Silence Is Golden

by Sara Ackerman

  “She’s seaworthy and will get you two to shore,” Jones grunted. “Now, be quick about it and get in.”

  Clambering over the side, Alfred steadied her as she found her seat in the dinghy. He handed her his bag, and she stored it under her seat. When Jones untied one side of the boat, it shuddered in midair. She stifled a shriek, and the older man’s weathered face peered over the side. “My apologies, miss. Should be smooth going from now on.”

  The men released the boat inch by agonizing inch, the ominous black waters swirling below. “When are you coming?” she hissed. Fear had her clutching the rough-hewn wood beneath her fingers, and she winced as a splinter embedded itself in her tender skin.

  “I’ll climb down when the boat’s near the surface—”

  A loud roar pierced the abnormal calm, and she heard her sister’s faint cry yelling, “Michelson’s awake!” Pounding footsteps followed. “Jones! The fuses are set! Cut the rope now!”

  “Damnation!” Jones swore. He pushed Alfred to the ropes and barked, “Climb!”

  He needed no further instructions. Jones hacked at the rope, and she shrieked as the boat fell the last several feet into the water. Alfred, who had by this point shimmied halfway down the rope, had to leap the remaining distance, landing with a thud on the boat’s bottom. It rocked and listed, but he wasted no time in grabbing the oars and rowing. With several strong strokes, they were a good distance away from the Stallion.

  The archipelago loomed on the horizon, but Evie couldn’t tear her eyes away from the action on deck. She watched in mounting horror as the flames licked through the wood of the hull and tore into the deck. Beatrice and Jones fought for leverage over Michelson, but he had them trapped between him and the railing.

  “Jump, Bea!” she screamed. “Swim to us!”

  The main mast cracked in half and fell with a deafening roar to the deck below, giving Beatrice enough time to retreat to higher ground. A flash of metal gleamed from above as Jones tossed her a sword. Her sister jabbed at Michelson. He parried. She thrust. Moonlight glinted off their blades.

  “There’s a chance.” She prayed for her sister’s salvation. “She can overpower him and jump ship. She can still be safe.”

  An explosion rocketed the already floundering ship. The fuses had found their target: the gunpowder stored below. New flames engulfed the upper deck until all she saw was a brief glimpse of her sister’s figure before that, too, was obscured by the ravaging fire.

  A scream ripped from Evie’s lungs, and she lunged for the water. Alfred’s arms banded around her and prevented her from leaping to her death. She struggled within his grasp, pounding his chest as tears coursed down her cheeks.

  “This was her choice. She wanted you to be safe and happy. Don’t render her death meaningless by undoing her efforts.”

  Her sobs quieted, and she turned to stare as the remainder of the ship burst into flames, smoking timbers landing with hissing thuds on the ocean’s surface. As he rowed them farther and farther away from the burning ship, any hope of saving her sister faded into the bleak night.

  “No!”

  But it was too late. The fiery darkness consumed her cry.

  Chapter 26

  “There you are, Mr. Coombes.”

  He stood, recognizing the tall gentleman striding across the stone veranda, and shook the other man’s hand. “Mr. Wickes, it’s good to see you again.”

  Three days had come and gone since he had heaved the small boat through black waters, away from the burning ship and onto shore at St. Peter’s port.

  The two gentlemen sat, and Alfred stared into the gathering darkness, his eyes scanning the horizon, ever vigilant. He couldn’t allow himself to close his eyes, for when he did he saw the flames licking higher and higher on the ship, engulfing it in a raging inferno. Only the echo of her screams as she begged him to turn their little boat around overshadowed the spitting fire’s crackle and hiss. She was safe, though at what cost… He clenched and unclenched his hands and winced when the bandages cut into raw blisters, scraping the fragile skin with the coarsened fabric.

  “How are your hands?” Mr. Wickes helped himself to the bottle of whiskey the butler had set out for him on the veranda table, pouring a generous drink.

