On a Desert Shore

by S K Rizzolo

  Penelope lifted her chin. “My brother and I have managed on our own, sir.”

  Tallboys remained unconvinced, his gaze following Penelope’s brother, who had engaged Marina Garrod. The girl’s velvet eyes smiled into Lewis’ as she toyed with her fish. Lewis looked a little flushed, Penelope thought. She hoped he was not overindulging in the free-flowing wine.

  Mr. Tallboys’ placid voice called her back. “I hope you’ll excuse me if I was too pointed in my remark.” He paused. “Do you mind my asking how long you intend to stay in this house?”

  “A few days only, sir,” she said in some surprise. “Mr. Garrod has asked me to compose a report on his evening party along with a sketch of his life that will be published in a magazine.”

  “I myself have written such trifles for him in the past when I could spare the time from my own work.” He regarded her speculatively. “You must have much to occupy you in your husband’s absence, since you are charged with establishing your brother in some respectable profession. I wish you every success, ma’am, though I fear you’ve been saddled with too heavy a responsibility. My friend Hugo means well but does not always think how things may appear.”

  The clergyman’s utterly self-assured and rational tone took her back to her girlhood. How many times had her father spoken to her thus? And this from a man she’d met only five minutes before! She said, “Forgive me, sir, but allow me to be the judge of what is best for Lewis.”

  “Now I know I’ve offended you. But you must have sensed that this is not a happy house. Did you not see the way that young woman reacted to the reminder to remove the heathen bracelet? I do pity them all. The girl is uncontrollable.”

  “If Miss Garrod was wrong to disobey her aunt, her cousin was equally so in reminding her in front of everyone.”

  But Tallboys objected to this. “Miss Honeycutt? No, ma’am, you’ve mistaken her. She is devoted to her family, a model for her young cousin. She is worthy of our warmest admiration. I know Hugo thinks so too. She had opportunities to marry but has chosen instead to help him train the girl to fill her position in society. We must all hope Miss Honeycutt can be persuaded to grace her own hearth one of these days.”

  The man’s eye had grown positively moist with his fervor. Penelope said tentatively, “Are there plans to that effect?”

  “I spoke hypothetically. Mrs. Yates is getting on in years. Miss Honeycutt’s duties at home will no doubt increase, not diminish.”

  Uncomfortable with the conversation, Penelope was cudgeling her brains for another topic when the door to the dining room was thrown open. The guests looked up to see a gentleman on the threshold, the butler hovering at his elbow. Unlike Garrod, whose face was rather sun-browned, this man was fair and had a sickly yellowish tinge to his complexion, as though he’d spent one too many nights carousing. He had guinea gold hair and weary blue eyes. Fine lines of discontent were etched about his mouth, which had a sulky cast that marred his otherwise agreeable features. It took Penelope but a moment to identify the familiarity that swept over her as she and everyone else gazed at him. He reminded her of her husband Jeremy: dissipated, dissatisfied, and disinclined to exert himself. He stood, staring back at the company with a faintly amused expression on his face. Rising from the table, Beatrice hurried to greet him, their resemblance apparent, though the brother had received most of the good looks. This was one of Hugo Garrod’s presumed heirs, Ned Honeycutt.

  “There you are at last,” said Garrod with heavy sarcasm. “I’m pleased you could join us, Ned.” He lifted one finger to the butler. “Lay another place for my nephew.”

  ***

  Edward Buckler made his way through the crowded reception rooms. He had arrived after dinner with the other guests invited to hear a well-known harpist and drink tea. He soon found Penelope seated in a spindly gilt chair next to a gentleman in clerical dress. Her face wore a set expression, as if her companion was not to her taste. She smiled in relief when he approached her, and Buckler felt some of the depression that had been dogging him lift.

  “You’re the barrister who defended Mr. Durant in court?” inquired Mr. Tallboys when greetings had been exchanged.

  Buckler bowed. “I am, sir.”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Wolfe is infinitely obliged to you.”

  “It was a close-run thing. I was never more relieved in my life when Lewis was released.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Buckler has been a very good friend,” put in Penelope. “I owe my brother’s freedom to him and Mr. Chase.” She addressed the clergyman. “I will introduce you to Mr. Chase, sir, if he can be spared from his duties.”

