Then, in front of half the male population of the town, he had denounced her as a bawd-mistress! Recalling the strenuous efforts she had made to protect Vita Sykes’s virtue during their voyage, Jocelyn might have laughed of that preposterous accusation. If she had not been boiling with indignant fury, instead!
Her glove came off almost before she knew what she was doing. If she’d had a male escort with any gumption, he would have called her slanderer out for such an insult. Since she had vowed to make her own way in the world, without the assistance or hinderance of any man, she would have to defend her own honor—and, more importantly, that of her charges.
Just then, she could have cheerfully put a bullet through…
Who was this man, anyway? It seemed indecent, somehow, that he should inflame her emotions to such a pitch in so short a time, without bothering to introduce himself.
While he stood there, momentarily stunned by her counterattack, Jocelyn seized the opportunity to press her advantage. “Furthermore, what gives you the right to declare our ship is not welcome in Nova Scotia?”
Before he could answer, an anxious-looking young man detached himself from the crowd on the quay.
“Begging your pardon, ma’am.” He bowed to her. “This gentleman is His Excellency, Governor Sir Robert Kerr. He does have the authority to order your ship out of Halifax Harbor if he chooses.”
The governor? Jocelyn stared at Sir Robert Kerr in horror. She had just challenged the governor of Nova Scotia to a duel. Could her mission to the colony possibly have gotten off to a worse start?
Chapter Two
Sir Robert’s dream was rapidly turning into a nightmare!
He had publicly slandered Mrs. Finch and all the young women in her charge with the worst insult a man could make regarding a lady’s honor. She had responded by slapping his face and challenging him to a duel in front of half the town. The ugly gossip would set tongues wagging all over Halifax before the town clock up the hill struck another hour!
Would there be any other topic of conversation over local tea tables that afternoon? Sir Robert could picture his opponents consuming such morsels of damaging tattle as though they were rich little cakes iced with gleeful malice.
Worst of all, while the crowd gawked and snickered behind his back, and Mrs. Finch regarded him with a mixture of dismay and disdain, he froze in a way he had never done in the heat of battle.
Had he been a fool to take up this post? The Duke of Wellington’s personal recommendation had touched and flattered him. He wanted to acquit himself well to justify the duke’s faith in him. And to confound certain Whitehall factions who carped at the number of “Wellington’s Waterloo Warriors” being given plum colonial appointments.
But he was a military man, not a diplomat.
Fortunately, young Duckworth rallied to his support. “It would seem explanations are in order, Mrs. Finch, but this is hardly the proper time or place for them. Is it, Your Excellency?”
That was all the prompting Sir Robert needed. “No, indeed,” he snapped. “This is not a matter to be debated on a public wharf.”
He turned to the sentry he’d brought from Government House. “Disperse this crowd at once. Surely some of them have duties they ought to be attending.”
How Sir Robert wished he’d issued that order the moment he had arrived!
Under cover of the soldier’s enthusiastic bellows for everyone to move along and their buzz of annoyance at being deprived of an amusing spectacle, Sir Robert addressed himself to Mrs. Finch. “I think you had better come along with me to Government House, madam, where we may review your situation in private.”
His invitation came out sounding like an order, which he was far more accustomed to issuing.
Mrs. Finch turned back toward the ship. “May I bring the girls along? After the rigors of our voyage, they are anxious to get dry land under their feet again, poor dears.”
Sir Robert could not afford to let their plight arouse his sympathy. “I’m afraid that will not be possible.”
If he let them disembark before he’d decided how to deal with the situation, what was there to stop them from melting off into the town and getting up to unthinkable mischief? “Until this matter is settled, the young ladies and your crew must be confined aboard.”
“Confined?” Jocelyn Finch spun to face him again, her fine dark brows drawn together in an indignant frown. “As if they were a pack of criminals? I have never heard of such a contemptible lack of hospitality!”
