St. John was nowhere to be seen.
Apparently even a miserable bed at the Blue Herring held more appeal of a morning than a day of hard and likely thankless work—the kind a hero undertook regardless. She had expected it to be more of a challenge to reveal his true colors to the town.
“Abby, my dear, are you better?” Sarah walked immediately to her friend’s side and took her hand.
“Much,” Abigail Norris replied, although her smile was still weak and her brown eyes heavy-lidded.
“Well,” Sarah said, giving Abby’s fingers a squeeze and glancing at the sky, “we’ll just have to pray the storm blows over before Thursday.”
“And what storm is that, dear?” Abby asked innocently.
Sarah considered all the storms bearing down on her and only wished she could say which posed the more immediate threat.
“Gather ’round, everyone,” she called with a clap of her hands. “And thank you for agreeing to help. Mr. Norris has made sure every parish within twenty miles knows about our little festival, so we must prepare for visitors. The plan is to have stalls for the bazaar set up here along the top of the quay,” she said, gesturing above her, “and here below, in the evening, there’s to be a dance under the stars.”
It was unconventional—and all likely to be ruined if rough weather came in off the sea. But the wide foot of the quay, where the ships’ cargos were loaded onto sledges and taken up the road, was the largest open area in town, as there were no assembly rooms. “The children can begin by sweeping off the stones and setting everything to rights. And if the men—”
“Ho!” Gerald Beals’s voice rang out over the cobblestones. Sarah turned to see him leading one of a pair of donkeys drawing a sledge laden with lumber from an old barn at Haverty Court that had been damaged in a storm. “Here’s the wood for the stalls, Mrs. F.”
As she raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, she realized that the second donkey was led by St. John. He was dressed for work, as she had instructed—or at least, as best a man of his rank could be. Over his crisp white linen and buckskin breeches, he had put on an apron of some heavy stuff, probably borrowed from Mr. Beals. The light breeze off the water rippled his shirt and revealed the breadth of his shoulders beneath it. Tossing the donkey’s lead to one of the little boys, he pulled off a glove to run a hand over his bare head, pushing his golden hair behind his ears. Then he came toward her, all blue eyes and dazzling smile.
“Mrs. Norris,” he cried, extending a hand to the vicar’s wife. “On the mend, I hope?”
Abby positively simpered. “Why, yes, thank you, Lieutenant Fairfax.”
“Sorry I’m late, ma’am,” St. John said, turning his charm on her. “Beals asked for a hand.”
“Of course.” Sarah nodded, casting Mr. Beals what she hoped would pass for a smile. “Once you’ve unloaded the wood, you can help the Rostrum brothers and young Colin build the stalls. You do know how to hammer a nail, don’t you?” she asked sweetly.
His smile shifted slightly, but it did not leave his face. “I think, Sarah,” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear, “what I’ve learned in the last three years would amaze you.”
Thankfully, one of the little boys chose just that moment to tug at her skirts. “Coming,” she called, and within moments, she was surrounded by a flurry of activity, showing the children how to sweep the sand so that it didn’t fly up in their faces and sending furtive glances toward the knot of men as they set about their task.
St. John did not wait for instruction but jumped into the fray and offered what the other men seemed to find valued suggestions; by the time the sun was high in the sky, the first stall was standing and St. John had emerged as the carpenters’ leader.
At midday the crowd had almost doubled, as the women of the village finished their household chores and brought their children down to the quay to join in the work. Fanny Kittery stood off to one side under the meager shade of a dainty parasol, frowning down at a girl not much older than Clarissa who had just swept a pile of dried donkey dung past her feet.
Feeling her lips twitch in a smile, Sarah turned her head to avoid being seen, only to discover Emily Dawlish standing by her side, watching the men work.
“I just come down to say that your dress’ll be done by Wednesday teatime,” Emily declared, her eyes never leaving the men.
