by Jo Goodman
She nodded, blinking back tears. “Farewell, Rhys. God bless you.”
“And you, Miss Rose.” But he spoke to Polly’s retreating back as she hurried up the walk to her home.
Kenna was sleeping by the time Rhys stopped the coach on the wharf. Thanking heaven for this favor, he lifted her from the carriage and carried her up the gangplank of the Carasea. He spoke to the man on watch before he took Kenna to his cabin.
He had no trouble finding the bed in the dark but he bumped into a few things when he went searching for a lantern. After a few tries he was able to light it and then placed it back in its secured holder on the massive oak desk. Looking around him, he wondered if Kenna would appreciate the luxury of her accommodations. His father often likened himself to a thrifty New Englander, but he traveled with every comfort available to him.
The bed was of three-quarter width, its mattress stuffed thick with goosedown. The trunk secured to the floor at its foot was filled with heavy blankets and other fresh linens. In one corner of the cabin there was a small Franklin stove for warmth on the cold ocean crossing and Rhys counted twenty individual panes of leaded glass that made up the large bowed window at the cabin’s stern end. At least Kenna could see where she had been if she did not want to see where she was going. Crossing the length of the window at its base was a bench padded in red velvet with drawers built below it for storage.
The large cabin had its own dining table that could seat six with ease, two shelves anchored to the wall that held a selection of books limited to shipping, sermons, and science, and an oak wardrobe which was filled with Rhys’s and Kenna’s clothes. A full-length mirror was attached to one side of it and there was a commode with a basin built into its counter and a cupboard beneath it which held a chamber pot. Most of the hardwood floor had been covered with an expensive Oriental carpet and the incidental fixtures such as the lantern holder, knobs, and handles were polished brass. Rhys thought if he sold the contents of this room he might well be able to put Canning Shipping back on its feet.
Kenna continued to sleep deeply while Rhys changed her clothes and dressed her in one of the more modest nightgowns he had purchased for her. It proved something of a struggle to manage the change without her help, but he knew if she had been awake it would have been nothing less than a battle. When he was certain she was as comfortable and warm as he could make her, he left the cabin and locked the door behind him.
The watch had not changed. “My wife is sleeping in our cabin this evening. I trust she will not be disturbed in any way while I see to what remains of our belongings at the townhouse.”
“I’ll make certain the others know, Mr. Canning,” the man replied. “No one will wake her.” He hesitated. “Speakin’ for myself, sir, it was a terrible thing about your father and Mr. Richard. Good men, both of ’em. Please accept my sympathies.”
“Thank you.” Rhys struggled not to show his unease with the sailor’s condolences. During the funeral he had had to come to terms with the fact that the man who was lauded, respected, and eulogized, was a stranger to him. Only Nick had suspected how uncomfortable it had been for him to hear tributes from the other diplomats to his father’s genius and to accept sympathy for his passing. Roland Canning had never really been alive to Rhys. “It’s kind of you to say so.” Before the sailor could speak again Rhys slipped away into the foggy London night.
Rhys did not sleep at all. He finished writing the glowing characters for his staff who would all be seeking new employment and signed papers that would permit his solicitors to sell the townhouse. He attached a codicil forbidding the sale until every one of his employees had found a position equal to or better than what they had with him. He left a large payment to be distributed to the staff after he was gone and another envelope filled with markers he had accepted from his fellow gamblers which was to go to Polly. She could choose to collect on them if she wanted.
Just before daybreak Powell came to his study and saved him from nodding off and literally missing the boat.
“Thank you, Powell,” he said, accepting the steaming cup of tea that was set in front of him. “Have you reconsidered coming with me?”
“I can’t, sir. There’s much to do here.”
Rhys had known the answer. It was really too much to expect Powell to join him. The man’s services were going to be needed while Napoleon was contemplating the regaining of an empire. Rhys regretted he was going to have no part in it. Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, or perhaps it was that Powell knew him so well, for his friend spoke up.