“May I remind you, madam,” Sir Robert warned her in a tone he had often used with subordinates who questioned his orders, “you are not guests in this colony. You have arrived unannounced and uninvited. I have only your word as to your business in coming.”
Perhaps her mission was not as despicable as he’d mistakenly assumed. That did not mean he approved of it.
When the lady began to sputter and looked tempted to use her glove on him again, he made a valiant effort to moderate his tone. “In the interest of their well-being, as well as the peace and order of this community, I must insist.”
Anxious to escape her outraged glare, he turned to the young soldier who had done an efficient job clearing the wharf. “Well done, Corporal. Now, I want to you to stand guard over this ship. Until you receive further orders from me, make certain no one gets on or off. Do you understand?”
The corporal snapped a crisp salute. “Aye, sir!”
Fortified by the soldier’s respect, Sir Robert confronted his contemptuous visitor once again.
“Government House is this way.” He nodded toward Salter Street and took several brisk strides in that direction before he realized Mrs. Finch was not following him.
What now?
He look back to find her still standing where he’d left her, with Duckworth hovering anxiously nearby. “Are you coming?”
“Walk, you mean?” She glanced around at the ironstone warehouses that lined the docks.
“It is no distance.” He beckoned her with an impatient wave of his hand. “We could be there and back ten times before a carriage could be fetched.”
Duckworth nodded. “Government House is only a block up the hill, ma’am.”
The lady paid him no heed except to stare up the steep slope of Salter Street.
“Have you no intention of offering me your arm, at least?” She addressed the governor in a tone chillier than a North Atlantic winter. “Or do I not merit so small a courtesy?”
Few things put Robert Kerr out of temper worse than a suggestion he had done less than his duty.
Trudging back to where she stood, he muttered, “This is not a social call! Besides, I did not suppose you would accept if I had offered.”
He thrust out his arm at a stiff, awkward angle to demonstrate he took no pleasure in the civility she had demanded from him. And perhaps to convince himself, as well.
“Your Excellency?” Duckworth scurried along beside them. “Shall I inform the kitchen staff you will have a guest for tea?”
Over Mrs. Finch’s head, the governor fixed his aide with a severe look. He preferred to take a modest tray in his study, continuing to read reports and sign papers between sips of tea and bites of biscuit. Now he would be obliged to offer the vexing woman his hospitality.
“Madam, would you care to discuss your situation over tea?” He tried to ignore the warm pressure of her hand on his arm.
For a moment, her frosty manner thawed. “Proper food? Oh, I should be most grateful! When our ship was blown off course by the storm, some of our supplies were lost. We have been on very tight rations the past fortnight.”
Before the governor could think what to reply, his aide piped up, “I’ll go on ahead then, sir, and alert Miz Ada.”
Off Duckworth dashed, leaving Sir Robert all on his own to deal with a devilishly awkward situation. He was not much accustomed to conversing with women and went out of his way to avoid it whenever possible. Now he had little choice.
Before he cou
ld marshal some manner of civil remark, Mrs. Finch spoke—or rather gasped. “I beg…your pardon, sir. But would you…kindly…slow down!”
A swift sidelong glance confirmed the lady was hard-pressed to match his brisk parade-ground march up the hill. Her face had flushed to a high color. And her bosom, of which he had a far clearer view than he would have liked, heaved in a most unsettling manner. What if the creature swooned into his arms or some such nonsense?
To his horror, the governor’s body roused at the prospect of another man’s wife in his arms. That was enough to curb his stride. Where was Mr. Finch, anyway?
“Your husband?” he asked. “Is he back on the ship? I have no objection to him accompanying us.” Perhaps, between them, he and Finch could settle all this, man to man.
Trust him to choose the worst possible thing to say, then blurt it out in the most bald, offensive manner possible. Judging by the look that came over Mrs. Finch’s face, Sir Robert had no doubt that was exactly what he’d done.