  “I’ll survive.” Alfred swallowed his own drink in one gulp, the smooth embers of whiskey sliding like silk down his throat, pooling low in his stomach. It created a comfortable warmth and spread to his extremities, numbing the constant pain of his hands and his heart.

  “I haven’t thanked you for coming to our rescue.”

  “I was happy to be of service. As you know, I am close with Lord Stanton and his wife. I wished to do what I could to ease your burden during this time of sorrow.”

  He had his own suspicions about why Wickes was so keen to help. When Wickes saw them, he had run to shake Alfred’s shoulders, demanding to know who else had been aboard and if all the women had escaped. It was almost as if he had known Lady Beatrice had been on the Stallion. The man had been frantic, though he did his best to disguise his worry. As much as Alfred had wished to reassure him, he could not. Shaking his head, he had told him they were the only two survivors.

  “Your efforts on our behalf are much appreciated.”

  Mr. Wickes gestured to the veranda and the house beyond. “Have you been comfortable here?”

  “Your servants have been helpful during this difficult time. Thank you for welcoming us into your home. I don’t know what we would have done on our own.”

  “Does she remain silent?”

  “I have neither seen nor heard from her since we arrived. I go each day to her rooms, but she will not see me.”

  “She loved her sister, and to see her die in such a violent manner—” Wickes stopped, and clenched and unclenched his fists, mimicking his own attempts to erase what had transpired on the beach.

  This served to confirm Alfred’s theory there was more to Mr. Wickes’ interest than that of a concerned family friend. Perhaps he, too, wished to forget.

  Wickes cleared his throat. “Don’t give up, Mr. Coombes. She’ll come around. It will take time.”

  “I was to port yesterday to see when we could sail to England. Returning home and seeing her friends and family might lift her spirits. However, I discovered the ports have been closed.”

  Mr. Wickes’ entire body tensed, and he grimaced, tossing back his drink and pouring himself another. He knew something. Alfred had never bought Mr. Wickes’ story about how he was on the island for a holiday. It was too convenient, finding him on an island near France as a ship carrying illegal cargo sailed by. Other events from the night they had arrived had not made sense, either, and insomnia had ensured time to draw his own conclusions.

  “How odd that all the townspeople who responded to the disaster were men and had easy access to rowboats. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Wickes?”

  The other man did not respond, but Alfred had been through too much and seen too much not to discover all he could regarding the events on the Stallion and why they had almost lost their lives trying to escape it.

  “It was even stranger how close to Guernsey the ship was destroyed, making it easier to find survivors or rescue anyone who might still be aboard.”

  “What’s your point, Mr. Coombes?”

  “Why are the ports closed, Mr. Wickes?” The two men glared at each other, neither one willing to back down until Mr. Wickes threw back his head and laughed.

  “You are not the milksop Stanton painted you to be.”

  “People change. He’s not the jackass I knew him to be, either, which is fortunate, as we are to be related.”

  A new respect glinted in Wickes’ eyes. “I’ll be sure to tell him the next time I see him.”

  “Please do, though I am in no doubt he is aware of my opinions. Now, have I proved myself worthy to hear whatever it is you are struggling so hard to hide, or must I bloody your nose before you tell me?”

  Mr. Wickes held up his hands in defense
. “All right, Alfred. I’ll tell you, but it goes no further than the two of us.”

  “You can count on my discretion.”

  “About ten years ago, Guernsey was a smuggler’s paradise. By some estimates, smuggling contributed to the government’s lost income in the amount of one million pounds per year. Parliament was so incensed it passed an anti-smuggling act in 1805 and again in 1807 when the first proved ineffectual. The new law put an end to smuggling, and most merchants sold off their businesses and ships.”

  “Why was a smuggler’s ship in Guernsey waters now?”

  “The Stallion of the Sea was run by Henry Michelson, the man who killed Evie and Amelia’s father. For years, the British government has attempted to ferret out his secrets, to no avail. When Michelson’s ship sank off the coast of France several years ago and he supposedly died at sea, the largest smuggling operation folded. Within the last several months we learned he had sunk his own ship and faked his death. Smuggled goods were reappearing in France, bearing Michelson’s seal, and we knew we needed to infiltrate his gang.”

