On a Desert Shore

by S K Rizzolo

  “So you want my help?” said Chase.

  “Exactly, sir.” She smiled at him and went on in a strangely blithe tone. “I already told you I had a longing to learn more of my mother. No one would say a word to me on the subject. My father would tell me I was to consider myself an English girl and must forget all about her. I couldn’t do that.”

  “I imagine that would be difficult,” said Buckler, feeling awkward. He saw that Lewis leaned over the back of her chair and suddenly understood the bond that had formed between them. Both were love children. Both had been motherless with mothers who could not be mentioned in polite company. Both had strained relationships with the family left to them, though Lewis had been lucky in his sister at least.

  Marina spoke. “You understand me, don’t you, Mr. Chase? You’ve met her—you’ve met Joanna. For years I kept quiet and did as I was told. I learned my lessons and studied to please my family. I knew none of them liked me, not really. But I wasn’t afraid of them. No one bothered me until my father started planning my grand London season and talking day and night of my marriage. That’s when it started.”

  “The malice,” said Penelope. “It was intended to ruin your chances at fulfilling your father’s dearest wish. The feathers and the rest of the superstitions were to make you seem irrational and foreign, as if you didn’t belong and couldn’t play your part as your father’s heiress. The trickster aimed to revive the stories about your mother being an Obeah woman.”

  “More than that, Mrs. Wolfe,” said Marina. “I was to figure as mad enough to believe I could follow in her footsteps. English Obeah to get revenge on those I fancied had been unkind to me.”

  “Why then did you play into their hands by expressing an interest in botany and Jamaican culture?” said Chase.

  “I knew you’d ask me that.” She sought reassurance from Lewis, who had sat down at her side. Not seeming to like Chase’s confrontational tone, he clasped Marina’s hand.

  “Well?”

  “I hated them, Mr. Chase. It was the only way I could punish them—by flaunting my past. I found that necklace on my pillow one evening. It was intended to frighten me, but I wore it and refused to remove it. I watched them all. I would ask my questions and see how they reacted.”

  Chase seemed unsurprised by this answer. Suddenly he grinned down at her, pulled up a chair opposite hers, and said, “Good girl.” As Marina flushed with pleasure, he added, “Which of them is your enemy, Miss Garrod? You must have some idea. Or is it all of them? A conspiracy to defraud you of your inheritance?”

  “I don’t know who it is. It often seemed my father didn’t trust them either. It’s been worse lately. They stop talking whenever I enter a room.”

  “They all have motive,” said Buckler, “depending on the terms of the will. Did Mr. Garrod ever mention to you how he intended to leave matters?”

  She shook her head. “He wouldn’t have discussed that with me, but I know he changed his mind frequently. He used to summon Ned to his study to hint at the current plan. By the next week, it was on to something else. Ned used to get so wild with him, but my father said he deserved this treatment because he kept exceeding his allowance. I must go back before they miss me.”

  Buckler heard the rustle of her gown as she moved toward the door, but then she turned back, as if some fresh worry had struck her. “You heard I was born into slavery? Is…is the position of a manumitted person in any jeopardy should she be accused of a crime?”

  He was puzzled. “You mean the manumission itself?”

  “I just wondered if I could ever be deported back to Jamaica.”

  “How should that be, Miss Garrod? You’re a free woman with the papers to prove it. At all events, Lord Mansfield’s decision in the Somersett case made it clear that slavery cannot exist in England. Even if you did not have these papers, having set foot on English soil, you can’t be forced back into bondage.”

  “I thought so,” she said gravely. “Still it was as well to be certain.”

  Buckler hesitated, then said, “I hope you’ll forgive my frankness, ma’am, but there’s a law that limits the amount individuals of mixed race can inherit to two thousand pounds in Jamaican currency. I understand this law is likely to soon be overturned.” He was human enough to enjoy Chase’s raised eyebrows but explained, “I’ve been browsing in Mr. Garrod’s library.”

  “I’ve heard my father speak of this law,” said Marina. “He’s had many consultations with his lawyers on the subject. But he said I’d received something called a privilege grant that made everything all right. As if I’d been worried about it!”

