Marriage of Mercy

by Carla Kelly

  She looked around to make sure they were alone and touched his face. ‘Rob, what is the matter?’

  He kissed the palm of her hand before she withdrew it. ‘Grace, what if…what if I get you with child?’

  She had thought about it last night, long and hard and decidedly after the fact. ‘The war is over,’ she reminded him. ‘How…how long does it take to get to Nantucket from here?’

  ‘Nine to twelve weeks,’ he said promptly. He shook his head, his expression rueful.

  ‘Did Elaine…?’

  He shook his head again. ‘She had several miscarriages. It was our sorrow,’ he said simply.

  ‘Don’t worry about something we have no control over,’ she told him.

  He gave her a wry look. ‘We can, too, control this!’ he assured her, blushing. ‘Just lock your door.’ He interpreted her expression correctly and smiled, in spite of himself. ‘Or I’ll lock mine.’

  Men, she thought. Are they all so dense? ‘You mean you’d make me lean a ladder against your window?’ she teased.

  ‘You like to live dangerously?’

  ‘No woman does,’ she said frankly. She kissed his hand. ‘But I am not afraid, as long as you are close by. And the war is over.’

  He was silent then, a slight smile on his face. ‘And I thought I understood women,’ he said.

  As they neared the village, Grace told him about the note from Mr Selway. ‘I am not certain if I am more disturbed that Mr Selway, whom I like, has access to the dower house, to come and go as he pleases, or if someone else is playing us and biding his time,’ she told Rob.

  ‘For what purpose? Captain Duncan, your intended parolee, was nothing but an ordinary man. Believe me, I know.’

  ‘His father was a marquis,’ she pointed out.

  ‘This was a subject that never came up, on land or sea,’ he told her. He looked around and took both her hands. ‘Write to Mr Selway.’

  * * *

  She did as he suggested that afternoon, warming her feet on the stove’s fender and writing on Mrs Wilson’s lap desk, because the day was raw. Through the open door, she watched Rob chatting with the customers. He had been surprised that morning with the continuing rush of good wishes Quimby’s residents showered on him, now that the war was concluded.

  ‘Why should that surprise you?’ she asked softly, admiring the set of his shoulders under his checked shirt, knowing now how good his naked skin felt to her touch. ‘You have made friends in this village who will miss you.’

  * * *

  On their return to the dower house, after she left the letter in the hands of the postmaster, who assured her—to Rob’s amusement—that he knew what to do with a letter, Grace felt her unease grow. ‘Now would be a good time for Mr Selway to show himself,’ she grumbled to Rob.

  ‘You are a worrywart. Calm down.’

  * * *

  He found a way to calm her down after the dower house was quiet. He came to her bed this time, clad for only a brief moment in his nightshirt before they were naked and twined together. She had left the curtains open by design, just enough to satisfy her curiosity, but not so much that she felt shy. She wanted to see his body this time, and hers, joined together. The lightly falling snow gave the room a lustre that lent an almost magic glow to his skin. There was no stress or tightness this time, only huge anticipation bordering on frustration, that crowned, spread and left her drowsy with relief. Her conviction grew that making love with the man she had chosen in Dartmoor could only become more pleasant, as he became more familiar to her hands, her lips, the eager space between her legs.

  ‘There now,’ he said when they were rational beings again and she had pillowed her head on his chest. ‘No fears,

  Gracie.’

  His hand was gentle on her head. He laughed when she took his hand and placed it on her breast. He obliged her by kneading it in much easier fashion than he kneaded bread dough. ‘Maybe we have hit upon something, my love,’ he told her a few minutes later, as his hand went lower, still busy, but more gentle. ‘Maybe bakers are the best lovers of all.’

  She took him at his word, considering that her experience went no further than the man lying next to her.

  * * *

  By the end of the week, Grace felt sure enough to leave a light on as they made love.

  Always before dawn, Rob returned to his own bed, or she to hers. Only when she was alone now did she lie there and worry, willing Mr Selway to appear in the bakery and reassure her. She knew Rob needed the reassurance, too, even though he said nothing. More than once during that first week in January she had opened her eyes to see him standing by the window, his face serious.

