by Jo Goodman
She ran her hand along the length of the oak desk, fingered the brass handle of the lantern. Standing in front of the book shelves, she appeared to read the title of every one of the volumes before she moved away. The mirror on the side of the wardrobe held her interest for long minutes as she explored her face by touching the glass. An uncertain frown drew her brows together as her hand lifted to her hair and ruffled the short mahogany curls then found the red-gold roots. She sat at the window seat, her slender back to Rhys, and watched the sun’s early morning rise on the horizon. At last she turned to him as if she had expected him to be watching her, and spoke.
“I think you had better tell me the whole of it, Rhys.” Her eyes were more brown than black now, less vacant and glazed. They touched his face from across the room.
Rhys sat up, hitching a sheet around his waist, and leaned his naked shoulders against the wall. He noticed the color that came to her cheeks when she realized he hadn’t any clothes on. He did not take it as a good sign and wondered what she remembered.
“Tell me where to begin,” he said.
Kenna cut right to the heart. “Were you responsible for my abduction from the ale house?”
A muscle jumped in Rhys’s jaw. “No.” He held his breath, searching her face for some sign that she believed him but refusing to beg for her trust. Tears welled in her eyes and her shoulders sagged as a tiny choked sob escaped her throat. He knew then she had accepted his word and that her grief was for the betrayal of someone she had never suspected.
Rhys edged off the bed and crossed the cabin to Kenna. He stood in front of her, studying her bowed head, the hands that twisted in her lap, before he caught her chin and lifted her face.
She blinked at him, stemming the flow of tears briefly. Her bottom lip trembled. “Why are these things happening to me?” Then his face dissolved again as bitter tears streaked her face.
Rhys sat beside her, sliding an arm around her back, and wiped her face with a corner of his sheet. “I only have a suspicion, Kenna. Are you certain you want to hear it?”
She sniffled. “Yes.”
“It has to do with your father’s death and your memory of that night.”
Kenna turned to him. “I want to know.”
“All right.” He let out his breath slowly. “I believe that someone living at Dunnelly murdered Robert, or is employed by the person who killed him. The only person who can identify the killer is you, Kenna. For years you have accused me and though no one believed you, your uncompromising position that I had done it kept the real murderer safe.”
“But it was you in the cave. I saw you!”
Rhys smiled faintly. “Do you remember the night I came to your room and was standing by the mantel when you woke? Who did you mistake me for then?”
She gasped softly. “Nick. Oh, but it couldn’t have been Nick. It couldn’t have been.”
“I’m not saying it was. Only that you have confused us before. Mightn’t you have made a similar error the night of the masque? There were so many people there, all costumed, many of them alike. There may have been dozens dressed as I was that evening. I don’t know. I didn’t spend a great deal of time at the ball itself, but by your own admission you watched scores of people enter the ballroom from your vantage point on the staircase.”
“I remember the four shepherdesses.”
He nodded, satisfied. “And in time you may remember more. At least someone else believes you will.”
“It’s been nearly ten years, Rhys. I doubt if I shall.”
“I think it is because you have not wanted to.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Perhaps. You can be very strong-willed, Kenna. It does not strike me as odd that you could be hiding what you know from yourself, especially if the truth is particularly painful.”
“Let us agree to disagree,” she said.
“Very well. Can you concede that you have erred in judging me guilty of your father’s death?”
“Yes.”
He squeezed her hand. “Good. That is something at least. And can you admit that this past year your dreams have altered slightly, introducing new people, new events, into them?”
Kenna’s brows drew together as she thought hard on the matter. “Well, yes, they have, but how could you know? I’ve only discussed my nightmares with you once, and that was when I thought you were Nick.” Her expression lightened. “Nick told you, then?”
“No. It wasn’t Nick, though years ago he discussed them with me.”
“Then Victorine. I know Nick told her everything and sometimes I shared things with her.”
“No. Not Victorine, nor your maid. I knew you told her, too. There was someone else you described everything to and she, in turn, told me.”