  Everyone looked at her blankly except Buckler, who said, “Miss Garrod’s circumstances are not unusual among the Jamaican planters. The privilege grant bestows most of the rights of an English citizen. One can also obtain an exemption from the inheritance statute. The inheritance exemption is rare and difficult to obtain.”

  “No doubt Mr. Garrod managed it,” said Chase dryly. “Illegitimacy is no bar?”

  “None.” Buckler glanced at Lewis.

  Marina said, “My father was always so worried about challenges to his will. He used to say that the John Crow vultures would pick his carcass clean as soon as he died. He wanted to be sure I would not be taken advantage of.”

  Buckler wished more than anything to reassure her, but he owed her the truth. “You haven’t yet reached your majority, ma’am. You are entirely subject to the will of your guardians.”

  “That I was aware of.” She flipped her braid over her shoulder with quick impatience. “Aside from that, I am entitled to the rights of an English citizen? The right of property and inheritance? The right to a defense when accused? The right to liberty once exonerated?”

  Buckler bowed. “I devoutly hope so. Else we would all find England a barbarous land indeed.”

  Silence fell among them, as she looked into Buckler’s face, her lips trembling a little as she tried to repress her emotion. A noise made them look toward the door to find the constable peering in. Before Marina could berate him, Buckler said, “Lewis, Chase and I will convey your sister back to the house. Why don’t you take Miss Garrod?”

  “Yes, sir.” His eyes went to his sister. “Are you coming soon?”

  She nodded. “I need to speak to you anyway. Edward and I have been talking about our removal after the funeral tomorrow. We have overstayed our welcome.”

  “No,” said Lewis and Marina in unison.

  “Lewis,” said Penelope, “I feel as you do, but it’s best…I had no thought to be away from Sarah for more than a few days.”

  “You must go home, Penelope. But I cannot, not yet. I won’t do it. I’ll take a room at the pub if necessary.”

  Marina Garrod looked at the floor. “I understand that you miss your little girl, Mrs. Wolfe, but may I ask you to leave Mr. Durant with me for a few days more? His company is of great value to me at present.”

  Lewis said, “Don’t be a little fool, Marina. Of course, I’m staying. Penelope, you go, and I’ll return to London in a few days.”

  “I’m not leaving you,” Penelope protested.

  Buckler made an inarticulate sound, and Chase said, “This is all very pretty, but I have a murderer to catch. Miss Garrod, will you trust me to protect you?” He held out his hands to her, a hint of vulnerability showing in his face.

  Marina raised her eyes to meet the keen gaze and gave his hands a firm squeeze. “Yes, I will, Mr. Chase.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Mrs. Yates sat with her worsted work in her lap. Her needle rested; her ears caught every word of the conversation. Her head was slightly cocked, her gaze firm and aloof, as it pivoted from one speaker to the next. She put in a word or two, only when there was need. Beatrice Honeycutt had arranged herself in a black lacquer and gilt armchair, its gold cushion gleaming dully against her stiff, black gown. She draped o
ne arm along the back of her chair and leaned toward her brother, who lounged on a sofa, his eyes like bits of blue fire between half-closed lids. Beatrice’s face was smooth, unreadable, but varied expressions flickered across the translucent skin of Ned Honeycutt, glowing warm, blazing hot, chilling pale, his voice rising and falling. Ned spoke of nothings: a party he and his sister had both attended, a morsel of scandal, the prospect of boredom during the period of mourning, hopes for his future. Beatrice answered him with a laugh, an exclamation of derision, a weary frown, a shake of the head, on cue. The door opened. The clergyman, sedate and slow, crossed the room to join them. Mr. Tallboys sat and spread the skirts of his coat on the sofa. He planted his feet in front of him and settled his broad back pleasurably, his greeting loud and authoritative.

  The room darkened; the shadows lengthened and pointed across the wine-dark carpet to creep into the farther corners. It was Mrs. Yates’ job to attend to the candles, but she sat on, perhaps forgetful. It was so dark now that Penelope Wolfe could no longer see her book. She had been watching them in a sort of daydreaming way. She didn’t think they could have forgotten her perched in the window seat, for Beatrice and Mrs. Yates both looked over at her from time to time, and Penelope sometimes caught a hostile flash from behind the housekeeper’s spectacles. Penelope thought about seeking out Buckler and Chase, who had escaped to the library or Lewis who had gone to his room, but for some reason she shrank from showing herself and making her excuses.

