“Because marriage is simply another form of slavery. It would only be granting power to another—power over my actions, my fortune, even my body.”
“It sounds, forgive me,” Emily said in that soft voice that Tempest had learned was really made of steel, “as if this Miss Wollstonecraft can have had no very good model of a happy marriage in her life. What about love?”
Tempest could not help but recall Andrew’s expression when he had asked her the same question. Not wry, for once. She might almost have called it genuine.
“‘Love, from its very nature, must be transitory,’” she quoted.
Emily’s hand went to the heavy oval locket at her throat. “No,” she insisted. “Not always.”
Somewhat chastened, Tempest conceded that it might not always be the case. “But you cannot deny that love values the heart over the head. I strive for perfect rationality. I know I have not always achieved it, of course, but I cannot afford to indulge in sentiment. By marrying, I would place my inheritance in another’s hands. I would be giving up not only my own freedom, but everyone else’s, too.”
“Surely there must be a man who can be trusted to be led by your wishes in the matter?” Emily suggested.
Was she thinking of Andrew? Andrew, who was proud to claim his irresponsibility, his selfishness? Emily might be content to trust him with the future of Beauchamp Shipping, but Tempest could not trust him with Harper’s Hill—to say nothing of herself.
She shook her head, half-closed her eyes, and nestled into the pillows, feigning drowsiness.
His attention drawn by the movement, Caliban stood and stretched before the fire, then trotted over to the other side of the bed. Tempest patted the downy coverlet with her palm, and the dog did not hesitate to accept the invitation.
Emily leaned forward again and pressed cool lips to Tempest’s forehead, a maternal gesture she had not even known she craved. “Sometimes we’re drawn to a thing we ought not to have. But not everything that looks like a mistake really is. Sometimes your heart is smarter than your head,” she said, scratching behind Caliban’s ears before she rose and went to the door. “I think your Miss Wollstonecraft has that to learn, yet. Good night, dear.”
At least an hour later, realizing that sleep was not likely to come, Tempest abandoned the warmth of the bed, ignoring Caliban’s groan of protest. After she had relit the candle Emily had extinguished on her departure, she retrieved Edward’s letter from the little writing desk, hoping its contents would distract her from what the evening had revealed. When she returned with it to the shelter of the blankets, Caliban grudgingly made room for her beside him once more.
She forced herself to read again the words about Lord Nathaniel. Dear Edward had often been critical of Sir Barton, but he never could have foreseen that he might prove to be her enemy in this case. She must find a way to help her grandfather see Lord Nathaniel’s true character. If he knew the depravities of which the man was capable, he would not continue to open his home to him, would he?
Skipping ahead to the still-unread portion of the letter, she tried to distract herself with Edward’s plans for Harper’s Hill during the time she was gone, his hope that Regis could soon be restored to his duties, that Whalen’s crew would get to work on the mill shortly, that the harvest would not disappoint. His descriptions of familiar people and places and activities brought very little in the way of comfort, though—or diversion.
Instead, she was reminded of where she ought to be, of the people she ought never to have left. If only she had never listened to Andrew or Mrs. Beauchamp. If only she had found another ship the very moment of her arrival in London. She might be halfway home right now, leaving Lord Nathaniel to wonder what had become of her.
As she allowed her eyes to wander over the remainder of the letter, she was brought up short by a final few lines, added in a hand that lacked Edward’s usual care. Two sentences had been begun and then crossed out, as if he had been unsure of his words—blots he normally would never have allowed another person to see, blots she was almost shocked to discover him capable of making. The packet must have been on the point of sailing for London, or he would have insisted on taking the time to recopy the entire letter rather than send it in this state.
The last word had been scored through so many times it was illegible. When he had begun again, the words had to be cramped into the remaining space, making them even more difficult to decipher.
