Fair Wind of Love

by Rosalind Laker

  Sitting down on the edge of the desk, he leaned forward and looked keenly at her. “The sooner you end this senseless marriage with all its disadvantages the better! I talked to a lawyer I know yesterday, putting to him the apparently hypothetical case of a wife wishing for the annulment of a marriage. There should be no difficulty at all, especially as Bryne Garrett has, in a way, deserted you—”

  Sarah had sprung to her feet, thrusting back the chair, and her voice shook with anger. “How dare you! I told you that I would not consider an annulment!”

  He stepped forward to take her by the arms. “Why? What is this hold that he has on your loyalty? Is it that you love him and will not say?”

  She shook her head almost too vehemently. “I’ll not go against the bargain I made with Bryne!”

  “Bargain?” Philip snapped incredulously. “Is that how you describe your marriage?” He caught her to him, and the sudden nearness of her, the scent of her hair, her softness, acted through searing jealousy on his constricted nature as violently and unexpectedly as if a torch had been put to tinder. Caution, consideration, and tenderness all vanished before the passionate desire he felt for this woman whom he loved and wanted and would have cherished for the rest of his life. She was powerless in his embrace, and his mouth was a violation. Any doubts she might have had about her feelings for him were swept away. Even affection went before this abuse. She bunched her hands into fists and thrust against his shoulders with all her strength, wrenching her lips from his.

  “Philip! Please!” she appealed in a tight, desperately unhappy voice.

  The terrible finality of her rejection was a knife to the last tenacious threads of hope. The circle of his arms loosened and fell away from her. But she did not spring back or make any spectacular show of relief at being released, but still stood there, close to him, slowly lifting her agonized face.

  “Maybe I do love Bryne. I don’t know. Is it love that keeps him in my thoughts, even when I remember without pleasure his taunts and his mockery? Is it love that makes me determined to keep his house safe for him to come home to? I only know that I can’t endure any other man to hold me.”

  Philip’s face was steely, and he gathered up his outraged dignity with his hat and his gloves. “You have left me in no doubt as to your true feelings for this man you have married. I have blundered indeed. Good day to you, Sarah.”

  His departure from the house was as quiet and restrained as it had always been. He had a few kindly words for Flora when he met her in the porch, and on the way down the drive he waved to Robbie, playing ball on the grass. But Sarah, standing at the window to watch him go, knew that their friendship was at an end. Nothing could ever be the same again.

  Beth raised surprised eyebrows when Sarah told her to remove the extra place from the dining-room table that evening. Sarah knew that he would not come to dine again, and his daily visits were over.

  In her bedchamber she looked in the swing mirror at the face of the woman who had spurned the devotion of a truly good man. Life was very strange, and people were even stranger. But the heart would not be dictated to and was deaf to all reason.

  Ten

  Distant cannons were still rumbling when summer faded into an autumn made glorious with the fiery maple trees. Across the lawn the leaves drifted to form a carpet of scarlet, yellow, orange, and gold. Joe Tupper was not there to sweep them up, having joined the Ontario navy. The hired boy in his place carried out every task in a desultory fashion, and clusters of leaves remained in the hollows until Sarah herself took a birch broom to brush them into a bonfire.

  Agnes Jenkins had also left, called away to look after an aged parent, and Sarah had welcomed the chance to take over the cooking herself, for time was often long and heavy on her hands. She saw little of Lucy, who spent several days a week at the meeting hall, which had been converted into a hospital to take the overflow from the garrison’s inadequate facilities. Although most of the patients were well on the way to recovery, hopping about on crutches, learning to cope with a peg leg, or needing dressings on wounds still unhealed, Philip had initiated Lucy into her nursing duties by the old sink or swim method, getting her to assist him while he performed an amputation. She had not disappointed him.

