Secrets in the Mist Page 9

  Robert sighed contentedly, regaining control of himself. “No. Too many questions.”

  Vicar Tilby might have been happy to be bribed with a cask of brandy or claret or beer, or perhaps some tobacco, but it was doubtful Archdeacon Soames would be so understanding of his parishioners’ clandestine activities.

  I glanced at Robert, wondering not for the first time how the local smugglers induced him to keep quiet. Did he receive payment in French brandy as well, or was it bolts of silk and lace, or maybe chocolate and coffee? Perhaps all of it. Kate did own exceptionally lovely clothes, made with the finest fabrics. Even her day dresses were made from India cotton and calico. And Greenlaws was never short on coffee, or tea, or chocolate, but perhaps that only seemed remarkable because of our own deprivation at Penleaf Cottage.

  We paused near the border of the church’s property next to the crude stone wall that separated it from an open field beyond. In the distance a marsh hawk wheeled over the waving tufts of tall grass that marked the beginning of the fen. Robert’s eyes followed its flight, and I realized his thoughts had not followed mine when he spoke again.

  “I sometimes forget how mischievous Erik could be. I seem to always remember him as he was at the end, suddenly shouldering such great responsibility marching off to war.”

  I nodded, understanding what he meant. Even now I could see him quite clearly as he’d looked that last morning before he left to join his regiment, the pride and determination shining in his eyes. Growing up, Erik had been the one who had most often led the four of us into trouble, but he’d also been the first one to embrace adulthood and all it entailed.

  “Did you know it was Erik who introduced me to Olivia?”

  I turned to him in surprise. “No.”

  He nodded, still staring off into the distance. “On that trip we took to London. The very same one when he bought his commission. He collided with her coming out of the Temple of the Muses Book Shop.”

  Where he’d probably gone to purchase something for me.

  Robert’s expression tightened. “He felt a right dullard, but later Olivia admitted she’d purposely stepped into his path. She found him to be quite dashing in his new regimentals.”

  My head spun at the implication of his words. “So they…” I broke off, uncertain how to phrase what I needed to know.

  But he knew what I meant. “I thought so. At least at the time. And later, after his death, when I returned to London.” He inhaled as if he’d been carrying something heavy. “But then I began to suspect not.”

  I stared out at the field of dirt and stalks of straw-yellow grass without really seeing it. “So that’s why you went to London?”

  Once again he didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Yes. I thought…” He shook his head in agitation. “Oh, I don’t know now. I guess I did worry Olivia hadn’t received the news. Or that she would be grieving, with no one to share her loss. But it wasn’t entirely as altruistic as that.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “The truth is, I found her fascinating. Exciting. I’d never met anyone like her before. And I’m not sure I didn’t go there with the intention of courting her, if she would have me in Erik’s place.”

  I didn’t know what to say. His words certainly explained the distance I’d felt growing between us after Erik’s death, but they didn’t blunt the pain of knowing he’d been lost to me long before I’d even realized it. Self-consciously I removed my arm from his, and half turned away.

  “When Erik was alive, I never even thought of pursuing her,” he hastened to say, and I knew he was trying to soften the blow. “I had you, and I was quite happy, quite…content. But when Erik died…things changed.”

  That break in his words was weighted with so many things, chief of which was my father. And that I couldn’t blame him for. As for the rest…

  I finally turned to face him, unswayed by the concern reflected in his eyes. “Why are you telling me all this now? What good does it do?”

  He swallowed and dropped his gaze, as if gathering his thoughts. “Because…I thought you should finally know the truth. Because I was wrong, so wrong about Olivia, about everything.”

  He moved a step closer to me, but seeing my arms wrapped tightly around my torso, he wisely decided not to touch me.

  “I know I hurt you, Ella. I could say that I wish I had never been foolish enough to fall prey to her charms, but that would also mean I wish my child had never been—”

  “I don’t want that.”

  He must have heard the distress in my voice, for he broke off from saying whatever he’d been about to say.