  “Do light the candles, aunt,” said Beatrice at last. Mrs. Yates put her sewing aside and fetched the tinderbox from the mantel. She circled the room, lighting a branch on each console table, another on the small table between Honeycutt and Beatrice, and one more near Penelope.

  “Where’s Marina?” said Honeycutt to his sister in an indifferent tone.

  “Gone up to bed early.”

  “My God, did you hear her today? No, I forgot. You weren’t there, but Aunt Anne must have told you. Are you feeling better, Bea?”

  Beatrice’s mouth hardened. “A day of rest and reflection has restored me. Yes, I heard about Marina. Were you surprised? I wasn’t.”

  “I tried to mend matters, but she ruined my efforts. There’s bound to be even more talk now. Just what we needed.”

  “You did very well, Ned,” put in Mrs. Yates, pausing with a heavy silver candlestick in her hand. “Marina owes you her gratitude, though she won’t own to that. She quite frightens me. When I think—”

  “Hush,” said Beatrice.

  “She won’t find it easy to get around me, Mrs. Yates,” said Mr. Tallboys, lacing his fingers over his stomach. “We shall see what’s what once the funeral is behind us and the will read. One could wish Hugo would have directed the girl’s education better, but I won’t speak ill of him. I owe him my gratitude for the rest of my days.” He smiled at the housekeeper. “I’ve just been in to say prayers over him. The undertaker has done a commendable job with the hangings and the coffin ornaments, ma’am. I felt such a sense of peace sitting there. Your arrangements are most tasteful.”

  “Thank you, sir. I wanted all to be as it should,” said Mrs. Yates.

  “May I take this opportunity to say a word? Hugo’s death can make no difference in your domestic arrangements. Everything will go on as before if I have any say in the matter, depending on his instructions, which must be sacred to me. I thought you’d like to know that.”

  “You are kindness indeed, Mr. Tallboys.”

  Ned Honeycutt came to stand over Penelope. “Will you and your brother be leaving us, ma’am? I wish we could have made your acquaintance under better circumstances. My uncle regarded your talents highly.”

  It was a less than subtle hint, and there was no other response than to say they would depart in the morning and voice her conventional thanks.

  Mrs. Yates said, “You’ll be anxious to see your daughter. She will have missed your care. I’ve long wanted to ask you, ma’am, about a pamphlet that Mr. Garrod insisted was of your authorship. ‘The Proper Rearing of Children.’ It was you, wasn’t it?”

  Penelope was surprised. She had published this pamphlet under a nom-de-plume, her usual practice. Her husband had asked so little of her in regard to wifely obedience that she had felt she should comply with his wishes in this one area. In any event, this had seemed a wise business decision, for what lady would take parenting advice from a woman whose family had become notorious? The pamphlet Mrs. Yates referred to had been quickly produced and sold. “How did you know?”

  Now flanking her nephew, Mrs. Yates said, “My brother recognized your description of your education abroad, and you mentioned rearing a young daughter. I must tell you, Mrs. Wolfe, I take issue with your claims.”

  “Indeed?”

  “You argue that a parent must not quell a child’s natural inclination or risk destroying all that is pure and good in him. And yet it is a mother’s duty to govern her offspring.”

  “Cannot a mother govern through love and respect?”

  “Of course. But she must shun corruption, or the world will call her dangerously naïve. I know what of I speak, Mrs. Wolfe. That is why so many of the Creoles send their children to school in England.”

  Mr. Tallboys looked up, saying heartily, “Quite right, Mrs. Yates, though Miss Honeycutt must be a shining exception to this rule since she spent her formative years in Jamaica. In general, however, your point is indisputable. I myself deplore the license of modern youth, which is so often due to a lack of proper vigilance and control on the part of their elders.”

  “I do not see that bad influences or simply bad luck are easily avoided anywhere,” said Penelope.

  “Do you apply this philosophy to your own daughter, ma’am?” asked Beatrice.

  “Too much indulgence is unwise, but I’ve always thought that children are born with a spark of the divine that society is too eager to stamp out. It is arrogant to think we have the power to create human nature.”

