by Nicole Byrd
Louisa came and sat in the other chair and waited with commendable patience until Gemma had cleaned most of the food on her plate, then she said, “Now, tell me everything.”
So Gemma told her about Mrs. Craigmore’s flight, which made Louisa gasp, then the discovery of the hidden lists, and the scraps of information it had contained.
“Just fancy!” Louisa said. “A shame it was not more explicit. Why would she hide them, Gemma, when there seems to be so little there?”
“The money may be the key,” Gemma said slowly. “Most of the names had a sum of money after them. I think that is what worried the captain the most.”
“But . . .” Louisa paused. “You don’t think—”
Neither of them could bear to spell out the worst fate that might befall a helpless young girl with no family or friends to look out for her, but dark thoughts had been tormenting Gemma almost since she’d seen the list.
“We shall hope for the best until we know for sure,” Gemma answered, suppressing a shiver. “But I know that Captain Fallon feels even more pressed to find his sister as soon as possible.”
If the girl were still alive, Gemma reflected. To change the direction of her thoughts, she added, “Tell me about Sir Lucas. Was his return to London delayed? I’m sorry you were not able to see him for dinner. You must be missing his company.”
“More so than he seems to be missing mine!” Louisa retorted, more tartly than Gemma had expected. “I hardly seem to know him anymore.”
Keeping her tone soothing, Gemma said, “He is most likely simply caught up in the pleasure of new confidants and a wide variety of amusements. Surely, you do not think his affections toward you have altered?”
Looking down at the edge of her wrapper, Louisa hesitated. She stroked the smooth lace trim absentmindedly. “I’m not sure, Gemma. He seems to show little concern about my happiness, or lack of it. He doesn’t pay heed when I am low in spirits or when I am thrilled. I never finished telling him my wonderful news about Lady Gabriel and the ball, and he didn’t even notice.”
Louisa sounded truly troubled. Gemma felt a pang of sympathy. She put aside her dinner tray and reached out to pat her friend’s shoulder. “He is likely just being somewhat heedless. I don’t have a great deal of experience, but I believe young men sometimes are.”
“But I have an even greater concern,” Louisa added, her voice now very low. “I am afraid my own feelings may have changed.”
“Louisa! Are you in earnest?” Gemma sat up straighter. “But I thought you adored Sir Lucas?”
“So did I—think that I adored him, I mean.” Louisa sighed, still not meeting her friend’s gaze. “Last year, when we had our disagreement and were parted for a time, I missed him enormously. I cried myself to sleep many a night. But now . . . I wonder, Gemma, if what I missed was the certainty of having someone there for me. . . . After my father died, it was a comfort knowing that Lucas would be at my side whenever we went out, and I did not have to worry about feeling alone. Perhaps I was more enamored of being in love than of loving Lucas himself. I mean, we grew up together, just about. I have known him since we were children. And sometimes, indeed, he seems to treat me more like a sister than a sweetheart.”
Gemma started to point out that she had no idea how a brother might behave to his sister, but decided that might sound bitter. And she did not wish to check the flow of confidences. “Really?”
Louisa nodded. “He rarely steals kisses from me anymore.” She blushed a little. “He kissed me on the forehead today, as if I were a child. I just wonder—”
“You cannot marry him if you are not sure!” Gemma asserted. “It’s not as if you will go hungry if you do not wed, Louisa. You are fortunate to have money of your own, thanks to your father’s diligence.”
“Yes, I know I am blessed to have my own income. But as to the marriage—I ended an engagement last year, Gemma. I cannot do it again!”
Gemma stared at her. She had heard nothing of that. Obviously, the usually open Louisa was still sensitive about her actions if she had not shared the tale. And no wonder, Society could be harsh on those who did not honor their betrothal vows. “I’m sure you had a good reason.”
