To being her and the children’s champion.
She knew he viewed the role as some sort of ultimate penance, but, regardless, she wasn’t about to turn her back on him and all she saw in him. On all he offered.
Slowly, she nodded. “So . . . to London.” Raising her head, she glanced out of the window, confirming that Pippin was still happily playing on the grass. “If there are searchers, lots of them, scouring the area, and at the moment they’re between us and London, and we don’t even know if that group you saw is all of them, then hiring a carriage and traveling with two children all the way to London . . .” She met Thomas’s gaze. “They’ll come here, realize we’ve left, guess we’re the ones they’re after, and come chasing after us. We’ll never make it to London before they catch us.”
Somewhat to her surprise, Thomas nodded in agreement, yet he didn’t look downcast. Quite the opposite. He looked rather eager as, meeting her eyes, he said, “Indeed. And if I was Richard Percival, or whoever is managing this search for him, I would have men stationed along the highway back to London, keeping watch, just in case the searchers down here flush their quarry and send them—us—running.” He smiled, a gesture that conveyed a certain relish. “Which is why we won’t be traveling to London that way.” He held her gaze. “Trust me. I know just how to escape this net.”
Puzzled, Rose frowned. “How?”
His smile deepening, he gripped his cane and rose. “We go via a route he won’t expect and so won’t be watching, one along which, even once he realizes which way we’ve gone, he won’t be able to easily get ahead of us.”
Chapter
8
They left the manor in the dead of night.
After Thomas had explained his plan, and he and Rose had worked through the details, Rose had called the children in for an early afternoon tea, and she and Thomas had explained to Homer and Pippin what they were going to do.
Naturally, the children had viewed the undertaking as a great adventure.
They’d all spent the rest of the afternoon and evening closing up the house, then packing all they could carry in saddlebags and traveling bags suitable for a departure on horseback. Once they’d finished packing, Rose had fed everyone, then sent the children to lie on their beds and get what sleep they could.
She and Thomas had tidied the kitchen and put everything away. Then Thomas had retired to the library to write more letters of instruction to his agent and his solicitor, letters he would post the next day, together with the two letters he hadn’t yet sent. Rose had left him to it and, instead, had walked around the house, checking windows, drawing curtains, and going over her mental list of things to do before they left.
At one o’clock in the morning, they woke the children, and, with bags in hand, rugged up in their traveling clothes, they went out to the stables.
Thomas and Homer, remarkably bright-eyed after his nap, saddled Silver and the pony. Rose took the pony, riding astride, with as many of the saddlebags and bags as the beast could manage. Thomas mounted Silver, settled the remaining saddlebag across the gelding’s broad back, then he took Pippin up before him. Homer clambered on behind, wrapping his thin arms around Thomas’s waist.
Thomas caught Rose’s eyes as, in the steady moonlight, they paused in the small court before the stable door. “There’s no reason to hurry. We only have fifteen miles to cover, and we’ll do it easily, even at a walk.”
Rose nodded. “Lead on. I’ll follow.”
Thomas held her gaze for an instant, then turned Silver and set the gray trotting, first down the drive, then he veered into the field and continued on, east and a little north, riding across the moon-dappled countryside.
They rode into Falmouth while the town was still asleep. They had made good time; it was not yet four o’clock when Thomas thumped on the main door of the Seven Stars Hotel.
He’d stayed there before. It was an expensive hotel, one at which the staff could be relied on to fetch and carry, and accommodate any traveler willing to pay the house’s exorbitant rates.
As he’d anticipated, the staff, roused to action, scurried to make up beds and heat milk for the children. The horses were stabled; Thomas took a moment to speak with the head ostler, arranging for both horses to be kept in the hotel’s stables until he returned for them, however long that might be.
Thomas registered them as a family—husband, wife, and two children—and in short order they were shown to a suite at the front of the hotel, with a view down to the harbor.
