by Sharon Sobel
SHE REALLY WAS a foolish wretch. Any sensible woman would have delighted in the news that she would soon reach her destination, be welcomed into the arms of her friends, and have nothing to fear but that she might fall flat on the upper register of On Christ’s Nativity. Lord Willem Wakefield was a veritable stranger to her and only the most deluded of ladies would place too much hope on the fact he appeared kind and solicitous, accompanied her to a ball, and kissed her there, after he undoubtedly had had too much to drink.
Though as to that, it was a rather fine kiss.
He tasted of the salted meats they had eaten, the deep amber ale, and the vaguest hint of peppermint. And he certainly knew what he was about, taking her without preamble, and somehow making it seem as if a stolen kiss in front of an audience was very much the thing to do. Well, that was part of the mischief of the mistletoe, and he was right to think that nothing would be amiss.
And certainly, it did seem so to him. He accompanied her to the inn without any other words about the matter, neither apologies nor attempts to renew his ardor. All the while, she walked as if in a trance, her heart thrumming in her breast, her lips tingling with sensation. She was not one to overly partake of libations, but she imagined it would feel something like this.
Perhaps she was a drunken fool, unaware of what she said or did or how others regarded her. She knew very little about Will, or even if anything he said was true. If he did indeed deliver her at the home of her friends, dear Laurentia would undoubtedly confront her in her bedchamber and ask her what on earth she was thinking. To travel with a known rogue and fortune-hunter in his carriage, to allow him to purchase garments for her, to kiss her in a public hall?
And then there was the other matter, of course. Laurentia was Leighton’s sister, and devoted to his memory. She had been so hopeful that Julia had carried his legacy. When it was certain she did not, Laurentia comforted her by vowing that they would continue to honor him throughout their lives. She kept her promise, naming her new baby for her brother.
And for the past two years Julia had mourned him, missed him, and loved him. It would be profoundly unkind and disloyal to flaunt a new admirer at her late husband’s sister’s house party.
There was a gentle rap at the door, and Julia realized they would soon be on their way. She opened her door to Will, already in his long coat, and holding his square leather bag.
“Will you soon be ready?” he asked.
Julia gestured vaguely at her simple dress and neatly braided coronet. “Do I look like I have just scrambled out of my bed?”
He opened his lips to say something and then clearly changed his mind.
“Will you be in the dining room? I require only some tea and toast,” she prompted him.
“Can I not tempt you with kippers and sausage?” he asked.
He could tempt her with just about anything.
“It does sound inviting.”
He raised his hand beckoningly as he turned. “Come downstairs as soon as you are able. I will send Milton to fetch your carpetbag.”
She watched him as he walked down the uneven wooden floor of the hall. He paused once to admit another guest before him, and Julia recognized Miss Lavender’s companion. The woman giggled and wagged her finger at him, and walked at his side until they disappeared down the stairway.
It was all the impetus Julia required. She tugged on her boots, now as stiff as blocks of wood, and pulled her cape off the chair where she had dropped it the night before.
If this was to be her last day alone with him, she wished to make it last as long as she could.
WILL COULD NOT recall so fine a day since he departed the shores of Java, many months before. Here in England, he had become so accustomed to the gloom that Tambora had brought that it pained his eyes to look to the bright sky, or at the sun’s bright reflection off the fallen snow. It gave him hope that the climatic effects of the explosion might be something to recall in age old, and that England and other afflicted lands would be restored to landscapes where crops grew and winters were mild.
He looked out the coach window at homes and farms, the occasional ruin left by the old Romans, and the grandeur of distant estates. The landscape reminded him that there were other, equally insidious effects of the devastation, and they were not so easily dismissed.
There were the people lost and the destroyed villages. He rubbed his finger over the carvings on his ring and thought again of Leena, who dreamed of being an English lady, but was compelled to return to her family and their vulnerable home in the shadow of the volcano, where she had lived her whole life.
The return of the islands to the Dutch authorities was now a miserable affair, much like promising a finely worked piece of porcelain and handing over broken shards instead. But the Dutch, people so optimistic that they built their own land out of the sea, were reconciled to the work that needed to be done, and buoyed by prospects of the riches that remained.
People, land, crops, buildings: these were the things one was most likely to think of in the aftermath of a great flood or fire or volcanic eruption. But there was another thing that few were able to understand or even notice; a society was built upon its artifacts, the enduring treasures that gave it its identity and history.
Just now, Lord Elgin was transporting the relief sculptures of the Parthenon to safety in England, far from the Greek Acropolis where they had survived centuries of war and hazards. And in the midst of the chaos following the eruption of Tambora, his old companion and trusted captain of the ship that safely delivered him to the East Indies had sailed off in the Renown with Thomas Raffles’s precious Yogyakarta artifacts, which never arrived at the Naval docks of Northfleet. But Nick had arrived, and if he managed to plow through the mountains of snow to also arrive at the Howard’s Christmas party, Will would press him for the truth of the matter. He wanted nothing more than a logical explanation that would allow for Nick to escape from the cloud of suspicion that had settled upon him, and have his good name restored.
