“As you are aware, Admiral, we left the ball around midnight. I arrived home twenty minutes after that.”
“Did Mr. Atherton walk you to the door?” Kiss you? Take liberties he should not have? He knew the overdressed fop had probably tried.
Miss Dawson shifted her stance and played with a tiny ringlet that had slipped from her bun. “Yes, he walked me to the door. But he behaved the complete gentleman, if that is what you wish to know.”
“Why should I wish to know that?” He huffed with a shrug of his shoulders. “Since you were so late to your bed, Miss Dawson, I’m wondering if I might ask you a question.”
She nodded, casting a glance at the door as if she wished to flee.
“Did you hear or see anyone roaming about the house at that late an hour?”
Her eyes widened then lowered. Was that a shudder that ran through her? “No. Why do you ask?”
“Something was stolen from my study.”
“Stolen?” Miss Dawson spun around and skittered to the fireplace. “How could that be?” She held her hands out to lifeless coals then quickly snatched them back. “Don’t you keep your study locked?”
Chase regarded her skeptically, wondering how she was privy to that information. “Yes, that is what makes it all the more puzzling.” He approached her. “And I carry the key on me at all times.”
“Indeed?” Miss Dawson wrung her hands together, still staring into the cold fireplace.
“In fact, I had it with me last night.” He closed the gap between them, careful not to make a sound. He wanted to see the truth in her eyes when she faced him.
She turned around and flinched. “Perhaps you were mistaken and left it in the house.” She shifted her gaze over the floor by their shoes as if searching for something. A gurgling sound rose from her stomach.
Guilt poured from her every movement. Chase had seen it dozens of times before when he had questioned disobedient crewmen. “You seem quite agitated, Miss Dawson. If I were a gambling man, I would wager you to be the thief.”
She flung a hand to her breast. “Me?” Her chest heaved. “Forgive me, Admiral. I am simply terrified.” Finally, she lifted her gaze to his, her lips quivering. “The thought of a thief rummaging through this house at night, why, it frightens me so.”
Of course. Chase chided himself. How could he have suspected this timid sparrow of such a crime? He longed to take her trembling hands in his, longed to assure her of his protection. Instead, he clasped his own behind his back. “It is I who must beg your forgiveness, Miss Dawson. I should not have mentioned it.”
She nodded and looked away.
“Rest assured you are quite safe within these walls.”
Thanking the altar boy, Dominique slid her hand over the cold banister and inched down the stairs leading from the right of the sanctuary to the church offices below. The service at St. Mary Woolnoth had encouraged her. Hearing the Word of God read aloud reminded her that she needed to spend time reading the Bible on her own. Each powerful word had stormed through her, charging her with supernatural strength—a strength she very much needed.
Guilt pressed upon her like a heavy burden. She had lied to the admiral. Right to his face. What kind of person did that make her? But what choice had he given her? If she had told him the truth, he would have arrested her. As it was, she had just one day left before she turned over the documents to the Frenchman—before she could save Marcel.
The sermon had not been given by John Newton, the current rector of the church, and as soon as the service had concluded, Dominique inquired as to his whereabouts. Much to her solace, she discovered that although he was not feeling well, he was willing to see her. She must speak to him. She must discover if God found favor with her present course or whether she was out of His will and doomed to failure. More than anything, she needed comfort from someone who cared.
After sending William and Mrs. Hensworth home, she asked the footman to wait outside while she headed downstairs.
Now as she emerged into a huge dark hall lit only by candlelight flickering from an open door at the end, she wondered at her sudden nervousness. Perhaps it was due to her not having seen Mr. Newton in years. How could she know whether he could be trusted? How much should she tell him?
The musty smell of aged wood, mold, and incense emanated from the nearly one-hundred-year-old church walls, enhancing the feeling that she walked toward her own inquisition. Resisting the urge to turn around and dash from the church, she made her way forward, remembering her father’s words. “John Newton is a dear friend who will never turn you away.” Dominique needed a friend, a friend who could offer her godly advice—especially after the admiral had accused her of stealing documents from his study. He seemed to believe her tale of fabricated fear, but how long could she keep her secret from such a cunning officer?
