Spinning on her heels she started toward the door. A rough scraping noise sounded outside. She froze dead in the center of the room as the handle began to turn.
The door opened, revealing a thin sprig of a boy with reddish brown hair that was in serious need of cutting and a pair of deep-set caramel-hued eyes. They widened in clear astonishment, his mouth dropping wide at the sight of her.
“Sebastianne!” he shouted, barreling across the room toward her.
She nearly lost her balance as he careened into her, his wiry arms locking like steel bands around her waist. “Tu-es ici!”
“Oui, I am here, Luc,” she said, her words thick with the tears that sprang to her eyes. Enfolding him in her arms, she hugged him to her.
After a moment, she looked up and into the gaze of Julien, the older of her two brothers at twelve years—thirteen actually, since he’d had a birthday while she had been away. He remained unmoving, staring at her with far too much seriousness for a boy his age.
She held out an arm to him and smiled, still hugging Luc against her side. The battle Julien waged showed on his face; the man in him angry that she’d left, the boy happy at her return and ready to forgive. He took a single, jerky step forward, even his body uncertain and struggling.
Suddenly, as if something broke free inside him, he raced toward her with every bit as much speed as his sibling and threw himself into her arms.
Tears slid over her cheeks as she clutched him near, cradling them both. For a long moment, she stood in the three-way embrace, savoring the joy of reunion and the relief that no harm had come to her brothers as she’d feared.
“When you weren’t here, I grew worried,” she said in rapid French, the words sounding odd and strangely rusty on her tongue. “I thought perhaps you had gone. The kitchen doesn’t look as if it’s been used in some time.”
“It hasn’t,” Julien volunteered, the old smile she remembered back on his face. “You know Papa cannot cook, and Luc and I burn everything. We almost caught the cottage on fire trying to make soup, and that’s not an easy thing to do.”
She laughed. “I am relieved the house and both of you are well. So where is Papa?”
“He will be here soon. We were at Madame Breton’s for a meal. She says since her husband died in the war, the dishes she makes are too much for her to eat on her own. So she lets us share her table. I think she is just lonely and likes the company, Papa’s in particular.”
Sebastianne digested that nugget as she loosened her arms from around her brothers and let them step back. Luc, obviously unwilling yet to be parted, slipped his hand into hers.
She gave it a squeeze.
“Well, I am back and shall cook for you all again,” she declared, deciding as she cast another glance around the room that the house needed a good cleaning as well.
Julien peered at her with his too-serious eyes. “So you’re here to stay? You won’t leave again?”
“No, never again,” she said, determined that her promise would not be a lie.
After a moment, Julien relaxed, his lanky muscles visibly unwinding in a way that left him looking younger and more like the boy he still was.
There was a scraping noise on the threshold just then that drew her attention toward the door once again. Poised in the entrance stood a slender man of middling years, a pair of round wire glasses on his nose that gave him an owlish expression. He had a shock of long, thick grey hair that he kept tied back in a queue, an affectation that belonged to a bygone era, a way of life that had all but been swept aside by years of blood and violence.
“Ma fille,” he said gruffly. “You have come home.”
“Oui, Papa.”
“And your cousin in Paris? She is well?”
Sebastianne lowered her gaze, thinking of the lie she had told him before her departure—the lie she had been forced to tell them all. She wished she could unburden herself, wished she could tell them everything—except perhaps of her love for Drake. Of that she would tell no one; some losses simply cut too deep to be shared.
“Cousin Paulette is as well as can be expected,” she said, hating the necessity of her continued deception. Dieu, but I am so weary of lying.
Some glimmer of her anguish must have shown despite her attempt to hide it since her father sent her a look of concerned understanding. “It is never easy nursing the sick. I have missed you, child. We all have,” he said, opening his arms wide.
And this time, it was her turn to run.
Releasing Luc’s hand, she sped across the room and into the warmth and comfort of her father’s strong arms.
And finally, she was home.
