The Lady of Secrets

by Susan Carroll

  “For a woman who is acclaimed to be so wise, you lack much in common sense. Here, take this before you catch your death of a chill.” Blackwood did not drape the garment about her as tenderly as Graham would have done. He flung the cloak about her shoulders the way he would have tossed a blanket over the back of his horse.

  “Thank you,” Meg murmured in surprise. Blackwood had avoided her ever since the day he had delivered his warning. He had made it clear he didn’t want her coming to England and was angry at her for doing so, scarce speaking a word to her during the entire voyage. To Meg’s discomfort, she had often caught his gaze trained upon her whenever she had strolled along the deck with Sir Patrick. Blackwood had the most unsettling stare.

  As Meg did up the clasp, she frowned, realizing the cloak was her own. “You entered my cabin to fetch this?”

  “I thought I’d look in on your friend and see how she was faring. I am a doctor, you know,” he added somewhat defensively.

  “And how did Madame la Comtesse respond to your inquiry after her health?”

  “She threatened to throw the chamber pot at my head, so I snatched up your cloak and beat a swift retreat.”

  “Very prudent of you. Seraphine has excellent aim.”

  “Mayhap she does, but since I seem to inspire an urge in women to throw things at me, I have grown very good at ducking.”

  Meg laughed in spite of herself and he smiled, the first time he had smiled at her in days. She found herself unexpectedly warmed by it.

  He joined her at the rail. Sir Patrick always maintained a courteous distance, but Blackwood stood so close, he brushed against her. He had an overwhelming presence, as though he was taking in her share of the air and leaving her slightly breathless.

  Meg edged away from him. She was never one to chatter, but she felt galvanized into nervous speech. “Sir Patrick says we will reach the port at Gravesend soon. From there we must change to a barge that will take us the rest of the way. Sir Patrick believes there is a chance we may make London by nightfall.”

  “Graham is likely right.”

  “Seraphine will be glad of it. She thinks being aboard this ship is like being clapped up in gaol.”

  “If she thinks that, obviously Madame la Comtesse has never been in prison.”

  “And you have?”

  “Yes.”

  Meg should have been used to his bluntness by now, but she knew of few men who would so casually admit such a thing. Blackwood must have caught her startled look, for he laughed.

  “Don’t be alarmed. I spent a year enjoying the hospitality of Newgate, but not for anything like murdering my patients. I have killed off a few, but purely by accident. I was in prison because I was up to my ears in debt.”

  “An entire year for that?” Meg said indignantly. “I have always found the concept of punishing debtors in such a fashion absurd. How is one to pay off one’s obligations when locked away from any gainful employment? I suppose you had a friend to come to your rescue?”

  “Not exactly. When King James came to the throne, he issued a general pardon to all thieves, bawds, and ne’er-do-wells like me, a release order for everyone in prison; well, except for murderers and Catholics. So I was set at liberty.” Blackwood withdrew a leather flask from beneath his cloak and uncapped it.

  “God save the king.” There was an edge of mockery to his toast. He took a swallow and offered the flask to her. When she declined with a shake of her head, he insisted. “It is Aqua Vitae. It will help you get warm.”

  “It is far more likely to give me a raging headache and destroy my stomach. You should not drink such vile stuff. If you must indulge in strong spirits, you should try usquebaugh. My mother, Catriona O’Hanlon, swore by it.”

  “You had an Irish mother?”

  “Stepmother,” Meg amended, although she had never thought of Cat that way, more like a wise and loving older sister. “My father wed her the year I turned ten.”

  “And what of your own mother?”

  The question caused Meg to tense, her gaze drawn to the dark ripples of the river. An image flashed through her mind of Cassandra’s white hand breaking the surface of the water one last time before she vanished.

  “She drowned when I was nine.”

  “An accident?”

  “What makes you ask that?” Meg asked sharply.