Kenna was puzzled. “I can’t imagine…After a moment’s reflection, her features cleared. “It has to be Yvonne. I always wrote her.”
“And she wrote me.”
“She had no right. They were confidences. I didn’t think I had to explain that to her.”
“You’d do well to remember that she is the best friend you’ve ever had, Kenna Dunne.” He said her name out of habit, quite forgetting for the moment that she was Kenna Canning now. “Yvonne loves you dearly and she wrote to me for help when she became unsettled by the accident you had.”
“What accident?”
“When you fell from your horse.”
“That?” she scoffed. “It was nothing.”
Rhys shook his head. “As it turned out it was hardly nothing.”
“I don’t understand. It was a spill, nothing more. Victorine was with me and she rode for help. I almost didn’t mention it to Yvonne.”
Thank God she had, Rhys thought, and thank God again for Yvonne’s fertile imagination, for it was she who introduced Rhys to the idea of Kenna’s changing dreams being the cause of the trouble at Dunnelly. Rhys had been skeptical at first and soothed Yvonne’s worries in a return letter, telling her that a fall from a horse was all part of being a rider, that it had nothing to do with the nightmare which Kenna had had the evening before. But Yvonne had persevered, pointing out other things that did not sit well with her any longer. Like the time Kenna had fallen down the stairs and bruised her back or the time before that when she had nearly caught her death of cold because her rowboat had tipped in the pond. Each perfectly explicable accident had occurred following a nightmare.
He mentioned these occasions and continued. “Do you remember writing to Yvonne—I think these were the words you used—my dreams are making me regrettably graceless?”
“I suppose I could have written some such nonsense, but I only meant that I was not getting enough sleep and was therefore clumsy.”
“That is the interpretation I put upon it also. Yvonne, however, thought there was some merit in looking into the matter.”
“So you came to Dunnelly,” she said. “You told me it was because of your father’s presence in London.”
“That was also true, merely not the entire truth.” There would come a time when he could tell her about his work for the Foreign Office, but this wasn’t it. “And when I arrived at Dunnelly I found you trying to free a fox from a trap that could easily have been meant for you.”
“I had a nightmare the evening before,” she said slowly, hardly able to take in the possibility he was presenting.
“So I discovered later that day. And Nick also told me the riding accident had been no such thing. Pyramid’s girth had been tampered with and the head groom had—”
“Had been ill the morning I took Pyramid out,” she finished for him. “Why did Nick say nothing to me?”
“He didn’t want to worry you and have the dreams go on night after endless night.”
Kenna nodded slowly. “Sometimes I think they were more terrible on him than they were on me.” Lost in her thoughts, she failed to notice that Rhys withheld comment. She shook herself out of her reverie.
“Still, it seems absurd that someone wou
ld think I could happen upon the truth after so much time. Why did the accidents occur so far apart? And why were there so many after you arrived at Dunnelly?” Her tone almost dared him to offer an explanation.
“I have guesses at best,” he told her. He walked over to the wardrobe and began pulling out the clothes he wished to wear. “But first, let us have done with calling them accidents. They were deliberate attempts on your life.” He tossed a pair of buff riding breeches onto the bed. “I think your assailant became afraid after each arranged accident, giving up, not because they failed, but because he clung to the hope there would be no more dreams. Then, without warning, you would have another and he was forced to make the attempt again. As to why there was no end to them while I was at Dunnelly? There is a simple explanation. The killer knew my presence there would disturb you and cause a succession of nightmares. He was through taking chances.”
“Then Old Tom’s death—”
“Began as a mistake, I think. The shot that wounded him was probably meant for you. When the killer realized his error, he ran. But he became frightened, maybe when he realized who Tom Allen was and why you had brought him to the woods. He went back, strangled Tom, and took the trap as a precaution. It’s probably at the bottom of the Channel by now. Later your assailant tried poison.”
“Monseiur Raillier!”