  “Lady Beatrice.”

  “She worked for me, and her mission was to sail the Stallion near Guernsey, sink her, and destroy the cargo. We were waiting on the beach for her signal, but she was early. We couldn’t get to her in time.”

  “Did the bailiff know all this was happening?”

  “It was a secret. If we had informed him, he would not have allowed us to carry out our mission. His fear of incurring the wrath of Parliament outweighs his desire to aid the war effort.”

  “But you are the British government!”

  “Try to see it from their perspective. Guernsey does not wish to further antagonize their sovereign after so recently being removed from disgrace in His Majesty’s eyes.”

  “He closed the ports.”

  “The bailiff didn’t have any other choice, and until the smuggler’s ring is discovered and prosecuted, he has decreed the ports will remain closed.”

  “The smugglers are dead. They cannot be found out. Are we to be exiled here forever?”

  “You have discovered the reason for my absence. I’ve been talking to the bailiff and his aides in an attempt to convince them to reopen the ports. It has taken some doing and several promises to intercede on their behalf should a conflict occur, but the ports will open by week’s end. You two can marry and return home to England with no further delays.”

  “Assuming she still wishes to wed.”

  Mr. Wickes stood and clasped him on the shoulders. “I’m only one man, Mr. Coombes. I opened the ports. You’ll have to convince her of the rest.” The two men shook hands, and Mr. Wickes left.

  He was alone, and his mind strayed to the white missive tucked into his breast pocket where he kept the slim envelope containing Lady Beatrice’s last words. The weight of those words had burdened him since they had arrived at Mr. Wickes’ home. Concern for Evie’s emotional state prevented him from sharing it with her. He took out the letter and held it, noting the bold scrawling slant to Lady Beatrice’s hand. Even knowing her death was an imminent possibility, the lady did not fear. Firm, black lines pressed deep into the paper and spoke of courage and confidence. She had remained brave to the end.

  Evie was brave, too, and possessed a deep well of strength greater than any he had ever encountered. He had been wrong to keep this from her. Instead of adding to her sorrow, perhaps her sister’s letter would provide the closure she needed to say good-bye.

  The heavy silence was broken by a gust of wind bringing with it the tangy spray of salty water as it blew across the sea. He took in a lungful of cool, clean air and closed his eyes. For the first time since rowing to shore, he did not see pain and death or hear anguished screams. There was light where there had been darkness and hope when there had been despair.

  “Where there’s hope, there’s possibility.” Jumping from his chair, he returned to the house to find her and share those possibilities with her.

  Chapter 27

  Evie sat in front of the cold fire, her plain linen shift all the clothing she wore. It was chilly in the room, as the fire the maid had lit had long since extinguished. Wrapping her arms about herself, she rocked back and forth, the ball of anger and grief remaining lodged in her chest.

  Her sister was dead, and Alfred was to blame. She had begged him to turn their boat around, but he had refused. He was the reason her sister was gone. They could have saved her. They could have… She bit the inside of her cheeks to prevent herself from crying and tasted blood, the metallic tang fueling her rage. There were times she hated him.

  A knock sounded on the door. Alfred again. Since arriving at this wretched place, he had stopped by every day to see her. His knock coincided with the chiming bells from the church tower until the two sounds blended into a discordant cacophony. She hated the sound of those bells as much as she hated his knock. It didn’t matter. Each time she had refused him entrance. This time would be no different.

  The door swung open. Silly maid. She hadn’t latched the door the last time she exited.

  “Are you in here?”

  He stumbled into the room. Darkness hung heavy like a shroud. It suited her mood, though it impeded his mobility. There was heavy shuffling, followed by muted cursing. A small light cut through the thick gloom. “Good God.”

  She knew what it looked like, but what did she care if trays of uneaten food littered the room or her clothing lay strewn across the floor? What did any of it matter?