Chapter 25
Three days following his departure from London, Drake took to the village streets of Ambleside. A market town, whose origins traced all the way back to Roman and Viking times, it held flavors of both rural quaintness and burgeoning industrialism.
Drake began his search in the center of town, deciding to focus on the older generation of townsfolk who might have some memory of Anne’s family, assuming she hadn’t been lying about having once lived in the village. Spotting a grizzled old man seated outside one of the town’s public houses, he approached.
“Pardon me,” Drake said, “but I’m wondering if you can assist me. I am looking for a woman.”
The man shot him a look out of curious grey eyes, the stem of a long-handled pipe tucked tight inside one withered cheek. “A woman, eh? Well, ain’t we all lookin’, at one time o’ another.” He cackled at his own remark, shifting the pipe to his other cheek as he coughed out a laugh.
Drake restrained his impatience. “No, not that sort of woman. A specific one in particular.” Flipping open his notebook, he located the sketch he’d done of Anne all those weeks ago at the theater. An uncomfortable pang twisted like a blade in his chest as he gazed at the pencil rendering. He’d captured her likeness remarkably well, too well perhaps. Sternly, he pushed the sensation away and turned his attention back to the old man.
He held out the notebook. “Do you recall ever seeing her? Might you know her family? I am given to understand she is from this area. Her surname is Greenway.”
The old man peered at the drawing. “Can’t says as I do. Ne’er seen ’er and don’t know no nobody by that name in these parts.”
“You are certain?” Reaching into his pocket, Drake withdrew a pair of shillings and held them pointedly between his fingers.
Rather than reaching for them, the codger just stared. “Ye can put away yer coin. Won’t get ye what yer looking for. Like I says, don’t know ’er or ’ers. Wot she done anyway? Wot ye want ’er fer?”
Drake considered how best to answer. “She was in my employ and departed unexpectedly. I am trying to locate her.”
A pair of thick white eyebrows went high although Drake couldn’t tell if the other man was surprised or amused, or maybe both. “Nicked the silver, did she?”
“Not exactly.”
“Weel, she’s naught to me,” the man declared, clicking his tobacco-stained teeth against his pipe stem. “Ye might try the magistrate, fancy gent like you, but he won’t know naught either. He’s only ever ’ome when it suits ’im and it don’t suit ’im much.”
Drake flipped the notebook closed, realizing he would get no further. “Yes, well, thank you for your help.” Or lack thereof, he thought irritably.
“My pleasure,” the old man called as Drake moved away. Grinning, the codger leaned over and spit, cackling as he put the pipe back in his mouth.
Determined to proceed, Drake walked on.
There were a large number of people gathered in the town center, all come to buy or sell the market wares. Walking among them with patient deliberation, he continued his search for information about Anne.
Her father and brothers, he quickly learned, were not members of the local community, and no one se
emed to recognize his drawing of Anne. Obviously, she’d lied to him again, he realized, and this journey north amounted to nothing more than a wild-goose chase. He’d guessed as much, but he supposed it had been worth the attempt.
He finished questioning one last woman, a kindly-faced fruit seller, who’d beamed when he bought a pennyweight of her sweet cherries. Deciding he might as well admit defeat for now, he tucked his notebook back inside his coat pocket. He would start for Skye in the morning and see if that produced more satisfactory results.
“I hear ye’ve been askin’ about the Greenways,” said a quiet, feminine voice not far behind his right shoulder. Turning, he glanced down at a small, round-hipped woman attired in a well-made but faded brown cotton dress, who had a basket of vegetables hooked over one arm. She regarded him out of sharp, pale blue eyes that looked as if they never missed a trick.
“That’s right,” he told her. “Do you know them?”
She nodded, the lace edges of her cap fluttering around her face. “I did, but the last of the family moved away a good long while ago, near fifteen years ago, if I remember right.”
Fifteen years!
