Chapter Seven
Filled with frustration and armed with lemon oil and a soft rag, Sarah flopped down on the chair behind Nick’s desk. For the past hour she had searched the house for dust and found none. Each room contained treasures the likes of which she had never seen, but there wasn’t a speck of lint to be whisked away or a single smudge to be polished. Nicholas Beaumont kept his house as he did himself, she thought – in fastidious order.
She had tried to lend a hand turning the spit in the cook house, but Mrs. Killingham would not hear of it. And when she had offered to aid little Annabelle in peeling the vegetables, she was politely ushered out the door. Wadsworth had proved no more helpful when she offered to aid him in polishing the silver.
“ ‘Tis my task, madam, and one that I am proud to attend to.”
Leaving him busy at work in the dining room, Sarah had gone off on her own, in search of ways to be useful. Now, as she sat in the study, the clean rag dangling idly from her fingers, she considered her situation. Nicholas Beaumont needs a housekeeper about as much as a man needs to wear two hats, she thought, tossing the rag onto the desk. Her eyes scanned the book-lined walls and she fought back the urge to choose a title and lose herself within the written words.
“I will find a way to be of use,” she declared to the empty room. “There must be a dozen tasks that need attending. I am simply not looking hard enough.” With renewed determination, Sarah reached for her discarded rag, noticing for the first time the crumbled note on the desk before her. Immediately she recognized the hand and the stationery. The clock had yet to strike noon, yet Agatha Beaumont had sent another urgent request for her grandson’s presence. Sarah’s fingers traced over the crumpled paper. Nick was to dine with his grandmother that very evening. Why then would Mrs. Beaumont send such a plea if there was naught amiss?
Carefully, Sarah refolded the crumpled paper. Had Nick stopped to see his grandmother on his way to the docks? If he had, than all was well, but if he hadn’t . . . Sarah thought of dear Rebecca Nurse. She and Nick’s grandmother would probably be about the same age. Did Rebecca still languish in the Salem jail or had the madness reached its end? ‘Tis no longer in my power to help you, old friend, Sarah thought sadly. There is no way for me to see to your comfort. Making her decision, Sarah tucked the note into her pocket. She would pay a visit to Mrs. Agatha Beaumont and pray that someone in Salem would see to Rebecca.
The walk was shorter than she had anticipated, but the dampness that hung in the air was oppressive and hinted of rain. Sarah wiped her forehead. If late April air was so warm here, what would the August sun be like? She turned down the walk and stared at the magnificent white house before her. It was not as large as Nick’s she thought, noting the windows that spoke of three levels, yet it was grander than any she had ever seen in Salem Village or Salem Town. With a determined step, Sarah continued on.
Her knock was answered by a large, burly man who looked more like a dockhand than a butler. His face was weathered and his thick hair was short and wayward. His dark jacket was a cut too tight and the buttons of his waistcoat strained to be free from the moorings.
“I’ve come to see Mrs. Agatha Beaumont,” Sarah stated calmly. As she stepped into the foyer, her eyes widened with surprise. The walls were painted a dark green, and heavy tapestries blocked the daylight, creating an atmosphere that was both morose and foreboding.
“What be the nature of your call, miss? Mrs. Beaumont be a busy lady and she don’t take kindly to strangers at her door.”
Sarah ignored the man’s intimidating stare. “I beg pardon, but I was under the impression that Mrs. Beaumont was gravely ill.”
“Ha.” The butler took Sarah’s shoulder in his beefy hand and spun her back toward the entrance. “Let me save us both time and aggravation, little lady. Miss Agatha don’t take kindly to strangers that’s looking for a handout.”
“But . . .” Sarah stammered as the man guided her none too gently to the door. “Mr. Beaumont sent me,” she gasped. The hand on her shoulder was instantly released, and Sarah struggled to regain her balance.
The burly butler gave her a shrewd look and placed his thick hands on his waist. “State your business, miss.”