  There seemed little more to say on this subject, but the ladies of the house were not finished with her. “Your husband endorses your ideas, Mrs. Wolfe?” pursued Beatrice, her eyebrows a little elevated.

  “Indeed he does, Miss Honeycutt. He allows Sarah to grow freely.” Since Jeremy had never done anything more than sweep in and play games with his daughter when the mood struck him and when he happened to be around in the first place, this was disingenuous. But they were not to know that.

  “A shame that Mr. Wolfe is missing so many of these joys. Children do grow fast,” Beatrice observed. “Do you expect his return soon?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know,” Penelope said, keeping her tone even.

  After a short silence, Mrs. Yates said: “A pity. Will Mr. Buckler accompany you back to London, ma’am?”

  “Mr. Honeycutt has asked him to stay on for a day or two.”

  The housekeeper’s cold eyes were on Penelope. “Such a handsome man. He is a good friend of yours, is he not? Have you known him long?”

  Penelope had had enough. She rose to her feet. “A very good friend. I’ve known him and Mr. Chase for nearly two years.” She waited a moment before she said, seemingly at random, “How fortunate we are that this tragedy was not so much worse. Mr. Buckler nearly drank the tea with the poison but was, by God’s grace, prevented in time. Miss Honeycutt and Mr. Tallboys”—here she curtsied insolently in their direction—“were endangered but survived, though, come to think of it, Mr. Tallboys might have avoided his danger altogether had he not changed his mind about which variety of sugar to take at the last minute. And you, ma’am”—she looked full into the older woman’s face—“set aside your own tea to attend to your duties, which probably saved your life. Curious that our fate may depend on such trifles.” With this, Penelope got herself out of the room.

  ***

  John Chase stared up at the blue damask valance above his bed. Uncomfortabl
e with the feeling of confinement, he’d pushed back the hangings as far as they would go and cracked his window to admit air. It was no good. Every time he dropped off, he found himself surrounded on all sides by water, as though he’d put to sea. A glinting sheet of ocean would burst upon his sight, and he would jerk awake, the thoughts starting to jostle around in his brain again like waves slapping the hull of a ship.

  He couldn’t think of a single task left undone. The constables would return in the morning to help him keep watch on the heiress. Hugo Garrod’s study and library had been locked up tightly at the lawyers’ direction. The letter from Bow Street, which Chase had answered before bed, lay on the hall table, ready to be posted. For God’s sake, get this one right, he’d been urged. A primary concern, the chief magistrate said, was that Garrod’s extensive business affairs must not be thrust into chaos. Representatives from the merchant house of Garrod, Bentley, and Stern, had waited upon Bow Street. They wanted the matter resolved, with or without the cooperation of the local authorities.

  Reading this missive, Chase had been relieved to find no mention of Marina Garrod. What would happen once her testimony had been reported in the papers? Would the whispers about her die away or continue to spread unchecked? He had conquered his own doubts and was determined to do his best for the girl. Penelope and Lewis believed in her innocence; Buckler did too, though it was his way to hold back and question, no doubt because of his cynical, melancholic nature. But Marina’s story had impressed them all with its truth, and Chase wished he could get her out of this house until the murderer was caught.

  He shifted his knee to find a more comfortable position, closing his eyes. He knew he must sleep, but instead he rehearsed his next steps. First, a message to Noah Packet to find out if he’d had any luck in tracing the medicine bottle. Why strip off the label unless there was something to hide, Chase thought, not for the first time. Second, another round of interviews with the family, though the ceremonies of death were an obstacle since the bereaved could and did avoid him without excuse. Finally, a talk with Lewis. Blast the boy—he must leave with his sister tomorrow. Chase would not hesitate to thrust him in the coach himself, even over Penelope’s objections. And yet he was glad Buckler would not accompany them. It would be good to have the support of one of his friends in Clapham. Besides, he felt an unworthy satisfaction in separating Buckler and Penelope. Chase didn’t think he was jealous exactly, but it did seem that matters should not be allowed to go too far. He didn’t want Penelope’s peace cut up any more than it already was. With Jeremy Wolfe a ghostly fact of life for both his friends, there was no obvious solution to the tangle.