“Why, Emily, you must be working your fingers to the bone! Really, it wasn’t necessary.”
But Emily foreclosed her protest with a shake of her head. “’Tain’t nothin’, Mrs. F. And no charge, neither,” she added, giving Sarah a nudge with her elbow.
“How—?”
Emily fixed her glittering eyes on Sarah’s face. “Your man come by, wantin’ a couple o’ things done up quick. Said he forgot to pack a change o’ linen.”
Forgot? More likely he had not planned to stay long enough to require such a thing.
“I told him I’d hafta get the cloth at Gaffard’s,” Emily continued. “He didn’t make no mind about that, so I just added the muslin for the dress onto his bill. I figure, what do men know about the cost o’ such things?”
Heaven only knew Sarah didn’t have a penny to spare for frivolities. She felt torn between an obligatory protest at such deceit and a peculiar gladness for the girl’s cleverness. Before she could determine which to express first, Emily turned her gaze back to the working men and sighed.
“Lord, mum. Word’s abroad you’re givin’ him the cold shoulder, but I don’t rightly see how you can!”
There was no denying that St. John cut a fine figure. And Sarah could not suppress a little twinge of pride at the thought that it was highly unlikely any other lady of his acquaintance—Eliza Harrington included—had seen him looking so. Gone were the accoutrements of a gentleman, the lace-edged sleeves and tight-fitting coat. In their place was a sweat-dampened shirt of fine cambric that clung to the muscles of his back like a second skin. Sarah had never known physical labor to make a man so appealing. But then, Sarah knew of no laborers who had St. John’s good looks to start.
Watching him work, she could almost forget that he intended to see her pay dearly for crimes she had not committed.
The arrival of Mrs. Potts bearing two large baskets of food rescued her thoughts from taking such a maudlin turn. Clarissa darted to and fro like a hummingbird. Workers young and old fell on the repast, and before long, Mr. Mackey showed up, rolling a small keg of ale before him.
“Thought ye might’ve worked up a thirst,” he said in his gruffest voice.
Sarah very nearly hugged him.
While the small crowd ate and drank and talked, Sarah looked at all they had accomplished in a few short hours. The stones of the quay and the landing had been swept clean, and what had this morning been a pile of discarded lumber was now a series of neat stalls. Mrs. Gaffard had brought a bolt of striped fabric and was draping it festively across first one and then another before stepping back to inspect the effect. Farther along the quay, the Mackey girl had gathered the youngest children, Clarissa included, and was amusing them with stories and games to keep them from getting underfoot.
Surrounded by her successes, Sarah did not realize she was no longer alone until a shadow fell across her shoulder.
“Admiring your empire?” St. John’s voice came from behind her.
“I’m pleased, yes,” she acknowledged, moving slightly, but not enough to face him. “It’s a good morning’s work. Now, if the weather holds and people come, I will consider it a success.”
“The Fishermen’s Relief seems a worthy cause, and I wish it well.” He paused. “I cannot help but wonder, though, how this burden came to rest on your shoulders.”
She raised one quizzical brow. “Burden, my lord? I would not describe it so.”
“But the family at Haverty Court—?”
“Landlords sometimes fail to do their duty by the villages in their trust,” she answered, cutting him a sideways glance. The marquess had spoken
fondly of Lynscombe, the Sutliffe family seat, but Sarah had never seen it. St. John could not bear being immured in Hampshire, Lady Estley had confided to her.
“Sometimes landlords lack the means to make the necessary improvements.”
She knew quite well why St. John had married her, just as she knew she had not imagined the defensiveness in his voice. Chancing a look in his direction, she glimpsed the stubborn set of his jaw. He looked in that moment quite remarkably like his daughter, and she almost smiled at the resemblance.
But she caught herself.