“I did.” Louisa sighed again. “I rushed into a commitment too quickly, partly to assuage my hurt after Lucas broke off our relationship. It was precipitous and unwise. As time passed, I saw that we were not a good match. And the—my former suitor—did not end up brokenhearted. But the fact remains, I cannot jilt another gentleman!”
Feeling real concern, Gemma stared at her friend. “But, Louisa, it’s your whole life we are talking about—”
“I can’t!” the other girl repeated, her expression stubborn. “So I shall just have to hope for the best. Whatever I feel, I will be a loyal and attentive wife. And perhaps I am mistaken about Lucas’s indifference to me. I do pray that I am.”
She wiped her eyes, and with an effort, Gemma held her tongue. No need to point out all the pitfalls that lay ahead if the marriage turned out to be truly loveless. Louisa would have thought of it all without help from anyone else.
Gemma stretched out her hand, and Louisa clasped it. They were both silent. Presently, Louisa relaxed her almost desperate grip and stood.
“I know you are tired. I will leave you to sleep,” she said. She went out and shut the bedroom door behind her.
Gemma sighed as she watched her friend go. As she reached to extinguish the candle by her bed, she wondered if either of them would sleep tonight. She knew her thoughts would be with Captain Fallon, and Louisa had her own worries. Gemma’s mind flashed back to the day they had arrived in London, both of them giddy with optimism and splendid plans.
So far, the city had not served them well. She pulled the covers up to her chin and shut her eyes against the darkness.
Matthew rode most of the day, changing horses when needed, and after stopping several times to ask directions, arrived at the village of Clapgate just before sunset. He found it to be little more than one unpaved street of dwellings and a couple of small shops. A tavern sat in the middle of the buildings. Beyond the huddled double row of structures, the spire of a church reached toward the sky, which was just now streaked with pink and purple as the sun dropped behind the horizon.
He rode up to the tavern and dismounted, feeling the strain in his thighs and back from the hours of hard riding. He was shockingly out of shape, he thought in one corner of his mind, too much leisure time since he had given up his command.
He gave his horse over to the lad who came from behind the building and told him to give the beast extra oats, as it was obvious there would be no horses to hire here.
Matthew had to duck his head to step inside the doorway. The air was redolent with the strong smells of unwashed bodies and traces of smoke from the fire, as well as aromas of food, which made his stomach rumble. For a man who had been long accustomed to the cramped, crowded space belowdecks, it was only a minor annoyance. And the food, at least, smelled savory enough.
He went up to the small counter. “Can you provide dinner and a pint of ale for a hungry traveler? And do you have a room for the night?”
The man behind the rough wood bar nodded. “Right you are, gov’nor. I’ll have you a bowl of the best mutton stew in the shire. And our best room, too.”
“Since it’s your only room, I guess that’s true enough.” A bent elderly lady had entered the room behind Matthew. She cackled at her own wit, adding, “But I’d give a careful look at the sheets, if I was you.”
“Ah, now, Grandma Poole, you will have your little jest,” the landlord said, his tone easy enough even though he threw her a baleful glance. “Best mind your tongue. Your own cottage ain’t seen a good turning out for many a season!”
He handed Matthew a brimming tankard of ale. “Our best home brew,” he told him.
Matthew sipped cautiously. Not bad. He nodded his approval and said to the woman, “Can I buy you a pint of ale, Grandmother?”
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p; She smiled, revealing pink gums almost devoid of teeth. “Aye, thank’ee, sir.”
The landlord brought another tankard and put it down before her. Then he turned, saying, “I’ll just see about that stew,” and disappeared through a back doorway toward the kitchen.
Through blue eyes faded with age and framed by deep wrinkles, the woman regarded him with approval. “You’re a good boy, you are. What’s such a fine gent doing in our little hamlet?”
“I’m looking for someone, and I would wager you know all the inhabitants hereabouts.” Matthew watched as she took a deep drink from her tankard, then she smirked.
“I should say so. Who be you searching for?”
“A young lady who might have come to this village about five or six years ago,” he told her. “She would have been around twelve at the time.” His pulse quickened and he thought he held his breath, waiting for her to respond.