With so many miles between us now, I feel free to speak—this once, but never, should you wish my silence in the matter, again. I know that you have sworn, for the sake of your inheritance, never to marry, a sacrifice I have always respected. Yet I fear I may have inadvertently sent you into dangerous waters, in which your reputation, even your person, may now require the protection you so adamantly oppose. Should such a circumstance arise, I ask only that you think of me. You who have known me for so many years cannot be a stranger either to my temperament or to my feelings, both for Harper’s Hill and for you, my dear, dear Tempest.
Yours, always.
E
She read the passage through twice to be sure of it, then folded the letter, tucked it beneath her pillow, and blew out the candle so that she could not be tempted to read it again.
Edward would be a perfect partner in the future she envisioned for herself. He shared her commitment to freeing the plantation’s slaves and would never value a few pounds’ profit over peoples’ lives. His manner was always calm and serious, a useful antidote to her more . . . animated nature. Without a doubt, she esteemed him, and Miss Wollstonecraft repeatedly insisted that if a woman was determined to wed, friendship and esteem were the only proper foundations on which to build a marriage, for passion would inevitably fade.
And yet, she had never given more than a moment’s thought to Edward as an eligible match.
Well, she would be remiss not to think of him now. His proposal had much to recommend itself. She had always trusted Edward implicitly. He would forgive her for her . . . indiscretions. And she could never doubt his affection for her. If she chose, she might go down on the morrow and announce her engagement. It might even free her from Lord Nathaniel’s unwanted attention, since she could hardly be expected to marry him if she were betrothed to someone else, as Omeah had pointed out all those weeks ago.
But she would not do it. She could not marry Edward. Even if she had changed her resolution about marriage—and she had not—a part of her had always known that esteem would never be enough. If she ever were to marry, she would demand more. But more was dangerous. More meant dependence and, inevitably, disappointment. So she had foresworn marriage, favoring the cool dictates of reason over the heat of a broken heart.
And look where that had gotten her.
With trembling fingers, she stroked Caliban’s rough gray fur. Sleepily and without opening his eyes, Caliban thumped his tail against the bed. She was reminded of the first time she had petted the dog, her introduction to his master.
Despite her resolutions, her heart was in the possession of someone with whom she ought never to have trusted any part of herself. She, who would never have left home, given the choice; he, who wanted to be forever on the move. She, bound by duty to fulfill her family’s responsibilities; he, who had abandoned his. The two of them ought never to have come together.
Yet they had. A spark had jumped from his skin to hers the first time they touched, each time they touched, the current growing ever stronger. If there were a next time, the spark would grow to a fire and burn her to a cinder. But like a moth, she could not resist the flame.
Much as she hated to admit it, Lord Nathaniel had been right. Denying a truth didn’t make it less true.
She was in love with Andrew Corrvan.
Chapter 18
Four days. Four days to get from London to Hull, as if he were an elderly lady out for a quiet airing, stopping at every coaching inn for a cup of tea. Having grown accustomed to the vagaries of sailing, Andrew could never have imagined that travel o
ver smooth, straight roads on dry land could be so prone to delays and difficulties. Of course, the land hadn’t exactly been dry, and therein lay the problem. Mud. So much mud. Mired in it axle-deep on more than one occasion, wheels clogged, a horse lamed. And every minute, every mile, he could envision Lazarus Stratton slipping away from him once more.
Better, perhaps, than imagining his mother’s face when she discovered he had run from his responsibilities at Beauchamp Shipping with all the speed his current mode of transport denied him. Well, he had warned her that her faith in him would be misplaced . . .
Mostly, he tried to avoid thinking about his proximity to Tempest. Crosslands Park was at best sixty miles from Hull. He had asked an hostler along the way. Half a day’s ride, when conditions were right.
Well, he could be thankful for the mud, then. It was the surest antidote to temptation he knew.
The crooked, narrow streets of Hull stank with mud—and rotten fish and coal smoke and shit. Heavy with dampness, the air moved along in foggy waves, turning midday into dusk and making every alley blind. When the coachman refused to go one foot farther, fearing for the remaining paint on his battered conveyance, Andrew roused Caesar by grasping one of his small shoulders and shaking it gently.
