Silence Is Golden

by Sara Ackerman

  “The doctor has forbidden any of that for at least another month, if not more.”

  He kissed her cheek, and laughed. “A man can dream, can’t he? Besides, I’m happy you and the baby are safe. The rest will come when it comes.”

  “You should be happy. You got your way,” she teased.

  “My way? You still named her after me. I don’t see how I got my way.”

  “At least she’s not a boy.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Imagine saddling young Master Coombes with that name.”

  “I like it.”

  “I’m sure you do. You chose it.”

  “You can’t tell me Theodora Beatrice Frederica Coombes is not a fine name.”

  He stroked the downy blonde fluff covering his daughter’s head, and kissed a chubby cheek. The infant stirred to nuzzle into his gentle caress. “Indeed, my love. It is a fine name.”

  She loved his devotion to their child. From the moment Theodora was born and opened her big blue eyes, she had him wrapped around her little finger. Indeed, he had been most attentive to Evie and the baby throughout her pregnancy and delivery. He had been her strength throughout this time of joy and healing.

  Coming home had been easier than she had imagined, but harder in ways she could not have begun to realize. For one, she learned of her father’s betrayal and banishment to the Americas. His defection stung, but this time she had her husband and her sister to comfort her.

  She had also received the confirmation she desired regarding the gypsy curse. Though her new brother-in-law had been reluctant to divulge any information about the curse, he capitulated and confirmed her father had perpetrated the gypsy curse to punish the girls for lying. It had been a hoax all along. Stanton had begged her to keep this information from her sister, and she refused. Amelia had a right to know. This time, she was the one to comfort her sister and offer her support. Over the last several months of sorrow and celebration, their relationship had strengthened. In fact, baby Theodora almost was named Emily, a slight variation on her beloved sister’s name.

  “You will allow me to choose her other name, though,” Alfred insisted now.

  She squirmed and blushed. Suspicion clouded his features. “Evelyn? You haven’t chosen her nickname already, have you?”

  “Freddie is your special name and, therefore, it is not a possibility.” She tilted her head up for a quick kiss, and was pleased to see his good humor returning. “Theo has potential.”

  He groaned. “Having a girl has done nothing to resolve our name dilemma!”

  “It’s not my fault your mother insisted on naming you after her favorite aunt. I happen to like the name Theodora.”

  “What if we call her Bea? It’s a fine name, and already she shows the strong fighting spirit of her namesake.” The tiny child grasped his finger, and he chuckled. “She’s going to be a fierce one. Let’s give her a name fit for a warrior.” He paused. “We don’t have to call her Bea. Forget I even mentioned—”

  He stopped when she placed a gentle hand on his arm. “You misunderstood my silence. I was reflecting how nice it would be to hear Bea’s name again. You’re right. We shall call her Bea.”

  He smiled and rested his chin on her shoulder, watching little Bea as she slept nestled in her mother’s arms.

  A loud knock rattled the door below. “Who could be here now? Our visitors have either been and gone or are here.”

  “It’s not Mr. Blackburn and his new wife, is it?” Since returning home, they had maintained a close friendship with the good Reverend Blackburn. They had invited him to visit this spring to renew their friendship and introduce him and his wife to their child.

  “No. I received a post from him yesterday. Their departure has been delayed due to illness. They won’t leave until late next month.”

  Worry for her sister and child clouded her mind. “Let’s hope nothing is wrong at the castle.” She hugged her own babe tightly to her breast as if her love alone could protect her from all the dangers awaiting her outside of their bedroom walls.

  As adept at worrying as she, he shifted behind her, unease tensing his muscles. “Or Hyacinth isn’t foaling early.” The nervousness in his voice revealed his anxiety. Much depended on a successful delivery for Hyacinth’s first offspring, and he and Stanton had kept an eagle eye on the heavy mare and her rounded belly, praying the babe stayed in place until it was time.

  Placing a swift kiss on her cheek, he leapt from the bed. “I shall return.” He ran downstairs and reappeared within seconds. From the relieved look on his face, she suspected the mare, and her foal, were unharmed.

  The baby stirred and whimpered, rooting through the folds of her gown. She lowered the garment, and the child latched on, her suckling and tiny grunts blending with the crackle and hiss from the fire, cocooning her and the baby in a spell of domestic tranquility. Tiredness weighted her limbs, and she leaned back on the bed and closed her eyes, allowing the pile of pillows against the headboard to support her tired body.

  “Who was it?”

  “A messenger with a letter.” He ripped into the seal and was quiet. She opened her eyes and noted his pale features, almost the color of the snow swirling outside their bedroom window. Apprehension soured her stomach. “What does the letter say?”