  Looking a trifle askance, Tallboys merely nodded, and Buckler, bridging the silence, said, “I’d like a word with Chase myself should opportunity present. He was interrupted the other day when telling me a story about nearly dying of the yellow fever in Jamaica. I’d like to hear the end of that tale.” He addressed Tallboys politely: “Chase was a lieutenant in the Royal Navy until an injury cut short his career.”

  “A shame,” was the noncommittal reply. Buckler took a seat at Penelope’s side, and the remaining time until the music started was filled with a discussion of Britain’s recent victory at Vittoria in Spain.

  The concert over, Hugo Garrod announced, “It is far too lovely an evening to remain indoors.” He swept out an arm. “We’ll take tea, and I will show you my surprise. It is as rare as any work of art in my collection. Rare and far more ephemeral.”

  They went into the garden, which was at this hour, suffused with the last of a golden light tinged with gray-blue twilight. Buckler stopped Penelope on the walk. “Is something wrong? Where’s Lewis?”

  “I wish I knew. I didn’t see him and Miss Garrod during the concert, and I’m afraid that wretched girl is going to get him in trouble. Oh, Edward, Mr. Tallboys thinks there will be more gossip if I stay here.”

  “Are you wishing you hadn’t come? I have a rented coach. Return to London with me tonight.”

  “That would only lend credence to any rumors. No, I’ll finish my work as quickly as possible and then go. It is not easy to be apart from Sarah.” Her voice faltered.

  “A bad business,” muttered Buckler. Though he knew

  Penelope to be capable of handling her own problems, his instincts were chivalrous. He hated to see her in difficulties and be unable to solve them. He tried to unclench his jaw and smile at her reassuringly.

  “I know,” she said. “You don’t need to tell me I told you so.”

  He squeezed her hand and released it. “Don’t worry about Sarah. I’ll take Maggie and the children out for an ice or to the Tower menagerie tomorrow.”

  She smiled her gratitude. They went on through the flower garden. Lanterns had been hung in the trees that lined the path. The path began to rise as they approached the hothouse, whose position on elevated ground commanded a view of the surrounding country and, in the distance, the sprawl of the metropolis.

  Inside, girandole lamps burned in wall sconces, their glass pendants reflecting myriad beams of light, which mingled with wisps of steam that curled from the floors and walls. A small orchestra played softly in one corner under a canopy of greenery. Tall shrubs in pots created shadowy corners in which benches had been placed under makeshift arbors, and the high windows had been thrown open to admit the night air. The company walked around, viewing the brightly colored flowers and climbing plants, some of which wound through ironwork trellises and trailed down to brush a cheek or shoulder. In the reception area, maids dressed as shepherdesses served the guests. But before taking their seats at the tables that surrounded the dais, people filed up the steps, paused a moment, then came down again, though Buckler, peering through the mist, could not see what they looked at. The clatter of teacups arose. Some of the shepherdesses carried plates of cakes or offered wine, while others hoisted the trays that held the steaming cups.

  Buckler forced
himself to attend to Tallboys, who, having turned back to continue their conversation, waxed enthusiastically about the Protea flowers. “The name comes from the god Proteus,” Buckler was informed, “the changeable god of many forms, which seems rather appropriate for Mr. Garrod, doesn’t it?” Tallboys pointed out that the large, brilliantly colored flowers of pink and red and orange were actually composed of smaller tubular flowers inside a frame of petal-leaves. Though Buckler smiled and nodded, his mind remained on Lewis. He agreed with Penelope that the boy should not pay such marked attentions to Marina Garrod. Chase was not in sight, but Buckler hoped his friend did not find his task too onerous. It was not uncommon for the senior men of Bow Street to be invited to attend fashionable parties to guard the nobs and their valuable jewels. This job, however, was out of the ordinary.

  It was Buckler and Penelope’s turn to ascend the steps of the dais, where Garrod stood next to an urn set in the center of the stage. As an overpowering scent of some perfume wafted toward them, Buckler paused to draw in a breath. But Garrod’s broad back blocked his view, so he glanced instead at Tallboys’ profile. Wonder had softened the clergyman’s stiffness.