He was still absorbing that sliver of information, when she continued on. “The squire died years afore that, of course, and his wife not long after. Terrible tragedy, them both going so soon after each other. The house and land passed to some distant cousin. Skinflint of a man, who sold it off before his relations were barely cold in their graves. That’s why folks don’t much think of the name now. Been more than twenty years since it all began.”
Her information wasn’t exactly to the point, but he would ask about the drawing just in case.
“I have a picture,” Drake began, reaching into his coat pocket again for his notebook, “perhaps you might take a look—”
Her eyes twinkled with lively anticipation. “Certainly, yes, I’d be pleased to look. But first, why do we not continue our conversation over a spot of tea? So much more enjoyable than talking in a public square. I’m sure a fine gentleman such as yourself must be growing parched on a warm day like this, and I could do with a sit down about now. My joints, you understand, they plague me something terrible, and the marketing only makes them worse. My house is just along the way, not far at all.”
Drake only barely kept his eyebrows from narrowing into a frown. “Thank you, ma’am, for your very kind offer, but I’m afraid my time here is limited. If you could just take a look—” Flipping open the cover, he displayed the drawing for her inspection.
She ignored it and gave him another cheery smile. “Pete at the hotel tells me you’ve taken a room for the night . . . Lord Byron is it?”
His brows drew down this time. This “Pete,” whoever he might be, obviously had a wagging tongue. “No, I am Lord Drake. Byron is my family name.”
Her cheeks pinked with excitement. “Byron. Like the poet? Are you a relation of his?”
“No. None at all.”
“More to the better, I suppose.” She sighed with a note of disappointment. “He does have such a dreadfully shocking and scandalous reputation.”
So does my own family on occasion, Drake thought in silent amusement, deciding not to enlighten her despite the obvious delight it would bring her.
“Mr. Wordsworth is a far more respectable sort,” she continued. “He’s a resident here, did you realize? The family took up lodgings at Rydal Mount only this spring. Perhaps you are acquainted with him?”
“No, I fear I have not had the pleasure,” Drake said, forcing himself to be patient. Although considering the indiscreet staff at the less-than-elegant hotel, perhaps he should apply to Mr. Wordsworth and his wife for a night’s lodging. “Now, about the picture. I really must ask if you would take a look.”
“Yes, yes, I shall. But tea first. Come along, my lord.” Turning, she trundled off on legs that showed no apparent sign of the rheumatism from which she claimed to suffer. Aware that he wouldn’t get any more information out of her unless he accepted her hospitality, however, he followed.
Twenty minutes later, he sat perched on a low, horsehair settee in her best parlor, watching as she fussed over the tea. If he didn’t miss his guess, Miss Pruitt, as she’d introduced herself, was the town gossip, and he, her latest prize. Quite likely his visit would keep her telling stories about her brush with the nobility for a full year of Sundays. Nevertheless, as town gossip, she clearly knew everyone, and everything that had ever happened in this town.
Now, the trick was to get her to tell him if she recognized Anne.
With a smile, he accepted a china cup, took a polite sip. “Delicious.”
She beamed and nudged the plate of cookies she’d offered twice before in his direction.
He took one and set it on his saucer untouched. “Back in the market square, you were telling me about the Greenways, and there was the drawing I mentioned that I hoped you might review.” Placing his teacup and saucer to one side, he withdrew his notebook again. With firm deliberation, he opened it to the page that bore Anne’s likeness. “Have you ever seen this woman?”
Clearly aware her stalling tactics were finally at an end, Miss Pruitt gave a tiny sigh and leaned forward. For a long moment, she studied the drawing. “No, my lord, I am afraid I have not.”
Drake held back a growl, wondering if she’d made up the story about the Greenways in order to get him into her parlor.
“She is oddly familiar though,” Miss Pruitt said after a moment, as she tapped a contemplative finger against her lips. “She reminds me rather strongly of Clara.”
He stopped. “Clara? Clara who?”