After approving the accommodations, Thomas dismissed the staff. Rose took the children into the smaller of the two bedrooms. Looking in from the doorway, Thomas watched her help the now sleepy children undress, then she urged them beneath the covers.
Even before she’d turned and joined him, the pair was, Thomas judged, asleep.
Rose quietly shut the door. He turned and followed her across the suite to the other bedroom.
Closing the door behind him, he watched as she searched through a saddlebag and drew out her nightgown and a brush.
Setting both on the dressing table, she started to pull pins from her hair, letting the gleaming mass swing free.
When he drew nearer, drawn, as always, by the promise of her warmth, she sighed and glanced sideways at him. “I’m tired, but I don’t think I can sleep.” Last pin removed, she shook out her hair.
He reached for her brush before she could. “Stop thinking.” Setting his cane aside, he set the brush to her crown and smoothly drew it down. “Just close your eyes and let me brush your hair, and then we’ll change and get into bed, and just rest.”
Rose did as he said, felt the hypnotic tug of his slow, steady brushing.
Eventually, she followed the rest of his advice, too; sliding beneath the sheets, she turned into his arms, and he held her.
Outside, dawn was just starting to lighten the sky, but he’d closed the curtains. She lay wrapped in his arms, her head pillowed on his chest, the slow thud of his heart a steady, repetitive beat, lulling her, soothing her.
She was on the cusp of sleep when she felt him shift his head, then his lips brushed her forehead. “You and the children will always be safe with me. Sleep,” he murmured.
And she did.
Late the next morning, Thomas ordered a substantial breakfast, which they consumed in the sitting room of the suite, safe from any curious eyes.
After the staff had removed the dishes and small table, he shrugged on his greatcoat, picked up his cane, and met Rose’s eyes. “I’ll go to the shipping offices first.” If at all possible, they needed to secure passage on a ship leaving that day.
“Can I come?” Until then playing with Pippin on the floor, Homer scrambled to his feet.
Thomas glanced at Rose. They’d discussed the various dangers, and her task for the morning was to occupy and engage both children while keeping them safely inside the suite.
Their safety was one of the principal reasons he’d chosen the Seven Stars; no one could just wander up the stairs, and any inquiries as to paying guests would be met with blank looks. More, such an expensive establishment would be the last place anyone searching for a once-young lady-cum-housekeeper fleeing in panic with two children would think to check.
Rose tried to catch Homer’s eye. “I brought a pack of cards, Homer—we can play any game you like.”
Homer glanced at her, but his gaze returned to Thomas’s face. “But . . .”
Thomas saw the avid, urgent curiosity in the boy’s eyes, and understood. But . . . he sank down on the sofa beside Rose so his eyes were more level with Homer’s. “We’re trying to avoid the men who are searching for you, and Rose, and Pippin. None of the searchers are likely to recognize me, but they’ve brought along a man who might recognize you, and we can’t be sure that they haven’t either followed us here already, or even simply happened to come this way, so we need you to stay safely here with Rose, out of sight.” Suddenly inspired, Thomas shifted his gaze to Pippin, who was watchi
ng from the floor, then he looked back at Homer. “We need you to stay here and help Rose, all right?”
Homer glanced at Rose, then sighed and nodded. “But I will see the ships later, won’t I?”
Thomas smiled as he levered back upright. “If I can get us passage on the evening tide, you’ll see all the ships in the harbor.”
Satisfied, Homer smiled back, then turned and sat down on the floor again, returning to his game of knucklebones with Pippin.
Thomas exchanged a look with Rose. “I’ll be as quick as I can, but I need to call at the post office, too.”
She nodded. “Good luck.”
As he let himself out of the suite, he saw her sink onto the floor with the children.
Thomas walked down the stairs and out of the hotel, then strode more briskly down the street to the wharves, savoring the sea breeze and the sharp scent of brine. He’d been in Falmouth before; he knew where he was going.