  “How about we call her Theo after all?”

  She tightened her hold on her child. “What do you mean?”

  With shaking hands, he handed her the letter. “I mean, we already have a Bea in the family. We don’t want the two of them to get confused when little Bea’s aunt comes home.”

  “What are you saying?” The unread letter dropped from her nerveless fingers, and a cruel sort of hope sprang to beat wildly in her chest. “If this is your idea of a joke, it’s not a funny one, Alfred.” The baby, startled by the vehemence in her voice, unlatched and mewled.

  “I assure you, this is no joke.” He came to her on the bed, knelt beside her and took her hand in his, their child anchored between them. “Beatrice is alive. She’s coming home.”

  If you enjoyed Silence Is Golden, you’ll want to watch for Sara Ackerman’s next book from The Wild Rose Press, Inc. Here’s a sample:

  Silver-Tongued

  Temptress

  by

  Sara Ackerman

  The Westby Sisters, Book Three

  Prologue

  June 1810

  She was dying. Consciousness, when it came, was riddled with fuzzy memories of searing heat, fear, and pain. Though sweltering flames no longer plagued her, she never wished to be as hot again, though she’d be lying if she said she wouldn’t welcome some warmth. Shivers wracked her body, and her teeth chattered in her head. The Atlantic at night was frigid, and her charred captain’s uniform did little to stave off the biting cold. At first the cool, lapping waves had been soothing and had helped take the edge off the worst of her discomfort, but now the water’s chilling embrace cloaked her, urging her to concede to its greater power. A stubborn part of her refused to give in to the pull of its waiting dark depths, yet soon even that small resistance would disappear.

  Fear had abandoned her, too. For a woman who had spent years dodging death, she had never entertained the possibility she could die. How wrong she was. Yet with her own demise near, she no longer feared. Instead, she welcomed her release as one would an old friend, even imagining Death’s shadowy figure slipping its arms around her body to cradle her, biding its time as she bobbed in the ocean atop a ragged plank.

  Pain alone remained to remind her she yet lived. Though an ache pounded in her side, it had long since ceased to throb. A dull twinge resided there, right under her heart, and with each passing moment, the ache lessened. The searing agony which had sent a trail of fire down her left leg had long since been silenced. Soon, all suffering would cease.

  Her eyes refused to stay open as sandbags descended on her lids, making it nearly impossible to stay awake. It would all be over soon, and she could rest for an eternity. Exhaustion numbed h
er to all else save for her own pitiful plight. Her duty to her country, her life in London, her family—all were meaningless compared to the beckoning haven which awaited her beyond. Lights illuminated the distant horizon, though darkness still veiled the sun, and she reached out a shaking hand to touch the dancing orbs. They were beautiful. Her sisters would love to see them.

  My sisters. They must know what happened to me.

  The reminder of her sisters roused her from the inevitable descent to death, and she forced her tired lids to open. Gritting her teeth against a fresh assault of pain, she reached for her boot and pulled out the dagger she kept within its leathery folds. Her hands shook as much from the cold as from the effort, but she grasped the wooden hilt and held it in both hands. With painstaking care, she dragged the knife’s sharp tip over the charred wood, every letter firm and precise. When she finished, she traced each word with her finger, reminding herself who she was.

  Her job done, she rolled to her back and stared at the circling orbs, their light brighter and more intense than before. Consciousness was fading, and she felt herself slipping into a swirling darkness. Death, who had remained with her to the end, tightened its grasp, and she smiled, mouthing the words she had etched on the plank. “I am Bea Westby.” Her lids closed on her final sigh, and the circling lights came closer. Distant shouts echoed, and rough hands grasped her arms, but she ignored them.

  What did it matter? She was dead already.

  ****

  An explosion rocketed the night sky, sending columns of red and orange flaring across the horizon. Luka Stefano watched the flames from the small island of Herm, some three miles off Guernsey’s main archipelago, and swore.

  “Merde! Fortier, Andres!” he yelled to his two companions. “Get the boat. Maybe there will be something to salvage, if we hurry.” The ship had been compromised, and along with it, so too had her cargo.

  His men hustled to the six-man rigged clipper that had taken them from France to Herm earlier that afternoon. He leapt into the boat, digging the oars into the sandy bottom to dislodge it while his two men pushed the wooden vessel off the shore. Once she caught the tide, they vaulted into their seats and rowed. Sore shoulder muscles from a too-recent crossing screamed with each stroke he took, but he pushed through his discomfort. They had to reach the ship. He needed the money this run would provide him.

