The Promise

by May McGoldrick

  “This is exactly what James needs,” she continued. “Time spent with your lordship will surely settle him.”

  Spending time with the boy was hardly the reason for Stanmore’s extended stay. Still, though, the warm approval in her expression caused him to withhold the truth. “Mrs. Ford, I will spend time with him. But in so doing, I would like to rely on your help, your guidance. I make no claims to any knowledge of how to parent a boy like him. I would like to be sure that I am proceeding as I should.”

  Her pretty head bowed with modesty. “I am no expert, m’lord.”

  “Kindly do not require that I deliver one of your own lectures back to you.” He arced a brow in challenge and then hid a smile as she bit back her response. “Very well, then! I’m happy you have decided to see things my way.”

  ***

  The shipmaster’s cottage sat nestled into a grassy knoll overlooking the sparkling gray-green waters of Bayard’s Cove in Dartmouth.

  Sitting on the wooden settle opposite the retired seafarer, Sir Oliver Birch listened carefully to the meandering recollections of a journey undertaken ten years earlier. The stem of the clay pipe he’d been offered was smooth and warm between his fingers, and he noticed that the sailor—blue smoke hanging like a cloud around his head—held his pipe by the bowl, his leathery fingers seemingly insensitive to the heat as he puffed away at the tobacco.

  “I recall it as if ’twere yesterday. My ship, the Rose…and a finer ship ne’er sailed the western seas, I’ll warrant ye…she’d just had her hull scraped at Shadwell’s. Eager we were to be out on the open seas again. Time and tide waits for no man, they say.”

  “So I understand, sir,” Birch said, trying to keep his impatience out of his voice.

  “Aye, well, after taking on cargo and a handsome lot of passengers, my first mate sailed her down from London to Dartmouth. ‘Twas in the month of July, I recall. That’s where I joined my crew and we set sail for America. But ‘twasn’t afore Dartmouth that ever I clapped eyes on the lass or the lady or any of ‘em.”

  Through the open window, Sir Oliver watched a fishing boat pass along the bay beneath the cottage.

  He nodded encouragingly at the seafarer. “Please tell me anything you recollect. Anything at all.”

  “Aye, well…she was quality, that’s certain enough.” The captain cocked his head and pointed the stem of his pipe at the lawyer. “They were both quality, but one of them, the mother, was definitely the one with means.”

  “Her name was listed on the ship’s books. Why not the other?”

  The old man shrugged and puffed at the pipe. “Over the years, more than a few folks have paid their passage without putting down a name on the manifest. Some’ve had good reason, I suppose. One of the mates told me when the two women come aboard off a boat from Wapping Stairs, her ladyship paid extra, she did, to put no name down for the other.”

  So they did know each other prior to that journey, Birch thought, remembering Stanmore’s suspicion that Rebecca and Elizabeth might have been acquaintances prior to embarking for the colonies.

  “Did you meet the mother? Did you talk to her before her death?”

  “Aye.” The man nodded and started refilling his pipe. “I went in to her when Miss Rebecca saw the trouble the other one was facing. Wanted a doctor, she did.”

  “Miss Rebecca?” Birch asked. “That’s all you remember of her name?”

  “Aye! And that I learned only because that was the name the sick woman kept calling her. We happened to have another passenger, a doctor he was, and I went in with him to see the unfortunate woman.” The old sailor shook his head. “The lass had no chance. She was sick from the birthing. He bled her, but ‘twas no use. By then, everything was in the Lord’s hands.”

  “Did she tell you anything before she died? Anything about the infant? To whom he should be sent?”

  The sailor shook his head again. “She knew there was no hope, and the whole time we were there, she was clutching Miss Rebecca’s hand, she was. Any fool could see the arrangements had all been settled between the two women.”

  Birch watched the sailor’s weathered face as he relit his pipe. “What else? What can you tell me about this Rebecca?”

  “Afraid the barrel’s empty, sir. I had a ship to sail, I did, and she had a baby to keep. Saw nary a glimpse of the lass for the rest of the trip. When we dropped anchor in New York, the woman went ashore with all the rest of the passengers, and I ne’er saw her again.”