“Spending money is not the only way to fulfill one’s responsibilities, my lord. Sometimes a bit of genuine concern for the people involved will reveal other ways to help.” She cast her eyes over the little community gathered around her. “In any case, there is no family at Haverty Court now. I met the old earl once, but his health is poor. He spends all his time in London, where he can be near his physicians. I wrote to him last year with the idea for this festival. Six months later, his secretary sent word that I could proceed with his blessing.”
“He ought to be grateful,” St. John replied, his eyes still on the children at play along the quay. “And his son does not—?”
“One hears rumors of sons who spare little thought for the people and places that will make up their true inheritance, more’s the pity.” How did the people of Lynscombe fare in comparison to those of Haverhythe? She doubted she would ever know.
She felt him shift his weight, as if her words had succeeded in making him uncomfortable. “One can hope such sons learn the error of their ways.”
“Indeed, one can,” she agreed. “But Lord Haverty has no son. No children at all, in fact. His nephew will inherit, when the time comes.”
“And what sort of man is he?”
“I could not say.”
They stood in silence for a long moment. The skin along her spine prickled, as the heat radiating from his body penetrated the fabric of her dress. But she would not step away and give him the satisfaction of knowing how his presence affected her.
“Beals tells me there’s to be a dance Thursday evening,” he said at last.
Sarah nodded.
“A wonderful idea. And where will it be held?”
“Right here, where we’re standing. The musicians will sit over there,” she added, indicating with a wave of her hand the broad steps that led up the quay. “I had thought of using the ballroom at Haverty Court, but alas, that was not to be.”
“Better this way, I think.” She could not keep from looking at him then, suspecting him of laughing at her idea. But his countenance was sincere. “The people of the village would not feel as comfortable there. You will want them to enjoy themselves after all their hard work.”
“Of course,” she agreed.
“I do believe, though, that it should be tried first.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She felt his fingers slide slowly down her arm and grasp her hand as he came around in front of her and made a bow. “Your dance floor. It ought to be tested.”
And before she could protest—before she could offer any reply at all—he had swept her into a rollicking country dance, whirling her across the cobblestones and in and out among her neighbors, who soon began clapping a fierce rhythm to accompany them.
Despite the rough surface and his heavy boots, St. John moved with confident grace and effortlessly drew her along with him. The ribbons of her bonnet streamed past her chin like dark, delirious butterflies, and her fingertips tingled where they rested in his strong, work-roughened hands—skin against skin, most unlike a proper ballroom. Every cliché she had ever heard about dancing seemed suddenly to have become a profound truth. She did feel lighter than air.
“I’ve just realized this site has another advantage.”
“What’s that?” she asked, already slightly breathless.
“I heard you play so beautifully yesterday.” Sarah accepted the compliment with a slight nod, wondering where this was leading. “But this lovely spot requires more portable instruments, so you cannot be expected to provide the evening’s accompaniment.” He stepped back with a smile and she mirrored his movement. “You will dance instead. With me,” he insisted, drawing her close once again.
Shaking her head, she ducked under his arm. “I cannot dance only with you.”
“You expect the rules of the ballroom to be observed under the open sky?”
They were back to back now, so she could not see his eyes. She felt safe in a teasing reply. “I intend to be properly sociable. If you look closely, you’ll find that my dance card is already half-full.”
“We’ll just see about that,” he said as he spun her around and went down the dance again.
In truth, she had expected not to dance at all. She had expected to haunt the fringes with the widows and matrons, watching others enjoy themselves.
In this one small way, perhaps, St. John’s arrival was a reprieve.
All around them, others took up the unheard melody. Mr. Gaffard bowed to Mrs. Potts, while Mr. Beals took Emily Dawlish’s hand and led her in a breathless romp across the landing. The older children joined in with untaught glee, inventing steps to suit themselves. Scandalized, Mrs. Kittery allowed her parasol to droop to one side, her lips creased with disapproval.
Sarah tipped back her head and laughed.
St. John’s eyes seemed to glow with what she could only describe as approval. “Can it be that we’ve never danced before, Sarah?”