  “I don’t know. Just something about your expression.” His gaze probed hers. His eyes, which could appear almost blue at times, tended toward gray this morning, reflecting the darkness of the sky and river. “Your mother would not have been the first to seek such a desperate solution to overwhelming despair. The tidewaters of the Thames wash up many such poor souls every year.”

  “My mother didn’t kill herself,” Meg said, but her mind returned to those last few minutes of her mother’s life when everything had unraveled for Cassandra Lascelles. Her plots, her dreams, even her possession of Meg. When she had realized she was unable to prevent Martin Wolfe from taking her daughter away, Cassandra had fallen to her knees, tears streaming to her cheeks.

  “No! What have you done to me? You can’t take my Silver Rose! She’s all that I have.”

  Maman had been so proud, so fierce, she never displayed any weakness, never ever cried. Was it possible she had thrown herself into the river? Meg could not be sure, but she insisted, “It was an accident. My mother was blind. She stumbled too close to the water’s edge.”

  Blackwood covered her hand on the deck rail with his. “Either way, it was not your fault.”

  Wasn’t it? Meg had never been entirely sure about that either. Once again she was startled by Blackwood’s perception. It was almost as if the man could read eyes, which would have been quite unfair because she could not read him at all. She only knew that he was being unexpectedly gentle and kind.

  His fingers entwined with hers and he ran his thumb lightly over the back of her hand. An idle gesture on his part, she was sure, but it was having the most unaccountable effect on her, causing her skin to tingle.

  She drew away from him. Tucking her hands beneath her cloak, she sought to change the subject.

  “It would appear you are no longer angry with me.”

  “For what?”

  “Ignoring your warning to return to Faire Isle.”

  “My advice,” Blackwood amended. “Yes, perhaps I was vexed you did not have the good sense to go back to the island with Hortense.”

  “I am still astonished that she did. You never told me how you persuaded her.”

  “It wasn’t difficult. I merely told her if she was a good girl and went to the island, I’d return to bed her one day.”

  “You what! You would really do such a thing?”

  “Perhaps … if I was drunk enough.” Blackwood paused, appearing to enjoy her shock for a moment before saying, “No, of course I wouldn’t.”

  “So you made that poor old woman a promise you had no intention of keeping. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

  “I would have told Hortense anything to persuade her to go where she would be safe. I would have made you the same promise if I thought it would have worked.” His gaze slid over her with frank appraisal. “Although in your case, it is a promise I would have been tempted to keep.”

  “Such a promise would have held no inducement for me.”

  “No? That is only because you have never been to bed with me.”

  “Nor will I ever!”

  “Likely you won’t,” Blackwood agreed with a mock sigh. “Because you have already fallen under the spell of Graham’s melancholy blue eyes.”

  Meg felt her cheeks flame. “I have done no such thing.”

  “No need to be so mortified, my dear. You are not the first poor lass to have done so, but it will avail you nothing. Graham is rather single-minded when it comes to his pursuits and those don’t include chasing after women.”

  “That is because Sir Patrick is a most chivalrous and courteous gentleman. So much so that I wonder that you and
he are friends. You seem a most unlikely pair.”

  “As do you and Madame la Comtesse.”

  Meg averted her face, staring across the waters toward the mist-shrouded embankments. She was irritated with Blackwood for flustering her, even more annoyed with herself that she did not flounce away from him. But she was unable to resist the opportunity to learn more about Sir Patrick.

  “You and Sir Patrick have been friends for a long time?” she asked.

  “Since we were students together at Oxford. We were among the humble beings that had to work for our tuition, so we were snubbed by the sons of wealth and privilege. Not that Graham much noticed or cared. He was always so deep in his books. I suppose I should have been similarly absorbed with my studies, but I found it more entertaining to lure Graham from the path of virtue.”

  “You hoped to become a doctor. What was Sir Patrick’s aim?”

  “Martyrdom,” Blackwood muttered.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  A grim look had settled over Blackwood’s features, but he forced a smile to his lips. “I mean that the man was a martyr to his study of Greek and Latin.”