By now, Jocelyn had been a widow longer than she’d been a wife. Time and necessity had taught her to speak of her late husband without excessive distress. Why should the governor’s abrupt remark make her eyes sting and her lip quiver?
Perhaps it was his offhand presumption that Ned must be alive. Or perhaps it was the foolish rush of attraction she’d experienced upon first meeting Sir Robert Kerr that had made her feel disloyal to her late husband’s memory. Though she doubted he meant to distress her, Jocelyn refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing he had.
“My husband has been dead nearly three years, sir.” She congratulated herself on getting the words out without her voice breaking.
The muscles of his arm tensed in response to her words and he checked his rapid pace further still as they turned onto a wide avenue that ran parallel to the harbor. “Waterloo? We lost too many good men that day.”
Jocelyn sensed he was speaking from intimate knowledge rather than in general terms. “Ned was killed on the previous day at…”
“The crossroads.” Sir Robert heaved a sigh that betrayed grief with an edge of bitterness. “You have my most sincere condolences, Mrs. Finch.”
So her husband’s commanding officer had written when informing her of Ned’s death. That and her widow’s pittance might buy her a cup of chocolate.
The governor meant well, Jocelyn told herself. She should try to cultivate his sympathy by every possible means. But she could not subdue the hostility he had roused with his offensive assumptions about her mission to the colony.
“This way.” He led her off the street onto a broad driveway that sloped gently up toward a large, elegant stone mansion.
In Jocelyn’s opinion, the pair of wooden sentry boxes on either side of the fine double staircase rather spoiled the classic lines of the house. Still, it looked like the sort of place where one could expect to be served a bountiful and toothsome tea.
The courteous young man from the wharf threw open the front door as the governor ushered Jocelyn up the stairs. “It has all been arranged, Sir Robert. Tea will be served in the drawing room, shortly.”
The poor fellow still sounded winded from his run, though Jocelyn had to admit the distance from here to the wharf would not have merited the fuss and delay of summoning a carriage.
“Thank you, Duckworth.” The governor handed his hat to the young man. “Your assistance this afternoon has been invaluable, as ever.”
He gestured toward a doorway on the left-hand side of hall. “Through here, if you please, madam. You will find the drawing room just beyond the receiving room.”
Jocelyn glanced around as she walked through a light, handsomely proportioned room that housed a pair of blue satin sofas, several small mahogany tables and over two dozen chairs without looking in the least crowded. Did His Excellency expect her to be overwhelmed by such grand surroundings.
If only he knew! Compared to some of the great houses in which she’d lived or visited, Government House was quite modest and restrained. The drawing room proved even more stately, with its fine Brussels carpet, elegant hanging luster and rich claret-colored draperies. Still it was nothing to awe the daughter of a marquess.
Jocelyn sank down gratefully onto one of several brocade-upholstered armchairs clustered around a tea table. Reminding herself of all she had at stake, she summoned every ounce of charm she could muster to assail Governor Kerr.
“What an elegant residence you have here, sir! It looks very modern. Were you responsible for having it built?”
“Me?” The governor clearly considered her question ridiculous if not downright offensive. “No. For that you must thank Sir John Wentworth and his wife. I should have been content with more modest lodgings. Indeed, I would have preferred them. This is a residence for the type of governor who would rather entertain than work.”
What an impossibly dour fellow! He had not taken a seat, but stood before one of the tall windows that flanked the white marble hearth, his hands behind his back. Jocelyn could scarcely resist the temptation to tease him out of his severity.
“Surely entertaining is part of the work of a governor.” She forced herself to smile, determined to be agreeable in spite of him. “Official receptions, levees, that sort of thing.”
He made no reply, but she thought her words sent a shudder through him.
A young footman entered, just then, bearing a well-laden tray, which he set down upon the tea table. The governor thanked him but made no move to take a seat. Even after the footman had departed, Sir Robert continued to stand beside the hearth, looking tense and ill at ease. Jocelyn considered inviting him to sit down, but it was hardly her place.
