by Nicole Byrd
He pulled his horse up, and the tired beast tossed its head and snorted. “Do you know this road?” Matthew called to the groom.
“No, sir,” the man answered. “I’m London bred, sir. And I do think my ’orse is going lame, sir. May have thrown a shoe.”
Matthew swore softly beneath his breath, and Gemma pretended not to hear.
The captain said, “I heard water gurgling. By the sound of it, there is a rill just beyond the road. We will water the horses and rest for a few hours till dawn.”
He dismounted—Gemma could hear his feet hit the hard-packed dirt—and came to help her down. A good thing, or she would have fallen. When he lifted her off the saddle, she found her legs numb, and they did not seem to want to bear her weight.
He supported her while Gemma trembled inside his arms. Her legs felt as rubbery as overcooked rhubarb, and her feet prickled with returning sensation. He steered her to a stout oak beside the edge of the road, with a low limb upon which she could lean.
“I’m all right,” Gemma lied.
She could not make out his face, but his tone sounded skeptical. “Rest here. I will take the horses down to the water.”
She heard the horses pass by her, the rustling of grass and bushes until they reached the stream, then there was splashing as the horses drank.
Her own mouth was dry as dust. When some of the sensation had returned to her feet and legs, she was able to stand and follow the sounds, stumbling a little over the sloping ground.
“Stay upstream of the horses so that the water is cleaner,” Matthew told her. She obeyed, kneeling to splash her dusty face with the cool water and then lift it in her cupped palms to drink. It felt good against her parched throat, and she swallowed as much as she could.
The captain had taken the horses away and tied them to trees beside the road. She tried to stand and almost fell; her legs were still weak. Glad that no one could see her frailty, she straightened and made her way back up the sloping ground.
Matthew was waiting. He held out his hand—she could barely make out his form, but she felt his fingers catch her arm.
“Here,” he said. He wrapped his coat around her and led her to a sheltered area where the ground was flat. “Lie down and try to sleep. I will be only a few feet away if you need me.”
She let him help her down, and, with the coat beneath her, she lay back against the hard-packed dirt. She listened to slight rustling noises as Matthew arranged himself in the grass. A little farther away, she could hear whistling sounds from the groom, who was already snoring.
Grass cushioned her a little, but the ground was firm, and despite her weariness Gemma felt sure that she could not sleep. So she closed her eyes, resigned to waiting out the few hours until daylight returned. A frog peeped somewhere nearby, and there was the flutter of wings as an unseen owl, disturbed by their presence, winged its way through the blackness. Some kind of insect hummed, and she hoped dimly that nothing came out of the grass and walked across her, when she could not see. . . .
So she was surprised to open her eyes and detect the first flush of light rimming the horizon. The blackness had turned to gray, she could hear faint noises as the horses munched on grass, and a bird chirped.
Matthew was up, frowning at the sky. Of course—Clarissa, the ship leaving Dover. They had to go on.
She sat up and tried to get to her feet, but protesting muscles made her gasp. Her body, unaccustomed to hours of riding, had stiffened, and her legs and back felt knotted with soreness.
Matthew came over and gave her a hand up. Trying not to moan, Gemma made it to her feet.
“Are you stiff?” the captain asked, his tone sympathetic.
“A bit, yes,” she told him, trying to disguise her pain.
He went to wake the groom. Gemma hobbled away to find a private spot among the trees to empty her bladder, and then went down to the water to rinse her face and hands and to drink. She pushed her hair back into place and returned to retrieve her hat and tie the ribbons beneath her chin. By now the birds sang a riotous chorus.
The men were inspecting the horses. Matthew looked up at her and shook his head. “The third horse is lame. The groom will have to lead it to the next village and wait there. You are not used to this kind of hard travel, Lady Gemma. It would be best if you remained with him.”
Gemma lifted her chin. “I have come this far. A little soreness will not stop me now. I still believe you may need me before this journey is done.”
She saw a reluctant respect in his eyes. “As you will.”