Sarah smoothed down her apron and skirt and returned the man’s steady glare. “My name is Miss Sarah Townsend. I am from the Beaumont household and I have come on behalf of Mr. Beaumont to check on Mrs. Beaumont’s health. I have some knowledge in the art of healing and thought I might be of service.”
The man’s scowl deepened. “I know everyone that works for Master Nick.”
Sarah hesitated for only a moment before reaching into her pocket and retrieving the note. “I don’t mean to intrude,” Sarah said gently. “I merely thought to offer assistance wherever needed.” She watched in amazement as the man’s abrupt anger drained away and he refolded the note and returned it to her.
“It is I who should beg pardon, miss. But Miss Agatha,” he glanced toward the ceiling above them, “today ain’t one of her better days. ‘Twould be wiser for you to call back tomorrow.”
“But if she’s ill, perhaps I can help?”
The man shook his head. “She won’t let no one near her when she gets into these moods. She wants to see Master Nick and no one else can satisfy.”
Sarah’s eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me that Mrs. Beaumont is not sick, that she’s just throwing a tantrum?”
A loud crash sounded from overhead, immediately followed by a distressed wail. Within moments, a disheveled maid flew down the steps.
“That’s it,” she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’ll not work in this house a minute longer. She’s a vicious old biddy and I’ll not take her insults any longer.”
“Watch your tongue, Daisy,” the large man cautioned, “Besides you know today be one of her bad days.”
“Luther, they’re all bad days.” Daisy tugged off her apron and shoved it hard at his chest. “I want no part of this house. I’m going home.” With a flounce of her stained skirt, Daisy turned and forsaking the servants’ entrance, left through the Beaumont’s’ front door.
Sarah’s gentle hand restrained Luther as he started off after the wayward maid. “What truly ails Mrs. Beaumont?” she questioned softly.
Luther gave a final scowl toward the closed door, then turned his attention back to Sarah. “The mistress suffers something terrible from joint knots.”
Sarah frowned. “Joint knots?”
Luther held up his large hand and pointed to the knuckles. “The joints are all swollen and knotted. Her legs don’t work at all anymore and now the sickness be in her hands, too.”
“But her physician – surely he could offer some relief.”
Luther shook his head and threaded his fingers through his wayward hair. “He says drink brandy or take laudanum. But when Miss Agatha takes brandy to smooth the edge off, it gives her a sour stomach and foul disposition.”
“And the laudanum?” Sarah prompted.
“Won’t take it.” Luther looked toward the ceiling. “Miss Agatha be well past her seventieth year,” he whispered. “I think she’s afraid that one day she’ll go to sleep and not awake. So,” he paused, “you gotta take into account that sometimes Miss Agatha has bad days, and the rest of the time she’s just plain mean.”
Sarah nodded thoughtfully. “Have you a willow tree in the area? One that is not too far away?”
Luther stared at her with a raised brow. “There be a grove of willows just down the meadow.”
Sarah smiled. “Good. First I want you to send someone to fetch some bark. Good thick pieces about a hand long. When they come back, set the bark to steep in a large kettle with boiling water. Let me know when that is done.” Sarah took a step toward the stairs and then paused. “Which room?”
Luther’s face held a look of disbelief. “The large one at the end of the hall toward the front of the house.”
Sarah nodded. “It would help if you could get that bark as so
on as possible.” Turning, she mounted the stairs.
Sarah tapped firmly on the chamber door before releasing the latch. Pushing open the door, she ducked as a saucer sailed past her head to collide with the wall and shatter to the floor.
“Mrs. Beaumont?” Sarah quickly surveyed the darkened room. The walls were painted a deep shade of blue and here, too, the shades had been pulled so that little light could seep in.
“Who the devil are you, and where’s Daisy?” a shrill voice commanded.