  I shook my head fiercely. “I would never want that.”

  There might be some doubt whether Robert had truly mourned his wife, but I knew for certain he had grieved the loss of his unborn child. Even now I could see the pain in his eyes when he spoke of him.

  His chin lifted up and down above his crisp white cravat as he swallowed. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry, Ella. I realize I never made a proper apology, and I thought it was long past time I did.”

  I studied his face: the lines radiating from the corners of his eyes wrought by both joy and sorrow; the deep furrows of uncertainty in his brow; the genuine contrition darkening his topaz eyes. And I felt something loosen inside me I hadn’t known I’d been holding tight until that very moment.

  I had not realized how much I’d needed Robert to express his regret. I’d lived so many years believing it would never happen that I supposed I’d stopped hoping for it. And now that he had, I hardly knew what to say. It was balm for my bruised pride to hear him apologize, but it did not change what had happened. The hurt did not miraculously vanish, nor did the discomfort his presence caused me. If anything, the emotion I experienced was relief—that he’d finally acknowledged the pain he’d caused, that he cared enough to make amends. But I supposed that was as good a place to start as any.

  When I said nothing, his eyes dropped to the toe of his boot where he nudged at a stray twig fallen from one of the trees overhead. “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day in the fen, and you’re right. None of us are who we were four years ago. And I’m afraid I’ve been, perhaps foolishly, behaving under the misapprehension that we could be.” He lifted his eyes to stare at me through their lashes. “So if we can’t go back, then let’s go forward.”

  This time I didn’t tense when he reached out to take my hand, but I was far from comfortable with his touch or close proximity. My heartbeat accelerated, afraid of what he might say next.

  “I know things are strained between us. I hate the wariness I see in your eyes when you look at me, justified though it may be. But I would like it to be different.” His fingers squeezed my palm in emphasis. “I would like for us to at least be friends again. Do you think that’s possible?”

  I searched his face, trying to interpret what he meant. Was friendship truly all he wanted from me, or was this a stepping stone to something else? All I could see was sincerity shining in his eyes, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t more to it than his words would lead me to believe.

  Regardless, I did want to be friends—at least better friends than we had been these past four years. For Kate’s sake, if nothing else. Though she said little about it, I knew our awkward relationship troubled her. Neither of us had ever asked her to choose sides, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t felt pressured to do so.

  In any case, whether Robert intended more meaning behind his words or not didn’t matter. Later, if he pushed for more before I’d decided if I wanted it, I could simply feign ignorance.

  “I would like that,” I replied, offering him a small smile.

  His face brightened. “Good.”

  Chapter 10

  T

  wo days later, as promised, Mr. Fulton arrived with two workmen and a cart to retrieve the pianoforte. They clattered to a stop outside of Penleaf Cottage just after midday, while Father was still asleep in his bedchamber. The rainclouds that had been thre
atening all morning had blown over and the sun shone down, burning through the wisps that remained.

  Mrs. Brittle and I had dusted and polished the wood of the pianoforte, making it gleam as it hadn’t in years. Perhaps the effort was silly given the fact that the new owner had been willing to purchase it unseen, but I didn’t want them to feel cheated. Besides, it was a good instrument, one that deserved to be cherished. I was only sad I hadn’t cleaned it so well sooner.

  I was grateful when Mr. Fulton didn’t question Father’s absence, but by now he must have grown accustomed to this strange fiction we pretended. That Father was aware of our selling off the home’s assets to pay our debts. That most days he wasn’t incapacitated by drink.

  Mr. Fulton followed me into the drawing room, issuing directions to the men. I tried not to feel embarrassed by the bareness of the walls and the absence of much of the furniture, but if the workmen thought it odd they didn’t let it show.

  As Mr. Fulton and I stood side by side watching the workmen drape heavy blankets over the pianoforte, it must have been obvious how unhappy I was, for he leaned over to promise me it would be well cared for. I nodded and forced a smile to my face for his benefit. After all, the silver-haired solicitor had been nothing but kind and efficient. He didn’t need to contend with a blubbering female as well.