Stepping into the light of the doorway, she paused. A frail man sat hunched over a tiny desk in the corner, scribbling on paper. A candle, half melted in its brass holder, sat beside his fast-moving hand. Other than the desk and chair, the humble room contained another chair, a bookcase against the far wall, and a small coal stove. A brass-hilted cane was propped against the wall next to the reverend as if it held up the structure. No paintings or ornamental carvings decorated the plain white walls save for a large wooden cross, which hung over the desk where he sat. He dipped his pen in a bottle of ink and continued his work.
Dominique cleared her throat.
He glanced over his shoulder and squinted. “Ah, my dear.” Setting down his pen, he rose and adjusted his black rector’s robe before scuffling toward her. Gray hair, neatly combed but thinning, hung to his shoulders, and although his face was etched with too many rivulets of time to count, he beamed at her with the enthusiasm of youth. His back bowed slightly forward as he stood before her, and Dominique found herself wishing she could reach out and straighten him, if only to make him more comfortable.
Brown eyes beneath hooded lids scanned her with naught but joy radiating from them. “I can’t see very well anymore, I’m afraid, but I can tell you’ve grown into a lovely young woman.” He chuckled and gave her one of the most genuine smiles she’d ever seen, then boldly took her hands in his gnarled ones. She sighed as tension seemed to flow out of her.
“Why, last time I saw you—when was that? Ten years ago?—you barely reached my chest.”
“Yes, Mr. Newton, I am three and twenty now.”
“My word, how time flies. Come, come.” He pulled her inside. “Have a seat. Pray tell, what have you been up to all these years? Surely you must be married now and have little ones of your own.”
Dominique slid into a chair as sorrow squeezed her heart. “Nay, I’m afraid not.” The hope of marriage and children no longer shone brightly in her future.
“Waiting for someone worthy of you, no doubt?” Mr. Newton clutched his chair by the desk and dragged it over to hers. He sat with a moan and gazed at her, concern crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I never heard from you and your mother after your father was killed.” He said the word so brashly, with such finality, that it startled Dominique—not that she hadn’t accepted her father’s brutal death at sea long ago.
“We moved to France.”
“Ah, and how does your lovely mother fare?”
“She died last year, Reverend.” Dominique returned the favor of honest communication. “From a horrid fever.” She swallowed a lump of pain as the sound of her mother’s agonizing screams rang through her memory.
“Oh, my poor dear. My poor dear.” He took her hand in his and rubbed her skin with his bony fingers. “What of your brother? Who takes care of you?”
“I do.” Dominique squared her shoulders. “I am employed as a governess in the Randal home.” Instantly her shoulders sank. What was she so proud of? She was nothing but a spy—and a liar.
“Indeed? Admiral Chase Randal?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“By reputation only. I’ve spoken with s
ailors who’ve served under his command.” He nodded and placed her hand onto her lap. “A harsh but fair man, I’m told. Lost his wife a few years ago. What a shame.”
“Yes. He seems quite bitter about it. I believe he has rejected God because of the tragedy.”
“Then that is a real shame, indeed. But perhaps having a godly woman as yourself in his home will help him receive the love and comfort of God.”
Dominique shook her head as guilt washed over her. “As much as I would wish it, Reverend, I fear my presence does no one in the home any good. They are a worldly group, and as many times as I try to forgive, to turn the other cheek,”—she thought of the slander and abuse of Mrs. Barton and Lady Irene—“as many times as I expound on the Lord’s mercy and goodness,”—she thought of Mr. Atherton—“they pay me no mind, even so much as laugh at me. I am far too weak and intimidated to be a good witness.” And too much of a liar.
“I doubt that, child,” Rev. Newton said. “You are most likely doing far more good than you realize. God has placed you there for a reason.”