Rhys shrugged into a shirt and began fastening it. “The cook,” he nodded. “He is as much a suspect as anyone. Then there is your maid who conveniently passed on bath salts to the doctor to cover for Raillier. And Nick who bumped me when I was trying to carry out your soup to test it myself. And Victorine who brought it—”
Kenna put her hands over her ears and shut her eyes.
“Stop it! I don’t want to hear any more. You’re wrong. You must be.”
Rhys tore off the sheet, yanked on his breeches, and went on relentlessly. “Think, Kenna! Think! You are resisting the possibilities. It’s safer to believe I must be wrong than to face the truth. You are fighting yourself again. Surely you can see that. Do you realize that you asked why these things were happening to you, never once did you ask who was responsible?” He pulled on his stockings and boots and brushed his hair, observing Kenna’s confusion in the mirror. He dropped the brush on the table as he went to her again. Rhys took her by the arms and brought her to her feet. “Listen to me, Kenna. I know it will take time for you to become accustomed to the idea that I am not the villain in this piece, but it remains true nonetheless. I don’t know who’s responsible for this sleeping and waking nightmare you have been trapped in, but you do!” He sighed, pulling her close, and cradled her in his arms. “I’m sorry. Forgive me.” He ruffled her hair as she nestled against him. “These things no longer matter. While you are with me, no one is going to harm you. Ever.”
Rhys pressed a kiss in her soft hair. “There is much we still must discuss but I think enough has been said for now.”
Kenna agreed. She drew back from Rhys, letting her hands slide down his arms, held his hands briefly, then let go reluctantly. “I would enjoy some time alone,” she admitted. “But may I join you later?”
His heart lightened at her request. Everything was going to be all right. “Whenever you wish.”
After Rhys had gone, Kenna stood for several minutes in exactly the position he had left her. She felt curiously empty of all thought, all emotion. Slowly she sat back down on the window bench as her legs folded beneath her. Her eyes wandered to the one part of the room she had avoided since getting out of bed. Perhaps Rhys spoke more than a little truth when he said there were things she did not want to face. Kenna stared at the faint brownish-tinged stain on the hardwood floor and the darkened tips of the carpet fringe. Burying her face in her hands, she wept, mourning the loss of her innocence and the loss of her child.
When her tears were finally spent Kenna reviewed the choices open to her. She could save her would-be assassin a great deal of trouble and simply throw herself overboard. She could pry open the drawer where Rhys kept her drugs and lose herself in sleep and rose-colored dreams as long as the supply lasted. Or she could begin living again. Only one of those choices made sense to her any more.
Kenna opened the wardrobe and though it was crowded with Rhys’s clothes, she found several dresses. Something tugged at her memory as she chose an empire cut lemon yellow gown with a garland of flowers embroidered on the hem, but she shrugged it off, laying the gown on the bed. She found undergarments and hose, slippers, and a mint green fichu to cover her shoulders, and laid these out also. After washing at the basin, she dressed, brushed her hair, and straightened the covers on the bed. As she was tidying the cabin she heard a noise in the companionway and went to investigate. She found the kitchen assistant in the process of leaving her breakfast tray.
“Oh, please, bring it in,” she said, slightly bewildered by the young man’s surprise. He nearly spilled the entire tray by staring at her instead of where he was going. “Just put it on the table.” He set her meal down, blushing to the roots of his yellow hair. “Have I a smut on my nose?” she asked when he continued to stare at her. She hadn’t thought it possible but the sailor blushed even deeper.
“No, ma’am,” he stammered. “It’s just that Mr. Canning, he told us you were…but he didn’t say…”
“I’m afraid I can’t make out what you’re saying.”
“Beautiful!” the sailor blurted out.
“Oh!” It was Kenna’s turn to blush as the young man hurried from the room. There was still a measure of heat in her cheeks as she carried the tray to the oak desk. Between bites of her biscuits and eggs, Kenna jiggled the drawer containing the bottles. With the aid of the butter knife provided with her meal, Kenna managed to jimmy the drawer’s catch. She set the five vials she found inside on the desk top, lining them up like soldiers at attention at the back of her tray, and stared at them while she finished her meal.
