Whispers from the Shadows

by Roseanna M. White

  Her trunk sat in a corner, an island of familiarity. She opened it and pulled out a white muslin day gown not too terribly wrinkled or so complicated she would require assistance to get into it. After making use of the pitcher and basin and fantasizing about a bath—perhaps she would order one later—she changed, pinned up her hair, and felt marginally better.

  In the hall outside her room, shadows cloaked the windowless walls and made night feel closer. From behind the door nearest hers she heard familiar snoring in two tones. The Wesleys. She touched a hand to their door and drew in a long breath. No doubt they were nearly as exhausted as she from having to tend her. Try as she might, she could make out no other sounds from anywhere in the house. Were the Lanes all out? Gwyneth headed for the stairs and made her way down, though silence permeated the air.

  From the front rooms came only the tick-tock of the case clock in the parlor. She paused at the base of the stairs and turned in a circle. She had no idea where she ought to go, but it was cooler down here, so she intended to discover some corner in which to huddle.

  Or perhaps a table. She could draw, something the pitching of the ship had prohibited. And perhaps tomorrow she could get out her paints. Any table with a lamp would do for work with a pencil, but she would need a sunny spot if she were to dabble in oils. Did Captain Lane have any kind of a garden? Somewhere with flowers in bloom, a riot of color. Pinks and purples and yellows, oranges and greens of every shade. The play of light upon darkness.

  Darkness that oozed and yawned.

  No. She pressed a hand to her eyes to force that image away. Flowers, she would think about flowers. Roses and orchids and lilacs and lilies and…and…

  “Miss Fairchild, are you all right?”

  The intrusion of the voice made her jump and spin, but the start gave way to calm when she spotted Thaddeus Lane leaning into the doorway to the dining room.

  He was so tall his head would have hit the frame had he been standing straight, taller even than Papa. Slender, but the fit of his frock coat hinted at hard muscles. He had a pleasing face, not quite so handsome as his captain friend but with a more open expression in his eyes that drew her a step toward him before she remembered she did not know this man a whit.

  “I am…” She could not claim to be well. That was too obvious a falsehood. But the truth was hardly polite conversation. She twisted her fingers together and said no more. The fact that she was would have to do for now.

  Something sparked in his eyes, putting her in mind of the dark yellow topazes Mama had favored on autumn days. He stepped from the doorway and straightened. “You must be famished. Come, sit.” He motioned toward the room behind him. “I will ask Rosie to prepare you a plate. We expected you to sleep the night through.”

  “It is still today, then?”

  Only when he breathed a laugh did she realize how ridiculous a question that was. Heat kissed her cheeks, but the smile he sent her bespoke understanding.

  “Still today. You slept only four hours.” He ushered her into the brightly lit dining room, where the scent of beef lingered.

  “Four! I have not slept so much at once since I left.”

  She half expected him to echo Captain Arnaud and the Wesleys, to say that now that her feet were firmly upon the land, she would soon return to normal. Instead he only acknowledged her statement with a hum low in his throat.

  Gwyneth drifted to a stop, her gaze fastened on the cup at the head of the table. At home that was where Papa would have sat, steaming coffee before him.

  Captain Lane touched a hand to her elbow and pulled out the chair adjacent to the one that must be his. “Would you like some coffee, Miss Fairchild?”

  She had never cared for the stuff, but her father had always said a good cup of it could wake him like nothing else. At this point, it was worth a try. “Yes, please.”

  He set another white cup on the table and poured. “Cream and sugar are there if you take them. I will be back in a moment.”

  Pulling the mug closer, Gwyneth stared into the inky liquid. Then she had to close her eyes at a sudden assault of images. The grin on Papa’s face when she had begged him for a taste of his favorite brew. Mama’s laughter when she had wrinkled her nose at the first touch of bitterness on her tongue. The joy of realizing Papa must have returned from campaign when the scent filled the house again in the mornings.

  A clink brought her eyes open. A plate of food had appeared before her, and her host was taking his chair. “There you are. Your guardians retired and my parents took a stroll, but we only just finished. It was still warm.”