Sarah stepped further into the shadowy room. On the opposite wall stood the largest tester bed she had ever seen. Richly embroidered linens hung from the bed’s frame and in its center, propped by a dozen lace-covered pillows, sat Agatha Beaumont as regal as Queen Mary herself. Sarah resisted the urge to curtsy and stepped closer to the bed.
“I said who the devil are you, girl? Are ye deaf? I want an answer. Luuuther!”
Sarah suppressed a smile at the sight before her. Agatha Beaumont, who had all her servants cringing in fear, was but a frail old lady with wispy white hair. “Pray do not find fault with your servant, Madame. My name is Sarah Townsend and I am currently Mr. Beaumont’s . . . ah . . . housekeeper.” Sarah stumbled over her title, thinking of how little she had accomplished that morning. “Upon seeing your note, I thought I might be of assistance.”
Agatha’s sharp gaze raked Sarah from head to toe. “First, Miss Townsend, or whatever your true name be, let’s get one fact perfectly clear. Just because I am momentarily confined to this bed doesn’t make me a doddering old fool who will believe every story that reaches my ears. And unless Wadsworth has up and beat me to meet our Maker, you’re not the housekeeper in my grandson’s home. Besides,” Agatha struggled to straighten her wizened body even further, “How did you come to read a private letter sent to my grandson?”
Ignoring Agatha’s angry glare, Sarah sighed, pulled a straight-backed chair near the bed, and took a seat. “Put your mind at rest,” she started slowly, not sure how to begin her story. “Wadsworth is indeed alive and healthy. And you are right about my not being the housekeeper, for this morning I felt completely useless. Do you know that Mrs. Killingham would not even let me scour the pans? Wadsworth would not allow me to help polish the silver and there was no dust to be found anywhere. So when I came across your note – “
“You decided to come and try to get on my good side,” Agatha interrupted. “Well, save your time and get out. I don’t have a good side.”
“You are in pain,” Sarah said gently, noting that Mrs. Beaumont went to great lengths to keep her hands beneath the coverlet. “And I know of a brew that might help.”
Agatha’s eyes narrowed and she leaned forward. “You are not from around here, are you? Your speech is as strange as that ridiculous dress that you are wearing. Tell me, just where did my grandson find you?”
Sarah took a deep breath and decided that since her circumstances were not of her making, there was nothing to lose by sharing them. Quietly she told her story, starting with the sounds that woke her on that dreadful night. She made light of the horrors on the ship, for the memories still made her stomach lurch and her skin crawl. She ended with the meeting between Nick and his attorney, Mr. Danvers.
“So as you can see,” Sarah concluded, “I find myself in quite a dilemma. I have no way to get home until the confusion of the papers is put to rest. And I am the housekeeper in a house that needs no keeping.”
Agatha stared hard at the girl. She had not become such a success in business by believing every sad tale that came her way, but there was something about the girl that made her want to know more.
“So you’ve come to me to get the money to sail you back home?”
Sarah quickly shook her head. “No, no. I’ve an understanding with Mr. Beaumont.” She felt her cheeks grow warm as the memory of their time in the garden rushed forth. “He . .. ah .. .” She struggled to clear her throat. “Mr. Beaumont has been kind enough to allow his agent to carry a letter to my family informing them that I am safe. And although I ache to embrace them myself, I am content to see out our arrangement.”
Agatha watched Sarah’s cheeks bloom with color. And just what else has my Nicky been kind enough to do? She thought as she continued to scrutinize the girl.
“Pull back those blasted tapestries so I can get a better look at you, child.”
Sarah chuckled, and rose to let the sunlight in. “I passed ten and nine some months ago, Mrs. Beaumont, so I am hardly a child.”
But not yet a woman, I’ll wager, Agatha thought as she watched Sarah return to her chair. She was pretty enough, with good clear skin and bright eyes, but she had none of the social sophistication that usually marked one of her grandson’s consorts. In fact, her clothing placed her just one step beyond the servants, and Agatha knew Nick did not dally with those who worked for him.