  “Faster,” he urged. The men grunted and pulled through the water, each stroke taking them closer to the floundering ship.

  Acrid smoke enveloped them as they approached the burning ship, and he tore off a length of his shirt to wrap around his nose and mouth. His eyes watered and burned, and he gritted his teeth against the painful sting.

  “Stefano, we can’t see. How are we to find anything in this smoke?” Fortier asked.

  “We’re close enough. Use your oars to sift through the water. Whatever you find, bring it aboard.”

  Oar in hand, he reached over the edge of the boat, poking the blunt edge into the dark waters. His men hauled in several smallish crates, and the small clipper listed to one side. When the vessel righted itself, it bumped into something floating on the water. He reached to the side and recoiled when his hand met with clammy human skin. Hefting his lantern overboard, he peered into the thinning smoke. A body floated nearby, draped across a sizable wooden plank. “I’ve found someone. Help me haul him over.”

  The three men tugged the unconscious man’s sodden, scarred hide into the ship. They let him drop with a thud to the hull. “Is he alive?” Fortier asked, poking with his toe.

  Luka pressed his ear to the man’s chest and heard a faint thumping. “He’s alive, though barely.”

  “What about the rest of the cargo?” Andres resumed his seat and picked up his oar. “The smoke’s too thick to find anything. Our lanterns do nothing in this haze.”

  “Leave the rest. Let’s get out of this smoke and back to shore. We can come back at dawn when the air has cleared. If not, the general shall be pleased we returned with a prisoner.”

  They took up their oars and rowed to shore. “Who do you think it is?” Andres asked, jerking his head to their unconscious prisoner.

  Luka grunted and pulled a clean stroke. “From what I saw of his clothes, I’d say the captain, though judging by his size and the peach fuzz he probably calls a beard, he’s a sorry excuse for one.”

  “What do you think General Reynard will do when we return without those supplies?”

  “You worry about rowing this boat to shore, and leave the general to me. Enough talking. Save your breath for your exertions.” For the next half hour, they rowed in silence, the lapping waves against the side of the clipper was the one sound in the otherwise still night. As they neared the shore, the smoke thinned and cleared and moonlight glinted off something metallic on the injured captain’s hand. A worn bracelet made with strips of old cloth tied to a copper face adorned the man’s slender wrist.

  It can’t be. He ignored the unsettling sensation taking residence in his gut and concentrated on guiding the ship to shore. His two men jumped in the water and dragged the vessel onto the sand. Once on shore, he rolled the man over and stared hard, trying to see past the soot and singed facial hair. The smaller man’s eyes fluttered open, and he was struck by their icy blue intensity. They held his own for endless moments before slumping closed again. Luka sucked in a breath.

  It is.

  “Stefano, we have the rest of our supplies. We are ready to sail.”

  He took one more look at the inert prisoner, lifeless and injured in the clipper, and came to a decision. “Take the rest back to France.” He hefted the captain’s slight weight into his arms, ignoring the familiarity of the curves nestling against his chest. “This one is mine.”

  “You’ll hang if they find you,” Fortier argued. “The general will want to question this English capitaine, and he will see to it you are punished for withholding his prisoner.”

  “I took no oaths, nor do I hold allegiance to the French and their cause. The general will be pleased he no longer needs to pay for my services. Deliver the goods we managed to salvage, and tell the general I died in the fire getting his supplies. My death will be of little consequence to him, and there are many more to take my place. Then take the clan and leave. Return to Russia. The wars have not reached there yet. You’ll be safe.”

  “But, Stefano,” Andres hedged. “What of you?”

  “You forget I know this island well. When I am done with my own interrogation and have dispatched the captain, I’ll make my way to Russia.”

  He held up his hand to stem any further arguments. “Go. Until I return, you are now the leaders of our clan. I entrust you with the safety of our people.” He embraced each one in turn before they hopped aboard, pushed off, and rowed away, leaving him standing on the beach with the captain in his arms. Though it pained him to leave his clan, he had more pressing and personal business to attend to.

  The bundle in his arms moaned, and he studied his pressing and personal business. He ripped off the ridiculous tricorn and wig and confirmed his suspicions. When blonde curls spilled over his arm, a grim satisfaction replaced his earlier bewilderment.

  It was her, and he had her right where he wanted her.

  A word about the author…

  Sara Ackerman is a lifetime lover of words. After years of encouraging students to write, she finally took her own advice and “sat down and did it already.”

  When not found reading or scribbling notes for her next book, Sara enjoys spending time with her husband and two children.

  http://seackerman.com

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