“Clara Greenway. She was the squire’s only child and caused quite the stir when she refused to accept the troth of her cousin. The sour-faced one I told you about, if you recall?”
He nodded, his interest suddenly riveted. “Yes, of course. Pray continue.”
At his encouragement, she drew breath and eagerly went on. “Well, the cousin arrived right after the squire’s untimely death, swooping in rather like a vulture to pick over the bones, some remarked at the time. He offered to let her remain in the family home if she would but marry him. Any sensible girl would have accepted, but not Miss Clara.”
Miss Pruitt clacked her tongue with a mixture of admiration and disapproval. “She had fallen madly in love with some Frenchman, you see. An émigré of noble birth, who was sadly penniless, as so many of them were after the horrible goings-on over there in that heathenish country. Imagine chopping off people’s heads like that!” she added with horror-struck relish, her blue eyes popping wide.
Drake decided not to point out that France had once been viewed as the center of all civilized culture. Neither did he make mention of the fact that English history was littered with examples of Englishmen—and women who had lost their heads to the axman, although admittedly not for several decades.
“So Miss Greenway made an imprudent alliance,” he stated.
“Precisely so!” Miss Pruitt told him with a vigorous nod, clearly delighted to have so attentive an audience. “More tea, my lord?”
Drake shook his head. “Thank you, but no. I am interested to hear the connection between Miss Greenway and the woman in this picture.”
“Is it recent? The drawing, I mean.”
“Yes,” he confirmed. “Quite recent.”
The spinster cast another accessing glance at the image. “I cannot say for certain, but based on the resemblance, particularly around the eyes, I wonder if she might be her daughter. Clara and her Frenchman had a little girl after their marriage, you know. The family lived here in Ambleside for several years before they left. Children change so much though as they age, it’s hard to tell if this is her.”
His heart pumped faster. “What was the child’s name? Do you recall?”
“Mmm, let me see. It was something unusual. French, wouldn’t you know.” Pick
ing up her teacup, she took a thoughtful sip. “It started with S but had a very English-sounding end. Let me see, what was that now.”
Drake squeezed one hand into a fist.
“It was Sabatine,” she said. “No, no wait, Sebastianne. Yes, that’s it, Sebastianne! Oh, I remember now. I used to call her little Miss Annie.”
Sebastianne . . . Annie . . . could it be her? Could the child Miss Pruitt described be my Anne?
But not my Anne anymore, he reminded himself harshly. She’d lied to him, betrayed him, deserted him. Without knowing or caring, she’d taken his heart and twisted it like so much clay. But it had hardened since then, grown tough and resilient. She was nothing more to him now than a thief, a stranger, whom he’d sworn to track down and from whom he would demand restitution.
What kind he hadn’t yet decided.
He forced his fingers to relax. “Can you recall her surname? You said Clara Greenway married and lived here for a time. How was she addressed?“
“Ah, it’s all coming back.” Miss Pruitt smiled and waggled a finger. “Miss Clara’s married name was Calvière. Mrs. Clara Calvière. Vastly elegant, do you not think?”
“Vastly,” he agreed in a somber tone.
So then, it would seem he was looking for a Sebastianne Calvière. Although if she had been telling the truth about being married, she would now bear another man’s name.
Good God, what if the husband isn’t really dead? What if she lied about that too?
His insides recoiled at the idea, both hands turning into fists this time. Force of will alone enabled him to relax his body again so that the spinster across from him wouldn’t detect his inner turmoil.
He smiled. “You said the last of the Greenways left this area fifteen years ago. Where did Madame Calvière and her family go?”
“Madame Calvière? . . . oh, you mean Miss Clara. Yes, she and her family packed up and went to France. We all warned them not to go, that the trouble there wasn’t done. But her husband would insist. Said Napoleon was welcoming back the old émigrés, and he missed his home. Said he wanted to show them the beauty of France and raise his family there. Clara adored him, so she agreed.”
The Bed and the Bachelor Page 24
