by Sahara Kelly
“It would appear so, yes.”
“I’m sure she will return soon,” consoled Letitia. “Where else would she go now?”
Simon laughed, a short empty sound. “She has the whole world to explore, Letitia. I doubt the appeal of Ridlington can match that of Paris or Vienna or darkest Africa…”
“But Simon. The war…surely she wouldn’t risk Europe at this moment?”
“She would risk it, brave it and conquer it. Have no doubt about this, ladies. Tabitha is a woman who can handle just about anything life throws her way. She can pick locks, understand politics and manage an accounting report that would baffle anyone I know, including Edmund. She’s strong, both in body and mind, and cleverer than we can guess. She can be manipulative and determined. There are times when she will seem to be all that she should be, while beneath that perfect exterior she’s plotting and planning…”
He broke off, aware that his sisters were staring at him with a certain degree of shock
“Good God, Simon.” Rosaline’s jaw dropped.
“Aha.” Letitia crowed. “You are so in love with her you don’t know what to do with yourself. I knew it, I just knew it.” She jumped up, did a little impromptu dance and then sat down again, after leaning over and giving her brother a smacking kiss on the cheek. “At last, Simon. At last.”
Simon, realizing that he had utterly condemned himself to this teasing with his own words, did what any self-respecting man would do. He rose, walked to the nearest wall, and thumped his head against it.
Several times.
*~~*~~*
London was as noisy and smelly as always, but to Tabby it seemed so much more so than when she’d been here as a resident.
Perhaps the fresh sweetness of the country air had spoiled her. Perhaps the clear skies and sunshine, or even the days of pouring rain, dark though they had been, perhaps all of these things had replaced the hustle and bustle and stink of the Metropolis in her mind.
Or perhaps she was just miserable because Simon wasn’t beside her.
That thought crossed her mind far too often, and she did her best to shut it down. To close that door. It didn’t work, and she cursed herself time and again for even opening it a tiny bit. Look what happened when you let a man get that close.
It hurt. It was a palpable pain that made her days dark and her nights restless. She forgot how to smile and slid back into the icy calm that had cocooned her for so long. But this time there was always that ache beneath the role she played so well.
And it made everything ten times more difficult.
The report on St. Simon’s had been filed without difficulty. A week later, she had been asked to attend a brief meeting and clarify one or two points, but they had been accounting matters and easily settled. She had gleaned no sense of where that left the future of the church, and didn’t ask.
She couldn’t bear it if the decision to shut it down was confirmed. For the rest of her life she would feel, right or wrongly, that it was her fault Simon lost his church.
After the Diocese was done with her, she made another trip, this time to a sedate and unremarkable building near Whitehall. It took quite some time for her to be admitted into the offices tucked away on the third floor, but patience and persistence usually worked.
“Good afternoon, My Lord.” She dropped a graceful curtsey. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” It had been a full two weeks, but in certain circles that was considered short notice.
A regal, if aged, man rose from behind a massive desk which was cluttered with papers. “Lady Ellsmere. My dear girl, you are a most welcome sight for these old tired eyes.” He rounded the desk and came to her, hands extended. “You look well. I am glad to see the color back in your cheeks, my dear.” He pinched one with the ease of long acquaintance.
“You are kind, sir.” She smiled at him, knowing his pleasure in a pretty face was genuine and quite innocent.
“Now you must tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself, and also what brings you here today to brighten my afternoon.”
Aware of his habit of prefacing the important questions with insignificant ones, she got straight to the point. “I need some assurances that I am no longer regarded as part of your circle, my Lord. There was a recent experience with an old acquaintance…”
“Ah yes. M. De Pontcarré.”
“You heard?”
He smiled. “My dear, have you forgotten how extensive our network is?”
She smiled back. “I think I must have. That was a silly question, wasn’t it?”
“No question is a silly question, as you well know. We still have no solid information on why De Pontcarré was in your neighborhood.”
She sighed. “I was afraid of that.”
“I said no solid information.” He dropped his head and regarded her with a slumberous look. It was at these moments she’d learned he was at his most acute—and most dangerous.
She met his gaze. And waited.
His lips twitched. “You’ve not forgotten all we taught you, I’m pleased to say.” The twitch grew into a grin. “Well, my dear, the rumor mill says that there are still one or two people in Vienna who have a bit of a bone to pick with you. And it’s quite possible that De Pontcarré was in the entourage of at least one of them.”
“Damn.” She bit her lip. “I was concerned that might happen.”
“Well, wait. I haven’t finished.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“However, it seems far more likely, based on other reliable information, that you were not the object of De Pontcarré’s interest.”
“Not me?”
“No.” He sighed. “It is said that of late, the von Rillenbach family, having fallen upon shall we say less fortunate times, is seeking a way to enlarge their shrinking coffers. They have begun to pursue the notion that England, in the shape of one Lady Rosaline Henry, should remunerate them for the loss of their dear August von Rillenbach in that fateful duel.”