  His heavy steps behind her signaled his approach, and she stiffened. If he touched her, she would scream or break into a million pieces, but he didn’t. A soft weight draped around her shoulders. The rough wool chafed, and she would have thrown it off, but the heavy cloth dispelled the chill, and her shivering ceased.

  He was beside her now. She refused to acknowledge him.

  A light shone in her eyes, and she recoiled. “What did you do to your hair?”

  Her hair? She saw the piles of white-gold hair abandoned on the floor around her, limp dead things she had cut off in a fit of sorrow-filled rage. When she had moved her head or a breeze had caught it, burning wood and death returned to fill her nostrils. It had driven her mad, and she was desperate to be rid of the horrible stench. She had found a pair of scissors in a small escritoire in her room and cut through her hair, the shorn locks falling to the floor like faded leaves.

  He touched the short bristles, and she hissed a warning. His hand dropped.

  “Why didn’t you let me in? I want to help you.”

  She wasn’t going to say anything to him ever again.

  “Have you eaten or had anything to drink?”

  Turning away, she rolled up into a ball. She hadn’t, nor did she care.

  Why didn’t he leave her alone?

  “You need to drink, at least. Here, let me get you a glass of water.” He lifted her from the floor and cradled her in his lap. Holding the glass to her lips, he encouraged her to drink. She set her lips and refused his offering. The cool liquid trickled down her chin and neck.

  He set the glass aside. “I know you’re upset with me, but it was your sister’s wish we leave her there, not mine.”

  Scrambling to her knees, she crawled away from him and nestled into a darkened corner, watching him like a trapped animal. She was ready to move should he approach.

  “Do you remember the letter she gave Jones to give to you?” He pulled out a thin envelope. “I have it here.”

  He came over and knelt before her, showing her the envelope with her sister’s unmistakable handwriting adorning the front. “Will you take it?”

  He offered her the letter, and she whimpered.

  “Will you let me read it to you?”

  Silence.

  “Fine. I’ll read it to you.” He unsealed the envelope and removed the letter. Unfolding the paper, he read:

  “Hello, darling! I imagine you are going through a rough time right about now. You’ve led a charmed life, my sweet, never wa
nting for anything. Even your curse you used to your advantage. Mother and Father sheltered you from life’s harsher realities because of your affliction, and while they weren’t wrong, you grew up not knowing true pain, grief, or anger. Mine will be the first death you experience, but it won’t be the last. Unless you plan to soon join me in this next life, you will need to listen to Alfred. He is a good man, and I’m glad you two found each other. Don’t blame him for my death, because it was my choice.

  “My actions since my husband died have been my choice. I chose to become a spy. I chose to put myself in harm’s way. If events unfold in such a way that I have to go down with my ship to keep you safe, remember it is my choice. You can be angry at me all you like, but don’t push away the people who love you and want to help you.

  “Mourn me if you must, but choose. Choose life and live each day as if it were your last. I know what might happen tonight, but I have no regrets. Make sure, when you are ready to die, you can say the same.”

  Her sister’s parting words swam around in her head, confusing her already troubled mind. Her caution to avoid blaming Alfred rang true. She did blame him, though even in her anger she knew who was at fault.

  Why did she choose death instead of life? How can I remain angry at someone who is dead?

  He crouched in front of her. “I wanted to go back for your sister, I did. She knew how you would be and made me swear I would not return, no matter what. She wanted you to live.”

  The tears trying to escape threatened once again, and she bit her lip, blood trickling into her mouth and down her chin. He took out a handkerchief and wiped it away, taking her hand in his own. “You are entitled to your anger and grief, but please, let me help you. I can’t bear to see you in pain.”

  Her hand trembled, and she debated whether to snatch it back. She didn’t want to die. She didn’t know how she was going to live through the pain, though. Taking the letter from him, she traced her fingers over Beatrice’s signature, and flinched when a wet plop appeared on the page. The floodgate had opened, and she had no way to stop it. She would drown before this storm of sorrow had passed.