  She had gone to him, wrapping her arms around his waist, leaning her head against his back. ‘You want to go home.’ She whispered it into the smooth area between his shoulder blades.

  He said nothing, but he turned around and hoisted her into his arms, holding her as she twined her legs around him now. In another moment, they were back in bed, blotting out everything except each other. He had stayed all night in her bed that time.

  Mostly they were silent, words unnecessary. Sometimes he liked to talk about their future, which she almost came to crave as much as his body.

  ‘You know, my love, the more I think about a bakery at home, the more I like the idea,’ he told her, when she was tucked up close to him, her legs over his. ‘I haven’t told you this, but there will be prize money waiting for me when I get to Boston.’

  ‘Prize money?’

  ‘Aye, lass.’ He chuckled. ‘The Orontes was a grand ship for diddling British cargo. From the Baltic to Malta, we all took turns running captured vessels into neutral ports.’ He patted her hip. ‘It’s a tidy sum and will buy a bakery.’ He sighed and his hand began to caress. ‘You’ve ruined me from ever wanting to go to sea again.’

  Every morning Grace had come downstairs before him, wondering if there would be a letter in the sitting room. She considered asking Emery to be alert for a message, but decided the responsibility was hers alone. Mr Selway’s missives had all been addressed to no one but her. And hadn’t she alone promised to watch over Captain Duncan?

  The letter was there finally, as bleak January grew more stormy. The letter rested against the same ugly vase. The sight of it made her heart beat faster. She opened it and went to the window, where feeble dawn tried to cast a light on an otherwise dismal daybreak.

  She had to stifle her disappointment that the letter was not a long one, especially since she wanted to know, chapter and verse, what lay ahead, and why nearly a month had passed since she had written to Mr Selway, care of a Post Office box in Exeter that seemed to have no owner.

  Do nothing rash and keep Captain Duncan in your sight, she read. ‘We have been nothing but rash. Mr Selway, you are too late,’ she whispered to the lines in front of her. She continued. Understand, please, that the treaty is on its way to Washington, where it must be ratified by Congress and returned to Whitehall. Tell Captain Duncan to be patient. It could be many months before freedom. The British are not people who submit easily to directives. S.

  ‘No, they are not,’ she said to the letter, then paused as she grasped the enormity of what she had just said. ‘They are not,’ she repeated. It wasn’t we are not, but they are not. She went to the window and held the letter close to her, wondering at what moment she had begun to think of herself as an American.

  You have never even seen the country! How can you

  be an American? she chided herself silently. She remembered last summer, when Rob had asked her what England had ever done for her. The question had shocked her

  then, but it did not shock her now. She knew the answer; she had probably known it then.

  * * *

  Rob swore with some fervour when Grace handed him the letter on their cold walk to Quimby. ‘Months!’ he raged, slapping the note. ‘I wish I could speak to an American!’

  Speak to me, Grace thought. She dismissed the idea immediately becaus
e it was still an infant thought, too tender to share, even with the man she loved.

  ‘Is there not anyone to plead the American cause here?’ she asked tentatively. He seemed so angry.

  He allowed his anger to diminish. ‘Aye, there is, a miserable excuse of a man, name of Reuben Beasley. He is our agent here, sent by President Madison himself.’ His voice was heavy with scorn. ‘He is supposed to make sure we are treated well enough at Dartmoor. God damn the man.’

  ‘Did he ever go to Dartmoor?’

  ‘Once? Twice? I suppose he is spending taxpayer money in London.’ His voice was bitter. ‘Maybe he dines at the best restaurants.’

  ‘Can I write to him?’

  ‘Save your ink and paper.’

  He had nothing much to say that day. Soon even Mr and Mrs Wilson were tiptoeing around, looking at him with worried expressions.

  ‘It’s just so hard for him to wait and wait,’ she said to the Wilsons before they closed the shop that evening.

  * * *

  Grace tried to engage him in conversation as they walked home, but Rob would have none of it, jamming his hands deep in the pockets of his coat and ignoring her. She walked along beside him, determined not to make matters worse by scolding him, holding her tongue for once. Then it was too much and her indignation boiled to the surface.

