‘Well, you are a navy man, are you not? You do not believe in easing the burdens of men serving under you, but in flogging them until they scurry to obey every order you give.’
‘Not true. There are times when only a flogging will suffice, but I have always regarded it as a last resort. Generally, I prefer to instil self-respect into my men, with a combination of training and leading a good example.’
He frowned. Dammit, but Cottam had managed to get him into a defensive position, not two seconds after their encounter began.
‘Leading by example? Yes, yes, I am a great believer in that myself. Which is why I have chosen to live among the most desperate members of my flock. I dare say you have heard talk?’
Ah, now that was more like it. Cottam felt the need to explain himself, now. To give a plausible excuse for living cheek by jowl with a group of people known to be the most cut-throat band of smugglers along this part of the coast.
‘Colonel Hutton has mentioned that you have been holding prayer meetings, and so forth, encouraging the worst of the vicinity’s miscreants to attend. With a view to reforming their way of living.’
‘Just so! One only has to look at the success that the Methodist ministers have with simple folk, to see that there is something in their, ah, method.’ He laughed at his own pun. ‘Though I have no intention of ever leaving the Anglican fold. But still, I cannot forget that there is more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents, and so on and so forth.’
‘And have you caused many sinners to repent?’
Cottam’s face closed up. ‘I believe in the absolute sanctity of the confessional,’ he said in a manner that Harry considered positively pompous. ‘I could not possibly disclose any of the confidences reposed in my care.’
In other words, no, he had not turned anyone from their lives of crime. Or not according to Lady Rawcliffe, his sister. And she should know.
‘But that is not what I came here to discuss,’ he said with a smile, as the door opened and Jeavons came in bearing a tray.
‘We have the fruit cake you like so much today, Reverend,’ said Jeavons, setting the plate on the table at Cottam’s elbow. ‘And hot milk to go with your coffee.’
‘Ah! Just the way I like it. What a good fellow you are, Jeavons.’
Something about the interchange put Harry in mind of a pair of otters, oiling their way round each other. It wouldn’t have surprised him if they’d started grooming each other’s whiskers.
‘Jeavons tells me,’ said Cottam, the moment the man had left them to their own devices, ‘that you have been spending almost every waking hour with Miss Hutton.’
Apart from the time he’d spent writing reports of his progress with the investigation. How right he’d been to send Dawkins to Bath to post them. It looked as though Cottam had just about everyone in this town, and possibly the surrounding district, in his pocket.
‘I have,’ he said curtly.
‘Really?’ Cottam crumbled a piece from his slice of cake and shot him an amused glance. ‘Miss Hutton? Do you really expect me to believe that after only a few brief meetings in Bath, you became so smitten that you pursued her down here with a view to marrying her?’
‘Why should you not believe it?’
‘Well...’ he laughed again ‘...I mean. Miss Hutton.’
‘Why do you say Miss Hutton in that fashion? What do you mean by it?’ He got to his feet and leaned over Cottam’s chair. ‘If you were not a man of the cloth, I’d have you by the throat and shake an explanation from you.’
The curate’s eyes widened fractionally. And then narrowed. ‘What a show of indignation.’
‘Of course I am indignant. I resent the implication that Miss Hutton is lacking in any way.’
‘You wish me to believe you find her perfect, do you?’
‘She is perfect,’ he said with complete honesty. ‘For me. She is...the woman I have been seeking all my life, without even knowing it. The moment I met her...’
It was true. What he’d just said. He had been searching for someone like her, all his life, without even knowing it. Which was why, not long after he’d approached her, he’d been able to say they were a perfect match. They were a perfect match. Or could have been, if he’d met her under different circumstances.
He glared down into Cottam’s sneering features, wishing he could simply wring the fellow’s scrawny neck and have done with it. How dare he imply that nobody in their right mind could possibly fall in love with Lizzie? She was utterly adorable. Beautiful. And highly desirable. Ever since he’d given in to his baser instincts and kissed her, it had been damned hard not to seek opportunities to do it again. And at night, he’d lie in bed imagining how those long, supple limbs of hers would match his. How her hair would ripple across his chest like liquid moonlight.