  Frustration poked at Birch’s insides. “But there must have been something else. Think, man. Did she make any friends while she was aboard? Talk to anyone?”

  The sailor shook his head. “Don’t believe so. She was grieving at the death of her friend, I should think. I believe everyone left the lass to herself.”

  “Try to recollect,” Birch pressed, changing direction. “Was there anything about her that made an impression on you? Perhaps something that she might have left behind—a locket—a handkerchief—anything that might have given you a hint about her real name.”

  “That was a long time ago.” The man’s gray eyes narrowed to slits as he considered. “She was a pretty lass, as I recall, with hair the color of gold and fire. She had eyes that matched the blue of the sea off of Bermuda, she did. Aye, she’s a woman I’ll not forget…unless I’d be confusing her with that barmaid at the Pelican Inne at Port Royale. But nay, I wouldn’t be doing that.”

  Birch stood up in defeat and walked toward the open door. Of anyone on the Rose, his greatest hope had rested with the ship’s master.

  Looking out beyond the worn path leading from the cottage, the lawyer could see cobbled streets snaking down past old stone houses and shops. As his gaze drifted vacantly to the numerous masts of ships anchored in the bay, Birch carefully tallied again the sailors who had been on that ship and were now living in Bristol. Three. Not much to hope for. Nonetheless, he would ride to the city and search out those men. One of them might have learned something about this Rebecca. It was impossible for her not to have left behind some hint of her history.

  “Ye are paying good money to hear facts, ye are, sir. I don’t suppose ye’d be interested in gossip I heard some time later.”

  Birch turned sharply. “There could be gold in gossip, as well, sir.”

  “She struck me as a right good woman.”

  “I am well aware of her virtues,” Sir Oliver said a little snappishly.

  “Ye know her?”

  “Never mind that, sir. I am paying you for answers.”

  The sailor’s eyes narrowed for a long moment while he puffed on his pipe. Finally he nodded in understanding. “As ye say, Sir Oliver. ‘Twas not till the next summer, and we were anchored in the Thames off Limehouse that I heard the rumors just by chance.”

  It was difficult to be calm, but Birch waited.

  “The word was that a month or so after we’d weighed anchor for the colonies, a gentleman was making the rounds of every ship’s company, dock, and tavern from the Tower to Dugby’s Hole. Offering gold, he was, and questioning every sailor, mate, and ship’s master he could lay hold of. This gentleman was looking for a certain woman.”

  “How do you know there was any connection to your passengers?”

  “The description fit her. Hair. Eyes. Age. Build.”

  “Any names?”

  “Aye! The first name was the same, too. Rebecca…Rebecca something.”

  “Do you remember anything of the last name?”

  “N…something. Nipper…or Netter….or…” He shook his head. “Names don’t stay the way faces do.”

  “Why didn’t you go and find the gentleman and offer what you knew?”

  The man shrugged. “Too much trouble, perhaps. Don’t know. Maybe I didn’t see the need at the time. Made a good living by the sea, and my pockets had coin enough in ‘em.” His gaze narrowed. “Besides, I recall it seemed to me then that if the lass wants to go to the colonies and start o’er…then what gives some old sea do
g the right to spoil her plans.”

  “How about the gentleman’s name? What did you hear about him?”

  The next shrug only served to frustrate Oliver more than the last one. “I’ll be no help to ye there, either. I told ye, I never talked to the man. All of it might’ve been just gossip for all I can tell. I judged ye to be curious enough to hear all of it.”

  Birch walked to the table by the window. Reaching into his pocket, he started to add to the money he’d already put there. Pausing, he held the coins over the others.

  “You said the gentleman spoke to a number of people in London. Can you tell me the names of anyone that might still be there? Men who are not already dead or at sea for most of the year? A tavern-keeper, perhaps?”