“You did more than your share, sir, uncovering the plot to free the little corporal. It was a bloody shame those blokes in the Foreign Office discussed it to death before acting on your information.”
“They are not given to hasty action.”
“Well, they’ve got their hands full now.”
“They do indeed.” He sipped his tea, looking at Powell over the rim of his cup. “Do you have any questions about the layout of the caves and passages at Dunnelly?”
Powell touched a finger to his forehead, “All up here, sir. Every word. I’ll be starting my post at the manor in two days and I’ll have access to everything.”
“Good. I suspect there will be more money changing hands as Napoleon masses his army. You must discover who his supporters are. I regret most deeply I was unable to.”
“No one thinks you did less than you could.”
Rhys smiled briefly at the reference to the men who ran the Foreign Office. “I’m glad they’re going to have a chance to discover your full worth, Powell.”
“I appreciate your confidence, sir.”
Rhys set down his drink. “Now that that’s settled, perhaps you can tell me who I am going to turn to when I’ve gone too deep in my cups?”
“As to that,” Powell said, grinning from ear to ear, “I’ve left you my special recipe. You’ll find it amongst your papers.”
“Thank you,” Rhys said gravely. “I think.”
Chapter 6
Rhys was not the only man to make his farewells as the bright morning sun burned off the shroud of fog in London and all along the coast. Mason Deverell stood on the narrow strip of shore near the entrance to Dunnelly’s caves and waited for his contact to make an appearance. He leaned against an oar and observed the steps leading down from the summerhouse.
“Why do you never use the cave passage?” he asked as he was approached.
“I don’t like it,” was the terse reply.
Mason laughed mockingly. “Not after that one night, eh? What a debacle that was!”
“What do you want?” The question was offered impatiently. “I could not believe it when I saw your signal. You’re clearly mad. The fog is all but gone. Anyone could see you.”
“It matters not.” He pointed down the rocky coast. Where it took a twist the tips of a mast could be seen. His ship waited beyond, out of sight of the manor. “I’ll be gone from here and the explanations will be yours to make.”
“Bastard.”
“Most likely. I came to tell you how she died.”
“I don’t want to know.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’ll listen. You proved you were incompetent to take care of her yourself and I had to intervene. Now you’ll know how it was done.”
“I did not want her dead.”
“Mon Dieu! Do you think we didn’t know that? But you were trusted to do what was necessary so you would not be exposed. Kenna was coming painfully close to recalling the truth and yet you were ignoring it. Do you think I give one sou if she remembers you killed her father or that I broke her nose? Non! It is the sanctity of my mission for the emperor which must be preserved. Her recollection would have removed you from Dunnelly and compromised everything that I have worked for.”
“I cannot be compromised now. You’ve seen to that.”
“Yes, I have.” One corner of his handsome mouth lifted in a sneer. “Do you know of the young Lord Tremont?”
“I wonder if you know his reputation with women. I wonder if you know he enjoys a bit of slap and tickle in the seedier sections of London. Place the emphasis on slap.”
“What has this to do with Kenna?”
“She was the last woman he enjoyed. He flogged her to death in his excitement.” He took pleasure in seeing the face across from him blanch, but when he read the intent in those eyes he dropped the oar and pulled his pistol. “Think twice before you lunge.”
“You are one of Satan’s own.”
“I shall take that as a compliment.” Seeing the threat was gone, he tucked the pistol away. “Kenna’s death changes nothing of our arrangement. You will still come to the cave when you see the signal and continue to provide the funds as requested. Your refusal would mean death.” His mouth lifted again. “Not yours, but that of those around you.”
There was a short nod to indicate understanding.
“Bien. This is farewell for us then. I am leaving for the United States today. There are sympathizers there, especially among the Creoles in New Orleans. I hope to increase their numbers and lighten their pockets.” Mason did not wait for a reply, knowing none was forthcoming. He picked up the oar and tossed it into the rowboat, glancing over his shoulder. “Care to help me put this in the water?”