  “Thank you.” She lifted her fork but then paused to regard him. “You were not expecting us, were you. Despite what that letter from Papa said.”

  He cleared his throat and poured more coffee into his cup. “Correspondence from England has been rather undependable, but my home is always open to my friends.”

  “I am hardly that, Mr. Lane. I am only the daughter of your parents’ friend.”

  “Close enough.” He took a sip. “And it is ‘Captain.’ Or ‘Thad’—with my father in residence, it may otherwise be confusing.”

  Her fingers tightened around her fork. She couldn’t possibly.

  He leaned back in his chair and studied her. “What are your plans? Will you stay with us a while, or are you en route to somewhere else?”

  “I…” The muggy air seemed to converge upon her, weighing her arm down until she had to rest it upon the table. “Papa said to come here, and that he would be no more than a month behind me.”

  Except that he would never come, would never give her instruction on what she should do next. She was trapped in this land that wasn’t home, among a people who considered her the enemy.

  Why hide the truth? The London papers would report his murder, and they would not be far behind her.

  Her stomach cramped, and the world doubled again. Uncle Gates would come. He might already be on his way. What if he thought she knew about whatever he had been looking for? He would come, and he would kill her too, and the Wesleys, and perhaps even the Lanes.

  Through the fog over her eyes she saw the flash of a blade, wicked and sharp and aimed at her heart. Her throat ached with the scream she could not release. She didn’t dare. He would hear her, would turn on her.

  “Miss Fairchild?”

  Who was he, that man she called uncle? He was no soldier like Papa, to be trained to kill. He was only…what was it he had said, when she asked how he spent his days? I deal in words, Gwyn.

  Words. At the time she had thought he must be a writer, one working under a nom de plume. But was it so innocuous? Words could be such dangerous things. A few cruel or untrue ones, and a reputation could be ruined. One whisper from her uncle’s lips, and all of England could blame her for her father’s murder.

  She could even now be hunted by the law. Her only hope was to keep pretending ignorance. Then when they came after her, she could claim with some believability not to have known until the papers reached her.

  “Gwyneth.” Warm fingers covered her icy hand and bade her look up. His gaze parted the fog like the beam from a lighthouse. She ought to pull her hand away, tried to, but her fingers would not obey. “You are safe here. There is no need to fear. I promise you, I do not take lightly the trust your father puts in me.”

  A breeze blew in from the open window and soothed the fire of panic from her neck. She managed a nod.

  Thad smiled and withdrew his hand. “Eat. I know well what the fare is like on board a vessel crossing the Atlantic, and I promise this will be the best meal you have had in weeks.”

  It did smell good. She pulled off a piece of tender beef with her fork and put it in her mouth. Only after she’d taken several bites did she look at him again. “Did I see a child here earlier?”

  He had been studying her, but with a gaze so concerned she couldn’t mind it. And now he grinned as if a child himself. “Jack Arnaud. I imagine you will see a good deal of him, as my mother is the
closest thing he has to a grandmother.”

  The captain’s son. “Captain Arnaud said you were like a brother to him, but I am afraid I cannot remember anything else he may have told me. Has he a wife I will meet soon? Have you?”

  All light left his smile. “Widowers. Both of us.”

  The bite of creamy potatoes turned to sand. “I am so sorry.” If they had loved their wives even half as much as Papa had Mama, then she could well imagine their grief.

  “Thank you. And I am sorry for the loss of your mother. We received that sad news some six months ago.”

  Gwyneth nodded and set her fork back down. “Forgive me, sir. Delicious as it is, I haven’t much appetite after all. I think I ought to rest again.”

  “Of course.” He was quick to stand and pull her chair out for her, to offer his arm. “Once the sun goes down the air will begin to cool. Though if it is too stifling in your room, you are welcome to find your repose down here.”

  Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, she let him lead her into the hall, finding some small amusement in the way he ducked his head under the threshold. “Thank you, Thad.”