He sat down. Raked his fingers through his hair in a desperate attempt to wipe such impure, inappropriate thoughts about Miss Hutton from his mind. He needed to focus on this skirmish with Cottam, not sheer off into salacious daydreams about a woman who could never be his.
‘Are you quite well?’ Cottam was peering at him intently.
His first instinct was to tell him that of course he was well, that he was just regrouping in readiness for the next skirmish, when he realised that he could actually use this moment of weakness to his own advantage. After all, he was supposed to be making sure that Cottam didn’t see him as a threat.
So he smiled, weakly.
‘I am stronger than I was,’ he said, choosing once again to stick to the literal truth. ‘Though I have not regained my full health.’
‘You have been ill?’
The man knew he’d been ill. That he’d been in Bath to take the waters, which nobody would do unless some doctor had convinced them they were medicinal.
‘Yes. A result of, well, I was taken prisoner of war. And suffered a recurrent fever.’ And had been drinking too much, for far too long. ‘It was thought that drinking the waters at Bath—’ instead of all that grog ‘—would help to revive my weakened constitution. Instead, I met Miss Hutton. And found...healing of a different sort.’ He gave the curate a self-deprecating smile. And saw the man take note. Rawcliffe had told him, before he set out on this quest, that Cottam liked to think of himself as a father confessor. That he encouraged people to confide in him. And so he continued, ‘Balm for my loneliness, if you like.’
‘Loneliness?’ Cottam pounced on the word Harry had tossed him.
‘Yes. You cannot imagine,’ he said, leaning forward and clasping his hands over his knees, ‘what it is like, being held captive in a foreign country. Or even what it is like to return to the land of your birth with a feeling that a sort of glass wall still separates you from everyone else. Nobody really understood me. Until I met Miss Hutton, and she...’ He gave what he hoped was an eloquent shrug.
‘She is something of an outsider, too,’ said Cottam, pensively. ‘She understands what it is to be lonely.’
‘Well, it isn’t just that. She is a splendid girl.’
‘Splendid?’
‘Yes. Well, I don’t expect you will understand, but most females are so...little. And frilly. They make me feel like a great, lumbering fool. And I get clumsy round them, trying not to trip over their dainty little feet. Miss Hutton, on the other hand...’ He spread his hands wide.
‘No. Nothing dainty about her, is there?’
He didn’t like the way Cottam smiled. With just a hint of mockery beneath the apparent understanding.
But he decided to let it go. Better for the man to think him feeble and a bit slow. That he was the kind of lovelorn sap who would confide in a total stranger simply because he was a man of the cloth.
So that he would not see him as a threat.
Chapter Eighteen
Lizzie pressed her nose to the window and peered up in the direction of th
e sky. And sighed at the fullness of the moon which gazed serenely back at her.
A whole week had passed since he’d had that meeting with Reverend Cottam. A meeting which he’d refused to discuss. The only thing she knew for certain about it was that they hadn’t arranged to call the banns.
Which was just as well. Imagine how shocking it would have been if he’d gone ahead with that, without even informing her. Without even having proposed come to that. She would have...she would have...well, she would have gone along with it, probably. Even if she’d been hurt that he hadn’t consulted her. At least it would have been proof that he was truly keen to marry her.
As it was, she was simply a bit confused. She fiddled with the end of her plait, wondering why Captain Bretherton had been so unwilling to talk about his meeting with Reverend Cottam. Whenever she’d tried to broach the topic he’d distracted her by paying her compliments, instead. Which was wonderful, in a way. She didn’t think she’d ever tire of hearing him tell her how lovely he thought she was. But if he thought she was so lovely, why hadn’t he proposed? What was he waiting for? She’d have thought, after that day he’d appeared unable to resist kissing her, he would have wanted to get her to the altar as soon as possible.