“Go to hell.”
Mason shrugged, pushed off and jumped in the boat. As he rowed away he kept his eyes on the caped figure making the long climb to the summerhouse.
Kenna woke up sick. Her temples throbbed and she could taste bile at the back of her throat. Sliding her feet over the side of the bed, she sat up and put her head between her knees. The room was doing more than merely spinning, it was rocking. “Stop it,” she said under her breath, lifting her head and opening her eyes. This last action had the effect of completing her disorientation. Nothing was familiar to her and the panic that seized her made it impossible for her to catch her breath. She began to hyperventilate. Rhys swore his head had only touched the pillow when Kenna’s cry of alarm reached him. The sound of her strained and rapid breathing sent a shiver of fear through him. Without thinking, he grabbed the back of her nightgown and pulled her down next to him, flinging an arm over her heaving chest. One hand cupped her face.
“Slowly, Kenna.” His voice was gentle. “Slowly.” He stroked her cheek with the tips of his fingers. “A deep breath. That’s it. Let it out slowly.” Rhys held his own breath a beat then let it out to a count of ten, showing Kenna what he wanted her to do.
She watched his face, a certain distance in her wide eyes as if she didn’t really know him. Gradually she was able to pattern her breathing after his. At her sides her fingers trembled and she dug them into the mattress.
“Better?” asked Rhys.
Kenna’s eyes closed. Quietly she told him she was going to be sick.
Rhys fairly dove over her to get off the bed and retrieve the empty chamber pot. He managed to return with it just as Kenna pushed herself to the side of the bed and leaned her head over the edge. He shoved the chamber pot under her and held her heaving shoulders while she was sick. Afterwards he poured a cup of water and let her rinse out her mouth.
Kenna moved away from bed’s edge and Rhys covered her with a blanket. “I need my medicine,” she said weakly.
“I’ll get it for you.”
As was his custom Rhys measured out some on a spoon and lifted her head as he fed it to her.
After she licked the taste of it from her lips Kenna eyed the bottle. “More. I remember. You promised.”
“I did.” He poured a spoonful, then another. “Enough?”
She nodded.
He hid his smug smile as he locked the bottle with its diluted contents inside the oak desk. Several other bottles mixed with exactly the same proportions, lay beside it. Three teaspoons was still not equal to the amount she had been receiving in one dose at Polly’s. Rhys returned the key to a slim gold chain he wore around his neck. If Kenna wanted the key badly enough she could always break the chain but not without him knowing it.
“Better now?” he asked, standing beside the bed.
She nodded, a serene smile touching her mouth.
“Good. Move over.”
Kenna obligingly did as she was asked until she was against the paneled wall of the cabin.
Rhys slipped between the covers. “Not that far, sweet.” He pulled her close and curled his body against hers. She murmured something he did not catch. “What was that, Kenna?”
“S’lovely.”
“It is.” Rhys closed his eyes. In his own dreams Kenna said those words and knew what she was saying.
For the following ten days Rhys battled on and off with Kenna. She was frequently sick which he attributed more to the motion of the ship and less to her dependency upon the drug. He often entered the cabin in the middle of the day and found her sleeping. At night she kept Rhys awake, begging him to give her more medicine. She was a stranger to the crew. Rhys was afraid to let her out of the cabin for fear of what she would do. There were times when he did not think she knew she was on a ship at all. He had to care for her, washing her hair, bathing her, and feeding her. When their meals were prepared he had the cook’s assistant leave them in the companionway outside their door and then made certain the young man was gone before he went to get them. Rhys did it, not because he was ashamed of anything Kenna might do or say, but to protect her. The captain of the Carasea accepted his explanation that Kenna was unused to ocean travel and therefore indisposed.