She had pursed her mouth into a small O as she thought about his question. “Don’t remember such a one coming here. The vicar’s niece came for a visit one summer three years past, but she’s not a newcomer, exactly.”
“What does she look like, the vicar’s niece?” Matthew asked, even though it was a faint hope.
“She’s a sturdy girl with narrow eyes, brown locks and broad hips,” the elderly lady told him. “But she’s past two and twenty, even if she does claim to nineteen!”
Aware of his deep disappointment, Matthew exhaled slowly. “No one else?”
She shook her head. “Did your sweetheart run away from you? Silly girl. If I was thirty years younger, I’d make it up to you, dearie.” She gave him a rakish grin, which again revealed pinkish gums and a few blackened teeth.
He managed not to shudder. “You’re too kind. Tell me about the village and those who live here.”
She listed the families, shopkeepers, and farmers, who lived in and around the village, but it all sounded depressingly normal. Matthew could detect no hint of any possible connection with his sister.
“There’s no one by the name of Temming who lives in the area, is there?” he asked when she paused.
She shook her head and refreshed herself with another draw of her ale. “N’er heard of such a family hereabouts.”
“Is there a squire, a gentleman farmer, any bigger houses that I have not seen?” Matthew suggested.
“Just Mr. Nebbleston,” she answered. “And he spends most of his time in London. He’s not much of a farmer and as for a gentleman—” She cackled again, and the landlord, reappearing with a bowl of stew and a loaf of hard brown bread to go with it, threw her a hard look.
“This Mr. Nebbleston, did he have any guests that year? Any young ladies who came to visit?” Matthew persisted. “Does he have a daughter?”
She shook her head. “Naw. Just a son, and the poor lad’s not right. A sore trial he is to his dad. And Nebbleston’s wife is dead, poor lady, these ten years. Not that Nebbleston is lonely, mind you. . . .”
“Leave off the gossip, Grandma,” the landlord told the old woman. “Wouldn’t pay no mind to her,” he added to Matthew.
Matthew wished he had heard something to pay mind to. He dipped a spoon into the stew. If he avoided the large bits of fat, it was palatable. Appetite was the best spice, he had heard. He broke a piece of hard brown bread off the round loaf and soaked it in the stew. Still, compared to the weevily hardtack and salted beef served aboard ship, this wasn’t so bad.
After he finished the simple meal, he drank the last of his ale and handed over several coins to the landlord. After a brief look at the tiny attic bedroom that was to be his, he went back down the narrow stairs and checked on his horse, then walked toward the church, wondering if he could get a glimpse of this Mr. Nebbleston. If Nebbleston were the only man of substance in the area, he might have more news of any newcomers, or even any young girls who might have passed through the village years earlier.
Before the old lady had left to return to her own hearthside, she had explained where the Nebbleston house was located and that the local vicar served two small churches, including the one in Clapgate, but his vicarage was in the next village. Matthew would question him tomorrow, after his horse had had time to rest.
Tonight the moon was half full, and Matthew was able to make his way up the lane to the larger house located a half mile past the church. But when he approached the square stone building, he was disappointed to find the windows dark and to see that the door had had its knocker removed, a sure sign that no one was currently in residence.
Sighing, Matthew retraced his steps. When the moon slipped behind a cloud, he slowed, stumbling a little over uneven clods of dirt. He paused until the clouds moved on and the pale moonlight reappeared, allowing him to again make out the path.
Would he ever find his sister? Had she disappeared into oblivion for all time, never to know that her brother had cared, had striven desperately to locate her and redeem her from whatever plight she might have suffered after their mother’s death?
How had he come to fail her so completely, when all he had wanted was to make his fortune and ensure his family’s well-being? Matthew bit back a groan.
Glancing toward the church, its pallid stones silhouetted against the deeper black of the night, Matthew felt a sudden wave of cold wash through him as he noticed something else.