Dominique offered him a grateful smile, but she doubted the Almighty’s reason was her strong witness. And she doubted it was to spy for France, either.
“So you are all alone, miss?” The reverend’s eyes misted, and Dominique got the impression he could feel her pain from where he sat. “Where is your brother?”
“That is why I have come.” Dominique raised a hand to her nose, trying to stifle the burning in her throat and eyes. “I am in trouble.”
“What trouble, child?” Mr. Newton took her hand again and looked at her with the genuine concern of a father.
No adult since her mother had died had expressed such heartfelt regard for her welfare. Overcome, Dominique released the tears that had filled her eyes, and one by one they streamed trails of fear and sorrow down her cheeks.
“Can I trust you, Reverend?”
“Of course.”
“What I mean to say is … is … can I trust you? Can I trust you if I tell you something that may go against your good conscience?”
Rev. Newton took her other hand and held them both together in a warm caress. “Whatever you disclose to me stays between me and God, I assure you of that.” He smiled. “Now what has you so vexed, my dear?”
“They have M–Marcel.” She muttered her brother’s name through sobs.
“Who does?”
“The French.”
Releasing her hands, Rev. Newton reached inside his black robe. He pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to Dominique.
She dabbed at her face. “They will kill him if I don’t give them what they want.”
The lines on the reverend’s face tightened, and he shook his head, the loose skin on his jaw quivering. “How can this be? What could they possibly want from you?”
“I cannot tell you.” Dominique desperately wanted to, if only to relieve herself of the burden she carried all alone. But how could she admit to treason? It would not be fair to share the weight of guilt with such an innocent man.
His scraggly brows rose.
“I do not know if God is with me. I don’t know why He’s put me in this situation.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Who am I to be called to such a task?”
“You are a precious child of God.” Mr. Newton squeezed her hand in his, and despite the bony, rough feel of his skin, an unusual warmth flowed from the touch of one so old.
“I don’t believe so.” She gazed at the blurred figure through her tears.
“But God does, my dear. If He has chosen you for a task, whatever that task may be, He knows exactly what He is doing.”
Dominique sniffed and dabbed her nose, then released a sigh, trying to settle her breathing. “Please tell me what God wants me to do. I don’t have much time left. If I do what they ask, I betray … all who are dear to me. If I do not, I have as good as murdered my brother.”
The reverend leaned back in his chair. No shock or indignation burned in his eyes from her mention of betrayal. Instead, he seemed to have gone to a different place, a peaceful place that flooded his eyes with a deep, inexhaustible love. She longed to join him there and never return.
He labored to rise, plodded the few steps to his desk, and grabbed a black book before returning to his chair. “I cannot give you the answers you seek. But I can point you to Someone who can.” He set the book gently in his lap and gave her a knowing grin.
“I have prayed to God, Reverend.” Dominique shook her head. “I hear nothing. No peace comes upon me. No answers, and still I am frightened.”
“Do you think the mighty men of old were not frightened?” Mr. Newton opened the holy book. “Do you remember Joshua? He was called to the task of leading all of Israel into the Promised Land. He had seen miracle after miracle in his lifetime, yet still God had to tell him three times….” He glanced down, flipping through the pages, then lifted the book to within an inch of his eyes. “In Joshua 1, verse 6, God tells Joshua, ‘Be strong and of a good courage,’ then in verse 7, ‘Be thou strong and very courageous,’ and then in verse 9, ‘Have not I commanded thee? Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.’ “He placed the book back on his lap.
Dominique swiped at a wayward tear as despondency pressed upon her heart. She’d heard these stories before—wonderful, miraculous stories—but they applied to other people, more powerful people than she. “Joshua was a strong warrior. Who am I compared to him?”