After she was done eating she gathered the bottles in her arms and left the cabin.
Rhys was in the rigging, taking some good-natured ribbing about his clumsy first ascent, when he saw Kenna step on deck. She hesitated a moment, looking around, then walked purposefully toward the taffrail. His companions noticed the direction of Rhys’s gaze and stopped working at the same time to watch Kenna. Below them the rough chatter and activity ceased. Captain Johnson stepped away from the wheel, his sandy brows pulled in a single line over his eyes, as Kenna approached the ship’s port rail.
Rhys’s face paled as he watched Kenna from the dizzying height of his perch. He knew a gut-wrenching helplessness that he could not reach her in time to prevent her leap overboard. He shouted her name but she did not turn and he realized the sound had been carried away by the rush of wind rippling the sails. Not knowing what else to do, Rhys began a reckless rapid descent that burned the skin from his palms. Halfway down he stopped as Kenna’s right arm drew back and heaved a bottle over the side. The others followed and by the time Rhys reached the deck her hands were empty and she had stepped away from the rail.
“Kenna!” He called to her again.
She turned, smiling happily now that her decision to carry on living had been affirmed by her gesture. “Did you see, Rhys?” she asked, eyes shining.
“I saw.” She was simply splendid. He held out his arms and Kenna ran to him, filling their emptiness with her spirit.
The noise and activity around them resumed and neither heard a bit of it. It took the rough, gravel sound of a throat clearing itself nearby to penetrate their senses.
Rhys loosened his hold on Kenna and glanced over his shoulder, “This is Captain Amos Johnson, Kenna,” he said. “Captain Johnson, my wife, Kenna Canning.”
Kenna’s smile froze on her face as she extended her hand to the captain. Her mind worked furiously, reasoning that Rhys could have hardly introduced her as the sister of his friend after they had shared a cabin these past weeks. He had done it to save her reputation, of course. It made perfect sense. “How do you do, Capt
ain Johnson. I am very pleased to meet you at last.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Canning. For myself and the crew, may I say it’s a pleasure to have you with us. The Carasea is brighter for your presence.”
Rhys was quite amazed by Johnson’s smooth tongue. The old salt hadn’t been so ingratiating toward him. But then, he reflected, he hardly had Kenna’s stunning appearance. Damned if the ship wasn’t brighter for her presence. “I’d like to take my wife on a tour, Captain.”
Johnson shook his head and said gruffly, “There’s work to be done.” He pointed overhead to the post Rhys had left. “I’ll take your wife on the tour.” He raised his elbow for Kenna to hold and stopped the protest that was rising in Rhys’s throat with a hard glance. “You were the one who wanted to know how the men worked. Escorting a lady is a captain’s pleasure.”
At Rhys’s chagrined expression, a bubble of laughter touched Kenna’s lips. She patted his forearm sympathetically, her dark brown eyes dancing as Captain Johnson led her away.
The sun was bright, but the air was chilly and Kenna and the captain returned to her cabin to get her spencer. Johnson took Kenna into the belly of the ship first, showing her with no little pride the rooms filled with the line’s precious cargo of colorful Indian fabrics, barrels of tea from the Far East, and furniture crafted by some of England’s best known artisans. Though much of what Carasea carried had come from all over the world, Johnson had picked up his share in London, still the largest center of trade anywhere. Not that Boston couldn’t hold its own, he assured Mrs. Canning. Now that the war with England was over he looked for an increase in America’s fortunes.
Kenna listened politely and withheld comment, deciding it was not the time to mention that if Napoleon succeeded in his second conquest there would be another stranglehold on trade. She followed Johnson into the galley where the afternoon meal was being prepared. The cook’s assistant looked up from where he was chopping onions for a stew and smiled. A trifle teary-eyed from his task he accidentally brought down his knife on his index finger and muttered a sharp imprecation. Kenna was hustled out of the galley as the cook gave his helper an earful.