  After the attack on Queenston by the United States forces on the thirteenth day of October, Lucy was called upon to give longer hours when some of the wounded were brought in from there. British and Canadian forces had overwhelmed the invaders, putting a stop to active hostilities for the duration of the winter, and capturing nearly a thousand prisoners. But the death in the fighting of General Brock, who had galloped seven miles from Fort George to lead the counterattack, took much of the jubilation out of the news of the victorious defensive action when it was received. Sarah, remembering how gallantly he had danced with her, was saddened with the rest of the colony by the loss of a brave man and a great soldier.

  Early in November the snow came. It was little more than a thin powdering that sparkled in the pale sunshine, but Jenny and Robbie became wildly excited. Warmly clothed, their faces rosy in the bitter air, they ran and played with Sarah in the garden. When Flora came home from the local school that she had started to attend, she joined in, and their running feet made patterns all over the snow.

  But these were covered again by another fall by the time Sarah made her last round of the house, checking that all the doors were locked and the downstairs shutters fastened. The light of the candle flickered about her. It was late and the house was silent. She had sat a long time by the fire, finishing off a dress she had made for Flora.

  When she was ready for bed, but still in her lilac-colored robe over her nightgown, she blew out the candle and held back the drapes to look out at the snowy garden. She gave a little gasp of fear. Unmistakably in the snow was a fresh track of footprints, which showed that someone had come round the side of the house to try the front door and the shutters. A prowler was seeking a way to get in! Her mind flew to the tales she had heard of deserters on both sides, who broke in to plunder, taking whatever food and valuables they could find.

  She hurried into the dressing room. Out of a drawer she took the box that held the fine pair of flintlock pistols which Bryne had left there for her. With no thought in her head of anything except the defense of the house and everyone in it, she loaded both weapons with swift and expert fingers, having practiced often since recovering from her cracked ribs, determined never to be caught off guard again. Satisfied that the pistols would serve her well if she pulled the triggers, she held one in each hand as she crept slowly and soundlessly downstairs to investigate.

  The shutters over the windows enabled her to move about without the risk of anyone spying on her from outside, and she went first into the kitchen to make sure that the back door was not being forced. But not a sound came from outside.

  A little puzzled, she made a tour of all the rooms, listening by the windows of each for any slight noise that would let her know where the prowler might be, but everything was peaceful. Perhaps he had broken into the servants’ quarters by the courtyard, no longer used since Joe and Agnes had left, both Beth and the hired boy preferring to go to their own homes to sleep at night. In that case it would be better, Sarah decided, to let the intruder stay there until morning, when, with her pistols and the help of the hired boy, she would soon rout him out. In the meantime it would be advisable to stay awake in a chair, and make a tour of the house at intervals to make sure that nothing was amiss.

  Coming back into the hall, she was passing the door that led down to the cellar when she heard a faint clatter. Her heart drummed high and hard. The prowler was in the house already! Quickly she put her ear to the door, straining to catch whatever he was doing. Was he opening wine, or helping himself to the hams hanging there?

  She drew back hastily as she heard a little clink of metal hit against the iron handrail. A beringed finger had gripped it for support. Where should she stand to have him at a disadvantage? Her silken robe ripp
led about her as she darted to the stairs. From there she could cover him with the pistols, no matter in which direction he turned.

  Her heart was hammering so loudly that she was sure he must hear it as he mounted one step after another in the blackness of the cellar. She cocked the pistols the second before the door swung slowly open. To her utter astonishment a powerfully built Indian stepped silently into her line of vision, holding at his shoulder the customary striped blanket that was swept about him like a cloak.

  “Don’t move!” she ordered, low-voiced, thankful that the banisters stood between her and the man, making it impossible for him to make any wily, unexpected attack on her. “Or I shall fire!”

  He answered her in a voice that she knew so well and which she had been longing desperately to hear again. “Sarah, honey,” he drawled, letting the blanket fall swinging from his shoulders, “I’ve been dodging bullets and cannonballs for weeks now. Point those pesky pistols somewhere else. I don’t want to get killed in my own home.”