“Shall I pour?” she offered at last, desperate to commence their discussion. The sooner she cleared up this dreadful misunderstanding the sooner she could fetch the poor girls off that wretched ship.
“If you would be so kind.” Sir Robert gave a curt nod but still made no move to sit.
Jocelyn perched one delicate cup upon its saucer and poured a generous measure of steaming amber tea into it. How pleasant it felt to handle fine china and silver again.
She lifted the sugar tongs. “How many lumps, sir?”
It took some effort to keep from grinning. If she’d had a cudgel in hand back at the wharf, she might have given him a lump or two—though not the sweet kind!
“No, thank you,” said Sir Robert, but he edged closer to the tea table.
“Cream?” Jocelyn lifted the little pitcher. What a luxury it would be to taste cream in her tea again!
With a decisive shake of his head, the governor perched on the farthest chair away from her and reached for his cup. “I prefer my tea plain.”
“Indeed?” Jocelyn poured a cup for herself, then added three good-sized lumps of sugar, followed by a generous dollop of smooth, thick cream. “I like mine as sweet and rich as I can get it, especially after the recent deprivations of our voyage.”
The governor made some vaguely disapproving noise, deep in his throat…or perhaps he only meant to clear it.
He reached toward the tray and lifted the silver cover off a dish. Jocelyn’s mouth watered in anticipation.
“Bread and butter, Mrs. Finch?”
Bread and butter? Was this the best hospitality Nova Scotia could provide? It took every scrap of restraint Jocelyn could summon to keep from dumping the contents of the dish over her host’s head.
Perhaps he sensed her disappointment. “I seldom have guests to tea, especially on such short notice. This frugal fare suits me well enough.”
What he said was true, Jocelyn acknowledged with a pang of shame for her ingratitude. All the same, she would so love to have been offered her favorite walnut tea cake or the red-currant tart for which the kitchens of Breckland Manor were noted.
Sir Robert uncovered the other dish. “Perhaps you would prefer a muffin, instead?”
He pointed to a pair of small china crocks nestled in one corner of the tea tray. “They’re very good
spread with apple butter or blueberry jam.”
“Blueberries?”
The governor nodded. “They grow in some profusion hereabouts on low bushes. They’re more purple than blue, as a matter of fact, especially after they’ve been cooked.”
He passed her a napkin. “The things stain like the very devil, but they have a most agreeable flavor.”
There was something rather touching about the governor’s clumsy, earnest attempts at hospitality. Jocelyn’s antagonism began to soften. After the weevily biscuits and thin, rancid stew she’d been forced to eat for the past two weeks, fresh-baked bread with newly churned butter should taste very good indeed.
Taking a thick slice from the plate, she closed her eyes, the better to savor it. Oh, the crisp crust! Mmm, the sweet, wholesome flavor of the butter, so generously spread! Ah, the soft texture of the bread itself!
Suddenly aware of a strained silence, she opened her eyes to find the governor staring at her with a look of mild horror. Oh dear, had she been making all those sounds of enjoyment—the kind she’d sometimes made in bed with her husband?
A fiery blush prickled up her neck to blaze in her cheeks. At the same time, she battled an urge to laugh.
“Please excuse my manners, sir.” Despite her most strenuous efforts to contain it, a chuckle burst out of her. “The bread is very good.”
To stifle any further unseemly levity, Jocelyn took a large bite of muffin. Too large, she realized as her cheeks bulged.
Of course, the governor would choose that moment, when her mouth was so full she could scarcely chew, let alone speak, to say, “Then let us turn to the matter at hand, shall we?”
Jocelyn could only nod and pray she would not choke.
The governor fortified himself with a sip of tea. “Our conversation on the wharf left me rather…confused. You mentioned a letter that was meant to precede you. I received no such message. Perhaps you would be so good as to explain your purpose in coming to Halifax and who sent you?”
Deborah Hale Page 2