  She hadn’t meant to use his name, regardless of his invitation. But it slipped from her tongue as if she had been saying it for years. When she glanced up, and up still more, her gaze collided with his.

  The force of it knocked the breath from her lungs. “Why do you look at me like that?”

  Did her voice sound as tremulous to his ears as it did to her own? He shook his head and frowned, eyes still locked on hers. “I have never seen such shadows.”

  Of all the—she lifted her hand to touch the bruises under her eyes. Obvious as they might be, what sort of gentleman drew attention to them?

  The same sort, apparently, who dared to take her hand and lower it, and to offer a crooked, sorrowful smile. “I was not referring to the ones under your eyes, Gwyneth.”

  The same sort to use her given name without permission. But there was no one else left to use it, was there? She knew not what to do other than look away and drag in a shaky breath. “I think perhaps I will read or draw down here somewhere.”

  He pulled her forward, away from the stairs. “The drawing room, then. Usually I would recommend the library, but who knows what noxious fumes might be emanating from there these days?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  His chuckle seemed to chase away twilight’s encroaching fingers. “My father has laid claim to it for his chemistry laboratory.”

  “Oh, how interesting. I recall that Mr. Lane teaches chemistry and philosophy, now that you have reminded me.”

  “My library is a far cry from the laboratory he created at their home in Annapolis, I assure you. He and my…” Turning a corner, he scowled at a partially opened door from which light spilled.

  She looked from him to it, wondering what garnered his attention. When he put a finger to his lips, a frisson of fear slid up her spine.

  Silent as a cat, he leapt forward and pushed open the door. Gwyneth, her hand still tucked in his arm, had no choice but to move with him.

  The two figures within spun at the bang of wood on wall, the female shrieking and tossing a glass container, the man slapping a hand to his heart and scowling much like Thad had a moment before.

  Gwyneth could scarcely make sense of the tumult of voices. From Thad came an exasperated, “What in thunder are you two doing in here? I thought you went out, Father.”

  The older man, the elder Mr. Lane apparently, tossed the book he’d been holding onto a table. “Blast it, Thad, you have ruined the experiment. We were at the most sensitive juncture.”

  “Oh, no. No, no, no.” The young lady wiped at her dress with a rag. Even with the expression of dismay etched onto her face, she was quite possibly the most beautiful woman Gwyneth could recall seeing. Hair a rich auburn, features chiseled to perfection, flawless complexion, and a figure set off just so by a burgundy silk dress.

  Thad moaned, his gaze riveted to the floor. “What in blazes was that stuff, Philly? Look what it has done to my rug!”

  “Your rug?” The woman—Philly—turned large, outraged eyes on him. “Of what matter is your rug? When Reginald sees that I have ruined yet another gown—”

  “I bought that rug in Turkey!”

  Mr. Lane sighed and handed Philly another cloth. “Darling, what are you doing wearing such a fine dress in the laboratory anyway?”

  Her dismay gave way to a grin. “I was at a dinner party when the epiphany struck. You know how it is, Papa.”

  The last talon of fear released Gwyneth. This, then, was the middle Lane child, Phillippa. Philly. Of course.

  Thad loosed an exaggerated whimper. “I was overtaken by Barbary pirates. I nearly gave my life for that rug.”

  Mr. Lane came from behind the table, amusement crinkling his eyes. “And you fought your way out with admirable skill and unmatched bravery, coming home with, I believe, three nearly identical rugs. The second of which is in Annapolis, and the third…?”

  “In my attic with the fourth, but that is hardly the point. If you go through them at this rate, I shall have bare floors by August.”

  Mr. Lane’s gaze shifted to her, and he held out a hand. “Gwyneth dear. You will not remember me, but we were good friends fifteen years ago. I could scarcely pry you from my knee.”

  Gwyneth took her hand from Thad’s arm so she might place it in Mr. Lane’s. No memory filtered into her mind, but she smiled simply to realize that this was one of Papa’s dearest friends. “It is so nice to meet you again, sir.”

  “Papa.” Philly’s voice carried enough urgency to steal everyone’s attention. A mass of bubbles rose from one of the glass containers.