This time, he helped her into the saddle, and she bit her lip not to gasp at the pain in her legs and bottom as she arranged herself and picked up the reins.
After the captain gave the groom money and more instructions, they left him on foot to lead the lame horse. As light flushed the sky and birds sang in increasingly agitated chorus, they took once more to the road.
In the better light, the captain was determined to make good time. Gemma blinked away tears of pain, but she would not admit to her weakness. She clung to the reins and concentrated on staying in the saddle, urging her mount to keep up with the pace he set.
They passed through several villages before they finally saw the coast ahead of them, and at last the streets of Dover came into view.
This time, Matthew remembered his way and led them straight to the port itself, the wharves busy as ships and boats of all sizes completed last-minute chores and made ready to catch the tide.
He knew the name of the ship he sought, and they rode up to the edge of the piers before dismounting.
“This is it, the Merry Partridge,” he said, nodding to the small ship that swayed on the shifting waters. “Wait here while I locate the captain and find out if Mr. Nebbleston has gone on board.”
She nodded. Her horse tossed its head, looking as tired as she felt. Gemma used her vantage point from her mount to look about the dock. Men rolled barrels and toted large boxes. Hot pie vendors called their wares, and young boys ran hither and yon on unknown and important errands. A family group approached the gangplank, and Gemma’s gaze sharpened. But the only female was a motherly figure who shepherded several lads before her. No one the right age to be Matthew’s sister could be detected.
Sighing, Gemma continued to watch.
Presently, Matthew returned. “Nebbleston has not yet presented himself, and the boat will sail within the half hour. I will check with the harbor master.” His tone was harried, and he seemed unable to be still.
He had to be searching, trying, Gemma thought with a pang of sympathy. She watched as he strode away, and then she returned to her survey of the dock.
A young woman appeared with a man in brown, and Gemma stared hard, wondering if Matthew’s sister could be that plump. But then the woman turned, and Gemma saw that she was much older than Clarissa would be.
Would their frantic ride be for nothing?
Then a carriage pulled up, and a tall scrawny gentleman got out and called for assistance. “Make haste. I must make the ship before it weighs anchor,” he called to some sailors nearby, tossing them coins.
The men hurried to untie his luggage and take the trunks aboard. “Matthew, where are you?” Gemma murmured. She watched as, aided by the groom, a boy climbed awkwardly out of the carriage. Was there a young lady with them?
No, only a maidservant, her arms full of parcels, who seemed hardly older than the boy. Her heart in her throat, Gemma waited, but no one else appeared from the inside of the carriage.
Perhaps this was not the right person.
But just then one of the sailors asked, “Who should I tell the captain is going aboard, sir?”
And the man snapped, “Nebbleston, and make haste. Harold, hurry up, boy, the ship is about to depart.”
Oh, it was him! She had to let Matthew know. Gemma unhooked her leg and slid awkwardly down from the horse. Her abused muscles throbbed, and her legs again felt rubbery and uncertain. She had to lean against her mount, who
seemed too tired to mind, until she could be sure that her limbs would support her weight.
Nebbleston had strode up the gangplank, and the boy shuffled along behind him. A sailor and the little maid followed. The girl was dressed in drab clothes, and her dress was ill-fitting. As Gemma watched, she noted the silhouette as the servant half-turned for a moment to grab at one of the bundles that slipped out of her hands. As she bent to retrieve it, Gemma observed the girl’s shape, and the slight curve of breasts beneath the enshrouding gown. Despite her short stature, the girl was older than she first appeared.
“Matthew!” Gemma called. She saw him now, coming out of one of the port offices, but he was too far away. She waved frantically to him, and he broke into a run. The Nebbleston party had reached the deck of the small vessel, and sailors were moving to take away the gangplank.
Releasing her horse, Gemma took unsteady steps, running, hobbling, and hurried up before it could be removed.
“Wait!” she told the nearest seaman.
“We got to release the ropes, miss,” the man said. “The tide is turning.”
