I turned away and pressed my damp palms against my knees. “I have no idea what you mean.”
The lie rang hollow in the silence that fell between us, but I wasn’t about to correct it or qualify it. This was Kate, and I knew I should have been able to talk to her about it, but I simply couldn’t. There were too many painful memories, on both sides, and I couldn’t dredge those up again. I often suspected Kate had been hurt almost as deeply as I had been by her brother’s treatment of me and his hasty choice of a different bride. I knew it had caused a rift between them that had only recently healed, and I had no intention of opening it up again.
But Kate had never been one to leave things unsaid. She was stubborn and argumentative, even when it was clear she was in the wrong. It was something she and my brother had had in common. So I braced myself for her reply, but when it came, it was far more surprising.
She inhaled wearily, her chest rattling. “I know you do. But I suppose it’s pointless to talk about at this point.”
I turned back to find her eyes closed, her head resting against the couch arm.
I shifted toward her, the chair creaking beneath me, and she lifted her eyelids to peer up at me.
“No fussing. I’m just tired.” Her eyelids drifted shut again. “I can just as easily rest out here as I can in my room.”
I supposed that was true, and the air was so much cooler on the balcony. I fanned myself with the front of my bodice again and scanned Kate’s face for any sign of distress.
“Besides,” she added, her lips curling at the corners, “I can’t hear the maids gossiping from my bed.”
We both fell silent, and I noticed for the first time the excited chatter of several women. They must have been gathered in the shade of the balcony below us. At first I couldn’t make out much of what they were saying, but then I realized from their giggles and sounds of approval that they were admiring the men who unloaded the barges and wherry boats.
I glanced back at Kate, who was now smiling broadly. Her eyes twinkled, and I was glad to see it was with amusement rather than the fever that had brightened them only a day and a half earlier.
“I take it they’ve done this before?”
“Oh, yes. Every time a shipment arrives.” She stretched her toes out beneath the blanket. “They’re not restrained by the rules of decorum like we are.”
I arched an eyebrow at her mischievous smirk.
“Go ahead. Take a look at what they’re cooing over.”
I frowned.
“And don’t give me that look. You know you’re curious.”
I wanted to argue, but seeing Kate’s enjoyment of my embarrassment I decided that would only make it worse. Fighting a blush, I rose to my feet to watch as the men began to unload the boats.
There wasn’t anything to truly be discomfited about. Robert would never have allowed it. The wherry men were all dressed, though what constituted being fully-clothed as a wherry man was considerably more revealing than the many layers that any gentleman would wear in either Kate’s or my presence. But I had seen plenty of men in the village of Thurlton dressed in similar attire—their coats and neckcloths discarded, their sleeves rolled up to their elbows. However, none of the local men had quite so muscular forearms, nor did their bodies fill out their clothing in quite the same way.
Something in my abdomen tightened at the sight, and I thought I understood why the maids below us were chattering so excitedly. Two of the wherry men seemed to interest them in particular, though there seemed to be some debate over who was more appealing. The first had upper arms that strained the fabric of his shirt and hair streaked guinea-gold from the sun, while the second stood several inches taller than the men around him and sported a head full of disheveled dark hair.
Kate chuckled. “Who are you studying so raptly? Achilles or Hector?”
Knowing she was watching me, I resisted the urge to squirm. I wasn’t sure why, but I resented her amusement. Perhaps because her comfort with this situation only reminded me of how isolated my own existence was. The only men I encountered on a regular basis were my father, Robert, the butler here at Greenlaws, and fifty-one-year-old Vicar Tilby from the Church of All Saints in Thurlton. There were no gentlemen callers, no male servants at our cottage, no wherry men delivering supplies, and no young maids to ogle them had there been.
“I doubt that’s how the maids refer to them,” I replied, skeptical that their limited education included the classics.
“No. But if you’re this hesitant to tell me who is the more attractive, then I think it best to keep their nicknames for them to myself.”