“Good God.” Aghast, she stared across the desk. “The von Rillenbachs are going to sue?” She thought it through. “And of course, now that Rosaline is the Baroness Ridlington…”
“Exactly.” He leaned back and steepled his fingers over his robust belly. “They are assuming there is money there. Or that the title will allow the Baron to obtain money. Or some such nonsense.”
“So De Pontcarré wasn’t looking for me?”
“In my opinion, it’s more likely he was looking for Lady Ridlington. But, my dear, he might well have found you first. And his friends might be inclined to pay for that information.”
“I should be on my guard.”
“If you go back to Ridlington, yes.” Aged eyes suddenly became tired eyes as well. “One day this game we play will end and we can walk the lanes and the streets in safety.”
“But until then, ever-watchful, eh?” She smiled at him, quoting his favorite caution to all those who worked under his aegis on behalf of their country.
“Yes, always.” He rummaged amongst the parchments and foolscaps and quills, then found a small folded note. “This came to my attention recently. With the current financial situation dire for many of our countrymen, other interests have found a ready market for their requirements. A few coins change hands in a small inn, or even a butcher’s shop, and you have a foreign agent instead of a farmer. Or a dressmaker.”
“Are you serious?” She leaned forward, a frown on her face.
“Indeed yes. Remember the Jacobite business? A lot of that was rooted in money, rather than political belief.”
She shook her head, recalling the stories of treachery, spies and counter-spies, told by many of the men she had met in her years with this particular organization. “I do indeed.”
“So my best advice to you is to keep your eyes open, as you have always done. But this time, be on guard for the unexpected. Someone who might have business in the area. Someone you don’t know but who seems perfectly legitimate.”
“That’s just about everyone, isn’t it?”
“Here, in London, yes.” He shrugged. “’Tis the way of it, I fear. But in Ridlington…it’s another matter. There, a stranger is more likely to be noticed. Why, for example, is there a new supplier for hay, when the usual one is still in business? Is there a new haberdasher trying to open a shop? A new publican? Anyone out of the ordinary will stick out. So things are easier there. Just the other day…where was the damn thing…”
More rummaging ensued, amusing Tabby. He was one of the most brilliant minds she knew, but invariably he lost things at least twice a day.
“Ah. Here we are.” He brandished a slip of paper triumphantly. “A courier was in the country, not too far from you, I believe. A town called Sherrifield? He observed a known agent passing an envelope to a local man. It was assumed there was money in the envelope.”
“Good Lord.” Tabby blinked. “In the country?” She didn’t ask what business the agent had there. She knew better than that.
“An example of exactly what I just mentioned. The agent left, the man went about his business. A craftsman. Rebuilds and repairs pianos and the like. Name of Gevener, I think. He was seen with another chap we have our eyes on, which is why he ended up on our list as well, but the envelope observation was quite incidental. A fortuitous case of being in the right place at the right time.”
Something in Tabby’s brain registered, and she sat up straight all of a sudden. “Would he repair organs, by any chance?”
“Organs?”
“Church organs, sir. Would he have the skills or supplies to repair church organs?”
“Yes. Yes, I believe he might.” He met her gaze. “You know of someone.”
“I do.” She stood. “And he was to be at St. Simon’s the day I left.”
“Which means…” The old man stood. “Go. I’ll call for a carriage.”
“Thank you, My Lord. Thank you.” She dropped a slight curtsey and turned.
“If this man has an agenda and you can stop him, we’ll be grateful, Tabitha. Take care, my dear.”
She nearly ran from the room, leaving the Deputy Under Secretary to the Earl of Bathurst looking after her in concern.
“God go with you, child.” He sighed and sat. There were letters that must now go to his superior in the Office of the Secretary of State for War and the Colonies, and one to his other friend, the Earl of Liverpool, who currently held the title of Prime Minister.
Would this damn business never end?
Chapter Eighteen
“Would you like me to come and help?” Rosaline stood by the Vicarage window, looking out at the rain, cradling Tiddles in her arms. The cat was purring, since it was warm and dry and obviously quite content to be right where she was.
“Well, his assistant mentioned that a woman’s ear is often better suited to the final tuning,” answered Simon. “I don’t know much about music, so I’m probably a terrible judge at the best of times.”
He was at his wit’s end, he admitted. The organ reeds had been replaced, and the new ones seemed to be working, but something didn’t sound right and he had decided to trust the expert. “I hate to ask you to come out into the rain…”
“I won’t melt,” grinned Rosaline. “And to be honest, Edmund has a tendency to hover, which is nice, but after a while it becomes somewhat of a nuisance. I do need some exercise now and again, and I don’t think a two-minute walk down the path from the Vicarage to the church will do either myself or my tadpole here any damage.”
“Tadpole? Isn’t that rather a mundane name for the possible next Baron Ridlington?”
She chuckled. “I think it’s an excellent name for the future Baron Ridlington. Reminds him of where he came from and not to get too far above himself. We’ll have no more bad Barons in this family.”
Simon shared her laugh. “Well, when you put it that way…” He relieved her of Tiddles, who gave him the feline glare of death, jumped out of his grasp and stalked off in what looked quite like a huff. Since Simon had sisters he was, however, immune.