“You have missed the point, my child. He was no different than you or I. Just a man with human weaknesses.” Rev. Newton coughed to the side then leaned toward her, his eyes aglitter. “The Holy Scripture is filled with examples of men and women who possessed no special qualities on their own. Moses stuttered, Abraham lied about his wife, Jacob was a swindler, Paul murdered Christians, Peter denied Christ. And what of Gideon? God called him to save the Israelites from the hands of the Midianites. He replied to God that he couldn’t perform such a task, for he was the least in his family and from the weakest clan.”
“I know just how he feels.” Dominique sniffed and forced down a cynical chuckle.
“Yet God used him and an army of only three hundred to crush thousands of Midianites.” The reverend slapped his palms together as if to demonstrate the rapid deliverance of God then raised one hand to the sky. “Glory to His name.”
His exuberance, however, did nothing to break through her shield of fear. That was all well and good for people following God’s direction, but where did it leave Dominique? “But what if the task I must do is wrong, Reverend? What if it goes against God’s will? Surely He will not help me then.”
Rev. Newton scratched his jaw. “If you feel you have no choice other than to do this deed, then you must ask Him what to do and then believe He will show you. You must believe, child.” He smiled. “Trust Him, no matter what you see happening around you.”
Dominique nodded. She had asked for direction many times before, but no answer ever came. Did she truly believe God would guide her? Maybe her lack of faith had been the problem all along.
Rev. Newton patted her hand. “Jesus is your strength. Once you realize that, you will not seek it within yourself.”
“Thank you, Reverend.” Dominique forced a smile, enjoying her time with someone who truly seemed to care. And although fear still gripped her heart, she now had a plan. She would go home and spend the night in prayer—and then believe God would guide her. He must give her a clear answer by tomorrow night. For if He didn’t, she would have to make the most daunting decision of her life: betray her country or see her only brother die.
CHAPTER 13
Darkness overtook Chase, finally capturing his thoughts and locking them in the hold of his mind, giving him a brief repose from their tormenting afflictions. But it didn’t last long. He tossed his sweat-slick body over the down coverlet and moaned. A trickle slid down his neck onto the pillow. Light formed in the dark
ness. Melody appeared beside him on the bed—their bed—her sweet face aglow like an angel’s, her hair shimmering in a waterfall of gold around her. She smiled and gave him that look, that look that is such a rarity even betwixt married couples, that look of love, of knowing, and of complete acceptance.
“I miss you,” Chase said in his dream, longing to reach up and touch her, but afraid she would disappear if he did.
“Love our son, Chase.”
“I am trying, dear.” He sighed.
She slid her fingers through his hair as she always used to, and although he couldn’t feel her touch, the effect of it enfolded him like a warm blanket. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, she was gone, and ebony darkness slapped him in the face. He bolted up in bed. Panting, he mopped the sweat from his brow and neck with the sheet and jumped to the floor.
Another dream. Always the same. Always a taunting memory of the love he would never have again.
Plodding to the fireplace, he lit a candle from the coals and made his way to his desk. Perhaps another glass of brandy would soothe his thoughts enough to sink them into the depths of sleep—well below the dreams storming upon the surface.
After downing the biting liquor and finding no comfort in it, he eased into his breeches and stepped out into the hall. Wandering through the shadows of the sleeping house was the only thing that seemed to becalm him at night. He lumbered down the dark passage, his mind still tormented with the dream, and struck his toe on the hard leg of a pedestal table. Pain shot up his foot, and he cursed under his breath as the vase teetered on the tabletop. Thankfully it didn’t fall. He would have that blasted table removed first thing in the morning, for it wasn’t the first time he’d slammed into it during his nightly excursions.
Floorboards creaked as he made his way to the stairwell. Leaning on the railing, he gazed past the first floor, down to the entrance hall below. Muted light from street lanterns spilled in from the windows, sending shadowy monsters crouching to the corners. His nightly friends. Kindred spirits, if you would. For wasn’t he just like them? A monster, a restless shadow roaming the empty house searching for … What was he searching for? He gripped the wood railing, fingering the intricately carved grooves, and shook his head. He didn’t know.
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