  I took a deep breath and made myself focus on something other than the sight of my mother’s pianoforte being wheeled toward the door. “I trust there will be enough funds to cover some of our debts?” Including what we owed him.

  “Yes,” he said, handing me a folded piece of paper. “I’ve listed all of the bills and the amounts that will be paid. And as discussed, I’ll also handle the payment of the fine.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, grateful I wouldn’t have to face Sergeant Watkins, and that I could be certain the full amount would be paid to the Board of Customs and not partially into the odious riding officer’s pocket, angry as that would surely make him.

  Mr. Fulton rocked back on his heels with his hands clasped behind his back. “To be honest, I think the fine is excessive. I may be able to negotiate to have the amount reduced.”

  “That would be wonderful.”

  “I can’t make any promises. But I’m well acquainted with the Collector of Customs at Yarmouth. He’s a reasonable man.” A little frown formed between his eyes. “Most of the time.”

  I squeezed the paper he’d given me between my fingers, feeling several round lumps inside. “What’s this?”

  He pulled his watch from the pocket of his dark coat to check the time. “Just a bit of extra ready, to use as you see fit.”

  I cradled the paper tightly, the sharp corners biting into my palm. That Mr. Fulton should set aside even a small amount of the money to give me instead of directing it all towards our debts was incredibly thoughtful, and it affected me more than I would have expected. I blinked against the sudden wash of emotion, grateful that the solicitor had courteously averted his eyes.

  We watched as the men carefully maneuvered the pianoforte through the drawing room door. Their rough voices echoed in the front hall. I glanced nervously at the stairs as we followed them through the doorway. Normally I wouldn’t have worried about the noise waking my father, but after his adverse reaction to Mr. Fulton’s letter, I was justifiably tense.

  Mrs. Brittle stood to the right by the entrance to the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, which reminded me of my manners.

  “Would you care for tea?” I asked Mr. Fulton, hoping he couldn’t tell how anxious I was for him to say no.

  “No, thank you,” he replied, running his fingers over the brim of his hat. “My daughter and her family are joining us for dinner tonight, and I promised Mrs. Fulton I wouldn’t be late.”

  I smiled, imagining the cozy scene. At one time, I had hoped for something similar. Now I could barely anticipate sitting down to dinner with Father at all, never mind his remaining sober enough for me to actually enjoy it.

  I turned aside to watch the workmen lift and maneuver the pianoforte over the threshold. The instrument made a loud thunk on the floorboards of the front porch as the man on the outside set it down a bit too hard. His head disappeared as he bent to examine the base, but he must have decided it was undamaged for they began to move it again. They slid it forward so that the man pushing from our end could lift his side of the pianoforte.

  Mr. Fulton cleared his throat. “Now, about the other…”

  I glanced back at him expectantly, when something caught my eye. I pivoted toward the stairs in alarm.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Father demanded, leaning heavily on the banister as he descended. He still wore his clothes from the night before, though now they were wrinkled from sleeping in them. He had discarded his coat, and his cravat hung limply around his neck. Dark stubble speckled his jaw, and his graying hair stood on end.

  “Father,” I gasped, moving to intercept him.

  He halted at the base of the stairs, clinging to the newel post, and stared past me toward the door.

  “Father, I…”

  He glared at me. “I told you to forget this nonsense. Bring that back inside,” he shouted at the workmen and then winced, cradling his head in his other hand.

  I glanced at the workmen who had paused to look back at us through the door.

  “Father, please,” I whispered. “You know this must be done.”

  “I know no such thing!”

  I lifted my hands to try to soothe him, but he’d already dismissed me.

  “Fulton, I’m sorry. There’s been a mistake.” He pushed past me. “You there,” he called out again, though less loudly than before. “Bring that instrument back in here.”