  The snow was mostly gone now, except in the shady side of the copse. As he stormed ahead, she held back, scooped up a generous helping of snow, pressed it firmly together, took aim and fired at his head.

  She was no ballistics expert, but to her astonishment, and then glee, the snowball crashed into the back of his head.

  ‘You little devil!’ he roared, reaching down for his own snowball.

  Grace crouched down and covered her ears as the snowball slammed into her hip. She mounded another snowball and threw it at him. It went wide of the target and he laughed, grabbing her by the neck and dropping bits of snow down her dress. She gasped as the snow slid between her breasts, then punched him in the arm, which made him pick her up and toss her on his shoulder as if she weighed nothing.

  She thought to protest, but he was laughing so hard that she didn’t bother. As he stalked past a snow-laden bush, she grabbed another handful of snow, reached under his coat and pushed it down his trousers.

  He set her on her feet quickly enough, reaching around behind him to try to remove the snow. ‘Grace, you look like such a lady, too,’ he said, as he laughed.

  ‘I told you I have slid,’ she retorted, wiping the snow off her face.

  She was in his arms in another moment, swaying side to side with Rob as he just held her, his face in her neck.

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ he said, his voice muffled. ‘It’s hard to wait, when all I want to do is get us home.’

  When he finally released her, Rob took her hand and kissed it. ‘You’re a patient woman,’ he commented, as they walked past the manor house now. She could see the welcoming lights of the dower house, where Emery was probably finishing supper. ‘Teach me how to be patient.’

  Before she could say anything, he stood still, staring at the manor. ‘Look there. Do I see another carriage? Perhaps Lord Thomson is holding a convention of ugly butlers.’

  She looked at the window in sudden panic. ‘I don’t like this,’ she whispered, tugging at Rob’s hand. ‘Let’s hurry past.’

  ‘You’re a goose, Gracie,’ Rob teased, but offered no objection as she hurried him into the dower house. He draped his pea coat over a bust of some Quarle progenitor and went up the stairs, whistling now.

  ‘You were a trial today,’ she called up the stairs.

  He paused halfway up, leaning over the banister. He opened his mouth to make some rejoinder, when he stopped and looked further up the stairs.

  ‘Grace, get out of the house,’ he said quietly. ‘Now.’

  She stared at him, then put a hand to her mouth as a man started down the stairs towards him. He backed down a step or two, looking at her now, his face filled with alarm.

  Grace started towards him as the front door slammed open. She shrieked and tried to run to the stairs as Lord Thomson and Mr Smathers took her by her arms.

  ‘Grace!’ Rob shouted, just as the man on the stairs grabbed his arms and pinioned them behind his back.

  She held still, looking from the butler to the marquis, who seemed to find the whole scenario entirely to his liking.

  ‘Miss Curtis, you’ve done such an excellent job of sticking like glue to Captain Duncan,’ he said. ‘Precisely as my uncle’s will dictated.’

  He released her arm and she backed closer to Nahum Smathers, simply because the look of triumph on Lord Thomson’s face frightened her more than Ugly Butler. She jumped when Smathers rested his hand on her shoulder, his grip not strong, but firm enough to stop her.

  The man on the stairs walked Rob Inman the rest of the way down the steps. His face white, Rob looked at Grace, then turned his head at the sound of footsteps from the kitchen.

  ‘Emery!’ Grace said. ‘Help us!’

  She felt like a fool for pleading for aid from a man older than all of them. His face as blank as Rob’s, Emery looked at them and shook his head, sinking down onto a chair in the foyer. He put his hand to his heart.

  Lord Thomson stepped forward. He regarded them all, his mouth prissy as usual, but his eyes alert, his expression bordering on the predatory. Grace edged even closer to Nahum Smathers, even though she wanted to break free and throw herself into Rob’s arms. The practical side of her nature, always strong, promptly dismissed that idea. No need for anyone to know how intimate their connection was. I will not cry, she told herself.

  Lord Thomson cleared his throat. ‘We have a dilemma. My butler was going through some of old Lord Thomson’s papers and he found a curious thing. It affects you, Grace. I fear I cannot give you that thirty pounds per annum. Not this year, not ever.’