For once, she wished she had a female friend in whom she could confide. Because surely most females knew ways of getting a man to propose. Since she’d made it as clear as she could that when he did, she was going to accept.
If only Lady Buntingford hadn’t had that seizure. Lady Buntingford had kept dozens of beaus dangling, when she’d been young. She would know exactly how to bring him up to scratch.
She drew the curtains shut and went to her bed. Day after day went by and he’d call at the house, and they’d go for a walk, or a drive, always in a different direction, and he’d get her to tell him all about the local landmarks and they’d talk nonsense to each other by the hour. Although, strangely, it felt as if they had talked about everything. He’d told her, only yesterday, that it was as if he’d come to know her better than he’d ever known anyone. And she felt the same about him.
Which was all very enjoyable, she thought as she pulled back the covers and climbed into the bed.
But they still were not officially betrothed.
She pulled the sheets and blankets up to her waist, leaned over and blew out her candle. It only took a second or two for her eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom. Especially since the moon was bright enough to make its presence felt through her rather moth-eaten curtains. She rolled over and shut her eyes. And as usual, wondered what he was doing, right at that moment. Was he in bed? Lying there, thinking of her? No, probably not. Men didn’t seem to go to bed as early as women. Even Grandfather, at his advanced age, seemed to be able to sit up, with a bottle of port and a newspaper, for hours and hours past the time he sent her to her bed. Although she often lay there reading a book, rather than sleeping. So that when she heard his tread on the stairs, she’d have to extinguish her candle quickly and stuff the offending novel under her pillow for good measure. He didn’t approve of novels. The only reason he permitted them in the house was because he believed that Lady Buntingford was choosing them.
She stifled a feeling of guilt at using Lady Buntingford as an excuse for reading books that were not the slightest bit improving. Though at least Captain Bretherton did not disapprove of her reading novels. He’d even admitted to having read a couple of the same ones as her. And had agreed with her that the heroines were the most stupid creatures ever to be invented and the plots so full of holes they wouldn’t hold water. And also that in spite of their failings, they were tremendous fun to read. And Lady Buntingford did enjoy listening to them. Lizzie could tell. Even though the poor old lady could only say two words, she could still smile with her eyes and nod encouragement to go on. She liked hearing about how she and Captain Bretherton were getting on, too. Although she wasn’t able to offer the advice she would no doubt have given, were she able to speak.
When she visited Lady Buntingford tomorrow, Lizzie decided, she would tell her how frustrated she was becoming with Captain Bretherton’s style of courtship. Even though her mentor wouldn’t be able to share the wisdom she’d gleaned in her youth during a series of brilliant Seasons, at least she would understand Lizzie’s frustration. And confusion.
Afterwards, Captain Bretherton would be waiting for her, outside Lady Buntingford’s gate, and he would escort her home. And perhaps Grandfather would ask him to stay to dine. And then...
A cold fist gripped her stomach. And then he would make his way home, late at night. And it was a full moon.
Oh, dear. The Gentlemen would, like as not, be landing a catch. Not that anybody ever told Grandfather when there was going to be a run, because as a justice of the peace, he would be honour bound to inform. And the same went for her. But both of them usually had a pretty good idea. For one thing, it always coincided with a full moon. For another, there was a sort of suppressed excitement in the air of the village. Shops tended to close a bit earlier. People didn’t loiter in the streets, chatting.
She’d have to watch out for those signs on her walk home tomorrow, and if it seemed likely, then she’d have to warn Captain Bretherton to take care.
* * *
Lizzie was growing impatient. And he could hardly blame her. He’d spent all day every day acting the part of a besotted suitor and had jumped at the chance of having a private interview with her curate. Any woman would expect a proposal, in such circumstances. Once or twice since then, she’d even made a clumsy attempt to turn their conversation in the direction of marriage and he’d swiftly had to turn it elsewhere.