  “Bryne!” she whispered, trembling with joy.

  He came to her, not to take her in his arms as she had hoped, but to remove with a deliberate and gingerly care the pistols from her shaking hands. “How are you?” he asked, unloading the pistols and rendering them harmless.

  “Very well,” she replied in a voice stilted with disappointment. Lifting the hems of her robe and nightgown, she went past him to light some candles from the drawing-room fire, which was kept burning night and day since the onslaught of the cold weather. The flames tinted and highlighted the taut planes of her face, and would have given him an insight into the depths of emotion assailing her if her head had not been turned away from him when he followed her into the room. His calm, unruffled greeting had doused all the tender longings that she had hardly dared to acknowledge, even to herself, and she had forgotten that when they met again he would have no idea how her feelings in the intervening months had been changing toward him.

  She turned, her face controlled, holding the candelabra high. They regarded each other steadily, each taking note of the other’s appearance. He looked tired but alert, his deerskin garments worn and travel-stained, and his hair had grown longer.

  “How long can you stay?” she asked levelly.

  “Not as much as a day if my presence here doesn’t remain a secret.”

  She gave a brief nod. “I must work out how to keep you hidden. How on earth did you get into the house? Everything was locked up.”

  “I slipped through the window in Flora’s cupboard,” he explained. “I tried an old key from the stables in the door, but you’ve had bolts fitted.”

  “There was a good reason for that, and now it looks as if I must get that window secured permanently, too. It has been completely overlooked. Suppose it had been anyone else but you getting through it!” She found the thought alarming.

  “Who would know it was there?” he said reassuringly. “The shrubs have always hidden it, and the snow will cover it now for months to come. Leave it. It could happen that I might find it useful on another occasion. I guess I could fix up some kind of warning system with wires attached to a bell in your bedchamber if that would set your mind at rest.”

  Her bedchamber! He did not know that she had moved into his room and that all her possessions were set about in it. She must choose the right moment to tell him. “I’d be glad if you would fix an alarm. I do assure you that I have good reason for my fears, but there’ll be time to talk about that later.”

  He moved forward to hold his chilled hands out to the fire and she ached to warm them in her own. Or against her body.

  “It’s good to see flames on a hearth again instead of a campfire,” he said with satisfaction.

  “Have you traveled far today?” she managed to say.

  “Many miles. I’ve been in the saddle for nearly a week. A companion rode with me as far as the corner of the street and took my horse away with him. I didn’t want Joe Tupper asking questions and talking about a strange horse suddenly appearing in the stables.”

  “Joe isn’t here anymore. He’s a seaman on the Prince Regent, patrolling the lake.” She told him about Agnes leaving, and explained that only the children, Lucy, and Mary Anne were on the premises during the nighttime.

  “There’s little danger of any of them waking up,” she added, taking a few steps across the floor away from the fire, “but we’ll be safer beyond the baize door. You must be weary and hungry. I’ll prepare a meal while you have a bath.”

  There was plenty of hot water in the caldron over the kitchen hearth. He brought an old tin bath up from the cellar instead of using the one upstairs, and she chased a spider out of it before he poured in the water, steam rising in the air.

  “I must fetch some clean clothes,” he said, unbuttoning his deerskin jacket.

  Now she had to tell him. “You’ll find some of my things in your room.” She avoided his eyes, taking soap from a cupboard. “I was carried in there after an accident—”

  “Good God! What happened?” he demanded anxiously.

  “I’ll tell you all about it while you bathe.” The emphasis on the accident had eased the way for her. She faced him with cool eyes. “I’ve never moved out again. I kept meaning to, but it is by far the best upper room in the house. All your clothes are in the drawers and the dressing room exactly where you left them.”