The boy had insisted on accompanying him on this cold, dull, and likely pointless journey. When Andrew had asked him why, Caesar’s answer had been a punch in the gut.
“Because I’m safest with you.”
Good God, had anyone ever said such an absurd thing to him in his life?
Unable to bear the thought of leaving a child in Williams’s hard hands, however, he had nodded his reluctant assent, realizing it would only be wasting precious minutes to argue.
“Let’s see if our tip was a good one,” he said as Caesar emerged from beneath three layers of blankets, although the temperature was quite mild for December, especially in Yorkshire.
But as he helped the boy from the coach, he felt again the horror of Timmy Madcombe’s hand slipping from his grasp, saw once more the blank terror in that boy’s eyes as the sea came up to meet him. One more ghost to haunt his every footstep.
And here he was, inviting disaster, risking the addition of another to their number.
They had no real information, no confirmed sighting of Stratton. Just the name of a street and the number of a room once occupied by the wife of a sailor rumored to have turned pirate and disappeared. It was devilishly little to go on, and Andrew alternated between feeling apprehensive and feeling a fool.
Once they had found the street, a series of sharp slaps with the heel of his hand against the proper door brought him face-to-face with an older woman wearing a black dress and a surprisingly crisp mobcap. “Canna he’p ’e?” she said, turning her narrow-eyed gaze on each of them in turn.
“I’m looking for a Mrs. Stratton. I was told she lived here.”
When the landlady at last pulled her eyes away from the curiosity that was Caesar, she nodded. “Aye. Onc’it.”
“You mean she’s gone?”
“Aye.”
Andrew waited, but it seemed no further information was forthcoming. Still, the woman had not slammed the door in his face. Perhaps she had more to say, with the right encouragement. Fishing in his waistcoat pocket, he withdrew a shilling and offered it to her.
“She left last quarter day,” she said after inspecting the coin and then tucking it into her bosom. “Couldna pay t’ rent. ’er man had gone t’ sea many a long year ago and hadna been seen for nigh on ten year. When ’er lass took sick an’ died, she packed up ’er things, and I ne’er saw ’er again.”
Last quarter day. Michaelmas. As recently as September, Stratton’s wife had still been here waiting for him. If he had come here and learned of her departure, would he have searched for her?
“Do you have any idea where she might have gone?”
“Naw,” she said finally when he produced another coin. “Folks do say she took up wit’ another sailor, but I ne’er saw t’ like hangin’ around ’ere.”
“Thank you,” Andrew said, touching one finger to the brim of his hat and turning away from the door. A dead end.
“Curious,” she muttered, rubbing the second shilling between the tips of her fingers, bare below her carefully darned mitts.
He froze. “I beg your pardon? What’s ‘curious’?”
“In all those years, I canna put my mind on a caller. Now she’s gone, ’tis twa in a fortnight.”
“Someone else has been asking about Mrs. Stratton? What can you tell me about him?”
He reached for his pocket again, but she shook her head, as if gossip were suddenly a more palatable sin than greed. “Man o’ the sea. Like yourself,” she said, fixing his face with those shrewd eyes. “But he’s an’ old tar. Not so ’ansome as ’e,” she added with a wink.
Swallowing his shock, Andrew dredged up his wickedest, most flirtatious grin. “Oh?”
And with a few more words, she began to conjure Lazarus Stratton.
“So he left disappointed when he learned the woman was no longer here,” Andrew said when she finished describing the man.
“Dunno if’n ’e were disappointed. Didna seem t’ care much, one way or t’ other,” she said. “Leastways, ’e didna leave. T’ room were empty yet, so ’e took it.”
Andrew shot a glance at Caesar, who had been taking in the whole conversation with wide eyes and a frown of confusion. But the woman’s last words at least had been clear to the boy, despite her thick Northern accent.
“He’s here?” Caesar cried.
The woman jumped, evidently startled to find the boy capable of speech. “Not just at present,” she insisted, drawing back slightly as if to close the door.
“Where?” demanded Andrew.