Will had let it be generally known that his objective in coming to Seabury was to present Thomas Raffles’s case to those who had the ear of the Regent. But both his governments, for he was a man of divided loyalties, wished for a resolution of the matter of the stolen treasures, and wanted to have them returned to their distant home. Some months before, he shared his concern, and that of Raffles, with his host, Geoffrey Howard, who promptly invited Nick Hawkely, as well as the lady he planned to marry, to celebrate Christmas at Seabury.
Will did not look forward to dealing with this mess of affairs, for Nick denied any involvement in the theft. More problematically, when Will appeared in London to testify to Nick’s honorable character at the Court of King’s Bench, Crown Side, he had been unable to voice his opinion. Indeed, in the course of the proceedings, he had come to doubt his friend’s version of the truth. Though the Renown had first docked at Gravesend, which seemed somewhat irregular, there seemed to be no one else with the opportunity and the means to have made off with the treasures.
“I do not understand this reference to Wayong Kulit,” Mrs. Townshend said suddenly, and looked up from Raffles’s manuscript. He had not interrupted her since they departed the Spotted Horse, because she was so engaged in reading it. “Is it a village? Did all its people go missing in the eruption?”
Will wondered if he had said anything he had been thinking out loud. As she handed him several pages, he realized she was reading a part of the manuscript he had not yet seen. And yet, these might prove to be the most important pages of all.
“It is not a village, though I can understand why you may think so. The Wayong Kulit refers to the art of puppetry, a great favorite of the Javanese population. Each leather puppet is a distinct work of art, and some are many hundreds of years old.”
“I suppose they are like Punch and Judy?” she asked. “It is some time sin
ce I stopped to watch their absurd antics. I no longer have the taste for it.”
“Then you might appreciate the art of Javanese puppetry,” Will said, still holding onto the pages. He wondered what offended the lady about English puppetry, though he supposed the sight of two figures whacking each other with mallets would not be to everyone’s taste. Perhaps not to anyone’s taste. “It is much more subtle and artful, with thin reeds supporting the puppets behind a gauzy cloth, so one only sees the puppets in silhouette.”
“Like the black portraits in profiles artists create on a screen?” She frowned. “One does not realize how prominent or crooked is one’s nose until one looks upon a silhouette.”
She ran a thin finger down the slope of her small nose.
“Surely you have no reason to be concerned on that account, Mrs. Townshend.”
“But my husband had a very large nose, and I did sometimes imagine what a daughter might look like with such a burdensome inheritance.”
Will resisted the urge to touch his own nose, made easier by the fact that she managed to distract him by speaking of her late husband.
“But you have no children,” he said, realizing they never spoke of this.
She sighed, which answered his question.
“Do children enjoy the silhouette puppets?” she asked instead.
She had him there, for he had no idea. “I do not know. I went to a good many performances, on small stages and at the palace, but do not recall ever seeing a child there.”
She nodded. “Much like the opera, I suppose. But then, a great many adults avoid the opera as well.”
“More fools they,” he said, and was rewarded with a smile.
“Well, what happened to the puppets? Raffles writes that they all disappeared, along with their silver ornaments and bells.”
Now he sighed, for that was the crux of his problem. “I do not know. I prefer to believe that someone overlooked them on the bill of lading, and left them in the hold of the ship, or put them away for safekeeping after the eruption, and then quite forgot about them. Or, perhaps, the person caring for them did not live to reveal the secret.”
“Might that be someone you knew?”
It was most likely someone he knew very well, though he was alive and well and soon to arrive at Seabury. Will had to reconcile any optimism he once had regarding Nick’s guilt with the fact that the man, though the son of the Duke of Avonhurst, was somewhat notorious.
“You are speaking of Leena, of course,” Julia said quietly.
Will blinked, unaware he had been so lost in thought, and he ignored her question. He reconsidered his last words, and understood how she might assume so.
“No, I am not. She would not have valued puppets and silver and jewelry over the lives of people, and no sooner had taken such things than she would have paused to take a cup of tea while fire was hailing down around us.” Will shook his head, remembering the last time he saw her. “Unfortunately, our governments do not share her philosophy. Someone has to be made accountable for the loss of the treasures, and Thomas Raffles fears it may be he. I can only hope it is not true.”
“Who is Channing?” Julia asked.
“Channing?” Surely it was not possible she knew that rogue.
She gestured at the pages in his lap. “Well, yes. I think that is the man’s name. Lt. Governor Raffles writes of him and his interest in the filigree silver items in the palace. Oh, yes. And here he mentions the puppets.”
“Channing,” Will repeated. “I have not thought of him in all these months, since his name was mentioned in a legal deposition. He was an interesting sort, a true child of the Navy, for he had been apprenticed to the admiral for many years. Channing scarcely remembered his parents, or his home, but often spoke about the grand house he would have someday, as far from the sea as he could manage. He was Raffles’s personal purser, and the man charged with packing the treasures in the first place. Though he reported directly to Raffles, he was the kind of man who made everyone’s business his own.”