  “I don’t think you meant anything of the kind. I know a little bit about Oxford College. I have heard that many of the deans have a reputation for secretly encouraging the preservation of the Catholic religion. Sir Patrick’s faith.”

  Blackwood made a dismissive gesture with his hand, but Meg continued, “I have seen him make the sign of the cross and once I even observed him praying over his rosary beads.”

  “The man needs to get rid of that blasted thing before we make port. If Graham is caught with the beads, it could cost him his freedom, maybe even his life. At the very least, he would lose his position at court and have to pay a hefty fine.”

  “Then the English government is no more lenient toward those of the Catholic faith than it was during Elizabeth’s reign?”

  “Lenient!” Blackwood snorted. “If anything, the council is more intolerant since James took the throne. When he was angling to become the king of England, James Stuart had smiles and promises for everyone. Catholics rejoiced, feeling they had cause for hope, but it swiftly became apparent we have a king who would rather hunt than govern. He seems content to leave the question of religion to parliament, especially now that James has discovered how lucrative the persecution of recusants can be. Confiscated estates and heavy fines can furnish a monarch with many fine horses and hunting dogs.”

  Meg blinked in surprise at his impassioned speech. From what she had observed of his behavior aboard ship, Blackwood treated everyone with a genial indifference. She had never seen him display such emotion.

  “You do not seem to have much love for your king,” Meg said. “I would have thought you might feel some gratitude toward him.”

  “What, for his munificence in pardoning a wretch like me? He would have done far better to exercise his mercy upon someone who truly deserved it.”

  “Is this the real reason you were so angry at me for coming to England to deal with the curse? You despise James Stuart so much you do not wish me to help him.”

  “I don’t give a damn whether you help him or not. I much doubt that you can. No one can save James Stuart from his own folly.” Blackwood forced a laugh and relaxed his taut features into a sardonic expression. “But I shouldn’t judge him so harshly when I am as great a fool. I have now placed my life squarely in your hands. When you have your audience with the king, all you have to do is report my treasonous utterances and it will be the devil to pay for me.”

  “I would never do such a thing.”

  “No, you would not, would you?” Blackwood tipped her face up to his and studied her. “You are such a solemn and prim little thing, but those eyes of yours. So mysterious, so full of hidden fire. I think you could pierce a man’s soul with them, mesmerize him into spilling all his secrets into your hands.”

  “Do you have so very many secrets then, Dr. Blackwood? I confess I can find no window into your mind at all.”

  “I am right glad of that, milady. Because if you read the thoughts chasing through my head, you’d likely have the countess run me through.”

  Blackwood bent forward and kissed her. He grinned and strode away, leaving Meg a little breathless and annoyed, at herself as much as him.

  She had experienced far more tender and coaxing embraces, but none that had made her heart pound like this. Blackwood’s kiss had been hard, quick, and startling, like brushing up against a red-hot iron. Meg had to resist the urge to fan herself with her hand.

  If Blackwood chanced to look back, he would only be amused. But he appeared to have found a new quarry to torment. Mr. Johnston’s expression was far from welcoming as Blackwood approached.

  Another man would have taken the hint, but Meg doubted that anything short of a clout to the ear would have rebuffed Blackwood.

  He greeted Johnston with a hearty clap on the shoulder and a hail-fellow-well-met grin. Even from across the deck, Meg observed Johnston grit his teeth. Johnston made it quite clear he preferred to be left alone and Blackwood persisted in approaching the man at every opportunity.

  Meg suspected the doctor did so just to annoy the dour Mr. Johnston. Blackwood seemed to possess a mischevious streak, treating even the most serious matters as a jest.

  His heated speech regarding the injustices dealt to England’s Catholics had astonished and confused her. She wondered if Blackwood, like his friend, was also a recusant. Yet she had difficulty imagining Blackwood that devout.

  Still, he and Sir Patrick had been close friends at Oxford, poor struggling students. That was another remark Blackwood had made that surprised her. Sir Patrick claimed he came from gentry, a landed family from Middlesex. They certainly should have been able to afford a good education for their only son.