  The men glanced at each other in confusion and then looked to Mr. Fulton.

  I wrapped my arms around my middle, feeling a hollow space open up inside my chest. My cheeks burned with shame.

  The solicitor raised his hand to tell the men to wait. “Mr. Winterton, what seems to be the problem?”

  “I do not wish to sell that pianoforte. I never authorized it.”

  “I see. Well, then I assume you have other means to pay this fine from the Board of Customs?” He eyed my father expectantly.

  But Father brushed it aside. “It’s not necessary. They cannot honestly expect me to pay.”

  Mr. Fulton tapped his fingers against the brim of his hat. “Oh, dear. Mr. Winterton, I’m afraid they do. As your solicitor, I’ve already received written notice of it in my office. And if it is not paid within a fortnight, they threaten to take action.”

  I watched my father’s profile, praying that now he would listen to reason.

  His brow furrowed in outrage. “But it’s preposterous. A gentleman can’t drink whatever he chooses in his own home?”

  “Not if it comes from France,” Mr. Fulton replied carefully. “And the government questions how you obtained it, considering most trade with that country has been outlawed for the duration of the war.”

  “You can’t tell me that noblemen down in London, sitting in their cozy studies or conversing in their clubs, aren’t drinking the same swill,” he argued, stabbing his finger in the air in that direction.

  “You’re right. But I’m afraid the government is less concerned with those who are at the bottom of the chain than with those whom they are suspicious of being at the top, smuggling the items into the country.” He paused a moment to let Father contemplate that before adding, “And perhaps more important, those gentlemen in London have connections. You, sir, do not.”

  Father fisted his hands at his sides and inhaled as if to argue, but then abruptly he turned away. All of the energy that had bristled through him seemed to drain away. He reached out to brace a hand against the wall.

  I moved forward, worried he might be unwell, but then I stopped just before touching him. The sting of his rejection such a short while ago hadn’t faded, and I didn’t know if I was willing to risk it again.

  “Do wha
t you must,” Father muttered, raking his free hand through his already unruly hair. “Just…leave me be.” He pushed away from the wall and disappeared into his study.

  I stared at the door as he closed it behind him, shutting us out. Shutting me out. Again.

  My chest tightened painfully, making it difficult for me to breathe. I could feel Mrs. Brittle watching me, but Mr. Fulton had the good grace to look away. He moved to direct the workmen to finish loading the pianoforte, giving me a moment to compose myself.

  I swallowed hard and forced a deep breath into my lungs. When I was certain I wouldn’t embarrass myself further by weeping, I turned toward where the solicitor stood a discrete distance away. His expression was scrupulously blank.

  “About the other,” he murmured, pulling another folded sheet of foolscap from the inside pocket of his dark coat. “Your grandfather’s direction.”

  I reached out to take the paper from him, more nervous than I’d anticipated to hold the information in my hand.

  “I also took the liberty of including the address of your great-aunt. Lady Bramford lives not far from here, in Suffolk.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, not having even known I had a great-aunt.

  “Should Lord Pembroke prove stubborn, Lady Bramford might be more amenable.”

  I nodded my understanding. There was no telling how my grandfather would react to a letter from a granddaughter he’d never met. If it came to it, someone of the same blood but with a bit more emotional distance might respond more reasonably.

  I couldn’t watch Mr. Fulton and the workmen drive away with my mother’s pianoforte. It was simply too difficult. So once the solicitor had exited through the front door, I departed through the back. Mrs. Brittle didn’t offer any useless placations or try to stop me.

  But from the garden I could still hear the jangle of the harnesses and the men’s rumbling voices. So I allowed my feet to carry me through the gate and across our overgrown lawn, and before I knew it I was walking into the fens. Without conscious thought, I let my steps lead me where they would along the marsh paths. Had I been someone less familiar with the Broads, my careless wandering would have been dangerous, but I knew these waterways. I’d explored them in every season since I was too young to remember. In daylight and fine weather, there was nothing to harm me.