  Tallboys stepped aside. “Look at this, Mr. Buckler. It really is quite extraordinary.”

  When Buckler would later recall the details of this evening, more than anything else it was that hushed, expectant look on Tallboys’ face that had stuck in his memory.

  ***

  Annoyed that Marina Garrod had given him the slip, John Chase negotiated the path, avoiding the curious stares of the guests. He had seen Penelope and Buckler entering the hothouse, but where had the girl gone? He’d kept Marina under his eye during the concert but had lost sight of her in the confusion when the music ended. He increased his pace, his boots sending a spray of gravel into the air.

  As Chase passed a lady and a gentleman promenading arm-in-arm and bantering in cheerful fashion, he felt his irritation mount. The woman sent him a haughty glance, and Chase realized he was scowling. If he’d done his job and gained Marina Garrod’s trust, this wouldn’t be happening. The truth was that he hadn’t handled her well thus far. He’d glimpsed her with Lewis during the exodus to the gardens and had expected to find her in the hothouse with everyone else. She must have turned off somewhere, he decided, retracing his steps. This time he spotted a door in the wall and opened it.

  He found himself in an orangery with tall windows on three sides, a roof lantern, and a stove at either end. Tubs of orange trees as well as pots of myrtles, olives, and cactuses filled the space. There were blank spots where some of the orange trees had apparently been removed to summer outside in the garden.

  Ned Honeycutt had Lewis backed up against one of the glass windows while Marina tugged ineffectually at her cousin’s arm, tears of distress shining on her cheeks. Honeycutt brushed her off and tightened his hold, his hands pressing against the boy’s collarbone. No match for the older man, Lewis managed to land a kick on Honeycutt’s shin as he twisted to one side. None of them noticed Chase’s approach until he reached out an arm to drag Honeycutt away.

  The boy gave Chase one look out of flaming eyes and renewed his attack, his fist landing a sharp blow to Honeycutt’s cheek. Honeycutt reared back, snarled something, and closed again.

  “No, damn it,” Chase said. “Leave off, you idiots.” He hadn’t realized that Penelope’s brother had such a temper. He thrust Lewis behind him and stepped between them. “What are you doing?”

  Honeycutt snarled, “I followed them. This young sprig needs to be taught a lesson. He’s not fit to touch the hem of my cousin’s gown.”

  “And you are?” said Lewis, panting with rage. “Let’s settle this, sir. Name your time and place.”

  “I fight with gentlemen. You are a bastard and a low worm. I’ll oblige you with a good thrashing if that’s what you want.”

  Marina flinched as if she’d been struck. “You say that in front of me? How could you, Ned? If Mr. Durant is a bastard, what, pray, am I?”

  “I didn’t mean that…I wasn’t referring,” stammered Honeycutt, aghast.

  “At least I don’t tyrannize over women,” interrupted Lewis. “She doesn’t want to talk to you. Leave her alone.”

  Marina turned a frightened face to Chase. “My cousin is a regular at the boxing saloon,” she whispered. “He’ll hurt Mr. Durant. Don’t let them fight, Mr. Chase.”

  Chase thought Honeycutt was more likely to be a fighter who started strong but quickly lost his wind and his science, whereas Lewis was intelligent enough to correct any mistakes and persist doggedly. But he said, “Don’t worry, Miss Garrod. There will be no brawl today.”

  Catching these words, Lewis held himself very straight. “He has insulted me and frightened Miss Garrod, Mr. Chase. I demand satisfaction.”

  Chase wanted to shake the boy until his teeth rattled, though there was something in his bearing that commanded respect. “Look,” he said quietly, “why care for his opinion? Your sister will be wondering where you are, Lewis.”

  “Yes, go find your big sister, Lewis,” said Honeycutt, sneering.

  Marina said, “Oh, do be quiet, Ned. You are being tiresome. Mr. Durant is right. I don’t want to talk to you, not when you’re in this humor. Besides, we have nothing to talk about.”

  Ned Honeycutt contemplated her. “But we do. Marina, you know we do,” he said, pleading.