He found what he was looking for in the third shipping office at which he called.
“Indeed, sir.” The shipping clerk’s eyes were fixed on the notes Thomas had ready in his hand. “You’re in luck—the stern cabin on the Andover is vacant. Quite given up hope of hiring it, truth be told. She sails on the afternoon tide, so you and your family would need to be aboard in just a few hours.”
“Boarding in time won’t be a problem.” Thomas drew several more notes from his other hand and added them to the pile. “And how long will the Andover take to reach Southampton?”
“She’ll be going up the Solent first thing in the morning four days from now, sir.”
“Excellent.” Thomas completed the transaction and quit the shipping office with four tickets to Southampton and the Andover’s large stern cabin and a smaller one adjoining booked for him and his family.
He looked about him as he walked deeper into the town to the post office, but he saw no sign of any inquiry agents. People in general wouldn’t notice them, but to him they stood out; by the time he reached the post office, he felt reasonably confident that none of the group hunting them was presently in town.
By leaving the manor in the way they had, they’d bought themselves this day, one clear day, but beyond that he couldn’t be certain. He couldn’t be sure the inquiry agents wouldn’t be able to track Silver and the pony across country to the port, but once they hit the busier streets, the agents wouldn’t be able to track them easily, and with their having arrived so early in the morning, few beyond the discreet staff at the Seven Stars would have seen them. With any luck, they would slip away on the afternoon tide with no one the wiser.
If luck truly went their way, it would be days before the inquiry agents realized what had happened, and by then he, Rose, and the children—his little family—would have disappeared into the anonymity of the capital.
Entering the post office, he paused at one of the counters to add last instructions to the two letters he’d written the previous night, then he sealed them, put them together with the letters he had intended to post in Helston, and limped to the counter.
After paying the postage and entrusting the four missives into the postmaster’s care, he gripped his cane and walked slowly out. Pausing on the steps, he looked out over the harbor, at the plenitude of ships riding at anchor there. After a moment, he stirred and, satisfied with his morning’s achievements, turned and headed back to the hotel.
The most dangerous part of their day was the transfer from the Seven Stars to the Andover.
Although the distance was short, Thomas insisted on hiring one of the hotel’s carriages; he bribed the driver to drive them onto the docks proper, all the way to where the gangplank of the Andover rested on the wharf.
Of course, such an entrance drew considerable attention, not least from the vocal navvies, heavy bales and barrels balanced on their shoulders, swearing as they dodged and weaved out of the carriage’s way.
Homer and Pippin stared out of the windows, utterly fascinated.
Rose cast Thomas an appalled look—one that clearly stated, Was this a good idea?—but he just smiled and squeezed her hand. “Trust me. Such an arrival carries the stamp of some member of the aristocracy—not that of a housekeeper fleeing with two children.”
The arrested expression on her face made his smile deepen.
The carriage rocked to a halt, and Thomas swung the door open and descended to the wharf. He paused, head high, looking coldly around, then he turned and gave Rose his hand. As he helped her out, he caught Homer’s and Pippin’s eyes. “Best behavior,” he murmured.
Both children nodded, then scrambled from the carriage in Rose’s wake.
Rose held her head high, lifted her skirts, and, with what she felt was commendable hauteur and nothing more than a superficial glance about, allowed Thomas to guide her up the gangplank. Her coat and those of the children were good enough to pass muster; they could have been Thomas’s wife and children had Thomas been some minor scion of some aristocratic family . . . which, now she thought of it, if she’d understood his story correctly, he was.
Yet while neither she, he, nor the children were, in fact, playing a part—were, in fact, behaving as their true stations dictated—for all of them that involved the resumption of roles they’d set aside years ago.
It took a little effort to remember exactly the right tone to take with the captain, a portly, genial man who stood ready at the top of the gangplank to bow them aboard.