I scowled at Kate over my shoulder. “I’m not hesitant,” I grumbled, turning back toward the marsh. One of the wherry men pointed at something in the distance. “Besides, who says I find either of them…”
I stiffened as I caught sight of what had so interested him. Reedham Windmill had stopped turning, its sails paused diagonally in the shape of St. Andrew’s cross. It was well-known among the people living amongst the fens that a windmill temporarily stopped in such a position meant that revenue men were abroad, searching for smuggled goods. Once the signal had passed to the next windmill down the line, the sails would be allowed to turn again. A clear signal was communicated by stopping the sails in the square shape of St. George’s cross.
It was merely a fact of life that smuggling occurred in this part of the country. If a family wasn’t directly involved, then they purchased or were bribed with the contraband from the smugglers’ runs to France and the Netherlands—tobacco, snuff, tea, sugar, chocolate, bolts of fine cloth like silk and India cotton, wine, gin, or my father’s beverage of choice, brandy. It was why the illegal trade still flourished. Everyone had reason to keep quiet. Including me.
Panic shot through me. I’d been in such a hurry this morning I hadn’t cleared the empty bottles from Father’s study. Perhaps Mrs. Brittle had searched the room and sunk the incriminating flasks in the marsh, but our lone servant had enough to do without worrying about saving her employer from a hefty fine.
“I have to go,” I exclaimed, rushing inside Kate’s room to gather my things.
“What?” she called after me in surprise. “Ella, I was only teasing.”
“It’s not that,” I replied, tucking the fichu back into the collar of my dress. I could already feel the sweat gathering under my bodice again. “The revenue men are about.”
Kate needed no further explanation, which bothered me more than I had time to contemplate. It was a neat fiction between me and Robert and Kate that everything was well with my father. I knew they suspected the truth, but we had an unspoken agreement never to talk of it directly.
The heat of the day became heavier the farther I descended, through the house and down the hill to the marsh path. I felt a moment’s apprehension about entering the fens on my own, especially after the warning the Lantern Man had given me last night, but I had no choice. The path through the Broads was by far the quickest route to my house.
When I emerged from the marsh at Penleaf Cottage, flushed and damp with sweat, I was pleased not to have been harassed by man nor myth. But my relief was short-lived. A trio of horses stood on the road outside our front gate, bending over to chomp at the overgrown grass growing between the slats of our fence. I lifted my skirts and raced toward the house.
The kitchen door stood open, as Mrs. Brittle often left it on hot days while she cooked. The room was empty, though there was a pot simmering on the stove, and I hurried into the hall, skidding to a halt at the sight of Mrs. Brittle standing next to the open door to Father’s study. Her face was red from more than the heat and her hands were clenched into fists as she glared up at the man standing before her holding an empty bottle.
My stomach dropped.
It was Sergeant Watkins, a riding officer with the Board of Customs. This wasn’t my first encounter with the portly revenue man. He had “randomly” searched our cottage on several occasions looking for evidence of smuggl
ed goods. I wasn’t certain why our home was chosen so often for his raids. Perhaps it was the location, deep within the Broads next to the waterways through which the contraband was trafficked, or perhaps it was Father’s status as a gentleman. Maybe someone had informed him about my father’s drinking preferences. Whatever the reason, I was far more familiar with Sergeant Watkins’ perpetually stubbly face than I would have liked.
And now it appeared he’d finally found what he was looking for.
I must have made some sort of noise, for they turned to look at me. Mrs. Brittle’s angry gaze softened in apology while Sergeant Watkins’s only sharpened.
His mouth curled in an unctuous smirk. “Miss Winterton. Good of ye to join us.” He lifted the bottle with a single drop of Father’s precious French brandy still circling the bottom. “Care to explain this?”
“What is it?” I asked, deciding to brazen it out.
I tried not to squirm as he surveyed me from head to toe. “Ye know very well. Where is yer father?”
