershurst.
Kit DeChambelle.
The hinges squeaked as the door swung open to reveal the Earl of Chambelston standing in the portal. Mattie whisked her hand out from under his wife’s.
He shuffled closer until he stood before her, loomed over her.
“I—I’m so sorry. I—”
“Yes, I can see that, Miss Fraser.” Ever the English gentleman, he extracted a handkerchief from his coat and passed it to her. “I’ll stay here. There is someone downstairs who wants to see you.”
Kit? Mattie dabbed her cheeks dry. “Yes, yes. Thank you.” She virtually floated out the door and down the staircase.
Until she reached the library.
Somershurst made polite conversation with Lawrie Harrison. Both rose when she entered.
“Mr. Harrison. I’m so glad you received my note.”
Somershurst gave them both a nod. “I’ll check on Maman and leave you to your conversation. Miss Fraser, I had a room prepared for your convenience. You should get some rest.”
Mattie waited for Somershurst’s steps to fade away. She paced to the fireplace and lowered her head against the mantel. “Oh, Mr. Harrison, I did a terrible, terrible thing last night.”
“Yes, I heard.” He moved to the opposite side of the fireplace, his homely face filled with understanding. “What can I do for you?”
For her? “Kit is …” She glanced at the bottle yet on the desk. “Troubled. And you seem to have answers.”
“It’s not so much having the answers as knowing where to find them. Yes, I’ll talk to DeChambelle, if he’s willing to listen. But I think you asked me here for something else.”
“Would you … would you pray for me? It sounds so real when you pray. I’ve never heard anyone address God the way you do. I almost feel as if … God actually listens when you pray.”
“I believe that.”
“But how can you be certain when there is so much evil in the world?”
“Evil caused by human greed, indifference and vendettas?”
Like her brother. Her father. Her.
“God allows us to make choices. Even you, Mattie.” He took her hand and held it between his. “Fortunately, He has made a way for forgiveness. Do you want me to pray with you, Mattie?”
“Would you?”
They settled into the chairs that flanked the fireplace, and Mattie followed Lawrie Harrison’s gentle prompts and leading. She blinked when they finished, for somehow the room seemed different. Brighter. Changed.
No, the change had occurred within her.
She shook her head, bemused. “This wasn’t the reason I asked you to come.”
“Accept it as evidence God knows what you need before you do.” Harrison lifted a book from the desk. “I brought this for you. I marked some pages where you might wish to begin.”
“Thank you.”
“How touching.” An acerbic Kit DeChambelle sauntered across the room to join them. His blue eyes glittered behind the spectacles, hard but clear. At least he hadn’t consoled himself with more brandy. “Glad you’re here, Harrison. I wanted to discuss a matter with you.”
“I’ll, ah, leave you gentlemen to your business.” Mattie scooped up the Bible that Harrison had provided and retreated from Kit DeChambelle’s scowl.
Kit crossed to Julian’s desk and hefted the decanter. “Brandy?”
“None for me. Judging by the amount remaining, it looks to me as if someone has already imbibed rather heavily.”
“It was a long night.” And longer day.
“Did the brandy bring the relief you crave?”
Kit glared in response to Harrison’s gentle nagging but as there were still no goblets he returned the decanter to the desk and retreated to the empty chair. “I appreciate your coming. How did you know?”
“Your American sent me a note.”
Not his American. “That prosaic? I was afraid you might say God spoke to you.”
A secretive smile twitched on Harrison’s lips. “I suppose in a way He did.”
“I never did understand how Alderston managed to convince the most honest man in all England to join a profession based on lies and deceit. How do you live with the regrets?”
“I pray a lot, just like I did during the war when I would ask God to show me what to do, what choices I should make to minimize suffering.”
“I made enough wrong choices for all of us.”
“And you still do—you insist on living with the guilt of the past.”
Silence descended over the room like autumn fog on a London morning.
Kit instinctively reached for a glass, only to remember he had decided to forego another brandy. “Baxter is missing.”
“Baxter? Since when?”
“I last saw him yesterday morning.”
>
“When you assigned him to observe Miss Fraser?”
“Yes. I arrived home after our futile search for the muster books in time to see her escaping through the alley behind the house. I don’t know if Baxter also followed her. Two people shot at Mattie in Hyde Park.”