“I find your story fascinating,” Agatha said after a long silence. “A bit farfetched, but clever and fascinating nonetheless.”
Sarah’s easy smile faded and she rose stiffly from her chair. “I do not tell falsehoods, Mrs. Beaumont. Regardless of what you or your grandson thinks of me, I am a good Christian woman. I thought I might be of help, but I can see now that my presence distresses you, so I’ll bid you good day.”
“You’ll bid me nothing of the kind. Now get off that high horse you’re riding and sit back down.”
Sarah stood firm beside her chair.
Agatha gave an exaggerated sigh. “So much for Christian charity. Here I thought the Lord had finally sent someone who could bring some relief to my pain.”
Sarah shifted only slightly. “I shall be happy to give instructions to your man, Luther.”
Agatha pouted. “Luther would just as soon poison me and put us both out of our miseries.”
Sarah stood firm, quietly watching Nick’s grandmother as she struggled to shift herself on the bed. The old woman smothered a groan as she used her hand to lever herself.
Sarah was instantly at her side. “Here, let me.” Her words were soft, and with gentle hands she soon had the woman more comfortably settled.
Agatha glared. “I thought you were leaving.” But pain edged her voice and took the sting from her words.
Sarah gave a final pat to the pillow. “I think not.” She ignored Agatha’s gasp of outrage as she perched on the edge of the bed and took the woman’s gnarled hand.
“Don’t.” Embarrassed by the grotesque sight, Agatha tried to snatch her hand from Sarah’s, but the pain had drained her strength.
Sarah traced her fingers over the swollen knuckles and fingers that now resembled twisted claws. “Is there tallow for the candles?”
Agatha snorted and, as Sarah released her hand, she quickly placed it out of sight beneath the covers. “My candles are made of beeswax. I won’t have tallow in my house. I can’t abide the smell.”
“Very well.” Sarah rose. “I shall ask Luther to fetch some.” She moved to the fire, and despite the heat that already filled the room, stoked the flames higher.
“What are you about, girl?” Agatha snapped, watching Sarah add more wood to the flames. “ ‘Tis no sense to build a great fire and then have to stand back from it. ‘Tis a waste of good wood.”
A knock sounded and Luther entered, gingerly carrying a hot kettle. Sarah took the kettle and placed it over the flames. Ignoring Agatha’s threats she calmly gave Luther a list of ingredients and sent him on his way.
“My grandson will have your head for this.”
“I think he will thank me for seeing to your comfort.”
“Ah ha,” Agatha snorted, curiously watching Sarah at the hearth. “So you want my Nicky to thank you.”
Sarah returned to the bed with a silver sick cup that sported handles on both sides. “In truth, Mrs. Beaumont, I don’t care what your grandson thinks of me. Now, try a taste of this, and tell me if it’s still too warm.” Gently she urged the spouted cup to Agatha’s thin lips.
Agatha gave Sarah
a long, appraising stare before pulling one of her gnarled hands from the covers. She could not manage the cup on her own but rested her hand against Sarah’s to guide the spout to her mouth. She grimaced at the taste, and when she would have pushed the cup away, Sarah gently urged her on. Agatha threatened and complained. Sarah softly cajoled, and by the time Luther returned, the cup was empty.
“That was vile,” Agatha shuddered, sticking out her tongue.
“I believe it is an acquired taste,” Sarah said gently. “Somewhat like dry sherry.” She ignored Agatha’s fierce glare and turned to her next task. Carefully she melted the tallow in a shallow pan and then gingerly carried the hot pan to the bed.
“What are you doing?” Agatha’s voice was now tinged with fear as well as pain. You’re not. . .Agatha’s frail cry echoed in the room as Sarah took her hand and quickly coated it with the hot wax.
“You’re hurting me!” Agatha’s tears ran freely as she tried to pull her hand away. Luther lurched forward, his eyes wide with surprise, but his steps halted with the gentle sound of Sarah’s voice.