  He soon returned from upstairs with what he needed, and put the clean clothes on a kitchen chair. With her back turned rigidly toward him she heated some nourishing soup, thick with delicious chunks of meat and chopped vegetables, which she had made only that day, and set the table, adding a jug of ale. Out of her line of vision he soaped away the grime of travel, sloshing the water about, and all the time she talked, not only answering his many questions, but telling him in detail about the night when the mob had gathered outside the house and what had resulted from it.

  “If only I’d been here!” he fumed.

  “I’m glad you weren’t,” she said with a shudder.

  There came the wet slap of his feet on the stone floor, telling her that his bath was at an end. “I must thank Dr. Manning for taking such good care of you if ever the chance comes my way.” There was no expression in his voice. “How convenient that he should have come to York. Any idea why?”

  “He wanted to see me again,” she answered frankly. Unconsciously she held her breath as she waited for his next words.

  But he took his time. There was the rustle of a shirt followed by the flick of a belt about his waist. The silk lining of his velvet jacket whispered as he slipped it on.

  “How often do you see each other?” he said at last.

  “Very rarely. It’s weeks since he was here.” She glanced at Bryne warily as he dragged the bath out to empty it, expecting the questioning to continue, but he said no more.

  While he ate with relish the meal she had made ready, she busied herself collecting up the towels he had used and took them out to the laundry basket in the wash house. On her return to the kitchen she knelt to wipe up the splashes of bath water left on the floor.

  He frowned. “You shouldn’t be on your hands and knees.”

  “We mustn’t leave any trace of your being here. I’m working out where to keep you out of sight when everybody is around the house.”

  “Do you think Beth would be sharp in putting two and two together? Or is Mary Anne to be feared?”

  “Neither girl is particularly astute.” She rose to her feet, the task completed.

  “Oh. So it’s Lucy.” His tone was one of cynical amusement. “I might have known that she’d be the one ready to betray me.”

  “You’ve only yourself to blame for that!” Sarah gripped the edge of the table, leaning forward slightly on straight arms as she addressed him, her face flushed. “She’s never forgiven you for locking her in on the night you left this house! It was a cruel and crazy thing to do! She was hurt and humiliated.”

  He had finished eating, and he sat back
, tilting his chair. “I see you’re still prickly as a porcupine toward me,” he taunted, watching her under lowered lashes, his shadowed eyes mocking. “Well, well. Did Lucy tell you what I said to her that night? No? Get around to asking her sometime.” The chair legs clacked back on the floor as he stood up. “I guess we’d better get these dishes washed and stacked. One glimpse of the table here and Lucy would get the Redcoats in to drag me away to a firing squad.”

  Sarah bit her lip in exasperation as she cleared the table. How could he take the danger of possible betrayal so lightly?

  While he dried the dishes for her she outlined a plan that she had formed. “You’d better sleep in the dressing room. Nobody ever goes in there except Beth, to dust and polish, and I can stop her doing that. I’ll have to remain in your bedchamber for the time being. They have all become used to my being there, and it might seem strange if I suddenly moved out for no reason at all.”

  “It would indeed,” he agreed laconically. His words brought a fresh color to her cheeks, and she attacked the soup caldron with a birch-twig scourer as if she hated it.

  In the dressing room he leaned a shoulder against the wall, hands in his pockets, while she made up the couch there with crisp linen, blankets, and a soft down pillow. “That’ll be mighty comfortable after the nights I’ve spent rolled up in a blanket on the ground.”

  She smoothed the last crease from the turned-down sheet, and straightened up. “Where have you been all these months? Were you among the American troops when Fort Detroit surrendered to General Brock? Or with them at Queenston when their assault was turned into a shambles?”

  He raised an eyebrow at her pointed reference to his country’s defeats. “I was at neither place on those occasions.”

  “At least tell me why you’re here,” she implored. “Are you an escaped prisoner of war waiting to slip back over the boundary?”

  He shook his head slowly. “No, Sarah. Have you forgotten that I said I’d find a way to come and see you? I’ve made a special secret journey.”