He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep her dangling. He folded his arms and leaned against one of the gateposts of Lady Buntingford’s park.
It had been a good week since he’d had that interview with Cottam and, though Lizzie had shown him all over the area and told him all about the lives of all the locals, he still hadn’t managed to find one scrap of real proof that the man was responsible for Archie’s death. He really didn’t think Lizzie was going to be able to provide him with anything more.
What was worse, he couldn’t wander around and try to discover anything on his own. Because he was being followed. Whenever he went anywhere, but especially when Lizzie wasn’t on his arm, there was always a couple of men, or boys, shadowing his every move.
He ground his teeth as he shifted his weight. It was a message from Cottam. He might have pretended to take Harry’s explanation for being here at face value, but he wasn’t taking any chances.
Harry was pretending to be unaware of his shadows. If he’d been an innocent man, completely besotted by Lizzie, then he probably wouldn’t have noticed them. Especially since it was rarely the same two on any occasion. But he’d noticed them all right. He’d even begun to recognise them. One of them was pretty hard to miss. He was as tall as Harry himself and as broad. And walked with an aggressive swagger that had everyone else darting out of his way. He wasn’t the one tailing Harry today. Instead it was a bandy-legged ruffian with a face like a weasel and the youth with a mop of fair hair that was always falling into his eyes.
At last he saw the gatekeeper come forward with his bunch of keys, which meant Lizzie was on her way down the path. He stepped forward and eyed the gatekeeper thoughtfully. The man eyed him back, jutting his jaw out for good measure. It didn’t matter how big and tall Harry was, that jaw seemed to indicate he wouldn’t be getting in to pester Lady Buntingford. However, Harry was starting to think he was going to have to do something other than courting Lizzie. Something to provoke a reaction. Something to smoke Cottam out of his nest. If he forced entry to Lady Buntingford’s home, perhaps, and saw for himself that she could neither write, nor make her wishes known...
‘Captain Bretherton!’ Lizzie’s face lit up when she saw him. It made him want to grab her round the waist and swing her round, before setting her on
her feet and smothering her dear face in kisses. How he wished he had the right. But what kind of rogue would take advantage of a trusting young woman in such a way? She was going to be upset enough when they parted as it was. Though not heartbroken, not she. Lizzie was not the kind of woman who’d sit about weeping over a man. Or anything. She despised such weakness. She’d told him so. It was the one consolation he could cling to, whenever he thought about the inevitable result his duplicity must have upon her. That she would survive him, as she’d bravely survived so much else.
‘Miss Hutton,’ was his measured response instead. Though he couldn’t help smiling at her. ‘How did you find Lady Buntingford today?’
Lizzie lay her hand on his sleeve, the light dying from her eyes. ‘Much the same as ever. It is such a shame.’
‘Don’t you think,’ he said, as they set off in the direction of the High Street, ‘it might cheer her up to have more visitors? I am sure, since she has taken such a keen interest in your education, she would at least want to meet the man who is courting you.’
‘I would have thought so, too, but—’
‘Besides, I don’t see how she managed to tell anyone that she didn’t want to have any visitors. Not when she can barely speak.’
‘I told you, the Reverend Cottam got there before she had the second seizure that rendered her so helpless...’
‘Yes, but if she wasn’t helpless when she had her first seizure, why would she have forbidden anyone to visit her? I can understand it if she’d somehow made her wishes for complete solitude, or almost complete solitude,’ he said, pressing her hand where it lay on his sleeve, ‘after that second seizure which robbed her of so much dignity. But...’
‘Well, the first one was pretty severe. To be honest, I was surprised she managed to say anything to Mr Cottam. Because she certainly couldn’t say anything to me.’ Lizzie frowned. He waited for her to reach the same conclusion he’d drawn. Because if she once started to suspect the Reverend Cottam wasn’t as honest as he would have everyone believe, then, perhaps, he’d be able to start to tell her about the rest of it.
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