When Rhys was not with Kenna, he spent his time on deck or quartered with Captain Johnson, learning about the shipping line he had inherited. Johnson was a brusque man, unable to tolerate ceremony for its own sake. He told Rhys bluntly that while he may be the new owner of the line he, Johnson, was in command of the Carasea and that’s the way it would be until he drew his last. Rhys replied he would not have it differently and proceeded to grill the captain for all the information and expertise he had from his twenty years with the line.
Johnson was impressed that Rhys was not merely interested in the profit and cargo side of the trade. He asked about ship maintenance, trade routes, winds, navigation, the men’s food and sleeping quarters, their salaries, construction, and maritime laws. The captain was similarly impressed by Rhys’s quick mind and his grasp of what was important to the men trusted with the line’s cargo.
Rhys was not satisfied with simply listening to Johnson answer his questions. He wanted experience as part of the crew so he knew what he was asking others to do for him.
Johnson balked at the request. “Your father never asked to climb the rigging in his life,” he said. “Or to take a watch, hold the wheel, or plot a course.”
Rhys leaned forward in his chair then, his gray eyes as sharp as winter frost. “I am not my father.”
Johnson was thoughtful, rubbing one sandy eyebrow between his thumb and forefinger. “No, you’re not. Or your brother either.”
His voice was noncommittal and Rhys could not divine whether the captain thought it was a good or a bad thing, but it hardly mattered, for he saw that Johnson had relented. Rhys hurried back to his cabin to change his clothes before Johnson changed his mind.
He flung open the door to the cabin and in the brief moment he stood poised in the doorway he was transported to a time two years earlier when he had braved Mrs. Miller’s wrath and found Polly Rose very nearly bleeding to death.
Kenna was lying on the floor near the window bench, doubled up in pain. Her hands were covered with blood and below her waist her nightgown was crimson. A pool of dark blood stained the deck and the fringe of the carpet.
A young man was walking down the companionway toward the upper deck. Rhys grabbed him by his shirt and barked out orders. “Get the ship’s doctor! My wife has had a miscarriage.” He practically flung the startled man away from him, then ran to Kenna’s side.
She was moaning softly, unaware of anything save her pai
n, when Rhys tore the gown from her body and wiped her thighs and hands. He tossed the gown aside and carried her to the bed. The man who arrived to help Rhys carried the title of doctor because he had set a few bones, knew how to bring down a raging fever, and could stop the flow of blood from a wound. McKillop had no experience with miscarriages, having been at sea when his wife had two as well as when she had birthed his five sons, so he improvised as he went along.
He told Rhys to tear a sheet in quarters and fold the sections in pads. While this was being done, McKillop washed the stain of blood from Kenna’s body. He took the pillow from her head and stuck it under her feet, then placed the pad between her thighs and quickly covered her with a blanket. The pinched look on Kenna’s face was already fading and a measure of color was returning to her cheeks. McKillop wet a cloth and bathed her face. Mercifully she had either fallen asleep or passed out.
“Puir lassie,” he said in his pronounced brogue. “She dinna ken what happened to her.”
“Is it over?” asked Rhys.
“Aye. The worst of it is.” He hoped it was true. “She dinna know about the bairn, did she?”
“No. Neither did I.”
McKillop nodded, observing Rhys’s strained features. “Then it’s a shock to you as well.” He left Kenna’s side and began cleaning the pool of blood by the window.
“She needs to lie abed a day or so.”
“Will there be more pain?”
“Canna say, but I think not.”
Rhys wondered how long she had suffered before he found her. He called himself a fool and much worse for never suspecting she might be pregnant. He knew from Polly that no man at Mrs. Miller’s had touched her. It was their child she had been carrying.
For two days Kenna lay in bed, sleeping long hours, eating little, and talking not at all. Never once did she mention her medicine and Rhys gave her none of it. On the third day she got up and moved about the cabin, touching things thoughtfully as if they were unfamiliar to her and she wanted to learn their identity, Rhys woke the moment he felt her stir from the bed. Curious, he turned on his side, propping his head on his elbow, and watched her.