I glanced at Mrs. Brittle out of the corner of my eye, wishing I knew what she’d already told him. “He’s not feeling well,” I finally replied, falling back on our standard excuse.
“Is he, now?” The malicious light in his eyes told me he was not fooled, and that he derived far too much enjoyment from his job. “Well, I’m afraid we’ll still need to speak to ’im.”
I stared over his shoulder for the first time at the two men standing behind him. The younger one sported a head full of ink-black hair and looked distinctly uncomfortable, while the other seemed to be enjoying himself as much as Sergeant Watkins.
“Is that really necessary?” I stalled. Father was likely nursing a thick head, which often made him belligerent. His presence could only make matters worse. “Surely I can clear up this…misunderstanding.”
Sergeant Watkins’ eyebrows lifted. “Oh?”
“That bottle was a gift from a friend. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to punish my father for someone else’s poor taste.” I tried to smile, but I’m sure it looked more like a grimace.
“I see. And who is this…friend?”
“Oh, I don’t wish to get him into trouble.”
“That’s a shame.” He grinned, flashing crooked yellow teeth. “Then I’m afraid yer father’ll have to pay his friend’s fine in addition to his own.”
I gasped. “You can’t do that!”
“But I can,” he assured me, naming the crippling amount of money we now owed the Crown.
“We don’t have that kind of money,” I protested.
“I’ll collect it later,” he replied. His gaze cut me like a knife. “I know ye’re not goin’ anywhere.”
“No. I mean, we don’t have the money. At all.” Just look at our cottage. Did he honestly think it would be in such a state of disrepair if we had the money to keep it up?
“Then I suggest ye find it. Unless…” He sidled closer, and the look he gave me made my skin crawl. “Ye wish to make other arrangements.”
I swallowed the bile at the back of my throat and glanced at his associates. Neither man made a move to interfere with their superior’s inappropriate behavior.
“I’ll find the money,” I replied stonily.
The oily smirk never left Sergeant Watkins’ face. “See that ye do.”
Chapter 7
M
rs. Brittle and I stood silently by the front door, watching as the three men mounted their horses and rode away. When they disappeared behind the tall marsh grasses, she turned to me, her words sharp with anger that I knew was not directed at me. “What are ye goin’ to do? Ye’ve already sold everythin’ o’ any value.”
I tightened my arms around my middle and stared stiffly into the distance, where the dirt kicked up by the riding officers’ horses had finally settled. “Not everything.”
Her voice softened in understanding. “But ye love that pianoforte.”
I didn’t deny it. It was obvious the instrument meant something to me, otherwise I would have sold it long ago. Now I had no choice.
“There mun’ be somethin’ else. A paintin’? Somethin’ o’ yer father’s?”
I shook my head. All of the artwork and furnishings of any value had already been sold. The house had been picked clean, even of Father’s gold cufflinks.
“Ye could ask Master Rockland,” she suggested, carefully avoiding my eyes, and for good reason.
“No,” I replied. I would not bring Robert into this. Things were already strained and awkward between us, our past always overshadowing our interactions. I would not be indebted to him, too. Not if I could help it. Not until I knew.
Robert had begun to show signs that he wished to return to the way things had been before Olivia. The problem was I didn’t know if I could. If I even wanted to. Though Father’s financial troubles might soon make it impossible for me not to at least seriously consider it. I was practical enough to understand that marriage to Robert, whatever our true feelings, would be better than most of the other options I faced once Father drank us out of our home or killed himself with brandy.
Suddenly feeling bone-tired, I pushed the door closed. “I’ll write to our solicitor tomorrow.” I trudged toward the stairs, then paused with my hand on the banister. “Should Father ask, tell him I’m not feeling well enough to join him for dinner.”
I was grateful when Mrs. Brittle didn’t question me or offer me one of her tinctures, even though that meant she knew I was lying—that I would rather go to bed with an empty stomach than face my own father.