After greeting Thomas and the children, the captain bowed again to Rose. “If you would step this way, ma’am, the steward will show you to your cabin.”
“Thank you, Captain.” With a gracious inclination of her head, Rose consented to follow the captain’s wave to where a neat individual in the shipping company’s uniform was waiting by a door giving onto a set of stairs.
The stern cabin was a welcome surprise, more spacious than she’d expected, and a door in one corner opened to the smaller cabin next door, one with two narrow bunks. The children made a beeline for the wide windows across the stern, scrambling onto the window seat below the panes to peer out, but then Pippin noticed the bunks, squealed, and raced to claim the lower one.
Homer glanced across but didn’t follow. “I’ll take the top one,” he called, then returned to the view over the water and the myriad ships filling the harbor.
The instant the porters who had carried in their few bags retreated and closed the door, Rose sighed. She considered, looking inward, then across the cabin, met Thomas’s eyes. “I was worried that I might have inherited Mama’s affliction, but I feel well enough.”
Thomas smiled and looked down at Homer. “These two seem happy enough.”
Homer flashed him a grin, then looked back at the ships. After a moment, he wriggled around and looked first at Thomas, then at Rose. “Can we go up on deck and look about?”
Rose looked at Thomas.
He hesitated, then said, “Once we’re properly underway and pulling away from the dock, then yes, we can go up on deck. The captain will very likely allow us onto the poop deck.” Thomas pointed at the cabin’s ceiling. “It’s directly above us, and from the railing there you’ll be able to look back and watch Falmouth fall away behind us.” He glanced out of the window. “Given it’s afternoon, we should have a good view.”
That, as it transpired, was exactly what they did; Rose leaned against the rail along the rear of the poop deck, and with Homer on one side and Pippin on the other, with Thomas beyond, screening Pippin and Rose from the whipping wind, she watched Falmouth and all risk of immediate pursuit fall further and further behind them.
They stood watching in companionable silence until a rising sea mist obscured the view.
Thomas stirred, then met Rose’s eyes. “I’ve arranged for us to dine in our cabin. Shall we go down?”
With nothing more to see, and the air growing cold and damp, the children were ready to descend. They went ahead, leaving Rose to take Thomas’s arm and allow him to guide her back to the ladder down
to the lower deck.
His arm was solid and strong, unwavering; feeling the warmth and strength of his body beside hers put the final seal on the sense of safety and comfort stealing through her. All immediate anxiety had fallen from her, the tension it wrought sliding away as in the ship’s wake Falmouth had dwindled and eventually disappeared.
“Thank you,” she said, letting all she felt color her tone. Glancing up, she caught his eye just as he parted his lips. “No—don’t say anything.” She held his gaze. “Just . . . for now, thank you.”
With that she faced forward, then released him so he could go before her down the ladder.
For now. She doubted he’d understood what she’d intended, what means of later thanking him had leapt to her mind.
Once the thought, the concept, had blossomed, the attraction only grew.
She waited until night fell. Until she’d shepherded the children, drooping and yawning, into their room and tucked them securely into their bunks. After the excitement of the day, combined with the sea air, both were asleep the instant their cheeks touched the pillows.
Returning to the stern cabin, she closed the door quietly behind her. Across the room, Thomas stood beside the wide shelf of the bed, anchored to the cabin’s wall. Cane resting against the nearby window seat, he shrugged out of his coat and laid it aside.
She reached him as he tossed his waistcoat to join his coat, and raised her fingers to his cravat. “Allow me.”
Stilling, he met her gaze, then, as, stepping close, she unraveled the simple knot, he reached for her, slid his hands around her waist, then set his fingers to her laces.
She stripped the long, linen band away, let it fall from her fingers to join his coat and waistcoat. The scars that marred the left side of his face and head, half hidden by the heavy fall of his hair, extended down the side of his throat. Caught, unable to resist the lure, she raised her hand and slowly, gently, traced the line of scars.
Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) Page 16