Shaking her head, Gemma stepped onto the plank. He could not move it without dislodging her and throwing her into the dirty harbor water below. She lifted her head to look up at the ship—Nebbleston was out of sight, and the rest of the party were also heading inside. With some glimmer of desperate instinct, she shouted, “Clarissa!”
And the little maid turned her head.
Nineteen
Gemma stood stubbornly on the gangplank until Matthew reached her, took her hand, and pulled her up with him the rest of the way onto the ship. He called to the port official who had followed him more slowly and now gaped up at them both from the dock, “Take care of my horses! I will see you are rewarded when I return.”
Then the grumbling seamen pulled the boards away, and other sailors unloosed the ropes that had secured the ship to the dock. Almost at once, the deck shifted beneath them, and the small vessel was moving out to sea. No mere personal crisis would keep it from sailing with the tide.
Gemma didn’t care. She stared at the young woman in the shabby outfit, who stared back at them in bewilderment.
“What’s your name?” she asked, her own voice breathless with anxiety.
The girl bit her lip. “They call me Mary,” she muttered.
Matthew bent his tall frame to see her face more clearly. “But what was your name, once?” he asked, his tone very gentle.
The girl hesitated. She had hazel eyes, and her hair, what Gemma could see of it beneath the cap, was as fair as Matthew’s, but with glints of reddish-gold. Her face was oval and lacked his firm jaw, but the deep forehead was the same.
Was this his sister? Did Matthew recognize her?
He looked very pale. “What was your name?” he repeated. “Before they took you away from the foundling home? Or even before the home itself?”
“How’d you know about that?” the girl demanded, frowning. “Did Matron send you to bring me back? ’Cause I ain’t going. This ain’t the best master to work for, but it beats the home, any day.”
Gemma swallowed against the lump in her throat. “The matron has left the home,” she told the girl. “And no one will be unkind to you again. But what is your name?”
Her expression wary, the girl hesitated, glancing from Gemma to Matthew. “My mother called me Clarissa. But she died long ago, and I had no place to go.”
Gemma glanced at Matthew, but he seemed to have lost his tongue—his face was as white as the sails flapping above them in the breeze.
“Did you have a brother, perhaps?” Gemma prompted, keeping her voice gentle. The girl looked as skittish as a hare startled by the distant baying of hounds, ready to flee at any increased suspicion of danger.
“I had, once, but he went to sea. He died, Matron said,” the girl replied, gulping. “She gave me a black armband to wear.”
Matthew shuddered. “I am not dead, Clarissa. They lied to you and to me. I did not know you had been sent to the foundling home. It is a long story, but I have been searching for you for months. Do you not know me?”
She stared up at him. Her skin was naturally fair, although her face could use a good washing, and there was a yellowish bruise on her chin. “Matthew? Is it you? You’re not a ghost?”
He reached and took the bundles out of her arms, dropping them on the deck. Then he could close her fingers inside his, holding her hand as if he never wished to let it go. “It is me, whole and returned to you. And thank God, I have found you at last.”
She hesitated, still, then drew a deep tremulous breath and threw herself into his arms. Tears flowed down her face, although she made no noise of weeping.
Matthew held her, tilting his face to kiss the top of her head. Gemma blinked away tears of sympathy.
“Mary, come along. Harold needs you,” a new voice interjected. “Why are you dawdling, girl? Do you need another cuff?”
Clarissa trembled, wiping her wet cheeks and looking ready to obey, but Matthew held her within one arm.
“If you have laid hands on my sister, you will regret it,” Matthew shot back, his expression savage.
“What’s this?” Nebbleston demanded. “Unhand my servant. What does she have to do with you? You have no cause, sir, to interfere with my business.”
“This lady is my sister and a gentlewoman by birth. I am anxious to hear how you came to claim her as a maidservant?”
His expression faltering, the man stared at them. “It’s not true. She’s making up lies again.”