  But like many recusant families, they may have been impoverished by the crown. If that were the case, Sir Patrick displayed no bitterness. Unlike Blackwood, Graham was completely devoted to King James. Or he seemed to be. For all of his kindness and courtesy, Meg was not sure that she understood Sir Patrick any better than she did Blackwood.

  Meg was distracted from her thoughts by the unexpected sight of Seraphine stumbling toward her. Deep shadows pocketed her eyes and her lustrous hair tumbled in tangled waves about her shoulders, but a faint hint of color crept back into her pale cheeks.

  “So you did not die after all,” Meg greeted her.

  Seraphine’s steps were cautious as though she still expected the deck to heave, or her stomach. “I have decided to live, at least until we get to shore. I am damned if I will die on this floating coffin.”

  “We are drawing near Gravesend.”

  “Yes, I am,” Seraphine said with a dramatic sigh.

  “I mean Gravesend, the port where we will disembark …”

  Seraphine brightened.

  “… and catch the barge to London.”

  Seraphine groaned and joined Meg at the deck rail, taking great care to keep her gaze averted from the river. The mist had burned away and Meg spied a trio of children playing upon the distant embankment. They waved at the passing ship and Meg lifted her hand in acknowledgment.

  “So where is your devoted swain this morning?” Seraphine asked.

  “If you mean Sir Patrick, I have no idea. I daresay he may still be below, asleep in his hammock.”

  “While I was dying in that wretched hole of a cabin, it gave me much time to think about you.”

  “Heaven help me,” Meg said, but Seraphine ignored her and went on. “I have always believed you too preoccupied with the past and your mother. But I think I know what your true problem is, Margaret Wolfe.”

  “Pray enlighten me.” She might as well invite Seraphine to do so, because her friend would speak her mind anyway.

  “You live far too quietly on that island of yours. You are thirty-one years old, unwed, and still a virgin. If you had more experience of the world, you would not be so spellbound by Sir Patrick,
too ready to trust the first handsome man to cross your path.”

  Meg glared at her. First Blackwood and now Seraphine accused her of being smitten with Sir Patrick; this was beyond irritating.

  “I am not entranced by Sir Patrick. Nor am I a virgin.”

  Seraphine had her eyes half-closed as the breeze played across her face. But they flew open wide. “What! You don’t mean because of that Naismuth boy who kidnapped you and held you to ransom? That villainous music tutor ravished you?”

  “No! Sander was reprehensible, but not evil enough to despoil a ten-year-old girl.”

  “So who then?”

  Meg regretted her outburst, but realized that Seraphine would give her no peace until Meg confessed. “I took a lover, a Spanish sea captain who made berth on Faire Isle.

  “As daughters of the earth, we are taught to believe that the union between a man and woman is a most natural thing and I confess I have always been curious. The experience did not disappoint. It was warm, comforting, and very pleasant. There was nothing shameful about it.”

  “Of course, there wasn’t. The only shameful thing is that you never confided about this man to me. But I know you too well, Meg. Natural or not, you would have never given yourself so intimately to any man if you had not given your heart as well.”

  “I did believe I loved Felipe. I even thought of marrying him.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I felt obliged to tell him about my past … all of it.”

  Seraphine groaned. “Why must you always be so infernally honest?”

  “Should one not be with the person one loves?”

  “No! Certain small deceits are often necessary to keep love alive.”

  “Withholding the truth of my past was far too large a deceit.”

  “And how did this Captain Felipe receive your honesty?”

  “Just as you might expect. When I told him about the coven of the Silver Rose and about Maman and all her witchcraft, he was horrified and shrank away from me. But only until he had time to think about it. Then he was intrigued, wondering what I had learned from Maman and the Book of Shadows, what power I might be able to wield with my knowledge, what riches I could acquire. Just like Sander Naismuth, the dear and trusted friend of my childhood.”