“Calm yourself,” Sarah soothed as she began to gently massage the wax-coated hand with her own. “There is a sting at first, but can you tell me now that you feel no relief?”
Agatha angrily wiped the tears from her face, then realized that what Sarah said was true. The terrible twisting pain that so often tried to wring her soul from her body was easing. She felt Sarah’s fingers firmly rubbing over her own swollen knuckles as if coaxing the pain to leave her. When the procedure was repeated on her other hand, Agatha offered no more than a wince when her hand first touched the hot wax. Again she waited in wonder, and again she felt the pain begin to slip away. She watched the slow, hypnotic motion of Sarah’s hands and felt her eyelids grow heavy.
Sarah peeled the last of the cooling wax from Agatha’s fingers and then gently soothed her wrinkled skin with cool cream. Agatha snored on and never noticed when Sarah carefully rose from the bed.
“How did you know to do that?” Luther whispered, eyes still wide from what he had witnessed.
Sarah motioned him from the room. She longed for a moment of privacy to rub the kinks from her back, but Luther stayed at her side.
“My father, although not a doctor, knew much about healing,” she said quietly as they made their way down the stair. “The heat from the tallow soothes the stiffness. But you have to be very, very careful, for if the tallow is allowed to get too hot, you would burn the skin, and that would be worse than the original pain.”
“But if it helps . . .”
Sarah placed her hand on Luther’s arm. “There is nothing to be gained by trading one pain for another. But it would be my pleasure to teach you or anyone else in the household the technique so Mrs. Beaumont can have what little relief we can offer.
Luther nodded gratefully. “And the bark mixture?”
Sarah paused. “I know not what, but there seems to be something in the willow that helps to ease pain. Not like laudanum, for in truth, if you wished, you could go up and wake Mrs. Beaumont this very instant.” Luther’s look clearly said that that was the last thing in his mind. “She is sleeping because the pain has lessened,” Sarah continued. “Not because she is drugged. And when she wakes, she should feel better for the rest.”
“Then should she have more?”
Sarah shook her head and reached for the front door. “Have a care, Luther, for if used too often, the drink will lose its merit. Now I must be off or Wadsworth will be wondering where I disappeared to.”
Luther followed her out onto the marble step and frowned. “Where is your carriage?”
Sarah smiled and looked at the tree-lined lane that led to the house. “I walked over and I shall walk back. ‘Tis not a far journey, but one I must start now.” Waving good-bye, Sarah started off before Luther could offer protest. He stood silently watching until she cleared the lane. Lord, things ain’t never gonna be the same, he muttered. And she walked clean from Master Nick’s house! Shaking his head, Luther stepped back into the foyer and offered a prayer that Miss Agatha’s nap be a long one.
Alone in the garden, Sarah perched on a stone bench and tried to force the thoughts of home from her mind, but the images of Samuel and Elizabeth refused to be banished. I must be causing them such distress, she thought. A single tear traced a slow path down her cheek. They must be frantic and it will be two more weeks at best before they receive my note to know that I am safe. She clenched her hands in her lap and tried to fight the pain of helplessness that washed over her. Why, she puzzled again and again, had the fates placed her in the hands of Captain Riggins?And who had forged Samuel’s name?
The sun slipped from view, leaving shadowy hues of pink and orange to tinge the night sky. But despite the chill that touched the air, Sarah remained lost in thought.
Nick stepped into the garden and spied her still form. Her midnight hair was caught up under a lacy white cap, exposing the delicate curve of her neck. Her hands were clasped in her lap and her head was bowed. At first he thought her deep in prayer, but as his eyes took in the subtle droop of her shoulders, Nick knew something was wrong. Silently he made his way down the stone path. As he came closer, he saw the sparkle of her tears before Sarah heard his steps and quickly wiped her face with the hem of her apron.
Nick said nothing as he joined her on the bench; only the night sounds of crickets and katydids broke the silence. He watched a tear roll down her cheek and pulled his handkerchief from his pocket. Gently he tucked the cloth into her clasped hands.