~ ~ ~
I blinked open my eyes into the murky light of dusk that filtered into my room through the still-open curtains. It took me a moment to remember why I was lying in my bed at this hour of the day, and then it all came back to me, permeating my mind like the water rising over the marsh paths in the spring. I closed my eyes, wishing myself back into oblivion, but I could already feel the tension returning to my muscles. Once a list of things to do began to run through my mind, I realized sleep was hopeless.
I dragged myself out of bed and across the room to splash water on my face and straighten my hair. I stood for a moment in the hall outside my door. The cottage was quiet except for its normal creaks and groans. Mrs. Brittle, I knew, would be in her room off the kitchen, and I suspected father was either out or in his study, for I didn’t hear the sound of his snores coming from his bedchamber. Whether he had gone in search of or found another bottle of brandy stashed somewhere in the house, I didn’t know. And for once, I didn’t care. Let him drink himself into a stupor. Just so long as I didn’t have to see him.
I crept down the stairs in the gray light of evening and into the drawing room with its mismatched chairs and bare tables. I didn’t light a candle, the better to ignore the bright squares of wallpaper untarnished by soot, where our paintings used to hang. I didn’t really need the light anyway, not for what I wanted to do.
I sat down on the stool and opened the lid to the pianoforte, staring down at the pale blur of keys. I rested my fingers against the cool, smooth ivory and closed my eyes. It didn’t require much effort to imagine my mother seated in a chair beside me, offering encouragement and instruction as I stumbled through a new piece of music. Or to recall how she tilted her head back whenever she reached a particularly powerful passage, as if allowing her fingers to carry her away. Or to see my father leaning over her, adoration shining in his eyes as he waited for her nod to indicate he should turn the page of music.
I opened my eyes, hoping to banish that particularly painful memory. At least I could remember Mother as she had been—at her best. Father, on the other hand, had provided me with years of unwanted recollections of him slowly killing himself with drink.
I flushed with anger. Why could he not stop? If not for himself, then at least for me. I knew how much he loved Mother. I knew how much it devastated him when she died, and then to lose Erik so soon after. But what about me? Was I of so little account? After all, I had lost them, too.
Not for the first time, or the last, I was sure, I pressed my hand to my chest over my aching heart and wished Mother was there. Everything would be so different if she was still alive.
But she was not. And so I must do what I must.
I inhaled through the tightness in my chest as I stared down at the shadowy outline of the pianoforte. Sentiment was the only reason we still owned it. It would have been far more practical to sell it long ago, before I began picking through the furnishings and less expensive artwork. It would fetch far more money than an armoire or my string of pearls. But the pianoforte had been Mother’s, and I always felt closer to her when I was playing a Bach concerto or a Haydn sonata, so I had delayed it as long as possible.
I’d hoped this day would never come. Though now that it had, I could tell I’d been bracing for it for months, and not just for emotional reasons. Once the money from the sale of the pianoforte was spent, we would truly be near destitution. All of the furniture and clothing we had left were worth very little. Even my old, battered violin would not fetch more than tuppence. The only thing of value I still owned was my mother’s brooch, and I would never part with that. Garnets and seed pearls surrounded the center of the gold brooch, which contained woven locks of my maternal grandmother’s auburn hair carefully set behind glass. Hair the same shade as my mother’s, and mine.
I reached up to feel its familiar weight, but my fingers merely brushed against cloth. I looked down, patting my hands over my bodice to see if it had shifted, but there was nothing there.
Panic stiffened my spine. Maybe it had fallen off while I slept? I dashed up the stairs to my room, feeling nauseated with the need to find the precious brooch. I frantically searched the sheets and blankets then dropped to my knees to run my hands over the rug and bare floors around and under my bed. Nothing.
I tried desperately to recall the last time I had touched it. I remembered fingering it as I read to Kate just before luncheon, and the heft of it as it bounced off my collarbone as I fanned myself with my dress on the terrace at Greenlaws. That was the last distinct memory I had of seeing or feeling it.
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