“Two?”
But had both shot at Mattie—or was one man aiming at her guard? Baxter? Or even … Kit’s fingers curled around the chair arm. Could he have been the intended recipient of one of those shots?
He inventoried the list of those who knew about the orders. Julian. Alderston. The Prince Regent. Himself.
And Fitzgerald?
“You know, DeChambelle, Baxter may be fine. He may be trying to track down one of Miss Fraser’s would-be assassins.”
“Baxter?” The man had displayed little competence thus far.
“But I’ll notify Alderston for you. You have enough troubles to occupy any man.”
“Thank you. He’ll want to know.” Indeed, Alderston might set more guards to protecting Mattie until such time as the orders were recovered. Kit reached again for a glass that wasn’t there, his hand hovering above the empty table. Had he become so reliant on drink? Harrison’s warning about becoming a slave to drink’s power suddenly seemed frighteningly possible. And yet a life without its mind-numbing qualities seemed frighteningly … real.
He stared morosely at the decanter on Julian’s desk, not certain if he should feel desire or revulsion.
Harrison followed the line of his stare. “I worry about your craving for drink.”
“I don’t desire the drink. Only the oblivion it brings.”
“Perhaps, for now. But that will change, you know. You’ve embarked on a path that will lead to your destruction. Only God’s forgiveness will bring you peace.”
“Some deeds are unforgivable.” And unforgettable, at least without copious quantities of brandy. Or whiskey.
“Are we discussing your failings of last year? Or Miss Fraser’s of last night?”
“Does it matter?”
Harrison tapped a finger against his knee. “You hurt because you loved Mattie—and she betrayed you. A relationship not unlike God has with us.”
“Loved Mattie? I fear you vastly overstate the matter.”
“You cannot deny you greatly admired her.”
“No, I admired the woman I thought she was.” Loyal to her loved ones, tenacious in the face of indifference and adversity.
With such a woman at his side, a man would willingly face an army. With such an illusion, a man would willingly yield to hate.
“If you loathe her so, why do you tarry in seeking justice? Mattie wronged you. You have cause.”
The mantel clock ticked through silent seconds while Kit stubbornly held his tongue. And his anger.
“It isn’t Mattie’s fault she didn’t live up to your ideals or that you didn’t live down to your cynicism. Her deeds are no worse than yours.”
Kit shoved himself out of the chair and paced to the window. But his deeds, his past, followed him.
“Mattie expresses her regret.”
“If she is to be believed this time.”
“She had the chance to run away, but she remained to accept whatever punishment your family deemed to mete out.” Harrison leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. Under his thinning hair, his head gleamed in the afternoon sun that streamed through the window. “Accept her contrition as genuine. Mattie made her peace with God and your mother, but until you do likewise you’ll never be able to offer her the forgiveness she wants from you. And you might discover God heals better than brandy.”
Mattie woke with a start. Even after she identified the unfamiliar walls as the guestroom of Somershurst’s townhouse, a sense of unease crawled through her. Hunger? She glanced from the afternoon sky to the small clock on the fireplace mantle which gave the time as four o’clock. What had she missed?
Nicky.
Fear sliced through the empty pit of her stomach. He should have returned hours ago. Mrs. Parker’s strange insistence that Mattie meet Nicky in Hyde Park flashed across her memory. She hadn’t gone—and now he was missing.
One little boy, somewhere in London. Would he yet appear, like last night? The ache in her heart felt like that day seven years ago when her brother had left. She’d never seen him again. But this was far worse than when her scapegrace brother had absconded with the family coffers. Unlike George, who had rushed headlong to his destruction, Nicky had acted for her.
Guilt stabbed her like a knife, carving fresh wounds into her heart. Would her folly forever condemn her to misery?
Not this time.
Ignoring the hopelessly wrinkled state of her gown, she ran to the stairs, whispering prayers in time with her steps. She tried the library first, but found only Somershurst in residence.
“Ah, Miss Fraser.” He rose from the desk chair. “How may I be of service?”
“Is your brother about?”
“Kit? I believe he is resting. Would you like me to wake him?”
She laced her fingers together in front of her. She hated to disturb him—especially given their last encounter. But what other choice did she have? Somershurst had never met the boy. If Kit wouldn’t seek Nicky, she’d have to conduct the search herself. “Yes. Please.”