Mortified that he should find her at such a private moment, Sarah dabbed at her eyes with the snowy white fabric. She knew she should say something, excuse herself and flee to the privacy of her room, but no words would come and her legs refused to budge. Desperately she struggled for control.
Nick reached over and tipped her head up with his finger. Their eyes met. Each felt the jolt. For Sarah the compassion that radiated out toward her was her undoing. The last of her restraint melted away, and when Nick gathered her against his chest, a lifetime of tears poured forth. The tears that Samuel had forbidden her to shed over the death of their parents, tears she had not allowed herself during the terror of her kidnapping, tears for the aging Rebecca locked in the drafty Salem jail without the smallest comfort – they all poured forth to soak Nick’s waistcoat and dampen the white linen of his shirt.
Nick said nothing as she wept in his arms, but his hands rhythmically stroked her back. He hated to see a woman cry, but rarely was he moved by it. Tears were a convenient tool used by the weaker sex to manipulate and control, and he wondered what gift from him she would hint at for having spent the afternoon with his grandmother. When she eventually began to quiet, he continued to hold her close, captured by the delicate scent that was so much a part of her.
“Did my grandmother say something to upset you?”
Sarah sniffed and gave a final wipe of her eyes before reluctantly pulling away from his chest. “Your grandmother is a delightful lady.”
“Ha!” Nick’s short laughter filled the night. “That is a kind way to describe a tyrant like Agatha. But tell me, if it is not my grandmother, what brought this on?” His thumb brushed aside a stray tear.
Embarrassed, Sarah straightened, and her eyes dropped back to her lap. “Being with your grandmother has made my thoughts dwell too much on my family and the pain they must be feeling.”
Nick nodded with understanding. She was striving for sympathy in hopes he’d grace her with a gift to raise her spirits. “Tell me about them,” he prompted, thinking two could play well at her game. “You spoke of Samuel Wittfield as your stepbrother, but what of your parents?”
Sarah felt the tears threaten anew, and her head began to pound. “My parents died this past winter.”
“So you are alone?”
She shook her head. “I do live alone, but Samuel and his wife Elizabeth are very dear to me.”
“Tell me more about Wittfield,” Nick c
ommanded, anxious to know more about the man whose name appeared on her bondage papers.
“As a child, I quite adored Samuel. He was so tall and strong.” A sad smile touched Sarah’s face. “But I think I must have made quite a pest of myself always following him around.” Her nimble fingers refolded the handkerchief, and she forced a brighter smile. “Still, he was quite tolerant of me.”
Tolerant? Nick’s eyes narrowed with thought. She had said tolerant, not kind or caring. “This Samuel, is he older?”
She nodded. “I was but five when my father married Prudence Wittfield. Samuel had already seen twenty and was married to Elizabeth.”
“And they lived with you?”
Her nervous fingers began to twist the handkerchief into knots. “My father and I moved into Prudence’s house. Samuel and Elizabeth lived a short ways over.”
And with you out of the way, Nick thought, if this land you speak of truly exists, then your dear brother Samuel is again the sole heir.
Her tone grew wistful.“There was so much love . . .” She looked up to the stars that twinkled overhead, surprised to find the hour had grown so late. “I think that is what I have missed the most,” she said softly. “My father dearly loved Prudence. But now, with my parents gone, the house has grown so quiet.” Her gaze dropped back to him. “I visit Samuel and Elizabeth often, but I try not to intrude.” She turned her eyes back to Nick. “They must be so distraught by now. Can you imagine how they must be feeling, to have gone to my house and found me missing? I didn’t even have the opportunity to make my bed.”
Nick suppressed a chuckle. He could just picture Sarah with her toes peeking out from the hem of her nightrail, requesting her abductors to be patient so she might tidy her room before they carted her off. But his smile faded as he remembered the condition she had been in when Beckett had found her. Again he reached for her hand, noting the redness of her skin.