  The shipmaster’s keen gaze shifted from the coins to the lawyer’s face. “I reckon that’s something I can help ye with.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Jamey stopped in the path and looked up into the faces of the approaching horse and rider. The chestnut-colored stallion was a magnificent animal, though the earl sitting atop his back was obviously the master. Lord Stanmore had changed out of his wet clothing, the young boy realized, watching the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves of the trees play on the short black coat that matched the rider’s breeches and topboots.

  He stared into the man’s face to gauge his lordship’s temper. His mother hadn’t had to warn him when he had come out of the lake earlier. Though, in a way, Jamey had wanted to impress the earl with how well he could swim, it took only one look at his mother’s face for him to know that Lord Stanmore was not too happy about coming in after him. Well, no one had asked his lordship to dive in after him!

  Those thoughts aside, Jamey wondered if he was in for the kind of beating that someone had meted out to Israel. If that was the way things were done here, it would take only one beating to send him packing. And he wouldn’t stop at the cottage, either. He’d walk back to Bristol, if need be, and sign on as a cabin boy on the next ship sailing.

  One look at the earl’s indifferent gaze, though, and he knew the man didn’t care enough for him even to get angry, never mind beat him.

  “Your shirt and shoes are missing.”

  The words were a statement and nothing more. Stanmore reined in the horse beside Jamey. Rather than watching the man, the boy’s attention was focused on the horse’s black eye as it rolled toward him. With great interest, Jamey watched the flicker of the animal’s ear. He couldn’t help himself but to extend a hesitant hand and touch the top of horse’s nose and then his neck.

  “Do you like horses?”

  Jamey didn’t say anything since he’d made a pact with himself to answer nothing the earl asked him.

  “Perhaps you’d enjoy riding one, yourself. I can have one of the grooms find a gentle pony. You can begin learning anytime you like.”

  He really wanted to ride. He really…really wanted to learn how to ride a pony. No, he thought, he wanted to ride a horse as big and beautiful as this one. He stroked the powerful neck of the steed. He was softer than velvet. But again, his own vow kept him from showing any enthusiasm. He might be only nine years old, but it wasn’t too difficult to figure things out. As soon as his mama thought Jamey was getting along here, she would disappear from his life, forever. Of that, he was certain.

  The horse pawed the ground impatiently, and Jamey stepped back, only to find the earl’s hand extended toward him.

  “Come, I’ll give you a ride back to Solgrave.”

  He could have walked back to the house on his bare feet and without any help from his lordship, but he’d really liked the feel of the horse under him the other night when he’d ridden to the house, mounted behind the earl. Jamey looked for a way to climb up on the horse’s back without accepting Lord Stanmore’s help, but there wasn’t one. He took the proffered hand and fairly flew off the ground, landing gently on the animal’s back.

  The earl half turned in his saddle. “From now on, you will tell someone at the house when you decide to disappear for a few hours. You may think you are quite the independent lad, but Mrs. Ford has been worrying about you for too long, now, to change her ways so quickly.”

  Jamey said nothing in response, but he did feel a pang of guilt that his mama had been troubled. She had always been agreeable when he and the Butler boys went off together in Philadelphia. Perhaps he just needed to make her see that there was far less trouble that he could get into here at Solgrave. Maybe if he were to tell her about Israel. He thought about that for a moment, deciding in the end that he couldn’t. He’d promised his new friend that he would say nothing to anybody about him.

  The man and the boy rode back to Solgrave in silence. As the chestnut stallion cantered easily along forest trails and over rolling meadows, Jamey’s mind drifted back to the little cottage in the woods and how defeated his friend Israel had been. It hurt him to see how sad Israel had been…and how fearful.

  There was something very wrong on the neighboring estate, and Jamey wondered if there was anyone at Solgrave who could help him to help his friend. Maybe he couldn’t avenge the beating Israel had taken, but somehow the evil ways of Melbury Hall had to change.

  And he needed to find the person who could make a difference.

  ***

  The cup and saucer hit the wall with a violent crash. Another sweep of an arm, and the table was nearly laid bare—with puffs, powders, patches, and one practically new prayer book flying across the dressing room. The crumpled letter bounced against the mirror and dropped harmlessly onto the table.