“Really? Did she make claims before, assertions that you ignored, perhaps?” Matthew’s voice hardened, and his eyes glinted like burnished steel.
Hesitating, Nebbleston swallowed visibly, his adam’s apple bobbing in his long scrawny neck. “I—that is, I don’t—”
“How did she come to be in your employ?” Gemma put in.
“I paid—I got her from a foundling home. The matron was seeking positions for her orphans. I did the girl a kindness!”
“You bought her, you mean, like an indentured servant, from someone who would not ask questions. I shall have more words with you about this matter and your role in it later, sir,” Matthew vowed.
Nebbleston winced. “But my son wants his tea! He has a clubfoot—the boy needs cosseting! I promised his mother—”
“You will have to take care of your son yourself,” Matthew told him. “My sister will stay with me. The boy is no longer her concern.”
Her expression amazed, Clarissa gazed from one to the other.
Nebbleston drew himself up. “I was good to the girl. She should be thankful to have had an honest job!”
“Not bloody likely!” Clarissa muttered, turning a defiant face up to her former employer.
Matthew ignored his sister’s bad language and kept one arm around her in support as Nebbleston stamped back inside the cabin. Gemma bit back a giggle. Clarissa might need some lessons in deportment before she remembered how to behave like a lady. But at least her spirit did not seem to have been broken.
The deck shifted as the ship rolled with a wave. Gemma looked back at shore. The port was rapidly falling behind them. They were aboard for the voyage, now, without any chance of turning back. She glanced at Matthew, who seemed to be thinking much the same.
“I will see about obtaining cabins for us,” he told them. “I hope this wretched boat is not full; it’s hardly bigger than a fishing dory. Clarissa, stay with Lady Gemma. She will look out for you until I return.”
The girl seemed reluctant to let go of her brother, but in a moment, she relinquished her grip.
Gemma reached to take her hand. “You are safe, now, I promise.”
“You won’t disappear again?” Clarissa asked, looking from Gemma to Matthew.
His expression twisted. “On my sacred oath,” he told her.
So Clarissa did not object when he headed inside, but she clung hard to Gemma’s hand. They stood side by side and watched the
seagulls hover above the deck, filling the air with their raucous calls. “Have you been to sea before?” Gemma asked the younger girl.
Clarissa shook her head. “Mr. Nebbleston said we had to go to France. He’s found a cheap cottage there. I think he’s running from his debtors and needs to hide out for a time. He’s a terrible gambler, his valet tol’ me, before the man walked out for lack of pay.”
Gemma remembered the solicitor’s warning and repressed a shiver. They had almost been too late.
“I didn’t want to go,” Clarissa added. “I thought maybe I would drown like my brother did. I used to have nightmares about him, watching him sink into a black sea, and not even a gravestone left to remember him. Except he’s not dead, after all. I feel like mayhap I’m dreaming, and when I wake, someone will be yelling for his breakfast, or for fires to be laid and slop jars emptied.”
Gemma tightened her grip on the girl’s shoulders. “I understand,” she said. “But it will seem real to you, presently. Your brother has resigned his commission, and he will not leave you again.”
Clarissa gazed out at the shifting waves and the sunlight, which glinted on the whitecaps of the heaving channel waters. “I ’ope not. You sure this bloody ship won’t sink?”
Gemma sighed. It would take time, she thought, for Clarissa’s change in circumstance to seem real to her, for her sense of security to return—and for her vocabulary to improve! “I promise, it will not sink. When we reach Calais, we will wait for the ship to ready itself for the return voyage, and for the next tide, and then we will bring you back to England.”
The girl nodded.
When Matthew returned, he looked grimly satisfied. “As I feared, the ship’s cabins were all taken.”
“Oh dear,” Gemma said. “Do we get to sit on the deck for the rest of the day? How many hours does it take to get to France?”
He shook his head. “Not to worry. I have paid a merchant handsomely to give up his berth to us so you two will be more comfortable. I will be fine in the main cabin. And I have taken two cabins for the return voyage.”