Leading his sister-in-law into the little hall, he wrapped her in her cloak, and grabbed his umbrella while she tied her bonnet. Today was the third day of solid rain, so they were both prepared.
Blaring notes from the organ greeted them when they stepped out of the door.
“Goodness. It’s loud…” Rosaline tucked her free arm through Simon’s.
“The door is open, and I opened the window in the sacristy a little. He used some sort of glue on the wood and it had a bit of a smell.”
“That would explain it.” Rosaline nodded as Simon shielded her from the worst of the rain and got them onto the covered porch of the church without incident. A blast of majestic chords welcomed them, followed by another blast—and a coughing squeak.
Simon sighed, and Rosaline covered a chuckle with her hand. Together they walked inside and Simon leaned his umbrella on a stand by the font.
Nobody was in sight, and yet the sounds continued.
“Halloo…” called Simon. “Godfrey? Are you there?”
His voice mingled with the notes of the organ, and there was no response. So he led Rosaline to a pew, made sure she was comfortable and then took himself off to the tiny door that opened to the back of the organ.
It was a place few people saw, for obvious reasons. It was damn small and filled with things that didn’t look as though they should be touched.
“Godfrey?” he yelled. “Are you in here?”
“No,” a voice yelled back. “I’m at the keys.”
Cursing, Simon caught his shin on a block of something, nearly tripped over something else and whacked his elbow on a pipe.
Finally extracting himself, he moved to the area where the organist sat to play. “Good Lord, man. How do you manage to work in there?”
“It helps to be on the shorter side, Vicar.”
Godfrey, who was all of five foot four and might well have had to look up to Hecate, grinned.
“Well, where are we? Tell me about my organ.” He blinked, realizing what he’d just said, but deciding juvenile male humor was inappropriate at this moment.
Meanwhile, Rosaline was very much appreciating a little time to herself.
The church had always been a place where she’d felt comfortable; not in a deeply and profoundly religious way, but in a peaceful way. As if whoever entered left their troubles and their anger at the door, bringing with them only thoughts of harmony and contentment. It was a fanciful notion, but it had persisted. And it had helped her through some difficult years. Her Sunday Service during her tenure as Lady Henry had been the high point of her week, and after Lord Henry’s injury she’d gone more often.
She prayed. Sometimes. Mostly for others who might benefit from a little Heavenly intervention. She prayed often for Edmund, that he would be strong and healthy and continue to put his past behind him. He’d made great strides, and she was thrilled to see his excitement as their child continued to grow in her womb. He’d found pleasure in touching her right where a little foot kicked from within.
The first time it happened—they both laughed and cried with joy. And that was a special and unique moment Rosaline thanked the Lord for on a daily basis.
Other prayers were for the family; she still prayed for her brother Paul, even though she knew not whether he lived or died. He still was, and would always be, her family. And then there were the prayers for those less fortunate, or suffering life’s trials, but rarely for herself. She had prayed for strength in her past, but seldom asked now. She knew whatever strength she had was multiplied by the love she shared with her husband. Who could ask for more?
A loud belching sound rattled around the arched ceiling, making her wince. What on earth were those two doing?
As if summoned by her thoughts, Simon’s head popped up over the top of the organist’s enclosure. “Are you all right?”
“Bit deaf, but otherwise yes.”
She heard his laugh and smi
led. He wasn’t laughing near enough since Tabby left.
Rosaline found herself with another prayer in her heart. “Dear Lord, please bring Tabby home where she belongs, and let her find happiness with Simon.” She whispered the words, hoping He was listening. Simon was a good man in so many ways. He deserved the love of his life beside him.
She had no doubt in her mind that it was Tabby.
*~~*~~*
Unaware that she was the subject of Rosaline’s prayers, the woman herself tried to sleep a little in the carriage. It had been very late, or rather very early in the morning, before the details of her trip could be finalized, government assistance notwithstanding.
But at last they were on the road and well away from London before the sun rose with four excellent horses setting a fast pace. Even so, the clouds billowed and the inevitable rain began, slowing their progress and trying Tabby’s patience to its limit.
She closed her eyes and braced her feet against the opposite seat, hoping to attain a measure of rest. But even with her body settled, her mind still churned with worry, plagued with visions of terrible scenarios, and most of all the terror of losing Simon.
She knew for certain that if he was there when anyone threatened Rosaline? He would be right in front of her. So would Edmund, but in Tabby’s mind it was always Simon in danger.
She berated herself for being so silly. She’d traveled under worse circumstances, been involved in far more dangerous situations, and risked life and limb more than once. So this journey would most likely end in her looking like a fool when the organ repair workman turned out to be a meek country chap doing his best to earn a living for himself and his family.
But if he wasn’t? If he really was the Gevener she’d been told about…then Rosaline might well be in mortal danger. Not just Rosaline, but her unborn child as well.
Tabby shook her head. No, it couldn’t happen. Rosaline would be safe inside Ridlington Chase while the organ was being repaired. In fact it might already have been completed. She was panicking for absolutely nothing.