“I see,” Julia said thoughtfully.
“What do you see?” Will asked, perhaps a bit too insistently. But someone who had not been on the scene, who did not know the players, might have the ability to see circumstances through a different lens.
“No more than what is in front of you. I am surprised you didn’t read it already.”
He held the pages up to the light of the window, and thought the ink was of a different color than that of the rest of the text. Somehow, these pages were also out of order, suggesting they might have been added later. Perhaps Raffles discovered something pertaining to Channing and the disappearance of the valuable shipping crates from the Renown. If so, this cast a new light on everything that was supposed on little actual evidence, and yet was capable of ruining a man’s reputation.
“I have missed them, though I’m not sure how that happened,” he said. “May I have them now?”
Julia smiled. “You have given me enough to keep me busy for many more miles.”
“Mrs. Townshend, we shall arrive before . . .”
“Do you not think we know each other well enough for our Christian names? I know it has only been three days since we met so unceremoniously, but we have been riding in close proximity, have shared several dinners, and we have waltzed.”
“And I kissed you, more than once.”
She frowned, and he realized she was unaware of the first, when he felt as if he had breathed life into her.
“I only recall last night, when we were beneath the mistletoe.”
Will stared out the window, not certain how he would describe what he did, and why.
“Milton and I had just pulled you from the wreck, and we were on our way to the Queen’s Thimble, and somehow it seemed the thing to do.”
He watched her reflection in the glass, bracing for her indignation and demand for his apology.
But instead, she settled back against the cushions, and put a finger to her lips. “And here I thought it was just a dream.”
“I shall have to do better next time, to convince you that it is real,” he said, turning back to her. “Julia.”
Her cheeks were much more vivid than they appeared in her reflection.
“Will,” she said, remembering what he said at their introduction three days before. “There is something I must tell you before we reach Seabury.”
“Let it wait,” he said, shifting in his seat so that he sat next to her. He lifted her onto his lap, as they sat that first day, and kissed her once and again, until she could no longer count them. Thomas Raffles’s papers scattered onto the floor.
Will had touched her when she was still unconscious, trying to warm her, and attempting to identify broken bones and open wounds. Though he had been then tempted by her, he’d also had a mission, to keep her alive. Now, only three days later, he could not be more grateful that he had succeeded. The heat they generated could spontaneously combust the carriage, though the thing most in peril of breaking was his heart.
“Will,” she said against his chest. “Will. We are moving far too quickly.”
“Yes, the coach is moving far too quickly, for we will be at Seabury in a matter of hours.”
She sighed. “I am not speaking of Seabury. We are moving too quickly, us, this. We hardly know each other. It is not sensible.”
“Sensible?” He laughed, and was greeted with a scornful look. “Well, if you wish to find sense in our behavior, I suppose I could point out that we already know each other a good deal better than many other men and women who fancy each other. We have not had to meet in dark corners of ballrooms, or steal a kiss when a mother or sister wander out of the parlor. A sensible person could compute our time together in hours to find the full measure of our acquaintance, which would undoubtedly surpass what others share
over weeks, or even months.”
“It will all change when we arrive in Rye,” she said. The coach ran over something in the track, and she bounced in his lap. She met his eyes, knowing precisely what she did to him.
“Why?” he asked, after he caught his breath. “Do you have a lover waiting for you at Seabury? A mother or sister who will refuse to leave the parlor when we are together?”
“Perhaps,” she said cryptically. “Though I might ask the same of you.”
“My mother would be more likely to lock us in a room together, so anxious is she to see me settled. But we are safe, for she and my father are spending Christmas in The Hague, undoubtedly worrying how the rough winter will affect the tulip garden.” He shook his head, remembering a recent conversation during which his mother reminded him that all her friends were already grandmothers. “They do not know about Leena.”
Julia slipped off his lap. “But you cannot forget her.”
The air cooled between them, and Julia started to retrieve the scattered papers. Surely she could not blame him for recalling the name of a woman who died so tragically.
“I suppose she will always be with me in one way or another. Do we not owe that to people we loved and lost?” he asked after some time had passed.
Julia looked up from the seat, where she had arranged the pages in some sort of order.
“You are right, Will. We owe them that much.”
SHE WAS A LOVESICK fool, that much was certain. To feel the heat of jealousy for a dead woman was not only irrational, but completely lacking in empathy. Did she not still feel the pain of the love that bound her to Leighton? Would she not experience a reminder of that obligation every moment she shared with his sister at Seabury? Why would she expect any less of Will, whose loss was just as tragic and just as raw?
She could scarcely make sense of it herself, and doubted she could manage to explain it to Will. Instead, she devoted the next hours to Thomas Raffles, a man she was unlikely to meet but already seemed to know well. The man had managed to spare a few sentences for Lord Willem Wakefield, and she focused on what he wrote there, hoping there would be more. In his behavior, as assessed by Raffles, Lord Willem was honorable and compassionate, and did much to restore some sense of order to the Lt. Governor’s office.