  Mr. Lane rushed back to the table. “I look forward to visiting with you later, Gwyneth.”

  Tucking her hand in his arm again, Thad pulled her back toward the door. “Welcome to life with the Lanes.” He cast one more frowning glance at his father, though it was colored with amusement. “He is not usually so articulate among unrelated females. Perhaps...”

  Gwyneth waited for him to finish his thought, but he said no more. He merely delivered her into another softly lit room and indicated the simple but pleasant appointments.

  “Make yourself at home. I have moved a fair selection of books in here in the last few weeks, and there is paper and whatnot in the secretaire.”

  “Thank you.” She released his arm and took a few steps inside before her feet refused to budge anymore. Looking over at him, she found he had retreated to the doorway and leaned into it in what must be his habitual way—the only way to keep from knocking his head against the lintel.

  Her throat tightened, and swallowing did nothing to ease it. She had to curl her fingers into her palm and force a smile.

  Thad studied her a moment more and then nodded. “If you have need of anything, you can risk interrupting my father again or else find my housekeeper, Rosie.”

  The weakness started in her knees. He was leaving, leaving her to fend for herself. “Where are you going?” Gwyneth slapped a hand to her mouth, her cheeks burning at the sharp look he sent her. Around her fingers she muttered, “I beg your pardon.”

  Of course he was leaving. She had arrived unannounced and was a veritable stranger besides. He could not be expected to interrupt his plans. And it didn’t matter. She was safe here. The Wesleys slept just up the stairs, and Mr. Lane and his daughter were right across the hall.

  She slid closer to the circle of lamplight and locked her knees to keep them from buckling.

  His gaze went from questioning to fierce. “Why did your father send you to us, Miss Fairchild?”

  “Miss Fairchild” again—had his manners returned, or had his friendly feelings simply fled? Gwyneth shrugged, not trusting herself to open her mouth lest more mortifying nonsense spill out.

  Thad folded his arms over his chest. “Forgive me for asking, but you can surely understand my curiosity.”

  Her fingers slip
ped from her mouth as her arm fell to her side, heavy and useless. “I…I do not know.”

  He pushed off from the door and took a few slow steps toward her. Towering above her so much that craning her head seemed insufficient, and she had to back up. Her legs bumped into some sort of cushion.

  “Do not know, Miss Fairchild, or will not say?”

  Her legs gave out, and she sank to the cushion of the sofa. “Do not know. Truly.”

  He narrowed his eyes and leaned down, boxing her in. “Did he send you here to observe our goings-on and report back to him?”

  The words pierced and lit a fire that exploded within her. She shot to her feet again, shoving him away and surely spewing flame from her eyes, it consumed her so. “How dare you! You accuse me of spying? Do I strike you as so baseborn a creature, sir? So vile? I am a gentlewoman, the great-granddaughter of a duke and granddaughter of two earls! To even think that—I say it again, sir. How dare you!”

  The fierceness left his eyes, but no apology filled them. Nor did any good humor touch the half smile he sent her way. “How innocent you are.” He shook his head and turned to the door. “Good evening, Miss Fairchild. I will see you at breakfast.”

  Whatever had pulled her taut released her when he strode away. She sank to the couch once more.

  Innocent, he said. She was innocent.

  So why did her hands feel stained with blood?

  Six

  Thad let himself in through the back door, humming an old maritime ballad as dawn kissed the horizon. Given the brilliant shades of crimson and fuchsia and the heat still weighting the air, a thunderstorm would likely roll through before day’s end.

  Smells of coffee and bread greeted him when he stepped into the kitchen. He met Rosie’s arched gaze with a grin. “Good morning, Rosie Posy.”

  His housekeeper may have been a speck of a woman, but she knew how to pack a wallop into her every look. “Were you out all night again, Thaddeus?”

  ’Twas like having two mothers, except the other one understood why he must be out at all hours seeking information to pass along to Tallmadge. “Only half of it. The other half I spent helping Alain with Jack.” He slid over to the stove to peek in a pot.