by Blythe Baker
The flavor exploded over my tongue, filling my mind with happy thoughts of Christmas mornings and snowy afternoons playing outside in the thick, falling flakes. It wrapped my heart in a comfortable, familiar embrace, and I smiled.
The fears that had been holding so tight to me eased ever so slightly, and I allowed myself the chance to indulge a little.
“Do you like it?” he asked, his smile growing.
“Oh, I certainly do,” I said. I resisted the urge to childishly eat the sugar on the tips of my fingers. “Thank you, sir. I cannot tell you how grateful I am.”
“No trouble at all,” he said. “Perhaps you can convince your young man to come and purchase some more for you! I am certain he would oblige, given how much you like them.”
He gave me a wink and turned back to his skillet.
I did not feel the need to correct him about my life, though I found it interesting he thought me the sort of young woman who would have a sweetheart. It warmed me and gave me a small boost of confidence.
“Enjoy the rest of your evening!” he called to me as I stepped away.
I thanked him once more before I started back down the pier, enjoying the cinnamon treats that he had given me.
As I walked past more stalls, vendors, and happy families enjoying their time out in the fresh air, I gave in to a bit of a selfish, wild dream of a night strolling along the pier, arm in arm with the handsome man that the candied almond vendor seemed certain I would be with.
Wouldn’t that be nice? I thought. With nothing to do for the evening apart from sampling warm treats and gazing upon the wares of the vendors?
The memory of a particular smile passed through my mind, stopping me short.
Mr. Jerome Townson.
Why had he crossed my thoughts? Why him, of all people?
I hardly knew the man. I had only known him since the Colonel’s death. How long ago had that been? One week? Two?
It had been a long time since I had found anyone’s smile so appealing.
As a young girl, I had known a boy by the name of Sean Hathoway. His smile captured the heart of every girl he spoke to. I could see now how unintentional his charms must have been, as young as he was. How could he have known the way he would ensnare my affections so acutely when we hardly ever spoke? I would watch him from across the school room and admire the way the sun tangled with his dark locks.
He had grown, and so had I, and we had gone our separate ways…and there had never been any indication that he had ever seen me as anyone more than a fellow pupil, a friend at best.
The late Colonel Montford also knew a great many people, some of whom had sons or were young themselves. I had seen them come and go, and many of them were attractive to varying degrees. However, I was utterly certain that none of them had turned their attention to me.
Mr. Jerome Townson had noticed me for some strange reason. I could not explain it.
At first, I had been almost certain that it was because he had been somehow responsible for the Colonel’s death and had deduced that I might have information. My ability to go undetected in a room, to observe, was noticed by him. He was a clever man, but had a great love for his family, and I eventually learned that he wanted to do right by his uncle, whom he greatly respected.
I moved closer to the railing, stepping out of the way of some of the other pedestrians.
Perhaps the reason Mr. Jerome had stuck in my mind was because he saw me. Not a maid. Not a member of his aunt and uncle’s staff. Not a woman lost in a crowded room, enveloped in the shadows.
Not that any of it matters…I thought. The difference in our positions means there is no point in thinking of him further. Besides, I will probably never see him again.
Regardless of the fact that Mr. Jerome was Mrs. Montford’s nephew, she and his mother, Mrs. Townson, were at odds and would likely not meet without the buffer of the Colonel to smooth the tensions between them anymore.
My heart sank slightly.
I was living a bit of a sham, wasn’t I? Here I was, parading around on the pier as if I were a carefree young woman, not the maid of one of the guests simply out for a stroll.
The cinnamon almonds in my hand had begun to cool, their scent no longer bringing me comfort.
It felt as if I had lied to the vendor. Would he have so openly offered this treat to a ladies maid? Probably not. To Mrs. Montford, to be sure, but to me?
I crumpled up the top of the bag, twisting it shut.
The shriek of a child drew my attention down to the shoreline. I watched as a trio of children raced away from the waves lapping up against the sand, doing their best to outpace the waters and keep their shoes dry. As I watched, I noticed a few other families had made their way down to the beach, despite the storm that had only just passed.
I looked back along the pier, realizing I had wandered a great distance from the hotel. It must have been when I was lost in thought about Mr. Jerome…
I knew it would take some time to get back to the hotel. It would be best for me to start back. I did not want Mrs. Montford to be wondering about me or where I was.
The sound of the water against the shore was no longer sending shivers down my spine. Despite my melancholy moment, seeing the families together, the smiling vendors in their booths, I could almost see why people chose to come down to the seaside for their holidays. In the sunlight, the pier likely had an invigorating charm to it.
The children had gone in, but it seemed that despite the sun setting behind the clouds along the horizon, someone was still determined to splash in the waves.
I turned to look and saw a pair of people down in the water, far removed from all the other families that had remained closer to the hotel. The splashing, loud and frequent, made me think that perhaps some children had somehow extricated themselves from their parents and were wrestling together in the surf.
As I turned away to leave them to their devices, a chill raced down my spine. Something was wrong. Something was missing.
If these were children, there would have been more…sound. Laughter. Shouting. Something to indicate things were normal.
The splashing continued, insistent.
I leaned over the railing and stared down at the waves.
A man’s head bobbed up in the water, and a moment later, another head followed, pressed up against the man’s.
Icy fear washed through me as their heads disappeared beneath the waves once more.
What in the world? What is happening?
I stared in shock, willing my eyes to be wrong, feeling my heart pick up pace as I stared at the inky depths. Where were they? What was happening?
The man’s head resurfaced, but still a shuddering fear passed through me. It was as if a spear of clarity pierced through my mind.
A river. Darkness. The only light from a lone streetlamp. The sounds of the city. The lap of water against the bank. Gurgling. Gasping for breath. Hands clasped around the throat of my father—
“Help!”
The cry drew me back to my senses. I grasped the railing with both hands, my body trembling in horror. Cold sweat coated my skin and the blood rushed through my ears.
“Please! Help!”
I looked wildly around, back toward the vendors some distance away. Surely, surely someone would have heard. Someone who could help. Someone not paralyzed as I was by my fear of the water.
The sound of splashing set my nerves on edge and my jaw clenched tightly.
No one is responding…
No one else was there.
I had heard. I could help.
Could I? Can I?
If I did not act, these people could die. This situation was not like my memories. It was real.
The longer you delay, the worse their chances become! a small voice within me urged.
The horrid thought was enough to set my feet in motion, racing down the nearest set of stairs, taking them two at a time.
About the Author
Blythe Baker is the
lead writer behind several popular historical and paranormal mystery series. When Blythe isn't buried under clues, suspects, and motives, she's acting as chauffeur to her children and head groomer to her household of beloved pets. She enjoys walking her dog, lounging in her backyard hammock, and fiddling with graphic design. She also likes binge-watching mystery shows on TV.
To learn more about Blythe, visit her website and sign up for her newsletter at www.blythebaker.com