Something in his look, or in his voice, must have conveyed his desperation even more clearly than those shillings, for she scuttled farther into her dark house. “Like as not, you’ll find ’im at t’ Dog,” she said, nodding down the alleyway before slamming the door and bolting it.
Through the swirling miasma of fog, he could just glimpse a shingle hanging above a doorway at the far end of the street. Upon investigation, he found that the sign belonged to a seaman’s pub whimsically called the Golden Hind. The artist’s rather clumsily rendered picture of a deer, perhaps combined with its patrons’ illiteracy, made “The Dog” as likely a name for the establishment as any.
Unsure whether it was more dangerous to leave Caesar in the alley or bring him into the unknown, Andrew looked up and down the deserted street before instructing the boy to hide himself in the vacant doorway opposite.
The ancient pub was empty of patrons. Near the meager fire, a tankard stood on a battered tabletop, as if someone had recently abandoned the seat. Or perhaps, given the pub’s general air of disuse and decay, the mug had been left there weeks ago.
Behind the bar, a man watched his arrival with dull eyes but did not speak.
“I’m looking for Stratton,” Andrew said, sliding half-a-crown across the worn slab of wood that separated them.
For reply, the man snatched up the coin and jerked his chin toward a steep set of stairs in the back.
Andrew nodded his thanks and moved into the darkness, pulling his knife from his boot as he climbed.
Two doors faced one another across a narrow, low-ceilinged corridor. From behind one came a few grunts and groans; behind the other, all was silence. Raising one foot, Andrew kicked open the first door, then paused on the threshold, blinking against the room’s comparative brightness. The small chamber’s amenities were few: a filthy window with one limp, tattered curtain drawn halfway across it, a broken chair in one corner over which a man’s coat had been tossed, and a chamber pot that needed to be emptied. In the middle of the room stood a sagging rope bed.
And in the middle of that bed knelt Lazarus Stratton, driving himself into a woman.
Either out of eagerness, laziness, or more likely, practicality, neither one had bot
hered to undress. The woman had simply rucked up her skirts, while the hollow cheeks of Stratton’s arse jiggled with his effort, supported by a pair of spindly legs that disappeared into breeches shoved down around his knees. He had not even removed his muddy boots. The woman’s fingers curled in the hems of his shirt, baring his scarred, pale flesh and a few knobby ribs that must once have been broken.
Neither seemed at first to have noticed Andrew’s arrival. Then Stratton grunted, “Can’t a fellow have a toss in peace? Give over.”
“Get up.”
Stratton laughed and kept rutting. “So you caught up with me at last, bog trotter. Well, send me off, then,” he challenged. “There’s worse ways to go. Unless you’d rather join us?”
The woman, however, seemed to have lost whatever enthusiasm she had had for the deed, and pushed against Stratton until she could wriggle her way free.
“This doesn’t concern you,” Andrew said to her, averting his gaze while she righted her skirts. “Leave us.”
“’Tis my room,” she insisted with a toss of her head as she rose. Then a feeble shaft of afternoon light touched the blade of Andrew’s knife and its gleam caught her eye. “Lor’ bless us,” she said. “Don’ want no part o’ that.” As she slipped warily past him to the door, he saw her face clearly for the first time. Lank brown hair, big eyes in a sallow face. A striking resemblance to the barkeep—his sister, perhaps. Or his daughter. She was barely more than a girl. “Wait for me outside,” he ordered. She gasped, then nodded her understanding, gnawing her lip in a well-practiced, if not proficient, gesture of seduction.
As she sashayed her way out of the room in an unmistakable invitation, a shudder of revulsion went through him—not at her, but at the circumstances that compelled a mere child to make such an offer.
Stratton had buttoned up his breeches and pulled his braces over his shoulders, but his shirt still hung open almost to his waist, and when Andrew stepped toward him, he laughed again, showing off a mouthful of rotting teeth. “Go on, then,” he said, jabbing at his chest with his middle finger, for his index finger was missing on that hand. “Right here. It’s your chance at last. I ain’t armed.”
To Tempt an Heiress Page 23