“Is this from tending to my grandmother this afternoon?” He carried her hand within both of his and brushed his lips across the tender flesh.
Sarah felt the warmth of his lips shoot straight to her heart, radiate down to her toes, only to bounce back and settle deep within her stomach. She had promised herself that he would not touch her again, for the memory of his lips on hers still burned strong. But like a moth drawn to the flame, it was impossible to pull away. “ ‘Tis not a problem,” she stammered, wondering how to reclaim her hand.
Nick raised a brow and his eyes began to twinkle. “But I could do something to make you feel better?”
Sarah nodded and looked pointedly to the hand he still kept captured within his own. She could still feel his breath on her skin, and her heartbeat quickened.
“Ah.” Nick smiled. “You’d like a bracelet. Well, you are in luck. I happened by the jeweler’s today, and Walter has just finished a new piece.” His thumb traced around the circumference of her wrist. “It is gold and is about an inch wide but fashioned of soft links. I think it would fit you nicely. I shall take you there tomorrow.”
“Why?” Sarah’s brow wrinkled with confusion as Nick’s eyes darkened with promise.
“So you can see if the piece pleases you.”
Completely bewildered, Sarah stared at Nick as he allowed her to reclaim her hand. How had a conversation about her family turned into a discussion on jewelry? She stood wearily, wishing the ache behind her eyes would lessen. His roundabout thoughts were becoming impossible to follow.
"I'm sorry,” she stammered, standing awkwardly before him. “I don’t understand.”
Nick leaned back and gazed up at her with undisguised passion. “I wish to present you with a gift.”
Sarah rubbed at her aching temples, for nothing was making sense. “But why would you want to do that?”
Nick’s eyes twinkled. “Because you helped my grandmother . . .” he prompted.
Sarah shook her head. How had Agatha become part of this puzzle? “Please,” she stammered.“There is no need. And if somehow I have given cause for you to feel that payment was necessary, I humbly beg your forgiveness. After all you have done for me,” she sniffed, “you must think me most uncharitable, and for that I beg pardon.” Turning, as her eyes again filled with tears, Sarah fled to the safety of her room.
Nick stared with total fascination at her retreating back. Either he was daft or Sarah had just rebuffed his generosity. He rubbed his hand along his jaw. What did she hope to gain by doing that? And if jewelry wasn’t her passion, why then had she hinted so pointedly for a bracelet? He went over their conversation in his mind but found no answers. Could she really be the innocent she claimed, he wondered, and did anyone truly care that much for their family? He tried to think of his own parents, but their memories were a vague, unpleasant blur. The only family he had left was his grandmother.
A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he thought of Gran. She had arranged for Mrs. Hempsted to prepare all his favorite dishes, then spent the entire evening trying to capture his promise that Sarah could visit on the morrow. Nick’s smile bloomed full. How Gran loved a duel of the wits. He hadn’t had the heart to tell her that Sarah was free to visit whenever she pleased, so he had played the game, leaving her smug with the thought of her victory.
Nick rose and quietly paced the stone path while his mind searched for flaws in Sarah’s tale. Gran was nobody’s fool and she believed the story completely. He shoved his hands deep within his pockets and found the damp handkerchief. Her tears had certainly seemed genuine, he thought, but he’d wait a bit longer before he’d believe her reason for their cause.
The clouds covered the moon, and Nick stood silent in the darkness. Perhaps on the morrow he would pay a visit to Captain Jenkins. The retired sea captain had once lived in the north before settling in Virginia. And although Nick realized he had never heard the man say a kind thing about his former home, perhaps Captain Jenkins could shed some light on Sarah’s way of life. Nick rubbed his hands together against the night chill. But first, he thought, he would deal with Sarah directly, and he knew the perfect way to recapture a woman’s smile.
Bewitching Kisses (Bewitching Kisses Series) Page 9