Pale in the darkness, oblong forms rose up from the straggling grass, tombstones that marked the church’s graveyard. Matthew drew a deep wrenching breath.
In the middle of the older graves, he made out a freshly dug mound, its dirt not yet blended into the surrounding earth.
Was this where his sister had come—to die?
Twelve
Matthew felt his heart beat faster. A low stone wall surrounded the graveyard. He was over it before he even thought and then he stumbled across the uneven ground until he reached the newest mound. Then, just as he made out Mistress on the headstone, the moon slipped once more behind a cloud.
He cursed once, then, aware that this was hardly the place for profanity, swallowed the rest of his oath and ran his fingertips across the stone. Tracing the letters by touch, he made out that the grave held Mistress Prudence Barrymore, age three score and twelve.
By this time, sanity had returned, and he straightened, taking a deep breath. The air was musty with the scent of decaying leaves, and an owl hooted in a tree behind him.
He was going mad with guilt, Matthew thought. Why had the grave sent such a chill through him? People died every day; he could not picture his sister in every grave site. He had to stop rushing about and think logically. The village had been a dead-end, that was all. He would return to London in the morning and decide what to do next.
There had to be more that he could do than stumble about in the darkness!
When he reached the tavern, he warmed his cold hands before the smoky fire in the taproom, then lit a candle and made his way up to the tiny bedroom.
He inspected the sheets, and even by the light of his solitary candle, the dirty linen made him shake his head. Deciding against sharing a bed already so well occupied, he wrapped himself in his greatcoat and settled himself on the large oaken settee placed next to the tiny fireplace. It made a hard couch, but he had known worse.
He slept in fits and starts, and by the first light, was on his way back to London. He paused his journey only to interrupt the local vicar at his breakfast, question him briefly, and then set out again, arriving in the middle of the afternoon. He was weary, sore, and more than ready for a decent meal. So when he returned to his rooms at the hotel, he ordered bathwater to be sent up and dinner to follow.
“Pushing yourself too hard, Cap’n,” his man muttered, shaking his head at the sight of his employer. “As you always did.”
“Just see to the bathwater and a meal, please, Pattock,” Matthew told his valet, having no energy left to argue.
After helping him out of his dusty greatcoat, the valet nodded. With the coat over one arm, he disappeared
down the hallway to pass on the orders to hotel staff and then brush the coat into respectability.
“Back from Hertfordshire, eh. No luck?” McGregor asked, coming out of the bedroom.
Matthew turned to look at his guest. The lieutenant was back on his feet. A sling held up his left arm, but his color was better, and his voice sounded normal again.
“Is it so obvious?”
“I have seen more cheerful men come off a two-day battlefield,” the other man answered. “Here, take a chair. I can pour wine with one hand—I think you need a glass.”
Sighing, Matthew accepted the drink and sat down.
McGregor took the other chair. “I’m giving you your bed back tonight, as well.”
“What about you?”
“Oh, I’ll take the cot, as long as you are still minded to be generous. I’m locked out of my rooms until I can pay my back rent.” The lieutenant shrugged as if this were a normal turn of events. “And I’ve helped myself to one of your clean shirts, by the by. Your man regards me with veiled disapproval. But tell me, what will you do now?”
Matthew frowned into his wine glass. “I have a Runner on his way to Cornwall, but that may lead to nothing, as well. I wish I knew what that damned woman’s list really meant!”
“And the solicitor you were seeking? Any word of him?”
Matthew shook his head. “I have a Runner watching the tavern in Whitechapel that our would-be assassin mentioned.”
McGregor snorted. “If he’s as subtle as the muscle-bound ex-trooper you sent into the West Country, he will only scare off your prey. Let me take a turn at it.”
Raising his brows, Matthew looked across at the other man. “You?”
“I have a debt to settle with this fellow, too.” The lieutenant glanced down at his wounded arm. “And I would wager I can blend into the background more effectively than your Runner.”