  ‘I never expected it,’ she said quietly, her head high.

  ‘Wise of you,’ he replied. He took a miniature from his coat and held it out to her.

  A young man, probably in his teenage years, gazed back at her. He had dark brown hair and a deep dimple in one cheek. She leaned closer. His eyes were brown, too.

  ‘Am I supposed to know him?’ she asked.

  ‘Hard to say,’ Lord Thomson said. He turned over the miniature. ‘It says here, in case you cannot read the small print, that this is Daniel Duncan.’

  There was nothing pleasant on Lord Thomson’s face. ‘We seem to have a difficulty, Miss Curtis.’ He looked at Rob, his face set and wary. ‘Who, sir, are you?’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‘Rob Inman, sailing master on the Orontes,’ Rob said proudly. ‘Let Gracie go, Smathers. She knew nothing of this.’

  Smathers’s grip on her shoulder loosened, then tightened again, making her cry out, when Lord Thomson snarled at him. ‘She’s a drab and I don’t trust her!’ Lord Thomson exclaimed.

  ‘You two are bastards!’ Rob raged, struggling against his confinement. ‘Captain Duncan was dying and he chose me for parole in his place. Let her go!’

  Everyone was shouting now. Grace wrenched herself from Smathers’s grasp and stood toe to toe with Lord Thomson. She guessed right. A natural coward, he stepped back.

  ‘Lord Thomson, I knelt by Captain Daniel Duncan in a filthy stall in Dartmoor. He was near death from ill treatment, but he had the strength to ask me, not Rob, to choose someone else in his place.’

  ‘What nobility from an American bastard,’ Lord Thomson murmured, making no effort to disguise his contempt.

  ‘You’re the bastard,’ Rob said. The man holding his arms cuffed the side of his head.

  ‘I chose Rob Inman,’ Grace said, suddenly feeling proud of Captain Duncan, of Rob Inman, of herself, even.

  ‘If that is not a felony, it is at least a misdemeanor,’ the marquis said. ‘What do you think, Smathers?’

  ‘The matter is small beer, my lord,’ Smathers replied, his unpleasan
t voice assuming a wheedling quality. ‘Not worthy of you to prosecute. She’s a bakery assistant. That’s all she will ever be.’

  Grace turned to look at Smathers. His eyes were as hard as ever, bits of flint in a face marked by the ravages of smallpox. It was a face of no compromise. She looked at Rob again, thinking of the deed to his house in Nantucket. You are wrong, Mr Smathers, she thought. I own a home in America.

  The mere thought gave her heart. She stared at Lord Thomson, who, to her gratification, bore the scrutiny only a moment before lowering his gaze. ‘Lord Thomson, even you would have done the same thing, rather than leave a man in Dartmoor.’

  He stared at her in disbelief. ‘Not I. Never I. What else do they deserve, these…these mongrels who had the audacity to form a nation?’

  He returned his attention to Rob Inman. The man twining his arms together had forced the sailing master to kneel at the foot of the stairs. Lord Thomson stood in front of him, idly slapping his cane in his hand. Quicker than thought, he brought it crashing down on Rob’s back.

  Rob groaned, but said nothing.

  Grace could not help the sob that rose in her throat. She tried to go to him, but Smather’s grip was iron now. ‘What are you going to do with him?’ she demanded.

  ‘Return him to Dartmoor tonight.’ He looked at the man who held Rob. ‘Reilly, make him walk every step of the way. Don’t bother with his coat.’

  ‘Please, no…’

  Lord Thomson whirled around and raised his cane over her. Rob, hands tied now, roared out his disapproval and tried to step forwards. Grace closed her eyes, ready for the pain.

  It never came. Smathers grabbed the stick as it descended. ‘Lord Thomson, you know that’s not a good idea,’ he said, his voice calm and coaxing, as if he spoke to an ill-natured child. ‘Miserable as she may be, Grace has friends in this stupid village. Just throw her out of the dower house. It’s enough.’

  ‘You are a killjoy, Smathers,’ Lord Thomson declared.