Instantly, she was taken back to the night of their nuptial ball. The musicians on the dais tuning their instruments, about to begin. Lady Estley in a flurry because St. John, who was to open the dance with his new bride, was nowhere to be seen. Her own eager—and, as it turned out, foolish—offer to look for him.
She had found him, of course. With Eliza.
Sarah stumbled, and although St. John could have carried her through the gaffe with ease, she could not seem to make herself move. Their abrupt stop brought the impromptu dance to a ragged close. Nervous barks of laughter came from the men, and the women lifted self-conscious hands to smooth their hair. It was as if a cloud had suddenly covered the sun.
“Sarah?” St. John coaxed, tucking a finger under her chin to raise it.
But she would not face him. How could she have let down her guard, even for a moment?
Then the screech of what sounded like seabirds filled the air, and Sarah chanced a peek at the head of the quay. All the little children were standing or kneeling at the edge facing the village. She had taken one step forward to admonish them when she saw Georgina Mackey pointing down and shrieking. And in that terrible moment, the earth simply stopped spinning and ground to a shuddering halt.
A child’s form bobbed in the still water of the harbor. And the wind at last carried Georgina’s cries to Sarah’s ears.
“Clarissa! Clarissa!”
Chapter 9
Heedless of her inability to swim, Sarah charged into the water. St. John’s strong hands pulled her back. He had paused only to tug off his boots and now raced past her into the shallows. She watched helplessly as he waded up to his waist and then dove forward, his powerful strokes gaining on Clarissa’s distant form, now little more than a bundle of rags being swept out to sea with the retreating tide.
A cry went up from the crowd when he reached her, although Sarah could no longer see either man or child. Her mind had turned inward, fearing the worst. How much water had Clarissa taken in? Had she struck her head on one of the massive pilings that supported the quay deep beneath the water’s surface? Could the fall itself have broken her neck? Sarah sank to her knees in the surf and began to pray.
Hampered by the weight of the child and her wet dress, and no doubt fatigued from his frantic race to reach her, St. John swam more slowly now. For long moments, it looked as if he would never be able to persuade the ocean to give up its prize. But after what seemed hours, and was probably only minutes, his body broke through the
surface of the water like Poseidon stepping from the sea, and he began to walk toward them, carrying Clarissa facedown over one shoulder. The Rostrum brothers hustled to help him, and together, they laid their dripping burden on the sun-warmed sand of the shore. St. John raised her arms above her head, rolled her on her side and back again, pressed against her tiny chest a few times, and then laid his ear against her heart and listened.
Sarah somehow restrained herself through that long series of motions before shouldering him aside with strength that surprised even her and falling on her daughter. So pale and so cold. She pressed trembling fingers against Clarissa’s blue lips. Anything to hear her plead for a story or a spoonful of jam again. How could she ever have denied such little requests? “Oh, ’Rissa, ’Rissa,” she murmured, whispering words in some long-forgotten language known only to mothers, covering her child’s still form with her body, as if to shield her from the pitiless gaze of the world. Somewhere nearby stood Mrs. Kittery, no doubt muttering beneath her breath that this was a blessing in disguise.
Sarah again felt hands pulling at her, and she clawed the sand, scrabbling to maintain her hold on her child.
“Sarah.” St. John’s voice. St. John’s hands, drawing her relentlessly away. “Sarah!” Sharper, more demanding. A tooth-rattling shake of her shoulders. “Listen to me. She’s breathing, Sarah. Give her room. Give her air.”
And suddenly, she could hear it: a bubbling, burbling sort of breath that in another moment gave way to a sputtering cough, and then the child vomited a prodigious quantity of salt water, twice, and sank back onto the sand with a moan.
“Mama?” Clarissa’s lips moved to form the word, although Sarah heard no sound over the pounding of her own heart.
“Yes, dear one. Mama’s here. Right here.”
To Kiss a Thief Page 9