“Immediately, mademoiselle.” He snapped his heels together and bowed in such a deliberately silly, formal manner as to almost trigger a smile from her.
She paced to the window while she waited to see if Kit would come. Outside, the low-hanging sun sparkled on Somershurst’s garden. Weeds grew among the rosebushes. Tall weeds, testifying to the plot’s long neglect. She stared at a lonely pink rose, stubbornly blooming out of season.
“Miss Fraser?”
Mattie held her breath and turned to view the door. Kit leaned against the frame, his hair delightfully sleep-tousled. His shirt gaped open at the neck where he’d removed his cravat. She tried to read his eyes, tried to determine his level of sobriety—and revulsion—but the sunlight glared against his spectacle lenses. “My friend Nicky promised to meet me here hours ago, but he never came.”
“The urchin who came to get me last night when …”
“Yes.”
He ran a hand through the already mussed hair. “Julian tells me Mrs. Parker has disappeared as well.”
“Mrs. Parker!”
“Yes, our housekeeper. She’s been part of the staff since the Norman invasion. I can’t imagine why she would leave without word.”
“I—I know. It’s just that Mrs. Parker insisted Nicky left a message for me to meet him in Hyde Park.” What was the connection?
Kit stilled, the angular planes of his face freezing for several long, silent moments. “And you didn’t go.” Hesitancy replaced the earlier harshness in his voice, offering Mattie hope.
“No. I—I was so certain Nicky would come here rather than put me at risk, I disbelieved the message. Do you think he’s in trouble?”
“Oh, Mattie. He lives on the streets—he creates trouble. If trouble does not find him, he will find it—if not today or tomorrow, soon.”
“But this time, what if I caused his troubles? What if his involvement with me endangered him? Despite his street-smart ways, he’s only a little boy.” She paused to gather her thoughts. How could she make Kit understand, surrounded as he was by a family that loved him, how very lonely life could be for the orphans of the world like Nicky? Like her? “He has no one who cares about him. No one except me.” And … God? The newness of faith in a harsh world burdened her with fresh doubts.
Kit ambled across the room and met her gaze from the other side of the large desk. “I’ll look for him.”
She leaned against the windowsill and stared at his face. Concern and fatigue underscored his eyes and hollowed his cheeks. “You don’t have to do this for me. This is my fault. I—”
“I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for him.”
She closed her eyes and swal
lowed the pain his words caused.
“Mattie.” The rough edge of his voice gentled. “You can’t leave the house, most especially at night, for the places where Nicky is likely to be. It isn’t safe for any woman, but especially not for you.”
“I—I …”
He prowled around the desk and stood directly in front of her, so close she could see through his spectacles to his eyes. He raised a hand as if to touch her hair, her face. But he stopped, his fingers hovering only inches away. “That’s why you brought this problem to me, isn’t it?”
“I … hoped.” The words tripped awkwardly from her tongue. For sixteen years life had taught her to trust none save herself. “If you refused, I would look for him myself—and I wanted you to know I wasn’t running away.”
“You are many things, Mattie Fraser—but no coward. I promise to do everything I can. And besides, Nicky may know something about Mrs. Parker’s disappearance.”
The intensity in his gaze, the strength in his jaw, melted some of the cold fear in her heart. “Thank you.”
No sooner had he vanished, though, than her relief transformed to a greater worry. Had she just put Kit in danger?
Chapter Fourteen
“I am looking for a young lad called Nicky.”
The rotund gaolkeep stared so long that Kit’s skin crawled. As the beady eyes registered the cut of Kit’s coat and the cost of his trousers, a leer curled the corners of the man’s fleshy face. “We got lots o’ Nicks. Ye know which one?”
One with no surname, no known residence. Did Nicky even know his age? Despondency and cynicism warred to replace his anger as Kit calculated the odds of locating the boy or even his body. One in a million. Still, gaol was the most likely venue apart from a pauper’s grave. “He is about this tall.” He held his hand about four feet from the floor. “Dark hair. Dark eyes. Last seen this morning, so he would have arrived today.”
The gaoler scratched a bristly cheek. “I might be persuaded to remember such a lad—if ye understand my meaning.”
Kit withdrew a coin of small denomination. “Perhaps this will purchase your memory.”