  “Is his messenger still downstairs?”

  The serving girl took a step back toward the door and shook her head. “Nay, m’lady. This was delivered early this morning.”

  As Lady Nisdale’s hand reached for the heavy jewelry box of tortoise shell and ivory, the young woman hastily escaped her lady’s dressing chamber. A moment later, the sound of the box splintering the wood of the door echoed through the entire second story of the town house.

  “Bastard!” Louisa screamed, pouncing on the letter and tearing it to pieces.

  Her rage cried for release, and nothing was safe in her path of destruction. A robe of sheer silk lying at the foot of the bed was ripped in two. Heavy bottles of perfumes adorning the high chest joined the jewelry box at the base of the door. Too angry to hesitate, too frustrated to think, she tore through the chamber, upsetting tables and chairs, laying waste to everything within reach until she finally faltered breathlessly by the window, clinging to the heavy drapes, flushed and spent. She sank onto the edge of an overturned sofa.

  “I had you, you bastard!” she cried. “You were mine.”

  Louisa stared down at the shreds of the message littering the floor. So impersonal. So business-like. The very thought made her ill. She hated to lose. The thought of the money she had stood to gain was bad enough. She had invested her time in the blackguard, and time was a precious commodity to any woman of her age. She had schemed. She had waited. She had done everything that was sure to win him over for good. And here she was—despite all of her efforts—discarded like a pair of soiled gloves.

  Defeat hung in the chamber like a suffocating cloud, but Louisa stood up, forcing herself to think.

  The mantle clock that had escaped her wrath had not ticked a dozen times before the thought came to her with brilliant clarity…there was another woman! There had to be! Someone had stolen what was hers. What else could it be?

  This she knew how to deal with.

  The room was a shambles, but Louisa strode through it with the air of some conquering war goddess. She paused before the mirror and admired her own reflection. Despite the disappointment, her eyes were sparkling, her skin smooth and fresh, her cheeks blooming with color.

  “Let him have his tumble with the whore,” she whispered haughtily to the reflection in the mirror. “But he will be mine once I rid myself of the bitch.”

  Louisa moved to the door and yanked it open, scattering glass and je
welry across the floor. In the corridor, her call rang with excitement. She actually smiled a moment later when the fearful face of the servant appeared on the stairway. Turning on her heel, she preceded the young woman into the dressing room and stopped by the window.

  “Clean this mess, you little mouse! But before that, fetch Dore to pack my trunks. And send a footman to hire a carriage.”

  “You are going on a trip, m’lady?” the young woman asked fearfully dropping a small curtsy.

  “I am,” Louisa answered, kicking aside a pillow as she made her way to the wardrobe. “I have decided to accept a long-standing invitation from an old friend to visit Melbury Hall.”

  As the servant started backing out the door, Louisa stopped her again. “And one more thing.”

  “Aye, m’lady?”

  “I received no letter from the earl of Stanmore today.”

  The woman’s confusion showed on her face.

  “Must I spell everything out, you dolt? Listen, then!” She glared across the room. “I left for Squire Wentworth’s estate. Have you got that? And in the chaos of my departure, you stupidly forgot to deliver the letter to me.”

  The servant blinked and looked down at the shredded pieces of paper on the rug.

  “Do you understand?” Louisa said menacingly.

  “Aye, m’lady. You...you never received the letter.”

  ***

  The morning sun bathed the meadows rising above the lake on yet another day of spring’s finest weather. Rebecca looked out her window at the morning sky, crystal clear and blue as a robin’s egg. She sighed deeply and brushed away an errant tear.

  As she had done the day before, Rebecca sent down word this morning that she was still a trifle unwell. It was a feeble enough excuse, but one that had succeeded in sending Jamey downstairs for the past two nights to dine alone with his father. The earl of Stanmore was making an effort to spend time with his son, and the best thing she could do—she was quite certain—was just the opposite of what his lordship had requested. She had to keep her distance, stop her meddling, and allow a bond to form between father and son.