  She shook her head. “As usual, you think only of yourself. It’s your own fault if my father is angry with you, not mine. Speak to him.”

  Lewis put a hand to his disordered hair and straightened his cravat. “You’re right, Mr. Chase. We’ll go.” He offered his arm to the girl. “Miss Garrod?”

  She accepted Lewis’ escort and went off without another look at her cousin, who stood gazing after her, his expression enigmatic.

  Chase said, “Was there a particular reason you wished to see Miss Garrod?”

  Honeycutt’s eyes dismissed him. “No concern of yours, is it?’’

  “Her welfare is my concern,” said Chase mildly. “She doesn’t seem to like you much.”

  Honeycutt strode to a bench against the wall. He sat down, stretching out his long legs and leaning his shoulders back. Slowly, the anger drained from him to be replaced by calculation. “I’ve known that girl all her life,” he said at last. “My uncle intends for me to wed her. How can you think I could ever harm her? Durant annoyed me and I only wanted to protect her. How do I know whether he might be a rogue or a fortune hunter? I doubt Uncle Hugo would have invited him had he known his hospitality would be abused.” He raised his brows. “Besides, isn’t it your job to watch her?”

  Chase sat down next to him on the bench. “I am talking about you,” he said as if commenting on the weather. “Garrod not willing to pay your shot anymore?”

  “Something like that.”

  “So you mean to make all secure with the heiress before he tosses you out, or a rival gets in your way.”

  Honeycutt gave a bitter laugh. “Rival? Do you think my uncle would allow that insolent puppy within ten feet of Marina were Durant in earnest? She’ll never marry against her father’s wishes. Don’t you know a good marriage is the only way to wash the blackamoor white and carry on the family line? Here I am, a willing sacrifice, ready to do my duty.”

  “You will speak of Miss Garrod with respect or not at all.” Disgust welled up in Chase, and his fists flexed at his side.

  Honeycutt’s color rose. “You don’t have to tell me that. I’m fond of her, always have been.”

  Chase had encountered men of Honeycutt’s stamp among the Creoles of Jamaica. Proud and vain men, they lived indolent lives, primarily occupying themselves with whoring, drinking, and gaming. They kept their slave concubines and allowed the children of these unions to tumble about their plantations. The Creoles sometimes subsided into an early grave after their bodies sank beneath their
excesses and gave out. Chase supposed it could be said in their favor that, in their natural setting, these men were often hospitable to an extreme and elegant in their manners, not that these particular qualities drew his approbation. It occurred to him that Ned Honeycutt might be just as out of place here in England as his cousin. Certainly, he lacked his uncle’s energy and powerful will to direct complex business interests.

  “Tell me about your debts,” said Chase.

  “What of them?” Giving a shrug, he crossed one foot in its black pump over the other. “Hugo always forgives me in the end. What choice does he have? You should have seen him trying to match Marina with London’s finest. What a joke! The girl couldn’t string two words together, let alone bring the more eligible gentlemen up to scratch.”

  An enormous estate was at stake. What would Ned Honeycutt do to ensure he received what he no doubt deemed his rightful portion? It suddenly struck Chase as surprising that Honeycutt had gone after Lewis Durant with so little provocation. This hadn’t endeared him to Marina; if anything, his tactics would only throw her the more into the boy’s arms. Either Honeycutt was an immature fool—evidently more than possible—or he had another reason to pick a fight during his uncle’s evening party.

  Chase got to his feet. “Debts aren’t the only thing I’ll lay to your account. You’ve been playing tricks on Miss Garrod to frighten her and stop her from marrying anyone else.”

  “You’re mad.” Honeycutt’s face had gone white, but Chase could have sworn the man had not been surprised by this accusation.

  When Chase started to walk away, Honeycutt called after him, “Do you mean to tell my uncle about our little chat? Don’t bother. I’ll tell him myself.”

  “Leave Durant alone, and stay away from Miss Garrod,” Chase said over his shoulder.

  Before he could reach the door, he was brought up short by a sudden racket. He heard the shrieking of many voices and a loud clatter, as of several dozen chairs being drawn back at once.